The Ragnarok Conspiracy (14 page)

The ride down to the port was a quiet one. Jordan and his team had prepared for this moment for several weeks—in truth, for several years, considering all that had brought them here. After sleeping off the journey, they were up in the early morning considering plans and backup plans, countermeasures and options. Now all their planning came down to execution, and, Jordan knew in his heart, a certain amount of randomness, what others called luck.
But luck favors the prepared.
Part of their preparation was a visit last night from the CIA safe house in Dubai. Their visitors were kind enough to supply them with handguns smuggled into the country, as well as a set of disks, memory sticks, flash drives, and adaptors for the mission to come.

From Corniche Road, which ran through the sands by the Millennium Hotel in Sharjah, it had been a short hop on one of the area's main thoroughfares, Al Ittihad Road, a thoroughly modern highway. Then across a new fourteen-lane, sixteen-thousand-vehicle-capacity bridge, onto the Sheikh Zayed Road, which twisted its way southeast around the center of Dubai, soon to run parallel with the coastline southwest toward the harbor. They passed the World Archipelago on their right, which hardly made an impression this close to the ground. The second and much larger Palm Island loomed somewhere northwest of them as they approached the main port, Jebel Ali.

As they exited E11 and drove on 520th Street, Jordan was again struck by the scale of things in Dubai. With sixty-seven berths and a span of over fifty square miles, Jebel Ali was the world's largest artificial harbor, built over many years in the 1970s. More than five thousand companies from over one hundred and twenty nations made
use of this port. A frequent user was in fact the United States Navy. There was hardly a sailor who served in the region who had not visited the port sometime during his tour. The great depth of the harbor and overall width allowed American aircraft carriers to dock, and it was not unusual to find a Nimitz Class carrier with several of its companion boats pier side. Jordan suppressed a laugh. How the arms dealers like Kharitonov loved to do business right under the noses of the United States military forces! How their pride blinded them to the fact that Uncle Sam was aware of everything they were doing, and was using them for the purpose of catching bigger fish—the clients on the other ends of their deals.

Jordan and his men pulled up to the dock number they had been sent and stepped out into the desert heat. Three vehicles were waiting, and Jordan could see the tall, lanky form of Mika Kharitonov standing beside an open car door, several bodyguards flanking him and positioned in the nearby vehicles. The cargo boat behind them, he noticed, was dotted with several shapes obviously toting weapons—what appeared to be automatic weapons. He knew the other guards would also be carrying weapons, concealed, just as Kharitonov knew that Jordan's men were packing. It was like a well-choreographed dance, only with less sexual tension and more potential for chaos and death. Jordan pretended to be blinded by the bright sunlight, taking that time to scope the scene. He spoke quietly out of the side of his mouth to several members of his team.

“Trouble perched high on the boats. We'll need to contain those.”

The man next to him smiled tightly. “Looks like we got trouble everywhere we look. We're going to get bloody on this one, Husaam.”

“Yeah, we might,” he said, feeling a sudden heaviness. The wind gusted and blew grains of sand across their faces.
I'm responsible for these men.

“Mika, my friend!” Jordan boomed over the sounds of machinery, waves, and vehicles at the port, laughing in his deep bass as he walked rapidly up to greet the Russian. Kharitonov stepped slightly forward, enough to put his guards a few steps behind him—about the same distance
that existed between Jordan and his men. They extended hands and shook.

“Good see you, Yusuf. I think you and your men bigger every year. Like Barry Bonds, no?”

“The brothers on the street don't have an easy life. We work hard for what is ours. It shows. You will help us do that.”

“Mika happy to help. But Mika more happy when paid. You understand?” he said, with a smile that made Jordan think of what a serial killer must look like before he struck.

“Of course, my friend. Friendship doesn't put food, or vodka, on the table. Kareem!” he shouted over his shoulder. A thinner black man with a goatee stepped up beside Jordan. He carried a slim briefcase, much too slender to contain any significant amount of money. He unlocked the case, opened it, and held it up level to show the Russian its contents. Inside was a small thumb drive.

“Codes and executable,” Kareem said flatly, an accountant presenting data. “You have your connection established?”

“Of course, of course,” said Kharitonov.

Jordan interjected. “Then why don't we have a look at the merchandise, and as soon as that's done, we'll go digital, my friend.”

Kharitonov nodded and signaled to his bodyguards. Kareem closed the case and stepped behind the troop accompanying Jordan as the Russian led them toward the dock and the ramp to board the vessel. As they passed underneath, the men holding automatic weapons gazed down on them and tracked their motion onto the ship.

The boat was enormous, a merchant container ship flying the Greek flag. Jordan knew that the ownership of the vessel was not related to the “flags of convenience” that allowed for easier and cheaper passage, and that the Greeks sheltered numerous such boats. These “box boats” had, over the last century, revolutionized world trade, allowing for highly efficient transfer of enormous amounts of cargo across the planet. More than eighteen million containers journeyed over two hundred million trips per year—and this was the legal material. This early form of the global economy had truly become international, highly dynamic, and
adaptable to maximizing profit. This vessel could have come from anywhere, belonged to anyone, and only the arcane records of the companies using the ships could give any idea to the source of the materials onboard. That is exactly why Jordan was here in Sharjah and Dubai, and why today's deal was going to go sour very quickly.

While the boat looked big, Jordan knew that it was one of the smaller container vessels. The fact that it was docked away from the land-based cranes was enough to tell you that, even if the presence of its own small crane to offload the boat boxes didn't. Kharitonov had his trade down to a science. The forty-foot boxes were rigged with “quick-entry” latches that opened a specially designed section of the box, allowing rapid examination of contents. Kharitonov brought them to one such entry point, unlocked the container, and had his men pull out a large wooden crate. As they pried it open with crowbars, the submachine-gun-toting guards closed in behind Jordan's men, sandwiching them between Mika's gunmen and the large crate. The men pulled off the packing insulation, revealing rows of neatly stacked automatic weapons and magazine cartridges. Jordan approached the crate, reached in, and pulled out one of the guns. It was a sleek, black micro-Uzi submachine gun. He turned it over, played with the safety, gripped it in his hands to feel the weight and balance of the thing. Kharitonov and his subordinates watched in silence as their customer examined the product.

“The suppressors fit?” he asked himself out loud, removing a silencer from his robes and attaching it to the barrel of the gun. He again turned it around and examined it for several moments.

Jordan laughed and tossed the gun to one of his bodyguards, who caught it cleanly in the air and, as everyone watched, examined the gun himself, also breaking out into a smile.
Boys and their toys
, thought Jordan grimly, as he nimbly pocketed two ammo magazines and stashed them in his robes. One advantage of robes over pants, he thought—far easier to hide things in those inner pockets. Kharitonov glanced over at him as he turned away from the weapons container and motioned to Kareem. Kareem stepped forward and opened the case again. By now,
Kharitonov's men had forged a satellite link to a bank account thousands of miles away.

“The executable runs automatically. You give it your routing numbers and account, and the money is transferred. As before, no strings and untraceable. You should be able to see it immediately. Half now, and half on delivery.”

Kharitonov nodded and handed the drive over to the man who set up his connection. He seemed relaxed. Jordan had groomed this man and his organization for four long years, and this was not their first deal. Jordan had been an exemplary customer, never missing a payment or canceling a deal. Kharitonov had grown complacent with him, as much as an international arms dealer could, and Jordan was counting on this. That was why the Russian did not watch Jordan carefully at this moment as he moved slowly along the open crate of weapons. That was also why the Russian did not immediately recognize his peril when his subordinate spoke quickly to him in concerned Russian.

“Yusuf,” Kharitonov said, staring at the screen, “transfer not going through.” Jordan looked at him, unconcerned, his arms behind his back as he stood at attention. The Russian looked down at the screen, and as he did so, Jordan made quick eye contact with his team. “Not understanding. Yusuf—there is problem?” he asked.

Jordan looked at the Russian grimly. “Yes, Mika, there is.”

Several things happened at the same time. Jordan whipped a loaded Uzi out from behind him, a second silencer already attached. He opened fire with several bursts at bodyguards flanking Kharitonov. One dropped immediately as a line of red stains erupted across this chest. The second dove to his right, pulling a weapon out from his belt and aiming toward Jordan. Before he could pull the trigger, his neck snapped back as flesh and blood ripped apart, a barrage of bullets fired by one of Jordan's bodyguards. Simultaneously, the other members of his team pulled out handguns, all with silencers attached, and turned toward the guards behind them. Although the guards held the advantage in firepower, they were too slow to realize what was happening, and Jordan's combat-trained operatives pounced on them like tigers.

The rear members of his team, nearest the guards, had chosen hand-to-hand combat. One had dropped to a push-up position and swung his leg around like a helicopter blade, catching the guard behind the knees and dropping him to the ground. The operative behind him fired four quick shots into the prone man, who did not move again. The second guard found his weapon kicked from his arms as the CIA man drew his right leg in an arc like a mace in front of him. The guard stood there stunned as he watched the man pivot on the foot that had just disarmed him, spinning and turning to bring his left leg like a battering ram straight into his face. A jawbone cracked loudly, and the man went down flat on his back, smacking his head against the boat deck. He did not get up.

Kareem had incapacitated the computer man with several blows, then had frozen Kharitonov by placing a gun to the base of his skull. Kharitonov, who had drawn a weapon and was aiming it toward Jordan, relaxed and dropped his firearm. The four remaining bodyguards, poorly positioned in the crowded region around the boat box, had all been either overpowered or killed by Jordan's team. It was over in a matter of seconds.

Jordan grabbed Kharitonov's computer, placed it in the briefcase, and handed it to Kareem.

“You
insane
American!” Kharitonov spat as his hands were tied with wire behind him. “What is for? You get nothing from this!”

Jordan put the barrel of his Uzi under Kharitonov's chin. The Russian pulled up his head in pain from the hot cylinder.
That seemed to get his attention
. “Mika, what I get is my problem. But if you don't do exactly what I say, I can tell you exactly what you're gonna get.” He stared at the Russian coldly. “You understand?” Kharitonov nodded, fear in his eyes. “Right now, that means you make a sound we don't like, I fill you with holes. You try to escape, I, or one of my men, will fill you with holes. And if you don't follow as you are directed, right now, you get filled with holes. Got that?” Mika nodded again, sweat pouring down his face.

“Good.” Jordan turned to his men. “Take his cell phone. Get him
to the car, grab several of these guns and clips. Load up. We're likely going to need them.” Jordan strode through the piles of bodies on the ship deck, and his team led Kharitonov at gunpoint down the ramp and to their vehicles. Two drivers were still in the other cars, oblivious in the noisy environment of the dock to the events on deck above them. They were listening to music and reading, one sending text messages to his girlfriend. Before they could do much more than look up, they were knocked unconscious and dragged aside.

“We go in these three cars, to lessen the suspicion.” Jordan designated his two Harvard Men to ditch the rentals. The rest of his team loaded up into the three vehicles of Kharitonov. Jordan sat in the back of one car, his Uzi trained on the Russian as they pulled out.

“Let's pay a visit to a little building in Sharjah,” said Jordan. The eyes of the Russian grew large as he understood.