discover what al-Isra could possibly refer to. But the intelligence agencies were in a quandary. Between them, they had scores of informants inside the world of Islamic fundamentalism, some willing, some under duress.
The question was: How far can we go before the real leaders realize that we know about al-Isra? There were clear advantages to letting Al Qaeda believe that nothing had been harvested from the laptop of the dead banker at Peshawar. This was confirmed when the first mentions of the phrase in general conversation with Koranic scholars known to be sympathetic to extremism drew only courteous but blank responses.
Whoever knew about the real significance of the phrase, AQ had kept that circle extremely tight, and it was quickly clear it did not include any Western informants. So the decision was taken to match secrecy with secrecy. The West’s countermeasure would be Crowbar-and only Crowbar. The project’s second chore was to find and establish a new and remote headquarters. Both Marek Gumienny and Steve Hill agreed to get well away from London and Washington. Their second agreement was to base Crowbar somewhere in the British Isles.
After analysis of what would be needed in terms of size, lodgings, space and access, the consensus came down firmly on the side of a decommissioned air base. Such places are usually well away from cities, contain mess halls, canteens, kitchens, and accommodation aplenty. Add to that hangars for storage and a runway for the landing and departure of covert visitors. Unless the decommissioning had been too long ago, refurbishment back to operational requirements could be quickly accomplished by the property-maintenance division of one of the armed services-in this case, the Royal Air Force. When it came to which base, the choice fell on a former American base, which the Cold War had planted several dozen of on British soil. Fifteen were listed and examined, including Chick-sands, Alconbury, Lakenheath, Fairford, Molesworth, Bentwaters, Upper Heyford and Greenham Common. All were vetoed. Some were operational, and service personnel still chatter. Others were in the hands of property developers; some had had their runways plowed up and returned to agriculture. Two are still training sites for the intelligence services. Crowbar wanted a virgin site all to itself. Phillips and McDonald settled upon RAF Edzell, and secured the approval of their respective superiors. Although the sovereign ownership of Edzell base never left the RAF, it was for years leased to the U.S. Navy, even though it is miles from the sea. It is actually situated in the Scottish county of Angus, due north of Brechin and northwest of Montrose, on the southern threshold of the Highlands. It lies well off the main A90 highway from Forfar to Stonehaven. The village itself is one of a thinly scattered number spread over a large area of forest and heather, with the North Esk flowing through it. The base, when the two executive officers went up to visit it, served all their purposes. It was as remote from prying eyes as one could wish; it contained two good runways with control tower, and all the buildings they needed for the resident staff. All that would be added would be the golf-ball-shaped white domes hiding listening antennas that could hear the click of a beetle half a world away, and the conversion of the former USN Ops block into the new communications, or coinms, center.
Into this complex would be diverted links to GCH(^Cheltenham and NSA Maryland; direct and secure lines to Vauxhall Cross and Langley to permit instant access to Marek Gumienny and Steve Hill; and a permanent “feed” from eight more intel-gathcring agencies from both nations, prime among them the yield from America’s space satellites, run by the National Reconnaissance Office in Washington.
With permission granted, the “works and bricks” people from the Royal Air Force went on a “blitz” assignment to bring Edzell back into commission. The good folk of Edzell village noticed that something was afoot, but, with much winking and tapping of the sides of noses, accepted that once again it would be hush-hush, just like the good old days. The local landlord laid in some extra supplies of ale and whiskey, hoping that custom might revert to the way it used to be before decommissioning. Otherwise, nobody said a thing.
While the painters were running their paintbrushes over the walls of the officers’ quarters of a Scottish air base, the office of Sicbart and Abercrombie, on a modest City of London street called Crutched Friars, received a visit.
Mr. Ahmed Lampong had arrived by appointment following an exchange of e-mails between London and Jakarta, and was shown into the office of Mr. Siebart, son of the founder. Had the London-based shipping broker known it, Lampong is simply one of the minor languages of the island of Sumatra, whence his Indonesian visitor originally came. And it was an alias, though his passport would confirm the name and his passport was flawless.
So also was his English, and in response to Alex Siebart’s compliments he admitted that he had perfected it while studying for his master’s degree at the London School of Economics. He was fluent, urbane and charming; more to the point, he brought the prospect of business. There was nothing to suggest he was a fanatical member of the Islamist terrorist organization Jemaat Islamiyah, responsible for a wave of bombings in Bali.
His credentials as senior partner in Sumatra Trading International were in order, as were his bank references. When he asked permission to outline his problem, Mr. Siebart was all ears. As a preamble, Mr. Lampong solemnly laid a sheet of paper in front of the British ship broker. The sheet had a long list. It began with Alderney, one of the British Channel Islands, and continued through Anguilla, Antigua and Aruba. Those were just the As. There were forty-three names, ending with Uruguay, Vanuatu and Western Samoa.
“These are all tax-haven countries, Mr. Siebart,” said the Indonesian, “and all practice banking secrecy. Like it or not, some extremely dubious businesses, including criminal enterprises, shelter their financial secrets in places like these. And these”-he produced a second sheet-“are just as dubious in their way. These are merchant shipping flags of convenience.” Antigua was again up front, with Barbuda, Bahamas, Barbados, Belize, Bermuda, Bolivia and Burma to follow. There were twenty-seven in this list, ending with St. Vincent, Sri Lanka, Tonga and Vanuatu.
There were African hellholes like Equatorial Guinea, flyspecks on the world map like Sao Tome and Principe, the Comoros and the coral atoll Vanuatu. Among the more enchanting were Luxembourg, Mongolia and Cambodia, which have no coast at all. Mr. Siebart was perplexed, though nothing he had seen was news to him. “Put the two together and what do you come up with?” asked Mr. Lampong in triumph. “Fraud, my dear sir, fraud on a massive and increasing scale. And, alas, most prevalent of all in the part of the world where I and my partners trade. That is why we have decided only in future to deal with the institution renowned for its integrity. The City of London.” “Very kind of you,” murmured Mr. Siebart. “Coffee?” “Cargo theft, Mr. Siebart. Constant and increasing. Thank you, no, 1 have just had breakfast. Cargoes are assigned-valuable cargoes-and then vanish. No trace of the ship, the charterers, the brokers, the crew, the cargo-and, least of all, the owners. All hiding among this forest of different flags and banks. And far too many of them highly corrupt.”
“Dreadful,” agreed Siebart. “How can I help?”
“My partners and I have agreed we will have no more of it. True, it will cost a bit more. But we wish to deal in future only and solely with ships of the British merchant fleet flying the Red Ensign, out of British ports under a British skipper and vouched for by a London broker.” “Excellent.” Siebart beamed. “A wise choice, and of course we must not forget full insurance coverage for vessel and cargo by Lloyd’s of London. What cargoes do you want shipped?”
Matching freighters to cargoes and cargoes to freighters is precisely what a shipping broker does, and Siebart and Abercrombie were long-standing pillars of the City of London ’s ancient partnership, the Baltic Exchange. “I have done my research well,” said Mr. Lampong, producing more letters of recommendation. “We have been in discussion with this company; importers of high-value British limousines and sports cars into Singapore. For our part, we ship fine furniture timbers like rosewood, tulipwood and padauk from Indonesia to the USA. This comes from North Borneo, but would be a part cargo, with the remainder being sea containers on deck with embroidered silks from Surabaya, Java, also bound for the USA. Here”-he laid down a final letter-“are the details of our friends in Surabaya. We all agree we wish to trade British. Clearly, this would be a triangular voyage for any British freighter. Could you find us a suitable UK-registered freighter for this task? I have in mind a regular and ongoing partnership.”
Alex Siebart was confident he could find a dozen suitable Red Ensign vessels to pick up the charter. He would need to know vessel size, price and desired dates. It was finally agreed that he would supply Mr. Lampong with a “menu” of vessels of the needed tonnage for the double cargo and the charter price. Mr. Lampong, when he had consulted his partners, would provide desired collection dates at the two Far Eastern ports and the U.S. delivery port. They parted with mutual expressions of confidence and goodwill.
“How nice,” sighed Alex Siebart’s father when he told him over lunch at Rules, “to be dealing with old- fashioned and civilized gentlemen.” If there was one place that Mike Martin could not show his face, it was Edzell
