“I see.” If this man was an engineer, the agent thought, the sun would certainly set in the east tonight. He was definitely military. Everything looked in order, but he still did a couple of suspicious double takes at the photograph and a few of the pages to see if the man would react. He did not-a very cool customer indeed, he thought, a man trained and experienced in keeping cool. “How has your travel been, sir?”
“Fine,” the man said. “I had to sleep in the airport last night. They canceled a couple flights because of the Chinese and Russians in Aden and because of the weather.”
“I am sorry you were inconvenienced. The monsoons have come early this year, and of course the trouble with the Chinese…ma sha’ Allah. God’s will be done.”
“I hope I can still get some diving in.”
“I think so.” He flipped through the passport. “May I ask the purpose of your visit, please?”
“Demonstrating a machine for the Yemeni Fish Company Limited,” Macomber said. “I want to do some diving, too. I’m told it’s like the Great Barrier Reef of the Indian Ocean.”
“God has indeed blessed our island with great beauty, especially under the sea,” the customs officer said idly. He kept the documents in front of him on his desk as he unzipped the big duffel bag. It appeared to contain a gray scuba diver’s wet suit, weight belt with weights, gloves, and boots. “Such thick wet suits for the Indian Ocean? I am afraid you may be most uncomfortable in our warm waters.”
“I did some diving in the Irish Sea before coming here, demonstrating my technology,” Coulter said. “This equipment allows me to dive deeper and stay underwater longer.”
“I see.” The customs officer knew the equipment had come from the United States via London, so the Irish Sea story could have been real, but his interest was piqued-these were not typical visitor’s scuba equipment. The last item was even more curious-it looked like a cross between a full-face motorcycle helmet and a deep-sea diver’s helmet. “And this is?”
“My diving helmet.”
“It is very unusual. I have never seen one like it.”
“It’s the latest thing,” Coulter said. “I can wirelessly talk to other divers or to surface crews while underwater, and it gives me readouts of air supply, dive depth and duration, water temperature and current, and even gives my location.”
“Quite remarkable,” the customs officer said, examining the helmet closely. Inside it did seem to have rows of tiny light-emitting diodes aimed at the visor, as well as microphones and earphones. Despite the fact that all this had to have been already inspected and approved in Sana’a, he knew he had to report it to the National Security Organization, or NSO, Yemen’s foreign intelligence service-this equipment, as well as this man who claimed to be an engineer, had to be checked out further. He did declare all this equipment, so he was not trying to hide anything.
Still, the agent was getting more and more suspicious and decided to give this man several more minutes of attention, so he carefully and deliberately repacked the odd diving gear, then started to go through the man’s backpack, again being slow and deliberate. The backpack contained clothes and toiletries, including some cold- weather clothing, giving further credence to the Irish Sea story, plus spare battery packs and a pair of binoculars, all listed on the declaration form. The briefcase had a laptop computer, cellular phone, power adapters, more spare battery packs, a personal digital assistant, pens, and other typical businessman travel things-no pornography, alcohol, or prohibited items, everything properly declared. He checked his papers and found permission letters to use a house owned by the Yemeni Fish Company in Hadibo, along with vouchers for scuba trips and island tours, all arranged online fairly recently through a tourist agency in Sana’a from a hotel in London using an American credit card. All very touristlike.
He really didn’t have anything to detain him here legally, the customs agent thought, but he had to be reported. The officer had recently received some advanced training in how to spot foreign agents and insurgents, and this guy definitely looked like a fighter, not an engineer. “You are aware of the pirate trouble in the region lately?” the customs agent asked. “The Chinese navy has successfully suppressed much of the pirate activity to the south, but it is still active in the Gulf of Aden and northern Indian Ocean.”
“Oh yes,” the man named Coulter replied. “I’ve already got some dives scheduled with Captain Said’s tour group, and the tourist agency told us he runs a very secure operation.”
“He does indeed,” the agent said, “but any business on the high seas that attracts the attention of wealthy Western or Persian Gulf customers attracts the attention of pirates. Traveling very far offshore is not recommended, and be sure to advise your consulate in Sana’a by phone where you will be and your expected time of return.”
“I will,” the man said. He locked eyes with the agent for a moment, then added, “Good advice,” in a tone that sent a chill down the agent’s spine. He had a feeling this American would like nothing more than to have an encounter with a Somali pirate.
The customs agent again took his time repacking the man’s bags, but the line was already getting long, and there was only one other inspector working this afternoon, so he quickly finished his paperwork and returned his travel documents to him. “Welcome to Socotra Island,” he said. “Please enjoy your stay.”
“Salam alaykum,” the man said, and the customs agent immediately thought that his Arabic was much better the second time-had he intentionally stumbled over his Arabic pronunciations to appear more like a tourist, and forgot to do so again now? The man collected his belongings and headed for the taxi area.
The agent processed several more visitors who had come off the Felix Air flight, got a cup of tea, then went to the cargo inspection area to find the man he wanted badly to speak to. He soon found a familiar white face, casually looking around, a cup of tea in his hand. The man noticed the customs officer and stepped over to him. “Greetings, Sergeant Dhudin,” he said in Arabic but with a very heavy Russian accent. “How is your family?”
“Very well, Captain Antonov,” Dhudin said. “And yours?”
“Everyone is fine,” the Russian replied. “Helping with the cargo processing?”
“No, I wanted to mention something to you, Captain,” the customs agent replied. He had known Antonov for about two years and they were friends, as much as any Arab could befriend a Russian. The Russians had provided a lot of upgrades and support for the airport since they had started using it more often-Dhudin had received security and firearms training from Antonov about a year ago.
Dhudin looked around and noticed a small pile of wooden crates, being watched by another white man-a Russian guard. Antonov and undoubtedly the guard were from the Glavno’e Razved’ vatel’no’e Upravleni’e, or GRU, the Russian Federation’s military intelligence unit. As before, when southern Yemen was known as the Democratic People’s Republic of Yemen and actively supported and manned by Soviet troops, in the past few years the Russians had become much more active in Yemen in general and on Socotra Island and on Barim Island in the Bab-el-Mandeb waterway between the Gulf of Aden and the Red Sea. Since the terrorist incident against the Chinese navy, the Russians were back in Aden once again.
“What did you want to talk about, Sergeant?” Antonov asked.
Dhudin nodded toward the guard and the crates. “Bringing in more electronics for the facility?”
“Not today-mail, payroll, probably some un-Islamic beverages and reading materials,” the Russian said. “Anything I can interest you in?”
“Russian vodka is always appreciated in my family.”
“Very well.” Dhudin was known to be an honest Yemeni government employee, but he was definitely not above taking bribes or tip money from infidels. “So. Something interesting today?”
“An American,” Dhudin said. “He claimed to be an engineer.”
“Claimed to be? You do not believe him?”
“He looks like a commando,” Dhudin said. “Big, muscular, and cool as a crocodile.”
“Few commandos would travel to their target on commercial airlines,” the Russian said.
“You asked me to be on the lookout for something unusual, Captain,” Dhudin said.
“Of course. My apologies.” Dhudin also wasn’t above passing along useless tips just to get his hands on Russian vodka or pornography, but he seemed genuinely suspicious this time. “Anything else?”
“His papers said he had a large case in the cargo hold, to be picked up by the owner.”
“Let us take a look,” Antonov said. After a few minutes of searching, they found a large fiberglass case, very high-tech-looking. Antonov stooped down and inspected the customs seals-they were secure, official, and the registration numbers agreed with the manifest. “Have any more seals, Sergeant?” he asked.
“Of course.”
Antonov pulled a multipurpose tool from a belt holster, cut off the customs seal, and opened the case. Dhudin
