is no Al-Qaida present. We understand that issue.”
“Okay. Spahsseebah. Thank you, that will be fine.” For a split second Yuri’s native language showed itself. The Soviet government had all KGB agents learn English and he had found it a valuable tool on many occasions. French, however, gave him a tough time. All the French people he knew laughed at his pronunciation, which didn’t encourage him to learn the language. He cursed them in Russian to their faces while smiling apologetically. “The French are stupid idiots,” he muttered aloud.
He glanced at his wristwatch. An hour and a half to wait. He walked over to his valise on the bed and took out his binoculars. Then he turned off the lamp for total darkness and went out on the balcony to see if he could spot the yacht. He scanned the darkening marina. The ship was easily identified. It dwarfed the other boats. The yacht’s lights lit up the area for a hundred yards. What a beauty, he thought. But it was so large it drew attention to itself, which seemed to Yuri like a stupid thing to do when one is trying to buy arms on the black market. Four men with guns guarded the decks, nicely dressed in white slacks and navy blazers. They would just have to put up with this old KGB agent in blue jeans.
Yuri grabbed his light briefcase, stuffed pictures of the weapons he hawked into a side pocket and walked leisurely down to the marina. He arrived at the jetty’s small dock a few minutes before nine. A young Tunisian couple kissed and fondled each other in the dark. Yuri walked as far away from the couple as he could, leaned against the rail and waited. The couple, chagrined that their private space had been invaded, soon departed to find another sanctuary for their passion. Yuri leaned over the guardrail. Intermittent laughter from a nearby yacht and water lapping against the rocks of the jetty were the only sounds that broke the silence.
Finally, at nine-twenty, a motorboat approached and a young man shot a broad spotlight beam along the platform until he found Yuri. “Mister Tabanobich?”
“Yes, I am here.” He quickly climbed aboard and settled into a seat. There seemed little sense trying to correct the young man’s pronunciation of his name. “I assume you are Ali.”
“Yes,” the young man answered as he slowly moved away from the small dock, turned and piloted the small craft out to The Medallion without saying another word.
As Yuri stepped aboard the yacht, a man who introduced himself as Mr. Ghaleb stuck out his hand in greeting. Yuri recognized the voice as that on the phone from Rome. Ghaleb led him up a set of stairs to the second deck and a large dining room where nine other men sat. They all rose when Yuri entered. Ghaleb turned and said, “Mr. Yurgi, not necessary for you to know our names, yeah? Only matter important is we are not of Al-Qaida and we will put U.S. dollars in your company account before you ship merchandise. Okay? If you have what we need and price is right. You understand the reason for secrecy, yeah? Okay for you?”
“Yeah. Okay.” Yuri glanced around at the others, who all nodded and grinned. He doubted any of them understood much English.
“We eat, and then talk business, yeah?” Ghaleb said. The men seated themselves and a young man in a white, v-necked, loose-fitting cotton tunic, asked Yuri what drink he would like. Yuri asked for vodka.
While waiting to eat, Yuri and Ghaleb carried on a polite conversation about the yacht. Ghaleb said that he and his Arab associates liked to meet in Tunisia because they could come and go without government interference. Although a Muslim, the country’s president, Ben Ali, head of the Constitutional Democratic Rally Party, had insisted that fundamental Islamic groups not use his country to foster their terrorist aims. He feared American retaliation. In return for being left alone to run his own country, he tried to provide funds and cover for various Muslim groups, but had found that increasingly difficult since September 11th, 2001. And the borders with Libya stayed open and uncontrolled. Yet, Ghaleb explained, they tried to meet at a different place each time to keep their enemies confused.
“Mr. Yurgi, why did you and Russian friends start business in France?” Ghaleb asked.
Amazed by Ghaleb’s butchering his name again, Yuri let out a sigh and said slowly, “We are all former KGB colleagues and selling arms after the fall of the Soviet Union was all we knew to do. Our founder, General Vladimir Chekhov, got contracts from a number of Russian and Ukrainian arms manufacturers to handle foreign sales, so we went to work.”
“But France?” Ghaleb asked with a quizzical look.
“Yes, France. General Chekhov said we needed to keep our assets in a more stable economy and he had a lot of experience and friends in France. So, we moved the business to Marseille. There are a lot of foreigners there, so we can go and come as needed.”
“Don’t the French know what you are doing?” Ghaleb continued.
“No, not to our knowledge. As you know, we are registered as a construction company and have French engineers that do legitimate projects.”
“Ah, since the America’s World Trade Center was destroyed and the Americans removed Saddam from office we must all be very careful,” Ghaleb whispered.
“True,” Yuri said, whispering back and nodding assent.
This seemed to satisfy Mr. Ghaleb. He looked around, shouted some orders in Arabic and immediately the food started arriving.
Yuri had thought they would never eat. Yuri looked at his watch and saw it was almost midnight. Might as well be having breakfast!
“Mr. Yogi,” Ghaleb said, arms flying in different directions for emphasis, “We hired Tunisia’s finest chef to prepare food. You will like food, yeah? We love to meet here. Food is very good!” Ghaleb and several of his partners laughed boisterously.
Yuri had trouble with the spicy food. He wondered how these people’s stomachs could digest the stuff. He ate enough to be polite. After dinner the group moved to the aft deck. Yuri’s chair faced the shoreline whose rocky cliffs, subtly lit by the soft glow of lights from homes and buildings, created an enchanting backdrop. The nervous bark of a dog pierced the hypnotic silence of the cool Mediterranean night from time to time.
As silence descended on the small group gathered on deck, Ghaleb turned toward Yuri, “How big order can your company handle now?”
“We have one hundred million U.S. dollars worth of stock. Most is surplus materials.”
“What condition is surplus?” Ghaleb asked.
“Forty percent is new. The remainder is used, but totally reconditioned. We had each military depot clean, repair and pack each item for storage. They are in excellent shape and we will guarantee each weapon with money back,” Yuri answered.
A long silence ensued as the men contemplated Yuri’s comments. A discussion in Arabic broke out. Finally, Ghaleb asked, “Give us run down of what you have now, yeah?”
Yuri thought about the best way to do this, and then pulled pictures out of his briefcase, placing each on the deck in front of Ghaleb as he talked. In Arabic, Ghaleb asked for more light.
Yuri said cautiously, “To start, we have many, many AKM-7.62-mm assault rifles. You know this is newest replacement for the AK-47s. The weapon weighs less than old AK-47s and is from new lightweight aluminum and plastic mags.” Yuri pointed at the pictures with his right index finger as he spoke and then looked up at the men to see if they had understood.
He continued, “The stock is straighter, which gives the shooter better control. The gas cylinder is better; there
