The Cobra Identity

handsome, but had not formed any romantic ties due to work schedule and his professional association, which lacked opportunities to meet people in his circumstance. He was also a dedicated law enforcement officer who took his job seriously and, as a result, had been promoted and transferred frequently. He had been in Miami only six months.

  Rachael Aston called the Miami office directly, bypassing the Army Liaison Officer with the FBI Washington headquarters. She used her youth and charm whenever needed for forgiveness working outside the “system,” and it helped that she had Presidential endorsement following her role in Chicago.

  The call was forwarded to Brennan, who answered, “Hello, this is Special Agent Brennan, how can I help you?”

  “Agent Brennan, I’m Rachael Aston with Army Intelligence at the Pentagon.”

  “Yes, Rachael. Call me Mark. What can I help you with?”

  “Okay Mark. We’ve received reliable information that shoulder-launched missiles are coming to Miami on a cargo ship.”

  “Where did you hear this?”

  “It’s from an allied military intelligence office.”

  “Do you know the ship’s name and arrival information?”

  “I only know the name, Morzh. Its Russian and can also claim Liberian registry.”

  “Can you hold? I want to get my computer turned on to check the Port Authority calendar. It’ll show scheduled arrivals. It should be running any minute.”

  She could hear him typing on his keyboard. Then she heard a quiet, “Holy shit...Ms. Ah...Rachael, the ship docked early this morning!”

  “Look Mark, this information is valid.”

  “Okay, understand. Listen, I’m going to alert ICE and get a federal court order to search the ship with the Dade County Sheriff. I can do this fast, but I need your help.”

  “Like what?”

  “Give me your full name again and your position in the Army.”

  Search Warrant

  Aboard Morzh, Captain Ivanov was on the foredeck working with the crewmen preparing to on-load sugar in large gunnysacks stacked on pallets that had arrived dockside. He was distracted elsewhere when a procession of Government cars and Port Police parked near the gangplank. The first time he saw the line of people was when they were coming aboard. His pulse quickened and the sweat increased more than caused by the Florida weather. Several armed men and women in suits and uniforms came aboard with distressing eagerness. The lead man in a business suit approached and asked for the Captain.

  “I am Captain, Yuri Ivanov.”

  “Captain Ivanov, I’m Special Agent Brennan of the U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigation, FBI, (showing his identification), and this is a Federal Search Warrant. Do you know what this document means?”

  “No, I do not know.”

  “It means that the people with me are going to search your ship for illegal goods.”

  Ivanov responded, “This ship is under Russian and Liberian registry. Under these country’s laws we sail.”

  “If you choose to call an attorney, you have that right. But, you are now under U.S. law and must obey our instructions.”

  “I wish to talk to Russian embassy.”

  “You may do so, and I have the phone number here on the warrant for that purpose.” The agent showed him the number. “In the meantime, we’ll commence the search. This process also involves your crew, so no one can leave.”

  Hasan Abd al-Majiid

  Hasan Abd al-Majiid had grown up in Iran as a privileged child. His parents had been in the government during the Shah’s reign during the 1970’s and received part of their education abroad in the UK and the States. His progressive parents often spoke English at home to give Hasan and his siblings some advantage, expecting the westernization of the country to continue. He was only twelve years old when the Shah was overthrown. This was the end of his family life. His parents were executed under the oppressive Islamic system that followed. Hasan was sent as an orphan to special schools for un-attached children and immersed in the dogma of radical Islamic fundamentals. He was ideally suited for the uprising in terrorism that escalated over the following decades. He was one of Iran’s most experienced operatives.

  After leaving the ship, Majiid had walked the length of the Miami Commercial Port Terminal on Dodge Island. It took only a couple minutes to reach Biscayne Blvd. where he made a phone call from a payphone. His driver was drinking tea at the Bayside Market Place next door and brought the car around front quickly. They then drove north to McArthur Causeway, merging onto I-95 north. The driver said, “Hasan, I am grateful that you have journeyed to us unharmed. It is my privilege to help you any way that I can.”

  The driver was a U.S. naturalized citizen from Lebanon and had a successful home contracting business. His family enjoyed prosperity and freedom in the United States. He avoided inquiring about Majiid’s purpose.

  Majiid said, “Yes my friend, we are truly blessed. Soon we will have a great victory against these infidels. Turn onto highway number seventy-five when we get there.”

  It took about twenty-five minutes to reach I-75, heading west through the Everglades along “Alligator Alley.” It took three hours to cross the swamp, where I-75 turned north along the west coast. In one more hour, they would be at Ft. Myers. Majiid had not told the driver about his mission, deciding to let him live and return to his home in Miami.

  Search of Morzh

  After two hours aboard Morzh, no missiles were found. When performing routine checks of the crew, one young man was evasive and nervous and difficult to question around the others. As the interrogation progressed, the man collapsed and started sobbing about his brother being lost at sea under cruel circumstances. After a full hour of discussion, the story was starting to make sense. He was questioned on the dock and inside one of the cars with air conditioning, out of earshot of the Captain and crew. His story was believable and frightening. He was an emotional wreck and the law enforcement team was inclined to believe him. Asked if he wanted protection in trade for testimony, the man, who was really just a boy, said “yes” emphatically. He was embittered by the careless and callous way his brother had perished.

  After talking to the man, Brennan re-boarded the ship and confronted Ivanov, who refused to talk until someone from the embassy advised him. At that point, the Port Authority impounded the ship and the Captain was arrested. The rest of the crew was placed in custody of the Immigration authorities, except for the young sailor with the FBI. The government team drove back to the Federal Building with the young man, Aleksei Kravchenko, who was despondent, partly from betraying his shipmates, but more from the memory of his brother dying the way he did.

  The FBI offices were on the second floor where the agents took Aleksei to a small conference room. Someone brought him a Coke, which he accepted with gratitude. Mark left him with his assistant, Agent Jeff Janiak (JJ) who was instructed to record everything he heard about the death of his brother and the package dropped into the sea. “See if you can get anything that would help locate the drop point.” Aleksei was conversant enough in English to speak to the agents without an interpreter.

  After grabbing a cold turkey sandwich and coke from the canteen on the first floor, Brennan returned to his cubicle before calling Rachael Aston. He was starving. Gulping everything down in five minutes, he punched in her phone number.

  “This is Rachael Aston.” He was impressed that she answered her own phone.

  “Ah, Ms. Aston, this is Mark Brennan, FBI Miami.”

  “Yes Mark Did you find anything?”

  “I think we may have. The Morzh was clean. We inspected her from stem to stern. There was nothing. But, we got some information from one of the sailors. We have the Captain in custody.”

  “What do you know?”

  Mark told her about the information from the sailor, hopeful that JJ would be able to get more facts to piece together.

  Rachael wanted to get closer to the action, “I’m going to run this up the flagpole in Washi
ngton, then I’ll be on a flight to Miami first thing.”

  “Let me know your flight plans, so I can pick you up.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Will do. See you later.”

  Rachael typed out the facts of the “situation” and sent it to all subscribers on the National SecureNet System, the classified network service used by all intelligence agencies. Then she called the Pentagon travel office and gave them a “Priority Two” travel itinerary. This allowed the office to search both commercial travel options and military transports. She rushed to the metro to go home and pack. Before she reached Georgetown, the travel office had her booked on a military flight to Homestead Joint Air Reserve Base (JARB) leaving Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland, in two hours. She then called Brennan.

  At six that evening, Agent Brennan was parked at the Air Force Reserve dispatch terminal as the C-21, military version of a Lear 35A business jet, stopped about one hundred feet away. As the engines spooled down, the door opened and people began filing off. Most were in uniform. Rachael was the fourth person to exit and began walking toward the terminal as Mark came out to meet her. It was rare to see a woman dressed in a business suit in South Florida, and she was not the vision of a Pentagon Director in his mind. She was strikingly beautiful, almost six feet tall, with an athletic build, long flowing brown hair and a dignified cadence in her walk. She was both unpretentious in her mannerisms, yet unavoidably noticeable in any