Troika | Page 2

this crowd, he was inconspicuous. This was the essence of the operation--anonymity and discretion. Now was not the time to be noticed.
He pulled off the main highway onto a local street, spotted a parking space, and pulled into it. With sixteen minutes to kill, he walked into a small coffee shop, ordered coffee and a doughnut, sipped the coffee and read the local paper: nothing unusual, nothing outstanding, just the normal items found in any small-town paper. Glancing again at his watch, which now read 09:18/44, he paid his bill and walked out into a morning mist. Crossing at the corner, he paused in front of the drug store and checked his denim jacket pocket before entering. His prescription was still there.
The girl behind the counter barely glanced up when he came in.
"Hi, Claire, is Ken around?"
She tilted her head in the general direction of the prescription counter and continued arranging her merchandise. He took the slip of paper from his pocket as the pharmacist appeared.
"Oh, hi, Tom. Can I help you?"
"Can you fill this for me? No rush. I'll be back for it after lunch."
"No problem."
Tom walked out of the store, down the street. got into the truck, and drove to a gas station where he filled the tank. He looked at his watch--09:44/55. Right on time.
At precisely ten o'clock, Tom pulled into the Pennsauken Industrial Park loading area, and walked to the door of the MID-EAST AIR FREIGHT, INC warehouse. He rang the bell. From inside the building he could hear movement.
Tom stood waiting. When the door opened, the warehouse was cold, damp, and smelled of long forgotten cargoes.
"Hey," he yelled. "Where's the john? I need to take a leak!"
"Hold your water," a voice answered. "I'm comin'. The john's in the office, but it's locked."
"For Crissake, hurry up, I'm dancin'!"
A middle-aged gray haired man, dressed in a dirty striped coverall, emerged from the dark rear of the warehouse and admitted Tom. He unlocked the office door, switched on the light, and motioned with his thumb to a door at the right rear of the office. Tom entered rapidly, and with a long sigh, relieved himself. Vowing to stop drinking so much coffee, he re-entered the office, sat down and waited.
"Good morning, Thomas."
Tom turned around in his chair. Only one person ever called him "Thomas": his uncle, Farid Attiyeh, his mother's eldest brother. He was a short, slight, well groomed man. According to family gossip, he was one of the few Palestinians who had been able to retain his wealth after the 1948 disaster.
Tom wasn't surprised to see him. He had assumed that somehow Uncle Farid was involved in whatever it was that brought Tom to the Park. He was smart enough not to ask questions when his parents told to do something.
Uncle Farid extended his hand. "Thank you for bringing the truck. My men will remove the cargo. Outside, there is a gift for you. Use it in good health. Now, please, leave. The matter is closed. Give my regards to your mother." His uncle smiled and handed him a set of car keys. Tom took the keys, stammered his thanks and left the office. In the warehouse, he tossed the truck keys to the waiting elderly man and left.
Outside the warehouse, sitting beside the truck was a new, fully equipped, Toyota sports car. Tom grinned as he lowered himself into the driver's seat. It was sure nice not to have to explain where he got a new car. Everyone knew that the Crespi's had rich relatives who often gave them spectacular gifts. Within seconds, he was on his way back home.
As soon as Tom's car was out of sight, Farid Attiyeh summoned the older man to his office. Handing him the keys to the panel truck, the gray haired man stood silently awaiting further orders.
"Vermaat, I want the material unloaded as soon as possible. Ship them to the Nuclear Medicine Department of the Ibn Rosht General Hospital, Dubai, United Arab Emirates. Place the canisters in one of our trucks. Then get rid of the truck that Thomas brought." The older man nodded and left the office. Attiyeh turned to his desk and placed a long-distance call. "The shipment will leave Philadelphia International Airport tomorrow morning via Lufthansa Cargo. You should have it in two to three days. Goodbye."
He sat back in his chair, lit a cigarette, and smiled. All was going well. In fact, much better than he had expected.
Willem Vermaat took the keys, called to his helper, and loaded the canisters on to a dolly, which they wheeled into the rear of the warehouse. Using a spray paint gun and stencil, he put the address on a crate. He repeated the operation on each of the other three sides. He and his helper then loaded the