Executive Intent

“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.