FATAL eMPULSE (22 page)

“Tell me about it?”

“We’ll send the transcript to you in a few minutes, but I wanted to give you a heads-up that the old guy is really sick. Gerrit said they were trying to get medical help for him. They are transporting the old man to a military hospital aboard a ship somewhere in the Gulf of Oman.”

“Did you get any information on Collord? Martin promised that you guys would check him out and get back to me.”

“Still checking, sir. This guy must be a ghost. We can’t find anything on him.”

“Well, find something I can use. I need it yesterday.” He terminated the call and thrust the phone back into his pocket. Just as he shifted in his seat, he felt the van move.

Beck settled into a desk he seldom used in the headquarters building just as his cell phone activated. An agent from Communications came on the line. “Sir, we just got a hit on one of the names you sent us. A Devon McAllister. He passed through Dulles a couple of days ago, but your flag on him got delayed. I just got the notice a while ago.”

Sitting up straight, Beck leaned forward. “Do we have a fix on him right now?”

“Not quite, sir, but we do have him taking a cab from the airport. We have the cab identified, and I checked on his destination.”

“And?” Beck waited for the agent to continue.

“It looks like he went to a business park on the west side of the city and met with several individuals at that location. Cameras show him getting into a van and driving off. We got the plate and vehicle description, and we put it thorough the system a few minutes ago. I will call when we have something.”

Beck slammed down the phone and leaned back in his seat. This Devon character seemed to have a knack for disappearing. They needed a break about now.

His phone vibrated with another call. The same agent on the line.

“Sir, we put out that request to the local PD. One of their traffic units just issued a parking citation to that vehicle.”

“Where was it cited?”

“Sir, you are not going to believe this—”

“Humor me. Just give me the location.”

“Sir, you can probably see it from your window.”

Beck leaped from his chair and peered outside. “You have got to be kidding.” He hung up the phone and grabbed his jacket. He would take care of this himself.

Devon watched the D.C. cop issuing a parking citation. He peered through the window, trying to see if anyone might be sitting inside. The tinted windows obscured the cop’s vision, and he settled for slipping the ticket beneath a window wiper.

Breathing easier, Devon watched the cop move farther down the street and began ticketing another vehicle. He straightened his legs and closed his eyes for a moment. He might as well take a nap.

A moment later, the rear window shattered and the muzzle of an H&K assault rifle pointed in his face.

“FBI, raise your hands! Do not move!” A man in a SWAT uniform wearing a ski mask yelled at him through the broken glass.

Someone yanked the door open, reached in, and pulled him onto the asphalt. Seconds after he hit the pavement, masked SWAT members had his arms bound behind him while a hand held him down by the nape of his neck, searching him from head to toe.

He saw a pair of dress shoes right in front of his face. The man belonging to those shoes knelt down so he could see who it was.

Beck Malloy.

“What kind of idiot climbs into a surveillance van and parks it in plain view of FBI headquarters? Mr. McAllister, you are under arrest for murder, attempted murder, unlawful wiretaps, and my favorite—felony stupid.”

Malloy rose and motioned to one of the SWAT members. “Get this creep out of my face.”

Men grabbed Devon by both arms and hauled him to his feet.
Where did these guys come from?
They dragged him to an unmarked caged sedan, searched him thoroughly, and then thrust him onto the rear passenger seat. Someone slammed the door shut.

Perspiration soaked his shirt. Martin would not come to his rescue. The risk would be too great. In fact, Devon might be considered a risk. He imagined one of his own crew members may get a call to terminate him at any moment. His arrest must have been witnessed by one of Martin’s people. They would not hesitate to report his failure to the boss.

Beck finally heard Collord come on the line. “Frank, we got him. Devon. But I just grabbed his laptop, which he left open, and someone e-mailed him a transcript of my last conversation with Gerrit. They know where Gerrit and his crew are and that Joe’s ill. I’m calling you from a safe phone here in headquarters.”

“Damn,” Frank said. “Get what you can out of him. Let’s see if you guys can build a case on Brandimir from what Devon gives you. Enough for us to issue an arrest warrant and haul Brandimir in the moment he steps foot on U.S. soil.”

“I thought you wanted us to to—”

“I’m staying that order, Beck. Maybe you’re rubbing off on me. Let’s see what you can get out of Devon, and then we will focus on getting Brandimir.”

“I’ll start on it right way. I’m going to give Willy a call and see what he can do on his end. If I farm it out here in the Bureau, I may not be able to protect what we find. We just don’t know who might be working with Brandimir.”

“Good. Meanwhile, I’m working on getting Joe out of country to one of our military vessels. His situation is deteriorating, but he insisted on staying until he briefed Gerrit and the others on the entire operation.”

“Speaking of which, are you going to bring Jack and me in on this? I feel that we only have part of the history.”

“I’ll sit down with you personally, Beck. Jack will have to wait until he hooks up with one of the other team members who have been briefed. Not the kind of thing one discusses over the phone.”

“Even encrypted communication lines?”

“Right now, I don’t think anything is safe, as you just found out with your own communications. Too risky. Not with what we have at stake.”

“Is this issue with Joe going to impact Gerrit and the others from the primary mission?”

“Joe, as bad off as he is, demands that they shove off as soon as their equipment and personnel are in place. Based on what I am hearing, Joe is facing an uphill battle for his life.”

“He is one ornery cuss.”

Frank chuckled. “I think Gerrit inherited some of his uncle’s stubbornness. He’s digging his heels in and staying put until Joe is taken care of.”

“Let me know how they make out on their end, and I will start gathering intel here in D.C.” Beck disconnected the call and walked toward an interview room where Devon sat under heavy guard.

February 27
Dubai, United Arab Emirates

G
errit elevated Joe’s head with a pillow. “Help is coming, Joe. Just hang in there.”

He saw the concern in his nephew’s eyes. Joe patted his arm. “Can you do me a favor? Bring my bag with all my documents and papers. There is something I need to take a look at before I leave.”

Gerrit retrieved the bag and placed it next to Joe.

Alena stood nearby, watching, alongside Shakeela. Such grim faces. He tried to chuckle. He knew he had never looked
that
good, and this recent bout of whatever sure did not improve his chances of making the cover of
GQ
magazine.

“All of you, listen up, I’m not going anywhere until I finish what I have to tell you. Get comfortable because it’s going to take a few minutes.”

“Uncle, we don’t have time. You—”

“Shut up and listen.” Joe saw Alena smile at that.

Joe started coughing again, and he raised his head to sip water Alena brought from the kitchen. He finally gained enough breath to continue. “Gerrit, Frank recruited your father to use his technology background to look at a more efficient model to gather and disseminate intelligence, and to come up with a better system to make use of human sources in the field, not the World War II-type of mindset that the CIA has based their intelligence gathering. From his position with DIA, Frank slowly created an organizational network that is trim and focused, using a model that demands a minimum layer of management and a maximum number of case agents in the field.”

Joe glanced at Shakeela. She seemed to be soaking up every word he shared. This seemed to dovetail with the problems she faced in the Agency while running operations. “How do we fit into this network, Joe?”

“Instead of creating civil-service jobs with yet another agency, Frank created a budget that maximized the use of contracted
consultants
—like you and Alena—while drawing personnel from other federal agencies as needed.”

Shakeela broke in. “I cannot see my agency going for this. I mean, they won’t share resources among themselves unless they are sure it will benefit their directorate in some way.”

“That’s the beauty of Frank’s system,” Joe said. “They don’t have a choice—at least not after President Chambers took office. Frank has the authority—straight from the president—to take whatever resources he needs to get the job done. No questions asked. No refusals accepted.”

“Sweet,” Gerrit said. “Cut right through the red tape. What about the budget? Who is he accountable to?”

“Only to the president. It is one huge discretionary fund Congress earmarked for intelligence operations, taking huge chunks of the budget from the CIA and other federal intelligence agencies. It is listed in the budget as the Secret Service Fund. People on the outside can’t tell who gets these resources, and they assume it belongs to the Secret Service, but in fact this was the name of a fund created by Congress when George Washington sought to gather intelligence against the British.”

“Frank must make a lot of friends that way, stealing their money and their intelligence. So what do we call this group?” Gerrit asked. “Secret Service Fund or Frank’s Raiders?”

“We simply refer to our group as The Network. The name—like us—is innocuous, anonymous, and doesn’t really tell you anything about itself. There are other groups like ours, all working autonomously, reporting to Frank or his designated supervisor. Until I got sick, you would have reported to me. Now…” Joe looked at Gerrit, “this will fall on your shoulders.”

He shook his head.

“I won’t take no for an answer,” Joe said. “There is too much at stake. Frank began with your father, Gerrit, and then carried over with me to build a highly protected, self-contained service group of computers that we can use to store our intelligence. We have access to both law enforcement and military systems. Jack and Beck will be our representatives for both groups. They don’t know it yet, but they will be given the very highest security clearances with authority to commandeer any intelligence database controlled by the United States.”

Again, Joe had to stop for a moment, trying to catch his breath. “The best thing about this system is that it is a one-way street. We receive intel but never give it unless it serves our purpose. No leaks.”

“Well, Uncle. We must have at least one leak. How did they find out about our trip here to Dubai?”

Shakeela leaned forward on the couch. “That may be due to the CIA, Gerrit. Not Joe’s group.”

“I agree with her.” Joe scanned the group. “Right now, we are cutting off all contact with the CIA, and our group will operate directly through Frank and his contacts. No one else. Meanwhile, Beck will be tasked with hunting down that leak.”

Joe tried to sit up, but chest pains caused him to settle back on the couch. “We have another member coming in tomorrow morning who’s going to join our team. He has contacts to get you into Syria and next to our target.”

Gerrit moved closer. “Who is this person?”

Joe glanced over at Alena. “His name’s Max Salk and he works for Israel’s Sayeret Mat’kal
.”

Alena blinked. “I know Max. He and I worked on several operations when I was with Mossad. We can trust him?”

Joe nodded. “We have to. He wouldn’t help us unless he could join our operation. The targets we’re going after have really great sources, as we learned here in Dubai. We cannot afford mistakes.”

“I may have a problem,” Shakeela said. “Contact with a foreign intelligence agency must be reported. I hate to be a stickler for following procedure, but—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Joe said. “Frank has been advised, and as of this operation, you have been assigned to work with us. No contact with your superiors unless Frank authorizes it. Until this is over, he will be the only one you need to report to.”

Gerrit received a call. “Excuse me. I have to take this. It’s Jack.” He walked across the room. While he waited, Joe reached down and dug into his backpack and retrieved an envelope addressed to him. He didn’t recognize the handwriting. Someone back in Miami must have tossed it into his backpack as they were leaving.

He sliced open the envelope.

Alena saw Gerrit suddenly tense and look back at them. Sensing trouble, she stood, patting Joe. “I’ll be right back.” As Gerrit ended the telephone call, she asked, “Everything okay?”

Gerrit looked worried. “I’m afraid not. Jack has arranged an emergency military transport to get Joe out of here ASAP. A plainclothes unit is on their way for transport.”

“Joe’s condition is that critical?”

Gerrit gave an abrupt nod. “Beck put in a 911 call to Jack after they arrested and interrogated Devon McAllister. Beck put enough pressure on McAllister to make him open up, to cooperate with us. Beck cut him a deal.”

“Why would Beck do that?”

“Because he suspected McAllister arranged to poison Joe. That if we can’t get Joe to a poison control center quickly, my uncle will die.”

“How…how did they get to him?” She felt fear taking hold. “We were with him the whole time.”

“Not when he arrived in Miami. One of McAllister’s people caught Joe leaving the airport after meeting with us and they got to his luggage.”

“Luggage?”

Gerrit nodded. “They got their hands on some TTX—tetrodotoxin powder—and managed to sprinkle it on some of his personal items and put a full dose on—”

Gerrit glanced back at Joe and began to run. Joe had slipped off the coach, still clutching the envelope. Alena ran toward him.

Before she could reach Joe, Gerrit held out his hand. “Stop, don’t go near him.”