FATAL eMPULSE (26 page)

Alena turned toward Max. “Really? And what were we doing in Kuwait for the last week?”

“Our second honeymoon?” Max smiled. “Seriously, we reportedly made contact with our office in Kuwait City to firm up new oil-drilling leases and contracts. As you can see we will be traveling under British passports. From there, we make contact with our representative in Damascus.”

“And Shakeela and me?” Gerrit asked, noting Alena seemed uneasy. She gave Shakeela a glance before returning her attention to Max.

“You guys are going to take another route, a commercial flight from Dubai to Rome. And once there, a direct flight to Damascus. Look in your packets. You’ll be traveling with Australian passports. We should all arrive within a few hours of each other.”

“And once we touch down in Damascus, where do Shakeela and I meet the two of you?”

“Mossad has arranged for you to be met by another person upon your arrival and driven to where we will meet. After that, your driver takes off and we move to another site.”

Gerrit studied Max closely. “Do you trust the source?”

“Frankly, I do not have a clue who this source is. Mossad recruited him and runs the asset. He has been feeding them solid information for years.”

“What’s his motive?”

“His brother was tortured and killed by Assad’s regime. They were very close and he wants to do his part to clean up his country, to give his people a choice of how they want to be governed. At least that is the reason Mossad gave.”

“This guy could be playing both sides,” Gerrit said.

“Maybe,” Max said, “but his information has been correct. And he knows what will happen if he double-crosses us.”

“But can we trust him in this operation?”

“I am afraid we must. He is our primary source for weapons and other tools we’ll need for this job. Until Colonel Perlman’s shipment through Lebanon comes through or your friend Frank Collord arranges for a larger, covert shipment through Turkey. And this source will give us access to secured areas on a Syrian air base when the time comes for us to move. We just have to pin down which base.”

Gerrit shook his head. “A lot is riding on this guy.”

“It is how we must do business. Now, let’s go over the details for when we arrive in Damascus.” They gathered around the coffee table as Max laid out the plan.

Gerrit listened as he watched the faces around him. His gaze rested on Alena, watching her eye Max. Before he could shift his eyes, Alena looked up and caught him staring. She gave him a smile before looking away.

“One last thing.” Max reached down and picked up a small gray metal carrying case. “A little present from your associate Frank Collord.” He flicked the case open.

Gerrit leaned over. The case contained four small pill-like cylinders, the size of a normal vitamin with rounded ends. “These are tracking devices Frank wants each of us to implant beneath our skin. Do not worry, I have a medical background and can almost painlessly insert them.”

Alena glanced at the others. “You are kidding, right? Big Brother can track us anywhere with these things—along with anyone else who knows we are wearing them.”

“These will be removed once we complete our mission,” Max said, “but this will help our people track us and get help to us if we’re captured. No matter what kind of scanning devices the enemy uses, they will not be able to detect these trackers unless they x-ray us.”

“I don’t like the idea of—”

“It’s for our own good, Alena,” Gerrit said. “Just for this operation.”

Max picked up one of the sanitized units encoded in a plastic container. “These are really cool. They are combination GPS and RFID microchips our satellites can pick up thousands of miles away. They can zero in on our location within a few feet. Our locations can be transmitted to a smartphone or a handheld receiver, with the exact coordinates in real time. These transmissions are encrypted. Unless a user has the codes and the right equipment, they could be standing right next to us and not pick up a thing.” Max stood. “Okay, who wants to go first?”

Gerrit rolled up his sleeve. “Someone has to. By the way, Max. What did you mean when you said you could insert these ‘almost painlessly’?”

Max just grinned as he pulled out a syringe, a scalpel, and bandages. “Just what I said, Gerrit. ‘Almost painlessly’ means just that—this is going to hurt.”

Atash Hassan impatiently tapped his fingers on the tabletop. He looked around the bank executive’s office, waiting for the man to get off the telephone. Next to him sat Mohamed Abul Fotouh, a Muslim Brotherhood member currently sitting on the Syrian National Council, whose presence here in Dubai would make UAE security highly uncomfortable. Fotouh arrived only hours ago, using falsified documents provided by Hassan’s own security people.

The banker got off the phone, beads of perspiration glistening on his forehead and upper lip. “The money is now available. When would you like it transferred?”

Atash grimaced. “I told you to send it now.”

Wringing his hands, the banker—a portly gentleman wearing a wrinkled charcoal suit and a blue necktie that seemed to be choking him—anxiously watched Atash’s face. “I…I will take care of that personally, sir.”

“You do that. Now leave us alone. We have other business to discuss.”

“But, sir, this is my office and I must—”

“Get out!” Atash roared.

“Yes, sir. Just let me know…”

“You will be told. Now, take care of that matter and leave us alone.”

“Y-Yes…yes,” the man stammered, springing from his chair with more agility than his size would suggest, bowing as he backed out of the room.

After the door closed, Atash turned toward Fotouh. “Now, my friend, I trust your travels were safe and productive?”

Smiling, Fotouh gestured with his hand. “Yes, my friend. Very productive. I came by way of Amman and Riyadh. We have been promised support from both countries when the time is right, although Amman’s representative said his people are very nervous about appearing to side with SNC, but they will give support in other tangible ways. And we can continue to use their border with Syria to our advantage. Our friends in Riyadh would like nothing better than to see the al-Assad regime toppled.”

Atash beamed. “Good. Good. When the time is right, we will be ready to give you aide.”

“What about the Americans? Will they support us if Assad is gone?”

Scoffing, Atash waved his hands. “The Americans are weak and will do whatever they think will keep oil coming their way. We may have problems with this new president, Chambers, but he might not be a problem much longer.”

Fotouh gave him a quizzical look. “And how will that problem be handled?”

Atash crossed his legs and ran a hand down his trousers, smoothing out a wrinkle. “Do not concern yourself with the details, Mohamed. When you get my signal, just be ready to have your people in place as we discussed.”

“We are forever in your debt, Hassan,” Fotouh said, touching the tips of his right fingers to his forehead, bowing his head slightly. “Without your help, Assad would have hunted us down and eliminated those fighting the revolution. May Allah be praised.”

“May Allah be praised. And may the Great and Little Satans be destroyed.”

March 2
Venice, Italy

A
n alert sounded on his phone next to the bed. Brandimir Kisyov raised his tired head and peered at the caller ID. Irritated, he saw the caller’s identification had been blocked. He turned on the light, swung his legs out of bed, and saw the red light on the digital clock showed 3:00 a.m. Angrily, he snatched up the telephone. “Who is this?”

“Brandimir, wake up. The FBI are rummaging through your offices and home in the U.S. as we speak. They may have the Italians come to apprehend you.”

Atash Hassan!

He recognized the threatening voice.
And he knows my name!
Fear chased the remnants of sleep from his brain. “How do you know this?” As soon as Brandimir uttered the question, he felt stupid. If the Iranian knew his name, he would increase the surveillance on Brandimir’s operations, knowing what was at stake.
That is what I would do.

“It is time we talk. I have a plane waiting. A driver will be at your front door in fifteen minutes. Be ready.” Hassan hung up.

Brandimir stared at the phone in his hand. Who did Hassan think he was to give orders? Even as his anger simmered, he knew Hassan now controlled the reins of Brandimir’s life. The one thing he tried to hide all these years, under all his aliases, was his true name, his real identity. Very few people knew his secret. And now Atash Hassan, a man he considered lower than a snake, knew everything. The Iranian could twist his life any way the terrorist wanted. And Brandimir would have to obey.

Unless he could gain the upper hand.

As he started to collect his belongings, he tried to figure a way to wiggle out of this cage Hassan intended to lock him in. By the time his doorbell rang, Brandimir still had no answer. For now, he’d march to Hassan’s tune until he could figure a way to eliminate this new threat.

Still cloaked in darkness, Beck Malloy watched as other agents continued to search Brandimir’s Georgetown mansion. Neighbors started to congregate outside their homes, looking at the caravan of unmarked federal vehicles stopped in the street, emergency lights flashing. A news van pulled up behind the last FBI car, and a camera crew spilled out.

The circus had begun. Just as he was about to reenter the residence, Beck’s cell phone vibrated. “Yeah, what’s up, Willy? I’m a little busy here.”

“Sorry to disturb you, G-man, but I’ve got something important you need to know.”

Beck tried to disguise his irritation. He did not feel up to Willy’s usual wisecracks. “Well, spill it.”

“I have been using my Daemon Files to search for any activity that Stuart Martin…uh, Brandimir Kisyov, might be up to. You know, tracing his calls and communication links to try to map out his activity.”

“I know, Willy, we discussed this when I visited you in Lake Tahoe. Give it to me quick.” Beck shifted the phone in his hand so he could sign a crime-scene log one of his agents just started.

“Yeah, well just slow it down for second, Mr. B. I need to tell you in detail how these calls went down, or you won’t get it.”

“I also don’t want to die of old age while you try to explain.”

“Okay. Okay. I put an alert on all phones connected to Brandimir and those significant players we have identified in this case so far. Including Atash Hassan.”

“And?”

“Hassan just called Brandimir in Venice. He warned Brandimir that the FBI is searching all of his places in the U.S., including where you are standing right now, Mr. B.”

“You’re kidding. No one knew we were going to hit these places until a half hour ago. Except the judge, my boss at the FBI, Frank Collord and…”

“And who?”

Beck’s stomach churned. “President Chambers.”

“The main man?”

“Frank had to be sure the president was on board with this because of the political fallout that would come for going after Brandimir—at least under the well-known name of Stuart Martin.”

“So you think the prez snitched you off?”

Irritated, Beck clutched the phone. “Willy, do me a favor. The president is our commander in chief, a man we trust to protect our country. Could you show a little respect?”

“Sorry, Mr. B., don’t get so touchy. Who do you think dropped a dime to our Iranian?”

Beck didn’t answer. “Look, I want you to search using your little Daemons, giving it a parameter search to include any calls to Brandimir or Hassan coming from the White House.”

“You got it. Anything else?”

A new concern tightened Beck’s throat as he started to process everything. “Willy, there is something I need you to do that is super critical.”

“More important than a traitor next to the president?”

“Yeah, more important to me, at least.” He directed Willy on whose phones and communication links he needed searched. “Get on that right now. I have another call to make.”

“My fingers are already flying, Mr. B. Catch you later.”

“And Willy, if you find out that these people know what Gerrit and the others are up to, call me right away. It may be a matter of life and death.” Beck hung up and dialed an old friend.

Someone rapped on Stephen’s bedroom door. He slipped out of bed, looking over to see if his wife was still sleeping. She didn’t stir. He slipped on a robe and slippers and crept across the room to open the door.

Agent Hawkins, attached to his security, stood in the hallway. “Sir, we have just discovered something you need to know about.”

“This can’t wait until morning, Hawkins? It’s past midnight.”

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

Stephen stepped into the next room, quietly closing the door and drawing his robe tighter around him. “Okay, what’s so important?” He tried to keep his irritation from Hawkins.

“Sir, I received a call from an old friend, FBI Special Agent Beck Malloy.”

“I know him. What did Beck call about?”

“Agent Malloy said we might want to check your offices for bugs, one that may have just been set in place.”

“Your service regularly coordinates security sweeps with technicians from the White House Communications Agency, right?”

“That’s correct, sir. But Agency Malloy suggested we might want to recheck everything tonight.”

“Did he say why?”

Agent Hawkins nodded gravely. “Sir, he believed information may have been leaked from your office.”

“And did you find anything?”

“We did, sir. We found several bugs and they are still searching.”

“Where?”

“In the Oval Office and in several locations in The Situation Room in places where you were most likely to use.”

“How come this was not picked up during your last sweep?”

“They were set in place in the last twelve hours. Right after our sweep.”

Stephen saw the troubled look in Hawkins’s eyes. “Are you telling me someone on my own staff may have done this?”

Shrugging, the agent did not answer. He didn’t have to. Someone close to Stephen had been spying on him. He began to replay all the conversations he had over the last twelve hours and where those conversations took place. He held his breath, remembering one conversation he had just before bedtime.