FATAL eMPULSE (28 page)

How ironic! Each stood on some kind of moral high ground that justified killing others in the name of their god.

He had sworn—as a U.S. Marine and as a Seattle police officer—to protect his country from all enemies, foreign and domestic. He intended to do just that. So help him…God? Until now, he had never thought about the full implication of those words.

March 2

G
errit walked outside to get fresh air and to escape the tension inside. A moment later, he heard Alena follow. They walked over to the orange trees and stood in the shade watching the house. “We are a long way from home, Alena.”

“You forget where I come from.” She smiled. A moment later, she added, “And how is your wife?”

“Right now, she and Max are about to start the Crusades all over again.” He wanted to avoid the topic of Shakeela, but he knew Alena harbored questions. She probably wouldn’t leave it alone. “And how is your husband?”

“Touché.”

“I haven’t heard a word about Joe. Have you?”

Alena shook her head. “I’m hoping Willy or the others will get back to us if there is any news.”

Jack promised to monitor Joe’s progress from his position in Tel Aviv. So far, no word.

He saw one of the sentries moving among the trees. The air seemed clear, and except for the traffic moving on the highway some distance away, there was little noise to disturb their solitude. “Do you know what Max’s game plan might be? As far as I can tell, he has a location pinned down but no way for us to get inside and verify except by some source he has yet to identify.”

She folded her arms across her chest and looked off to her right through the trees. A break between several fruit trees allowed them to see the next farm. The ground had been turned over in anticipation of the next planting season. “As you noticed, he does not trust Shakeela. He has always been one to keep things close, to reveal plans when he feels the time is right.”

“That raises two questions,” Gerrit said. “First, why is Max running this operation without consultation with the rest of us? And second, do you trust Shakeela?”

“Regarding your
wife
,” Alena said, curtly, “She’s Iranian. I am Jewish. Can you see where we might have some trust issues?”

“Shakeela is an American. A CIA agent. She’s been vetted by the best for security clearances.”

Alena grimaced. “And Obama’s Department of Homeland Security was found to be taking the advice of Muslim Brotherhood operatives who had ingratiated themselves within your government. So, to answer your question, the judge is still out.”

“The judge…do you mean the jury’s still out?” He started to laugh, but he saw she was upset.

“You trust her?”

Before he could answer, Gerrit spotted Shakeela emerging from the house. She glanced around, saw them standing in the shadows, and moved in their direction. “Short answer, yeah.”

Shakeela drew closer before Alena could respond. “I think we have a serious problem, Gerrit. I never thought I’d have to prove myself to this group.”

“You don’t.” Gerrit stole a quick look toward Alena.

Shakeela looked at Alena. “Do I have to prove myself to you, too?”

Gerrit watched the two women staring at each other.

Alena took her time before answering. “You have to look at it from where Max is standing. He’s from Israel. You—your family—are Iranians. I am Jewish. At some level, it is reasonable to wonder whose side you might be on if it came down to those two countries fighting each other.”

Shakeela pointed a finger at her. “I told you, I am an American. I have risked my life on practically every continent in the world to protect my country. I have lost friends in the fight against terrorism. I will probably lose more. How can anyone question my loyalty? And what about you, Alena? How long did you live in Russia? Yes, I looked up your file. Quite interesting. After growing up in Russia, you moved to Israel where you served with IDF and Mossad? Whose side would you defend if it came down to the best interest of Israel or the U.S.? And why should we trust you?”

A whistle from the house interrupted an uncomfortable silence. It was Max. “Come back in and let’s get this wrapped up.”

Stiffly, both women turned and walked toward the farmhouse. As Gerrit trailed behind, his cell phone vibrated. He pulled it out and saw Willy’s ID. “Hey, it is great to hear a friendly voice,” he said, as Alena and Shakeela looked back sharply. “What’s up?”

“Hey, Mr. G. Remember that idiot who met with your main guy in Hawaii?” Clearly Willy was trying to be discreet, but anyone familiar with this case would know he meant the meeting Brandimir had with Scott Henderson, the scientist-turn-traitor.

“I remember, Willy.”

“Well, I flagged the scientist’s stuff—credit cards, cell phones, even his Facebook and Twitter accounts. Guess where the traitor is right now?”

“I haven’t a clue, but you’re about to tell me?”

“That lowlife is just a few miles away from you. I’m sending the information to your cell. I’m surprised your new spook friends didn’t have this information.”

“You’re good, Willy.”

“Yes I am, Mr. G.”

“Let me know if there’s any change in his location.”

“You bet.”

Gerrit paused for a moment. “Any word on Joe?”

All the humor in Willy’s voice evaporated as if someone shoved a pin into a helium-filled balloon. “Nah, not a word, Mr. G. Will you let me know if you hear anything?”

“You got it, Willy. And thanks for the information.”

“Stay safe, and give Alena a hug for me.”

Gerrit entered the farmhouse and sensed the tension had not let up since the break. Max was standing near the table, scowling. Alena and Shakeela stood at opposite ends of the room, staring out the window. Max’s men had moved out of the room, probably fed up with all the drama. Gerrit wished he could join them.

Max glanced up as Gerrit entered. “Okay, since we are all back, let’s get this briefing underway.”

Edging toward the table, Gerrit kept a watchful eye on the others. As he waited for them to gather, he raised his cell phone and saw the message from Willy. He scrolled down, activating the text, then pocketed the phone. “Before we start, Max, let me throw another piece of intel on the table.” He shared the information on the importance of Scott Henderson and Willy’s last known address for the scientist.

“He’s here? In Damascus?” Max looked incredulous.

“Willy has his location pinpointed in the Old City. This answers several questions for us.”

Shakeela leaned on the table. “We know how they’re going to break through Israel’s defenses.”

Gerrit nodded. “And we know who they’re going to use to verify the system works. They may even use this clown on the raid.”

“Exactly,” Max said, enthusiastically looking at the others. “And the fact that he is, in Damascus tells me that we are targeting the right location. They are going to use one of the An-26s from Syria’s 29th Brigade to make this happen.”

“How can you tell they’ll only use one plane?”

Doubt seemed to cross Max’s face. “Good point, Gerrit. I would imagine the Russians are only willing to supply one system through the Iranians, and they would send in this guy to make sure that that system operates as expected.”

Gerrit stared at the map, thinking.

Alena seemed to sense Gerrit wasn’t buying it. “What is wrong with that option?”

“I keep coming back to the main problem I have with all this. Why would al-Assad risk attacking Israel when he has so many problems at home? It would be more prudent to wait until he got his own house in order, before taking on enemies beyond his border.”

“Maybe it’s his way of defying world opinion,” Shakeela said. “After all, he will have Iran and others backing him up on the raid. Right?”

“Maybe,” Gerrit said, “but the fact that they’d only use one system flies in the face of sound military doctrine.”

Max gave him a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”

Gerrit glanced at the others. “Murphy’s Law that says that ‘anything that can go wrong will go wrong.’ Well, the military has found this to be true when it comes to weapons, communications, and critical equipment. They’ve learned the hard way that it is always wise to build in redundancy to make sure the job gets done. Why are the Syrians relying on only one system for such an important mission?”

“Maybe they have no other choice,” Max said. “Maybe they are working with a one-of-a-kind system that can’t be duplicated right now.”

“Then why not wait until they have a contingency plan? To me, this just smacks of insanity.” Gerrit frowned.

“Maybe that is what we’re dealing with,” Alena said. “President al-Assad may feel he has been pushed into a corner with all the international attention. Perhaps he feels he must get back control. A matter of honor. Of respect.”

“So he’s risking World War III to gain respect?” Gerrit asked. “I never read the man as being that crazy. President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad? Yes. This guy? I don’t think so.”

Max seemed frustrated. “So, tell me what you think this all means.”

“Until we know for sure,” Gerrit said, “I don’t think we can go forward. We need to pull together more intel on their operation and then make a decision.”

Max straightened up and peered over at Gerrit. “Time’s running out. If we can’t discover what is happening real soon, the matter will be taken out of our hands. Others in my government are ready to take swift action. We may find ourselves in the middle of another war.”

March 2
Damascus, Syria

A
tash Hassan sat deep within the Al-Nawfara coffee shop, enjoying the company of strangers. This was one of the oldest shops still offering services of one of the last professional
hakawati
, Arabic storytellers. He watched as the hakawati hypnotized the customers with another artful tale about a time and place when Syria ruled this part of the world.

Times have changed, even for this three-hundred-year-old café. A recent ban on smoking indoors drove many customers—desiring to smoke the narghile along with sips of their coffee—outside in the shade of the tree-lined street. Atash could smell the aroma of honeyed-flavored tobacco, called Mu’assel, as it passed through a water basin before the smokers inhaled. These customers had been forced to sit outside, away from the earshot of the storyteller, which greatly affected the money flow into the café and into the storyteller’s pockets.

Still, he liked to come to this place when he visited Damascus, a place hidden behind the historic Umayyad Mosque. When he had the time, Atash enjoyed a stroll through the Souq al-Hamidiyya marketplace, straddling an area between the mosque and the new city. It allowed him to take a trip back in time, a time when Persia and her neighbors in the Middle East ruled the world with an iron fist. When Allah’s warriors pushed iron-clad crusaders all the way back to their European shores. This place reminded him of those moments in history when his people stood proud against the world.

He did not have time to take a stroll today. As he took another sip of coffee, he saw his Syrian counterpart—Raed al-Azmah—looking uneasy as he approached the table. Atash gestured for Raed to take the seat next to him.

“You think it is wise to meet here? In this public place?” Raed lowered himself in the chair, scanning the crowd.

“Just two old friends enjoying a cup of coffee together. What could be the harm in that?” Atash’s smile masked the contempt he had for this man. “I have others watching for us. We may talk freely here as long as we lower our voices.”

Raed hurriedly looked around, obviously trying to figure out who might be working for Atash. His expression told Atash that the Syrian did not spot the people he’d strategically placed in this café. If a Syrian intelligence officer could not spot Atash’s operatives, then he knew others would not pick up on them either.

“Tell me,” Atash said, leaning closer to Raed. “Have you been able to make progress on your end? Are they ready?”

Raed lowered his voice. “I have set it up as you requested. The equipment will be in place, and I have pilots on standby. Just tell me when you want it to go forward.”

“Not yet, my friend. I will let you know twenty-four hours before it is time. Will that be sufficient?”

Raed nodded. “Yes. But if things go wrong, if they do not come through, I have plans to leave the country.”

“I understand. If it does not go as planned, you and I will need to leave together.”

“Have you arranged for the funds?”

“Ah. The money. It will be waiting for you at that time. When I give the word, half of the amount will be wired to your account. And the other half will be sent when the mission is complete. This is how I do business. Agreed?”

Raed gave a tense nod. “Agreed. Now, I must leave.”

Atash watched the Syrian weave through the crowd, looking from left to right, probably still trying to figure out where his people might be watching.

About twenty minutes later, Atash finished his last drop of coffee and moved toward the door. A couple seated near the entrance glanced up at him, and he gave them a nod. They rose and beckoned to three others seated throughout the café.

Atash casually exited the café and turned toward the main market, stopping from time to time to examine merchandise. He did not look around, relying on the others to cover him as he worked his way deeper into the market. He reached a side street, much smaller than the main thoroughfare, and followed the gray tiled bricks until he emerged in sunlight. He meandered several blocks until he came to his destination.

He lit a cigarette and leaned against a tree, watching the street. He carefully scanned both directions for any vehicles that might be suspicious, and then carefully looked for those on foot passing along the narrow sidewalk. One last time, he scrutinized a row of parked vehicles all lined on one side of the narrow street.

One of his security team stood nearby, waiting for instructions. He walked over and whispered, “Station your people along this street, and keep an eye on any vehicles that come into the area. I do not want to be seen with the man I am about to visit. Understood?”