Fog of War (Justin Hall # 3) (32 page)

A grenade exploded in front of them. One of the BMWs began to sound its sharp alarm. A few bullets thumped against the car doors.

The gunmen had secured their positions behind a stone gazebo and a few benches. Justin judged the distance to be about one hundred yards away from the BMW.

Sergei’s AK burst out in a long barrage. He stood on his feet, to the left of the first car. “Cover me,” he shouted while replacing his empty magazine and slipped into the BMW.

“Wait. Where are you goi—”

The car raced toward the gazebo. Justin got to his knees, closed his left eye, and tried to make out his targets. Gunshots came from the speeding BMW as Sergei was shooting his way to the gunmen. Justin saw two silhouettes pop up behind one of the benches. He shot them, then he began to shoot and run behind the BMW.

Gunshots hammered the car, but strangely it kept going. It jumped the curb and crossed through the lawns, ran over a flower patch and shrubs and came to a stop a few feet away from the gazebo’s stairs.

Justin dropped behind a thick pine tree. Two guards were running toward his position. A gunman stood from behind the gazebo and fired at them. One of the guards fell backwards. The other kept running, but slowly, limping on his left leg.

Justin glanced at the car. Sergei had not come out of the BMW. No one was shooting at the car, but a guard was firing single shots from his AK from across the lawn.

“Cease fire, cease fire,” Justin shouted in Russian. “They’re all dead.”

There was at least one gunman alive, but he hoped his words would draw him out.

Nothing happened in the first few seconds, then someone climbed over the gazebo’s wall and slid down the stairs. Before Justin could pull his trigger, the guard with the AK let off a short burst. Bullets cut the man down to the lawn.

Two guards moved forward from the other side of the yard. Justin came out from behind the tree. Taking careful steps, he swept the grounds for surviving gunmen. The cold night was silent, but for the crunching of guards boot on the grass.

Justin reached the BMW. Sergei was leaning over the steering wheel. Two gunshot wounds were visible in his back. Justin let out a deep sigh. He looked up at one of the guards standing by the car.

“He’s gone,” Justin said.

The guard cursed in Russian, then kicked the BMW’s door.

Justin marched toward the gazebo. A dead gunman was lying on the lawn. His was on his back, and his left arm was twisted underneath his body. He had a black thick beard and was wearing a military camouflage jacket and pants.

“Do you recognize him?” Justin asked one of the guards who just came up behind him.

The guard crouched and looked at the dead man’s face. He rummaged through the man’s pockets, came out empty, then nodded. “I think he’s a Chechen rebel.”

Do Chechen rebels have ties to al-Shabaab?
Justin thought.
Or is Johnson directly contacting these men, sending them to finish al-Shabaab’s job?

“Justin,” Carrie called at him.

He turned around and saw her standing a few feet away.

“I’m fine,” he said. “They’re not.”

She walked to the bench where the guards had placed the body of another dead gunman.

“He’s definitely a Chechen terrorist,” said a guard. “I’ve seen his face on television.”

Justin nodded. He pulled Carrie to the side. “Let’s check with McClain and see if this bait worked,” he said. “I’m pretty sure Johnson is behind this.”

“I think so too. How did it go with Romanov?”

“He completed our puzzle. I’ll tell you everything on our way out.”

Chapter Twenty-two

Walter E. Washington Convention Center

Washington D.C., United States of America

October 4, 8:45 a.m. local time

Initially, McClain had not liked Justin’s plan to take down Adams. It was true the man was a crook, but he was still the Deputy Director of NCS. It was not McClain’s job to straighten things out in CIA. This was not his problem. Adams was taught to erase, not cover, his tracks. An earlier CIA investigation of Adams, based upon the same evidence provided by Romanov, had turned out unsuccessful. The case against Adams was weak. The result of another investigation could prove to be the same. And McClain could not have that.

But Adams had misled him and his team, putting them in danger, using them as blind tools. Adams had convinced him Justin and Carrie were going after a terrorist, when he was, in fact, a rogue CIA agent. Documents obtained from Romanov showed Adams had lied to his face when McClain had asked him about the American weapons in al-Shabaab’s hands. Such actions could not be tolerated and would not go unpunished. So McClain had accepted Justin’s idea and had authorized the plan. McClain was prepared to deal with any fallout from this operation.

Justin arrived early at Walter E. Washington Convention Center. The conference on “Safety, Security, and Proliferation of Small Arms and Light Weapons (SALW) in the 21st Century” was taking place in one of the conference rooms in Level 2 of the center. It was hosted by one of United Nations programs addressing the issue of illegal light weapons in Africa, with the participation of various US government agencies. Ironically, Adams, was one of the keynote speakers. His presentation was going to give the audience—which included an unusually large number of journalists from reputable news networks—an update on US efforts to curb the illegal gun trade in war-ravaged areas of the world. The opportunity was too good for Justin to pass up.

The guards at the main entrance and throughout the halls glanced suspiciously at Justin’s media badge, but they did not stop him. A freelance journalist was just another body in the room they needed to keep an eye on. But they had nothing to worry about, since Justin was not plotting a direct confrontation with Adams or anyone else from NCS who may have come with him. Everything in his plan had already been set in motion over the weekend and earlier that morning. Justin was here to simply enjoy the show.

He followed the signs and found the large conference room. He picked up a few brochures from one of the tables in the hall outside the doors. A couple of guards in gray suits—whom he pegged as CIA agents—checked his credentials once again before they allowed him to get inside.

Justin threw a sweeping glance at the audience sitting around round tables, chatting or picking up coffee, tea, and cookies from a long table at the end of the room. Then his eyes fell on the glass enclosure hosting the multimedia equipment station. Behind a vast array of panels, cables, and other gadgets stood Ellis Dalton, one of the best technical experts of CIS and pretty much the executor of this operation. He was wearing the uniform of Media Logistics Incorporated, the multimedia company responsible for running the video and audio equipment for this conference. The man who was supposed to have worn that uniform was still in his house, sleeping off a couple of pills.

Ellis gave Justin a slight nod. Justin returned it, then found a table with a couple of empty seats, right across from Ellis, at the end of the room. He had a great view of two gigantic television screens on both sides of the podium. Two projector screens rigged from the ceiling showed the same picture as the television screens for the benefit of people sitting at the side tables. Justin sat with his back to the wall and buried his nose in the brochures, feigning deep interest in the conference topic.

Things got under way at exactly nine o’clock, with welcoming remarks by organizers. Justin suffered through a series of commendations and applauses, followed by a long report on the scope, reasons, and consequences of illegal gun trade in the world. The report was dry, boring, and overflowing with statistics. Justin doubted the speaker had ever set foot on any of the areas he was so expertly covering in his prolonged lecture. But he knew all motives why ten- and eleven-year olds in poor slums of Sudan and Somalia picked up AKs instead of textbooks.

Justin was tempted to raise his hand, interrupt the speaker and ask a few pointed questions. But he kept his mouth shut, his head down, nodding occasionally and taking notes on his notepad. A couple of women at his table had engaged him in conversation moments ago, and now he was getting frequent glances from them. He had to look busy and interested in the lecture.

A few simple questions followed the report, and the speaker sat down. It was time for Adams to take the floor. After his introduction and a calm round of applause, he stepped up to the podium.

Justin glanced toward Ellis. He was flicking switches and tapping buttons. Adams’s face appeared on one of the screens, the one on the left. He was smiling, enthusiastic, playing to the crowd. A copy of his presentation became visible in the other screens.

Adams began his presentation, speaking softly and clearly, in a well-practiced tone and manner of delivering public speeches. “The proliferation of SALW is a big problem and a big concern for everyone, not just the people living in these African countries, people who are affected directly by this illegal trade. The world cannot be safe and secure if millions of people live their lives under constant daily threats of robberies and rape, of being killed on their streets and in their homes.”

Justin tuned Adams out. He lay back on his chair and folded his arms across the chest. The punch line was coming soon.

Adams talked about US government programs and projects in general, then moved on to specific actions taken by NCS. When he began to talk about sharing intelligence obtained by CIA to help in the fight against illegal gun trade, a slide appeared in the screens. The slide was not in the original materials provided by Adams’s office to the conference organizers, but it was inserted in the presentation by Justin and Ellis.

It showed a picture of Adams and Yusuf, the one Romanov had given to Justin. The caption below the picture said “CIA is selling guns to al-Shabaab terrorists.”

The crowd exploded in a loud gasp. Adams had yet to turn his head and notice the picture, so he did not understand the reaction of the crowd. He continued to talk, but his voice did not come through the microphone. The screens moved to another picture of Yusuf’s CIA badge, followed by a small photo of Yusuf and his CIA file. A loud voiceover said, “Deputy Director Adams has been selling M16s, sniper rifles, and machine guns to rogue CIA agent Hassan Khalif Yusuf, helping al-Shabaab and other terrorist networks across the globe.” One of the screens showed a series of rifles, machine guns, and ammunition still in their boxes. The voiceover continued, “Adams is selling guns to terrorists, and they are using them to kill our sons and daughters who are fighting our war on terror.”

Adam’s face turned pale. His lips were moving furiously along with his arms. His eyes were bouncing through the tables in the audience.

Justin moved his chair further back, hiding behind a big man to his left. He could still see Adams standing on the podium, behind the lectern. The man could not understand what was going on and how it was even possible.

A few of the cameramen placed at the sides moved forward. Clicks of cameras snapping pictures filled the tense air. Two security guards entered the multimedia station, shouting and gesturing at Ellis to turn off the screens. Justin and Ellis had anticipated that move. They had arranged for an alternative source of backup power for the projectors and the screens, in case the guards unplugged the power cords. Ellis shrugged and began to tap buttons and switch keys, moving furiously inside the station.

The screens were now showing Adam’s sweating face and pictures of the eight Navy SEALs killed in Somalia. The voiceover continued, “Where do al-Shabaab terrorists get their American-made weapons? Why did Yusuf, a wanted terrorist, enter America freely a few weeks ago? Ask Adams about his connections to al-Shabaab, to Yusuf, about his plans to bury the truth and cover his lies.”

The first few hands shot up from the crowd. One or two people started talking. Justin looked at Ellis who had managed to turn off the voiceover, at the right time for reporters to take a stab at Adams.

“Do you deny these allegations?” came the first question from the closest table to the podium.

Adams had regained his composure. He mustered a smile, which ended up being just a grin, then shrugged and tried his mike. It was on, but microphones on the journalists’ tables were also on. Their questions were coming non-stop, and they were louder than Adams.

“Are these photos real?”

“Who is Mr. Yusuf?”

“Is it true CIA is selling weapons to al-Shabaab?”

The screens changed to other photos of Adams with Yusuf, of al-Shabaab fighters carrying M16s and sniper rifles, followed by a series of pictures of Yusuf’s American passport.

Adams had had enough. He threw up his arms, loosened his tie, and stormed down from the podium. A group of reporters swarmed him. Two security guards stepped up next to him to keep the reporters away.

The voiceover returned. “What are Adams’s connections to a well-known Qatari arms dealer by the name of Rashed bin Hussein Hamidi? Who are these people who are killing Americans?”

Adams was being whisked away, while reporters were still darting questions at him. Three guards were inside the multimedia station, pulling cords and removing gadgets, in a vain attempt to shut down the system. Ellis was standing a few feet away behind them.

Justin nodded at Ellis and gestured toward the door. It was time for their exit.

The screens changed to the name of a website. The voiceover said, “By now you will have received an e-mail containing all these files and much more, sufficient to prove these claims and to show that Adams is in bed with terrorists and rogue agents. All documents are also available on the website shown on the screens. Ask questions. Find the truth.”

Justin waited until Adams and his guards pushed their way through the small door. He met up with Ellis, and they both began to walk outside in the hall in the opposite direction.

“Good job, Ellis.”