My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay (42 page)

Rebecca sat down at a table next to Edward. They were in a boardroom type office within MI-5.

Carolyn stood by the open door. She waited until a young, handsome man stepped through and entered the room. She closed the door and seated herself next to Rebecca, comforting her with a warm smile.

The young, handsome man, on this night, was dressed smartly, with a casual edge. He had a brown leather belt in his blue Chinos, with a pale blue shirt and sleeves rolled and neatly ironed to the elbows with a harsh crease. He flexed his toes within his pair of new, soft brown leather shoes as he clutched a Styrofoam cup of coffee. His dark hair was shiny and strong, bodied like a stallion and his chiselled features were striking. He weighed up the room and the people within in it and then gave them a welcoming smile. This smooth-faced man was in his early forties and was American. A New Yorker. His name was Harry Stamper and he sat down opposite Rebecca and Edward. Stamper opened a black leather folder to reveal a notepad and an expensive-looking pen, as well as several notes. He looked up and offered a smile again.

"Hi. Thanks for coming down. I'm Harry Stamper, CIA Station Chief here in London."

Edward nodded his head and extended his hand across the table for Stamper to reach across and shake firmly.

"Harry Stamper. Hi," he said, shaking Rebecca's hand gently. He nodded his acknowledgement of Carolyn, seated at the end, next to him.

"Right, we're listening," said Edward confidently, opening his own notepad and an old Bic ballpoint pen. He was old school and Stamper knew it.

"OK. I'm not gonna beat around the bush here, guys. Mr Thompson, I've been informed of your background and experience in the field as well as your evidencing the situation so far," reeled off Stamper.

"Not to mention my personal involvement," added Edward.

"Sure. Of course." Stamper gritted his teeth and toyed with his cup.

"You can get to the point now," said Edward.

Rebecca was confused and on edge. Her hand jittered upon the table and, without looking, Edward gently cupped it as he stared at Stamper.

"We'd prefer that what I have to tell you remains in this room."

"Who do you mean by we?" asked Edward.

"We? By we I mean the United States of America, sir. Narrowed down, I mean the Whitehouse. OK, you'll be aware that there is a current crisis spanning across the Middle East. We're calling it the Arab Spring. News stations across the globe are being fed the name. Are you familiar with that news, Miss Samson?"

Rebecca straightened in her chair and glanced at Edward, not expecting to be asked any questions just yet. She coughed and looked at Stamper. "I don't really follow the news. I usually get home too late to watch it on TV. I see the front pages of the papers when I'm on the train to work. Michael watches the news. I get most of what's going on second-hand, from him," Rebecca said, nervously.

"But you are aware that there is an uprising in various countries across the Middle East? Namely Syria, Libya and Iran?" questioned Stamper.

"Yes. Libya especially as it seems to be more focused on than the other countries," replied Rebecca.

Edward frowned. "I'm not here to discuss your politics and what you - the Whitehouse - are calling your engineered uprisings. I saw it when Hilary Clinton covered her mouth in that odd photograph when you killed bin Laden for the umpteenth time and she called it her Spring cough. Obviously an in-joke bypassed by the MSM."

Stamper was caught off-guard. "MSM? Mainstream media? I got it. Right. Sure. Is this where the two of us sit down in leather armchairs, talk about what's real and not real and smoke cigars?"

"I don't like cigars," Edward said, eyeballing Stamper.

Stamper swallowed and frowned. "OK. We've received intelligence that a man of your son's description is currently being held in Iran."

Rebecca gasped.

"What's the strength of this intel?" inquired Edward.

"Strong, sir. Strong. Due to matters of National Security, yadda yadda yadda, I can't disclose too much. What I can tell you is we have a friendly agent presently stationed in Iran who has confirmed the sighting and is, to our knowledge, still in close proximity to your son."

"Al-Qaeda?" asked Edward.

"Al kinda," quipped Stamper.

Rebecca couldn't have been any more confused than she was in that room. She shook her head, close to tears. She felt emotional pain in her heart and circled the worst of the worst thoughts in her mind. Her eyes diverted to the comforting arm Edward placed around her. He gripped her shoulder tight as he looked ahead, once again, at Stamper.

"What are your game plays?" asked Edward.

"Excuse me?" replied Stamper.

"Your scenarios. To get my boy out of there. You know what I mean."

"We... erm..."

"Because if you haven't got one then I'm going to have to put a quick plan of action together to get him out myself, and I know that we, the Whitehouse we, wouldn't want me to do that. Now, given your employment status, you'll know my history. Both you and Carolyn know that I'm more than capable of putting a team together, probably from MI-9 and heading to-"

"MI-9?" asked Stamper, curiously.

"You know full well that MI-9's focus is the Middle East. With your type of security clearance, it's without a doubt you'd know I dealt with that particular department on more than one occasion. So, what are your game plays?" pressed Edward again. He leaned on his free arm resting on the table and stared at Stamper.

Stamper puffed out his cheeks and sighed. He knew he wasn't a match for Edward. "Our asset boarded a cargo vessel in the port of Genoa, Italy. On board he discovered information that a friendly national was being held against his will in one of the containers that was previously loaded onto the ship at Tilbury Docks here in the UK. We had been following regular arms and drugs shipments that subsequently led us to Iran. Your son, Michael, was an opportunist moment. Simple as that. He was a major find for a certain Iranian rebel group and they seized the day. They paid a Nigerian UK national two hundred thousand dollars and several AK47 assault rifles in exchange for your son."

Rebecca gasped again and Edward clutched her shoulder tighter.

Carolyn gently touched Rebecca's other hand, trying to control her own emotion.

"The asset's cover appears to be slipping. This means we are required to get him out of there before information is extracted from him by hostile forces," continued Stamper. "We can get a drone out there super-fast. A Predator is in the vicinity as I speak."

"No. No drones. Wait. You have a man on the inside? If your man's cover wasn't about to be blown, then my son wouldn't mean a bloody thing to you. Correct?"

"Correct, sir," confirmed Stamper, lowering his head, regretfully, trying not to meet anyone's eyes.

"So you're going to get your man out and, at the same time, get my son out with him. Correct?" stated Edward.

"Correct, sir."

"So when are you going to fly me to your base in Turkey?" asked Edward, with a smirk.

Stamper exchanged a look with Carolyn, who shrugged her shoulders. She formed a half smile and discreetly wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

Stamper gathered his thoughts. He coughed and turned to Rebecca. "So, Miss, I'd like to ask you just a couple of questions."

Rebecca looked at Edward for guidance and when he nodded at her with a pleasant and reassuring smile, she turned back to Stamper.

"OK."

"If we were to play out a certain noise or a sound or a phrase for Mike to hear, could you name something that he would instantly recognise?" asked Stamper.

"He would recognise anything. Could you be more specific?" asked Rebecca, slightly confused by the question.

"Sure. In his current, presumed fearful state of mind, what sound could possibly relax and comfort Mike?"

"I don't... I don't know."

"You don't have a favorite word? Favorite movie quote maybe? How about a song that reminds him of you?"

Rebecca smiled a relaxed, beautiful, love-filled smile. She rolled her amazing eyes upwards to meet with Harry Stamper's.

Siamak smiled and threw a warm, friendly look at the bearded Michael through the cell bars. Michael frowned and suddenly thought differently once again of the kind-hearted Iranian stood before him.

Siamak released a deep sigh. He looked at Michael with the most serious of expressions.

"Listen to me real good," he said in a sudden change of accent. American. East coast.

"Who are you?" asked Michael curiously, as echoing footsteps sounded along and throughout the corridor. The sound loomed nearer, closer.

"Sshh. I'm-" He cut short his words and bolted his head round to see four Iranian men.

"We need to talk, Siamak," said one of the men, in Farsi.

"In a minute. I'm speaking with the prisoner," Siamak turned his head away, but gained an ever-growing feeling that things could turn sour any second.

"Speaking with the prisoner is one of the things Hamid wants to discuss with you. He is starting to distrust you, Siamak," said the Iranian man, who placed a hand upon Siamak's shoulder.

Siamak turned around. "Do you distrust me, brother?" he glanced at the hand and looked into the Iranian's deep-set brown eyes.

"He has started to doubt your loyalty," the Iranian said.

"And what do you think, brother?"

"I don't know what to think, Siamak. There are reports of revolution across the whole of the Middle East, in our neighbours' countries. I have family in these countries and cities. I am OK with Ahmadinejad. I do not want America here. I do not want war, Siamak, but I will fight to keep the unwanted out, whoever they are. He will benefit us," continued the Iranian man as he gestured to Michael, who was fully aware that he was being mentioned.

Siamak looked at each of the men around him.

Each one had an AK47 assault rifle slung over one shoulder. Each one also had a pistol either in his grip or tucked into his belt.

One man had a cool-looking shoulder holster. It housed a 357 Magnum.

Siamak curled his lip and frowned at the man, who smiled a glistening, gold-toothed grin. He glanced at Michael and wondered if he should go with the men, which would surely mean the end of him. He pondered taking on the four men, but then what would await him after that?  He glanced at Michael again, safe, for the moment, behind the bars.

"OK. Let's go." Siamak formed a pleasant smile for the Iranians, who nodded, pleased with him, relaxing them.

They turned to head back up the corridor. The Iranian with the 357 Magnum pistol glanced round at Siamak to see him bending down to tie his bootlace. He turned back round again.

Siamak discreetly removed a tiny tracking device, around half the size of a pager, from his pocket. He slid it into the shadows of Michael's cell.

Michael's eyes diverted to the sound of Siamak sliding the plastic device across the concrete ground and coughed, to disguise the faint noise.

Siamak depressed a small button upon the device, ejecting a red LED light. His eyes raised to meet Michael's. Michael placed his bare foot gently over the flashing red light, watching Siamak get to his feet.

In the geosynchronous equatorial orbit, in outer space, a glistening spy satellite, the size of a school bus, strayed with a twist. 

Within an aircraft hangar at Izmir Air Station in the Izmir Province of Turkey, an ODA SF team was being briefed on their next mission by the 18A Detachment Commander, the Captain.

ODA stood for Operational Detachments-A. A twelve-man team made up this United States Special Forces Company. The company included the Chief Warrant Officer, an 18Z Team Sergeant, the Master Sergeant, 18Bs Weapons Sergeant, as well as the 18Ds Medical Sergeant, Engineer, Operations and Intelligence Sergeants.

"This is an operation consisting of the infiltration of a hostile base and the extraction of two friendlies," stated the Captain.

"CIA intelligence has confirmed there is no threat of NCB," added the Assistant Detachment Commander, thus informing the team there was no known nuclear, chemical or biological threat.

A UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter awaited the team outside the hanger.

The Medical Sergeant looked out of the hanger towards the Black Hawk to see a Major of the Special Forces Company hand a man a set of black combat gear.

The sunshine was so incredibly bright that it was hard to make out faces, until another helicopter passed nearby. It blocked out a section of light that enabled a clear view of the two men beside the Black Hawk.

One of the men was Harry Stamper, the other man, being given the black clothing, was Edward Thompson, Michael's father.

"Sir," the Medical Sergeant gestured to Stamper and Edward outside.

"CIA London Station Chief Harry Stamper. The second man is the father of our other friendly. Name's Edward Thompson. British. Knows the game. We'll leave it at that, gentlemen," issued the Captain.