Authors: Mark Young
“Which leads me to the next point.” Jack looked at Gerrit. “Two days ago I got a call from CSS, telling me they got a hit on your name. They intercepted a call here in the U.S. between that phone and another number not on the list. CSS transcribed it.”
Gerrit’s jaw tightened. “And…?”
“Very cryptic, but reading between the lines, they want you dead. You and your friends. That’s why I sent word to get your butt out of the hospital. Pronto.”
“The killers screwed up,” Gerrit said, “but I’d bet they’ll try again—given an opportunity.”
Jack nodded. “That’s what I’m thinking. So, let’s not give them an opportunity. I’ve got your names flagged in the system. If NSA or any of the other agencies intercept anything, they’ve got orders to call me.”
Beck stood. “This cuts both ways. Others with access to the same information will be watching and waiting. Meanwhile, let’s home in on this Stuart Martin guy. See where that trail leads.” He started to leave, stopped, and turned toward the colonel. “Whose phone did that call come back to—not the burn phone, the second phone?”
“The White House.”
Gerrit’s eyed widened. “You’re kidding? How’d you track that phone?”
Jack gazed at Willy. “You want to answer that one?”
“I am just that good, Mr. G.” Willy smiled. “Remember the Daemon Files? Well, I flipped it on them. It was one of the phone lines Kane kept in contact with right before we hit the Albuquerque lab.”
Gerrit turned toward Beck and Jack. “What have we stepped into?”
Joe slowly rose from his chair. “You better bring waders, Gerrit, ‘cause I think you’re about to walk through some really muddy waters. We have to make sure who we can trust—until we identify the enemy.”
February 21
The Louvre, Paris, France
S
tuart Martin lowered his eyes from Charles Le Brun’s masterpiece
Alexander Entering Babylon
as a young woman with long black hair brushed past
.
She smiled before moving on. He returned his gaze to the painting. He studied the conquering hero’s expression. What might have been going through Alexander’s mind at that very moment? The Greek conqueror seemed puzzled to receive a hero’s welcome upon his entry into Babylon right after he’d defeated Darius III of Persia in 333 B.C. during the Battle of Issus.
“Interesting choice of art, Mr. Martin.” He turned to see Atash Hassan, an Iranian intelligence officer, standing a few feet away. His wickedly dark eyes missed nothing, and a scar across his left cheek seemed to underscore how dangerous this man could be. “Another Western glorification of an Eastern defeat.”
“Maybe the Babylonians wanted to use tact as a means of cooperation and appeasement.”
Hassan scoffed. “Only the weak choose that path, Mr. Martin. My people are strong—unlike our Iraqi neighbors.”
Martin held up his hands, palms out. He did not want to point out the obvious: that Alexander continued to pursue the Persians—Hassan’s
people
—before and after this time depicted in the painting. “Even the strong need to create alliances in this new world, sir. There is strength in cooperation.” He gestured toward the door. “Please, do me the honor of walking with me for a few minutes.”
Hassan glanced around the room. Two men of Middle-Eastern descent stood nearby, their backs to the paintings.
Bodyguards.
About as subtle as Alexander the Great traipsing into Babylon
. Stuart led them past a wall of paintings and down the stairs to the ground floor. A few minutes later they left the building leading to the Cour Carrée, a courtyard in the western wing of The Louvre. The expansive setting gave Stuart a sense they might be able to speak more freely from prying eyes and ears. At least nonelectronic ones.
He gestured toward a bench nearby. “Shall we sit?”
Hassan nodded toward his men and waited until they spread out, scanning the immediate area, before he sat down. “I trust you want to talk about more than decadent Western art that shames my people.”
This man suffers from an inferiority complex.
Stuart studied the Iranian closely. Stuart’s other life remained unknown to most of the world he dealt with, including Iran’s MOIS—Ministry of Intelligence and Security. Hassan, a power within MOIS, seemed to accept his alias. “The point of that painting is that even great powers do not last forever. Greece and Rome finally succumbed to history.”
“Like the United States?”
“Exactly,” Stuart said. “Or they learn to adapt and compromise for the sake of survival.”
“So your country wishes to compromise?”
Good, Hassan thinks of me as an American. Let the illusion continue
. “Certain interests in my country are so inclined, with the understanding that we work together for the good of all—not just certain ideologies.”
Like destroying anyone who does not accept the beliefs of your version of Islam.
“All this will be worked out after certain steps have been taken and power rests in the right hands.”
“You mentioned an opportunity to wrestle control away from our enemy Israel. It would please Allah to see us destroy the Jews. How do you propose we do this?”
“As you know, U.S. President Stephen Chambers is a strong supporter of Israel. He and Israel’s prime minister are scheduled to appear together in Israel in less than a month. We expect them to demonstrate to the world that the U.S. is fully committed to Israel’s continued existence.”
Hassan nodded. “This is well known. Your point?”
“What if Israel becomes weak? What if we could help you cut off Samson’s hair and allow you more political clout inside Syria and other Arab countries?”
“What about the U.S.? They will not let this happen.”
Stuart smiled. “What if we could distract the U.S. long enough for you to succeed?”
“You would do this? Against your own country?”
“As mentioned earlier, I represent a different group of Americans with a different worldview. They believe that as the Middle East goes, so goes the rest of the world. Oil drives power, and power ultimately controls. If we give you this opportunity, will your country agree to work in cooperation with our people in a global effort to coexist? A one-world government seeking equal distribution, equal opportunity?”
“How do we know you can be trusted?”
Right to the point. He thought Hassan might be subtler. “Before this event is triggered, you will have in your hands the technology to invade Israel with or without our help. We trust you that much to give you this capability, knowing you might use it against us.”
“And if we agree, what do you want from us?”
“Cooperation and friendship.” At the right time, they would be able to control this man—and his country. “Just be ready. Here is what your country is expected to contribute.” Stuart laid out his plans to be carried out in the coming weeks. Hassan leaned forward, caught up in the idea that Stuart and his representatives had been working toward.
The Iranians could be depended upon to carry out their end of the deal—maybe. Afterward, Stuart would have to watch them very carefully.
Trust needed to be tethered to a very short leash.
Almost fifty kilometers from where Hassan huddled with his visitor, a couple stood gazing at the inner courtyard, apparently studying the architectural intricacies of the building. If the two men looked closer, they would have seen the woman pointing a telephoto lens in their direction. Sunglasses perched atop her long, straight, coal-black hair, Shakeela had the same skin tone, same features as Hassan. The man standing near her positioned himself to appear as if she might be taking his photograph. Instead, she zeroed in on the two men sitting on the bench.
A small earbud in her left ear caught the audio signals captured by the camera. She hoped the electronic listening chip she’d slipped into the pocket of the man meeting Hassan would pick up what this camera could not capture. The Iranian had already been bugged as he entered the museum by an agent posing as a museum worker.
She struggled to listen to the two men’s conversation. “I wish I could get my hands on the government contractor who made this piece of garbage. The directional mike is only picking up fragments of conversation,” she said. “Maybe Langley can filter out some of the noise and give me an ID on this second guy.”
“Shakeela, you want me to stay with Hassan when they break off? You tail the second guy?”
She continued to peer through the lens. “Yeah. Stay on Hassan. I’ll try to get a fix on this new player. Take the others with you. I can handle this new guy by myself.” She studied Hassan’s face. His sudden appearance in France had to be important. The man rarely left the protection of the Iranian border, leaving others to take the risk out here in the west, running his sleeper cells of terrorists from a safe distance. They must find out what he was up to—the safety of the U.S. might depend upon it.
Atash Hassan watched Stuart Martin disappear inside The Louvre. He waited for a few minutes, then motioned for one of his men to join him. “Omid, do you have Mr. Martin under surveillance?”
“Yes, sir. They will follow this man until you call them off.”
Martin was not a believer, a follower of Allah. He was worse than a Christian, a Jew—he was an atheist. He bowed down to his own god—power and money. Nothing else mattered to this pig. Until the final war, Atash must work with such filth, until the time of the Muhammad al-Mahdi, the Twelfth Imam, the ultimate savior of mankind. Then those like Martin—or whatever the man’s true name might be—would be destroyed.
“Good. Good.” Atash straightened his tie. “I need to find out everything we can on this man.”
“And then?” Omid waited for Atash to answer. He towered above his boss, but his eyes, squinting with apprehension, revealed his fear.
Atash saw Omid’s look and inwardly smiled. This man had seen Atash in action. “And then…bring him to me and I will kill him.”
February 22
Lake Tahoe, California
G
errit watched the sun cresting the eastern mountain ridges, a pale yellow glow across mysteriously darkened waters. He followed the path of a sailboat slicing through the glass-smooth surface, the skipper forced to use an engine for lack of wind power. The breeze would be coming soon, but for now the morning calm showered its peacefulness across the surface of the lake.
Bones pattered a few yards away, nosing over rocks and chunks of waterlogged wood swept ashore by recent storms. The dog was off in his own world, occasionally turning to make sure Gerrit was still there before continuing his search for treasure.
Stooping, Gerrit picked up a few pebbles, then sent them skipping across the water. He hated this time of waiting, trying to figure out his next move. Not that the group couldn’t use some downtime. The last few weeks had really shaken them up—particularly learning that one of their own had been a traitor. They had been like family, somewhat dysfunctional but closely knit.
Bones’s ears perked up, and the dog looked toward the house. Gerrit followed the animal’s gaze and saw Alena walking toward them. She wrapped her arms around her chest, trying to stave off the morning chill.
“Good morning,” he said. How much trouble could he get into with those words? With his luck, who knew?
“Morning. Still my friend?”
“You know it. And about that stupid remark—”
“Already forgotten.” She slid a hand around his waist. “Just warm me up, will you? It’s so cold here.”
Relieved, he encircled an arm around her shoulders without speaking. They just stood there for a few moments. Bones seemed to lose interest and moved away. The sailboat, following the southern shoreline, moved out of sight, probably down near Meeks Bay by now. A hint of orange blossoms seemed to fill the air as she nestled closer.
Someone called out his name. “Can you meet me inside?” His uncle had come onto the patio, waving at them. Gerrit reluctantly loosened his embrace and gestured toward Joe. “Care to walk up with me?”
She shook her head. “I’ll stay with Bones and enjoy this peace and quiet for a few more minutes. Go ahead. Joe and the others want to start making plans. I will be along soon.”
He started to head toward the house, then glanced back. Alena seemed to be lost in thought as she stared out at the lake. He wished for their sakes they might stay here awhile, learning about each other without the stress of the last few months. To feel normal again.
Normal
. It didn’t seem to fit in their world. Maybe someday he’d have normal—if they survived.
Gerrit found the others waiting inside. Joe and Willy had carved out a war room in what was once a master bedroom on the main floor. Computer cables had been strewn around the perimeter of the bedroom, and an array of monitors beamed down on them, each held by metal braces drilled into the pine-planked wall. Several workstations had been created so they could work on several projects at the same time. Joe and Willy each had their own computer console, like two television-network techies with the world at their fingertips.
Beck and Jack sat in one corner, waiting.
Joe spoke first. “Okay, now that you’re here, Gerrit, give me your thoughts about a boots-on-the-ground search for this guy Stuart Martin and his company Worldwide Alliance Communications. The others have already pitched their two cents.”
Willy piped in before Gerrit could respond. “I’ve started to run a background on this company, WAC, and anything to do with Martin. Since he’s a lobbyist, his company has to file a bunch of papers to do business in the capitol. The Lobbying Disclosure Act of 1995 and the Lobbying Disclosure Technical Amendments Act of 1998 lay out some of the hurdles people like Martin have to comply with or circumvent if they’re real sneaky.”
Beck chimed in. “Has Martin ever been the subject of an investigation? I could check with my office, but Willy’s probably already hacked into our database.”
Willy gave the agent an amused look.
“If so, my agency would have taken a lead in these kinds of investigations. They just closed a case in which two men—agents of a foreign country—funneled political contributions to several congressmen, senators, and several political parties. You might be surprised what we can turn up.”