Read The Perfect Candidate: A Lance Priest / Preacher Thriller (No. 1) Online
Authors: Christopher Metcalf
The Perfect Candidate: A Lance Priest / Preacher Thriller (No. 1) (18 page)
“That’s pretty good. You read that in a photography manual?” Lance pulled out a larger three-ring binder simply marked Subject Matter.
“Read up on all that. It’s Peter’s life story. The parts up till now at least.” Seibel added.
“I’ll bet his life is about to get interesting.”
“Oh, it’s been interesting for me for a couple of years now.” Seibel stepped to the door and turned. “I’ll let you know timing and particulars as soon as I can.”
Lance looked up from the box, “It’ll be real this time. No drills.”
“No drills. Live and without a net. Our investment – your investment will now start to pay off.” Seibel turned to leave and then pivoted back to Lance, “Happy Birthday.” He left with the smile still hanging in the air.
Lance turned from Seibel to review the other items in the box. “I’m ready.” He shook his head.
Seibel. The guy shows up after more than a month and is gone 10 minutes later for who knows how long. Lance didn’t ever question his boss about his other duties, his other subjects. He wondered every now and then if there were other special projects like him out there.
No way. No one like me
. He smiled and cracked himself up with his little joke.
The mist from King Fahd’s Fountain found a new breeze and turned in Lance’s direction. He quickly closed the case to protect the expensive camera, lenses and film from the moisture. He finished the last of his cheese and picked up his things to make his way back to the inexpensive and inconspicuous hotel before heading off to dinner again with his local guide.
Seibel had surprised him 20 minutes earlier when his shadow fell across Lance’s meager lunch. Preacher should have been surprised by his mentor’s appearance, but dozens of personas assumed by Seibel over the previous three years had accustomed him to surprises from the man. Lance should probably have been disappointed to see him here because he was supposed to be on a live mission, without a net. Seeing Seibel here in Jeddah could mean only one thing – plans had changed.
Chapter 23
How often can a couple of humans walk out of a room knowing they just changed the world?
Evgany Korovin and Nikolai Kusnetsov knew they had done just that as they left the dilapidated hospital room in
Dombarovsky
, Russia. True, the world had not been changed yet, but the unpleasant conversation the two former KGB operatives had just held with a teary-eyed father of a recently deceased child and husband of a severely injured wife would soon lead to change.
In the two-plus years the dynamic and despicable duo had been separated from their former employer, they had planned, schemed, maneuvered and executed their vision. The previous nine minutes of conversation with the broken man was a culmination of the one phase and the beginning of the next. The final phase.
The man was the key. His name was Andre Davidovich Resparin. He came from a long line of proud southern Russia stock who served the Soviet Union through military service. At the conclusion of his active military deployment, Resparin accepted a position as a guard at a former nuclear missile launch site near
Dombarovsky
in the foothills of the Ural Mountains. This facility, once a Cold War beacon, a lighthouse of freedom against the endless aggression by the West, had been decommissioned. No longer would intercontinental ballistic missiles be ready at a moment’s notice to deliver their nuclear payload down upon the enemies of the Union.
Instead of active missile silos housing harbingers of death, the facility now functioned as a storage unit, a warehouse. The contents of this particular underground warehouse were what interested K&K. They knew precisely what lay underground because it had been their duty seven years earlier to develop security and counterespionage plans should the missile base ever be penetrated, infiltrated by agents from the West.
Their plans had been so thorough, so complete, that they were adopted throughout the Soviet Union. You’d think that this alone would have gotten them killed by now. How had they been allowed to live, let alone leave the KGB after becoming so deeply familiar with the workings of nuclear missile facilities? Yes, plans and procedures had been changed over time, but not much. Taking a facility out of commission did not change the underlying physical structure, the placement of gates, the thickness of doors or the mindset of guards. They knew all of this and more, much more.
K&K had been planning this little caper well before they killed a bureau chief in Kiev, their official resignation letter to the KGB. The seeds for this elaborate mission were sown in Afghanistan and nurtured along the way by their growing hostility toward leadership who had put them out in the field with little or no help, forcing them to develop their own support system. It was Korovin who was originally tasked with developing security protocol for nuke sites. He requested assistance from Kusnetsov and the fix was in.
During the ensuing years, K&K kept all planning on this one to themselves. No other party was brought in, until now. They had communicated with each other using a codeset and radio language they uncovered while in the inhospitable burning deserts and equally inhospitable frostbit mountains of Afghanistan. The codeset was only used for a brief 18 months because it was determined to be too difficult and mistakes were made as a result. K&K found the code both unique and memorable because it was the period they began their partnership, their relationship.
Execution of this latest phase of their long-term plan required a strong message delivered to Resparin. They chose to deliver the message at 75 miles per hour on a winding road with the head guard’s wife and 15-year-old son in the car in front of them. Korovin was behind the wheel as the powerful sedan moved alongside Mrs. Resparin’s Lada VAZ-2101 sedan rounding a particularly tight turn. Kusnetsov was in the passenger seat and he looked with unemotional eyes into the bulging eyes of the woman just as his partner slung the wheel causing their powerful sedan to immediately veer to the right where it made contact with the Resparin’s vehicle. The barrier on the side of the road over the steep terrain below was no match. Mrs. Resparin and her son were launched over the edge and down hundreds of feet to a ravine below.
On the way down, the vehicle rolled multiple times, struck several large boulders and finally landed on its crushed right side. The couple’s son stood no chance and had mercifully died quickly from the trauma. The poor wife and mother could only reach out with a broken right arm and touch the boy’s shoulder. Because she was basically hanging in the air over him, her tears ran down her face and fell upon her dead son’s lifeless body.
Security protocol procedures for nuclear missile sites and storage facilities had taken into account employees who could be blackmailed by having their families kidnapped or threatened. K&K were intimately aware of this detail, because they devised and wrote the security plans. One guard would not be enough. So the two had visited this particular brand of murder and torture on three other guards who worked under Resparin. This resulted in all the guards on one shift being convinced to both allow and assist in the removal of three nuclear warheads stored in the facility. The lives of their remaining family members depended on their compliance.
The short discussion K&K had with Resparin as his wife lay near death had cemented the deal. They handed the broken man a bouquet of flowers and then proceeded to recite details about the facility even he did not know. They showed him photos of additional family members, including brothers, a sister, two beautiful twin nieces and his extended family. The effect of presenting the schematics, photos and other details to Resparin was to basically put the man into a state barely more alert than his wife. He was shaken, shocked by their words and their unspoken implications. They had him.
To further bolster his acceptance of his new lot in life, Korovin handed Resparin a file detailing all sorts of sordid details, nasty habits and secret kept lovers by his higher ups. The major he reported to had a number of vices that made him all but useless. The colonel the major reported to was even more depraved. The two officers would be destroyed by this theft and there was nothing Resparin could do to stop it.
It was a brilliant plan. Brilliantly conceived and executed. And brilliantly monitored by a young woman and two members of her team. They watched from afar with binoculars, listened in with wire taps and planted moles in the operation. They knew many of the details and all the players. It was almost as if they had the playbook K&K were operating from.
Marta, like her fellow former KGB counterparts, had gravitated downward into more and more despicable acts during the previous two years. And now, she simply could not allow a plan as potentially dangerous and lucrative as this one to proceed without her. She wanted in and she had a little help from others who wanted her in. Wanted her to step in and steal the nukes.
There were moving parts galore in this one. That made it particularly dangerous and particularly fun. The fact that millions could potentially die as a result made it exceptionally interesting.
Standing in a darkened alley across the street from the hospital entrance in
Dombarovsky,
she smiled to herself. Marta knew a little secret K&K and others didn’t.
Subject Report: Nawaf al-Ghamdi
Not his birth name. No, all indications were this gifted and ruthless oil businessman had assumed his name in the early 1970s after returning from the West Bank where he had been a “freedom fighter for the PLO” after the Six Days war in 1967. His name change was likely a protective measure to escape the wrath of Israel’s Mossad intelligence agency.
He returned to the Saudi Peninsula to begin a new life and a new career in oil and natural gas. His legend started as a laborer on eastern oil wells and the Sea Island of Ras Tanura. Although educated at Oxford, al-Ghamdi chose to gain his oil education with dirty hands and sweat working alongside laborers from Yemen and Oman. The knowledge he acquired during these years, along with the seismic shift of Aramco ownership from America to Saudi, provided opportunities for someone of his nature.
He was an employee of Saudi Aramco for several years in the middle 70s and then started his own exploration business, blessed by the King, of course. His small business grew as demand for oil around the world skyrocketed through the 80s. His interests now stretch from the Mediterranean to Indonesia. Along with exploration, his holdings include transport, some refining and manufacturing of petroleum products. His company became a major producer of natural gas on the Saudi Peninsula. His business acumen presented him with opportunities in neighboring countries, especially Kuwait and its developing natural gas fields. Al-Ghamdi brokered deals between the Kuwait Oil Company, which was nationalized in 1975, as were a number of exploration firms. His price for his expertise was always a small ownership stake. Add up these many small pieces and al-Ghamdi had quietly become one of the wealthiest men in the country, outside the royal family. His holdings in Kuwait made him a player on the international level and therefore, an interest of global competitors, whether US, Russian, Chinese or any of the upstarts.
The recent invasion by Iraqi forces could spell trouble for al-Ghamdi, but most thought his connections in Baghdad would insulate him from loss.
His Jeddah estate, just off the coast, is a marvel of modernity. Although an example of traditional Arabic architectural on the exterior, the inner workings are high-tech, high quality and nothing but the best. From appliances to security cameras, the latest technology is always being installed.
Subject Report: Hassan al-Bakr
Overseeing all of al-Ghamdi’s security operations is Hassan al-Bakr. This diminutive figure, standing only 5 feet 4, was recruited by al-Ghamdi not long after returning from Palestine where he too fought the Jewish infidels. His skill at stealthy assassinations was only superseded by his fondness for gambling and women. This penchant caused him to be careless on occasion.
In Monte Carlo in 1981, he enjoyed the company of two women until late one evening and nearly missed an assassination attempt on al-Ghamdi by an Egyptian crew hired by Syrians. Al-Bakr basically stumbled over the assassins while returning to al-Ghamdi’s hotel at 4 a.m. In dispatching the assailants, al-Bakr accidently killed several others, including two American tourists who were actually CIA specialists involved in a totally separate matter. This small mistake brought knowledge of al-Bakr into the CIA orbit and resulted in painstakingly detailed analysis that now covered most weeks of his life.
But the incident and loss of two agents turned out not to be al-Bakr’s highest crime against America or freedom itself. As well as heading up al-Ghamdi’s security detail, al-Bakr had been freelanced out by his employer to various governments, corporations, secret organizations and assorted jihadist fronts. By merely tracking al-Bakr’s movements, which is indeed a challenge for even the best intelligence minds, the agency had uncovered leads, key players, previously unknown locations of terrorist organizations and a treasure trove of intelligence. He had unwittingly brought a mountain of evidence into the hands of the CIA.
Al-Bakr’s associates over the past decade included leaders from Iran, Kuwait, Syria, Hezbollah, PLO and others, including Iraq. His services for governments and terrorists were reported to include electronic surveillance, sabotage, assassination, torture, security consulting and more torture. For his services he has been paid well and al-Ghamdi earned the eternal gratitude, general good will and, of course, business from al-Bakr’s clients. It was win – win – win.
Thus explains al-Bakr tightly zoomed by a lens attached to Lance’s camera. The security expert stood next to the front gate of al-Ghamdi’s residential complex.
Watching al-Bakr close-up from nearly a mile away, Lance reviewed his mental notes again, for the 11
th
time today. His mission, originally to capture al-Bakr at a family wedding in Jordan and transport him to a secret interrogation facility, had been altered. Along with the dangerous and deadly assassin head of security, Lance and his newly assembled team were to remove and relocate al-Ghamdi. It didn’t make much sense to Lance, but he was up for the job.
“Wunderbar.” Lance whispered.
Someone at the other end of his radio responded in kind.
“Herzlich miene freunde?” It was Fuchs, of course. The veteran CIA operative was initially introduced to Lance nearly three years ago as Pete Grisham.
Seibel had moved quickly. Lance hadn’t been thrilled to see Mikel Fuchs when he arrived back at his hotel 20 hours ago. The German lay in Lance’s bed reading a magazine.
Sitting on the end of the bed was another familiar face from Harvey Point. Tarwanah looked up from a book and smiled at Lance. And if Tarwanah was here, his fellow Jordanian partner Jamaani couldn’t be far away. A toilet flushing down the hall in the communal bathroom answered the question. Lance stepped back out his door to watch Jamaani walk toward him.
“Stomach still bothering you?” Lance stepped into the hall to allow the Jordanian into the small room.
“Still.” Jamaani muttered walking by.
Lance followed him into the room and closed the door. “I guess you all just walked right in the front lobby together, huh?” Lance dropped his camera case on the bedside table.
“Of course,” Fuchs lowered the magazine to his chest. “We asked the front desk for their CIA special and they said they only had one room at that rate – yours.” His German accent definitely northern; north of Berlin by Lance’s estimation.
“Let’s just go ahead and shout that.” Lance shook his head.
“Relax meine freunde,” Fuchs held up a hand. “Tarwanah scanned the room with his little bag of electronic goodies as soon as we entered. Its clean.”
“So you all felt it necessary to come here?” Lance leaned against the wall. “That Lockstock’s new orders?” Lockstock being Seibel’s operational code name for this mission.
“I know this is all a little disconcerting,” Tarwanah smiled up at him reassuringly. “Changes of plan always are challenging. But always a part of the game. In fact, change is the only thing you can count on with any mission.”
“I’m beginning to think that maybe this change is only news to me.” Lance smiled back.
“What makes you think that my friend?” Tarwanah, always civil.
“Oh, just the little fact that the three of you were at HP at the same time and we just happened to go through the forced retrieval exercise several times together.”
The smile broader, Tarwanah looked to Fuchs and his countryman. “There were several others involved in those exercises if you recall.”
Lance nodded. “I do. And I’m wondering if I’m going to see any of them show up here too.”
Fuchs sat up in bed and swung his feet to the floor. “No. Just us; and we need to discuss plan changes. But not here.” He abruptly stood and grabbed a bag from under the bed. He pulled out four radio units with belt clips, wired earphones and microphones and handed one to each man. “Our frequency is programmed. There are four variable frequencies that automatically adjust when one of us changes. Range is two miles. Meeting time is,” he looked to his watch and the three others raised their wrists to make sure of synchronization. “23 minutes in the
Souq al-Alawi bazaar. Gentlemen, be sure your watches are set on local time. I have 19:37.”
“Check.” The other three said in unison. Lance said it in Arabic.
Fuchs turned to Lance with his smile, humor and German accent suddenly gone. “Preacher, drills are done. Plan goes live now. This project is a stretch for an eight-man SAD team with weeks of immediate project training. With the four us, and only a few weeks of drills together months ago, we will be outmanned, out-gunned and likely outmaneuvered within minutes of escalation. Body count will undoubtedly be high. We are not to be among those counted.
“The fact that you are on this mission means that either Lockstock is failing in his judgment with age or you are everything you have been made out to be. You did very well in drills at the Point but you will not get a second chance after escalation tomorrow. No blanks in their guns this time. Are you 100 percent sure you are ready?”
Lance kept Fuchs’ eyes for a second and a half and then looked to the Jordanians. Their casual smiles were also gone. He looked back to Fuchs immediately realizing he had underestimated this supposed German who walked slow and talked incessantly about beer. He was obviously not the part he had played the previous durations they had been together at the Point. He was no slouch and without a doubt, he was the leader of the mission, as he undoubtedly had been many times before.
“Sixteen doors total, all dead-bolt and electronically alarmed. Forty-one windows also electronically secured. Thirteen men in the security detail, with five always on duty. Three dogs, 21 cameras, directional boom microphones at all four corners. Sixteen-foot gate and fence on the street or south side. Fourteen-foot wall with trip wire on the other three sides. Three wives; nine children, six vehicles, penicillin and ragweed allergies and one nasty-ass head of security with 21 known kills and no morals outside his nominal Muslim faith.” Lance recited a few of the facts surrounding al-Ghamdi.
“Very good, but are you 100 percent sure?” Fuchs was insistent.
Lance maintained the stare between the two, but broke into song as well. His choice of songs in this instance a 1970s rock radio standard with lots and lots of over the top guitar.
“What? Is that a yes? This is no joke.”
Lance turned from Fuchs humming the song, one of his favorites by The Outlaws. He stepped back over to his camera bag to gather it and his small duffle.
The German accent returned, “You’re definitely not right in your head Herr Preacher, but sometimes that is an advantage.” Fuchs looked to Tarwanah and raised his eyebrows. Tarwanah could only smile at the situation. Jamaani remained passive as always. Irritable bowel syndrome was his major concern anyway.
“He was ready before we completed the last drill Foxy.” Tarwanah’s obvious familiarity with Fuchs showed. Jamaani only bent to pick up his bag without a word.
“Preacher, you will be given the precise plan. Any deviation from the plan and we fail. Do you have a song for that?” Fuchs asked.
Lance completed the last verse again and strummed his air guitar. “Nothing for that right now. I’ll think about it. Twenty-one minutes till gather, right?”
“Twenty-one.” And Fuchs was the first out the door. He turned left to head for a set of stairs on the backside of the small hotel popular with Western pilgrims during the hajj. Jamaani and Tarwanah, both decked out in full Saudi attire, left together with their mission items carried in stylish leather bags slung casually over their shoulders. They headed for the elevator. Lance waited another two minutes. During that time, he checked the room for any traces left by his three team members. There was nothing, of course. They were pros.
He then wiped down any surface he had touched over the last three days. Since he had worn gloves most of the time, it took only 30 seconds. He made sure he had cleaned up all his paraphernalia for creating a dark room in the closet. He gathered his camera bag and duffle and walked down the hall to the main stairwell. Preacher walked out of the building with nothing to hide.