FATAL eMPULSE (31 page)

“Even one plane could cause major damage to my country,” Max said.

“And to my president,” Gerrit said. “It must be tied into President Chambers’s visit to Israel in a few weeks.”

Max nodded. “That is about how much time we have to figure this out. But where do we start?”

“I have a few suggestions.” Gerrit paused. “First, we need to find out where that technology is housed—which plane they intend to use.”

Max pulled out an aerial photo of the Damascus airport, pointing to a southeastern quadrant of the airstrip. “It has to be one of the An-26s assigned to the 29th Brigade right here.”

“I agree. That would be the logical spot based upon the data we’ve collected so far. Secondly, we need to keep Scott Henderson in our sights. Wherever he goes, at least a couple of us need to be on his tail.”

Alena shook her head. “That is going to stretch us thin. Basically, it will be a two-person surveillance.”

“Can’t be helped,” Gerrit said. “This is what we have to work with. Thirdly, we need to keep tabs on the Syrian intelligence officer Raed al-Azmah. Max, you still have his place wired for sound?”

Max nodded. “We do. My guys can cover that end if you want.”

“Good. Have them set up as soon as possible. Lastly—”

“I thought you had only a couple of suggestions.” Max grinned.

“Lastly,” Gerrit said, ignoring the joke, “we need to get a fix on Brandimir, Hassan, and Yegorov. Find out where they are right now, and make sure we are alerted if any of them ever come back into Syria. We still don’t have a fix on Brandimir. He seems to have dropped out of sight.”

Shakeela touched his shoulder. “I can handle that. I’ll get Frank’s permission to have my people in the CIA do a search. Maybe NSA has picked up some chatter. I still have the alerts in place for Brandimir under his aliases and real name.”

“Thanks. Anything else?”

Everyone shook their heads.

“Good, let’s make things happen.”

March 4

A
caravan of white Toyota minivans, with blue UN markings on the hoods and side doors, swept past with their flags waving in the wind. The caravan seemed to be heading toward downtown, the same direction Gerrit and Shakeela were now headed. Military vehicles sandwiched the cluster of UN vehicles front and back.

“They think the Syrian Army can protect them.” Gerrit watched the last car disappear ahead. “But I think they’re going to find out that no one can really offer protection. It is like one big free-for-all: whoever has guns starts firing, much like Lebanon a few years back.”

He heard the rat-tat-tat-tat of an automatic weapon nearby, as if the gunmen tried to signal to the passing caravan that no one controlled these streets. He drove as quickly as he could out of the area. Catching a stray sniper bullet would certainly put a crimp in their plans.

Shakeela stared out the window toward where the shots were heard. “It seems the United Nations is powerless to do anything. They’re waiting for the U.S. to step in again. I hope we stay out of this conflict.”

Gerrit agreed. “It’s a lose-lose situation here. If al-Assad stays in power, Syria will continue to act as facilitator for Iran, allowing Hezbollah, Hamas, and the other terrorists groups to use its borders and backing to spread their hate throughout the Middle East.”

“And if al-Assad loses power?”

“Then the Muslim Brotherhood wins, muscling power from less-powerful political groups and working with Iran’s fanatical leadership to spread jihad. I get so tired of the killing and the people who justify all this. Iran wins—either way. Only the civilians, the innocent ones, lose.”

As he expressed these thoughts, Gerrit thought of his observations in Iraq and Afghanistan. War never seemed to solve anything, except to keep evil in abeyance if the good guys won. And if the bad guys won—more wars to be waged. Never ending. Never resolved. One vicious cycle. Some blamed it on ideology. Others blamed it on things like oil and greed.

Maybe Alena was right about this world. That good and evil will struggle until the end time. One last battle that will end all wars.

“We never talked about it, Shakeela, but does your religion cause any problems with the work you do? You know, tracking down fanatical Muslims?” He glanced over and saw her smiling.

“You think I’m a Muslim?”

“Like I said.” Gerrit hesitated. “We never talked about it.”

“There is one type of person who Muslims hate more than Christians, Jews, and other nonbelievers—those who have renounced Islam.”

Puzzled, he glanced at her, waiting for clarification. “You fall in that category?”

She nodded. “I turned away from Islam and became a Christian several years ago.”

“Wow. That’s a big change.” Gerrit tried to process what she was telling him. When they worked in Iran, he had no clue she was even interested in religion. “So, why didn’t you tell that to Max the other day when he was hammering you about the Muslim faith?”

“I felt he might not believe me. It’s not like I wear my faith on my sleeve for everyone to see.”

“Isn’t that what Christians do? Preach to everyone they come in contact with about hell and damnation. Isn’t that part of how you earn your way into heaven? Good works?”

“For a smart man, you can really come up with some pretty stupid remarks.” Shakeela looked out the window as another Army caravan swept past, horns blaring. “It’s not about works. It is about a free gift from God to anyone who chooses to accept His Son as Lord and Savior. None of us are worthy. None of us can do enough good works to earn our way to heaven.”

Gerrit watched the last of the caravan turn off at the next exit. “You ought to chat it up with Alena. The two of you may have more in common than you think.”

“Is she a believer?”

Gerrit looked at her quizzically. “A believer? Yeah, I guess you could say that. She and Joe have been trying to convert me ever since we met.”

“Is it working?” She gave him a serious look.

He glanced at her and shrugged. “Let’s just say they have a long way to go to bring me into the fold.”

Shakeela smiled. “Jesus tells us He’d leave the ninety-nine sheep to search for that one that is lost. He must have been talking about you.”

“Then He’ll have to work harder. This lost sheep has wandered a long way from home.”

She reached over and rested her hand on his shoulder. “At least you recognize that you might be lost. That’s a start.” She paused for a moment. “Have you heard about the German minister Dietrich Bonhoeffer?”

Gerrit nodded. “That guy from World War II? Not much.”

“Yes. The Nazi’s imprisoned him and he was ultimately executed for working with the resistance. Interesting man,” she said. “Bonhoeffer once wrote from prison, ‘Jesus himself did not try to convert the two thieves on the cross; he waited until one of them turned to him.’ That struck me as how we must all find ourselves—unworthy, turning to Jesus. That is what began to change my outlook on God. As a Muslim, it was all about earning my way to heaven, and down deep, I knew I’d never be that good. Jesus accepts us just the way we are—sinners.”

Gerrit just shook his head, unable to reply. This was not the same woman he had met in the desert over seven years ago. He sensed her life had changed—drastically—from the person he once knew. The thought made him uncomfortable.

A lost sheep? He tried to shake it off, but memories kept trying to break through his mental armor, times he saw men screaming and dying on the battlefield. Some men cried out for God in their last moments on earth, fearful, afraid, searching for the ultimate answer to life. And some seemed to die with a smile on their faces, as if they’d made peace with God. Those were the ones who troubled him the most. Deep down, Gerrit knew he was still just a man, fallible, mortal, prone to making mistakes. A man without answers to those questions that really mattered.

Shakeela snickered.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’ve got to have a chat with Alena—about you.”

“Oh, yeah? Why would I be so interesting?”

“Oh, I just thought we could compare notes.” She gave him a mischievous look.

Now, he felt even more uneasy. What lay ahead might not give them any time to chat. That would be good.

As the car approached the Old City, Gerrit slowed and looked for a place to park. They needed to walk the rest of the way. It would not give them any more time to talk. And
that
made him feel better. For the moment.

They came to the east end of the famous Straight Street running through the heart of Old City. Gerrit critically examined the gray mammoth stones used by the Romans to build their Gate of the Sun, called Bab Sharqi. At the time it was built, horse-drawn carts and wagons could be pulled beneath the large central arch. Two smaller arches branched out on either side of the main one, the smaller arches accommodating pedestrians.

He had pulled up as much information online as he could about this area once he knew their surveillance would most likely take them through this part of the capital city. “Hey, here’s something I learned about this street that you Christians might find historically interesting.”

Shakeela smiled. “Not to steal your thunder, oh brainy one, but are you talking about the Apostle Paul?”

“Oh,” he said, making a face, “you already know about that?”

She grinned. “Let’s see if I have it straight, no pun intended. In the Book of Acts, chapter 9, God sent a believer by the name of Ananias to the street called Straight in Damascus to meet with Saul of Tarsus—whose name was later changed to Paul. They believed somewhere on this street after God blinded him with a bright light from heaven, Paul’s men brought him here, to a house owned by a man named Judas. Paul waited in that house until Ananias came, healed him of his blindness, and shared with him what God had planned for the apostle for the rest of his life.”

“Okay, you pass with flying colors. Another lost sheep story?”

“Oh, yeah. Apostle Paul was very lost. He hunted down, imprisoned, and even killed those who followed Christ. Ironically, he thought he was doing God’s will.”

“I wonder what God thinks of this place now.” He watched several women in burkas walk past.

“We live in a fallen world, Gerrit.” Shakeela followed his gaze. “And it is only going to get worse until He returns.”

“So what are you fighting for if that’s what you believe?”

“We have to keep fighting, Gerrit. We have to face evil and fight it.” She paused for a moment. “I admire the words Bonhoeffer once wrote of the harsh truth about himself and his generation. He said, ‘First they came for the Communists, but I was not a Communist so I did not speak out. Then they came for the Socialists and the Trade Unionists, but I was neither, so I did not speak out. Then they came for the Jews, but I was not a Jew, so I did not speak out. And then they came for me, but there was no one left to speak for me.”

“So who are you standing up for on this mission? The Israelis?”

“It is more about who I am standing against. Who
we
are standing against.”

“Those who seek to take our freedoms away?”

“Bingo,” she said. “All the bullies in the world who try to step on the innocent, to subject our freedoms to their dogmas.”

“And what do you do when those bullies are inside our own government?”

“We do the best we can. We speak out. We do what has to be done. You have been doing that all your life. I’ve been watching you from afar. I would say you are one of those good guys. A sort of hero.”

Embarrassed, Gerrit didn’t know how to respond. He was not a hero—just a man who knew how to use a gun.

A street peddler approached, trying to interest them in jewelry. Gerrit waved him off as he thought of what Shakeela just said. How did she know about what he’d done—brought up a defense contractor on charges in Iraq for killing a civilian; trying to arrest his SPD lieutenant Cromwell on criminal charges before the man was blown up? Did she think the Cromwell matter was an act of a hero?

In reality, Gerrit waited for Cromwell to make one wrong move so he could justify killing the man. That was not the act of a hero. If only she knew what he was really like, that part of him that only he knew about. She might change her opinion.

As they entered the marketplace, Gerrit returned his focus to the job. This was all he could think about right now. It would take all they had to get this job done and get out in one piece. Everything else—God, heroes, and the purpose for life—would have to take a backseat. Enemies were all around them. He needed to make sure the mission came first.

March 4
Washington, D.C.

“W
illy, I could use some good news about now.” Beck leaned back in his chair, feet resting on his desk. The Secret Service had just informed him that the White House Communications Agency failed to trace the bugs they found in the White House. “You have an opportunity to shine. To show up these experts and give me something they could not find.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. B., but I don’t have much to offer.”

“What do you have? Anything would be more that what these guys came up with.”

“First, tell Mr. F. thanks for the hook ups.”

“Mr. F.?”

“The main man, Frank Collord.” A twinge of impatience sounded in Willy’s tone. “By the way, it’s getting a little lonely out here in the woods. All I have to keep me company is a dog, and Bones could care less about me—all he wants is to hoot it up with Mr. G. again.”

“And the dog told you all this?”

“Sure, Mr. B. You know how dogs can communicate.”

“Man, you have been in the woods too long,” Beck muttered to himself. “If you got to hang out by yourself, Lake Tahoe would be one of the places I’d choose. Now, give me what you do have, Mountain Man.”

“Hey, I like that tag. Mountain Man.”

“Willy, the information?”

“Oh yeah. It is the weirdest thing. It’s like Brandimir just fell off the face of the earth. No e-mails. No phone calls—except one. Nothing.”

Beck swung his feet to the floor, planting his right elbow on the desktop, phone held to his ear. “Maybe he went into hiding. After we raided him.”