FATAL eMPULSE (33 page)

“Me, too,” Alena said, “although the mark of the beast will come during the final tribulation. If I am reading the Scripture right, believers before that point in time will have been taken up in the rapture. Only those who finally believe—after all the Christians have been taken—and turn to Christ during the tribulation will have to face the penalty for refusing to receive the mark of the beast—Satan.”

Gerrit watched the two women conversing. “You two have a lot in common, I see.”

Alena turned to him with a sly look. “You mean beside you?”

Shakeela laughed.

“I mean about all the religious stuff. I guess Max had it all wrong.”

“Had what wrong?” Max came in from another room. “I heard you guys talking about the Bible.”

Gerrit jerked his head toward Shakeela. “She’s a Christian, Max. How does that fit in with your perception about where her loyalties lie?”

Max narrowed his eyes at Shakeela. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Would that have changed your prejudices?” Shakeela was no longer smiling. “Or are all Iranians by heritage to be suspects in your world?”

“I apologize,” he said, “but you can understand my reasoning in an operation like this, can’t you?”

“Just don’t judge people until you have all the facts.”

“But you didn’t give me all the facts, Shakeela.”

“You never asked,” she replied. “You just assumed.”

Holding up his hands as if to surrender, Max said, “Okay. I was wrong. I apologize. Can we move on?”

“I accept.”

“Let’s talk about the mission and our traitor across the street,” Gerrit said to Max. “Strategically, I think all four of us cooped up in this place—not a good move. I’d suggest we work in pairs, since the rest of your men are providing security at the farmhouse, and we now have radio equipment to work with—thanks to Frank.”

“What would you suggest?” Max asked. “Two inside, two on the street?”

“Exactly, we could—”

“I’m getting a call from Colonel Thompson.” Alena held up her cell phone. “Let me check in with him.”

Gerrit nodded, watching her take the call. Her face tightened and her jaw muscles flexed. “I’ll tell them, Jack.”

She hung up and turned toward the others. “We may be exposed.” She related the information Jack just gave her.

Gerrit peered outside the window. “So, we may have walked into a trap. Maybe Scott Henderson was the bait to draw us in.”

Max shook his head. “Then why haven’t we been scooped up yet? If they know where we are, they—”

“They don’t know where all of us are. Your men, for example. Your enemies know your tactics well enough to know that you’d not come alone. Maybe they want to identify all of us before moving in.”

“Then why didn’t they hit us at the farmhouse? They had an entire Army patrol at our front door.”

Gerrit ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. Maybe they didn’t pick up on us until after we left the farmhouse. Have you spotted anyone suspicious, anyone putting a tail on us?”

Max gave him an exasperated look. “Everything and everyone in this city looks suspicious. But no, I have not spotted anything yet.”

“Get word to your men about this, Max. And let’s split up and keep in touch on the radio. Make sure we check in at the top of the hour for a status report. If one of us disappears, fails to report in, everyone needs to break off and take evasive action. Agreed?”

Everyone nodded in agreement.

“Okay. Has this place been compromised?”

Shakeela pointed toward the window. “This is an excellent vantage point. I’d hate to give it up unless we know for sure we’ve been made.”

“If Henderson is bait, though, we’re sitting ducks,” Gerrit said. “Better to cut our losses and run.”

“My boss made it clear, Gerrit. My men and I are staying until this mission is over. We have no choice.”

“I understand, Max. We all have a choice. But if you guys are staying, so am I.”

Alena and Shakeela both nodded.

“So it is agreed. We will continue to use this location, two of us here and two of us floating in the market in case Henderson leaves his roost. Shakeela and I will take the first watch, okay? Alena, you and Max circulate in the market.”

Shakeela rested her hand on Alena’s arm. “Hey, I’m sorry we got split up this way. I know you and Gerrit—”

“Thanks. But I know Gerrit will behave himself.” She gave him a sly look. “Besides, he knows I can kick his butt.”

Gerrit scowled. “Hey, I am standing right here. What do you mean I’ll behave myself? And lady, you’re living in a dream world if you think you can take a U.S. Marine.”

“Remember San Francisco,” Alena said, smiling.

When they first started working together last year, Willy and the others had hinted to Alena that she needed to prove to Gerrit that he might have misjudged her fighting abilities. Before he could wink, Alena had him down on the ground, her knee buried in his chest, a switchblade about an inch from his carotid artery. He never saw it coming.

Max chuckled. “Don’t go there, Gerrit. I remember when she worked with Mossad, how she took on the meanest, toughest guys in my unit to demonstrate she could pull her weight. Frankly, I would be out of my mind to mess with her, my khaver.”

Gerrit smiled. “I’m not dumb, Max. Never start a fight unless you have to—especially with her.”

She gave him a hug. “At least you know your place. Now, take care of my new friend.” She glanced at Shakeela.

Gerrit smiled. “Trust me; Shakeela can handle herself in any situation. She doesn’t need my protection.”

“Uh, Gerrit. I’m still here.”

He turned. “I just want to get that information out there before you felt a need to throw me on the ground and point a knife at me to prove how tough you are.” Gerrit backed away, laughing.

As the others began to gather their things, he walked over to the window and glanced over toward Henderson’s place. In the last few minutes, he felt the group had finally crossed a bridge together. They seemed willing to come together, even trust each other. This was important. The hours and days ahead would test the group’s mettle, to see if they could bind together against the enemy as a cohesive unit. Much was at stake. He just hoped the sacrifice would not be more than they could bear.

Atash Hassan stood in the narrow street, looking up at the walls of the Umayyad Mosque, also known as the Great Mosque of Damascus, beyond the Al-Nawfara coffee shop where he was to meet his contact. For the moment, Atash took in the graceful, massive architecture, an ancient edifice that seemed to defy time’s destruction. Like the café he was about to enter, Atash had wandered through this mosque many times during his visit to this ancient city.

Umayyad Mosque—considered the fourth holiest place in Islam, one of the largest and oldest mosques in the world—was built on grounds of a Christian basilica raised to dedicate John the Baptist. Inside this Islamic holy place, a shrine had been built that allegedly held the head of John the Baptist, a man honored by both Christians and Muslims as a great prophet. Some believe that this was where Isa, Jesus, will return to earth in the last days.

Atash had little time to consider past prophets or prophecies. Today, he must shore up the plans for this operation with less than a dozen days to pull it off. He turned toward the café and entered, seeking the same table he used just a few days ago. He sat down and ordered his usual, Najjar coffee with cardamom ground in for flavor. As the waiter returned with his coffee, Atash stiffened as he saw Kadar Hanano—a member of President al-Assad’s inner circle— pause in the door before entering the room.

Hanano spotted Atash and worked his way across the room until he reached the table.

Atash stood and embraced the other man. “Praise be to Allah. Lord of the Universe, and peace and prayers be upon our Prophet Muhammad, his family, and all his companions. May Allah continue to protect you, my brother. Peace be upon you, Allah’s mercy and blessings.”

Again, Hanano embraced Atash and returned a similar greeting.

The two men settled in their chairs, and Atash motioned a waiter over, giving his visitor an opportunity to order before they talked business. After ordering, Hanano leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “So, my friend, what brings you to our beautiful city?”

“I have come to warn your president that there might be an attempt to ignite an international incident between Syria and Israel—maybe even the United States.” Atash waited for a reaction from Hanano, looking to see if the other man might already know about the conspiracy. The Syrian looked back with a bland expression, waiting for Atash to continue.

Without getting a reading, Atash felt uneasy. Did this man already know what was afoot? Did he know that Atash might be involved? Hanano enjoyed a good position in the government, thanks to his connection to al-Assad, and he could have picked up intelligence reports about Atash’s activities. Hanano’s face told him nothing.

“We believe that there are Americans and Israelis already in your country who are planning to work with the opposition to pull this off.”

“To pull what off, my friend? You have only told me it is a conspiracy.” Hanano’s eyes seemed hooded, without any light, his dark pupils staring back at Atash. “How do you know about these foreigners who wish us harm?”

Atash took a deep breath before speaking. He must be careful about what information he disclosed to this man. The wrong word, just one mistake, and Atash might never return to Iran. They’d just dump his body in the desert and let nature take its course.

“I have contacts within the Muslim Brotherhood. They wish to bring national attention to your government and force the United Nations to intercede, to force your president out of power. Then they, of course, will take over.”

Hanano nodded. “This is not new, my friend. As you know, we have had to deal with their lies and violence for many years. Can you tell me specifically how they intend to do this? To bring pressure on us? They are already doing this by attacking our soldiers, our supporters, and using the media every time we retaliate against them.”

“I will get you more information soon. All I know at this time is they intend to use your Air Force to provoke an attack by Israel.”

“And how will they get to our aircraft?”

Atash finally decided to take a chance. To give Hanano something he’d take back to the president. Something that would give Atash more credibility within the al-Assad regime. “One of your intelligence officers has been recruited by the other side. He will allow sympathizers of the Muslim Brotherhood to reach your planes, to set up this incident, and make it look like it came from your president.”

“Who is this man? This…traitor?”

Atash took a deep breath. “Before I give you his name, you must not act quickly on this. Let me find out more so that you can act decisively when the time comes.”

“The name, my friend.” Hanano was not negotiating.

“His name is Raed al-Azmah from your Air Force Intelligence Directorate. He is your traitor.”

Kadar slowly leaned forward. “We will take over from here.”

Atash’s heart beat faster. He needed Hanano to give him more time. If they brought Raed in for questioning right now, Atash was sure the Syrian intelligence officer would expose Atash before they even strapped him down on a table. He could still make it look like the Syrian Army waited too long to arrest Raed. Just a little more time.

Hanano rose from his chair. “We will start looking into this matter…discreetly.” He started to leave and then turned back toward Atash. “You have two weeks. Then we move in.”

Atash let out a deep breath, not realizing until that moment he had been holding it in. His heartbeat started to slow, and his pulse rate seem to return to normal. “Thank you, my friend.”

Hanano looked at him in a way that Atash could not decipher. The other man nodded and brusquely turned and walked out of the café.

Two weeks? Atash smiled to himself. In two weeks the whole world would be watching this place go up in flames. Either way, Iran would be able to have a great influence on this country. And maybe the rest of the Middle East.

He just took a big gamble—and won.

March 10
Annapolis, Maryland

B
eck had no idea why Frank dragged him out to the country for a late-night meeting. Apparently the man didn’t trust telling him over the phone. Fair enough. Given the latest development, paranoia might be the sane approach after all.

He took the US 301 east ramp over the Bay Bridge, glancing to his right to see Annapolis city lights in the distance as he crossed the waterway. Once over the bridge, he took the 450 for a short distance before working his way along the Chesapeake shoreline. Frank had given him directions with an order to be on time.

He glanced at his watch. 10:30 p.m. on the nose. He had about thirty minutes to find Frank’s place. By all accounts, he should be early with time to spare. He slowed and saw that a clear sky offered brief glimpses of dark water beyond large estates built along the water’s edge. This community smacked of those with lots of money, people he seldom crossed paths with in real life. Frank must be one of those folks, although he came off as a decent, hardworking man.

Beck smiled at himself as he realized his own prejudices emerging. Thoughts of his hardworking, blue-collar dad, working for those fat cats with money—those who got rich off the sweat of others. But he knew this was not true from his own experiences. Sure, there were those who had no scruples about how they got to the top—he’d even arrested some of those who’d went too far. But he had met those truly wealthy businessmen who’d given value to the product they produced, and treated those who worked for them decently and fairly.

He put himself in check, making sure he didn’t paint people like Frank Collord and others with a broad brush along with those who lived to exploit others and squeeze every last cent from the general population.

As he mulled these thoughts over, Beck realized he almost passed the address Frank had given him. He pulled into a long paved driveway that led to a darkened three-story home. He parked where Frank had instructed, and walked around a three-car detached garage and found a brick pathway leading to a private pier. Following this path, he saw a light shining aboard a yacht, its engines idling dead ahead. It was the only craft tied to the pier.