Shadow of Death (15 page)

CHAPTER 47

Langley

Kim Elton ran into Dex’s office so fast she almost crashed into Darren Davis, who was on his way out. “We got a break!”

It was the first good news in a long time and Dex stood up without even realizing it. “What’ve you got?” asked Darren.

She looked back and forth at the two of them, obviously uncomfortable. “Look, this is a little tricky.”

“What exactly does
that
mean?” asked Dex.

“Source issue,” she replied.

Darren’s face turned pink. “Kim. Is this your Israeli guy again?”

“He’s not
my
guy. Apo introduced me to him a few weeks ago, that’s all. It’s a possible break . . .”

Darren snapped at her. “Did you miss the part about us getting our asses chewed off at the White House? The Israelis have their own agenda with the Iran deal. The president doesn’t want some Israeli conspiracy theory screwing up his nuke treaty. Unless you have something ironclad, it’s useless.”

“The Israelis cracked an e-mail account in Syria, chief. E-mails from Syria to Mexico,
today
. Mossad has been trying to find the same ISIS tables of organization we have for the past year, and we’re stepping all over each other. Listen, they have an e-mail account that they say they’re sure is a high-level ISIS commander in Syria. They want to talk to us about it.”

“So they want to
trade
something . . .” said Dex suspiciously.

Kim shrugged. “I’m not sure what they want. So far, just a face-to-face meeting with senior staff, meaning
you
, Darren. The president refuses to meet with the prime minister because the PM is being ‘inflammatory.’ This Mossad source has been reliable in the past, according to Apo. But this is real-time intelligence. We need to move now, and he’ll only agree to talk to you or Director Holstrum himself.”

“The president has already instructed Holstrum to cut the Israelis out of the loop. If I meet with this guy, it’s unofficial.”

“No good. He says it’s
solid
, and he wants the president to know it comes from
them
. It’s
their
intel, it’s good, and they want to shove it up the president’s ass.
Sir
.”

Darren began pacing around the office. “That’s great. Just great.”

Dex stared at the satellite monitor. “Chief, with all due respect, we’ve got a team on the ground with zero support—
zero
! And they’re supposed to track down a possible weapon of mass destruction that’s a hundred and sixty miles away from their current location with two drug cartels and the Mexican Marine Corps after them. Do you think that
maybe
we could offer them just a
little
information that might make their fucking job a little easier? Jesus Christ! I don’t give a shit about the nuke treaty. These Iranian
fucks
just got a few hundred billion dollars out of this bullshit treaty! They’re going to keep us busy for the next hundred years! How about we just try and find this
one
package? Meet with this Mossad agent, see what he knows, and go from there. We’re running out of time!”

Darren Davis wasn’t used to being reprimanded by his second in command, but he knew Dex was right. They were all tired and stressed, and being pulled in two directions.

Darren looked at Kim. “Set it up. We keep it out of this building, though. Have him pick a place.”

Kim made a few calls and fifteen minutes later Darren Davis and Kim Elton were in a car speeding to a brownstone apartment building in Washington, DC. It was a quiet neighborhood with tree-lined streets and plenty of small coffee shops for yuppies, college students, high-powered white-collar types, and international spies. Kim parked in a small lot, paid the attendant, and walked across the street to the brownstone, where a doorman greeted them. Darren and Kim made quick eye contact. The doorman was no accident—the Israelis probably owned the whole building and ran security for their people.

Darren and Kim walked to the second floor and knocked on a paneled wooden door. The building was old DC money, with masterpieces hanging in the public hallways like a museum. Theft was obviously not an issue in this building.

The door opened and a surprisingly young man opened it, greeting his guests with a big smile and bright blue eyes. He wore old jeans and a Warren Zevon concert T-shirt that was probably older than him. His hair was cropped so short he was almost bald. “Come in, come in!” he said, holding the door wide open. “
Shimon!
” he called to the back of the apartment.

A tall, slim man walked out from the back of the apartment, perhaps sixty years old. He was wearing orange reading glasses that matched his orange sneakers. Yellow jeans and a black T-shirt rounded out his rock star/secret agent outfit. His black hair, hinting at threads of white, was gelled and spiked—the man definitely rocked his own style.

“Thanks for coming,” Shimon said. He extended his hand and shook hands warmly with Kim and Darren, then ushered them into the small kitchen. “Come, sit,” he offered, pulling barstools out from the high-top kitchen table. “Do you know who I am?”

“I’m guessing Shimon?” said Kim.

“Shimon. Or ‘Simon’ in America. Simon Dori. This is Yehuda. We’ve spent some time with one of your people.”

“So we hear,” said Darren.

“We’ve given him very important information.” He stared at Darren and waited for a reaction.

Darren remained poker-faced.

“You have to understand, your president’s new approach to the Middle East and to Israel is going to cause problems for decades. Giving the Iranians billions of dollars to spread around the Shia Muslim world is a game changer. Iran will be funneling weapons to Hamas, Hezbollah, and a dozen other terrorist organizations. My government doesn’t understand the logic. By the time the Iranians finish their spending spree with the Russians and Chinese, they’ll have the most sophisticated radar, air force, and missile defense system in the entire Middle East. Maybe as good as ours.”

“Shimon, I didn’t race across town to get a lecture on foreign policy. I don’t make those decisions, I just run field operations.”

“I understand. Me, too. And one of those field operations I ran crossed over with one of your best people. Apo Yessayan. We call him the Chameleon.”

Darren tried not to allow his face to show his surprise that Shimon knew Apo’s real name.
That
was a problem.

Shimon read his mind. “Oh, it’s okay. His name today isn’t his name tomorrow. I know where he lives. He knows where I live. We respect each other, Mr. Davis. Unlike so many of the people we deal with, Apo and I speak exactly the same language and logic. It’s my deep respect for him, and I dare say, my
love
of that man, that I reach out to you now, in this way. Coffee?”

Kim and Darren smiled and Yehuda began pouring them all mugs of fresh-brewed coffee.

“Do you know who lives next door? Next building—not next apartment,” asked Shimon.

Darren shook his head.

Shimon smiled, the kind of disarmingly warm smile that would always make him the center of a dinner party. He pointed with his thumb. “Building on the left is home to at least three Russian spies. But the GRU is in turmoil with the changes to their leadership after the director died suddenly, so who knows who’s actually in charge anymore. The building two over on the right is home to two BND German spies, including one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. I love keeping track of her. Heidi. I want to follow her full-time. And across the street in number 1255 is an Indian spy. The IB—Intelligence Bureau of India—only has one agent living there, so far as we know. He looks fifteen, but probably can write computer codes to get a missile to Mars. This might be the busiest neighborhood in DC outside the Pentagon.”

“And I suppose you all meet for coffee on Sunday mornings?” asked Darren, reaching for his coffee from Yehuda.

Shimon stood and leaned back against the counter in the small kitchen. “Don’t laugh. We have this little group of friendly enemies that works better than the UN. Every time the UN condemns Israel for defending herself against Hezbollah or Hamas or any number of these terrorist organizations, almost every government in the UN votes against us by resolution. Then, we meet privately with our friends in this neighborhood to discuss real solutions.

“Last November, the UN adopted six resolutions against Israel. Apparently, it’s the fault of the Israeli population that Palestinians keep shoving knives into our citizens. I wish I could tell you that it was only the Syrians and Arab nations that take that stance, but the resolutions number over a hundred in favor to six opposed. Only Israel, the US, Canada, Australia, and a few tiny islands in the Pacific defend us against charges so ridiculous they should be laughed out of the building! So—after Israel has to stand there in the UN and listen to hours of anti-Semitism and hate speech, a few of us meet for coffee and try to find real solutions.”

Darren was intrigued. “Such as?”

“Well, in theory only, of course?” hinted Shimon.

“Of course.”

“Shortly after Israel was condemned for taking out some Palestinian leadership that resulted in civilian casualties, because the coward was hiding in a school, one of our friends—I can’t say who, but I will hint she is stunning and blonde with blue eyes and a perfect body and should marry me—anyway,
that
friend of ours gave me the address and meeting time of the man’s replacement. They had just assembled a suicide vest–making factory in the basement of a mosque. We destroyed it, took another round of insults and accusations of crimes against humanity, and then sent flowers to our beautiful friend as a thank-you.”

Darren sighed with frustration and looked at Kim. “Maybe we should just overthrow all of our governments and start over with the folks who actually know how the world works?”

Shimon smiled. “Israel is one-tenth of one percent of the Middle East. Eight million citizens surrounded by half a billion Arabs who keep telling us they want us dead. Political correctness doesn’t exist in Israel, my friend. We’d all have been dead a long time ago. This president’s ‘evenhanded’ approach to the Middle East is naïve. He scolds both sides like he’s handling two children in a fight over toys. Your president thinks being evenhanded is a signal that peace can be worked out by being ‘fair’ to both sides. The problem is, all we want is to be left alone, and the other side wants our total annihilation. We’ve never been so alone in the world as we are right now. We need a stronger friend.”

“Shimon. I
am
a friend. But I’m also just a middle manager who answers to my boss. I’m here because you have something important for our national security, I assume. Let’s get to the point.”

“This isn’t a quid pro quo. My government doesn’t expect instant changes from your president because we’re going to help you right now. But what I’m offering is something
big
, you understand? It’s
worth
something.”

“
My
government gives
your
government billions of dollars every year, even with plenty of anti-Israel sentiment at home. If you can help us, don’t you think it’s your moral obligation, or at the very least, just good business sense?”

“Of course. But in explaining what we have for you, it opens another can of worms. Your government is currently fighting with the world’s biggest phone maker over security. What I am offering you reveals the fact that we’ve overcome that obstacle.” He shrugged. “Our people are good.”

“Shimon. Enough bullshit. I have men in the field right now, maybe fighting for their survival because two presidents can’t agree on who’s in charge of a screwed-up operation. What have you got?”

“Yehuda, bring . . .”

Yehuda disappeared into a room and returned with a laptop, which he opened and placed on the kitchen table. “The prime minister himself cleared us to show you this technology. This is our most classified level of secrecy. We’ve been inside Daesh phone calls and e-mails for almost a year. Their table of organization has been mapped out carefully for months, although it keeps changing because of your successful drone strikes. But you’re president isn’t going to like what he finds.”

“We’re listening,” said Darren quietly.

CHAPTER 48

Charlie Mike

Dex Murphy watched the overhead image of his team from the newly arrived drone as he spoke to Moose via sat-phone. “Moose, you’ve got multiple vehicles heading from the airport towards your position. You’ll have maybe an hour tops before a few hundred Mexican Marines arrive on station. We still can’t convince General Ortega to stand down, and Ortega has President Nieto convinced that your people just declared war on Mexico. Have you secured transportation yet?”

Moose looked at the eight-year-boy old cranking the engine on the rusted-out orange pickup truck. “Affirmative. We should be able to break three knots if we’re going downhill and pushing.” He looked around and shook his head. Continuing the mission was the only option. “We’re Charlie Mike. Out.”

The back of the pickup truck had homemade wooden sides built up to allow larger loads of produce to be hauled. The tires were so bald they were actually shiny in the morning sun. The little boy pushed the door open with a long, whining creak, and stepped down off the running board to the ground. His beautiful smile made Moose laugh out loud, and he walked over to the child and took a knee.

“Nice truck,” he said. Apo translated in Spanish and the boy laughed.

“
Noooo!
” he responded, hysterically laughing. He was young and uneducated, but he knew a piece of shit when he saw one. “It’s older than
nana
!” he said in Spanish. “But it goes!”

Eric Hodges walked over to Moose and pointed to the horses nearby. “Skipper, I could ride before I could walk. What do you say I take a horse and scout out ahead? I can stay off the road and try and find us a clear path.”

Moose looked over at the skinny horses. “Ray! You know how to ride a horse?”

Ray shrugged. “I’ll figure it out.”

Jon piped up. “I can ride. I’ll go with Big E.”

Moose grunted. “Okay. That’s it, then. You two head south towards Comalcalco and we’ll follow. Once we get there, we’ll steal better transportation. Apo, you got cash on you?”

Apo pulled out what he had, a few hundred dollars in US currency. Moose chucked his chin at the house, and Apo walked inside to where the old woman was making tortillas for everyone. Apo busted out laughing. They were potentially in the middle of all-out combat any second, and momma was making everyone brunch.

“Señora Maria, what are you doing?” he laughed.

“You’ll need your strength. I made enough for everyone except that animal you captured. He goes hungry.” She and her granddaughter began placing the fresh, hot tortillas in a sack.

Apo handed her almost four hundred dollars in cash. “This is for the use of your truck and horses. We’ll leave them in Comalcalco.”

She raised her hands. “I don’t want your money. Just take that animal away to jail.”

Apo forced it into her hands. “Please.
Please
. You take care of those beautiful babies. And hide the cash. If anyone comes after us asking questions, you just say we stole your truck and horses.” He gave the woman a quick hug, a surprise peck on the cheek, and then bent down to squeeze the little girl. “You take care of your
nana
!” he said, pinching her cheek. She squealed with a little girl sound that made Apo feel warm inside. It was good to remember why you risked your life once in a while.

Apo ran outside as the team piled into the pickup truck. Eric and Jon had already trotted off across the field toward the dirt road that disappeared into the forest heading south on two grey horses that had seen better days. Ripper took the driver’s seat of the ancient four-speed with Moose riding shotgun, and Pete, Ryan, Ray, Apo, and El Gato climbed up into the back. With the raised wooden sides and piles of hay, wooden pallets, straw baskets, and garbage thrown in the back of the truck, a quick glance didn’t reveal a very cramped team of American special operators.

The little boys waved goodbye, chasing after the truck until they were called back inside by their grandmother, who made them wash and sit down to eat. As the pickup truck lurched and whined through its gears, the men aboard ate the best homemade tortillas they ever tasted, except El Gato, who remained gagged, zip-tied, and furious.

Eric Hodges gave his horse a little kick, and the grey and black mare picked up her pace with Jon close behind. “
Cavalry
, dude! We’re cavalry!” yelled Eric with a laugh, and then he smacked his horse into a faster gallop. The two of them rode out ahead of the smoke-belching truck, looking somewhat comical in their state-of-the-art combat gear, mounted on two horses that looked like they were originally owned by Apaches a few hundred years earlier.