Traitor (24 page)

Turner opened the driver’s door. “I can’t believe you give that guy any credit!” “It was me that recommended him to President Mitchell,” said Carson, climbing into the passenger seat and leaving a speechless Turner holding the door handle. “He does his thing and I do my thing.”

“But what exactly is it you do? I mean, what is your title?” asked Turner, sliding into this seat. He realized then just how out of his league he really was.

“Titles are just something people get hung up on. Did you know it’s the number one cause for labor disputes? If I don’t have one, people can’t pin me down on an organizational chart. For example, you have the FBI Director above you, the Deputy AG above him, the AG and then the President. You’re four steps removed from the President. Lots of people are more senior than you. Every person at Justice who reports to the Deputy AG is more senior than you, according to the organizational chart.”

“So what
do
you do?” pushed Turner.

“I do what’s needed,” Carson replied mysteriously.

“And Al Zahrani needed to be captured, why?”

Turner pulled the car out of the White House gates. He had been keen to know why since Jeff Lewis had belittled him over it.

“You wanted him and I couldn’t think of a reason why not,” replied Carson with a smile.

“Bullshit!” said Turner. He was beginning to think there was another agenda at play, one he was most definitely not in on.

Carson stayed silent, further antagonizing Turner. The silence hung in the air until they arrived back at NCTC. Carson, it seemed, was very comfortable with silence. Turner was not. He slammed his door and marched unhappily into the center, barking orders at anyone below him on the organizational chart, essentially everyone in the center.

“Power is something you earn, it’s not something you’re given,” said Carson as he followed Turner into his office.

“Who said that?” asked Turner, his temper barely holding.

“I read it on a fortune cookie,” said Carson. His cell rang, interrupting his fun. Few people knew the number to that cell. He exited the office quickly and jogged down the hall to his own.

“Yes?” he answered, closing his office door behind him, something he never did.

“We’ve carried out an exhaustive background check,” said the voice.

He was about to ask on whom but realized it was Frankie. He had meant to cancel it the following day; it had been a kneejerk reaction.

“I meant to cancel that request,” he said apologetically at the thought of the amount of man hours and work that would have been expended.

“It’s just as well you didn’t, we found something interesting.”

“Say that again,” said Carson, hoping he had misheard what had been said.

The caller repeated exactly, word for word, what he hoped they hadn’t said the first time around.

He ended the call and sat for a moment as the implications of the news hit home. Had Nick Geller known? And if so, why had he chosen her? It seemed inconceivable that he
didn’t
know. The chances of it being a coincidence, something he didn’t believe in to begin with, were so remote that Nick must have known.

All the time Carson was thinking, he wasn’t doing anything. The easiest course of action would be to go down to the operations center floor and alert everybody. That, however, would be such a betrayal of Frankie’s right to privacy that he couldn’t do it. He had grown fond of her and was not going to destroy her publicly. He needed help and bizarrely there was only one person who
could
help. He picked up the phone and called Barry.

Barry rushed into the room a minute later, more than happy to help a cap-in-hand Carson. The idea that Harry Carson would ‘owe him one’ was not something he was going to pass up.

“Thanks for coming so quickly, Barry,” said Carson, motioning for him to shut the door behind him.

“Anything I can do to help,” Barry offered cheerily.

“I need you to contact your lead CIA guy on the flight with Al Zahrani and order him and his team not to leave Al Zahrani’s side.”

Barry squinted, reading between the lines. “Is there a problem on the plane?”

“Not if you do as I say.”

“I should warn my guys if you think there’s a problem… they can land and –”

“Look, just do it and I’ll owe you one, okay?!” insisted Carson.

Barry picked up his cell and contacted his CIA counterpart on the flight. After a short conversation catching up, he turned the conversation to Carson’s request and put the phone onto speaker. “Steve, would you mind babysitting Al Zahrani all the way here?” he asked.

“Not a problem, he’s going nowhere,” said Steve confidently.

“Excellent,” said Barry looking at Carson for approval.

“Is he with him now?” asked Carson.

Barry repeated the question.

“Yes,” replied Steve.

“Good, just don’t let him out of your sight,” reiterated Barry.

“What, literally?”

“Jesus!” barked Carson, grabbing the phone. “Can you see Al Zahrani at this very moment?”

“Who is this?” asked Steve irritably.

“It’s fine, Steve, it’s Harry Carson, just answer,” said Barry.

“Not physically, but he’s in the rear cabin and no one can get to him without going through us.”

“Would you mind putting Frankie on the phone with me please? And then I want you and your team not to let Al Zahrani out of your sight. Go into the rear cabin with him and don’t leave his side,
literally.
”

“Should I interrupt her?”

“Is she sleeping?”

“No,” he said a little confused. “She’s questioning Al Zahrani as per your orders and we weren’t to disturb her.”

“Disturb her!!!” Carson yelled, panicking now.

Barry’s stunned face looked at Carson while the shuffling and door opening noises came through the phone line as Steve rushed towards the rear cabin. A bang on the door went unanswered and was followed by the sound of a door being smashed open.

“Oh fuck!” Steve bellowed.

“What? What is it?” said Carson.

He was desperate to know what Frankie had done with the pedophile who had raped her when she was twelve.

When the image of the man who had raped her when she was a child appeared on the screen, Frankie had almost fainted on the spot. It was an image she had never been able to visualize in her mind but one she instantly recognized. The new Caliph, although many years older now, was the man who had crept into her bedroom late one night. Frankie and her parents had been visiting relatives in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, and the main purpose of the trip was to introduce Frankie to her mother’s heritage. It would be the only trip and contact she would ever have with her Saudi relatives.

The new Caliph had done things that no innocent twelve-year-old could comprehend or be able to forget. As he pinned her to her bed, she had vowed she would one day have the strength and resolve to fight back. When he had stepped onto the Osprey, bound and gagged, she had stayed out of sight, not wanting to alert him to her presence. Not that she looked anything like the young child he had abused and defiled. She wanted to scream and shout “rapist!”, “pedophile!” but that would deprive her of her chance. Despite her stomach being tied in knots, she remained calm and argued why she should accompany the monster home.

Waiting until he was secured in the rear cabin, she boarded the C40B. Shortly after takeoff, she had advised the rest of the team that she was to question Al Zahrani. The CIA operatives very kindly offered to assist. However, she wasn’t sure they’d have the stomach for what she planned and certainly wouldn’t have allowed it.

Eventually walking into the room and coming face to face with the monster, after all those years, was a great disappointment. He didn’t recognize her. He didn’t even show the faintest interest in her. Frankie was a stunningly beautiful woman. She turned heads wherever she went. When she walked into a room, she was noticed. Sickness swelled in her stomach as the realization hit her. He didn’t find women attractive, he only found young girls attractive. She sat down and stared into his eyes, willing him to recognize her. His hands were bound and his mouth gagged. He looked back at her uninterested. However, the faintest hint of recognition flickered in his eyes. Her deep blue eyes, inherited from her father, somehow betrayed her Middle Eastern looks. The more he stared, the more he began to remember something and the more sick and disgusted Frankie felt. She nodded at him, letting him know his memory was correct.

Tied and gagged, he suddenly realized the danger he was in. The tables had turned; the abused was about to become the abuser. Frankie stood up and tightened the gag, adding another one just to be safe. Once completely silenced, the struggling Al Zahrani put up a fight as Frankie secured his legs to legs of his chair. She smiled as he sat, his legs slightly spread, at her mercy. Al Zahrani wore the traditional
thawb
, a long white robe that fell to his ankles. Given the summer climate, he had elected not to wear cotton pants underneath and instead, as she fought the struggling Al Zahrani, Frankie found only a pair of boxer shorts.

A phone ringing in the other room caught her attention for a second, but only for a second. She looked down on the wretchedness of the man who sat naked from the waist down in front of her. His manhood lay limp and frightened, unlike the day it had met the far younger Frankie.

Her anger swelled again and fear flashed in Al Zahrani’s eyes when Frankie produced a knife and without a moment’s hesitation swept the razor sharp blade across the top of Al Zahrani’s scrotum. A second and third slash ensured that Al Zahrani would never again harm a child and never again need to use a standing urinal. Zahrani passed out from the pain and blood flowed freely from the wounds. Frankie picked up the offending articles and deposited them in the restroom before flushing them away deep into the chemical waste system that would render them useless for any attempted reattachment.

The door flew open as Frankie was pushing towels against the wounds in an attempt to stem the blood flow.

“Oh fuck!” shouted Steve.

Frankie removed the towel, sending Steve’s own testicles running for cover as he convulsed at the sight before him, dropping his cell to the floor.

Frankie calmly stood up and retrieved the cell.

“Hello?” she said.

“Christ, Frankie, what have you done?” asked Carson.

“Don’t worry, it’s still alive.”

“Does he need medical attention?”

“Well I wouldn’t exactly call him a
he
any longer and medical attention probably wouldn’t be a bad thing if you want him to reach the US alive.”

Carson killed the line and contacted the pilot. The nearest stop with decent medical facilities that they could use safely and secretly was the Princess Royal Medical Centre in Gibraltar, a UK overseas territory that was nothing more than an outcrop of rock measuring 2.6 square miles on the southern tip of Spain.

A one-hour emergency stop had the less than perfect Al Zahrani stitched and in a condition that would ensure he survived the Atlantic crossing.

Carson just needed to work out what he should do with Frankie, who had not one ounce of remorse for her actions. It was, however, out of his hands. Frankie was on the case at the request of the President. Having sworn the CIA team to secrecy over the matter, they were the only people, except for the surgeon, who were aware of the extent of Frankie’s handiwork.

Carson climbed into his car for a private meeting with President Mitchell. A meeting he was not looking forward to.

Thursday 10
^th
July

Nick had spent the day travelling across the desert. The evacuation plan was executed to perfection. Over twenty different routes were in operation ensuring that even if the Americans did spot some of the terrorists escaping, the impact to the cause would have been minimal. However, with trucks and vehicles camouflaged to blend in with the environment and speeds restricted to ensure minimal dust disruption, only the keenest eyes looking from close range would have spotted any of the escaping terrorists.

Nick and Ibrahim had traveled throughout the day and half the night to reach their destination, a small port to the south of Port Sudan. Suakin Port was once the main Port of Sudan but over the years had become usurped by the far larger port to its north. On an ancient natural inlet, the original city sat in ruins within the harbor. In its day, it would have been a spectacular sight but like many Third World cities, it was merely a reminder of the great place it once had been.

Ibrahim led Nick onto the small freighter that would take them onto their next destination, Sana’a, the Yemeni capital, via a small port on the northwest coast of Yemen.

Having landed at Port Sudan airport, Flynn, Reid and the teams spent the evening and very early morning in the main port where it became abundantly clear that the chances of finding Nick Geller amongst the hustle and bustle of one the region’s busiest ports and where the majority of the locals earned their living were negligible.