by J. T. Patten
Chapter 21
Mena spoke softly as she neared Drake, explaining in detail what she believed Chicago was up against. “The generals have used children for war. My brothers were taken in the war when I was young. They were ten and twelve. My father, before he passed, said General Shirazian gave thousands of boys keys around their necks to sweep minefields. The boys thought they had keys to heaven. They rushed the Iraqis. The ones who didn’t explode.”
Drake turned to Mena, his face softened only slightly with details he had only heard anecdotally over the years.
“The Iraqis panicked and didn’t shoot at the children. They were overtaken by small waves of Iranian soldiers who followed closely behind.”
“That was about thirty years ago. Isn’t that a specific tactic to clear the minefields? It would never fly now, even with the current regime.”
“He was a young commander. The world does not know what he did to the Kurds and to ethnic groups in Iran, Azerbaijan, Afghanistan, even to the north, with the same approach of using children in battle.”
“Turkmenistan,” Drake noted more to himself than to Mena.
Mena nodded. “Gas disputes. The general sent children over the border on bicycles with grenades. There were second waves of attacks much greater that were hidden by the confusion of the children.”
Drake shook his head. “I’m sorry to hear this, but I can’t see this happening in Chicago. I mean, where are they going to convince kids to be suicide bombers without that raising some serious red flags to local police?” He wrestled with the concept. “Is this what you were trying to say in there?”
“I’ve been trying to warn the intelligence community for years about General Shirazian. Even in my position, no one wants to listen to me.”
“I can’t help you. It’s farfetched, likely biased from your own experiences, and you’re not qualified to work in the field. Are you?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Did I miss something, or did you at least go through FTC?” he asked, referencing the abbreviation for the down and dirty basic spook course.
“No. But I know I can help. I can stay out of your way. I can work with Mojo, who’s going to stay back at the Fort in Maryland. I can get things set up. Hotels, buy you things. I’ll be just support.”
You’re a liability. And why would Sebastian add you to a quick and dirty kill mission?
His mouth clicked once, but he caught the next and forced his tongue into his teeth. Drake processed what little he could ascertain about Mena. True, she had to have been extensively vetted. She would have been subjected to a full-scope polygraph that combines counterintelligence and lifestyle. She’s obviously over thirty years old if she was born in Iran during the war. So, to have come from Iran, become a US citizen, work across DOD and the CIA, and to be pulled in by Sebastian, she was probably a valuable analyst. To somebody.
Shit. What to do?
“Hello? Are you going to say something?” she asked impatiently.
“I’m thinking. I prefer to think than talk.”
“Well, it’s not like you have a panel of experts in your head, so why don’t you tell me what you’re thinking?”
Drake glared. “You’d be surprised. My experts just aren’t saying anything right now.”
“Look. Warren, right?”
“You need to seriously forget that you ever heard that name. I mean gravely serious, as in if you ever utter that word, I will be there.”
His warning meant nothing in the moment. Mena was fixated on expressing her point. “I just want to be in a position to make a difference. I need to be where I can do something and not just get cut off or ignored. I don’t have family anymore, I’m not married, and I can’t talk to my cousins or aunts and uncles because of my job. I won’t get in your way. If I get killed, it’s not like anyone will notice anyway.”
Drake took in a chest full of her sob story and breathed out the residual thoughts of potential bullshit. Guess that makes us both fodder to take this guy out.
“I’ll talk to Sebastian. We’ll head out tomorrow.”
“Thank you, I’ll pack my things tonight.”
He guided her back to the building with a light hand to her back. “No, you won’t.”
“Why not?” She stopped, ready for another fight.
“You want to play with the big boys, you’re with the big boys. Welcome to pre-op isolation.” Drake extended his hand. “Give me your phone. Find a place on the floor to set up your cot for a few winks. But get ready. You’re in for a night of tradecraft 101.”
Chapter 22
Special Agent Tresa Halliday had expected her boss to meet her at a casual diner or coffee shop somewhere close to headquarters. When she received the text directing her to a DC location called La Chaumiere, on M Street just off Pennsylvania Avenue, her gut nagged, Girl, you’re way underdressed.
The inside of the restaurant, however, was cozier than she had expected. The floor had a rustic tile, and although white tablecloths looked fancy, the chairs looked like they could have been in a Wisconsin family restaurant, and certainly the burgundy leather- or pleather-covered booth backs would fit in to the Midwest or any other decent Greek family diner. She kind of liked it and assumed this was what “French country” may mean.
And then she saw Earl Johnson. The grand poohbah of the FBI’s counterintelligence function. He was dressed in his usual style, which Tresa considered conservative high-brow slob. Pretentious in attitude, polyester in reality. The other patrons were more sharply dressed. She suspected Earl wished he were one of them. He probably thought he was smarter than them all, but she figured he lacked the upper-crust pedigree.
As she approached, he didn’t stand. He simply motioned with a hand for her to take the seat across from him.
“Sir,” she acknowledged before taking a seat.
“Sparkling or still?” he asked.
When she didn’t answer and was looking around confused, he repeated, “Water. Tap or with bubbles.”
“Yes, sir. I know what it means. I was looking around to see if they had iced tea. Still iced tea,” she joked, but the levity fell just as her napkin slid off her lap, too. “So, do all the CI agents get to come here?”
Earl lifted his chin and straightened his glasses. He looked as though he had lost even more weight in the past week, and the guy didn’t have much to spare with his tall and gaunt frame. “I take my new ghosts here. It’s as close as we can get to the original.”
“Original what?”
“La Niçoise. An old Georgetown classic. It’s where Angleton frequented in his day, boozing it up with Beltway contacts and who knows whom else.”
“He worked for our group?” she teased, knowing who he was talking about but wanting to jack with all that was holy to grumpy old Earl.
She evoked exactly what she hoped. Earl looked at her sideways with raised eyebrows. “James Jesus.”
“James Jesus who?” Halliday could hardly keep a smile from cracking.
Earl Johnson folded his hands on the table’s edge and, looking down, shot his head slightly in what could only be interpreted by Tresa as disapproval.
“Uh, is he still or sparkling?”
This time, the levity found that miniscule warm spot in Earl’s heart, and he softened like a parent accepting a weed from a toddler who was calling it a flower. He took in a deep breath. “For counterintelligence agents, he is the Godfather.” Earl nodded again in deference to only himself. “Albeit he had his flaws in both ways, mindset and…assessment of character.” Earl paused as if satisfied with his answer. “He was brilliant, but he alienated many. I fear I share some of those same traits.” He looked up to Halliday.
She shrugged. “I got nothing.”
Confused, he continued. “Angleton believed that secret elements of the government, in his case, intelligence, never had to comply with the government. An
d that is flawed. Deeply flawed.” Earl took a sip of his sparkling water then poured some more. The label read Topo Chico, which Tresa was pretty sure wasn’t French. The server came around and Earl dismissed her as soon as she entered their airspace.
“Excuse me, miss,” Tresa called back to the woman. “I would like something. Iced tea, please.” Tresa turned to Earl. “Continue.” Dick.
Earl lowered his shoulders and moved slightly forward to Halliday. “He, Angleton, believed and often acted like he could disobey the rules. And that his job demanded it. Follow?”
She didn’t and said as much. “You want me to start breaking rules to catch these guys?” Tresa asked, also lowering her volume.
Earl pushed back into his chair. “No.” He looked around at the people turning toward him. He leaned in. “Not us. Them. They are breaking the rules. They know that our enemies think we have certain limits on our own soil, and we do; well, we’re supposed to.”
“Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that the whole reason we’re trying to go after them?” She raised her no-shit hands.
He huffed.
“What? Can’t you tell me who they are?”
Earl motioned for her to come closer. “ISA,” he said with a lowered head. “Orange. They were a special mission unit. The president, for all practical purposes, disbanded them. But that was a cover. They kept a small contingency. Our man. A handful of others. They are chartered to do preemptive strikes against threats within the country. They have a charter to kill.”
“And Woolf and his crew have that charter, which allows them to fly out of bases, disappear, get all kinds of gear and gadgets.” She nodded. “And they are so deep no one knows how to find them.”
“Or wants to find them,” he added.
She squinted, uncomfortable about the next question. “Can we eat? I’m starving.”
Ignoring her, he leaned in again. “We need to penetrate them. Which leads me to another lesson about Angleton.” He didn’t wait for her approval to go on about the legendary spymaster. “Angleton didn’t think very highly of women. He thought they caused problems instead of solving them. I know you are a dedicated problem solver. That’s why I need you to penetrate them.” His look was matter of fact. And he didn’t appear willing to debate the topic. End of discussion.
“I don’t even know where they are. And if I did, then what?”
Earl’s hand drifted to his silverware. He tapped the knife with his finger and stared into her eyes. His brows furrowed over the glasses’ frames. “In counterintelligence and counterespionage, if you can no longer frustrate your enemy, eliminate your enemy. Their recklessness killed our director. I want them dead. And I want you to start by following one Sebastian Francis Haggerty. But caution. He is not a man to be trifled with. Hell, he may actually be following me. Something I still have to determine.”
“And is Sebastian a big secret, too, that I’ll find out about in a week from now? Whenever you feel I’m fit to know?”
“Not at all. British MI6 who worked for years with the SAS Increment hunter killer teams. You think Drake Woolf is a threat, this man is the definition of ungentlemanly warfare. But for now, he runs ICEPICK, the TFO program, while covered by his contracts at NSA. He will keep an arm’s length for sure. He won’t go on missions; he won’t sit from day to day with his analysts. He will remain having fancy lunches with the intelligence community’s directors and deputies.”
“So, it seems pretty stupid to follow him. Why not just trace his phone? See where he banks, and ask your contacts who the guy’s closest community allies are. In the meanwhile, I’ll try to figure where they are headed next and try to get close. Unless, of course, one of them just calls me up and asks me out on a date.”
Johnson sipped from his glass again and swished the water in his mouth. “They have a cassoulet that you may enjoy. You probably call it a Swanson pot pie where you come from.”
“Thanks,” she said, getting up with a loud screech. “They probably call it that where you come from, too. You just eat it with a box of wine with a cork on the side. I’ve got work to do, Deputy Director…Johnson. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’m getting my period,” she announced.
Halliday walked away as Earl Johnson ping-ponged his head to see who among the crowd was looking at him.
Chapter 23
Gebran Daouk had been in lockdown, hiding for a week. Things were not going according to his initial plan, to say the least. The Hezbollah scientist and heavyweight wannabe peered through a crack opening of the shaded third-story apartment window. It was a sunny day in Chicago, and while the weather outside looked cool by the dress of passersby, it was stifling in the cramped apartment.
“Did they call yet?” Gebran asked the two men relaxed on a tattered sofa in an adjoining room. One played a video game, thumbing a wireless Xbox controller. The other man was slumped into the worn cushions, feet on a scratched second-hand coffee table, spooning dry cereal from a bowl.
“It’s only been two days,” the gamer replied. “They won’t call anyway. You’re lucky they haven’t killed you for making such a request and not telling them where you hid the material,” he reminded the younger man in the tongue of Lebanese Arabic. “But don’t worry, they’ll have you in a palace sitting on a throne in no time. Or a bullet once they find your bomb materials.”
The two men laughed. Gebran did not.
“You’re a bastard, boy. And you’ll never be given a commander position if you haven’t fought in Syria or Palestine. And they won’t call. New protocol, Gebran. You would know this if you were in charge. The master planner of Archangel has no wings without the Azrael bomb.”
Gebran was furious. “I’ve told you who my grandfather was. Don’t mock me. You idiots should be working for me. And it’s not a bomb.” Gebran needed the WMD for his own leverage, but he hadn’t expected such delays. They should be speaking to him about the plans so he could optimize the attack. Some other idiot committed to going to prayers all day could kill themselves as a martyr. At least that was his long-held opinion. He was a leadership legacy, or so he told himself, and intended to stake his claim.
“Would we still be idiots if we were working for you or bigger idiots?” asked the other Lebanese man on the couch while crunching loudly on his cereal.
His buddy guffawed. “We could be your Despicable Me yellow minions, Doctor.” He laughed again. “It’s on my phone. I can stream it. We should watch again.”
“That’s it. I’m leaving,” Gebran announced as he turned for the door.
Even with the noise of the Fortnite game, Gebran heard the slide clicks of actual guns and knew they were once again pointed at his back.
“Go ahead. Shoot me. Kill me. They will kill you and your families.”
“I think they would promote us.”
“Nasrallah would have your heads. My grandfather was close with Mustafa Badr al-Din, head of External Operations. My grandfather even helped appoint Talal Hamiya of the Overseas Unit. He had a seat at the table.”
“Sit down, Gebran. Here is your only seat. Don’t be this way. We are all tired of being here. But this is what we are told. And like good soldiers, we do as we are told and take our orders. How can you be a leader if you can’t be a soldier first? Come play. I’ll give you a new skin for your man and show you how to be a good soldier.”
Gebran stood in the hallway, slowly beating his head against the wall. “The Americans will be looking for the materials, too. They have ways to find these materials with sensors. The longer they wait, the more chance of discovery.”
“Then tell us where you hid it. We can help secure your bomb-not-bomb. We have two more men down the street sitting in their apartments, bored as well. Come sit.” He beckoned. “The only people happy about this are our neighbors who are happy to help the Party. Even the Pakistanis love us here. I’ll call to them for more food.”
“You miss my point. This is the first time anyone has gotten this level of purity for a radioactive weapon. It’s the work of legends. We can find our own target. I can deploy it for optimal impact. So why do we need to sit locked in discomfort while the others are free and in luxury? They will claim the credit.”
“Credit goes to God. You would know this if you were a true Party leader. Perhaps your grandfather forgot to tell you of this important lesson.”
“Yes, but they will remember us so we can move up ranks,” Gebran preached. “We are the new leaders of tomorrow. We have the teeth of the tiger to do such acts. Don’t you see?”
“We should wait,” the gamer instructed, his weapon tucked away and controller back in his hand. “They will call when they are ready to call.”
“One more day. We wait one more day. And then we live properly until the Americans’ St. Patrick’s Day parade. And then we will take our place within Hezbollah.”
The gamer turned. “Keep quiet, Gebran, and know your place.”
“You don’t know what I know. The power is in my hands. They will know soon enough.”
“Shut up, Gebran,” the two Archangel guards said in unison.
When the phone rang, no one breathed.
Chapter 24
Until recently, there was only one person alive in this world who knew that the elder son, Dexter Woolf, existed, and that was his former CIA handler, Tom Mendle, a former friend of the asset’s spooky father. An only slightly larger handful of people within the American intelligence community knew Dexter not by his actual name but by his declared identity, Daniel Waters, which Dexter had earned after completing five years of service within the French Foreign Legion. Technically, it was five years and roughly seventy days, the days consisting of brutal interrogation when he was initially taken into custody with a throng of Tunisian fanatics that the Legion intercepted in the desert, courtesy of an anonymous call by Tom Mendle.
It had been the plan all along between Dexter’s father, Alex Woolf, and Tom Mendle to turn the adventure-seeking wayward but willing son into a CIA asset. Both senior intelligence officers knew that a covered identity and even the role of a Non-Official Cover officer had loopholes in true anonymity and secret-keeping firewalls. But to be taken in by the Foreign Legion under its rule of anonymat whereby one’s old identity was set aside during their initial year of Foreign Legion service, and given that he became associated with his parent’s killer during the execution of the transformation, which was not part of the strategy, Tom had to make a stressful judgment call and hope Dexter could survive a series of interrogations instead of the traditional screening process. Per the cover plan, Dexter did not leverage the reverting-rectification, “military regularization of the situation,” to reassume his former name and instead assumed a declared identity and nationality of another French-speaking country in Africa where records were often lost or could be encouraged with a small sum of money to be completely destroyed. Even now, Dexter’s surviving brother, Drake, had no idea of this history.