Operations Compromised

by Warren Conrad

  “Does she know?” Rachel asked.

  “About my other life?” Sparks said. “No. I don’t want to mess things up.”

  They arrived as darkness settled in, the hills and trees and buildings draped in shadow. All of the windows had been boarded so no light escaped to the outside. The house contained three bedrooms and two full baths with water supplied from a well, all with air conditioning and heat.

  “You did a good job with the old place,” Sparks said. “It’s practically livable here.”

  They headed to the barn to see Stryker’s Super Cub, resting under the huge eaves with long-dried wisps of hay around its wheels. The Cub had no markings and the paint was a dark green. Sparks inspected the plane, making notes and marks on the wings and fuselage, and told Stryker he had done great work restoring and modifying it.

  “Not half as good as I would have done, mind you,” he said, “but still, not too shabby.”

  The modifications included a more powerful engine, modern avionics, and a transponder that could be turned on and off depending on the flight. The airplane’s false identification numbers could be removed and replaced in seconds.

  “What are your plans for her?” Sparks asked. He was patting one of the wings and gazing seriously at Stryker as if they were discussing a college fund for his first-born.

  “It’ll let me fly from place to place without leaving a record. We can use it for surveillance and whatever else is needed.”

  Perhaps Rachel did not look adequately impressed because Sparks faced her as he ran a hand over a wingtip. “This beauty doesn’t need a runway. You can set her down in a field, valley, whatever. It’s basically the same as the bush planes I flew in Alaska years ago.”

  “It’s amazing,” Rachel said. “Really. I’m all choked up about it. Can we go back in the house now?”

  Sparks looked at Stryker. “She’s mocking me, isn’t she?”

  “Not the first woman to do so,” Stryker said, clapping him on the shoulder, “and I promise you, not the last.”

  The next morning Sparks wanted to fly the plane, and because Stryker did not want the neighbors to know about it, they needed to leave early and return late. He asked Rachel to drive the car and meet them at the airport.

  “Sure,” she said. “I’m just your personal valet. Let me know if you want me to wash and wax it for you.”

  “That would be great. Try not to miss any spots this time.”

  The plane flew well, and they enjoyed checking out the systems. Sparks liked the power of the 180 HP engine and the climb rate—over 2,000 feet per minute. After forty-five minutes, they headed to the airport to meet Rachel.

  She was waiting on the ramp, arms crossed. She had on aviation glasses and a bomber jacket she had found somewhere.

  “I want to fly it,” she said as soon as they were in earshot.

  Sparks looked at her skeptically. “You ever been in a Super Cub?”

  “No.”

  “You should probably stick to the car.”

  Rachel strode toward the plane. “How hard can it be?”

  “I guess you could fly from the rear with the second stick if necessary,” Sparks said to Stryker. “It’s your plane.”

  Stryker shrugged. “Why not? Just let me make a pit stop first.”

  When he returned, he climbed into the back seat and let Rachel sit in the front. He instructed her on starting the engine, and Rachel followed each instruction in order.

  “I know you’re scared of flying,” Stryker said, “so I’m proud of you for facing your fears. Now, the next step is to slowly, carefully—”

  Rachel turned the plane into the wind and pushed it to full power. The plane virtually leaped into the air, climbing at more than 2,400 feet per minute. After half a minute, Rachel flipped upside down and continued all the way around in a full barrel role. Stryker shouted at her, but she ignored him completely. She leveled out, gaining more airspeed, and pulled the plane straight up into a full climb. She bled off airspeed as she nosed up, and then she rolled to the right and dove directly at the ground. Stryker was shouting louder now. She pulled out of the dive and passed directly over Sparks at about fifty feet before she climbed and circled back toward the field. She shut off the engine and dead-sticked the airplane in for a perfect landing. It drifted to a smooth stop.

  Stryker climbed out, stunned. “Where in the hell did you learn to fly like that?”

  “My real specialty is helicopters,” Rachel told him. Sparks walked up. “Maybe I could fly yours, Sparks.”

  “Sure,” he said, with marked hesitation. “Just don’t be doing any of that crazy shit! That’s my job.”

  Stryker shook his head. “I’m sure glad you knew what you were doing. The controls in the back wouldn’t respond.”

  Sparks laughed. “I might have had something to do with that. I helped her disengage the rear controls while you were taking a leak.”

  “You—”

  “Hey,” he grinned, “like I said, it’s not my plane.”

  Stryker rounded on Rachel again. “I thought you were scared to death of flying?”

  “Only when I’m not behind the stick. I don’t know. I guess it’s a control thing. Those civvies could get us killed at any time, but if I’m the one in the cockpit, it doesn’t bother me.”

  He stared at her. “You need therapy.”

  “No argument there.”

  Sparks let Rachel fly his helicopter, and she behaved herself. She thanked him, and when Stryker continued to sulk, she thanked him for letting her fly the Cub and stressed how much she had enjoyed it.

  After dark, they all returned to the farm, had dinner, and finally got to the business of discussing strategy. In London, the local Mossad was keeping surveillance on Harlan’s office but had not seen anyone resembling him. On Rachel’s suggestion, Stryker agreed to call Kaesar on the way back to Little Rock and check on the bank and wire information. Sparks received a disposable phone and a key to the farm and was told to use it for staging, storage, and anything else that came up. Stryker told him to use the Cub for surveillance if needed in Colorado.

  Stryker produced a photo of Harlan from the embassy package for Sparks to keep. He had not yet shown Rachel. The portrait showed a man in his early forties with a thin, angular face, brown hair, and brown eyes. His features were partly obscured by a beard and mustache. Rachel was standing behind Stryker and leaned over to see it, and he felt her fingers tighten on his shoulder.

  “I think I need to lie down for the night,” she said. “Excuse me.”

  “Probably a good idea for all of us to hit the hay,” Sparks said. “No telling what tomorrow will bring.”

  The next morning before dawn, they left in the car and dropped Sparks at his helicopter, wishing him well. From there, Stryker and Rachel headed for the airport in Little Rock.

  On the drive, Rachel was unusually quiet. She looked out the window and rarely smiled. When he asked her, at first she just shook her head, but he pressed her until she replied. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I just have a bad feeling in my gut about London.”

  He couldn’t argue with her. He did too.

  Chapter 13

  Quebec, Canada

  November 2009

  Ali had arrived back at his office in Canada, having finished his visits to Colorado Springs and to the cells in Detroit and Chicago. He called Kaesar about additional funding from Geneva for his company, and Kaesar agreed to contact Geneva to make arrangements. Ali said he needed to know soon because he was planning to travel on business. Kaesar told him he would call him back as soon as possible.

  Ali did not need the money for attacks planned in the United States. He needed the final funding for an attack planned in Sofia, Bulgaria, which would happen in the next few months. He had planned the attack for over two years. All arrangements had been made, and the equipment was in place. The only things remaining were for Ali to inspect the bomb locations and make final payment to the bombers, who had been arran
ged through Hezbollah.

  Ali had picked a day and time to inflict maximum casualties. He planned on being in the area for the attack to ensure all went as planned. His forged documents were in place, and he had secured a safe house over a year ago. He would stay in Sofia until things cooled down before leaving the country.

  The Israelis were fools who left their synagogues open to attacks. Ali had not tasted Jewish blood since his rampages in the early 1990s, and he found himself anxious and impatient for this next wave to begin. His work setting up cells throughout Europe and the United States was just beginning to have results.

  Bulgaria had been a popular destination for Israelis for many years and was home to over five thousand Jews. Many Israelis thought of Bulgaria as a second home. A strike on Jews in Sofia would be almost as satisfying as hitting them in one of their own cities. Ali had planned the attack carefully, bringing in personnel and equipment from Turkey. Bulgaria’s security always had holes, much like the United States borders. The strike on the synagogue, located in the center of the city near the central market, would be both symbolic and destructive—the attack would make Jews fearful no matter where they lived in the world. Ali set the attack in motion for early December.

  Chapter 14

  New York City, New York, and Sofia, Bulgaria

  November 2009

  They were jogging toward the gate at JFK, intending to catch the 7:00 p.m. flight to London, when Rachel received a call from Daniel that made her drift to a stop in the middle of the crowded concourse, her duffel bag dropping from her shoulder to land on the floor as hurried travelers brushed past her. Stryker watched the color drain from her face. She said only a few words before hanging up the phone, and when she looked at him, fear and rage were fighting for dominance in her eyes.

  “Change of plans again,” she said. “I’ll fill you in on the flight. We’re going to Bulgaria.”

  They found a flight to Vienna that was about to leave. From there, they could take a connecting flight to Sofia. The plane took off, and once again Rachel was a bundle of nerves, although Stryker wondered if something else was causing her anxiety this time. Once the flight attendants had served everyone, Rachel leaned her head on his shoulder as if she was sleeping, her hair falling down over her face. She whispered to him what Daniel had told her.

  Daniel had come to believe that James Harlan might be an alias for the Iranian they had searched for, known only as Ali. The Mossad had picked up increased chatter through covert channels, as had MI6 and the CIA. This meant something big was in the works; somewhere an attack was in its final stages. Daniel’s teams were striving in vain to track down Harlan or to determine the location of the attack.

  Rachel had called Daniel with the wire transfer details they had received from Kaesar earlier that day—a very large sum was being transferred to Istanbul, Turkey, for an account registered to Harlan Capital. Just across the border was Bulgaria, which for many years had been a favorite target for terrorists attacking Jews. Daniel believed that time was running out. Their task was to find the target location before they all read about it on the news. An attack was imminent, and Daniel believed Sofia to be the most likely target.

  “Jake, there’s something I have to tell you,” Rachel said. She looked out the window, avoiding eye contact. “It was hard to tell in the photo of Harlan, but I think I may have seen him before. You’re going to think I’m crazy, but on the day my father died in the embassy bombing, I know I saw the man who did it. My mom was taking me to the embassy when it happened. Afterward, I saw a man watching from the corner of the street.”

  “Maybe he was in shock. I’m sure a lot of people just stood and watched.”

  Rachel shook her head. “He was smiling, Jake.” She fidgeted in the seat and turned to face him. “I can’t help wondering if he’s the same man we’re chasing. We do think the bomber behind the Buenos Aires attack was Iranian, although it’s probably a coincidence.”

  “Maybe not.” Stryker shrugged. “Fact is, a large number of terrorist attacks over the decades can be traced back to a handful of the same people. You think you would recognize him if you saw him in person?”

  “I might. I don’t know. It’s been a long time.” She placed a hand on his arm. “Thank you for believing me.”

  “We’re going to stop this guy, whoever he is.”

  Once Rachel and Stryker were on the ground in Sofia, they went to another safe house to be used as their base of operations. This time, they had a full team of eight men waiting for them.

  After a quick briefing in which they distributed Harlan’s picture, the team fanned out to look for anything suspicious around Jewish centers, schools, churches, and local markets where Jews shopped. The entire team used secure communications so they could stay in contact with each other. Stryker and Rachel split up in order to cover more ground.

  Close to noon on the second day, a team member noticed an old brown car driving past the cultural center several times. Team members investigated, but the car turned out to be nothing important. For three days, they covered the city and waited for Daniel to call with further information, but nothing unusual was discovered and no additional help came from the Mossad, MI6, or the CIA. Stryker began to wonder if they were in the right place.

  On the evening of December 2, Stryker and Rachel were walking a side street ten blocks from the Mossad safe house when they heard the blast they had feared since they arrived. It shook the ground beneath them, windows rattled, and a cloud of smoke erupted into view over the buildings. They ran toward the smoke, emerging onto the main square and into a scene of panic and confusion. The synagogue in the middle of the square was in rubble. Many people stumbled away, dazed and hurt, or crawled bleeding along the street. Inside the synagogue, many more lay dead or dying in the debris. A crowd of people had already gathered, both bystanders and first responders, all of them pressing in toward the flames and rubble to pull out survivors.

  As Stryker and Rachel ran forward, nearing the synagogue, a second bomb exploded in the middle of the crowd, obliterating the people who had rushed in to help. It knocked Stryker and Rachel off their feet, and as his vision cleared, he saw the sickness and horror on Rachel’s face and knew she was seeing not the synagogue but the embassy where her father died. For his part, he was seeing toppling towers in New York City. Dead soldiers on a mountainside. Burning children in Afghanistan. The same everywhere.

  “We’re too late,” she gasped.

  “Come on. We have to find this guy.” He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her up, already turning and scanning the outlying crowd for anyone out of place—paying unusual attention, looking unsurprised, calmly taking pictures, anything. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, but then Rachel called from behind him. She pointed to a car that had been blasted onto its side. They clambered up onto it, and from there they jumped up to a small balcony to better view the crowd. Stryker drew out his binoculars and went row by row, studying each face, until he suddenly froze. In a group of people across the square, near the front, stood a man who looked like Harlan. It was hard to be sure. He wore sunglasses and a hat pulled low. Stryker pulled out the picture, nudged Rachel in the ribs, and told her to see what she thought.

  A moment later she lowered the binoculars and looked at him, eyes wide. “Stryker—it’s him.”

  Stryker vaulted over the balcony rail, landing on the car. He slid down the windshield and hit the ground running. Across the square, there was no sign of the man they had seen. Stryker looked around the edges of the crowd and saw the back of a figure walking away down a darkened side street. Rachel dashed up beside him and he grabbed her hand.

  “This way!” They ran for the mouth of the street. When they reached it, Harlan was again gone. Stryker and Rachel went about forty yards down the street, stopping and listening for sounds every few yards.

  “Maybe he didn’t come this way,” Rachel said, glancing over her shoulder at Stryker.

  A gunshot echoed in the street and Ra
chel dropped to the ground with a cry of pain.

  “Rachel!” Stryker ducked into the cover of a doorway as Rachel crawled behind a pile of boxes on the other side.

  “I’ll be all right,” she called, sinking down against the boxes. “Go after him.”

  Stryker could hear running feet from the other end of the street. He set out at a dead run in pursuit. He felt the usual rush of battle adrenaline but also a blinding rage that fought to cloud his judgment. He had not been able to stop the bombings, and then he had let Rachel get hurt.

  She might even be dying, alone in some side street, without anyone beside her. He pushed it from his mind. He had to focus. Harlan, or Ali, or whoever he was—he could not get away.

  Stryker seemed to be gaining on the man when everything went quiet, the footfalls stopping. Stryker had been in enough ambushes to know the game. He stopped and pulled back, scanning the street and searching for a way to flank Harlan’s position. There was a ladder and catwalk opposite that might allow him roof access, but he would be exposed if he ran for it. He might even be exposed here, depending on where Harlan was hiding. As he started for the ladder, his gut screamed at him to dive to the ground, which he did just before a bullet struck the brick wall where he had been standing.

  As Stryker went down, Harlan left his cover and advanced, firing. Stryker rolled to his right as more bullets struck the street. He came up in a firing stance. Harlan swung his gun to track him and fired twice more, hitting Stryker in the forearm and grazing his leg. In sudden pain, Stryker squeezed off a hurried shot. Harlan staggered a step and then turned and fled as Stryker fired again. These shots went wide and Harlan disappeared around the corner. The gunfight had lasted only seconds.

  Stryker cursed himself for missing, but the bullet in his arm had severed a major vein and it was difficult even to hold the gun steady. He was bleeding badly. He tore off a piece of his shirt to tie off the wound, tightening it down with his teeth.

  Limping from the shot to his leg, he half-jogged back to Rachel. She was motionless but still breathing. Blood bubbled at the corner of her mouth, which meant her lung had been punctured and she would die if not treated quickly. He rolled her over and pulled up her shirt, took off her bra, and used it as a pressure bandage, tying it tightly around her to put pressure on the bullet wound. Stryker knew the lung would fill with blood soon. She needed help fast. He radioed their other team members, who had probably rushed to help with the bombing emergency, and gave their location.