Operations Compromised

by Warren Conrad

  “Rachel needs urgent medical care,” he said. “Get here fast or she’s dead.”

  Less than a minute later, three team members arrived from the square at a run. Two carried Rachel and another helped Stryker to a waiting car, which took them to a nearby location. Stryker closed his eyes on the trip, blocking out the pain and fixing Harlan’s image in his mind. He was sure now—this was the Iranian terrorist they had been searching for. Stryker would think of him as Ali from now on.

  Rachel was rushed into a back room where a surgeon and several nurses waited. Stryker didn’t know where they were, but he knew they were off the grid. There was only one doctor, who assessed Stryker’s wound and then agreed with Stryker, who told him, “I can wait. See to Rachel.” He was hurt badly, but he had been shot before. More times than he would care to remember.

  They worked on Rachel for three hours while a male nurse repaired Stryker’s vein and stitched up his arm and leg. They had limited pain medication, which they used for Rachel.

  Stryker was given only aspirin, but he never winced as the nurse worked on him. He had the ability to disappear into himself, and he did so now, although his anger and frustration made it more difficult than the pain. In his world, Stryker expected to be hurt. He didn’t expect to fail.

  When the nurse finished with him, Stryker requested to see Rachel. He agreed to only a few minutes, for she remained unconscious. When he entered the room, she was lying motionless under a white sheet, an IV hooked to her arm dripping fluid. She looked so pale. He couldn’t help feeling responsible. For maybe the second time in his life, he bowed his head and prayed, pleading for her life. As he knelt by her bedside, the room began to swim before his eyes; his vision clouded, and he reached for the bedrail, but the floor seemed to tilt, and a moment later everything went black.

  He woke up sometime the next morning, judging by the light that poured through a window behind the cot he lay in. The nurse who had stitched him sat in a nearby chair and read a book, watching over him. Stryker’s head throbbed and he felt weak.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “You passed out,” the nurse said. “I didn’t realize just how much blood you had lost. One of the team who was a match gave you blood, and we pumped some fluid into you. You’ll be fine.”

  “Thank you.” Stryker sat up and winced. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton. “How’s Rachel?”

  “She’ll make it, I think. The problem now is infection.”

  Stryker followed the nurse to another room with several tables and chairs set up, where the rest of the team and the doctor were waiting and talking, some of them sipping coffee. They looked up as Stryker entered.

  “I’m not always the best with words,” Stryker said, “but I just want to say thank you. Rachel and I owe you our lives. I promise you this—I will hunt down Ali and kill him for what he’s done.”

  Solemn nods greeted him. Some of them were still stained with the blood of the bombing victims they had tried to help the day before. They sat and waited for more information about Rachel. After a short while passed, Stryker requested that several members of the team go to the location of the shooting and obtain blood samples, shell casings, and physical evidence that might help identify Ali. The team told him they would also canvas several blocks and do their best to determine how Ali escaped.

  Stryker told them he definitely hit Ali but was not sure where. “I used a Glock forty-five,” he told them. “He should have taken major damage no matter where he took the hit.”

  The team left and told Stryker they would report back soon. Daniel had called in, and he continued to check on Rachel’s condition almost every hour. Stryker called him to discuss the incident, and Daniel picked up the call immediately.

  “Stryker. How is Rachel?”

  “Recovering. She was lucky, all things considered.”

  “No one will be straight with me. What kind of hit did she take?”

  “Ricochet. The doctor says the bullet was a 9 mm. The tissue damage wasn’t too extensive, but the bleeding from her collapsed lung almost killed her. I’ve been told that if she can avoid infection, she’ll heal and be as good as new. In fact, the doc says she’ll be back in action before I will.”

  “He does?”

  “Yeah. We’ll see about that, though.”

  “How are your wounds?”

  “I’ve had worse. I’m still at more than ninety percent,” Stryker said. “And if you factor in how pissed off I am at the moment, I might be over one hundred.”

  “Glad to hear it. But rest if you need to.”

  “Do you have any more information on Ali?”

  “Not at the moment,” Daniel said. “You’ll be the first to know.”

  “He saw my face, and I’ve seen his. I may become a target now. It might even make sense to use me as bait to trap him.”

  There were a few seconds of silence on the other end. “Let’s wait on that kind of decision until you and Rachel travel back to Israel, which you should do as soon as you can. We can make plans then.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll be in touch.”

  A few hours later, the team returned and reported they had tagged all shell casings and found a blood trail leaving the scene and going for several blocks. Harlan—Ali—had probably been picked up by car and driven away. They believed he might be holed up in a safe house because the city and the borders had been locked down.

  “How badly do you think he was hit?” Stryker asked.

  “Based on the amount of blood and the pattern,” one said, “we think he was shot in the leg. He’s definitely walking with a limp, and he might forever.”

  Around midnight the doctor found Stryker folded up on a couch trying to sleep and told him Rachel was awake and asking for him. Stryker jumped up and followed the doctor into her room. She still had all types of tubes, drains, and monitors hooked up to her, but her color had returned, and she wiggled one of her hands in greeting as he entered. Stryker took her hand and squeezed. The tubes and oxygen apparatus kept her from talking, but Stryker knew she wanted information. He told her what had happened, leaving out the details of his own wound and letting her know that Ali had been shot but escaped.

  “Daniel wants us back in Israel as soon as possible,” he said. “You’re going to make a full recovery, and as soon as the infection risk has gone down you’ll be released for travel.”

  Rachel squeezed his hand and blinked at him, her eyes moist.

  “Go back to sleep,” Stryker said. “I’ll stay just outside your door until you’re out of danger.” Even as he spoke, he knew it would be a long time before she was truly out of danger—perhaps neither of them ever would be. He stayed outside her door all night.

  Chapter 15

  Sofia, Bulgaria

  December 2009

  Ali half walked and half dragged himself down the back street, his hands moving against the wall for balance as he pulled his useless leg behind him. It felt like it was on fire. The bullet had gone in just above the knee and traveled out the back at an angle. He had called one of his men, and when he reached the cross street, a car was waiting to pick him up. He slid into the back seat, smearing blood across the upholstery. It was pouring down his leg, puddling in his shoe. The tissue and nerve damage would be severe. He just hoped he would not lose the leg entirely. “Drive,” he barked at the driver, who was staring at him.

  The driver took him to their Sofia safe house, where Ali had planned to lie low for up to a month after the bombing. Now he would have to convalesce here.

  “You called for the doctor?” he demanded of the driver.

  “He’ll be there. But it will cost you.”

  “Do I look as if I’ll be haggling prices?” If Ali had been up to driving himself, he would have been tempted to find a home for his knife inside the driver’s right ear. The pain was extreme, and he could have easily killed anyone in sight. The driver was right, though; Hezbollah had a doctor who would treat him, but he would charge a larg
e fee—more still for his discretion. Ali mulled over the possibility of simply shooting the doctor in the head once he was recovered and saving himself the trouble.

  At the safe house, the doctor—a dark-skinned older man with a fringe of white hair—treated Ali in a make-shift medical ward in a back room. He cleaned the wound and began cutting away the damaged tissue and using brushes to clean out the wound channel. The doctor had nothing for the pain but did have antibiotics. The brushes hurt worse than anything Ali could remember, and after several seconds of agony, he passed out.

  When he woke, the wound was closed, and the doctor had inserted a drain tube. “You’ll have to clean it every day and use fresh bandages to prevent infection,” the doctor said. “You’ll be under my care for many weeks.”

  That would not be cheap, Ali thought. A bullet in the doctor’s head several weeks from now was looking more and more appealing. Perhaps two for failing to bring pain medication.

  “You must rest now,” the doctor said. “I will be back soon.”

  Like I have a choice, Ali thought. As he lay in bed, he had time to reflect on the bombing, which sent a warm sensation of pleasure through his chest and made him momentarily forget the pain in his leg. It had gone well. The death toll would not be as high as might be desired, but it would certainly spread fear. Ali wanted to be the undisputed master of terror, even more than Angra Mainyu had been. He was now starting a new wave of attacks, larger than anything he had done before. Sofia was both a culmination and a fresh start. His network had taken exactly twenty years to build, and now it would provide the beginning—the beginning of a wake-up call for the rest of the world. He would be the sole ruler of Iranian terror, and the rest of the world would listen, or they would burn.

  It had all gone flawlessly except for that business in the side street. Who had that man been? He clearly had tactical training, and Ali suspected he might be American. Ali had shot him—twice, he was fairly sure—and still the man had been steady enough to hit him. He had been following Ali, and he plainly had made the connection between Ali and the bombing. Ali had seen his face, and this man had seen his. The first order of business would be to get Iranian Intelligence to find out the man’s identity. He was a threat, and he needed to be neutralized or the entire operation might be at risk.

  Over the next two weeks, the wound began to heal and the swelling subsided. Ali kept a quiet presence, not leaving his safe house. Not that he could have if he wanted to—he could not walk. In fact, he could barely limp to the bathroom. The doctor came to see him every two days to change the bandage. Ali needed to stay put for another two weeks, letting the aftermath of the bombing subside. The local authorities were scouring the city, and he was certain that MI6 and the Mossad were investigating as well.

  Soon he would have his team extract him. He had not received any news concerning the man who shot him but believed he would not get any information until he returned to Iran. If his cover had been blown, he would need to change his appearance and use one of his other identities. This would not be a major concern; all contingencies had been planned years ago.

  The first week in February, Ali found the strength to leave the safe house with his team. They crossed the border into Turkey without any problems, and from there he made his way back to Iran. In Tehran, he went to an apartment he kept in the city and slept for several days before checking in with his superiors.

  Ali was asked to attend a meeting and give an account of his operation in Sofia. He had a driver take him to the building—an office tower—but he walked in on his own power and without the aid of a crutch. His leg had recovered, but he would have a permanent limp. Still, it was not wise to show weakness before these people. Endurance despite injury, yes; weakness, no. The weak were culled.

  A half dozen men were seated around a conference table. They had dossiers and highly classified reports spread before them. Ali saw photos of the Sofia bombing and its grisly aftermath and couldn’t help but smile. In the pictures, body parts littered the street outside the flaming synagogue. I did that, he thought. Not any of you worthless sacks of meat. That was me.

  “You’ve done well,” said the man at the head of the table, heavyset and severe. “How is your war wound?”

  Ali could not tell whether or not the man was mocking him. “Healing. It will not be significant enough to keep me out of the field. All operations are still on schedule. We’re on track for the summer.”

  “I am glad to hear it. We’ve noticed increased alerts in our enemies’ intelligence channels, but they seem to be looking in all the wrong places.”

  “The more urgent issue, I feel,” Ali said, mentally choosing his words carefully, “is to find the man who followed me down that street. I need our intelligence to track him down. He needs to be eliminated.”

  The man at the head of the table watched him, unblinking and unsmiling. After a moment, he said, “Are you sure this is not to get payback because he blew a hole in your leg? Perhaps you were not as careful as you thought. Perhaps you gave yourself away and then got yourself shot, and now you are looking for revenge.”

  Ali clenched his jaw. It would do no good to speak his mind here—just as it would do no good to kill everyone in the room, though he would have liked to do both. He needed them. “No. I did everything correctly. But whoever he is, he’s seen my face, and he likely connects me to the bombing.”

  “We agree,” the man said, flipping open a classified dossier before him. He began to twirl a ballpoint pen between his fingers as he glanced through the files. “In fact, we’ve already identified the man. His name is Jake Stryker. He was a sniper in Iraq and Afghanistan, quite decorated. He left the military in late 2008, and our sources are trying to locate where he lives in the United States. There is not a lot of information about him, except that his parents are deceased and he lives on an inheritance.”

  “I suspected he worked for MI6,” Ali said.

  “We’re not sure whom he’s working for. We’re looking into avenues to track him down.”

  The commander tilted his head. “I don’t need to remind you what happens if you fail to clean this up. We will not allow anything to point toward this committee.”

  You’ll all die screaming in your beds, Ali thought. That’s what happens. “Don’t threaten me. This is my operation. I know the stakes.” He stood, stepped around the table, and picked up the folder on Stryker that the commander had been reviewing. “How reliable is this information?”

  “Very. It’s a high-level source in the United States government who passed the information to us through that reporter, Brentwood. It’s dependable.”

  “Good.” Ali stood with his back intentionally to the commander, flipping through the dossier. It was an impressive record—this soldier had killed almost as many people as he had. Ali’s mind was working furiously. He paced down the length of the table and turned. “Here is what I will do. I will assume a new appearance and a new identity. I will arrange for Stryker to be sent a seemingly legitimate offer for a job interview with a security contractor. We’ll use this Washington source to arrange it. I’ll find out the arranged time and place and move my Detroit team to DC. I’ll personally manage the attack, and I’ll carve his head from his body after I find out what he knows.”

  The committee members nodded assent. “See that you do,” the commander said. “And don’t leave any connections to us, or you won’t—”

  “Stop right there,” Ali interrupted. In spite of the pain in his leg, he took three swift steps down the table until he was at the head and his hand was resting lightly next to the commander’s ballpoint pen. “Because if you threaten me once more, I will take your pen and stab it through your eye until I can scrape the back of your skull.”

  The man stared at him, and based on whatever he saw in Ali’s face, the anger in his eyes washed out and was replaced with fear. Good, Ali thought. Let him be afraid. Let all of them be afraid.

  Ali snatched up the pen and the commander flinch
ed. Ali twirled the pen between his fingers, let it fall to the table—the impact loud in the silent room—and then turned and walked out. He had things to do.

  Chapter 16

  Sofia, Bulgaria, and Washington, DC

  December 2009 – January 2010

  Late in December, Rachel was cleared to travel. She and Stryker flew to Tel Aviv and were debriefed by Daniel. Both had lost weight, their eyes sunken and hardened with pain. For the first week, slow walks around the compound were the extent of their exercise, but in the second week, they began working with trainers to regain their body conditioning.

  Rachel hurt more than Stryker due to the chest wound, but she never complained. She set up a target in her room and passed the time throwing knives at its head and heart. A restlessness began to overtake them, manifesting in Rachel through nervous habits he had not seen before.

  Her eyes were jumpy, reminding him of a caged bird, and she bit her nails to jagged edges.

  One morning Stryker met Rachel as usual for breakfast and told her he would like for them to leave the building for a night and go someplace private. She told him she would come up with some excuse to tell Daniel.

  The next day, they drove to a local market and took a taxi from there to Beit Yanai, a small Jewish village north of Netanya. After the driver let them out on the outskirts, they hoisted their backpacks and strolled down the coast road before they left it to walk along the uneven shoreline. The beach curved away in a gentle brown arc, the surf lapping near their shoes.