Operations Compromised

by Warren Conrad

  “This guy’s bleeding out,” one of the officers said. “We can’t wait for an ambulance.” He looked at the hotel security. “We’re taking him to the hospital. Clear a path.”

  The officers lifted up Stryker, who looked like he might already be dead. He had lost so much blood that Ali believed he would not survive. The attack had been carried out by a professional, he thought. Security cleared a path through the gawking onlookers, and the officers carried Stryker toward the front door.

  Ali took a step to the side and tapped his ear. “Hold your fire,” he whispered. “Repeat, let him pass.”

  He followed in the wake of the police officers along with a group of onlookers and watched the officers load Stryker into their patrol car. It drove away, lights flashing.

  Ali tried to sort through what he was feeling—amusement, irritation, curiosity. Miller had played his part well enough, and Stryker had been dealt with. Still, he hated unknowns, and someone else had found out about the meeting tonight. Another player had entered the game.

  *****

  Four blocks away, two women dressed as prostitutes walked casually down the street and into the Hay Adams Hotel. They strolled directly to the bar where they met a man who bought them drinks, gave them a room key, and left after twenty minutes.

  The ladies finished their drinks and went up the elevators to room 429. Once inside, they were greeted with cheers and applause.

  “Even I thought you were really going to kill me,” Stryker said

  “The thought crossed my mind,” Rachel said.

  Abel joined them shortly after and updated them with information coming from the St. Regis. Stryker was not surprised to hear that Miller had fled the premises nor that Ali had watched the events unfold and then slipped away.

  Rachel’s practiced knife thrusts and the thin-lined bags of blood had worked to perfection. The murder, Abel said, had appeared authentic. Following the attack Rachel had escaped to the ladies room, where she had previously stashed clothes. After changing and putting on a wig, she joined the crowd of fearful, fascinated hotel guests, snapping pictures with their phones and rushing to the exits, and had left the hotel unremarked. Sara, meanwhile, had used the commotion and the press of the crowd to her advantage, letting herself be jostled right up against Ali. In fact, she reported that she had planted two bugs on him since he had been so distracted.

  “That’s excellent,” Rachel said. “Now we just need to see where they lead us.”

  “Aside from the White House?” Stryker said. He reached in a duffel bag and pulled out a new shirt, one not soaked in his own blood.

  “Yes,” Rachel said. “Aside from there.”

  Chapter 19

  Washington, DC

  March 2010

  Herb Miller headed for the valet station, forcing his feet to slow from a run. The attendant was trying to get a view of the excitement, so Herb caught his attention with a hundred-dollar bill. “My car. Now.”

  The valet ran, and moments later Herb sped away from the St. Regis in his BMW. After several miles, he still could not get a mental grip on what had happened. His mind replayed their conversation, searching for any clue, and tried to recall whether he had seen that server before she approached with a knife. It made no sense, but Herb was undeniably in the thick of it. He stopped in a parking lot and looked at his shirt and clothing. Blood dotted his coat and cuffs where it had spattered across the table and also showed on his hands. Had he felt for a pulse? He couldn’t remember. Herb realized he needed to throw away the clothes and get cleaned up. He had a full bathroom at his office and kept other clothes in the closet for times when, at the last minute, he had to fly overseas.

  He told the guard at the gate he would be working late. Herb locked himself in his office and showered, scrubbing away all of the blood. He put on fresh clothes and wrote notes covering his memory of the events. Close to 2:00 a.m., he put a box with the bloody clothes in the trunk of his car and drove home. He was beyond exhausted.

  Herb’s girlfriend, a twenty-nine-year-old attorney from Ohio, was out of town visiting friends, so he had the house to himself. He did not sleep well and woke up bone tired. He kept worrying about the box and its contents. Of course he had not killed Stryker, but he did not want to explain anything about the meeting or the stabbing. In truth, he believed Stryker had died as a result of his actions.

  Herb did not mind killing. He had done so many times, but only when necessary. What he hated was being unknowingly manipulated—being put in a serious situation that he had not seen coming. He finally decided he would take the clothes to the cleaners so as not to appear guilty. He put the bloodied clothes in his normal garment bag and dropped them off on his way to breakfast.

  During breakfast Herb dialed a special number for the vice president’s office, and to his surprise, Branch himself answered.

  “Hello, Herb.”

  “Jason, something’s happened. We have to meet. You need to clear your schedule for dinner.”

  “I think we better have lunch instead.” Branch suggested the Capitol Grill, and they agreed to meet at 2:00 p.m.

  Herb went about his normal business, the time dragging by until he headed for the restaurant. He drank coffee at a table near the back until the vice president arrived with his Secret Service detail. Branch smiled pleasantly as they exchanged greetings, but Herb knew this meant nothing.

  They had first met when Branch served as a senator, which he did for most of his life before becoming vice president. Herb needed help securing a lucrative military contract from the government, and Branch had chaired the committee that made the contract awards. The two became allies, and Alpha Security Consultants was awarded its first contracts to provide protection services in Iraq and Afghanistan.

  Branch had been picked for his current role by President Lee Bancock because of his experience in foreign policy while serving in the Senate. From what Herb had seen, Branch was an elitist in the worst sense—he saw himself above the common crowd, not bound by the rules that applied to others. Worse still, he held contempt for traditional American values like fairness and integrity unless it suited his campaign to appear to embrace them. How he was elected and reelected by the good people of Delaware seemed difficult to understand, but he had a unique ability to distort the truth in a way that people readily believed. As he rose to power politically, he gained vast wealth through influential contacts and back room deal-making.

  Over a period of years, Alpha Security expanded as Branch supplied more contracts from the government. When Branch became vice president, Herb hit the mother lode. His company became worth over $300 million and continued to grow as America became involved in more conflicts.

  “Herb, there have been some complications,” Branch said once they were alone. The security detail hovered nearby. “It appears an unknown group has gotten to Stryker and killed him.”

  “You don’t say?” Herb scowled. “Jason, I was at the table when he got stabbed. I don’t like walking into situations blind. I like being tricked even less.”

  “I’ve never misled you.”

  “I set up that meeting after you asked me to. It resulted in a man’s death.” Herb paused, watching him carefully for a reaction to the next question. “Did you know Stryker would be killed?”

  Branch shook his head, expressionless. “I had no idea. An associate of mine asked me to set up the meeting.”

  “Which associate?”

  “Not at liberty to share, sorry.”

  “Of course not. How many people knew about the meeting?”

  Branch shrugged. “I don’t know. I was told certain people wanted to follow him after he left the St. Regis. That doesn’t sound like they were planning a hit.”

  “Well, someone got wind of it, and now a man’s dead. You put me right in the middle of it, and now you need to clean up this mess.”

  Branch dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “It’s not my mess, Herb. I’m not obligated to do anything, and I
don’t appreciate your insinuations.”

  “Get off your high horse for once and—”

  “I’ve got nothing more to say about the matter,” Branch cut him off. He took a drink. “Now, how is business?”

  Herb stared at him, fuming, but he knew it would do no good to press the vice president on the issue. Once he’d set his mind, he was inflexible. Herb forced himself to be calm and chat about business matters, contracts awarded in the Middle East and so forth, and after a quick lunch, Branch excused himself.

  “I need to get back to the office for an important meeting, but let’s talk soon.” Branch flashed the same friendly smile he had greeted Herb with.

  “Sure. Of course.”

  The Secret Service escorted Branch out, and Herb did not notice until they were all gone that he had been left with the bill. He had hardly been able to eat due to an anxious clenching in his stomach, which had only increased after meeting with Branch. He had a feeling this whole mess was far from over, and unlike many, it would not resolve itself if he ignored it. He paid, left the grill, and dialed another number as he drove back to the office. A sullen, irritable voice answered, sounding groggy even though it was early afternoon.

  “Brentwood, we need to talk,” Herb said. “Is this line secure?”

  “I wouldn’t be on it otherwise,” Brentwood said.

  Each time Cagen Brentwood spoke, it sounded to Herb like “You moron” was tacked onto the end of the sentence. Herb despised the man. There were many reasons; the gratingly condescending tone was only one of them. Brentwood was a reporter who sold sensational stories and photos to the highest bidder and used his journalist credentials to justify actions that were morally questionable at best. This past year, his rants had caught the attention of larger news outlets, and he now operated his own television show. His writings and programs played on class warfare and racial prejudice to stir up division, fear, and hate—which created situations that boosted his ratings and filled his bank account.

  Herb suspected that Brentwood also leaked classified information fed to him from sources within the government, selling it to dangerous people at home and abroad. He knew that Branch leaked information to a contact in the press when it suited his interests, and Herb believed it to be Brentwood. Herb had been forced to deal with the reporter a couple of times in the past at Branch’s behest, and just talking to the man made Herb want to take a shower.

  “What’s this about?” Brentwood asked.

  “A man was stabbed at the St. Regis in DC last night, at a meeting Jason Branch asked me to set up. I want to know who did it and why.”

  “So ask Branch,” Brentwood said. You moron.

  “He’s not talking. Look, I know you’re in his pocket, or maybe he’s in yours. I believe you regularly leak information for him, and I want details because this time I’ve been pulled into it.”

  “Sorry, brother. I don’t have any details for you.”

  Herb pulled the BMW to the side of the road because he was growing too angry to drive and talk on the phone at the same time. “You don’t want to mess with me. You think that Branch is the only one who controls your future? You think Alpha can’t get rid of your cushy arrangements quiet-like, or decide to splash your little secret club with the vice president all over the front page?”

  “Nice bluff,” Brentwood said, though he didn’t sound too sure of himself. “Branch would cancel Alpha’s contracts faster than your Christmas bonus.”

  “You really want to test me on this? Most of those contracts are out of his hands now and will get renewed with or without his help. And trust me, ‘brother’—I don’t bluff.”

  There was a long pause on the other end. Finally Brentwood replied, “I don’t know many of the specifics.”

  “Who were you told to give the information about the meeting?”

  “To a Russian,” Brentwood said. “Look, Herb, I only deliver information passed on to me from staffers. I never understand what the information is concerning, only that it’s important to someone else.”

  “What’s the Russian’s name?”

  “No clue. I get paid in US dollars, so it could be that dancer Mikhail Shabarnikov for all I care.”

  “It’s Baryshnikov, you moron,” Herb said. It felt good to be the one to say it.

  “Whatever. I told you all I know, and information ain’t free, so you owe me.”

  “I thought you were a reporter. Isn’t giving information your job?”

  “I’m a reporter with bills to pay. Next time you call me, there better be something in it for me.” Brentwood clicked off.

  Herb thought it likely that Brentwood didn’t know any more, although he couldn’t be sure. According to Branch, some unknown group had killed Stryker. Why then did Brentwood leak the meeting information to a Russian? Maybe he didn’t want to know. This was getting out of hand. The vice president had involved himself in something Herb wanted no part of.

  Chapter 20

  Washington, DC

  March 2010

  After Stryker’s apparent demise, events began to unfold quickly. Abel and the rest of the Israeli team doing surveillance on the St. Regis used the bugs that Sara planted on Ali to track him to a warehouse a few miles from downtown. Like ghosts in the night, the Israelis climbed to the roof and put three listening devices in place. The team slipped two window devices through existing breaks in the glass to listen to conversations from the other side of the warehouse. They retreated and began recording.

  After a long night and morning of patient waiting, the first breakthrough came: as the Iranians ate breakfast, they discussed Colorado Springs and which routes they would use to drive there. One man said he thought they should wait until spring and go before the attacks. Ali told them Tehran still planned for the attack on the church and children’s camp, but they were not to go to Colorado until a later time.

  “The Stryker problem needs to be understood first,” Ali said. “You all need to leave DC and go back to Detroit. Wait for my orders there.”

  Soon after, Ali made a private call to Kaesar from his room. The Israeli team found out Ali would go to Chicago and on to New York to meet with Kaesar to arrange for more money from Fayez. He trusted Kaesar to work out the details with Geneva.

  The Israeli team reported to Stryker, Rachel, and Sara as they sat discussing strategy in the makeshift command center at the embassy. There existed no doubt that an attack was planned for early summer in Colorado Springs, involving a camp and a church. The question remained how to determine the precise timing and locations.

  Spurred on by Ali’s call to Kaesar, Stryker put in a secure call to the lawyer himself. “I hear you’re meeting with the Iranian—Ali Shirazi, or James Harlan, or whatever he’s going by these days.”

  “Word travels fast.” Kaesar sounded nervous. “I suppose you have instructions for me, the kind with an ‘or else’ attached at the end.”

  “Glad to see we’re getting to know each other. We know the Iranian plans to press you for more money, and he may want to meet directly with Fayez. That’s a meeting that needs to happen.”

  “No, Fayez won’t meet directly with him. Not a chance.”

  “I want information on Fayez, then. What’s his location?”

  “He’s in Switzerland. Geneva. He’s a cautious man. I don’t know a lot.”

  “If Fayez won’t meet with Ali directly, then you’ll need to work out the funding and keep us informed. I’m going to give you a number to call the minute you hear from Ali.” Stryker supplied the digits for a line at the embassy and disconnected the call.

  Sparks was tasked with taking Stryker’s Super Cub to Colorado Springs to do some airborne reconnaissance, and soon after he digitally transferred a series of aerial photographs. Stryker and Rachel carefully viewed the pictures and realized they would need a larger team to cover the area. Sparks had looked into local children’s camps, of which there were several, and churches, of which there were many.

  “Now we have
to decide how to alert local law enforcement,” Rachel said, “not to mention the FBI and CIA.”

  “Not yet,” Stryker said.

  Rachel shot him a skeptical look. “There are at least two targets, maybe more that they weren’t discussing. This poses a huge risk. Even if we find some of the bombs, we might miss others. There’s plenty of time now to search likely locations or evacuate.”

  “What are they going to do—evacuate the whole city? We have no specific targets, and not even a precise month. If they start searching now, they wouldn’t likely find anything, and they would scare off Ali, maybe back to Iran where we’d no longer have eyes and ears on him.” Stryker left out his prime reason: he did not trust anyone else with the information. If the vice president was implicated, there was no telling how far the corruption extended.

  “We can’t use these people as bait, Jake,” Rachel said. Her eyes flashed. “These are human beings who will die if we make a mistake. Innocent people like my father.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said. “It won’t come to that.”

  The next morning, Sparks called to discuss some of his observations about the targets. As Stryker expected, Sparks had a plan of action.

  “I’m tired of sitting around and waiting on these Iranians and then playing clean-up,” Sparks said. “I say we kill them as soon as they arrive for their recon. No fuss, no muss. Well, maybe a little muss, but we’ll clean it up. I can have several Hatchet forces ready to dispose of the team, leaving Ali for you and Rachel to deal with.”

  “I like it,” Stryker said. “It doesn’t require us to notify any other agencies, which should keep leaks to a minimum.”

  “That’s what I thought you might be thinking,” Sparks said. “It’ll be a surgical strike. The Israeli team is listening in, so they can keep us posted about the Iranian unit’s plans and location. We will strike with overwhelming force then disappear.”

  Typical Hatchet protocol, Stryker thought. “I need to get approval from the Mossad. You might not hear back from me for a few weeks.”