The bugs were small and similar to those used by Iranian Intelligence. If they had been planted the night before, as he suspected, they would run out of power soon. Ali figured someone would be following him, so he would simply have to disappear. He had a second team in Chicago that could hide him until he might safely move back to Canada.
Ali packed and drove from Washington, DC, toward O’Hare airport in Chicago, throwing the bugs out the car window about an hour outside of DC. He parked his car at the airport, wiped it down, and boarded the train into downtown. No one paid him any particular attention, but he knew that good surveillance personnel were trained to appear uninterested. The train made several stops in downtown Chicago and Ali randomly jumped up and off the train just seconds before the door closed. No one else got off with him. He called one of his contacts and gave instructions on where and when to pick him up.
At the safe house, Ali met with several of his second team members, telling them they would need to get ready for a mission planned in Colorado.
“I need you to put together five car bombs for simultaneous detonation,” Ali said.
“We have the explosives, but we’ll need to buy the cars,” the cell’s leader replied.
“Start finding the vehicles immediately. I want large SUVs, several years old. Tinted windows. You’ll pull out the rear seats and shape the charges toward the rear of the vehicle.”
“We’ll need several weeks. We have to purchase all the cars, build and place the bombs. We’ve got to disguise the interiors.”
“Get on it. And buy maps to figure driving routes to Colorado Springs,” Ali said. “We’ll need two additional vehicles for leaving town. I’ve already rented a warehouse to use until things settle down. We’re going to be ready by May.”
After being compromised, it was necessary to move up the bombing. Ali stayed with the group over the next several weeks as preparations were made. The children’s camp would no longer be a target because no one would arrive there until June, and the whole point had been a high body count of children. Ali regretted having to abandon this part of the plan, but he had to be flexible. He left Chicago as the time ticked down to only two weeks and traveled to Canada using the name and passport of another alias, Alton Seton.
From a safe house in Quebec, Ali made contact with his handler, who had served for many years as a senior member of the committee. Ali explained the problem and why he needed to deal directly with the money source since he believed Seif’s operation might be compromised. Ali explained the importance of timing and how schedules had been changed and new protocols put into place. The handler told him he would discuss the problem and get back to him soon.
Several days later, the handler called Ali with instructions to receive a package from a man at the Auberge Saint-Antoine at 7:45 p.m. that day. This left Ali only enough time to drive directly to the hotel. He found the man his handler had described and was passed a nondescript packet.
Back at the safe house, Ali found a picture inside of a man named Aleksey Fedorov.
According to the attached file, Fedorov had been a former KGB officer in the First Directorate before the decline of the USSR. His present position with the Russian government was unknown, but his current assignment placed him in Afghanistan. He was last seen in Kabul in late January, and he rarely returned to Russia.
The fact that the money was coming from the Russians and possibly the Pakistanis was a revelation to Ali. Perhaps he should visit Kaesar; it occurred to him then that Kaesar might also be under surveillance, or might even be the way they had found him in DC. The thought of that whole mess reminded him that Iranian Intelligence had never confirmed the location of Stryker’s body from the hotel stabbing. Ali needed answers.
He would have to speak with his handler about setting up a meeting with the Russian—Ali required cash for operations. First, though, he needed to create some breathing room. He could do this by trimming loose ends. The Detroit team members were, in all likelihood, already lost to him, as their every motion was suspect and potentially watched. It was time to sever that attachment entirely.
Ali contacted the Detroit team and told them he was scheduling a meeting the next evening at the Detroit warehouse to discuss Colorado. The team needed to arrive at 9:00 p.m. for the planning session. Ali gathered equipment and drove to Detroit the next day, arriving by 8:00. He parked his car a block from the warehouse and proceeded on foot.
There were three doors leading into the warehouse—the main door, a side door, and a roll-up door at the back by the loading dock. Ali crouched in the shadows and watched the team members arrive one by one, eighteen of them. He had a large duffel bag that he would leave concealed here. When the last man arrived, Ali crept up to the building and secured padlocks over the main door and the roll-up. He crossed to the electrical box and used wire cutters to cut power to the building. Slinging a suppressed AK-47 assault rifle off his shoulder, its IR scope glinting in the moonlight, Ali stepped to the side door.
Shouts of alarm from the men inside drifted through. He pulled his night-vision goggles down into place and slipped silently through the door. These were his men, and yet, he could not quite hold in a smile—he lived for this. Two of them were already heading for the side door, guns raised, spotting Ali in the dim light silhouetting him from outside. Ali fired six suppressed rounds that ripped through their torsos. He nudged the door closed behind him, eliminating even that small source of light, and moved farther into the room.
The team was well trained. Several moved to investigate each exit, while others took up defensive positions. All were armed, but the warehouse was now in almost full darkness. His back to a wall, Ali crouched and sighted down the IR scope. Three men were trying to force open the main door. Three more puffs of air from the suppressor, and each of their heads exploded into a green mist, their bodies dropping like bags of sand to the floor. He swiveled and had a line of sight on the roll-up door at the back. He fired four more times. Two cried out as they died, the other two never had time to make a sound.
The others crouched behind tables, chairs, or support columns began to return fire at his suspected location. They must have noticed his movement because some of the shots came alarmingly close. He left cover, moving at just under a run. He knew precisely how fast he could move on his injured leg without making a sound. He then slid behind two stacked footlockers. From here, he could see five of them, armed with pistols and rifles, shooting at his last known location.
Ali wasted no time and switched to full auto before opening up on them. They were blown off their feet, holes opening up across their stomachs, chests, throats, and the wall painted dark green behind them. Ali dropped the AK-47 and switched on the IR Illuminator attached to his night vision goggles. He then drew a silenced 9 mm and a tactical knife. He rounded the corner and began hunting the remaining four team members. His heart rate rose as he stalked them, a delicious thrill of adrenaline giving a surge of energy even as his leg forced him to limp.
Ali swept one side of the warehouse, leading with the gun, before he stood stock still and simply listened. At first he heard nothing, and then he picked up a faint scuffling. Whispers drifted through the open space—they were plotting, desperate to survive. At the end, everyone wanted to live. A moment later, twin beams of thin light pierced the dark, glowing bright green through his goggles. Laser scopes. The men swept them across the room rapidly, like searchlights, looking at where the dots struck up against objects and hoping to find him in the dark in this way. It was a gamble, and they would lose. Ali fired twice as the lasers swept toward him, two headshots, and the lasers dropped.
As he did, gunfire erupted around him, blasting into the wall, punching holes in the concrete, something large-caliber and in full auto. Ali flattened himself to the floor as bullets flew above him. Another team member had used the two with laser scopes as bait, listening for the faint but audible puff from Ali’s gun. Clever. On the cold warehouse floor, Ali braced his gun, aimed, and f
ired three times. The warehouse dropped back into silence.
One left. Ali crawled forward. He looked to each side and behind him but saw nothing in the phosphorescent glow. He rose, stepping softly. As he headed back toward the side door, something crashed off to his left and he turned to see several paint cans falling over, a wrench spinning to the floor after being thrown. A diversion. He spun around and looked full into the beam of a heavy-duty flashlight. White-green light exploded in his vision, blinding him.
Instinctively he dodged, and it was the only thing that saved him. He felt a bullet graze his arm and kicked out hard, connecting with the man’s wrist. The man’s gun clattered on the floor, though the flashlight beam found him again. Ali whipped off the goggles and aimed his gun.
Behind the flashlight, he could make out the team leader of the Detroit cell, looking grim. “I’ve done everything you asked,” the man said.
“Oh, it’s nothing personal. Just tying up loose ends. Although,” Ali paused, seeming to consider, “it’s true you have done an excellent job.” Ali stooped and placed his gun on the floor, and then he straightened and used his shoe to nudge it toward the team leader.
The man reached for it, and when he did, Ali brought his knife up and around and buried it six inches deep through the thin skull bone just above his right ear. For a moment the man trembled, gurgling, stuck on the blade, and then Ali placed the sole of his shoe against the man’s face and pushed until his knife slid free and the man crumpled to the floor.
“Like I said, nothing personal.” Ali cleaned his knife on the man’s shirt, retrieved his guns and goggles, and exited the building. He brought the duffel bag into the building through the side door and unpacked several jugs of gasoline, which he poured on the bodies and around the warehouse. When finished, he crossed to the side door, stooped, and used a lighter to start the blaze. The fire leaped away, jumping from one stream of gasoline to another. In seconds the warehouse was an inferno.
Chapter 23
Washington, DC
May 2011
Stryker called Sparks on a secure line and filled him in on the Detroit team’s destruction, which they had been able to hear to some degree and then to watch as the warehouse went up in flames.
“Do we know who is responsible?” Sparks asked.
“We don’t know for sure, but I think Ali believed his Detroit team was compromised,” Stryker said. “Ali also may be worried about information leaking from his funding source. He wanted to meet with Fayez, who replaced Seif, but he was refused. At least, that’s what Kaesar told us. The Mossad now believes the actual money is coming through Geneva from a Russian named Alexsey Fedorov.”
“Russians helping the Iranians fill the void in the Middle East is not new to the CIA. And there may also be Pakistani money involved, right?”
“Right, although we think it sounds more like an individual than the Pakistan government. Kaesar has been the common thread in all this, and we found another client called Petloki Capital that’s popping up suspiciously. It’s a company owned by the husband of a member of Congress. The Mossad is still trying to determine the connection. They believe the Iranians are under financial pressure and the Russians and Pakistanis are funding terror operations through drugs coming from Afghanistan.”
“How are they moved stateside?”
“It looks like the drugs are moved through South America by the Iranians to Mexico. The Iranians have alliances with the Mexican cartels, which move the drugs across our southern borders to markets in the United States.”
“I don’t think Alpha Security has anything to do with the drug business,” said Sparks. “I think Herb Miller set you up only as a favor to the vice president.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you. Listen, Ali will need to meet directly with the Russian to keep obtaining funding. He’s not likely to trust Kaesar and the changing Seif-Fayez connection.”
“So finding this Russian is key.”
“The Mossad is trying to locate the Russian as we speak and determine everything they can about him. We believe he’s a former KGB officer named Fedorov but need information concerning his present relationship with Moscow,” said Stryker. “This is where you come in. I need you to use your sources so I can snatch and grab Miller. We won’t hurt him, but he will help us find the meeting place when Ali schedules with the Russian. Ali’s handler may have Miller set up a meeting, and either way Miller can help us find it out.”
“So we convince good ol’ Herb that it’s in his best interest not only to help us with the meeting but whatever else we need,” Sparks said. “I guess my Hatchet teams for Detroit and Colorado won’t be necessary.”
“Sparks, I would keep them ready because we are not sure of anything at this point. I’ll call you as soon as we find anything new, and I think we would like to deal with Herb in the next two weeks. Will you personally be involved?”
“Count me in,” Sparks said.
The battle lines were forming. Stryker found Rachel and Sara and told them about the conversation. Stryker asked them to get Daniel to approve a “snatch and grab” of Miller. He told them no one would be hurt and the Mossad would not be compromised.
Rachel spoke up. “When will we need to do this?”
“Within the next week.”
Rachel looked at Sara, who nodded.
“Make sure Daniel understands the Mossad will not be directly involved but will only help with surveillance,” Stryker said.
Stryker told them he would not continue staying at their embassy because he believed other intelligence agencies would be watching. It would be better for Rachel and Sara to make other arrangements to meet with him until things got sorted out, especially after the Detroit incident.
“I will speak with Daniel within the next eight hours,” Rachel said, “and I’ll contact you after we discuss it.”
“Tell Daniel this may be our last chance to stop Ali.”
Chapter 24
Colorado Springs, Colorado
May 2011
The Owens family woke up to a beautiful, sunny day in late May. For the Owens, Sunday remained the family day, and they planned to go to the early church service and then take their two little girls to lunch and the park. Lacey, age four, and Emily Ann, age six, were dressed in frilly dresses and bows because today the little ones would be singing in front of the “big people church” during prayer and worship.
“We’re gonna be the very prettiest,” Emily Ann said, watching her yellow dress sway in the mirror. Her mother, Joan, could not quite scold her daughter for vanity; she was thinking the same thing. In the driveway, her husband Dan honked the horn twice, two quick taps, the signal that they would be late unless the ladies of the house finished primping and got in the car.
At approximately 9:15 a.m., the Owens pulled into the church lot and parked beside a grey SUV. Once inside, they took the girls to the children’s choir area and dropped them off, although Lacey, as always, was all smiles until they turned to leave and then began wailing. She would be fine once they were out of sight. Dan and Joan went into the main auditorium and found seats near the aisle on the second row—a perfect spot to view the stage.
The service began on time at 9:30 a.m., and soon the children came out and sang songs for about fifteen minutes. Most of the kids were distracted or seemingly tone-deaf, half of them either pushing the child next to them or waving at their parents, but Dan and Joan watched proudly as Lacey and Emily Ann sang every song and did every motion. When the ‘big people’ stood and clapped for them, Emily Ann’s cheeks turned pink. The children left the auditorium, and Joan went to take them to the children’s play area for the remainder of the service. She returned to her seat just as the pastor began to speak.
After the first service concluded at 10:30, Dan and Joan went to get the girls, who could not stop talking about their performance. They chattered through the hallways and all the way to the front door, their voices rising ever louder as they tried to talk over each othe
r to claim their parents’ attention.
“I was like a rock star!” Emily Ann shouted. “Did you see me? I was all, hosanna, hosanna, hosanna! And then I shook my dress like this, and everybody just loved it!”
“Wait, Dan,” Joan said, grabbing her husband’s arm as they stepped into the parking lot. “I have to speak to Monica about greeting next Sunday.”
Dan and the girls followed her up the stairs to the area used by volunteers, where the greeting coordinator was pinning up a schedule on a board already covered with notices about children’s groups, activities, and community outreaches. Joan waved at Monica, and she had just opened her mouth to speak when the windows blasted inward.
Glass flew in all directions as the entire building shook. They were thrown to the floor as the sound of a massive, booming explosion filled their ears. Around and below them, people started screaming. As Joan’s senses returned to her, she saw that Dan was huddled over both of the girls, and he nodded to her that they were safe. She crawled to the window and dragged herself up, peering over the jagged edge of the frame.
Outside, the parking lot looked like a war zone. The entire lot was on fire, with cars, signs, and people in flames. Most of the congregation had flooded out the doors right after the service and had been in the process of chatting with friends, herding their children into their car seats, or discussing lunch plans when the bombs went off. Smoke blew across the charred lot like some hellish vision. Body parts were strewn across the pavement. Some people crawled through the flaming debris; others staggered to their feet and attempted to run.
“Call 911,” Joan choked out. Her voice was so faint, she wasn’t sure she had spoken aloud at all. She tried again, and when she looked at Dan, she saw he was dialing, still holding the girls to the floor.
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