The men ordered dinner with ample wine and vodka and told stories while eating, reliving the glory days and comparing scars. After finishing dinner, they retired to a smaller room and continued drinking and smoking cigars. At last, nearly three hours after Fedorov arrived, the thin man blew a slow cloud of smoke and told Fedorov it was time to discuss business. There was an Iranian crisis brewing that involved attacks in the United States and Europe.
“These attacks were authorized by the Supreme Leader, and Iran needs more funding,” the thin man said, crushing out the stub of his cigar. “Now we’ve received intelligence that the Mossad and the CIA are investigating Russian involvement with Iran. The Iranian responsible for the attacks is Ali Shirazi, but Shirazi no longer wants to work with our normal funding group in Geneva. He wants to meet directly because he thinks Geneva is compromised.”
Fedorov gave a short laugh and shook his head. “No, I think not. There will be no meeting in Moscow while this Shirazi is being hunted by every intelligence agency in the world. I do not plan to go to Iran either. I will meet with Shirazi only on the condition the handler comes with him to Herat. The handler made a mistake giving him my name, and he will have to fix it.”
“We did know the attack in Colorado was coming,” the thin man said. “It was done well, but we did not sanction it. Shirazi has gone rogue.”
“Attacking a church in the United States was a terrible mistake. The Americans will make sure that someone pays a price for it, and I assure you it will not be me,” Fedorov said. “I suggest we find a way to end Shirazi’s activities and blame it on the Pakistani.”
The two stocky men looked to the thin one, who tipped back his glass and sucked vodka over his teeth. He rattled the ice in his glass, set it down, and at last nodded. “We will consider it. In any case, you should expect the Iranians soon. We will pass along your message.”
Fedorov agreed and left the restaurant, accompanied by his security detail. He ordered them to drive him back to his Moscow apartment to pack. He had an early flight to catch.
Chapter 28
Washington, DC
June 2011
At 8:55 the next morning, Stryker and Sparks entered the offices of Alpha Security Consultants after a guard checked them at the gate. Both Stryker and Sparks came armed and wondered at the lack of visible security, though they did see several men dressed in business suits who probably provided protection. Three of these men stayed in the hall next to Herb Miller’s office. Sparks introduced himself and Stryker as his associate to Herb’s administrative assistant, and several minutes later they followed her into Herb’s office. Stryker kept his head down and walked directly behind Sparks.
Herb got up from his desk to shake hands as the assistant closed the door. He looked the part that day, with a buzz cut and his toned physique clearly visible even in a Polo shirt and slacks. He smiled warmly as he took Sparks’ offered hand, but the smile vanished as Stryker stepped from behind Sparks and threw an arm around Herb’s throat.
Herb was so startled at seeing Stryker alive that he hardly reacted. Cutting off his air, Stryker pinned Herb’s arm behind his back and twisted hard. Herb tensed then—he was about to fight back in spite of the pain and the lack of oxygen—but Sparks had already produced a Glock 19 and pressed it to the side of Herb’s head.
“I believe you remember my associate from beyond the grave. He will let you go, but you need to be quiet and sit in one of those chairs. If you do as we ask, you won’t be hurt. You yell for security, push a button, or make any move that’s not taking a seat, and I get trigger-happy. We understand each other?” He rapped the barrel lightly against Herb’s temple.
Herb nodded, and when Stryker released him, he sat in one of the chairs across from the desk. “What do you want?”
“I am going to tell you a story,” Stryker said, “and you are going to fill in some blanks.” Stryker and Sparks took seats in the other chairs, and Stryker began. “We understand Alpha does business with Herman Kaesar’s law firm and that Kaesar also represents an Iranian front company called Harlan Capital in London. You regularly send large amounts of money to Kaesar for legal services. Mr. Miller, it does not take much to connect the dots, so let me tell it to you straight. Knowingly or not, you have a direct tie to the church bombing in Colorado. I don’t need to tell you the implications concerning your chances of survival. This goes the wrong way and you will either be hunted and silenced, or the FBI will arrest you for treason and send you to a Super Max facility for life.”
Herb’s expression remained neutral, although it had lost a bit of its color. He waited, silent, as Stryker continued. “I need some answers and then I will tell you how you might survive. First, how does Jason Branch fit into this equation?”
At that, a thin line of sweat formed on Herb’s forehead. “I knew Jason back when he was a senator. He introduced me to Petloki Capital, and they provided a line of credit for Alpha. Over two million dollars. Jason helped me secure military contracts that paid back the capital. We had to sign an agreement with Petloki that gave them a twenty percent share in profits as long as we keep government contracts.”
“And I guess you made that payment through Kaesar’s law firm?” Stryker asked.
Herb nodded, his face paling another shade. “What have I gotten myself into?”
Sparks spoke up. “Our intelligence sources tell us that Russian drug money is being laundered through a firm in Geneva owned by a Pakistani Prince. These funds are sent through a law firm that represents your company as well. Does Alpha ever receive money from Herman Kaesar’s law firm?”
“No.”
“We still need to figure out Jason Branch and Petloki’s relationship,” Stryker said.
“I might shed some light on it,” Herb said. “When Branch first started obtaining military contracts for Alpha, he was helped by Petloki’s wife. She served in Congress, and I think she was the chair of a powerful committee involved with contracts. I promise you I had no knowledge of drug operations connected to any of these people.”
“OK,” Stryker said. “Let’s move on. Herb, we believe the Iranian terrorist that bombed the church is named Ali Shirazi. He has terror sleeper cells in the United States and Europe and obtains funding from the same Geneva company owned by the Pakistani Prince. We suspect Russian involvement from a former KGB officer named Fedorov in Afghanistan. We have traced money to Kaesar’s trust accounts in New York. The parts of the puzzle we don’t know are the names of Ali’s handlers in Tehran, the extent of Pakistani influence, and Jason Branch’s involvement.”
Herb rose slowly from his chair, stepped to his desk, and picked up a bottle of water. He drank almost half the bottle before he put it down and returned to his chair. “How do you suggest we resolve this?”
“I guess that somewhat depends on you,” Stryker said. “I understand you had an outstanding military career, and I’m wondering where you went wrong.”
Herb gave a wan smile. “I wanted to form a company to employ veterans and provide protection for troops in Iraq and Afghanistan. At the moment, I employ over 2,500 men and women. I’m proud of their efforts. Where I made my mistake was getting involved with Jason Branch, but I really had no other choice. Without his support, I would never have been awarded the contracts.” Herb leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He stared at the floor for a long moment before he looked up, and some of the color had returned to his face. “I know one thing for sure. I love this country more than Alpha Security, and I will do whatever is necessary to help bring these people to justice. Even if it requires me to be held accountable.”
Stryker liked Herb’s response, and by the look on Sparks’s face, his friend did too. “We have a plan that would require you to take risks, but in the end Alpha would be protected.”
“Tell me what to do.”
“The basic plan is to kill all of them. The question is who dies first and where.”
“Again, what do you want me to do?”
Spark
s and Stryker outlined their needs for a successful operation, and in each case Herb was confident that he could help. He could discreetly locate the Russian through tribal contacts in Afghanistan, and he had the capability to ship arms and equipment for their teams using Alpha’s supply program. Alpha owned one helicopter, a 1970s Huey that they used to transport security forces, and Herb had access to several more. Each could carry a team. No more than two weeks after they delivered weapons and equipment to Alpha, Herb said, it would be ready for them in Afghanistan.
“When will you have the location of the Russian?” Stryker asked.
“I’ll start working the moment you leave my office.”
“Good. I hope we can trust you, Herb. Should we become uneasy, you won’t need to worry about prison.”
“You can count on me,” Herb said. “I hope we can help each other.”
Stryker and Sparks rose from their chairs and gave Herb a number to call when he located the Russian. Sparks told him to expect the equipment shortly.
Stryker said, “We’ve heard the name of a reporter, Cagen Brentwood, mentioned several times in all of this. Did Brentwood leak our dinner location to the Iranians?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Herb said. “But when I pushed him, he told me he gave the information to the Russians.”
Stryker glanced at Sparks as he started for the door. “Add Brentwood to the list.”
Chapter 29
New York City, New York
June 2011
Stryker and Sparks needed Kaesar to have Fayez come to New York, where they could force him to reveal the Pakistan connection to the Russians. Stryker called Kaesar and advised that he was coming to New York and would like a late meeting with him. It was phrased as a request, but they both knew it was nothing of the kind.
Two men who appeared to be ex-military met Stryker and Sparks at airport security in New York and said they would provide transportation and equipment. “Don’t worry,” Sparks said. “I have everything arranged.”
The men drove them to a nearby strip mall where another car waited, loaded with guns, masks, disposable phones, and rain gear for the impending storm. The men gave Sparks phone numbers to call should they need help. Sparks confirmed they had not been followed from the airport, and the two of them drove to meet Kaesar.
The warm, dry evening gave way to thunderstorms and thick rain that blurred the windshield. Flashes of lightning lit up the streets, where New Yorkers hurried for cover or slogged through the downpour clutching purses or briefcases. The weather was forecast to only grow more severe. Stryker hoped Kaesar would still arrive.
As they neared the meeting location, Sparks suggested they park and approach on foot in case Kaesar was being followed. If Ali believed Kaesar was compromised, anything from shadowing to assassination was possible. When a block away, Stryker called Kaesar and told him to move to a new location, one that would bring his path across theirs.
Stryker and Sparks watched and waited, and a few minutes later they saw Kaesar, apparently alone. He had his hands stuffed in the pockets of his raincoat and the hood pulled up around his face, but his hunched, nervous form was unmistakable as he darted from one overhang to another down the street. The rain fell in sheets, and they saw him pause and stare up at a street sign, straining to make out the writing until a flash of lightning lit it up.
Stryker started forward, but Sparks caught his arm. “We have company. There and there.” Sure enough, two men had been shadowing Kaesar. They stayed well back and on different sides of the street, but Stryker recognized the professional calm, the efficiency of movement, the lack of hurry despite the weather, the consistent distance they maintained.
“Are we sure they’re not ours?” Stryker asked.
“Wait a minute. I’ll find out.” Sparks dialed the number he had been given, and he was assured they were not CIA. The two men who had picked them up at the airport were close by and told Sparks they could be there in five minutes.
Stryker called Kaesar. “Herman, you’re being followed. I want you to keep trying to act natural.” This wasn’t saying much—Kaesar had been pausing every few steps and peering furtively around, but he had not seemed to notice the men. “Stay where you are and wait for instructions.”
Kaesar stopped, and the men following him found excuses to pause as well, one of them looking into a storefront while the other tied his shoe. Stryker told Sparks to have his men approach the location from north of Kaesar and walk back toward the watchers. While they engaged the watchers, Sparks would grab Kaesar and move him down an alley and over to their car.
About five minutes passed, and the storm intensified further. Great booms of thunder echoed every few seconds now. The street became more deserted, and the two watchers, perhaps afraid of being noticed, waited until Kaesar was not looking and then hid—one behind a car, the other a tree. It was hardly necessary, as they were almost invisible through the rain even in the open.
The CIA agents parked north of Kaesar and walked down the street toward the watchers. They moved cautiously, but their presence tipped the watchers off that they had been discovered. In the driving rain, Stryker could just make out the two men leaving their cover and moving to flank the agents.
“Kaesar,” Stryker said into his phone, “duck into the alley to your left. Someone will meet you.” He clicked off, already moving forward. “Sparks, get Kaesar out of here.”
Gunshots sounded on the street, quick pops between the larger peals of thunder. With the downpour, the agents had been caught off guard—lightning flashed, and Stryker saw that one of them was down, the other huddled behind a parked car. Stryker drew his gun and hurried toward the men at a half-run, darting from cover to cover. He saw muzzle flares from both sides of the street as the two men following Kaesar blasted at the pinned agent. The few locals on the street screamed and ran away.
Stryker knelt behind a bench and tried to get a clear line of fire on the man on his side of the street. The man leaned around a car and fired. The agent rose up and returned fire, and the windshield shattered on the car the man was using for cover. In the rain, Stryker could no longer make out the other man across the street.
The closer man was in his sights, but he was obscured by the car, only his legs visible. Stryker fired, two quick shots through the man’s kneecaps, and he fell backward with a cry that was heard over the storm. Stryker fired again, and as the man’s head hit the curb, a bullet passed through his skull.
Instantly a barrage of bullets slammed into the bench Stryker crouched behind. They splintered the wood and chipped the concrete supports. The fire came from two directions, and Stryker realized that in the rain and confusion both the remaining enemy and the CIA agent were firing on his position.
Stryker dropped prone. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
The remaining enemy was on the far side of the street, using a row of newspaper stands as cover. Stryker needed to get higher, or he would not have a clear angle. He needed to shut this situation down fast. A moment later, the agent hit the end of his clip and had to stop to reload, and Stryker bolted out of cover.
A row of cars lined the curb on his side of the street, with a large delivery truck parked half a dozen vehicles away. Stryker jumped onto the hood of the closest car, ran onto its roof, its trunk, and then onto the next car, down the row. The man opposite resumed firing, but Stryker ran and leaped through the pouring rain. Three cars, four, five—the bullets flew around him now, exploding windows and side mirrors, popping tires. He jumped onto the sixth, an SUV, and from there launched himself up onto the cab of the delivery truck. He scrabbled on, got his feet under him, and propelled himself up onto the back of the truck.
Stryker landed on his side, whipped up his gun, and aimed down the sight. He blinked raindrops from his eyes as bullets slammed into the truck around him, forcing himself to wait. The lightning flashed, and for a split second the man on the other side of the street was illuminated, crouched and aiming down his gun, just th
e top half of his head visible. Stryker fired, a quick spray of red spattered the newsstands, and the man dropped.
Stryker rolled to the side, dropping off the truck. He ran for a nearby alley and hurried down a side street on an intercept course for their car. Halfway there, Sparks pulled up alongside him and threw open the passenger door. Kaesar was in the back seat, a hood over his head.
“You didn’t kill my men, did you?” Sparks said.
“Other way around. The bastard shot at me while I was trying to save his life.”
“This is why you’re not a company man.”
Once Stryker was in, Sparks raced down the street. “Maybe it’s best I tell the Agency that the hostiles were unknown and just urge them to get their men out.”
Rachel had given Stryker the security codes for a Mossad safe house to use, and Sparks drove them there. They led Kaesar up the steps and into the house, where they set him in a chair with his hands tied in front of him. He asked for some water, and Sparks found a glass and let Kaesar drink.
Stryker found a towel and dried off his hair and face as he sank into a chair opposite Kaesar. “Well, Herman, things could be better. Iranian Intelligence had you under surveillance and followed you tonight.”
“Am I in danger?” Kaesar’s voice rose at the end.
“I’d say that’s a safe bet. There’s a terrorist by the name of Ali Shirazi who uses another name you might be familiar with—James Harlan. And don’t try to act shocked that you’ve got your hands dirty. Ali may believe that you’re compromised, and he doesn’t strike me as the type who likes loose ends. I have some instructions for you, and after that I think you should lie low in Jackson Hole for a while.”
Kaesar breathed heavily for a moment, the hood fluttering as he exhaled. “What do you want me to do?”
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