Operations Compromised

by Warren Conrad

  “You need to call Fayez in Geneva. Tell him to come to New York immediately for a meeting regarding James Harlan. Don’t tell him about being followed, but use the excuse you’re in trial and can’t come to Geneva. Tell him the issues with Harlan might affect him and his Pakistani funding source. After you receive a time and place for his arrival, call me. That’s it.”

  “We should take you to the airport now,” Sparks said. “We’ll provide protection on the way and make sure you’re not followed.”

  Kaesar nodded. “Fine. Fine. I just want this mess to be done. I’ll call Fayez.”

  “Good.” Stryker rose. “When you get to Jackson Hole, don’t let anyone know your location, and I mean anyone. Don’t trust your own mother.”

  Sparks and Stryker drove to the airport with Kaesar lying down on the back seat. They did not notice any other surveillance. Sparks parked a short distance from the drop-off curb, and Stryker helped Kaesar from the back seat, facing him away and pulling off the hood as he gave a little push. “Walk straight forward and don’t turn around. Take the next flight to Jackson Hole and send me the intel on Fayez. We’ll call you only if there are problems.”

  Kaesar strode obediently forward. He paused once at the doors, as if contemplating whether to look back, but then he passed inside.

  “He might just live a while longer,” Stryker said, watching. “He knows what’s good for him.”

  Sparks glanced over and shifted back into drive. “That makes one of us.”

  Chapter 30

  New York City, New York

  June 2011

  The rain continued to fall in buckets as Sparks and Stryker made their way back to the safe house. The whole situation was getting slippery. Was Ali trying to follow Kaesar or kill him? Was another attack imminent? As soon as they were safely inside, he dialed Rachel, although he could not identify a mission-specific reason for the call.

  She answered on the second ring. “I hoped it would be you.”

  “It’s me. I have a few things to go over with you, but I miss talking to you in person.”

  Rachel laughed. “If you’re still in New York, we can solve that problem over lunch.”

  “I’m waiting on some information before heading to Washington. Let’s meet on the street, if you can be sure you’re not followed.” He suggested a time and place, and she readily agreed, planning to meet him in an hour. Stryker clicked off the phone and waited thirty minutes before leaving, taking his .45 caliber Glock 36.

  Stryker walked to the meeting place, several blocks away, and remained watchful. The rain still poured, but the storm had abated. He saw no signs of observation or pursuit. Rachel sat waiting for him on a bus bench, pretending to read a magazine, and he surprised both of them when he picked her up and kissed her.

  She stared at him a moment. “I guess you really did miss me.”

  Stryker had to look away, but she defused the moment by sliding her hand into his and popping an umbrella out above them. “Come on, cowboy. Let’s rustle up some grub.”

  They found an Italian café nearby and decided to give it a try—anything was better than staying in the rain. Stryker chose a booth on the inside wall with a view of the windows and doors, taking note of exit routes. They could leave through the kitchen and into an alley if needed. Rachel watched him glance around, surely guessing what he was thinking, and he wondered if he would ever be able to go somewhere without making contingency plans and being on constant guard.

  The owner’s wife waited on them and translated the Italian on the menu, suggesting a sampler tray for them to share. Stryker and Rachel chatted for a few minutes, but it did not take long for the conversation to turn serious. Stryker told her about the men following Kaesar and his suspicions that the Iranians might decide to clean house. Without actionable intel on Ali, the priority was to handle Fayez when he came to New York and to keep investigating the Russian.

  “Sparks said the Agency will not want to be involved since the Pakistanis are US allies, so we’re flying solo on this again, with the support of the Mossad. I called Miller, and he gave me the location of the Russian’s office—Herat. It’s in northern Afghanistan, on the border with Iran. Miller said this guy makes frequent trips to local tribal areas, visiting farmers where poppies are grown.”

  “Sight-seeing, no doubt,” Rachel said.

  “No doubt, and he usually brings along members of the Taliban to make things fun. On other trips, he brings his own guards. Former Spetsnaz operators, from the sound of it.”

  “Can Miller put surveillance on the office?”

  “Already in place. Miller is meeting tonight with that reporter, Cagen Brentwood, to get more information. He’s going to call me later.”

  “All right. I’ve already moved my team here to New York in case they are needed once Kaesar gets Fayez to fly here.”

  Stryker nodded. “Our biggest problem is getting Ali to come out of hiding, which means we need to involve the Russian. I suspect he’s becoming aware that terror attacks are being funded from his drug money, and should the Russians believe they’ll be blamed for an attack on American soil, they will turn on the Iranians to keep the US from taking direct action against them.”

  Rachel was watching him. Her eyes had narrowed at mention of Ali’s name. “You think we can persuade the Russian to help us catch Ali?”

  “It’s possible. You should alert your team that the minute Fayez arrives you’re going to take him down and find out the connection between the Pakistani and the Russian. Ask Fayez if the Russians knew about money being sent to James Harlan.”

  “My people are good at getting answers,” she said. “We’ll get the facts.”

  They ate in silence for several minutes and listened to the casual, laid-back chatter of nearby diners. From the sound of it, the drenching, dreary weather was the greatest of their worries.

  “Jake,” Rachel said without looking up from her plate, “I want to know that I will still be the one to deal with Ali. It needs to be me.”

  “I know. Nothing has changed. You’ll get your chance.”

  She reached across the table to squeeze his hand. “Remember when you told me to think about disappearing with you after this is over? I think I might want to do that.”

  He gave her a small smile. “Let’s finish the mission and then talk about it.”

  “We could go to Italy or someplace off the coast. Somewhere we wouldn’t be noticed.”

  “After this is over, if you really want to go, we can make plans.” He drew a deep breath.

  “In the meantime, we need to finish this thing before more innocent people die.”

  They delayed leaving the restaurant as long as they could. Eventually Rachel reached for her umbrella, and they hunkered under it across two blocks of falling rain and splashing puddles. They parted ways, and Stryker told her to keep her phone close.

  Back at the safe house, he waited restlessly for calls from Kaesar and Miller. The television news channels were still reporting on the church bombing and related stories of survivors. No details of the investigation had been released to the public and no group had taken responsibility. Stryker believed Ali had more targets in place, and the only way to uncover them was to find Ali or his handler and give them to the Mossad. Ali would likely go to his grave before talking, but the handler might decide to save himself.

  Kaesar called about ten o’clock and told him Fayez would come to New York the next day and stay at the Ritz Carlton in Midtown Manhattan.

  “I want promises of protection when I return for the meeting,” Kaesar said.

  “We’ll keep you safe, but after the meeting, you need to disappear, and I don’t mean Jackson Hole. You’ll need to take a vacation for several weeks.”

  Kaesar groaned. “What about my business?”

  “I have a plan for you to resume your legal career when this is over. The only difference will be several clients missing from the firm. The good news is that no one will be hunting you, if you ke
ep doing as I say.”

  “Fine. I’ll make preparations.”

  Stryker told him to call with flight information and they would take him someplace safe until after the meeting. Stryker called Sparks and told him the news about Fayez and that Rachel’s team would handle the matter. He asked Sparks to provide protection and a place to stay for Kaesar.

  “I think we can manage,” Sparks said. “What do we do with him after the team is finished with Fayez?”

  “Just let him go. He’s cooperated at every step, even if it was with a gun to his head. He’s already making plans to disappear.”

  “Do you think that’s wise?”

  “I’m sure your people will be tracking him,” Stryker said. “The more important issue will be moving fast to meet with the Russian after we get the information.”

  They discussed equipment and transportation needs, and Sparks offered to have Agency resources on standby so they would not be so dependent on Miller if he did not deliver on time. As usual, Sparks planned ahead. At 2:00 a.m. the phone rang, and this time it was Miller.

  “I have more information,” Herb said, “but I don’t trust Brentwood. He won’t do anything at the moment, but I worry he’ll tip the Russians when his contact returns. Do you have any suggestions?”

  “Who is the contact?”

  “His name is Vadim Propov. I checked with some of my contacts at DOD, and it looks like he does business with an Iranian named Masoud Akbari. This Akbari sits on the Iranian Revolutionary Committee for Intelligence. I’ve never heard of him, but DOD says he’s a significant figure in Iranian Intelligence.”

  “What did you tell Brentwood about the need for the information?”

  “I told him we needed to distance ourselves from the Iranians, and the vice president needed the name for political reasons. I don’t think he believed me, but he gave me the information anyway. I’m telling you, he’ll try to cover his tracks and will call the Russians at some point.”

  “Don’t worry about Brentwood,” Stryker said. “I will take care of him. When Fedorov returns to Herat, we need to be ready. I’m going back to DC tomorrow, and I think we should meet. Let’s do dinner at the St. Regis at seven. Make sure you’re not followed, and start using your best security team.”

  Herb agreed to meet and said he would be ready to go to Afghanistan. Stryker thanked him, disconnected, and called Rachel next. It was clear he had woken her up, but from her voice she was almost instantly alert. He gave her the name of the handler and Iranian, and in turn she told him very little was known about Fayez, but he appeared to deal with Prince Assiri and no one else. Rachel had a list of questions for him to answer, and her team had a plan in place.

  “Rachel, we need to assure Fayez that should he cooperate, Assiri will never be told of his involvement,” Stryker said. “Tell him our source is a mole in Pakistani intelligence and tell him Assiri has been targeted by intelligence agencies. Call Sparks to find out about Assiri’s family before you meet with him. He’s been checking on Fayez.”

  “I understand. What’s your next move?”

  “I’m going back to DC tomorrow to have a chat with Cagen Brentwood,” he said. “Have you been doing surveillance on him like I asked?”

  “Yes. We managed to get his cell phone records and are working on tracing those. They’re all over the place. He’s definitely got his hands in a lot of cookie jars.”

  “I need to get in touch with him. I’m going to convince him politely to stop selling secrets to bad people, or I’m going to put a bullet through his brain.”

  “Knowing you, my guess is the latter. I can text you his address, and if you give me about ten minutes, I can double-check on the security system at his house.”

  “Good. Call me in ten.”

  Stryker packed gloves, cap, his YHM suppressed Sig Sauer .22 caliber pistol, and his fighting knife. Fifteen minutes passed, and he began to worry. Another five minutes went by before his phone rang.

  “You playing hard to get?” he said.

  “Sorry, but I wanted to get our latest intel on Brentwood, so I called Daniel. He’s made more connections with the classified information that Brentwood has been leaking.”

  There was clearly more to say, but he only heard her breathing, quick and low, so he had to prod her. “What did you find out?”

  “I think maybe someone else should go talk with Brentwood. Abel can do it.”

  “Just tell me, Rachel.”

  Another pause. “Brentwood passed on information to either the Russians or the Iranians about a US team of soldiers that was going to pass dangerously close to their drug supply routes.”

  Stryker felt his breath catch. For a moment the room spun. “You’re saying—”

  “Brentwood sold classified information about your last mission to Afghanistan. He’s responsible for killing your team in the Black Hawk.”

  Chapter 31

  Washington, DC

  June 2011

  Cagen Brentwood enjoyed great financial success from his television program and “news” pieces, which explained the luxury of his residence even without any supplemental income he gained from his connections in Washington. Stryker drove through a neighborhood of million-dollar homes full of citizens confident in the protection of their wealth. He noticed a handful of yard signs for alarm monitoring companies, but the neighborhood was not gated, and he saw no evidence of security patrols.

  Brentwood’s house was located on a street near the rear of the subdivision, adjoining dark, tangled woods that stretched out of sight. Stryker pulled the car off the road and into the woods and walked around to a corner of the house.

  Rachel had forewarned him that Brentwood had a security system. Abel had brought a couple of devices to the safe house and tried to convince Stryker to take him along, but Stryker insisted this was something he was doing alone. Abel showed him how to jam the telephone line and replace the dial tone, and to disable the siren and the system from outside by reading deactivation codes. Both devices worked smoothly, and Stryker moved to a side door and employed an electronic lock pick. The door opened, and he slipped through and shut it behind him.

  Stryker put on his PVS-14 night vision and climbed the stairs, creeping heel to toe in complete silence. The bedroom door lay partly open, but there was no one in bed. Stryker cleared the room, his gun out and ready, and when he returned to the stairwell, he heard a sound from below. He crept back down and found Brentwood sitting at the dining room table with his back to him. He wore a plush blue bathrobe and was nursing a glass of whiskey with the open bottle next to him, half empty. He looked to be mid-fifties and was short and overweight, his disheveled gray hair balding in spots. Stryker stepped up behind him as he reached for the bottle and tapped the muzzle of his gun against the reporter’s temple.

  “You’ve been busy.”

  Brentwood flinched and knocked over the bottle of whiskey, which pooled on the table and poured onto the floor. He started to turn his head, but Stryker rapped the muzzle lightly against his skull and he was still.

  “Who is this?”

  “Someone you need to talk to.”

  “I don’t know how you got in my house, you worthless bastard, but you’re going to regret it.”

  “You can call me Mr. Stryker, or even Jake, but anything else will get you in a body-bag before the sun comes up. Just so we’re clear.”

  There was a pause as understanding set in. “I figured you survived the St. Regis.”

  “I’m a hard man to kill. Choose your words carefully, or we’ll find out if the same can be said of you.”

  Brentwood was tense, his knuckles white as they continued to grip his glass, but his words were smooth and almost calm. Some of the arrogance was gone from his tone, at least. “No reason we can’t be civil. Sit down and have a drink.”

  Stryker strode around the table, the gun held casually, and took a seat opposite Brentwood. The reporter watched him in the silence that Stryker seemed content to let hang, until
Brentwood licked his lips and leaned forward. The sleeve of his robe soaked up the spilled whiskey.

  “Look, man, I had no idea what the information would be used for. I just sell it to the highest bidder. I can’t be blamed for what they do with it.”

  “You had some idea,” Stryker said evenly.

  “It’s those Commies and towel-heads you should be mad at. A buddy of mine told me about that suicide bomber in the Helmand province.” He let out a low whistle, but it had an admiring tone to it, as if he had just seen a shiny sports car. “What a piece of work. Kids blown to bits. Those are the guys whose houses you should be busting into.”

  Stryker’s voice was cold steel. “They knew we were there because of you.”

  Brentwood gave a nervous laugh. “They would have found out one way or another. You can’t blame a guy for wanting to make a buck.”

  Stryker stared at him until Brentwood’s eyes finally dropped away. “I tell you what I’m going to offer,” Stryker said. He forced his hand to be still on the table; he wanted more than anything to ram the gun barrel down the man’s throat and pull the trigger. “You have one chance to save your life. You’re going to sell this mansion of yours fully furnished with everything you own, including whatever fancy cars are in that three-car garage. You are going to donate every single cent to a group that supports military veterans and their families. And then you are going to leave the country and never return. You’ll spend the rest of your life in some tiny village in the armpit of the world, thanking God that you got your sentence postponed before you get sent straight to hell.”

  Brentwood was still. The whiskey continued to drip onto the floor, a soft patter in the silence. He pressed a hand to the table as he rose, and the wood creaked. “I think I’ll see about that drink now,” he said quietly. He was trembling.

  Brentwood stepped to a wet bar in the corner of the room. He opened a cabinet, looked inside, and closed it. He leaned over to rummage in a drawer. Stryker started to rise, and Brentwood spun around with a snub-nose pistol in his hand, shouting curses. Stryker had already launched himself out of his chair, and Brentwood’s shot went wide as Stryker crashed into him. The reporter’s head snapped back, shattering the glass above the bar. Stryker grabbed hold of Brentwood’s wrist, but he struggled to twist the barrel around to point at Stryker. He fired again, the shot flying past Stryker’s side.