Operations Compromised

by Warren Conrad

  “Big mistake,” Stryker said. He still held his gun in his free hand, but there was no need to use it and leave evidence. He slammed his forehead down against Brentwood’s face. The reporter’s nose, broken, gushed blood over his mouth and chin. Stryker tightened his grip on Brentwood’s wrist, but still the man fought to twist the gun around toward Stryker’s torso. In his eyes blazed hatred and stubborn determination.

  Brentwood gripped the pistol with both hands, but inch by inch Stryker forced it up until the muzzle was tucked in under his chin. Brentwood spat blood onto Stryker’s face and made one more effort to wrench the gun away, but Stryker held it fast. He forced the other man’s finger down on the trigger and the gun fired. The contents of Brentwood’s skull blasted back onto the ruined remains of the mirror, and his body dropped to the floor.

  Stryker felt no remorse, but no satisfaction either. He looked calmly around the room, mentally running through his time since entering the neighborhood. He had worn gloves and a cap the entire time, the car was untraceable even if they found tire treads in the woods, and the only gun fired had been Brentwood’s. He needed to leave quickly in case a neighbor reported the gunshot.

  He left through the side door. Using his elbow, he smashed in the window from the outside. The killing would probably be considered an interrupted burglary and look like Brentwood had left off the alarm. In any case, nothing would remain to tie him to the scene.

  At the edge of the woods, he looked back at the sprawling house, its terraced pool, its gardens and manicured lawns. So much money had been poured into this place, money purchased with others’ lives. He thought of someone discovering Brentwood lying in his bathrobe in a pool of blood. What a waste.

  Cross one off the list, Stryker thought. He drove the car back toward the safe house.

  Chapter 32

  Washington, DC

  June 2011

  At the St. Regis Hotel, Stryker found Herb seated at a private table near the back. He wore an Armani suit and, as always, his Lange I watch. Stryker had donned a blue pin-striped suit and navy tie. Just two businessmen meeting for dinner.

  “I have a proposal you might find worthwhile,” Stryker said as they shook hands. Herb had already ordered them a round of drinks. “I’m sure you’re worried about losing your military contracts if Branch goes away. I can guarantee you’ll keep your contracts, and you will no longer pay Steven Petloki. Both Branch and Petloki will be dealt with in the future. I’d like you to consider making payments to Herman Kaesar for an offshore account to be used by a group of us, including you, for covert operations. You would discontinue all contact with Branch after he is out of office.”

  Herb had listened, occasionally sipping his Glenfiddich. “What’s the catch?”

  “Herb, I think you are a solid soldier who never intended to get mixed up with these people. But you did, so you need to help clean up this mess. Take some of your best men and meet with Fedorov. Explain you want him to set up a meeting with Ali and his Iranian handler in one of the villages where poppies are grown. Pick one not heavily defended by the Taliban that we can attack with two Hatchet teams. You remember Hatchet teams, don’t you?”

  Herb smiled. “I commanded several of them.”

  “Some of our men are originals, and all of them were Navy Seals or SOG operators. The plan is to kill Ali and interrogate his handler, Masoud Akbari. We hope to persuade Akbari to tell us about the terror cells along with targets and dates. You need to convince Fedorov that if Russia is tied to the church bombing, the US will punish him and his homeland. His life will be over should he refuse to set up the meeting, and Vadim Propov and his family will be targeted too. Tell him that after we finish with the Iranians, he can continue his operations and Russia will get a free pass. Fedorov’s only loss will be his protection and distribution replacements in South America, and potentially his arrangements in Mexico.”

  Herb nodded. “I think I can pull this off and get a meeting.”

  “I’ll be getting our teams ready for Afghanistan. I’ve also got contacts to get law enforcement in place to deal with the Iranian cells in the United States.”

  Their steaks arrived, both rare. They ate for several minutes as Herb considered, and Stryker did not rush him. Eventually, Herb looked up. “I’ll begin working on details in the morning.”

  “Glad to hear it. Do you plan to go to Afghanistan?”

  “Yes, I want to deliver the message personally.”

  “Good man. I’ll work on getting you and Alpha separated from any involvement with the Russians, Branch, or Petloki.”

  They discussed timing of events and plans for Afghanistan, and after dinner Herb offered to drop Stryker somewhere. Herb’s driver dropped him off two blocks from the safe house, and Stryker walked from there, unable to shake the feeling that at any moment Ali might gun him down from a rooftop.

  Inside his room, Stryker called Sparks and then Rachel with updates on Herb and the plan. He did not mention details about Cagen Brentwood, and they did not ask. The reporter’s violent death had already broken in the news.

  Earlier that evening, Rachel’s team in New York had successfully interrogated Fayez, and she spoke animatedly about the information they had gleaned. Rachel, Abel, and Sara had uncovered Fayez’s reservation at the Ritz-Carlton and checked in prior to his arrival. Abel had disabled the floor’s video camera at key moments, and Fayez had been sleepy from the long flight and easily subdued. They questioned him in his room—Rachel did not go into the specifics, but Stryker had a feeling knives were involved—and Fayez had eventually talked.

  “He was worried about retaliation from the prince,” Rachel said, “but we convinced him we were a bigger threat, and besides, Prince Assiri would believe there is a mole in Pakistani intelligence. I told him we were only interested in the Iranians.”

  “Did he say how Assiri knows them? Does the prince do business with the Russian and Iranians in drug smuggling?”

  “Assiri was introduced by a Russian. Fayez said he makes investments and their company launders the drug money.”

  “Does the prince believe some of the money is sent to the Iranians for terror financing?” Stryker asked.

  “He wouldn’t say. But he admitted the prince makes investments with both Harlan Capital and Petloki Capital.”

  Stryker let out a soft sigh. “That’s what we needed to know.”

  “I told Fayez we don’t plan on doing anything to the prince at this time and he’d be safe so long as he told us the truth and didn’t tell anyone about our little talk. I don’t think he will—he really thought Sara was going to keep on cutting him.”

  “Keep on?”

  “We had to loosen him up somehow. You want to question my methods; maybe we should talk about Cagen Brentwood. Quite the headline on the five o’clock news.”

  “I’m not questioning your methods,” Stryker said. He realized he had been pacing his room and forced himself to sit on the edge of the bed. “We do what needs to be done, don’t we?”

  “And what needs to be done next?”

  “We find Ali. He’s not walking away from this.”

  Chapter 33

  Herat, Afghanistan

  June 2011

  The air was filled with dust and sand, and the wind blew continually with occasional gusts that nearly pushed them over. Visibility became less than half a block, even with night vision, and conversation was minimal due to the storm.

  The five men moved slowly toward a house surrounded by walls in the northern section of Herat. It was home to Alexsey Fedorov. The men, all Special Forces operators, moved to the west wall and used thermal imaging to determine the location of Fedorov’s security team. From previous reconnaissance, they believed only two guards would be on duty this night. Intelligence indicated that Fedorov used former Spetsnaz soldiers. They took shifts, and right now one was inside and the other outside of the house. The outside guard sat in a dark alcove beside the porch, barely visible to the naked eye. He cradled
an AK-47 with the relaxed familiarity of one who had used it many times.

  Herb motioned to his team leader to eliminate the outside guard. One of the other soldiers provided a boost, and the team leader hung from the top of the wall as he unslung a crossbow.

  He leaned up over the wall and fired, and the crossbow bolt covered the twenty yards in silence. It struck the guard in the throat, and he fell over without a sound. Herb and his team roped over the wall and moved to the downed guard’s location.

  They secured his weapons and made ready to breech. The team leader set a charge on the door and looked to the others. Herb nodded, and a moment later a flare of green lit up their view as the door was blown into the building. Herb rushed in, with the team leader and the other men just behind him.

  The other guard had been coming toward the door when it blasted inward and now scrambled up from the floor, half dazed. Herb kicked the rifle from his hands and struck the butt of his own against the guard’s head. The man crumpled.

  “Back door,” Herb said. They could hear footsteps pounding down a stairwell farther into the house. There were two visible paths—one toward the kitchen, the other through some kind of office space. Herb waved his team toward the kitchen while he ran through the office. He heard a series of quick gunshots and then return fire from his team. He passed through the office, a storage room, another room with a table covered in maps, and into a living area at the back of the house where Fedorov crouched behind a large leather sofa. Herb’s team was in the doorway at the other side of the room, and every time Fedorov tried to jump up and cross to the back door, they fired and forced him back into cover.

  Fedorov lifted his gun above the sofa and blind fired, shooting holes in the walls and knocking framed pictures to the floor. He started to scream obscenities in Russian, and although Herb’s Russian was rusty, the words needed no translation. Herb stepped silently up behind Fedorov as the Russian shouted and fired.

  “Hi there,” Herb said.

  Fedorov’s face turned just in time to meet Herb’s fist crashing into it. Herb hauled him up off the floor and dragged him over to a chair. His team moved in and covered him, and Fedorov put up only token resistance as Herb bound his hands and feet. Herb left his eyes open since he and his team wore balaclavas. Two soldiers returned from sweeping the rest of the house and reported it clear.

  “Aleksey Fedorov,” Herb said, “what you do tonight will decide whether you live or die. Can you understand me?”

  Fedorov refused to say a word, his eyes hard and angry.

  “I think you can. I’m here because we know all about your operation. We know of your involvement with Assiri and with the Iranians and with Petloki. We need something from you, and if you don’t cooperate, we will kill you. We will kill your family. And we will kill your Moscow contact, Vadim Propov.”

  Fedorov spat out a few words in Russian. They did not sound complimentary. “Here’s the thing, Aleksey. We’ve traced your money to Iranian terrorists, and these terrorists happened to bomb a church in the United States of America, a place I’m happy to call home. A lot of people were killed. And blood demands blood. You understand that, don’t you?”

  Fedorov’s eyes shifted to the team leader, who stood ready with his rifle, and back to Herb. “I had not anything for that,” he said, his English coming haltingly. “The bombing of church was not mine.”

  “Maybe not directly. But the money was traced to your operations, and if the United States should ever find out, I can promise you—the payback would be extreme.”

  Fedorov’s face turned ashen. “Why have not you killed me?”

  “We’re offering you a one-time deal. We traced your money but believe you did not plan the attacks. Our interest is only with the Iranians. What we want from you is a meeting with Masoud Akbari, who is Ali Shirazi’s handler. We believe Ali already wants a meeting with you. Have you had any contact with Akbari?”

  Fedorov hesitated. “A man come to my office. He say Ali want to meeting with me. I tell man to tell Ali he must come to Afghanistan. It is middle of season for growing. I think I will see this man again.”

  “We want you to pick a village in Farah for the meeting. We want one not heavily guarded by the Taliban,” Herb said. “Akbari must be present. When you pick the village and set the time, you will call me on this phone I am leaving. You do as you are told, and we will let you continue your drug trade minus only the Iranians. Mother Russia will not be harmed, nor will Propov. But if you speak about this to anyone, including Propov, we will destroy you.”

  Fedorov gave a slow nod. “How to know you not kill me and Iranians both?”

  Herb smiled. “You don’t. One thing is sure, though. If you don’t set up this meeting, it will become a certainty.”

  Chapter 34

  Washington, DC

  June 2011

  Stryker met Sparks at a breakfast café near Tyson Corner Center, the largest shopping mall in Virginia. Stryker had taken extra care to be sure he was not followed. He sensed bad things coming. The Iranians had increased surveillance on the Israeli Embassy, and Rachel had warned him to be careful. He decided to drive a long way to meet Sparks.

  Stryker updated Sparks with the information Herb had conveyed to him about confronting Fedorov. Although Herb believed Fedorov would set up the meeting, he had also cautioned Stryker that he did not think Fedorov would keep his end of the bargain. He expected Fedorov to invite the Iranians to the meeting and kill them along with the Americans. Herb believed Fedorov already knew his money went to finance Ali’s terror cells and suspected he would kill all parties to erase Russia’s involvement.

  Sparks dipped his sandwich in his soup and ate as he listened, mulling this over.

  Eventually he said, “Well, I guess we’ll need satellite surveillance on the village.”

  “Herb will be back in DC tonight with the location. We can meet tomorrow.”

  “Did the ladies have a successful night on the town with Fayez?”

  Stryker chuckled. “They have a way with men. Fayez claims the prince is only an investor in the drug business, primarily laundering money through his investment firm in Geneva. According to Fayez, they only did business with Ali’s company, Harlan Capital, believing it was a legitimate private equity firm. Fayez says the prince did not have other relationships with the Russians or Iranians other than the drug trade, although he did say the prince did business with Petloki Capital.”

  “Do Rachel and Sara believe him?”

  “Yes, but Rachel says the Mossad will be watching Fayez and Assiri closely, and should the prince be involved, they’ll end his career forever. The prince may not have revealed his total involvement to Fayez.”

  “What a bunch of liars and thieves we’re dealing with,” Sparks said. “What’s this world coming to?”

  “Nothing good.” Stryker set his napkin on his plate. “I don’t suppose the CIA could pick up the tab for lunch.”

  “Sure. Right after they finish striping your personal parking space at Langley.”

  They left the café, and Sparks drove Stryker back to the CIA safe house. Sparks told him he would pick him up the next day for the meeting with Herb.

  Stryker called Rachel and asked her to come meet him, but she told him she would not be able to evade Iranian surveillance. She suggested the Mossad could use a delivery van to pick Stryker up somewhere away from the house and bring him to the embassy undetected. Stryker gave her a pickup location and headed toward it.

  About a block from the house, an older model Oldsmobile Cutlass drove by him. The car looked familiar, and Stryker felt their eyes tracking him as they passed. Stryker walked on, looking forward, as the car turned right at the next street and disappeared from view. He ducked into a convenience store. He bought a bottle of water and watched the street through the windows. Again the Cutlass appeared, driving slowly down the street in the same direction Stryker had been walking. Two men were in the front.

  Stryker did not believe in coi
ncidences. They knew he was staying somewhere in the area, but he wondered how they found him. He didn’t like the idea of their reporting his location or even continuing to hunt him. Now that they had found him, any confrontation would be on his terms.

  Stryker pulled out his phone. “Rachel, abort the pickup for now and stay back. I have something to deal with.”

  “Let me come help you.” She sounded worried.

  “I can handle this. Keep the van in the area and be ready to pick me up when I call you.”

  Stryker went out of the store but did not see the Cutlass. He continued casually down the street. If he could make it another half block, he could use cover provided by the church playground. He had passed it on other walks and figured the low stone walls protruding some fifteen feet from the old church’s wings would offer protection and a workable firing position.

  He walked faster, feeling exposed on the sidewalk. He could run into one of these shops if he needed to, but he was not sure if they had other exits and did not want to get penned in. As the church came into view, he looked in the reflection of a bank’s windows and saw the Cutlass swing back onto the street at the far end. A moment later, the car jolted forward as it accelerated hard. They had seen him.

  Stryker broke into a run with thirty yards to go. The church yard and playground were empty. He reached the low wall, and as he vaulted over it, they began to fire what sounded like a machine pistol. Stone chips blasted from the wall struck his chest and arms. He landed on the other side and drew out his .45 Glock as they continued to fire, the shots even louder as the car approached the church.