Extreme Faction

by Trevor Scott

  The director twisted at his mustache again. “The entire island was poisoned?”

  “It appears so,” Jenkins said. “The Air Force is checking into it now.”

  The secure phone on the console buzzed and the analyst picked up. In a moment, he handed the phone to the director. “Sir, it’s the Navy frigate commander.”

  The director picked up and listened carefully. His expression changed from concern to a gravity not often seen from him. “A medical team is on its way, and the Air Force is flying evac planes that way as we speak. Have your men secure the area. I don’t want the press involved. You’re in charge there, commander.” He handed the phone back to the analyst and turned to the DO. “At least a hundred confirmed dead, with more dying as we speak.” He paused for a moment. “And one of the weapons is missing.”

  “Shit!”

  Malone turned away. Someone had one of the most deadly nerve agents ever conceived. Terrorists probably. He had to think fast, be strong. He could not let this happen on his watch. “I’ll inform the president,” the director finally said. “In the meantime, I want maximum effort on this. I don’t care who you have to pull from other operations. Also, I want satellite tracking of every Goddamn ship in the Pacific. It appears that they didn’t escape by air. I want each craft vectored and boarded by the Navy or Coast Guard.”

  “Yes, sir.” The DO hurried from the room.

  3

  NEAR LAKE VAN, TURKISH KURDISTAN

  Darkness and thick clouds had turned the barren mountains into a black abyss. The tiny village nestled against the steep mountains had only one dirt road leading to it. It was nearly one a.m. when the truck wound its way up the lonely road.

  Mesut Carzani reflected quietly in the passenger seat, shifting his glance periodically to his driver, a strong man a little younger than himself but one who looked much older. They had fought together for decades as Peshmerga guerrillas in northern Iraq. Kill or be killed. There was nothing in between. Striking targets in and around Baghdad, and then fleeing to the mountain havens in Iran and Turkey. Futile efforts, at best, but they were at least men of action.

  Carzani’s face was a road map of wrinkles, each one leading to a place he had been. He knew the mountains. He knew the people. They trusted him. And he would use that trust to his advantage. They had tried warfare, but there had always been too many factions. Too much second guessing. The Kurds needed a strong leader like him to put Kurdistan on the map as something more than a footnote in history books.

  The truck snaked up the last hill and squeaked to a halt at a mottled brick house on an isolated drive above town.

  The last to arrive, Carzani had waited down the mountain, watching the others drive by, and ensuring that their position had not been compromised. As the most recent leader of the Partia Karkaris Kurdistan in Turkey, the most extreme faction fighting for Kurdish autonomy and a homeland, Carzani had convinced Kurdish leaders from Iran, Iraq and Syria to meet and discuss a unified effort in their struggle. Others had found homes—the Israelis, the Palestinians, the Armenians. Now, at twenty million strong, it was their turn. The PKK had clashed with Turkish troops in the past, but were trying to keep a low profile until just the right moment. They remained huddled in the mountains, their traditional sanctuary, tending flocks of sheep and goats, and collecting weapons and support from the people. That is what they needed most for their movement. The will of that many people could not be denied or ignored. The world would have to listen.

  The small town was completely sympathetic to the cause. The entire area was on alert, with weapons drawn in positions in the woods, on building tops, peering out through darkened open windows. There would be no chances taken this time. There was too much at stake.

  Carzani, protected by four armed guards, slid out of the truck and entered the safe house. Two guards remained at the door outside, and two inside.

  The sparse room he entered held only an old wooden table with a bench on each side. A stone fireplace, freshly stoked, provided much of the light and all of the warmth.

  Sitting at the table, glaring at Carzani as he approached, were the three tribal leaders who would hopefully join forces with Carzani. Each man had a personal body guard behind him, and each rose now to greet the Turkish Kurd with a kiss on both cheeks. All of the three leaders had sent a messenger, initially agreeing to a unified front, subject to the outcome of this meeting.

  Carzani took a seat. “I trust your trips went well,” the PKK leader said.

  There was no response.

  “As my message said,” Carzani continued. “I have a plan to ensure we are listened to by the international community. When you hear what I have to say, you too will be convinced that a free and autonomous Kurdistan is finally possible.”

  There was still no response.

  Mesut Carzani peered around the room at the security guards. “We must have complete privacy.” He shifted his eyes toward the door.

  The three other leaders reluctantly waved and nodded for their men to step outside. When the room held only the four leaders, Carzani pulled a map from inside his jacket and spread it out on the table.

  “Remember Halabja,” Carzani muttered solemnly.

  MOSSAD HEADQUARTERS, TEL AVIV

  The director of Israeli Intelligence, Mikhael Chagall, entered the secure room in a hardened shelter below ground, and shuffled immediately to his assistant who was standing next to an analyst at a console.

  Chagall was a slight man, barely five feet, who had ascended to the top of Mossad by intellectual superiority, without leaving many enemies in his wake. As was tradition in Israel, no one knew the name of the current director, except for high ranking government and military officials. And Chagall preferred it that way. It allowed him to do his job more completely, without the fear of retribution from a brutal media.

  “What do you have, Yosef?” the Mossad director asked.

  The assistant handed the director a message that had just been deciphered, and the two of them went into an isolated, soundproof room. The message sender was identified by a code, and only the director and his assistant knew the identity. When the director was finished with the message, he immediately shredded it.

  “So they are finally meeting,” Chagall said. “It means nothing.”

  His assistant lowered his brows. “They are twenty million strong, Mikhael.”

  Chagall approached his old friend and placed a tiny wrinkled hand on his shoulder. “We are allies traditionally, Yosef,” he muttered. “We will do them no harm. They are not Arabs or even Persians. They are merely lost sheep looking for home.”

  MI-6, LONDON

  “Tvchenko is dead,” the chairman of Britain’s foreign service said. “That’s why we called you in off your holiday.”

  The chairman, Sir Geoffrey Baines, knew he didn’t need to explain himself to his field officers under any circumstances, but it made difficult assignments much more palatable. He sat back in his leather chair, which squeaked with each movement from the robust man, and he studied his officer carefully. He prided himself on being able to read people simply by observing their face. He was rarely wrong.

  Baines was a consensus builder. Some, his critics mostly, considered him far too accommodating. Yet, for the past four years he had gotten results. The foreign service was in higher favor with parliament and the public than at any other time since World War II.

  Sinclair Tucker had never had a private meeting with the chairman before. At thirty-eight, he was a field officer who had seen action first in Eastern Europe during the waning days of the Cold War, and more recently in the Balkans, where he had just arrived from two days previously for a short Easter vacation, after working six months in Odessa, undercover, as a British businessman. He had been part of a four-man advance team seeking markets for telephone communications equipment. Actually, he had been keeping an eye on Yuri Tvchenko. Tucker knew that the scientist had been seen with foreigners on numerous occasions, and was closing in on what h
e was currently working on.

  “How?” Tucker asked.

  “It appears he was poisoned in some way at the conference,” the chairman said.

  Tucker shook his head. He had wanted to stick around Odessa during the conference, but had been ordered to take leave. His boss thought he had been working too hard. Needed a break. Besides, Tucker was supposed to be working for a communications firm, which had nothing to do with agriculture. He could not simply show up. But Tucker had realized that it would have been a perfect opportunity to make contacts, with all those representatives from various countries together.

  “Murdered in front of all those people?” Tucker said.

  “Afraid so. We’re not sure what this means, but we need you back in the country as soon as possible.”

  “Of course.”

  “One more thing,” the chairman said. “I understand that you’re friends with an American there, Jake Adams, a former CIA officer.”

  Tucker lowered his gaze. “Jake is there? Yes, sir. Why do you ask?”

  “I’ve gotten word that Adams was with Tvchenko when he died. Stick close to him. Will he work with you?”

  Tucker had known Jake Adams for years. They had first met when Jake was an Air Force officer verifying the withdrawal of chemical weapons from the Ukraine. Later, during the Gulf War, they had worked together once again in Turkey. They had spent more than a few nights drinking from Diyarbakir to Istanbul. He had even gone pub crawling with Jake in London once while they were both on leave. What in the hell was Adams doing in Odessa? Would Jake Adams work with him? That depended entirely on Jake. He had always done what he wanted, regardless of the consequences. He knew that Jake had left the Agency more than three years ago, so what was he up to now?

  “Jake follows orders when the occasion strikes him right,” Tucker said, smiling. “It’s not that he’s a rogue. It’s that he doesn’t trust just anyone.”

  “And what about you?”

  “We have some history. If I ask him nicely, I’m sure he’ll show us some consideration.”

  “Good. You’re packed, I assume. Your flight leaves Heathrow in two hours.”

  He had never unpacked. “Yes, sir.”

  “Stick with Adams. You’ll lead our efforts. We’re spread pretty thin in that area, as you well know, but I’m sure you’re up to the job.”

  He would have to be.

  4

  ODESSA, UKRAINE

  When the ambulance finally picked up Yuri Tvchenko’s body, Jake still wasn’t completely certain what had happened. The Odessa police had assumed the most obvious affliction. A stroke or a massive heart attack. But Jake knew better. Tvchenko had been murdered right in front of a hundred witnesses. He even suspected the cause of death, for Jake had seen nerve agents tested on animals before, and while with the CIA, watched confiscated Soviet films where they had conducted research on prisoners. Even worse had been when Jake had entered the small Iraqi village after it had been bombed with chemical weapons by its own air force. He could never erase that from his conscience. Somehow, someone had injected an agent into Tvchenko’s system right before his eyes.

  Jake rubbed his right hand. Where there had been a spot of blood earlier, just after Tvchenko collapsed, there was now a red puffy area a few millimeters wide, like he had been prickled by a rose thorn and it was now infected.

  Jake scanned the room for Chavva. She was the last to have direct contact with the scientist before he crashed to the floor, but she was nowhere to be seen. He couldn’t imagine her killing the scientist, yet she might have seen him talking with someone else. Although he was officially in Odessa to protect MacCarty and Swanson, he could never stand by when something like this dropped in his lap.

  Standing at Jake’s side were MacCarty and Swanson. They seemed to be in shock. Neither had ever seen a man die in front of them, and the violence of a nerve agent death had been a most brutal initiation for them.

  “That was disgusting,” Swanson said. He looked at his drink, uncertain if he should finish it.

  “Death is rarely pretty,” Jake said. “Listen, I’m going to head back to my room.”

  MacCarty nodded and started to drink his champagne. He was closer to drunk than sober.

  “I wouldn’t drink that if I were you,” Jake said. “We don’t know for sure how Tvchenko died. Whatever entered his body could have come from an airborne agent. Something could have sunk down into your drink.” He knew this wasn’t the case or more people would have been afflicted. Yet, just to be safe, it was a good idea to keep the two of them on their toes.

  MacCarty slowly set the drink on a table. “Well, we’ve got a shitload of meetings tomorrow anyway. We can always grab a drink at our hotel. Bill and I will be along shortly.”

  “I should probably accompany you. That’s what I’m here for,” Jake said.

  Swanson smirked as if to say he could handle himself.

  MacCarty slapped Jake on the shoulder. “We’ll be all right, Jake. We’ll take a cab.”

  The three of them were staying six blocks away in the Chornoye Hotel off Primorski Boulevard. Jake figured they couldn’t get into too much trouble with a short ride like that. As he drifted off across the room, he continued searching for Chavva, but she was definitely not there. In fact, neither were any of the Israeli businessmen.

  Out in the lobby, Jake made a quick phone call. When a man answered the phone, he excused himself in Ukrainian and hung up. It was his signal for the Odessa station chief to meet him immediately at a predetermined spot.

  Jake stepped out onto Primorski Boulevard and started walking east. Tall trees lined the wide promenade, yet he could still see the lights from the harbor below. With such a warm evening, many others were out walking. Young couples, groups of girls and boys, and the frequent drunken old men staggering here and there. After three blocks, he turned south on Pushkinskaya down along a narrow park. Two blocks later the Volga sedan pulled up to the curb and a door opened. Jake slipped in.

  Soon, Tully O’Neill turned left and headed toward Shevchenko Park. Neither said a word.

  Jake had never worked for Tully O’Neill, since Tully had only recently taken over in Odessa. He had heard that Tully had worked for years in Bucharest, Sofia and Kiev as an operations officer. Odessa was his first assignment as station chief, which made him a late bloomer to the old agency, having first worked as a bureaucrat in Defense and the State Department. He believed he got a break with the new Agency because he wasn’t one of the good old boys. In fact, at fifty, he would have normally been in charge of a much larger operation. The years showed in his receding hairline, long gray hair, and reddened eyes that drooped from lack of sleep and too much alcohol each night.

  Yet, Jake had heard through the grapevine that Tully was a man to be trusted. He would put everything, including his life, on the line for a friend. Jake hoped that wouldn’t be necessary.

  Tully finally pulled over on a secluded street on the north side of the vast park with a view of the large ocean cargo vessels, and he cut the engine.

  “Well, what’s up?” Tully asked.

  “You didn’t hear?”

  Tully gave Jake a blank stare.

  “Someone just killed Tvchenko.”

  Tully smashed his hands against the steering wheel. “God dammit. How?”

  “At the dinner tonight,” Jake said. “A nerve agent pellet or something. I’m not positive.” He shook his head.

  Pulling a cigarette from inside his coat, Tully offered one to Jake, who refused. He lit a Marlboro and inhaled deeply. “You know this town as well as I do, Jake. What do you think?”

  Jake shrugged, and then rubbed his hand again. The puncture was stinging now.

  “What’s that?” Tully asked.

  “I’m not sure. I got it when I shook hands with Tvchenko just before he died.”

  “Let me look closer.” Tully pulled Jake’s hand toward him and turned on the dome light. In a moment he said, “Son of a bitch. It’s a message.�
�

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Here, look.” Tully pulled a small Swiss army knife from his pocket and opened a tiny, pointed blade that looked extremely sharp. He started toward Jake’s hand with it.

  “Wait a minute,” Jake protested. “What do you plan on doing with that?”

  “Trust me. It won’t hurt much.”

  Right. Famous words spoken by dentists to patients and young boys to virgins. Jake slid his hand back toward Tully, reluctantly. But Tully was right; it didn’t hurt. It was much like removing a sliver from a puss-filled wound; the pressure was removed as Tully extracted something minuscule from his palm.

  “What the hell is that?” Jake asked.

  “Wait. I’ll show you.” Tully set the object in his cupped palm and spit on it. Then he removed a tiny, clear item that resembled a piece of rice from his pocket, along with a jeweler’s eyepiece. He lined the three items up and peered into them closely. He slowly raised his head with a puzzled look. “Tell me what you see,” he said to Jake.

  Jake shifted his head over. “Halabja,” he muttered. That’s all it said. Just one word scribbled hastily, as though the writer were jotting down milk or eggs on a shopping list.

  “Does that make sense to you?” Tully asked.

  Jake settled back into his seat. “Just the obvious reference to the Iraqi village.” Obvious indeed. Tvchenko had to be referring to Halabja, Iraq, the city bordering Iran that was bombed with nerve gas and mustard gas by Saddam Hussein’s own forces in March of 1988. As many as five thousand Kurds—men, women and children—were killed within hours. Jake not only knew about the devastating events of that day, he had actually seen the bombing while working on special assignment in Kurdistan during the height of the Iran-Iraq War. He was there to confirm or deny the use of chemical and biological weapons. He would never forget the faces. Especially the children.

  Tully tucked the tiny message into a plastic Ziploc.