by Barry Becker
“Did you leave the room sterile?” “Of course.”
They headed for Geneva with over five million dollars in cash, life is good. His secure smartphone rang. “Hello.”
“It’s Shogun. Have you taken care of everything?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Timberwolf will meet you after your friend departs from the bank. Let’s talk soon.”
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ulaski opened a private numbered bank account with Dawkins’ assistance at Banque Matthias Reiter. After depositing cash into their newly acquired numbered account,
he left Geneva in their Humvee and headed to Ramstein for a mili- tary hop back to Afghanistan.
Timberwolf observed Dawkins at a store near the bank. He took out his encrypted smartphone and made a call.
“Hello Iron Fist, you copy?” asked Timberwolf. “Roger that, Timberwolf.”
He scanned over the second page of the International Herald Tribune. “I’m at Starbucks. I just ordered you a black coffee.”
He entered Starbucks a few minutes later, checked out the coffee shop, and spotted his contact reading a newspaper. He walked up to his table and sat down opposite Clyde, the station chief for the Agency, who now directed Predator Drone operations in Iraq. Shogun had selected Clyde’s code name, Timberwolf. Agency clan- destine case officers, which included SAD officers, used aliases at all times. However, when conducting transactions involving private numbered accounts, the bank had to know one’s official name or corporate name to establish an account and provide security.
“Did you transfer the funds into my account?” asked Clyde. “Yep. Three hundred thousand Swiss francs.”
“Thanks.”
He continued to serve as the key contact to Reiter over the next two years, conducting most business under Shogun’s direction.
“I have an appointment at the Grand Hotel Kempinski in a few minutes. Meet me at 1500 hours in the lobby. The Gulfstream will be ready for takeoff at 1700 hours.” He left Starbucks and walked to the hotel on Quai du Mont-Blanc 19.
A few minutes later he entered the hotel lobby, took out his satphone, and called.
“Hello,” said a man.
“I would like to talk with Senator Campbell please.” “Who’s calling?”
“Tell him Iron Fist.”
A few seconds later, the man said, “We’re on the 4th floor. I’ll meet you at the elevator.”
He approached the bodyguard, who escorted him to the suite, and opened the door. “Raise your hands; this won’t take long,” as he frisked him. The bodyguard looked at Campbell, reported, “He’s clean, Senator,” and left the room. Dawkins entered and greeted Campbell, the US senator from Kansas. Campbell looked much younger than his age. He had a slim build, medium height, with gray- ish-brown hair. He glanced through his rimless eyeglasses at him. It’s good to see you, Shane.” They walked into the living room. “We conducted a bug sweep yesterday.”
Dawkins nodded and glanced around, appreciating the luxurious furniture and ambiance of the suite.
“Very classy, sir.”
“Would you like a drink while we wait for lunch?” “Yes, thank you, Senator.”
Campbell walked over to the mini-bar, opened it, glanced at the contents, and grabbed two small bottles of Scotch from the side section. He poured the bottles into two clean glasses and gave one to Dawkins, who sat on the leather couch. They both raised their glasses. “Cheers.”
“Jurgen Reiter sends his best regards to you. He’s meticulous about details and smart.”
“Your observations are correct, but you left out his enormous ego.” They both smiled.
“I first met Jurgen in 1990 when I was Ambassador to Switzerland. He had just joined his family’s bank, and his father handled my account. At the time I realized it would put me in good standing with the Swiss banking industry if they knew I had an account in their country like other diplomats, foreign businessmen, and business- women. Naturally, I reported my savings account to the IRS. I didn’t want any unnecessary trouble. You can’t get rich on these government jobs, but being connected to decision-makers can create profitable opportunities.”
“I agree.”
“My sources told me you’d been passed over for Brigadier General.”
“Yep. Probably the Admiral had a hand in it.”
“What are your plans for when you retire?” Campbell asked, as the bodyguard opened the door and let the room service waiter bring in the lunch. The waiter placed the food on the dining room table and left along with the bodyguard.
Both Campbell and Dawkins removed the top of the tray, glanced at the sea bass fillet, potatoes, and asparagus, and began their lunch.
He looked up and stared for a few seconds at Campbell. “I’ve been offered several business proposals, but I haven’t responded.”
Campbell leaned forward. “Our mutual friend Chuck Huntington would like you to join his firm. His company’s primary mission is to bid on State Department private security contracting jobs in the Middle East and Central Asia. Naturally, the competition in this field is tough. Blackwater USA, Aegis Defense Services, Titan Corp, and others control the majority of the contracts. They all strive to hire experienced Special Forces Operations personnel. That’s why his company needs to have a competitive edge if they intend to be profitable.”
“How much investment does he have behind him?”
“He raised significant capital from major investors and is ready to
take advantage of the upcoming State Department budgets, starting in October. He needs the best professionals to fill several executive positions. Would you be interested in joining Stealth Dynamics in the capacity of vice-president of recruitment and training?”
He treasured his friendship with Campbell. Campbell had served as Ambassador to Egypt in the years 1994–1996 when Dawkins worked out of the US Embassy as a military attaché. Campbell had made his career as a diplomat in the State Department. He retired from the department in 1997 after serving twenty-five-years at State. In 1998, he won the race for US Senator in Kansas.
He took another shot of Scotch. “How much money are we talking about Senator?”
“$250,000 per year, all expenses, excellent healthcare package, four weeks’ vacation and a two percent commission on all net revenues.”
He nodded, “Sounds sweet, sir. Hopefully, you’ll be getting a slice of the action.” Campbell maintained a few seconds of silence. “Since the Iraqi government replaced the Coalition Provisional Authority, State has taken an active role in coordinating the reconstruction efforts in Iraq. My role is to use my influence in the awarding of bids to Stealth Dynamics for projects in both Afghanistan and Iraq.”
Dawkins nodded his head and looked around the room before turning his head back to face Campbell. “I’ll certainly consider your proposal. When do you need an answer?”
“We’ll need your answer as soon as you finish lunch. Both Hunt- ington and I want you to take this position starting October first because of your leadership abilities and our trust in you to keep sensitive matters from leaving your lips.”
“Where is the company based?”
“McLean, Virginia. However, we want you to set up an office in Geneva to monitor and manage our banking transactions periodi- cally, as well as run our training center near Williamsburg.” He thought this opportunity delivered several decisive advantages: lots of cash, a rewarding career, wars against terrorists, and personal enjoyment.
A few minutes later, he placed his fork and knife at the four
o’clock position on his plate. He looked at Campbell and smiled. “Sir, I accept the position.”
“Shane, one final thing. From this point on we’ll use code names when calling or emailing each other. My code name is Spotlight.”
He concluded his business, went downstairs to the bar and met Clyde. They walked to the bellhop station, and Dawkins retrieved his luggage from the security room. They left the hotel in Clyde’s rental vehicle and drove to
the Geneva International Airport. Two hours later their Gulfstream jet took off – bound for Baghdad, Iraq.
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Anbar Province, Iraq
n August 2005, on the road between Ramadi and Habbaniyah, a US Marine Expeditionary Force of seventy Marines headed east in convoy toward Fallujah. The temperature reached 115 degrees
Fahrenheit. Two Marine helo gunships covered the convoy from the air. Five Al-Qaeda terrorists observed their movements awaiting the moment when the lead Humvee would be within ten feet of the tele- phone pole alongside the highway. Hidden near the pole, covered by dirt and debris, laid an IED loaded with C-4 explosives, connected by wires to a remote detonator two hundred yards away.
When the lead Humvee reached the target, Abdullah Al-Suhaimy, a tall, muscular Arab man wearing a headband, black shirt, and jeans activated the detonator and watched the Humvee burst into flames. A few seconds later the explosion engulfed the second Humvee, killing Captain Ryan Sullivan. Most of the Marines in both vehicles burned to death. A few from the first Humvee managed to escape, though seriously burned. One terrorist fired his AK-47 assault weapon into the trucks, and another fired an RPG at the oil tanker, which burst into flames.
A plume of smoke shot into the sky as another terrorist activated another IED remotely from his cellphone, destroying the comms van
– instantly killing three comms operators. Several Marines died, and many suffered serious injuries. The other Marines took positions behind the remaining vehicles and returned fire. Four Marines ran into the desert sand parallel to the highway and fired back at the insurgents.
One Marine fired two rounds and hit another terrorist. He fell and yelled “Allahu Akbar” before he took his last breath. A Marine sniper fixed his aim at the back of another terrorist, squeezed the trig- ger, and the shot smashed into his head. Brains, blood, and skull frag- ments flew onto the desert sand.
A shot hit Abdullah’s right arm, but he managed to get to his motorcycle and take off. By using a short-cut, he arrived at a safe house located a mile from Al-Ramadi Hospital. He knocked three times, stopped, and waited five seconds, then lightly tapped twice. A young armed terrorist opened the door. There were four other men inside the living room.
He approached Ziad Kabbani, a short, thin man with a black beard. Abdullah was a rugged-looking Saudi man with jet black hair and beard, distinctive hook nose, and a scar etched along his right cheek and one above his eyebrow. “Allahu Akbar. Welcome back,” Ziad said in Arabic.
He held his right arm as blood seeped from the wound. “Allahu Akbar, my friend.” Ziad embraced him and kissed his cheeks. “Your wound looks serious. We’ll get a doctor.”
“It’s nothing. We must never stop the attacks until the Great Satan leaves our Muslim lands. We need more bombers ready to shed their life for Allah and Al-Qaeda,” Abdullah said.
Ziad approached two men in the room and handed each one a bag loaded with explosives, explosive vests, and devices. “My broth- ers, tomorrow you’ll become martyrs in Fallujah. Mohammed will open the gates of heaven for you, and seventy-two virgins will welcome you in their arms.” Ziad and Abdullah embraced both men. Everyone said, “Allahu Akbar” as they carried their large duffel bags out of the house. Ziad raised his hand and waved Abdullah to follow.
“Our cook has prepared some lamb kebabs, baba ghanoush, and coffee for you.”
“Our work is getting counter-productive. Al-Zarqawi is hurting our cause with the tribes. He’s killing innocent Muslim women and children.” He shook his head and clenched his teeth.
“Bin Laden’s courier left word we need to have a meeting with him and persuade him to change his tactics,” said Ziad.
“My Saudi brother, you keep making bombs, let me worry about the Jordanian asshole. If he continues on this path, I’ll slit his fucking throat.”
In September 2004, Ericksen joined Avanti BioSystems, a biomet- rics company that sold to the DoD, as vice-president, military affairs. Over the past year, he had spent much time in the Middle East super- vising training in the use of the technology. Ericksen’s team of biometrics trainers from Avanti BioSystems and the DoD’s Biomet- rics Task Force spent the next three weeks of August in Baghdad (The Green Zone) and Balad Air Base. Then set off to several US military bases in Afghanistan, training American, Coalition Forces, and contractors on the implementation of their systems.
His company had received a no-bid DoD contract to train them to execute the enrollment of both iris and fingerprints of foreign nationals and known or suspected terrorists’ via fingerprint scanners and hand-held iris scanning devices. The templates were sent into a Biometrics Automated Toolset that would capture and collect the data and electronically store them at the FBI’s West Virginia biomet- rics data center and the DoD’s Biometrics Fusion Center, for moni- toring and analysis. The critical analysis would occur at the National Counterterrorism Center, whereby if the analysts discovered that an individual was in the country, that person immediately would be placed on an international terrorist watch list. In the event any one of those individuals appeared anywhere in the world, the database would be available to all US government agencies; and other allied countries who would use Interpol. When a potential terrorist was stopped or arrested in Europe or North America for a misdemeanor or felony, and their biometrics ID in real-time matched those collected in Afghanistan or Iraq, they would be held indefinitely.
He had mixed emotions about returning to Afghanistan. On the one hand, leaving one-hundred-twenty degree heat in Iraq to a more tolerable ninety-five degree temperature was a benefit, but his memo- ries of Sadozai would create a challenge for him on his last stop – Kandahar.
In Bagram Air Base’s auditorium stood twenty trainers from Avanti BioSystems and the DoD, along with two hundred troopers and contractors. After they had watched a fifteen-minute video on the enrollment and verification process of the dual-biometrics system on the large screen, the lights came on. Ericksen stood at the podium and advised everyone to get in a line behind each trainer’s duty station and get hands-on experience with the technology.
He spent the next day at Kandahar International Airport’s joint military base, which consisted of US and NATO armed forces under the banner of the International Security Assistance Force (ISAF). After his company and the DoD group had completed training, he walked over to an Afghan Armed Forces building located at the mili- tary base for his scheduled meeting with Jannan Sadozai, Bashir Sadozai’s older brother.
His efforts to locate the family of Bashir Sadozai had taken a few years before the State Department and the Afghan government finally got back to him. Correspondence between both men started two months ago. He learned both Bashir and Jannan had spent most of their years in Quetta, Pakistan, during the Taliban occupation and they were close to some of Hamid Karzai’s inner circle. Bashir had trained as a journalist and Jannan as a teacher.
A British SAS major escorted him to the building. The Afghan soldier at the entrance waved them through. After signing in at the front desk, he was escorted by an Afghan to a room. The staffer intro- duced him to Jannan Sadozai, a man in his forties with a full dark beard and a knee-length shirt, a sheepskin cap, and baggy trousers. He reached out with his extended hand to shake Sadozai’s hand. After fifteen minutes of conversation, Ericksen stared into Sadozai’s eyes.
“Bashir was an excellent Bravo Team operator. His knowledge and Intel were crucial for our operations.”
Jannan tightened his jaw and moved around in his chair. “Mr. Ericksen, the Afghan Security Service claimed Bashir had been killed at close range by two bullets from a handgun – probably a 9mm.” He coughed nervously, placed his hand to his mouth, and asked, “How is that possible?”
The question surprised him. His mouth dropped a bit. “The Taliban ambushed us. They charged down the mountain from all sides, firing their AK-47s like a herd of goats on a stampede. Some of our brothers died during the exchange. I believe a Talib grabbed one of our Sig Sauer handguns, then sh
ot and killed Bashir at close range.”
Jannan’s facial expression froze for a few moments, deep in thought. “Thank you for the explanation. You cleared up some concerns I had.”
He wasn’t sure if Jannan believed him or not; he couldn’t muster the strength to tell him the truth. He removed his wallet and handed over twenty one-hundred-dollar-bills to Sadozai. “This is the least I can do to offer some assistance to Bashir’s widow and her children.”
“Mr. Ericksen, though I appreciate your good gesture, we can’t take it,” he said as he handed the money back to him. “Bashir and I are Pashtuns, and we’re proud people. We have endured over thirty years of war in our country. Someday we hope peace and freedom will grace our people’s hearts.”
He nodded, “I understand.”
“Bashir told me you’re a strong leader and a man of honor.”
He gave him his business card, took out a pen, and wrote his personal telephone number on the back of the card. “If you ever need help, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”
“It was kind of you to meet me,” Sadozai said. He stood, smiled, and reached into his pocket and gave him a photo of two girls. “This is a picture of Bashir’s daughters.”
He looked at the girls’ photo and smiled. “What are their names?” “Laila and Ranrha.”
“They’re precious. Thank you.” He clenched his teeth and tensed his jaw. He tried to hide his feelings but knew each time he looked at
the picture of the girls, the image of killing their father would generate a pain he could not stop. He had to find a way to help them. But how?
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