by Barry Becker
n May 2006, Ericksen joined his former JSOC commander, Jeb Templeton, in The JW Marriott Hotel bar on Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington DC. The hostess seated them at a table,
and a waitress took their order. Over the next fifteen minutes, the two former JSOC officers brought each other up-to-date. Templeton had gone through a year and a half of rehabilitation and learned to use a prosthetic leg, and now worked as the deputy director for the DoD’s defense biometrics and forensics enterprise out of Arlington, Virginia.
Both men lifted their shot glass of bourbon. “Cheers.”
Templeton poured down his shot of bourbon in one gulp. “The CEO of EyeD4 Systems, an Oregon company involved in biometrics and encryption software, contacted me and asked if I could recom- mend anyone for the position of senior vice-president of marketing. I immediately thought of you.”
Ericksen’s eyes lit up and leaned forward. “I’ve heard about the company. If a good position opened up, I would move back to the Pacific Northwest in a heartbeat. If this startup offers me an excellent compensation plan, I’m all ears.”
For the next five minutes, He gave him an overview of the
company. It had been four years since Operation Daring Eagles, and he needed to ask Templeton a question that had always been on his mind. He appreciated his efforts in recommending him for his current job at Avanti BioSystems, as well as his first job, but didn’t want to talk to him about his PTSD. Did fear of being ridiculed by a former Delta Force Commander have something to do with it, or was it fear of losing his top security clearance and livelihood?
Ericksen had to know. He gritted his teeth. “Jeb, if you weren’t shot during Operation Daring Eagles, would you have killed Sadozai on Dawkins’ orders?”
“Hell yes! Shit, Rules of Engagement are one thing, but as a career Army Special Ops officer in the thick of battle, I would have been insane to challenge Dawkins’ orders.”
He leaned closer and asked, “What if you found out later that Dawkins lied about Sadozai being a Talib?”
Templeton’s jaw dropped. “What the fuck are you saying?” “There were no Agency intercepts. It was all a fucking lie.”
Templeton tensed up, his eyes staring at him. “Don’t tell me you have PTSD?”
“Hell no!” He replied, rubbing his hand against his chair.
Templeton shook his head. “Mark, let it go. We’ve both seen the horrors of war. No good can come of it.”
He thought about Templeton’s last words, “No good can come of it.” Templeton was right I couldn’t prove it because I had no witnesses, except Pulaski.
12
Banque Matthias Reiter SA
pon the death of one of his brothers in May 2008, Jurgen Reiter received a promotion to President and COO of the bank. The fifty-year-old banker wore a blue pinstriped
Italian designer suit and Testoni dress shoes, reflecting the meticu- lous taste of a man who rubbed elbows with the upper-class gentry. His neatly trimmed goatee and mustache looked perfectly in place. His fifth-floor executive office had a view of Lake Leman.
He handed an envelope over to Elizabeth Caldwell, an American businesswoman, who sat in a leather chair facing him. The attractive blonde in her early thirties, her curvaceous figure elegantly clothed in a Marc Jacobs purple suit and white silk blouse complemented by pearl earrings and necklace, placed the envelope into her black Louis Vuitton handbag.
“I have decided to retain Prentice and Aubert for our search,” he said in French.
She projected a professional air of confidence and smiled approv- ingly of his offer.
“Thank you, Mr. Reiter. You won’t be disappointed,” She said in French.
“Your reputation in placing top banking candidates is superb throughout Switzerland.”
“I’ll work on the search immediately.”
“Wonderful. Perhaps we can discuss your search over dinner sometime?”
She didn’t want to encourage the married banker to expect any additional benefits associated with an evening meal but knew she had a mission.
“Of course, once when we narrow it down to a handful of prospects, let’s set up a dinner.”
Reiter’s face lit up into a big smile as he confidently tilted his head back, “Talk to you soon.”
She left his office and took the elevator down to the lobby. When the elevator door opened, she stared at a man who looked familiar. The tall, slender man with the gray hair and mustache, glanced at his wristwatch, looked at her momentarily, and then moved to the side to let her and two other people exit the elevator. She hoped the man didn’t recognize her. She recognized him. His name was Sergei Ryzhkov, a former Russian KGB and SVR (foreign intelligence) Colonel, who had just retired from the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service. He had been in charge of the European Continent when she had met him in Berlin at a diplomatic party. Caldwell, who was fluent in German and French, was not your ordinary executive recruiter in Geneva. She worked for the CIA as a clandestine officer and a non- official cover officer (NOC), a spy. She had no diplomatic immunity, and if caught, she could be imprisoned in Switzerland.
From July 2000 to 2002, she had worked at the American
Embassy in Berlin. During that time she had dyed her hair brown and gone by the name of Betty Nichols. She had attended the International Institute for Management Development (IMD) in Lausanne in 2005 under her current name and graduated in 2007 in the top ten-percent of her class. Armed with an MBA, including a specialization in banking and finance, she joined a firm in Geneva.
After a year with a Swiss firm, she became manager of the Geneva branch operations of Prentice and Aubert, a New York executive recruiting firm and a shell company for the CIA.
13
he signage on top of the ten-story modern glass and steel office building in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, read: Al-Bustani Group of Companies. The building sat on five acres of beauti-
fully landscaped gardens with palm trees, exotic plants, and a water- fall. Their security cameras were positioned and installed at key placements throughout the building. The information desk on the lobby level was manned by two armed security men, and posted at each entrance were more security guards.
In the large conference room on the ninth-floor with bay windows overlooking the Red Sea, Khalid Al-Bustani, a tall, heavy-set man in his late forties, with black piercing eyes, a trim beard, and dressed in an impeccable white robe and headdress, stood in front of the conference table. Sitting around the elongated rosewood confer- ence table were the group’s managing directors. Khalid raised his pointer at his colleague, who was holding the company’s organiza- tional chart.
“I expect at least a ten percent increase in revenues from each of your companies by June 30, 2009,” Khalid said in English.
The managing director of Al-Bustani Construction Company raised his hand to speak. “We’ll exceed our forecast by twenty percent
once we officially receive the contract from the Ministry of the Inte- rior for the new National Police Headquarters project.”
“Don’t count your camels until you can smell their presence.” He looked around the table. “All of you are well compensated; however, if you don’t reach these goals, I’ll not only be disappointed, but you’ll no longer be working for me.”
The managing director of Al-Bustani Oil Exploration raised his hand. “Khalid, I would very much appreciate if you would join me at the upcoming oil summit in Dubai this fall.”
He moved closer to the man and asked, “What are the dates?” The man looked up at Khalid.
“September 15 and 16.”
He looked at his male secretary and nodded his head to write down the date. On the middle finger of his right hand, he wore a massive gold nugget ring with a raised 18-ct gold Arabian horse’s head on it. The Arabian horse’s head sat on a raised black onyx stone, with the best grade cut of diamonds on each side and etched below the horse’s head in sterling silver, the inscription Falcon Dancer.
“I’ll get ba
ck to you,” he said, as he placed some reports in his burgundy leather portfolio. “Now please excuse me, gentlemen, I have another meeting, and I can’t keep the Saudi Minister of the Inte- rior waiting. I’ll see you tonight at the restaurant.”
His Royal Highness, the Minister of the Interior, settled comfortably facing Khalid. Behind his desk, located five feet above on the wall, stood a photograph of his favorite Arabian horse, Falcon Dancer. Both men were drinking tea.
“Khalid, I would have given you anything to own your marvelous Arabian,” the Minister said in Arabic as he leaned back in his chair.
“Your Highness, there are a few gems I could never relinquish; Falcon Dancer was one of them.”
“I’ve known you and your family for most of my life, and without question, your construction firm is the best in the Kingdom. However, the new National Police Headquarters project is out for bid and my
older brother is pressuring me to award the project to one of his good friends.”
He pressed the intercom. “Please have Mr. Bullock come in.” A tall man in his late-fifties entered, with wavy silver hair, a sun-tanned face, and alert, piercing blue eyes. Vance Bullock preferred to wear business casual clothes, a white short-sleeved custom dress shirt, blue slacks, and Ferragamo brown loafers in hot climates. He held the title of CEO and managing director of The Bullock Group in Beverly Hills, California. They had offices throughout the world. He bowed his head to his Royal Highness. “It is always a pleasure meeting you, Your Highness.”
His Royal Highness smiled and nodded. “Mr. Bullock, I’m sure Khalid is deeply appreciative of your firm’s architectural talents since your firm has been in collaboration on projects in the Kingdom for many years.” Bullock nodded to the prince, then turned to Khalid. “He has an affinity for perfection, and in all fairness, Al-Bustani Construction Company workers exceed the highest level of quality craftsmanship in the world.” Bullock took another swig of water. “Allow me to show you this scale model of the new headquarters building project over here.” He motioned to both men to follow him to the large table near the flat screen television.
After ten more minutes of discussions on the merits of recom- mending Al-Bustani Construction for the project, Khalid said, “My new CFO has crunched the numbers for me,” and pressed the inter- com. “Have Ziad come in with the proposal.” He leaned over his desk and stared at the Minister.
Twenty seconds later, a handsome, clean-shaven man entered his office. Ziad exuded confidence as he made eye contact with the minister. “Your Highness, I would like to introduce you to Ziad Kabbani, my new finance manager.”
He bowed before the Minister of the Interior. “Your Highness, I’m honored to be in your presence,” Ziad said, and then handed the proposal to Khalid.
14
n the evening of April 2, 2009, outside General Mohammed Al- Jabr’s residence in Riyadh, four bodyguards armed with MP submachine guns secured access to his home from a command
and communications truck. As General Secretary of the National Security Council to King Abdullah, he could feel his responsibility to the King and the Kingdom increasing his stress levels. He picked up his secure landline and placed a call to Langley, Virginia.
“Hello, Mohammed,” Sullivan said.
Al-Jabr glanced at the picture on the wall of the Crown Prince and himself in his military uniform years before Crown Prince Abdullah became king.
“It has been awhile since we last talked. I have some urgent intel to share with you from one of my deep-cover officers. He infiltrated an Islamic Jihadist terrorist organization called The Red Sea Brother- hood a few years ago.”
“How secure is your phone?” asked Bill Sullivan, the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.
“Don’t worry; it’s secure. I just want to inform you the leader of this terrorist organization is a wealthy Saudi and is planning a nuke attack on two American cities.”
“What! Does he know where or when this is going to take place?” “Sometime this year.”
“How reliable is this information?”
“Quite certain. We trained our operative for his mission years ago, and the Al-Qaeda leadership holds him in high esteem.”
“Al-Qaeda!”
“Bin Laden sent him to Iraq the end of 2003 to fight along with the insurgents against the American and NATO forces.”
“What are the chances he’ll be able to provide us with the details?” asked Sullivan.
“I’ll be meeting with him on Monday, May 18, in Zurich.”
“Can you meet me in Lucerne the next day at the National Hotel?”
“For safety and security, I prefer a restaurant,” Al-Jabr said.
“All right, can you meet on top of Mt. Pilatus at eleven o’clock on Tuesday, May 19?”
“That’s fine. I almost forgot an important point. The mastermind is interested in acquiring biometrics communications security systems from EyeD4 Systems to manage operations with his sleeper cell leaders living in the United States. He heard their systems are classified, and only sold to the intelligence community. Do you use it?”
“Yes, we do. Thanks, General, for the intel. See you on May 19.”
This bastard is tech-savvy.
Sullivan picked up his landline and had his secretary connect him to the Agency’s procurement director. “Sir, the main person we deal with at EyeD4 Systems in Oregon is Mark Ericksen. Their systems are still in a beta-test mode, but are extremely reliable and deliver excellent performance. I’ve talked with several other people in the intelligence community, and they confirmed the same opinion. In fact, your chief of staff is picking up your new laptop computer with their classified suite of biometrics software and firmware next week.”
“I assume he has a top-secret security clearance?” “Affirmative, sir.”
Deputy CIA Director Susan Norstad was walking out of the CIA
cafeteria when her secure smartphone started ringing. “Hello, Director.”
“This is urgent. Please get me background information on Mark Ericksen, an executive at EyeD4 Systems in Wilsonville, Oregon.”
“Roger that, Bill.”
Pete Geiger, the Director of the FBI, sat at a table in a Tyson’s Corner Starbucks coffee shop along with two members of his security detail. While he was drinking his French roast, his secure smart- phone vibrated. Some people in the shop worked on their laptops, some talked on their cellphones, and others carried on conversations. On Geiger’s secure smartphone LCD screen appeared a text message: “Urgent: I need a dossier and a recent CV ASAP on Mark Erick- sen, an Executive VP at EyeD4 Systems in Wilsonville, Oregon.
Regards, Phantom.”
Sullivan had selected the code name of Phantom because he felt it symbolized a master spy’s journey into the shadows.
15
ricksen ran at a six-minute-mile pace on a treadmill at his health club, ClubSport, in neighboring Tualatin. After twenty minutes, he pressed cool-down and waited five
minutes to proceed to his typical exercise regimen, where he pumped iron and stretched. When in town he usually worked out four times a week, alternating between his exercise routine and his forty minute lap swim.
EyeD4 Systems had hired him in September 2006, after having conducted an executive search for a top-level executive with a top- secret security clearance, a successful track record within the US intelligence and defense establishment, and an extensive knowledge of biometrics. His MBA from the University of Virginia helped him, but Jeb Templeton’s recommendation sealed the deal, and he accepted the job offer.
He jumped into his new Porsche and drove to his Wilsonville, Oregon, office. He served as executive vice-president of marketing at EyeD4 Systems, a government, and defense contractor that designed, developed, and marketed biometrics technologies and AES-256 key length encryption software. Their technology products were used in sensitive physical access control environments requiring positive
identification of the individual by their unique biol
ogical charac- teristics.
Their dual-systems consisted of the iris and palm subcutaneous vein patterns. The company responded to the clients’ requests, whether their requirement was a single or dual biometrics systems approach. Currently, their palm subcutaneous vein pattern biomet- rics used for communications had entered into the last stage of the pilot program, funded to the tune of five million dollars by the United States Department of Defense and the intelligence community. Following one year of preliminary testing of five hundred units, they had transitioned into the beta-testing stage.
After spending two hours in his office, Ericksen walked over to the file cabinet and retrieved a file. He entered the hall, passed several departments, and approached a solid oak door that had an EyeD4 Access System control reader built into the wall next to the door. He leaned closer to the iris optical scanner, embedded in a camera-like apparatus, twelve inches away from his eyes, and looked straight into the mirror-like device which sensed his presence and activated the optical scanner. The light source scanned his eyes, illu- minated the patterns of his iris area, captured them in real-time, and did a pattern recognition match to his previously registered template in the database. Once they matched, and his identification authenti- cated, the process generated a Green LED: ID Confirmed.
Since their area was designated a Sensitive Compartmentalized Information Facility or SCIF by the Defense Security Services, they implemented both biometrics technologies to harden access to their SCIF. The first process took less than five seconds from the time Ericksen looked into the iris camera. The chance of a false acceptance, whereby a person not in the database could gain access, was roughly one in a million. Ericksen now placed his palm up, facing the palm subcuta- neous vein recognition system’s optical scanner. The motion from his palm activated the scanner in real-time and matched the live palm vein patterns to his previously registered template in the database. His identi- fication was authenticated, and a Green LED appeared: ID Confirmed.