by Barry Becker
he reached for his favorite coffee mug from the oak cabinets, then walked by the butler’s pantry, reached up, opened the liquor cabinet door, and took out a bottle of Puerto Rican rum. He poured the rum into the coffee mug and took a good swig. It bore the inscription Banque Matthias Reiter SA, Genève, highlighted in red and blue fonts along with a graphic of a Swiss flag.
He opened the sliding glass window that separated his living room from the patio, stepped out, and scanned over Biscayne Bay. He focused on the boats making bright patterns in their reflections. It was ten o’clock in the evening.
Pulaski went into his home-based office in his condo, sat down, and powered up his laptop computer. He punched in his passcode and waited for the images to appear on his high-definition monitor. While waiting for the desktop icons to appear, he glanced at the photo on the wall above the laptop. The photo showed eight men in full Special Operations Forces battle gear, giving a victory sign with an Afghan mountain range behind them. He nodded as in deep
thought as he recognized himself in the photo. He had spent thirteen years in the US Army, advancing from Airborne Ranger to the 75th Ranger Regiment, and finally to the elite Delta Force. In Afghanistan and Iraq, he was part of JSOC. When he left the service, he spent three years as a private security contractor in Iraq for the State Department. Besides being a smooth-talker, he could also be rude, which at times got him in trouble.
Pulaski developed an interest in computers and started his own business. In 2008, he set up a military surplus internet business, where he sold military clothing, pistol and rifle accessories, body armor, equipment, and technology on his website.
Suddenly, a big man with broad shoulders as wide as an NFL linebacker approached him from the shadows. Surprised and shocked, he turned and faced the man. “Colonel, what’s the problem, can’t you knock like any other decent, respectful person?”
Dawkins looked like a man you never wanted to cross or meet in a dark alley. If looks could kill, they belonged to him. A three-inch scar ran across his forehead, along with a boxer’s crooked, broken nose. He wasn’t the type Hollywood would cast as a leading man. The former Delta Force colonel’s ice-blue eyes locked in and stared at Pulaski, whose tense body sat behind the desk.
Dawkins moved a foot closer. “You fucked up! You took out a quarter-of-a-million bucks from our Geneva bank two weeks ago. I told you not to withdraw large amounts at a time.”
Pulaski looked up at him. “I needed the capital to grow my internet business. What’s the fucking big deal, sir? I flew to Geneva, spent three days there, withdrew the money, placed it in hidden bottom compartments of two of my hard-shell suitcases, and cleared customs in Miami without any problems.”
He shrugged and shook his head, “Asshole, I thought you knew better than to possibly leave a money trail for the Feds to discover our numbered accounts.”
Pulaski leaned back in his chair, his eyes wide open and his arms and hands raised. “Colonel, you have my word I won’t cause you any more problems.”
Standing ten feet away from him, He spoke, “Really Lech, we hacked into your computer.”
“Hacked?” Pulaski said as sweat began running down his forehead.
Dawkins shook his head. “You’re getting sloppy.”
Pulaski’s face turned ashen-gray as silence ruled his stone face. He didn’t like Dawkins’ tone or the fact that he broke into his condo.
“Any of our old war buddies get in touch with you lately?”
“Yeah, Fico Delgado called last Friday and wanted to get together.”
“Why would that fucking Cuban suddenly want to get together with you?”
“He’s flying in on Thursday suggested we have some drinks in South Beach…you know, chew the fat about the good old times.”
He got a little closer, his large head sporting a military crew-cut anchored by a muscular neck, and asked in his booming voice, “Did any other old buddies call recently?”
“No,” Pulaski said, as he looked away from Dawkins’ eyes. “You’re lying.”
Dawkins’ face turned red. “Why did that fucking SEAL Ericksen call you on Saturday?”
Sweat poured down Pulaski’s face, and his breathing became shallow.
“He wanted to get in touch with you. He said it was something important. I told him I didn’t know where you lived, and you were probably on a project somewhere overseas.”
Pulaski reached for his mug of rum, spilling some on his shirt. Dawkins tightened his jaw, narrowed his eyes, and his bushy eyebrows looked like they were almost touching the bridge of his nose. He turned away for a moment and then stared at him. “Did you forget Delgado was the fucking machine-gunner on the Apache who escorted the helo to Assadullah’s compound in Spin Bolak with the thirty million on board?” “That had to be seven years ago, and besides, he wasn’t aware of the deal you cut with the warlord because he was outside the compound with several other JSOC operators, weapons at the ready.
The only ones who knew were Sadozai, you, me, the warlord, his bodyguards, and Huntington.”
Dawkins’ large vein in his neck started bulging up and down, and Pulaski realized his life was in danger. He knew him well. They had been on several contract hits together, and he recognized the signs. He had to think fast. With some luck he might be able to reach for the Colt .45, he hid in his desk drawer and shoot Dawkins before he got killed.
“You stupid shit, Fico is with the CIA and works at the National Counterterrorism Center. Who knows, he might be in touch with Ericksen. We can’t afford to have Ericksen asking questions, espe- cially about Sadozai.”
Dawkins slammed his fist against the wall and yelled, “That fucking former SEAL is the last person I want to meet again!” His voice filled with rage. “If he pushes his luck he’ll meet the same fate I have in store for you.” At that moment he removed the 9mm Makarov pistol with extended suppressor from his windbreaker and aimed it at Pulaski.
Dawkins’ eyes narrowed, and his face tensed up as he suddenly flew into the zone, like a leopard stalking a gazelle, knowing in a matter of seconds death will be final.
Pulaski’s adrenaline kicked in as his hand reached, opened the top right desk drawer, grabbed the Colt .45 handgun, and squeezed the trigger. His face turned ashen-white, his eyebrows raised in tandem to his wide-opened eyes and mouth, when he realized in a fraction of a split-second that his gun didn’t have any bullets. He was in shock.
“Surprised? Goodbye, buddy,” said Dawkins, as he fired two bullets into Pulaski five feet away. His blood oozed out of his forehead and chest. Brain tissue and skull fragments splattered on the carpet, the wall, and the desk, as his body slammed against the credenza, before hitting the carpet with a thud.
After rummaging throughout the condo, he found a suitcase with ninety-five thousand dollars in packets of one hundred dollar bills. He also opened up his wallet and took several hundred dollars in cash, his Rolex watch, gold bracelet, and the Banque Matthias Reiter
SA mug. The scene had the makings of a burglary gone badly. He placed a black wig over his head, put on a fake black beard, and aviator prescription glasses over his eyes. He closed the door to the condo, suitcase in hand, and entered the elevator.
After leaving the building, he walked two blocks, turned around to make sure nobody followed, crossed the street, went into an alley for a brief minute, removed his black wig and beard, took off his light jacket, and placed all of them in a laundry-type bag. He walked another block before he jumped into his parked Ford SUV, threw the laundry bag and suitcase in the back seat and drove away. Shane Dawkins, ex–Delta Force colonel, had just added another kill to his resume. He picked up his Blackberry and made a call.
“Timberwolf, what’s up?” Sheridan demanded.
“Raven lost his wings tonight. Check the worldwide airline reser- vation database for anything on Ericksen, especially international travel.”
“Affirmative.”
18
Geneva, Switzerland
/> ricksen finished breakfast, placed his laptop in security at his Metropole Hotel, and left for his scheduled meeting three kilometers away. He crossed the bridge from the old
town of Geneva and walked along the promenade until he reached the Musée d’Histoire des Science. The park had beautiful botanical gardens, statues, trees, and trails alongside Lake Leman. He looked at his watch and walked one-hundred-meters from the museum to a bench under a tree. Five minutes later, he watched as a man approached the bench and sat beside him. “Hi, Mark.”
Ericksen shook his hand. “Should I call you Dex or Dave Jacobson?”
“Dave will do for now. Fico informed me about the Spin Bolak warlord operation and the probable reason Dawkins ordered you to kill Sadozai. I heard the communications between you and Dawkins, but it would have been a no-win situation for both of us if I came forward. I’m terribly sorry.”
“I understand,” he nodded. “Fico indicated you could help me.”
“Listen up. What I’m going to tell you must be kept in the strictest confidence; otherwise, our operations could be jeopardized.”
“Go on.”
“We are privy to a DoD criminal investigation involving four Army contracting officers who received kickbacks from defense contractors and some Iraqi ministry officials. We’re talking about millions of dollars. We think Dawkins deposited the monies into a Swiss private numbered account in Geneva during 2003 through August 2004 while still on active duty. We believe he continued his agenda when he joined Stealth Dynamics. Anyway, the four men were murdered.”
“Murdered?”
“Several witnesses claimed to have seen Dawkins and Pulaski with them on numerous occasions.”
Ericksen shook his head and clenched his teeth.
“Dawkins has been seen in the company of Jurgen Reiter, the President, and COO of Banque Matthias Reiter SA, in Geneva. We’re planning an operation to penetrate this bank’s private numbered accounts and hopefully collect evidence to put him away for a long time.”
“I wish I could help,” said Ericksen.
“Have you sold any of your biometrics systems to banks yet?”
“No. Even if my distributor approached their security director and pitched our access control system tomorrow, it could take a year before they made a decision.”
“We’ve also uncovered information on one individual who was formerly a high-ranking State Department official who works with Dawkins or is his boss. I’m not at liberty to reveal his name. Just be careful.”
They stood for a minute and then walked away in different direc- tions. Unbeknownst to them, a man in a jogging outfit partially hidden in the shadows of the brush near the museum took several photos of them from his telephoto lens camera.
19
Berlin, Germany
light drizzle fell on the city while the clouds overhead grew darker. At six in the morning, Ericksen wearing his jogger’s outfit and a Seattle Seahawks wool skull cap, maintained a
comfortable six minute mile pace in the Tiergarten, the large urban park in central Berlin. He passed through the large beech and oak trees that hugged the path as he enjoyed his interlude with nature.
After forty minutes, he slowed down as he passed the Branden- burg Gate. He felt exhilarated as his breath mingled with the chilly air. He wasn’t concerned about his wet jogging outfit, or the brisk temperature, which read forty degrees Fahrenheit, just feeling alive and rejuvenated because today held a great opportunity for his company.
After entering the Hotel Adlon Kempinski, on Unter den Linden 77, Ericksen picked up his laptop computer in hotel security, rode the elevator to the eighth-floor, and walked down the hallway to his room. Diplomats, Heads of State, and foreign intelligence officers preferred staying at this elegant hotel. It was located one block from the Brandenburg Gate and two blocks from the American Embassy.
Upon entering, he took off his wet outfit, opened the shower door, and enjoyed a long hot, steamy shower. After he had cleaned up, he put on his shorts and began his morning meditation ritual with his mantra, Mt. Olympus.
Thirty minutes later his secure smartphone started ringing. “I’ve changed your hotel reservation – you’re booked in the Devonshire Hotel for two nights. I’ve arranged for a driver to meet you at Heathrow. After you clear customs, he’ll hold a sign with the name Mr. Tisdale on it. The man will drive you to your hotel. In the morn- ing, look for a black Jaguar, license plate number GB49 DSR. The driver will pick you up at 0800 sharp in front of the hotel and drive you to Vauxhall Cross,” the voice said with a British accent and authority.
He heard another couple of rings from his hotel room phone, “Hello.”
“It’s Roger. How did your meetings go with the Swedish Ministry of Defense?”
“Quite good. I’ll fill you in when I get back.” “Okay. Good luck with the German government.” “Thanks. See you soon.”
He picked up his television remote, clicked on power and scrolled down to the BBC News channel. Breaking news appeared on the screen as the BBC news anchor read the headlines from a teleprompter: “American Army sergeant charged with killing an innocent Afghan civilian.”
Ericksen’s face turned pale, his heart started racing, and he lost his composure. The headlines triggered a painful memory as his thoughts raced back in time to that terrible April day in 2002: Watching Bashir on his knees begging for his life, and a second later staring down at him as his lifeless, bloody body lay on the ground.
I’ve killed many terrorists without batting an eye but killing Bashir numbed my heart and my soul. I feel as if my compassion for humanity lost its moral compass.
Ericksen inhaled deeply to the count of four, exhaled to the count of four and continued for four minutes. He said his mantra, Mt. Olympus, several times and regained his composure. Mt. Olympus
had made a big impression on him while growing up in the Seattle area. During the summer, he and his best friend would hike the Olympic Mountain Range. They set up their tents and camped at Elk Lake. Mt. Olympus’s peak overshadowed the other mountains. It generated inspirational feelings of tranquility for him.
After he had finished breakfast in the hotel dining room, he glanced at his sports watch, which read 9:00 am. He wrote his room number on the check, stood up, left the dining room and walked to the lobby, where he put his laptop computer into security. Leaving the hotel lobby dressed in a casual sports shirt, a Columbia Sports- wear windbreaker, sneakers, and jeans, he decided to spend the next five or six hours as a tourist in Berlin.
At four-thirty, as he exited the hotel door dressed in a conserva- tive dark blue suit, tie, a khaki-colored trench coat and carrying a leather briefcase in his right hand, the hotel doorman offered him an umbrella. “Thank you,” Ericksen said, walking under the red elon- gated hotel canopy, taking a deep breath and exhaling.
A black Audi sedan with Munich plates pulled up to the curb. The Germans must have inherited a gene dedicated to punctuality like a clock that never seemed to miss a beat. He recognized the big, burly driver with the large, full-head of brown hair graying at the temples as Heinrich Kruger. Kruger gave him a nod as he got into the passenger seat, closed the door and drove away.
A few minutes later, they pulled up to the well-fortified Bauhaus- designed German Federal Ministry of the Interior building at Alt- Moabit 101D. The imposing twin structures overlooked the Spree River. The complex had German Federal Police checking vehicles upon entrance to the main gate of the ministry. Their car pulled over, and two federal police officers inspected it. After receiving a permit, they placed it on the dash, parked the Audi, and walked to the front of the government building.
A federal police officer asked for ID. He produced his American passport and Kruger his German passport, a photo ID, and his German government’s approved contractor ID. One of the officers waved Kruger to an iris biometrics device mounted on the wall next to the security officer’s console. Kruger looked into the mirror-like
optical reader and t
he system scanned his iris. On the reader screen appeared the word: ID Bestatigt (German for confirmed). He then placed his palm up about three inches from the optical reader, held it for a few seconds as the scanner read his unique palm subcutaneous vein patterns. On the reader screen appeared the word: ID Bestatigt.
He smiled and gave Kruger the thumbs-up sign. He felt a sense of pride in observing his company’s dual-biometrics access control system in operation at the ministry. Ericksen thought to himself; today might be my lucky day. They signed in, received badges, and walked over to the metal detector. They took out all of their coins and keys and placed them in a bowl, along with their laptop computers, and proceeded through the metal detector. They were met by a well- dressed woman in her late forties, a senior administrative-type, who escorted them toward a bank of elevators. They entered an elevator and got off on the sixth floor.
Ericksen appeared cautiously confident that the German govern- ment was going to order a large number of EyeD4 Access Systems; otherwise, he thought, why the invitation for the meeting, at least that’s what Kruger had been telling him. The woman approached the door to the conference center, placed her proximity card over the scanner, and the door immediately opened. Ericksen and Kruger walked into the conference room. Standing near the conference table were the same five men, all dressed in suits, that Ericksen had met a year earlier when he pitched his systems. The only addition to the group was a heavy-set, short man with bushy eyebrows and a beard, wearing a dark blue sports jacket.
At the head of the conference table sat a short, bespectacled slim man of sixty, with a gray beard and bald head. Ericksen remembered him as the key man he had met last year. His badge read: Dieter Hartmann, the director of procurement, German Ministry of the Interior. The other men’s badges listed only their first names and their departments: BfV, for the protection of the constitution, German version of NSA; GSG9, the counterterrorism and special operations unit of the German Federal Police; BPOL, the German Federal Police; and the BKA, German Federal Criminal Investiga- tions, German version of the FBI. The sixth man’s badge signified he