The Ericksen Connection

by Barry Becker

  Omar lifted his smartphone out of his pocket, punched in his code, glanced at the LCD, and immediately pressed End. A minute

  later, people heard a phone ringing again. Everyone picked up their smartphone, checked, and then turned toward Omar’s direction. They noticed him shut off his smartphone. Abdullah chuckled and asked, “Omar, it’s your phone. A girlfriend calling?” Several sounds of laughter followed in the salon.

  Omar’s voice quivered. “No, it’s a wrong number.” “Come up here and show me,” Khalid said.

  He moved slowly toward where Khalid stood, his face tense with fear. Omar gave the smartphone to him. Khalid activated the smart- phone. Seconds later a message symbol appeared on the LCD. Belter- mann and Abdullah stood up and were now on each side of Omar.

  Khalid pressed number one and looked at the screen. The caller ID appeared. On the LCD the display read American Consulate, Jeddah. “American Consulate!” Khalid said in a rage. His eyes focused on

  Omar.

  “I have never spoken to anybody at the American Consulate,” Omar said nervously. Sweat ran down his cheeks. He tensed up, visibly shaken, and appeared in fear of his life. Khalid pressed the start button on the smartphone and listened to the recording:

  “Hello, Omar, it’s urgent. Please meet me at the Jeddah Hilton tomorrow morning at 0700 hours. We have some more cash for you. Please be careful. Cobra.”

  Beltermann and Abdullah held each of Omar’s arms tightly. He yelled, “No! No!” Khalid pulled out a large knife and plunged the knife into Omar’s heart. He gasped for air, bleeding, and hit the deck. A few seconds later he died.

  Al-Bustani turned to the captain. “Start the engines and take the boat fifteen kilometers out. He pointed to Beltermann, “In an hour throw this pig overboard.”

  He turned back to his men. “Our future is soon to be in our hands. Praise be to Allah for guiding the Red Sea Brotherhood on the path to re-establish the caliphate to rule the Arabian Peninsula.”

  “Allahu Akbar.”

  36

  djoining the Portland International Airport on the south side is the Oregon Air National Guard’s Portland facility. Two men escorted Hamilton up the airstairs and into the

  CIA G550 Gulfstream Jet, next to the hangar. He took a seat and faced a 30-inch, flat screen monitor attached to the bulkhead. A few moments later Director Sullivan appeared on the screen.

  “Good morning, Mr. Hamilton. Have you been briefed on the subject of this meeting?”

  “Yes, Director. If Mr. Ericksen left at this time our business would be severely impacted.”

  “This mission is critical to our national security. Most of your company’s sales revenue is generated from government contracts, and I’m sure you want to continue with that revenue stream.”

  Hamilton’s face turned pale as if he got spooked by a bear while on a hiking trail in the forest.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m glad you understand the gravity of his mission to our coun- try. His employment status hasn’t changed, only his cover. This mission is classified as top secret.”

  “We’ll do whatever it takes to support the mission, sir.”

  A senior CIA man, in his late-forties, sat next to him. “My staffer has some additional comments for you to consider. Thanks for your support.”

  “Mr. Hamilton, we would like to provide you with the name of a major venture capital group in Silicon Valley. Some of the companies they invest in do sensitive work for our agency. The lead partner of the firm would like to meet with you to discuss investing a substantial amount of money into your company.” The staffer gave Hamilton a four-page report on Jefferson and Schonfeld Ventures.

  “I appreciate the interest, but I don’t want to bring in any venture capital.”

  “You might want to seriously rethink this opportunity because when this mission is completed, Ericksen will resign from your company unless you get funding.”

  Hamilton’s face turned ash-white. “Ericksen told you he would resign?”

  “Yes, he did. He is the driving force of your company. With his credentials, his top-secret security clearance, his relationships with the procurement officers of our U.S. agencies, the DoD, and international governments. What I’m saying is your company might not survive another six months if he resigned.”

  Hamilton stood and walked toward the airstairs.

  “Mr. Hamilton, EyeD4 Systems is your company; however, you might want to explore an opportunity with Cyberburst Communica- tions out of Palo Alto, California. The company generates a signifi- cant amount of business within the intelligence community.” He gave him the CEO’s business card and continued, “Poul Kastrup has confided in us an interest in possibly acquiring EyeD4 Systems. We recommend you explore this opportunity. It might be in your best interests.”

  Hamilton descended the airstairs and glanced at Ericksen approaching the jet, carrying two suitcases. They looked at each other without a smile. Hamilton finally spoke, “Good luck.”

  37

  ricksen was escorted to the CIA Director’s Office on the 7th floor. An Agency psychiatrist, Deputy CIA Director Norstad, Director of the National Clandestine Service Sheridan and

  Ericksen sat facing CIA Director Sullivan.

  “After you left the Navy, did you ever experience PTSD?” asked the psychiatrist.

  “Yes, being tormented by nightmares. The majority of the inci- dents revolved around a JSOC mission called Daring Eagles. In April 2002, under orders from my Deputy Task Force Commander, he claimed, based on Agency intercepts, that our Afghan intelligence officer, Sadozai, was a Talib. He ordered me to kill him. When I came back to the Bagram Air Base, Dex, an Agency Special Operations Group Officer, told me the deputy task force commander lied to me. Nate Sheridan can confirm that meeting.”

  Sullivan turned to Sheridan. “Affirmative.”

  Ericksen continued, “I have been living every day with the memory of knowing I killed an innocent Bravo Team member.”

  “I understand how you feel,” said Sullivan.

  “After I left the Navy, I knew if I divulged my PTSD I wouldn’t be hired for the two defense contractor positions offered to me.”

  “True. Who was the commander who ordered you to kill Sadozai?” Sullivan asked.

  “Colonel Shane Dawkins.”

  Sullivan shook his head and sighed. “He served as our military attaché in Riyadh when I was chief-of-station. The last I heard, he ran Stealth Dynamics’ recruitment and training.”

  “That’s the same guy.”

  “Did your psychologist, Dr. Holtzman, treat you?”

  Ericksen tensed up. “Sir, you spooks amaze me. Yes, he did.”

  “We need to know all about you,” Sullivan said, as the intercom on his desk rang. “Yes.”

  “Ms. Caldwell has arrived,” the chief of staff said. “Have her come in.”

  Caldwell entered the room. “Elizabeth, I would like to introduce you to Mark Ericksen, our agent for this mission.” Caldwell and Ericksen glanced at each other, nodded, and shook hands. She nodded to the other executives in the room.

  “Please take a seat next to Mark.”

  The psychiatrist asked, “Tell us about your treatment please.”

  “In 2003, I went to a shrink in Virginia who provided me with several experimental drugs and therapy. After five months, there wasn’t any improvement.”

  “When did you start receiving treatment from Dr. Holtzman?”

  “I started in 2006 after I joined EyeD4 Systems. Dr. Holtzman provided me with Prolonged Exposure Therapy treatment, and I began to improve.”

  “Have the treatments alleviated your PTSD?”

  They need to know the truth. “Almost. Every once in a while an inci- dent might trigger my memory of those events; however, it hasn’t had any detrimental effects on me.”

  Caldwell leaned toward him and asked, “Really, what kinds of events?”

  “Flashbacks. Bashir on his knees begging for his life.”
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  She moved closer to Ericksen. “We’ll be working together in Switzerland.”

  “Elizabeth is a NOC, (a non-official-cover CIA officer). She has no immunity from prosecution if caught as a spy in Switzerland,” Sullivan said.

  He handed her a large envelope. “This is the information you requested on my company.”

  Sullivan cracked his knuckles, interrupting the flow of their conversations. “Tomorrow you’ll start a three-day refresher course at the Farm. We have high regard for members of SEAL Team-Six, so your refresher course shouldn’t be too difficult. The focus will be on surveillance detection, close quarters combat, tradecraft, and some weapons training. We’ll plan on seeing you back here on Friday morning at nine.” Ericksen nodded.

  Caldwell chuckled, “They placed you under Clint’s care in close- quarters combat. Be careful; he sometimes gets too rough with recruits.”

  Ericksen didn’t know in what capacity he would be working with her in Switzerland, but he felt her smart-ass antics would be a chal- lenge for him. He thought she had an amazing resemblance to the actress, Elizabeth Banks, who played Laura Bush, in the Oliver Stone movie W, he saw recently. It was hard not to glance at her stunning beauty, a real ten. Sullivan walked Ericksen to the door, where he was met by a CIA security guard who escorted him back to the elevator.

  Sullivan glanced back at Caldwell, the psychiatrist, and the other senior executives of the Agency. “What do you think?”

  The Agency psychiatrist leaned forward. “The challenges he deals with every day from PTSD and the recent traumatic brain injury he suffered in the hotel bombing are a concern, sir. However, as they say, ‘every cloud has a silver lining.’ I believe the treatment he has received over the past three years has significantly helped him. He strikes me as intelligent, and a mentally tough individual. SEALs are trained to compartmentalize missions. I believe Ericksen can perform the task,” said the psychiatrist.

  “We’re up against the clock. He’s our best bet.”

  Caldwell leaned toward Sullivan, “I hope you’re right, sir.” The red phone rang, and Sullivan picked it up.

  “This is Mohammed. We wiretapped a call in Jeddah at approxi- mately thirteen hundred hours on May 7; it came from Columbia, Maryland, to Khalid’s Swiss satphone. The phone number was from area code (301) 730-8976.”

  “That would be about six o’clock in the morning here. Thank you, Mohammed.”

  Off the greens from a safe distance of fifty yards stood two security guards who kept a watchful eye on their boss at the River Creek Club Golf Course in Leesburg, Virginia. Campbell adjusted his swing and teed off on the fourth hole with a two hundred yard drive. Dawkins came up to the tee, concentrated on the ball, swung, and drove it two hundred sixty yards.

  “Great shot!”

  “I was lucky, sir.” “We’ll follow up.”

  As they got into the cart, Campbell turned to Dawkins. “When will you begin your security consulting business?”

  “I just leased some space in Alexandria and will launch the busi- ness in September.”

  “You did very well at Stealth Dynamics.”

  “Thanks to you, sir. We consummated a lot of contracts. I would like you to share in some of those profits from the last two contracts.”

  “Shane, once I accepted Ridgeway’s offer to become Director of National Intelligence, I didn’t dare to take any more payoffs without becoming a visible target for the Agency. I could never embarrass and jeopardize my friendship with my old college buddy.”

  Dawkins walked to the next hole. “Understood, sir.” He lined up his ball and drove it two hundred fifty yards. Campbell squared off and hit his shot into the sand trap.

  “In fact, the Treasury Department’s new efforts are putting the Swiss banking industry under a watchful eye. They’re demanding the

  banks cooperate and release the names of Americans who have secret numbered accounts. Tax evasion is a serious crime. If the banks don’t comply, the Feds will impose heavy fines and threaten criminal pros- ecution. We must be more careful now,” Campbell said.

  “Don’t worry; our assets are protected by Reiter’s bank. We’re fortunate our Defense Department lacks the ability to conduct reli- able audits in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

  “At least ten billion dollars of US government cash has been airlifted to Iraq and Afghanistan over the years to pay ministries and contractors, and our government doesn’t even know where it is. Audi- tors working for the Iraqi and Afghanistan Reconstruction efforts are still conducting an investigation to try and find the cash.”

  They arrived at the sand trap. Campbell got out of the cart. He walked to his ball, and then turned to Dawkins. “How reliable is Reiter?”

  “Reiter enjoys his lifestyle and knows what would happen if he jeopardized our privacy,” Dawkins said.

  Campbell had heard rumors about how Dawkins terminated people who created problems for him. He measured the distance and hit the ball out of the sand trap. It rolled within ten-feet of the green.

  “Good shot.”

  “If we’re smart we should transfer our accounts to the Grand Caymans or some other safe offshore haven.”

  Dawkins smiled. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.” The men got back into their golf cart and drove to the next hole, followed by Campbell’s security guard detail.

  38

  he interrogation of Evan Chiu, a Chinese-American, had begun several hours earlier at FBI Headquarters. Chiu had sweat running down his face. A small table separated Chiu

  from the FBI agent. “We have information you made a call at six o’clock in the morning on May 7 to Saudi Arabia.”

  “No, not me! A club member asked if he could use my cell phone to call his wife. Naturally, I gave it to him since he said it was a local call. The next day, while checking my cellphone, I noticed someone called Switzerland.”

  “Can you give me his name and address?”

  “Of course; his name is George Rodriquez. The club also has a photo of him too.”

  “Fine.”

  Four hours later, an FBI SWAT team knocked on the door with their weapons drawn. A man about seventy-five-years-of-age, dressed in pajamas, answered the door. The SWAT team barged into the home. The old man, struck with fear, yelled in broken English, “I don’t understand.”

  “Is Mr. Rodriquez here?” “He doesn’t live here.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “I don’t know. He gave me his cell phone number to call if I received any of his mail.” Growing impatient, the FBI SWAT commander barked an order, “What’s the number?”

  “703-555-0088. Is anything wrong?”

  “Can’t discuss it. Now get dressed – you’re coming with us.” The FBI SWAT commander picked up his secure phone. “Run this cell- phone number down 703-555-0088.”

  At FBI Headquarters’ communications center, a tech operator inputted the number 703-555-0088 and highlighted it on the monitor. Rapid scrolling of cell phone numbers displayed the 703 area codes on the computer. Twenty seconds later:

  “We have a hit. The number belongs to Marwan Haidar. I’ll get some background on him right now,” said the FBI Counterterrorism Center IT supervisor.

  “Good work,” the FBI SWAT Commander replied.

  A few minutes later, the IT supervisor placed a call. “Sir, this is unbelievable. Mr. Haidar works for us. He is the manager of the FBI Arabic language linguistics/translations group at the National Coun- terterrorism Center.”

  At two o’clock in the morning the telephone rang at the George- town home of FBI Director Geiger. He and his wife were sleeping. After five rings, Geiger awoke. He tossed a few times and reached for his secure landline phone on the seventh ring. “Hello!”

  “Sorry to bother you, sir, at this hour. His real name is Marwan Haidar. He is with the FBI’s Arabic linguistic desk at the NCTC.”

  “Holy shit!”

  39

  Office of the Director of National Intelligence

 
ampbell, Geiger, Lucas, and Sullivan and their staff were around a conference table in a secure, bubble room at the ODNI headquarters. “Apparently a member of our delega-

  tion contacted the NCTC from Hurghada, and somehow Haidar got wind of the change of hotels,” Geiger said.

  “An FBI Arab linguist. Pete, the president is going to go nuts on this one. I hope you’re dusting off your resume,” Campbell said.

  Sullivan cupped his hand on his chin and glanced at Geiger. “All is not lost. The Saudi spy who works for General Al-Jabr has been right-on with the Intel.”

  “We’ll place Haidar on 24/7 surveillance and conduct wiretapping.”

  Campbell stood up and gestured to his staff, waving his right hand. “I would appreciate it if everyone would leave the conference room now. I need to talk with the principals in private.”

  Everyone left the room except Geiger, Lucas, and Sullivan. “I went over Ericksen’s dossier, and I’m quite impressed with his background and current experience for this urgent mission,” Lucas said. His

  endorsement didn’t surprise Sullivan or Geiger. They knew Hank Lucas had a special admiration for special ops warriors.

  Lucas had spent twenty-seven years in the US military, retiring as a major general, and many of those years were in special forces command posts.

  Campbell, always prone to contrary views, had a sour expression on his face. “I seriously doubt if Al-Bustani is going to swallow Erick- sen’s pitch given his mental state.”

  Sullivan turned and faced Campbell. “Steve, he is the only one that has the credibility to this mission. Khalid Al-Bustani has already determined his operation needs this level of communication security.”