His cell phone rang, and he glanced at the ID. The name was blocked but the call came from America. Curious he answered. “Greetings. I am Hakim Chehab, minister of foreign affairs. I hope you are well this evening.”
“This is John Altman, U.S. Secretary of State. Thank you for taking my call.”
Why was the American diplomat calling him? Bashar was not giving up his leadership and would not succumb to outside pressure. “You are welcome. How can I assist you?”
“You can stop making plans for war with Israel.” Altman gave him a moment to process the information, then added, “Whatever Syrian money has been taken or is unaccounted for is the work of a hacker. The Israeli government was not involved.”
Relief, then anger threatened his composure. Hakim prayed for guidance. “How do I trust this? You’re Israel’s ally.”
“We have the hacker in custody, and we’re certain. We also have experts trying to locate the money. I’m happy to speak to President Assad in person, if he wishes.”
“I will pass the information along. Thank you for your call.”
For a moment, Hakim weighed his choices. If he kept this to himself, they had an opportunity to wage war with their enemy and reunite Syrians. Yet he remembered his initial relief at the news. He would call his cousin and tell him that Israel was not the thief. This would be the president’s decision.
Chapter 42
Sunday, May 12, 8:52 a.m.
Dallas took a seat in the conference room at the Redding bureau. Gibson was already at the table, and McCullen sat down as she did. She’d stayed at his place the night before—after a long day of debriefings and interrogations—and they’d driven in together that morning. As much as she would have enjoyed a sexual romp with him, it hadn’t happened. They had both been exhausted. And McCullen had been depressed about arresting his ex-girlfriend and learning her fingerprint matched a murder weapon. Not to mention discovering she was a sociopath.
“Good morning.” Gibson pushed a box of pastries toward her. “I owe you a nice breakfast, but this is the best I could do on short notice. The Washington bureau is going to call in a few minutes.”
Dallas thanked him, took a small muffin to be polite, and sipped her coffee. Still drained, she looked forward to napping on the plane later that afternoon. She needed some time off, but the Redding/Shasta area no longer appealed to her. She was thinking about a trip to Flagstaff after she checked in with her boss in Phoenix. Or maybe Maui. She hadn’t taken a real vacation in years.
“Your work on this case was commendable,” Gibson added.
“Thank you.” She disagreed, but she was smart enough never to argue with praise. “Have you heard any updates?”
“I questioned Emma Clayton last night about Tamara Slaney’s death, and she claims it was self-defense. She wants us to drop the charges in exchange for her testimony against Spencer Clayton.” Gibson glanced at McCullen, who sadly shook his head.
Dallas nearly choked on her disgust. She couldn’t believe she’d risked her life to save a scheming self-centered killer. She felt sorry for McCullen, who’d wasted years pining for Emma. “At least Spencer Clayton had the decency to let me go and tell me about the situation in the Middle East.” Why was she defending him? “But I hope he goes to prison. Did the tech people recover anything from his damaged computers?”
Gibson nodded. “They did indeed. He sent millions of fraudulent FDIC emails over a period of twenty-four hours. The DOJ is threatening him with treason charges as well. He’ll probably take a plea deal for financial crimes to avoid the treason trial.”
“Did he trigger a run on cash machines?” Dallas wanted to know. As of late the night before, they hadn’t heard an update, but the main effect of the financial trigger wouldn’t have happened until Monday morning, so the FDIC had all day to send out corrective emails and run public announcements.
“I haven’t heard.” Gibson didn’t look worried either.
The conference phone in the center of the table rang and grabbed their attention.
Gibson clicked a button, and a voice said, “This is Robert Palmer, director of the FBI.”
Gibson looked startled, then cleared his throat and introduced himself. “Thanks for calling, sir.” Gibson finally lost his grumpy look. He introduced Dallas and McCullen, then leaned back in his chair. “We hope you have good news for us.”
“I do. But first, let me congratulate all of you for the excellent work you did. You prevented hundreds of deaths from potential explosions and saved the economy millions of lost dollars. You’re all in line for promotions and a presidential award.”
Dallas was pleased she’d get a raise, but she planned to stick to undercover work. She was impatient to know the outcome. “Did any of the bombs go off?”
“A network exchange site in Reston, Virginia experienced an explosion, but only two people were in the building, and they only suffered minor injuries. Internet service in the region was disabled for thousands, but it’ll be repaired soon. With the help of the British MI6, we were able to intercept all the others before they reached their targets.” Palmer excused himself for a moment.
In the short break, Dallas met McCullen’s eyes and smiled. He’d done a great job with both cases, and she hated seeing him so down.
The FBI director came back on. “I also wanted to tell you that we have seven of the perpetrators in custody. One was killed in an attempt to stop him, and the one female bomber is still at large. But we know who she is, and we will find her.”
Dallas felt relief—and her first real sense of accomplishment. “What about Middle East diplomatic relations? Did we manage to avert a war?”
Palmer paused. “My understanding is that the situation is stable, but talks are still going on with Iran.”
“What about the money?” Dallas didn’t know the full extent of what Raff had done.
“Some has been recovered, but millions are still missing. The hacker hasn’t spoken a word since we moved him from the hospital to a federal detention center.”
“Why was he in the hospital?” McCullen asked.
Gibson cut in. “Spencer Clayton broke his hands so he couldn’t do any more damage online.”
The thought made her laugh. McCullen smiled too.
“That’s all I can tell you,” Palmer said. “And it’s all the time I have too. Thanks again for your excellent service.”
Later in the airport, Dallas checked her personal emails. Trevor had contacted her again, asking when he would see her. She started to delete it, then changed her mind. She’d been gone less than a week, she hadn’t cheated on him, and he was a good guy. Maybe she’d invite him to visit Flagstaff with her and see how it went. She hit reply and texted: I’ll be home soon. Call me tomorrow and we’ll have lunch.
That would make her shrink happy… for a while.
About the Author
L.J. Sellers is an award-winning journalist and the author of the bestselling Detective Jackson mystery/thriller series:
The Sex Club
Secrets to Die For
Thrilled to Death
Passions of the Dead
Dying for Justice
Liars, Cheaters & Thieves
Rules of Crime
Crimes of Memory
She also has four standalone thrillers:
The Trigger
The Baby Thief
The Gauntlet Assassin
The Lethal Effect
When not plotting murders, L.J. enjoys performing standup comedy, cycling, social networking, and attending mystery conferences. She’s also been known to jump out of airplanes.
Thanks for reading my novel. If you enjoyed it, please leave a review or rating online. Find out more about my work at ljsellers.com, where you can sign up to hear about new releases. —L.J.
hive.
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