The Archangel Project

by C. S. Graham

  Jax grinned. Matt wasn’t a fan of California. “So who’s this guy?”

  “His name’s Ed Devereaux. He’s a priest now. Lives in Silver Spring up in Maryland. He only agreed to do it because he used to work with Youngblood. I had to tell him everything we know about the prof’s death.” He handed Jax another address. “This is the information on Fitzgerald’s ex. She’s a scholar at the Foundation for a Freer Society on South Glebe Road.” Matt gave Jax a hard look. “So what’d the Director want?”

  Jax turned toward the door. “He said I’m doing a helluva job and to keep it up.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  Jax laid a splayed hand across his heart and opened his eyes wide in a parody of innocence. “Would I do that?”

  “Yes.”

  59

  October was clutching a big Nordstrom bag when Jax picked her up from Tysons Corner, then headed toward South Glebe Road. “We can’t meet with the remote viewing guy until two-thirty,” he told her, “which gives us time to talk to Sadira Gazsi first.”

  “Who?”

  “Paul Fitzgerald’s ex. She’s a scholar at a local think tank.”

  October hugged the Nordstrom bag to her chest and stared longingly into the distance. “I found this great little pink sundress on sale. I was thinking I’d get a chance to change my clothes. Maybe even take a shower.”

  “You look fine,” he said, although it was a lie. She looked like she’d spent the last thirty-six hours being chased through storm-wrecked neighborhoods and jetting around the country.

  Amusement crinkled her eyes. “I look like shit.” She sighed and set the bag aside. “Why should this Sadira Gazsi talk to us?”

  “Because we’re going to tell her we’re from the FBI and we’re investigating her husband’s disappearance.”

  “But he’s dead.”

  The light at the intersection turned green and Jax hit the gas. “You think she knows that?”

  The Foundation for a Freer Society stood near the intersection of Arlington Boulevard and South Glebe Road. Jax parked his BMW on the outer edge of the think tank’s lot. He always liked to minimize the potential for contact with banging doors and bumping baby carriages.

  “You didn’t tell me she was Dr. Sadira Gazsi,” said October when they were in the brass and teakwood elevator on their way up to the foundation’s fourth floor. “What’s her Ph.D. in?”

  “Political science. Georgetown. She came here as a child after the fall of the Shah back in the late seventies. Her father was some bigwig in the SAVAK.”

  “Yikes,” said October. The SAVAK was the Shah’s secret police force. Set up by the CIA back in the fifties and trained by the Israeli Mossad, the SAVAK were modeled after Hitler’s SS. Journalists, academics, and labor leaders were their favorite targets, although their spies were everywhere. No one was safe from the SAVAK’s long, bloody reach. Their brutal, grisly torture of men, women, and children had continued unchecked for more than twenty years. “Sounds like a scary lady.”

  “She’s not her father. She wrote her doctoral dissertation on U.S. funding of right-wing dictatorships and its contribution to radicalism and terrorism in the modern age.”

  “You’re kidding. So what was she doing married to a guy like Fitzgerald?”

  “She married him when she was working on her master’s and he was in ROTC. She went back to graduate school after the divorce.”

  October regarded him with something close to horror. “My God. How do you know all this stuff?”

  He bounced his eyebrows up and down and leaned toward her to say in a heavy fake accent, “Vee have our vays.”

  Dr. Sadira Gazsi was a tall, slim woman somewhere in her thirties, elegantly but quietly dressed in an unstructured silk jacket and straight skirt. She was typing at her computer when a secretary showed them in, but she paused and swung toward them with a smile that faltered at the sight of Jax’s FBI credentials.

  “Missing?” she said, looking from Jax to October when he explained the reason for their visit. “Paul?”

  Jax tucked away his FBI badge and assumed a serious expression nicely blended with compassion and concern. “I’m afraid so, ma’am. When was the last time you heard from him?”

  Dr. Gazsi put up one hand to her forehead and sucked in a breath that shook her chest. “Last Friday, I guess. He usually calls the boys every weekend.” She hesitated, then added, “We have two sons.”

  Jax nodded in sympathy. “Any idea where your ex-husband might have gone?”

  “Me? No. You’d have better luck with the people he works for.”

  “It was GTS who reported him missing. Although I’ll be frank with you, Dr. Gazsi, I don’t think they’re telling us everything. Do you know what Paul has been doing for them?”

  She shook her head, her shoulder-length hair dark and wispy against her pale cheeks. “Not exactly. He was in D.C. about a month or so ago, on business. He stayed over the weekend to visit with the kids and take them to the Air and Space Museum. It’s one of the boys’ favorite places.”

  Jax pulled out a notebook and made a show of writing the information down. “He never said what he was here for?”

  “No.” She went to stand beside the window overlooking Arlington Station. “That night, we all went out to dinner at Outback Steakhouse. It’s the boys’ favorite. I must admit, I found some of the things Paul said that night…worrisome.”

  “Worrisome? How is that, Dr. Gazsi?”

  She swung to face them, her arms crossing at her chest as she leaned back against the windowsill. “Paul has always been extremely conservative in his political views, but since 9/11, he’s become patriotic to the point of being jingoistic, even racist. That night, he talked a lot about how the people in the U.S. were being lulled—that they hadn’t really learned their lesson after 9/11 and they were going to need to learn it all over again.”

  “What do you think he meant by that?”

  “He was particularly infuriated by the growth of the antiwar movement. He said they needed to be shut up. that the next time we go to war in the Middle East, we’re not going to get bogged down the way we did in Iraq. He said next time we’re going to hit the bastards with everything we’ve got.” Her lips pressed together tightly for a moment before she went on. “I didn’t put it all together at the time, but later I wondered if he was talking about the Armageddon Plan.”

  Jax looked up from his notepad. “The what?”

  “It’s a contingency plan that is to go into effect in response to another 9/11-type terrorist attack on the U.S. It was drawn up by the United States Strategic Command a few years ago under very explicit orders from the White House. The idea is for a large-scale assault on Iran using both conventional and tactical nuclear weapons. Hundreds of sites are to be targeted, and estimates for Iranian civilian deaths run in the millions. But the most disturbing part of the plan is that it is to go into effect whether or not Iran is even involved in the terrorist attack that triggers it. Basically, the plan sets Iran up for an unprovoked nuclear attack.”

  “You say it’s called the Armageddon Plan?”

  “That’s not its official name,” said Dr. Gazsi. “It’s just what the military officers tasked with drawing it up call it. They were frankly appalled by what they were asked to do. The consequences have the potential to be horrific. No one has used nuclear weapons since 1945. Just drawing up a plan like this sends an ominous message to the world.”

  “But how many people know about it?”

  “It’s known in academic and diplomatic circles. The plan calls for the use of tactical nuclear weapons rather than strategic nukes, but the loss of life and environmental contamination would still be unimaginable. Plus, it’s a line that once it’s crossed, there’s no going back. I don’t think I want to live in a world where the use of nuclear weapons is an acceptable option.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Jax, “a lot of people already see it as an acceptable option.”

  “That’s
because they never think it through. Even without the nuclear option, an attack on Iran would have horrific consequences. Look what’s happened because of our invasion of Iraq. We’ve destabilized the entire region. An American attack on Iran could topple every pro-Western government from Egypt, Saudi Arabia, and Jordan, to Pakistan, Indonesia, and Malaysia. Plus, Iran would never simply absorb such a devastating attack and not retaliate. It’s not in their nature. They’d hit back. They’d hit our troops in Iraq, they’d hit our allies in the Middle East, and they’d find a way to hit us here, in the States. Fifty years from now, our children would still be suffering the consequences. And think of the economic effects! An attack on Iran would send oil prices through the roof and devastate the world economy. And if China or Russia were to feel threatened by an attack on their back door and decided to step in…”

  “Armageddon,” said Jax softly.

  Dr. Gazsi’s lips pressed together in a grim smile. “Exactly.”

  Jax studied her pale, solemn face. “You said you found Paul’s allusions to the Armageddon Plan worrisome; why is that, precisely?”

  “Because he wasn’t talking about it as if it were a possibility. He was talking about it as if it were something he knew was actually going to happen.” She pushed away from the window. “After Paul left, Ben—he’s our youngest—told me about something his dad said when they were in the Air and Space Museum. Paul was talking about how there’s more than one way to serve your country and be a hero—ways that don’t get made into movies or show up in museums.”

  “Black ops,” said Jax.

  Her eyelids flickered in surprise. “Yes. Except, Paul’s not in the military anymore.”

  “No.” Jax tucked away his notebook. “He’s not. Tell me, Dr. Gazsi, have you ever heard of something called the Archangel Project?”

  She thought a minute, then shook her head. “No. Sorry.”

  Jax handed her one of his cards. “Thank you for your help. If you think of anything else that might be useful, please give me a call.”

  She walked with them to the door. “You know, the scariest part of all of this is that there actually is a small group of fundamentalist, right-wing Christians in the Administration who I’d say are actively working to create a situation that could trigger Armageddon in the Middle East. They expect it to bring on the Rapture, and they’re looking forward to it.”

  “You mean the Rapture as in Revelation?” said Tobie. “Where the saved Christians are all supposed to be gathered up by God?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I wish I were. There’s a huge movement out there of people who not only expect it to happen at any moment, but are more than willing to help hurry things along.”

  “You think fundamentalist Christians might be behind something?” said Jax.

  She paused with one hand on the edge of her door frame. “I don’t know. All I know is that religious fanatics of all kinds scare me, whether they wear robes and read the Koran, or quote the Bible and run teleministries.”

  “Do you think she’ll cry when she finds out Paul Fitzgerald is dead?” October asked as they walked down the corridor toward the elevators. “She doesn’t sound as if she likes him much anymore.”

  “She might not like him much anymore, but she loved him once.” Jax punched the button. “She’ll cry.”

  60

  “If I came up with a scheme to trigger the implementation of the Armageddon Plan,” said Jax as they crossed the lobby to push open the foundation’s massive, brass-framed glass doors, “I think I might be tempted to call it the Archangel Project.”

  October paused at the top of the institute’s broad granite steps to glance over at him, her eyes narrowing against the hazy sun. “Do you honestly believe that’s what this is all about? A plan to launch a fake terrorist attack someplace in New Orleans and provoke the Armageddon Plan?”

  “It fits, doesn’t it?”

  “But why New Orleans? Why not someplace bigger, more important. Someplace like New York or L.A.?”

  “I can think of several reasons to pick New Orleans,” Jax said. “What could be more despicable than terrorists hitting a city that’s just beginning to pull itself back together after a devastating hurricane? Ever since Katrina, a lot of people in this country feel pretty emotional about New Orleans. They’ve given up their vacations to go down there and gut houses and help rebuild. It’s like they’ve adopted the city as their own. An attack on New Orleans would hit this country hard.”

  “But I don’t get it. You heard her. An attack on Iran has the potential to destroy the world as we know it. Why would anyone want to deliberately shatter the world economy and provoke World War III?”

  “Because unless we’re dealing with the nutcase Rapture crowd, the men behind this don’t believe the consequences will be that severe.” Jax stared across the parking lot, toward where he’d left the BMW. At some point in the last half hour, a blue commercial van had backed in right beside him.

  “Remember all the hype that led us into Iraq?” he said, his gaze on the blue van as they cut across the lot. “I’m not talking about the mythical WMDs or the nonexistent ties between Saddam and Osama. I’m talking about the fairy-tale assumptions that the Iraqi oil reserves would pay for the war, and that our troops would be greeted with flowers, and that a puppet government put in place by an invading army could somehow be called a democracy. Every analyst with any sense was warning that populations generally greet invading armies with bullets, not flowers, and that the destruction of Iraq’s secular government would plunge the country into a brutal civil war and eventually bring the Shiites to power. But who listened? People believe what they want to believe, even generals and government leaders. You think Hitler expected what happened to him when he attacked Poland?”

  October brought up one hand to lift the hair off the back of her neck as heat and the stench of new tar roiled up at them from the blacktop. “Keefe,” she said. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Defense contracts and oil leases. And because the Iraq War has exhausted our military, a new war with Iran will require even more reliance on mercenary outfits like GTS. Talk about a win-win-win situation.”

  Jax nodded, still studying the van as they neared the edge of the parking lot. No one was at the wheel, but it was impossible to see into the paneled back. “It’s inevitable that companies like Keefe and Halliburton will push for war,” he said. “It’s where they make their highest profits. The men on their boards know their sons won’t be the ones going off to die or be maimed, and thanks to all the tax cuts for the rich that have been pushed through in the last few years, it’s us poor suckers in the middle who’ll be left holding the bill. And if Dr. Gazsi is right and oil prices go through the roof, well, that’s also a good thing for the Keefes and Halliburtons of this world, isn’t it?”

  “There’s a big difference between pushing for war and setting off a bomb in an American city to provoke one.”

  “It’s a line that’s been crossed before. Jewish terrorists blew up the King David Hotel in Jerusalem back in the forties, remember? And no one knows to this day who really set fire to the Reichstag in Berlin back in the thirties.”

  She paused while he pointed his remote at the BMW and punched the button. “So what are they going to hit in New Orleans? The Crescent City Connection? The Superdome?”

  “That’s the problem, isn’t it? We don’t have a clue what they’re going to hit or when they’re going to hit it,” said Jax, reaching to open the passenger door for her. The passenger window was like a mirror, showing him the reflection of the haze-obscured sun and the image of the blue van that had pulled in beside him. “All we know is—” He broke off as he saw the van’s panel door begin to slide open. “Get down!”

  61

  Jax spun around just as the barrel of a silenced pistol appeared in the opening door. But the guy in the van had miscalculated. He was right-handed, which made it awkward for him
to open the door with his left hand and still be in the best position to shoot.

  Lunging toward him, Jax grabbed the pistol barrel and twisted it straight up. He heard the man’s hiss of pain, then the unmistakable crack of bone as the guy’s finger caught in the trigger guard and snapped. Tightening his grip on the barrel, Jax jerked him out of the van.

  The guy yelped. “What the—”

  Jax swung him around and slammed him up against the side of the van. That’s when he saw the second man crouched in the back. Bad Guy Number Two started to dive out, aiming for Jax. But October grabbed the man’s arm and used his own momentum to smash him face first into the side of Jax’s BMW. Blood poured from his broken nose. He sagged, stunned but not out, just as Jax wrested the gun away from the first guy.

  Jax had to bring the pistol handle down three times on his head before he slumped, unconscious, to the blacktop. October kicked the second guy in the head and knocked him flying. He didn’t get up.

  “You’re good,” said Jax, moving quickly to relieve both men of their guns, cell phones, and keys—anything to slow them down.

  He straightened to find her inspecting the side of his BMW. “I don’t think I dented it,” she said, a worried frown creasing her forehead.

  Jax choked on a laugh and yanked open the door. “Let’s get out of here.”

  As soon as they were out of the parking lot, he put a call through to Matt. “You need to send someone to pick up Dr. Gazsi,” Jax said. “Fast. Some goons followed us here. They might decide to play it safe and silence her.”

  “I’ll get on it right away,” said Matt.

  Jax glanced over to where October sat with her arms wrapped across her chest. “You okay?”

  She nodded, turning her head to fix him with her frank brown-eyed stare. “Did you recognize either of those guys?”