True Believer

by Carr, Jack

  “Appreciate your candor.”

  “What are they going to do to me? Put me out to pasture in a tiny office somewhere and bury me in paperwork?” Danreb waved his hand around at his surroundings.

  The two frogmen exchanged looks.

  “We seriously appreciate your help,” Freddy said.

  “Don’t let your guard down with Andrenov,” Danreb warned. “He’s evil, but more importantly, he’s a capable son of a bitch.”

  “We won’t. Thanks again for your time,” Freddy said.

  “Hope it was worth the trip. Call me if you need anything.” Danreb handed each man a business card.

  “So, we could have called you instead of flying halfway across the world to meet with you?” Reece couldn’t resist.

  “That was before I liked you guys.” He rose and extended his hand. “Welcome home, Mr. Reece.”

  CHAPTER 67

  Basel, Switzerland

  October

  COLONEL ANDRENOV WELCOMED GREY into his opulent home like a returning son, something that meant a great deal to someone who had grown up without a father. Grey wasn’t naïve, but he wanted to think that he was more than a mere asset to Andrenov. Nonetheless, he was relieved and excited to have finally arrived. He had never felt more important, more needed.

  A lavish lunch had been prepared for them by Andrenov’s staff, and Grey’s appetite met the challenge, putting down roast beef, lobster, and a variety of desserts. Andrenov was unapologetically Russian but his world travels had expanded his taste in cuisine far beyond the steppe.

  Chilled vodka, Russian, of course, was served with the meal and Grey’s head swam as he followed his mentor into the library. The room was nearly three stories high, with an elaborately carved and paneled bookcase rising to the ceiling. A black and gilded wrought-iron staircase allowed access to the upper levels of the collection, where leather-bound editions of Russian literary classics and treasured manuscripts pilfered from third-world libraries and museums lined the shelves.

  Andrenov’s desk sat opposite the books in front of a large granite fireplace, where flames danced around the logs as if trying to escape. Above the mantel hung a masterfully done copy of his favorite painting, Reply of the Zaporozhian Cossacks. The 1891 oil depicts a crowd of laughing men composing a profane and insulting reply to Sultan Mehmed IV of the Ottoman Empire’s demand as the “Son of Mohammed; brother of the sun and moon; grandson and viceroy of God . . .” that they “voluntarily and without any resistance” submit to Turkish rule. The Cossacks’ irreverent response read, in part, “O sultan, Turkish devil and damned devil’s kith and kin, secretary to Lucifer himself. What the devil kind of knight are thou, that canst not slay a hedgehog with your naked arse? The devil shits, and your army eats. Thou shalt not, thou son of a whore, make subjects of Christian sons; we have no fear of your army, by land and by sea we will battle with thee, fuck thy mother.”

  Ilya Repin’s original painting hung in the State Russian Museum in St. Petersburg but it would soon find its way into Andrenov’s home if his plans came to fruition. The painting, as well as the Cossacks’ letter to the sultan, epitomized Andrenov’s disdain for his enemies. It was an ever-present reminder that the struggle between East and West was an enduring one.

  Grey admired the painting as well as its surroundings; it was a grand and masculine room. It had been three years since he had seen the cold warrior. He had aged visibly but wore his years well for a man who had seen and done so much. Grey guessed Andrenov’s age at seventy but couldn’t be sure and would never dare ask. He wore a brown custom suit of what looked like fine cashmere with a starched white shirt underneath, open at the collar. The Edward Green country boots on his feet were highly polished, and he looked every bit the wealthy European gentleman. A paisley pocket square completed the ensemble. His hair was salt-and-pepper and his neatly trimmed beard matched, framing an unremarkable face. His eyes, though, were anything but unremarkable, a hypnotic gray, nearly silver in their luminescence. They could calm or strike fear, seduce or amuse. Grey wondered what mood Andrenov’s eyes would betray next.

  “Let us drink to your journey, Oliver,” the Russian offered.

  The men raised their glasses and toasted to victory.

  “You have come so far and are at my side, where you belong, at long last.”

  “You will soon lead Russia back from the brink,” affirmed Grey.

  “This is your home, at least for now. You are safe here. You have worked hard for me, Oliver, for Russia. You have brought us the keys to our country’s future.”

  “You believed in me when my own country didn’t.”

  “That’s because that was not your country, Oliver, just an unfortunate place of birth. Their oceans and their wealth make the Americans arrogant. They are like the rich man’s son who thinks he’s earned his wealth. They would never see in you what I see. You recruited one of our very best assets, Oliver, and the mission that you planned in London was executed beyond our expectations. I am proud of you.”

  “Thank you, Colonel. What can I do now? How can I help?”

  “You must be my eyes. You must travel where I cannot. We are close, Oliver, so close, but only you can get us there. I say this without exaggeration, Russia’s future depends on you. Islam is destroying us from within. The Muslim population continues to grow, while our ethnic population is in a steady decline. President Zubarev is too weak to stand up to them, too weak to do what must be done. We need justification, Oliver, justification to liberate the ethnic Russian people of Ukraine and push all the way to Azerbaijan in the south and Poland to the west.”

  “Are the snipers ready?” Grey asked.

  “They are. And they are en route to the site as we speak.”

  Grey nodded. He was finally part of the varsity team and it was almost time for the championship game.

  “Oliver, I fear that a simple assassination will not be enough to achieve our goal. It is not 1914 anymore. Assassinating Archduke Ferdinand was enough to plunge the world into the Great War back then. Today it will take something more.”

  “I see.”

  “Today the assassination of a world leader would be met by days of mourning and sanctions. The Chechen, Tasho, will help give us the justification we need but that will not be enough. We require something that cannot be ignored.”

  “What is that?” Grey asked, though he already knew the answer.

  “The West calls it a CBRN attack, for chemical, biological, radiological, and nuclear. We are going to focus on the chemical.”

  CHAPTER 68

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  October

  REECE WAS GLAD TO have Freddy for a guide as they made their way from the den of analysts where the Agency had stashed Andy Danreb to the executive level where Vic Rodriguez’s office was located. Unlike Danreb’s broom closet, Rodriguez’s space was large and uncrowded, with natural light pouring in from windows that lined an entire side of the room. Photos, plaques, and memorabilia from Vic’s days as a Special Forces and Paramilitary Operations officer lined the walls and adorned the bookshelves.

  “Gentlemen, welcome to Langley. Reece, do you believe me now that this wasn’t an ambush?”

  “I’m beginning to.” Reece smiled, looking around the office, a faded black-and-white photograph on the wall catching his eye.

  The image was of a group of proud-looking young men wearing World War II duck hunter camouflage uniforms and carrying a variety of U.S.-made weapons, including a 1941 Johnson semiautomatic rifle.

  “Is this what I think it is?” Reece inquired, walking toward the framed photo for a closer look.

  “Brigade 2506 in ’61. That is my father’s squad just before leaving for Bahía de Cochinos, the ‘Bay of Pigs.’ He was the only one in that photo to survive,” Vic explained.

  “Brave men” was the only thing that Reece could think to say.

  “That they were, Reece. Just like the operatives we have in the field
today. We need all the good people we can get,” he continued, directing his comments at Reece. “Let’s take this into the conference room.”

  Vic motioned for the men to follow. Reece and Freddy removed their phones, storing them in the designated small safes that looked like tiny post office boxes outside the door to the secure room.

  “Can I get you guys anything? Coffee, water?”

  “I’m good, Vic; you want anything, Reece?”

  Reece shook his head in response, not wanting to slow things down to doctor up his coffee.

  Everyone took a seat and the men gave Rodriguez an update from Jules Landry’s interrogation and Andy Danreb’s thoughts on Vasili Andrenov.

  Vic took it all in and looked at the ceiling for a moment before responding.

  “Andrenov sure makes a compelling conspirator. We need to figure this out, but I want it done quietly. I don’t want Andrenov’s friends on Capitol Hill sticking their noses into this and tipping our hand. I also have some disturbing news on Oliver Grey. The counterintelligence team is putting a picture together that isn’t going to boost any careers at the Office of Security. It’s clear that he’s been turned. What isn’t clear is how much damage he’s done. This breach could be on the Aldrich Ames level. As you may know, he passed multiple polygraph examinations while spying for the Soviet Union and Russia. We’re keeping it compartmentalized for now while we figure out how to play it. We need to know when he was turned and to whom he’s been passing intelligence. Any ideas on how we pursue this Syrian general lead in Greece?”

  Reece responded first. “Assuming we can find General Yedid, the second that we or the Greeks snatch him up, the network will go to ground and the trail will go cold, so things are going to have to happen fast. If this is big enough for Andrenov to burn a CIA asset, then it’s 9/11 big,” he continued. “We need to get the Geographic Combatant Commanders to recall their deployed SOCOM components, particularly their CIF companies, CRF, or whatever we’re calling them now, and have them on standby. Spin up XXX back here and get the standby squadrons ready to roll. In the meantime, we will keep pushing Landry for information while you get your analysts and assets turning over every stone for a location of General Qusim Yedid. We also need you to start working for approvals to wrap him up, so whatever channels you need to manipulate or favors you need to call in, do it. We need SECDEF or POTUS approval to capture him regardless of where he is, and it needs to be us. We’ll have a short window to extract information and act on it, so it can’t be a partner or allied force. This has to be unilateral. And while all that is going down, we need to ensure Mo doesn’t get burned as working for U.S. intelligence. Am I forgetting anything, Freddy?”

  “That’s some good officer stuff, Reece. Very impressive.” Freddy smiled.

  “Well, I used to get paid for that sort of thing.” Reece grinned back.

  “You still do, Reece,” Rodriguez interjected. “I’ll get the ball rolling on my end. The approvals are going to be a pain in the ass. They always are. And having seen my share of high-level missions over the years, I can tell you this one might take a while.”

  “Well, do what you can, Vic,” Reece said. “We’ll be standing by to stage for a mission to capture Yedid as soon as you give us the approval. From there we’ll flex based off his intel.”

  “I can do that, but we have a problem,” Rodriguez said.

  “What’s that?” Reece asked.

  “While you guys were in the air, Mo disappeared.”

  CHAPTER 69

  Kurdistan, Iraq

  October

  LANDRY’S BLINDFOLD WAS REMOVED to reveal his worst nightmare. He had been dragged out of the sterile interrogation room and was in some type of storage building. It was hot, and he was beginning to sweat out what little moisture his body had left. He was naked, standing on an uneven, rickety wooden stool with his hands cuffed behind his back. A piano wire had been tied to the rafter above and looped around his genitals in a way that ensured it would tighten like a noose if more downward force were applied. He had to stand on his toes to prevent the wire from tightening painfully, which was exhausting after days without food, little water, and constant cold. One slip from the stool and he would be instantly separated from his testicles and penis.

  He was familiar with the technique because it was one of his favorites. He had used it against more than a few Iraqis and Syrians, both militants and civilians, over the past decade. One night, after more than a little gin, Landry had used it on a suspected insurgent as the man’s wife was forced to watch. When the man refused to admit to any wrongdoing, Landry shoved him off the stool and forced his wife to watch him bleed out. It was later determined that he’d been snatched from the wrong house. Landry had murdered an innocent man, radicalizing his wife in the process and ensuring their children would become the next generation of determined jihadis.

  “It’s just you and me, Landry. No soft Western interrogation room. No water and temperature fluctuations. No Americans. No supervisors. No doctors. No CIA. No rules.”

  Landry’s eyes darted around the room as he struggled for balance.

  “I don’t have to tell you how this could end, Landry. I need you to tell me everything there is to know about General Qusim Yedid: where he lives, how you contact him, security, everything, or I’m going to turn you into a woman.”

  “Mo, please don’t do this. I’ll draw you a map. I’ll take you there myself. I’ll do anything. I’ve got money, Mo, lots of money that the Russian gave me. We can go to Switzerland. I’ll give you all of it. It’s enough money to disappear on, Mo, and it will all be yours. Yedid lives in Athens but spends a lot of time on a boat in the Med. He’s still brokering jobs.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us any of this back in the official interrogation cell?”

  Landry stayed silent, focusing on his balance. Apparently he was more afraid of Yedid than he was of years of incessant gang rape in prison.

  “What kind of jobs?” Mo continued after he’d given Landry enough time to think.

  “Whatever someone needs: kidnapping, hits, car bombs, you name it.”

  “Like sending my old unit to XXXXXX to attack a CIA compound?”

  Landry’s mouth went dry. “Yeah.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “There are Syrian refugees in every city in Europe, former fighters, and General Yedid has connections to all of them.”

  “What’s the next target?”

  “I honestly don’t know, Mo, I swear to God. Grey asked to be put in touch with him, and I told him where to find him.”

  “Why would Grey want to do that, Landry?”

  “I don’t know. I figured it was none of my business,” Landry squeaked as he caught his balance.

  “Take an educated guess for me.”

  “It’s got to have something to do with the Russian.”

  “The one in Switzerland?”

  “Yeah, that’s him. He and Grey have got to be behind all of this. I’m just a small part. I’m a nobody.”

  “Oh, I know that, Landry. What was the last thing Grey asked of you before he took over comms with Yedid?”

  “He asked me to have General Yedid track down a sniper.”

  Sweat poured from the former CIA man as he did everything he could to steady his quivering legs on the shaky stool.

  “A sniper?”

  “Yeah, the best in Syria.”

  “Who is that?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. They call him the Shishani. It means like ‘day-shooter’ or ‘day-Chechen’ or something. Red beard. That’s all I know. I swear to you, Mo. I’d tell you if I knew anything else. Please cut me down!”

  Mo took notes as Landry continued to talk, wobbling on the decrepit stool, almost losing his balance and begging for Mo to cut the wire that encircled his manhood. He explained details of the operation, providing descriptions of those involved along with dead-drop locations and security practices. Landry was becoming increasingly helpful the longer he
balanced.

  Mo left the room, walking outside to make a phone call, leaving Landry trembling on the stool.

  “I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere.”

  “Mo! Mo! Don’t leave me here!”

  Mo dialed Reece’s number and conveyed the new information from Landry. Minutes later, the analysts at the CIA were adding Landry’s information to the growing target package they were putting together on one General Qusim Yedid.

  Mo ended the call and walked back into the room where Landry’s muscular and tattooed physique was perched on the tiny stool like a circus elephant.

  “Please, please,” Landry pleaded, looking into the deep, dark, unforgiving eyes of his former asset. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “I believe you,” Mo stated, before quickly kicking the stool across the room and sending Jules Landry straight to the ground.

  All two hundred and fifteen pounds of him hit the gravel-strewn concrete floor with a brutal thud, less a few ounces of tissue that hung for a moment on the wrong side of the piano wire until landing beside his body. An animalistic scream followed. With his hands secured behind his back, Landry could do nothing to stop the massive bleeding from what was left of his groin. As the bright red arterial blood pulsed out in spurts, the volume of his screams decreased, eventually becoming a mere groan. He lost consciousness within a minute and was clinically dead before Mo had his truck in drive.

  PART THREE

  REDEMPTION

  CHAPTER 70

  Washington, D.C.

  October

  WHAT BEGAN AS A calculated late-night leak to select reporters was confirmed as true by the Office of the Director of National Intelligence the following day. The cable news channels devoted all their coverage to the story and even the networks preempted their daytime broadcasts. Terrorism, it seemed, trumped both soap operas and Judge Judy. U.S. and European intelligence agencies had identified a former Iraqi major from the Ministry of Interior, Mohammed Farooq, as the mastermind behind the recent terrorist attacks across Europe. Farooq had served as a cell leader for Amin Nawaz, using his skills as a trained special operations commander against both civilian and military targets. Farooq had slipped through the net that had led to Nawaz’s death by Albanian commandos and was believed to be on the run somewhere in Turkey. A dated, pixelated image of Farooq was broadcast to an international audience, giving terror a face. The United States would supply allied intelligence and law enforcement agencies with both assets, including classified biometric information that would aid in his capture.