by Bobby Akart
Aboard CIA Gulfstream G650
Over the Atlantic Ocean
The Gray Fox team rode mostly in silence as they crossed the Atlantic Ocean en route to Rome. Gunner Fox was pensive as the events of the past seventy-two hours ran through his head. He unconsciously rubbed his temples as he stared out the large porthole-style windows of the Gulfstream G650 aircraft on loan from the CIA. The lack of sleep and mental strain he’d endured were beginning to take their toll. He sighed as he reminded himself that now was not the time to take his foot off the gas pedal.
The sarin attack on Levi’s Stadium in California had been perfectly orchestrated and carried out. It was far more complex than the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001. Make no mistake, the attacks of 9/11 were devastating, but they mostly involved hijacking an aircraft, something that was not that uncommon at the time. Airport security measures enacted after 9/11 made it virtually impossible to repeat.
Perhaps it was America’s singular focus on aircraft security that left the nation vulnerable for an attack the size and scope of what happened in the San Francisco Bay area. Yet how could anyone have anticipated it or defended against it?
Gunner scowled and shook his head in disbelief. This had to be years in the making, right? However, the sarin had just been recently discovered. They had to have known of its existence.
“Very patient,” he muttered.
“What?” asked Cameron Mills, his childhood friend and fellow operative. She had also been tucked away in her own world, deep in thought, as she tried to process the magnitude of the attack.
“Did I say that out loud?” asked Gunner quietly.
“Yeah, or I’m in your head.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” he said with a slight smile. “Think about it, Cam. The coordination involved in the sarin attack was extraordinary. To ensure its success, it would take months of planning. They would’ve had to observe security at the stadium and gauge the reactions of law enforcement. It was almost as if they knew their target before they had their weapon.”
Cam shrugged and leaned over her armrest into the aisle of the cabin. “Or they’re very good at what they do.”
Gunner looked out the window and shook his head again. “If that’s the case, we’re screwed. It’s impossible to identify their targets and means of attack. Sure, we could look at the usual high-value terrorist targets, like Washington, New York, or even LA. You know, large population cities, government facilities, and financial centers.”
“Which is why you made the right call,” she said in a reassuring tone of voice. “Our unit is not designed to chase down leads all over America. Hell, people see a leaf drop and they’re on the phone dialing 9-1-1. Let the FBI handle that stuff.”
Gunner sighed. He appreciated the reaffirmation of his decision. Every fiber of his being wanted to charge out of the Den at Fort Belvoir, Virginia, and rattle cages in search of answers. However, they had no credible leads in the States. Their best option was to follow the research and the hunches of a reclusive German professor, Stefan von Zwick.
“Cam, it was his dying words. Odessa. Rome. Knight. Maybe Argentina. I’m not sure, but it would make sense.”
“You’re on the right track, and Jackal’s research confirms it,” said Cam.
Barrett King, who’d been dozing in and out of sleep, joined the conversation.
“It’s not like us to run away from a fight,” he began. His deep voice was gravelly, so he cleared his throat. “It’s the right thing to do. Let the FBI investigate the crime scene. Let’s hunt down the masterminds. Von Zwick pointed us in the right direction.”
“Yeah,” began Gunner with a chuckle. “Rome socialites who have more money than god.”
“What made them rich?” asked Bear.
Cam opened up her laptop. “That’s the thing. It’s like the money fell off the tree it was growing on, and they swept it up with a rake. There’s no history of banking or industrial activity. They weren’t political leaders cashing in after they left office. They’re not celebrities. They’re just uber-wealthy.”
“With German roots,” interjected Gunner. “And their family’s societal pedigree suddenly appeared in the mid-1940s. The timetable fits von Zwick’s theories.”
“I think it’s bullshit that I can’t go with you guys to the opera,” complained Bear.
“What do you know about the opera?” asked Cam.
“About as much as you do,” he shot back. “It’s not so much about the opera, but I wanna see the inside of this place. It’s supposed to be really cool.”
“You can enjoy the inside of the Fiat, or whatever car the agency has lined up for us. That’s exciting enough.”
Gunner changed the subject. “Cam, how much time do we have between landing and when this thing starts?”
“The overture,” she replied.
“What?” asked Bear.
“The overture, you neanderthal. The overture is the start of an opera. It’s usually music that allows everyone to get settled in their seats.”
“Sorry, Cam,” he began sarcastically. “I didn’t know you were an opera connoisseur.”
She quickly presented Bear with her middle finger. “I went on a date with a guy to the opera. I studied up on it beforehand.”
“And now you’re an ex—” Bear was ready to rumble, but Gunner cut him off.
“Cam? How long?”
“We’ll have just enough time to get to the CIA safe house and change clothes. Everything we’ll need is gonna be waiting for us.”
Gunner reached across the aisle and pointed toward her laptop. “Let me study the background on this woman and her father so I can identify their weaknesses. We’ll need to get them to talk and quickly.”
Chapter Two
CIA Safe House
Rome, Italy
“Hell, aren’t you dapper,” said Bear with a huge grin on his face as Gunner entered the living area of the flat utilized by CIA operatives. The nondescript residence was located equidistant between the U.S. Embassy in central Rome and Vatican City just across the River Tiber. The sun was setting over the river, casting an orangish glow on the famed Castel Sant’Angelo, a second-century castle overlooking the river.
“It’s been a long time since I dressed up in a tux,” said Gunner. “Gotta give the guys who stocked this place some credit. It fits pretty good.”
Bear exchanged high fives with Gunner. “Very suave, boss. You put old double-oh-seven to shame.”
“I’d like to have some of their toys,” said Gunner as he checked himself in the mirror again.
“Good news on that front,” said Bear. “While you were getting ready, the embassy sent over our car. It’s a Maserati Ghibli. Nice sedan. Zero to a hundred in under five-point-five seconds. A little larger than the BMW, too.”
“Let’s hope we don’t find ourselves getting shot at.”
“I agree, but if we do …” Bear’s voice trailed off as he pointed toward the separate dining room. He led Gunner through an open set of glass doors. “Voilà.”
Gunner laughed. “That’s French, Bear.”
“Italian. French. Same thing. Check out the weaponry and accoutrements.”
Gunner let out a hearty laugh. Bear was unintentionally relieving some of the tension Gunner was carrying.
“Another big word. Also French, I might add.”
“Yeah, it’s not my fault we landed in Italy. Anyway, check these out.”
Bear showed Gunner the variety of weapons, including full-size and compact handguns, Israeli-made Uzis, and several knives, including switchblades. He also lifted up a bulletproof vest.
“We’re goin’ to the opera. Do we really need that?” asked Gunner.
“Just as a precaution,” replied Bear. He was about to expand on his thought when movement in the living area caught his eye. He slowly dropped the vest back onto the table and gasped as he turned toward the doors.
Gunner was surprised at Bear’s sudden change in demeanor. Curiou
s, he stepped toward the doorway to see what had grabbed his attention.
“Holy smokin’ hot!” the big man exclaimed.
Gunner pushed past his friend and entered the living room. Cam stood in the center of the space, holding an evening clutch. She was dressed in a stunning black Dolce & Gabbana evening gown.
“Cam, have you always looked like this?” asked Gunner, who was shocked by her transformation.
“Duh,” she replied sarcastically. She stood a little taller and turned slowly in a circle. “You two have never been worthy of gazing upon all of my loveliness.”
Gunner chuckled. “I’ve known you most of my life, and I never remember you looking like this, even at my wedding.”
“Heather wanted to keep it casual, remember? Beach weddings don’t lend themselves to evening gowns.”
Gunner smiled. “Cam, you look beautiful.”
“Thanks.” Cam blushed and avoided eye contact with her best friend. He’d never complimented her appearance, only her capabilities.
“Smokin’ hot,” Bear repeated.
Cam furrowed her brow. “You can shut up. He’s my date for the opera, not you. You are our chauffeur.”
“Great, more French,” mumbled Gunner.
“Huh?” asked Cam.
“Nothing. Europe seems to bring out the best in you two,” he said as he turned to Bear. He nodded over his shoulder toward Cam. “You were saying something about us wearing ballistics under our clothing?”
Bear ran his eyes up and down Cam’s fit physique that seemed to be painted by the gown. “I don’t even know where she’s gonna conceal a weapon.”
“What do we know about security checks for the venue?” asked Gunner.
“Nothing except visual checks by their own personnel,” replied Bear. “Mass shootings in Italy are almost unheard of even though it has a higher rate of gun homicides than other European countries. I think if you guys play it cool, you’ll be fine.”
“Gunner, do we really need to carry? I mean, nobody expects us to be there much less this socialite Bianca something-or-other.”
“Morosini,” added Gunner.
“Yeah, her. Ugly wench,” said Cam as she set her jaw and pushed her chest out a little more. Despite her own stunning appearance, Cam exhibited a tinge of envy as she recalled the images of Bianca Morosini, the young woman they planned on confronting at the opera.
La Bambolina, as she was known by the Italian paparazzi, translated as the little doll. However, the perfectly tanned six-foot-tall beauty was anything but little. She was known for her modeling work with famed Italian clothing company Valentino, as well as her interior design prowess for resurrecting the two Venetian palaces known as Palazzo Rota and Palazzo Brandolin.
Gunner relayed what he knew about the young woman while Bear loaded weapons and ammunition into a duffel bag.
“Morosini’s known as a jet-setter and the female equivalent of an Italian playboy. She certainly believes in playing the field, including a tryst with her second cousin who’s the heir to Fiat.”
“How are we supposed to get close to her?” asked Cam.
“The agency took care of that,” replied Bear as he reentered the room with the duffel slung over his shoulder. “She has two seats in her regular box. Two seats adjacent to hers suddenly became available today.” He reached into his jacket pocket and handed the tickets to Gunner.
“She speaks fluent English, so language won’t be a barrier,” said Gunner. “Her date is an Italian soccer player. Nothing serious. Just a boy toy, according to News Break, an Italian tabloid.”
“What’s the play?” asked Cam.
Bear motioned toward the door, indicating they needed to head to the theater.
“Divide and conquer,” replied Gunner as he offered his arm to his date.
Chapter Three
Castle Bariloche
Bariloche, Argentina
The new arrivals had joined Henry Jorgensen Gruber, the head of die Zwölf, the twelve members of Odessa’s inner circle, in the spacious living area. The mood was upbeat if not downright jubilant as Henry’s younger brother, Derek, and his chief henchman, Daniel Wagner, who stood by his side throughout, relayed the number of injuries and deaths resulting from the sarin attack on Levi’s Stadium. To the casual observer, he might’ve been mistaken for a fan sharing the stats of the football game itself. His anecdotes and side comments used to explain the gruesome yet efficient attack would’ve disgusted most human beings. Not die Zwölf. They savored the well-executed victory, and their occasional toasts to their successes by gloating smacked of a certain malignant pleasure.
Once everyone who was expected to join them had arrived, Henry led them up the red-carpeted stairs winding their way up the north tower of Castle Bariloche. Despite the fact most of them had entered the hallowed tower dozens of times before, their eyes were still drawn upward to the tile and marble inlay in the center ceiling, depicting the Hakenkreuz, the swastika symbol of the Nazi Party.
“Please, everyone, take your seats,” said Henry with a sweeping gesture and a sincere smile. He was very close to all the attendees, including their newest addition to die Zwölf, Daniel Wagner. His German pedigree was never in dispute. Like another esteemed member of Odessa’s twelve-person leadership team, General Lukas Holzcraft, Wagner was a soldier. His exploits during the successful operation on the U.S. West Coast had earned him a seat at the table to replace the recently departed family matriarch, Brit Jorgensen.
After everyone took their seats, Henry immediately moved to make Daniel feel welcome. “Daniel, this is your first visit to the Obergruppenführersaal,” he began, using the German term for Heinrich Himmler’s dream for his castle in Wewelsburg. It was translated as the Hall of Generals. “I know we all appreciate your efforts and your loyalty. Let us welcome you to die Zwölf.”
All of the attendees raised their glasses into the air and said welcome. Then they placed them on the table and snapped their right arms straight into the air.
“Sieg Heil!”
After retaking their seats, Henry explained the missing members of die Zwölf. “Sophia is staying in Washington with her husband, Remy. He must remain with the president in the White House bunker. Sophia has declined the additional protections afforded her although she has insisted upon the opportunity to visit the White House to see her husband. This is the only way she can learn of the president’s reaction to the attack.”
Jorge Gruber, Henry’s son, asked, “Does he have any inkling whatsoever regarding the perpetrators of the attack?”
“None,” replied Henry. “Derek and Daniel have done an excellent job of tying up any loose ends. It was a flawless operation, and they deserve the utmost praise.”
Several members of the group raised their glasses to toast the two men who were the tactical operators among them.
Henry continued to explain the absences. “General Holzcraft is required to stay at Hanscom Air Force Base, as America has placed its security forces on the highest level of alert. Because our future plans will fall within his realm, he will be a valuable intelligence asset on the inside of the U.S. Defense Department.”
Friedrich Bauer, president of Unibanco Group, a large banking conglomerate in South America, spoke next. “It’s my understanding that you have several options. Do we strike right away or wait until they react?”
Derek and Daniel Wagner exchanged glances. This was an opportunity for Wagner to show he was capable of more than simply carrying out a mission on the ground. Derek had to groom someone to take his role at some point, so now seemed like a good time to give Wagner the floor.
“Daniel, you can respond,” he said.
Bauer sat down, and Wagner stood, as was the custom when die Zwölf met. “Thank you. For decades, members of Odessa and our predecessors have carefully studied the reaction of several American administrations when faced with an attack. We’ve been able to identify a common trait. They assume the next attack will be just like the one they just end
ured.”
“Derek and I anticipate the Taylor administration will issue a number of executive orders designed to stop large gatherings around the country. The extent of the restrictions remains to be seen, but it doesn’t matter because locking down the nation falls right into our hands.”
“Please explain,” said Henry Gruber.
“Yes, of course. They will focus their entire defense and intelligence apparatus on preventing another large-scale attack like the one at Levi’s Stadium. Their expectations will be a chemical attack using sarin or something of that nature. Of course, we will know more after Remy Weber is able to communicate with Mrs. Weber.” He referred to her respectfully, as he’d only met her once in passing.
“Daniel has suggested a misdirection, if you will,” interjected Derek.
“That’s correct. Our team at Hexane is second to none. I suggest we undertake a series of cyberattacks on America’s critical infrastructure—namely, the communications grid. Hexane has identified specific aspects of the U.S. government’s server network that are especially vulnerable to distributed denial-of-service attacks, known as DDoS attacks.”
“What is the goal of these DDoS attacks?” asked Henry.
“Well, beyond the misdirection aspect, they are designed to provide the American government a bogeyman, as they say. A bad guy to lay blame on for the Levi’s Stadium operation.”
“Who?” asked Bauer.
“We will leave fingerprints, as the people at Hexane call them, leading investigators to North Korea. These cyberattacks will disrupt the normal traffic of the U.S. government’s servers by overwhelming their networks. It will force the intelligence agencies to look at multiple bogeymen to retaliate against.”
“And in the meantime?” asked Henry.
“We prepare for an attack on our next target. One that continues implementation of the Final Solution.”
Each of the Odessa Nazis raised their glasses into the air to toast. While they were focused on rebuilding the Third Reich by rising from the ashes, they were also prepared to continue the Nazis’ plan for genocide of the Jewish people.