The Ethan Galaal Series: Books 1 - 3

by Isaac Hooke

  "You're welcome," Ethan said.

  She reached over the edge of the tub and picked up the hard-plastic clamshell. "You could have at least opened it for me."

  "I'm sure you'll find a way." Ethan shut the door and flopped down on the king-sized bed. As he lay there on top of the covers, he considered changing into his soggy suit, but decided he didn't want to wake up in a wet bed.

  He fell asleep in under thirty seconds.

  He was a light sleeper though, so when Bretta entered the room after her long bath, he awakened immediately. She dropped onto her side of the bed, shaking the mattress slightly, then slipped under the covers. She was wearing a towel wrapped around her midsection.

  "I have to thank you for the vibrator," she said. "I used it for an hour and a half before the battery died. Too bad." She sighed seductively. "I think I could've gone all night."

  Ethan didn't answer.

  He woke up a couple of more times in the first part of the night, mostly when Bretta moved, but for the most part he had a restful sleep. He felt cold at one point and slid underneath the blankets. When he did so, his elbow accidentally brushed Bretta and he felt a surge of raw desire. He forced himself to turn away.

  He fell asleep shortly thereafter, and the nightmares began.

  33

  "Ethan," a voice called. "Ethan!"

  He was breathing hard and drenched in sweat—the sheets were soaked all along the length of his body. His face was so hot it throbbed with each heartbeat. He tried to move but couldn't. There was something pressing down on him in the darkness, squeezing the life from him.

  He struggled to free himself but was pinned.

  "Ethan!"

  He realized Bretta was on top of him.

  "What are you doing?" he wheezed.

  "Finally, you're awake." She let him go and slid to her side of the bed. "You were throwing punches at me in your sleep."

  "Sorry." He lay there, his rampant breathing slowing. The sweat-drenched sheets began to feel icy cold.

  He never felt more ashamed.

  Bretta must have sensed his embarrassment because after a few moments she said: "It's all right. You punch like my little sister. I rather enjoyed it."

  "You would."

  He slept fitfully over the next three hours and then finally fell into a deep slumber.

  He awoke to find the morning light streaming through the window.

  Bretta was dressed in underwear at the foot of the bed. He caught her in the process of slipping on stockings. The clothing order must have arrived already.

  Looking at her, his first thought was: so damn sexy. His second was puzzlement. Why hadn't he noticed her getting up?

  I'm losing my edge, he thought. If someone had slunk into the room with the intent to harm or kill them the night before, he might not have awakened in time.

  He spotted the vibrator on the nightstand beside the bed. When she noticed his gaze on the device, she grinned slyly. "I kind of lied about the battery. It was still going strong when I went to sleep. I left it in all night."

  Ethan was appropriately speechless.

  Bretta tossed a FedEx envelope onto the bed. "By the way, this arrived for you."

  Ethan examined the envelope. The seal was broken. "You opened it."

  Bretta shrugged.

  Inside was a secure sat-phone, a smartphone, and a passport. There should have been two of the latter items, one for him, one for Bretta.

  "I already took my cell and passport," Bretta said, answering his unasked question.

  "How did you unlock the phone without the code?"

  She grinned mysteriously. "I have my ways." She'd probably made her own call to Tucson Industries.

  Ethan glanced toward the outer hall. He could see the suitcase from Chen Tang's office resting by the entrance. There was also clothing set out on the floor there.

  "You sent Sam copies of the other Triad documents?" he asked.

  Bretta nodded. "The few documents I could salvage, yes. Most of them were ruined, unfortunately. Water seeped into the case. Hopefully Sam will find something useful in that mess. She wants you to call her, by the way."

  Ethan retrieved the underwear, T-shirt, and jeans by the door and went into the bathroom to change.

  He returned to the living and bedroom area. Bretta wore a red dress—she'd obviously had the concierge bring up more than the casual clothes Ethan had requested for her.

  He picked up the sat-phone and entered the security code: 1310. He opened the contacts menu. From the list, he selected Sam's alias, Black Swan, and confirmed that the phone number hadn't changed.

  He closed the contact list and manually entered the digits from memory. It was always good to practice key phone numbers.

  "Copperhead," Sam said over the line.

  "Good to hear your voice, Black Swan," Ethan said.

  "Yours, too," Sam replied. "The nightclub infiltration went down without a hitch?"

  "As always," he lied.

  "That's a relief." He could hear the doubt in her voice. "I have some news on the Swiss vault you sent over last night. The bank manager gracefully agreed to supply us with the name of the account holder. It belongs to one Raatib al-Juhani, chief financial officer of Qawha Aerospace Company, based out of Saudi Arabia."

  "Qawha..." Ethan mused.

  "Saudi coffee," Sam translated.

  "I know what it means. So what do we have on them?"

  "According to their website, they produce high-altitude balloons for use in weather monitoring, farm inspection, and aerial wireless Internet."

  "Aerial wireless Internet," Ethan said. "Like what Google is trying to do? Using high-altitude balloons to bring Internet access to remote regions?"

  "Similar, yes. Though we haven't found any evidence that these guys have even brought a prototype to market. It's probably a front company. We've asked the Saudis to put together the shareholders for us, but they're dragging their feet. I suspect we'll find the same shell companies that owned the vineyard. On the company website, the President is listed as one Almir Al Zahrani, who apparently works out of the head office in Riyadh."

  "Is it Al Sifr?"

  "No," Sam said. "Photos of all the executive officers are included on the site. None of them are Al Sifr. Nor do any of them show up in our intelligence databases."

  "Sounds like a dead end," Ethan said. "Is it possible Al Sifr hijacked their identity when he registered the vault? Swiss banks are notorious for not asking too many questions."

  "That's what I thought, too, which is why I sent in a local operative to talk with the bank. My people can be very convincing, as you know. Apparently the bank manager got worried when he saw monthly shipments coming in from the Lán Quān nightclub. He'd heard rumors of its Triad links, so he questioned the vault's account holder and threatened to close him down, but the registrant assured the manager that what the company did was completely legal. The account holder gave him the full name and address of the aforementioned Qawha Aerospace, and claimed he was the chief financial officer.

  "The bank manager had a Saudi hawaladar friend look into it; the CFO, Raatib al-Juhani, met with the hawaladar at corporate headquarters, and assured him that the diamonds were purchased legitimately from the nightclub through some sort of futures trading scheme the company was involved with. Obviously a complete load of bullshit, but the bank manager bought it, apparently, because he allowed the account to remain active. The small kickback he received with each diamond shipment thereafter helped further assuage any doubts he might have."

  "You think Al Sifr specifically created the front company with the sole purpose of deceiving the banker?" Ethan asked.

  "That, or he may have simply reused an existing one," Sam said. "Which is what I'm hoping."

  "All right. So I'm guessing we're going to make an intel pass at this Qawha Aerospace."

  "Good guess. I have an asset in play in Riyadh already, but I want you and Maelstrom there ASAP. At the usual FBO in Hong Kong Intern
ational there's a fully fueled Iron Horse with your name on it." That was the codeword for one of the custom Gulfstream G650s the DoD owned through various front companies. "You've looked at your passport?"

  "Sure." Ethan glanced at the photo page. He would have to wear a spirit gum mustache and a turban to match the picture.

  Beside him, Bretta showed him her own passport photo. She required a hijab and abaya. Plus she'd probably have to shove cotton wadding between her upper gums to match the cheekbones of the picture. Assuming she didn't simply throw on a full veil for the flight.

  Why the disguises? Since they'd be taking one of the Defense Department's custom G650s, Sam would be worried about the Chinese spying on them—though personally, Ethan doubted the Chinese even knew about the secret planes.

  "You'll find everything you need to complete your outfits in the waiting limousine," Sam said. "Have a safe flight. And remember, don't do anything I wouldn't do."

  Ethan couldn't help but grin. "Do I ever?"

  "Always. Good luck."

  34

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  WILLIAM DROVE the silver Hyundai Accent into the underground parking garage of the Qawha Aerospace corporate headquarters. The company occupied a floor in the Olaya Towers complex near the heart of Riyadh, two blocks south of the soaring Kingdom Centre. The latter building had a hole incorporated into its design near the top, making the Kingdom Centre the third largest such skyscraper in the world. To William, it looked like a giant beer bottle opener towering over the city. William supposed the architects subconsciously chose that design because they wished beer drinking were allowed in the kingdom. He thought it was a subtle nod to the brave Saudis and expats who brewed their own at home in defiance of the law.

  In the underground garage, Bentleys and Cadillacs parked alongside Maseratis and Porsches. William chose a spot beside an orange Lamborghini Aventador.

  Riyadh, capital of the oil-rich kingdom, was a very wealthy city, but also a brutal one. Already that year there had been over forty executions in the infamous Dira Square, half of them migrant workers from the developing world who had come in search of a better life.

  He massaged his right trapezius muscle. It was cramping up again. It did that often since the bullet wound he'd suffered in Syria while trying to get the hell out of ISIS-occupied Kobane with Ethan and Aaron. He'd taken shrapnel in his right leg during a later operation in Iraq, when Sam had called in an air strike almost right on top of them. He still walked with a slight limp thanks to that one, though he was able to hide it when necessary.

  He had other wounds from his earlier days as a SEAL, of course. But most of those were of the mental sort. He recalled one of the rare visits to his estranged wife back home: his son had asked what he did in Iraq during the war.

  "Live and die," he told his boy.

  "Live and die?" Young Ronny seemed puzzled. "That's what you did? How can you do both?"

  William smiled wanly at the memory. He hoped his son never learned what he meant.

  He grabbed the thumb drive from the center console. On it was affixed an official-looking Qawha Aerospace logo—a passenger jet whose thick, sweeping blue trail formed the Arabic symbols representing the company name. In his hotel room, he'd saved the logo from the corporate website, then enhanced and enlarged it in Photoshop before printing the design onto a tiny sticker, which he had attached to the thumb drive.

  He exited the vehicle and took the elevator to the ground floor. He was currently in the lobby of Tower One. He headed for the office elevators and paused in front of the main desk to confirm the floor number on the electronic tenant listing.

  The Olaya Towers were home to several service companies that provided "virtual" office space, meaning a secretary would answer the phone and then forward the call on to another individual usually located in a different country. Some of these companies offered serviced offices, too, supplying a dedicated receptionist, meeting room, secretarial services, and high speed Internet. After some digging, William had learned that a company called Servcorp provided such a serviced office to Qawha Aerospace. Not quite the headquarters a real aerospace company would occupy.

  He spotted the listing for Qawha on the board, nestled on the twenty-seventh floor between OnlyDomains and Sapphire Suiting And Readymades.

  William entered the elevator.

  On the twenty-seventh floor he was greeted by an empty hallway. He wandered over to a door containing a laser-printed version of the corporate logo tacked onto it.

  Hiding his limp, he stepped into the small lobby. A middle-aged woman in a hijab manned the reception desk. Behind her a window provided a sweeping view of the city; the Kingdom Centre dominating the skyline, thrusting forth like the sword of the prophet. Or a big beer bottle opener.

  The receptionist looked up from her computer and smiled politely. "As salaamu alaykum." Peace be with you.

  "Wa alaykuma salaam," William answered. And also with you.

  She held that fake smile a moment longer, then frowned.

  William had probably disturbed her Candy Crush Saga session. It was one of the most popular Facebook apps in the kingdom at the moment.

  "Hello, I'm looking for Al Rajhi Cleaning?" He spoke in formal Arabic, using an accent appropriate to a speaker of the Urban Najdi dialect of Riyadh.

  "Wrong floor."

  "Ah, thank you." He turned to go, then paused. "My throat is parched. Would you mind if I had a glass of water from your kitchen?"

  "I'm not allowed to let anyone use our kitchen," she said. "I'm sorry. There is a toilet outside. To the left of the elevator. It has a sink."

  William wrinkled his nose. "You want me to drink from a sink in the toilet? That is unclean and you know it. Whatever happened to the hospitality Saudis are renowned for? When a guest is shown such callous disregard by a host, it is truly a sign of societal breakdown. What has the world come to? You're actually going to let me walk out of here without a glass of water?"

  She hesitated, then stood. "I'll get you some water."

  "Thank you."

  She proceeded down the adjoining hall.

  William took a few steps after her. Farther down the corridor, on the right, was the doorway to the kitchen, which the receptionist had vanished inside. On the left were two offices. In one of them he spotted a male glued to a computer. The man's back was to him.

  William slipped the thumb drive out of his pocket, knelt close to the floor, and slid it along the carpet. The USB stick landed soundlessly near the entrance to the occupied office.

  He stood and hurried back to the reception desk.

  The woman returned from the kitchen with a paper cup full of water.

  William drank. "Shukran jazilan." Many thanks.

  He left the office and pressed the elevator call button. He smiled contently. He knew it wouldn't be long before a curious employee found the rogue stick and plugged it into one of the computers.

  When he emerged from the underground parking garage in his Accent, he dialed Sam on the secure sat-phone. "Shark's Tooth in place."

  35

  Somewhere over India

  FOUR HOURS INTO THE FLIGHT, the Gulfstream G650 banked hard to the left, as if changing course.

  "Strange," Ethan remarked to Bretta.

  She looked up from her ereader. "What?" Like him, she had changed out of the disguise she'd used to board the jet, and was now wearing a simple black blouse and blue jeans combo.

  Ethan nodded toward the window. "The plane's banking."

  Bretta shrugged. "Probably flying around a thunderstorm."

  "Like you know anything about flying."

  She grinned. "I've logged over a hundred hours on Gulfstream jets. Mostly C-20Gs." That was the military variant of the Gulfstream IV.

  Ethan was genuinely surprised. "As the pilot?"

  "Yeah."

  "That's not something I would have expected of you."

  She shrugged and returned her attention to the ereader.

&nbs
p; Ethan leaned to the side, trying to get a better view of her screen. "So what are you reading?"

  "A book?" She didn't bother to glance up that time.

  "Romance or Mystery?"

  She finally looked at him. "Are you gender stereotyping me again?"

  "Maybe. So what genres do you read then?"

  She smiled. "Thrillers, mostly. And yes, the occasional Mystery and Romance. Women's Fiction, too. Right now I'm reading Shooting Picasso by Vanna Tessier."

  "How is it?"

  "Good. I've read all her books."

  Ethan gazed idly out the window. He had a clear view of the jet's right wing. Powered by two Rolls-Royce BR725s, the G650's cruising speed was around six hundred knots, about a hundred knots more than typical commercial flights. It was equipped with built-in wireless Internet and satellite phones, a full kitchen and bar, a TV viewing room, and two couches, which could also serve as beds.

  Another thing: it was quiet. The cabin noise was less than fifty decibels, roughly half the level of a Boeing 787 Dreamliner. It was equivalent to wearing a good set of active noise-canceling headphones. The designers of the G650 achieved the feat by including extra insulation in the fuselage, thickening the windows, modifying the air conditioning and other mechanical systems, and installing sound-absorbing suede into the ceiling, sidewalls and upholstery.

  "Do you think we'll ever catch Al Sifr?" Bretta said suddenly.

  "We'll catch him," Ethan said. Then he added, teasingly: "With skilled operatives such as yourself on the team, how can we not?"

  Bretta set down her ereader. "Sam never told you, but I was the main operative involved in Al Sifr's failed capture."

  Ethan felt a surge of guilt for teasing her.

  She lifted one side of her blouse, revealing a circular scar nearly an inch in diameter beneath her ribcage: the pale, sunken cicatrix of a bullet wound.

  "My price for letting him go," Bretta said. "I was lucky to survive."

  Ethan regarded her solemnly. "We've all participated in failed ops. Sometimes, things spiral out of control and there's nothing we can do."