SANCTION: A Thriller

by S. M. Harkness

  “Take this and place it on your dashboard. You can park anywhere over here in this area.” The burly Marine said in a flat country accent as he handed Brad a temporary parking pass.

  “Have a good day sir.”

  Inside the two hundred year old mansion, there were several more layers of security; metal detectors, pat downs and general once overs. Brad had to go through the same procedures that everyone else did even though he had the Nation’s highest security clearance. He had been forced to check his gun at the front gate; he felt naked.

  “Right over here sir.”

  This time Brad was directed by a civilian in a dark blue striped suit. The President wanted to express his deepest regrets to the families of the hostages as well as assure them that everything that could be done was being done. At least that was what the aide had said on the phone. Brad knew better than to believe that everything was being done. They were going to do whatever was most prudent concerning public opinion.

  Brad stepped into a large conference room on the first floor. The room was full; the political hacks wandered about like sharks circling a victim. They were easy to spot amidst the crowd of much less pretentious family members.

  “Okay everyone,” Pinstripes said from the center of the room.

  A hush fell over the group as they awaited some details.

  “In a minute the President will be coming through that door there,” he said, pointing to a set of double doors opposite the entrance Brad had just come through.

  “When the President enters the room, please refrain from asking him any questions.” Most of the people Brad assumed to be family of the hostages had faces of shock and concern. Many of them had swollen and tender eyes, obviously induced by hours of crying.

  The double doors on the other side of the room swung wide and Graham Vanderbilt stepped in, flanked by a multitude of Secret Service agents, Presidential aides and Military Generals.

  “Thank you all for coming.”

  The President took center stage in front of a large round table in the middle of the room.

  “I know these are trying times. I can’t really begin to imagine what you are going through but I asked you to be here to reassure you that your Government is doing everything in its power to get your sons and daughters back.”

  “What are you doing to get them back?” shouted an old man off to the side of the crowd.

  “Um…we have been investigating satellite imagery and trying to discern who exactly is responsible for this crime.” He replied. The President didn’t look uncomfortable as he answered the man’s question, though his response was short of adequate.

  “The news is reporting that this was a terrorist group based in Syria. Some have even speculated that the Syrian government may be involved. How come CNN knows who did this but you guys are still doing homework?” The statement came from a thin blonde lady that stood next to her husband. Despite the resolute tone of her words, her voice trembled as she addressed the most powerful man on the planet.

  “That is a possibility, though definitely not confirmed. We can’t go off of hearsay and risk basing any kind of response on false or inaccurate information,” he said holding a tight smile for all in the room.

  “So, what is going to be our response when we do have accurate information?”

  This question came from another elderly man.

  “As I said just a short while ago, the President unfortunately, is unable to answer questions at this time,” pinstripes said, his face showing no sign that he was upset at the breach of protocol.

  The President motioned with his hand for his aide to settle down. “It’s alright Jon.”

  “Right now I can’t divulge any information about what we can and will do when the time comes. It is a matter of National Security,” he said confidently.

  “Some people say you are more worried about polling data than you are with getting our children back,” a woman said from the midst of a group of teenagers and an athletic looking man in his mid-forties. Her cheeks were wet with tears but her voice did not falter.

  “I resent the press’s accusations and assumptions about my motives. I have no desire to allow innocent Americans to stay in the hands of terrorists.” For the first time, Brad noticed a shift in the President’s demeanor.

  “If there are no further questions, we will be heading over to the press room where I will be giving a press conference to announce our position.” Of course there was a barrage of questions on the tip of every family member’s tongue but they were not about to be offered a real chance to ask them.

  Now it made sense, Brad thought. The President wasn’t really interested in fielding questions or the concerns of the family members for their loved ones. He wanted the families to appear as standing behind him in support for whatever he was going to say in his press conference.

  A young Hispanic man next to Brad huffed. “I don’t know why they bothered to bring us here. I learned more from watching Fox News. They haven’t said anything that I didn’t already know about my sister in-law’s abduction.” Brad wasn’t a sentimental guy but the thought of this man’s sister being in the hands of these terrorists was heartbreaking.

  “Pinstripes” began ushering people from the conference room to the pressroom. The two men walked together until they got to the door.

  Al Tabaq, Syria

  Ben Schweitzer stepped off of the Gulfstream jet and into the oppressive Syrian heat. The tarmac was Nazari’s private airstrip, located to the south of his enormous desert retreat. The estate boasted horse stables, an Olympic pool, a full eighteen hole golf course, an aircraft hangar and an impressive mansion the size of an American mini-mall; the fruits of foreign aid.

  They boarded two golf-carts and headed toward the expansive home. Emily Stansborough made it a point to wait until Ben sat down to pick her seat; she sat down next to the spy.

  “So why do you think we were picked to be a part of this ‘Special Press Summit?’” She asked as the cart eased past the hangar onto a smooth black asphalt path.

  “I have been wondering the same question,” he said quietly. Since he had responded and the ice was broken, he was going to be locked into conversation with the nosy reporter. Of course, from time to time, Ben’s job required him to develop contacts and assets. It wasn’t like he didn’t know how to communicate with people, he just preferred not to make a lasting impact. He liked to leave them without a solid description of himself and with no significant details.

  “I don’t know either.” Ms. Stansborough said. The roof of the golf cart baked under the Arab sun and wafted an odor of hot molded plastic down to them.

  The cart came to a stop at the entrance to Nazari’s estate home. Two enormous cedar doors dressed the end of a long overhang that obscured decorative carvings on the doors.

  The inside of Nazari’s home was even more grandiose. Just beyond the foyer, a white marble staircase reached up two stories to the main bedrooms and an incredible stone balcony. Paintings hung on every square inch of the walls.

  There was a huge ballroom with windows that reached from floor to ceiling and overlooked the pale blue waters of the pool. The garage housed two red Ferraris and a black Lamborghini. The house was cooled to seventy-two degrees, amazing- considering the outside ambient temperature.

  The reporters were shown to a smaller house that was attached to the main via a large breezeway paved with terra cotta tiles. They were each given a separate room in the house, though they were small and sparse compared to what they had just walked through.

  “You will find everything you will need in your rooms. If there is anything you require in addition, you may ring the butler at extension four. The telephones are on your nightstands.”

  No one said anything to their guide, though they each had a million questions.

  “Dinner is served at ten o’clock here, are there any questions?” The man asked anticipating none.

  Ben raised his hand, which somehow seemed both odd and appr
opriate.

  “Yes Mr. Schweitzer,” the man asked.

  “When will we be meeting with Sha…Uh…Imam Nazari,” he said catching himself. Though no one made a sound, the group of journalists all seemed to cringe with Ben. Arab men were big on respect. To everyone’s surprise the guide laughed; not a hardy laugh out loud kind of laugh, but a slight chuckle.

  “Imam Nazari will have you all for dinner. Again, that will be at ten o’clock.” The man turned his head slightly away from Ben but kept his eyes trained on him.

  “Will that be all?”

  Everyone nodded their head in agreement and Nazari’s servant disappeared into the mammoth house.

  Once in the privacy of his room, Ben unpacked his bag. From within a shaving kit he removed a small rectangular device. He punched a detent button on its side and began sweeping the room for hidden wires and electronic listening systems; there were none. He then pulled out an electric shaver. With a strong pull on one half of the device, the unit came apart in his hand. The bottom half unfolded to reveal a satellite phone.

  Unlike cellular phones that used a series of towers to run their network, Sat phones used Near-Earth Satellites to receive and transmit signals. They could be used in the remotest spots on Earth.

  He sat on the edge of his bed and opened the main display. The phone lit up and he dialed a number on the keypad. He went through several layers of security to get through.

  “I’m glad this wasn’t an emergency Avner.”

  “What do you mean Ben?” Avner’s English was crisp. No trace of his Israeli upbringing present. It was something that had taken the master spy years to develop but the effort had been more than worth it.

  “Because there is no such thing as being able to dial straight to your desk. I always have to go through two or three people before I can connect. It’s slow.”

  Avner huffed.

  “Well, you wouldn’t want just anybody being able to get ahold of a Mossad section chief would you?” he laughed.

  Avner Tobias was an enigma. He was a very powerful man yet officially, he didn’t exist. His records with the IDF and Mossad had been destroyed by order of the Prime Minister when a ranking member of the Hamas had called for his assassination. He had moved and relocated every member of his family. The disappearing act had been so thorough that few within the Israeli Intelligence Agency even knew he was still around, let alone how to get a hold of him.

  “I’m not just anybody, Avner. Anyway, guess where I am sitting right now?”

  “Do you really want me to answer that?” Avner asked. The two were good friends considering the professional relationship they had. Avner had never felt like Ben was an employee and Ben had never felt like Avner was a boss, the two had enormous respect for one another.

  “Nazari’s private compound in central Syria. Arrived half an hour ago.” Ben knew Avner was going to flip. But the intelligence that this was bound to yield would push their office’s investigation into Nazari forward by at least four of five months.

  “What?” Avner stood up from his seat in front of his computer monitor.

  “Is this a joke?” Avner couldn’t mask the excitement in his voice.

  “At the end of the press conference in Geneva, which I attended by the way, I was invited along with a few other reporters.”

  Most of the time while Ben was in the field, his boss didn’t know precisely what he was up to. Avner let him do his own thing as long as Ben continued to produce little nuggets of intelligence like the one he just did.

  “Wait, a few other reporters? Who?” Avner’s tone hit a nervous pitch. “Why you?”

  “I’m not sure but I’m not the only one who is wondering why they were extended an invitation. Some of the other reporters seemed just as puzzled. Whatever the reason, it is clearly to our advantage that I am here.”

  It took Avner a second to reply. Ben was a Mossad agent after all, if they had somehow seen through his cover, they could have set an elaborate trap for him. But why were the other reporters there? There was essentially nothing either one of the men could do about it, except wait and see. Avner responded.

  “Absolutely, you are in a position just by being there to learn things we may never have discovered. Good work Ben. But do me a favor.”

  “What is it?” Schweitzer asked.

  “Check in with my secretary every twenty four hours. I know it’s not wise to start giving you too much structure to adhere to but I suspect Nazari is up to something. This guy talks about peace too much to be Hamas. Something smells funny and it’s not my egg sandwich.”

  Ben laughed.

  “Sure thing. I’ll call home before midnight after the prom is over too.” Ben was just razzing him. He knew that there was more than enough reason to be suspicious of Nazari. Otherwise, the Mossad would not have launched an expensive investigation into his operations.

  The door handle to Ben’s room turned slightly. Ben reacted quickly. He stood up and lifted the edge of the mattress. Shoving the phone under it, he sat down just as the servant peeked his tanned face around the door.

  “Good afternoon again sir, so sorry to bother you. Imam Nazari has requested your presence in the main residence.” The man was being quite polite, much more than he had been during their first encounter.

  “I will wait for you, to show you the way.”

  Ben decided to leave the phone where it was, concealed under the mattress. It was risky. The servants could raid his room while he was gone and discover it. The Sat phone’s mere existence would be impossible to explain. But he wanted to appear ready, as if he had just been sitting in his empty room with nothing to do when the servant had barged in.

  “I’m ready now actually,” Ben said, flashing the little man a quick smile as he headed toward the door.

  6

  Quneitra, Syria

  Day 2

  Nicholas Rhinefeld twisted around so that he faced the center of the room. The archaeologist had counted at least eight kidnappers during the raid but only one stood watch over them at any one time. He figured they probably felt uncomfortable being in the same room as their victims so they spilt up the duty. They’d been cycling through guards every four hours.

  Their current warden wore a Syrian military uniform like the others, only his didn’t fit. It was long in the sleeves and the pants were too tight. The top was also a different shade of green than the pants. Rhinefeld estimated him to be anywhere from twenty to thirty-five years old. Despite his apparent youth however, there was an old look to his eyes, a coldness that Rhinefeld had seen only a few times in his life.

  Around the room the professor surveyed the students. Some of them sat in groups of two or three, while others huddled in their own little corner.

  The sharp odors of vomit and body odor wafted through the room, baking and permeating under the sun that poured in through the only window. The stale hot air gave Rhinefeld an intense headache and the occasional gag reflex that he worked very hard to control.

  Matt Ward sat directly across from Rhinefeld, his legs straight out in front of him, sweat pouring down his face.

  The guard’s walkie-talkie crackled.

  “Azim, come in here,” came the words from the small square device on his hip. Azim seemed to relish the chance to leave. He quickly locked a makeshift wooden door from the outside as he went.

  After a few seconds, Rhinefeld stood.

  “What are you doing? You’re going to get us killed.” The frantic speech came from Jerry Smith, the student Rhinefeld had been forced to knock unconscious in the library in order to save.

  “Be quiet Jerry,” the professor commanded.

  Smith sucked himself tight into a corner, squelched by the professor’s rebuke.

  Rhinefeld’s heart ached as he stared back at the swollen and defeated eyes around the room. He hid the intensity of his emotions well though, his chest rising and falling in steady movements despite the strong urge to break. “Matt, keep an eye on that door.” He said confid
ently.

  Jerry took interest again, shuddering as he watched the professor walk across the room.

  “Where are you going, I don’t think you should…” Rhinefeld cut him off in mid-sentence with a quick thrust of his hand through the air like a sword.

  “For the last time Mr. Smith, pipe down and I mean it. If I hear another word out of you today, you’re going to get another whack in the side of the head, do you understand me?” He let the question hang there until Jerry complied.

  “Yeah,” he said, curling back up into a ball.

  The professor covered the rest of the distance and maneuvered around a few students that were crammed together in front of a Formica covered countertop.

  “Excuse me,” He said softly.

  Rhinefeld reached up and snatched an aluminum canteen that the guard had left behind. He shook it as he pulled it toward him. It was nearly full.

  He quickly unthreaded the cap and lowered the jug to the student closest to him.

  “Take a tiny sip and pass it to the person next to you. You have to drink, no heroics here. This heat will kill us all long before our new friends have a chance to.”

  Several of the students were hesitant to take the canteen knowing where it had come from. They no doubt feared the guard should he return and catch them depleting his personal supply. Rhinefeld insisted though and the canteen kept making its way around the room. It had almost made a complete round when they heard the sound of boots hitting the floor. Rhinefeld looked down and saw that the canteen had gotten as far as Tracy Peters.

  Her face was plagued with fright. As the steps grew louder, she froze. Rhinefeld stepped over legs and arms to try to get to Tracy just as the sound of the key hit the lock.

  Seeing the professor wasn’t going to make it, Matt Ward snatched the canteen from Tracy.

  The door swung open and Azim stepped in. He looked at Rhinefeld who was now sitting opposite of where he had been and then shifted his concentration to the students. His eyes roved the group suspiciously until they landed on Matt Ward and the canteen. The man’s reaction was immediate and brutal. He lifted his AK-47 assault rifle by the barrel and snapped it into the firing position. With a series of giant steps towards Matt, he lunged and brought the butt of the rifle up into the air. He brought the rifle butt down and onto Matt’s jawline. There was a terrible crunch as the back of Matt’s head impacted the wall behind him.