The port side door swung in on its hinges and the crew member stepped through the door frame. Ben dropped the handheld mic and ran over to the bulkhead. As the Iranian crossed the threshold, Schweitzer reached for his forearm and grabbed hold. Startled, he looked up at Ben. He attempted to jerk his arm loose but Ben was stronger. The spy reared back and kicked the door into the man’s face. Ben held the arm tight and thrust his foot into the metal door a second time. A flow of blood burst from the man’s nose and his body collapsed on the floor.
Ben secured him by the bottom of his pant legs and drug him through the opening. Satisfied that he had bought himself a few minutes, he returned to the radio station.
“Nazari is not bluffing. I saw him shoot Izz al Din Kalif. Avner, Nazari has assembled everyone from Al Qaeda to Islamic Jihad here.” Ben said into the radio transmitter.
The Mossad leader was hunched over his desk in his chair, the news of Kalif’s assassination caused him to slump lower. They weren’t friends, they were enemies, Kalif being the worst kind but Avner knew that it would end up on his country’s doorstep by midnight. They would be blamed for his death and Kalif would be used as a martyr to incite Israel’s enemies to violence.
Avner cleared his throat.
“Ben, I’m sure you already know that Nazari has lifted the ceasefire. Gaza and the West Bank have exploded in a mass of chaotic violence. Earlier today, they received a shipment of advanced military vehicles and small arms.” Avner said solemnly.
“How?” Ben said in frustration. He never worried about the Palestinians or the Hamas because they were still pretty much in the dark ages, militarily speaking. But it had always been an underlying fear of his that they would one day have the means and equipment to build and mobilize an army.
“The Americans. They threatened the Prime Minister with sanctions if he tried to intervene.” Avner said, knowing Ben would take the news hard.
Ben felt his face flush red with anger. He was aware of the liberal politics of the new American President but he never thought he’d see the day when the United States would cave so easily to public pressure. He bit his tongue as he thought about the reckless actions of a man thousands of miles away from the fray. Ben never understood how men like Nazari so adeptly fooled the World when they appeared so obviously guilty to him.
“I only have preliminary Intel but there was a small contingency of American troops that accompanied the shipment. We believe they were ambushed. No survivors.” Avner said quietly.
There was silence as the senior Mossad agent fused what Ben had said about Nazari and what he had already known about the Imam together in his head. Avner feared that the cleric may have achieved the unthinkable; consolidating Arab resistance into one broad and powerful sword, while completely convincing the entire globe that he was the mythical Middle East peace maker they had always dreamed of.
“How many?” Ben asked.
There was a pause as his boss sought his mind for an answer.
“We’re not sure, maybe two hundred. My contacts in the State Department tell me that Major General Kirkland was one of the victims.” Avner replied.
“Were we there?” Ben probed, not sure if he’d get a straight answer. Men like Avner were used to stretching or elaborating on the truth to avoid giving up an angle that could be useful at a later date. But Avner had nothing to hide, besides that, if there was anybody he did trust, it was Ben Schweitzer.
“No. We haven’t been active for days.” He said.
Ben thought for a long time about the information he had just been given. The two didn’t utter a word for more than a minute. Then Ben continued with his report.
“Nazari has forcibly disbanded all of the major, and some of the not so major, terror networks. He is calling the new group ‘Ikwhan Jihad’.” Ben said. “Some sort of a throwback to Ibn Saud’s days, I think.” He said referring to history’s first Saudi King.
“Nazari is backed by somebody on high. The runway here is littered with forty million dollar jets. Not to mention the island itself. This place must rent for two million a week. I don’t know where he’s getting it all but whoever his benefactor is, there seems to be no limit to his investment in Nazari’s operation.” Ben said as he glanced out of one of the windows in the ship’s bridge. No one was coming. Surprisingly, the man on the floor hadn’t even stirred.
“Where exactly are you Ben?” Avner asked.
“Somewhere in the Arabian Sea. We came here from Nazari’s Syrian compound two days ago.” The field agent replied.
“Speaking of the Syrian’s, they’ve mobilized their military. Their President asked for full cooperation from its citizens as they began occupying every major city.” Avner said.
“For what?”
“We don’t know.” Avner finished.
Ben felt as if a mountain of pressure rested on his shoulders. He had spent his entire career keeping his country and its people safe from a wide array of enemies. In a matter of months, Imam Nazari had managed to maneuver himself into the position of being the Nation’s greatest threat and they barely knew anything about him.
Ben’s eyes were wandering around the wheelhouse when the ship’s log came into view.
“Hold on.” He said.
He let the handset dangle from its thick, corkscrew shaped cord and retrieved the record book. It was thin, leather bound, with a gold leaf inlaid on the front. The ship’s name was stenciled over the leaf in Farsi.
Ben thumbed through the volume. It began with an entry, by the executive officer, about the “Sea Winds” christening and then slowly moved to dates and times that she had entered and exited ports. The ship was new, less than five months had passed since it left dry dock. Ben flipped a couple pages and stopped when he found the XO’s last entry. The “Sea Wind” had sailed from a port in Bushehr, Iran two days before and was headed for an undisclosed location. Ben threw it on the floor and turned to face the bank of radios. The log was useless to him. He picked up the headset placed it back to his ear and waited for a minute to allow his frustration to subside.
“We need to find out who owns a ship named “Sea Wind”. It’s probably flying an Iranian flag but I just want to make sure. We may find out the name of another attendee of Nazari’s ‘Terror Summit’, perhaps even his benefactor.” Ben said into the microphone.
“I’m speaking to you from the bridge’s radio right now.”
His boss put him on hold while he gave the name to an analyst in his section.
Avner came back on the line and spoke first.
“Ben, I know we didn’t get into this business by being afraid of finding out what’s in the closet or around the next corner. But this has got me more than a little nervous.” Avner said quietly, whispering as if the details of his insecurities were classified.
“If we were just dealing with Hamas and a bloodthirsty leader, then I would hardly lose an hour of sleep. I mean…we know Hamas and they’re right here in our own backyard. We can keep a close eye on them without their ever knowing it. But this…this is much bigger than Hamas. This is shaping up to be a legitimate nightmare.”
Ben didn’t know what to say. He was feeling the same angst but he failed to see where talking about it would get them.
“Here we go.” Avner said.
“The ‘Sea Wind’ has an Iranian registration and is listed as being owned by Anwar Al-Ajlani, Iran’s Minister of Defense.”
The two men sat through another round of silence.
Al-Ajlani had attended Nazari’s mad conference. Ben now knew where Nazari was getting his substantial funding. The thought sent a shiver down his spine. He looked to the man on the floor once more, he still wasn’t moving.
Schweitzer thought of Emily on the back of the ship. He remembered the stunned reporters he had left up in the attic back in the auditorium. Lastly, he pictured the hundreds of Arab terrorists who would love nothing more than to wrap their hands around his neck and squeeze, just a couple thousand yards away.
> “You should be able to pull up the GPS on the navigation system. We can cross reference the longitudinal and latitudinal grid coordinates.” Avner said.
“It won’t be quick but I can route an aircraft to your position, if you can manage to stay hidden until then.”
Ben walked over to the control room’s wall of windows and peeked through. He saw a few of the crew members milling about the deck on the port side, in the spot above where he had wrecked the small yacht. No one on shore seemed interested in the ship anymore. Ben watched as men walked along the water’s edge looking up and down the beachhead. He assumed they were waiting for his body to wash up.
He walked over to a display of touchscreen monitors that controlled everything on the ship and pressed his index finger against the center screen. Avner walked him through the procedure and within a couple of minutes he had the Latt/Long lines.
“Don’t send an Evac-team. Send troops. If you don’t, we stand to lose everything we’ve worked for. It’s the only way to stop Nazari.” Ben said, a sober resolve settling in his mind.
“We can’t do that. It would be political suicide.” He said, almost pleading.
“One of two things is going to happen. Either Nazari gets off of this island with the largest terror network we’ve ever faced, or we end him here. We end him here and suffer the political blood loss, or we run scared and become victims of the Imam.” Ben said abruptly. He was incapable of patience or tact at the moment.
He placed the handset back in its cradle and turned the radio selector switch to the off position. There was nothing left to be said. He had done what he could to convince Avner of what ultimately needed to be done. He doubted that his boss or anyone else from the Israeli Prime Minister down would have the daring to commit such a preemptive strike.
Schweitzer would have to get to Nazari himself.
24
As-Suwayda, Syria
The prison was dark, damp and saturated with the musty odor of rain and mildew. Several of the prisoners suffered from a persistent, rattling cough that sounded close to bronchitis.
Brad lifted his head as he heard the door to the hallway open and shut. Boots pounded on poorly constructed, uneven concrete as a guard approached his cell. Brad had tried to rest but his mind and body gnawed at him. His stomach ached from lack of substance and his hands shook with low blood sugar. His thoughts were cluttered with images of his wife and brother, as he contemplated dying alone in a Syrian prison. His brother would never know that he had come for him.
The Defense Intelligence agent focused on a blurry version of the guard who had brought him to the prison, sixty one hours earlier. The man forced a large key into the aging wrought iron lock that separated them and twisted. There was an audible click as the door swung in. The guard reached down and scooped Brad up under his arm. The two walked down a long corridor and up a flight of stairs. As they left the main holding area, the stench of the facility faded. They passed through a series of doors and ended up in the warden’s office. Papers were piled high on the man’s desk, some of them had spilled onto the floor, as if they had been discarded without the benefit of a trash can. There was a loud hum coming from a mini-fridge in the corner of the room, where a short, rail-thin, old man was rummaging through its contents.
Brads eyes shifted to one of two chairs that faced the warden’s desk. Even from the back of his head, Brad recognized Tom Kingsley instantly.
His blonde haired friend turned around in his seat and nodded to Brad as the guard escorted him to the empty chair.
The warden took his attention off of the refrigerator to look at Brad. A wide smile blanketed the bottom half of his face. He quickly turned off the expression and dismissed the guard with a wave of his hand, then returned to his search through the fridge.
Brad looked at Tom who was facing forward. The Green Beret was dressed in khaki pants and a beige vest with cargo pockets over a white long sleeve button down shirt. The sleeves were rolled up, their crisp edges forming a wave of cotton creases around his lean, muscular forearms. Kingsley was a stark contrast to Brad’s disheveled under nourished appearance.
The warden finally stood up and closed the fridge. He sat a generic, fruit flavored soda on the edge of his desk close to Brad.
“I knew that I had that somewhere. It was in the back.” The man said, reproducing his megawatt smile and taking his seat behind the mountain of paperwork. Brad shook his head, he didn’t want anything from the warden.
“No thanks.” He said.
“Then, as soon as you sign this, you are free to go.” The warden said, sliding a single piece of heavy grade white paper through the only clear space on his desk.
Kingsley looked down and read the two double spaced sentences.
“Sign at bottom.” The prison chief stated plainly.
“He’s not signing this.” Kingsley protested.
The Syrian’s smile evaporated and he scooted his chair in closer, until he was under the opening in the desk. Interlacing his fingers together so that his hands became a lump of knuckles and flesh, he placed his elbows on the desk top.
“You may have paid the appropriate fine for Mr. Ward’s crime but this paper is equally necessary to secure his release. Otherwise, he will remain in my custody until trial.” The man said holding his balled hands out in front of him.
The paper stated that Brad acknowledged an egregious yet, unnamed crime, against the Syrian state and specifically the city of Al Suwayda. Of course there had been no crime. It was nothing more than modern day Gestapo work. They’d rounded up ‘suspicious personnel’, and were detaining them indefinitely. The most they could possibly muster a charge on was him holding the gun on Abbas.
“I’ll sign it.” He said, as the warden handed him a black pen.
Though Kingsley would never sign it himself, or approve of Brad doing so, he remained silent. He knew his friend well, there was no use talking to him about something he had already decided to do.
This made the warden’s twinkling grin reappear. He took the autographed paper and slapped it down on a stack to the right of an overflowing ashtray and headed for the door to his office.
“Gentlemen, you are free to leave. Thank you for your patience.” He said like a groomed salesman. He held on to the doorknob and stepped to the side to allow his guests to pass.
Brad got to his feet and followed Tom out of the room. The same guard showed them out of the prison to the parking lot where Tom had parked a dilapidated Mercedes sedan.
They left the Syrian compound and headed north-west. Once they were a few miles from the prison, they began to talk.
“Thanks, Tom.” Brad said, truly grateful for his friend’s intervention.
“You came up on an assets radar. That’s how I found you. Be glad this is Syria. Coming up with a wad of money is a whole lot easier than blowing a hole in a prison cell wall.” Kingsley said with a chuckle.
“Where are we going?” Brad asked.
Tom Kingsley detected a hint of defeat in Brad’s voice, no doubt a result of the confinement and deprivation techniques they’d employed. The Army soldier reached into a small khaki colored knapsack on the passenger floor board and pulled out a manila folder. He laid the folder on the dashboard and flipped it open. There were several glossy, color photos of a destroyed city, its garish concrete remains an eerie sight. Brad stared at a white vehicle in the picture that was parked in the middle of the street. Two more vehicles sat near one of the few buildings in the photo that was still standing.
Kingsley’s out stretched finger rubbed the image of the auto in the middle of the road.
“This is a Land Rover, as well as these two others. We believe they belong to the University of Jerusalem.” Kingsley said, watching his friend’s reaction to the news.
Brad just stared at the images.
“It’s Quneitra, Brad. They’re being held in Syria, 50 miles north of here.” Kingsley said.
“How do you know they are being held there an
d that these vehicles haven’t simply been stolen or abandoned? They could have gotten rid of the trucks days ago.” Brad said, as he set the photos back on the dash.
Kingsley pulled the vehicle over to the side of the road and slid the shifter into park.
“Get out.” He said to Brad as he opened his car door.
Brad slowly got out of the car and met Kingsley at the rear, near the trunk.
“Brad, I know you have been going on nothing for days now. No sleep, no leads and by the looks of it, no food. All that is about to change but you need to get your game face on.”
Kingsley inserted a key into the trunks lock. The compartment popped open, its rusted coil springs squealing as they pushed the door straight up. Inside of the enclosed space Brad saw two camouflaged bags and a long plastic rifle case.
Kingsley bent over the trunk and flipped the case’s lid open, revealing the rifle inside.
“A Cheytac .408. We can control the field from more than a mile away with this.” Kingsley said.
Kingsley looked at Brad. His face was dull and pale, his expression void.
“You know I can do it myself but I’d rather not. You’re the better shooter.”
Brad looked at the weapon. It was long, black and menacing with sharp angles on the sparse grip and stock.
The Cheytac’s accuracy was guaranteed for over twenty one hundred yards. Such long range effectiveness opened a whole array of new techniques in tactical shooting. The increased distance meant that a sniper could take out an enemy soldier long before they knew they were there and have plenty of time to pack up and leave.
Brad picked the rifle up and bounced it lightly in his hands. At thirty inches, the rifle’s barrel took up the bulk of its eighteen pounds. A heavy barrel countered a sniper’s natural inclination to shake, due to the nerves and muscles in the torso and arms as well as the tiny jarring effect of the heartbeat.
Brad placed the rifle back in the case and clamped it shut. He slammed the trunk and got back into the car on the passenger side.
SANCTION: A Thriller Page 21