FATAL eMPULSE

by Mark Young

  “The embargo against Iran forced them to come to countries like the United Arab Emirates to acquire technology and other restricted materials through third-party arrangements. Dubai is a logical place—through its banking networks and other means of commerce—for rogue countries to acquire what they need. Gives us room to operate.”

  “You mentioned a third person will be joining us?”

  Jack stood. “Hey, how many people are you inviting to this party, Frank? We’ve always operated on a need-to-know. Using another outside person puts Gerrit and the others at risk. It’s hard enough trying to protect them right now.”

  Frank nodded. “I understand, Jack, but this won’t be a new face. You’ve already met her at Langley.”

  “Her? You mean…?” Jack gave Gerrit a sheepish look. “I never had a chance to tell you. Remember the gal in Afghanistan you went off with on some special ops? She’s the one who took the photos of Hassan and Stuart…er, Brandimir, in Paris. Man, I’m going to have to get used to calling that guy by another name. Anyway, she’s the one who put the names together.”

  Frank stepped down from the podium. “And she’s the one who intercepted the communication between Hassan and Yegorov off the coast of Azerbaijan today.”

  Alena came over to sit next to Gerrit. “Who’s this woman?” she whispered, nudging him.

  Jack looked at Gerrit and rolled his eyes.

  Gerrit stomach tightened. He’d almost forgotten. “Shakeela Vaziri,” he said, then looked over at Frank.

  “An Iranian?” Alena looked at him quizzically.

  “Born and raised in Philadelphia. Persian and Azeri descent.”

  “That must have been a combination. And you met her…?”

  Gerrit’s mind traveled in time, to another place, another war. “We met in the Middle East. Worked together on an operation—just the two of us.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “How cozy.”

  Jack Thompson watched them, a smirk on his face.

  “It was a long time ago, Alena. I spoke the language and they needed my military skills. What can I say?”

  Her eyes widened. “I heard you speak Arabic? You never told me—”

  “It’s part of that memory thing I’m plagued with. There is a lot I never share. Just like you, Alena.”

  She started to say something, but must have thought better of it and decided to keep quiet.

  Frank rapped on the lectern. “Let’s focus on what we’re up against. Shakeela has been a case officer operating from Paris but has recruited a number of agents throughout Iranian communities and the Middle East, including Dubai. She will assist you on the ground and accompany you to Syria.”

  Alena leaned over and whispered, “This is getting interesting.”

  Gerrit sighed. Tell me about it.

  Another jet could be heard coming in for a landing. As Frank waited for the roar to pass, Gerrit glanced one more time in Alena’s direction. This would be interesting—and very complicated on many levels.

  He tried to follow Frank’s direction to the group. His mind, though, kept going back to the last time he saw Shakeela more than ten years ago, standing in a gusty windstorm, waiting for a chopper on the border between Iraq and Iran. Operation finished, he gathered his gear, waiting to return to his Recon battalion in Afghanistan. Shakeela, on the other hand, prepared to slip back into Iran on her own, assigned to a mission she refused to tell him about. He knew she was embarking on another dangerous assignment.

  For a moment, his mind traveled in time to another war, another conflict more than a decade ago. A time in which life became so much more complicated.

  Sand blinded him as Gerrit and Shakeela staggered toward the heavily-armed chopper. Exhausted, they pulled themselves inside as the bird began to rise. He watched Shakeela’s face, as she leaned back and closed her eyes. Something happened out there on the desert between them, as they dodged Revolutionary Guard patrols. He intended to find out just how she felt.

  Several hours later, they landed in a friendly village near the sea that the Agency controlled. A shower and clean clothes helped them begin to feel normal. For two days, they walked along the shore as they waited for instructions. On the second night, he took a chance and gently took her in his arms. She did not resist. It was a night he would never forget.

  And then the message came from Langley. His orders—return to Afghanistan. Hers—return to Iran, alone. And then the arguments began. He vainly tried to persuade her to return to the U.S. To stay there until he returned from the war. She resisted, saying it was her responsibility to follow orders. Just like Gerrit. They fought, and the more they argued the more entrenched she became.

  Hours before he was to leave, it came to a head. “Stop it, Gerrit. I knew this was a mistake. You and I live in two different worlds. I must live my own life. Just like you. We can never make this work between us. Never=!”

  She began to cry, and stumbled off into the night to prepare for her trip.

  He let her go.

  An hour later, he watched as she boarded another chopper headed for the Iranian border. That was the last time he saw her.

  Chapter 26

  February 26

  Dubai, United Arab Emirates

  A starlit night gave way to a brilliant, expansive airport terminal as Gerrit walked down the passageway. This was his first visit to Dubai, and he was amazed at this modern facility rivaling any he visited in the West. One could almost smell the opulence of commerce in the air.

  He shouldered his carryall and headed toward a cafeteria to wait for the others to arrive. After the meeting in Key West, they acted like a football team after a huddle with Frank Collord now the acting quarterback. He had already set up aliases for the entire team before they met in Florida, with backstory information on each that would have impressed any intelligence agency in the world.

  Gerrit, Alena, and Joe caught individual flights from New York to Dubai. Willy got to stay at home, manning the computer network they’d set up and taking care of Bones until Gerrit returned.

  Gerrit would have several hours until Joe arrived, so he settled in a coffee shop and pulled out his laptop to check messages for any updates. As he waited for the system to open up, he saw two men watching from across the terminal. He caught a reflection in a nearby window. From this position, he could watch the two men while making it look like his back was to them.

  They continued to maintain their vigil. About as subtle as a couple of Mafia hit men at a tea party. Gerrit worked on his computer, occasionally looking up to watch the two men. They never moved.

  A half hour later, he closed up his laptop and started to reach for his bag.

  “Gerrit, we meet in the strangest places.”

  He whirled around as a woman slid into the seat across from him.

  Shakeela Vaziri.

  He leaned back as his stomach tightened. “Let me guess. Frank sent you?”

  She gave him a quizzical glance and shook her head. “My supervisor from HQ sent me. Who’s Frank?”

  Gerrit studied her for a moment. “I thought he worked for your agency. His name’s Frank Collord and he seems to be able to pull a lot of strings.”

  She placed a hand on his arm. “I don’t know who he is, Gerrit. My boss told me someone up the food chain wanted me on board—no questions asked. They sent me to brief you all and to tag along. Guess we will be working together again.”

  He pulled back, feeling the heat on his arm from her touch. “I need to know the cost before I commit. Learned that the first time we did this dance.”

  Shakeela nodded. “I understand. But we need to separate our personal feelings from the mission, right? You’ve always been good at that.” Her expression underscored her words, and he knew she meant much more than what she just said.

  He started to respond, then saw the two men still watching them. “I think we have visitors, Shakeela. I was just about—”

  “Relax, they work for me.”

  “I hope yo
u’re not paying them much. They are about as discreet as Oakland Raiders fans at a 49er’s game.”

  “They’re just local muscle to watch our backs until I can get you and the others to a safe house. We’ll regroup there before shoving off. They have no idea what we are about to do.”

  He glanced at his watch. “This should be interesting. Another member of our party, Alena Shapiro, is about to land. Can’t wait for the two of you to meet.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  He shrugged and picked up his bag.

  “Are you and her…? Oh, I get it. You think she and I will have some kind of catfight over you.” She started to laugh. “Forget it! You’re not worth the scratches.”

  He smiled and stood. “‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’”

  “You’re still as arrogant as when we last met, Gerrit. She can have you. Who needs the trouble?”

  “As I recall, the trouble did not come from me. Or don’t you remember how it ended?”

  She stood and nodded at the two men watching them. “All I remember is that we were in the middle of a war, and you couldn’t stop being a Marine. Even when I told you…”

  He waited for her to finish, but she must have decided to leave it alone. “Let’s go. Alena’s plane should be landing about now.”

  They walked away in silence. Gerrit stole another glance at her. She seemed different. She had a certain calmness about her he hadn’t noticed before. Here they were, in the midst of an international crisis, and she seemed at peace about things. This was not the same woman. What happened since they last met?

  Alena looked around the terminal and saw Gerrit standing with another woman. Shakeela Vaziri? She could see why Gerrit may have been attracted. Shakeela’s long, lustrous black hair swept over her back. Almond-shaped eyes—gold and green, reminiscent of a cat—fit her slender face and trim body as if she ought to be on the cover of a fashion magazine.

  Drawing closer, Alena saw that Gerrit seemed uneasy. Fine! Let him be off balance for a while. Served him right for not telling her about his language abilities—or about this prior relationship.

  She stopped herself. There was a lot that she and Gerrit had not shared about their lives. She should not hold him accountable for not telling her about his past since she protected her own history. Still, this woman was way too attractive.

  Alena joined them and turned toward the woman. “You must be Gerrit’s friend from Afghanistan?”

  Shakeela looked at Gerrit before answering. “Yes. An acquaintance. Shall we go somewhere to talk quietly?” She gestured toward an unmanned boarding area where they could sit. “I just checked. Your other party should be here in thirty minutes.”

  After they gathered in the seating area, Shakeela moved closer, speaking softly. “We will talk business once I get everyone to their accommodations. Any questions?” When no one commented, she continued. “Those men will take each of you in a different car, different routes, but they will bring you to one location—a hotel.” She gave them the name and location. “Once there, I’ll take you to our final destination.”

  Shakeela rose. “I will pick up your friend when he arrives. Why don’t you leave now and I will connect on the other end? In about an hour or so. There is a coffee shop in the hotel lobby. We’ll meet there. Okay?”

  Alena gathered her things. This woman enjoyed ordering people around, but Alena would put up with it—for now. “Okay, I’ll leave first.” She turned toward Gerrit. “I’ll see you at the hotel.” She stood and walked toward the exit as if she did not have a care in the world. Inside, she felt uneasy after meeting Shakeela.

  This was not going to be an easy team to work with—not with Gerrit and that other woman. Alena did not bother to look back, wondering what was going on in Gerrit’s mind right now. She knew he might be watching, but she would not give him the satisfaction of glancing back.

  Gerrit gave Alena about a ten-minute head start and then slowly rose. He and Shakeela only spoke a few words the whole time. Time seemed to pass slowly, and he did not know what to say. Apparently, neither did Shakeela.

  He spotted a temperature reading on one of the digital boards before they left posted in Celsius and he converted it to Fahrenheit. Seventy-two degrees. He left the terminal and followed the second man who’d shadowed him since he arrived. Reaching the parking lot, the man turned and introduced himself, pulled out a set of car keys, and pointed to a white mid-size Toyota sedan.

  Walking toward the car, Gerrit watched two dark-clad Dubai police officers on bicycles sweep the parking lot. As they pedaled past, he saw one of the officers was a woman. He thought about the changes that had taken place in this part of the world since he’d last visited. Not a lot of change—but some, and only in a few countries like this one. Change came slowly, painfully, and he knew that beyond the modern facade, old beliefs and dogmas drove this culture—women, in particular—back into the Dark Ages.

  They climbed into the sedan, and Shakeela’s hired gun took the wheel. Bumper-to-bumper traffic snaked along the multilane roadway leading toward the shoreline, and then they traveled the coast for several miles. The driver checked the rearview mirror several times, breaking away to reverse their direction while checking for surveillance. The driver wheeled through several residential suburbs before reaching their destination.

  Ahead, stood a gigantic hotel—built to rival any he’d seen in the U.S.—a short walking distance from the beach. He thanked the driver, grabbed his bag, and walked to the lobby, looking for the coffee shop.

  As he glanced around, he spotted Alena seated alone in the coffee shop about fifty yards away. As he started toward her, movement off his left caught his attention. Three men, grouped together, seemed focused on Alena as they walked briskly toward her. He could tell by the bulges under their clothing that they were armed. As they fanned out, his mind kicked in with details as he began to see things in slow motion.

  Man on the left—short, stocky—seemed to be nervous. Kept wiping his right hand on his trouser leg as if ridding himself of perspiration. Must be his gun hand. Man on the right—taller, gangly, nose like a beak—seemed to be uncertain of himself, kept looking toward the man in the center for orders. And the man in the center walked as if he was in charge. Slightly ahead of the others, striding with confidence toward his goal—Alena.

  Gerrit was looking at a hit team. In a moment, they would be pulling out weapons.

  He started running toward Alena, behind the three men, and snatched up a glass vase from a gift shop as he dashed forward. He closed within twenty yards of the men before heaving the vase high in the air with all his might.

  The vase struck the ground just behind them, shattering with a loud crash. They whirled around to face him, reaching for their weapons.

  “Alena—run!” he yelled across the lobby.

  She glanced up, realized the danger, and began running toward them.

  Gerrit closed in on the gunmen, looking for a natural barrier he could use to deflect bullets. Desks. Counters. Anything that might shield him.

  Alena was running toward him. Doesn’t she understand what run means?

  He began to zigzag toward the attackers, hoping they’d refrain from popping off rounds in the hotel. All three gunmen drew down on him. The first man raised his weapon and fired, the round pinging off a column inches above his head.

  People screamed just as Alena reached one of the gunmen, the leader, who had been a little ahead of the others as they were closing in on her. The other two men were closer to Gerrit.

  Alena attacked the leader. She clobbered him with a vicious blow to the neck, putting him down, his weapon clattering to the ground. She kicked him in the head hard enough to send a soccer ball into orbit and scooped up his weapon.

  One down. Two to go.

  Gerrit dove around a pillar, still trying to draw their fire, while the remaining two continued to throw bullets. They seemed oblivious that their leader was down for the count. Fatally, they
failed to realize they had a crazy woman coming up behind them.

  He dashed from behind the column to give them a target to shoot at, to draw their attention away from Alena. They fired multiple shots as Gerrit zigzagged around any obstacles he could find—marble columns, a mannequin displaying a sequined gown now riddled with bullets, and a plate-glass window that shattered in a million pieces by a barrage of bullets.

  And then the attack stopped. Both men lay dead. Alena stood over the bodies, gun in hand. “Gerrit, are you all right?”

  He rose from behind a counter. “What is it about my command did you not understand?” He saw Alena’s look of relief—and then a flash of anger.

  “Your command?” She glared at him. “You putz! If I had run, those guys would have picked you off.” She glanced through the lobby. He followed her gaze and saw the flashing lights of a police car pull up to the entrance. “Gerrit, now is the time to run.”

  He looked around and saw people cowering nearby. “You’re right. Now is a good time to run…unless there’s someone else here you’d like to shoot?” He scooped up their weapons as they retreated.

  Alena moved toward the back entrance. “I saw a parking lot at the rear of this building. Let’s pick up a ride and get out of here.”

  Nodding, he waited as she dashed toward the café, then grabbed her bag. Together, they began to run.

  He glanced back to see if anyone else might be following. No one seemed that brave. A couple of hours in Dubai, and Alena killed two men, knocked another unconscious, and now they were on their way to steal a car. He could only imagine how the rest of the trip would play out—if they survived.

  Once in the parking lot, he covered her back as Alena dashed up to a valet desk and snatched a set of car keys hanging on a board. A young man cowered behind the desk, staring at the gun in Alena’s right hand.

  Gerrit smiled to himself. Smart man—don’t mess with an armed woman.

  “Gerrit, this way.” Alena ran toward the ground level of the parking garage marked for valet parking. As she ran, she pushed a button on the key fob.