FATAL eMPULSE

by Mark Young

  “Is it working?” She gave him a serious look.

  He glanced at her and shrugged. “Let’s just say they have a long way to go to bring me into the fold.”

  Shakeela smiled. “Jesus tells us He’d leave the ninety-nine sheep to search for that one that is lost. He must have been talking about you.”

  “Then He’ll have to work harder. This lost sheep has wandered a long way from home.”

  She reached over and rested her hand on his shoulder. “At least you recognize that you might be lost. That’s a start.” She paused for a moment. “Have you heard about the German minister Dietrich Bonhoeffer?”

  Gerrit nodded. “That guy from World War II? Not much.”

  “Yes. The Nazi’s imprisoned him and he was ultimately executed for working with the resistance. Interesting man,” she said. “Bonhoeffer once wrote from prison, ‘Jesus himself did not try to convert the two thieves on the cross; he waited until one of them turned to him.’ That struck me as how we must all find ourselves—unworthy, turning to Jesus. That is what began to change my outlook on God. As a Muslim, it was all about earning my way to heaven, and down deep, I knew I’d never be that good. Jesus accepts us just the way we are—sinners.”

  Gerrit just shook his head, unable to reply. This was not the same woman he had met in the desert over seven years ago. He sensed her life had changed—drastically—from the person he once knew. The thought made him uncomfortable.

  A lost sheep? He tried to shake it off, but memories kept trying to break through his mental armor, times he saw men screaming and dying on the battlefield. Some men cried out for God in their last moments on earth, fearful, afraid, searching for the ultimate answer to life. And some seemed to die with a smile on their faces, as if they’d made peace with God. Those were the ones who troubled him the most. Deep down, Gerrit knew he was still just a man, fallible, mortal, prone to making mistakes. A man without answers to those questions that really mattered.

  Shakeela snickered.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I’ve got to have a chat with Alena—about you.”

  “Oh, yeah? Why would I be so interesting?”

  “Oh, I just thought we could compare notes.” She gave him a mischievous look.

  Now, he felt even more uneasy. What lay ahead might not give them any time to chat. That would be good.

  As the car approached the Old City, Gerrit slowed and looked for a place to park. They needed to walk the rest of the way. It would not give them any more time to talk. And that made him feel better. For the moment.

  They came to the east end of the famous Straight Street running through the heart of Old City. Gerrit critically examined the gray mammoth stones used by the Romans to build their Gate of the Sun, called Bab Sharqi. At the time it was built, horse-drawn carts and wagons could be pulled beneath the large central arch. Two smaller arches branched out on either side of the main one, the smaller arches accommodating pedestrians.

  He had pulled up as much information online as he could about this area once he knew their surveillance would most likely take them through this part of the capital city. “Hey, here’s something I learned about this street that you Christians might find historically interesting.”

  Shakeela smiled. “Not to steal your thunder, oh brainy one, but are you talking about the Apostle Paul?”

  “Oh,” he said, making a face, “you already know about that?”

  She grinned. “Let’s see if I have it straight, no pun intended. In the Book of Acts, chapter 9, God sent a believer by the name of Ananias to the street called Straight in Damascus to meet with Saul of Tarsus—whose name was later changed to Paul. They believed somewhere on this street after God blinded him with a bright light from heaven, Paul’s men brought him here, to a house owned by a man named Judas. Paul waited in that house until Ananias came, healed him of his blindness, and shared with him what God had planned for the apostle for the rest of his life.”

  “Okay, you pass with flying colors. Another lost sheep story?”

  “Oh, yeah. Apostle Paul was very lost. He hunted down, imprisoned, and even killed those who followed Christ. Ironically, he thought he was doing God’s will.”

  “I wonder what God thinks of this place now.” He watched several women in burkas walk past.

  “We live in a fallen world, Gerrit.” Shakeela followed his gaze. “And it is only going to get worse until He returns.”

  “So what are you fighting for if that’s what you believe?”

  “We have to keep fighting, Gerrit. We have to face evil and fight it.” She paused for a moment. “I admire the words Bonhoeffer once wrote of the harsh truth about himself and his generation. He said, ‘First they came for the Communists, but I was not a Communist so I did not speak out. Then they came for the Socialists and the Trade Unionists, but I was neither, so I did not speak out. Then they came for the Jews, but I was not a Jew, so I did not speak out. And then they came for me, but there was no one left to speak for me.”

  “So who are you standing up for on this mission? The Israelis?”

  “It is more about who I am standing against. Who we are standing against.”

  “Those who seek to take our freedoms away?”

  “Bingo,” she said. “All the bullies in the world who try to step on the innocent, to subject our freedoms to their dogmas.”

  “And what do you do when those bullies are inside our own government?”

  “We do the best we can. We speak out. We do what has to be done. You have been doing that all your life. I’ve been watching you from afar. I would say you are one of those good guys. A sort of hero.”

  Embarrassed, Gerrit didn’t know how to respond. He was not a hero—just a man who knew how to use a gun.

  A street peddler approached, trying to interest them in jewelry. Gerrit waved him off as he thought of what Shakeela just said. How did she know about what he’d done—brought up a defense contractor on charges in Iraq for killing a civilian; trying to arrest his SPD lieutenant Cromwell on criminal charges before the man was blown up? Did she think the Cromwell matter was an act of a hero?

  In reality, Gerrit waited for Cromwell to make one wrong move so he could justify killing the man. That was not the act of a hero. If only she knew what he was really like, that part of him that only he knew about. She might change her opinion.

  As they entered the marketplace, Gerrit returned his focus to the job. This was all he could think about right now. It would take all they had to get this job done and get out in one piece. Everything else—God, heroes, and the purpose for life—would have to take a backseat. Enemies were all around them. He needed to make sure the mission came first.

  Chapter 46

  March 4

  Washington, D.C.

  “Willy, I could use some good news about now.” Beck leaned back in his chair, feet resting on his desk. The Secret Service had just informed him that the White House Communications Agency failed to trace the bugs they found in the White House. “You have an opportunity to shine. To show up these experts and give me something they could not find.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. B., but I don’t have much to offer.”

  “What do you have? Anything would be more that what these guys came up with.”

  “First, tell Mr. F. thanks for the hook ups.”

  “Mr. F.?”

  “The main man, Frank Collord.” A twinge of impatience sounded in Willy’s tone. “By the way, it’s getting a little lonely out here in the woods. All I have to keep me company is a dog, and Bones could care less about me—all he wants is to hoot it up with Mr. G. again.”

  “And the dog told you all this?”

  “Sure, Mr. B. You know how dogs can communicate.”

  “Man, you have been in the woods too long,” Beck muttered to himself. “If you got to hang out by yourself, Lake Tahoe would be one of the places I’d choose. Now, give me what you do have, Mountain Man.”

  “Hey, I like
that tag. Mountain Man.”

  “Willy, the information?”

  “Oh yeah. It is the weirdest thing. It’s like Brandimir just fell off the face of the earth. No e-mails. No phone calls—except one. Nothing.”

  Beck swung his feet to the floor, planting his right elbow on the desktop, phone held to his ear. “Maybe he went into hiding. After we raided him.”

  “Maybe.” Willy’s tone implied doubt. “But that guy has been hiding all his life. We just found out his real name after all those years he worked in D.C., hobnobbing with the rich and famous. He knows how to disappear when he wants to and still keep in touch with his people.”

  “What have you turned up? Before I get any older.”

  “It’s more about what I don’t have than what I do have.”

  “Willy, help me understand what is going through that brain of yours.”

  “Well, thanks to Frank’s computer connections, I picked up a series of calls coming from Tehran—Brandimir’s phone and later Hassan’s phone—to D.C., another lobbyist group that they tell me is a front for the Muslim Brotherhood—United International Brotherhood, LLC, operating here in Washington.”

  “Never heard of ‘em. And how does this lobby group tie into what we’re working on?” This may be a glimpse into one of those cells. Beck cradled his forehead in the palm of his left hand. He felt a headache coming on. “Wait a minute. You mentioned he made several phone call? Where?”

  “Well, the number from Tehran was one Brandimir used when he operated overseas. His call from Tehran to this group in D.C. got me interested. I put a trace on that phone—tracking all calls coming and going—and I got a slew of interesting phone numbers. Some from the White House, some from DHS and even your agency—the FBI.”

  Beck dropped his hand. “You mean calls from my headquarters to a front for the Muslim Brotherhood?”

  “I thought that might interest you, Mr. B. Did a check on the lobbyist group and found out they represent a number of Arab organizations. Public relations—particularly contacts with the media—are among the services they provide to their clients.”

  “That would account for the number of calls to the White House and other federal agencies. The government is very sensitive to Arab issues since 9/11, trying to steer negative public opinion away from mainstream Muslims and focusing on identifying fanatical groups.”

  “Normally I’d agree with you, Mr. B., but I did a timeline of these calls, matching them to known numbers we suspect our targets have been using, and came up with some troubling groupings.”

  “What do you mean groupings?”

  “I took each incident of significance to our group—for example, Colonel Thompson’s arrival in Tel Aviv, Gerrit and crew landing in Dubai just before Alena almost bought it at the hotel, and the president’s talk with the Israeli prime minister about the trip he planned. I spotted a troubling pattern of phone calls after or leading up to each of these events.”

  “Give me an example, Willy. Wait a minute.” Beck walked to his office door. He glanced out in the hallway before shutting the door. This was probably futile. If they could bug the Oval Office, he knew they could plant listening devices in his office. But he just couldn’t help trying to make it harder for them to eavesdrop. “Okay, go ahead.”

  “Let’s take the call between President Chambers and Prime Minister Shalev. I zeroed in on the time that call was made and then ran all the numbers through a matrix I created. I saw a call from the White House—don’t even try to track it, it’s a general number no one monitors—to one of Brandimir’s numbers in Venice. After that call, a caller I assume was Brandimir makes two calls—one to Atash Hassan in Tehran; another to Ivan Yegorov in Moscow.”

  “You sure about this, Willy?” Beck’s hands felt clammy. “We have to be absolutely positive.”

  “I am 100 percent sure, Mr. B. The freaking Iranians and Russians knew about the president’s trip to Israel before we did—based on these sequence of calls. How about those apples? And I’m not finished. Hear me out.”

  “Okay, go ahead.”

  “Hassan makes two calls—a call to our Syrian intel guy, Raed al-Azmah; and right after that, he makes a call to another phone that pinged from the intentional airport in Dubai. Now, I thought the call to Dubai was a dead end because the cell phone was a burn phone. However, the guy has kept that phone for several weeks instead of ditching it. So, I ran the cell history through a number of servers and found out that the phone was used while the owner passed through Dulles airport.”

  Beck tightened the grip on his phone. “Right here in the capital?”

  “I used the time of call and location to search the surveillance tapes at Dulles and got a photo of everyone using cell phones at that exact time. I weeded out all those who don’t fit the profile and narrowed my search to only one caller.”

  “Outstanding, Willy. Send me that photo.”

  “Already done, Mr. B. Check your e-mail.” Willy sounded pleased with himself. “I was able to tap into that particular phone server’s history and check all outgoing calls for the phone at the same time he arrived in Washington. Guess who the caller dialed while he was here in the capital?”

  “Don’t make me hurt you, Willy.” All this information had given Beck a raging headache. “Just spit it out.”

  “The caller contacted someone at the United International Brotherhood, LLC. Can you believe it? We’ve gone full circle.”

  Beck closed his eyes, trying to keep the light to a minimum in hopes of controlling his throbbing head. It was not working. “This is all speculation, Willy, but I can see a connection, even if we don’t know what was said.”

  “That’s just it.” Excitement rose in Willy’s voice. “The timeline, based on the phone call between the president and the prime minister, sets off a chain reaction of calls: Iranians, Syrians, Russians, and a front group right here in the capital for the Muslim Brotherhood.”

  Beck leaned back, resting his head on his headrest. “Let me think this through. So…each of these incidents, these groups as you called them, all have similar patterns.”

  “Exactly, G-man. It’s like a little phone tree.” Suddenly, Willy’s voice sounded somber. “I took it hard when Alena almost got herself killed in Dubai—her and Mr. G., so I ran the same check through my matrix. Guess what I found out?”

  Beck just waited for Willy to continue. He did not have to wait long.

  “I’m guessing that just before Gerrit and the others flew out to Dubai, Frank ran it past the president, telling him in general what the plan was and who might be going. After all, Frank is working directly with the Big Guy, so…”

  “I get the picture. Just boil it down for me.”

  “I need Frank to pin down the exact time he had that conversation with the president, but right after that—and before Gerrit and everybody went overseas—that same phone tree of callers started up again. They continued right through the attack in the hotel.”

  Beck remained silent, trying to piece everything together.

  “And get this, Mr. B. This guy who I sent you a photo of and Hassan landed in Dubai at about the same time. This unknown caller hooked up with the Iranian at the same time bullets started flying at Alena’s hotel.”

  Beck yelled out a string of profanities.

  “Mr. B. That’s the first time I ever heard you swear.”

  Beck tried to control his emotions, a dull beat pounding inside his skull like a kettledrum. “This tells me they know our people are already in Damascus and they know who we’re looking for.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid happened. Our people are walking into a trap.”

  “Thanks, Willy. Look, I have to get off the line. Need to let Frank know that we have a major screwup.This just confirms what Frank already feared—we have a problem coming from the White House.”

  He killed the connection and began dialing. He hoped it was not too late to pull them out of Syria.

  Chapter 47

  March 5<
br />
  Tel Aviv, Israel

  Colonel Marc Perlman heard the knock on the door and glanced up to see Jack Thompson standing there, escort standing a few feet behind. “Jack, come on in. I hear you have some urgent news?”

  “I’m afraid so, Marc.” Jack looked over his shoulder briefly and then turned toward his friend.

  “Shut the door and grab a seat.” Marc motioned for the escort to return to his duties.

  Jack sat down, but he stayed at the edge of his seat, as if he refused to be comfortable. The news must be bad.

  “What is it, Jack? About our friends in Damascus?”

  Nodding, he leaned forward. “I believe Hassan and Raed al-Azmah know that our people landed in Syria. They may even know about the objective.”

  “Is your president aware of the situation?”

  “Not yet,” Jack said. “Frank Collord is handling that end, but that is only one part of the problem. There might be a leak in the White House.”

  Marc tried not to show his surprise. By Jack’s expression, he had not succeeded. “How bad?”

  Jack brought Marc up-to-date on what Beck and Willy found out, including the wiretaps that Beck alerted Secret Service about. “This is why I hate sharing ongoing military operations with politicians. They can never keep their mouths shut.”

  “You don’t think Chambers is the leak, do you?”

  “Heck no. But someone is using information from the wire taps to alert Hassan and the others. We still have not been able to plug that leak yet.”

  Marc steepled his hands, resting his chin on clasped fingertips. “We need to bring the prime minister in on this.”

  Jack nodded and waited for Marc to make the connections. A few minutes later, Prime Minister Shalev was on the phone. Marc made the introductions and gave the prime minister all the information Jack shared. “Sir, here is the big question we face—do we pull our people out right now?”

  “Do we know their status, and what they have found out so far?”