FATAL eMPULSE

by Mark Young

  Beck smiled at himself as he realized his own prejudices emerging. Thoughts of his hardworking, blue-collar dad, working for those fat cats with money—those who got rich off the sweat of others. But he knew this was not true from his own experiences. Sure, there were those who had no scruples about how they got to the top—he’d even arrested some of those who’d went too far. But he had met those truly wealthy businessmen who’d given value to the product they produced, and treated those who worked for them decently and fairly.

  He put himself in check, making sure he didn’t paint people like Frank Collord and others with a broad brush along with those who lived to exploit others and squeeze every last cent from the general population.

  As he mulled these thoughts over, Beck realized he almost passed the address Frank had given him. He pulled into a long paved driveway that led to a darkened three-story home. He parked where Frank had instructed, and walked around a three-car detached garage and found a brick pathway leading to a private pier. Following this path, he saw a light shining aboard a yacht, its engines idling dead ahead. It was the only craft tied to the pier.

  “Permission to come aboard, Beck.” Frank appeared at the railing. “Make yourself comfortable. We’ll shove off when our visitor arrives.”

  It wasn’t until Beck boarded that he realized just how big this vessel really was.

  “Yeah,” Frank said, watching Beck take it all in. “She’s pretty extravagant, but I made some very good investments, and my wife insisted I spoil myself.”

  “She insisted?” Beck looked at him skeptically. “How big is this monstrosity?”

  Frank laughed. “Actually, she did insist. So here I am with a ninety-eight-foot monster, a Sunseeker 30 metre yacht, twin diesel, that will get me to wherever I need to go on water. I can live and work from here. Even satellite and computer connections allow me to function away from the office.”

  “How much did this thing cost?”

  Before Frank could answer, Beck heard a helicopter’s rotor blades beating the air as it neared. The aircraft must be landing on Frank’s property. From where they stood near the bow, he couldn’t see the aircraft but he could tell it touched down briefly before taking off again.

  A few moments later, two men emerged from below deck, and as they drew close Beck recognized them as Secret Service. He knew one of the two agents. He never heard them when he came on board, sneaky little devils.

  “Our visitor should be here in a minute or two.” Frank nodded at the agents as they passed.

  Several more Secret Service agents walked down the pier, greeting the two agents already on the vessel. They conversed, and then one of the men on the pier apparently motioned to others Beck could not see. A few minutes later, President Chambers came into view.

  Frank thrust out his hand. “Thanks for coming, Mr. President. With your permission, I would like Beck Malloy to sit in on this meeting.”

  Chambers nodded and gripped Beck’s hand. “Good to see you again, Agent Malloy. Frank tells me you and your people have been very busy. I’m sorry to hear about Joe O’Rourke. Any word?”

  Beck shook his head as Frank motioned them inside. He followed the other two men and watched Frank nod to a crew member, waving his hands in a circle. The man scrambled up a set of stairs as Beck followed Frank and the president into what could best be described as a luxurious living room, replete with a gas-operated fireplace in the center of the room. If he didn’t know better, Beck would have guessed they were on land, maybe inside that large house he passed on his way to this yacht. Around the fireplace stood several captain’s chairs and couches.

  As the other men sat, Beck took one of the chairs close by as he felt the boat shudder. Glancing out the window, he saw that they were leaving the pier behind. He turned his attention back to Frank and Chambers, seated next to each other on a couch. The president turned to the single Secret Service agent in the room. “I’ll be fine, George. Would you mind checking with the captain? We have some private matters to discuss.”

  George nodded, whispered something into his mike, and left the room.

  Chambers turned back to Frank, with a glance at Beck. “Okay, gentlemen. Tell me how bad this thing is.”

  “Mr. President, we believe that there is a direct leak inside your inner circle at the White House. I know your security detail advised you of the bugs found in the Oval Office and the Situation Room. Whoever placed them there did not intend for them to be discovered. I believe they knew the routine sweeps by your folks from the Communications Agency and planned to snatch them up before the next security check.”

  Chambers frowned without comment.

  Frank continued. “My point, sir, is that someone on your staff had access to your information. And alerted others about the people I sent to the Middle East. They walked into an ambush in Dubai, and I believe the other side might know our agents are in Damascus right now. If they don’t know where they are, they know we have people in place in Syria, and it will only be a matter of time before they track them.”

  Chambers leaned back and crossed his legs. “Okay, who’s leaking the information on my staff, Frank? Give me something to work with here.”

  Grimacing, Frank shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. President. We are working with Secret Service to go over White House surveillance tapes, trying to match specific dates and times you had conversations, tracking each of your staff members’ movements during those times. So far, we have not come up with anything.”

  Nodding, Chambers leaned forward. “What about how they are getting this information out? Any ideas?”

  Beck straightened in his seat. “Sir, we are checking all telephone calls, e-mails, cell phones, and communications links to known targets in our investigation. You can imagine the mountain of data that has to be searched. Frankly, I think our best bet is to backtrack from the other end—direct communications to and from Atash Hassan, for example—to see what calls he received or who he communicated with during the same time periods. This might allow us to narrow down our search parameters, to isolate who he contacts.”

  Frank nodded. “I’ve created a task force within NSA to help us focus on this end and to check for any chatter that could help us identify cell phones, e-mails and so forth that might lead to our leak. The problem with this approach—and why we created this smaller intelligence group with Beck, Colonel Thompson, and the others—is precisely the same problem you are faced with right now, Mr. President. Who can you trust?”

  Pausing for a moment, Frank allowed the president a moment to digest this new information. “The more people we bring in to help find this leak, the greater the risk we face of alerting our target, or others working with the target.”

  Chambers uncrossed his legs. “That is my dilemma, Frank. I don’t know who I can trust right now except you guys and O’Rourke and his people. They’re the ones whose lives are at stake.”

  Frank nodded. “My biggest concern is your safety, Mr. President. Your trip to Israel is less than a week away. Any way you could call this trip off or postpone it until we know what we’re facing?”

  The president shook his head. “Absolutely not. Prime Minister Shalev needs me there, by his side, to show the world our solidarity with the Israelis. That we are committed to the existence and survival of Israel.”

  “Sir, if you get killed over there, what’s that going to tell Israel’s enemies? That the U.S. government cannot protect its own, let alone its allies?”

  “I will not cancel this trip. Tell me, what is the latest on your people in Damascus? Any updates?”

  Frank seemed frustrated that the president would not change his mind, and it seemed to take a moment to mentally shift gears. Frank lowered his head for a moment before continuing.

  “It has been about five days since we realized that Syria and Iran knew we had people on the ground in Syria. Gerrit O’Rourke and the rest of the team have focused on the American scientist we believe sold the air-defense plans to the Russians or th
e Iranians through Brandimir Kisyov.”

  “The guy we knew as Stuart Martin?” Chambers asked. “Everyone’s heard the buzz on the Hill about the FBI raids and who might have been involved with this guy. By the way, any word on Brandimir? Have you been able to track him?”

  Frank shook his head. “His trail turned cold, sir. His last transmission came from Tehran at about the same time we were doing the raids on his places here. Since then, nothing. Either he has gone deep underground or he’s dead.”

  Chambers leaned back, folding his hands behind his head. “Your people in Syria—no one’s tracked them down? They have been able to move around undetected?”

  Frank shrugged and pursed his lips. “I don’t know, Mr. President. We know the Syrians have been alerted to their presence, but except for the close call with an Army patrol unit when they first arrived, there has been no activity that raised our suspicions.”

  “We have exactly eight days before Shalev and I go public.” Chambers hesitated for a moment. “I want to share something with you that not even most of my security people know about. Only the prime minister and key members of his security know. On March 18, Shalev and I are going to symbolically visit the Golan Heights.”

  Frank gasped and leaned forward. “Mr. President, you must be joking.”

  Chambers gave Frank a sharp look. “The prime minister intends to take a hard line on any more peace talks that call for Israel to give up the Golan Heights. It will no longer be a matter for negotiations—and I intend to support his stand on this issue. Possession of this territory is too critical for the security of Israel—water rights, a natural barrier from ground attacks, and so forth. In spite of the international community’s viewpoint. My presence with the prime minister on the Golan Heights will telegraph to the world where the U.S. stands—alongside our ally.”

  “Mr. President,” Frank asked, “who among your staff knows about this statement you intend to make?”

  “Only my closest advisors.”

  “Cabinet members?”

  “Secretary of state, defense, and one or two of my immediate staff. Why?” Chambers eyed Frank, doubt in his eyes. “You think one of them…?”

  Beck looked from one to the other, caught Frank shrugging. Neither spoke for a moment. “Sir, why did the prime minister choose March 18 to visit the Golan Heights?”

  “Huh?” The president appeared as if he did not hear Beck’s question.

  “Why that day?”

  “Oh,” Chambers said, “it is a day of celebration. We will be visiting a few of the villages in the area.”

  “And what is the celebration?”

  “It is the celebration of Purim, a Jewish holiday commemorating their deliverance from the enemy because of Queen Esther’s bravery,” Chambers said. “A biblical reference to when Israel fell under Persia’s rule.”

  Beck nodded, making a mental note to check on that fact. He knew from bitter experience that terrorists liked to pick certain holidays or certain events to carry out their acts of terror. Homegrown or foreign-grown terrorist groups seemed alike in their modus operandi—pick a special date and kill someone.

  Kill a lot of people if you could.

  Chapter 50

  March 15

  Damascus, Syria

  Here comes Benedict Arnold and his entourage!

  Through a clouded window, Gerrit watched the American scientist leave his apartment, trailed by a couple of thuggish-looking men, and walk toward the main street leading through the market. He watched them disappear from sight before returning to the monitor that now showed an unoccupied dwelling. Gerrit and the rest of the team had been watching Scott Henderson for ten days. Slowly, the scientist’s guards had allowed him more freedom to move about. They must think any threat against this American had passed.

  Except for heightened frustration from Max Salk, everyone else had fallen into a routine: during the day. They traded places in the apartment across the street every eight hours: one “couple” in the apartment and the other on the street wandering around as if they were customers, looking to buy gifts to send home to loved ones. At night, one couple would stay overnight in the apartment, and the other would return to the hotel to freshen up, sleep, and relax. It has been days since he had a conversation alone with Alena.

  Max was the only one who seemed to get more agitated as the days wore on. The more Scott Henderson sat there doing nothing, the more frantic Max became. One day, he had practically screamed across the street. “They must be using this idiot for something. What are they waiting for?”

  During one of Henderson’s trip to the market, Gerrit and Shakeela picked the lock into the target’s apartment and set up listening devices and video feed from several locations. They no longer had to look out the window to see any movement. They had several monitors that gave them a direct view inside.

  Still, not much happened. Henderson went to sleep. He got up, played on his computer, went to the market or a local café, and returned to his apartment, with his little entourage trailing behind. Like Max, the American seemed to be getting restless as the days wore on.

  Watching Henderson on the monitor, Gerrit called over to Shakeela. “Does this guy seem to be getting antsy to you?”

  She came over and peered at the screen. “He looks as bored as I am, Gerrit.”

  “No, look.” He pointed at the man drumming his hands on the table, then getting to his feet and pacing back and forth in front of his window, stopping every so often to peer outside. “He is getting nervous.”

  “Maybe it is finally hitting home what he signed up for. What he did.”

  “You think they have told him exactly what they want him to do?”

  As she studied Henderson again, she said, “If I were them, I would not divulge anything to the guy until the last minute. I’d tell him anything but the truth—particularly if the mission is dangerous.”

  “You mean like attacking Israel?” he said, watching the scientist once more. “He’s had a lot of time to think this through. Maybe the moron finally figured out they want him to do something dangerous. He’s got to be smart enough to figure out people like that don’t give people like him a lot of money for normal tasks. On the other hand, maybe he thinks he’s so special that only he can do whatever it is they want him to do. Maybe he’s that vain.”

  Shakeela nodded. “Maybe. But even someone with a big head has to wonder why he has two gunmen babysitting him for days on end. Unless he thinks he is so important that he requires personal bodyguards.”

  Shakeela drew closer, looking over his shoulder at the monitor. “Gerrit, look! A new visitor?” She pointed to one tiled screen on the monitor that provided a scan of the traffic leading up to Henderson’s front door.

  He swung back to the monitor, zooming in on the man standing in front of the door, looking up and down the narrow street for a moment. “Isn’t that the Syrian intelligence officer Raed al-Azmah?”

  She squinted at the screen. “I can’t be sure, but it sure looks like him.”

  Gerrit fiddled with several knobs that controlled the audio feed from Henderson’s apartment. “Alert Max and Alena. Tell them what we have and I’ll try to listen in on their conversation. Once the intel guy leaves, have Max and Alena tail him. Okay?”

  She nodded and moved away.

  Gerrit had the sound up so loud, he could clearly hear Raed pounding on the front door. One of the guards jerked to attention, grabbing a weapon and scrambling to the door. The gunman yanked the door open. Once he saw who stood in the doorway, the guard stood stiffly to attention, allowing the visitor to enter.

  Raed nodded to the guard before climbing the stairs. Raed seemed to know exactly where he had to go. In a moment, he joined Henderson and the two of them sat at the table directly in front of the window.

  Raed looked at Henderson before speaking. “Mr. Dunsmuir sends his greetings and informed me to tell you everything is on track. He will not be able to make the trial runs, but he said to tell y
ou that I can convey anything you might need to him.”

  “And the money?”

  “He will transfer the money as soon as I convey to him that you have completed the test sequence.”

  Henderson looked at Raed with suspicion. “I would like to speak to Mr. Dunsmuir…directly.”

  Raed smiled. “He will not be able to speak to you. He has other pressing matters.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Then I am instructed to take you to the airport. You will need to make your own arrangements to fly back to the United States. There will be no further payments.”

  Gerrit watched Henderson’s facial expressions carefully. The man seemed to be trying to figure something out, his eyes shifting between Raed and the floor. “Tell Mr. Dunsmuir that if I cannot speak to him directly, I insist on returning to the United States.”

  Shakeela returned to the monitor. “Am I missing anything?”

  Gerrit looked up at her for a moment, summarizing the recent conversation between Raed and Henderson. “I think our American is worried. Let’s see what he does.”

  Henderson folded his hands together and placed them on the table as if he intended to say a prayer. Gerrit had read this guy’s file before and knew prayers were not in Henderson’s vocabulary. “I think something is up with Brandimir. Otherwise, why would that conniver risk this operation by not speaking to Henderson? I think our guy here is just figuring that out. Let’s see if he calls Raed’s bluff.”

  “You think Brandimir might have bought it?”

  “That’s my guess. Working with a snake like Atash Hassan could be bad for your health. And since we’ve outed Stuart Martin out back in D.C., he’s no more use to Hassan. Expendable is the word that comes to mind.”