by Jones, Rick
Craner nodded. “Yes, sir. But how many more is unknown at this time.”
Burroughs tented his fingers and bounced them off the base of his chin, his mind working, the tapping steady and metered like the needle of a metronome. And then, “I’m going to call the Russian president and hold him indirectly responsible for what has happened,” he said. “Of course he’ll deny everything and shove my words back down my throat, but the moment I get off the phone you know he’ll be in contact with all his resources to confirm if what I said is true. I want all our intelligence resources up and running. I want every one of our agencies intercepting everything the Russians are throwing across their airwaves regarding Perchenko. I want to know how many weapons this man sold to the insurgents. And I definitely want to make one thing very clear—and this specifically pertains to you, Doug, and whatever coverts we have in Russia. I want Perchenko found and terminated the moment we confirm the amount of weapons sold and displaced on American soil. And I want all of you to understand—and I think all of you do understand—that our backs are pressing hard against the wall right now. All I’m asking you to do as the elite team I picked you for is to give me your absolute best. Have I made myself very, very clear?”
There was a group murmur that sounded more like a chorus of drunken slurs.
“Then let’s get moving, people. I need to know where those weapons are.”
#
Washington D.C.
0630 Hours Eastern Standard Time
President Burroughs was true to his word when he stated he would call the president of Russia and proffer threats and ultimatums, knowing full well they would be nothing more than idle bullying that were, of course, met by the political macho posturing of his Russian counterpart. However, the response he needed by the Russian principals to better serve his needs was for them to trigger all inquiries within their own administration, which were duly intercepted under the close scrutiny of American espionage and ingenuity.
Russian agencies quickly colluded with one another in the subsequent aftermath, making Perchenko the hot topic of the day. Suddenly there were explorations into his life such as to what was he doing? What was his activity in respect to established bank accounts since his departure from the Directorate S? And then there were further inquiries regarding Yorgi Perchenko’s black marketing schemes and alleged activities. But foremost they wanted to know where Perchenko was, which placed him within the crosshairs for removal long before American intelligence had the opportunity to find him first. Either way, Yorgi Perchenko had become a marked man.
And this pleased the president to no end. He had accomplished his goal.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Los Angeles, California
0930 Hours
Al-Khatib Hakam graduated from Columbia University with honors at the age of nineteen. He stood five six, was willow thin, and possessed the face of a child, but the mind of a leading academic. Subdued in manner and usually in control of his emotions, Hakam spoke little but walked with the air and confidence of a man twice his size.
He is also a natural born citizen of the United States—from Dearborn, Michigan.
And he is al-Qaeda.
Growing up in Dearborn held little reprisal since the community in general was of Arab ethnicity. However, having been accepted into Columbia University proved difficult, even for an emancipated child prodigy whose life changed dramatically by the age of seventeen.
Less than a week after his seventeenth birthday, and standing on the southeast corner of 42nd and Madison Avenue in New York City, al-Khatib Hakam had a reawakening. Across the street he observed a food vendor, an Arab, who was taking a quick respite from his duties by paying homage to his god. The man was bowing and kneeling over a prayer rug, his hands held out before him in reverence, his eyes closed and lips moving in silence as he raised and lowered himself over the carpet in constant motion.
And in a land that preaches tolerance as a virtue, al-Khatib Hakam beheld the intolerable.
In a city that was alive with throngs of people crowding every inch of walking pavement, al-Khatib Hakam watched as three powerfully built males surrounded the Arab as he prayed, the men chiding and laughing until one of them hauled the Arab to his feet by the collar of his shirt. From a distance al-Khatib Hakam could hear the crude remarks regarding the man’s religion and his ‘apparent’ audacity to pray with Ground Zero just a few miles away. He heard the word ‘disrespect,’ which was quickly followed by a racist slur and a tirade of spewing profanity.
And nobody appeared to take care, as smartly dressed people from every direction took a wide berth and ignored the situation completely, moving on as if the norm was to close their eyes to things that did not affect them.
And then al-Khatib Hakam understood, his epiphany striking him as if a door suddenly opened to a room of wondrous secrets: Although he was born American, he would never truly be American because of the vilification of his people.
Raising a hand before him, the young Arab examined it, turning it over and noticing the pigmentation on his palm was lighter than the rest of his flesh—still white, but different. When he lowered his hand he noticed the three men gone, leaving the vendor on his knees weeping into the fabric of his carpet, which he pressed close to him as if it was an ailing child. It was at this standstill moment of time when something clicked inside of Hakam.
For nights and weeks and months he never forgot that moment of persecution as a wicker slowly burned inside him, working its way to igniting the time bomb he had become. What he needed was something more than what the world of academia could offer him, something that would make him whole and responsive and utterly complete.
What he found was faith.
In New York City mosques were everywhere. However, Hakam found his true calling when he was introduced and infused with fundamentalist Muslim rhetoric. The cleric’s words were powerful and pulling, drawing young Hakam into the clutches of obsession for which he desperately needed to know his true fate in the eyes of his new-found god, Allah. And like many others like him he was anointed as a soldier in the eyes of his god, for which there was no greater honor. Al-Khatib Hakam was now complete.
His mantra: Allahu Akbar. Allah is the greatest.
In the pursuing years young Hakam had an affinity for learning foreign languages and excelled in International Studies, becoming fluent in nine languages by the time he graduated from Columbia. By twenty-one he was a reigning member of al-Qaeda, his intelligence serving him well on the American front.
Now his fate as a soldier was about to commence.
Leaning over the lip of the bathtub filled to capacity, Hakam carefully shaved his chest, arms and face, preparing and purifying himself for Paradise. After dabbing his face with a cloth, he sprinkled himself with rosewater and closed his eyes, his lips moving silently as he rubbed the perfume along his torso in gentle, circular sweeps.
Six months ago he met with Yorgi Perchenko in a land that was constantly cold, gray and depressing. The Russian and an Arab sitting across from each other in a wasted barn seemed an unlikely scenario given the Afghan war. But when Perchenko had the opportunity to conclude a deal for the sum of thirty million dollars, he didn’t care who the client was and no longer held the one-time prejudices that once bound him. He even told this to Hakam who responded with stares of indifference. But when Hakam had to speak he did so in perfect Russian without accent or dialect, making sure his answers were brief and to the point. His mission was simply to move the weapons into al-Qaeda hands as fast as he could.
Six months after that transaction he was in Rome, securing the leverage necessary for the next step of his operation by acquiring the Italian woman and her children, and immediately had them transported to an abandoned warehouse in Perugia, Italy, which was within eyeshot of the Ponte Felcino Mosque.
Now, back in the States after his brief spell in Italy, Hakam had just been informed by his contacts that the Arizona-Mexico team failed in its run to get their devi
ce across the border. The other two teams, however, succeeded, which in itself was good news.
Putting on a newly ironed shirt, Hakam stared at his image in the mirror as he dressed. When he moved his right hand to button his shirt, the mirror image moved its left. When the corner of his left lip curled into a semblance of a smile, the mirror image lifted the right. Everything—motions, tics and expressions—reflected the opposite. When he gazed upon his appearance one last time, the image staring back at him was the reflection of youthful innocence.
#
Perugia, Italy
0930 Hours Pacific Standard Time in the United States
All around them shadows not their own seemed to ebb and flow inside a room choked with free floating dust and sepulchral dampness. Somewhere water dripped from a pipe or aged spigot, creating rancid-smelling puddles teeming with bacteria Vittoria Pastore didn’t even want to consider.
For three days she and her children were holed up in this room where cold, blue light filtered in through the marginal seams surrounding the boarded up windows. The walls that held them were made of corrugated tin, which were firmly riveted in place to steel framing. And the door was stalwartly solid with a small access door at its base that opened and closed for the proffering of food, water and the occasional clean blanket.
For days she remained strong, huddling the girls close together on the bunk bed stroking their hair softly, her eyes staring at nothing in particular as she sat there with all the fortitude of a machine, each day wondering if this was the day her children would breathe their last.
But Basilio wanted none of this motherly action, considering himself too old and manly to be stroked endearingly by his mother, even at the age of fifteen.
But she was proud of him.
When she wasn’t staring at a fixed point on the opposite wall, she would watch him pace from one side of the room to the other, noticing the striking similarities to his father, such as the way he kept his shoulders straight when he walked in a gait synonymous with confidence and strength, the gait of a leader. Yet she couldn’t help notice the worry and uncertainty regarding their fate in the young features on his face. And if her eyes could readily adapt to darkness, she might have seen the hairs on his arms stand out like the hackles of an animal sensing great danger.
Once the girls were asleep she would carefully set them aside so as not to wake them, and with Basilio by her side, they would search for a small opening around the window’s seam that would offer a minimal view of their captors.
In the three days held captive, they were able to conclude there were no more than six captors, all the same faces, same voices, always speaking Arab. Dressed in camouflaged military fatigues, they also wore the red-and-white checkered keffiyeh, an attire of their faith, and noted the weapons they carried.
Although she knew nothing of weapons in general, she knew without a doubt the weapons they possessed looked powerful enough to obliterate whatever target they were aiming at.
The outlook was not good.
Grabbing the fabric of her shirt, Basilio tugged at it to get her attention. When she faced him she could see the forced calm on his face, the way it belied his underlying and true sense of agitation . . . Just like his father would if he was in the same predicament.
“It’s been three days,” he whispered. “Nobody’s coming. Nobody even knows where we are.”
Unlike his father who had patience, Basilio did not.
“And what do you propose we do, Basilio? Take on soldiers fully armed?”
“Would you rather we wait and be slaughtered?”
“Basilio.” She reached out and placed a warm hand against his cheek. “Your father will figure this out. And when he does, everything will be fine.”
“Papa is in America. And we are . . . wherever this place is. Papa cannot do anything, and you know it.”
Vittoria knew he was right. Her husband was halfway around the world flying the pontiff from one destination to another for the Papal Symposiums. Even she didn’t know where they were, which was duly pointed out by her son. Nevertheless, she was not about to let Basilio make any propositions that would put them all in jeopardy.
“We have to find a way out of here. Perhaps when the guards fall asleep we can—”
“Basilio, no!” Her words came out harsher than expected. “There is always one guard awake, you know that. There is no way out. The walls are solid. We looked.”
He stood erect, his chest pumped out in macho pomposity. “Then we will die like cowards,” he said, moving away. But Vittoria knew better—knowing her son was simply venting because underneath he was scared like the rest of them. If one of the captors pointed a weapon at his face, she knew Basilio would break in a heartbeat.
Vittoria stood away from the slight aperture in the window frame that granted her a view of the world beyond tin walls and closed her eyes. After taking a long breath into her lungs, she then exhaled in an equally long sigh.
It wasn’t so much as dying like cowards as her son had suggested. It was the fact of dying period.
Why are they keeping us alive? she asked herself. And for how much longer?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Los Angeles, California
1045 Hours Pacific Standard Time
Kimball Hayden, like most nights, slept little but never looked haggard or deflated. Instead, he always looked rejuvenated, his cerulean blue eyes always sparkling, the color of his face never pallid or dull, but always carried the sun-baked hue of tanned leather.
The nightmares plaguing him never drew from him physically. They only weighed him down emotionally.
Standing before the mirror, he noticed the marginal creases forming at the edges of his eyes and along the forehead. He was aging, no doubt, as nature does to a man by robbing him of his youthful appearance. But the man still maintained enough strength and power to remain at the top of his game.
When he was a newbie coming up through the ranks as a presidential assassin, he carried with him the claim that he was the ‘best the world had to offer’ when it came to double-edged weapons, for which he was master of the silent kill and combat engagement. Having run his blade across the throats of numerous enemies with impunity and undeniable skill, made him a lethal prodigy within the power halls of the White House. In fact, the principals were so enamored with his skills that they placed him amongst the current gods of Mount Olympus until the moment of his epiphany. Nobody had seen anything like him.
Now, several years later and seeking the salvation he’s been so desperately searching for, Kimball Hayden had found only a medial calm within himself.
He still had long way to go.
Dressing in the room of his suite, his clothes neatly pressed and laying on the edge of the bed, Kimball always took care and pride of his vestments. Although a soldier of the Vatican, he wore the assigned clothing of a cleric with the crisp black shirt and Roman collar. On the shirt pocket was the emblem of the Vatican Knights, a coat of arms that set him and his team apart from the rest of the clergy. Centered within the coat of arms was a Silver Cross Pattée, which was set against a blue background. The colors were significant for the fact that silver represented peace and sincerity, and blue the traits of truth and loyalty. Positioned alongside the design were two heraldic lions standing on their hind legs with their forepaws holding the edges of the shield, stabilizing it. The implication of the lions was a symbolic representation of bravery, strength, ferocity and valor. His black pants, however, were more martial in appearance with his pant legs deliberately blossoming at the top of military boots that were polished to a spit-shine finish. This was the uniform of the Vatican Knights.
Making sure he was properly dressed to specs, his creases sharp, his Roman collar centered and pristine white, Kimball Hayden marginally resembled a priest rather than the killer he once was.
Taking one last careful note of his appearance in the mirror, Kimball realized he would soon have to pass the mantle of leadership to someone youn
ger and aptly capable to lead his team into covert situations sanctioned by the Church. In the meantime, he hoped to find that elusive salvation he sought, that alleged ‘Light of Loving Spirits’ that would absolve him from all the horrible wrongs he committed as an assassin for the United States government.
In the meantime, as Pope Pius XIII spent his final day in the United States dealing with the local bishops of the Holy See in social communion, Kimball Hayden went off to find his own ‘spirits’ in a bottle of drink.
#
Washington D.C.
1130 Hours Eastern Standard Time.
President Jim Burroughs, thus far, was able to keep the news about the portable nuclear device out of the media’s grasp. But for how long, he didn’t know. Certainly it would only be a matter of time before the information started to pour through the gaping wounds of broken containment, once the first few drops of info escaped the dam. But for now, the president did what he could to make sure that anyone leaking information would be dealt with at the highest level, barring a direct threat of handing out corporeal punishment.
The administration had been meeting all day in the Oval Office trying to come up with the best possible approach to determine the whereabouts of other weapons, if any, and their locations. And to do that they had to start at the first stepping stone, which was to find out who proffered the weapons to begin with. And to do that you had to start with the usual suspects and follow the money trail.
CIA Director Doug Craner stood on the Presidential Seal before the president’s desk leafing through sheets of paper, confirming that the constant rush of data brought to him by the intelligence networks were indisputable before enlightening the top principals of Burroughs’ staff.
“Yorgi Perchenko,” he began, “is definitely in the black market servicing clients who have enough money to purchase plutonium for the construction of dirty bombs and Dante Packages for the right price. Last year his known bank accounts in twenty-seven nations have registered deposits totaling one hundred thirty-seven million dollars. Not bad for a retired assistant director for the Directorate S. But everything we discovered from intel confirms that Perchenko is definitely packaging portable nuclear weapons, which gives me reason to believe he’s the only runner in the campaign providing weapons of mass destruction.”