Counter Caliphate (A Jake Adams International Espionage Thriller Series Book 11)

by Trevor Scott

  “I am sorry,” the man said.

  “Not to me. To her.” Jake pointed his hammer at Sirena.

  “My deepest apologies,” the Spaniard said.

  “There,” Jake said. “Now that we’ve established the penalty for failure to give us proper information, why don’t you explain everything to us.”

  Jake leaned against the work bench and waited for the man to speak.

  Once the man opened his mouth to talk, he didn’t shut up for nearly fifteen minutes. He explained how the group of men had chartered the helo from him, along with his services. He claimed to have no knowledge that he was working with radical Islamic terrorists. At least not until he got to the medical ship and saw the men with weapons escorting the medical workers to the helo. He was scared shitless from the medical ship to the Atlas Mountains, especially once he got to the camp. He thought the men would kill him on the spot after dropping off the kidnapped medical workers. When he flew back only one armed man came with him. Ever since then he fully expected a bullet to the head at any moment. He even thought that Jake and Sirena might have been there to kill him.

  The man weaved a compelling tale, Jake thought. But he would still need to confirm the guy’s claim.

  “Interesting,” Jake said. “But why would they leave you alive?”

  The Spaniard hunched his shoulders. “The man who came back with me said they still needed to use my services. My helicopter.”

  Now that made the most sense this guy had said so far. “Why would they need you and your helo?”

  “I don’t know. I believe it had something to do with the medical workers.”

  That had bothered Jake for some time. Why take these workers from the high seas? It would have been much easier to kidnap a group of folks from a cruise ship on a tour out of Casablanca or Tangier. But these terrorist had selected all medical workers, nurses and doctors. Did they take these workers for their medical expertise? If so, then why send out a ransom message with the British doctor?

  “So,” Jake said. “You know where to find these medical workers. I thought you said there was no GPS records kept. No flight recorder.”

  The Spaniard smiled. “I memorized the GPS location in the Atlas Mountains.”

  Now they were getting somewhere. “Good. Now you’ll tell me.”

  Sirena pulled a small knife and flicked open the blade. She gave the Spaniard a stern gaze.

  “I said I would tell you the truth,” the man said, “but I must ask for one thing in return.”

  “What’s that?” Jake asked.

  “Protection.”

  Jake considered the man’s request, knowing that would be almost impossible to guarantee. Especially since the man had helped a group of Islamic terrorists carry out an elaborate kidnapping scheme, which included the death of the ship’s captain and others in the process.

  “I will keep these men from killing you,” Jake agreed. He could guarantee that for a while.

  The Spaniard let out a deep breath, as if the weight of his impending death had finally been resolved. Then the man meticulously said the GPS location, which Jake typed into his smart phone. With the wi-fi from the nearby villa, Jake mapped the location. He expected to simply verify the location that he had gotten from the other source, the man from Tangier, and the one confirmed by Kurt Jenkins recently. But this was nowhere near that location. He quickly tracked the distance between this man’s location and that from the Tangier contact. They were over a hundred kilometers apart. Both were in the Atlas range, but the Spaniard’s location was much to the south.

  Now they had a bit of a problem, Jake knew. He found the contact info for Kurt Jenkins and texted him this new location, asking if they could check out this by satellite. Kurt fired back almost immediately, saying he’d have his successor look into it.

  Turning to the Spaniard, Jake said, “All right. I’ve got a plan for you. We need to get you off this island. Do you have a wife and kids?”

  The man shook his head. “No children. An ex-wife in Madrid. You can give them her address if you like.” He smiled nervously.

  “Great. We can’t go to your house. They’ll be waiting there. You can stay here until morning. Then I’ll put you on a flight off Tenerife.”

  “Won’t they be watching the airport?” the Spaniard asked.

  “I’ve got that covered.”

  Sirena came over with her knife and cut the man free.

  The man rubbed his wrists and said, “Gracias.”

  “Are you thirsty?” Jake asked. He cracked open a bottle of water and handed it to the guy, who sucked down half a bottle in one attempt.

  Jake and Sirena waited next to the man.

  The Spaniard took down more water and continued to thank the both of them.

  “No problem,” Jake said. “When we get inside, we’ll drink a bunch of good wine.”

  The man smiled with that intimation. Then his eyes started to swirl and his body followed that, becoming unsteady. In just seconds the man collapsed into the waiting arms of both Jake and Sirena. They started hauling the limp body out the back door that led to the villa.

  “Bring the tape,” Jake said.

  Sirena grabbed the large roll of tape from the work bench on the way out the door.

  21

  The next morning, Jake was the first one awake, followed closely by Sirena. The two of them made coffee and sat at a small table in the kitchen. The sun had not even broken through yet.

  “Did you check on our Spanish friend?” Jake asked Sirena.

  “Yeah, he’s still breathing. You don’t really plan on letting the man go.”

  “No. But we need to stash him somewhere until we finish our op.”

  “Right,” Sirena agreed. “Otherwise the guy mouths off to the authorities and blows us out of the water.”

  “Exactly.” Jake sipped his dark roast coffee and then set his cup on the table.

  She studied Jake’s face. “Something’s wrong. I’ve heard you like to keep things compartmentalized, but we’re supposed to be working together.”

  True. But Jake had a reason for every release of information. “You came highly recommended, Sirena,” Jake said, and then hesitated to sip more coffee. Yet his eyes never left the striking former Israeli Army officer. “I understand you also did some work for the Mossad.”

  Sirena leaned back in her chair. Now she delayed with a sip of her own coffee. “I never officially worked for them,” she finally said. “But I was involved with a number of their missions. And I was trained by them.”

  “Then how did you transition to the Agency?” he asked.

  “I’m not officially on their roster either,” she said.

  “But you work for them.” He knew this from his past association with Sirena.

  “Yes. But I’ve also worked for the NSA and some of the other alphabet agencies in Washington. Are you testing me? Trying to test my allegiance?”

  Jake shrugged. “I know through our mutual friend Chad Hunter that you’re a good person and a great operative. That’s not the issue.”

  Sirena smiled. “But you want to know if what you tell me might end up back in Israel. I had dual citizenship. My mother is American and my father Israeli. But to work for the American government, and to obtain my Top Secret security clearance, I was forced to give up my Israeli citizenship. So, there you go. I’m officially loyal to America. Now, since you haven’t actually lived in the U.S. since college, I might be able to ask the same of you.”

  Jake was starting to really like Sirena. Now he knew Chad’s attraction to her. “Good point. Although I’ve worked for our government on and off for decades in both the Air Force and the Agency, I can’t seem to extricate myself from them entirely.”

  “Just when you think you’re out, they pull you back in,” Sirena said with her best Mafia impression.

  “Now you understand my plight.”

  “Yes, but everyone should have the right to retire at some point.”

  “Whoa
, is that a jab at my age?” Jake asked.

  “No. You’re in reasonably good shape for a man in his eighties.” She picked up her coffee and tried to hide a smile behind the large cup.

  “I’m only eighty in spy years,” Jake assured her. He got up to refill his cup of coffee, asking her with a lift of his glass if she’d like a refill.

  She nodded and slid her cup toward Jake. He gave them both more coffee and then sat down again across from Sirena.

  “Okay,” she said. “What’s the plan for today?”

  “Head to the bank as soon as it opens,” he said. “Pick up some money. While I’m doing that, I need you and one of the other guys to haul our Spanish friend to the north airport and get him onto the Gulfstream. Have them fly the guy to Spain and drop him off with someone we can trust.”

  “I know a guy in Malaga we can trust,” she said. “He’s with Spanish intelligence.”

  “Right. But we can’t have him interrogate the guy. We don’t want the Spanish government involved. At least not at this point. Eventually they’ll need to charge the guy with consorting with terrorists, conspiracy to commit murder, kidnapping, etc.”

  “There’s a safe house there with a detention room. It should work great. I’ll take care of that. Then what? Now that you have our transport flying to Spain.”

  “The Gulfstream is a bit ostentatious,” Jake said. “You’ve seen the man’s helo. You think you can fly that?”

  “Oh hell no. It’s older than you.”

  “You’re funny.” But she was right. “Can you fly it?”

  “Of course,” she said. “But I can’t guarantee it won’t drop out of the sky halfway across the ocean.”

  “There are no guarantees in life, Sirena. If we’re gonna head to that remote camp in the Atlas Mountains, it would be nice to use the same helo that brought the hostages there in the first place.”

  “Right. They might hesitate to shoot us down.”

  “The Spaniard mentioned they might use his services again in the future, which is probably what kept the man alive.”

  “There’s only one problem with that logic.”

  Jake was thinking the same thing. “I know. Those who survived the shootout last night might have tipped off the kidnappers that the Spaniard was no longer a viable resource.”

  She nodded her head. “Exactly.”

  “All right. We’ll use the chopper to get us close. You drop us off and we’ll hoof it. Then we’ll call you for exfil.”

  Those in the villa spent the next couple of hours preparing to leave. Jake gave them orders to grab everything they might need from the gun room on the third floor, including enough ammunition for World War III.

  Then Jake called the Gulfstream flight crew and told them his plan, while Sirena set up the Spaniard’s detention in Malaga, Spain.

  By noon everyone was back at the villa. Jake had picked up ten grand in cash in U.S. dollars, as well ten grand in Euros. He hoped that would be enough in a country with a black market economy run on bribes. Those at the bank didn’t even blink at those amounts. Jake guessed they were used to friends of Carlos Gomez taking out petty cash.

  After a quick lunch, they piled all of their gear into the back of the billionaire’s Mercedes SUV. Jake hoped nobody would notice all the bullet holes.

  A half hour later and they were at the south airport offloading their gear into the office of Tenerife Helicóptero Tours. Jake instructed Jean Paul Talbot to dump the Mercedes somewhere south of the airport and they’d pick him up. The Frenchman sped off.

  Once they got to the hangar, Sirena did a quick assessment of the helicopter.

  “How is it?” Jake asked her.

  “Not as bad as I first thought,” she said. “According to the records, the engines just had a complete phase maintenance overhaul less than fifty hours ago. That must have been just before the kidnapping. Structurally, she’s sound.”

  “What about fuel?” Jake asked.

  “She’s topped off and ready to fly. I just have to close up a couple of panels and we’re ready to go.”

  “How do we get that beast out of the hangar?” Tucker asked.

  Sirena pointed to the far end of the hangar, where a bunch of equipment was stored. “Aircraft tow tractor. I’ll show you guys how to hook it up, but I’ll need someone else to drive it. I need to be up in the cockpit.”

  Jake and Tucker looked at each other and then to the priest, who had been very quiet all morning.

  “I can do it,” the priest said.

  “Outstanding,” Jake said. “But let’s load up all the gear first.”

  The three men hauled the guns and ammo and other equipment, piling it into the back end of the helo behind all the seats and into the back couple of rows. Luckily Sirena had mentioned the fact that they would also need some food, so they had pillaged as much as they could carry from the villa, including two cases of bottled water.

  Fifteen minutes later and they had everything packed, the helo pushed out to the flight line, and the engine and rotors cranking.

  Jake got into the second seat and put on a headset to talk with Sirena. “We need to first fly south and pick up Jean Paul a few miles down the shore.”

  “Roger that,” she said.

  “What about air traffic control?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” she said, her eyes scanning the area near the runways. “I asked our Spanish friend this morning and he said ATC doesn’t require him to file a flight plan unless he plans on flying over the cities on the island. He just needs clearance to make sure there are no inbound or outbound flights.”

  “Let’s preempt them,” Jake said.

  She nodded. Then she started to taxi forward toward the runway. In a few seconds she stopped and requested take-off from ATC. They cleared her immediately.

  Sirena smiled and powered up the rotors, pulling forward and lifting off simultaneously. Then she banked to the south and headed out over the water, barely above the waves.

  Jake kept his eyes open for Jean Paul along the highway. In a couple of miles he saw the Frenchman waving his arms on a secluded rocky shore wide enough for the helicopter to land.

  Sirena slowed the chopper and touched down just long enough for Jean Paul to jump aboard and Sinclair Tucker to slam the door behind him.

  Jean Paul climbed up toward the back of the cockpit as Sirena lifted off and powered up the rotors again, pulling the chopper up to fifty feet and heading toward its maximum speed.

  “What did you do with the Mercedes?” Jake yelled over the engine noise.

  Jean Paul smiled. “It went for a swim.”

  “Good job.”

  The Frenchman climbed back down and went to a chair.

  Jake glanced out the side window and saw they were losing the island in a hurry as they reached over a hundred miles an hour. They were now only a hundred feet above the ocean, but he saw one problem. Ahead was a bank of clouds that looked pretty ominous.

  “Did you know about that storm?” Jake asked Sirena through his headset.

  “Does it matter?” She smiled behind the mic. “It’s the only way to go.”

  “How long before we hit land?” he asked.

  “Don’t ask me. You’re the navigator.”

  Great. But he already had two waypoints punched in to the GPS. Their first stop would be for fuel at an airfield outside of Agadir, Morocco. The GPS would give them the most direct route. Once out over the sea for a couple miles, Sirena turned toward the northeast. Based on the storm ahead, Jake guessed they were in for a rough ride.

  22

  Woodbridge, Virginia

  Kurt Jenkins sat back in his leather chair in front of his cherry desk in his home office, his thoughts with Jake Adams and all the man had done for him over the years. Jake had given everything for his country, and nearly his own life on too many occasions to count over the years. And maybe that was the former CIA Director’s biggest regret since leaving the Agency. Somehow, Jake had continued his affiliat
ion with the Agency, putting himself in harm’s way for no other reason than for love of country and a sick sense of obligation to the same.

  It was early morning, just after breakfast, and Kurt was sipping on a cup of coffee, letting the warm java slowly heat his throat down through the center of his chest. His wife had taken the kids to their grandparents two days ago, so Kurt had the large house to himself.

  He had his laptop open and had punched in the GPS coordinates that Jake had texted him nearly sixteen hours ago.

  Jenkins suddenly got a text and he looked to see it was from his successor, saying he was outside and needed to speak in person. Kurt said to come on in and then he got up to head to the front door.

  Opening the door for John Bradford, the current Director of Central Intelligence, Jenkins looked around his friend for any sign of a detail.

  “Where’s your security?” Jenkins asked, letting his old friend inside and closing the door behind him.

  “Since this is a dead end street, I had them drop me off at the edge of the cul-de-sac,” Bradford said.

  “It doesn’t matter too much,” Jenkins said. “Everyone on this block is either former government or retired flag officers. All with Top Secret Clearance.”

  “Trust me, I know. My former boss at the Pentagon lives two doors down.”

  Bradford had been to Jenkins’ house in the past, but any movement the Director made was logged with a security detail. Privacy was almost nonexistent. One thing that Jenkins didn’t miss about his old job.

  “Come on,” Jenkins said. “You look like you could use a good cup of coffee. I just brewed a Costa Rican.”

  They walked back to the office and Jenkins poured them both a cup of the dark roast. Then Jenkins sat back in his leather desk chair and Bradford settled into a chair with leather that matched the cherry desk.

  “I’m guessing you found something,” Jenkins said.

  Bradford took a small sip of his coffee. “Yeah, we found something. Did you know that Adams was in the Canary Islands?”