Walsh’s face grew red and he scratched his chest.
“Senator. The vice president urges you to take precautions. We will bring him in, but sir, this agent is out there right now. He is angry and therefore he is very dangerous.”
“Then you need to inform the vice president this is your problem and you need to handle it quietly and quickly. If your agent is really angry he can hurt us in more ways than one. That man has a lot of information that would be very bad for all of our careers if he ever went public. That’s the other concern when an agent goes off the reservation.” Senator Walsh turned his back on Stafford and walked over to his window. “Thank the vice president for this heads-up.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
NEAR BLOXOM, VIRGINIA
TUESDAY, JULY 26TH
9:15 A.M.
The timer on the treadmill read forty-three minutes and forty-eight seconds when David Singer’s cell phone buzzed. He slowed the treadmill to a walk and he recognized the caller identification so he tapped the screen on his smart phone to answer.
“Senator, what can I do for you?” asked Singer.
“Dammit! We have a problem!”
Singer grimaced and moved the phone away from his ear. “Shit, senator. You don’t have to shout. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is that damn pesky agent from the Homeland Council. Apparently, he’s back in DC and has me on his radar.”
Singer stopped the treadmill and clicked his finger to get the attention of Ellsberg who was prone on a nearby weight bench. He tapped the screen on the phone to activate the speaker and set the phone down on the treadmill display.
Ellsberg moved closer to listen in.
“Senator, you need to calm down,” said Singer. “We found him and we’ve got the notebook and ledger back.” He turned toward Ellsberg and grinned, then added, “And we have his hot little lady friend in our care. Everything is under control.”
“Look, Singer. I’m telling you this guy is dangerous. He’s pissed off and he’s a trained killer and he may be coming after me so whatever plan you have to take care of him you need to do it fast,” continued Walsh. “As long as he is alive, I’m feeling a little exposed.”
Singer held his phone closer toward Ellsberg who responded to Walsh. “Senator, this is Lee Ellsberg. The agent’s name is Monroe. Aaron Monroe. I know him well and I can assure you Monroe and his girl will both be dead within forty-eight hours. We’re planning a little murder-suicide event for them.”
“I’ll feel a lot better when I have confirmation that’s been done. I’m afraid that son of a bitch has enough information on us to take down our operation and put us all behind bars for a long time.”
“Not gonna happen, senator. I’ll take care of it,” replied Ellsberg.
“I’m counting on it,” answered Walsh. The line was disconnected.
Singer picked up a workout towel from a neat stack on a table next to a water cooler and wiped his face with it. “Let’s go see our girl and make sure she’s comfortable.”
* * *
Singer and Ellsberg left the small fitness room and marched through the barracks halls of the training facility where ex-military instructors employed by a foreign subsidiary of Coleman-Brown taught future insurgents to handle weapons, build homemade bombs, and kill without remorse.
The residents of these barracks were recruited by the ISIS organization Aaron had vitiated starting with the discovery of the financier’s notebook. They were drawn from disenfranchised communities in major cities across Europe and the United States. They were young men with few, if any, prospects for a solid education and career. Most of these young men had already turned to gang violence and drugs to fit in with a group. Once contacted by a recruiter, they were easily radicalized. They were handpicked by the various recruiters and sent to this camp for training to unleash wanton death and destruction in America’s cities.
They were the future martyrs and they were almost ready for deployment. It would be a deployment that would require the national, state, and local governments to ramp up procurement of first responder equipment and training. A lucrative ramp-up for Coleman-Brown, a leading supplier of full-spectrum, first responder, anti-terrorism, and force protection acquisition and services.
They walked out of the barracks into the morning sun and felt the cool breeze from Beasely Bay. The gravel of the walkway crunched under their feet as they made their way to a small, unattached metal garage where Sarah was held captive.
Ellsberg opened the door and held it for Singer as he stepped inside. “Good morning, Miss Nejem. I trust you slept well.”
Sarah sat on the concrete floor with her back against the wall. Two male guards stood by the door. The vehicle door was locked in place and the room was empty except for Sarah and the guards. She wore oversized sweat pants and a large T-shirt that had been provided to her when she was taken from the pool at the vineyard. Her hair was unkempt and hung just off her shoulder. She jumped up and lunged at Singer but was quickly restrained by the two guards assigned to watch her.
“You son of a bitch,” she shouted. “Why did you bring me here? What are you going to do to me?”
“Sarah,” Singer calmly said, “restrain yourself, dear. There is no reason for you to struggle. You’re a guest in our facility and I want you to be comfortable.”
Ellsberg stood beside Singer with his hands folded together behind his back and a smirk on his face.
Singer stepped closer to Sarah, who was still restrained by the guards, and leaned close to her and spoke softly in her ear, “I just wanted to tell you, your boyfriend, who has been a real pain in my ass, by the way, will be dead in a few hours.”
Sarah struggled to break free.
Singer continued. “If his own Council doesn’t kill him, we will. He is walking directly into our trap.” Singer stepped back and stood facing Sarah. “And you are the bait.” He laughed as his eyes wandered up and down Sarah. With the guards still restraining her, Singer leaned in close to her again and said, “You’re a very attractive woman. Perhaps after we finish with your boyfriend, we’ll have a little fun together.”
Sarah spit in his face and Singer glared at her with cold, blue, dispassionate eyes.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
WASHINGTON, DC
TUESDAY, JULY 26TH
10:05 A.M.
After his meeting with Senator Walsh, Stafford returned to his desk in the Executive Office Building. He opened his classified e-mail from a Foreign Services officer in the Homeland Security Department of the US Embassy in London.
In reply to your inquiry regarding a possible recent violent altercation at the home of Ms. Sarah Nejem:
London Police reported a break-in at her residence on the morning of June 29. Multiple small-caliber rounds neutralized four apparent intruders. The intruders, according to the police report, appear to have been a professional hit squad. Neighbors reported she was with a man in the days leading up to the incident. Whereabouts or condition of Ms. Nejem is unknown although her personal vehicle was recorded entering France via the Eurotunnel on June 29th. Now it gets interesting. Europol reported Ms. Nejem’s vehicle was found in a garage in Italy. The property was the scene of a double murder. Local police list an American citizen, Aaron Monroe, as a person of interest. Location and status of Ms. Nejem and/or Mr. Monroe is still unknown.
Ms. Nejem is a naturalized US citizen. In view of possible involvement of another US citizen as a person of interest, State Department has made this a high priority. Your inquiry that originated from the Office of the Vice President implies this may be a National Security issue.
Please advise.
“Holy shit!” Stafford hurried across the hall to the vice president’s office.
“Is he in?” Stafford asked.
The vice president’s executive assistant replied, “Left a few minutes ago on his way to Andrews. He has to be in San Diego tomorrow for a fundraiser. If you run, you might catch him.”
&n
bsp; Stafford raced after the vice president, taking the curved marble stairs two steps at a time down two floors to reach the polished black-and-white-checked linoleum first floor. He caught up to the entourage just before they exited the building.
“Mr. Vice President,” Stafford called out. “Sir, may I have a moment?”
Patterson’s eyes were narrowed and fixed with a look of intensity on Stafford.
“I have great news about Monroe. Can I speak to you privately?”
Patterson’s gaze turned toward the lobby. “Over there.”
Stafford pulled the copy of the e-mail out of his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Patterson.
“Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch! This is wonderful news!”
“Sir, this e-mail proves everything Monroe told me last night is true. Someone sent a hit squad after him in London and then, you have to assume, tried again in Italy and instead kidnapped Aaron’s girlfriend. Sir, with this information, I think we can conclude Aaron is not a loose cannon.” Stafford stroked the nape of his neck. “Sir, Aaron needs our help.”
Patterson summoned his personal assistant. “Please call Andrews and tell them I will be delayed.” Then he said to Stafford, “Back to my office. We have some work to do.”
For ninety minutes, Stafford counseled with the vice president, which included twenty minutes with the president. At the end of the meeting, his guidance from POTUS was to “leave no stone unturned. Find out who hired the mercenaries to go after Monroe. Find Sarah Nejem and bring Monroe in alive, if at all possible.”
* * *
After he was told by the president and vice president to “leave no stone unturned,” Stafford returned to his office and sent an inquiry via secure e-mail back to the embassy in London:
I am authorized to confirm POTUS considers this situation a National Security issue. Cannot divulge more at this time but I require more information about the deceased if any is available.
Stafford went to the Executive Office cafeteria and picked up a salad he planned to eat at his desk. When he returned, he found the e-mail response from the Embassy Foreign Service agent for Homeland Security had arrived. He quickly moved his mouse curser to the e-mail and opened it.
Identities of four deceased have been confirmed through military records and DNA analysis. All were former U.S. Army Rangers. From interviews with families, they believed the deceased were employed as mercenaries. Identity of employer is unknown to family members. Remains have been returned to United States for transfer to families.
The e-mail went on to list the names and social security numbers of the four deceased mercenaries.
Stafford rubbed the nape of his neck. Former Rangers! Are you kidding? Mercenaries! He recalled his earlier conversation with Aaron regarding the ledger. “There are partial bank account numbers in the ledger. There’s nothing definitive but Sarah thinks they may be tied to an account with Bank of America.” Stafford stared at his computer screen as he contemplated his next course of action. “Follow the money,” he murmured.
Via secure phone, Stafford contacted the vice president, who was airborne in Air Force Two and made his case for an emergency employment of electronic surveillance before obtaining the necessary authorization from the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court. He provided the vice president with the names and social security numbers of the deceased mercenaries.
Minutes after his conversation with the vice president, Stafford retrieved a bottle of mineral water from the small office refrigerator, then sat at his desk and twisted the cap off. He placed the bottle on the desk in front of his computer and he heard the chirp of his secure cell phone notify him of an incoming text message. The message from the vice president read:
Attorney General approved emergency employment of surveillance. NSA to assist. Warrant application required within seven days…Good hunting.
Stafford then received a secure e-mail from an agent at the National Security Agency that read:
Highest priority. Conducted data search based on parameters provided. There have been recent deposit transactions for the four SSNs of interest. Sum of fifty thousand dollars was transferred to individual accounts of each individual in a Cayman National Bank account within the last thirty days. Transfer originated from Bank of America Financial Center account in Washington, DC. Originator account holder is Merideth Utley. Originator account has made numerous high value transfers to Cayman accounts and has received numerous high value deposits from accounts worldwide. This is a red flag.
“Jesus Christ! Aaron was right all along. There is something very sinister happening here. Now who the hell is Merideth Utley?”
Stafford e-mailed back;
Can you identify Merideth Utley?
The response was almost immediate.
Conducted metadata search. There are biweekly deposits to a separate BOA account of the same name and SSN. The deposits originate from Coleman-Brown Industries.
Stafford leaned back in his chair and interlaced his hands behind his head and stared at the computer screen. “Coleman-Brown Industries,” he muttered. He then called up the Coleman-Brown website and found an organizational chart of key personnel. Merideth Utley was listed as the executive assistant to the Chief Executive officer, David Singer.
He placed a secure call to the vice president who was still in route to San Diego.
“Dammit!” exclaimed the vice president. “I want that emergency order expanded to wiretap all communications of Coleman-Brown Industries. What the hell is going on there?”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
WASHINGTON, DC
TUESDAY, JULY 26TH
12:10 P.M.
Aaron rode the Metro from Rosslyn to the Largo Town Center station, then boarded a Prince George County bus that stopped half a block away from the strip mall where the barbecue was located. The sign with a painting of a smiling red pig wearing a chef’s hat was visible from a block away and right where the e-mailed directions from Ellsberg indicated it would be. His Sig Sauer was strapped around his ankle and concealed under his jeans.
At midday toward the end of July on a bright sunny day, the outside air was uncomfortably hot and humid, typical for the time of year. Aaron was thankful he only had a short walk to the restaurant.
Aaron picked up the scent of the wood burning from the outdoor ovens as he approached the parking lot where ten cars were parked. He opened the door, and as the cool air enveloped him, he spotted Ellsberg seated in a booth along the far wall facing the door. Aaron slid into the bench across from Ellsberg, then reached down and removed his Sig Sauer from the ankle holster and aimed it at Ellsberg under the table.
Ellsberg smiled. “Aaron. Good to see you. Did you have any trouble finding the place?”
Aaron didn’t answer Ellsberg. He felt his heart pound in his chest. His finger twitched on the trigger.
“So here’s how it works,” continued Ellsberg. “You go up to the counter and order your meal. The cute little redhead will give you a number in a stand. You bring it back here and place it on the table and someone will bring your meal out to you.” Ellsberg began to slide out of the booth.
“Stay right where you are,” Aaron commanded. “I’ve got a nine-millimeter aimed at your nuts right now and it’s taking every ounce of self-control I have not to pull the trigger.”
Ellsberg stopped moving. He turned toward Aaron.
“You son of a bitch. What have you done with Sarah?”
Ellsberg leaned back against the bench seat and placed his hands on the table in front of him. “So we’re not going to have a pleasant lunch together I take it.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Lee.” Aaron felt his palms sweat. “I swear I’m ready to kill you right now.”
“You look like you need a glass of water, Aaron.” Ellsberg poured a glass from a pitcher on the table and slid it in front of him. “C’mon man, what makes you think I know anything about Sarah?”
“I said don’t fuck with me.” Aaron pushed the water glas
s back across the table. “The e-mail address you gave me is the same e-mail address you used to contact the forger in Perugia. You paid him to tell you where we were.”
Ellsberg slumped his shoulders and exhaled. He turned his gaze away from Aaron toward the line of people ordering their meals. He turned back toward Aaron and said, “So I guess you have no interest in lunch then.”
“Dammit, Lee.”
“Well this lunch date isn’t going to go the way I thought it would.”
They locked each other in a silent, angry gaze for a few moments.
“Put your gun away, bud,” advised Ellsberg. “You’re not going to shoot me here. We both know that. And if you did, well, you already know you would never see you’re pretty little Sarah again.”
Aaron felt a hatred toward Ellsberg. His throat was bone dry so he reached for the glass of water and took a few swallows.
Ellsberg calmly said, “Put the gun away.”
“You murdered my godparents.”
“Well, not me exactly. But it was a team of soldiers I hired and trained. It was you they were after but you weren’t there. And I’m sorry. I didn’t know they were your godparents.”
“Would it have made any difference?”
“No,” replied Ellsberg. “You already know it wouldn’t have. Collateral damage.”
“London?” Aaron asked.
“Clumsy plan on my part. You killed some of my best men.”
Aaron’s finger twitched on the trigger. The urge to kill Ellsberg was strong, but he knew if he had any chance to save Sarah and extract his revenge on Ellsberg, he had to play it Ellsberg’s way. He slipped the Sig Sauer back into the holster and placed both his hands on the table.
“How do we play this?” Aaron asked.
“We walk out the door together. My associates will take you to Sarah.”
“And then what?”
Ellsberg leaned over the table toward Aaron. “C’mon, bud. We both know this won’t have a happy ending.”
The Monroe Decision Page 21