The Assassins

by Oliver North

  FORMER FBI DIRECTOR: Gerald Donahue

  The members of this Presidential Commission on Threat Mitigation shall serve a one-year term. The names of these members shall not be revealed during their lifetimes or that of their children.

  BY ORDER OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES. SET UNDER MY HAND ON THE 16TH DAY OF OCTOBER, IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 2007.

  “Well,” said Newman handing the sheet of paper back to Grisham, “that answers ‘who’ would serve. Perhaps ‘why’ is the more appropriate question?”

  George Grisham paused before answering. “I asked Secretary Powers almost the same question. He told me that none of these men wanted the job. They only took it because the President begged them to—and because they're patriots.”

  “Are they?” Newman said in a somewhat cynical manner, so much so that he surprised himself. He belatedly added, “Sir.”

  “I hope so, is all I can tell you, Peter,” said Grisham gravely. “I pray that these are wise men who'll do what's right in the most terrible of circumstances for our country. I have no doubt about the Chief Justice. I know him well; I've hunted with him, spent time with him, and admire him. I feel the same way about General Vassar. I've known him for too many years to think of him as anything but a fine soldier. I also have high regard for Secretary Cook. I don't know him as well as the Chief Justice or General Vassar, but everything I've seen leads me to believe he is a man of integrity. I don't know about Bates or Donahue except by reputation. Both are highly respected. And now all this Commission needs is an equally fine American to head up the Special Unit that's called for in the legislation.”

  Newman suddenly realized why he was here. He felt a rush of adrenalin in his gut, and he sat bolt upright on the edge of the couch. For a moment, Grisham thought he might actually flee.

  “That's why you called for me, isn't it, General?” Newman said hoarsely.

  Grisham looked at the younger man, pressed his lips into a thin line, nodded his head, and finally said, very quietly, “Yes.”

  For what seemed a full minute, neither man said anything. Then, Newman sighed and asked, “Do I have a choice?”

  “Of course,” Grisham answered. “But if you turn me down, I don't know anyone else I can turn to. Yours was the only name given to the President.”

  Newman leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees, and rested his chin on his fists. For a long while he stared off into the distance, and after a moment he said quietly, “I thought I was done with all that…”

  “So did I, Peter,” replied Grisham. “I've thought and prayed about this the whole way back from Doha. It's certainly not what I wanted for you, but the President and Secretary Powers each asked me to give them the name of the best officer I had for this assignment. If there was anyone else who could handle this, I wouldn't have chosen you.”

  “Who would I … I mean, who does the head of this Special Unit report to, sir?” Newman asked—giving away that he had accepted his lot.

  “Nominally, the Chairman of the Commission,” Grisham replied. “But you—” Grisham checked himself, not wanting to presume too much. He continued, “—but the head of the Special Unit will be able to call on me—and the Secretary for whatever support that's needed…and to help resolve any problems.”

  Newman's mind was now fully engaged with the challenge. “Where do the troops come from for the Special Unit?”

  “SOCOM. You get your choice.”

  “Can I take one of the Marine SOCOM Dets?”

  “If that's what you want.”

  “How many personnel?”

  “Tell me what you need. If it's within reason, you'll have 'em. Same goes for airlift, maritime support, mobility assets,” said Grisham emphatically. “The President has told Secretary Powers to 'make sure that the Special Unit gets what it needs.' And according to the SecDef, he meant it.”

  “How about staff support?”

  “We'll detail a Comm detachment from Defense Communications Agency, and a few good admin types from my front office,” answered Grisham.

  “Can I have Sgt. Maj. Amos Skillings from 2nd Force Recon to keep things squared away?”

  “Sure.”

  “Intel support?”

  “The Commission will get targeting intel from the DNI. Operational intelligence will be available from DIA. We may be able to task CIA directly. I'll have to check on that,” said Grisham, making a note and slipping it into the red folder.

  “I'd like to be able to talk directly to Bill Goode out in Langley, at the least, sir.”

  “I'll tell the Secretary and we'll find a way to make it happen.”

  “Where is this outfit going to be headquartered?”

  “In one of the Presidential Commission townhouses over on Lafayette Square, across from the White House.”

  “How about the troops?”

  “Don't know yet. That will be your call,” Grisham responded, pleased at the way Newman was thinking. “Andrews, maybe—so you have immediate access to airlift. On the other hand, Quantico might fill the bill so that your troops can train.”

  “How long is this assignment for all the military personnel?”

  “A maximum of one year—same as for the Commission members. And this is important,” Grisham added, pulling a copy of the legislation out of the red folder and pointing to the phrase in Section 4.(6), “everyone involved is fully protected under the law.”

  Newman read the passage and then looked at Grisham. “General, I owe you my life—and more. I trust you like few others. You more than anyone else know what Rachel and I went through back in the '90s. If you tell me that this is something that has to be done, I'll do it. I know it's not my place to set conditions, but there are just two more issues.”

  “Go ahead, Pete.”

  “Can you assure me that this is only for a year—and that when it's over, I can come back to the Corps?”

  “You have my word. What else?”

  “Who else is going to know about this assignment—not just about me, but the rest of my troops? Everyone involved needs to have the same kind of anonymity as the members of the Commission.”

  “We'll have ISA build identities and a legend for everyone in the unit. Of course some people will have to know the truth: The President and the Vice President will. The Secretary and I will know. So will Chief Justice Scironi.” Then, looking Newman straight in the eye, Grisham added, “And there is one other person who needs to know everything, Pete.”

  “Who?”

  “Rachel.”

  Habib Trading Company

  ________________________________________

  Anah, Iraq

  Wednesday, 17 October 2007

  2330 Hours Local

  “What brings you here so late this evening, Father?” said Samir, rising to greet the old man as he entered his son's comfortable second-story office. The “headquarters” of the Habib Trading Company were within the same walled compound that enclosed the homes of Eli Yusef and his son Samir. Years before, the building had been a combination warehouse and maintenance building for the tiny fleet of trucks used by the enterprise. But as their consumer products business grew, they had converted the building into the “home office” for the company. Now, the warehouse and truck facilities occupied a full city block in Anah—and Habib Trading Company was the town's largest employer.

  “I saw the light on from my bedroom,” replied Eli Yusef, “and wondered what could be so troubling in our business that it would keep my son from his wife's bed,” said the old man as he took a seat in a comfortable chair. “Paul found it necessary to admonish the husbands of Ephesus and Colossae to love their wives. Am I now to do the same for the husbands of Anah?” he asked with a good-natured smile.

  The son took the chair beside his father's and while pouring the old man a glass of chilled water responded with good humor, “Ahh …my father, Hamilah knows well that I love her as Solomon loved his Shulamite wife. I only came here to the office because I wanted to respond
to an e-mail that I received from Zufar al Nadar, in Dezful.”

  The old man, suddenly serious, asked, “Are things getting worse in Iran?”

  Samir returned to his desk, picked up a sheet of paper off his printer, returned to his seat next to his father, and said: “Zufar reports that this morning, the ‘Religious Police’ raided our offices on As Sharaf Street. The police said they were searching for ‘infidel literature.’ While the police were tearing our offices apart looking for Bibles among the cartons of toasters and microwave ovens, Asher arrived from Tehran.”

  “Asher, from the Fellowship?” interrupted Eli Yusef.

  “Yes,” Samir replied. “And when they searched Asher they found his ‘Sign of the Faith’ in his pocket and dragged him away.”

  Hearing this, Eli Yusef instinctively put his fingers to the tiny metal fish that Samir had never seen his father without. The little stainless steel icthus was worn thin and smooth from decades of being rubbed between the old man's fingers as he prayed, meditated, and read from his Holy Bible.

  The old man looked up from the ancient symbol of early Christianity and said to his son, “For more than twenty centuries this has been the sign of 'true believers.' In Rome, those whom Paul called to conversion were crucified for having this sign of faith in their homes. In my lifetime I have even seen those who lived beneath this symbol persecuted and killed. As you know, until recently it was that way here in our country. It has often been so in this part of the world—but the persecution has ebbed and flowed. Now it is getting very bad again. This is a time for us to be very careful. Does Zufar know what has happened to Asher?”

  Samir nodded. “According to his e-mail, Zufar went to the police station to inquire and they told him he was to 'forget about the infidel from Tehran.' Zufar also says that he has heard many rumors of other Christians being picked up—not just members of the Fellowship.”

  “What else?” asked the old man, now clearly concerned.

  “According to Zufar's brother Najahm, the one who has the fishing business, the 'Islamic Brotherhood' is planning to poison the air and soil of the Saudi capital because the city has been polluted by infidels. According to Zufar, many people are already fleeing Riyadh—not just Westerners—but Muslims as well.”

  “This may be the kind of rumor-mongering that many of the Islamic radicals engage in,” said the old man, trying to separate fact from fiction. “Remember a few years ago how some of the imams said that the Americans were coming to Iraq to rape our wives and sisters and kill our children to eat their organs—and many of the people believed it!”

  “Yes, I recall it well, Father, but that wasn't true. What if this is?”

  Eli Yusef, rubbing the tiny fish between his thumb and forefinger, thought for a moment and then said, “I was going to talk to you about my concerns in the morning, but perhaps things are more urgent than I understood. My son, do you recall the discussion we had on last Sabbath, after dinner on the night you returned from Iran?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Well over the last three days, I have studied the ancient texts and thought and prayed much about it. I have concluded that there is very likely something to this matter of the number ‘eleven’ and this ‘jihad’ that we talked about. I wrote it all down and was going to think and pray about it some more. But based on what you are saying, I may have waited too long.”

  “Too long for what, Father?” asked Samir—knowing from long experience not to ignore what some called his father's “premonitions”—but what Eli called “the gift of discernment.” Samir had no doubt that whatever his father's gift was called, it explained how this Christian family had not just survived wars, Saddam, and Islamic terror—but prospered. He leaned attentively toward the old man to listen.

  “You had asked how it was that the number eleven could be relevant to the jihad that began in Saudi Arabia on the fourteenth of October,” Eli began. “Well, if you write the date as 14 October 2007 in the Christian calendar, that's 14/10/07. Subtract ten from fourteen. That equals four. Now add that four to the remaining integers, zero and seven and the sum is …”

  “Eleven!” Samir practically shouted. “And you say, Father, that in the Quran you have found this number to be relevant to this jihad?”

  Eli nodded and said, “Yes. I have it all written down over in my house. And because of what you have told me here this evening, I now believe that we must somehow get this information to our American friends before it is too late.”

  “Tomorrow, I shall drive to Baghdad to see if I can find someone at their embassy who will accept what you have discovered,” said Samir. “It will seem strange to some. Perhaps I should ask them to pass it to William Goode?”

  “Yes,” replied the old man. “He is a believer. He will understand.”

  “I shall do as you suggest, Father. But why did you say that it may be too late?”

  The old man sighed deeply and said, “The day after tomorrow is the nineteenth of October. It is the nineteenth day of the tenth month. Add the integers—one plus nine plus one plus zero …”

  This time Samir's voice was almost a whisper as he said, “Eleven.”

  DIRTY

  BOMB

  ___________________________________________________

  ___________________________________________________

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Newman Residence

  ________________________________________

  Foxhall Road

  Thursday, 18 October 2007

  0605 Hours Local

  Hey there, man of my life, what time did you get home last night?” Rachel said lightly to her husband as he entered the kitchen wearing his running shoes and a jogging suit. She stopped unloading the dishwasher and added, “I didn't even hear you come in, but when I got up—there you were.”

  Newman walked over to her, put his arms around her, and pressed his face into the hollow of her neck, inhaled deeply and said, “You smell good.”

  Her medium length hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she tossed it back and forth as she giggled and wriggled free of his arms, saying, “Hold on, Romeo! The children will be down here in a few minutes and you don't want them asking what Mommy and Daddy are doing in the kitchen! Now, you go on and run up the hill to work and come home early tonight and pick up where we left off here,” she said playfully.

  Newman smiled, backed up against the island in the center of the kitchen, and, suddenly serious, said, “I'm not going to work, today—at least not going to work at DHS. I have a new assignment.”

  Rachel reacted to his change in tone by reaching for her glass of orange juice and saying, “OK, Pete, let's sit down and talk before Jimmy and Elizabeth come charging in here. School is cancelled again—and it's raining. This is not shaping up to be a great day. Where are you going this time?”

  As they sat next to each other at the round kitchen table, Newman told her about his meeting with General Grisham the previous afternoon, how he had returned to DHS and reported to Secretary Dornin and then spent the better part of the night “snapping-in” his “temporary replacement”—FBI Special Agent Martin Hinton—as the “Acting DHS Operations Director.”

  When Peter finished, Rachel was silent for a moment. Then, she nodded her head as though making up her mind about something and said, “I guess this is never going to end, is it?”

  “What's never going to end?” he asked—but knowing the answer.

  “These kinds of assignments for you are never going to end,” she began quietly. “They couldn't just leave you behind a desk at the Department of Homeland Security. This is what it's always going to be like with us, Peter. A crisis comes along and they call for you. Will this be as dangerous as some of the other assignments you've been sent on?” Rachel asked him plainly.

  “I don't think so. My job will be to coordinate everything. I don't think that they expect me to go on missions with the Special Unit,” he told her, trying his best to reassure her.

  �
��Where will you be going to work?”

  “The Commission is headquartered in a townhouse on Jackson Place, next to Lafayette Park, across Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House. I'll have an office there.”

  “Can you turn this down?”

  He hesitated before answering, then said, “Yes. And if you tell me that it's too much for you, I will.”

  Rachel looked him straight in the eyes and said calmly, without rancor, “Don't put that on me, Peter. I've been through it all with you. It's not a matter of it being too much for me. I know I married the man that everyone else thinks can save the world. And I don't want you to put our children at risk again. But that's not the point here. The question isn't for me—it's for you. When is it going to be too much for you—saving the world while your children grow up not knowing who their father is?”

  Peter reached out and put his hand over hers and was about to respond when their son Jimmy pushed open the swinging door and entered the kitchen, wearing his pajamas. Seeing his parents sitting at the table, he said, “Hi Mom, hi Dad—what's for breakfast?”

  Rachel rose and said to her husband, “Why don't you go out for your run? We can finish this later.” Turning to Jimmy, she said, “How about a nice big bowl of oatmeal and honey with some cinnamon toast?”

  Newman tousled the boy's hair and said, “I'll be back in half an hour. See you when I get back.” As he exited the kitchen door, his wife and son were negotiating how much oatmeal had to be eaten to qualify for cinnamon toast.

  Before taking off on his run, Newman warmed up on the sidewalk in front of their townhouse, stretching out his hamstrings and calves in the cool, damp early morning air. Then, having loosened up, he jogged out the gate in front of their little community, turned left and headed up Foxhall Road as the first fingers of a gray, drizzling dawn reached through the darkness, dulling the reflected light from the streetlamps.

  As he picked up the pace going uphill, Newman was still distracted by Rachel's question just before their son had entered the kitchen. But as he ran further he began to pay more attention to his surroundings—first the wet leaves on the walk and the cracked concrete. Then he noticed that the thoroughfare, normally clogged with the cars of early commuters, was all but devoid of traffic. A Metro bus rolled by—but it was also practically empty. He started looking at the houses that lined the street. Nearly all of them were dark—only a few showed signs that people were inside, preparing for another work day in Washington.