“Allah Akbar.” He shouted in his home. He had much work to do, but he now had the green light he always wanted.
Chapter Three
Gleaming off the white granite of the cathedral, the bright sun was making it an even more impressive sight. Jordan had returned to Assisi, the place where it all had started. Driving up the narrow street, keeping his focus on the cathedral as it towered over the village, he was overcome with the sense of peace he found here. Finding a parking space on the street, he walked the remaining few blocks, continually looking at the imposing structure. Though he’d been here on numerous occasions, he was still in awe of the magnificence and simplicity of the church that lay before him.
He crossed the street and stopped in the middle of the plaza. He slowly turned himself completely around, taking it all in — not just the grounds of the cathedral, but the city and the surrounding countryside. Though it wasn’t his home, Jordan felt more comfortable here than anywhere else.
With the sun receding, he walked to the side of the church, entered through a door not marked, which lead to a stairway. He descended several flights and was soon in the lower undercroft, which housed the original church and the tomb of Saint Francis.
He’d not started out to be a fighter against terrorism. He’d grown up as a child of privilege. His father bought and sold manufacturing companies, usually able to buy on the cheap and sell at the top of their value. With his success, Jordan’s dad became more consumed with building his business even larger. To achieve this, his dad was away from home often, and unable to help as Jordan saw his mother turn to alcohol to combat her loneliness. Eventually, the marriage failed and Jordan rarely saw his dad. His mother recovered from her alcoholism, but not before it had seriously compromised her health.
He spent each term at boarding school, then his mother and he would travel to Italy every summer. With all the sadness that had come into his life, these summer trips brought joy. They had come to Assisi together on their first summer visit and came back every year for the next seven. When he was here, he no longer hurt from the pain of his parents’ divorce and his father’s abandonment.
In his senior year, his mother passed away. Jordan was surprised to find his mother was as good at finance as his father had been. She’d used her divorce settlement for a series of shrewd investments, resulting in Jordan inheriting a substantial amount of wealth. He returned that summer, alone, and still felt the peace and calm of the past. It was on this visit that he met Father Marco. Marco, a Franciscan priest, had noticed Jordan and his mother on previous visits. This time, seeing the young man alone, he approached Jordan and they began a conversation.
Father Marco became a mentor to Jordan. He talked to Jordan about pursuing a life of service and not to just live off the money he’d been left. The priest was instrumental in Jordan’s career choice, due to Father Marco’s past. Jordan at first thought Marco was pushing him to pursue the priesthood; but, he later found that Marco had a different life before he joined the Order, with a past of espionage and efforts to undermine the enemy during the Cold War. For a portion of his life, Marco had been an operative of the CIA. As he got to know Jordan, the priest saw a lot of himself in the younger man, enough that he felt Jordan could be of value to his country, as Marco had been. He contacted a former colleague of his, who eventually recruited Jordan.
Jordan was brought out of his thoughts when Father Marco came and sat down. “How are you my son? It is so good to see you.”
“I’m fine. I knew you would find me.”
“Your last mission —it was a success.”
Marco always amazed Jordan. A man of the cloth who still had enough connections that he always seemed to know what Jordan was doing. “Yes, it went well, but I’m troubled by something I was told by the man I was pursuing.”
“Amadi has always been troubling. I’m glad you have taken care of him. The world is a better place.”
Jordan looked at him. How could he know? Jordan had asked before and had never gotten anywhere, so he wasn’t going to waste time now. He related to Marco the comments Tahir Amadi had made that his operatives were already in the U.S. “I need to find out if it’s true. We’ve know there are cells, but he confirmed their activities.”
“There is a man with whom you need to speak. Fortunately, he is close by. We were enemies at one time; but we have grown to be friends. The Cold War changed many things, including turning people who were supposed to kill you into those few people who truly understand what you did for most of your life. He lives in Siena. I’ll contact him and have him meet you tomorrow. I know he can help. Stay at the Grand Hotel Continental and he’ll find you.” Marco rose, gave Jordan a blessing and walked out.
Jordan found his way out of the lower Church and found his car. Before getting in, he did the cursory check to make sure it hadn’t been tampered with during his visit. He’d become a quick study of the techniques of the enemy and he knew, with his recent ability to dismantle several of their cells, he’d moved a couple notches up on their hit lists.
Satisfied nothing was amiss, he took one final look at the basilica, drove out of Assisi and headed toward his villa. By the end of the week he would be back home and into the fight again. He needed rest and he needed reconciliation. He was hoping to achieve both.
Chapter Four
IRAN – NINETEEN YEARS EARLIER
Following the Iranian Revolution in 1979 and the success of capturing the American Embassy with fifty-two hostages, the revolutionary council was surprised by the election of Ronald Regan in 1980. President Carter had been the ideal President for the Iranians, since he didn’t exude confidence and leadership at the time his country needed both qualities most. His policies played right into the hands of the Iranians, who were able to keep the crisis on the front page of the world’s newspapers for four hundred and forty four days; and, this elevated the Ayatollah Khomeini to status as a world leader. But Reagan was someone entirely different. He was a cowboy and, as predictable as Carter was, Regan seemed much less conventional in his approach and more prone to take more decisive action when he took office. The Revolutionary Council determined they had used the hostage crisis as well as they could and it would be best to release them at the beginning of Reagan’s term.
Tahir Amadi would not let it rest. Not satisfied that they had inflicted enough damage and pain on the Great Satan, the United States, he convinced the ruling mullahs to form a new secret group, with their best minds in the areas of intelligence and military operations, charged with developing the next wave of action that would inflict the greatest damage on the U.S. While the Embassy takeover had been quickly put together as a mission, this team was told that the hundred-year revolution was just beginning for Iran and time was not as important as was striking a decisive blow.
A bold initiative was launched two years after the hostages had been returned, with the desire to take the fight to U.S. soil.
Amadi would lead the new initiative. At its simplest, the plan involved identifying Iranians and providing them the training necessary to ensure the success of their roles. They were provided few details of what they were going to be a part of, or what the ultimate goal would be. Each had been approached in a straightforward manner by a representative of the government who had told them, as a matter of national security and the future of their country, it was imperative for them to travel to the capital. All had agreed, not realizing they would never return.
The world heard the tragic news of the hotel fire in the capital city in the middle of the night that had killed over three hundred people, many in town for a government conference. What the world did not know was that the dead bodies were those of tribesman who would never be missed by their families and could be used to cover up the real reason these people had disappeared.
Secretly removed from the hotel via an underground passageway and boarded onto busses prior to the fire, the people selected were all transported to a new compound, on a remote part of a military ba
se. Here, they were given rooms and new clothing, since everything else they had was in the hotel. The following morning, they were brought into a large room and addressed by Amadi, a man they all knew but had never met before, a leader of the Revolution. A man everyone knew to fear.
Briefly, he spoke of the need for each of them to commit to a mission critical to the survival of their nation. He stated that no one would be returning to their families or would be able to have any contact with family or friends. The lights dimmed and a video played of the newscast of the fire. At the end, there was a scroll on the screen of all of the dead. Each individual in the room watched as his name scrolled across the screen.
“I’ll not be a part of this,” one man stated as he stood up in the audience. “I demand to be returned to my family and my business at once.”
Amadi was somewhat taken aback and countered, “Why do you not want to serve your country? You should feel honored to have been chosen for this great role and opportunity to serve. You will be a hero.”
“I do not want to serve this government.” The man shouted back.
A gasp of fear escaped the lips of others in the room. While many were thinking the same thing the man was stating, they knew if it was said it in public one’s fate was sealed.
Two men in dark suits came up behind the man who had been speaking.
“I’ll give you one chance to change your mind and sit down. This type of outbreak will not be tolerated. The mission you are about to embark on is too critical and of the greatest importance. Will you join with your brethren?”
“I’ll not! I demand to be returned to my village and my family.”
“That is not possible because to them you are dead.”
“I’ll not participate in this!”
With barely a movement from the feared leader, one of the dark-suited men behind the protestor looped the long thin wire of a garrote around the protestor’s neck, jerking it tightly. As the man gasped for air and began to lose color, the other dark-suited man grabbed the already dying man’s head and, with a quick twist, snapped his neck, the sound of the bone breaking echoing across the room. The man slumped to the floor as his two killers stepped back.
It was eerily silent as two uniformed medical orderlies entered the room and quickly removed the body.
Amadi cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention. “Please use this example as a lesson to you. Dissidence will at no time be tolerated. This program and your role are vital to the future success of our beloved country. I ask each of you to understand that your life as you once knew it is gone. You can only move forward with what we have planned for you. The families you have left behind will be taken care of and each will receive a substantial settlement from the tragedy at the hotel. You need not worry about them.”
At that moment, he left the stage and a person that no one knew took the stage. He did not bother to introduce himself. Amongst themselves, they would later nickname him Ivan. It was clear he was not from their country, but rather from either Russia of one of the states of the Soviet Union. He would be their teacher and would define their future. He would pick their roles and would decide when they were ready and where they would go.
Chapter Five
Jordan was quickly approaching Siena. He knew it would be crowded today because it was the beginning of the first Il Palio, an event held twice each year, on July second and August sixteenth. Unlike anything Jordan had ever been to in his life, he’d stumbled upon it several years ago and tried to make sure his visits to Italy corresponded with one of the dates. Il Palio was part street festival and part horse race, which as a combination would only be possible in the ancient city of Siena. Jordan pulled off the roadway at a bus stop. He boarded the local bus for the journey into the ancient fortress city since Jordan knew parking was impossible on a regular day and only the bravest would attempt to park in the city during the Il Palio. Twenty-five thousand visitors would be in the city during the next two days.
As he waited for the bus, he was joined by others traveling into the city. He recalled the first time he visited Siena. People know Rome, Florence, Venice, Milan and Pisa, but many had not heard of Siena. In the heart of Tuscany, Siena was made up of seventeen “contrade” or wards. These neighborhoods were laid out during the Middle Ages and remained, more by their inhabitants’ emotions and history than by any administrative or political function. Each contrade had a horse in the races, but only ten horses race on each day. Jordan had yet to figure out the politics of how it was decided which horses or contrade got to race on both dates; however, he’d heard enough to know the politics of contrade would make the politics of Washington look like kindergarten. The race was only one element of the events. To really enjoy Il Palio, one had to venture into the various contrades beginning the day before the race and become totally immersed in the event.
Officially, it would begin that evening, with each contrade hosting a dinner. Each contrade, as in most Italian cities, had its own Piazza or village square, which would be filled with long tables to accommodate the citizens and guests of the contrade. Jordan had been lucky enough on his prior visits to become friends with several Sienians and could always count on several invitations to dine with various contrades. And dine they did. Jordan had never seen so much food at one setting. The aromas, as he reached the center of the city, were incredible. He could smell the breads being baked, the tang of tomatoes being cooked for gravy and the strong odor of garlic. The combination was like nothing he had ever smelled. His mouth involuntarily began to water and his stomach began to growl. The crowds were pushing through the center of the city and it was quite difficult to get one’s bearings and be able to head in the direction one wanted to go. Jordan knew, from past experience, it was sometimes best to go with the flow of the crowd, versus trying to move against it. He found he eventually got to where he wanted.
Jordan made his way to the Grand Hotel. If nothing else, Marco always knew the best hotels and restaurants. The hotel was a former seventeenth century palace, in the center of Siena and close to the Piazza Del Campo, where the horse race would be held.
“May I help you, sir?” asked the man at the reception desk, dressed in a white coat and black tie, blending with the opulence of the lobby.
Jordan was always bemused by the fact that, no matter how hard he tried to fit in, he was always quickly pegged as an American. “I believe I have a reservation. Jordan Wright.”
“Ah, yes! We’ve have been expecting you. A friend of Father Marco’s is always welcomed here.”
The clerk handed him the room key along with an envelope. “You have a message. If there is anything else you need, please let us know.”
After settling into his room, Jordan opened the note. It was from a man named Gerhardt, welcoming him to Siena and asking Jordan to meet him at one of the dinners planned that evening. Jordan stopped by the front desk on his way out and asked for a map. Quickly, he found the contrade where the meeting would take place. It took him almost twenty minutes to arrive, having to pass through several of the other contrades and their celebrations.
Walking through the neighborhood, Jordan was eventually approached by two men.
“Are you Mr. Wright?” The larger of the two asked.
Jordan nodded.
They turned and walked toward a large table. They hadn’t said anything, but Jordan got the impression he was to follow. As he approached the table, he was shown to an empty seat next to an older man, who was in great physical shape.
“I’m Gerhardt. Welcome Jordan and, I’m glad you could join my neighbors.” Turning to the neighbors, Gerhardt put his arm around Jordan. “Jordan is Marco’s nephew. He’ll be one of us for the race tomorrow.” The table erupted with acknowledgements and welcomes. Everyone seemed to know and have come under the charm of Father Marco.
Gerhardt leaned over and whispered to Jordan. “Tonight we have fun and celebrate; tomorrow we will discuss business.”
Jordan nodded. “Sounds good
to me. I’ve been to Il Palio before, but never have been part of a contrade.”
Everyone around Jordan began to talk about the horse they would have race tomorrow and their chances of winning. Much of the discussion at dinner was the strategy the jockey should deploy. It wasn’t just about winning; it was just as important that your enemy lose. The contrades each had a long history of alliances and enemies amongst the other contrades. Much had been lost to history and many had no idea why they are either aligned or opposed to another; but it was the way it had always been. The citizens of the contrade, all who actually had a say in how their horse should run the race, would greatly debate over dinner on whether to go for the win or ensure their enemies’ loss. By the time the festival got underway, the horses had already run a series of trials, so the citizens had a good idea in regards to the strength of their horse and jockey.
As more food was served, the louder and more involved the debate became. Jordan enjoyed playing the role of the observer, as he was thoroughly entertained by the back and forth discussions, everyone having his opinion and, more importantly, the opinions on others’ opinions. Jordan wasn’t sure if any strategy were emerging that all would agree upon, but he’d come to discover there was a pecking order among the citizenry and, while everyone got their say, it was actually a few well-respected individuals who would decide the approach to be taken the following day. Jordan had also discovered that, regardless of what they advocated tonight, tomorrow each individual would be telling everyone his strategy had been the one adopted.
Around midnight, Jordan finally made his way back to the hotel. The city was still bustling, but his stomach was stuffed and he needed sleep. Opening the door to his room, he noticed the blinking red light on the phone. “Damn,” he thought. Only one person would have known to look for him here. Max Bogle was just too good. Max, Jordan’s boss, would only call if there were something brewing.
Enemy Among Us-A Jordan Wright Thriller Page 2