“Let’s make it quick people,” smiled the President, making light of the First Lady’s timescale, however, everyone knew she meant it. The meeting would be over in forty-five minutes whether the President had finished or not.
“Deputy Director Turner, why don’t you kick off?”
Turner stood up and updated the group with their progress up to and including Reid and Frankie’s departure back to France.
“So basically, we’re nowhere near catching him?” asked the President.
“No, sir,” replied Harry, saving Turner from answering.
“Do we know his plans?”
“No, sir,” replied Turner.
“Colonel Barnes?” The President turned to the virus specialist. “I believe you’re working with FEMA on a plan in case the virus is released?”
Colonel Valerie Barnes stood up and briefly updated the group with the outbreak plan.
“So if I’m hearing you correctly, the plan is that everybody goes into quarantine in their homes and stays there for weeks while hospitals are overwhelmed with millions of people they can’t save? In short, America will grind to a halt until six weeks after the last death from the virus?”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” she protested to a roomful of looks that suggested that was exactly how she had put it. “Yes, I suppose it is that bad,” she sighed, taking her seat.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m so glad I managed to get out of my hospital bed for this meeting,” President Mitchell said sarcastically. “And we’ve not even touched on the four hundred fifty-nine disappearing radicals or the death of the Ebola victim streaming live on the internet!”
The Director of National Intelligence stood up. The DNI was responsible for all of the US intelligence services and gave a brief update on where they were on tracking the vanishing radicals. He also informed the President of the threat that for every search engine or service provider that blocked the Ebola victim’s live feed, another victim would be added, also confirming that the Ebola victim had sadly died a few hours earlier.
The President banged the table with his good hand. “So now we’re letting terrorists dictate to us?! We don’t negotiate! And we don’t let them stream live murders into American homes!” he shouted. “Chairman?”
The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff stood. “Mr. President, our forces have been placed on high alert and all leave is cancelled. We’re calling up reservists and heightening security at all installations. We’re coordinating with the National Guard and FEMA should a requirement for martial law occur. In short, Mr. President, we’re ready when you need us.”
“Thank fuck someone is.” President Mitchell let that hang for a moment, then turned to CIA Director Carl Hunter. “I believe you’ve done some background on how they turned one of our guys against us?”
Both Carson and Turner sat up in their chairs. Barry, their CIA liaison and a member of their team, had not mentioned to them any work that was being done without their knowledge.
The CIA Director, however, offered little they hadn’t uncovered themselves when it came to Nick Geller’s secret family history of being Muslim and his potential radicalization after his parents’ deaths as a teenager. What they had uncovered was the point at which Nick had reengaged with his radical youth. They had pieced together what had happened to him a year ago when Nick claimed to have been injured and lost in the hills for three months. Images were shown of Nick in various disguises meeting with Al Qaeda and Taliban hierarchy on various trips, all of which were new to Carson and Turner.
“Where the hell did you get these and why haven’t we seen them?’ asked Carson angrily, one of the few people in the room brave enough to go up against one of Washington’s most feared power brokers.
“We need to protect our sources,” said Hunter smugly.
“Perhaps if you hadn’t, we wouldn’t be sitting here now?” countered Carson.
“Our source had no idea who this was. Nor did we until the mock-up images of Nick Geller were released. “It was just luck that one of our image analysts recognized Geller and pulled up these old images.”
“This is bigger than any source’s confidentiality! We need those images and your source!” demanded Carson.
“Over my dead body!”
“Just make sure you put that in your will tonight!” threatened Carson.
“Okay, okay, enough,” said President Mitchell, stepping in. “Carl, give them what they need. And I don’t mean just what they ask for. They don’t know what you’ve got.” He glanced at the door. “Anything else? I hear my wife coming.”
The room stayed silent and the President got up, signaling the briefing was over.
“Bob,” President Mitchell said to his Secretary of Defense, “and Harry,” he said, looking at Carson, “can you both hang back?”
Turner looked at Carson; they had shared a ride over. Carson signaled for Turner to give him ten minutes, and Turner stepped out into the hall.
When only the three men were left, the President turned to Carson. “Honestly, what are your thoughts? And no bullshit.”
“I’ll know better when I see what the CIA has on Geller and what the source has, but at the moment it’s not looking good.”
Chapter 38
Wednesday 9th July
Nasim, as directed by Nick, flashed the aircraft landing lights every ten seconds as they neared the GPS location. Nasim kept an eye on the fuel gauge; its warning light had already begun to blink. With every second that passed, Nasim could have sworn it began to blink more rapidly. He flashed the landing lights again and began the count, ten, nine, eight… He stopped. The dark desert floor had just sent a bolt of light off into the distance. Approximately a mile ahead, a line of light suddenly appeared. As they neared, Nasim began to descend, the light separated and became two - their makeshift landing strip.
Nasim called out their imminent touchdown. Nick braced himself but needn’t have bothered. The oversized tires and Nasim’s many, many years of experience produced a near perfect landing.
“You certainly earned your bonus with that landing,” said Nick, looking out at the uneven desert floor highlighted by the meager landing lights.
“That’s a far better runway than I’m used to,” Nasim replied, making Nick wonder exactly what the pilot usually transported. Nasim opened the door and was met by an unwelcome sight of six men pointing AK-47s at him. They gestured with the barrels of their guns to get out.
While Nasim blocked the gunmen’s view, Nick reached around and extracted his Berretta. He checked the safety, placed the pistol on the seat opposite him, along with his satchel and metal briefcase, and followed Nasim out into the darkness. The fires that had lit the runway were slowly dying. Only dim lights from a truck illuminated the area around the plane.
“What is the meaning of this?” barked Nick in Arabic as he stepped from the plane.
The gunmen looked at him. It was clear that they hadn’t understood a word of what he’d just said. He tried a similar message in French. Again, they looked at him with obviously no idea what he was saying. Nick’s gestures began to grow more wild as the gunmen, all of whom were in their early twenties, looked on. Nick could see they were nervous and, more worryingly, poorly trained. Their fingers were on the triggers of their weapons and not the trigger guards. Their gestures were so erratic that they occasionally pointed their weapons at each other.
“It’s not them dude, shoot them!” said one of the gunmen to another. Again, poor training was evident. The talker was frightened to take the shot but, just as importantly, Nick recognized a strong regional English accent.
“Whoa, calm the fuck down!” shouted Nick in English.
“What the fuck? You’re American? Dude, we nearly blew your motherfucking head off!” replied the gunman in barely recognizable English.
“What’s with all that mumbo jumbo, mate?” another said, lowering his weapon. The rest followed, lowering their weapons. A mumble of discontent rose
as they bragged how close they had been to ‘popping’ the American. The truth was that none of them had come close. They were embarrassed at how badly they had handled the situation and were trying to big themselves up after a dismal showing.
“Are we going to stand here all night?” asked Nick, taking command, something these guys desperately needed.
The gunman pointed to the truck and gestured towards the open back. Nick looked at him with contempt. “Nasim!” he said loudly. “You and I in the front with the driver. The rest of you in the back.”
The driver pulled away when the last of the gunmen climbed onto the back for a bumpy ride ahead of them.
“How far?” asked Nick.
The driver shrugged his shoulders. Nick repeated his question in Arabic.
“One hour.”
“How long you been here?” asked Nick.
“Five months.”
“And these jokers?” Nick gestured to the six in the back.
“Not long enough!” the driver said, perceptively.
Nasim agreed wholeheartedly. Nick nodded. He was worried. This was one of the major training camps that would prepare his warriors. Deep in the Sudanese desert, hundreds of miles from the nearest living soul, they all had the space and privacy they could ever want. With millions of square miles of bland, featureless terrain, the chance of being spotted even by satellite was so remote, it wasn’t even a concern. However, if the men who were training there were of the caliber of their reception team, it was a wasted journey. Nick needed only the best and most dedicated followers of Allah for his plan.
After an hour, they arrived. The light on the horizon began to creep into the darkness at the impending dawn. The camp was impressive. The huts and buildings were colored to blend in with the surroundings. Even the equipment was painted to ensure it blended seamlessly with the environment. It was an impressive sight but not as impressive as the men who were filling the area ahead of them. Nick stood and watched. Proud, strong and well-disciplined soldiers. Their exercise routine would have been worthy of any forces Nick had ever served with. They were hardened men, whose faces bore the determination of true warriors.
Nick had expected about fifty good men at the camp. What faced him was a small army of almost three hundred men, ready to fight and die for Allah.
Nick smiled.
Chapter 39
Thanks to Carson, a slightly smaller VIP aircraft of the USAF touched down at 07:30 at Istres-le Tubé Air Base in the South of France, twenty miles northwest of Marseille. The C40B Clipper was a military version of the Boeing Business Jet based on the Boeing 737 and had more than enough room for Frankie, Reid, Flynn and the Delta team.
“Bonjour, Madame,” greet Captain Leclerc when Frankie stepped onto French soil at the bottom of the steps.
“Bonjour, Monsieur,” she replied politely, shaking the offered hand.
“Captain Jean Leclerc at your service, Madame. We have been asked by our Minister of Defense to offer you whatever assistance you require.”
“I’m Frankie, this is Sarah, and this is Flynn,” she replied, introducing her colleagues in turn. “And Flynn’s team,” she added as the Delta team began to emerge from the rear of the plane after gearing up.
“Can we offer you breakfast, coffee or any refreshments?” asked Leclerc.
“No thank you, we just need to get to this Crédit Agricole, asap,” said Reid, handing over the address written on a slip of paper.
Captain Leclerc looked at the address and motioned them onto a small bus that awaited their arrival. A two-minute ride had them on the other side of the airport and surrounded by helicopters.
“At this time in the morning, traffic is horrendous for getting into the center of Marseille. This will be far easier.” He motioned towards the smaller helicopters, Eurocopter Fennecs. “I believe time is of the essence?”
“Absolutely,” replied Frankie, moving towards the small chopper.
“Three of these should fit us in,” he said, holding the door for Frankie, Reid and Flynn to board the first chopper before jumping into the pilot’s seat.
Frankie listened intently to the captain instructing French police to clear a section of road on the Vieux Port. Her Swiss finishing school training, taught almost entirely in French, insisted on by her mother, was finally paying off.
“The Vieux Port?” she asked, once Leclerc had ended his call.
“The old port,” he replied in English for the benefit of the others. “It’s a large harbor, mainly leisure boats now but it’s in the heart of Marseille, the oldest city in France. The premier port of France and the gateway to the world,” he smiled, proud of his native city.
With a history lesson en route, the journey was over in no time. They neared the magnificent sight of the port and a police cordon was already in place to allow them to land on the road outside the Crédit Agricole. Reid reached into her bag and gave Frankie and Flynn each a small white facemask. They both looked at it and then at the crowd that had already gathered around the perimeter of the cordon.
“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, nor whether it will make any difference” said Frankie.
“Good idea or not, we should take precautions,” insisted Reid.
“I agree with Frankie,” said Flynn handing his mask back. “This will cause panic and to be honest, I’m not sure it would do much good anyway!”
Frankie handed hers back too.
Reid looked at them both and shook her head in disgust but also replaced her mask in her bag. “But I’m keeping them close,” she said, laying them carefully at the top of her bag. “One whiff of disease and you’re putting them on!” Flynn told the Deltas to wait in the helicopters while they followed Leclerc into the bank. The General Manager of the bank had already been alerted by the police of their arrival but, as he had been given no information other than senior investigators were about to arrive to speak to him, he was a bag of nerves by the time Frankie and Reid approached him.
“Vous parlez Anglais?” asked Frankie.
“Oui, a little,” he replied nervously.
“Please don’t be worried,” said Frankie, reassuringly. “You have done nothing wrong, we just want to ask you about a customer of yours.”
The bank manager relaxed slightly but given banking laws and the requirements to vet customers’ identities, his concerns were not entirely alleviated.
Reid took the photo of Nick Geller from her bag and showed it to the manager. Relief flooded across his face. “Non,” he said emphatically. “He is no customer of mine.”
Reid produced some of the mock-ups. The manager paused briefly at one of them.
“You recognize this man?” prompted Frankie when she noticed the pause.
“Non, just a little familiar,” he said.
“Familiar how?” she pressed.
“One of my clients, a rich man, Monsieur…”
“Jacques Guillon?” “Oui,” he replied. “But if you already knew, why—”
“We wanted to put a face to the name and not the name to a face,” replied Reid. They had agreed in advance that an independent verification of Nick was going to be far more convincing than giving the name and seeing if Nick’s disguise matched one of the mock-ups. Plan A was to see if the manager recognized Nick. Plan B was to give him Jacques Guillon’s name and hope it was Nick.
“But Monsieur Guillon is older, with a limp,” he said.
“Older? His hair is graying at the temples?” asked Frankie.
The manager nodded.
“And the limp, Flynn?” she asked.
Flynn limped across the room, almost identical to Nick’s limp. “Street Surveillance 101. One of our first lessons in how to change our appearance.”
“Merde!” exclaimed the manager.
“We need every transaction he’s made. Locations, times, amounts, currency, anything you have,” Reid urgently requested.
“Of course, Madame,” replied the manager. “And his safety deposit box?”
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“He has a safety deposit box?” asked Frankie.
“Oui, he arranged it yesterday when he was here.”
“He was here yesterday?!” they said in unison.
“Oui. He had a small metal briefcase with him. I didn’t see it when he left, I assume he left it here.”
Reid reached into her bag and withdrew the small white paper masks, including one for the manager.
“I suggest you tell your staff to wait outside the branch while we check the safety deposit box,” suggested Reid, handing out the masks.
The manager’s face suddenly paled at the realization of what the mask meant. “You think he could have given us that disease? Like the man on the video?”
“No,” lied Frankie. “We just have to take precautions, health and safety laws.”
From the expression on the manager’s face, acting was not a line of work Frankie could fall back on. He tentatively and after some persuasion took them down to the basement and into the vault that housed the safety deposit boxes, his mask fixed tightly to his face.
Flynn pulled the box out of the wall and with all three of them looking on, each holding their breath, he opened the lid.
Chapter 40
With sunrise just minutes away, the training camp came to a standstill for Salat Al Fajr, the morning prayer, to be said in unison by hundreds of trainees. Nick felt at one with the group as they faced Mecca to the east and the words of the Quran echoed around him in a predawn chorus. As the final words died away, the sun peeked over the horizon and gave the worshippers a hint of the power that Allah possessed. It was as though he had heard their thanks and praise of him and rewarded them with a sunrise in their honor.
“Nick, my brother,” said the man who had led the prayer, embracing Nick warmly.
Nick stood back and held the man at arm’s length smiling into the face of a fellow warrior. “Ibrahim, my brother.”
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