Traitor

by Murray Mcdonald

  Of course, Walid was aware of the number due to his helping prepare the final details and had explained how vital it was for his uncle to keep the number to himself, detailing how Nick had killed every one of the bookers to keep that number from ever getting out. As far as the jihadists were concerned, they knew they were part of an army but none would have any idea just how large.

  Prince Abdullah checked his watch, just after lunch. The final plane would be boarding, the final flight carrying the greatest warriors of Islam and their leaders to fight for Allah. Taking his word and his sword to the infidels, he couldn’t have been prouder. He almost wished he were joining them, boarding one of the flights, just as Mohammed Farsi was. Just as Mustafa Ghazi was, just as any one of the many leaders that would take the battle to the streets of America. He had his role, just as Nick had promised. He had received the letter just a few days earlier. He was to fill the leadership void that would be created by the attack. Prince Abdullah bin Fahd Al Khaled was to be the new Caliph.

  Prince Abdullah bin Fahd Al Khaled, as the new Caliph, would broadcast to the world the commencement of the war in America. He would tell the world of the virus that Allah had sent to plague the infidels. He would preach to them and tell them to pray to Allah for forgiveness for the sinful lives they had led. He would lead the jihadists who had not made the grade. Without a leader of his strength, Nick and the former Caliph had feared for the future of the jihadists. But they owed it to Allah to take his greatest warriors and leaders into battle. Many would return but in the meantime, Prince Abdullah held the future of the true believers and faithful in his hands.

  Up until that morning, with the Americans watching everything he did, it would have been impossible. Their leaving was another sign that Allah was watching over them. Allah was ensuring that his will and the will of the Caliph, peace be upon him, would be delivered.

  He stretched once again and stood up. He had a video recording to prepare for and a cause that needed a strong and powerful leader.

  ***

  Flynn paddled the surfboard further out to sea. He checked that his three colleagues were still with him. It had been a lucky break, quite literally, for only five days each year the surf broke in the way it had that morning when they had arrived. Up until they had spotted the wave, they were struggling to see a way to get close without being too obvious. He looked around and spotted Prince Abdullah’s mansion. The house was exceptionally well protected. Walled on three sides, motion sensors and cameras covered every square inch. If there were any weaknesses in the system, Flynn hadn’t been able to find them, nor had the CIA team that had been permanently camped watching him for the previous few weeks. Even if there had been a weakness, the twenty-plus man security force, almost all ex Spetsnaz troopers, would have more than filled it.

  The only access was the open sea front which itself was well covered by motion sensors and cameras. However, it did offer a clear view up to the pool area and the spectacular house beyond. What it didn’t offer was any view from land, as the house was pointing south towards the open Mediterranean and the spectacular super yacht that the egomaniacal prince had called ‘Abdullah’.

  “Well?” asked Flynn’s number two as he paddled alongside.

  “Piece of cake.” “Seriously?” he asked.

  “Well yeah, if we didn’t have to cover our tracks and make it look like an accident or it was natural, piece of cake; one cruise missile right through those beautiful French doors and right into the motherfucker’s living room.”

  “And given we can’t do that?”

  “How good a shot are you?” he joked, as they bobbed up and down on the swell that broke into some quite fabulous surfing waves another fifty yards to their right.

  “Whoa! What the fuck!” the number two suddenly shouted.

  Flynn turned back to look at the prince’s home. The prince had seemingly slumped to the ground, for no apparent reason.

  “Shall we catch some waves?” asked Flynn.

  “What the fuck did you do?” his partner asked.

  Both were out of earshot of other the two DCS team members.

  “I may have given him a letter,” said Flynn quietly.

  “And?”

  “Let’s just say you wouldn’t have wanted to be the first to open it. After a few seconds, no problem, but if you were to touch that paper before the light was able to break down the chemical coating it, a few hours later you might just keel over.”

  “Like that?”

  “Perhaps,” smiled Flynn. “Anyway, let’s go catch some waves. Being a courier is stressful work, you know,” he joked.

  After delivering the letter, he had washed his hands incessantly for an hour, just in case he had managed to get any chemical on himself, which he was assured was impossible. The chemical coated the letter sealed inside the envelope, which itself was specially lined to stop any light getting through. The letter was a risk. A secretary could have opened it before the prince, but with the number of official government seals and stamps that declared the letter extremely private and confidential, it would have been a brave secretary that would have broken the seals. The chemical itself would be absorbed through the skin on contact and begin its work. Seconds after exposure to light, the letter would be free of any compound. Any tests would show it to be standard government issue paper. A few hours later, a cardiac arrest would ensue. Any autopsy would show death by natural causes, heart failure.

  Piece of cake, thought Flynn, riding the wave.

  Chapter 83

  The call from Flynn confirming the package had been accepted by the right person brought a smile to Carson’s face. He had wanted to deal with the playboy prince for years. His funding had been aiding the jihadist cause across the world for years while he partied and socialized with the very people he was fighting against.

  The call from Bill Jameson had been slightly less welcome. Frankie wasn’t giving up. Her phone call with Bill had been overheard by the President and a meeting was consequently arranged, something Bill Jameson would never have allowed. But President Mitchell had always had a soft spot for her. They all did. It was the reason she had been put on the investigation in the first place. Her career was over. Her link to Nick was too toxic for her to remain with the Secret Service. The rumblings were already beginning as the news spread of her involvement with Nick. The President had already had three Senators ask him if he were mad having the girlfriend of the world’s number one terrorist on the team hunting him down. “Ex-girlfriend” was the President’s response but that would only work for so long.

  If she remained in the Service, her pregnancy, a pregnancy she was not in the least interested in aborting, would be public knowledge. It would be the child and not just Frankie who would be labeled. A decision had to be taken, a tough one but it was for the best. Carson called his security team. He needed to get to the White House.

  ***

  Frankie drove while Turner and Reid prepared the papers in the back seat of the Prius to show the President. They had ten minutes, and in that ten minutes the lives of tens of thousands of innocent civilians were in their hands. They not only had to lay out what they believed Carson was doing, they also had to offer an alternative solution. They would have to be concise, clear and convincing.

  “I think you should do the talking,” said Turner, looking at Frankie from the back seat.

  “No way, you’re the professional investigators.”

  “I agree with Paul,” said Reid, surprising Frankie.

  “What the hell? My job was to protect one person, not make cases that would hold up when put before a jury. You guys are the professionals,” she replied, looking into the mirror and seeing fear etched across both their faces. “These are the lives of thousands, tens of thousands of people,” she argued to them both.

  Fear stared back.

  Reid squirmed awkwardly. “We’re not used to meeting with the President.”

  “The last time I met him, I was a quivering wreck,
” admitted Turner. “Too many lives are at stake for me to start stumbling over my words because of nerves!”

  “He’s just a person like we are,” Frankie said.

  “He’s not, he’s an office, he’s an institution, he is the United States encapsulated in one person,” Turner expounded.

  “He’s also a hell of a nice guy.”

  “Who you know and can talk to easily,” said Reid.

  The pleading eyes of two of the most senior members of the FBI from the rear seat were too much.

  “Seriously, you guys need to grow some!” She sighed. “Make me good notes,” she said as she turned in towards the security gate at the White House.

  “Hey, Joe,” she said, greeting the guard.

  “Good to see you, Frankie, we’ve been missing that smile around here.”

  “Not for much longer, I hope,” she said.

  “Good news,” he smiled. “Head on up, Frankie, they’re expecting you in the residence.”

  ‘Thanks, Joe,” she said, blowing him a kiss, as she had done for all the years she had known him.

  “He’s lovely,” said Reid. “Can’t imagine he’s much good as a security guy though. Bit old and heavy,” she mused.

  Frankie laughed. “Don’t ever let anyone hear you say that. When you talk about institutions, Joe is one. Don’t let his age or weight fool you either. That man has more medals for bravery and has seen more action than nearly any other Marine alive. We rest easy knowing Joe’s on the gate. If anyone ever got past him, we’d know we were in trouble.”

  Turner and Reid each looked back with a newfound admiration for the cuddly looking old guard who was still watching them drive towards the White House residence.

  Frankie stopped as directed and was pleased to see Bill Jameson, her old boss, had come down to greet them.

  “Hey, Bill, looking good,” she said.

  “Hi, Frankie,” he replied without the warmth of his normal his tone.

  “What’s up?”

  Bill didn’t answer, he just led the way into the main residence towards the elevator which sat ready and waiting for them.

  “Bill?” she pressed. They stepped into the elevator.

  “It’s nothing,” he said gruffly, pressing the second floor button.

  By the time they reached the second floor and home of the President, Frankie was worried. Bill was her mentor. He had guided her through the ranks, taken her under his wing, seeing the potential in her. He had never been like this with her before.

  The tension that had built up on the short journey from the first floor exploded out into the hallway when Bill exited and ushered them to follow him. He paused outside of the President’s study. Opposite the study, across the East Sitting Hall, was the Queen’s Sitting Room, the door to which opened and revealed the Director of the FBI and his boss, the Attorney General.

  “Deputy Director Turner, Special Agent Reid,” said the FBI Director, summoning them towards him.

  Frankie stood in place next to Bill.

  “We have a meeting with President Mitchell,” said Turner, standing firmly beside Frankie.

  “Not anymore,” said the FBI Director.

  “It’s okay, guys, I’ll do my best,” she said, letting them be beckoned away.

  Once left alone with Frankie, Bill walked forward towards the door that led through to the President’s study, opening it gently.

  “I’m so sorry, Frankie,” he said quietly.

  Secretary of Defense Harry Carson was seated at the President’s desk and alongside him sat the Director of the Secret Service. There was no sign of President Mitchell.

  Frankie’s heart started to thump.

  “Please come in, Frankie,” beckoned Harry.

  Fifteen minutes later, Frankie was walking back out of the White House for what would be her very last time. She had managed to avoid crying while in the room but as she exited the residence, the tears flowed freely. Reid ran over when she saw Frankie’s heaving body exit the door.

  “We realized you were still in there, so we waited for you,” she said, holding Frankie as she sobbed. “What happened?”

  “I’m no longer a Secret Service agent.”

  Turner walked over to join them. “What do you mean?” he asked angrily. “You’re an excellent agent!”

  “They decided that my relationship with Nick Geller was detrimental to the Agency and suggested I may wish to consider my position.”

  “Carson, that son of a bitch!”

  “He did look upset at having to do it,” she said through sobs. “Sorry, what about you guys?”

  “Reassigned with immediate effect. I’ve got a flight to Miami waiting for me and Special Agent Reid is going to LA.”

  “Well good luck to both of you,” she said trying to smile. “You okay for transport?” she asked, pointing to her car.

  “Yes, thanks. Will you be alright?” asked Reid, fussing over her.

  “I’ll be fine, it’s just sad, I loved the job.”

  Reid kissed her on the cheek and hugged her. “Keep in touch, Frankie.”

  “Yes,” said Frankie, knowing she’d never see either of them again.

  With a kiss and an awkward hug, Paul Turner wished her well and he and Reid walked towards the government sedan waiting to take them to the airport.

  “By the way, you’d make a great couple,” Frankie called after them with a grin.

  “Frankie!” yelled Harry Carson, as he walked out of the White House entrance. “I was hoping you might still be here!”

  “What?’ she asked, wiping the tears from her eyes.

  “I wanted to give you this,” he said, handing her a card.

  Frankie looked at it grudgingly. “Obstetrician?”

  “He’s very good, probably one of the best.”

  “He’s in Colorado!” she said angrily.

  “I don’t think you should stay in Washington,” Carson said evenly.

  “Am I in danger?”

  Harry shrugged. “For you and the child, please take the card.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “I don’t, this is from President Mitchell,” said Harry. “He’s already called ahead. The doctor’s expecting you.”

  “Am I danger?” she asked again.

  “I don’t know but if you are, it’s here, not there,” he said, pointing to the card.

  “What are you doing, Harry?”

  “I’m making sure your child grows up safe.”

  “The child that will have the genes of a man responsible for tens of thousands of deaths?”

  Harry turned without a word and walked towards his waiting car. It pulled away with a screech of tires, leaving Frankie to look back on her past.

  Chapter 84

  Walid boarded his flight with ease. Like Nick, he had an upper cabin business-class seat. Unlike Nick, he was a little more interested in aircraft. The fact that he had boarded a Boeing 747-400 was not missed on him. Unlike almost every other jihadist, Walid had spent his life traveling the world, if not by private jet, certainly in the first class confines of the world’s better airlines. It was to be his first trip on US Airways and he had looked forward to seeing what comforts would take him across to America.

  The aircraft listed for the Charlotte flight was an Airbus A330-200, of which he had noticed at least one on his way into the terminal. There had been no mention of the airline owning or even operating Boeing 747-400s. Envoy Class, the US Airways business class, was a cubicle-style seat with the ability to lie flat, a large screen TV and a selection of excellent on demand newly released movies. What he had, however, was a business class seat from a decade earlier, with a small screen that was almost unwatchable due to a large number of scratches and a movie selection that was playing on a loop, something he hadn’t experienced for a very long time.

  “Excuse me?” he asked the steward, a man he recognized from the check-in desks.

  “Yes, sir?” said the steward courteously.

  “Whe
n did US Airways get 747s and why are they so poorly kitted out?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, they’ve been rushed into service today to replace a number of aircraft that had to be grounded due to a recall by Airbus.”

  “There’s an Airbus there,” Walid said, pointing down to the aircraft next to them.

  “I believe the recall only affected about 30% of our fleet,” replied the steward.

  “This isn’t what I paid for,” Walid snapped, realizing as he spoke that he hadn’t actually paid for any of it. Some unsuspecting company had paid for it.

  “We’re aware that it’s not up to our normal standards, sir. If you call customer service on arrival, I believe compensation will be offered. Can I get you a drink perhaps? Champagne or orange juice?”

  “Orange juice,” said Walid. Something felt… off. He thought back over the odd occurrences: The boards were not displaying the correct gate; the area for check-in was very large; the steward who had been on the check-in desk was standing in front of him now. He knew the airlines were cutting costs – particularly the US legacy airlines –but that seemed ridiculous.

  The steward walked towards the small kitchen area where a colleague had watched the interaction with the passenger.

  “What was that about?”

  “This fucking plane!” he snapped, pouring an orange juice.

  “Thank God somebody spotted the fuck up and sent us through the script to cover it.”