The Toymaker

by Chuck Barrett

  Then, Collins would kill him.

  Collins left his perch at the top of the hill and started down the path toward his villa. His plan became clear. A smile crept across his face.

  Collins knew how he’d kill Jake Pendleton.

  CHAPTER 4

  “WHAT DO YOU mean the mission might be scrubbed?” Jake looked at the ASIS analyst. The last thing he wanted was a delay. He could feel anxiety welling up inside him. He needed this mission. The missions were his therapy sessions. It was only during the missions where he had the opportunity to avenge his fiancée’s death. He wouldn’t let this terrorist escape.

  The Integrator 2100TS secure phone beeped. “Ask him yourself, that’s the director now.” The analyst got up from his chair and pointed to the phone, “All yours mate.”

  Kaplan stepped forward and pushed the speakerphone button. “Kaplan.”

  The voice was CIA Director Bentley, “Gregg, is Jake with you?”

  “Right here, sir.” Jake said.

  The ASIS analyst walked to the door flap, stepped out, and secured the copper mesh door. A potential weak spot for leakage, the door was sealed with a copper infused version of Velcro then verified safe using the T-Set to check for signal leaks.

  “Good. I’ll let George take it from here.”

  Jake first met George Fontaine six months prior when he’d arrived at CIA Headquarters in Langley and received his initial briefing on the two Irishmen who had escaped the day his fiancée was mortally wounded. At just under six feet, Fontaine was overweight with brown hair and a crooked nose, which matched his crooked smile—the smile never seemed to leave his face. But most of all, Fontaine was competent.

  Competent and thorough.

  The same way Jake had been when he was an intelligence officer for the U. S. Navy. The way he had been when he served under Bentley. A trait Bentley demanded from his subordinates. ‘Leave no stone unturned. No possibility unexplored. No detail ignored.’ was Bentley’s dictum. Jake held fast to it in the Navy, as did Fontaine with the CIA.

  “Jake. Gregg. We’ve picked up intel and chatter that an American might be in the camp. Goes by the name of Khan, Hashim Khan. He declared himself a traitor and now ranks high in al Qaeda, handling and planning cell movements and attacks. His photo should come across the wire any second now. He’s number three on the FBI’s Most Wanted Terrorists List—even higher than Yasir. Khan has been blamed for planning several terrorist attacks around the globe including the failed Detroit airliner bombing, the DC subway attempt, and the Times-Square car bomb attempt. We believe he’s planning another attack or attacks and is in Australia with Yasir.”

  “Sounds incompetent to me.” Jake said.

  “Might seem that way, but those failed attempts were in the U.S. In other parts of the world he’s responsible for dozens of attacks and over a hundred deaths. We need more time to figure out his intentions. If we move prematurely, Khan’s associates might move without him and we’ll never know his intended targets.

  Jake looked at Kaplan while he spoke to Fontaine, “That’s a load of crap, George. We’re ready for this op. We can get in and out, capture Yasir and Khan. Then we’ll let Gregg do that interrogation shit you guys taught him.” He glanced at Kaplan.

  “Jake’s right, sir.” Kaplan said to Bentley. “We have all the data we need. It’s time to make our move. Whatever Khan is planning, I’ll get it out of him.”

  There was a faint click on the speakerphone.

  Thirty seconds later another click, Bentley’s voice. “Gentlemen, perhaps you’re right. Now might be the time to move. Jake, my concern is you. There is no room for compromise here. It is imperative they both be captured and interrogated. If Kaplan can’t break them, then I’ll send someone down who can.”

  “I can break him, sir.” Kaplan said. “Just give us the green light.”

  Jake smiled. He knew Bentley had decided to let them go ahead with the mission. He would control himself with Khan and Yasir. He had no choice. After the last mission, Bentley had talked to him about his trigger-happy tendencies and put him on notice.

  Two weeks ago, Bentley looked him in the eyes, “Jake, the definition of clandestine is ‘executed with secrecy.’ That’s why we’re called the Clandestine Service—secrecy is our mission. You can’t leave a trail of dead bodies everywhere you go. It raises too many eyebrows. I have a member of the Senate breathing down my back about your last operation. Says I need to learn to control my people.”

  “I’m sorry sir.” Jake said. “But in my defense, the mission you’re talking about, I stopped the bombing of the market. Those two men I shot were about to kill a lot of innocent people. You know how dangerous Afghanistan can be.”

  “Again, Jake. Clandestine. I don’t give a damn that you killed those two goons. They deserved to die. I do care that you got caught on camera. It was hard to justify our presence over there. Just promise me you’ll be more discreet.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The radio cracked then Bentley's voice, “The mission with the Australians is on for tonight.” He said. “I’ll let Fontaine give you a briefing but before you sign off, I want to talk you about another matter.”

  Jake noticed something out of the ordinary in Bentley’s usual calm voice.

  Humming sounds filled the room as the data encrypted computers came to life. The monitor displayed a diagram of the al Qaeda camp. Jake recognized it immediately. The encrypted fax machine hummed the arrival of a new fax.

  “Jake, you and Gregg take a look at this.” Fontaine said.

  The next forty minutes were spent planning and discussing the exact timing of the raid on the training camp. The execution had to be flawless or else Australian SAS soldiers could die. Jake and Kaplan could die.

  Kaplan would brief the SAS soldiers on the raid. Each soldier would know his assignment. Each soldier would know his target. Each man in the unit was a trained professional and Jake was certain the mission would succeed. He lived for these moments.

  Fontaine finished the briefing and Bentley’s voice crackled in the speaker. “Jake? Gregg? You still there?”

  “Yes sir. We’re right here.” Jake looked at Kaplan who returned the stare. “What do you have for us?”

  “Isabella Hunt has gone missing.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “WHAT?” JAKE SAID.

  “Gone missing?” Kaplan asked. “How so, sir?”

  “Just that.” Bentley’s voice in the speaker. “She was working an op in Aden, Yemen when we lost contact with her. We believe her cover was compromised and she’s been taken captive. We’ve tracked her as far as Sana’a, Yemen where we had our last confirmed ID. After that visual, they went underground, perhaps literally. We don’t know if she’s still in Sana’a, whether they’ve moved her to another location, or if she’s even in Yemen. The trail has gone cold. We have assets combing the streets and countryside, asking questions from every source in the field. So far we’ve turned up nothing.”

  “What makes you think she blew her cover?” Kaplan asked. “She’s good. She doesn’t panic. It’s unlikely she tipped anyone off to her identity.”

  “We’re confident they’re on to her.” Bentley hesitated. “No other scenario makes sense.”

  “We have to go after her,” Kaplan said.

  “First things first, gentlemen. Neither of you is going anywhere until this mission is complete. I need you both focused on the job at hand, not distracted. I hesitated even telling you about Isabella until the mission was over and under normal circumstances I would never have revealed anything that would jeopardize team focus, but since both of you have worked with her, I thought you deserved to know. When you get back, both of you will come here first and we’ll discuss our options for rescuing Isabella.” Bentley paused. “Gregg, I know you and Isabella have worked together over the past few months—but I need you at a hundred percent on this raid. Don’t let this distract you from your primary mission.”

  “No, sir." Kaplan said. “
But after we finish here, I want to help find Isabella. You have nothing to be worried about.”

  Matter of fact, Jake was worried. Kaplan seemed to be getting close to Isabella Hunt. Too close. After she was shot in the leg when they were in Ireland, Kaplan had taken more than a platonic interest in her recovery—and she in his.

  Jake and Kaplan became good friends during their ordeal in Savannah and Ireland, but the abruptness of Beth’s death caused Jake to distance himself from everybody. Kaplan and Hunt tried to comfort him. It was obvious they wanted to be understanding, compassionate friends, but the trauma of his loss made him bitter and he resented their intrusion into his pain. A suffering he’d rather not share. He couldn’t explain why, but he wanted to feel the suffering. He needed it. He deserved it.

  His friend had tried to draw a common denominator since they both lost a loved one. But like Kaplan said, his girlfriend, Annie, had a secret side. He said he never really knew her and felt betrayed. Betrayed by her double identity. Betrayed by her involvement in the Savannah conspiracy. Jake didn’t buy any of it. Kaplan was making excuses, probably to himself, to mask how he really felt.

  Kaplan and Hunt’s budding relationship wasn’t lost on him either. He’d noticed them spending more time together. He was still grieving the loss of Beth, so how could Kaplan flaunt his newfound friendship with Hunt in his face like that? How could he even have a relationship with Hunt? It wasn’t right. It was too soon.

  “Don’t worry about Gregg, sir.” Jake grabbed Kaplan’s shoulder. “As always, he’ll give you his best.”

  “No problem, sir. I’ll remain focused.” Kaplan glared at Jake. “But like I said, when we get back, I’m going after her.”

  “Don’t forget who gives the orders, Gregg.” Bentley said. “Right now, back to work. Get some rest. Keep your wits about you tonight men and bring those two terrorists back alive.”

  † † †

  18 Hours Later

  3:45 a.m.

  Jake and Kaplan, together with a team of nine specialized SAS soldiers were secured in their prearranged positions surrounding the terrorist training camp. Counting Jake and Kaplan, four ground teams of two each and three strategically located snipers.

  Two snipers positioned themselves along the surveillance ledge, both with optimal viewpoints of the camp below. A third sniper, the only man not paired, was situated along an adjacent ridge covering the only potential escape route for the terrorists.

  Every man was dressed in full black. Black clothes. Kevlar vests. Boots. Nomex gloves. Guns. Faces painted black. Black helmets outfitted with earpieces and voice activated microphones and night vision goggles.

  Eleven men, set for a surgical strike against the camp under the command of Gregg Kaplan. Only at his direction would the precision assault begin.

  During their briefing with Fontaine, they had developed the strategy based on the timing of the guards and the direction of their watch rounds. The total number of terrorists in the camp had been determined, confirmed, and reconfirmed through several nights of constant surveillance. Visual and satellite imagery, using thermal detection, had projected a camp occupancy at sixteen.

  Eleven highly skilled soldiers and operatives with the element of surprise on their side against a rag-tag group of sixteen terrorists in the desert, in the middle of the night—in Jake’s opinion the deck seemed stacked.

  In and out, he thought. There would be bloodshed. He’d capture Khan and Yasir, then he’d call for ASIS and SAS to clean up the mess.

  Kaplan keyed his microphone. “Everyone in position? Check in.”

  In prearranged order, all nine SAS soldiers checked-in, their positions secured and ready for the first strike. The snipers lined the ridges with the task of eliminating the patrolling sentries and to provide overhead cover, if needed. Four two-man teams advanced on the camp, each team given a quadrant to secure with instructions to neutralize any threats.

  Jake looked at Kaplan. “Here we go, buddy.”

  Kaplan nodded. “Yep. Keep your head down.”

  Kaplan switched on his voice-activated microphone. “Snipers, take down the sentries on my mark.”

  Four terrorist sentries patrolled the camp at any given time, two working the perimeter of the camp clockwise. The other two counter-clockwise. It had been nearly an hour since the shift change, which Jake concluded had been ample time for the previous four guards to fall asleep and long enough for boredom to dull the guards’ awareness.

  When the guards on the cliff side of the camp passed each other Kaplan said, “Engage.” The ledge snipers fired the silenced rifles, 7.62 NATO match ammo. The only sound was the al Qaeda sentries falling to the sand. Body shots. Each bullet perfectly placed, right through the heart.

  “Sentries one and two down. I say again, one and two down.” The voice whispered through the earpiece.

  A second later, another muffled pop. “Sentry three down. Repeat, three down.”

  As if he recognized the sounds, the fourth sentry began to run. Before he could take two strides, another silenced round dropped him. He fell face down into the sand sending his rifle crashing against the side of a wooden crate.

  The sound of the thud caused the strike team to instinctively duck.

  “Sentry four down. Repeat, four down.”

  “Hold your positions.” Kaplan said.

  “Movement at tent one,” one of the snipers said.

  “Hold fire.”

  A man stumbled out of his tent, rubbing his eyes. He walked over to the ‘P-spot’ as Jake had labeled it on the strike diagram. “That’s the spot they all go to pee.”

  “Sniper three, how’s your angle?” Kaplan asked.

  “Clear shot.”

  “Take the shot when he starts to shake it.”

  “Say again.”

  “When the man starts to shake it, take him out. Understood?”

  “Roger that.”

  Jake nudged him with his elbow. “You know, you’re a sicko.”

  “At least then we’ll know where both hands are.” Kaplan smiled.

  Another silenced shot. It was high, striking the man slightly below the base of the skull. The impact from the high-power sniper load nearly decapitated the man. He fell forward into the mulgas rustling the limbs as his body rolled through the tiny branches. The sound carried through the camp.

  “We better move fast, Gregg. That had to wake someone up.” Jake readied his Glock.

  From all the observations, they had determined the training camp had two dormitory tents sleeping seven each. Two from each tent had sentry duty at night. The largest tent, Yasir’s tent, housed only two occupants, Yasir and one other assumed to be Hashim Khan. Near one corner of the camouflage netting was a communications tent and a supply tent—both should be empty this time of the morning.

  Kaplan made the call. “All teams, go, go, go.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Hajjah Palace

  Hajjah, Yemen

  ISABELLA HUNT’S HEAD didn’t just hurt, it debilitated her. Contusions on her forehead and the back of her head felt like a vise had been placed on her ears and her skull slowly crushed. With the pulsing of each heartbeat, the pain intensified.

  She scanned the room, even with blurry vision she could tell she was in a holding cell of some kind. Metal bars mounted in the single window were caked with dust and dirt that matched the brown glass. A rough-hewn wooden door directly opposite the window had a four-inch square peephole—a peephole someone opened and closed every few minutes, checking to see if she had regained consciousness. Not yet, she needed time to think of a way to escape.

  Dry, stale dust caked her tongue and throat. She could feel the dehydration, her body longing for a drink of water. She’d been in this country too long. The dry, arid desert had taken its toll. She coughed.

  The peephole opened and a man brought some food and a tin cup with a few swallows of liquid. Both were horrid, but she didn’t care. Isabella was disoriented, her head throbbed and visi
on blurred so she reaasoned food would help. She ate and drank, but it made her drowsy and sluggish.

  She still didn’t know what had gone wrong. One minute she was doing her job—assistant to a shipping magnate in the port city of Aden—sitting in her office updating an export contract, when a man she’d never seen before rushed through the door, grabbed, and hit her. She fell onto the desk face first and smashed her forehead against the computer monitor. When she tried to stand, something smacked the back of her head and the office went black.

  Had she blown her cover? More importantly, when would Bentley send someone after her?

  She knew he would. Sooner or later. She hoped it would be Kaplan. They’d worked together on her last two missions. Both times posing as a couple. The first time as vacationers in Italy, they consulted a man named Vincent Corsaletti, a man who was known for his powerful connections. Vinny, as he preferred to be called, helped them locate an escaped prisoner from Gitmo, Guantanamo Bay Naval Base detention camp. Corsaletti was a Sicilian information broker.

  With Corsaletti’s help, Hunt and Kaplan assisted Italian authorities in raiding the Islamic Cultural Institute in Milan and apprehending an al Qaeda facilitator who worked for Yemen’s Political Security Organization and responsible for shuttling terrorists around the globe.

  Their second mission together sent them to Tripoli, Libya, posing as a newlywed couple and potential customers for a Libyan shipping company. Corsaletti informed them the owner had ties to Ian Collins. They attempted to extract information from the owner to help them locate and apprehend the assassin known as Shamrock. The owner disavowed any connection to Collins, refusing to discuss the matter any further. Hunt and Kaplan were escorted out and they were left at a dead end.

  She thought of the mission often, it had been different than the others. For her, it was special. A turning point in their friendship. Her thoughts were interrupted when the outside bolt on the huge door swung open. The black void that appeared outside the open door disappeared when two large men stormed into the room. The larger man picked her up, placed her in a wooden chair, and held her down while the second man grabbed her arms and pulled them behind the chair.