From the breast pocket of his jacket, Sanchez removed a battered photograph. He glanced at it before handing it to her.
“That’s Mike and me,” Sanchez explained. “We had just landed at Pristina Airport.”
Lisa examined the picture, then turned it over.
“You recognize his handwriting?”
Lisa raised her head toward him. Behind her tears, Sanchez could see the hope he’d just given her.
“Yes, I do,” she whispered. She wiped her tears away with the sleeves of her gown. “Let me get dressed. Then we’ll go.”
CHAPTER 8
The Sheik’s Private Yacht
The Mediterranean Sea
The reports weren’t satisfactory. The Sheik severed the connection and slammed his encrypted satellite phone on his desk. Seconds later, the San Pellegrino bottle from his right hand flew across the luxurious yacht’s master cabin. It hit a glass sculpture before deviating into an oil painting. The bottle shattered on impact and sliced through the expensive art piece a longtime associate had given him more than a decade ago for his fiftieth birthday. With his eyes opened wide, the Sheik lifted the desk and shoved it upside down, causing the fresh-water aquarium standing on top of it to drop to the floor. He looked at the small tropical fish, now flopping and gasping for air amid pieces of broken glass, and wondered how long they had before dying of asphyxiation.
“They did what they could, Sheik Al-Assad,” said Omar Al-Nashwan, his most trusted soldier. His voice was steady, and he didn’t seem troubled by the Sheik’s outburst. “They didn’t die as cowards but as martyrs.”
“And that’s all we could really hope for,” added the Sheik’s personal physician and representative, Dr. Ahmed Khaled. He was seated next to Al-Nashwan on a large leather sofa tucked away against one of the walls.
In all fairness to his men, the Sheik had to agree they’d done well. Granted, his ultimate objective hadn’t been fulfilled, but enough damage had been done to trigger negative economic reactions in North America, and in Europe, too, he hoped. The stock markets across the globe were already plummeting, and authorities had started issuing recommendations against unnecessary movements within Canada’s capital city.
“You’re right, Ahmed,” replied the Sheik, pacing the large master cabin he used as office space when he wasn’t sleeping. “One way or another, our next operation should push them over the edge.”
“I know it will, Sheik,” concurred Al-Nashwan. “The plan we put in place is flawless, but lots of work remains to ensure its smooth execution.”
The Sheik stopped to look at Al-Nashwan’s intense blue eyes. As always, Al-Nashwan didn’t look away like all the others did. In all the years they’ve known each other, he didn’t remember hearing his right-hand man give a false assessment or say something he didn’t mean.
“What about our dear friend Ambassador Powell?”
“As per your instructions, we moved him to one of our safe houses in Syria,” replied Al-Nashwan, shifting in his seat.
The Sheik raised his eyebrows. “Go on, my friend. Speak your mind,” he said.
“Is there really a point in keeping him alive now that we know he didn’t speak to anyone regarding my father?”
“In a few months from now, they’ll come after us,” replied the Sheik. “Let there be no doubt about this, my friends. The Americans will come with everything they have. Won’t you agree that Ambassador Powell will be a nice diversion? They won’t be able to resist focusing resources to find him, to liberate him. For two years, they’ve been losing face. We’ll give them a big fat chance to redeem themselves.”
“I understand,” said Al-Nashwan. “Nevertheless, the risks of discovery are higher now that Allied forces are in Syria to fight our friends from ISIS—the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria.”
The Sheik sighed. Omar’s right. Maybe it is time to say goodbye to Ambassador Ray Powell.
“A valid point, Omar,” the Sheik finally said. “Let me think about it.”
“Of course,” Al-Nashwan said, bowing his head.
Turning toward Dr. Khaled, the Sheik changed the subject. “I want you to meet with Major Jackson, our African ally, within the next month or so. Make sure he understands the time frame must be respected.”
“With the money you offered him, it shouldn’t be an issue,” Dr. Khaled replied.
“For his sake, I hope so,” concluded the Sheik. “What about Faruq, Omar?”
“After examination, I have no doubt that his call could have been intercepted, Sheik Al-Assad. It’s impossible to say for sure, but we all know of our enemies’ monitoring capabilities, don’t we?”
The Sheik nodded. The National Security Agency and its allies were everywhere.
He had invested heavily to make his communication network as secure as it could be, but he had no illusions; he had to tread carefully and not allow anyone to communicate outside the dedicated secure network.
“He’s waiting on the upper deck, in case you wanted to speak with him,” continued Al-Nashwan. “He’s not aware that we know about his use of an unsecured cell phone.”
“Very well, Omar. I’ll speak to him.”
A smile appeared on Dr. Khaled’s face, but one look from Al-Nashwan was enough to wipe it off. “There’s nothing entertaining about this, Ahmed. This call could have compromised us,” said the Sheik’s enforcer standing up.
Dr. Khaled raised his hands in mock surrender. “Of course, Omar. Whatever you say.”
Less than a minute later, three subtle knocks could be heard against the cabin’s door.
“Come in, please,” said the Sheik, stepping over some broken pieces of glass on the floor.
The door hesitantly opened, as if the man who was about to enter was doing so against his will.
“Faruq, don’t be shy,” said the Sheik to the newcomer. “Please join us.”
Reluctantly, the man approached the Sheik with Al-Nashwan following just a few steps behind. Looking at Dr. Khaled, who was still seated on the sofa, the Sheik explained, “Faruq was our man on shore. He did an excellent job keeping the ship supplied according to my instructions. Isn’t that so, Faruq?”
The man swallowed hard and nodded.
“However,” continued the Sheik, “although it was clearly explained to him that the use of his phone was to call only the preapproved numbers already programmed, yesterday Faruq broke one of the rules when he decided to use his cell phone to call an unauthorized number.”
“But my sister’s sick, Sheik Al-Assad. She’ll most probably die within a few days, well before I have the chance to see her one last time,” pleaded Faruq.
“Your sister’s sick? I’m so sorry to hear that,” answered the Sheik, his tone instantly changing into one of pure compassion. “How could I have known? Really, how could I have known, Faruq? You should have told me.”
Faruq looked up, seemingly surprised by the Sheik’s reaction. “And the call didn’t even last a full minute,” he offered with a smile.
“But of course,” the Sheik said. “I know it didn’t”.
He opened his arms, as to invite Faruq to close in. Obviously relieved, Faruq approached, but as soon as he was within reach, Sheik Al-Assad delivered a powerful strike to his throat with the tips of his fingers. The effect was instantaneous. Faruq’s hands shot up to his neck as his windpipe collapsed. A few seconds later, he was on his knees, unable to breathe, his eyes in the Sheik’s direction. The Sheik returned his gaze and smirked. With his left foot, he pushed Faruq to the ground next to the multicolored fish and applied pressure on Faruq’s throat with his right. The Sheik’s gaze moved from the dying man to the fish. Like Faruq, they were all gasping for air, well aware they were living their last moments on Earth.
“You failed me, Faruq. You failed me, and the rest of your brothers,” the Sheik said, pressing his foot harder against
Faruq’s throat.
Thirty seconds later, Faruq’s eyes rolled over and his feet stopped moving altogether.
“Throw him overboard, Omar,” the Sheik ordered. “Once it’s done, advise the crew we’re returning to shore. As you’ve said it so well yourself, there’s lots to do.”
Al-Nashwan didn’t answer. “Did you hear me, Omar? I said throw him overboard.” When his right-hand man slowly raised his eyes from his secured smartphone’s screen, the Sheik saw something rare: amusement.
“What’s so funny, Omar?”
“My apologies, Sheik Al-Assad,” Al-Nashwan replied, handing his smartphone to the Sheik. “I think you should read this.”
The text the Sheik was reading was from the Al Jazeera media network. As he read through it, he understood why Al-Nashwan was amused. I can’t believe it myself. Could they be wrong?
The Sheik passed the device to Dr. Khaled. “Read this, my friend.” Then he turned to Al-Nashwan. “Show this to the ambassador, Omar. Take a few pictures, and send them to his family.”
“With pleasure, Sheik Al-Assad.”
“On second thought,” the Sheik added, “send me a copy as well. I’m curious to see how the ambassador will react to his son’s death.”
PART 2
CHAPTER 9
The Oval Office
Washington, DC
The three sharp knocks at the door startled President Robert Muller. He glanced at his watch and realized that a full hour had passed since he’d started reading the UN’s economic report on West Africa.
The Secret Service agent outside the Oval Office opened the door to let Director of National Intelligence Richard Phillips enter. President Muller had known Phillips for decades and was thankful for his loyalty. DNI Phillips liked to operate in the shadows and rarely did the president make a decision before first consulting with him.
“What’s going on, Richard?” asked the president. He was always nervous when his friend visited him unannounced, as it often meant bad news was on the way.
“Don’t worry, Robert,” said Phillips, unbuttoning his suit jacket and sitting in one of the two armchairs in front of the president. “I have nothing to report.”
President Muller relaxed slightly. “That’s good.”
“Not really.” Phillips said.
His words caused Muller to cock his head. “What do you mean?”
“I spoke with Donald Poole this morning regarding last month’s bombings in Ottawa.”
“Did the CIA figure out who orchestrated it?” the president asked. He had hoped that with all the extra resources he’d given the CIA director, US intelligence would be able to come up with something actionable.
Phillips shook his head. “Poole signed off on the report, but I strongly disagree with its conclusion.”
Muller pinched his nose. He could feel a headache coming. “How so?” he asked.
“The CIA seems to think that the attacks were in retaliation to the successes the Canadian’s CF-18s had in Syria,” Phillips said.
“That makes sense,” Muller said. “The Canadians have killed many high-value targets within the last few months. Why don’t you agree with this line of reasoning?”
“Because it’s flawed,” Phillips replied. “I don’t buy that ISIS could mount a coordinated attack on foreign soil, especially not in North America. They just don’t have access to the logistics needed for this type of operation. Think about it, Robert. The Ottawa bombings took many months, even years, to plan out. It just doesn’t make sense to—”
“Okay, Richard. I get it,” interrupted Muller. “If you’re right, then why does the CIA think ISIS is responsible?”
“Poole’s doing everything he can, but even with the added resources you’ve given him, the CIA is still stretched beyond its limits. They prioritize what needs to be done and allocate the resources accordingly. We shouldn’t forget the attacks happened in Canada, not in the United States.”
The president stood from behind his desk and walked to one of the big bay windows offering him an elegant view of the Rose Garden. “What’s your take on it?”
“If I had to guess, I would say the bombings were carried out by sleeper cells inserted years ago.”
“So that rules out ISIS?”
“Yes, it does. Their hands are full, for now at least,” Phillips said. “We both know that to activate a deep-cover asset, someone very high up in the terrorist food chain must give the go-ahead.”
“Meaning?”
“I don’t think it would be far-fetched to suggest that the Sheik gave the order.”
The Sheik. He had appeared out of nowhere a couple years ago when he had claimed responsibility over the well-executed kidnapping of Canadian ambassador Ray Powell in Algiers. Since then, the Sheik had been a thorn in the side of all the Western intelligence agencies. He’d continuously nagged them with pictures of Powell, often taken in brutal conditions. Muller had offered all his help to the Canadian prime minister, but the Sheik had so far eluded them. Was it time to turn the heat up?
Muller walked back to his desk and poured himself a glass of water. The headache was starting to throb, and he hoped a couple of Advils would relieve the continuous pounding.
“Why do you think it’s him?” Muller asked.
“I think the attacks were meant to punish the Canadian government. For the last two years, our neighbors have been a lot more cautious about whom they were letting inside their borders. It’s much more difficult to gain access to Canada now than it was three years ago. My guess is the Sheik felt that if the Canadian government wouldn’t maintain its passive role as a safe haven for his men, then it would no longer enjoy the benefit of being off-limits.”
“And they gave us their full support in our fight against ISIS,” the president added.
“That’s also true.”
“That’s an interesting theory, Richard,” the president said.
“That’s the problem, isn’t it? It’s only a theory,” shrugged Phillips.
Muller wasn’t fooled. “I know you, Richard. You have something in mind to prove you’re right, don’t you?”
Phillips smiled. “What about Charles Mapother?”
―
Oval Office
Two years ago
The president’s three guests were not the richest men in the United States, but their combined wealth was over fourteen billion dollars. Even though it never hurt to spend a small fortune on the man who occupies the Oval Office, that wasn’t the reason why they’d been able to secure a last-minute meeting with him.
They’d all been part of the Harvard Chess Club back in their college days and had remained close friends since then.
This unique gathering was informal; there was no pecking order as to who was seated where in the Oval Office. President Muller was across from the fireplace, and his three friends were stretched out on the two white couches on either side. No records would be kept, and the Secret Service presidential security detail had been asked to turn off the recording and video feeds.
“Robert, you need to let us try,” said Andrew Fitzgerald, a tall, lanky man who had made his wealth in private banking. “Give us two years, and we promise that you’ll see concrete results. And frankly, we have nothing to lose.”
President Muller tossed the fifteen-page executive summary onto the coffee table. The cover page, with the words IMSI: International Market Stabilization Institute stared back at him. “Drew, I can’t go along with this plan, and you know it. It’s unethical. Plus, this country can’t afford another intelligence agency.”
Muller, the former governor of California, had been elected president ten months before. His confident leadership and no-nonsense manner had placed him in the media spotlight. He was seen as a man of the people.
“It won’t cost the taxpayers a thing,” said Steve Shamrock,
CEO of Oil Denatek, one of the larger publicly traded oil and gas companies in the United States. “We will personally finance the whole shebang.”
The president paused as he digested what Shamrock had said. “Do you know how much an agency like that would cost to operate? And how would you access the intelligence needed to accomplish such missions?” the president demanded, gesturing toward the executive summary on the table.
“I assure you we have the funds lined up,” the third man said. He was the smallest, most out of shape of the four friends, and his thinning blond hair was kept a bit too long.
President Muller had been wondering when his diminutive friend would start talking. Simon Coyne of New York’s Coyne, Robinson, and Sedaka law firm was the wealthiest of the group. His family owned the equivalent of two square blocks of prime real estate in Manhattan and a number of national hotel chains.
“We’ve already budgeted three hundred million for the initial start-up costs, with an additional four hundred million available for the first two years,” Coyne explained.
“My God!” Muller exclaimed. He was not easily awed. “That’s impressive!”
“Of course, if the results are positive, supplementary funds will be readily available after the initial twenty-four months,” continued Coyne. “As for how we’ll get the intelligence needed to succeed in our missions, we need your help.”
The president became more cautious. “What type of help? There is only so much I can do by myself without asking Congress.”
“We all know that you have limited latitude to operate. But we’re confident that with these directions,” Coyne said as he took out a five-page document from his leather briefcase and delivered it into the president’s waiting hand, “you’ll be able to give us the intelligence we need without exposing us to the public.”
President Muller scanned the document once, then read it a second and third time before slowly placing it on the table beside the other summary. He looked up to see three sets of eyes awaiting his reaction.
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