PLEDGE OF HONOR: A Mark Cole Thriller

by J. T. Brannan

  Unless Vinson knew he was under investigation, and this was his way of warning Mason off?

  He watched the video again, saw that it purposefully cut off before he had taken the white hood off; saw also that the background had been digitally modified to disguise the location, his bedroom at Number One Observatory Circle. The girl’s face, too, had been rendered all but unrecognizable by deliberate blurring.

  But the message was clear – the real video could be revealed at any time, if there was cause to do so.

  The commentary indicated that the Klansman was someone in a position of power within the US government, but held no further information; and Mason knew that the press – and a scandal-loving public – would have a field day with guessing and speculating on who it could be.

  Experts might even try to get past the digital fakery, try and reconnect the dots, get the genuine images back. And if they did, would they recognize his bedroom? Would they recognize Sarah Lansing, the young woman from the video? If they tracked her down, they would soon be onto him.

  Damn it!

  ‘That doesn’t look good,’ Jones said as he watched the video a third time.

  ‘You’re fucking telling me!’ Mason shouted, snatching the phone away and dialing a number. ‘Noah!’ he blurted when the call was answered. ‘We’ve run out of fucking time! We need to act before they do anything else, now bring that little bitch in for questioning, and I mean right now!’

  Sonofabitch!

  But Mason wasn’t going down without a fight, that was for damn sure.

  He’d make sure Graham got the information out of that Japanese whore; and if he couldn’t, then Mason would go on down to FBI headquarters and crack the bitch himself.

  Vinson was going down for this, and Aoki Michiko was the key.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done it,’ Vinson said bluntly.

  Michiko was facing him at the other side of his wide glass desk, seemingly unperturbed by Vinson’s dressing down. He’d been repeating himself for the past five minutes at least, and Michiko was getting bored of it.

  ‘I understand that,’ she said evenly, ‘but I had to do something, right? And guess what, he’ll get the message now, won’t he? No more pussy-footing around, he’ll back off.’

  ‘Or,’ Vinson said, ‘he’ll come for us harder now, all guns blazing. After all, what will he have to lose? If the video’s out, our leverage over him has gone – we’ve made our claims, and he’ll make his. And guess what, a bit of dominant KKK-slave-girl rape fantasy role-play will be forgotten in seconds once he makes those accusations about Force One public. A covert government hit team, answerable only to the president, unauthorized and off-the-books, her own private little army. We’re talking impeachment for her, prison for the rest of us.’

  Michiko considered his remarks, knew that it was a possibility; knew, also, that there were other things she could do to ensure it didn’t happen like that.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, alright? I understand what you’re saying, but I don’t like leaving the ball in someone else’s court, I like to be the one in control. We had that video and didn’t use it, and they were coming after us anyway.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I – ’

  Michiko held up her hands, stopping Vinson in his tracks. ‘There’s more,’ she said urgently. ‘I didn’t just do it for me. I have a feeling we’re going to need some JSOC assets soon, and I know we won’t want to request them with this Mason-Jones-Graham trio looking to make trouble for us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Vinson asked.

  ‘I mean, do you know where my father is right now?’

  ‘Serbia. Belgrade.’

  ‘He was. But where is he now?’ Again, Michiko held up a hand to stop him from responding. ‘You won’t know, because I’m the only one who was looking, and I only just found out before I sent that video out.’

  ‘So where is he?’

  ‘According to police reports, an unknown Caucasian man was arrested earlier today, at an old Nazi concentration camp near the Crowne Plaza Hotel.’

  ‘Where Mark was meeting the arms broker,’ Vinson said.

  ‘Exactly,’ Michiko said. ‘The police found three black Mercedes sedans parked outside, and eleven dead bodies down in the basement. One of them was Frank Mitchell, the guy from Pro-Tec you’d arranged to act as bodyguard to my father. He’d been tortured to death.’

  Vinson’s eyes went wide, and then he recoiled, appalled by the news. ‘Heaven help us,’ he breathed. ‘Poor man.’

  ‘Another of the men was Radomir Milanović, the arms dealer Mark was supposed to have met in the hotel.’

  ‘You think they were on to him? Kidnapped him at the hotel, took him to the camp to question him?’

  Michiko nodded. ‘Another body was found in the presidential suite of the Crowne Plaza, a single bullet wound to the head. Larry Thompson.’

  Vinson closed his eyes and rested back into his chair. After a few moments he opened them and looked back over at Michiko. ‘What else?’

  ‘It was an MI5 agent who called the police in.’

  ‘Elizabeth Morgan?’

  ‘Yeah, Mark had been working with her since London, it looks like they got separated at the hotel – the report she’s filed is that she was conducting solo surveillance after an anonymous tip-off, didn’t go through the normal channels because of the suspension, and saw Milanović and his men dragging a body out of the hotel. Worried that they would kill the man, so called the authorities.

  ‘According to the Serbian police files, she was allowed to question him at the station, to find out who he was, but claimed she was unable to find out.’

  ‘And where is she now?’

  ‘On a plane back to England, presumably to report everything back to Bryce Kelly and Sir Ian Riley.’

  ‘And Mark?’ Vinson asked. ‘Is he still at the police station?’

  ‘No,’ Michiko said, ‘and this is where is gets bad.’

  ‘Go on,’ Vinson urged.

  ‘Reports indicate that the unidentified man asked to speak to a representative of the Iranian embassy.’

  ‘The Iranian embassy?’ Vinson stuttered in disbelief. ‘But why?’

  ‘I haven’t been able to find out yet,’ Michiko said. ‘But a short while after, there was a transfer from Belgrade central police headquarters of one prisoner – unidentified – to the Iranian embassy on Ljutice Bogdana.’

  ‘Mark is at the Iranian embassy?’ Vinson asked, leaning forward at his desk.

  Michiko shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, ‘not anymore. A transport request was put in, via MOIS – Iran’s Ministry of Intelligence and Security – and a flight left Belgrade for Tehran just over an hour ago. I think Mark was on it.’

  ‘He’s on his way to Iran?’ Vinson said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  ‘I think they must have identified him as a foreign spy,’ Michiko said.

  ‘No doubt,’ Vinson said. ‘But the question we have to ask is, why is the Iranian embassy getting involved in the first place? What do they have to do with it?’

  ‘Could be they’re involved in this thing, maybe it’s Iran who’s been behind it all.’

  Vinson nodded his head, deep in thought. ‘Could be,’ he said. ‘Yes, that would certainly make sense. But if the school killings were state-sponsored, that presents some horrific possibilities.’

  ‘I think Mark wanted them to take him,’ Michiko said.

  ‘You do?’ Vinson asked. ‘Why?’

  ‘I think he got something out of Milanović,’ she answered, ‘I think the arms guy gave up his Iranian connections. So my father has to find out what else is going on, right? But the answer’s in Iran. And he’s locked up in a Serbian jail, so how the hell is he supposed to get there?’ Michiko shrugged. ‘So he comes up with a story that excites the Iranians, they demand the Serbs hand him over. And now he’s on his way to Tehran at the request of MOIS. He’s obviously indicated that he knows something, and they want to find out exactly how much he
knows, and who he’s told.’

  Vinson looked at Michiko gravely, concern etched across his features. ‘You know what that means?’ he asked.

  Michiko nodded. ‘He’ll be tortured, then killed. Which is why I want Force One up and running, in case we have to go and get him.’

  Vinson nodded in understanding. ‘If he is in Iran, it’s unlikely the president will authorize direct action to get him back. But then again, if the Iranians played a role in what’s happened, then Force One might definitely have to be used in anger.’

  ‘And if he’s over there, we can’t rule out the possibility that he’ll manage to find something out. We should make plans to extract him, if only to get that information. With the memorial events this Sunday, time is something we don’t have the luxury of.’

  Vinson paused, took off his glasses and massaged his temples with his fingertips. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘You’re right. If anyone can do it, Mark can. We can’t write him off, we’ll have to give him the benefit of the doubt. Have you got a line into MOIS in Tehran?’

  Michiko nodded. ‘Yeah, I can access their systems. Do we have some Farsi speakers we can trust? There’s only so much I can do with translation programs, no matter how good they are.’

  Vinson nodded. ‘We have a couple of people I’m one hundred percent on,’ he said, ‘so consider it done – they’re yours, for the duration. Anything else you need, let me know.’

  Vinson tapped the arm of his spectacles on the glass desk in front of him, thinking. ‘We need to speak to Elizabeth Morgan too,’ he said finally. ‘Mark might have told her what he learnt from Milanović, when he spoke to her at the police station. We need that information. I’ll have some people waiting for her in London.’

  He rubbed his temples again, before putting his glasses back on. ‘And I think you’re right about Force One, we need it up and running, in full working order and with complete access to JSOC resources and personnel. So whatever your plans are for Mason, Jones and Graham, I hereby authorize you to go about them immediately. Teach them a lesson, Michiko, and make sure it’s a good one. Make them know they can’t fuck with us.’

  Michiko smiled widely at her boss. ‘Yes sir,’ she agreed happily. ‘Consider it done.’

  2

  Mohammed Younesi peered out from the windows of the small café to the teeming streets of Tehran beyond, deep in thought as he drank the banana milkshake known in Iran as Sheer-moz. Delicious and refreshing, it reminded Younesi of his childhood – of earlier, more simple times – and he often came to this café to escape the psychological hardships of his chosen profession.

  Only today, no respite came, even after his second milkshake. He wiped the foam from his mouth, and considered what he was going to do about the man being held in the basement of MOIS headquarters. The Ministry of Intelligence and Security maintained buildings throughout the Iranian capital, as well as in other cities; but its headquarters was based in the north of Tehran, a one acre compound that housed several administrative office blocks with subterranean basements connecting them all.

  MOIS was feared throughout Iran, and rightly so. With a remit that involved domestic counter-espionage as well as foreign intelligence gathering, Iranian citizens were as likely to end up in the basement dungeons as Western spies.

  Younesi had experience in all aspects of the organization, from working behind diplomatic cover at embassies around the world, to helping train the Quds Force and the Lebanese Hezbollah in guerilla warfare tactics. He had also worked in counter-intelligence, and had interrogated his own fair share of Iranian suspects. Some had been obviously innocent, but Younesi had been compelled by his superiors – and by the very nature of his organization – to torture them anyway, often until they were dead, or turned into vegetables no longer able to communicate. Such days often found him in the café, drinking a milkshake and wishing for happier times.

  But he had brought it upon himself, he knew; and indeed, given a choice, he would never give up the profession that he had always been a part of. For, if he was a part of it, it was also a part of him, embedded in his very nature, so ingrained that he often felt he would be incapable of living a normal life, whatever that was.

  He had always wanted to be a part of this world, ever since listening to a presentation given at his high school. MOIS looked like it offered the chance to serve Islam, and his country, with the promise of adventure; but with rather more intellectual input than required by Iran’s various military units.

  He had therefore taken the entrance exams to Imam Mohammed Bagher University, which was linked to MOIS, and had then undergone a stringent battery of physical, intelligence and personality tests at the Intelligence Bureau in Hamedan in western Iran. Having passed these initial assessments, he went on to study one of the MOIS-approved majors at the university, Intelligence and Communications Management, and then later specialized in Technology and Engineering for his master’s degree.

  He officially joined the Ministry of Intelligence and Security as soon as his education was complete, and it was only then that he had been given the name Mohammed Younesi. He had been born Masoud Taherian, but every MOIS officer was granted a pseudonym for their own safety, which they used forever after.

  Younesi had served in varying capacities within the organization ever since. Sometimes he loved it, sometimes he loathed it; but he always served his masters as they wished to be served and followed the directives of his superiors – as dictated by the Supreme Leader – to the letter.

  The attack on the British schoolchildren was a case in point. As commander of the Office of Europe, which was part of MOIS’s Second Directorate – Foreign (Operations), Younesi was tasked with encouraging and orchestrating terrorist activity against targets in Europe. He worked with existing groups, or else encouraged the setting up and creation of entirely new groups, to be used as proxies against the West in the eternal battle against the Great Satan. He was uniquely effective at it too, and had thus found himself in this post far longer than any other. It was, as the director of the Second Directorate had pointed out, the job he had been born for.

  Younesi had had particular success in encouraging the much-feared ‘lone wolf’ attacks, so effective because the people involved never even knew they were doing the will of the Islamic Republic of Iran – they had simply been indoctrinated by expertly designed online propaganda, which had been distributed so widely among the worldwide faithful that a few willing soldiers were always guaranteed to independently emerge over the years, with no evidence to link them back to Younesi or his organization.

  He didn’t even need to supply weapons – the online information provided details on how to get hold of them, or else advised on makeshift tools readily available in the home. A head could be hacked off in the street with a kitchen knife quite effectively, for example.

  The beauty of the scheme was that – because only one or two people were involved in such attacks at a time, the amount of ‘chatter’ – the digital trace of email and voice communications necessary when the planning was on a larger scale, and which the western intelligence services typically relied upon to foil such attacks – was completely absent, which was why the lone-wolf approach was so hard to defend against. The information that the security forces had come to rely upon was simply no longer there.

  But Younesi was the first to admit that such attacks were low-key at best; they caused a certain degree of fear – if not exactly terror – in the population, but they were a far cry from the coordinated mass casualty attacks of Nine Eleven, which was still the supreme arbiter by which all other terrorist events were judged. They were effective, but lacked the huge psychological impact of such a ‘big time’ act of terrorism.

  And so Younesi had been making plans for ‘the next big thing’, the attack that would supplant Nine Eleven as the most effective terrorist attack in history.

  Younesi – although regarded as a genius by the director of the Second Directorate for his vision and tactical mastery
– had, in the end, not even come up with the idea himself.

  It had actually been suggested to him by a colleague of his in another country entirely, someone who also wanted to make the west bleed, but lacked the resources and contacts to make it happen.

  He remembered the conversation even now, many months later.

  ‘I understand that you’re not entirely satisfied with your lone-wolf system anymore,’ the man had said over dinner, sipping at a cup of black tea. ‘You want something that will make more of an impact.’

  ‘It’s easy,’ Younesi had replied, ‘and effective, but only on a small scale – and there’s a limit to what can be achieved on a small scale.’

  ‘I’ve had something in the back of my mind for a while now,’ the man had said, and Younesi remembered the twinkle in his eyes as he’d spoken. ‘But I’m not in a position to follow through on it.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘You remember the attack in Paris? Charlie Hebdo?’

  Younesi had nodded. ‘Of course – je suis Charlie, it had great recruitment value online, excellent propaganda.’

  ‘Yes, but do you remember the memorial events afterward?’

  ‘Yes,’ Younesi had said, unsure where his colleague was going with this. ‘I remember people were upset because Obama didn’t attend, even though . . .’ Younesi had started to smile, understanding for the first time. ‘Even though forty world leaders did.’

  ‘Exactly,’ his friend had said with a broad smile of his own. ‘Exactly. So there I was, sat at home watching the television, watching the march of solidarity, all those presidents and prime ministers arm in arm down the Boulevard Voltaire, and I remember thinking what if . . . what if . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ Younesi said, imagining it himself now, realizing what a missed opportunity it had been, if only there had been some better planning, some more long-term thinking.

  ‘You know what I mean, right? They were all right there in one place, what better target could there ever be? I was watching it, hoping for something to happen, wishing for it . . . But nothing ever did. But it gave me the idea, you know, that if someone was willing to plan ahead, then they could orchestrate the terrorist event of the century, the big one to trump them all.’