by E H Jennings
“I’m sure he is,” replied the Arab.
When they reached the top of the stairs, they turned right along the wooden bannister and walked down a hallway with rooms on either side. All the doors were open, revealing empty bedrooms, except for one.
The door wasn’t completely closed but it was pulled to. They could hear conversation coming from the other side.
Madi knocked.
A deep voice beckoned them inside and Madi pushed the door open. The office of Hassan Abdullah, the cell leader, had shoddy bookshelves lining both walls and the burgundy carpet underfoot was severely stained. The room smelled an unpleasant amalgam of cigarettes, stale coffee, and musty cloth.
Abdullah was seated behind his desk and two of his top operatives were across from him. The operatives stood as Madi and the Arab entered the room. Abdullah remained seated, but offered a mock salute, his substantial gut gyrating as he chuckled.
The Arab and Abdullah shook hands.
“Our Saudi prodigal has returned to us,” Abdullah proclaimed. “Did you have a pleasant stay in Damascus?”
The Arab nodded. “Things went well.”
There was a look of anticipation in Abdullah’s eyes and the Arab produced the notepad from inside his garments. Abdullah took it and scanned the pages with delight.
Still reading, he smiled broadly. “Well done, Faisah.”
The Arab nodded again and stood. “I could use a smoke.”
“You keep bringing me information like this and I’ll give you mine!” Abdullah shouted, and tossed him a pack from one of his desk drawers.
The room erupted in laughter as the Arab caught the cigarettes and bowed obsequiously. He closed the door behind him and made his way up to the roof. It was accessed through a small attic space at the top of the steps.
When the Arab made it outside, he found there were only three men left on the rooftop. He waved to them, but thankfully they stayed where they were. He was in desperate need of some privacy.
He found a shaded corner and leaned against the stone siding, massaging his temples. There was a lot going on. So many moving parts. It was challenging, even for someone of his skill and experience.
He looked out over the forest. It had taken him almost two years to infiltrate Hamas. Since, he had shot through the ranks, quickly earning the trust of individuals placed considerably higher than Hassan Abdullah. But despite the establishment of trust, it had still required many months to convince leadership of the merits behind the Arab’s proposed Damascus Operation. At first, their judgment had been clouded. All they could see was the risk. But with time they began to see the light.
As it turned out, the information the Arab had provided Hamas regarding the inner workings of the Syrian government was invaluable. It was so important, in fact, that it had changed the whole scope of the opposition. The intel was currently circulating through the Syrian National Council, helping fuel the formation and growth of the National Syrian Coalition (NSC).
The NSC was half the reason the Arab had sent Sayid to Istanbul. The other half was more complicated. Nonetheless, if Sayid didn’t carry out both halves perfectly, the whole mission was a failure. And if the mission failed, the last three years of the Arab’s life had been a waste.
It was almost an hour later when the last of the men straggled back inside the compound. The Arab waited another five minutes after the door closed, just to be sure.
When he was confident they were gone and no one else was coming out, he called Teresa Ferrell.
They spoke in French. He had told the other men at the compound he had an old lover in Bourges. They made fun of him, but they believed him. If discovered, Ferrell would claim she was talking to one of her agents stationed in Brive-la-Gaillarde.
He filled her in on the Damascus op and his trip to Beirut. She was curious about Sayid and he told her the meeting was scheduled for tonight. He promised to let her know how it went as soon as he heard something.
She then brought him up to speed on things in the states. Sampson had checked in with her a few hours before and everything appeared to be a go. The King brothers were meeting up with another Mirage Project asset. There was some carnage, though, and the Arab grimaced at the news. Two former assets were dead.
When she told him the names of the dead men, he ruminated on them. He had some intel to suggest she might be wrong. But for now, he kept it to himself.
Considering the complexity of the operation, they agreed things were going relatively well. They scheduled another comm session for tomorrow morning before clicking off. It was going to be a big night.
The Arab tucked the phone back in his kaftan and lit a cigarette. He smoked half of it, enough to ensure he smelled like smoke, then tossed it off the roof and went back inside.
When he got back to the office, the others had left and Abdullah was alone. He was still reading the notebook.
Abdullah saw the Arab come through the door and tapped the paper with his finger. “This is good shit, Faisah. Really good shit. I’ll engage our networks first thing tomorrow morning.”
The Arab nodded and sat opposite the cell leader. He let his shoulders slump, looking exhausted. It wasn’t an act.
Abdullah pushed the notepad aside and assessed the prized spy sitting before him. It was not lost on him that Faisah was likely the most important individual in Q24, and probably one of the most important in the entire opposition. Abdullah called the shots, but rarely did he make a decision without first filtering it through Faisah.
Methodically, he stood from his desk and moved his considerable frame to the door. He stuck his head out and made sure no one was in the hall, then closed the door and returned to his chair.
He took out a cigar he had already been chewing and resumed the act. The Arab knew what the man was about to say. Reading people was one of his most polished skills.
“Now then,” said Abdullah, chewing nervously. “What do we do with the American locked in our basement?”
The Arab regarded him grimly. “We wait.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Lexington
61 hours remaining
Cancel the flight,” said McManus.
Carson was standing on Connor and Amy’s front porch. He and Sampson were alternating shifts guarding the house and catching some shut-eye. It was his turn to keep watch while Sampson slept on the couch.
Connor and Amy had left about an hour ago. After a long discussion, it was decided that Amy and the girls would stay with Wendell while Connor accompanied Carson to Paris. Carson had protested, urging Connor to stay with his family, but Connor wouldn’t hear it. Colton was family too, as was Carson, and Connor refused to sit idle while his brother’s life hung in the balance.
Wendell King, Carson and Connor’s uncle, was an ex-Navy SEAL and the craziest old bastard either of them had ever met. They had briefly explained the situation to him and he quickly grew irate. He offered to fly them to Paris himself. But after a little cajoling, he calmed down and offered to help in any way they needed him.
Wendell lived deep in the mountains south of Pikeville but had agreed to meet up with Connor in Winchester, a small town about thirty minutes outside Lexington. Connor and Amy were en route and would be arriving soon.
Carson’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean cancel the flight?”
“I don’t have the kind of pull I used to,” said McManus. “Plus the Agency wants a small footprint on this. But, it just so happens my wife’s family has enough money to pay off the national debt. So I called her brother and asked a favor. He’ll have private wings wheels-down in the bluegrass in two hours.”
“Wow,” said Carson. “Sir, I don’t know what to say.”
“I’m glad to finally get some use out of my in-laws,” McManus barked. “This will save you time and you can stay gunned up.”
“That’s a huge help, sir.”
“I’ll message you the address here shortly.”
“Are we not leaving from the airpo
rt?”
McManus chuckled. “You clearly haven’t met my brother-in-law. The son of a bitch is more likely to buy an airport than actually use one.”
“Well, we’re very grateful, sir. I’ll be looking for your message.”
“Think nothing of it,” said McManus, clearing his throat. “How are things going?”
“It’s been a long night,” Carson admitted.
“I’m retired. I’ve got nothing but time.”
McManus listened as Carson told him every detail, from the attacks in Wytheville and Dothan to the revelation that someone had hired Crna Kuga, a Serbian mercenary organization, to hunt down former Unit members.
“My God,” McManus whispered.
Carson went on to explain the information Sampson had obtained about Drago Ancic. “You know the name?”
“Unfortunately, yes. He gave us some trouble when he was still with the KGB. I’m also familiar with Crna Kuga, but I wasn’t aware Ancic had taken the reins.”
“What can you tell me?”
The older man sighed. “They’re some sick sonsabitches. They’re also pros. But you already know that, considering they abducted an Agency asset in broad daylight without anyone seeming to notice.”
“Or so it seems,” said Carson dubiously. “We’ll see about that.”
“Word is, the Agency sent some guys in.”
“That’s precisely my concern.”
McManus balked. “You think the Agency’s involved?”
“I don’t really know what to think right now,” said Carson, choosing his words carefully. “But I have a hard time believing everything was just wiped clean in Paris and Beirut. The Agency either didn’t look very hard or they’re intentionally covering something up. Either way, it’s a problem.”
“Well, enlisting your and Connor’s help was the best thing they could have done for Colton, especially if this thing ends up having ties to the jihad.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Carson. “But they waited too long. I didn’t know he was missing until almost two days after the fact. The Agency gave up on this, sir. They have plenty of capable assets they could have sent in, but given Thorsby’s Syrian affiliation they were worried about guilt by association. So they packed up and left my brother to die.”
McManus was quiet for a moment, then said, “At least they sent you Sampson. You’d be dead if they hadn’t.”
Carson didn’t respond. Sampson was an enigma, but he was confident the Agency was using her as a peephole. Nonetheless, McManus was right—he’d be dead without her.
After a long silence, Carson came back on the line. “We may need your help again, sir. This will undoubtedly get nastier at some point and we’ll need resources.”
“That won’t be a problem,” McManus assured. “After we talked last night, I got on the phones. There’s an old Mirkwood asset that lives north of Paris, near Sarcelles. I’ll secure link you his location.”
“What about passports?”
“Use your own for now. They already know you’re going to Paris, so there’s no sense in trying to hide it. If it turns out you need to travel elsewhere in Europe, I’ve got a guy in Switzerland. He has access to documentation and tier one resources.”
“Much appreciated, sir,” said Carson. “If you have time, I’ve got one more question.”
“Shoot.”
“The old Paris safe house. Functional or not?”
“Not. When things went sideways in oh-five we had some serious data breaches. We were hemorrhaging secrets like a damn femoral puncture there for a while. The safe house got burned. It’s no longer operational.”
McManus offered a few suggestions and was about to click off when Carson thought of something.
“Actually, sir, I lied. There’s one more thing.”
“Go for it.”
He lowered his voice. “I know we pissed a lot of bad people off over the years, but do you have any idea who might be behind this?”
McManus was silent for nearly a minute before answering. “The short answer is always the best answer: I don’t know. But if you’re asking my opinion, I think it has something to do with that last mission.”
“Syria?” It was exactly the answer Carson had been expecting. And dreading.
“Again,” the General repeated. “I don’t know. It’s conjecture. But like you said, recent events in Syria make that conjecture seem a bit more educated.”
As Carson thanked McManus and clicked off, he heard the door open behind him. He turned and watched Sampson walk out onto the porch.
“We need to talk,” she said.
“We do?”
“Yes,” said Sampson. “We do.”
Carson waited, unsure of what to say.
“Before we get on this plane, you need to explain a few things.”
“What things might that be?”
She held his gaze. “I need to know about Mirkwood’s final mission. And I need to know about it right now.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Carson walked out into the yard.
The information Sampson sought was a haunting memory. It was also highly classified and would prompt weighty allegations if ever placed in the wrong hands.
He thought back to his first day at the Mirkwood facility. It was an elaborate series of abandoned mining shafts that had been transformed into the ultimate black operations training site. It was invisible, built right into the mountainside.
There were no access roads, no satellite images, nothing.
The series of shafts comprised a total space of over thirty thousand square feet. Using millions of dollars taken from Department of Defense black budgets, the CIA had turned the rocky tunnels into a state-of-the-art facility.
Three massive generators were installed and all the equipment was brought in by helicopter. A fully functional barracks was built, as were a kitchen and mess hall, several firing ranges, and the cruelest obstacle course ever constructed. An Olympic size swimming pool was also put in, and it wasn’t for swimming practice.
Though officially dubbed Blackstone, the operatives who trained there had affectionately begun calling it Hell. And that’s exactly what it was.
Training lasted four months. One hundred and twenty days. And on that first day, every operative was forced to make the same promise: I will never speak of this. It was explained that their discretion was a matter of national security. If they ever broke the promise, they would be treated as enemies of the state. There were no confidentiality forms and no signatures to be kept in personnel files. There were no paper trails, no documented evidence, just the unspoken guarantee that indiscretion would merit a punishment far worse than criminal prosecution.
“You have a choice to make,” said Sampson, who had followed him into the yard. “You either trust me or you don’t. Either way, you know whatever happened in Syria is crucial to saving your brother’s life. It could help us see the bigger picture. And if you don’t tell me what happened, I will not be getting on a plane.”
Carson looked at her. “I thought you were our resident Mirkwood expert. Shouldn’t you already know this stuff?”
Sampson rolled her eyes. “I told you Ferrell briefed me. She told me Mirkwood was a black operation approved by JSOC. She said it was initiated in the aftermath of nine eleven and its objective was taking out high priority Islamic targets. Beyond that, she gave me the names of the remaining operatives and sent me to find your brother. That’s all I know. Ferrell assured me it was off the books. I don’t know how she came by the information, but I got the feeling she told me everything she knew.”
“People that work on the seventh floor at Langley never tell you all they know,” said Carson. “They wouldn’t be on the seventh floor if they did.”
“The point is I know very little about Mirkwood. I just knew enough to know you could help us find Colton and Thorsby. Is the Agency using you to cover its ass? Absolutely. But tell me, would you rather have some no-name Special Activities operative fightin
g for your brother or would you prefer to do it yourself?”
Carson looked away and watched a school bus pass by on the street.
“We both know the answer to that,” said Sampson. “And there’s something else you need to think about—whoever hired the hit on your brother is probably already torturing him for information. I know he’s a King and therefore a badass, but everyone breaks. If this is Al-Qaeda or ISIS and they gain access to even a fraction of your brother’s massive brain…” She paused to let the comment sink in. “I know he’s your brother. I get it. I really do. But it’s bigger than that. We have to find him to save his life, but we also have to find him to safeguard the security of the American people. And that is why Ferrell sent me. That is the op.”
He finally looked over at her. “Let’s make a deal.”
“A deal?”
“Yeah,” he said. “A deal. A question for a question. I’ll answer yours if you answer mine.”
She didn’t shift her eyes but a slight crease formed at the right corner of her mouth. It was her tell. The microexpression told Carson that answering questions made Rachel Sampson nervous.
She shrugged. “Deal. But you have to go first.”
They shook on it and Carson started talking.
“First off, this shit is toxic. The less you know and the less I say, the safer we’ll both be. Even though Mirkwood was approved by NCS and JSOC, we were told we had no American affiliation. Nothing we did was sanctioned. Nothing. If we were ever caught on enemy soil, no one would claim us or vouch for our activities.
“Connor and I were infantry in Afghanistan. Evidently we stood out and some shadowy son of a bitch took notice. We were stationed at Fort Benning and had just gotten back from a three-mile run when the black suburbans showed up. Three men in dark suits met us in a private room in the officers’ quarters and told us they had a special opportunity, an opportunity that would give us a free license to hunt terrorists. Needless to say, we took it.”
“Were all the operatives ex-military?” asked Sampson.
Carson nodded. “Yeah, and most were ex-special ops. Lee Jacobs and Chuck Rosario were SEALS, as were a number of others. Troy Mendez was ex-Delta.”