by E H Jennings
He took another sip of coffee and checked his watch.
Twenty years he had spent waiting, biding his time, always on the prowl for an opportunity to strike. And now that opportunity had arrived. Soon the status quo would change; the hunted would become the hunter.
Requiem was descending, and it was going to change the world.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Unknown Location
The walls had been soundproofed. They were made of stone, which possessed the density to naturally deaden sound waves, but professional alterations had also been made.
Colton had yelled and screamed and thrown rocks at the wall where Amy and his nieces were being housed, but had received absolutely no response. The only portion of his cell that permitted sound or light was the narrow strip beneath his door. There were no echoes.
He estimated he had been in the cell approximately forty-eight hours. He was lying flat on the rock floor, doing all he could to keep the muscles in his lower back from knotting up and spasming. The cold wasn’t helping.
He sat up when he heard footsteps.
Food Man had begun visiting more frequently, and each time Colton berated him with questions about why three innocent women were being held captive. The man never spoke and never allowed his face to be seen. He sat the tray on the floor and left.
Except for last time. Food Man sat the tray in the floor like always, but then he stood there, his face enveloped in shadow. Though he couldn’t see the man, Colton was struck by the thought that maybe he knew him, that maybe that was why he never allowed his voice to be heard or his face to be seen.
As light from the hallway spilled inside, Food Man stepped to the side and closed the door behind him, keeping to the darkness. He flipped night vision lenses over his eyes, then took a few steps forward and sat the tray near Colton’s feet.
“I know who you are,” said Colton.
The man stood there, non-responsive.
“That’s my family you have locked up next door. But I’m sure you already know that. I just hope you know what you’ve done. By taking me, you hurt your odds of survival, but you sealed your fate when you took them.”
He listened to the man breathing over him. It was unsettling to be able to hear him and not see him. “My brothers are coming,” he said. “And when they get here, you, my friend, are a dead man. You all are. All the way up to James Day and Warren McManus.”
The man’s breathing became rapid.
“That’s right,” said Colton. “I know all about The Mirage Project, and I’ll bet that’s precisely why I’m here. I know too much. Now ain’t that right, you cowardly son of a bitch?” He laughed. “Pretty pathetic, don’t you think? A grown man, afraid to show his face. What exactly am I gonna do? You’ve got me shackled to the damn wall!”
Food Man took a step forward.
“I bet you got the shit kicked out of you in high school. Probably still do.”
Colton jumped when he suddenly felt the man’s breath on his face.
“You’re right,” Food Man whispered. “Your brothers are coming. And they’ll be here very soon.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Paris
49 hours remaining
Hysteria is the natural human response to emotional trauma or psychological insult. To act rashly in such a situation is to be a normal human being.
Tier 1 operators are not normal human beings.
That innate response is forcefully beaten from their nature during training, because in their world, hysteria and rash action get you and all your colleagues killed. But no amount of training could have kept Connor King’s heart from breaking.
Carson, Connor, Sampson, and Mendez were back at the hotel in south Paris, a few blocks from the old safe house. Carson and Sampson were bent over the coffee table examining documents, Mendez was on the balcony making arrangements with McManus, and Connor was sitting on the bed, staring red-eyed at the wall.
The news from Lucian had been the worst possible: Wendell’s property had been hit. Wendell was in the ICU at UK Chandler Medical Center with a diagnosis of subdural hematoma; he had fallen into a coma shortly after arriving and the doctors weren’t confident he would ever come out of it.
And, Amy and the girls had been taken.
Wendell had remained alert for some time after being injured because he had thought to call King’s General Store, where he reached Lucian. When Lucian explained that Wendell had also tried to call Carson’s cell phone shortly after the incident, Carson cursed himself. The missed call from the satellite phone—Wendell. Carson knew Wendell had a sat phone and was sometimes forced to use it due to poor cell service, he just hadn’t put two and two together.
Lucian had also related one final piece of information before ending the call. Apparently, Wendell had some superficial abrasions on his left arm that weren’t consistent with the rest of his injuries. Lucian had seemed unsure of himself on the phone, but said it looked like someone had carved something into his skin.
“What’s it look like?” Carson asked.
“Like the letters, C-P-S.”
Neither of them had been able to make any sense of that.
News from the Seine was also negative. Connor and Mendez had gotten there too late. Two DGSI officials met them two hundred yards from the site where the corpse had been recovered and told them to get lost.
They followed orders, but not before spotting some of Bradford’s men down near the water. The CIA had already been mobilized. Again, more evidence that Syria was involved. With The Syrian Slaughter still dominating the media, the Agency would go to any length necessary to keep its name clean. If that meant disposing of Xavier Thorsby’s body in some hole where no one would ever find it, so be it.
The only good news had come from Sampson’s contact at the Renseignements Generaux. It was their biggest break and the only true direction they had to work with.
Sitting on the coffee table were three dossiers.
Sabah Farzat, Yaser Gourani, and Ahid Yasri. All three were high-ranking members of a group known as the NSC, or National Syrian Coalition, an alliance whose primary goal was the ousting of the Assad regime. Further, they all had something very specific and very curious in common—they all had significant association with the Palestinian-based terror organization, Hamas.
Why three senior members of the National Syrian Coalition were linked to the murder of a French bookstore owner was anyone’s guess, but Carson knew it all hinged on Thorsby. He was the only link between Colton and Syria, and Colton was the only link between Angie and the whole mess. Now, Thorsby and Angie were both dead.
What the hell had Thorsby stumbled onto?
Carson pondered that logic for some time before realizing it didn’t really make sense either. It was true that Thorsby was the only tangible link to Syria, but how did the murders in Paris tie in with what happened to the Jacobs and the Rosarios? It was almost as if there were two completely separate things going on—The Syrians were exacting revenge on The Unit in America and killing people in Paris to safeguard their secrets.
It was possible, but it wasn’t plausible. Despite transpiring on opposite sides of the Atlantic Ocean, Carson was confident it all tied together.
And that’s when it hit him: Colton. He was the fulcrum, the only piece of the puzzle with ties to the incidents in Paris and the murders in Wytheville and Dothan. And based on the fact that Colton had left a coded message behind, it seemed he too recognized his importance.
Unfortunately, The Sunday Morning Code was stumping Carson yet again. Using the copy of the La Croix, he was sure he had employed the plus three cipher precisely as Colton had done it years before. Everything looked exactly as he remembered it and every tetrad corresponded with a letter. Yet, despite working and re-working the code half a dozen times, all Carson had come up with was a meaningless stream of letters:
E-U-Q-A-S-L-A-F-I-L-A-R-E-N-E-G
Carson and Sampson were both racking their brains in search of
some hidden meaning when Connor abruptly stood and left the room. Carson looked up as he left, then glanced over at Sampson. “I’ll be back.”
He caught up with Connor in the lobby but didn’t say anything or attempt to stop him. They exited the building and swung to the right, toward the lot fronting the hotel. Parking was sparse but they had managed to slide both rental vehicles into a narrow slot between a dumpster and a chain-link fence.
Carson placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“Don’t,” said Connor, pulling away. “Just don’t.”
Carson slid his hands in his pockets and let his brother catch his breath. To some extent he did understand how Connor was feeling, but it wasn’t the same and he knew that, so he stayed quiet.
After several moments, Connor turned back. “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”
“We need to think this through.”
“I’ve already thought it through. My wife and my—” His voice broke away and Carson again placed a hand on his shoulder. This time Connor didn’t resist.
“My little girls,” he said. “My precious…innocent girls.”
Carson kept his hand there as tears came in abundance. Connor let them fall and didn’t so much as wipe his cheeks until, eventually, his eyes were dry again.
“I’m going to filet that Soviet motherfucker,” he said. “You mark my words.”
Carson nodded. “I know.”
When Connor took a step toward the car, Carson stopped him. “But I think your best chance of doing that is if you stay with us. We finally have some actionable intel, Connor. We’re getting very close.”
Connor shook his head. “There’s absolutely no valid reason for me to believe they’re overseas. They were taken in Belcher. Why would Ancic abduct them in the boonies and transport them all the way to Syria?”
Carson wished he had a better answer. “I don’t know.”
“Exactly. It doesn’t make any sense.” He hit a button on the key fob and the doors unlocked with a beep.
Carson had one more play. “This is all about Mirkwood and we both know it,” he said. “We’ve known it all along. That can only mean one thing: this is all going to end, one way or another, in the place where it all started.”
Connor opened the door of the Altima and looked back at his brother. “Then we’ll come at it from two different angles. You and Mendez stay the course you’re on and I’ll pick up the trail at Wendell’s. Maybe we’ll meet in the middle.”
The plan made no sense and both men knew it. Connor was in desperation mode; the only light he could see was right in front of his face. His wife and daughters had been abducted by a mad man and the thought of not taking action, of not changing course, was just too much to take.
Carson, however, kept his head. He realized that without maintaining tactical advantage and employing a rational strategy, their odds of ever finding Amy, Audrey, Alyssa, or Colton alive were slim to none. But as he looked into his brother’s bloodshot eyes, he knew he had to let him go. It was inhumane not to. Plus, he had enough faith in Connor to know he would figure it out. He just needed time.
“Ok,” said Carson. “Go to Wendell’s and find out everything you can. But you have to promise me something.”
“What’s that?”
“You have to promise me you’ll answer the phone when I call and ask you to come back.”
• • •
Sampson was still sitting at the coffee table when Carson returned. She looked up when she heard the door open.
“Did he leave?”
Carson nodded and retook his seat. “Yeah.”
“Dammit.”
“He’ll be back. Any luck with the code?”
“Not yet. Colton must have added another layer of encryption we know nothing about. I found a few word generator tools online but none have been very helpful. The code is too long to form a single coherent word. It has to be a phrase.”
“Have you tried putting in pieces of the code to see what they generate? Maybe we’ll get lucky if we break it down.”
She nodded. “I tried that for a while, but there are about a hundred million possible combinations to choose from. And I’m not sure that’s an exaggeration.”
“What about an anagram?” Carson asked.
She opened her laptop and turned the screen toward him. She had already tried the anagram route also, and the generator had yielded almost ninety-four thousand results.
“I’ve been going through them for the last twenty minutes,” she said. “Best one so far? Lasagna Queer File.”
“Let me see that,” said Carson, sliding the computer across the table.
“I don’t know, though,” added Sampson. “Enrage Flea Quails is probably a close second.”
Despite everything, Carson couldn’t hold back the smile. When she laughed, he shot her the bird and went on searching through the sea of gibberish in hopes of finding the one combination of letters that just might fix everything.
Only ninety-three thousand seven hundred and thirteen left to go.
Sampson had shifted her attention to the dossiers and Carson was still sifting through anagrams when Mendez came in off the balcony. He held up his phone. “That was Boss Man. We leave for Switzerland in two hours.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
47 hours remaining
The Gare de Lyon railway terminus was situated along the Seine on Louis Armand. It was a thirty-minute drive from the hotel and the trio arrived by cab ten minutes before their departure time.
As they walked beneath the world-famous clock tower, which jutted over sixty meters into the pale Parisian sky, Carson admired the station’s elaborate architecture. Designed by French architect Marius Toudoire, Gare de Lyon was a sweeping structure built of rugged brown stone. Its many arched windows and doorways, along with the intricate sculptures clinging to the façade, spoke to both the French and Italian styles that had influenced Toudoire’s design.
The interior was no less impressive. Punctuated by Le Train Bleu, which one of the gate workers had promised was the class of Parisian dining, the entire train station was elegantly furnished.
But they didn’t have time to eat or take in the sights. They had a train to catch.
The tri-current TGV Lyria hummed quietly on its rails. They presented their tickets and were admitted aboard. One of the attendants politely showed them to their seats in second class. Carson and Sampson had been assigned duo seats, which sat side-by-side with a table in front, while Mendez was given a single across the aisle.
The conductor’s voice came through the intercom, informing them the train was about to depart. According to the times listed online, they would be arriving in Bern, Switzerland in four hours and thirty-eight minutes. Approximately 2100 local time.
They stowed what little luggage they had and took their seats. There were no guns; the TGV Lyria didn’t allow it. Carson was apprehensive, but McManus had assured him this man they were going to visit would take care of everything.
Carson didn’t know what that meant, but he hoped it meant someone would be handing him a Glock the moment he stepped onto Swiss soil.
Shortly after pulling away from Gare de Lyon, the train was silently cruising along at nearly three-hundred kilometers per hour. Twenty minutes later, a rolling cart came by with beverages and snacks. Carson opted for bottled water and a turkey sandwich, while Sampson grabbed a banana and a can of Red Bull. Mendez, however, told the nice lady he preferred something a little harder and she directed him to the bar in First Class.
“See ya’ll in Switzerland,” he said with a grin.
“He’s an alcoholic,” said Sampson.
Carson nodded.
They hadn’t taken a break. Considering they had less than two days left, they hardly had time for a leisurely ride through the mountains. Carson was intently studying the anagrams on Sampson’s laptop while she continued pouring over the dossiers.
Carson had made it through over three thousand combinations and f
ound nothing. The code was completely useless. Growing frustrated, he looked over at Sampson. “How the hell are these guys linked to Hamas?”
She flipped through the files. “One of them was actually in Hamas at one point. The other two worked for the Syrian government before Assad fell completely out of favor. From what I glean, the former Hamas member, Sabah Farzat, was a longtime friend of Yaser Gourani. So when it became apparent that Assad was grossly mistreating the Sunnis, Farzat made an offer Gourani couldn’t refuse.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning the formation of the National Syrian Coalition posed an excellent opportunity for the Sunnis. When the timing was right, Gourani and his government colleague, Ahid Yasri, fled Damascus and joined the NSC. These reports indicate they worked primarily in Turkey and Qatar.”
“So where does Farzat come into the picture?” Carson asked.
“I haven’t seen anything claiming he ever officially joined the NSC. What is clear is that he has conducted numerous meetings with both Gourani and Yasri. My RG contact seems to think those meetings were an attempt to forge an alliance between the NSC, Hamas, and a group called the FSA, or the Free Syrian Army.”
“Makes sense,” said Carson, ruminating on the news. “Thorsby must have found something in Syria or Lebanon that threatened the formation of that alliance. It’s the only explanation for why these three men would be linked to Angie LeFleur’s murder.”
Sampson shrugged. “Either that or they simply used Thorsby to get to Colton to subsequently get to you and Connor. Angie was just an unfortunate bystander.”
Carson grimaced.
“But,” Sampson continued, “I think we’re probably both right. Whatever Mirkwood did to piss these guys off is certainly relevant, but I have to wonder about the timing. I mean, they’re right in the middle of a civil war. Why would they choose now of all times to seek revenge for offenses committed almost seven years ago?”
“Maybe they just saw the opportunity and went with it. They somehow discovered that a CIA agent stationed on their turf was meeting with my brother in Paris, and they took advantage. Maybe this is all about being opportunistic.”