The Perfect Candidate: A Lance Priest / Preacher Thriller (No. 1)

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The Perfect Candidate: A Lance Priest / Preacher Thriller (No. 1) Page 27

by Christopher Metcalf


  “Whole thing may be screwed. No packages on the truck according to Green 3.”

  “And?”

  “Someone on the inside. She knew all along. Thinks we have them already. Says you knew, you know it all. Bullshit.”

  Then Seibel said something that surprised, better yet, shocked the young agent. “Green 3 correct. Continue mission.”

  Lance stopped in his tracks. He was 24, a trained killer standing alone in an empty room in Baghdad, Iraq on the eve of war. And he had been lied to by his boss and mentor. “What did you say?”

  “Continue. Mission is unchanged.” Seibel’s words were Spartan, antiseptic.

  “And how do we do that?” Preacher asked.

  “Green 3 has been neutralized?”

  “Si.”

  “Green 1 and 2 are to be engaged and eliminated as well as Yellow 1.” Lance understood immediately what Seibel was saying. This mission was a hunting and killing party from the get-go. The loose nukes were a ruse. They had been acquired, most likely purchased by someone working with or for Seibel. A light went on.

  “Fox in the hen house?” Lance used the code words and nickname for Fuchs.

  “Confirmed.” And with that Seibel disconnected the line. He had confirmed what Lance had wondered and felt all along. Fuchs had to be involved, he had likely led negotiations or infiltration or even another corresponding mission and already obtained the warheads. Lance’s job here was to kill all those involved, from K&K to Marta’s gang to the Iraqi intelligence people lurking in doors and windows around the warehouse. He had learned everything he could about nuclear warheads in the past few months. Studying this information had kept him busy, occupied. It had also been part of Seibel’s disinformation and diversion plan. Lance was a pawn. And he had four minutes until that truck pulled into the warehouse three blocks away. He could pull the radio from his right pocket and give an abort order to the Delta Force teams. He could give Tarwanah and Jamaani a secret code and they could walk away from the total chaos about to break out.

  Lance opened the door, peeked out and then stepped into the hall. He was near the stairwell when the door to the apartment three doors down past the stairwell opened. It was the unit Lance was supposed to be using as a bird’s eye view of the activity below. He was shocked for the second time in minutes when out walked Seibel followed by Fuchs.

  Chapter 39

  He just stood there at the top of the stairs, shook his head and laughed. He realized in an instant that he was a schmuck – just a punk kid playing a man’s game.

  “Don’t just stand there. You have your assignment; the mission is still a go.” Seibel was all business. His demeanor emotionless. There would be time later to discuss and rehash and bitch and scream. “The truck is three minutes out.”

  Lance didn’t say a word. First Marta knew his name, then he learned the nukes were already captured, or maybe never stolen, and now Seibel shows up. Actually, he was here already. Lance turned to look back down the hall at the door he had just left.

  “She’s not dead. I guess I’m a softie.” He nodded toward the door.

  “I’ll bet she said a thing or two that surprised you.” Seibel was brief. No time.

  “She seems to know you.” Preacher turned to go down the stairs. Fuchs was right on his tail. They raced down the stairs and out the lobby into the street. He put the headset and microphone on under his keffiyeh as he and Fuchs ran between the apartment building and a bazaar. Fuchs already had his headset on.

  “Baghdad beckons.” Fuchs’ words brought a short response from team leads for the Delta squads. All reported ready and in position. Everything was brief in case anyone was monitoring the frequency.

  “Eyes on shopping cart?” Fuchs asked.

  “Rolling; 1.5.” The truck was estimated at 90 seconds out. Lance and Fuchs slowed to a stroll as they rounded the corner on the street the truck would be turning onto any second. They split up on each side of the street. Lance looked over his shoulder to see the cargo truck come round the corner a quarter mile down the street. He looked over at Fuchs to see him casually scanning every window with a view of the scene. He was looking for something, someone.

  They passed the first truck holding a Delta team. Abdullah, the driver, leaned against the hood. The Egyptian ignored them and concentrated only on the last puffs of his cigarette.

  “One,” the eyes down the street chimed in to put all teams on a 60-second warning.

  Fuchs slowed his pace and stopped to pull out a cigarette. He made brief eye contact with Lance. Lance continued to the next street where a security checkpoint had been set up within the last hour. The truck Tarwanah had driven and Lance had ridden in was now 30 yards behind this impromptu security blockade. Lance crossed the street to get some distance between him and the soldiers manning the checkpoint.

  In just a minute, the cargo truck supposedly carrying the warheads would be at the checkpoint and surely be waved on. Also down the narrow lane, Lance saw dozens more soldiers positioned on each side of the street. The clandestine meeting had become a militarized exchange of goods.

  Seibel’s voice suddenly buzzed in Lance’s ear.

  “Alfalfa. Go to 13.” This code simply meant switch the radio frequency to channel 4. Lance kept walking while reaching into his pocket to turn the dial to the new frequency. Once there, he was joined by Seibel, Fuchs, Tarwanah and Jamaani. All said go.

  “This frequency just opened up and is brand new, only we can use it for now,” Seibel was slow and deliberate. “Gentlemen, plans have changed. All resources are to be employed to take out Green 1 and Green 2 as well as Yellow 1. Cargo is not the target. No prisoners. None. Be advised, sources are confident Yellow 1 is on or near the scene. Most likely in a four-story office building 800 meters north. All resources are to be employed to ascertain and exterminate. Good luck. Back to ops frequency now.”

  Ten seconds later Seibel came on the radio frequency for the entire mission. “All units. Blue cashmere sweater. Answer is negative on package. Shopping to continue. All store clerks to be tipped. One hundred percent.” His orders were clear. Everyone dies.

  Captain Hubbard sounded off. “Cashmere, come again on package?”

  “Repeat. Negative.” Seibel replied.

  Hubbard cut him off, “Source?”

  “Repeat. Negative on package. Confirmed by higher authority. Continue shopping. Mushroom move position to four-story structure one click northeast. Position is east side of the building. Yellow 1 is possibly inside structure. Confirm when in position.”

  Hubbard was pissed. The other Delta Force captains were likely just as ticked. The mission had been changed with less that a minute before escalation. If it were anyone besides Seibel, they would abort the mission. But Seibel was beyond reproach. He had the confidence of both military leadership and the boots on the ground. He had been here before.

  “Blue skies.” Hubbard confirmed his new orders and ordered Jamaani to move the truck to the position Seibel ordered.

  Plans change all the time. This had been drilled into Lance from day one after signing on to join Seibel’s private espionage army. This however was no mere change. A plan built entirely to capture nuclear warheads, disarm them and evacuate the area via helicopter had now been repositioned as a hunt and kill mission with K&K and Iraqi intelligence as the targets. But even more so, Saddam Hussein -- Yellow 1 -- was believed to be on scene. Most likely to revel in the acquisition of his precious nukes at last.

  Flash bulbs kept going off for Lance. The plan, the entire plan, was a ruse, a fake. He stood on a street in friggin Baghdad, Iraq with a dumbfounded look on his face. It was all Seibel.

  The realization was a gut blow. The mission was never meant to capture nuclear warheads. They came to Baghdad to kill people. They were here to kill all actors in this play; here to find and kill Saddam Hussein when he showed up to witness his greatest achievement. “Damn.” Lance whispered to himself as the truck supposedly carrying the precious cargo reached
the checkpoint just yards away. A soldier conversed briefly with the driver and waived the truck and two vehicles behind it to turn down the barricaded alley. “This whole thing was a set-up from the beginning. All of it.” Lance said in Arabic to no one.

  Seibel was the unquestioned expert in compartmentalization. He had created several sets of reality and controlled the participants in each, just as a director controls actors on a stage. Lance was merely a piece of an intricately layered puzzle Seibel had amassed in the years leading up to this moment. He smiled to himself as he thought the brilliant plan through. Brilliant.

  First, identify the one thing Saddam wanted more than anything. Second, arrange for three nuclear warheads to be “stolen” from the Soviets. Three, trick rogue KGB agents to act as brokers to contact Iraq. Put a supposed rogue KGB agent and her team on their trail so they can watch the whole thing. Four, switch out the nukes sometime before they begin their trip to Iraq, if there ever were real nukes. Five, get Saddam’s intelligence folks so consumed with the deal they bring the great leader himself into the transaction and its ensuing celebration. Six, kill Saddam and as many bad guys as possible at the scene of the crime.

  Something about that thought made Lance look to the sky. If Seibel knew Saddam was here on this block at this time, would they call in a missile hit? That could probably kill three Delta Force teams and a CIA squad with he and Fuchs. But that would merely be collateral damage for taking out the world’s greatest threat. Preacher didn’t think that sounded like Seibel though.

  “Shopping cart available.” The words were brief and awaited a reply. The Deltas were all set. The cargo truck had pulled into the warehouse.

  “Green 1 located.” Another spotter had located a high value target and relayed the info.

  “Two, take position on Green 1.” Fuchs’ order was brief.

  From his vantage point, Lance could see down the long alley. He had watched the van disappear into the open doors of the warehouse about 200 yards away. He scanned the street. A look left revealed little traffic. To the right, there were a few vehicles moving at the end of the block. The army barricade across the street from Lance had seven men. They, of course, didn’t know they were dead.

  Lance replied, “Baghdad beckons. Come home.” Four simple words spoken in Arabic. But with those words came action, thundering explosions and death; lots of death.

  Lance walked across the street to the small troop of seven soldiers manning the street barricade. They were in no mood for small talk so he got right to the point. He saw that behind them Tarwanah approached on foot. He looked over his shoulder and Fuchs walked toward the group. Lance smiled at the soldier who stepped up to get in his face. In the four seconds after that deliberate smile, Lance killed the soldier and two others with his silenced SIG. Tarwanah took down two and Fuchs silently killed the remaining two. It was all done quietly, right there in the middle of the street. Their silenced guns made audible pops that blended with the sounds of the city. The Iraqis did not get a shot off.

  The three of them turned from the spot and walked away. The second Delta Team truck pulled up to and past the empty checkpoint. Lance and Fuchs walked down a side alley. Tarwanah returned to his truck and started it up. Their new mission – Seibel’s real mission – was now underway.

  Chapter 40

  People die every day. Lots of people. They die in fires, auto crashes, hospital beds, swimming pools, front lawns, motel beds, everywhere. On January 16, 1991, lots of people died in Baghdad, Iraq. Most died when bombs started falling from the night sky just before midnight. But hours before this manmade cataclysm, hundreds of people died from gunfire in the warehouse district of southeast Baghdad.

  In the fading afternoon light as shadows grew, the sounds of gunfire, screaming, explosions, racing engines and flailing helicopter blades all meshed to bring about a whirlwind of death. Lance Priest was right there in the middle of it.

  In the moments after a beat up and dirty transport truck pulled into a nondescript warehouse, Iraqi soldiers began pouring out of a building three down and across the street. Amir Rezzon slapped several of them on the shoulder as they ran by him. He was cursed to stand by the phone. But he knew that just as soon as he walked away from it, the phone would ring and at the other end would be the Russians, or even worse, Saddam. For now, he had to trust his instincts in sending out nearly 100 well-trained and experienced Republican Guard soldiers to lock down the scene and take possession of the warheads, regardless of how the Russians wanted the transaction to be conducted.

  On the highest rooftops, Rezzon had snipers accompanied by Mukhabarat agents to relay information. He knew his plan was risky, but he couldn’t chance anything going wrong at this late date with American warships flying overhead. He cursed the phone again.

  Kusnetsov saw the Iraqi soldiers come pouring out of the north end of the street a few moments after he witnessed the execution of seven Iraqi soldiers at the roadblock. That had to be either CIA or Mossad. Not unexpected. He moved his binoculars and looked up ahead at another truck to see men dressed as laborers jumping out of the back. They obviously weren’t laborers; Americans most likely.

  From his window, he could see it all unfolding below. He’d expected some deviation from the orders he had given to the Iraqis, but hundreds of soldiers converging on his nuclear warheads was not cool. His partner was about to get caught in the middle of all of it and he needed to point this out now. He raised the radio and depressed the transmit button so Korovin could hear him speak and then picked up the phone and dialed the phone Rezzon stood beside.

  “Yes.” Rezzon picked up at a half of a ring.

  “So many soldiers, what is this?” Kusnetsov asked in Arabic.

  “Insurance.” Rezzon responded in Russian.

  “Of course, but why the lack of trust?” Kusnetsov’s voice was full of pleasantries.

  “Just making sure all is well with our purchase Igor.”

  “Well, I have to report that all is indeed not well with your purchase.” Kusnetsov smiled a little.

  “What do you mean Vladimir?”

  “So funny Amir. Yes, I know your real name Amir Rezzon al Tikriti and your address and family. I get to know my business partners quite well.”

  “Fine, Kusnetsov, me too. What do you and Mr. Korovin need to tell me about my purchase. What has changed?” Amir snarled in reply.

  “Very good Amir. You have done your work as well.” He really was pleased to learn the Iraqis had looked into he and Korovin’s backgrounds as KGB agents. They knew they were dealing with serious men.

  “You have other interlopers moving in on your location, I just saw three of them kill your roadblock on the south end. But that is not the change I am calling you about.”

  Rezzon did not reply. He was on the radio with his snipers to confirm the activity at the south end of the street. He got confirmation and then relayed to the colonel in command to bring in more troops on the periphery of the scene. Damned if they were going to get his bombs.

  “Why then are you calling me?” He replied calmly to Kusnetsov.

  “Inside the warehouse, my partner was ready to hand over your next instructions, but now with all your soldiers and what looks to be CIA or Mossad or MI6 on the scene, we will be unable to complete this part of the transaction.”

  “What do mean instructions? You are to hand over the firing keys for the weapons now or you will not receive another penny.” Rezzon fumed.

  “I know the plans as you were told them. But that was never going to happen Amir. My partner is carrying a set of instructions that tell you where you can find the firing keys here in Baghdad. But as I said, with all this military might around, the plans have changed. You will now provide my partner and his men safe passage out of the area. If safe passage is not provided now, you will not receive the instructions. Oh and 30 seconds after you hang up this phone, you are to call the banker and arrange for the remainder of the money to be transferred or you will get absolutely nothin
g, no firing keys, no nuclear weapons and I think I will pay your family a visit as well.”

  “This is not what we agreed to Nikolai. You will hand over the warhead keys now, or we will kill your partner and his men and then pay your remaining family members in Kiev a visit. The keys better be handed over to my men in the warehouse, now.”

  “Amir, they are not there. My partner cannot give them to you. Provide them protection and safe passage, or you will not be able to use your new little toys. There is no time Amir.” Kusnetsov lowered the phone to his side and spoke into the radio to Korovin.

  “See my brother, you should never have gone into that snake den unnecessarily. Holy hell is about to break out down there.”

  Inside the warehouse, Korovin could not see the confluence taking shape around the building but he had a good idea from the conversation he’d just overheard. “So tin soldiers are coming? How many?”

  “Many, and our other friends are here as well. Ahead of schedule.” Kusnetsov added.

  “But not unexpected.” Korovin added.

  “We’ll have to agree to disagree again on you being in there. But as you’ve heard, protection of sorts will be coming in a few moments so you better follow our plans. Now please.”

  With that, Korovin turned to the others in his transport group and told them to fortify the doorways. An attack was coming, not protection. They raised weapons and headed for the front and rear doors. Korovin, on the other hand, dipped around behind the truck with the only other Caucasian in the crew. While he bent for a small handle barely visible on the dirt floor, the other man hopped in the car to move it. Korovin pulled the handle and a door opened to a small crawlspace and tunnel below. He jumped in and closed the door behind him. The car was rolled up a few feet to hide the door again.

  K&K had made special arrangements several months earlier when they rented this warehouse. They had a tunnel dug that ran nearly 90 feet to the east into a crawl space under a squat building next door. They had concerns that the Iraqis might not act in good faith when the deal was finally to be consummated.

 

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