ENEMY WITHIN THE GATES

by Richard Drummer

  ENEMY WITHIN THE GATES

  RICHARD DRUMMER

  Copyright © 2021 by RICHARD DRUMMER

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For my parents, Buzz and Marilyn, who always offered their support and the freedom to find my own direction. There are no greater gifts you could have given.

  Miss you.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  35º47’35”N 115º37’35”W

  Vindication. Redemption. The interview of a lifetime. The thoughts echoed in Derek Waltstein’s mind as he drove through the dead calm of an arid Nevada desert night, the headlamps illuminating a narrow path of asphalt that lay out before him like a winding gray snake. Cruising through the pre-dawn darkness, he lit another cigarette off the short stub of the last, which he casually flicked out the open window.

  He watched through the side mirror as the glowing embers of the discarded butt flared and danced in the turbulent wake. The inrush of nicotine that usually helped calm his frayed nerves was having no effect. Waltstein was wired to the bone, and chain-smoking an entire carton of Marlboros would do nothing to knock this edge off. His fingers fidgeted nervously on the steering wheel as he accepted the limitation. He would proceed the best he could.

  The GPS had long ago indicated an empty gap between the last point of civilization and his destination, which was now coming into view on the center display. Sky Ranch Estates was considered a public airport but constructed to be a private community with a runway through its center as the main selling point and theme of interest. It performed the intended function, but only at a minimum. The expected steady stream of wealthy investors with private aircraft and ties to Las Vegas never materialized. Sometimes, even a sure thing could fizzle. Waltstein thought again about the information he had downloaded about the small airport, remembering the line, ‘Occasional livestock on and in the vicinity of aircraft movement areas.’ Great, he thought, make a perfect landing in the middle of the desert and run into a fucking bull.

  He continued watching the screen as the void between his car and the destination narrowed. Up ahead, he could now make out the dim glow of street lamps illuminating the outline of an old diner. He smiled nervously, thinking again of the potential prize of this late-night rendezvous; vindication, redemption, the interview of a lifetime—a meeting with the man that speaks for the most deadly terrorist in the world.

  A flurry of emotions erupted, from confidence to elation, to fear, then back around again. Waltstein fought harder to rein in control. There was so much riding on this chance meeting that it excited him to extremes yet scared him shitless. This one encounter would either lift him back within the ranks of the best of his fellow journalists or leave him trampled in the dust, no better off than where he had been just a few short months ago. In a flash of uncertainty, he asked himself again whether professional salvation was worth the cost of his life. Could he take the man he was coming to meet at his word? He recalled the stories about the thousands of bodies buried and silent in this organization’s wake and admitted the answer was an emphatic no.

  He was well aware that he was putting himself in harm’s way, but logic suggested you would not lure one washed-up, overfed reporter into the deep, dark desert simply to kill him. Common sense may be screaming to stay the hell away, but the law of averages told him it was worth the risk.

  Waltstein recalled how this impromptu meeting with the mysterious Mr. Smith had dropped in his lap the night before when an anonymous call had come into the news center. He was lucky enough to be within earshot of the receptionist who fielded the call and requested she transfer it to his line. After a short moment of listening, however, he was ready to dismiss the caller as just another radial extremist espousing empty threats. That all changed when the man revealed he represented the leader of the Islamic group, OASIS. This fearsome organization posed the largest threat to peace for the Middle East in all of its violent history.

  OASIS had formed from the unprecedented alignment of three previously disjointed, warring factions. Little was known about the group so far. The caller claimed to have a video of their leader announcing his intentions to the world. Sure, it could still be bullshit, but Waltstein’s instincts willed him forward like a psychic magnetism. His inner senses were uncannily accurate when he trusted them, and he’d learned the hard way of the consequences for ignoring that internal compass.

  Six years earlier, Waltstein was following a bombshell story involving a young college coed who accused members of the basketball team of rape. According to her statement, she accompanied friends to a frat house party and suspected the drink she was nursing all evening was drugged. She awoke hours later in an upstairs bedroom, naked and bruised. Her identity was withheld pending toxicology results and arraignment of the accused. But Waltstein had seen the police report and leaked her name to his network. By that evening, her face was displayed on almost every lead story. Waltstein was riding high as the one reporter bold enough to publish the truth about the girl who cried wolf. The girl, however, could not cope with the shame and accusatory slurs. She climbed into a bathtub and slit her wrists.

  Days after her body was discovered, the results of her blood tests revealed high levels of Rohypnol, a crude and dangerous date rape drug, thereby validating her initial assertions. DNA testing also confirmed the identity of her assailants.

  The networks that had refused to reveal the young woman’s identity were the first to point to Waltstein as the heartless reporter who had shamed an innocent girl into taking her own life.

  Waltstein lost his job, then spent years freelancing for grocery store tabloids hoping for an opportunity to redeem himself, praying for a night like tonight. Everyone should be allowed to make a mistake, he thought. But every bell and whistle in the back of his brain had screamed alarms that night as he passed on the girl’s identity. He chose to ignore his gut instincts, and for that, he paid a steep price. He assured himself that would never happen again as he pulled into the parking lot of the old silver-skinned Skyway Diner. Smack dab in the middle of nowhere.


  He went through the mental checklist he had prepared for the meeting. Cover your back, watch for anyone or anything out of the ordinary, follow your gut, and use your head. Heeding his own warning, he circled the diner, scoping out the shadowy backlot for potential threats. Satisfied, he drove back around and parked in front. An ancient neon OPEN sign above the front door buzzed as it flashed only three of the letters. The combined light from the sign and an overhead street lamp bathed his car in a sickly greenish-red hue.

  There was only one other vehicle in the potholed dirt lot, an old sun-bleached VW beetle. He assumed it belonged to the cook or the waitress, or both, and concluded that Smith had not yet arrived. He decided to use the time to review his notes once again, slipping them from his satchel. The top page was a bullet list marked in blue highlighter. At the bottom, he had scribbled; no story is worth your life. He nodded silently, understanding that with every cutting-edge news story comes a risk with telling it. He would rely on every journalistic skill he’d developed over his fifteen-year career. Gather all the facts, document the findings, then present them in a compelling bulletproof format. There could be no loose ends to come back and bite him in the ass. Nothing to leave the reader wondering if the facts had been investigated thoroughly or at all.

  Although he was more of a messenger than a reporter tonight, there would be a story to tell. When the details of this hastily arranged rendezvous were revealed, people would clamor to hear more. What could he tell them about the mysterious and elusive Mr. Smith? And what was his connection to the man now perceived to be the most dangerous person in the world? Only Waltstein could answer these questions. He was already formulating how and when to release the information. If played right, he could share detail after detail and still have enough in reserve to write an in-depth book documenting this mysterious meeting. He smiled, envisioning television interviews and a lengthy book tour. He straightened in his seat and flattened the wrinkles in his navy blazer, brushing away a sprinkling of donut crumbs. A better diet and a few trips to the gym would be needed to knock off the extra weight he now carried.

  A cold wave of reality cut through his thoughts. “Getting a little ahead of myself,” he mumbled aloud. He still had to interview the spokesman for a terrorist—a man who may well be versed at ending lives himself.

  He sat back and silently read off the rest of his pregame strategy; I have to be the one controlling the interview. I have a list of questions needing answers. He called me, not the other way around. This man has something to say, but he needs me to express it and share the story with the world.

  Waltstein struggled to pump up his courage but could still hear this man speaking at him, speaking down to him. The truth was, his brief conversation with the mystery messenger had rattled him to the core. Even worse, his role had been reduced to that of listener and documenter only. At one point, he had asked the caller a question and was admonished for interrupting. Although Smith never raised his voice, he articulated himself with a condescending overtone. His smooth, caustic words belittled this reporter into feeling like a dog being scolded for piddling on a new carpet. If he didn’t control this interview from the onset, then his role would be further reduced to nothing more than a useful idiot.

  “The biggest story of my life is on the other side of that door,” Waltstein said aloud. He gathered his papers and slid them back into the weathered brown satchel. The same one he had carried since beginning his journalism career. He hoped it brought him luck tonight. In the field, luck was always a welcome wingman, but he would rely more on his well-honed skill set while making the most of this chance encounter.

  Chance encounters, he mused. Tonight’s meeting was the second of two such fortuitous events. The first had led to his rescue from The National Chronicle, a grocery store rag tabloid where he had labored for three years. He thought back to that attractive brunette in a Starbucks line. Women like that never gave Waltstein a second glance. But this one happened to be a head hunter for a fledgling network that, at the time, was rumbling just under the radar. She casually glanced his way and recognized him from his Chronicle ID badge and lit up like he was Brad Pitt. A cup of coffee and an exchange of business cards led to an interview with business mogul Malcolm LeClair. He explained to Waltstein that, despite past missteps, his investigative skill set was precisely what the new network needed. He left LeClair’s office that day with a new job at Global Access Media and a new lease on life.

  Waltstein was still ten minutes early when he pulled open the weathered diner door. He scanned his surroundings and selected the optimum seat to observe the road outside for Mr. Smith’s arrival. He chose the worn red vinyl booth furthest from the door and sat with his back to the wall. A lone, sleep-deprived waitress made her way over with a cup and a coffee pot, which he gladly accepted. He sipped the strong brew while watching the road through a large, grease-streaked window. A streetlamp over the nearby intersection cut a conical tube of illumination on the old blacktop’s worn white stripes. He was counting the bullet holes in a stop sign when a muted voice called out from behind.

  “Mr. Waltstein.”

  Waltstein convulsed in his seat and spun to confront the source of the surprise greeting. Standing in the doorway of the restroom stood a very plain-looking man in a generic brown leather jacket. A black beret covered much of his dark hair. Sinister brown eyes stared at him, displaying no emotion. Before Waltstein could respond, the man slid into the opposite side of the booth and folded his hands on the table. Waltstein cursed to himself. He had assumed that no other cars outside meant that Smith had not yet arrived. How the hell had he gotten here? That might have been why the man had insisted on a desolate location near an airstrip. He must have flown in.

  Working to shake off the effects of the uncomfortable introduction, Waltstein said, “Mr. Smith, I presume?”

  The man nodded acknowledgment with an expression as blank as he imagined a human was capable of. All his facial muscles appeared to be disconnected, non-functional, off-line.

  “That is correct,” he said. “I am known in many places, by many names. For our purposes, Mr. Smith will suffice. Do you understand why you are here?”

  Waltstein tried to place the accent but couldn’t. It sounded as much Middle Eastern as European. A strange mix, he thought. Almost as though someone had thrown the accents of six countries in a blender, then served them on an unsalted cracker. There was little inflection. The timbre of his voice was indistinguishable from thousands of others. This man could likely roam the earth without ever being noticed for any outstanding characteristics. He was the perfect agent to deliver this message, a nearly invisible man.

  “You have something you wish to share with me?” Waltstein asked, apprehension clawing within him like a deep-seated itch.

  The man blinked in slow motion, his eyes narrowing, the first show that those muscles even worked. “You flatter yourself. I wish to share a message with the world, and you are nothing more than the chosen courier.”

  The statement further deflated Waltstein’s ego, but he’d expected as much. He would endure more of the same before he got what he had come for tonight.

  “I bring you the words of our supreme leader, Sirhan Abbas,” he continued. “In return, you will assure me that his message will be broadcast by your station at 10:00 pm eastern time on February tenth.”

  Smith reached into his pocket and retrieved a small device, then held it up for Waltstein to see. It took the reporter a moment to realize it was a memory stick, but unlike any he had ever seen. It was a large, thick rectangle, colored a deep crimson, and housed in a clear case with no markings.

  Smith set the device on the table and slid it toward Waltstein, who reached for it.

  “I can get this played,” Waltstein said. “That won’t be a problem. I can’t guarantee it will be at exactly the time you’re asking.”

  A fist slammed down onto Waltstein’s fingers and held with the pressure of a steel press.

  Smith le
aned forward until his face was inches away from Waltstein’s. He lowered his head. Dark eyes glared up from beneath thick brows, only now revealing a hint of the fire simmering beneath the surface. In a hushed but commanding voice, he said, “I did not ask you to share this when it was convenient.” His laser-like glare felt as though it could bore holes through Waltstein’s skull. His fist pressed even harder into Waltstein’s hand. “You agreed to come here knowing exactly who I am. You assured me that you had the connections and power at your network to broadcast our message.” He looked down at the USB stick, then back to Waltstein, his eyes narrowed with a menacing scowl. “Now take this device and do as you have been instructed. Do not test my patience, little man.”

  Waltstein dared not move, concentrating all his might on masking his fear. His fight or flight reflex was overloading, demanding action, willing him to bolt out of his seat and run, never looking back. He fought the urge and held himself in place, knowing he was losing the upper hand of the situation. Christ, who was he fooling? He never had control, never stood a chance against this man. So this was it, then? Take a fucking memory stick and leave with his tail between his legs? No! Hell, no!