“I don’t disagree with you, Lisa, but that’s not the point, is it?” Mapother said.
“Didn’t the UN actually come up with a report condoning the Aliens Act just last May?” Sanchez asked.
Mapother nodded. “So you think she’s in love with him?”
“He represents everything she’s fighting for,” Sanchez said.
“And we shouldn’t forget that al-Menhali is a local celebrity within the Muslim community,” Lisa added. “It’s because of his thinly veiled threats of violence that the Greek parliament voted to speed up the taxpayer-funded mosque they’ll build in Athens.”
“So where does that leave us?” Sanchez asked, looking at Mapother.
“It doesn’t change anything. At best, she doesn’t know anything about his involvement in the Paris attacks, and, at worst, she’s a minor player.”
Lisa agreed with this assessment. “If al-Menhali were to die in Athens, I don’t think the Greek authorities would launch an international investigation, but even if they do, we’ll make sure it doesn’t gain any traction.”
“But if an employee of the Danish embassy is killed, that’s another story. So we stick to the plan and let Mike and Zima take him out at their discretion. She lives,” concluded Mapother.
That’s it? Did we just decide who lives and who dies? The feeling was frightening and empowering at the same time. In the field, Lisa never had an issue taking down a target. In fact, Mike had recently told her he thought she was a bit too eager to pull the trigger on some occasions.
She disagreed.
She had to.
Telling him the truth would have ruined her chance of getting back in the field.
“Sir?” This was from Anna Caprini. She was holding a phone against her ear. “Mike says you either give him the green light on al-Menhali now or he pulls the plug.”
“Why? Did I miss something?” Mapother asked.
Lisa wondered the same.
Caprini continued, “A drunk crashed their party at the Grande Bretagne.”
Lisa swore under her breath. She looked at Mapother. He was the one calling the shots, and he didn’t delay in making his decision known.
“Execute.”
CHAPTER 4
Royal Canadian Mounted Police Headquarters
Ottawa, Canada
RCMP Sergeant Khalid al-Fadhi strolled into the briefing room and waved to Corporal Mason Quinn who was chatting with Superintendent Serge Caron, the officer in charge of the prime minister’s protective detail. As always so early in the morning, the briefing room smelled of coffee and burnt toast. Most officers preferred to eat their breakfast at work with their peers rather than alone at their residence while the rest of their family was asleep. Al-Fadhi often did the same, but the knot in his stomach told him it wasn’t a good idea to force anything down this morning. Instead, he poured himself a coffee and added two packets of sugar. He looked for a stirrer but couldn’t locate one, except for dirty ones in the small garbage bin next to the coffee table.
“Looking for one of these?” asked Superintendent Caron, holding a stirrer in his hand.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Saw the pictures you posted on your Facebook page,” Caron continued. “One hell of a catch that rainbow trout.”
“The biggest I ever caught,” al-Fadhi replied.
“What lure did you use?”
Al-Fadhi was momentarily caught by surprise and his mind raced to remember what he had read about the subject. A lure? He didn’t know anything about fishing. Fishing was only a pretext he used to leave the house to prepare his extra-curricular activities. It wasn’t even him who had posted the picture on Facebook. Someone far away did that for him. Aware that Caron was a hardcore fisherman, he had to tread carefully.
“I used an orange floating trout worm,” he finally said.
“Really? I heard about those orange ones but never tried one myself. We should get together sometime. Maybe you could show me where your best spots are?”
“That’d be fun.” Al-Fadhi smiled.
“All right then.” Caron looked at his watch. “Drink up. We’ll start the briefing in two. You’re the PSO for this morning’s move. Are you ready for this?”
Al-Fadhi’s heart skipped. He couldn’t believe it. The officer in charge of the prime minister’s protective detail had just entrusted him with the most vital position. The personal security officer—or PSO—was in charge of the whole protective detail while in the field. He had authority over all the bodyguards and the other officers attached to the four-car motorcade. During a road movement, the PSO sat in the passenger seat of the armored limousine carrying the prime minister. Wherever the prime minister went, the PSO went. Al-Fadhi hadn’t expected to be trusted in this position so soon after his promotion. His hard work and dedication had finally paid off. And just at the right time. It would make everything so much easier.
“So?”
Al-Fadhi realized he hadn’t responded to his boss.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Caron nodded and slapped him on the shoulder before taking his position at the head of the huge table in the middle of the briefing room.
Al-Fadhi had always known he was going to be called upon. In fact, his whole life had been dedicated to the successful completion of the mission Ayatollah Khomeini had entrusted to his father more than three decades ago. As committed as he was to his task, it wouldn’t be easy. He had never loved his wife, but he had come to love his twin boys. They’d never understand what their father was about to do, and that bothered him. Still, he was a soldier of Iran, and a soldier of God. He would do his sacred duty. Whatever the cost.
CHAPTER 5
1979 – Iran
Ayatollah Khomeini made eye contact with each of the seven SAVAK—the Iranian Organization of Intelligence and National Security—colonels seated in front of him. These were men he trusted. These were men who shared his vision for Iran. These were men who had put their careers and their lives in jeopardy to serve him. And they had paid a heavy price. To convince the CIA these seven men were in real danger, the ayatollah had ordered that at least one member of each colonel’s family be killed. It was a price the colonels had been willing to pay to one day see Iran as the beacon of Islam and the only superpower in the Middle East. With the help of number “8”—a covert American asset he had recruited years ago—these seven warriors would all be in the United States within days, officially commencing the first phase of Operation PERIWINKLE. The second phase wouldn’t be initiated for another two or three decades, but the Ayatollah was a patient man. A visionary, some people said.
His victory here in Iran was inevitable. Prime Minister Shapour Bakhtiar was a fool not to see it. With the shah in exile and the SAVAK imploding, he could have taken the country in less than a week. Months of protests had loosened the grip of the central government on its populace. Yes, he could have taken power already. But at what price? Not that he cared much about the death of civilians, but he did care about the future of his country. He needed to retain the confidence and respect of the population to achieve his objectives. He wouldn’t strike before he had all his peons in place. The men in front of him were his knights, his secret weapons. The second and third phases of PERIWINKLE, if used at the right time, would allow Iran to influence and even manipulate the United States’ foreign policy.
His gaze stopped on the most senior colonel and he asked, “Are you ready?”
“Yes, I am. I’ve made contact with the Americans. We’re meeting tonight.”
A rare smile appeared on Ayatollah Khomeini’s lips.
“I’m told the list of names you put together and that I forwarded to them is working miracles inside their counter-intelligence section,” the colonel continued. “One name has already been scratched off the list.”
That was a surprise. Ayatollah Kh
omeini had not expected the Americans to be so blunt. The list he had put together was meant to eliminate the last elements within the SAVAK that could cause harm to the revolution. It included the names of many high-ranking officers still loyal to the shah.
“So soon?” he asked.
“Let’s just say I convinced them that these officers represented an imminent threat to Prime Minister Bakhtiar.”
Ayatollah Khomeini knew that wasn’t the case. In fact, the names of the officers on the list were the current government’s last line of defense. But the Americans had no way of knowing that. The fact that they had already taken out one of them—one of their own really—indicated they had no clue what was really going on within the SAVAK.
“You know what to do, my dear friends,” the ayatollah said. “You were chosen to carry the torch of Islam into the entrails of our greatest enemy. The road ahead of you will be long and perilous. You’ll have no contact with me or with any of my aides. But know this. One day I’ll call upon you, and you will be ready”
CHAPTER 6
Ottawa, Canada
Sergeant Khalid al-Fadhi paid extra attention during Superintendent Caron’s briefing. The prime minister’s wife had decided to ride with her husband that morning. She usually traveled with her own motorcade, albeit a much smaller one than the prime minister’s, but since she was headed to Parliament Hill too, she wanted to ride with her husband. Her regular vehicle, a black GMC Yukon, would trail behind the prime minister’s motorcade.
“Any questions?” Superintendent Caron asked.
There were none. It was a pretty routine movement. The prime minister would motorcade from his official residence at 24 Sussex Drive to the parliament building. Usually, this would be over within ten to twelve minutes, but since the City of Ottawa was repaving part of Sussex Drive, it would take them an extra five or six minutes.
“All right then. Have a good day, and have a safe shift.”
As everyone rose, Corporal Mason Quinn approached al-Fadhi. “Congrats, man,” he said. “Do you think it has anything to do with what happened last month with Vespa-2?”
Vespa-2 was the code name for Justine Larivière, Prime Minister Adam Ducharme’s wife. It had been given to her because prior to the election of her husband—Vespa-1—a little less than a year ago, she used to own a red Vespa. A month ago, while assigned to Vespa’s protective detail at the official summer residence of the prime minister at Harrington Lake in the Province of Quebec, al-Fadhi had saved the life of Sylvain Larivière, her fifteen-year-old nephew, when he attempted to swim across Harrington Lake. Sylvain was a strong swimmer and a part-time lifeguard but nearly drowned when a severe cramp in his leg surprised him in the middle of the lake. Al-Fadhi, who had been standing close to Vespa and keeping an eye on Sylvain with a pair of binoculars, saw him struggle midway through. Al-Fadhi knew right away something was wrong. Sylvain had swum across the lake the day before without any difficulties. Al-Fadhi never hesitated. He dropped his duty belt, his suit jacket and his shoes and sprinted to one of the four waverunners the first family kept at their dock. By the time al-Fadhi reached Sylvain, the young man was already underwater. Al-Fadhi dove and managed to drag Sylvain to the surface and onto the waverunner. A minute later they were ashore and other members of the protection detail started CPR. Thanks to al-Fadhi’s quick reaction, Sylvain was still alive. That, of course, had put him in good standing with the officer in charge and the entire prime minister’s family.
“Thanks,” al-Fadhi replied. “I’m sure it did.”
“As I said, well deserved. And the good news keeps coming.”
“Why’s that?”
“Caron asked me to be your L1 driver,” Quinn said, referring to the armored limousine.
“Did he now?”
Al-Fadhi wished it wasn’t the case. He had grown fond of Quinn. He was a good, honest cop with four young kids at home. Still, al-Fadhi had a job to do. The two men headed outside and climbed into one of the four black minivans the protective detail used to travel to the secured RCMP garage where all the motorcade’s vehicles were kept. Al-Fadhi pulled his cellphone from his jacket pocket and dialed dispatch.
“Dispatch,” said a voice belonging to a French Canadian woman named Emily.
“Hey, Emily, this is Sergeant al-Fadhi.”
“Good morning, Mr. PSO. What can I do for you?” Emily’s voice betrayed her excitement.
Emily would have known that al-Fadhi had been selected to be today’s PSO. It was customary for the officer in charge to forward a copy of everyone’s position first thing in the morning. Emily was also one of his wife’s friends, and al-Fadhi was pretty sure she had a crush on him. He never understood why, since he never gave her any indication he was attracted to her.
“We just left HQ and we’re on our way to the garage,” al-Fadhi said. “Anything on your screens?”
“Way ahead of you, Khalid,” she replied instantly. “Nothing to report as of now. Traffic is light and your primary route is clear.”
“Thanks, Emily. I’ll talk to you again once we’re at 24 Sussex.”
Al-Fadhi got the attention of the officer seated in the passenger seat by touching his shoulder. His name was Guy Blanchard. He was a quiet, serious guy who had recently transferred from Halifax.
“You’re the A30, right?” asked al-Fadhi. Advance 30 or A30 was the member who ran the route the motorcade would take thirty minutes before the actual departure. There were also an A15 and an A5. Anything suspicious or a dramatic change in traffic pattern would be communicated to the PSO who’d then make a decision to continue with the original route or switch to one of the alternate routes.
“Yes, Sergeant,” Blanchard replied.
“Since the guys from counter-surveillance are on another detail, I want you to run the primary once and then take a position close to Parliament Hill,” al-Fadhi said.
“Understood,” Blanchard said.
Al-Fadhi’s smartphone chipped in his pocket. “Sergeant al-Fadhi,” he said.
“Khalid, this is Emily. Prime Minister Ducharme’s assistant just called. The PM wants to leave in fifteen minutes.”
Al-Fadhi consulted his watch. It was going to be close.
“Roger that. Thanks, Emily.”
Al-Fadhi asked the minivan driver to lower the volume of the police radio so he could speak to everyone on that channel without interference.
“Good morning, everyone,” al-Fadhi said into his mic. “For your information, Vespa-1 and 2 will leave a bit earlier than scheduled. There’s no time to stop for coffee.”
One after the other, the lead officers of each vehicle replied that they had copied al-Fadhi’s message. Schedule changes were frequent. This was why vehicles needed to be cleaned and gassed up before the end of every shift. A minute later, the minivans entered the underground garage. The moment they were parked, the drivers of each of the vehicles belonging to Vespa-1 and Vespa-2 details went to work. They inspected their vehicles and watched for signs that someone had tampered with them. This would be surprising since they were in the most secure garage in the city. Once they were satisfied, al-Fadhi conducted a radio check and ordered the motorcade to head toward 24 Sussex.
“Vespa-1 detail from ERT,” came in the voice of the Emergency Response Team leader.
“Go ahead for Vespa-1 detail,” replied al-Fadhi.
“We’ll be in the area for your first move of the day.”
“Copy that. Thanks.”
It was customary for the ERT to provide a counterassault team to the protective detail. The ERT—or SWAT—members were well trained in a multitude of high-risk environments including hostage rescue and VIP protection. They could be deadly if they needed to be and everybody was confident that, with their support, an attack on Vespa-1 motorcade wouldn’t be successful.
Everybody was wrong.
CHAPTER 7
Mike Walton had put the crosshairs in the middle of Zaid al-Menhali’s chest, but his finger wasn’t yet on the trigger even though he had just received the green light to engage from Charles Mapother.
“Target has stopped,” Mike said.
“He’s in front of the embassy. If he does like yesterday, he’ll wait for her to step out,” came in Eitan, who was still on his scooter and keeping a watchful eye for any other surveillance or counter-surveillance team working the same target.
“I won’t take him out in front of the embassy,” Mike said. “That could spell trouble.”
“Wind is still from the east at fifteen miles an hour,” Zima said.
Upon their arrival in Athens, Zima and Eitan had reconnoitered the area while Mike had drawn his range card. It allowed him to know exactly the distance between him and his target. The flags on top of the numerous embassies and government buildings provided Zima the info she needed to assess the wind conditions.
“Someone’s coming out,” Zima said. “It’s Anja Skov.”
Mike angled his rifle toward her. Dressed in an expensive sleeveless jumpsuit, Anja Skov descended the stairs of the embassy, smiling and waving at al-Menhali. What a gorgeous girl like her found attractive in a piece of shit like Zaid al-Menhali was a mystery to Mike. Then again, if he was to trust the intelligence Mapother had shared with him, she was a radical. Still, he would have thought al-Menhali would have preferred his women to be covered. Was al-Menhali playing her? Or maybe she was playing him?
Anja Skov hugged al-Menhali and he kissed her cheek.
“You got that?” Mike asked Zima.
“Sure did,” she said. “Wanna blackmail the sonofabitch, don’t you?”
Mike knew a man like Zaid al-Menhali couldn’t be turned simply because there was a video of him hugging and kissing a girl on the cheek. But it did raise the question why al-Menhali, a high-profile Muslim in Athens, didn’t mind being seen in public with a non-Muslim woman.
A Thick Crimson Line (Mike Walton Book 3) Page 2