American operator, p.9
American Operator, page 9
part #4 of Tier One Series
“I suspect you’re about to ruin my afternoon?” Arkady said.
The man nodded, keeping his gaze fixed across the park. “Malik is dead,” he said. “And the yacht is at the bottom of the Adriatic. Imagery captured it being scuttled by a small special operations team.”
“The Americans?”
“Unconfirmed, but we have intelligence that they were actively hunting al-Fahkoury. This appears to be a case of very bad timing. I don’t think our operation was compromised.”
“How can you be so sure? Maybe they took him. Are you positive he’s dead?”
“Well, not one hundred percent,” the young Zeta said. “But the last ping we received from his tracker was on its way down to the bottom of the ocean.”
“Okay, let’s hope that’s the case,” Arkady said and then sat perfectly still in silent thought. This development was a terrible blow. Malik wasn’t an actual person, but a Zeta legend most recently occupied by one of his best deep-cover operatives, who had been coordinating a complex series of proxy operations in Turkey. Now he had a decision to make. Let the legend expire and sever all its ties to Russia, or try to salvage the campaign by backfilling it immediately. This was not the first time he’d had to make this decision, and with the Malik legend no less. The man who had been occupying the role was in fact the second man to wear the persona, the first Malik having met his untimely demise after a gun battle with a Chechen rival. There had been few witnesses, so it had been easy to refresh the role. This time would prove trickier. I don’t have a choice, he decided at last. The PKK operation in Turkey is in progress. Everything will fall apart if I don’t.
“Are you going to backfill?” the young man asked, reading his mind.
“Yes.”
“Who did you have in mind?” the Zeta operator asked, his voice betraying his eagerness for the opportunity. But Arkady knew he wasn’t ready.
He needed someone who could put on the legend like an old worn pair of gloves. There was only one Zeta capable of getting them out of this mess—Valerian Kobak. Unfortunately, Valerian was in Abkhazia completing other critical tasking . . . Well, this was the way of things. Valerian would have to wrap that business up quickly and change his skin.
“Patience, my young friend,” Arkady said, placing a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “You might yet wear the skin, but not today. In the meantime, I need you to stay on damage control. Keep the legend alive until Kobak becomes active. Help him with logistics and comms. We’re throwing him into a hornet’s nest, and he’s not going to be happy. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes, sir,” the young man said as they both got to their feet. “I won’t let you down.”
“I know” was all Arkady said in farewell, and he turned to leave.
I have too many damn balls in the air to juggle, he thought as he walked back to his office.
The FSB was the busiest it had ever been. GRU and SVR were similarly engaged. Arkady could not remember this many simultaneous covert operations being spearheaded by the Russian Clandestine Service since the height of the Cold War. But it was different this time around. The service was much bigger; more capable; and, thanks to Petrov’s hubris, emboldened. Petrov’s appetite for risk was one of the reasons Arkady had supported the man from the beginning. On this front, he and the President had always aligned. The complexity and scope of the operations they were undertaking put the KGB of old to shame, even with nostalgia coloring his memory.
No, this time was different.
Russia was back.
And this time . . . she was back to stay.
CHAPTER 9
Somewhere . . .
Voices woke her from a dreamless sleep.
For a moment, Amanda couldn’t remember where she was. Then the dull pain in her stomach and her throbbing left eye socket reminded her. She was in hell, that’s where she was. Other aches and pains, from lesser blows delivered during her beating, made themselves known as she came into full consciousness. Her right hip and thigh, her left shoulder, her left biceps, and her ribs were all complaining now.
She opened her eyes and stared into the pitch-black. Her plywood-box prison had no windows and only a single light bulb, which her captors had turned off. A small gap at the bottom of the door provided a strip of anemic gray light, which made her think it was probably night. The conversation taking place outside her cell, which had begun in hushed tones, was now becoming heated. She recognized the voices—the man with the broken tooth who’d beaten her and the woman who’d checked on her afterward. They were arguing in Turkish:
“We never should have agreed to come here. I don’t like this city,” the man said. “And I don’t like this safe house.”
“It was better than the alternative,” she replied. “Staying in Turkey was not an option.”
“I don’t know these men,” he growled. “I don’t trust them.”
“They are brothers in arms. Haq has worked with them for years. He vouched for them.”
“They’re not brothers in our cause.”
“I know, but that’s the beauty of the plan. If anything goes wrong, we are not implicated.”
“But we’re still here!” said the man. “The longer we hold her, the greater the risk we’re found. I say we cut her head off, give false credit to Al-Nusra for the attack, and leave. I’m ready to be done with this whole kidnapping business.”
Dread flooded Amanda’s body, and she began to tremble with fear.
Oh God, he wants to cut off my head. They’re going to cut off my head!
Her heart rate leaped, and panicked thoughts flooded her mind. Primitive, animalistic impulses told her to pound on the door, beg for mercy, offer them whatever they wanted. There had to be something she could offer in exchange for her life. Her body? They didn’t have to kill her. They could sell her to a sex-slave trafficker. State would conduct a search for her and they would find her. Then OGA would send in a team to pull her out . . . but if money was all they were after, she could offer to pay a ransom. Her father would pay it.
“You’re not thinking this through,” the woman argued. “If we do that, we don’t get paid. And worse, our relationship with Malik is over.”
“Malik,” the man scoffed with bitter disdain. “We don’t need Malik.”
“How can you say that? Before Malik, we were losing. Now we have access to weapons, capital, and information. Without his moles and allies inside the Turkish government, we could have never executed this operation. And the next attack is even more complicated and difficult. Don’t you see? With his backing, we finally have the power to incite regime change. Erodan, the puppet of the West, must be brought down. Only then can we return control of Turkey to its rightful master—the people. The other members of the Movement are counting on us to lead. We must not lose sight of our objective. This was but the first battle in a long and difficult campaign.”
Silence hung in the air until finally the man said, “What is so special about this girl? What is so special that he would have us kill the Ambassador and take her instead? What is Malik’s plan for her?”
“I don’t know the details of his plan. That is not the type of information he shares.”
“If he ransoms her to the United States, then I think we should be entitled to a share . . . on top of what he agreed to pay us. We are the ones who risked our lives to take her. We are the ones risking our lives waiting with her now.”
“I think that would be unwise,” the woman said. “He has always treated us fairly.”
“Don’t be a fool. He’s not our benefactor; he’s a mercenary. This is a business relationship, and in business, everything is subject to negotiation.”
Amanda’s panic was ebbing now as she took stock of the information she’d gleaned from eavesdropping on her captors’ conversation. First, she now knew she was no longer in Turkey. Her best guess was that they’d smuggled her into Syria—an unfortunate development because the probability of her rescue dropped dramatically. Second, she was being held at a safe house that was operated by a different terror outfit than the one that had taken her.
“How much longer are we meant to wait? The handoff should have already happened. Turkish Intelligence is looking for us. The Americans are looking for us. We can’t stay here indefinitely,” the man complained.
“I know, I know,” she snapped. “But we cannot risk electronic communication, either. The digital spies are always listening. We just need to be patient.”
“Something is wrong,” he said with an air of anxiety. “I can feel it. Malik is not coming.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’m telling you, something happened. Something feels off. If we don’t receive word from Malik within the next twelve hours, we’re leaving.”
“And going where, Samir? Back into Turkey? Are you insane? No, we don’t dare do this,” she argued. “Our instructions were clear. Are you willing to forfeit receipt of payment and the relationship over a few hours? I can assure you that leadership is not. Demîl brokered this deal; we are only his intermediaries. Are you willing to suffer his wrath if Malik cuts ties? I, for one, am not.”
“I’m not willing to die for this American or for Malik. Forfeiture of payment would be a devastating loss, but we have fulfilled our end of the bargain. We captured Amanda Allen and brought her to this safe house alive and on schedule. Now we must look after ourselves. Twelve hours, Mutla. Demîl is old and standing with one foot already in the grave. We are the future of the Movement. We are the future of our people. Twelve hours more is all I am willing to wait. If Malik’s people do not show up by then . . .”
Amanda heard the big man stomp away and the woman mutter a quiet curse under her breath. Once everything fell silent, she took stock of the gold mine of intelligence she’d collected and even permitted herself a little victory smile. She’d gotten four names from the conversation. The man with the broken tooth was Samir, the woman was Mutla, and they both reported to a man named Demîl.
Demîl, Demîl . . . Where have I heard that name? Could it be Demîl Sinjar—one of the five founders of PKK? That could make sense . . . especially if the “Movement” they kept referring to was the Peoples’ United Revolutionary Movement—a congress of terrorist groups bent on overthrowing the Erodan regime. Okay . . . this is all starting to make sense.
There’d been a fourth name they’d used as well. Malik.
This was not a name she’d heard before, but if her translation of the dialogue had been accurate, then Malik was her buyer. Apparently, she was to be sold and handed over to this Malik, but for what purpose she did not know.
A chill snaked down her spine.
Twelve hours, the man with the broken tooth had said. Twelve hours left before she had a new master. But what if Malik didn’t come? There seemed to be some legitimate concern over this . . .
She pulled her knees against her chest, hugging them.
If Malik didn’t come, what would they do with her?
CHAPTER 10
Office of the Director of National Intelligence (ODNI)
Washington, DC
May 6
1550 Local Time
Jarvis cleared his throat but resisted the urge to cough as he scanned through the subject lines of the absurd number of emails that had populated his inbox. He was just about to click on an email from Simon Adamo when a distinct knock sounded at his office door. Three taps, with a pause between the second and third beats.
Petra’s knock.
“Come,” he said, his voice dreadfully hoarse.
The door eased open, and his Chief of Staff walked in. Feeling a sneeze coming on, he paused her progress with a hand and a beat later sneezed so hard, it sent a stinger through his rib cage. Grumbling, he pulled the already damp and nasty handkerchief from his pocket. As he raised it to mop up, he noticed his fingers were tingling.
Damn. It’s back.
After wiping his nose, he balled the fabric into a wad inside a clenched fist. He noticed Petra’s eyes on him, assessing. Not judging, never judging—simply assessing. Always assessing. He’d still not gone to a doctor about his “condition.” He’d still not told anyone about the symptoms he was experiencing, but despite his best efforts to conceal his secret, she knew. She knew, and she augmented him accordingly when needed, without ever a word on the subject between them. In meetings, she’d automatically exchange ceramic coffee mugs for his stainless-steel tumbler. She’d accept document folders from outstretched hands on his behalf, precluding him from reaching with a trembling hand. And she seemed almost instinctively to know when that help was not needed. Without Petra, Jarvis wondered if he would be succeeding as DNI.
“Yes, Petra,” he said at last, forcing a weak smile.
“You have a visitor, sir,” she said.
“Justice Allen?” he asked.
She nodded once.
“Is he read into Amanda’s OC?”
“Paperwork says no. Shane Smith says he confirmed as much with the Director over at Clandestine Services. But of course, she may have told him in confidence. He is her father, after all.”
“Would you have told your dad?”
“No, sir,” Petra answered. Then she smiled. “But my dad was a dick.”
He chuckled and shook his head. Petra was perfect for this job. Having found her brilliant as an intelligence officer assigned to the Tier One SEAL Team when he had commanded it close to a decade ago, he knew full well the degree of her intellect. Pilfering her from where she had landed at the Office of Naval Intelligence had been one of his first moves when he took the helm as DNI. He’d made her his Chief of Staff and never looked back. They were a team now—trying to tame the multiheaded hydra that was the US intelligence community.
“All right,” he said, wiping a drip pooling at the tip of his nose. “Send him in.”
“Do you want me in conference?”
He considered this for a moment before saying, “Thank you, but no. I think I’ll take this one solo.”
“Certainly,” she said and disappeared.
A beat later, she returned with Chief Justice Allen in tow. Jarvis stood but elected to stay behind his desk rather than walking around to greet the sitting Supreme Court’s most prominent and respected member.
“Chief Justice Allen,” Jarvis said with a cordial nod. “If you’d please excuse me for not shaking hands. I’m fighting a nasty cold.”
“Noted,” Allen said, his demeanor frosty.
Jarvis gestured to one of two empty armchairs on the opposite side of his desk and then looked at Petra.
“Would you like a coffee?” she asked him, but the question wasn’t really about coffee. With Petra, communication was a tapestry of subtext. With this single question, she was offering him a “Get Out of Jail Free” card if he needed one, effectively saying, If this goes on too long, would you like me to interrupt you?
“Yes, that would be nice,” he said with a smile, his own coded reply. Fifteen minutes, no more . . .
She nodded her understanding and shut the door.
“We’re both very busy men. No point in wasting time with small talk,” Allen said, taking a seat and the lead. “Where is my daughter, and what are you doing to get her back?”
Despite the Chief Justice’s stone-faced expression, Jarvis could see the anxiety and trepidation in the other man’s eyes—a father’s dread, a father’s worry. This man’s only child had been taken by brutal terrorists. And for all the power, influence, and prestige that came with presiding over the highest court in the land, he was impotent to help his little girl.
“The highest probability is that your daughter is in Syria,” Jarvis said, giving it to the man straight. “We have some signals intelligence indicating she may have been taken to al-Bab, a city outside of Aleppo, but nothing definitive.”
“May have been taken? You have the entire intelligence apparatus of the most powerful nation in the world at your disposal. How can you not know with absolute certainty?”
Jarvis took care to keep all sarcasm out of his voice, while flexing and clenching his right fist beneath the desk. “The only certainty in this universe is uncertainty. I know that’s not the answer you came here to get, but it’s the answer you deserve. Sure, I could sit here and give you false hope and shower you with the platitudes a man in your station has become accustomed to, but what would be the point? After all, you said it yourself; neither of us has time for small talk.”
“But how can you not know? Don’t you track these groups’ movements with satellites and drones? Use the NSA to monitor their communications?”
Jarvis nodded. “We do, but the enemy knows this, and they operate accordingly. They travel at night. They utilize decoys and disguises. They operate with strict EMCON policies, limiting their electronic communications if not eschewing them altogether.”
“But you found bin Laden, for Christ’s sake. How can you not know where my daughter is being held?”
“Yes, we found bin Laden, and it took a dedicated team of analysts and field assets years, pursuing every possible vulnerability until we finally got an exploit. Right now, I have a similar dedicated team engaged in the search for your daughter. We are using all the tools in our arsenal and shaking all the trees in our underground local network for intelligence, but so far we only have this one lead.”
“Then what are you waiting for? Why don’t you send a team of Navy SEALs in to get her out?”
“I can’t send in a team if I don’t know specifically where she’s being held. Keep in mind, this is Syria we’re talking about. The country is in the middle of a civil war, and this particular region is incredibly unstable, with multiple insurgent groups vying for control. Syria is not Afghanistan. It’s not even Iraq. We don’t have boots on the ground in country, Your Honor.”
