Betrayal (5 page)

“Smart move, Elvis. Smart move. Just do me a favor. As you walk to your car, keep your hands in plain sight.”

Chapter 7

Tafriz, Iran

“T
HIS
IS
R
ABBIT
One with an emergency transmission for Brer Bear,” Odi said, focusing on keeping his voice down. He knew that sound would carry dangerously well through the inky Iranian night.
 

“Roger, Rabbit One. Patching you through to Brer Bear.”

Odi hated working through the secure satellite switchboard. It cost too much precious time. He tapped a nervous foot and looked over at Adam. His best friend added to the tension by pointing to the luminous dial of his commando watch.

Odi nodded and mouthed, “I know.”

Potchak has stressed that he would measure the success of their mission as much by their ability to extricate undetected as by their tactical success. He had drummed deniability into Odi’s head. “Deniability tops your scorecard. Deniability is what counts. Deniability, deniability, deniability.”
 

Odi got the message. He had to make the demolition of the buildings look like an accident, like the tragic explosion of the unstable ordnance secreted within. As mission commander, he knew that the composition of their rocket propelled grenades had been modified with that conclusion in mind. Their equipment, their uniforms, everything was either an Asian knockoff or Soviet surplus. All of it was readily available throughout the Middle East. Including his bloody phone.

“Brer Bear here, Rabbit One. Go ahead.”

Odi flashed a thumbs-up to Adam and the other six members of the assault team as they sat on their packs spitting chew and trying to look more bored than scared.

“We have a situation. The Briar Patch appears legit. Repeat, the Briar Patch appears legit. There are no sentries present, and we just observed an ambulance.” His teammates all rolled their eyes at Odi’s grandiose description of the donkey cart. He just shrugged his shoulders sheepishly and looked away. “It brought in a farm boy who had just lost a foot. Looked like he had stepped on a mine. He was met by medics and rushed inside. I recommend that we abort pending further intel.”

“Negative on the abort, Rabbit One. You are to proceed as planned. Intel is confirmed. Don’t fall for the window dressing. Skullduggery like that is what has kept this training camp operational for years.”

Odi knew that Potchak was a hard ass, but he had not expected pushback. Command usually favored live input from the field over anonymous intel reports. “Sir, I’m prepared to do the recon myself, right now, alone.” As he spoke, Adam snapped his fingers to get Odi’s attention and then met his eye with an are-you-crazy stare. Odi turned his back. “Won’t take me more than ten—.”

“Negative, Rabbit One,” Potchak broke in. “For one, you don’t have ten minutes to throw away. You need to make it to the extraction site before first light. Secondly, I refuse to give those bastards a hostage. I’m not going to watch them cut off your head on the evening news while I try to explain that you had a hunch that the thick and exhaustive report compiled by the Middle-East desk was one-hundred-eighty degrees off the mark.”

“It won’t come to that, sir. I’ll order my team to proceed as planned with or without me at,” Odi looked at his watch, “oh-three-hundred. Just give me those ten minutes.”

 
“You sound dead set on checking this out, Rabbit One.”

“Time doesn’t wash off innocent blood, sir.”

Odi waited impatiently through a pregnant pause.
 

“Pass the phone to Rabbit Two.”

Odi smiled and handed Waslager the phone as he remembered the Chinese proverb to beware of what you wish for.
 

As Waslager listened to the commander, Odi’s team drew around, their habitually stoic faces contorted with concerned looks. “What are you planning to do?” O’Brien asked.

Odi had been in and out of the shit with these guys more times than any of them could count. With Waslager otherwise occupied, there was no need for Odi to dilute his words. “Before we propel ninety-six grenades though those cinder walls, I want to be damn sure that they’re landing on terrorist wannabes, rather than sick children’s heads.”

The six nodded once in unison as Odi continued. “I think this is one of those situations where intelligence reported what it was asked to report, kind of like Iraqi WMD. The source of the intel was probably some Iranian kid who would make up anything for a Benjamin. And knowing how things have been going down at recruiting, that report was probably analyzed by some Pentagon conscript with three weeks on the job.” Odi decided not to mention Potchak’s lack of surprise at his mention of the hospital’s operational status.

He removed his BDU top and untucked his tee shirt as he spoke, altering his silhouette so that it would not appear like a soldier’s. He laid aside his Chinese M4 and slipped his Beretta into the small of his back. “Hopefully I’m wrong. But taking out a hospital is not something I care to live with for the rest of my life.”
 

Odi finished the simple transformation by untucking his pant legs from his boots. Then he removed two flashbang grenades from his pack and slid them into the pockets of his pants. “If you hear one of these, that means I’m in the shit. You are not to wait for me, and you are certainly not to come in after me. You are to move ahead immediately with the original plan.” Odi met each man’s eye and waited for a confirming nod.

“I don’t mean to sound too dramatic. All I am going to do is take a casual perimeter walk around the two flanking buildings. I’ll look for telltales of a terrorist training camp, anything military, from boot marks to bullet casings to concealed cameras or guards. Without the two sentries to worry about, Waslager can cover me through his sniper scope instead. That way we’ll be right back on plan if I am challenged.”

“With the exception of you hauling ass in the opposite direction, I hope,” Flint added.

“Nothing I like better,” Odi replied, flashing a brilliant smile. “If I don’t see anything incongruent with a hospital, I’ll pop my head through the central building’s main door and—”

Waslager cut Odi off by clearing his gravelly throat. “Listen up,” he said, in a voice that was dangerously loud. “Commander Potchak has just relieved Agent Carr. I am now Rabbit One. So get off your asses and lock and load. We’re hot in sixty seconds.”

Everyone turned to look at Odi.

Chapter 8

The Horus Club, Washington, D.C.

T
HE
DEAF
WAITER
raised an eyebrow as Wiley polished off his Scotch.

Wiley nodded and another drink was on the way. When Stuart arrived, it would appear to be his first.

Wiley had come to their rendezvous early. He needed to decompress. Although his heart and mind were working full time on his campaign, he was still the Director of the FBI. He had another full plate.

To manage the juggling act, Wiley had hinted to his deputy director that he was not planning to stay in office very long. When the time came, he would be happy to reward Carl’s diligence and loyalty by recommending his indispensable right-hand-man as his clear and obvious successor. Given Wiley’s close relationship with the immensely re-electable President, Carl was tripping all over himself to pick up Wiley’s slack. Actually, Wiley knew that Carl slyly farmed-out most of the additional load. That was not difficult. The FBI had five major departments plus a dozen or so adjunct offices and committees, each headed by a savvy bureaucrat eager to rise still higher.
 

The scheme was working, but Wiley still lived beneath an enormous load of stress. Stuart contributed to it. Although Stuart technically worked for Wiley, it usually felt to Wiley like it was the other way around. His campaign manager always seemed to be the one holding trump. Plus Stuart radiated an intellectual superiority that made him awkward to command. Wiley could make requests of Stuart, but he had never managed to dictate.

Still, tonight he would try again. He had chosen the ultra-exclusive Horus Club so that he would enjoy the home-court advantage. In his heart he knew that tactical advantages would gain him nothing, but it was his habit to try. The analyst in him knew that whatever tack he chose, whatever methodology he employed, all Stuart had to do to get his was way was to pull out a recording.

He might do exactly that, Wiley thought. Like a communist dictator parading his armaments for all to see. But probably not. There was no point in reminding a person of something he could never forget, and Stuart did nothing without a point.
 

Wiley recalled the scene as it had played out six months earlier. The AADC’s lavish yacht. The three billionaire CEOs. The suspense. The arrogance. The grace. No, he would never forget their first meeting …

~ ~ ~

“It must have hurt,” the fat Texan scoffed, “losing your reelection bid.”

Wiley kept his eyes steady, his face void of emotion. “I landed on my feet.”

“Indeed you did. Director of the FBI—that’s not a bad consolation prize. Still, handing the keys to the Governor’s mansion over to that snot-nosed tree-hugger had to hurt.”

“What’s your point, Mark?”

“Relax,” Mark Abrams said, his jowls bouncing grotesquely as he patted Wiley on the shoulder. “We’re on your side. In fact, we invited you here to make you an offer.”

Rather than ask, Wiley wedged his cigar in his mouth and raised his chin. He did not like being led down the primrose path, toyed with, or manipulated—even by billionaires. Let them get on with it.

Abrams looked him dead in the eye and locked his gaze. Without looking away he said, “How would you like to be President?”

“Of the United States?” Wiley blurted back, sending his Cohiba to the teak decking.

Mark Abrams, the head of Armed Services Industrial Supply and arguably the most powerful of the three CEO’s present, flashed him a tight-lipped smile but did not say a word.

Wiley cringed inside, berating himself for his sophomoric slip even as he struggled to regain his composure. He shifted his gaze to Mark Rollins. Then to Mark Drake. And finally back to Mark Abrams. “What do I have to do?” He asked.

“Commit.” Abrams replied without pause.

Wiley knew that he had asked the right question. Abrams’ tone was stern but he was secretly pleased. Wiley could tell. He sensed the relief of a man who had just drawn to an inside strait.

“Irrevocably,” Rollins added. “You need to commit irrevocably—both upfront and blind—that you will see the campaign through to the end.”

In silence, Wiley studied Rollins, CEO of the gigantic defense conglomerate that bore his name. Rollins was the tallest of his three hosts, and like Drake was thinner than Abrams by half. None of them were puppy dogs, but Wiley sensed a genuine cruel streak in Rollins. His pampered features were pleasant enough, but the man had evil in his eyes.

Mark Drake jumped into the conversational void. “The problem is this, Mister Director. Even with all the technological advances coming from companies like ours, there is still only one means available for untelling something.” He lowered his voice. “A most-primitive means.”

“So before you reveal your plans, I have to sign a blank check,” Wiley summarized.

“Precisely.” The three Marks spoke as one.

Their proposition was clearly take-it-or-leave-it but Wiley was not sure he wanted to know what either taking it or leaving it would mean. He shifted positions surreptitiously to scan the floor behind the bar for a bucket of wet concrete. Drake and his fellow defense contractors clearly were not referring to money when they spoke of a check. Wiley wished they were.
 

“That check has just three words on it,” Abrams added, picking up on Wiley’s thoughts. “And we need to hear you say them, aloud and with conviction, before we proceed.”

Wiley raised his eyebrows in query.

The Three Marks—Abrams, Drake, and Rollins—clarified slowly and in unison while Stuart looked on in satisfied silence. “Whatever … it … takes.”

Wiley took a deep breath. He thought of the White House—east and west wings—and of traveling on Air Force One. He pictured the red carpets, the gala dinners, and the saluting Marines. He thought of the power. He thought about what it would be like to literally be able to summon anybody in the world to spend the weekend with him at Camp David. The offer The Three Marks made might come with a price, but Wiley doubted that there was a man alive who could resist signing that check.