FATAL eMPULSE (13 page)

“Yes, sir. I’ll coordinate with Secret Service and the military regarding security and limited personnel within intelligence.”

“I trust you to handle this right, Stan. No slipups. The stakes are too high. Countries like Iran will test my resolve. I do not want there to be any doubt. Those who try to hurt our friends will be punished.”

The chief of staff nodded and quietly left the office.

Beck Malloy stood alongside the fountain of the World War II Memorial, just south of the White House, looking toward the Lincoln Memorial. This was a place he often visited when he needed a respite from the bustle and grind of FBI headquarters a few blocks away. Chill from a blustery February wind cut through his coat, and he tightened his grip on a cup of Starbucks coffee. He worked his shoulders back and forth, trying to ease the stress locked inside.

Phil Sutherland, his group supervisor, eyed Beck’s coffee as he walked up. “We should’ve met in my office. A lot warmer and not a waste of my time.” He grimaced. “Not even a cup for me? You’re really ticking me off.”

Beck handed him the cup. “Cream, no sugar, right?”

Sutherland accepted the drink, smiling. “Now I know you want something. I’ve seldom known you to try to butter me up like this. And I cannot be bought for a cup of java—even the high-end stuff.”

“You have a suspicious mind, Phil.”

“I have every right to be on guard. Last month alone you were in a shootout in Seattle and a raid along the Juan de Fuca Straights. I’m even getting calls from our Canadian counterparts about that operation. They thought we were dealing with a bunch of terrorists. I shudder to think what kind of situation you might get into next time.”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t know what I’ve stumbled into. Big money. Powerful contacts. International ramifications.”

“Damn.” His supervisor breathed deeply. “I knew this would turn into a major headache. Your shadowy friends are going to bring you down.”

In the distance, Beck studied the monument of one of the men he admired most—Abraham Lincoln. This WWII Memorial always made him pause to think of another great man, his grandfather, who fell on the bloodied sands of Iwo Jima. Beck came here to remember those like his grandfather who gave the ultimate sacrifice in defense of their country.

“Five years ago you gave me a free hand to follow up on cases that seemed to fall out of the norm. I never realized where it might lead.”

Sutherland’s face tightened. “Nor I. Don’t know how long I can protect you. I’ve got the big shots upstairs screaming about all the procedural violations you’re racking up—failure to check in when you slipped from one RA field office to another, failure to report up the chain on issues of national security and intelligence matters. The list goes on. And then when the SAC here found out you’d been meddling in Senator Summer’s death investigation last year, you can’t believe the heat I took over that.”

Beck sighed. “We knew I might light some fires when we started taking on these kinds of cases. I appreciate you giving me the latitude to operate how I see fit.”

“That’s just it, Beck. I may not be able to continue. I’m getting pressure, not only from within the bureau, but from other agencies and congressional contacts.”

Beck raised his eyebrows. “Congressional pressure?”

Sutherland took another sip, and then cleared his throat. “They want me to find out why you’re asking about Stuart Martin. They are very nervous—and they want me to make you back off.”

“Anything from the director’s office?”

“Not yet. But I expect his office to be giving me a call any day. It is just a matter of time.”

“Hold ‘em off, Phil, until I know what we’ve got. A contact just advised that this Martin character traveled to France and met with a known terrorist.”

Sutherland shook his head. “Here we go again. Have you brought the CIA into the loop on this?”

Beck paused for a moment before answering. He did not want to put his boss in a compromising position, but he didn’t want to reveal all he knew. In many ways, Sutherland was a by-the-book kind of guy, and this gray area Beck lived in made his boss very nervous. Did Sutherland pass on more intelligence up the chain than he really needed to in order to cover his own rear end? “Let me say this, Phil. I learned this through some CIA back channels and a military contact.”

“The military? You talking about your friend Colonel Thompson?”

Beck tensed. He had been very careful to shield his contact with Jack.

“You think others aren’t watching? That West Coast raid last month shone a big spotlight on both of you. Maybe the media was in the dark, but everyone who counts knew what you guys did. Our SWAT guys wondered where all the military hardware came from during that operation. And that prototype helicopter used in Albuquerque? We both know you did not get that from the FBI.”

“I was nowhere near that helicopter.” Beck gritted his teeth. Now word would get out to the wrong people and he could not stop it. If those shielded behind layers and layers of bureaucracy, started flagging Jack’s and his movements—where they traveled, who they saw, what resources they marshaled—the other side would be in a better position to comprise operations, even terminate those he tried to protect.

He squared off with Sutherland. “Listen to me carefully, Phil. You’re gonna have to run interference for me on this one. My gut tells me there might be a lot at stake. I need time to find out what’s going on—and stop it if I can.”

He ran a hand over his face. “You’d better move fast. I don’t know how long I can keep the wagons circled around your little party. I’ll do what I can.”

Beck squeezed Sutherland’s shoulder. “Thanks. There may be a lot of lives in jeopardy. I need to protect them for as long as possible.”

“There’s already a target plastered on your backside, my man. Just be careful.”

Turning toward the Lincoln Memorial, Beck looked at the monument one more time. One time he’d read a speech Lincoln gave about our nation’s survival that he never forgot:
“At what point then is the approach of danger to be expected? I answer, if it ever reach us, it must spring up amongst us. It cannot come from abroad. If destruction be our lot, we must ourselves be its author and finisher. As a nation of freemen, we must live through all time, or die by suicide
.”

There was an enemy within. Men willing to tear this great nation apart because they never believed in this country in the first place. Traitors might be a more apt term. It took patriots like Lincoln and Washington, men willing to make the ultimate sacrifice, to keep us free men. They knew that our greatest weakness, our greatest vulnerability, lay from within. It was what Beck, Jack, Gerrit and the others fought against, the Fifth Column inside our government.

He looked at his boss. “Just buy me some time, Phil. Buy me some time.”

February 24
Shehidler Khiyabani, Baku, Azerbaijan

T
he Russians are coming.
Atash Hassan waited impatiently, uncertain where this meeting might take him. As Iran’s MOIS intelligence chief, he knew about the man he was about to meet. Very powerful. Very deadly. He must be on his guard.

A cold, harsh rain swept across the polished tiles of the Shehidler Khiyabani, known by Westerners as Martyr’s Lane. Hassan visited this place before and appreciated the history. Today, he would meet a Russian he desperately needed and deeply mistrusted.

Ivan Yegorov.

Several of Atash’s armed guards stood warily at the edge of the curb, eyeing each motorist as they passed. This main thoroughfare of Parliament prospect connected with Mehdi Huseyn, the two asphalt arterials connecting to form a
V
-shape. Atash stood at the connection, tensely waiting and watching.

Azerbaijan sat between many cultures, and tried to get along with everyone with a few exceptions. They did not greet its Iranian and Russian visitors with open arms. Historical significance of this site would not be lost on Yegorov. Nearby, a Muslim cemetery held the bodies of those killed at the close of World War I during the throes of the Russian civil war. Armed resistance between the Azeri’s, Armenians, Bolsheviks, and Mensheviks exploded into intense and brutal conflict, and many of those Muslims killed during this war lay buried nearby.

After the Bolsheviks came to power, they leveled the cemetery, removed the bodies, raised a statue in memory of one of their own Russian heroes, and built an amusement park over what was once a graveyard—as if to add insult to injury. Bitter memories remained. When the Soviet Union collapsed, Azerbaijanis tore down the amusement park and statue, resurrected a national heroes’ cemetery, including those bodies that fell when Russian forces invaded Baku.

Now, relations between Iran and Azerbaijan had dangerously deteriorated, causing Atash and his network of spies and provocateurs to tread carefully. Three men recruited by Atash’s agents were snatched up by the Azerbaijan Ministry of National Security (MNS) and accused of planning to attack employees of a Jewish school in Baku.

A few months later, twenty-two people were arrested by MNS and accused of plotting to attack Israeli and U.S. embassies in this city. Azerbaijan’s security office claimed these suspects had been recruited, trained, and armed by Iran to gather intelligence on foreign governments and to be used for future attacks.

One of his men whistled sharply and he glanced up, seeing a car coming their way.

The Russians have arrived.

He motioned to one of his men, and the guard raised his arm and spoke into a sleeve mike. Just as the Russians pulled to the curb, one of Atash’s own cars pulled up. The rear side window of the Russian car rolled down and Yegorov leaned out. “You want to ride with me?”

Atash shook his head. “My men will drive. We follow.”

Yegorov shrugged and rolled up his window. The two-car caravan moved down the Mehdi Huseyn. Bare trees lined the roadway on the right after they passed the twin-sphered mosque. On the left, Hassan peered up at the majestic trio of glass-enshrouded Flame Towers, part of the country’s six-billion-dollar-a-year face lift to remake the city into a modern mecca, basically fueled by profits from the oil fields around the Caspian Sea. He looked away and thought about how much Western decadence would follow this money, taint the people with impure ways.

Even in Iran, they were battling to keep their society pure from the Great Satan, from the decadence and depravity countries like the United States and Israel exposed to the world. This must end! They must make sure the tables became balanced, that the followers of Muhammad ultimately won against Israel’s aggression and their Christian allies.

They came to an elevated roadway that followed the Caspian shoreline to a marina built to accommodate larger yachts and vessels frequenting Baku. At the far end of the wharf that extended out into the sea, he eyed a white two-story building that offered a fantailed view of the water. Above it perched a circular watchtower. Their caravan pulled onto the wharf and drove directly to a white seventy-foot yacht tethered to pilings, engine already idling in preparation of their launch.

Yegorov led the procession on board, Atash leaving one man to stay with his vehicle. As the last man boarded, a crewman untied and signaled to the captain. The yacht pulled away from the marina and headed straight for deeper water.

Yegorov beckoned Atash to join him below and suggested they leave their guards topside. Uneasy, Atash agreed but whispered to one of his most trusted men to stay within earshot in case there was trouble.

The man nodded, folded his arms across his chest, and stood near the stairway leading below deck. Through a portal, Atash watched the vessel pick up speed, water rushing by in the glistening afternoon rain.

The Russian marched across the room, slipping behind the bar to pour himself a drink. “Would you like a little Russian vodka?” Yegorov asked, smiling.

Atash shook his head and watched Yegorov take several sips. The two men silently eyed each other like two boxers studying the other’s weaknesses.

“An interesting place for us to meet,” Yegorov added, before taking another sip. He placed his empty glass on the counter and poured another. “Do you know what Martyr’s Lane taught me, my friend? That history can be rewritten at any time.”

“Just as we are about to do—together,” Atash said, watching the other man continue to drink. A matter of grave importance to both of their countries, and this fat Russian pig insisted on getting drunk. Not a good omen. “Are you ready on your end?”

Yegorov placed his empty glass on the wood countertop. “We are ready. We wait for you and our friends Richard Dunsmuir and Stuart Martin.”

“Ah, our friend Martin. Do we know anything about either of these two men? Are those even their names?”

Hurried footsteps pounded down the stairs, and one of Yegorov’s crewmen rushed over to whisper a message. Yegorov’s jaw tightened. “We are being followed by an Azerbaijan patrol boat. It appears they intend to board us.”

Yegorov followed the crewman as Atash remained seated. He watched through the window as the navy cutter drew near. Commands burst through a loudspeaker directed at Yegorov’s vessel. Armed sailors stood poised on the gray deck as the eighty-two-foot vessel came alongside, the barrel of an Otobreda 76 mm gun visible on deck. A few moments later, he saw a rubberized Zodiac cutting through the water from the far side of the navy craft.

More steps pounded on the stairs and Atash glanced over to see one of his security guards come down the stairs. He gestured to the guard, and the man drew near. He gave the order that they must cooperate unless he ordered otherwise. He feared that an Iranian and Russian on the same boat in Azerbaijan’s territorial waters might raise someone’s suspicions, but there was nothing he could do about it right now.

As the navy crew boarded Yegorov’s yacht, Atash heard bolts from automatic weapons slide back, chambering rounds. Orders barked from an officer seemed to result in boots crashing across the deck above as men scurried to obey. Two men in naval uniforms cautiously crept down the stairs, the muzzles of their weapons sweeping the area before them.