FATAL eMPULSE (23 page)

“But he needs—”

“If you touch him, or any of his belongings, you’ll wind up dead.” Gerrit grabbed a broom from the closet and folded a bandana across his face. “Cover your nose and mouth with anything you can find. Take the others and get out of here. I’ll stay nearby until help arrives.” He used the broom to knock the envelope from Joe’s hand after the others moved away.

Alena ushered Shakeela out of the apartment. As they stood in the hallway, a plainclothes crew arrived. Ten minutes later, another crew came barging in wearing breathing apparatus and protective clothing. Gerrit joined her.

“I’ve got to go somewhere and wash up,” he said. “Then we have to get out of Dubai as soon as possible.”

February 27
Jerusalem, Israel

A
blue folder, only identified by black numbers, lay on his desk. Prime Minister Idan Shalev ran his finger along the edge of the file. He did not need to open it. Every word, every phrase he’d practically committed to memory. Colonel Marc Perlman sat across from him, waiting for his boss to speak.

“The Americans want me to wait,” Idan said. “What do you say, my
khaver
, my friend? What should I do?” Before politics, before his service in the Knesset, he and Perlman served side by side in The Unit. Now, young men like Max Salk took over the reins of The Unit as a new generation grew up to defend Israel. “Can you assure me Max will be successful?”

Perlman straightened his shoulders. “Prime Minister—”

“Please, here, in this place, we are alone. We are old friends. Let us talk like old friends.”

“Okay, Idan. This young man is very resourceful. Bright. He reminds me of us when we were young. If it is possible, he will find a way.”

Idan grimaced. “But timing is crucial, Marc. If he cannot act in time, then I must give the word. We must attack.”

“Tsuris!” Perlman muttered, shaking his head. “Such trouble we face.”

Rising from his desk, clasping hands behind him, Idan walked around his desk. “Ever since our people passed through the Red Sea, our enemies have sought our destruction. God will prevail and protect us.” He grimaced. “I will try to hold out until President Chambers arrives. Unless Iran makes a move. After I meet with the president, who knows, maybe a day, maybe a week.”

“Iran is making moves that concern me,” Perlman said. “Recent intelligence reports and satellite photos show that they have increased flights of their Ilyushin II-76 reconnaissance aircraft with emphasis along their western border. Fighter squadrons have also shifted to the west. We’ve noticed a notable buildup at the Vahdati Air Base near the Iraqi border, and farther south at the Omidiyeh Air Base. With tanker support and Syria’s first strike against us, the Iranians might be able to launch their missiles and the aircraft trailing behind—before our missiles ever reach striking range.”

Idan scowled. “This is why I need to know precisely where we stand. If your people cannot give me a satisfactory answer, I must launch first.”

“And the Americans?”

Idan bowed his head. “I would hate to do this, but I will put in a call to the Americans after our missiles launch. Our action must be swift and precise. Everything hinges on whether our systems can deflect any attacks they might throw at us. Tell your young man what we must know—at all costs.”

“What if the Americans he is working with refuse to take the risk?”

“He must go forward, regardless of risk, Marc. If he hesitates, we all may die.”

A jet roared overhead as Max Salk tried to listen to his caller on the cell phone. Ticket in hand, he moved toward the entrance to the Ben Gurion International Airport in Tel Aviv. Marc Perlman’s voice barely carried above the noise. Once Max got inside, he heard more clearly.

“Sir, I can catch a flight in the next hour to Dubai. Are we a go?”

Perlman cleared his throat. “Yes, but as we discussed, it is critical to move swiftly—but not irrationally. Sometimes, you tend to move forward without considering all the consequences. I value your fire, son, but temper it with caution. Remember, everything depends on what you can find out in the next few days. Shalom.”

Max hung up without responding. Perlman had always been like a father to him. He thought of the colonel’s last words as he sprinted across the lobby, hoping to catch the earliest flight. Temper with caution? The old man’s words smarted and made him feel like a chutzpah, a man filled with arrogance. Perlman placed a lot of trust in him, but the tone of the man’s last words were almost like he was speaking to a soldier who he did not expect to return from battle. Max tried to shrug the feeling off.

Tucked in the folds of his suitcase, wrapped in material that would foil any X-ray machine, lay his documents backing up one of many aliases he’d established a long time ago. These hidden documents claimed that he was a representative of an oil exploration company looking for investors and new regions to exploit. This cover allowed Max to gain entry to countries all over the world. Everyone wanted oil, or the chance to make money in oil. He catered to their needs while making contact with his human intelligence sources.

Once in Dubai, he’d live under one of many assumed names. In his travels, Max created safe houses in each of the countries of interest—Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Turkey, Syria, and others—complete with documents, weapons, and communication links. Only a handful of individuals knew where these locations existed. Marc Perlman was one of the few, and even he did not know all of Max’s hiding places. He would have to burn several of these locations when he connected with the Americans.

Frank Collord forwarded the falsified documents required by Marc Perlman’s friend Jack Thompson. These fake identification documents had been expertly backdated with cover stories linked to Max’s oil-research company or a solar-energy investment company, based out of Australia.

There would be one ironic twist to this whole plan, and it was one of the main reasons Max wanted to be present when these documents and backstories would be handed to the Americans. He could not wait to see the look on Alena’s face.

Life had a way of taking something from their past and bringing it to the present, giving new opportunities. Not always, but every once in a while. Max hoped things might be different this time. It all depended upon Alena.

A man of Middle Eastern descent stood behind Max Salk, separated in a line by about fifteen passengers. He pulled out his burn phone, purchased several hours ago in Tel Aviv. He dialed a number memorized before this trip and waited until the call went through.

He recognized the voice from their last meeting in Baku after the meeting between the Russian and the Iranian. Stuart Martin. The man he called would change his name and identity, leaving it behind like this disposable phone.

“I’ve got him in sight, sir. Taking a flight to Dubai.”

It had been a long, arduous surveillance so far. Martin had forwarded information about a U.S. military colonel, Jack Thompson, arriving in Israel yesterday. He was supposed to stay with this colonel to see who the guy might meet up with. He had been able to track Thompson, first to the IDF headquarters and then a meeting with Max Salk. His surveillance team had put some healthy distance between themselves and Salk. They did not want to tangle with this elite group on their home turf.

He did not know what drove Martin, what political beliefs made the man spend this kind of money. But the pay was really good, and he looked forward to doing more business with Martin in the future—if they all stayed alive.

Martin continued. “Stay with Salk and report back to me once you arrive. The others are already in Dubai and escaped a net to capture them. They left several dead and I would expect them to be leaving that country at any moment. One of their people had to be rushed to a hospital. Salk must be the link to the others right now. Give me details where they plan to go. And if they make a move toward Syria—make sure they never arrive.”

“Do we have people on the ground in Dubai?”

“Would I ever leave you without proper support? Yes. They will be waiting and can lay their hands on any equipment you need. What name is he traveling under?”

“Can’t get that at this moment. But I put in a call and should have it by the time we land.”

“Forward the name to the others, and we will red tag it whenever he crosses a border or a records check is made.”

“Understood, sir. And the others?”

“I’m sending you their photos and records. Stay on Salk and Gerrit O’Rourke. These two, along with the women in their group, represent a significant threat to my plans. Do not take any action against them unless you clear it with me, but be prepared to terminate.”

“I understand.”

Martin severed the connection.

He pocketed the phone and watched as the Israeli headed toward the first security check. Grabbing his ticket, he set out to follow Martin’s orders, wondering what Syria had to do with this group.

Martin must not think it was important to let him in on that information. He would find out anyway. In this game, the more one learned about what was going on, the better the odds of staying alive. Lack of information could be deadly.

February 28
Washington, D.C.

“I
t’s time to start playing rough,” Frank said without preliminaries, as Beck climbed into the sedan. Chilly winds outside made the car feel cozy. Frank, on the other hand, seemed as cold as ice.

Beck slipped on the seat belt as Frank pulled away from the curb. Twenty minutes earlier, he received a terse phone call from Frank, telling him to wait at the curb in front of the J. Edgar building. Right on time, Frank pulled up and flung open the door.

“I’m tired of farting around with this jerk,” Frank said, accelerating around a car as he headed down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the White House. The man was angry and Beck thought it best to keep his mouth shut. “Brandimir was behind Joe getting sick, and he has been trying to kill our people ever since we started this case. I don’t care what kind of trouble Brandimir might make among politicians; I want to start shaking up this guy’s world. I want to expose his face and let others know what he’s been up to.”

“Where are we going, Frank?”

“You mean as far as the case is concerned or—?”

“Where are you taking me right now?”

Frank nodded at the White House looming ahead. “That’s our destination. We’re going to talk to the man.”

“President Chambers?”

“Can you think of someone more powerful than him?”

Beck did not reply, his mind whirling with conflicting thoughts. He had always been able to work on the fringes of politics, hanging in the shadows, keeping a low profile. Now, he and Frank were going face-to-face with one of the most powerful men on earth. Beck shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“What’s bothering you, Beck? Afraid to visit the Oval Office?”

“Not my style, Frank. I’ve always survived this game by staying out of sight of those in power. Just doing my job and letting others take the glory. This is not something I feel comfortable with.”

“I don’t give a rip about how you feel. The mission comes first. And right now, our mission will need to be cleared by President Chambers.”

“Yes, sir.” Beck tried to keep his anger in check. “And how many people will know what we’re up to after this meeting with the president? Half his administration?”

Frank slammed on the brakes and pulled over to the side of the road. With one arm draped over the steering wheel, Frank glared at him. “Let’s get one thing straight, Malloy. I won’t tolerate anyone on my team speaking disrespectfully about Chambers. Ever! That man is taking a big chance allowing me—allowing all of us—to take on this mission and set up the Network. If anything goes wrong, Chambers will take the heat. Not us. That is the mark of a good leader. Are we clear?”

Beck glared back. “I don’t know spit about this guy, Frank. Until I do, don’t expect me to trust him any further than I can throw him. If you don’t like it, then get rid of me. Am I clear?”

Both men stared at each other for a moment, Frank finally breaking the stalemate. “Look, I respect this man. I know he loves our country, and he’d do anything to protect her—even if it meant losing an election. Or his life! Just keep that in mind as you meet him. Then make up your own mind. Just do it respectfully. Can we agree on that?”

Beck nodded before turning forward. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

Frank laughed. “You make it sound like you’re facing the guillotine.”

“That’s exactly how I feel. Mixing politics and law enforcement is never is a good thing. It’s like putting a match to gasoline—someone always gets burned.”

As they neared the White House, Frank slowed. “For what it’s worth, I think Chambers is more of a soldier than a politician. And he’d never leave a fallen soldier behind.”

Beck saw the security check ahead. “Well, I hope we never have to find out, Frank.”

Beck had visited the White House on other occasions, and getting clearance had always been a pain. Tonight, they were ushered inside without delay. “I’ve never gotten through this fast before.”

“It is all about who you know.” Frank grinned.

A man waited for them just beyond the final checkpoint. Stan Goodfellow, the president’s chief of staff. “Gentlemen, I thought I’d meet you here. There has been a slight change of plans. President Chambers will be in The Situation Room. I’ll take you there now.”

Beck had not been to The Situation Room, located in the basement of the West Wing since it was renovated during the Obama administration. The five-thousand-square-foot nerve center housed conference rooms and a place for the core of U.S. intelligence—Homeland Security, military, law enforcement, and other intelligence agencies—to work side by side in an hourly effort to keep the president and his staff on top of world events.

As they entered this belowground command center, Beck saw that even though it was late, an array of people were working at their desks.

Goodfellow led them into a secluded conference room that offered a panel of monitors for live video conferencing. One of those screens was active, and across from that screen and seated at the head of a rectangle maple conference table sat President Stephen Chambers. The president seemed relaxed in this environment, his six-foot frame comfortably ensconced in the chair, fingertips resting at the temple of his chestnut brown hair.