SANCTION: A Thriller (8 page)

“Unfortunately, in that particular area of the world, all of our satellites concentrate on very specific threats. We only had the eyes of a weather satellite on that lonely strip of desert for a few minutes. We did manage to get a handful of low res photos though. We’ve got them heading North-West about ten minutes after the event. But so far, that and the video are all we’ve got.” Kingsley stated.

“Great.” Brad said quietly.

Brad saw his bag. He reached through the crowd and grabbed the top handle. With one solid jerk, he lifted the bag off of the conveyor belt and set it down on the floor. He followed Kingsley out of the airport to an old Mercedes. The vehicle had seen better days. The muffler was hanging pretty low to the ground, suspended by a wire coat hanger. It had been patched with bondo in several places on the body and the glass insert of the moon roof was missing.

“Budget cuts?” Brad asked. They both laughed.

“I like this old clunker, she doesn’t attract attention.” Tom said.

“Besides, I spent most of my budget on hardware.” Tom said as he threw Brad’s bag in the trunk and placed his free hand on an overstuffed green duffle bag. “I have everything you need, right here. With enough money, you can get anything.” The men got in the car and left the airport garage.

“There is one thing that I took the opportunity of procuring that you didn’t list. I added a long rifle.” A sniper rifle was the first thing that he ever put on any tactical list. He had been surprised that Brad had opted to leave it out.

“I didn’t have one on the list because I don’t plan on using one.” Brad looked out the window of the sedan. The heat was unbelievably oppressive. “When I find who I’m looking for, I want to get up close and personal.”

They exited the airport perimeter and Kingsley pulled over to the side of the road. The car came to a halt with a cloud of dust. Bahrain, like most of the Middle East, was one giant desert.

“Brad, I gotta tell you, I think you may be too close to this.” Kingsley hated to have this conversation but he feared that Brad was going to be a danger to himself if he couldn’t detach from the situation.

“I know Tom. I appreciate your help, I really do. But I am going into the lion’s den. I won’t be looking to ask questions or take anybody into custody. If you want to leave, I completely understand. But if you stay, that’s the end of it. To keep having this conversation is counterproductive. The other thing I need to make sure you understand is, this mission is unsanctioned. The President has washed his hands of these hostages. It’s too much heat for him and not enough of a potential approval point jump to be worth the risk.” Brad said with a huff as he watched a Boeing 737 climb into the afternoon sky.

Tom was also staring out of the window. “It’s not that I am worried about doing something that is deemed politically incorrect Brad. I don’t want you to put us in unnecessary danger because you’re not thinking things through.”

“Well Tom, you’re going to have to decide if you want to be involved in this, because I won’t be withdrawing my plans.” The two men sat there and absorbed the heat.

Tom started the car and accelerated on the shoulder before merging with afternoon traffic.

“I’m in Brad. We’re bringing the rifle though.” He said.

“That’s fine.”

The drive to the safe house that Tom used in Bahrain was just a short distance from the airport. They were there in twenty minutes.

It was located in a typical suburban neighborhood. Tom parked the car next to the curb and got out. “This place is a steal. I’ve got three thousand square feet for…let’s see, I think it works out to be the equivalent of eight hundred dollars a month. Try finding something like that back home.” They grabbed the bags from the trunk and headed inside.

“Yeah right, you can’t get a decent studio apartment for that in Maryland. Maybe in the seedier parts of D.C. or something.”

Even though there had been no other cars around the house, several people were inside. They were part of Kingsley’s support team. A bank of radio and computer equipment filled the large kitchen. Kingsley was the team leader. He led an assault force into various locations around the world to achieve objectives that supported United States policy. Their team worked with unconventional forces to establish a resistance where certain governments had adopted anti-U.S. policies or practices at levels that were deemed threats. Sometimes they assassinated the enemy and sometimes they detained them, for intense interrogation, if they believed they could yield some valuable information. Lately, the team had been doing little more than gathering intelligence. The area had been relatively quiet for months. It had made it easy for Tom to take a few days off. They’d operated out of Bahrain for the better part of a year.

“Brad, meet the team, team meet Brad Ward. His brother is one of the students that were taken. We go back, what? Five years?”

“Think that’s right.” Brad said as he looked around the sparsely decorated living room.

Kingsley introduced everyone in the room individually and then sat down at a ‘seventies era’ bar that butted up to the kitchen. He flipped open a laptop and pulled a stool out for Brad. “Have a seat. I want to show you something.”

Brad sat down and focused on a satellite photograph that popped up. “This is from two weeks ago. I want you to keep your eyes on this area over here.” He said pointing to a small section of the monitor.

“Where is this?” Brad asked.

“It’s a training camp in Syria that one of the other teams has been keeping tabs on. A guy I know sent this over this morning. Thought it might be our guys.” Kingsley replied.

The computer booted up a video of the still photograph they had been looking at. The footage had been enhanced. Four trucks sat parked in the middle of an open desert. From the bottom of the screen another truck appeared driving toward the others at a steady clip.

“We have determined that this vehicle here, is traveling at about eighty five miles per hour.” Kingsley said pointing to the truck that had come out of nowhere.

The truck careened toward the other vehicles. Briefly, it looked as if the driver was bent on smashing into the other trucks. At the last minute, the driver slammed on the breaks. A plume of sand and dust rose from underneath the truck. For a split second the truck was hidden under the cloud. It reemerged with the driver and all of its passengers exiting the vehicle. They all raced toward a small building at the top of the screen. They filed inside. Moments later, they came back out but their numbers had tripled. Instead of the eight men they had started with, thirty-five appeared. The men from the vehicle could be seen pushing the others back toward the truck.

“We have four hours and sixteen minutes of them practicing this whole thing over and over again. They were prepared. Each time there are slight variations thrown in for good measure. Once in a while one or more of the mock hostages will resist and the men will have to improvise.” Kingsley said.

“They practiced,” Brad said out loud.

“We knew they weren’t amateurs Brad.” Kingsley closed the laptop.

“Do we have anything else on them?” He asked.

Kingsley shook his head from side to side.

“No.”

“I need to tell you that I can’t spend any government money on this Brad. I wish I could use our resources, but I can’t. I’m the only one from my team who will be joining you tomorrow.” Tom said with a sober face. “I’m on vacation.”

“I appreciate all the help, Tom. I know you have better things to do with your time, than to go traipsing through the desert with me.”

“Really? Like what? Catching terrorists is my true talent and I am a workaholic.” Kingsley smiled.

Hassan Bishara studied the contents of the envelope. It was much to his liking, though hard to believe. He pulled out a map and several neatly folded pieces of paper, got up from his chair and walked over to a lamp in the corner of the room. He held one of the papers under its brownish yellow light.

“It’s all there my son.” The man seated on a small cloth sofa said. Bishara wasn’t his son; it simply made the man feel superior to refer to him as such.

“Where did you get these?” Hassan asked, as he mulled over a blueprint that was among the paperwork.

“Six months before the United States was preparing to invade our country in 2003, Saddam Hussein directed a special edict. Those papers that you hold are copies of the originals. I included a few of the more important documents, those that I thought would catch Imam Nazari’s eye. If you are ever going to have success with your plans, you will need that.” El-Hashem said, pointing to the folded sheets in Bishara’s hand.

“But I’m afraid, as to your other request, we cannot afford to part with any of our sons, or attend Nazari’s meeting.”

Hassan smiled. While Ansar Al-Islam’s donation was appreciated -important even- it was presumptuous and inaccurate to say that Nazari could not succeed without it.

Ansar Al-Islam was a Sunni terrorist group that had formed in the Kurdish region of Northern Iraq. They had been ardently supported by Iraq’s deceased dictator. A picture of Saddam still hung on the wall over El-Hashem’s head.

“Where is this?” Bishara asked as he held the strange blueprint up in front of the light.

Tariq El-Hashem was not at the top of the organization’s food chain. He was four or five men down the line. Considering he’d had the privilege of meeting with every other organization’s commander, Bishara took it as an insult.

“Uzbekistan, we have not moved them since late 2005. They are heavily guarded by our men and their location, as well as their existence, is still completely unknown to the rest of the world. I have made the overseer aware of your pending visit. Everything will be ready for you when you arrive.”

El-Hashem scooted himself to the edge of the couch.

“Now, I will tell you what I want in return.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

El-Hashem’s face contorted into a fleshy puzzle of wrinkles and folds.

Bishara reached inside of his jacket and extracted the same gun he had used to kill Shaikh Samara. El-Hashem flinched at first. Then he leaned back against the sofa and placed a small wooden smoking pipe between his lips.

“You will never get out of here if you kill me.” El-Hashem smiled a thick vicious smile. “Your father was just as quick to act as you are. You know that? Impulsive. Must run in the blood.”

Bishara lowered the pistol.

“How do you know my father?”

Hassan Bishara’s father, Abdel Bishara, had been a guerilla fighter during the Six Day War with Israel. He had instituted the tactics that were now used in bus bombings and improvised explosive devices. He was the first of his people to use terror as a means of gaining an edge against a formidable force. He had been wanted for crimes against humanity but had disappeared toward the end of the brief conflict. It was rumored that he had died in an air raid on an apartment building that he sometimes resided in. The truth had never been discovered. It had also been a rumor- though widely denied by state officials from every government- that Abdel Bishara had survived the War. Hassan knew the truth but he would never say and felt that it was his duty to protect the truth from being exposed.

El-Hashem smiled even broader.

“Did you know my father?”

“Yes, I served with him in the Great War.” A reference to the Six Day War.

Bishara had his doubts as to whether or not El-Hashem was being honest. Either way, it didn’t matter. El-Hashem was clearly not going to cooperate with Nazari without demanding some concession for leadership, which was out of the question.

He raised the silenced pistol again and squeezed off several rounds.

El-Hashem slumped forward and fell off of the couch.

Bishara didn’t like disposing of these men but if they were going to be too difficult to tame, then it had to be done.

He placed the gun back inside of his jacket and opened the door. Two guards stood at the end of a long hallway. They nodded to Bishara as he approached. They wouldn’t suspect anything for hours. By then, Bishara would be half way to Uzbekistan. Now he just needed to figure out how he was going to transport El-Hashem’s gift. It wouldn’t be easy to move six tons of Soman gas, (a deadly nerve agent), across multiple borders to Quneitra.

T
racy Peters was falling asleep. It seemed the more she resisted, the heavier her eyelids got. She pinched the inside of her thigh with the very tips of her thumb and index finger. She knew that she couldn’t stay awake indefinitely but their ordeal had added a whole new level of creepiness to the dark night; she was afraid. She just wanted to make it to sun up. Once she saw the first few rays pour in through the window, she would let herself doze off. Until then, she had to be vigilant. She felt herself slipping away again; once more she pinched herself. The more often she did so, the less intense the pain was. Eventually, she wasn’t going to feel it at all.

It had been more than a day since anyone had seen either the professor or Matt Ward. There had been a lot of commotion throughout the night from the room next door. She figured they had been taken there.

Her neck snapped back hard as she caught herself drifting off again. The back of her head made contact with the stone wall.

“Ouch.” She exclaimed.

She looked at the guard several feet away. He didn’t move, he actually looked like he was asleep in his metal folding chair. She guessed the time to be about three in the morning. She was exhausted.

“You okay?”

At first Tracy couldn’t tell where the voice had come from.

“Tracy, are you okay?” It was Jerry Smith.

Back when they had only been students and not hostages, Tracy had had a little bit of a crush on Jerry. The feeling had been mutual, though neither of them had talked about it. It had been mild, at best. Now, Jerry turned her stomach. His cowardice was understandable, in a certain light but she felt he should have overcome that and done like the rest of the group, remain quiet and power through. Instead, he had rambled on in fear whenever a guard left the room. If he had had it his way, the students would have dehydrated yesterday when the professor and Matt put their necks on the line to get them some water. He had rebuked professor Rhinefeld for the gesture, even though he drank.