The Ragnarok Conspiracy (11 page)

“I don't understand,” said Savas. “Why do all this, go through all this, without a final expectation of victory?”

“Because they should,” said Cohen, looking thoughtful. “It's like Frodo going into Mordor. There was little hope that he had the strength to finish the quest. But it was
right
that he tried.”

“Exactly, young lady. Top of the class,” Styer said and winked at her. He then leaned back and stared out the window, looking over the small garden they had recently passed. “They do this because they believe it's the
right
thing to do. The gods and heroes of the Northern legends did not despair or, following a more modern sentiment, switch sides, even though through prophecy they knew they were going to be destroyed, that chaos would triumph. No, they fought anyway, not to win, but because fighting for good even in the face of defeat was the right thing.”

Cohen raised a question. “Even if this is true for this mythology, Professor, how can we be so sure it applies to this organization?”

The old man leaned back toward the desk and looked shrewdly at
Cohen. “A good question, and, of course, the answer is that we cannot be sure. But someone with this level of sophistication, to organize in this way and then choose these symbols, down to correctly using the writing system and language of an ancient people, is someone extremely invested in this symbolism, Agent Cohen. Anyone with that level of knowledge of Norse mythology would likely understand its curious nature. This theme of Northern courage, a hard courage, grounded not in any hope of victory but only in standing for what is right, has been a powerful force in Western culture, for good and evil. This
character
influenced generations who knew the Norse legends, from Tolkien's archetypal
Lord of the Rings
heroes you just mentioned to Adolf Hitler's perversion of those ideals during the Third Reich.” Professor Styer focused sharply on the FBI agents. “Courage to fight no matter what, requiring no hope of reward, only
conviction
. My friends, that makes them a group of a most dangerous kind.”

Professor Styer insisted on walking them back to their car. He walked with even more difficulty than when he had first greeted them; the efforts of the day clearly draining him. When they reached the car, Cohen thanked him with a smile and got into the backseat. As Savas moved to follow, the old man grasped his arm.

“Agent Savas, I do hope you know what you have there,” he said in a low voice, motioning with his eyes toward the car. “I would keep her close to you.”

Taken aback, Savas started stammering something unintelligible. The professor interrupted him. “Oh, I don't mean that! Although, let me tell you, at seventy-eight, there are many more things I regret
not
doing in life than I regret doing. A lady like that doesn't come around often. But that is not what I meant. She's smarter than you are, in case you didn't notice. Don't take that personally. I've taught generations of students, and I know a good mind when I see it. She's got one. You will need her in this. Keep her close.” The professor smiled, winked at Savas, then bent toward the car and waved once more at Cohen before turning back toward the building.

Savas gazed forward at the intersection for a moment.
I knew I didn't like that guy.

 

"Rebecca, do you buy all that?” asked Savas distractedly, his gaze outside the car window as the vehicle began its trek downtown, his mind wrapped in the words of the last half-hour. Cohen was thoughtful as well, but she answered confidently.

“I'm sure everything we heard about the language and writing was accurate. What you're really asking me concerns the speculative portions, the extrapolation of the symbolism to the psychology of the group.”

“Yes.”

She sighed. “It sounded very reasonable. John, you called it a cult at first, and that is unlikely to be right—who would believe in Norse gods in the twenty-first century? Especially a group as sophisticated and practical as the one you are proposing—a group that has orchestrated the assassinations of more than ten radical Islamic leaders in the last six to nine months.”

“And the bombings.”

Cohen paused. “The evidence is weaker on that, John; you know it. You only have your intuition, based on your own painful experience and response to 9/11. That's a strength and a weakness—I think you know that. Let's just limit it to the assassinations for the moment.”

Savas nodded. “Thanks.”

“For what?” she looked at him curiously.

“You're the first person who has taken what I feel seriously, even when you don't feel it. You're at least giving me the benefit of the doubt.”

She pursed her lips. “John, I've watched you struggle with this for many years now. Everyone knows your anger, Mad John. Some of us also see the struggle. And the pain.”

He looked outside the car again, not daring to engage her eyes.

She coughed. “Anyway, what I was saying is that we have ruthless professionals, not religious fanatics. These guys way outclass al-Qaeda operatives. So, if they aren't religiously invested in this Norse stuff, then they must be invested in another way to have gone to all this trouble. Who learns a dead language and appropriates its culture's symbols? Someone who sees something in it, has extracted something from it, and needs that symbolism in their lives.”

“Northern courage?”

“It's the noblest idea of pagan Europe. But I think he's spot-on with the other thing—the contrast to Islam. Whoever started this, there is something driving them. I think you are right about it, John. There's a deep hatred of Islam in all this.”

“Then who? People of western European descent, almost certainly, or why all Norse stuff? The killer we encountered was American, so I assume many others are as well. But not the crazy idea of death squads from the CIA.”

“Not crazy, John, they existed,” noted Cohen. “But you're right. This symbolism, this
crusade
almost, doesn't smell of a government plan that spun out of control. But it does smell of money.”

“Sorry?”

“How on earth do you get the skilled personnel, equip them, train them, send them out all over the world for orchestrated assassination work, without enormous capital resources?

Savas nodded. “You can't.”

“No, you can't. If you aren't government, you have to be someone with access to just amazing resources, both monetary and, frankly, military.”

“Yes, the commando training, the coded messages—it's military.”

Cohen turned to Savas, her gaze intense, her mind working quickly. “You have to be well placed financially and logistically. I don't think we're looking for a cult leader, John, not in the normal sense, anyway. I just wish I knew
what
we were looking for.”

Savas nodded. He understood her frustration. It was the sense
when the puzzle had started to take on some kind of pattern, definition, and yet its overall shape still eluded the mind. As he processed these thoughts, his phone rang, and he reached into his pocket and answered it. The adrenaline flowed back into his body almost instantly. Cohen turned quickly to stare at him. The voice from the speaker was shouting.

“John, this is Larry! Where the hell have you been?”

“Larry, sorry, switched off for this interview. What is it?”

“Get back here now! There's been a second attack.”

Even with the sirens on, it was more than half an hour before they reached the FBI offices. People and equipment filled the buzzing Operations Room. Images flowed across giant monitors. Low-level staff darted from office to office with urgent messages. By the time Savas reached the floor, the main story had been fleshed out. He called a meeting of his staff. They convened in a conference room adjacent to the OR.

“Fearless Leader, we have been lost without you,” chirped Lightfoote as he and Cohen filed into the room.

“Damn it, Angel.” This was all he needed.

“I am a celestial being, and I will forgive your profane words.”

I'm going to have to have a talk with that girl.
Savas took off his jacket, his shirt soaked in sweat from both the heat outside and the stress within. Miller and Hernandez were the last to file in.
Rambo and Jesus
, thought Savas,
and a nutcase named Angel
.

“All right, Larry's called a meeting in an hour. Fill me in, people.”

Matt King donned his glasses and read from notes. After Rebecca, he was the de facto information center for the team. His legal training always showed in his attention to detail.

“At 2:35 p.m. today, two explosions occurred in the Venezuelan capital of Caracas. The explosions occurred at the Saudi and Iranian embassies, apparently completely destroying both buildings. Initial reports have the death toll in the high hundreds, and it is expected to go even higher. Injuries are worse, and the hospitals are overflowing with wounded. Caracas fire and police responders have the secondary
blazes under control. The Venezuelan president has already gone on television to calm the populace. The Islamic nations have not failed to notice that there is a connection between the attacks here and in Washington and today's in Caracas.”

Miller clarified. “Basically, they're screaming bloody murder about it.”

Savas looked around the concerned faces at the table. Only Lightfoote seemed unfazed, drawing odd sketches on her notepad. “All right, in the span of less than a month, we have a new terrorist organization appear from nowhere that has blown up buildings in three different cities, and has begun to upset the global balance.”

Rideout chimed in. “Sure has, John. The UN Security Council has called a special meeting. The Arab nations are blaming the United States and allies. Stocks are plunging in all the world markets.”

“Well, we've got to keep our heads and not get sucked into this mind job they've worked on everyone else. Terrorism is most powerful when it creates fear. That's its point. Fear is death to the thinking mind. So let's take a deep breath and start looking at what we know.”

“Not much. That's the problem,” said Miller.

“OK, let's see what information we can glean from the bomb site itself. This is on foreign soil, so at best it's going to be CIA, and that will be slow. The Venezuelans aren't going to be too keen on letting us get our hands dirty down there. The explosives—those are our only lead, and we'll need to make sure we get samples for analysis. You can bet I'll take this up with Larry first thing, although he'll be on it already, I'm sure.”

“J. P., I want you and Matt all-nighting this one and monitoring every channel for information from Caracas. Tomorrow morning you get to hand me a report and then find a cot. Angel, I want you…Angel?” Savas looked over at Lightfoote staring at the door behind him.

“Leaving on a jet plane, O Captain, my Captain,” she said.

“Christ, Angel, what…” he turned around and stopped. Just inside the door stood Larry Kanter, along with three other people. One was Mira Vujanac, and where Mira was, so usually was the CIA. Standing next to her was a tall man, thin and bespectacled, stiff and awkward in his formality. He had “bureaucrat spook” written all over him. Next
to him stood a man John Savas would never have expected to see and couldn't believe he was seeing.

“John, I'm sorry to interrupt. Could you please step outside for a minute?” Kanter asked, motioning with his eyes that Savas should follow.

Rising slowly from his chair, Savas apologized to his team, who watched with considerable interest as he walked outside. Kanter closed the door behind him, leading him halfway down the hall away from the conference room door and out of earshot.

Kanter stood not five feet from a black man dressed in white robes with a long and thick beard trimmed Islamic style. On his head was a white kufi; the overall impression was of some African imam touring the offices of the FBI. He had a stern face, scarred on one side from what could only have been a knife wound, and yet a strange cheerfulness seemed to imbue his every expression. He was stocky, and a thick musculature without a hint of fat gave him the look of a boxer. He nodded toward Savas.

Savas looked between Kanter and Vujanac. “What the hell is this?”

 

This
is Agent Husaam Jordan, John,” said Kanter, motioning toward the white-robed man. “CIA. Mira has been in high-level coordination with Langley concerning the recent attacks.” Kanter gestured toward the tall, formal-looking man next to Agent Jordan. “Our analysis and identification of the bomb residue picked up an important connection. Husaam has been tracking a series of arms dealers and the shell games they play with foreign governments and commercial US military goods sold overseas. There's an entire black market for military goods that we sell legitimately to other nations, which then turn around illegitimately and resell them for a substantial profit to centralized mafia, weapons dealers who themselves sell the goods to the highest bidder.”

Savas looked unimpressed. He could hardly take his eyes off Agent Jordan. “Yeah, Larry, I've heard all this. What does this have to do with these bombings?”

Kanter drew a breath, clearly impatient with his subordinate's tone yet cutting him unusual slack. “Agent Jordan has infiltrated one of the largest of these groups, formerly run by Viktor Bout—you probably have already heard his name, too.”

He had. Viktor Bout was a legendary arms dealer, former KGB agent, who had run one of the largest and most profitable organizations in the world. His arrest in 2008 had slowed the trade only momentarily, as others rushed into the void, including new leadership in the organization he founded. Savas was quite aware of all this and was also attentive enough to pick up the warning from Kanter that he had better rein in his anger.

Kanter continued. “Among the many items they offer on the black market—weapons, body armor, even vehicles—are several forms of plastic explosives, including some of the newer, and extremely expensive, derivatives. Explosives with several times the power of previous forms of Semtex or C-4, and with a very high velocity of detonation.”

“Perfect for demolitions work,” rumbled the deep baritone of Agent Jordan, speaking for the first time.

Kanter nodded. “These items are very hard to get, and it is highly likely that, unless this group stole the material from the plant that made it, which would have been reported, they went through these dealers.”

This was very interesting; a potentially important link to the terrorists. If Kanter was right.
If
there was a way to discover the buyers for these materials.

“Agent Jordan and his superior, Richard Michelson, here from the CIA Crime and Narcotics Center, have agreed to work directly with the FBI on this. I've assigned him to your team, John. Husaam will work independently of our chain of command, reporting directly to Agent Michelson, but day-to-day he will be an additional member of Intel 1.”

Just great
, thought Savas. Kanter looked Savas in the eye and spoke gravely. “I don't have to tell you how important it is that we make some headway on this one, John. We'll need all the help we can get from all agencies. We all need to make this work.”

“Larry, can I speak to you privately?” asked Savas, needing an outlet soon lest he jettison all professionalism.

Kanter seemed to suppress a sigh. “Of course, John. Why don't you introduce Husaam to your group and then meet me in my office.”

Savas held his emotions in check. “Sure, Larry. Agent Jordan, come this way, please.”

He led the CIA man back to the conference room. As he grabbed the doorknob to open it, the baritone spoke. “When we are greeted with a salutation, the person should offer a better welcome, or at least return the same, for God taketh an account of all things.” Jordan smiled and extended his hand.

Ah, hell.
Savas grasped the offered hand and shook it
very
firmly.

“Nice words,” said Savas, turning back to the door.

“From the Holy Koran,” replied Jordan.

Savas, doorknob clasped tightly in his hand, stopped and turned slowly toward the CIA agent. “Agent Jordan, let's get something clear, so that we both know where we stand. I don't like the CIA meddling with my group, and no disrespect, but I don't know a damn thing about you. My group works well, and we're one of the best in the business. We've been together a while, and we work like a well-oiled machine. Your coming here, it's like grit thrown in the engine.” Savas let go of the doorknob for a second time and pulled up to face Agent Jordan. “You don't know me well, but I don't take it lightly when someone quotes from a book that inspired men to fly airplanes into buildings in my city. Finally, in case the intelligence is fading from the CIA, you might also know that those bastards took the life of my son. So, do we understand each other, Agent Jordan?”

The joyful buoyancy had left the face of Husaam Jordan, but he did not flinch. “No, Agent Savas, not completely. Because you need to know two things about me. The first is that I will always do my best to respect every man I meet, but I will never hide or be ashamed of my religion. Second, I ask you not to judge how much I am grit until you give me a little time to integrate into your team. One thing about me that you will learn—I am a man of justice, as well as a Muslim. For me, they go together. Those who died in September of 2001 were victims of murder, led by extremists that I work every day to bring to justice. It is also said in the Holy Koran, ‘Justice is an unassailable fortress, built on the brow of a mountain which cannot be overthrown by the violence of torrents, nor demolished by the force of armies.' I believe that, John Savas. I will work to see that it is so.”

For several moments, they stood staring at each other, eye-to-eye, nearly toe-to-toe. Savas clenched his jaw but said nothing. Finally he turned and opened the door to the conference room.