The Ragnarok Conspiracy (25 page)

He bent down on one knee and grabbed the man's denim jacket. “Who sent you?” he barked out.

The man looked up, his eyes swimming at first, then focusing for a brief moment. “You will lose,
Muslim
,” he whispered, the word a curse in his mouth. “Mjolnir will strike, and strike soon. Burn, and burn again in hell.” His eyes rolled back, and he became heavy as his muscles completely relaxed. Jordan let go of him and clenched his fist.
No!
It was not to be helped. He had done all that he could. But it had not been enough.

“NYPD—
freeze!
” the shout was from behind him, the sounds of shoes running toward him unmistakable. “Hands up in the air! Now! Now! Now!”

Jordan placed his gun down and raised his hands slowly over his head. As the officer threw him on his face and cuffed him, he had a brief flashback to the many arrests he had endured as a young gang member, the last one leading to his imprisonment—and to his salvation at the
hands of a Muslim cleric. It didn't matter, he thought, as he felt blood leak from his nose. He had failed today.
What will tomorrow bring?

“You terrorist
bastard
,” said the officer standing over him, with his knee in his back. “We'll soon have you shipped somewhere nice. Where I hope they electrocute your fucking balls off.”

“I don't believe this! Right in our front yard!” said Larry Kanter, standing outside the FBI building, watching the ambulance pull out with a sedated Frank Miller inside. “Is he going to be OK?”

Savas followed the flashing lights. “Yeah, Larry. It ain't pretty, but it's only a shoulder injury. He's lost some blood, but Matt's the same type, and he insisted on riding with them just in case. The emergency responders gave Matt some flack, but took one look at him and his badge and eased up.”

Kanter nodded. “Good, good. Let's get back up now and figure out what the hell is going on. We've got an assassination attempt at our front door, hackers breaking into FBI networks—this is going down as one of our really good days.”

“You believe me now?”

Kanter scowled and looked away. “I guess I don't have much choice. These bastards pretty much made the argument for you.
Damn!
I should have listened to you earlier, but I just couldn't swallow something that big, that impossible. I don't think the powers-that-be will either, not even after this. But we'll deal with it.”

Savas didn't respond immediately. Finally, he looked at Kanter. “The bullet was meant for me, Larry. Frank stuck his shoulder in the way, threw
himself
in the way to get me out of the line of fire. He's bleeding now instead of my heart being blown out of my chest.”

Kanter's jaw tightened. “John, we all know the job brings dangers. We might think as analysts we are protected from the worst, but today you see differently. We are fellow soldiers in this war, and Frank has seen enough war for all of us. There are two kinds of soldiers, John. Those who will take a bullet for the platoon, and those who won't. You see which one Frank Miller is.”

Savas nodded. Kanter motioned for him to walk in. “Now, we've got some responding to do on this. First, we've got to put a security team on you right way. More than ever it looks like Gunn must be behind this. You were the one to confront him. He's focusing on you.”

Savas's stomach tightened. “Larry, I wasn't the only one there that day.”

Kanter looked him in the eye. “Yes, John, I know that. I've got men heading over to her apartment as of fifteen minutes ago.”

William Gunn switched off the television feed and glanced out over the sea of clouds below. The white ocean seemed to stretch forever, even to the edge of the horizon as viewed from this height. Waves seemed to be embedded in the cloud blanket, giving it the appearance of some heavenly body of celestial water, frozen in the moment. He glanced up above the plane, where the sky seemed to darken ever so slightly and lose its blue, and where, if he looked closely enough, he imagined, one might make out the brightest stars.

A man approached Gunn's private section of the aircraft and knocked on the wall next to the curtain separating the compartments. “Come in,” said Gunn.

It was Rout. “Mr. Gunn, sir. We will be arriving in half an hour. We have arranged for several different limos to depart simultaneously, and will switch vehicles three times, with cars following behind to search for tails.”

“Good. Have you seen the footage from today's missions?”

“I have, sir. Spectacular successes both in Sudan and on the airliner. The preliminary work has now been set, and every mission a success. The pattern is in place, and the final point is waiting to be added.”

“It is time we revealed ourselves, then. You have the press package readied?”

“Just give the signal.”

“Today. Send it to all the major news organizations. It is time to prime the trap for the final stroke.”

“It will be done.”

Gunn nodded. “Have you been debriefed on the failure in New York last week?”

“Yes, sir. A poorly executed mission. The resource was apprehended, but he died of wounds before he could be brought into custody. He was a blind and could have told them little of practical use.”

“We will make another, more thorough effort soon.”

“Sir?”

“The information we obtained from the FBI—a break through their computer security—has proven very useful. We were unable to penetrate his division, however. There were some very significant security safeguards in place. But we were able to reconstruct the organization and obtain extensive information from other computers about all personnel of relevance.”

“He will be a much harder target now. There will be security on his person and place of residence, and he will scramble his travel and schedule.”

The CEO nodded. “Yes; that is to be expected. A harder target but not unreachable. They still cannot connect things to us, and our friendliness with the FBI allows us to steer the research into Gunn International and Operon, effectively slowing them down considerably. Besides, the list of targets has expanded dramatically. I think another strategy is in order.

“We will need more assets in New York,” Rout added.

Gunn sipped from a glass of brandy. “It would be better to bring in our mission units.”

Rout nodded curtly. “Yes, but we cannot bring them back for this mission without jeopardizing the other.”

“I understand. They are to return for the final mission training. We'll run New York with what we have here. The primary teams need to be fully briefed on the details of Ragnarök.”

“Yes, sir. You will oversee the transfer to Mexico?”

Gunn smiled. “Yes, personally. When the day comes, I will also see that ship launched toward its goal. I want to be there, close enough to touch the thing.” He laughed. “Consider it the closest I get to superstition. A blessing, if you will.”

Rout responded with little more than a raised eyebrow. “Understood, sir.” He then spun around and walked through the curtains back to his seat.

Stock markets in Asia and Europe fell dramatically as the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC) announced today a full embargo of oil to Europe and the United States. These actions followed the latest in a series of brazen terrorist attacks on Muslim targets. These attacks, more than one a month across Africa, Europe, North, and South America, include the Great Mosque in Khartoum and the downing of an Iranian Boeing 747 that killed more than 400 people en route to South America. An organization, calling itself Mjolnir, claimed responsibility for these and a series of attacks against Islamic targets, releasing a statement and video announcing its intentions to escalate a war of terror against Islamic peoples and sites.

The recently formed joint United States and Europe Task Force on Oil (USETFO) issued a warning that oil supplies would be maintained by any necessary action, and called upon the OPEC nations to remove the embargo by the end of the month. High-ranking officers of NATO and the US secretary of state were present at the press conference, indicating to many analysts that the full force of the US and European military was behind the official statements.

The Russian president, visiting China on an emergency trip many have speculated has been related to the growing international crisis, issued a warning at a press conference in Beijing that foreign aggression in the oil-producing countries would not be tolerated and would be considered “an act of war” against all countries relying on the supply of oil.
Standing beside the Russian leader, the president of China noted that US ships heading to the Persian Gulf were in violation of international law and posed a serious risk of “global destabilization.”

Mjolnir is being described as a “Western” terrorist organization due to its use of Nordic religious symbols and its stated purpose of attacking Islamic nations and culture. Muslim nations have demanded the apprehension of the terrorists and the cessation of attacks before they halt the embargo. European and American antiterrorist organizations have said that they are working diligently to stop the group, but so far have seemed impotent in the face of the escalating and continued violence.

 

Savas finished cutting the tomatoes and tossed them along with the cucumbers into the large wooden bowl. He quickly diced an onion and sprinkled the bits over the growing salad. Going to the fridge, he pulled out the large white tub of feta cheese, opened it, and cut out a medium-sized hunk that he placed on a plate. With his bare hands, he crushed the cheese into small morsels over the salad, washing his hands afterward. Finally, he grabbed the olive oil and spread it luxuriously over the contents of the bowl. A country Greek salad with make-do, store-bought produce. Nothing would come close to his grandfather's garden in Thessaloniki, where the bright Greek sun, the earth, and the green hands of a man who cared would always yield crops far superior to the products of agribusiness that landed in the supermarkets. But it would have to do.

He gazed outside the window in the kitchen, and, not for the first time, wondered when a coherent red light of a laser targeting scope would dart across his chest, the glass in the window exploding, and a bullet tearing through his flesh. The night was silent except for the muffled roar of a motorcycle and the sounds of Cohen showering in the next room.

He placed the salad on the table and returned to the kitchen to check on the lamb. It had a bronzed texture, so he turned off the oven
and the oven light. The sound of the water faded, and he heard the shower curtain slide open. He resisted the urge to go see her. There was nothing sexier or more beautiful than a woman wet and dripping from the shower.
Or from a rainstorm
, he reminded himself.

Following the attempt on his life, much had changed—seemingly for the better. The investigation of his conduct toward William Gunn had ended, as enough of the decision makers at the FBI had decided that perhaps all this was not so coincidental. The cyber attack on the FBI had certainly helped his case. Once it was clear how much confidential information had been breached, an entirely new investigation into lax computer security had begun. By the time Jordan had obtained a governmental get-out-of-jail-free card, Savas was off the hook internally. But the relief was muted. He had a price on his head.

The FBI decided to keep a constant watch on both him and Cohen. This had at first panicked them both, as they thought it meant they would not be able to see each other for the duration. But it had turned out wonderfully once Kanter had suggested that it would conserve resources to keep them together at all times. This was something of a double-edged sword: they had a complete lack of freedom in their activities outside the apartment and the FBI, but a freedom from the constraints of hiding their relationship. Cohen had suggested that they hole up after work at her place. While the guards outside the room were a nuisance, they were finally afforded a strange sort of normalcy in their relationship. “Now we can finally go to work together,
darling
,” she had joked one morning. Yes, with the caveat that they go together with the hulking shapes of Agents Robertson and Smith.

Breaking him out of thought, Cohen walked into the kitchen, and once again, John Savas felt the complete power of her beauty reduce him to a small singularity that radiated only awe. Her long hair cascaded over her shoulders, and she had quite unfairly worn the “monkey shirt”—a tight number with a brightly colored monkey spread in undulations over her chest. Once, when they had walked through a park in late August, she had worn the shirt, and he had asked that night whether she had intended it to draw his attention to her breasts. She
had laughed at him. “John, not everything revolves around sex.” He had tried hard to digest that one.

She saw his admiring gaze and smiled. “OK, this time I
did
wear it for you to look at my chest,” she said impishly.

Savas smiled. “So, I have permission?”

She laughed and kissed him. “Let's try some of that salad.”

Cohen walked to the table as Savas brought out the salad and the lamb. “It's too much for the two of us, but I'd rather save some for tomorrow and not invite in our well-armed shadows.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes, each content in this mundane activity that nonetheless seemed as deep as any world event that had crashed on them in the last five months. Finally, Cohen spoke through the stillness.

“Frank is going to be OK?”

Savas put down his fork and exhaled. “It looks like he will. There was a lot of deep-tissue damage, so his racquetball game is never going to be the same. But he'll get most of his range of motion back, or so the doctors tell me anyway. At least we got Husaam out of lockup without too much trouble. What a mess!”

“God, John, it still runs through my mind every day. If it weren't for Frank…”

He cut her off. “But he was there, love. It's torture to think through the possibilities. I'm here, and we just have to keep our wits about us now.”

“Nothing more from the sniper?”

Savas shook his head. “No. Same pattern as the other one. Ex-military, served in an antiterrorism unit. There were reports of behavior toward enemy combatants that led to formal disciplinary action. Seems that lots of these Mjolnir soldiers have some strong hatred for Muslims, Rebecca. Gunn must have recruited such men.”

“So we just play it cool with Gunn?”

“That's how they want it. Filtering it through Larry's evasions, it seems there is still enough debate higher up about messing with Gunn that they are going to slow down, which makes sense from another angle—he's still working with the FBI. The hope is to find enough about Operon, or get
lucky and strike gold in looking into Gunn International itself, that we'll find what we need to take this thing down and stop whatever they're planning next.”

“John, something is troubling me about all these attacks.”

“You mean besides all the death and destruction?”

She gave him her sharp look. “Yes. They don't make sense. OK, sure, they are all Muslim targets and Mjolnir is out to destroy Islam—motive is there. But why do you go out bombing random mosques across the world, or, come on, a civilian airliner? How is this going to bring down a religion of over a billion souls?”

“I don't know, but it's sure shaking up the world. The Islamic nations have gone ape-shit, embargoed us, and we've sent a bunch of ships toward the Gulf threatening them and scaring everyone that World War Three is on the horizon.
That
part of their plan seems to be working.”

“OK, yes, that is something, but couldn't that be done while still hitting more strategic targets? Government buildings? Leaders of nations? These targets are so random, so haphazard. Why not more professional-type targets for such a professional group? They began with assassinations that followed such a pattern. Then this.”

“Maybe we don't know what their aims are.”

Cohen shifted her weight forward, put her elbows on the table, and clasped her hands under her chin. “That's exactly what I am getting at, John. We are missing something. These guys are too smart, too careful, too
thoughtful
to appear so scattershot.”

“Sometimes revenge isn't logical, Rebecca. Sometimes it's just mean and crazy.”

She shook her head. “John, I don't think so. They are too cruel, too ordered, for simplistic revenge. You said it best—Gunn is like a serial killer. There is something cold, calculating alongside all that hatred. Some pattern, however demented. We're missing something that is pointing somewhere.”

Savas heard the anxiety in her voice and reached out to take her hand. “Where then? What do you mean?”

Cohen stared out across the room. “I don't know. Somewhere dark. To something bigger, much bigger.”

She squeezed his hand so tightly it nearly hurt. “John, I'm scared.”