Traitor (13 page)

Mohammed Farsi responded to Nick’s summons and entered his apartment by observing the knocking code. The surprised look on his face was all Nick needed to confirm that the disguise was successful. The athletic, handsome, dark-haired Nick Geller had become a middle-aged professor type, complete with corduroy jacket.

“Remarkable,” Farsi said.

“The fewer people see me like this, the better,” said Nick.

“Of course,” replied Farsi.

“I leave tonight.”

“But I thought—”

“I have an army to raise and a war to win, brother,” said Nick.

Farsi nodded and was reminded of their first meeting a year earlier. The selfless act by the Westerner had saved the family of the local Al Qaeda leader’s family in Afghanistan. Mohammed Farsi had been training with the Afghans when Nick Geller had fallen into their laps. A gift from Allah himself. He thanked Allah that they had not killed him. It had been so close. On awakening from his concussion, he was to have been beheaded. The filming of a Special Forces soldier being beheaded would have made news around the world for at least a day, if not more. But he spoke of Mohammed, of Allah, in a way that only a true believer could. He lived and fought with them for three months, trained them as he had been trained by the infidels. He had proved himself many times to them.

He had promised to continue the fight from within. His return to America had once again proved his trust. No attacks targeted Taliban or Al Qaeda strongholds that he had been told of. Defenses were not bolstered where he knew they might attack. Nick was one of them, a true believer at the heart of the enemy. The Caliph’s grand plan had been merely whispers when Nick became involved but with his help they had grown into a powerful force. However, Nick’s status changed when he betrayed them all and slaughtered the Caliph. That was one of the darkest days of Farsi’s life. However, this day was one of his brightest. From darkness had come light. His faith was strong and with Nick’s help, the Caliph’s grand plan would win the day.

Nick stepped forward and drew Farsi close. “He was dying brother. Cancer was killing him.”

Farsi stepped back, confused.

Nick drew him back. “The Caliph, he wanted to die a warrior, not a sick old man.”

Farsi smiled as Nick shed even more light on the darkness.

“Allahu Akbar!”

“Allahu Akbar,” agreed Nick.

“Now my brother, please clear the corridor and staircase. I don’t want to be seen leaving. And remember, have your men ready for me. Prepare your warriors and yourself for what will be our finest hour. But only the truly faithful. This is Allah’s war. They must want and need to die for Allah. We have no room for the weak or those lacking the courage of Allah!”

“We will be ready!” he promised as he left to clear Nick’s exit.

Nick checked his weapons were safely stored. He then removed his Berretta and placed it in his satchel along with the small metal briefcase. He grabbed the walking cane that he stored with his weapons and waited a further five minutes for the coast to be clear before leaving.

On exiting the building, he gained a limp and with the help of the walking stick, he disappeared into the night.

Frankie stared at the screen, watching over and over again Nick spewing his vile hatred and plunging the syringe into the man’s arm. Each time she watched, a shiver ran down her spine and a knot in her stomach had her reaching for her womb. She bore that monster’s child; it was growing inside her. She opened up a new search window and typed ‘abortion clinic’ into the address bar. A number of options appeared. She closed the window without looking. It wasn’t the baby’s fault, the baby was an innocent.

The best thing she could do for the child was to make sure its father was stopped. Frankie pulled up her calendar. She kept a note of everywhere she had been with Nick. Their whirlwind romance over the last five months had been just that, a whirlwind. Every moment they had was spent together.

Three months earlier, they had been to Paris. Nick had an assignment that would take him away for a month. It would be the first time they were to be parted since they had started dating and included a few days of business in Paris before moving on to Afghanistan. Frankie had taken a week’s vacation and surprised him. She thought back to how shocked he had been when she had appeared at his hotel room. She tried to pull up the memory of his face, the image of shock. She had forgotten about it but the shock had been such that she thought she might have interrupted him with another woman. However, his room had been empty and she had just pushed it to the back of her mind. The next few days had been some of the most memorable of her life.

As the memory came flooding back, the image sharpened. It was shock alright, not at the surprise, but at being caught out. Nick hadn’t been with another woman. He had been planning his escape all those months earlier and she had interrupted his plans.

She had surprised him at a small hotel near one of the main railway stations, the Gare de Lyon. After her arrival, they had moved to the recently refurbished Hotel De Crillon, one of the most salubrious Parisian hotels and her mother’s favorite. While he worked, she shopped and in the evenings, they spent the most wonderful time together enjoying Parisian nightlife. It had been a special few days prior to his departure for a month. The same month that had propelled him to becoming a secret superstar by assassinating Zahir al Zahrani, the head of Al Qaeda.

On the second day of their Paris trip, she remembered something strange had happened and again she had just set it aside. He had left early and returned late in the afternoon. She had spent the morning shopping and then went for a run. She had told him in the evening of how she had run seven miles that lunchtime. He had joked about how funny that was as he had had lunch with a Mr. Rahn. He then expressed concern about her being caught in the terrible hailstorm. There had been no hailstorm in Paris; it had been a beautiful clear day until after three. Only then had any clouds appeared.

She picked up the handset and asked for the NOAA, National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. She gave them the date, a rough timescale and asked them if they could look into it. The operator was helpful but pointed out numerous times that it was a Sunday and that he’d do his best.

Armed with the little she had, she approached Special Agent Reid, the head of the Joint Terrorism Task Force and as the hunt for Nick had overshadowed every other terrorist activity, she was Turner’s Number Two and lead agent on the operations floor. Frankie explained the trip to Paris and the probably innocuous weather reference. Reid listened, one eye remaining on her screen as the updates from thousands of agents and law enforcements agencies scrolled continually across her screen.

“I know it’s crazy but I just remembered it because when I said I had run that day at lunchtime, he had laughed as he had had lunch with a Mr. Rahn,” added Frankie to put a bit more context around why she had remembered the weather being different.

Reid’s second eye left her screen and stared at Frankie, giving her her full attention.

“He had lunch with a Mr. Rahn?”

Frankie nodded.

Reid stood up. “Charlie?” she called across to another female FBI Agent a few desks away.

‘Yes?”

“What was the name of the bank that the prince made the transfer to, earlier this morning?”

Charlie rifled through some notes. “Rahn & Boderman, but it was just from one internal private account to another.”

“Thanks,” said Reid, her excitement building. They were onto something.

“$250 million dollars,” added Charlie.

Reid nodded. That part she had remembered.

“Frankie, sorry to interrupt, but I’ve got a guy from NOAA holding for you, he said it’s urgent,” said an agent who had come to find her.

Frankie thanked him and took the call on Reid’s phone. After listening to the NOAA operator, she thanked him for his quick work.

“There were heavy hailstorms on that day in Southwest Germany and Northeast Switzerland,” said Frankie, updating Reid on the latest intel.

Reid pulled up a map on her computer and found what she expected.

“Northeast Switzerland, Zurich. The location of the Rahn & Boderman private bank.”

Reid called Dan Gimenez over. An internet search and a call to Interpol resulted in the home phone number of a Mr. Paul Rahn, one of the main partners of the Rahn & Boderman Bank. After numerous inquiries into whom he was talking to, would do nothing more than confirm that the prince was an account holder. As for the money transfer, he was far more interested in how the US authorities were aware of the transaction. Getting nowhere, Dan informed Rahn that the US government would do everything within its power to ruin his bank should he fail to cooperate. Rahn hung up.

“Shit,” said Reid.

“He’ll call back,” said Dan assuredly.

“I don’t think so.”

Dan pulled up a web page and pointed to the entry for Rahn & Boderman. “That’s why he’ll call back. Unlimited Liability.”

Reid looked confused.

“Very few Swiss banks still operate on that model. Basically, the partners have full responsibility for any losses the bank incurs. Just look up Wegelin Bank, they were the oldest private bank in Switzerland,” said Dan. “I emphasize
were
.”

Before Reid or Frankie had a chance to look it up, Paul Rahn called back.

“I have a meeting scheduled tomorrow morning with the recipient account holder.”

“Do you have a name?” asked Dan.

“In a safe in my office. All I have is the account number in my diary.”

“Can you get me the name?”

“Of course, when we open the bank in the morning,” he replied, ending the call again.

“Thanks, Dan, you’re a star,” said Reid. She grabbed Frankie’s arm. “Let’s go,” she said, taking her notes and heading up to Turner’s office.

Frankie popped her head into Carson’s office on the way. “Come on, you’ll want to hear this!”

Once in Turner’s office, Turner and Carson both listened as Frankie and Reid updated them on the latest discovery.

Carson checked his watch when the two finished. “Twelve hours until the bank opens its doors.”

“Plenty of time to get there,” replied Turner. “I’ll get the jet prepped.”

Carson shook his head. “Mine’s bigger than yours, we can take a team with us.” He walked onto the gangway and shouted down to the floor below. “Flynn, my office! Oh and I suppose you’d better bring Barry,” he added, noting Barry’s interest peak.

“Ladies, can you hold the fort?” asked Turner.

Reid nodded.

“Frankie, you’re coming,” said Carson, walking back into the office, answering for Frankie before she could respond.

Monday 7
^th
July

After a circuitous route checking for any tails, Nick retrieved his second planted vehicle just a mile from Farsi’s stronghold. The small Peugeot had seen better days but the simplicity of its engine ensured it started instantly on reconnection of its battery. Not a soul on the planet knew of his new mode of transport or where he was headed. He checked the mirror and didn’t recognize the face looking back at him. So far, everything had run perfectly to plan. He tuned the radio to Beur FM, an Arab radio station, and headed south.

His meeting with the banker was penciled in for 8:30 a.m., which gave him plenty of time to avoid the main routes and once again take the less obvious ones. It was a long drive but he’d rested well through the day and would have plenty of time to sleep after his meeting.

The C-32 landed at 6:30 a.m. local time in Zurich. The military version of the Boeing 757 was designed for VIP travellers and so delivered a fresh and energized team ready for the task ahead. One of Barry’s SOG teams met them at the airport with transport for the thirty operatives Flynn had brought with them. Another SOG team was already in position, preparing the ground around the bank and scoping out positions for the rest of the team.

A car awaited the rest of the team. Their role was to meet with Rahn at his home and explain what was required of him. If possible, Nick would be taken down before reaching the bank. However, should the opportunity for a clean takedown not be available, they would take him during his meeting with Rahn.

Their arrival at Rahn’s home had been less than welcoming. Their visiting him at his private residence at any hour was outrageous and at 7:00 a.m. even more so. He had insisted that they leave and would meet them at his office at 8:25 when he normally arrived for work. Turner and Frankie had complied with his request and turned to retrace their steps to the waiting car. Carson, however, had not.

Five minutes later, he called them back to a far more receptive Rahn, who invited them in.

“What did you say to him?” Frankie whispered to Carson.

“I just told him he wouldn’t be the first banker I had arranged to disappear in Lake Zurich.” He smiled wickedly. Frankie had a horrible feeling that there was far more truth to that statement than should have been the case. It certainly had transformed Paul Rahn and begged the question of how many Swiss bankers had vanished over the years for Carson to be taken at his word.