Vengeance: A Derek Stillwater Novel (Derek Stillwater Thrillers Book 8) (13 page)

Thirty-some odd hours after leaving
Gitmo, Derek found himself sitting in the plush leather seat of the Secretary of State’s plane as it lifted off from Andrews Air Force Base. The person sitting next to him had a title of something like assistant deputy undersecretary to the Deputy Secretary of Middle Eastern Policy, although Derek got lost in the subtitles. His name was Allen and he seemed to have a close personal relationship with his smartphone.

They were seated at tables that allowed them to stretch out and work, if they wanted to. Bottles of water and a bowl of fruit were at each table, all at taxpayers’ expense. In this part of the plane there were half a dozen reporters along for the ride with another dozen people, some of whom Derek recognized as agents with the Bureau of Diplomatic Security. The
BDS
had the same job for the State Department that the Secret Service had with the White House, although the
BDS
also oversaw security for U.S. embassies throughout the world.

The plane had reached cruising altitude and Derek was deciding how to time his sleep patterns for the flight to Russia when Secretary Mandalevo walked through that part of the cabin followed by Joe Moore. Mandalevo welcomed everyone on board. It was clear to Derek that this was part of the Secretary’s press schmoozing and didn’t pay a lot of attention to it. The Secretary shook hands with everyone. When he passed by, Joe Moore leaned down and said, “Come on up front for a while.”

Derek followed Moore through the Air Force communications center to the front of the plane, which was compartmentalized into offices for Moore, the Secretary, and a comfortable sleeping apartment for Mandalevo. They slipped into Moore’s office area and Moore gestured for Derek to have a seat across from him. As always, Moore looked buttoned up in a dark gray suit, white shirt and tie. The goatee was freshly trimmed. All business, but with a twinkle in his eye that suggested he enjoyed his job.

“Derek, how was Gitmo?”

“A travesty to American values.”

“I haven’t met many people in the intelligence community who are bleeding heart liberals, Derek.”

Derek shrugged. “You really wanted my opinions on enemy combatants and Guantanamo Bay, Joe?”

“No. I called you up here for a couple things. First, there was a huge battle in Aleppo yesterday. It’s hard for us to get a real handle on what happened, but the Syrian Army sent in an entire armored division and got ambushed in the middle of part of the city called Salaheddine. Syria lost about fifty tanks and maybe two thousand men and got chased out of Salaheddine. It was a real rout, from what we’re hearing.”

“Sounds ugly.”

“The reason I’m telling you, besides keeping you up-to-date on current events, is there is some evidence the whole thing was engineered by the Nazif Brigade. Not terribly reliable evidence, but some things the
NSA
is picking up.”

“Okay. Now they’re getting famous. Too bad nobody really—”

“There are reports of some sort of chemical gas being used. The rebels are blaming it on the Syrian government. The Syrian government is denying it.”

“What kind?”

“Early rumors? Maybe chlorine gas. No confirmation.”

“What’s the
OPCW
say?” The Organsation for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons was a chemical weapons watchdog organization headquartered in The Netherlands. From time to time Derek consulted with them and was good friends with several people with the organization. In his talks with the Russians earlier he had suggested they get the
OPCW
directly involved in any efforts to get Syria to unload their chemical weapons.

“They’re investigating. So that’s something I wanted you to know. But maybe more important ... hang on.” He fussed with his computer keyboard. A moment later a video appeared on one of the big flat-screen monitors on the wall. It was a close-up of a photograph of Derek’s face. His eyes were closed and he had a full beard, but it was Derek. Then another image, this one of John Hammond.

Obviously they had been taken while they were in captivity. Derek had no memory of them, but it looked like he was either unconscious or asleep when this was taken.

Then a voice began to speak in what Derek guessed was Arabic.

Moore paused the video. “
NSA
picked this up. It’s a radical Islamic website coming out of Egypt.”

“Do you have a translation?” Derek asked.

“Yes. I’ll give you the transcript. The gist, Derek, is you and Hammond have now been brought to the attention of most of the radical Islamists in the world. Our Islamic analysts say it’s not exactly a fatwa, but the Nazif Brigade has you both listed as Public Enemy #1 and #2. There’s a bounty on each of your heads.”

“How much?”

“It didn’t say. It says whoever kills you will be rewarded here on earth and in the afterlife.”

“I wonder how many virgins my life is worth.”

Moore sighed. “You know what? That’s the exact same thing John Hammond said.”

“Great minds … .So he knows.”

“Yes.
CIA
is putting him and his wife in a safe house for a while. Frankly, they don’t have your names and you both have beards in the photographs, so it’s possible no one will ever identify you. But we thought you should know.”

“I appreciate it. Anything else come off this website?”

“Well, they’re threatening the Secretary and the President and the American Satan and all the American people, although the last two are a little more general than you, Hammond, the President and the Secretary.”

Derek scratched his jaw with his free hand. His arm was still in a sling and his shoulder ached more than ever since seeing a doctor about it that morning. There was some indication of nerve damage. The doc had opened up the sutures, cleaned it out and sewn him back up again.

“How seriously are you taking it?” he asked.

“We take all of this kind of thing serious, Derek, but it’s not like the President and the Secretary don’t get threatened every day. The new part is you and Hammond. And you’re not exactly unknown in the terrorism world or the intelligence world, although like I said, the beard makes it a little trickier. Mostly I just want you to know and to pay special attention.”

“Will do.”

“Are you carrying?”

“Where I can.”

“Good. You’ve got the itinerary?”

“Russia, Egypt, Israel, Switzerland.”

“Egypt and Israel have a couple experts coming in to Moscow to take part in the discussions.”

“But the ‘official’ discussions will be in Geneva?”

“That’s the plan.” He tapped his computer. “And your plan for Libya’s chemical weapons is interesting. How much of it is the Russian experts’ ideas?”

“Some of it. But I don’t think we’ll get anywhere unless Russia gets to take most of the credit. And to be fair, they
are
Syria’s allies. Letting Russia and Syria take credit for it saves face.”

“It also plays into Eltsin’s strategy of putting himself in the center of the world stage. The president and our Russian people have some doubts.”

“Because they don’t get to take credit for it.”

Moore shrugged. “Partly.”

“But it would have the advantage of getting them to align with the rest of the international community and, in theory at least, get several tons of chemical weapons destroyed. From that point of view, I don’t really give a shit who gets to take credit for it.”

“Even if it gives Russia more clout than it deserves.”

Derek sighed. “This is why I hate politics, Joe. My job? Remember? Mostly it’s to investigate and stop chemical and biological weapons attacks. There’s nothing I like more than providing a feasible plan and having the politicians bitch over who gets credit for it.”

Moore laughed. “You are not a politician.”

Derek splayed his hands. “No shit.”

“It’s why the Secretary values you and why Johnston valued you, you know? You never suck up or tell them what they want to hear. You give your opinion. You might want to consider what happens if you’re running a company.”

Derek cocked his head. “You heard about that?”

“Johnston hasn’t been hiding it under a bushel. The party wonders if he’ll run for office, and there’s been some talk about him for Director of National Intelligence or the Security Council, but he has been notoriously cagy about that. The other rumors are that he’s going to start a company with you.”

“We’re discussing it.”

Moore grinned. “Made up your mind yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Well,” Moore said. “It’ll be interesting. When you get back, send that dumbass Allen Sipowicz up here, would you?”

“That guy sitting next to me?”

“Yeah. Miserable prick wants to rule the world, but he’s not smart enough.”

“So he’ll be a congressman some day.”

Moore laughed. “Quite possibly. I’ll talk to you later.”

Derek passed on the message to Sipowicz, took pain meds, read reports for an hour, then slipped on noise-canceling earphones and slept for the next nine hours. Not long later he was in a caravan of cars to the U.S. Embassy in Moscow.

He checked in with the embassy, went over his schedule, then left for a hotel. Most of the delegation was staying at the embassy, but he wanted the freedom to come and go with Lev, if necessary, so he checked into the Golden Ring Hotel, not far from the Embassy and the Kremlin. It was early evening and he was wide awake, so he called Konstantin, who said Lev was almost asleep, but he would swing by the hotel for a drink. He’d meet him at the Diamond Bar, which was small, but open twenty-four hours.

Derek took a shower, frustrated by the dressings on his shoulder, put on jeans and a T-shirt and went down to the bar, ordering a beer. He was restless. He figured he’d chat with Konstantin for a bit, maybe hit the gym or wander around the city for a while before trying to get some sleep. Tomorrow promised a day of meetings, probably unproductive ones, then a late-night plane flight to Egypt. He hoped to break away from all the meetings in Egypt to track down Imam Yusuf Effat.

The Diamond Bar was small, with a couple seats at the bar, but about seating for twenty in total. Red cushy chairs were placed next to small round glass-topped tables. Classical music played softly. It was a classy place, quiet, and there were maybe eight or nine people there sipping drinks and talking quietly. They looked like international business people in their expensive suits and omnipresent laptops and smartphones and Bluetooth headsets.

Konstantin appeared in khakis and a leather jacket, his beard neatly trimmed, head shaved. Derek stood up and the two men embraced in the European fashion. A waiter appeared instantly and Konstantin ordered vodka and sat down.

“You’re so Russian,” Derek said.

Gesturing at Derek’s beer, Konstantin said, “You’re so American. I didn’t expect you back so soon. Lev will be delighted.”

“It’ll be a short visit. I’m off to the Middle East tomorrow night.”

Konstantin frowned. “Syria?”

“Crisis du jour. But you know that already, right?” He knew with Konstantin in the
FSB
, when he was in the country on official business they would be keeping tabs on him.

“You impressed the analysts. They said your ideas were good and you kept your ego out of it.”

Derek shrugged best he could with his arm in a sling. “It’s all about getting crap done. No posturing.”

They talked for a while. Derek told him about Jim Johnston’s proposal.

“Interesting,” Konstantin said. “Are you going to do it?”

“Maybe. If so, I would very much be interested in you and Irina.”

“Here in Russia or in the U.S.?”

Derek sighed. “You know I would love it if Lev was living closer, but that’s an awful lot to ask.”

Leaning forward, Konstantin said, “But possibly something we would be very interested in.”

His friend’s response made his heart beat a little faster. “Really? Why?”

With his own very Russian shrug, Konstantin said, “Irina’s training in computer security. There’s work here, for certain, but let’s face it, the
FSB
is keeping an eye on her. And my standing isn’t what it was because of her and because of the accusations of terrorism.”

Which had been made by several of Konstantin’s comrades in the
FSB
who had been trying to overthrow the government.

“But Eltsin knows whose side you’re on.”

“He’s a politician. I don’t trust him and he only trusts me if it’s politically advantageous.”

“So you would be interested in moving to the U.S.?”

“When you know more, tell me more, Derek. Is it okay if I mention this to Irina?”

“Absolutely.”

“I will then.”

They talked for a while more and made plans for the next day. They shook hands and Konstantin left.

Derek ordered another beer, musing over the revelation that Konstantin and Irina would consider moving to the U.S. He was not so lost in thought that he didn’t notice the attractive woman walk into the bar, scan around the seats, then approach his table.

“Well hell,” he said, standing up. “Noa Shoshan. What’s it been, twenty years?”

“Twenty-two, I think. May I join you?”

He nodded and gestured to the chair. When he knew her, she was in her twenties, an agent with Israel’s Mossad. He had been with the
CIA
. They and Jim Johnston had spent a week or so driving around parts of Pakistan and Afghanistan looking for chemical weapons and other leftover ordnance the Russians may have left when they were chased out of the country by the mujahideen.

She was older, of course, as we he. Medium height, she still had short black hair and her eyes were brown. She appeared very strong, as if she worked out, and still fierce, which was what he remembered most about her. They had not gotten along that well during the mission.

“Still with Mossad?”

“I understand you’re with State now.” Her English was excellent with a slight accent. Back in Afghanistan she had spoken Urdu, Farsi and Arabic, as well as Hebrew.

“That’s not exactly an answer to my question. And let me ask right up front: Is this accidental?”