The Nostradamus Secret (Danforth Saga Book 3), page 7
But now, for the first time, newscasts were reporting that an organization calling itself The Sons of Ali was taking credit for the assassinations. In a written message delivered to the Al Jazeera TV station in Yemen, someone calling himself Al Da’i had said: By killing symbols of the corrupt American system, we tell all Americans that no one can hide from the justice we will mete out against all infidels.
Bob heard the doorbell chime as he reflected that he had never heard of The Sons of Ali or Al Da’i.
“Look who’s here,” Liz announced as she led Jack and Tanya into the den. Bob stood and shook their hands, but immediately looked back at the television and started pacing. Liz touched Bob’s shoulder, glanced at the couch, and tipped her head, directing him to sit down. Liz sat next to him. Jack and Tanya took chairs across from the couch. When the news report ended, Bob muted the sound.
“Let me guess,” he said. “You were in the neighborhood and decided to drop by?”
“Hah,” Liz blurted, glaring at Jack. “When was the last time in the thirty years we’ve known Jack that he just happened to drop by?”
Jack looked like a little boy caught with his hand in a cookie jar. He opened his mouth, but before he could say a word, Liz held up both hands to stop him.
“I can’t believe you brought Tanya with you for protection,” she said. “What kind of person do you think I am? Sure, I wanted Bob to retire, but did you really think I would object to his helping out when our country needs him?”
Jack’s eyes widened in surprise. He aimed a self-deprecating smile at Liz. “How’d you know?” he asked her.
“Jack, me boy,” Liz said, feigning an Irish accent, “I know you too well after all these years.”
Bob wanted to laugh, but he was enjoying Jack’s discomfort.
Liz said to Jack, “Maybe you should get it over with.” She then stood and said, “I think I’ll get us something to drink.”
“I’m really sorry I have to ask this of you,” Jack said, “but Liz hit it square on the head. Your country needs you.”
Bob nodded at him. “I was sorry to hear about Jonathan,” he said. He looked at Tanya and added, “I heard you were there, at the airport.”
“He was a great guy,” she said. “A real patriot. A great boss.”
“Jonathan Gates wasn’t like the other victims,” Jack said. “His murder sends a clear message that if they can take out the CIA’s Chief of Special Ops, how safe can anyone be?”
Bob shook his head. “I don’t get any of this. This celebrity assassination campaign is a whole new tactic, at least here in the U.S. But Gates was the opposite of a celebrity. Outside the Agency, hardly anyone knew who he was.”
Liz entered with three glasses of iced tea on a tray. She placed it on the coffee table and handed glasses all around. She started to leave the room, but Bob stopped her.
“I think you should stay,” he said. “This is going to affect you, too.”
Liz sat down next to Bob and stared at Jack.
“We need you back,” Jack said. “Your team is still in place.”
“To do what?” Bob asked. “These assassinations fall under the jurisdiction of Homeland Security, the FBI and local law enforcement agencies.”
“The release through Al Jazeera tells us there’s foreign involvement in these killings, and that means we have a role to play. And there’s something else that I believe, something that no one wants to address just yet.”
“What’s that?” Bob asked.
Jack hesitated. “You know me, Bob. I don’t go off half-cocked. But I’ve got a feeling deep inside that’s telling me these killings are more than the work of some loony terrorist group.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve shared your thoughts with the Director.”
Jack just stared at Bob and shrugged.
“You clear our involvement with this assassination business with the FBI Director?”
“I’ve already talked with him,” Jack said. “I promised to feed him any information we get on this. Since 9-11 we’re in a new era of cooperation with the FBI.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Yeah, so will I, but at least the FBI Director is saying the right stuff. We have to work together to stop these killings.”
“You ever hear of The Sons of Ali?” Bob asked.
“Yes, but only in whispers. They’ve been so low profile that none of us were sure they really existed. They’ve assassinated a few high-level politicians in the Middle East who dared to say anything good about the Israelis or promoted democratic reforms. But we don’t know who this Al Da’i might be.”
“When do I start?” Bob asked.
“How about tomorrow morning?” Jack answered.
“Whoa, wait a minute, you two,” Liz said. “I’ve got a couple questions.”
Uh oh, Bob thought. Here it comes.
“What exactly will Bob be doing?” she asked.
“He’ll assume his old job, running Special Ops.”
“No, I mean, what will he really be doing? In other words, is he going to be out in the field?”
Jack raised his hands and shook his head. “No field ops for Bob,” he said.
Bob suppressed a smile when Liz arched her eyebrows in obvious disbelief.
“He’ll be at Langley, supervising all Special Ops projects, but almost exclusively focusing on the assassinations.”
“Second question,” she said. “How long is the assignment?”
“I won’t lie to you, Liz. This assignment will end when the killings stop. And when we identify this Al Da’i character. That could be a long time.”
“Okay?” Bob asked Liz.
She patted Bob’s thigh and glared at Jack. “No, it’s not okay. But it’s the right thing for you to do,” she said as she returned her gaze to Bob.
Bob took Liz’s hand. “I’ll be in tomorrow,” he told Jack, “but on three conditions.”
Jack’s lips pressed together. “What—”
Bob raised a hand to stop Jack. “First, I report to you and no one else. Anyone wants something from me, they go through you.”
Jack answered quickly. “Agreed.”
“Plus, no budget restrictions.”
“Agreed.”
“And, finally, I get my old team back—Tanya, Frank, Raymond and all our staff and field agents—and I can recruit anyone I want to beef up the unit.”
“You got it,” Jack said, smiling. He turned to Tanya and said, “I assume you won’t have a problem working for Bob again?”
Tanya smiled. “I think I can deal with that.”
TUESDAY
WEEK ONE
CHAPTER 20
Harban Metyar was close to a total emotional breakdown. It was late at night and again he was the only one left in his Pup ‘n Brew headquarters in Miami. He’d cleaned the sniper rifle three times and loaded and unloaded the ammunition into the weapon’s magazine a dozen times. The faces of his father, mother, and sister, as he imagined them being tortured, continually scrolled through his brain.
In his youth, he’d been impatient for the day when he would be called upon to give his life for the cause. The Taliban, the mullahs in the mosques and madrasas, had indoctrinated him with the idea that martyrdom would usher him into the glory of heaven, that martyrdom resulting from killing an infidel would make the glory even greater. Americans had been portrayed as the ultimate enemy. He had been taught that they all hated Islam and wanted all Muslims wiped from the face of the earth. Metyar had carried these beliefs to the United States, where he learned the truth. And he came to realize that those who had told him these lies were neither stupid nor misinformed. They’d known he would discover their lies once he went to the United States. But it was quickly made clear to him that his parents and sister would suffer the consequences if he failed to perform when called upon.
He wished he could talk with his American wife about his predicament, but she hadn’t been raised as he had been. She couldn’t possibly understand. He racked his brain for someone he could consult. The names of one person after another tracked through his head, but he discarded them one by one. Until he suddenly remembered his father had once mentioned in a letter that a cousin of his had moved to the United States and was now in the U.S. Army. He’d forgotten the cousin’s name, but he’d kept all of his father’s letters.
He packed the rifle and ammunition in the trunk of his car and drove home. After kissing his wife and three children, he proceeded directly to his home office. He lifted a metal box from the bottom drawer of his desk and shuffled through the letters there until he finally found the one he was looking for.
“You should contact this man if you, your wife, or one of your children becomes ill. His family is from your mother’s village. His mother is your mother’s cousin. Family is always important, especially when you are far from home. And it would not be good for you to go to an infidel farangi doctor.”
Metyar knew censors had read the letters sent to him. That’s why they often included positive comments about the Taliban, even though Metyar’s father hated them. And even though the Taliban-led central government had been overthrown, Metyar knew the Taliban continued to be a threat, especially in his father’s village.
The man his father had suggested he contact was his cousin, Dr. Firoz Hammadi, in Fayetteville, North Carolina.
CHAPTER 21
FBI agent Alec Sykes was beginning to think he had pissed off somebody at headquarters. He’d spent ten hours a day for the past five months in Fort Wayne, Indiana, tapped into the telephone lines of the All-American Business Center. He’d been transferred from Chicago, taken off a sting operation involving political corruption. He’d put his heart and soul into that assignment, and then, due to the infinite stupidity of some asshole higher up the food chain, he’d been reassigned to Fort Wayne.
When he’d called his wife in Chicago just two days earlier, he’d told her that if he didn’t get assigned to something more important than this Fort Wayne waste of time, he would resign. He hadn’t busted his ass for two years at Harvard Business School getting his MBA to spend his life holed up in a dilapidated second-floor apartment spying on some jerkwater copy shop just because the owner had converted to Islam and changed his name to Ahmed Zahedi. So what if a few Middle Eastern types were among Zahedi’s customers.
To Alec, it seemed only natural that Muslims would spend their money at a shop owned by a fellow Muslim.
He removed his headphones—the damned things hurt his ears—and stared at the monitor that displayed email traffic going into and out of the copy shop. He almost wished a customer would send something pornographic. Anything to break the monotony. At the moment, there was nothing going on—no phone calls, no email—a lack of activity not unusual for the All-American Business Center this late in the day. The shop closed at 8 p.m. It was now nearly 7 p.m. Fort Wayne was a family town. Not much happened in the evenings. Alec knew the owner closed at 8:00 so he could go, as he did six nights a week, to late services at the neighborhood mosque.
The door behind Alec slammed and he instantly smelled garlic. Without turning around, he said, “You keep eating that shit and you’re going to die of a heart attack.”
“You don’t have a clue about food, Sykes,” Special Agent Johnny Scarletti said. “You go ahead and eat that rabbit food of yours. I’ll stick with Mama Carlita’s Italian.”
Alec groaned. “That all they have at Mama Carlita’s, meatball sandwiches?”
Johnny touched his fingers to his lips and loudly kissed them. He sat down in the center of the room at a card table that supported a small portable television. He switched the set on, turning the channels until he found a news program with a talking head and a guest billed as a counter-terrorism expert.
“Let me read you the latest communiqué from The Sons of Ali,” the host said to his guest. “I’d like your thoughts on it.”
We have punished another three symbols of American arrogance—Katarina Torrez, Daniel Henry, and Senator Elizabeth Curry. By killing icons of the corrupt American system, we send a message to all Americans that no one can hide from the justice we will mete out against all infidels.
“Those bastards,” Johnny muttered through a mouthful of meatball sandwich.
Alec leaped to his feet and ran behind Johnny to watch the television. “What did he just say about killing icons?”
Johnny finished chewing the food in his mouth. Then: “Killing icons of our corrupt system.”
Alec scrambled back to his computer and, holding his breath, began scrolling through all the email messages sent through the copy shop during the past week. Air burst from his lungs at the same moment an email with the subject line Execute Icon popped up. It had been sent to: red1@icon.com. Then he moved down through the emails and found forty-nine more messages with the same subject line and addresses that went up to red50@icon.com.
“What are you doing?” Johnny asked.
“You need to look at this. I thought these messages were odd when I saw them a few days ago, but people send out all sorts of stupid shit in emails. I couldn’t see any relevance . . . .” Alec paused and finally added, “I got a bad feeling about this.”
CHAPTER 22
Bob checked his watch and saw that it was almost midnight. It had been one hell of a first day back at the Agency. He had finally gotten through a three-foot stack of files compiled on the assassination victims. It was necessary reading, but unproductive. He was more than ready to go home, but he had one more folder to go: Jonathan Gates’s.
In addition to the incident report on his murder and his personnel file, he’d asked his secretary to bring him all of Gates’s project files. But, so far, those hadn’t showed up.
Something kept gnawing at the edges of Bob’s brain. Something about Gates’s death just didn’t seem to fit. Gates was the antithesis of a celebrity. But that raised all sorts of other questions that Bob was too tired to deal with at the moment. He stood and slammed the Gates personnel folder on top of the others on the corner of his desk.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
WEDNESDAY
WEEK ONE
CHAPTER 23
Louis Berkhoff’s thoughts were a roiling mass of contradictions. He was proud of his forty years of service to government at the local, state, and federal levels. But he resented the years of sacrifice for relatively meager pay he’d given to the citizens of San Antonio, then to the state of Texas as a U.S. Senator, and now as Vice President of the United States. The only retirement he had coming was his federal pension, which wasn’t anything to sneeze at, but it sure wouldn’t allow him to live in the manner to which he’d become accustomed as Vice President. As a lawyer, he’d always respected the laws of the land and had always done the right thing, regardless of the temptation. As a sixty-six-year old with little charisma and mediocre political skills, he had no hope of being elected to succeed President Garvin at the end of Garvin’s second term. The upshot of all this was that Berkhoff knew that when Garvin left office, his own days as a national political figure would be over. Two years later, less than thirty percent of the American people would be able to remember his name.
So, Louis Berkhoff, heretofore a man of limited ambition, who had been appointed a U.S. Senator by the Governor of Texas to fill an unexpired term left open by the death of the popularly-elected senior senator from the state, and who had been picked as Garvin’s running mate because Garvin didn’t want a Vice President who would steal the limelight, had decided three months earlier that things had to change.
The decision to commit treason turned out to be easier than Berkhoff would have ever imagined. It started with a serendipitous event—a conversation with his old friend Archibald Marshall of the State Department. How it would end was anyone’s guess. The downside, assuming he wasn’t exposed and charged with treason, was $10,000,000 in a numbered Swiss bank account. The upside was his assumption of the U.S. Presidency if Garvin was no longer on the scene. All in all, Louis Berkhoff was pumped up on adrenaline and damned excited about his future. He figured everything would be perfect if the headaches and stomach pains would just go away.
Berkhoff removed from his suit coat pocket the cell phone that Marshall had given him. The phone was to be used only for communications between the two men, and only to pass on information of the greatest import, such as events relating to Iran. He pushed the auto-dial button on the phone and, after three rings, heard Marshall’s voice.
“Hello,” Marshall said.
“Archie, it’s—”
“I know; I recognize the number. What’s up?”
Berkhoff wasn’t used to being addressed so abruptly, but understood that his actions to date had co-opted his usual authority. Taking a $10,000,000 bribe had a tendency to do that. But if things worked out and he became President, he’d find a way to put Marshall in his place. Friend or no friend.
“Jonathan Gates’s replacement was announced this morning in the President’s intelligence briefing. Former agency employee named Robert Danforth. Gates actually took over for Danforth when he retired a few years ago. The Agency brought Danforth back to head up Special Ops, and, in particular, to spearhead the investigation into these assassinations.”
“And this is relevant to our situation?”
“Look, Archie, I may not be privy to everything that’s going on, but I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, either. These assassinations have got our Iranian friend’s fingerprints all over them. Danforth’s got one hell of a reputation for getting the job done. He took down that terrorist group, Greek Spring, that was going to blow up the Olympic Stadium in Athens back in 2004. Danforth’s a legend at the Agency. If you don’t want to warn Shahrani, that’s your business. I did what I was asked to do: Keep you informed of anything that might be important.”
