FATAL eMPULSE Page 16

  Paul shook his head. “No way. I could be fired—or worse—for giving you any information on this detail.”

  “You owe me.” Beck leaned closer. “Take a look at the tapes you have in the White House and see if you can match up the caller to a particular phone in the time sequences I just gave you. Maybe we will get lucky and catch this caller on tape. Let me know what you find out.”

  Grimacing, Paul nodded and threw his remaining lunch in a garbage can. “I’ve just lost my appetite. I’ll be in touch.”

  As Beck watched his friend walk away, he reached into his pocket, withdrew a cell phone, and pressed a speed-dial number. “Beck here. Is this phone line protected?”

  “Mr. B., I’m hurt you’d ask.” Willy chuckled. “Only the Man upstairs can get in on this conversation.”

  “Are you absolutely sure they can’t backtrack your hacks to get that information in the White House?”

  “Now, you’re disrespecting me. No one, not even NSA, can figure out who hacked that system. Why?”

  “I just gave that information to the Secret Service. And I know they’ll try to track you down.”

  Laughing, Willy made choking noises. “Bring it on, my man. Bring it on. NSA should’ve hired me when they had a chance. Now, I’m spoken for.”

  “So how did you get them?”

  Willy snorted. “You want me to give away my secrets?”

  “Just enough so I know we’re covered when I get called on the carpet by my bosses.”

  “I belong to a very select group of computer specialists—”

  “You mean hackers?”

  “Like I said, I have a select group of computer specialists who like to figure how to get through the back door of some very private servers.”

  “Like the White House?”

  “Exactly. Now, the feds can be sort of tricky, Mr. B., but they make mistakes like everyone else. For example, the call you wanted me to track. One of my contacts stumbled upon access codes to a toll-free government number that was used—in addition to another agency—to a White House telephone exchange. This idiot you wanted to track could have used a more secure phone line with all the encryption he needed for a private conversation. Instead, he used this toll-free number that was easier to break than Elijah Price in the Unbreakable movie with Bruce Willis.”

  “Huh? Willy, what are you talking about?”

  “You know, Mr. B., that flick where Samuel L. Jackson plays that guy who shatters bones every time he trips and falls.”

  “Willy, I have no idea—”

  “Never mind, Mr. B. I guess this caller you are interested in didn’t want to use a phone number that might be traced back to him so he thought he’d trick the system. But he can’t trick me and my people.”

  “Okay, Mr. Humble. I trust you know what you’re talking about. If you are wrong, then you and I might be sharing prison cells. Get this information to Jack and Gerrit as best you can. Once I know who made those phone calls from the White House, I’ll pass it on.”

  “Roger that, G-man.”

  Chapter 29

  February 26

  Washington, D.C.

  The statue of Abe Lincoln peered over his shoulder as Beck sat on the steps of the memorial. At times, he felt like this great statesman might be sharing his thoughts about where the country might be headed.

  A sick feeling in Beck’s stomach had been eating away at him all day.

  Lights shimmered off the reflection pool below, the water’s darkened surface casting light into the night like a mirror without allowing any illumination of its depth. Much like the case he and the others were trying to figure out right now.

  Putting all the pieces together, a picture started to form in his brain, a picture much like a horror film that slowly evolved until there was no escape for its victims. If he was right, a lot of people might die—hundreds of thousands. He could not understand why Iran, Syria, and Russia might be willing to take such a risk. How was easier to figure out. But the why had him stumped. It just did not make sense.

  A man approached in the darkness, the lights behind Beck from the memorial casting a yellow glow. Beck stood. “I’m glad you could make it. We really need to talk.”

  Frank Collord slowly walked up the steps, stopping a few feet away. “Do you really think it is wise meeting out in the open like this?”

  Beck looked over his shoulder at the replica of Abraham Lincoln. “Me and Abe have no secrets, Frank. And the bad guys, I think they’re so far ahead of us that they figure we’ll never catch up.”

  “What do you want to know, Malloy?”

  Beck motioned to the steps next to him before sitting down. Frank closed the gap and sat down. Beck turned. “First, I need to know whether I can really trust you.”

  Frank gave him an irritated look. “Let’s not play games. How can I prove that to you? You can’t just take my word for it?”

  Beck shook his head. “At this point, I’ll just have to go on instinct. The stakes have been raised to such a level that I can’t even contemplate the consequences if we fail. But we are starting so far back in this race, I don’t know whether we’ll ever catch up. Time is running out, and I can’t make all the pieces fit together.”

  Frank looked warily at Beck. “There are some things I just can’t share. You know that.”

  “I don’t think you have a choice, Frank. You have to help us understand. And you need to tell me right now.”

  “Tell you what? Exactly what do you want from me?”

  “I want to know we can trust you. I want to know you will have our backs.”

  Slumping, Frank rubbed his forehead. “Beck, I’ve been covering your backside for years. Who planted an idea in your supervisor’s brain to let you work these special projects? You think Sutherland suddenly got brave and let you work alone? That idea came down through the ranks from me.”

  Beck raised his eyebrows. “That was your idea?

  “Who do you think watched over Gerrit and Alena in Miami? If I had not stepped in, the two of you would still be in lockup while Miami PD figured out that mess.”

  Beck felt some of the tension leave his chest. Maybe he could work with this guy. “I’ve learned that the president is traveling to Israel in the coming weeks. My guess is he’ll meet with the Israeli prime minister.” He saw Frank give him a sharp look. “Is that true?”

  Frank folded his hands across his knees and took a deep breath. “I can neither—”

  “Shove it, Frank. Right now, our little group is risking their butts on foreign soil to find out the truth. To stop whatever is coming down the pike. They just got shot up today, and were able to scramble to safety unharmed. But what about next time? How long do we need to operate in the dark?”

  Frank took another deep breath. “Here’s the situation. You’re right. The president is going to travel to Israel in the next few weeks. Only those with a need-to-know were supposed to know about this. How did you find out?”

  “You’ve got a leak in the White House. I believe that Brandimir Kisyov knows about the visit. If he knows, you can bet Atash Hassan and Ivan Yegorov know about it. It’s not like past presidents haven’t traveled to Israel before. Why the big secret? And what are Hassan and Yegorov pushing Syria to do for them? Are they considering…”

  Looking up into the clear sky, Frank seemed to be weighing his options before continuing this conversation. Beck tried to be patient. Finally, Frank faced Beck once again.

  “You’re not far off track here. But it is more than just these two men. It is about two nations about to go to war.”

  “Iran and Israel?”

  Frank nodded.

  “But they’ve been posturing for years. Why now?”

  “You’re a smart agent. Figure it out.”

  Anger tightened Beck’s chest. “Cut the crap, Frank. Are you telling me that Iran—?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I am telling you. Iran may be intending to launch before the Israelis.”

  “When?
In a few weeks?”

  “And Iran knows that Israel knows,” Frank said.

  “Is the president trying to talk Israel down?”

  Frank shook his head. “Since the last administration did everything it could to embarrass and isolate Israel, President Chambers is trying to mend bridges, show Israel that our country intends to stand by them—no matter what.”

  “Man, oh man. Is Israel about to launch?”

  Frank shrugged a shoulder and looked away. “We don’t know. Regardless, President Chambers will indicate by his visit that they will support Israel up to and including joining them in protecting Israel from any and all attacks.”

  “Our military?”

  “Already deployed in what the world believes is a major training exercise in the Middle East.”

  “How does Syria play into this? Why would they jump in and take the brunt of Israel’s air strikes and let Iran sit back and watch?”

  “That’s what we don’t know right now. It may be that they know a strike from Syria would be much quicker than an attack from Iran, or maybe there will be a one-two punch. Syria strikes first. Iran follows with a more massive and devastating arsenal. That’s why it is so critical to get Gerrit and the others inside Syria to find out. And to stop what may amount to a domino effect—first Syria knocking out Israel’s warning system, then Israel blindly trying to retaliate, then Iran delivering the final blow.”

  Beck shook his head. “So where does that leave us?”

  “Everything depends upon you, Gerrit, and the others.”

  “Man, talk about David and Goliath.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in God.”

  Beck shot him a look of surprise. “Just a figure of speech, Frank.”

  “Hey, I did a thorough workup on you. Had to know what made you tick before we started to work together.”

  A wry smile crossed Beck’s face. “So since we’re working together, tell me about yourself, Frank. Who do you work for?”

  Frank matched Beck’s smile. “I work for the people of the United States of America.”

  “Before I start waving the flag, exactly which people of the USA do you work for?”

  Standing, Frank stretched his arms. “I carry enough power to get you anything you need to stop this threat.”

  “There is only one office I know that can promise—”

  “Leave it alone, Beck. Just know I’ll have your back. Now, let’s help Gerrit and the others stay alive and find out what we need to do to stop World War III.”

  Chapter 30

  February 27

  Dubai, United Arab Emirates

  A violet hue in the eastern sky hinted that dawn was on its way. Gerrit stood, coffee in hand, looking from the eighteenth floor of the high-rise toward the open sea. In the far distance, he knew Iran, in all its beauty and hate, lay on the other side of that body of water. He was about to lay into his uncle about his connection with Frank Collord when Willy contacted them with a message from Beck.

  Willy reported that Beck learned about a meeting in Israel between President Chambers and Prime Minister Shalev in just a few weeks. Beck was starting to put the pieces together, and he desperately needed to meet with Frank. That name again! He hoped Beck would be able to give them some information about what was happening. So far, they were wandering in the dark out here.

  Jack was still in Tel Aviv gathering intelligence. Gerrit must try to hook up with the colonel. Some of the puzzle started to make sense after he learned about the meetings between Brandimir, Hassan, and Yegorov and that meeting Hassan had with the Syrian, Raed al-Azmah. Time was critical. Here they were stuck in Dubai. They must get across that border.

  Gerrit took another sip of coffee as he tried to analyze what went wrong yesterday. If that hotel had any adequate security cameras, Dubai police investigators must be distributing photos of Alena and him throughout the city. They must have found the stolen Lamborghini by now.

  He chuckled when he thought of the getaway vehicle Alena grabbed. Definitely a step up from Bonnie and Clyde.

  How had the gunmen known about Alena, and who leaked the information? He had been rough on Shakeela last night. They may have had their difficulties in Iran, but she was always committed to the mission. He tried to work out the options, listing a matrix in his mind of probabilities based on a number of factors: number of people involved in this operation, number of agencies alerted to their plans and the possibility of using technology to get to the bottom of this puzzle.

  But why had they not all been targeted? Maybe they only knew the location where Gerrit’s group was supposed to meet and had been provided photos of the four of them. Unfortunately, Alena showed up first and became the primary target. So why didn’t they just wait until all four targets met at the hotel before acting? Maybe the attackers’ information was not complete?

  He heard a door open and close down the hall. Someone was coming toward him. Shakeela entered. “Good morning.” She eyed his coffee. “Any more of that left?”

  He nodded toward the kitchen. “A fresh pot, still hot.”

  She poured herself a cup and then turned to watch the first rays of sun starting to break the horizon. It looked like it was going to be clear and balmy. He saw a tanker churning through the water on its way to the Strait of Hormuz and open sea.

  Shakeela, hands cupping her drink, came and stood next to him. “It is so beautiful from here. So…quiet.”

  He glanced at her and then returned his gaze across the blue waters. “It is nice. Not like our little excursion to that little Iranian town in the middle of nowhere.”

  Natanz, a small town in the center of that nation, was where Iran housed a large underground enrichment facility for their uranium centrifuge program. Shakeela had tagged Gerrit to assist in a recon of the facility for intelligence purposes. It was an arid land, far from any water. They barely made it out alive.

  A paramilitary brigade of Iran’s Revolutionary Guard—which controls the country’s missile program security—must have been alerted by villagers who spotted Shakeela and him snooping around. The guard rolled out and began a house-to-house search, only to come up empty. An unwitting farmer gave them a ride out of town in the back of his run-down pickup truck, the bed filled with smelly sheep.

  “I remember,” she said, softly. “Those sheep smelled awful.”

  He glanced back at her, trying to put aside his memories of that operation. “We need to talk about yesterday. How those men knew about us.”

  “How can I help?” Her tone telegraphed a warning.

  “Either we were tagged and bugged, or someone in your organization passed that information before we even met you.”

  She placed her cup on an end table and sat on a plaid fabric couch that faced the bank of windows. He sat next to her. Waiting for her reply, he studied her features. Shakeela’s Persian-Azeri ancestry gave her an alluring, almost exotic beauty. At one time, he felt intoxicated by her beauty. She never really grasped the effect her looks had on men. She was always focused on the moment, on the mission—just like now.

  “I know we left on bad terms, Gerrit, but I would hope that you still trust my judgment.”

  “I do, but look at the sequence of events yesterday. How do you explain it?”

  Angrily, she snatched up her coffee cup, again cupping it in her hands. “I’ve been over it a hundred times. I could not get to sleep because this kept nagging me.”

  “Just walk me through how you set this up. Who did you tell? Who had to okay this mission back at headquarters?”

  She put her feet up on a low-lying coffee table and leaned back in the couch. “As you are aware, the 9/11 attacks caught the CIA off guard, scrambling to protect its position within the federal bureaucratic system. Trying to save their budget. The legislature gave up trying to hold the CIA accountable back in the sixties. After the furor raised from the arrests of CIA employees Aldrich Ames and Harold James Nicholson and the damage those two did to our overseas operations,
the Agency began following a risk-aversion policy that significantly curtailed our operations—particularly those non-State Department officers like myself.”

  Gerrit rubbed his cheek, feeling the stubble of his beard. “Non-State Department officers? What does that mean?”

  She grimaced. “At one time, the CIA’s overseas operations were almost exclusively handled through CIA personnel operating under diplomatic immunity through the State Department. Their method of gathering intelligence meant rubbing shoulders with foreign personnel at cocktail parties, banquets, and social gatherings.”

  “Gentlemen spies?”

  “Exactly. More protection. Less risk. But we needed to get our case officers out in the field, developing human sources on foreign soil until we could start getting good, hands-on intelligence that might warn us of trouble—like 9/11. After that national tragedy, Congress wanted us to develop these kinds of sources and gave us billions of dollars to use toward that end.”

  “So has our intelligence gathering improved?”

  Shakeela shook her head. “At first, things seemed to get better. I was one of the few case officers stationed overseas outside the State Department, first in the Middle East and then other parts of the world. You could not believe the layers of management a case officer needs to cut through to get operational plans approved. Say I wanted to make telephone contact with a target from a rogue nation. I must write a memorandum of my intended telephone call—stating what I wanted to discuss—then get the green light from many layers of managers at my home station, including a layer of managers of the source country I might need to travel to in order to make contact with that target. If anyone in all those contacts gave me a thumbs-down, my operation would be killed before it started.”

  “How does the CIA get anything done?”

  “More important, how does the CIA give the president critical information in a timely manner when our country needs it most—like the conspiracy of 9/11 or whether Saddam Hussein really possessed weapons of mass destruction before we attacked?”