FATAL eMPULSE Read online

Damascus, Syria.

  I may die in this god-forsaken place because of a man whose name I’ll never know!

  Deep down, Scott Henderson knew the man’s name was not Richard Dunsmuir, but he could not prove it. Besides, he was in too deep to bail out, and he sensed Dunsmuir might be a dangerous man to cross. Their meeting in Honolulu less than a week earlier seemed like ages ago.

  He had never been in this part of the world before, and he never planned on visiting until this week. Dunsmuir had met him at his flight in Rome and marched him to another part of the terminal where he gave Henderson a one-way ticket to Syria and a contact once he touched down in Damascus. Once he landed and disembarked, two men dressed in black with bulges showing under their coats, latched on to him.

  They stayed by his side ever since, even when he went to use the bathroom. They both looked like a couple of stereotypical thugs in a B-rated Hollywood flick—pockmarked faces, angry looks, and shifty eyes. People in the near vicinity took one look at those two guys and gave them a wide berth.

  They shoved him into a white van with rusted doors, one man squeezed next to him, and the other took the wheel. The man next to Scott reeked of some kind of spicy seasoning and sweat, despite a chill from a slight snow shower falling outside. This was so not what he thought his Mediterranean trip might look like. He envisioned bikini-clad women decorating the French Riviera, white sandy beaches, and deep-blue sky peppered with wisps of cotton-white clouds. He thought of himself, sitting beside a pool, enjoying one of his favorite beverages from the bar.

  Instead, he’d be lucky if he even scored a beer and in Syria—forget the bikinis. He knew just enough of this country to know that he’d better watch himself, or some fanatic might take his head off. He was getting more nervous by the hour.

  The driver wheeled around slower vehicles, pounding on the horn and yelling words that Scott could only guess were profane. The man next to him never returned his gaze, just stared straight ahead like he was some kind of zombie.

  Scott scooted back in the seat. At least the money he earned on this trip would help him finally dig out of debt. Ever since he lost his job with the technology research company in California, he’d slipped deeper into a financial hole.

  How long would he be stuck in this giant sandbox? When Scott had tried to press Dunsmuir on how much time this would take, the man skirted the issue, saying a few days to a few weeks. Then Scott saw his destination printed on the ticket—Damascus. Before Scott could raise his voice, Dunsmuir quickly ushered him onto the plane headed for this forsaken part of the world. Fingers of cold air crept into the car. Bitterly, he folded his arms around his chest. This whole trip was a pain. He did not even dress for this kind of weather. Who ever heard of snow in the Middle East?

  “Where are we headed?” Scott asked, eyeing the man next to him. The guy looked like a neighbor next to Scott’s apartment, a man he dubbed Oscar because he felt like it. Like Oscar back home, this guy was heavyset, with a dark complexion, flashing black eyes, and slicked-back oily hair the color of midnight. Oscar never responded, but continued to stare forward, sullenly intent on the journey ahead.

  Scott nicknamed the driver Killer because the man looked like one. Both Syrians were dressed in black trousers, black shirts, and black faux-leather jackets, but Killer looked to be more dangerous. The man’s dark brown eyes were cold, lifeless, and his face devoid of any emotions. He spoke tersely in what sounded like Arabic, although Scott could not tell one language or dialect from another. They all sounded alike. Scott wanted to keep Killer at arm’s length if possible.

  Neither man responded to Scott’s question, so he studied the city of Damascus as they continued toward an unknown destination. They had taken a four-lane divided highway from the airport into the heart of the city. They passed under a street sign with some kind of Arabic scribble, and underneath that the name Damascus. No indication how far. He spotted a block of gray concrete with the greeting “Welcome to Damascus” etched on its face. First clue they reached the city limits.

  He saw a sign pointing to “Old Damascus” as they drove farther into the city, where they parked the van. Oscar motioned Scott to get out of the vehicle and grab his bag. “We walk,” Oscar said, as Killer tossed Scott’s belongs on the street and locked the van. Oscar shoved Scott. “Hurry! We go.”

  At least they spoke a little English. Scott grabbed his belongings Killer tossed on the ground and hurriedly tried to catch up. The streets seemed to close in on them as they approached an arched gateway, leading to what he saw identified as the Hamidiyeh souk, a marketplace protected from the weather by an arching corrugated iron roof running the length of the street.

  They hurriedly walked several blocks until they came to a labyrinth of tangled side streets and alleyways, teenagers lurking near the entrances, beckoning others to visit their stores deeper in the marketplace.

  It was as if Scott had walked back in time. The world here seemed to be one swirling mass of chaos: merchants crying out in their singsong hawking, cymbals clanging, and boys pushing two-wheeled carts laden with bowls and pottery, dresses and shoes, and any item that might catch the eye of potential buyers. The offending odors of overripe fruit and occasional raw sewage wafted out. Somewhere close, he picked up the rich aroma of strong coffee. He took a deep breath and savored the smell.

  They walked down one alley in which the light of day seemed to be blotted from sight. Yellow gaslights flickered overhead as they approached one dwelling. Killer unlocked the door and jerked his head toward the doorway.

  Oscar came back to where Scott had stopped. He roughly grabbed Scott’s arm. “You. Inside.” Killer glared.

  Hesitantly, Scott clutched his bag closer and walked inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He heard the door close and a lock turn. Just as his eyes began to take in his surrounds, Scott saw Killer point to a rickety staircase leading to the floor above. Scott started up the stairs, wooden steps groaning and squeaking with each tread.

  On the top landing, he walked down a narrow hallway as Killer pressed closer. The man grabbed his shoulder. Scott looked back and saw Killer pointing to one of the doors.

  Scott obeyed and opened the door. It was a bedroom the size of his closet back home. A narrow mattress had been squeezed inside, almost touching wall to wall, with barely enough room at the foot for him to move around. There were no windows, but a skylight let in a flicker of sunlight.

  Oscar came up the stairs and joined them. He glanced in Scott’s room. “You stay here.”

  Scott nodded. “Bathroom?”

  Oscar pointed at the end of the hall. “There. Everyone share.”

  Looking back at his room, Henderson asked, “How long will I stay here?” He glanced back in time to see Oscar shrug. The other two men disappeared in rooms farther down the hallway.

  Throwing his bag on the mattress, he looked around the bare room and at the filthy mattress at his feet. So far, everything had turned out to be far below his expectations. “With my luck this bed is lousy with bedbugs,” he said, not caring if Killer or Oscar heard. “I don’t expect there is any room service?”

  He sensed they might be here a long time. Wait until he saw Dunsmuir again. This was no way to treat him. If they were going to pay him big bucks, then his role here must be very important. They needed to show a little more respect.

  Scott sank down on the mattress. Oscar and Killer didn’t seem to care whether he was important or not. The way they shoved him around, it was as if he was just one step up from dirt. Dunsmuir would hear about this once Scott verified the money was safely tucked away in his hidden accounts. Until then, he’d keep his mouth shut.

  Chapter 37

  March 1

  Dubai, United Arab Emirates

  Gerrit shot up quickly when he heard pounding on the front door. It took a moment for him to wake up. He rose from the couch. Why didn’t the visitor use the doorbell? The military’s hazmat unit had taken hours to vacuum up this place an
d make sure that none of the toxin had been left behind. Joe’s bag had been quarantined and carted away for further examination. It was sometime after midnight when they were able to return and get some sleep.

  He guessed the others were still sleeping in their rooms. He’d been unable to rest and came out in the living room to watch the city lights below. He must have dozed off. Another dawn began to paint the sky to the east. More pounding sounded at the door.

  He felt along his waistline, subconsciously reaching for a weapon, but the weapons he recovered from the gunmen yesterday were still in one of the bedrooms where the women slept. He strode to the door and pressed his right eye to the peephole.

  A man stood in the hallway who seemed to be a few years younger than Gerrit. The visitor appeared to be alone. The man softly called out, “Alena?”

  This must be the guy Joe said would be arriving. Gerrit unlocked the door and turned the knob, opening it wide to allow the man to enter.

  “What? I felt like I had to wake up the dead you took so long. You suffer from old age?” The man shot him a grin. “You must be Gerrit O’Rourke. Shalom! Max Salk at your service.” The man shook Gerrit’s hand before entering.

  Max walked and talked like he was on a fire and looked like he was an Israeli model of Jack Thompson—only twenty years younger with shaggy brown hair with the ends a lighter shade. His large brown eyes shifted from person to person, a lazy grin on his suntanned face. He was a man on a mission. He stood equal to Gerrit, but leaner less muscular.

  As they walked into the living room, Alena crossed into the room, a look of surprise on her face.

  “Max?”

  “Alena.” Max took her into his arms and gave her a big hug, kissing both cheeks. “You are as beautiful as I remember.”

  Alena ran her fingers through Max’s hair. “A little lighter than last time we met. A disguise?” Without waiting for an answer, she shot a quick look at Gerrit. “Max and I worked together at one time. Before I—”

  “Before you broke my heart.” Max smiled broadly. “I wanted them to keep it a secret until I got here. Now we will be working together—as man and wife.”

  Again, Alena looked surprised. “What are you talking about?”

  Max swung a briefcase he carried onto the coffee table and sat on the sofa. “Here, I’ve brought a complete set of documents—passports, visas, and a set of identification for each of us.” He pulled out an envelope and handed it to her. “You and I are in the oil business. Gerrit and his new wife are into solar energy.” He handed another packet to Gerrit.

  Gerrit eyed Max as the stranger interacted with Alena. Who made these decisions? And why was Max calling the shots? Gerrit tightened his jaw as he watched Max get up, slip his arm around Alena, and guide her to the sofa.

  Max reached over and opened Alena’s envelope, bending the flap open so she could see inside. “They thought of everything. Our wedding rings. I am sure they’ll fit.” He showed her a silver double-banded wedding ring encrusted with diamonds, then slipped it on her ring finger. “With this ring I hereby—”

  “Wait, Max. You’re moving too fast—”

  “Better than last time. I didn’t move fast enough and you disappeared from my life.”

  “No, I mean, what is with this husband and wife cover?”

  Laughing, Max leaned back on the couch. “Well, I guess the honeymoon is over.”

  Gerrit heard another person enter. Shakeela came over and stood next to him. He introduced Max as they all gathered around the coffee table, with Shakeela and Gerrit taking single armchairs at each end of the coach.

  Gerrit leaned forward. “Max, we’ve been cooped up here nearly two days waiting for word on the operation. Since one of our team members was poisoned and Alena almost killed, I think we need to rethink this. For all we know, the cops and secret police might break in here at any moment. We’ve got to get out of this country—soon. Tell us what they want us to do and how we’re supposed to accomplish it.”

  “I’d like to add something,” Shakeela said, speaking for the first time. “Our plan was to get inside Syria, find out what Hassan and his contact planned to do, and stop it. Has something changed?”

  “That’s still our plan,” Max said, “but something troubles me about this whole scenario.”

  “There’s a lot that troubles me,” Gerrit said, “but we have our orders. Now tell us what has changed.”

  “We are going to take separate routes into Syria,” Max said. “Frank Collord has arranged for all of us to leave Dubai on a military transport. Alena and I will be dropped off in Kuwait, where our covers have been established, even the fact that we both entered that country a week ago.”

  Alena turned toward Max. “Really? And what were we doing in Kuwait for the last week?”

  “Our second honeymoon?” Max smiled. “Seriously, we reportedly made contact with our office in Kuwait City to firm up new oil-drilling leases and contracts. As you can see we will be traveling under British passports. From there, we make contact with our representative in Damascus.”

  “And Shakeela and me?” Gerrit asked, noting Alena seemed uneasy. She gave Shakeela a glance before returning her attention to Max.

  “You guys are going to take another route, a commercial flight from Dubai to Rome. And once there, a direct flight to Damascus. Look in your packets. You’ll be traveling with Australian passports. We should all arrive within a few hours of each other.”

  “And once we touch down in Damascus, where do Shakeela and I meet the two of you?”

  “Mossad has arranged for you to be met by another person upon your arrival and driven to where we will meet. After that, your driver takes off and we move to another site.”

  Gerrit studied Max closely. “Do you trust the source?”

  “Frankly, I do not have a clue who this source is. Mossad recruited him and runs the asset. He has been feeding them solid information for years.”

  “What’s his motive?”

  “His brother was tortured and killed by Assad’s regime. They were very close and he wants to do his part to clean up his country, to give his people a choice of how they want to be governed. At least that is the reason Mossad gave.”

  “This guy could be playing both sides,” Gerrit said.

  “Maybe,” Max said, “but his information has been correct. And he knows what will happen if he double-crosses us.”

  “But can we trust him in this operation?”

  “I am afraid we must. He is our primary source for weapons and other tools we’ll need for this job. Until Colonel Perlman’s shipment through Lebanon comes through or your friend Frank Collord arranges for a larger, covert shipment through Turkey. And this source will give us access to secured areas on a Syrian air base when the time comes for us to move. We just have to pin down which base.”

  Gerrit shook his head. “A lot is riding on this guy.”

  “It is how we must do business. Now, let’s go over the details for when we arrive in Damascus.” They gathered around the coffee table as Max laid out the plan.

  Gerrit listened as he watched the faces around him. His gaze rested on Alena, watching her eye Max. Before he could shift his eyes, Alena looked up and caught him staring. She gave him a smile before looking away.

  “One last thing.” Max reached down and picked up a small gray metal carrying case. “A little present from your associate Frank Collord.” He flicked the case open.

  Gerrit leaned over. The case contained four small pill-like cylinders, the size of a normal vitamin with rounded ends. “These are tracking devices Frank wants each of us to implant beneath our skin. Do not worry, I have a medical background and can almost painlessly insert them.”

  Alena glanced at the others. “You are kidding, right? Big Brother can track us anywhere with these things—along with anyone else who knows we are wearing them.”

  “These will be removed once we complete our mission,” Max said, “but this will help our people track us and get
help to us if we’re captured. No matter what kind of scanning devices the enemy uses, they will not be able to detect these trackers unless they x-ray us.”

  “I don’t like the idea of—”

  “It’s for our own good, Alena,” Gerrit said. “Just for this operation.”

  Max picked up one of the sanitized units encoded in a plastic container. “These are really cool. They are combination GPS and RFID microchips our satellites can pick up thousands of miles away. They can zero in on our location within a few feet. Our locations can be transmitted to a smartphone or a handheld receiver, with the exact coordinates in real time. These transmissions are encrypted. Unless a user has the codes and the right equipment, they could be standing right next to us and not pick up a thing.” Max stood. “Okay, who wants to go first?”

  Gerrit rolled up his sleeve. “Someone has to. By the way, Max. What did you mean when you said you could insert these ‘almost painlessly’?”

  Max just grinned as he pulled out a syringe, a scalpel, and bandages. “Just what I said, Gerrit. ‘Almost painlessly’ means just that—this is going to hurt.”

  Atash Hassan impatiently tapped his fingers on the tabletop. He looked around the bank executive’s office, waiting for the man to get off the telephone. Next to him sat Mohamed Abul Fotouh, a Muslim Brotherhood member currently sitting on the Syrian National Council, whose presence here in Dubai would make UAE security highly uncomfortable. Fotouh arrived only hours ago, using falsified documents provided by Hassan’s own security people.

  The banker got off the phone, beads of perspiration glistening on his forehead and upper lip. “The money is now available. When would you like it transferred?”

  Atash grimaced. “I told you to send it now.”

  Wringing his hands, the banker—a portly gentleman wearing a wrinkled charcoal suit and a blue necktie that seemed to be choking him—anxiously watched Atash’s face. “I…I will take care of that personally, sir.”

  “You do that. Now leave us alone. We have other business to discuss.”