Brady Hawk 07 - State of Play

by R. J. Patterson

  “I’m doing my best to make sure he maintains a favorable rating in the eyes of the American people and gets re-elected next term.”

  “He must be sitting in that Oval Office two years from now when we finally begin to unleash the vision we realized years ago. Without him, The Chamber will suffer a severe setback—and so will you.”

  Bozeman set his jaw. “I will not let you down, but I don’t appreciate your threats. I’m as invested in this as you are.”

  She laughed mockingly and then shook her head. “You have no idea how much I’ve sacrificed to reach this point. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let an ineffectual agent destroy what’s been built already, much less halt the incredible future of The Chamber.”

  Bozeman didn’t flinch. “I’ll handle it. But don’t you forget that I know everything. I don’t respond well to threats.”

  “I don’t make threats,” Petrov said, studying her scarred knuckles. “I only make promises. And I would strongly suggest you stop giving me reasons to eliminate you altogether. I have other agents, you know.”

  “But none with access to the President of the United States.”

  “Are you prepared to stake your life—and your ambitious mouth—on that fact?”

  Bozeman exhaled and realized he needed to check his ego before it got him killed.

  “Don’t worry. I will make sure the president is on track for re-election with a high favorability rating in the polls. You can count on that. Just give it some time to play out.”

  “Do you have a plan, Harry?”

  “It’s being put into motion as we speak.”

  Petrov pulled her gloves back, tugging on them to tighten them on her fingers. “Don’t disappointment me.”

  She pointed to the door.

  Bozeman nodded. “I won’t. You’ll see soon enough.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Portree, Isle of Skye

  Scotland

  HAWK STUDIED BLUNT’S FACE as he returned to the room. Clutching a full glass of scotch, the former senator lumbered across the room. He’d appeared weary and haggard for quite some time, but in Hawk’s latest visits, Blunt’s ageing seemed to escalate. The hair turned grayer, the lines around his eyes more pronounced. Even his shuffle was slower, signaling a gallop to the grave.

  Hawk even wondered aloud how the old man had ever managed to survive an attack in Morocco.

  “What moves did you do to kill that agent who was in your room in Morocco? I’d really like to see it.”

  Blunt grunted and shuffled toward his chair. He took a long pull on his scotch and then set the glass down forcefully on the end table next to him.

  “Think I’ve got one foot in the grave, don’t you?” Blunt said. “I’m not in the best shape right now, but I will be soon enough. It just takes me longer to recover these days.”

  “I really would’ve loved to have seen the look on his face,” Alex said.

  “It wasn’t anything to write home about.” Blunt finished his drink. “Now, let’s talk about our next steps.”

  “I still think we should return to Washington and go after Bozeman,” Hawk said. “It’s the only way to—”

  “Enough,” Blunt growled, holding up his hand. He stood, steadying himself with the arm of the chair. “I don’t want to hear any more about Washington for now. Besides, I have a new assignment for the two of you.”

  “A new assignment?” Alex asked, eyebrows raised. “Is that what that call was about in there?”

  Blunt nodded. “General Fortner called and asked for our help on a top secret mission.”

  “Wait. Now, we’re working on a mission with the U.S. Army?” Hawk asked.

  “It’s complicated, but you two are the operatives best suited for the assignment.”

  “Complicated? Who exactly does General Fortner take his marching orders from anyway?”

  “Nobody you’ve ever heard of, but he’s one of the good guys,” Blunt said, waving off Hawk. “Military intelligence picked up some information about a possible arms deal going down, and they need someone to stop it.”

  “This sounds more like a CIA operation to me,” Alex snipped. “Let them deal with their own problems. They don’t seem too interested in helping us with ours.”

  Blunt held up both hands, a symbolic gesture that was clear: enough with the dissent. Then he continued, “You might change your tune when you hear who’s involved.”

  Hawk rubbed his face with both hands. “Out with it.”

  “Karif Fazil,” Blunt announced.

  “Fazil is involved personally?” Alex asked. “That’s a little out of the norm for him, isn’t it? We always seem to cross paths with his minions, but never him. At least we haven’t since that op in Iraq.”

  Blunt paced around the room. “The Missile Man does not deal with underlings.”

  “Wait. The Missile Man? He’s involved in this?” Hawk asked.

  “He is always involved, yet extremely careful, which is why we’ve never been able to catch him. He conducts all the business end of the transactions at his fortified home in the southern part of Saudi Arabia. Thanks to the natural landscape, it might as well be a damn fortress.”

  Hawk watched Blunt meander around the couch. “But not an impenetrable one, I assume, or else we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we?”

  Blunt stopped and eyed Hawk and Alex cautiously. “I wouldn’t have agreed to this if I didn’t think the two of you were capable. In fact, I think the likelihood of achieving success is quite high.”

  “And you trust General Fortner enough that you don’t think this is some kind of trick?” Alex asked.

  Blunt didn’t flinch. “I’d trust him with my life. Besides, if he was going to do anything to you and get away with it, he would’ve done it at Camp Lemonnier. The fact that the two of you are still here and standing today is proof that he’s not the monster you perhaps fear he could be.”

  “He still could be a monster,” Hawk said, “but if you have that much confidence in him, how could we not offer him the same reasonable level of trust?”

  “Speak for yourself,” Alex snapped. “I’ve been burned too many times to go blindly risking my life on an op directed by a guy I know very little about.”

  “The guy you know very little about is a master tactician,” Blunt said, “and one hell of a leader. Plus, he would never screw me over, not after what I did for him in Beirut in 1991.”

  “And what exactly did you do?” Alex asked, her tone softening.

  “I saved his life. Dragged him fifty meters away from the middle of a firefight between the military and terrorists.”

  “You? Saved his life?” asked Alex, slack-jawed.

  “Don’t act so surprised,” Blunt said, glaring at her.

  “No, no, no. It’s not that I’m surprised you did it; it’s just that I’m surprised you could’ve actually dragged a man as large as Fortner that far.”

  Blunt huffed a laugh through his nose. “Fortner wasn’t always that big. In fact, he was just average sized back then. But adrenaline will help you do things you never thought were possible.”

  “Are we going to need a dose of that adrenaline to penetrate The Missile Man’s place?” Alex asked as any sign of apprehension vanished in the wake of an eager demeanor.

  “I hope not.”

  “What do you mean, you hope not?” Hawk asked, brow furrowed.

  “If it comes to that, something has gone terribly wrong with my plan.”

  “You already have a plan?” Hawk asked.

  Blunt nodded. “And it has a legend that I think you’ll enjoy playing.”

  Hawk’s eyebrows shot upward. “I can’t wait to see where this goes.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Asir Mountains, Saudi Arabia

  MALIK BASHIR ADJUSTED HIS SUNGLASSES and leaned forward on the railing surrounding his patio overlooking the lush vegetation of the Asir Mountains. The Jabal Sawda peak cast its lengthening shadow over the valley below. Behind him,
two bikini-clad women sporting stilettos reclined on poolside lounge chairs, mindlessly turning the pages of fashion magazines. Surveying the desolate road that snaked its way up to his fortress, Bashir tapped his fingers on the rail and kept the beat with the hip-hop sounds of Drake thumping from his sound system. Without any neighbors, Bashir didn’t need to worry about any complaints regarding the bone-rattling bass. It was one of the perks of living in a home carved into a mountain.

  Noticing movement on the road, Bashir rapidly snapped his fingers, signaling to the women that he wanted the music turned down. They obliged, and he leaned out over the railing, bending his ear toward the movement he’d seen. Moments later, the vehicle he’d heard roared into full view. An oil tanker chugged along, beginning its ascent up the road to his mountain.

  Bashir glanced at his watch and grinned.

  Right on time.

  It’d take at least twenty minutes for the tractor trailer to meander its way to the warehouse burrowed into the other side of the rock opposite his home. He called for Abdul, his new assistant.

  Abdul moved swiftly across the patio, using his hands to shield his eyes from the women. Once he reached Bashir, Abdul stood upright and positioned himself with his back to the ladies.

  “What do you need, sir?” Abdul asked.

  The faint smile on Bashir’s face erupted into an enormous grin, followed by an unbridled guffaw. Bashir slapped Abdul on the back.

  “Are you afraid Allah might strike you dead for looking at a beautiful woman?” Bashir asked.

  Lips held tightly shut, Abdul shook his head.

  “It’s okay to look,” Bashir said as he placed his hands on Abdul. Turning his reluctant assistant, Bashir made sure the women were right in Abdul’s line of sight.

  Abdul closed his eyes, squeezing them shut.

  Bashir used both of his hands to hold Abdul’s face centered on the female companions. “Go ahead, open your eyes. It’s not going to hurt you.”

  Slowly, Abdul gave in, yielding first with his right eye and then with his left.

  “Well, what do you think?” Bashir asked.

  Abdul closed his eyes again.

  Shuffling around to stand in front of Abdul, Bashir placed his hands on Abdul’s shoulders. “Look at me.”

  Abdul slowly opened his eyes again, repeating the same pattern as he’d practiced moments before—first one, then the other. His face brightened when he saw Bashir.

  Once Abdul’s eyes were opened, Bashir shot a glance skyward and shook his head. “They’re not going to bite you, Abdul.”

  “It’s not that,” Abdul stammered. “It’s just that . . .”

  “What? There are rules? Rules found in the Holy scriptures that tell us such behavior isn’t accepted? Is that it?”

  Abdul looked at his feet and nodded almost imperceptibly.

  Bashir’s eyes narrowed. “There’s only one rule around here that you need to know, and it’s this: Never question Bashir.”

  Bashir grabbed Abdul with both hands around his neck and began to squeeze. For a moment, Abdul attempted to resist, flailing at Bashir before trying to loosen his grip. Bashir responded by tightening his hands around Abdul’s neck and applying more pressure. With his eyes, Abdul pleaded for Bashir to stop, but Bashir held firm for a few more seconds before finally releasing Abdul.

  Abdul collapsed to his knees, gasping for air. After a few seconds, Bashir snatched Abdul by the nape of his neck and yanked him to his feet. Hesitant to look up, Abdul slowly raised his head and was met by Bashir’s steely gaze.

  “Thank you,” Abdul said with a raspy voice. “I didn’t mean any disrespect. I just—”

  Bashir grabbed Abdul’s shirt and thrust him upward so that his knees were even with the railing. In a single forceful shove, Bashir threw Abdul backward and sent him tumbling over the edge. Bashir stepped forward and peered into the ravine below, grinning sardonically as he watched Abdul bounce down the mountainside.

  Bashir rubbed his hands together and turned around to face the two women who hadn’t even looked up from their magazines.

  “What’s my only rule?” he asked aloud.

  “Never question Bashir,” the ladies said in unison without looking up.

  “That’s right: Never Question Bashir.”

  Bashir sauntered over to the bar and poured himself a glass of vodka on the rocks. Swaying to the sounds of Drake still thumping over the audio system, Bashir gulped down the entire drink. He winked and smiled at one of the women who’d stopped reading for a moment to look up at him.

  “This is going to be a great day,” he said.

  Bashir poured another drink and walked over to the edge of the patio, staring down at the body of Abdul, now lying motionless several hundred feet below.

  “Hasim!” Bashir called.

  In a matter of seconds, Hasim Sattar strode onto the patio and stopped a few feet short of Bashir. Sattar glanced at the drink in Bashir’s hand.

  “What do you require, Bashir?”

  “The tanker is approaching. Are we ready to make the transfer?”

  Sattar nodded. “Everything is in order. Do you want me to notify you when the merchandise arrives?”

  Bashir smiled. Sattar was his most trusted confidante, a man who practiced the strictest of protocol even when it wasn’t necessary. Even when there was no threat of anyone eavesdropping on their conversation, Sattar still referred to the weapons as merchandise.

  “I’d like that,” Bashir said, gesturing back toward the house. “Carry on.”

  Sattar headed back inside then disappeared into the shadows.

  Bashir poured himself one more drink before leaving the porch and ambling into his private gallery. With a passion for collecting various forms of Middle Eastern artifacts, Bashir’s collection ran the gamut from the scepters of famous Egyptian kings to ancient scrolls unearthed in the desert sand.

  He stooped down and inspected the crown jewel in the impressive stash he’d amassed over the years. He’d restored and preserved a small portion of the Dead Sea Scrolls he bought on the black market from an enterprising archeologist. He read the words aloud and shrugged at their meaning. Tradition was just another antiquated way of life to Bashir, an ancient language that wasn’t spoken in his new progressive world. However, the items all enclosed in glass display cases scattered throughout the room were all deemed to be of great worth. And valuable commodities spoke a language Bashir understood as much or more than his native tongue.

  CHAPTER 9

  WHEN BLUNT FIRST STARTED Firestorm, his involvement was minimal when it came to operations. Despite his immense knowledge on security-related issues and inner workings of the CIA, he remained content to let the professionals do their job. He’d been in politics long enough to experience the discomfort of having one’s toes danced upon, though in Washington it was often akin to a stomp from a boot heel rather than a passive aggressive overstepping of bounds. Years ago, he’d vowed not to be the kind of boss who felt the urgency to leave his lasting mark on every venture he undertook. But that time was past. If Firestorm was going to succeed in one of its most critical missions, it needed his perspective along with his skill and expertise of the region and The Missile Man.

  Blunt hovered over the table, studying the topographical map in front of him. There were plenty of moving parts to pull off a successful operation, especially for one that stretched across the Middle East. But he was confident the plan he’d concocted with General Fortner would succeed.

  Hawk turned a toothpick over in his mouth. “What makes you think this is going to work?”

  Blunt shrugged. “Call it a hunch or a well-devised scheme. Either way, I’m most confident in the team we have to pull this off.”

  Alex patted Blunt on the back and laughed softly. “You do realize that this is the team,” she said, gesturing to the three of them standing around the table. “Unless you’ve got some other kick-ass agents you’d like to introduce us to.”

  “Fair enough,”
Blunt said. “Though you won’t be doing this alone. I’ve actually arranged for a battalion of Army Rangers from Fort Benning to assist you at the most crucial point in the op.”

  “How’d you swing that?”

  “I called in a few favors.”

  “That’s all well and good,” Hawk said, “but I’m a little more concerned with us reaching that point in the plan alive.”

  “And what if Fazil has already seen The Missile Man? He’ll likely be able to spot Hawk as a fraud almost immediately.”

  Blunt pointed at the box at the edge of the table. “For starters, that’s why we have this machine for you.”

  “What’s it do?” Alex asked.

  “Take several pictures of The Missile Man after you kill him and then upload his photos,” Blunt explained. “In less than an hour, you’ll have a mask replicated in his image. You’ll be a dead ringer for him.”

  They all stood in silence while they studied the map before Alex spoke up.

  “I hate to be the wet blanket here,” she said, “but there are other issues about this plan that concern me.”

  Blunt rocked his weight from one foot to the other. “Better to air them now than later. Out with it.”

  “We don’t know what The Missile Man looks like, correct?”

  Blunt nodded.

  “So, how will we know he’s not sending us a decoy when we meet with him?”

  “Because we’re going to speak with a guy who has actually met with The Missile Man in person.”

  Hawk furrowed his brow. “And lived to tell about it?”

  “Not only lived to tell about it, but has a great relationship with The Missile Man. In fact, that’s how we’re going to initiate contact with our favorite arms dealer.”

  “A great relationship? And you expect him to help us out?” Alex asked.

  Blunt grinned. “If there’s one thing I know about Dr. Tarek Ngozi, it’s that he will do anything for money when he discovers his funding is low.”

  “And you think that anything would include betraying a weapons dealer?” Hawk asked.