Brady Hawk 07 - State of Play

by R. J. Patterson

  “This is all well and good, but how exactly can we go up against the most powerful man in the free world when he’s already branded me a traitor and intends to make an example out of me? Logic and reason don’t seem to be the type of bargaining chips we can use with a man who has nothing to lose.”

  Alex smiled. “No, Michaels has everything to lose—and we’re going to take advantage of his desperation and catch him . . . and we’ll do it legally.”

  Blunt clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “I can’t wait to hear this.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Dubai, United Arab Emirates

  KARIF FAZIL COLLAPSED ONTO THE BED in his penthouse suite. He needed a good night of sleep in order to regroup and tackle the fallout of a fantastic plan foiled yet again. But this failure smarted more than most, and he couldn’t stop thinking about how close he was to achieving his goal.

  “I swear I will kill Brady Hawk myself,” he grumbled.

  Restless after five minutes, Fazil arose and went to the kitchen to pour a drink. The rise of Al Hasib was marked by unfathomable success. Every operation, every outcome—they all went Fazil’s way. Such common and numerous victories made recruiting easy for him. He employed his charisma to persuade everyone from fence sitters to radical ideologues searching for a cause to join Al Hasib. But the publicity from Al Hasib’s triumphs over western institutions and ideals closed the recruitment process.

  Fazil flipped through the report prepared while he was gone by his lieutenant Omar Totah. It detailed Al Hasib’s numbers in various cells around the globe, most of which had seen a considerable dip over the last twelve months. Perhaps the vision was too narrow or the tasks too mundane to keep recruits engaged. However Fazil wanted to spin it, he couldn’t deny he had a problem.

  While Fazil had managed to remain hidden in plain sight throughout various countries sympathetic to his cause, it didn’t stop foreign governments from continuing their pursuit of him. The political tightrope many Middle Eastern nations walked was one they would’ve preferred to forego. But the threat of sanctions and aggressive military action for non-compliant countries resulted in assistance with western security forces that was little more than lip service. Fazil enjoyed the protection those nations afforded him, yet in order to truly empower Al Hasib to achieve the vision Fazil held for it, he didn’t need to waste his time hiding from the auspices of spying eyes with itchy trigger fingers. Ultimately, Fazil concluded that he needed to die.

  While Fazil pored over the data found in the reports about the state of Al Hasib worldwide, his phone rang. Cyrus Bitar, who was known in the U.S. by his immigrant name Cyrus Black, was on the other end.

  “I see you’re at it again,” Cyrus said once Fazil answered.

  “There’s only one thing that will stop my efforts to rain down death and destruction on America.”

  “That’s exactly why I was calling.”

  Cyrus’s family entered the U.S. through legal immigration channels as refugees from the war-torn region of Khuzestan in southwest Iran in the late 1980s. Cyrus was a young boy at the time and quickly developed a strong affinity for his new country, so much so that he wanted to join the CIA. While attending UCLA, Cyrus quit practicing Islam and began to loathe the religious zealots who sought to bring terror to the doorstep of the United States. His obvious patriotism and command of both the Persian and Arabic languages made him a target for the CIA’s counterintelligence unit. Jumping at the opportunity to join, Cyrus rose through the ranks and became a well-respected member of the agency. However, when his father was mistakenly killed in an FBI raid at a Los Angeles mosque, Cyrus traveled back to Iran to bury the man who believed his family would be safe from the senseless violence in the U.S. With brewing animosity toward the U.S. government for what they did to his father, Cyrus spoke with two of his cousins and gained a fresh perspective on Islam as well as the motives of Al Hasib. Cyrus set up a contact protocol with them that would escape detection from American intelligence. Less than a year later, he was a well-placed asset within the CIA for Fazil.

  Fazil shifted the papers on the counter. “I’m listening.”

  “I now have access to the origination of several phone taps,” Cyrus said. “Some of them are shared by various intelligence agencies from European countries, others are U.S. based. Either way, I can tell you the names of several men you could contact to stage your death.”

  “And how would they ever confirm my identity?”

  “You have connections, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Have someone alter your DNA records with that of someone you know, someone who wouldn’t mind making the ultimate sacrifice to advance your mission.”

  Fazil grinned. “I can make that happen.”

  “Excellent. I’ll send you the names of several contacts, perhaps even one you wouldn’t mind removing. Set up a meeting with them, and send your body double. Even if the intelligence community learns that you somehow survived, they will spin the attack as a victory.”

  “Exactly what kind of attack are we talking about here?”

  “A drone attack, of course.”

  “As long as it’s not a sniper attack made by one Brady Hawk.”

  “This will get him off your back for a while . . . and maybe even give you the opportunity you need to kill him.”

  “I like the sound of this already.”

  Fazil hung up and placed a call to Ahmad Maloof. For the past three years, Maloof led a group of jihadists in Afghanistan called Al Hurria. While they’d coordinated in the past on a couple of joint operations with Al Hasib, they often proved more trouble than they were worth.

  Eliminating Maloof and letting the Americans do it for me? I must be in Paradise.

  Maloof answered enthusiastically. In their brief times together, Fazil gleaned from their conversations that Maloof was jealous of Al Hasib’s publicity and success. Maloof’s organization had never surfaced on an international level. They hadn’t even done enough to garner the media’s attention. Maloof was the perfect target for Fazil.

  “I was wondering if you might be interested in helping strike the American consulate in Baghdad,” Fazil said, dispensing with any notion of formality.

  “Of course I’d be interested,” Maloof said before pausing. “What’s in it for Al Hurria?”

  “All the glory.”

  “You want us to take the credit?”

  Fazil chuckled. “Of course, of course. Al Hasib has come under far too much scrutiny in recent days. I’d rather the intelligence community be reminded that there are other jihadists in the world.”

  “I would be honored to take the credit, if anything to relieve you of this burden.”

  “We need to meet in person to discuss our plan,” Fazil said.

  “My cousin is getting married in Mirabad this weekend. Care to join us for the festivities? It’d be an honor to have you with us.”

  “Send me all the information. You know how to reach me. I will be there.”

  Fazil hung up and laughed.

  In a few days, I’ll be free.

  CHAPTER 27

  Washington, D.C.

  WHEN ALEX DUNCAN was growing up, she learned quickly that she needed to temper her thirst for justice if it consisted of pointing an accusatory finger, especially if she wanted to have friends. In the fourth grade, she once outed a girl for cheating even though it was a practice test. Alex reasoned that it wasn’t doing the girl any favors to turn a blind eye, assuming that one day she’d thank Alex for demonstrating what true character was. The girl had a funny way of showing Alex thanks. Two weeks after the incident, the girl sucker punched Alex in the face and refused to speak with her ever again.

  Time after time, Alex refused to back down when she saw injustice, which was one of the driving factors for her when she decided to join the CIA. And when she saw something she considered threatening, she addressed it—even if her methods extended beyond the bounds of the agency’s jurisdiction or occa
sionally U.S. law. To Alex, the end justified the means. Perhaps it was naiveté or arrogance, but Alex trusted herself above anyone else. She vowed to right wrongs, a promise that eventually cost her job.

  Alex was handling one of the CIA’s top assets in Afghanistan, who had an opportunity to take out one of the Taliban’s top leaders. Agency protocol dictated that she clear assassination attempts with the station chief, giving the chief time to decide whether to read in the host country. But the window of opportunity was thin, and Alex knew the bureaucratic red tape would eliminate the rare chance. The attempt was botched, putting the CIA in a poor diplomatic light. And while the responsibility fell at the feet of the station chief, Alex was dismissed immediately.

  Upon returning to the U.S., the agency did everything in its power to smear Alex. This strategy included coercing New York Times reporter Angela Brentwood into writing a story alleging that Alex was fired for incompetence but had retained a lawyer for the express purpose of suing the CIA for an unjust firing. Alex denied it all, but a Washington lawyer told Brentwood that Alex had hired him. The story boiled down to a he-said-she said battle, which didn’t go well for Alex.

  A year following Alex’s dismissal from the agency, she received an email from Brentwood. She claimed to be remorseful about what she’d done, realizing she’d been played. It was little consolation to Alex at the time, but the present situation seemed like the perfect opportunity to call Brentwood and see if the letter was just to assuage her guilt or a genuine attempt to reconcile. Alex hoped for the latter.

  Alex contacted Brentwood and arranged a meeting at a Washington bistro to discuss the past—and the future.

  As Brentwood approached the table ten minutes past their scheduled lunch date, Alex noted just how disheveled the reporter appeared. In Alex’s previous dealings with her, she sported a sharp blouse and skirt, her hair pulled up neatly in a bun. She barely resembled the ambitious reporter Alex remembered.

  “Let me apologize again, Alex,” Brentwood began as she sat down. “It seems like that’s all I’m doing to you after your time with the CIA.”

  “Is everything okay?” Alex asked.

  “Why?” Brentwood looked down at her sweater, which looked worn and had a small coffee stain in the center. “Oh, this? Mishap this morning on my way out of Starbucks. The people in this town sometimes . . .”

  “You don’t have to convince me. I’m a solid believer that Washington is full of snakes and sharks.”

  “And assholes.”

  “I was simply trying to be polite.”

  Brentwood raised her hand to get the attention of the waitress. She hustled over and took the reporter’s order for a glass of red wine.

  “Are you still working with The Times?” Alex asked.

  “Not any more,” Brentwood said. “I was part of their downsizing initiative, something that seems to take place with alarming regularity in the industry now.”

  “But you’re still in it?”

  “Yes, I landed on my feet and got a job with The Washington Post. I help cover politics and even get the occasional bone thrown my way of getting to attend Presidential press conferences. But most days, I write a blog called Washington Whispers, but it’s not nearly as sexy as it sounds. I spend most of my time cobbling together blog posts based off tweets from members of congress.”

  The waitress arrived with a glass of wine and placed it in front of Brentwood. She wasted no time in drinking half of it.

  “I guess journalism isn’t what it used to be,” Alex said.

  “That’s for damn sure. I consider every day that I don’t have to write about Kim Kardashian or share one of her Twitter posts a reason to celebrate.”

  Alex took a deep breath and leaned forward on the table. “Sounds like you miss being involved in all the action.”

  “That’s an understatement. I miss being involved in any meaningful action. Just a smidge of it might placate my desires these days.”

  “Well, how would you like to get involved again?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, how would you like to break one of the biggest stories this town has seen since Watergate?”

  Brentwood knit her brow. “What’s the catch?”

  “You’d be going up against the city’s most powerful people, and they’d definitely try to do everything they could to discredit and silence you.”

  Brentwood laughed softly and finished off her wine. “Look at me. What do I have to lose? Just tell me what you want me to do.”

  CHAPTER 28

  PHASE ONE OF ALEX’S PLAN sounded simple when she first described it to Blunt and Hawk. Pick up a recording one of her former CIA colleagues made of Harry Bozeman while doing a surveillance op on him. According to an encrypted email Alex’s friend Jennifer Whitten wrote, the audio file implicated Bozeman and another high-level official in a conspiracy to defraud the American people. Alex wrote back and asked for more information, but Jennifer politely refused to talk about it any further unless they were face-to-face.

  The next day they met at a wine bar and discussed what was on the tape. Alex sighed and shook her head when she first heard the news.

  “Figures,” she quipped and took another gulp of her chardonnay.

  Jennifer slapped the table. “Figures? That’s how you react to the news that I just told you?”

  Alex waved dismissively at her friend. “The further I get away from my time at the agency, the deeper I go down the black hole of what’s really going on in this world. And sometimes, I’d swear none of it’s true.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Alliances, allegiances, partnerships, conspiracies—what we know could fit in a thimble compared to what’s really going on out there.”

  “But the president? Involved in this level of planning to cajole the American people? I find it unfathomable.”

  Alex laughed softly. “If you’re having a difficult time imagining that, you still see the world in black and white. As much as I wish it were true, we don’t live in a binary age. Open your eyes and look around. There are a million shades of gray, not just fifty.”

  “You’re probably right, but I’m still adjusting to this new view of the world. Give me some time.”

  “Take all the time you need.”

  Jennifer signaled for the waiter and ordered another glass. “Since you’re not surprised, do you still want to hear what’s on the recording?”

  “Absolutely. We plan on exposing everyone who’s on it.”

  Jennifer grabbed Alex’s hand. “Look, you can’t let this lead back to me. I wasn’t supposed to be listening in on Bozeman. We all thought he was dead. But I saw him once on a surveillance tape outside the White House, and I started my own quest to find out what he was doing alive, much less gaining access to the White House.”

  “And he was just walking right in the front door?”

  “No. He’d park a few blocks away and walk. I started following his journeys on closed circuit feeds and figured out what he was doing. He almost gave me the slip once, but I caught his reflection off the glass of a car window and was able to map out his route.”

  “And how’d you get the recording?”

  “I used some triangulations when he made a call and was able to figure out his number. Then I hacked his phone and turned on the microphone. Voila. Instant scandal.”

  “I thought you weren’t supposed to be doing that any more.”

  “The NSA got busted for those shenanigans. We can still tap the phones of real criminals.”

  Alex cocked her head to one side. “Without a warrant?”

  Jennifer winked. “You believe whatever you want about those warrants, okay?”

  “I don’t care if it’s admissible in court,” Alex said. “We’re going to hang them both in the court of public opinion.”

  “So, I take it you want the file?”

  “You didn’t bring it?”

  “Not on my life. I’m still too careful. I work wit
h a bunch of spooks. You never know when they’ll be targeting you. I have the recording on my home computer as a backup in case something ever happens to me, but I’ll make a flash drive for you that won’t be able to be traced back to me.”

  “How do you suggest we make the exchange?”

  The waiter placed another glass in front of Jennifer, and she wasted no time in drinking it.

  “I go for a run every evening after work in Fort DuPont Park,” Jennifer said. “It’s part of my usual routine, so it won’t seem suspicious to anyone who might be tailing me. They have some great running trails. I’ll be wearing a pair of black shorts and black top with a neon-green headband.”

  “Neon green? Really? It’s not 1987 any more, Jennifer.”

  Jennifer laughed. “Haven’t you heard? The 80s are making a comeback.”

  “God help us all.”

  “No use fighting it.” Jennifer took another sip and scanned the bar. “Oh, and one more thing. It can’t be you who meets me. If I’m under surveillance and you show up, you’ll get busted. I’ll need to make a brush pass with someone else you trust.”

  “Hawk can do it. I’ll send him.”

  “Perfect. Tell him to meet me at 6:45 near the trail that goes by the ice skating rink. And tell him to wear a white headband so I’ll know it’s him.”

  ***

  THE NEXT EVENING, Hawk lingered in the car with Alex in a parking lot inside Fort DuPont Park. They reviewed the brush pass instructions, while he adjusted his white headband and peered out the window.

  “Are you sure you trust your friend?” Hawk asked.

  Alex scowled. “We wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t. She saw how they treated me. She’s also a fierce patriot. What’s happening right now with Michaels and his administration is disconcerting.”

  “Let’s just hope she’s not trying to earn points with the agency for turning me in.”

  “And you waited until now to raise this concern?”