The Auctioneer

by D. J. Williams

  “You killed Fatima,” Elena said, her eyes narrowed. “Where did you go from there?”

  “Dax and I loaded the Artifacts of Exile onto a flatbed truck and left while the SEAL team gathered intelligence. We drove to the airport and loaded the artifacts onto a cargo plane headed back to the States. Not a day goes by that I don’t see those boys.”

  “So, Akram Kasim was here for vengeance.”

  “He’s the one who took us to Fatima. If Dad found out he was after me, that would explain why he set the contingency plan into motion. Maybe it didn’t have anything to do with the Feds’ investigation.” Or maybe it had everything to do with it. I wasn’t sure.

  “Searching for the Rossino Otto, he crossed paths with his contacts in the Emirates,” she suggested. “It is possible someone was connected to Akram Kasim or the Prodigal.”

  Rage burned as I turned toward Elena. “What if Akram caused the crash?”

  “Perhaps Agent Kelley will prove her loyalty and allow you to speak with him.” In a blink, Elena’s sympathy turned to cutting sarcasm. She retrieved a clutch from a vanity, fashionable yet practical enough to hide a Ruger LC9 pistol. Then she grabbed my face in the palms of her hands and kissed me softly on the lips. “She has done what I will never do.”

  We stepped out into a corridor, our footsteps echoing off the walls, and strolled toward the room where Dax was recovering. When I checked on him an hour earlier, he’d been asleep. Elena’s fingers intertwined with mine. Effortlessly, as if we’d never been apart. We passed Dax’s room, cut through a two-story study, and walked out into a sprawling backyard.

  At night, the estate was beautiful, yet ominous. Security was hidden in the shadows. Lights illuminated the palm trees and a sparkling pool, as well as a concrete landing pad for a Eurocopter Hermés EC 135 helicopter. The rotors began to spin and engine whined, muffling the sound of the coastal waves.

  Once inside, we were surrounded by opulent luxury. Custom stitched leather seats. Mahogany trim. Elena leaned in close, and I realized she never told me where we were going. But wherever it was, we’d be arriving in style.

  On the twenty-minute flight, I weighed the consequences of those clandestine missions. But there was no remorse for killing Fatima. Only the moments leading up to his death haunted me. Facing Akram Kasim at Tanets meant there was a price on my head — one that cost Dad his life. Killing a terrorist protected freedom, yet in the aftermath revenge pierced my soul.

  You killed an evil man, Chase. End of story. Fight or fall. You gotta choose.

  EIGHTEEN

  “Welcome to America, Sayid.”

  Laney sat across from Akram Kasim and scanned his forged immigration papers. He had yet to acknowledge her presence. Instead, his eyes remained fixed on the two-way mirror as if waiting for a man to do the interrogation.

  “You entered the country through Germany as a refugee,” Laney said coolly. “And until two days ago, you worked at the loading docks in San Pedro and kept yourself out of trouble. Then you decided to attack innocent Americans at a club in Hollywood.” She scribbled on a notepad, set the pen on the table, and leaned back. “You don’t have to talk to me. I mean, I wouldn’t say a word after what you’ve done.” Leaning forward, she said in a lowered voice, “I’ll let you in on a secret, Sayid. No one knows you’re here, so no one will intervene.”

  Vitals are steady.

  Laney listened to the voice in her ear and pushed a bit harder. “Right now, agents are tearing your apartment to pieces. I’m betting they’ll find all kinds of propaganda. Death to America. West is Satan. Maybe even a handbook on how to build an IED. Killing innocent lives is your ticket to eternal virgins, right?” She paused and listened to his steady breathing. “I can promise you one thing, beard or no beard, you’re a dead terrorist walking, and you’ll spend the rest of your life in the deepest hole I can find.”

  She opened the file folder in front of her, retrieved the intelligence photos of Chase and Kasim in Baghdad, then slid a few across the table.

  “Since you’re not willing to talk, why don’t I tell you a story – Akram.” She rested her elbows on the table. Her training kicked in. “Yes, we know who you are. And we know who this is in the photo with you — the same man you were after last night.” Walking a tightrope, she tapped a photo with her index finger unsure of whether Kasim was the shadow on Skid Row. While she didn’t know the details about Mosul, for the moment it was the only card left in the deck. “You might know him by a different name, but we both know he helped the US get close to Abu Haji Fatima.”

  A smirk pursed Kasim’s lips, yet he remained silent.

  Not the reaction she expected.

  Blood pressure and heart rate are rising.

  With zero leverage, other than dead or injured victims, and a disconcerting reaction when she showed him the photos of Chase, she tried another approach.

  “Someone got you into the country, and we need to know who. It’s that simple. Maybe you’re not as smart as the Prodigal. I mean, the way you barged into the club was clumsy.” She watched as his restrained hands slowly balled into fists. Glaring at the photos, his smirk was gone. She pressed harder. “Look, we both know you’re not here to fight for jihad. You’re here for revenge — to even the score for some cowardly religious whack job who got himself killed by our very best. And to think, you were the one who led us straight to him.”

  Laney was fishing with just enough bait. While there was no visual response, she relied on the voice in her ear. Heart rate is up. Time to raise the stakes. In one swift move, she picked up the pen and plunged it deep into his right hand with such force it stood upright once she let go.

  Kasim groaned in agony, clenched his teeth, then spit at Laney.

  She dodged the saliva, her heart pounding hard. Her instincts were razor sharp as she calmed herself down. Now we’re getting somewhere.

  Beads of sweat formed on Kasim’s forehead. Blood oozed from his hand, crept along the edge of the table, then dripped off the side onto the floor.

  Laney reached over and yanked the pen out. So much for protocol.

  “I need your full attention,” she said coldly, “before it gets worse.”

  “Satartafie almawtaa,” he hissed.

  Laney waited for an interpretation. The dead will rise. She breathed deep through her nostrils and tried to harness the adrenaline. She’d crossed the line, but there was no other choice. She got him to talk, and his words sent chills down her spine. Casually, she pushed the chair back, stood, and left the room.

  In the command center, Yasmin Avakian approached Laney. Early thirties. Iraqi roots. Top analyst. Fluent in eight languages. Laney’s first pick on any assignment.

  Yasmin said, “At least you got him to say something.”

  “What do you think it means?” Laney asked.

  “Maybe he’s worried he won’t get his virgins.” When Laney didn’t respond, Yasmin added, “We have the ballistic reports back.” They walked over to a corner desk in the command center where Yasmin pulled up the reports on screen. “We’ve cross-referenced all weapons and ammunition found in the van, at the club, and the garage.” Yasmin’s fingers raced across the keyboard. She rifled through a list of reports before stopping at a ballistics report. “We didn’t find any shell casings at the garage, and the slugs from Mario Robles don’t match any of the evidence secured at the club.”

  “We’ve got another shooter?”

  “It’s possible.” Yasmin’s computer dinged. She pulled up a message. “Looks like we also have blood that doesn’t match Robles inside the garage. I’ll need to cross-reference the dead suspects and your new friend.”

  “Check Dexter Thompson too. Russell said we found his blood in the alley and inside the club. Military records and blood type are in the system. There’s a good chance it could be a match.” Laney nodded sharply toward the interrogation room. “Get someone to clean him up.”

  “I’m on it.” Yasmin dialed an extension. “Medical atten
tion in IR1. Thanks.”

  Laney walked away with hands dug into her pockets. Her mind consumed with Kasim’s statement. The dead will rise. She boarded an elevator and rode up to ground level, then stepped out into an empty warehouse and dialed Vaughn.

  He answered on the first ring. “What’ve you got?”

  “Russell, I think there’s a sixth man.”

  NINETEEN

  U.S. BANK TOWER — DOWNTOWN

  A helo deck perched seventy-three stories above the street marked the peak of an iconic skyline. Turbulence vibrated the Eurocopter as the pilot maneuvered with precision. I gripped the armrest and viewed the city below. Red and white lights lined the streets outside Staples Center. Tonight, Dad and I would’ve been at the game – center court – thanks to season tickets from Uncle Randy. That thought was lost in a parallel universe where the last two weeks never existed. While fans drowned their sorrows in another Laker loss, the heartache and anger over losing Dad crept along the fringe.

  Once the Eurocopter touched down, Elena and I climbed out into the frigid night. A security guard ushered us to a private elevator leading to the penthouse floor. When the doors opened we were thrust into a lively party. Moët & Chandon gushed from a fountain. High-priced companions mingled among guests who enjoyed spectacular views from floor-to-ceiling windows and a spacious balcony.

  “What are we doing here?” I asked.

  Elena lowered her voice. “Welcome to the other side of the mirror.”

  She picked up a glass of champagne and slipped through the crowd. Her long legs exposed the high slit of her dress. Stunning. All eyes drifted toward her as she greeted some with a kiss on each cheek, then shook hands with others whose smiles widened as she spoke. Elena commanded a room with charm and poise. A gift I had not yet mastered.

  Across the room, Prince Azim stood wearing Armani surrounded by women hovering like vultures. He raised his glass toward us. Elena returned the gesture as she pressed her hand against my back, nudging me forward.

  We strolled through a galley kitchen where chefs whipped up platters of hors d’oeuvres. Servers hustled like a rotating conveyor belt to keep guests’ bellies and flutes filled. Through another door, we entered a servants’ quarters. Elena pressed her palm against a corner wall that shifted to one side to reveal a space that looked like it might’ve once been a boardroom. At the opposite end was a bank-sized vault where a group of individuals gathered around an iron table. We walked across the room with Prince Azim on our heels.

  A woman sat at the head of the table. Early fifties. Frosty hair. Black-rimmed glasses. As we approached she said, “So good of you to join us.”

  I thought she was talking about Elena and me, until Azim slipped past and found a seat at the table. Elena took the last spot, so I stood behind her against the steel vault wall. Those around the table eyed me with curiosity as I tried to blend in.

  “Now that we are all present,” the woman began, “let us discuss the first order of business.” She swiped her hand across the table and a screen embedded into the surface blinked on. Displayed on the screen were photos and schematics of a piece of military equipment. A cross between a shoulder-fired rocket launcher and a portable intel satellite. “We acquired an electro-disruptor from one of our clientele who is eager to sell. No trace of origination, guaranteed.”

  My eyes were glued to the images, unsure of what I hoped to find. Elena kept her gaze straight ahead, while Azim seemed to divide his attention between the images and me. I rattled my brain as to the capabilities of an electro-disruptor. While it was way above my military pay grade, a piece of the puzzle seemed to be sliding into place the longer I studied the schematics.

  As if reading my mind, the woman said, “While an EMP device leaves no trace of its destruction on electronics, hardware, software, or data, an electro-disruptor is stealthier, field mobile, and ten times more powerful. This piece of artillery has a range of six miles – surface to air, or deep underground.”

  “Starting price?” Elena asked.

  “Five million. Only offers above the reserve are accepted.”

  Digging my hands deep into my empty pockets, I anticipated the bidding to begin. Instead, those seated at the table remained silent. My eyes darted around the vault wondering why no one was bidding. Five million was out of reach for me, but I guessed not for the others at the table. I fought the urge to raise my hand and bid.

  Elena, get your hands on that device.

  The woman scrutinized the group before swiping her hand across the table again. Her eyes narrowed as the photos and schematics disappeared. My body tensed, heart dropped, and a window of opportunity slammed shut.

  “Very well, let us move on to our second item,” the woman said matter of factly. “We have secured Level Ten malware capable of hacking encrypted messages, mainframe computer systems, as well as vehicles or other computerized technology. Possession of this software allows for nearly undetectable liquidation.”

  The hair on the back of my neck rose. Undetectable liquidation. I’d heard the phrase before in Baghdad when we were briefed by a CIA operative regarding plans for the raid on Fatima’s compound. I stood in disbelief.

  The woman perused the others before her gaze locked on me. If she dyed her hair jet black, removed her glasses, and had brown eyes instead of blue, she’d be the same woman who spoke those words inside a military hangar on the outskirts of Baghdad.

  “We’ll begin the bidding at twenty million.” She turned toward me. “Mr. Hardeman, perhaps you will offer your expertise?”

  Her words lingered a few seconds before they registered. A bit dazed, I cleared my throat and picked up where she left off.

  “Starting bid is twenty million.” An African man across from me nodded. I stepped around the table. “Twenty million, who will give twenty-three?”

  Azim raised his hand. “Twenty-three.”

  “Twenty-three million dollars,” I rattled. “Do we have twenty-four?”

  The African and Azim volleyed and countered until the bid reached sixty million. Forcing my hands to stop shaking, I emphatically reinforced each raised bid. Fear rushed through me like a tidal wave. The irreparable damage Level 10 malware would cause on the world was unspeakable. Tension grew thick when Azim raised the bid again.

  “Eighty million,” I announced. The woman who held a secret I needed to know nodded slightly. “Going once… going twice… sold, for eighty million dollars.”

  “Twelve hours for the funds to clear,” she said to Azim. “Delivery will be arranged.” She turned to the rest of the table. “That concludes our evening.”

  The group stood and sauntered back to the party as if they were merely walking away from a poker table in Vegas.

  Azim pulled me aside in the vault.

  “I have tried to contact you regarding the Mercedes.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I replied. “The business is in… transition.”

  “Perhaps one of my people can arrange to pick it up.”

  “I will deliver the Mercedes to you personally.”

  Azim handed me a business card with an address scribbled on the back. “Two o’clock tomorrow.”

  “You have my word.”

  We shook hands and Azim excused himself, leaving only Elena, myself and the mystery woman inside the vault.

  “You’re CIA,” I said bluntly.

  “Ex-CIA, actually.” She packed her tablet into a leather saddlebag. “I’m surprised you remember me.”

  “McIntyre, right?” I stepped forward and crossed my arms. “You told us the mission was a matter of national security.”

  She turned to Elena. “I need not remind you the only reason he was allowed here is because of my debt to your father.”

  “We are here for information,” Elena reassured, then glared at me with fiery eyes. “That is all we will remember from tonight.”

  “I don’t care if you’re selling government intelligence or working the backrooms in corporate espionage,” I said h
arshly. “All I want to know is who is selling the electro-disruptor. And why didn’t anyone bid on it?”

  “Elena’s father, Dmitry, instructed everyone to hold on to their wallets. I’m sure you know within these circles he is not someone you want to cross. Now, as to who brought this piece of artillery to me? I’m not at liberty to say. Bad for business.”

  “But you know who it is,” I pressed. “Did that weapon cause the plane crash?”

  “It seems this is a question everyone wants answered now that Akram Kasim has made his presence known.”

  Her response was surprising, but I volleyed, “Is Abu Haji Fatima alive?”

  “You tell me, Mr. Hardeman. You were the one who shot him.” McIntyre exhaled deeply and checked her watch. “My penance tonight was to simply offer you a glimpse of who was at the table. I’m afraid it is all I can offer.”

  “How can you protect and arm terrorists?”

  “I’m not protecting them,” she answered. “Your skills were useful tonight, but the answers you’re seeking are far too dangerous — and way out of your league.”

  “You know nothing about me.”

  “The Feds were under your roof and you didn’t have a clue. That tells me everything I need to know.” McIntyre turned to Elena, as if I were no longer in the room. “Eighty million is more than I anticipated. However, it is suicide to discuss this any further.”

  “We had a deal,” Elena retorted. “My father will not be pleased.”

  McIntyre paused, then retrieved a thumb drive from a leather satchel.

  “Perhaps Mr. Hardeman is willing to deliver this along with the Prince’s prized Mercedes once the funds have been verified. Pro bono, of course.”

  I didn’t wait for Elena to answer. I held out my palm as the woman handed the thumb drive over. “Why trust me with this?”