“We could have lunch there.” Rachel pointed to a seafood restaurant just off the beach with a deck overlooking the ocean. It was the first time she had spoken since they left the compound.
They were seated on the deck, which had gas heaters and was warm and private. Once they had drinks in hand, with sea breezes rustling their clothes, Rachel let out a low sigh. She could move now with something resembling her old grace, but her nails were still bit short.
“I talked to Ryan Sparks,” Stryker said. “I told him I thought somebody in Washington had leaked information to the Iranians. He made some inquiries and sent me a secure satellite phone by way of the embassy.”
Rachel sat up straighter and held her sweating glass with both hands. “This is getting worse and worse.”
“He called me a week later after calling in some favors. Turns out my file had been pulled by a staffer attached to the Senate.”
“That can’t be good. You think Iranian intel is trying to find you?”
“It’s a definite possibility.”
“This is getting away from us. It’s going global.”
“Sparks said his Hatchet teams are available if we need them. He thinks over fifty percent have made the jump to operational ready status.” Stryker took a drink, opting not to describe it the way Sparks had—“Stryker,” his old friend had said, “you have your army.”
“Hopefully we won’t need them,” Rachel said. “You may be consulting, but this is a Mossad operation.”
“It can be a Martian operation for all I care. I still told Sparks to move the Cub to somewhere safe along with the rifles and equipment. They may track me to the farm, might even try to remove me from play.”
“You mean kill you.”
“It’s what I would do,” Stryker said. “Still, I can’t help feeling I’m missing something. Why would the Pakistanis be helping an Iranian terrorist?”
“Maybe they attend the same bingo night,” Rachel said dryly. “I’ve been checking regularly with Daniel, but he doesn’t have anything new.”
Shortly after their return to Tel Aviv, Daniel had explained to them how the Mossad had broken into Harlan’s office and found fingerprints and DNA evidence from a coffee cup establishing Harlan as the shooter. Following their own string of connections, contacts at MI6 were researching an Iranian family named Shirazi that relocated to Britain during the Revolution in 1978. It appeared there had been two brothers and their families, but only one brother and family made it out of Iran. The other brother remained in Iran with a wife and son who would now be forty-two years old. MI6 believed the son to be Ali Shirazi; Daniel was certain it was the same man they had tracked as James Harlan. Rachel believed it was the man she had hunted all her life, the one who had planned the embassy bombing.
“Daniel agrees that they may try to kill me since I’m tracking him and have seen the man’s face and current look,” Stryker said. “He wasn’t too thrilled about my plan, though.”
“No,” Rachel said sharply.
“Hear me out.”
“You’re not using yourself as bait. Forget it.”
“It’s our best shot at catching him. Now that you’re nearly well enough to travel to the US again, we can get things in motion. With you and Sparks covering my back, I’ll have a fighting chance.”
Rachel scowled, glaring out at the rolling white caps beyond the breakers. The sky was dotted with clouds scudding past the sun, and tourists wandered along the beach past the restaurant. It would have been a beautiful moment, Stryker thought, in different circumstances.
“I don’t like it,” Rachel said at last.
Stryker smiled. “I’d be worried if you did.”
They finished eating and left the restaurant. After they wandered farther down the coast, they came upon a small hotel that looked more like a bed and breakfast. They checked in under one of Stryker’s false names, registering as husband and wife. The room was simple but cozy. Rachel tossed her backpack into the closet and pulled the drapes closed. From the window, she said, “So did you just bring me out here to talk business, or am I being lured into a vulnerable situation?”
“My dear, you’re always in a vulnerable situation.” Stryker dropped his pack on the carpet and sat on the edge of the king-size bed. He reached over to set the alarm and groaned under his breath as his arm still ached more than he would have liked.
One moment, Rachel was holding the curtain, peering out at the gathering dusk, and the next she had leaped onto the bed and knocked him flat on his back, straddling him. She had her speed back. She lowered her face within an inch of his. Her breath warm on his lips, she murmured, “Clearly you haven’t seen my wicked-good knife skills.”
Stryker broke her hold on his arms, pulled his hands free to grab her wrists, and flipped over to pin her under him on the bed. He had barely opened his mouth to retort when she bucked under him, her waist and hips driving up so hard against him that he rocked forward and slammed his face into the headboard. She wrapped her legs around his waist and twisted hard, rolling them again as she fought to restrain his hands. They had run out of bed, though, and as she pinned him again, the bedspread slid over the edge of the mattress with them on it, and they both crashed to the floor. Rachel burst out laughing, and Stryker couldn’t help chuckling along with her.
“I think we need a bigger bed,” Rachel said.
“And a softer headboard.” Stryker rubbed his nose gingerly. “This one is dangerous.”
“Everything is right now.” She said it lightheartedly, but then her eyes met his, and the moment was broken. She withdrew from him. “Jake—I don’t want you to go through with this plan of yours.”
“It’s our best chance right now.”
She closed her eyes and turned away, curling on the bedspread where it pooled on the floor. Her voice was low, haunted. “I’ve lost so many people over the years, and I don’t want to do it again. I don’t want to try to keep going without you.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the whir of the ceiling fan, the blades circling in lazy rotations above. Stryker didn’t know what to say. Of course there was the chance he would be killed, he knew this and it didn’t really bother him. It was part of the game. But this deep pit of loss in Rachel, this grief that occasionally surfaced—dark, fathomless—was something else. They needed each other; they needed not to lose anyone else.
“Jake, I’ll do whatever I have to do to protect you,” she whispered, her back still to him.
“I know.”
Stryker and Rachel arrived at the Israeli Embassy in Washington, DC, late in February. Daniel and Rachel reluctantly agreed to use Stryker as bait to draw Ali out, and Daniel relayed information about the staffer who had pulled Stryker’s military file.
Garrett McWhorter was a single, thirty-two-year-old senior staffer for the Senior Senator from Vermont. He liked to hang out in the bar of the St. Regis Hotel on 16th Street, which had been a hub for the capitol’s social scene since 1926 and would be an ideal location to draw out the Iranian. Stryker’s file had apparently been given to a defense contractor providing security in Iraq and Afghanistan, and the staffer had also made inquiries with the IRS to obtain Stryker’s mailing address.
The mailing address went to a former family neighbor in Berryville, Arkansas. The only way to find Stryker would be to make an appointment by mail and hope he checked it. Ryan Sparks kept an eye on the mail. While they waited, Stryker and Rachel stayed at the embassy, and Rachel assembled her team from Israel. Sara would arrive soon, and she and Rachel would recon the St. Regis and arrange surveillance teams. They would be responsible for securing a private conversation with McWhorter and obtaining information from him whether or not he wanted to share it.
Almost three weeks passed before Sparks picked up a letter addressed to Stryker in Berryville and called him to read off its contents. The letter came from a DC-based company called Alpha Security Consultants, and it spoke of increased needs for someone with Stryker’s talents.
It made an offer to meet in private to discuss a security position with the company. The letter had been signed by the president of Alpha, a man named Herb Miller.
“Sparks,” Stryker said, “see what you can find out about Herb Miller and Alpha.”
“Way ahead of you, Chief. Alpha has some large contracts with the good ol’ US of A and hires Special Forces personnel for assignments around the world.”
“Wait—you opened my mail before you called?”
“Hey, man, I know you like to be informed.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s a federal offense.”
“You should see how many unpaid parking tickets I have. Do you want to hear about Miller or not?”
Stryker stifled a laugh. “Fire away.”
“Herb Miller was in Special Forces himself. He’s sixty-four, served in ‘Nam. Highly decorated. Been in Washington most of his career and has a reputation as a tough guy. It looks like he started Alpha just after 9/11, and some of my close sources, guys I trust, say they respect him. I don’t know, Jake, but I think more than likely this job offer wasn’t his idea. I bet some politician asked him to do it.”
“Question is, which one? We’ll see if Rachel and Sara can find out from McWhorter. Thanks, Sparks. All I need is the phone number for Miller.” Sparks gave it, and Stryker clicked off. He then put a call in to Miller using an untraceable line from the embassy.
“Mr. Stryker, you’re a rather difficult man to reach.” The voice was firm, deep, but friendly. “Thanks for replying to my letter.”
“I appreciate the offer, Mr. Miller.”
“Good. And call me Herb. When can we meet to discuss a business arrangement? We can make it worth your while for a man of your talents.”
“I’m on assignment right now, Herb, so I need a couple of weeks.” Stryker paused as if consulting his calendar, although he already knew exactly what he was going to say. “Let’s meet for dinner in, say, two weeks, on Friday night at eight. Come to the St. Regis. I’ll make the reservations.”
“I look forward to it. Bring your appetite—I’ll treat.”
“See you there.”
Stryker hung up and went to Rachel’s room. The door was closed, so he rapped twice.
“Come in,” Rachel said.
Inside, Rachel and Sara stood before a floor-length mirror, turning to see all angles. They craned their necks and peered appraisingly at themselves and each other. Stryker stopped short in the doorway, wordless. He knew they were going shopping for new wardrobes for the op to interrogate McWhorter—as he was a known ladies’ man, they figured they could exploit this weakness to the fullest—but their appearance made him forget everything he was about to say.
They wore elegant cocktail dresses, Rachel in red and Sara in black, with designer pumps and handbags and glittering jewelry draped along their exposed collarbones. Their hair was upswept, their makeup flawless. Sara gazed at herself with the same expression she might afford a prized weapon upon inspection, but Rachel actually colored when she turned to face him.
“Trial run,” she said, a bit defensively.
Stryker smiled. “When do you move on the staffer?”
“In two nights,” Sara said. “Thursday.”
Stryker told them about his appointment with Herb Miller and Alpha Security and his suspicion that Ali would show. “I’ll make reservations at the St. Regis for a suite that you and your team can use as a command post.”
Rachel’s expression darkened. “I still think this is crazy. Even if everything goes well, there’s a good chance you’ll catch at least one bullet.”
Stryker shrugged. “We don’t have a lot of other options.”
“I know.” Rachel stepped over to a table that had tactical equipment spread on it and pointed to a thin black vest. “That’s why I’ve been working with Mossad technicians on this. They put together a vest that just might keep you alive. It’s light, but it’s effective against high caliber rifle rounds. You’re wearing it—end of story.”
Stryker knew that Rachel would protect him, and he believed Sara was of the same mind.
Part of that protection started before the operation even began. He lifted the vest, and it was surprisingly light. “OK, I’ll wear it.”
Sara walked over, her heels clicking. “Either before or after your meeting with Miller, it’s likely an attempt on your life will take place. It might be a sniper, bomb, poison. Maybe just a simple hit and run. We still haven’t seen the Iranian at the hotel, but we have two more weeks. He might show up at any time, doing recon for the meeting.”
“Daniel sent a photo of Ali by way of the embassy, courtesy of MI6.” Stryker placed a photo of a thin, dark-eyed Iranian man on the table. “They figure he’ll change his appearance as he’s done before, so the artist added facial hair, eyeglasses, different hair styles, the usual.” He spread out half a dozen doctored photos. “It may be hard to identify him, except for the limp he’s sure to have after taking a forty-five caliber bullet in the leg.”
Rachel picked up the original photo and held it about six inches in front of her face. “It’s him,” she whispered. “He’s the one.”
Stryker nodded and gently pried the photo from her. “We’ll catch him.”
“I’m not interested in catching him,” she said.
Sara shook her head, though her face remained impassive. “Right now our concern is this meeting and protecting Stryker. We need to go on the offense and forget about playing defense here. Control the environment and Stryker might survive.”
Rachel folded her arms. “What exactly do you have in mind?”
“I think we should kill Stryker.” Sara paused only long enough to see the color drain from Rachel’s face and allowed herself a small smile before continuing. “At least, it will look like it to Ali and Miller. How we do this and make it believable is up for debate.”
“I like it,” Stryker said. He looked at Rachel, and after a moment, she nodded. “It can stay mysterious,” he said. “They’ll know I have enemies. I could be stabbed at the table by one of the team disguised as a waiter.”
“We’d need exfil,” Rachel said. “We might be able to place someone in security to come to your aid while waiting for the police, but the squad car or ambulance would need to be fake too, unless we’re getting the CIA involved.”
“We have assets in the police force,” Sara said. “I can get in touch with them through a dead drop. I’ll check with Daniel for the details.”
For the next hour, they debated the specifics of the meeting. It was finally decided that if Ali showed at the scene then Sara would bump into him during the melee following the stabbing and plant a small bug. The team would then follow him from the hotel. The hard part remained up to Rachel—she would be the one stabbing Stryker.
When they finished, they sat in silence before Sara stood and changed back into her street clothes, showing neither embarrassment nor even awareness that others were in the room.
Afterward, she pulled her hair back into a ponytail and patted her hip to be sure her ever-present knife was at hand. “I’ll go talk this over with Daniel.” She slipped out.
Stryker sat at the table, looking across it at Rachel. Even with all of their planning, she looked worried. She brushed her bangs from her eyes and tried to smile.
“I’ll be fine,” Stryker said. “If there’s one thing you know how to use, it’s a knife.”
“I know.” She let out a sigh. “Maybe we should take a vacation after all of this.”
“I could go for that. Someplace tropical. Me sipping a frozen drink. You in a little black bikini.”
Her smile now was genuine, if small. “I’ve heard St. Kitts is nice.”
“All you have to do first is stab me. And then, you know, help save the world.”
“Yeah. I’ll get right on that.”
Chapter 17
Washington, DC
February 2010
Right on schedule, Garrett McWhorter showed up at the swank, polis
hed St. Regis Hotel bar Thursday night at 6:30 p.m. Stryker identified him from a photo supplied by Sparks. The staffer was a young man, tall and stocky with an arrogant swagger to match his sharply pressed suit, as if he believed that one day he would be running the nation’s capital all by himself.
Stryker knew he came here every Thursday night, drinking with friends who worked for various senators and talking about how vital their jobs were to the process of democracy and the passage of essential legislation. Their egos expanded until about 10:00 p.m., when the most beautiful women in DC arrived to drink and meet guys. By the time the ladies arrived, many of the men were either drunk or on their way and provided easy pickings.
Stryker sat at a table near the bar flipping through a copy of the Wall Street Journal as he gathered information for Rachel and Sara, who would be coming to catch McWhorter next week. Stryker eavesdropped and glanced over the edge of the paper, drinking soda with a twist of lemon. Like many others, he wore a suit and had a cigar in his pocket.
McWhorter had a crowd of friends around him and repeatedly ordered rounds of drinks. They all spoke over each other, laughing too loudly and gesturing with their hands. During the next three hours, Stryker saw McWhorter consume four drinks. At about 9:30 p.m., women started to arrive and work the men in the crowd, many seeming to be government types or political celebrity hangers-on. As the evening grew later, the bar became increasingly crowded and raucous.
McWhorter picked out the most beautiful women in the room and started conversations by buying drinks. He talked fast and smiled often. The ladies seemed taken by either his charm or his perceived importance. Rachel and Sara would overpower him. Stryker smoked his cigar and left at midnight with the party still going strong and McWhorter still flirting with anything in a skirt.
Back at the embassy, he found Rachel and Sara waiting up for him in the kitchen area. Rachel was drinking Chai tea, while Sara appeared to be nursing black coffee. “Well, how is our target?” Rachel prompted.
“Quite the ladies’ man, and he knows it. He relishes his importance.” Stryker poured himself a glass of water as he gave them the layout of the bar and information about arrival times and the party in general.
Operations Compromised Page 10
