by Brian Drake
“Try to get some sleep tonight.”
“I’m too jazzed to sleep! Was this a great night or what?” With another laugh, Francesca slid behind the wheel and started the engine. Tanya crossed the parking lot to her car and sat behind the wheel a moment.
Yeah, Ahmad was a hunk, all right. And she had his phone number.
She started the car and drove home.
2
Present Day
Raven looked along the table at grim faces.
The conference room at CIA HQ looked identical the one at the Blue Ridge black site. Raven couldn’t remember the last time he’d set foot in the headquarters building, but he’d had no time to look around.
Fisher sat at the head of the table. Behind him, hung on the wall, was a large screen television.
Clark Wilson sat next to Raven on one side, with Layla McCarthy, Fisher’s number two, across from Raven.
Fisher opened the meeting. He looked tired. There were more lines on his face than Raven remembered from their last get-together; his hair was grayer. But the Deputy Director of Operations still held a commanding presence.
“Can anybody explain what the hell happened?”
Somebody tapped on the glass behind Raven. He turned to look as Wilson waved the man in. The man who entered was younger than everybody else. He was in his mid-20s, with a short haircut and sharp jaw, and wore the standard issue CIA suit-and-tie like a pro. He held a laptop and sat next to Wilson.
Wilson said, “This is Paul Heinrich, one of my top analysts.”
“What do you have?”
Heinrich lifted the laptop lid and turned on the power. “A few pieces of the puzzle, sir.”
“Short version?”
“Everything she told us was a lie. Sort of.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tanya told enough of the truth to send us after Francesca Sloan,” Heinrich said, “but made up her personal history.”
Heinrich hit a few keys and asked Fisher to turn on the wall-mounted big screen. Fisher moved to the side to allow everybody to view the television.
A picture of a much younger Tanya Jafari appeared on the screen. It looked like a driver’s license picture.
“She was born Tanya Schrader, in Berlin,” Heinrich said.
“Not Tanya Distel?” Fisher said.
“Correct, sir. There are several Distel families in Germany, but none match with her. She lied about her father’s business, too.”
“In what way?”
“Her father is not a janitor. He is Hugo Schrader, and he runs one of the biggest venture capital firms in Germany. She worked for her father as an accountant. So did Francesca Sloan.”
Raven frowned. “Wait. The Schrader name is familiar.”
“It should be,” Wilson said. “Hugo Schrader was a member of the Red Army Faction. Sat at the knee of Ulrike Meinhof. Wrote a book about the experience.”
The Red Army Faction, aka the Baader-Meinhof Gang, active from 1970 to 1998, began as a group of student radicals pushing a left-wing agenda. They were also upset about former Nazis holding positions of power in Germany. When protests were ineffective, they turned to terrorism. The RAF killed a total of 34 people and lost 28 of their own over their most active years. Most of the original leaders died in battles with police or in prison. Others survived until the official disbanding in 1998. Raven wondered where Hugo Schrader fit in with the saga.
“He didn’t get killed with the rest? Go to jail?” Raven said.
Wilson shook his head.
“I wonder how he managed to stay out,” Raven said.
“He had dirt on somebody for sure,” Wilson said. “Probably still does.”
“Let’s back up,” Fisher said. “Tanya and Sloan met working for Tanya’s father. How did they end up with Islamic Union?”
Heinrich said, “We can deduce that they both joined the Union the same way. Sloan ran off with her boyfriend, Tamal Alvi, whom we believed was the founding father of the group. She met him in Berlin. Her family spoke out in the UK press.” He tapped another key, and a newspaper article appeared on the screen. “They say Alvi seduced her into joining the organization. She left everything behind to be with him. We know Alvi was active at a training camp in Pakistan. It’s likely Sloan was there, too.”
“And Tanya too?”
“Yes. According to Mr. Raven’s statement, she trained at the camp in Pakistan.”
“But there’s something missing.”
“Yes, sir,” Heinrich said. “Tanya’s family never spoke to the press.”
“So, if she ran off with the boyfriend on her own—”
“They either didn’t care,” Heinrich said, “or supported her.”
Layla McCarthy scoffed. “Insane.”
“Like father, like daughter?” Raven said. “Did Hugo inspire his kid to fight the power like her old man?”
“Possible,” Wilson said. “It would explain a few things.”
“Like what?”
“Where the Islamic Union got its money from,” Wilson said. “How they appeared out of nowhere so quickly.”
Fisher said, “Schrader wrote checks?”
“We have no proof, but it’s possible.”
“Are you checking his financials?”
“We are.”
“Where is Tamal Alvi from, and how did he turn radical?” Fisher said.
Wilson said, “Remember the guy who crashed a truck into a café?”
Everyone nodded.
“Alvi and his roommate, Ahmad, started holding public meetings after the attack. They wanted to show the German people not all Muslims were terrorists.”
“What changed their minds?” Layla McCarthy said.
“Attacks on their families from a gang of thugs,” Wilson said. “Ahmad’s grandfather, who wasn’t well at the time, was killed in one of the attacks.”
Fisher turned to Raven. “Did she tell you anything about a boyfriend or a husband, Sam?”
“She did mention the name Ahmad on the flight over,” Raven said.
Heinrich cleared his laptop screen and began typing. A thin man appeared on the screen. The picture showed him walking through an airport and carrying suitcases. He was dressed casually with a black leather jacket a size too large for his small frame.
“Ahmad Jafari,” Heinrich said. “He shared an apartment with Tamal Alvi.”
“There’s your connection,” Raven said.
“Status of Jafari?” Fisher asked.
“Quite dead, sir,” Heinrich answered. “He died in the same raid where we killed Alvi.”
“Was Tanya or Francesca the real White Widow?” Fisher said.
“Either both, or only Tanya,” Wilson said.
“Why?”
“If she was lying about Francesca being the one to take command, it means she was in charge. Her father is the banker. Don’t argue with the lady related to the man filling the bank accounts.”
“Did we really kill Francesca Sloan?” Fisher said. “Or a double?”
“Can’t answer at this time, sir,” Wilson said.
“A double makes sense,” Layla said. “Why sacrifice a key player?”
“All right, let’s address the elephant in the room,” Fisher said. “What was the point of her coming to us?”
Layla McCarthy said, “Getting Omar Talman out of the black site.”
“Why?”
“Operation Triangle,” Layla said. “She knows more about it than she admitted. She needs Talman to complete the mission.”
“Talman escaped before we beefed up the facility,” Fisher said. “Let’s assume her arrival and disappearance was a signal to him. He acted when he did because he knew time was short. It lines up with the helicopter we spotted in the area.”
Fisher paused a moment. Heinrich typed quietly.
“What we need to find out,” Fisher continued, “is if they are still in the United States. We need to know how they plan to put Operation Triangle in motion and where t
hey will strike, or if the plan is currently in motion. I’d also like to know why Omar Talman is so important she risked us discovering her ruse before they escaped.”
Fisher turned to Wilson again.
“What are our people in Syria doing?” Fisher said.
“Hayden and his crew are in the process of rounding up suspects for questioning.”
“There was nothing at the Sukkariyeh location?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Where are the suspects coming from? The crew from the apartment Sloan used in Damascus?”
“Yes, sir. Most of them scattered, but two remain in Damascus at a different hideout. Hayden and the tac team are going in shortly.”
“Tell Hayden to proceed with caution,” Fisher said. “This was a set-up, and we may get the short end of the stick no matter what we do.”
“I’ll tell him,” Wilson said.
Fisher let out a heavy sigh. “This is a disaster. A lot of good men died at the black site. We were so caught up in taking down Sloan, we didn’t properly vet Tanya to begin with. She played us, and we fell for it.”
“She played me,” Raven said.
All eyes turned to Raven. He said to Fisher, “You wouldn’t have me in this meeting if you weren’t going to ask me to stay aboard.”
“You’re here,” Fisher said, “because one way or another, you’re going after her, and we can’t stop you. We might as well work together.”
“And her father is my first stop. Where do I find him?”
3
“You’re not a good boss,” Colleen Andreev said over the wireless.
“Tiger” Joe Hayden, seated in the passenger seat of an SUV, laughed. “Why is that?”
“You get to have all the fun while Freddy and I are stuck in the basement.”
“For once,” Freddy Lymann added, “Colleen is right.”
“You two sit tight. I’ll be back soon.”
Hayden glanced at the driver. Carl Johnson, leader of the Alpha Team who had collected Francesca Sloan’s teeth, raised an eyebrow. “They on your back all the time?”
“Always.”
“They know everything is on them if you get whacked tonight, right?”
“They know,” Hayden said, “but don’t want to admit it. That was their way of showing concern.”
Johnson looked like a linebacker. Thick chest, arms, neck. A formidable fighter. Scar tissue on his knuckles testified to how often he used his fists while working.
“If we have to get out of this car to do any shooting,” Johnson said, “stick close to me and you’ll go home tonight.”
Hayden couldn’t tell Johnson how much action he’d seen in his career. The operations remained classified. Johnson, a veteran CIA Ground Branch operator, had the idea Hayden spent his career behind a desk. It wouldn’t hurt to let the big man think of him as a little brother for the night. “Will do,” he said.
Hayden carried a pistol, and it was the first time in a long time he’d gone out armed. A Beretta Inox 92FS 9mm rode in shoulder leather under his left arm. Johnson had a pistol and automatic rifle.
The voice of another Alpha Team operator whispered through their wireless earbuds. “Targets confirmed inside.”
“Copy,” Johnson said. “What are they doing?”
“One’s cooking. The other is adjusting the television.”
Johnson turned to Hayden, “You ready?”
The two Islamic Union suspects were holed up in a house. The house sat in the middle of a field across the street from a school. Waiting to hit at night was a critical part of the plan. They didn’t want to strike with school in session. The Americans weren’t supposed to be in Syria. They had to stay under the radar and strike hard and fast and get away clean.
The hideout had all the markings of a trap, but the recon element of Alpha Team didn’t report any other gunmen. Why the pair dubbed Suspect One and Suspect Two remained behind, Hayden didn’t know. He hoped luck was on their side and the two men were part of continuing Islamic Union operations. Wilson’s warning remained fixed in his mind. Anything was possible.
“Let’s make some noise,” Hayden said. “Remember I need at least one of them alive.”
Johnson said, “Teams One and Two, initiate strike. We need one alive, but we’d like both without any holes.”
“Team One copy.”
“Team Two copy.”
Johnson and Hayden exited the SUV and took cover on the driver’s side. The warm night air touched Hayden’s face. Taking out the Beretta, he held it in his right hand with the hammer down on a live round. Johnson, squatting by the front tire, kept his HK416 tucked to his shoulder.
Hayden wanted to be with the raiding party, but no dice. Strictly backup. To charge across the field behind the entry meant being mistaken for a hostile and shot by his own guys.
Not part of the plan, thanks.
Loose lights hung from wires on the wooden poles around the hideout. The driveway was a simple dirt path with a Toyota pick-up parked facing out. Hayden watched the truck for signs of movement.
The lights cut out. Hayden let his eyes adjust to the glow of the moon and the city lights behind them.
Flash-bang grenades kicked off the raid, the solid booms making Hayden jump. Automatic weapons fire crackled a second after the last boom. Hayden cringed at the shouts coming over his earbud. Gunfire punctuated the jumble of commands and signals from the raiding party.
“Sit tight, Joe,” Johnson said.
Hayden grinned but kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t nervous at all. He wanted to be in the fight.
And then he had his chance.
Movement near the garage. A body scaled the fence alongside the house and dropped next to the driveway.
Johnson said, “Move!” and took off running as if propelled by a rocket. Hayden ran behind him. Hayden didn’t know if it was Suspect One or Suspect Two; who cared? The Islamic Union terrorist ran for the Toyota, wrenching open the door. Johnson shouted, “Don’t think so!” and kicked the door shut.
The terrorist swung a knife at Johnson’s face. The big CIA man yelled as he fell, hitting the ground and rolling away to make room for Hayden. The terrorist lunged at Hayden, swinging the bloody knife. Hayden dodged back. As his opponent drew the knife back again, Hayden charged, swinging the barrel of the Beretta into his jaw.
The terrorist rushed and crashed into Hayden’s midsection. Hayden’s feet shuffled on the ground as momentum forced him backward. He twisted his body as the pair began to fall and landed on top the IU operative. He bashed him with the butt of the Beretta once, twice. Hayden tossed the knife from the man’s loosening grip. He hauled the terrorist up halfway, swung the Beretta again, and landed a solid blow to the man’s head. He let go. The terrorist fell unconscious.
Hayden secured the man’s ankles and wrists with zip ties from his pockets. He ran to Johnson. Rolling the big man onto his back, he pulled Johnson’s hand from his face. His palm came away streaked with blood.
“How bad?” the big man said.
“Got your cheek. You’ll need stitches but you’ll live.”
“Feels like hell.”
Hayden helped Johnson to his feet. The raiding party exited the property. They had Suspect One secured. He moved unsteadily on his feet, and two of Alpha Team held him up.
“Other’s over here,” Hayden said. Two black-clad shooters picked up the second terrorist.
Now they had to clear out. The raiders took the prisoners to other vehicles while Johnson and Hayden ran back to their SUV. Hayden took the wheel.
As the engine rumbled to life, Johnson said, “You’ve done this before.”
Hayden put the SUV in gear. “Yup.”
“You ain’t no desk man.”
“I wasn’t always a desk man.”
Johnson laughed, then groaned in pain. “Oh, man, this hurts.”
Hayden accelerated from the hideout. “We’ll get you patched up before the sun rises, don’t worry.” Hayden paused a
moment, then: “Base, you copy?”
Lymann said, “We copy successful extraction of two assholes. Good job, boss.”
“We’re proceeding to the interrogation point,” Hayden said. “See you in the morning. Keep the coffee on.”
“You’ll be lucky,” Colleen chimed in, “if there’s any left for you.”
Hayden and the team traveled to a separate location outside the city. The cluster of tents provided privacy for the interrogation. A medic took care of the cut on Johnson’s cheek while Hayden went to work on Suspect One and Suspect Two. He kept them separated so they couldn’t communicate.
Hayden had ways to get them to talk. Within a few hours, he had information for Clark Wilson.
“You working late?” Hayden said over the secure video connection.
Clark Wilson sat behind his desk in his office. The camera mounted on his flatscreen was pointed at his face like a pistol.
“I put a cot in the office,” Wilson said.
Hayden laughed.
“Not kidding,” Wilson said. “Tell me you have something.”
“Not enough,” Hayden said. He consulted a notepad. “We can confirm it was the real Francesca Sloan killed in the drone strike.”
“They’re sure?”
“Both confirmed.”
“Why?”
“Nothing to live for now that her husband was dead.”
Wilson frowned. It never ceased to amaze him how killers could feel empathy. They felt none for their victims, but they shared connections with each other same as everybody else. Another one of life’s mysteries.
“Well how sad for her,” Wilson said. “Pardon me if I don’t weep.”
“I asked about Operation Triangle,” Hayden continued, “but they don’t know anything.”
“What were they left behind for?”
“Continuing operations in the region. They’re supplying arms and information, cover identities, logistical stuff. Nobody told them about a major operation.”
“Not in their position,” Wilson agreed. “They’d know too much. All right, keep working on them. See who else they can lead to.”
“Copy.”
