“Yeah, well, you could have at least announced yourself,” he said, irritation still apparent in his voice. “Or you very well could have just picked up the phone and called me. Normally, people don’t break into other people’s homes just because that particular person called them. So what information do you have for me?”
He leaned up against the wall; his eyes trained on Ericka. Mark’s gun was re-holstered, but he kept his right hand at the ready to draw it on a moment’s notice. Yeah, he really did not trust this woman.
In spite of Ericka’s benign good looks, there was no doubt in Mark’s mind that when it came to her job—which was to all extents and purposes her life—she was as calculated and as lethal as they came. Her innocence was long gone. This woman had some serious demons that weren’t likely to be exorcised anytime soon. Being a complete wildcard, it wouldn’t surprise him if sometime in the future she made a career change into the shadowy world of hired assassins.
She glanced down at his hands and smirked. Walking over to sit down on his living room couch, she pulled her tangled hair back out of her face and into her ponytail holder.
“You do realize that I don’t work for you right, Mark? Next time, I would appreciate it if you refrain from contacting me again. I think that the information that I have been able to recover for you should make us more than even.”
He stared at her with a raised eyebrow and crossed his arms over his broad chest, but otherwise he didn’t comment.
“I have been in contact with some of my friends who have been on an extended desert vacation,” she continued, “Apparently, Henning has been consorting with some very unsavory men of ill repute for a gentleman of his standing.”
“Who?” Mark asked, this time moving away from the wall to stand right before her.
“Do you have any coffee?” Ericka asked abruptly. “I know this isn’t exactly a social visit, but I’m running on hardly any sleep here.”
Mark eyed her suspiciously for a moment, before replying, “Sure.” Ericka turned her body position on the sofa to watch Mark walk over to the kitchen, turn on the light, wash his hands, and begin to make a fresh pot of coffee. A few minutes later, the energizing aroma of fresh coffee beans brewing filled the room.
Mark realized that Ericka was playing some sort of mind game with him. That’s what she had always liked to do. He hadn’t given her his new home address—hell, he hadn’t given her his old home address. Even though he’d attempted to get into contact with her earlier, she hadn’t given him any indication that she wanted to talk to him in person.
She’d tracked him down for a reason, other than relaying sensitive information. There were other ways to get the intel through safe channels without having to contact him face-to-face. She was up to something for sure, but Mark didn’t know what.
****
Looking at Mark now, Colleen couldn’t help but think of the last time she’d been with him. Of all the men that she had been with, Mark had been one of the best in the bedroom. Really, he should have written a “How To” book on the female orgasm—most men just didn’t even have a clue in that regard. Like most things about Mark, his looks were understated as well.
Mark didn’t have typical baby-faced male model features, but he was a ruggedly handsome man. He had a strong face and a square jaw. He had that gruff New Yorker accent befitting a man who had proudly grown up in the Bronx. The jagged, white scar on that split through his left eyebrow and extended down an inch only served to amplify his dangerous appearance.
She knew from personal experience that he also had a scar right above his left breast; it looked like a knife wound of some sort. He wasn’t very tall. Mark stood at about only 5’9’’ or so. But the confident way that he carried himself made him appear larger than life. He was very muscular, with lean hips and a full eight-pack worth of abs. Colleen also knew from personal experience that he had very strong, capable hands.
Perhaps in another life she would have tried to make a relationship out of what they’d had. He had been married when she first met him. He hadn’t attempted to hide that fact, either. When they had last been together, she had noticed that he had had the habit of absent-mindedly rubbing the gold band on his left ring finger.
Mark hadn’t made her any promises, and she hadn’t made any promises to him either. She hadn’t been looking for any type of commitment from him. Colleen hadn’t cared either way about his marital status because she herself wasn’t much the staying type. Tonight, however, she had noticed that his ring finger was missing the wedding band.
She shifted her position on the sofa to take in her surroundings. Mark’s house was the type of house that was bigger on the inside than it seemed to be from the outside. Three barstools stood at the counter that separated the kitchen from the living space. A warm shade of red splashed the living room walls. Overall, the home had a quaint, “lived-in” air about it. It was actually very surprising. She had expected that Mark’s living quarters would mirror his gruff personality and would be less inviting.
The sofa that she was sitting on was made of soft, black leather. Another sofa that had been pushed into an “L” shape beside it was of the same fabric. A large cedar bookcase sat in the corner nearest to Colleen. Mark really did have a vast and very impressive collection of books. She could see a few of the titles, which included the complete works of Plato & Aristotle, “The Art of War,” “U.S. Army U.S. Marine Corps Counterinsurgency Field Manual,” and “The History of Sea Power Upon History.”
In addition to his reading materials, there were a few oil paintings on the wall and a flat screen television. The television hung above the mantel of the decorative fireplace in the living room. A couple of photographs sat in frames on the mantel of the fireplace. One of the photos showed Mark and an older gentleman laughing on a sailboat. In the other photograph, Mark was standing with some of his military friends in full dress uniform.
Turning her attention back around to Mark, she studied his movements while he opened one of his kitchen cabinets to retrieve two brown coffee mugs.
“Sugar or cream?” Mark asked her, filling up the two cups with the steaming hot liquid.
“Two sugars, but no cream,” she replied. A few seconds later, Mark walked from the kitchen to where Colleen sat on the sofa. He carefully placed her cup on one of the coasters on his coffee table.
“Thanks,” Colleen said, looking from where Mark had placed the coffee cup, up into his dark brown eyes.
She watched Mark stand before her. He stood there, holding his coffee mug in one hand as he stared back down at her. He looked uncomfortable; as if he had to make sure that he stayed on his tiptoes around her. He’d tightly pressed his lips together and his left hand was lightly skimming across his lower lip.
After hesitating for a brief moment, he sat down beside her on the leather couch. She noticed that he had situated himself as far to the left of her as possible, but without giving up his view of the manila folder that she had placed on his table.
Colleen picked up the beige envelope and opened it under Mark’s hawkish eye. Opening the packet, she pulled out a stack of photos and laid them out in front of her on his coffee table. She took a sip of the piping, hot coffee and then pointed to one of the photographs on the table.
“Do you recognize this man?” she asked. Mark leaned in to get a closer look at the man to whom Colleen was pointing her finger.
The photograph was of Richard Henning and an unidentified man who appeared to be in his late forties to early-fifties. The man was pale-skinned, tall, and thin. He was also wearing round, wire-rimmed glasses.
“No, I have never seen him before,” Mark replied. “Should I know him?”
“Well, meet Dr. Saverin Tarasov. Dr. Tarasov is a renowned chemist who has worked for a company called Nava Drug Corp for the past five years. The drug company is based out of Russia, and they run a pretty lucrative business operation by manufacturing medications for the treatment of cancer and heart disease.” Colleen
stopped speaking and took another sip of the strong coffee.
“Where and when was this photo taken?”
“The photo was taken in Afghanistan during Henning’s recent goodwill tour.”
“Okay … so this chemist for a Russian pharmaceutical company is an acquaintance of Henning. So what? It’s not much of a stretch that Henning would know prominent men in the international pharmaceutical industry. As a Congressman he has taken on the promotion of international health initiatives as part of his platform for a potential re-election bid.”
Colleen glanced at him and shook her head. “Dr. Tarasov is not just your ordinary, run-of-the-mill Russian chemist, Mark. For the past two years his activities have been closely monitored by the CIA and NSA, FSB, MI5, and Mossad, among other international intelligence agencies,” she replied.
“So, he is a pretty popular guy then. Why all of the attention?”
“Well. Dr. Tarasov is originally from Albania, but he and his family lived in Bosnia for quite awhile. Do you remember the subway attack ten years ago, shortly after 9/11, in a Bosnian subway where ricin powder was released in the air via a mist?”
“Yeah, sure I remember. It was horrible. Twenty-five subway passengers died. It was one of the worst reported incidents of bioterrorism during that period in the region. Are you saying that Tarasov had something to do with that?”
“No, I’m not saying that. However, Tarasov’s five-year-old daughter and his second wife, who was a pregnant elementary school teacher at the time, were both passengers on the subway during the attack. Unfortunately, they were on the casualty list. His daughter died immediately. His wife, however, lingered in a coma for two weeks before later succumbing from the injuries that she sustained due to her exposure to the toxin.”
“Damn. That’s a horrible way to lose your family,” Mark said.
Ricin was a particularly nasty neurotoxin developed from the castor oil plant. Even a small dosage of the powder could kill an adult human if the toxin was inhaled or administered directly into the body system. Even those victims who managed to survive their exposure were likely to have long-term organ damage, blindness, or severe scarring of the skin.
“Yes, well don’t feel completely sorry for him. He didn’t exactly turn the other cheek,” Colleen continued. “Two years after the attack, seven members of the group that had publicly taken responsibility for the subway attack were shot and killed while at a wedding party of one of the members of the group.”
“Yeah, well you could probably reason that they deserved the punishment they got,” Mark replied, his lips tightened in a grim straight line.
“Yeah, you very well could. However, the carnage just didn’t stop there. Not only were those seven men executed, but everyone at the entire venue was killed. All in all sixty-people, men, women, and children—three generations of two families—wiped out in just a few minutes. Talk about overkill.”
“Shit. So there’s evidence that Tarasov was responsible?”
“Well, if there had been enough evidence to make a case he would either have been executed or be behind bars right now. There were lots of rumors, of course, but nothing concrete enough that would make the charges stick. Witnesses were impossible to find. Now, that is not to say that there hadn’t been any. They just hadn’t been fool enough to talk. Tarasov left Bosnia shortly after the killings and moved to Russia where he has lived ever since. He has one niece who he appears to be close to, and he has sent her money to pay for her tuition bills. His niece’s name is Natashka Tarasov, and she is a student at Brevard College in New York.”
“Interesting. But even if, for argument’s sake, he took part in those killings, being a cold-hearted SOB doesn’t necessarily make someone a terrorist. What makes you or other members of the intelligence community believe that he has anti-American terrorist ties?”
Colleen raised her eyebrow at this question. “Well for starters, the fact that he has been photographed with members of the international terror network Al-Jaazeez. And you know what they say: ‘I can tell you who you are when you tell me who your friends are’.”
She then shifted through the documents on the table until she found the photograph that she was looking for. “See here, this photo was taken three years ago in Iran. Dr. Tarasov was seen meeting with three key members of the Al-Jaazeez terror group outside of a weapons manufacturing facility.”
The Al-Jaazeez network was a notorious terrorist organization that had been prominent during the Afghanistan and Iraq wars. This organization’s original cell had first sprung out of a small village in Ghor province in Afghanistan.
The group had conducted a series of suicide bombings on local market places and at the U.S. military installation in Kabul throughout 2003-2008. Their attacks had resulted in the deaths of approximately 550 U.S. military personnel and Afghan citizens.
“Does the Al-Jaazeez network have any link to the Haqqai group?”
“A tentative connection has emerged through the contacts that I have been developing. Dr. Tarasov has been consorting with another big player, Dr. Haseem Adil, who has had past associations with the Afghanistan-based Al-Jaazeez. So far the only other link that has been recovered that may lead to a specific connection with the Haqqai network is to a small madrassa that Dr. Adil has made donations to that is located in Miranshah, Pakistan.”
Madrassas were Islamic seminary schools that were known to teach mostly Islamic subjects to male youths, which usually culminated in their graduation from the school as religious clerics. During the US-Afghanistan war, there had been a serious focus on madrassas as being a key area of concern. Some terrorist groups used madrassas primarily as breeding grounds to recruit and train future jihadists.
Colleen knew that the overwhelming majority of Afghan parents who sent their children to madrassas—sometimes across the border in Pakistan—sent them there to obtain a proper education, but not to be indoctrinated into extremist viewpoints.
However, a small percentage of madrassas had the reputation of recruiting young children to become suicide bombers or jihadists. Many pundits called this type of radicalization of young children, brainwashing. But that classification wasn’t entirely accurate. Brainwashing was more of a coercive persuasion that could occur in a relatively short timeframe. Instead, the extremist jihadist radicalization process was a slow inculcation into extremist views, largely inspired by Al-Qaeda.
Colleen continued, “But the agents on the ground in both Afghanistan and Pakistan are working overtime. We do not have any concrete information to support that the madrassa in Miranshah has been in any untoward activities or has had any terrorist involvement. My contacts in the field are trying to uncover as much information about the school’s current students and teachers of the school, clerics who have graduated from there, and the financiers of the operation. I should receive additional information about the status of the school in the next seventy-two hours.”
Mark took his time reviewing the additional photos and documents that she had brought with her. Colleen helped herself to a second cup of coffee while Mark perused the files. It took about an hour before he was able to read all of the material.
“You’re not the only one looking into this matter you know,” Colleen said matter-of-factly.
Mark glanced up from one of the classified documents that he was reading before he replied, “Yeah, I figured I wouldn’t be. So who is this guy right here?”
She looked at the photo. It was of an older man who had European features. The man was in one of the photos with members of Al-Jaazeez outside of the weapons facility.
“We’re not sure who he is yet. There are agents on the ground in Iran who are still attempting to identify him.” Colleen stood up signaling that she was about to leave, and Mark followed suit. He placed the documents in the folder and then handed the folder back to her.
Colleen shook her head and pushed the folder back into his hands. “You can keep those copies, Mark. Your superiors will be getting the very s
ame copies very soon, think of those as your advanced edition. I’ll let you know when I find out further information about the madrassa and the mystery man in the photo,” she said, walking to and opening his front door. She stopped short, turning slightly looking over her shoulder back at him.
“You should know that it’s not looking good as far as confirming that the Russian smallpox samples are secure. My contact within Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service is shitting bricks right now because at least two smallpox specimens are UA. You should also know that I consider us even. Don’t think about tracking me down again, I won’t be amused.” She left Mark watching her as she walked out of his front door and into the night.
Chapter Eight
“
Hello. It is nice to finally meet you Ms. Sanchez.”
“It’s very nice to meet you as well, Mr. Mickelson. Thank you for agreeing to speak with me today,” Victoria replied, valiantly trying to tamp down her irritation.
It was now 1:00, and their meeting was supposed to have begun at 11:30. Victoria had waited for an hour and a half in the lobby area of Mickelson & Associate while Mickelson’s secretary repeatedly assured her that he would only be “a few minutes.” Clearly, either the man didn’t own a watch or he didn’t appreciate the value of other people’s time. She was betting on the latter.
Mickelson & Associates was located on the ninth floor of a newly renovated ten-story glass office building in downtown Fort Worth. Mickelson’s business operations only took up one floor of the office building. From the placard outside the front door of the office, there were three “associates” employed by Mickelson’s company—all of which just happened to be male.
Surprisingly, the office was decorated in a modern art deco style. After Googling Mickelson’s bio, she had expected to find wood paneling and mounted antlers covering his office.
Pushed to the Edge (SEAL Team 14) Page 10
