by W. J. Lundy
“What was so special about the trucks?”
Tommy looked down at his feet and shrugged. “I don’t know, they were just trucks, and the contents were all above my pay grade. When you work in the Ground Division you learn to not ask questions.”
O’Connell nodded his acceptance and waved for Tommy to continue.
“We moved in two days before the bombing of Baghdad commenced, crossing the border posed as French peace activists. We had an arranged rendezvous with the Syrian agent and his thugs in a city called Al-Qa’im. The trucks were positioned in a lot just inside of a large factory complex, all loaded heavy, some full of well-dressed civilians that they used as cover for the operation; others, closed containers. We also had our suspicions, but like I said, we weren’t in the business of asking questions.
“We had one job—to mark and keep in communication with the people running the air war so nobody blew the hell out of the convoy as we crossed open desert.”
“Why would we do this?”
“It was a deal made with Assad. We provided safe passage for those vehicles, and the Syrians agreed to look the other way and not bomb the hell of Israel in retaliation for the invasion of their neighbor.”
“So what went wrong?”
“Nothing; it worked perfectly. We moved them all the way across the border and into Syria. All went off safe and sound with no friendly fire, but after we made the exchange and parted company…” Tommy sighed and dropped his head. “That’s when it happened, the double-crossing bastards. We were scheduled to leave Syria by commercial air to Hungary the next morning, but—”
“The Badawi boys had other plans?” the colonel said, his eyes now fixed on Tommy.
“Yes, sir. Once they got their delivery and the deal was done. That’s when the agent and his men decided a pocket full of Americans might hold some special monetary value. They demanded we turn over our weapons and surrender to them. They were supposed to take us to the airport. Instead, they wanted to disarm us and”—Tommy cracked a smile— “fucking James.”
Tommy closed his eyes and let out a soft laugh before continuing. “He always carried this small pistol in an ankle holster, like he was James Bond. It was fast, and it was violent. But we refused to be taken alive. We fought hard—especially James. Sir, without him we wouldn’t have made it back. They would have taken us, and the government would have refused to acknowledge our existence. We all knew how it would end.”
“I see.” O’Connell leaned back in his chair. His eyes closed, his jaw tensed. Tommy had never seen this side of the jovial man, and he knew a nerve had been struck. The colonel crossed his arms over his chest. He exhaled loudly and asked, “This man—the agent, he killed James?”
Tommy took a deep breath and dropped his chin. “James went down, but not before he shot the Syrian in the face.”
“And our government knew all this time? Why didn’t we go after the Badawi?”
“Like I said before, it’s all off the books. In the eyes of the homeland, there was no score to settle, we were never there.”
“What’s left of this group then?”
“We lost contact with them after the withdrawal from Iraq and the start of the Arab Spring. Most of the organization figured out there was more profit to be made working the rebel side. They defected from the Syrian forces and took up arms as moderates. They operate out of a regional district known as Albahr. Most took funding and weapons from anyone who would give it to them in the expectation that they were revolutionaries and battling extremism.”
“Are they?”
Tommy rolled his eyes at the comment. “The Badawi are opportunists. They run cells like an organized crime family. Fighting where the money is at, loyal to no one.”
O’Connell nodded. “How does all this connect with your sister?”
“Only that it’s the same sandbox. Killing and kidnapping is their game. I know for a fact they are active in that region. She was taken in Albahr less than a week ago. The network is deep there. I don’t know exactly who it was that took Sarah, but I know they had something to do with it.”
“And what if they don’t have her?”
“I’m shutting them down either way. I plan to kill as many of them as I can.”
O’Connell nodded and balled his hands into fists, squeezing until his knuckles were white. “What has the response been from the government about Sarah?”
“You know they won’t do anything—they aren’t doing anything. That’s why I came to you. I need help getting into Jordan. From there I know the right people to move me north.”
“And you think you can do this on your own? Tommy, you’re just going to get yourself killed; you think I want that on my conscience?”
“I won’t be on my own. I will need help.” Tommy paused and drank from his glass. “I won’t let this go unpunished. Not again. I need help moving and I need information.”
“Why are you really here, Tommy?” the colonel said, sitting up and crossing his hands on the desk. “If what you told me is true then you are more than capable of finding your way into Jordan without my help.”
“If James were alive, I would have come to him; he was like my brother. I need help and I don’t have anyone else.”
O’Connell nodded thoughtfully and lifted the smoldering cigar. He stared at Tommy and shook his head. “What else?”
“I know what you do for a living, I know you are connected.”
“This is a lot to drop on an old man. I don’t even know how many laws this might be breaking.”
“I understand, sir. I can disappear and you will never have to worry about this visit.”
The colonel raised his hand, pausing Tommy. “Keep your seat. Now tell me, what exactly is it I can do?”
Tommy sighed in relief and continued. “I’ve already laid a trap. Whoever did this must have someone that knows how to reach out. Someone to barter with and make their demands. Once it’s clear what I’m doing, people will be looking for me, making inquiries.” Tommy steeled his expression and said, “Begging for me to stop.”
The old man nodded and again waved a hand for Tommy to continue.
“Some of them will be legit–from the Church, others not so much. Those others will ask questions, they will be searching, and when they poke their heads up, I need to know who they are.”
“And how will I do that?”
Tommy smiled. “Just wait. It’ll get noisy fast, and people will want to know why. You have friends. Have someone open a Congressional inquiry on me, ask about the Ground Division, let the FBI look into it, get an agent assigned to the case. Then as things get interesting, demand to know more about Junior and how he died. It’ll open doors and raise some eyebrows, I guarantee it.”
“I can do it first thing tomorrow. And what else?”
“I need a flight out as soon as possible.”
O’Connell removed a pad of paper from his desk drawer and wrote as he spoke. “Be at this address; there will be a reservation under the name Flynn. I’ll get you into Jordan. I’ll make some introductions, and I’ll get you as much information as I can gather. But, Tommy, I’m not doing this as a friend. You now work for me. Once this is over, I want to know everything about what James was doing.”
Colonel James O’Connell sat at his desk, silently listening to the fading steps of the man leaving his home. He waited until he heard the clunk of the front door before standing and walking across the room to a wall safe and working the keypad. Rewarded with a click, he pulled out a tanned leather binder. James moved to the desk and placed the binder to his front then opened it.
Inside were photographs of his son. Pictures from his high school graduation, his military unit, and his wedding. Under that were stacks of documents from James’s school days and his military awards. Although the colonel had never let on, he was fully aware of what his son was doing all those years ago. He was no stranger to clandestine work, and was even tipped off by agents when James Junior was being recruited in
the Ground Division.
If O’Connell wanted to block his son from joining, he’d had his opportunity. A single phone call would have ensured Junior stayed in his Special Forces Selection group. But he didn’t do that. He was proud of his son and the choices he was making. He accepted his decisions and waited on the sidelines, watching and grinning to himself when James came home on his breaks in training to tell stories of his service. He was happy when Junior brought his fiancé home for his wedding and introduced her to his friends.
He knew his son wasn’t killed in a training accident in Kuwait. Within days of James’s death, his contacts had told him what they could. He was angry at having lost his only son, but as a veteran himself, he held his tongue. He would not be the one to disgrace his son’s sacrifice. So the colonel continued to keep his silence. He held onto the secret even after he had learned of his son’s death.
He looked back down at the binder and slid a thick stack of the paperwork aside. He lifted a clipped bundle containing heavily redacted pages of information, so much of it blacked out that it was nearly unreadable. It was the Congressional report he had demanded shortly after the visit from Tommy Donovan and the receipt of his son’s final letter. The colonel was fully prepared to let it go, but from the pained expression on the young man’s face, he knew there was more, and he wanted to know the truth.
Most of what he had learned about the failed mission was generic—dates and times, some vague location references. There was no smoking gun, no conspiracy, just some details of a mission deep behind enemy lines in Iraq on the eve of the 2003 invasion. But the things he’d learned tonight about the Badawi Brigade and the double cross, all of that was new. Tommy’s visit had ignited an anger deep in O’Connell’s chest, and now he wanted vengeance.
He put the papers back together and rewrapped the cloth band around the leather binder before pushing it away. The old man reached for his phone and contacted his head of security. The call was brief, just long enough to give detailed instructions concerning the man who would be checking into the hotel. O’Connell wanted to make sure Donovan had every resource to accomplish his mission.
7
“So, our orphan nun? She has a relative, after all.”
Fayed sat at a long, black, polished table in the sixth-floor conference room of the Interpol headquarters building in Paris, surrounded by agents in his department—all heads of distinct investigations. Enzo Louis, a junior agent and little more than a research assistant, was briefing them on current investigations. When the slides focused on the attack of the church in Syria and the missing nuns, most of the men tuned out. This was not their jurisdiction, and for most part they were glad. This was not the case for Fayed, who had been searching himself for clues on the missing woman’s background.
“Yes, it has recently been discovered that when she registered at the orphanage, she was checked in with a brother. One Thomas Donovan.”
At the end of the table sat the director of Fayed’s entire branch, a thick-chested, silver-haired man with a dark tweed jacket and leather elbow pads. He wore thick, black-rimmed glasses that hid the emotion in his eyes. The man shook his head and tossed up a hand. “Why are we investigating this poor woman? What difference does it make if she is an orphan, or one of twelve?”
Fayed rebutted before Enzo could give a response. “Because, Mr. Director, the kidnappers may have reached out beyond the Church. Maybe this brother could help us.” He smiled inside. Or perhaps this brother could go to the media for them. A plea from a relative would raise the potential value. Fayed stopped and turned his attention back to Enzo. “When did you discover this information? Why was I not alerted?”
“I am sorry, Inspector,” Enzo said, walking toward him and placing a file on the table to his front. “It was not our discovery. It appears the Vatican contacted our New York field office about this man, Thomas Donovan. The discovery of the relative was theirs.”
Fayed’s brow raised as he pulled the folder closer. “They contacted us about a man they were already aware of? Why?”
“The brother, he has a detailed record known to us. They requested the information before breaking the news of her kidnapping to the brother,” he said, beaming.
“Why the concern? Is he a criminal?” Fayed asked, the pitch of his voice rising.
“Not a criminal, but he has been party to several of our criminal investigations.”
“Investigations of what sort?”
“Counter terror.” The young man stepped closer to open the folder and pulled out a specific page with classified markings at the top. “He was part of an American special services branch that dealt specifically with rooting out and removing terrorists. The organization has since been deactivated. They tended to make a lack of arrests.”
“No arrests?” Fayed tucked his lip.
“No, Inspector. They didn’t put a priority on live apprehensions.”
The director leaned in, looking at the file. “I see. How did we become privy to this knowledge? The Americans always protect their assets’ identities.”
Enzo smiled and flipped to another page, handing it to Fayed. The man’s eyes glowed. “The bombings in Turkey. Of course. It was a joint investigation. We would have collected his name via access requests,” Fayed said, looking over the page. “And where is this Thomas Donovan now?”
“We believe he may once again be in Turkey,” Enzo said, his face now beaming.
Fayed pursed his lips, attempting to restrain the shock showing on his face. “Turkey? Are you sure?”
“Yes, Inspector. Once the Americans were made aware of the brother, he was quickly put under surveillance.”
“Surveillance? Why?”
The young assistant shrugged. “Just normal procedure, I am sure. Being next of kin, they would want to keep an eye on him in case the kidnappers attempted contact.”
Fayed nodded, accepting the explanation. He waved his hand for the man to continue.
“After this Mr. Donovan was notified of his sister’s disappearance, the Vatican once again contacted us; this time more urgently. It appears that Mr. Donovan did not take the news well, and they feared he may do something rash that could endanger himself.”
“But Turkey?”
“Yes, we ran a detailed search and found that he booked a flight to Istanbul, traveling through Paris. This was done within twenty-four hours of his notification.”
Fayed went back to the papers and removed the page referencing the bombings. “Turkey—the border there with Syria has become rather porous with the refugee crisis. Per the record, he may have contacts there… Istanbul police, federal investigators, people that could help him.”
The director nodded his head and looked to Fayed. “Inspector, what do you think he is after?”
“The Vatican may be right. He is foolishly taking matters into his own hands. And with his background, he would know that an American cannot simply travel to Syria without being noticed. He will most likely try to cross the southern border into Kurdish-held territories.”
“What should we do?” Enzo asked, excitement building in his voice.
“Nothing.” It was the silver-haired director. “It’s not our jurisdiction. This man is free to do as he wishes, even if it does cause his own death.”
Fayed nodded and feigned disappointment, pushing the pages back into the folder. He looked at Enzo. “This was good work, but I have to agree with my superior. There is nothing we can do.”
He stood, taking the file and moving it into his briefcase. “If you’d pardon me, gentlemen, I have another important meeting.” He quickly turned away and moved down a narrow corridor and exited onto a metal fire escape, passing several men having an afternoon smoke. He stood in a corner and retrieved a cigarette of his own as he casually searched his surroundings for open ears.
Fayed removed a phone from his breast pocket and dialed a number from memory. It rang several times before Abdul picked up. “I’ll be leaving for Istanbul in the morning. I
need to speak to you. You should have a party; invite our friends from Ankara.”
“This is sounding very exciting. Do you have news for me?”
“Tomorrow, the usual place. I will be there at noon,” he said, cutting the connection.
8
The address took him to a small budget hotel on the south side of the capital, in an Alexandrian industrial district. The place was set back and well concealed from the road. Charlie pulled the cab close to the lobby and looked back, handing Tommy his business card. “If you ever need another nightly rental, give me a call,” the man said with a smile.
Tommy nodded and handed over the remaining five hundred dollars. As he entered the hotel, he could see why O’Connell selected it. The Beltway Inn was a business traveler’s hotel, a place where people would not be noticed. There were no tourists here, no families, just professionals. The lobby was small and connected to a dining room that was filled with men in work coats and business suits, sipping coffee from paper cups and looking at newspapers.
Walking toward a check-in desk, he dropped his bag and looked up at a heavyset woman with thick glasses and pulled-back brown hair. She looked Tommy up and down then asked if she could help him.
“I have a reservation for Flynn,” Tommy said, avoiding eye contact.
She turned to a thick book and flipped through pages. Another bonus, this hotel wasn’t plugged in. The registry was done the old-fashioned way. She stopped on a page then nodded her head before looking at a peg wall behind her and removing a key. “Yes, Mr. Flynn. Your room is ready.”
Tommy reached for his wallet, but the woman stopped him, lifting a small yellow sticky note. “The room is paid up. Third floor, room 306,” she said.
He gave her a knowing nod and accepted the key. The room was Spartan but perfect for his needs. He found the mini bar fully stocked and removed two shooters of Jameson, which he downed quickly before hitting the shower and finding the bed.
