Betrayal

by Tim Tigner

  As Stuart’s features snapped back to their black-granite norm, Wiley felt a wave of trepidation, but he did not falter. He knew that if he did not stand up to Stuart now, he probably never would. Since Stuart was forcing Wiley to make him his chief of staff, the least Wiley could do was teach Stuart his place. He plowed on. “I have decided to stick with Cassi. If you still think she’s a liability, you will just have to find a way to make her an asset. Understood?”

  Wiley thought he saw a shadow pass behind Stuart’s already dark eyes, but his expression did not change. He just nodded.

  Wiley continued to hold Stuart’s gaze for another moment. His poker instincts were kicking in. As absurd as it seemed, he was getting the distinct impression that Stuart had not only seen this little rebellion coming, but was also somehow prepared …

  Chapter 15

  Alexandria, Virginia

  “YOU’VE GOT TO let me have this one Jack,” Cassi said, lowering her voice. “It’s too important to leave to Ralph.”

  Jack pursed his lips, trying to ignore the last part of her comment, she supposed. “You above all people should understand that you’re in no condition to be negotiating today, Cassi. Ralph will do just fine.”

  Cassi wanted to scream but that would just make her boss’s point. She slipped into negotiations mode instead. “Forget about politics for a minute. What if they were your kids? What if that was Bobby and Becky up there? Can you honestly tell me that you would want Ralph as your point man?”

  Jack shrugged. “Ralph has four times your experience, Cassi.”

  “Yeah, and despite that he’s got triple my failure rate.”

  “I gave the case to Ralph. I can’t take it away now—especially in order to give it to you. Go get some rest. By the time you wake up, everything will be fine.”

  Cassi knew that Jack was doing his best to be objective and kind. She could also sense that his magnanimity was wearing thin. She knew she should back off now and do as he asked, but the image of two little caskets pushed her on. She decided to try a different tack. “How about a deal then? I get this negotiation; Ralph gets the promotion. Just let me save those kids.”

  She saw surprise cross Jack’s face and a flash of something else, but he just shook his head. “The job is neither yours to barter, nor mine to give away.”

  Cassi shot her last arrow. “Women have a thirty-percent advantage over men in negotiations where child hostages are involved. You’ve got a female negotiator on the scene asking to do the job. If you say no and this goes south, some ambitious reporter is going to dig that statistic up. Your judgment will be called into question, both in private with the parents of those children, and in public as the mayor conducts damage control.”

  Jack gave her a long icy stare. Cassi understood in that moment that she had done their relationship irreparable damage. But for better or worse, she was too spent emotionally to care.

  Finally he said, “Don’t fuck up.”

  ~ ~ ~

  As the other agents disappeared down the stairs, Cassi looked at the photos ripped from the children’s locker doors. The hostages’ real names were Masha and Zeke, not even close to the Sara and Sammy she had guessed. She hoped that was not a bad omen. With two of her kids hanging in the balance and her own unborn child along for the ride, this was going to be the most important negotiation of her life.

  Cassi took a visual sweep of the empty brick hallway and then brought her focus to rest on the metal door. She closed her eyes, let out a slow breath, and willed her mind to drift down through the clouds into The Zone. The Zone was a mental room with a chessboard floor and black walls. This was where she studied her opponent and calculated her moves. Once in The Zone she blocked out every sound, every smell, every extraneous tick and tock. She only allowed the players in The Zone—just she, the perp, and the hostages. The hostages. She hated to see those two small pieces on the board. It took a real sonofabitch to use children as pawns.

  Back in the real world Cassi pressed herself against the brick wall of the corridor. She spoke loudly enough to be heard through the metal door but in a tone that was still conversational and polite. “Good morning. It’s just the negotiator, as you requested. Everyone else is gone. I’ve got two cups of coffee here, in case you would like one. My name’s Cassandra by the way, Cassi for short. What can I call you?”

  “What you can call me is a fucking helicopter if you don’t want to lose these two kids.”

  He was talking, Cassi thought. That was a good sign. She began her mental tally of notes. The man had gone straight to his central demand and his ultimate threat. That meant he was both impatient and scared. Both could work in her favor if she played them right. Both could get everyone killed if she played them wrong. In either case, his condition was not conducive to the standard tire-him-out routine.

  Her first objective was to establish herself as his friend. The constant repetition of his name would work wonders in that area, but she sensed that he would not be inclined to give it. Perhaps she could guess. His voice was mid-thirties Italian with a Brooklyn accent. She decided to play the percentages. “You having a bad day, Nik?”

  There was a long pause.

  Cassi kept her focus on the chessboard, preparing the various countermoves she would use for different reactions.

  “Nice try, lady. There were three Niks on my block growing up, but I ain’t one of ‘em. I do respect a woman who isn’t afraid of taking a chance, though. You can call me Sal.”

  Yes! Cassi felt the juices pumping. She was in her groove. Everything was going to fall into place. She could feel it. “You having a bad day, Sal?”

  “You shouldn’t be concerned with what kind of a day I’m having. I can take care of myself. You should be concerned about the kids locked in here with a bomb.”

  The kids were all that she cared about, but she knew that they were okay for now. She could hear their muffled sobs. Her goal was to keep them that way. She would use all her skill and experience to keep Masha and Zeke out of play for as long as Sal was in play. Her primary means of doing that would be to keep the negotiation focused on Sal until they reached agreement or it was time for HRT to intervene. “But I do worry about you, Sal. Surely, you didn’t want it to come to this. Did you?”

  “You got that right. This was supposed to be a quick in and out job.”

  “So what went wrong?”

  “Humph. You showed up.” He paused.

  Cassi waited.

  Finally he asked, “How’d you know?”

  “Somebody saw you. We got a call. It happens all the time. Too many eyes in this big city. Tell me, Sal, how do you see this working out?”

  “I’ll tell you exactly how this is going to work out. You’re going to land a helicopter in the schoolyard. I’m going to climb onboard—just me, the pilot, and the two kids. We’re going to take off. Once I’m sure I’m in the clear, I’ll have the pilot set me down someplace I can disappear. Then he brings you back the kids and it’s like this never happened. Nobody gets hurt.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Cassi said. She put conviction in her tone, but knew that Sal’s request was a fantasy. In her business someone always got hurt.

  Chapter 16

  Orumiyeh, Iran

  “WHO ARE WE in danger from?” Odi asked Ayden.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then how do you know that we’re in danger?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Odi did not understand why his rescuer was being so evasive. He was obviously nervous and uncomfortable. Perhaps evasion was his default defense mechanism. Odi decided to try a different tack. “Does anybody know where we are?”

  “I don’t think so, but I’m not sure. I rent this place from an old lady who doesn’t even know my name. Still, I’m readily identified as the tall American. It would be easy to find me by asking around.”

  “And who would be asking?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Odi thought about that for a
moment, trying to cut through the circular logic. He did not know what was going on, so he could hardly formulate hypotheses. He decided to calm Ayden down while taking a mental inventory of things he could use as improvised weapons—kitchen knives, a broomstick, a wine bottle filled with sand. “How did I end up in that hospital? The last thing I remember was bleeding to death on a battlefield.”

  “Battlefield, huh?”

  Odi understood he had made a faux pas but the words were out. He just shrugged.

  Ayden said, “Forget it. To answer your question, I took you to the hospital. We’re in Orumiyeh, by the way. It’s twenty kilometers south of Tafriz—the sight of the battle.”

  “So, are you a doctor?” Odi asked, steering the conversation toward a non-controversial subject.

  “Yes. I studied at Berkley.”

  “Really, Berkley. Great school. What’s your connection to Iran?”

  “My father was Iranian.”

  Odi must have shown his surprise on his face because Ayden continued. “I know, I don’t look it. I take after my mother’s father, and my parents gave me her last name.”

  Odi nodded. “Are you here with the Red Crescent or Doctors Without Borders?”

  “Close. I came here with the Peace Corps. They pulled out a few years back but I didn’t want to leave. Too much work to do. Too many children left to save. So now I’m working on my own.”

  “Who’s footing the bills?”

  Ayden blushed.

  “I’m sorry,” Odi continued. “That just slipped out. It’s none of my business. Must be the drugs.”

  “No. That’s okay. Actually I get by on an inheritance.”

  The kettle whistled. Ayden poured tea. Then he pulled a sleeve of Fig Newtons from the white chipboard cupboard hanging over the sink and set it down. “I don’t eat many meals here. I hope this will do.”

  Odi said, “Thanks,” before tucking in. After swallowing three he asked his host, “How did I end up in a hospital in … ”

  “Orumiyeh,” Ayden repeated. “Last weekend I happened to be doing aid work in Tafriz when a couple I had helped a few times before awakened me in the middle of the night. Their boy had just gotten his foot blown off by a landmine. I stabilized the wound and directed his parents to the local clinic you know so well. About twenty minutes after they left I remembered that Bahir, the boy, was allergic to penicillin. I went chasing after. The rest you can guess.”

  “What was the boy doing that he got his foot blown off in the middle of the night?”

  “A lot of kids work in the fields at night to help support their families. It’s cooler and that way they don’t miss school. Bahir was taking a shortcut home through the woods.”

  Odi nodded. One more life his team was responsible for losing. “So you found me near the clinic while returning for the boy?”

  “That’s right. I took you back to the hut I was working from to patch you up. Your wound was not life threatening in itself, but you had lost a lot of blood. I had some to spare.”

  Odi tilted his head inquisitively.

  Ayden nodded. “I’m O negative, a universal donor.”

  Odi’s head began to reel from all the implications surrounding his predicament. If any of the locals learned that he was a member of the team that blew up their clinic and killed … how many Iranians? He was afraid to ask. He had other questions that he wanted Ayden to answer as well, lots of them, but he feared that time might be short.

  Since the US did not maintain an embassy in Iran, he figured that he had two options. Either he could approach a friendly embassy as Ayden had suggested earlier, presumably the British or the Canadians. Perhaps the Aussies. Unfortunately, Tehran was over five hundred miles away. He could call and try to get someone to send a car. Or perhaps there was a major Western corporation that had an office near his current location. Any embassy would know. But how would he manage that without compromising the mission? He was not naïve enough to believe that any phone communication to a Western establishment would be secure. And now that the mission had gone to shit, maintaining deniability would be the prime American objective. Potchak would have a fit if he placed an unsecure call.

  The alternative was to wait until nightfall and head for Turkey on foot. Since Orumiyeh was twenty kilometers from Tafriz, and Tafriz was twenty kilometers from the border, he had to be within forty kilometers of the Turkish border. Just a marathon.

  “I can’t tell you how grateful I am,” Odi said. “Forgive me if I’m being rude, but I would hate to let someone interrupt us and spoil your work.” He glanced over at his bandaged arm. “What was it that you wanted to show me?”

  “Yes, of course.” Ayden disappeared into a room off the entryway and returned a moment later with a burlap sack labeled “Brown Rice.” He cleared the mugs and empty cellophane wrapper from the table. Then he upturned the bag. The remnant parts of eight military headsets clattered onto the Formica table. Obviously they had come from his team. This was the last thing Odi had expected.

  “Do you know how your teammates died?” Ayden asked.

  “I only saw two of them. Both were shot in the head.”

  “I’m no expert in forensics, Odi, but I had a look at the bodies and then consulted with a friend. Your teammates were not shot. All seven were assassinated by tiny bombs. Check out the headsets.” Ayden held up the remnants of an earpiece. “I found bits of this same plastic lodged in all seven head-wounds.”

  Odi felt his skepticism kicking in. “How did you end up with the headsets?”

  “I got them from the boy who scavenged them. He was playing with one while I examined him. I had already examined the bodies by then and found the strange shrapnel. When I saw the bloody headsets, I put two and two together.”

  Odi did not want to think about the implications of that revelation. Instead he began to examine the pieces one after the other. They had not been tampered with, that much was clear. They were still covered with streaks of blood and bits of gore. It did not require his expert eyes to see that Ayden’s conclusion was correct—although he had missed it on the battlefield. Each headset had exploded from within. A tiny charge had been cleverly directed by the speaker dish into the wearer’s ear.

  Odi put a residual piece to his nose and recognized the distinct scent of RDX. He knew that a drop of RDX the size of an eraser head would take a human head clean off. Given the location of the explosive, just millimeters from the ear, the charge would not have had to be any larger than a match head to be lethal.

  Odi set the evidence back down on the table as his head began to spin.

  His teammates were not the victims of war.

  They had died from assassination.

  He felt the walls closing in.

  Ayden bobbed nervously in his chair as Odi took a long moment of contemplative silence. Then Odi brushed the broken bits off the table with a single sweep of his good arm. He looked up at his new friend. “Why would someone rig our headsets to explode? Why would someone back at Quantico want to kill my team?”

  “If yours had been the only incident,” Ayden said, “I would say that someone on your team posed a serious threat to the person behind this—as in knowing something that would send him to jail—so he killed everyone to cover his tracks. But—”

  “Hold on a minute,” Odi interrupted. “There were other incidents? Other attacks?”

  “Oh yeah. There were two. The AmCham office was bombed in Belgium, and an American School was bombed in Paris.”

  “When?”

  “Both attacks took place the night your team was assassinated.”

  Odi leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath. His life was getting more complicated by the minute. Now he understood why Ayden had discouraged his making a call, but that was about all he understood.

  He needed more information.

  “I interrupted you,” Odi said. “You were going to tell me why you thought someone had done this.”

  “Yes, well, I think the core reas
on is obvious. Why do people do anything?”

  “Money?”

  Ayden nodded.

  “How does killing my team make anybody money?” Odi asked.

  Ayden answered him with a question. A surprising question. “Do you know what the biggest industry in the world is?”

  “Oil?”

  Ayden shook his head.

  Odi raised his brows.

  “Fear,” Ayden said.

  “Fear?”

  “Yes, fear. At the individual level, fear is sold in many forms, the most common of which is insurance: health, life, accident, theft. People are afraid that something big will go wrong, so they put their money down. At the collective level, fear is sold in the form of defense—against fire, flood, famine, and crime. Of course the granddaddy of these is national defense. Mention the word terrorism and people trip over themselves to hand you blank checks.”

  “You’re losing me. What does—” Odi cut himself off. “I’m beginning to see where you’re going with this, but I’m not there yet. Keep talking.”

  “America’s War on Terror was worth around three billion dollars a week to the defense industry. Think about it, three billion dollars a week. That’s greater than the GDP of many nations. Surely you don’t think the guys who were pocketing that kind of cash were happy when the gravy train stopped rolling. So why would you assume that they would just mothball the mint and walk away once the attacks lightened up?”

  Odi had to accept the logic, but something still bugged him. It only took a moment for him to figure out what it was. “Ayden, with all due respect. If the defense contractors were secretly sponsoring attacks to spur demand and keep that gravy train rolling, you wouldn’t be the only person to figure it out.”

  Ayden shook his head sagely. “Nobody else knows that someone inside the FBI planned the murder of your team. The world thinks your team was killed when you uncovered a secret al-Qaeda training camp. And even if someone suspected the truth, so what? He would have no proof. If he spoke up, nobody would listen. If he persisted loudly despite the skepticism, he would just be labeled a nut.”