Spy Thriller: The Fourteenth Protocol: A Story of Espionage and Counter-terrorism (The Special Agent Jana Baker Book Series 1)

by Nathan Goodman

  55

  The firefight at the Thoughtstorm building had raged into the early morning hours, and every available agent had been deployed. In the end, over two hundred FBI agents had been involved in raiding the Thoughtstorm building. There were eleven agents who had died in the line of duty. Fourteen CIA officers were killed before the rest threw down their weapons.

  The building sustained heavy damage. City building inspectors on the scene investigated the damage and called for structural engineers. Concern rose over the stability of the structure’s southwest side, which had sustained a heavy blistering from automatic weapon fire coming from the Apache.

  Much of the Buckhead area had been cordoned off. Cars, buses, trains, and even people on foot could not enter the area. Reporters screamed for answers. Local businesses demanded to know how they were going to get their people to work. Even the mayor’s office was demanding to know the situation.

  Finally, at 8:15 a.m., a press conference convened. The FBI spokesperson was brief and did not allow questions. In her statement, she indicated only that a terrorism investigation was ongoing and that a raid on the building last night had resulted in a prolonged firefight. When she revealed the number of agents lost, even the blood-sucking reporters went silent.

  In the chaos of that previous night, one thing had slipped through the cracks. As all available agents were called to the scene, surveillance on one Waseem Jarrah had lapsed. It wasn’t an oversight. The team whose priority had been to surveil one of the most dangerous terrorists in the world had simply responded to the call—the firefight took priority. Jarrah vanished. Not since the espionage case of Robert Hanssen in 2001 had the subject of such an important investigation slipped out of sight.

  When Stephen Latent was told that terrorist Waseem Jarrah was nowhere to be found, he went apoplectic. The news just didn’t get any worse than this. He hadn’t slept in thirty-two hours, he had lost eleven dedicated members of the elite Hostage Rescue Team, another agent and the key material witness were missing, and now he didn’t even have eyes on the key suspect. On top of that, his presentation to the Senate Oversight subcommittee regarding Executive Order 2213, the Baker-Able scenario, had not resulted in an indictment of the president.

  56

  He had sealed his fate. The third cell call had been the final signal. The train was on its way. Maqued’s answer to the coded phone call was an affirmation of his readiness. They were the last words he would speak to any human that was not a part of the beast. It wouldn’t be long before he met Allah. Without another thought, he thumbed the lever to slide down the drivers’ window of the bus and hurled the still connected cell phone over the guard rail and into the Housatonic River below. No one on the bus noticed as it disappeared without a sound. They were too distracted, busying themselves with their various concerns. And although they couldn’t have known, their bus driver would soon be held in highest honor amongst jihadists.

  There were to be no other signals, no other communications. Maqued looked at his wristwatch—7:59 a.m. He had exactly forty-four minutes until he would complete his final objective. Every bomb pack would detonate on its supporting beam, and at the front and rear of the train bridge, a triple charge of explosives would slice the bridge like a surgeon’s scalpel through an artery. 8:43 a.m. exactly. 8:43 a.m. The timing had to be perfect.

  Traffic was moderate as the minutes ticked by—8:08 a.m. The bus would have time for four more passes back and forth across the bridge. In his preoccupation, Maqued looked at the old Timex watch so many times that twice he had to slam on the brakes to avoid a minor collision. On the fourth run across the bridge, it was 8:39 a.m. Three minutes left.

  He pulled to the roadside pumping the brakes, feigning mechanical trouble. He brought the bus to a stop, turned towards the seven remaining passengers, and raised his hand as if to say just a minute, but didn’t utter a word. Only one person was close enough to see his eyes. They were filled with chilling deadness. The only sign of life in them was a lone stream of tears that trailed down the left side of the clean-shaven, darkly tanned face. Old Mrs. Aubrey, as she was known by the children of her block, would later describe an intuition she felt. It was something in those eyes that decried the most pure sorrow she had ever seen. There was no regret, only sorrow. And she would use one word that she said was written on the bus driver’s face. The word would be imprinted on her sharp mind for all the rest of her days. It was the word intent.

  8:41 a.m.

  The other riders on the bus were surprised to watch him simply shuffle down the embankment off the side of the bridge and disappear. Where was he going? If there was something wrong with the bus, what’s he doing?

  The Manhattan-bound train was a hundred yards away at the time, barreling forward at sixty-seven miles per hour.

  “Okay, Mikey,” said Big Mike, “here comes the next river. See it? Man, look at the water! Wow, it’s moving so fast!” The nose of the train hurled forward and cut into the crosswind high above the river torrent.

  8:43 a.m.

  The shockwave from the detonation was so strong, people on the streets of Manhattan sixty miles away felt the vibration as it emanated through the leather soles of their Johnston and Murphy shoes, up through their ankle bones, and into their palms. Traffic-monitoring surveillance cameras gazed across the horrible scene. The bridge exploded one to two seconds ahead of the train, which was just entering the bridge. Eighty percent of the length of the bridge detonated simultaneously, collapsing the superstructure. The mass of hulking, rusted steel hurled into the unforgiving abyss below. The train engineer didn’t even have time to register a problem, much less apply the braking system. The first car leapt into the abyss, disappearing into a smoky, watery oblivion. Train cars moving at sixty-seven miles per hour flung forward. It was like watching a snake strike a victim in slow motion. The hungry river swallowed the train cars in one large gulp.

  The nuclear plant sustained only minor damage to non-critical components as the tail end of the train tore a section of roof off. Duty officers in the control room immediately scrammed the reactor, effectively putting the nuclear core into cold shutdown. Environmental lobbyists would hold this event in their front pockets for years to come, pulling it out when the time was right.

  Four hundred and fifty-six human souls riding in twelve train cars, swallowed whole. Most were people on their way to work, trying to scratch out a living. But some were simply going to see the big fun buildings, run around Central Park throwing a Frisbee, and ride on what Mommy and Daddy called a double-decker bus.

  8:43 a.m. Eight—forty—three.

  57

  FBI Director Stephen Latent burst from the Oval Office door like he’d been vomited out. Just outside, the president’s chief of staff stood stunned. He could hear yelling from the normally tranquil office as the door closed behind Latent.

  “Four hundred and fifty-six people! Goddammit, Latent! What in the FUCK are you going to do about this! This is America, you sorry sack of shit!”

  Latent closed the door behind him, thoughts still racing through his head. If the president had secretly authorized the CIA to use the Fourteenth Protocol, he damn sure wasn’t acting like it. His reaction to the worst train disaster in US history revealed nothing of a man keeping a secret this big.

  Latent, with years of interrogation experience, was looking for subtle signs of deception from the president. Anything that would indicate the presence of a lie—a slight darting of the eye, changes in position of his hands, the unconscious flicker of tiny facial muscles. But there had been nothing in the president’s mannerisms.

  Then again, Latent had watched this president during the election debates. His command of each and every technique to deliver the most effective speeches possible was uncanny. The perfect posture, the controlled yet direct use of hand motions, lightning quick glances at the teleprompter, perfect enunciation, and the way he shifted his head and eyes from one side of the audience to the other. He had been very well t
rained. If there was a person who had the training to deceive, it was the president. Latent left the West Wing confused but more determined than ever to uproot this terror cell and tear its roots out like so many handfuls of his thinning hair.

  58

  Dew was heavy on the grass, and sunlight glinted off the duck pond onto downtown buildings in the distance. Waseem Jarrah wore an Atlanta Braves ball cap over a freshly shaved head in an effort to reduce the chances of being identified. Having shaken the FBI from his trail the previous night, he now had three remaining objectives that he would tackle in a specific order. First, he wanted to extract one last round of money from Bastian Mokolo that he could use to make his escape. Second, he would ensure the terror cell’s final and most important objective was put into motion. And third, he would simply disappear.

  He walked into Piedmont Park underneath huge banners and into the throngs of humanity. The annual Dogwood Festival was filled with vendors selling everything from food to artwork, and with perfect spring weather, the crowds did not delay. He wove through the people over to a small replica of the Washington Monument that stood across the park. Three large plaques dedicated to Americans lost on 9/11 adorned the ground underneath. It was a fitting meeting spot.

  Bastian Mokolo spoke in a voice reminiscent of the soft music of Bourbon Street. He leaned his Reggae net-covered head toward Jarrah.

  “Dat train ’ting, mon. Dat was magic,” his breath, was thick with the smell of cigarettes. “I won’t bodder to ask how de hell you got de entayah train to disapeeah in dat rivah, mon. Dat was a ting of beauty.”

  “I told you we were professionals,” said Jarrah, steeped in self-absorption.

  The only person nearby was a man sprawled on a wooden park bench, some twenty yards away. Disheveled and unshaven, the thighs of his jeans were caked in dark dirt—one of Atlanta’s homeless.

  Jarrah continued, “The timing of that little event would make a Swiss watchmaker jealous. By the way, we believe our friends at the FBI are aware of our countdown.”

  Mokolo’s head snapped violently towards Jarrah. “What de fuck you mean de FBI knows about de countdown? Dey bettah not know more dan dat!”

  Jarrah stared into the bright morning reflection without flinching.

  “They don’t know shit,” Jarrah said. “But they do know of the countdown.” He looked over at Mokolo. “They have teams on the ground in less than an hour. No one could respond that quickly without knowing the timing.”

  “Wot you mean dey have teems on de groun’?”

  “Within thirty minutes after one of our little ‘events,’ there are FBI boys swarming the scene. And not just the local agents that live nearby. It’s the same crew of senior agents each time, the ones from Washington heading the investigation,” said Jarrah.

  The homeless man shifted on his bench; a crumpled paper bag choking an empty wine bottle fell to the ground.

  Mokolo stopped dead in his tracks. The surprise of hearing that agents were on the scene so quickly tasted of innocence, like one who just realized this wasn’t some farm team; they were now playing in the big leagues.

  “They obviously are fully aware of the countdown,” said Jarrah. “They put their team in the air just ahead of the next event. Then the team races out to the scene.” Jarrah gazed through half-squinted eyes, black like lumps of coal. “You know what this means, of course,” he said.

  “Wot?” said Mokolo, trying to recover his composure.

  “It means the stakes are higher now. The risk is higher.” Jarrah turned and poked a sharp finger into Mokolo’s chest. “And with higher risk, comes higher price.”

  “Hiyah price my ass, mon!” yelled Mokolo.

  But Jarrah was unfazed. He continued his casual stroll past the park bench and towards the lake.

  The homeless man grumbled something under his breath.

  Jarrah continued, “Oh, you’ll pay the new price, my friend. You’ll pay it. The new price is two million per event.”

  “Who de fock you tink you ah, mon? I’m de one payin’ de bills here. I pay de bill, I make de decisions.”

  Mokolo directed his hands to his hips, exposing a handgun asleep in his waistline. Jarrah glanced at it and smiled.

  “Threatening me is not a good idea, my friend,” said Jarrah. “You have any idea how easy it would be to kill you? You think killing someone like you is going to cause me to lose sleep? Here, let me help you out. You see over there just on the other side of the pond, under those trees? The two people with baby strollers? Look closer—see the tiny glint of light reflecting in between the strollers? Well, let’s just say that’s not a pacifier.”

  Mokolo squinted and realized what he was seeing.

  “That’s right, mon.” Jarrah’s tone was mocking, angry. “Any time you are with me, beware the sniper. You want us to keep working for you? You think this is a game?” He was speaking faster now. “It’s no fucking game, you Jamaican asshole. The price is two million per event. Today before 2 p.m. you’ll transfer half the money, as usual.”

  “Meestah tuff guy, eh?” said Mokolo. “I’ll not be playin no games needah. If there’s a new price, I got to meet de hiyah-ups. I am not dealin’ wit no low-leval peepol like you, mon. You introdoos me to you boss, and we continue our beezness relashunsheep.”

  Jarrah stayed a quiet minute.

  “Half the money first. Then we’ll talk about an introduction.”

  A flock of mallards with wings extended banked left and right, slicing through the air. They extended their feet and skidded down onto the calm water.

  59

  Jana shook the cobwebs out of her head. She stuck to the back roads and headed southeast but didn’t know why. They had to keep moving, and she was afraid the stolen vehicle would be spotted.

  “Cade, I think we need to ditch this vehicle. I’m afraid someone’s going to spot the license plate.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Cade. “You switched the license plate before we parked last night with that of another Ford Explorer. The chances that they even noticed is almost impossible.”

  “Wait, what?” said Jana. “Oh my God. I completely forgot we switched license plates. Man, I need to concentrate. Last night was so . . . everything’s blurry in my memory. Okay, you’re right. I think we’ll be safe for a while. When’s the last time you ate something?”

  Cade said, “I’m starved. Let’s find a place to eat in one of these little towns. You have any cash on you? We can’t use credit cards. I’ve got about thirty bucks on me.”

  “That’s what you had in your pocket for our big date last night? Thirty bucks? Cheapskate.”

  Cade reached down and turned the volume up on the radio.

  “. . . speculation swirling at this hour about the events in Buckhead last night, and whether they are connected to the car explosion downtown near the Marriott Marquis on Peachtree Center Avenue. The FBI has not been forthcoming with information about these events. What we can confirm is that eleven FBI agents were killed, along with fourteen other individuals inside a building at 3340 Peachtree Road. That building is global headquarters for a company called Thoughtstorm, an e‑mail service provider. The FBI has stated this is an ongoing terrorist investigation and that they do not comment about ongoing investigations. What ties Thoughtstorm, Inc. has to international terrorism are not clear . . .”

  Cade and Jana looked at one another. They were right in the middle of it. Eleven agents killed. Cade cringed at the thought that Kyle was now just a statistic. His stomach clenched.

  Jana stayed on Old Route 41 and slowed to enter the business district of Forsyth, Georgia. She pulled into the old town square, then drove around behind one of the buildings to park; she still wanted to keep a low profile. They got out and walked into the beautiful town square. It reminded her of the downtown square in Roswell or Marietta. The age of the buildings looked like they predated the Civil War. But, since only buildings belonging to northern sympathizers were spared from General Sherman
’s fires, the original structures had probably been burned to the ground. The town hall itself was grand to say the least. It was a three-story colonial built in brownstone, its spire reaching up to a baby blue sky.

  Cade said, “Hey, how about that place?”

  They walked across the square into a tiny restaurant nestled in between the old Ross Theatre and a flower shop. The Grits Café was an unassuming little place that looked to be straight out of an issue of Southern Living magazine. A little bell tinkled as they pushed open the old glass door. It had a kind of diner charm that was accentuated with a dreamy aroma of roasted potatoes and banana crème pie.

  “Y’all just sit anywhere ya like,” said a smiling waitress with blazing red curls that should have been gray. “I’ll be right with ya.”

  They sat down at a two top close to the counter in chairs that were something you’d see in a 1950s movie: gleaming chrome, thick padding on the seat, with sparkly red plastic covers.

  “Now how are y’all? My name’s Loraine. Y’all ever been here before?” said the waitress, practically speed talking. “Well you’re gonna love it, we don’t have nothin’ your momma wouldn’t approve of, and none of it’s fattenin’, honey, not even that lemon meringue pie, I made that myself, not that a skinny little thing like you couldn’t use a few pounds, but listen to me just a carryin’ on, can I get ya a nice tall glass of sweet tea? I’ll bring ’em right over, y’all just take your time and don’t forget to look at the board for the specials, I’ll be right back.” She was gone almost faster than she talked.

  Cade grinned. “So, I guess we’re having the sweet tea?”

  “Yeah, it’s the law in these small towns.”

  “You know we’re going to have two slices of lemon meringue pie that show up whether we want them or not, right?”