Hellfire (Sisters In Law Book 2)

by John Ellsworth

  Kerr shook his head nervously. "But where does that leave us when they ask for the real data, the real conversations about the drone strike?"

  Maxwelle made as if he was flicking a flea from the cuff of his suit coat. "Simple. We deny the existence of any such conversations. We weren't involved, we tell them. They're barking up the wrong tree."

  Kerr felt a certain discomfort. He couldn't see how all the pieces of the puzzle fit together at that point.

  "And that's the extent of my role," Kerr said. "That's it?"

  "Not exactly. We then plan to expose you as an employee who engaged in espionage against Blackguard and who was paid one million dollars by the Susmann woman for corporate secrets. We have her million-dollar wire transfer that's easily traced back to her. We have your recording from your meeting today."

  Kerr pulled at his collar. "Wait! You're saying I'm to be given up as a corporate spy against Blackguard?"

  "Well, aren't you?" Maxwelle said with a sly smile. "Isn't that what you've been doing here?"

  "So am I--will I be--"

  "Terminated? You will lose your job. That's the extent of it."

  "But I won't be able to find another job."

  "Don't worry. You'll be provided for. We have one million dollars that will connect with you on down the road."

  "So I'm being thrown under the bus--"

  "Thrown under the bus with a million dollars in your bank account. That's right. It's not a bad end to a less-than-exemplary corporate career. I mean, Kerr, you've never exactly been a shooting star in your work here. Let's say that's why you were selected to be sacrificed."

  "So my role is to embarrass the Susmann woman and ruin her lawsuit."

  "Bingo! Now you're getting it straight, Kerr. I'm so proud of you, my boy!"

  "The judge will throw her out of court."

  "With sanctions. We'll ask for a huge fine for her theft of our data."

  "I think I understand. It's beautiful in its simplicity."

  Maxwelle raised a finger. "Simple always outperforms complex. Trust me on that, Kerr."

  "I do. I do trust you." He didn't; he was buying time. But it didn't help him, as Maxwelle continued on.

  Maxwelle smiled. "Now, then. While you were attending your meeting with Ms. Berenson, Security was busy. You are no longer able to log into our network."

  "My God. I'm being pushed out."

  "Only the beginning. We need to be able to say that once we became aware of your espionage we took steps to protect ourselves. Locking you out of our network is only a first step."

  Kerr blinked hard. "What else will you do?"

  Maxwelle smiled. "Patience, Kerr. Patience, my boy."

  "I don't think I'm going to like this."

  "No, but what are your options at this point? You're like the hand-fed pheasant raised from birth to be released from its pen and dodge buckshot. You're a target, Kerr. An expendable commodity. You, my boy, have met your maker and it is me. Now go home and prepare to work from your kitchen table until we're finished with you. You will use your own laptop and your own email account. Prepare the lawsuit answers. You no longer work here, Kerr."

  "How will I live? How do I pay my bills?"

  Maxwelle wagged a finger at Kerr.

  "You should have thought about that before you committed these crimes against your employer, Kerr. Your theft of company data is a serious crime. You're lucky we don't plan to prosecute you. If you resist, you could find yourself on the wrong end of a criminal indictment. Don't go there, Kerr. Like the kids say, resistance is futile. Now leave us be."

  Kerr stood and retrieved his coat from behind the door.

  "All right."

  "Leave the micro-recorder with my office on your way out. My secretary will log it in from you, so make sure you stop by."

  "I can do that."

  "Of course you can, Kerr. Of course you can, my boy."

  8

  Sevi punched ten digits into her burner phone and waited. On the fifth ring the man answered.

  "Moustafa, it's Sevi."

  "I have told you--no names!"

  "Yes, I apologize. Should I call back?"

  "Yes."

  She ended the call and then dialed the same ten numbers.

  "It is I," she said this time into the phone.

  "Go."

  "The lawyer is arriving by plane any minute."

  "Ankara?"

  "Yes."

  "Has our friend put men there?"

  "He has."

  "Good. She will be followed and they will report back to me. If she's traveling alone, you will be safe. If she's in the company of another, we will take our precautions. So you may or may not see her tonight. Stay where you are."

  "Got it. Goodbye."

  Without another word, the call was ended.

  Sevi sat on her bed with her cell phone in her hand. She stared wistfully at the phone, trying to think of who else she might call. She felt a need to explain her life to someone--preferably her own mother, but she had perished in the drone attack. She yearned for buy-in to what she was about to do, a stamp of approval from someone who knew her and who cared about her life. But all in all she knew that such yearning was not healthy and definitely was not safe. The worst thing she could do now would be to call someone up and tell them about her plan to bomb an American grade school. She feared she would be found out and terminated by the American forces. More often than not, that's what happened to terrorists who were planning attacks against the Great White Shark across the Atlantic: they were murdered in place. There wasn't a trial, they weren't arrested; they were terminated without a second thought. It was very American: quick, final, and without warning. You had only to have witnessed the drone strike that had nearly killed her to know that. Sudden, irreversible, and without regard to innocent lives that might be sacrificed in killing off an ISIS official. Sevi shuddered and tossed the phone on her bed pillow.

  She had never felt more alone. She had never been more frightened.

  The end of her life was about to begin when the American lawyer entered in.

  * * *

  While she had reservations on Turkish Air from Istanbul to Ankara, Christine had let the plane fly on without her. It was all part of her plan to avoid being followed by someone who had obtained the flight manifest.

  Now she sat on the high-speed train, watching the blur out the window as Turkey passed by at more than 100 frames per second. Or so she calculated. Beside her, in the aisle seat, was the man who had shared the cab ride with her. He claimed to be from the bodyguard group that operated along the Turkish-Syrian border whose primary work was to protect journalists and TV crews seeking and preparing their news stories on the activities of the Islamic State in Syria and the response of the Syrian government to ISIS's war-making.

  But Christine needed more. She needed certainty, because if the man wasn't who he said he was, she needed to take steps before they reached Ankara. Elude or assassinate--it was all the same to Christine, as he was the actor and she was the mark, in the vocabulary of covert action, and his end was his problem, not Christine's. If he had to be eliminated, she would act. Alternatively, if he could prove his legitimacy, then he was a needful assign, meaning she could use him.

  She nudged him with her left elbow.

  "So tell me who sent you."

  The dark man glanced over.

  "So. It is time to talk?"

  "It is time. What is your name?"

  "Does that matter?"

  She smiled. "Only in the sense that I need to know what you would like me to call you."

  "Call me Hussein."

  "Very well. Hussein. I'm sure there aren't many Hussein's out there," she said and indicated the direction of Syria and the greater Middle East.

  The briefest smile played over his lips. "You might be wrong about that."

  "Trust me. It was sarcasm. You and I both know Hussein is not your real name."

  "Not any more than Ama Gloq is yours."


  "Ama Gloq is my name. That's who you've been paid to accompany, if you are who you say you are."

  "Ama Gloq is who I was told."

  "You knew the sign and the countersign. That was a good start. But where were you told to join me?"

  "I was told to join you in Istanbul. The deceit was that you would be traveling from Istanbul to Ankara by plane."

  "But I wasn't traveling that leg by plane. You knew that?"

  The man smiled. For the first time, she realized he was handsome: clean black hair, arching eyebrows over dark eyes, dimples when his mouth formed certain words, and a strong jawline with a hint of shadow. He could have leapt from the pages of GQ, she thought. Except he hadn't, she reminded herself. He had come from that hell that called itself No Man's Land and that existed in the mile-wide swath between the Syrian and Turkish border, where hundreds of thousands of Syrian refugees clamored and cried for food and water and for entry into Turkey. Turkey had responded with help, but still the displaced were dying by the thousands daily. Dysentery was rampant; starvation was a problem. And diseases such as diphtheria--eradicated by the civilized world a hundred years before--were beginning to reappear and harvest the weak and the young from among the bodies pressed up against the border fences crying out. Yes, he was handsome, but she also knew he would be desperate. One more reason not to trust him. "I knew you weren't traveling that leg by plane," he replied to her question. "Before you ask, let me just say that I have my methods."

  "But only two people knew I wouldn't fly. And those two are in the U.S. You wouldn't have had access to them. So what do you say, come clean or we part ways now. And you won't like how that happens, I promise you."

  This last was said with a strong hint of violence in Christine's voice. He had to take her seriously or it was no use.

  His next answer proved that he took her seriously.

  He said, "NSA data is accessible to me. Three days ago you told a woman named Althea certain information. It was recorded in from a cell call intercepted by the NSA. In it you said that you would be taking the train from Istanbul. Which was enough for me to act on. Thus, I knew better than to remain on the airplane flight from Istanbul to Ankara. Satisfied?"

  Christine shook her head and glanced out her window.

  "Who else has this NSA data?" she mused.

  While she wasn't speaking to him, Hussein answered. "Only the entire world."

  "Holy hell."

  "Yes. Americans have traded their privacy to a world that gives nothing in return--certainly not the safety that the Patriot Act pretends to promise the citizens."

  "That's politics. I don't go there."

  "No, that's your reality, if you're American. You can hardly have a dream over there without someone knowing."

  Christine smiled faintly. She nodded. "As you say."

  His gaze wandered beyond her, out her window. The exterior light caused a glaze on his eyes and she could no longer peer within.

  "Back to your mission," she said. "How do I know you're not here to assassinate me?"

  He laughed. "If that were the case, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

  "From my side, that might be the case. And your next words might be your last. So careful how you answer me now."

  "Fair enough."

  "Who am I traveling to see? If anyone?"

  "Sevi al-Assad."

  Christine's eyes narrowed. "And who is Sevi al-Assad?"

  "She's a Syrian. The victim of an American drone strike."

  "Why on earth would I be coming to Turkey to see her?"

  "She wants to sue the American government. This is what I was told by the person who contacted my group."

  "And that person's name?"

  "She works in your office. Her name is Althea Berenson."

  Christine didn't respond. She only looked ahead.

  Then, "Let me tell you, Hussein. I'm willing to take a chance on you. Why? Because I need backup. Plus, you seem to know your way around the facts of what's going on here."

  "Thanks for that."

  "But if I find you're not who or what you say you are, you will die. Suddenly and without warning. Now, knowing this, do you still wish to accompany me to Ankara?"

  Hussein settled deeper into his seat. "I have been committed to you. In my country that stands for something."

  "Yes, and what country would that be?"

  "Not America."

  "So. We can leave it at that. Now, would you like to accompany me to the dining car? I'm starved."

  "I would. I can introduce you to local dishes."

  "I was raised in a Pakistani household," said Christine. "There's probably nothing new."

  "You might be surprised. Turks don't eat like Pakistanis. Nowhere even close."

  At just that moment, she decided to wait and see about the man. More information was needed.

  With her elbow she pressed the gun inside her waistband.

  Never mind the differences in food or anything else. Adjustments would be made as the day and night unfolded.

  But first, she needed to know more about her companion. She needed to go through his bag and his clothing. Which meant she might have to undress him.

  Which would happen that night.

  She was ready for anything.

  9

  His name was Lugo Zettler and he was from a small town in California where he had surfed and lifted weights in his early days, attended USC on a track scholarship, and eventually found his way into the Special Forces and a second tour in Iraq, where he lost his right leg below the knee and now ran his laps with a blade foot. He was Blackguard's trouble-shooter in Eastern Turkey and tonight he was preparing to intercept an American lawyer flying in from Chicago with stops in Berlin and Istanbul.

  Lugo was six feet tall, thin in the upper body, with massive thighs that had once propelled him through one hundred meters in record time for Pac 10 athletes. He was light complected, which meant he stood out no end in Turkey, and his blonde hair was beginning to show grey tints on the sides and in his too long sideburns. He spoke four languages and read seven and gave Blackguard courses in Syrian geopolitics at Dallas whenever he was unwillingly dragged back and made to perform for new recruits.

  Blackguard's Ankara Station consisted of four field agents and six support staff. Chief among the field officers were two Turks who sometimes operated undercover with ISIS and assassinated key militants as necessary. They were fearless, Zettler and his field operatives, and tonight they were poised around the Ankara airport awaiting the flight from Istanbul that would deliver the American lawyer into their hands.

  "Your role will be to take her into custody and bring her to our rooms. We will proceed to ask her nicely to return to the States and forget about this al-Assad woman."

  "Dallas expects her to cooperate?" said Amman el-Shadda. "Seriously?"

  Lugo brushed a lock of blond hair off his forehead. "Who knows what Dallas expects, Ammie?"

  "What do we know about her?"

  "She's an American lawyer. At one time she undertook a mission for the CIA but her flight was skyjacked to Russia and it went off the rails from there. We know that she's a difficult case. She will almost certainly ignore our request that she leave Turkey."

  "And if she does?"

  "If she does, we escalate. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Now, I want Ammie at the gate. Jordan, I want you at the luggage carousel. You have her photo-set on your phones already. She is comely and diminutive in stature, but don't let that fool you. This one is capable of taking care of herself."

  The man named Jordan lifted his hand to high-five Amman. Amman ignored him.

  "So we are to ask her politely to accompany us?"

  "Yes. If she refuses, we'll collect her at the hotel."

  "What hotel?" asked Jordan. He was a small man with a wrinkled forehead and ever-widening bald spot, across which he spread long strands of hair that normally belonged elsewhere. But he was deadly with small arms and was the o
ne Lugo would normally ask to walk point in a situation where a firefight was likely.

  Lugo nodded. "She is registered at the Marriott Hotel. Under the name of Ama Gloq."

  "What," questioned Amman, "is that some kind of joke?"

  "The CIA Director himself gave her the name on the aborted mission she was to run for them. Evidently she liked it enough to use it again."

  The conversation continued as the threesome spread through the airport. They checked their comms and took their places exactly fifteen minutes before the Istanbul flight was due. Lugo stationed himself at the main entrance and the other two melted into the milling passengers and companions as assigned.

  10

  Christine checked into the Marriott under the name of Ama Gloq. She then unlocked the door and waited until Hussein came up to the room ten minutes later.

  They sat at the dining table and ordered two coffees with fruit and cheese. When the food and drink arrived, they chewed silently for five minutes and then Christine broke the silence.

  "I'm meeting Sevi. It's all arranged. I'd rather you didn't wait here while I'm out."

  He gazed the windows beyond the gently moving sheer curtains. It was dark outside but the city was ablaze with fixed lights and moving headlights. He turned back to her.

  "You need to trust me. You have nothing to fear from me."

  "Trust is earned, Hussein. So far there has been nothing earned. Nor should there have been. So I'm not faulting you. I'm saying it's premature. No, I would like you to wait elsewhere while I'm out. Please try to understand."

  He smiled and collected a slice of cheese with apple, which he thrust into his mouth and chomped. "No harm, no foul. You have a meeting; you don't know me. I'll do whatever you say. But let me ask one thing. Would you agree my time would be best used watching the room while you're out?"

  She stopped herself with a coffee cup between the table and her lips. It was the most sensible thing she had heard all day.

  "Absolutely," she said. "That would be helpful."

  "Assuming you can trust me at all," he smiled.