Counter Caliphate (A Jake Adams International Espionage Thriller Series Book 11)

by Trevor Scott

  The older man pressed the door bell, and the sound of two dogs started barking. The dogs would bark in a random loop now for five minutes, or until Jake shut them up with a press of a button on his security system. He hit the button to silence the dogs.

  His front door was made of bullet-proof steel and locked with thick metal bolts on ten points around the outer edge.

  Since Jake knew the former Air Force general, and didn’t expect any trouble from a priest, he opened the door with his Glock along the edge of his right leg.

  “This better be good, General Graves,” Jake said. “I was just about to watch Gilligan’s Island reruns.”

  The general smiled and then noticed Jake’s gun. “That won’t be necessary. May we come in?”

  Jake kept his left hand on the door. “If this is some sort of religious intervention, you might be too late. I did my time in the Catholic church. I’m in recovery now.”

  The priest wasn’t sure how to take Jake. He seemed to hold his mouth open in either disgust or shock, his imperfect teeth showing stains from coffee or red wine.

  “Please, Jake,” the general said. “Listen to what we have to say.”

  Great. “I really don’t want to do another mission for God and country,” Jake said. “I’ve done my time for my country as well.”

  The general seemed to slouch even more, and the priest held his hands as if praying.

  Jake sighed. “All right. Five minutes.” He let the men in and locked the door behind them.

  The three of them went to the center of the living room and his guests simply stood and waited for Jake to tell them to sit. Then he got a text and he found his phone, texted back that everything was fine, and returned his phone to his pocket.

  “You gents want a drink?” Jake asked, and then remembered his five minute limit. They could drink fast.

  “No, sir,” said the priest with an Italian accent.

  Jake remained standing, indicating this would be a quick meeting.

  “My name is Father Francesco Murici.”

  Reaching out with his right hand after switching his gun to his left, Jake said, “Nice to meet you, father.”

  Then Jake shook the hand of General Tom Graves, a former Air Force Intelligence officer, and the man who had convinced Jake a few years ago to consult with their non-partisan Washington think tank. So far Jake had not really done much consulting, but his charities of choice had received substantial contributions anonymously nonetheless. The general’s grip had lost a great deal of vitality since their last meeting in South Korea.

  Finally, Jake told them to take a seat on the leather sofa, and he went across from them in a matching leather chair, setting his Glock onto a side table.

  “What can I do for a former general and a priest?” Jake asked. “This is starting to sound like a bad joke.”

  The priest shifted his glance to the general, his forehead filled with consternation. They seemed to be searching for who would talk first.

  General Graves broke the silence. “Did you hear about the missing relief ship?”

  Jake didn’t watch the news. He simply shook his head.

  The general continued. “A ship called The Lord’s Compassion left port in the Canary Islands two days ago, on Wednesday evening, and it’s completely disappeared.”

  Jake glanced at the priest, who had changed his hands from praying to wringing life into them, his knuckles turning white from the effort. Something was wrong with this entire meeting.

  “Okay. What do you want me to do?” Jake asked. “Hop on a P-3 Orion and search for this ship?”

  “Not exactly,” General Graves said. “Officially the ship is still missing. But according to our people, the ship has been found.”

  Now Jake knew something wasn’t right. “Make up your mind, general. Missing or not missing?”

  The priest shifted his hands to his knees and leaned forward. “There was a great storm in the north Atlantic, Mister Adams. A Spanish coast guard ship found The Lord’s Compassion early this morning fifty miles off the coast of Morocco.”

  “Outstanding,” Jake said. “Case solved.”

  “Not exactly,” the general chimed in. “The ship contained four hundred and twenty-nine personnel. Everything from crew to run the ship to medical personnel. A large number of personnel are missing.” He hesitated, as if for a dramatic pause. “The captain, along with the first and second mate, were shot in the head. Execution style. All communications equipment was destroyed, including cell phones, SAT phones and radios. The ship itself was dead in the water, both primary engines inoperable. They even knocked out the auxiliary engines.”

  It was no wonder Jake didn’t watch the news. It was too depressing. “Still, I don’t know how I can help you.”

  “Sir, the missing people,” the priest said.

  Jake shrugged. “I’m sure the authorities are all over this.”

  “You would think so, Jake,” the general said, “but nobody seems to be taking the lead.”

  “They just found the ship this morning,” Jake reminded him. “Who owns the ship?”

  General Graves took this. “It’s flagged in Malta, but it’s owned by a Christian relief organization with loose affiliation with the Catholic Church. The operating crew is from Italy and the Philippines. The staff is from nearly thirty countries.”

  “And those missing?”

  “Five doctors and ten nurses,” General Graves said. “The entire medical staff, with the exception of a few medical techs.”

  “Which countries are they from?” Jake asked.

  “The doctors are from England, Spain, Italy, France, and Tanzania. The nurses are from nearly every European country, along with one American. And she was a former Air Force nurse.”

  Ah. Now Jake knew how the general wanted to hook Jake into this entire affair. “So, only one American. Let me guess, our president has no desire to go after only one person?”

  “Sir, since they are from so many countries, no one country desires to take the lead.” The priest shifted his hand back to praying. “Please, we must get our people back.”

  “There’s more to this,” Jake said. “You’re not telling me everything.”

  The general and priest shared a look again.

  Then the general said, “We don’t know much more, Jake. We just know that a number of men, African and possibly Arab, boarded the ship in Santa Cruz de Tenerife. About an hour into their journey, these men, armed with submachine guns, took command of the ship. They killed three and beat up a couple more who tried to intervene.”

  “Where was the ship heading?” Jake asked.

  “They had just spent a month along the north African coast,” the general explained. “They stopped in the Canary Islands for supplies, and they were heading to Senegal. Their plan was to hit ports in every country from Senegal to Ghana over the next few months.”

  Jake pointed at the priest. “And what does the good Father Francesco Murici have to do with this?”

  “I am the Vatican liaison to Catholic charities,” the priest explained. “Officially. But I am not acting in an official capacity.”

  Wonderful. “So, no country wants to take the lead in finding these folks. And the Catholic church doesn’t have an official stance. Then tell me who seems to give a crap here?” Jake set his critical glare directly at General Graves.

  “We’re not involved, officially,” the general said.

  “Who in the hell is officially concerned here?” Jake asked rather loudly.

  General Graves hesitated. Then he said, “I was in a meeting with some of our benefactors in Monaco this morning, when the subject came up. One of our board members knew about your affiliation with our organization. He’s heard about some of your. . .missions. And he probably wouldn’t be involved if he was not related to the Spanish doctor missing.”

  “And I’m guessing this man has a name,” Jake surmised.

  The general cleared his throat. “Carlos Gomez.”

 
Jake shrugged. “Am I supposed to know this guy?”

  “He’s a Spanish billionaire,” General Graves said. “He’s like the dot com genius of Europe.”

  “And he’s bankrolling this operation?”

  “He’s got more money and resources than the Spanish government,” the priest said.

  “But he’s very eccentric.”

  “I hope not crazy like Howard Hughes,” Jake said.

  “No, no, no.” General Graves let out a breath of air. “He’s afraid to fly. And he lives on his massive yacht, docked mostly in tax haven countries.”

  “Hence your meeting in Monaco this morning,” Jake said.

  “Exactly.”

  “Okay,” Jake said, “now explain to me how I can help you two and this billionaire? Let’s see. A general, a priest and a billionaire walk into a bar.”

  The general cut to the chase. “He wants to hire you to gather a team to rescue his nephew.”

  “There we go.” Jake stood up and ran his fingers through his hair. Wow, how had it gotten that long, he wondered.

  The general stood across from Jake. “Hear me out, Jake.”

  “He knows I don’t need the money, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why would I do this? And don’t talk to me about some former Air Force nurse turned do-gooder. She should know that no good deed goes unpunished.”

  The priest got up and came to Jake, putting his hand on Jake’s arm. “You are a good man, Mister Adams. Do this for God’s healers.”

  Wonderful. Now if Jake said no he might just go to hell. No pressure. He thought about Alexandra in Berlin, doing whatever in the hell she was doing. Not to mention the fact that his serene surroundings were nearly driving him to suicide. And deep down he knew that these medical relief workers were some of the most giving people he’d ever met. They didn’t deserve what they were getting. Christians like them kept taking it on the chin and still kept going. He admired that.

  “What do you need me to do?” Jake asked.

  The priest gave Jake a huge hug and didn’t let go until Jake nearly pealed the man from his body.

  General Graves gave him a quick rundown, explaining how to proceed, the money involved, and Jake’s initial contact. Then he said, “Thanks, Jake. How many men will you need?”

  He didn’t usually build a team. And he wasn’t even sure who would join him now. But he could certainly gather at least a few former Agency and military special ops types to go along for the ride. Even more than that, though, he would need intelligence support. Could he get his girlfriend, Alexandra, to go along with this mission?

  “First of all,” Jake said. “I’ll need intel on how many kidnappers and where they took these fifteen doctors and nurses.”

  “The former will be easier than the later,” the general assured Jake. “But we’ll see if we can get more info on the bastards who took them.”

  “I’ll keep the numbers to a select few until you can tell me what I’m up against,” Jake said.

  The three of them headed toward the front door. Jake shook hands with both men and the priest gave him a parting hug before Jake closed both men outside his solid security door.

  He went to the attached kitchen and got a beer from the refrigerator. Then he sat down again in his leather chair and considered what he was in for with this mission. Things had been relatively quiet for Jake in the past few months since his return from Asia. Quiet and sedate. Damn near bucolic. Boredom through insipid repetition.

  3

  Somewhere in Morocco

  Anna Grasso had never been so scared in her life. She had seen the intensity in the eyes of Taliban terrorists in Afghanistan she was required to treat, and this man with the snake tattoo had the same look. It was as if he saw through her and her medical colleagues. This man was the personification of evil. She had been forced to watch the snake man shoot the ship’s captain in the head, while the terrorist simply continued to eat his apple.

  Once they finally left the ship, she guessed their fate had been sealed. Would anyone come for them? Time and again she had read news reports of Christians taken hostage and raped, beheaded, thrown from buildings, and even crucified. They were all barbarians. Why had she even taken this assignment?

  She tried to keep herself sane by remembering her training. These men would not react favorably to a strong, independent woman. Yet, she saw how some of the men gazed at the women in the group—as if they were merely objects of pleasure waiting for them to take and exploit. Anna knew the time would come when she would have to decide just how strong to be, how fervently to resist their advances. Would she rather die fighting, or acquiesce to their sexual advances and survive another day? She would pray to God for an answer to those musings.

  Calabria, Italy

  Early the next morning Jake packed a small black backpack with clothes, his Glock 17 with two extra magazines, and two more boxes of 50 rounds each of 9mm critical defense hollow points. That would be a start, he knew, but according to General Tom Graves he would have any other weapon he needed for his team. Jake’s problem now was considering who to include in a team with no defined objective or adversary. The assumption was that the kidnappers included at least ten men, but that was only speculation. By now these men could have moved the medical team anywhere on the African continent and combined with additional forces. Africa was flush with terrorist splinter groups affiliated with the major players like al Qaeda and the Islamic State.

  Once Jake secured his villa and set his alarm, he got into the old red Fiat he used on occasion to go to the local markets, a vehicle that blended in locally and didn’t target him as someone with money, and drove off toward the airport. By now, after living in Calabria for a number of months, his longer dark hair, sprinkled with gray, gave him the appearance of a local. Especially after lounging in the sun often, turning his skin to a light brown.

  He looked into his rearview mirror and scratched his three-day-old beard. Actually, he wished it was longer. But he didn’t know how long he had before they could get a location of the kidnapped medical relief team.

  Jake drove to the north to Lamezia Terme, a regional airport with flights to many European cities. He parked in the long-term lot, grabbed his bag, and headed toward the terminal. Instead of going to the main terminal, though, he found his way to the private operations building.

  Surprisingly, a newly familiar face smiled at him as he entered the small building on the edge of the tarmac.

  “You made it,” Father Francesco Murici said, reaching his hand out to Jake. The priest was in his full black Roman Catholic Cassock again, the wool material all the way down to the priest’s ankles.

  They shook hands and then Jake said, “I didn’t know you’d be here to show me off.”

  The priest pointed to a small black duffle bag sitting on one of the plastic chairs along the wall. “I’m going with you. I’ve never flown on a private jet. This will be exciting.”

  “No way in hell,” Jake said. “You are not coming with me.”

  The priest moved uncomfortably close and whispered. “Our benefactor thought you could use some divine guidance.”

  “Wonderful,” Jake said softly. “Is our plane here?”

  “They’re just finishing refueling it,” the priest said.

  Jake went to the plastic chairs and took a seat, setting his bag on the chair next to him. He watched as the priest paced back and forth in the small room. Two young Italian men sat behind a tall counter, just the tops of their heads visible. They had to think that Jake and the priest were a strange couple.

  He found his phone and clicked on his top contact, Alexandra. Jake had texted her the night before, saying he needed to go out of town for a while, but she had failed to respond. That wasn’t like her. So instead of texting, he hit the call button and waited for her to answer.

  “Oh, God, I’m so sorry for not getting back with you,” Alexandra said immediately, her German accent coming on strong. “I didn’t get yo
ur text until late and didn’t want to wake you. What’s up?”

  The priest waved his hand, indicating they could go to the airplane. They both picked up their bags and headed out the door. A Gulfstream G500 jet already had one engine running.

  Jake stopped and let the priest find his way to the aircraft on his own. “Listen, I’ve been hired for a job out of town.”

  “What kind of job, Jake?”

  “Hang on. It’s noisy out here. Let me get on the plane.” He hurried to the plane and got aboard, finding a comfortable leather chair across from the priest, who looked like a little kid with a new toy.

  A pretty flight attendant closed the door and the cabin immediately became nearly soundproof.

  Jake buckled up and then put the phone back to his ear. “Is this better?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Are you at the airport?”

  “Yes. Lamezia, the private terminal.”

  “You’re taking a private jet?”

  “Yes.” He lowered his voice now and said, “What can you tell me about a Spanish guy named Carlos Gomez?”

  “He’s a bit crazy,” she said. “At least that’s what I’ve heard. Why?”

  “I’m on his private jet.”

  “He hired you?”

  “It’s a long story.” He really wanted to be honest with Alexandra, but he wasn’t sure how much he should tell her on an unsecure cell phone.

  The second engine fired up and a few seconds later the jet started to taxi.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you’re really doing in Germany,” he said, knowing she would deny working for her old agency.

  “What do you mean? I’m visiting my relatives.”

  “You have no relatives in Berlin,” he said.

  She hesitated. “You know how this works, Jake.”

  “Yeah, but I thought we could be honest with each other.”

  Alexandra let out a deep breath of air. “You tell me where you’re going and I’ll tell you what I’m doing.”

  Jake looked out the window and saw that they were getting close to the end of the runway. “We’re almost ready to take off. I might lose cell service soon.”