The Seventh Message

by William Johnstone

  Mike shook his head. "That doesn't tell us what we’re dealing with. This team will meet with our un-sub who, based on everything we know, works alone. He's a Lone Wolf controlled by an outside authority. Capturing this bunch doesn't erase the threat. It would simply delay their plans long enough to replace these assailants with new people and move on."

  "Mike is right," said Rashid, who felt a tightness in his stomach. "We must infiltrate this team if we are to learn the nature of this threat."

  Ike blurted, "Man, how we gonna do that?"

  Rashid fingered the message. "Let's start with these three team members." He turned to Mike. Do you recognize any of these names?"

  "No. Not offhand, but I can do a search of our IC databases and INTERPOL. That might turn up something."

  Rashid studied the message. "One name on the team sounds familiar. Danish Maloof. Not a common name. I can't place it, but I know that name." Mike and Rashid looked at each other as if studying their memories. Then in unison they said "Iran."

  Mike slapped his old friend on the back. "That's right. When we worked in that part of the world years ago, Maloof, a professor at the University of Engineering and Technology in Tehran, helped us with communications between Pakistan's FIA and Iran." Rashid agreed. Mike continued. "But why would he be a part of this team? He taught in the language department. He's not political."

  "It's here in front of us." Rashid poked the paper with his finger. "Three members from different nations, it says. One name, Alexander Kosloff, is Russian or Ukrainian. The other two speak a different language." Rashid ached an eyebrow. "Maloof is a translator."

  Mike leaned his head forward as if to say–why didn't I think of that?

  Ike backed his scooter a few feet to view both men better. "You speak Russian, don't you Prof?"

  "He sure does," said Mike. And a couple of other languages, too."

  Rashid crossed his arms in front of his chest in a defensive gesture. "Hold on, gentlemen. I don't like the tone of this conversation."

  Mike edged over to the table. "You said it yourself, we have to infiltrate this team. It's the only way we can learn the nature of this threat. If I arrange an intercept of Professor Maloof before he gets to the rendezvous point, I can detain him as long as needed."

  Ike's expression turned serious. "What if any member of this team, including the Lone Wolf, knows Maloof. Rashid would be in trouble. Big time."

  Mike pushed back from the table. His face darkened. "You're right Ike. It's too dangerous. Forget I said anything."

  All three men fell silent. It remained quiet in the Black Chamber for a full minute. Then Rashid spoke.

  "So Danish Maloof gets deathly sick right before he boards his flight to points west. He sends a trusted associate, in his place, armed with the secret password and a note explaining the last minute change. He demands his payment for services not be reduced. What do you think?"

  Ike grimaced. "It's dangerous, Prof,"

  Mike moved back to the table. "Yes, but it could work. I’d make it work. My friends at the CIA would intercept Maloof before he gets to the airport in Tehran and detain him. We can forge a convincing note and an ironclad identity for Rashid."

  Ike cleared his throat. "Lots of “ifs” in there, Mr. Johansson."

  Both men stared at Rashid, and waited.

  Until this point, Rashid had steered the conversation in the direction he wanted it to go. In his mind, he reviewed the choices he faced. Hessa's cancer is in remission, but it could come back. If it does she will need me. Still, I know she would want me to do this because our beliefs support the saving of lives. She would say, 'If it pleases Allah, then it is ordained by Him.’ She would be right, but it has value only if I can make it work. Mike doesn't know I recognize a name on this Team of Redemption; the Russian, Alexander Kosloff. He will remember me from that night years ago when we stood shoulder to shoulder in the dark subterranean chamber in Rome. I must be myself, not some impostor or this plan will fail. If I do this, I will let Mike detain Danish Maloof, forge a note, and create a new identity. But, when I arrive in El Paso, I will be Rashid al Youris, translator, seeking the protection of Allah the Forgiving, with some invisible backup from the FBI. He stared at his hands tightly clasped in front of him, and made his decision.

  "Gentlemen, I don't think we can pass up this opportunity. I'll do it."

  FORTY-ONE

  JERRY CEBECK DROVE SOUTH to El Paso in the smaller of the two available plain-vanilla surveillance vans from the motor pool. Lost in thought he didn’t notice the sunrise colored clouds that formed a canopy over a nearly deserted Interstate highway nor did he see the morning light that cast long shadows and pink highlights on the countryside.

  The events of the past week kept repeating in his mind. First he was assigned to conduct a surveillance of a subject in Roswell as part of a case headed by a new member of the staff, Ashley Kohen. Then, after she blew the stakeout, he found himself appointed Lead Investigator in a case he knew nothing about. Before he finish reviewing the case files, Walter Kent demoted him to Acting Lead. Now he was back to his old job of staking out suspicious characters. He didn't deserve to be pushed around like this, but at least one good thing happened. Walter Kent praised him for his site inspection of the burned-out motor home and his discovery of the subject’s escape route.

  With all that behind him, his new assignment was to watch a man called Bashir Hashim. During his early morning briefing he learned that Agent Kohen had survived the Roswell debacle and now worked undercover. In her new role, she had discovered that Bashir Hashim may be associated with the Russell Smith killer. Anyone in contact with Hashim must be identified and have background checks performed by the El Paso Field Office who offered staff support. Not an exciting job, but that’s what he did for a living.

  The subject, Hashim, lived in the old part of town. His narrow house stood on the corner of two intersecting streets. The local field office found a second story apartment in a diagonal position from the target's location. This gave Cebeck an excellent vantage point to view the comings and goings of Mr. Hashim. The next few days or weeks may not be stimulating, but at least he would not have to live in the van.

  ASHLEY'S MEETING LAST night in the Best Western with Walter had turned out different from what she had expected. She thought about the less than professional interlude they experienced after she shared, for the first time, her most private secret: the tragic story of her greatest loss in life. A story she had promised herself to never tell anyone. She didn’t fully understand what made her do it. Was it an undiscovered need she had suppressed all these years? A momentary weakness? She didn't know, but she suspected it had something to do with the man who cradled her in his arms when she felt most vulnerable. His warmth and tenderness comforted her, but at the same time sparked a fear that she might lose her independence–might need someone to lean on in the future. It was a strange, wonderful, scary feeling she could not shake. She told herself to compartmentalize, set these feelings aside, and deal with it later.

  Working undercover she lacked the sidearm an active duty agent would carry. Never not ready, she strapped on her Ruger .380 semi-automatic and ankle holster to her left leg and pulled her pants down to cover it–keeping it out of sight, but available.

  Today her work took her back to Roswell. She concentrated on loose end number one, knowing Jerry Cebeck would be in El Paso watching Bashir Hashim at the same time.

  Based on Bill Johnson's follow up on the shipment, she planned to do a little surveillance work of her own. She would watch the shipping container and wait for the un-sub to open it and unload the perplexing cargo of honey. Shipping sixty barrels of honey from Dubai to New Mexico made no economic sense. The vast pecan groves that lined miles of roads surrounding Roswell supported beekeeping to pollinate the pecan trees. Imported honey could never compete with local suppliers. So why import honey?

  Once in town she drove to the Westside Plaza, and searched the area for useful observatio
n locations. That’s when she made an unexpected and disconcerting discovery: the shipping container had vanished.

  "Gone," she gasped. Thirty six hours ago the container sat parked behind the building fully loaded, and now it was gone. Walter was right, she couldn’t do this alone. It required a team.

  Pissed at herself, she wondered, what now? The obvious next step would be to check out the contents of Smith Trading. She drove down the alley behind the building, got out and tried the door. She found it secured with a heavy padlock. Without substantial probable cause, she needed a covert entry search warrant. She fished her phone out and called Albuquerque. Normally she would seek a warrant through their legal office, but sometimes they got fussy about details. She called Bill Johnson, the get-things-done guy.

  "Johnson speaking."

  "Bill, this is Ashley."

  Johnson chuckled. "Ashley Kohen, a mythological creature that arises from her ashes. To what honor do I owe this call?"

  "This mythical creature needs a favor from the gods. I thought I'd start at the top."

  "You've come to the right place, my dear. What do you need?"

  Ashley felt the tension in her body begin to ebb away. "I'm in Roswell. I need an entry warrant for Smith Trading Imports and Exports. It's Unit 3 in the Westside Plaza, on Union Street."

  Johnson wrote down the location. "What's the purpose of the search?

  Ashley thought of her talk with Rita Durant in the hospital and made a 'best guess' decision. "I'm searching for firearms illicitly imported. This is time critical."

  "I'll pull a few strings. Go to our satellite office downtown and standby."

  "Thanks, Bill. You're a dear."

  "I prefer 'Stag', if you don't mind."

  By the time Ashley drove to the Federal Building and climbed the stairs to the second floor, the warrant had been faxed and lay on the receptionist's desk with a note marked Attention Agent Kohen. God bless the old stag. She flashed her ID and picked up the warrant. On her way back to the Westside Plaza, she stopped at a hardware store and bought a long handled bolt cutter.

  As required by protocol, she knocked on the front door of Smith Trading three times and loudly identified herself as FBI. She heard no answer. She went around back, where the sun cast a dark shadow, and knocked with the same result. The long handles of the bolt cutter gave her leverage, allowing her to sever the bold in a second. She made a mental note to tell the local chief of police about her actions and give them a copy of the warrant.

  Ashley found herself in a dark area lit only by a small dirt-covered window in the far corner. A stronger light shone in the front of the building. Following that light source she found the morning sun filtered through the plate-glass window covered with a metallic film. The door glass was painted black. She tried the light switches next to the door and found they worked. The room, designed to serve as a reception area and office, was bare of furniture except for a portable air-conditioner and a twin sized mattress on the floor. A blanket lay crumpled in a corner next to a big plastic toolbox. She started for the back of the shop, then realized the toolbox was a treasure trove of fingerprints. Using the nearby blanket, Ashley opened the box and found a hacksaw and a package of assorted blades and tools. She closed the box, wrapped the blanket around it and carried it into the backroom.

  Piled haphazardly about the room were stacks of wooden barrels much like the kind used to age wine, only smaller. After setting the toolbox down, she inspected the nearest barrel. Stamped on the side were the words, Djeddah, Arable Saouite. She recognized the name, Djeddah, a port city on the west side of Saudi Arabia. On top of each barrel the words Al Shifa 100% Natural Honey were stenciled in red paint. She tilted one of the barrels and rolled it a few feet. It felt like it weighed almost a 100 pounds. All the barrels had the same markings.

  Ashley began counting the barrels. She counted them a second time, and got the same number–fifty nine. One less than the sixty listed on the cargo manifest. One barrel missing.

  FORTY-TWO

  MIKE JOHANSSON LEARNED long ago in the FBI to be selective about what assignments he delegated. Routine administrative work or matters that did not affect life, he appointed other people to handle. Anything under his command involving a threat to life, he supervised.

  Mike decided to craft all aspects of the plan to infiltrate the Team of Deliverance. He felt this effort would carry out two objectives: expose a dangerous conspiracy, and protect a longtime friend who had volunteered to put himself in harm’s way. Nothing would happen to Rashid, he would make certain of that. Mike worked out details of the plan late into the night and named it Operation Full Moon.

  The next morning, a Saturday, he met with Ed Delong and Leo Adornetto in the Director's office. "I want to thank you for meeting with me at such short notice. When you hear what I have to say, you will agree this matter is urgent."

  He shared with them the highlights of the case, the content of the seventh message, the existence of the Lone Wolf, and how Mike planned to penetrate this conspiracy. "I’ve canvassed all of our databases both here and abroad. We’re dealing with dangerous people," he told them. "First off, Alexander Kosloff, who also goes by the names of Boris Minsky and Anton Petrovich, is a ruthless international arms dealer wanted by us and a dozen counties around the world. He supplies mostly Russian arms to anyone with cash. We know he has sold arms to both sides of the same conflict. The fact that he is part of this team means a large sum of money is involved. The next team member is Kassar Suri a weapons specialist from Pakistan. One of the world's most skilled CBRNE scientists."

  Delong said, "Chemical, Biological, and what else?"

  Adornetto chimed in, "Chemical, Biological, Radiological, Nuclear and Explosive specialist."

  Delong yanked his unlit cigar out of his mouth. "Holly shit! Why's a person like that coming to a clandestine meeting here in the U.S.?"

  Mike took a breath. "That's what we're going to find out."

  "Okay, you have my attention. What's your plan?"

  Mike pulled a folder out of his briefcase and opened it. He placed it on Delong’s desk upside down to be read. "The third member of this team is an Iranian named Danish Maloof. He heads the language department at a university in Tehran. We think his role is to translate what the other members of the team have to say. Two, maybe three languages are represented here. Professor Maloof is our link to infiltrate their team and take this conspiracy down."

  Adornetto studied the documents on Delong's desk. "Give me the details."

  Mike explained the plan. Maloof would be detained by U. S. Customs. Doctor Youris would take his place armed with the code word, a convincing letter of introduction and identity papers. He would act as the translator. His knowledge, skill and religion made him perfect for the job. He would play his part until the team broke up. Afterwards, based on his report, appropriate actions would be taken.

  Adornetto rubbed his chin. "And Doctor Youris is willing to do this?"

  Mike shook his head in disbelief, but reluctantly confirmed it. "Yes, he volunteered. He knows this is a risky undertaking. A damned heroic gesture, if you ask me."

  Delong frowned. "I've been meaning to speak with you about this Rashid al Youris. I had a background check run on him and I have some questions I want answered before I approve his involvement in this or any other matter."

  Mike felt a sudden coldness hit at his core. "Questions? I don't understand."

  Delong pulled a report out of his desk drawer and dropped it next to Mike's folder. "Youris retired from our organization five years ago. His service record shows skill and bravery. He got high performance rating every year and quality step increases, but what about after he retired?"

  "I'm not sure I follow you, sir. He did what everyone does. He took some time off. After a few years he accepted a position at the university, teaching.

  "Yes, I know. Part of our investigation reviewed his financial affairs. The first two years, after he separated from service, he had no ou
tside income beyond his retirement annuity." Delong thumbed through the report. "He paid out enormous sums of money far more than his income. Where did he get that money? More to the point, what did he do to get that money?" Delong stared at Mike, tossed his well-chewed cigar in the wastebasket, peeled the wrapper off a new one, and jammed it into his mouth.

  Mike remained motionless. He wondered what the hell his boss was getting at with such a question. His voice dropped a tone and his hands clenched. "I want you to know, Rashid saved my life at least twice and I may have saved his butt a few times, too. He's a brave, dedicated American who has served his country..."

  Delong put his hand up. "Calm down, Mike. I know all of that. I'm not accusing him of anything. I am simply asking a legitimate question. We are about to send this man into a sticky situation. I want to be sure he's on our side all the way."

  Forcing himself to appear relaxed, Mike answered. "He is on our side, sir."

  "What about the money?"

  Mike stepped back and clasped his hands behind his back. "After Rashid retired we stayed in touch. Soon after he separated from the Bureau his wife was diagnosed with early signs of acute liver cancer. He became her constant caregiver. He never left her side. Her treatments were extensive: radiation, chemo, surgery, and finally a transplant. I know the financial burden was staggering. Insurance paid most of the bills, but not all." Mike felt a tightness in his throat. He stopped long enough to regain his composure and plan his next comment. "I helped him with much of the cost not covered by insurance. He didn't ask for it. I did it because I felt I owed him my life. Because he's my friend." Mike swallowed hard. "I'd do it again, if I had too."

  The ticking of an antique clock mounted over the fireplace was the only sound heard in the room. Stunned, Delong slowly extended his hand to Mike. "Well done," he said. "My apologies."

  Adornetto shrugged his shoulders. "Now that that's out-of-the-way, let's settle the details before we approve this mission. Have you drafted orders to use selected agencies of the intelligence community? You'll need their help tracking the movements of the team members.