Black Ops Bundle: Volume One

by Allan Leverone

  Between the hours of twelve and two the ornate restaurant and jazz lounge would be packed with congressmen, senators, aides, lobbyists, attorneys, wealthy businessmen and anyone else who had the connections to garner a reservation. But it was eleven, and the crowd had yet to arrive from the nearby government institutions.

  Kemiss sat alone in the corner of the room, the morning edition of the Washington Post open on the table in front of him. Without a word, a waiter deftly set before him the club's signature Scottish salmon then retreated as the senator's guest approached. Kemiss closed the newspaper and looked over the table with a question on his face as the maître d' pulled out two chairs instead of one. Looking up, he saw the man he was meeting had a guest of his own. He looked over the two men as the maître d' set down two menus, and silverware wrapped in dark red cloth napkins, before leaving at a brisk pace.

  The first man, the man Kemiss had been expecting, was wearing a blue pinstriped suit with a red tie and wore a pair of gold bifocals that sat high on his nose. His demeanor was confident but not cocky, and his receding, brownish-gray hair formed two horns on his forehead.

  "Good morning, David," Lane Simard said, as he took his seat. There was a slight British hue to his voice. As the CIA's Station Chief in London, Simard spent most of his time in the British capital and had apparently picked up a hint of the accent. Simard looked up at the man who accompanied him. He was a broad man with a rosy complexion, dark hair and a neatly trimmed mustache, flecks of gray throughout both. He unbuttoned his charcoal suit as he sat and loosened his burgundy tie.

  "Nothing to eat, thank you, just a pot of hot tea," he said in a pronounced British accent to the waiter who had appeared beside the table.

  "The same," Simard said, as he sat back in his chair and brought a leg up to rest over his knee.

  "Good morning, Lane," Kemiss said, as he set the newspaper aside. "Thank you for meeting me on such short notice."

  "David, this is Jones Forester. When you called yesterday and told me what you needed I couldn't think of anyone more apt to help than Jones, so I brought him along."

  "How do you do?" Forester said with a nod.

  Kemiss returned the nod and extended his hand. The Brit grabbed it and gave it a firm squeeze. Kemiss could tell right away that the man was former military. The look in his eyes as he shook hands told him so.

  "Jones here has a unique perspective on all things British," Simard said. "After our days at Oxford together he spent several years in the army and then joined the Metropolitan Police Service in London where he retired as the Deputy Commissioner. He works for the British Embassy here in Washington now as the Police Attaché. His military career includes a tour in Ireland, but he only likes to talk about that when he gets a few drinks in him."

  The men chuckled.

  "I'm sure they have a twelve year old scotch or something here that's sure to loosen his tongue," Kemiss said with a smile, before his face turned grave again.

  Sensing that the conversation was about to turn serious, Lane Simard straightened up in his chair and said, "Why don't you start by telling us a little more about what you need and how you think we can help."

  Kemiss sat forward in his chair and rested his elbows on the table. "We're dealing with a matter of national security here so I'm sure I don't have to tell either of you that anything I say isn't to leave this table."

  Simard and Forester both grimaced and nodded. Kemiss could tell they knew how the game was played. It was always about deniability. That's why he'd chosen a meeting place away from his offices. In the 701 Restaurant there were no guest logs and no witnesses that were likely to know who Simard or Forester were. Neither man was high enough in the pecking order to frequent the establishment.

  "As you both probably know from news reports, the United States was again hit by terrorists the other night. This time the target was a university and we believe that the attackers were aided by someone on the inside. I've been asked by the Richmond Field Office of the FBI to pull a few strings and see if I can't help them out with a particular matter."

  "The attack was an attempted assassination, was it not?" Forester said. "News reports have said that the Israeli that was killed was the target and not the university itself."

  Kemiss nodded. "That's partially true. Whoever committed the attack was indeed trying to kill Abaddon Kafni, but our sources indicate that whoever financed the deal also wanted to make a statement."

  "And you think it was this Irishman you mentioned," Simard said. "What was his name again?"

  "Declan McIver. He was close to Kafni and was familiar with his security personnel, which in the FBI's working theory allowed him to move about without suspicion."

  Forester tilted his head at the mention of an Irishman, his expression revealing that the reason for his being invited had suddenly become clear to him.

  "And why is the FBI so stumped with him that they need my help?" Simard asked, the old agency rivalry audible in his voice.

  "The problem is with his background."

  Simard raised an eyebrow.

  "He hasn't got one," Kemiss continued. "He immigrated from Ireland in the mid-nineties and turned up in Boston working as part of Kafni's security detail, but nothing in his personal history indicates any military or police experience that would lead him to such a position."

  "So the feebs think it's a whitewash and they want to get their hands on the real thing?"

  Kemiss nodded. "I've seen the file myself and it's about as vague as they come."

  "So what do you know about this guy?" Simard asked.

  "He left Kafni's employ shortly after September the 11th. He and his wife now own a small business in Roanoke, Virginia, and according the neighbors and employees they're only two-point-five kids short of being the perfect family."

  "Doesn't sound like much of a threat," Forester said.

  "Well you wouldn't think so, but he's certainly proven otherwise. Saturday night, four undercover men were sent to question him. Those four men are now dead and Mr. McIver hasn't been seen since."

  "He killed four men?" Forester said with an air of incredulity. "Who were they? Were they trained to handle a fight or were they just your average gumshoes?"

  Kemiss shrugged and grimaced. "All of them were experienced, but to what degree I don't know. Two of them were taken down hand to hand, the other two shot from a distance."

  As an experienced politician, Kemiss knew how to stick to a well-prepared message, whether it was true or not, and this time he was lying through his teeth. He was making it all up as he went along and hoping his position would be enough to convince the two men in front of him that any holes in the narrative were due to a lack of actual field experience. As an ex officio member of the Senate Intelligence Committee he dealt with these types of issues frequently, but always from behind a desk and no matter how detailed the reports in front of him were, they still lacked a certain immediacy. It was like watching a football game from the booth as opposed to watching it from the sidelines, an entirely different point of view.

  "Sorry about your men," Forester said. "Nasty business, terrorism always has been."

  Kemiss waved off the condolences. He couldn't care less about the men Castellano had hired, they were pawns, useful when they were needed but certainly not missed now that they were gone. "I don't want your sympathy; I want you to help me catch this guy. I was supposed to be a guest at Kafni's speech the other night and although we didn't agree on much, I considered him a friend. I could have been killed and he was, so I'm taking this personally. I want to see this McIver's head on the end of a stick. Now, if you did duty in Ireland, what can you tell me? This guy isn't just some lowly potato farmer who came here for a better job. There's more to him and I want you to help me find it. It's imperative that we know who this guy is."

  "So what are the ideas that are being thrown around?" Simard asked.

  "There have been a few tips called in that they're looking seriously at, one in partic
ular that I think you might be able to help with, Mr. Forester. How much do you know about the IRA?"

  "Heavens, everything," Forester said. "I spent thirty-six months with 14 Intelligence in the eighties. But if you're thinking this man is IRA, then the question isn't how much I know about them, but how much you know."

  Kemiss shrugged. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

  "Well, the group you're most likely referring to is the Provisional IRA and they had upwards of ten thousand men at one point. A lot of whom are still out there somewhere, although probably living on the dole since the peace accords. Their particular expertise isn't very useful in the job market. These men are far from being professional operators. They were third and fourth tier revolutionaries with too much time on their hands because of the high level of unemployment in Northern Ireland. The entire organization was riddled with spies, known locally as 'touts'. By the mid-seventies they couldn't sneeze without us knowing where every bit landed."

  "But it's a documented fact that they had ties with the PLO and other jihadi organizations that might want to take out someone like Abaddon Kafni."

  "Oh, yes." Forester nodded. "Indeed. That lot never had any love affair with the Israelis and there were definitely ties to other terrorist organizations. Qaddafi was a major weapons supplier, the Syrians and Palestinians too, sometimes we'd even let a shipment get through to protect informers or track the weapons, but that's about it."

  "I'm telling you the men that were sent to question him were experienced men and this guy took all four of them out without suffering a scratch, as far as we can tell."

  "So he got lucky," Simard said. “When you have the element of surprise, that happens, David. Those men weren't expecting an attack."

  "No offense intended, senator, but to hell with your experienced backgrounds," Forester said sitting back in his chair and crossing his ankles. "Our men make your boys look like they could use a lollie."

  Kemiss let the insult slide. "That was my next thought...that this guy was British Special Forces or something."

  Forester shook his head as if he didn't believe what he was hearing. “Unlikely,” he said.

  "Well, tell me it's not possible."

  "It's not impossible, but it's damned unlikely. Her majesty's government was very careful about allowing Ulstermen to join the ranks of the military in those days. Most that were allowed to serve did so in more support-orientated positions, and they did it in places far away from Ireland. Occasionally we'd pick out some men we thought were particularly suited to becoming spies for us and we'd send them home to join up with the subversives, but we didn't want to be training our enemies like you lot did in Afghanistan with the Mujahideen, just so you could stick it to the Ruskies."

  "You all were involved in Afghanistan, too,” Kemiss said, again ignoring the insult. “I refuse to believe this guy just got lucky. Somewhere and at some point this guy was trained by someone."

  "The IRA could have trained him themselves. They always operated in what was known as Active Service Units or ASUs," Forestor said, "usually four men to a team, and they were almost always trained at terror camps in the Republic of Ireland or Libya, if the leadership in Belfast could manage to get their men out of the country without us tracking them. That didn't happen very often, especially in the latter days. We had some information that the Soviets were involved at one point, but it was pretty thin."

  "Sounds like there's certainly more to him then what you see on the surface, but who could he possibly be working for?" Simard said. "From what you say he doesn't need money and that's the only reason I can come up with that would lead him to ally himself with anyone who'd be interested in taking out an Israeli or committing a terrorist attack against the United States. The IRA were nationalists, they had no interest in any country beyond the borders of Ireland. The few attacks they committed outside of Ireland were all British targets and were designed for the same purpose as their attacks in Northern Ireland, to force the British out of 'their' country."

  "The IRA certainly did a lot to influence the jihadis," Forester put in, "but there's no connection there anymore. The jihadis would detonate a bomb in Belfast or Dublin just as quick as they would in London or New York and the Micks know it."

  "So you guys can't help me?" Kemiss said, his face becoming a cold stone.

  "Oh, we're not saying that," Simard said hurriedly. "We're just not sure about the IRA idea."

  "Like I said, senator, it's not impossible to think that this guy somehow slipped through the net and was either enlisted or part of a paramilitary group. I have some contacts on the inside still. If it will help, I'll have them run his name against everything they have access to and see what comes up. We certainly used our share of spies in Northern Ireland, maybe he was one of them. I should be able to let you know in a day or two."

  "Fine, thank you."

  "Don't mention it. You can owe me one," Forester said with a toothy smile. "Honestly, I doubt anything will come of it. That kind of information used to be stored at Brigade Headquarters in Lisburn or even the RUC headquarters on Knock Road, but not anymore. Not since the peace accords and the supposed end of the Troubles. Now it's all stored in Thames House, I suspect. If you really want to find out what's in this guy's past, Lane here would be able to help you more than I. He's the man with the connections to the JIC."

  Kemiss knew JIC was an acronym for the Joint Intelligence Committee, a part of the British Cabinet Office that was responsible for directing the national intelligence-collecting services of the United Kingdom.

  "That's why I called you," Kemiss said, looking at Simard.

  Simard shifted in his seat and sat forward to rest his elbows on the table. "I can certainly take a look and see what there is to find. It will take a few days, though. I'll have to tread carefully. I'm only there as an observer unless something being discussed affects U.S. security."

  Kemiss glared. "This affects U.S. security, for sure. Let me know what you find as soon as you get it. You get this done for me and you'll have all the favors you could ever need from my office."

  Simard smiled. "I'll be in touch."

  Chapter Thirty-One

  11:27 a.m. Eastern Time – Monday

  Southbound on Rt. 122

  Moneta, Virginia

  Driving on a two lane highway, Declan kept a close watch on the rearview mirror. Like many other companies in recent years, Sweat Security had chosen a rural location, east of Roanoke and west of Lynchburg, known as Franklin County. Home to the largest lake in Virginia, the area was a popular destination of residents in both cities. In addition to the county's booming construction industry, low corporate taxes and less burdensome regulations by the local government had made it a haven for companies that didn't rely on a commercial storefront. In the case of Sweat Security, the company was located a few miles north of the small farming town of Moneta and about five miles northeast of the waterfront.

  Declan slowed the car as he approached the company's property, keeping a sharp lookout for any signs that the FBI or other law enforcement agencies had the building under surveillance. Seeing none, he turned into the gravel parking lot in front of a split-faced block building with a blue metal roof. Immediately, he was struck by the lack of cars in the parking lot and hoped he hadn't made a terrible mistake in coming. Stopping directly in front of the business's main entrance, he shifted the vehicle into park. Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, he craned his neck to scan the horizon behind him. Satisfied that no one was around, he looked through the Mercedes' windshield at the hastily drawn sign hanging on the front door: closed until further notice.

  The front of the building was lined with rectangular windows, but no lights appeared to be on inside. He stepped out of the car, closing the door quietly behind him. Approaching the front door, he cupped his hands around his eyes and peered through the tinted windows. Inside the front office was deserted, filing cabinets were wide open and papers littered the gray carpeted floor. Stand
ing back from the door, he again scanned the horizon behind him for any signs of surveillance before he began to make his way along the side of the building.

  The adjacent lots were wooded and provided him the perfect cover as he arrived at a chain link fence that surrounded a rear lot where some of the company's service vehicles were parked. Seeing several of the vehicles, he knew he'd found the right place. In the lot there were a dozen police style Crown Victoria sedans and several white Dodge Durango SUVs, just like the one that had tried to run him off the road. Some of the vehicles were marked with red letters reading security and some weren't. Grabbing ahold of the fence, he pulled himself up, using the diamond-shaped holes in the fencing as footholds as he climbed up the eight foot barrier and swung his legs over the top, jumping onto the gravel lot beyond.

  Standing from his landing crouch, he made his way cautiously to the back of the building where a metal door with a thin window above the latch stood. He tried the latch but just as he'd expected, the door was locked. Knowing the building likely had an alarm that would sound if he broke a window or picked a lock, he considered his options as he looked around. On the opposite side of the building from the fence he'd climbed was a row of four garage doors with small half-moon ports in the bottom for attaching vehicle exhaust hoses. Apparently the building had been used as a repair facility in the past or else the company performed the maintenance on their own fleet. Noting that the exhaust ports were an older style that sat at the very bottom of the door near the cement instead of further up, he got an idea.

  Turning and looking around the lot, he spotted an old stake back truck that was missing most of its windows in the far corner. Walking over to it, he reached through the window opening and raised the lock. The hinges protested loudly as he opened the door and got into the driver's seat. Looking at the floor between the driver and passenger seats, he spotted what he was searching for in a metal box attached to the truck's back panel. Lifting two latches, he opened the vehicle's tire changing compartment and withdrew the separated sections of the angled tire iron and the manual vehicle jack. He slid out of the truck and returned to the garage door furthest from the front of the building. Using the hubcap removal side of the tire iron, he pried open the door on the exhaust port and slid the manual jack underneath. Fitting the pieces of the tire iron together to create the long pole used to operate the jack, he inserted it into the end and began pushing it up and down causing the jack to lift. When the door had raised about four inches it stopped, obviously held in place by an internal locking rod. Taking a deep breath, he pushed down on the pole with all of his weight, lifting himself off the ground. Slowly the door raised as the metal locking rod inside was bent downwards by the pressure. With the garage door now about a foot from the concrete floor, Declan removed his Glock pistol from his coat, lay down and slid underneath into the building.