by L. Todd Wood
“You’re going to Argentina?”
“You’re damn right I am. I’m going to find out what is really going on. I’ve been put here into this mess and now I’m the one to end it, this weapon, once and for all. I can at least expose what is happening, who has it, and maybe prevent it from being used.”
“Okay Connor. But I have one question. How did they find us?”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing. I have a few things that the terrorists gave me, money, a pouch, and such. There must be some tracking device there. I’m stupid for bringing it. It cost Sofiya her life.” Connor pulled out the small pouch he still had connected around his waist and threw it into the water in the grotto.
“I still have what Vasili gave us. That will have to do for now. Contact me in a few days via our internet channel. No one knows about that. I may need you to send money or something. I have a passport. I’ll make do.”
“Take care my friend. I’ll take care of Natasha. You take care of yourself. So how do we get out of this little predicament we are in?”
“We split up. I’m going up the shoreline under water to the north. You head south. Don’t surface unless you absolutely have to. Maybe we will get lucky and they didn’t bring any heat sensing equipment and we can evade them. I’m sure they have night vision though so stay underwater until you find some type of cover. It’s dark enough. Good luck my friend.”
“Too bad about Sofiya, I liked her.”
“Yea, me too, but now we have to save ourselves. She knew she was living on the edge. In fact I think she liked it there. She died young, but lived fully. Take care of yourself Peter.” Connor embraced his friend, took a deep breath, and then slipped back under water, swimming out of the grotto and up the shoreline to the left. Peter followed immediately and went the opposite direction.
Chapter Fifteen
Connor broke the surface and quickly looked around. This time, he didn’t hear anything, at least not the signature sound of a helicopter beating the air into submission. He had been swimming for some time. The lake and the valley were quiet. They’ve left. Maybe they thought they killed me and Peter. I hope he gets out alive. I want Natasha to know I’m alive. He resubmerged just in case and continued swimming up the lake around twenty meters from the shoreline, coming up from time to time for air. The sun had set and the twilight was growing dim. That’s really just fine with me at this point, Connor thought to himself as he broke the surface again and scanned the shoreline for concealment. Damn this water is cold, he allowed himself to feel now that his life was not in immediate danger.
As he treaded water he noticed he was next to a luxurious home that extended to the edge of the lake and was several stories high. The lights were not on inside the structure. No one is home. This is it. It’s now or never. Connor moved quickly and silently out of the water and rapidly hid under the pylons holding up the porch that extended to the water’s edge. He tried to remove as much water as possible from his clothing and then scampered up the embankment next to the foundation of the home and soon was protected in the side yard of the house, crouched beneath the wooden fence. He looked one more time around the skyline for a sign of the heliborne attackers—nothing. Connor then scanned the house for a way to get in. I don’t hear anything. Nothing. They’re gone.
He noticed on the second floor that one of the windows was open with just the screen deployed to keep out the insects. He immediately made a decision. That’s my way in, he thought. Connor then searched quickly around the yard for something to hoist himself up to the opening above him. Soon he spotted a wrought iron bench sitting in the corner next to a sculpted bird bath and fountain, surrounded by landscaping. He quickly ran to the bench, lifted it, and carried it to the side of the house, putting one end on the ground and leaning the object against the cedar siding. He was able to quickly climb up the makeshift ladder, stepping on the ribs of the back support, and soon was noisily ripping the screen away from the window and hoisting himself inside. He worked quickly as he did not know when the residents might return. It’s early evening, they could just be out for dinner for all I know.
Connor searched the house rapidly for the bedroom and soon found the master closet, complete with men’s clothes. He quickly undressed and put on some dry pants, shirt, shoes, and a sport coat. It will have to do. He looked in the full length mirror in the closet. A little big but not bad. It will work until I can buy my own. Connor grabbed a hat from the closet as well and made his way back to the window in the hallway from which he entered. Soon he was back outside, cautiously walking along the road, a small distance inside the tree line along the local highway that ran around the lake. It was dark now and there was no way he would be seen by anyone on the road driving by.
He felt his pockets. Connor still had his travel documents along with the credit cards and cash that were provided to him by Vasili’s team. He also had the phone Sofiya had given him. It looked waterproof. Connor pulled out the device and dialed one of the preset numbers. A man answered. A voice he did not recognize. A Russian voice.
“This is Murray,” he said. “Sofiya is dead. We’ve been blown. I’m on my own now. Tell the man thank you and I will let him know what I find.” Connor hung up the call. Memorized the number and threw the phone in the grass. No one will be able to track me now. I really am on my own and that is a good thing. And after all I’ve been through, I’m no longer an amateur.
Ahmed was alone. He sat in the chair in his office, filled with rage. The text had been received from the American. The entire intelligence staff of his unit knew about it. He was humiliated. Ahmed had gone out on a limb to prosecute this mission. Now, he was exposed, possibly marginalized inside the Revolutionary Guards. The damn, hunted American has become the hunter.
Somehow the operation was blown. He just didn’t know how. The last time they picked up a location on Murray he was in the Russian town. What happened? How did he survive? Who helped him? Was it the Russians? They know nothing about this. Or do they?
If they are on to this operation then I have serious problems of my own. This was my op, my idea. No one wants Moscow angry at Iran. “Damn that American pig,” he said aloud to no one. “I will have to kill him with my own hands.”
Everytime I get close to being on top in life, something happens. Why is that? Is Allah angry with me? What have I done to disappoint him? Ahmed thought back to when he was a child, when his father used to beat him, repeatedly, then sexually abuse him. Should I feel shame? Yes, I feel shame. Was it my fault? Why did Allah allow this to happen to me? I was just a child. Memories of his father climbing into bed with him and the horror that followed. Ahmed never slept well. Images of the evil man’s face always followed him to bed. It is no use. I am cursed. Allah is angry with me. I should feel shame. I am the one that evil man desired. It was my fault! Forgive me, Allah!
At that point the call to prayer drifted over the Iranian evening as the sun returned to its hiding spot for the night. Ahmed tried to calm himself and left his office for the mosque. There I will find some peace, some direction, some resolve on how to kill Mr. Murray. It is in Allah’s hands now.
The Sultan was on Marine One, on his way to Camp David for a relaxing weekend, when the call came through. It was his national security advisor. “Mr. President, our Agency tactical team was able to terminate Murray and two other unidentified targets with a heliborne assault into the French alpine town, Annecy, near the Swiss border. Once they were airborne enroute to his location, they were able to pick up the signal from the Iranian tracking device that was inside Murray’s belongings. From then on it was a straight shot into his coordinates for the hit. A woman was terminated on the plaza of a restaurant and Murray and the other male were hit as they tried to escape over the railing into the surrounding lake. The snipers were pretty adamant about the results sir, but nothing is completely positive without an on the ground confirmation which we obviously couldn’t do in this situation and with such short notice.
; “Go on,” said the Sultan.
“The two aircraft egressed safely back to their point of origin without detection. We believe that due to the mountainous terrain, the French, or the Swiss, radars would have not picked up the incident, or detected the helicopter’s flight path. We believe there is a 95% confidence Murray was terminated. As for the other two, we do not know their identities. There is a high likelihood they were Russian nationals as our Iranian friends have confirmed Murray’s location in Siberia before they had lost contact temporarily.
“You think the FSB was involved with getting Murray to France? And what were they doing there?”
“That is a good question sir, and one we don’t have the answer to at the moment. We are working on that. The location where Murray was confirmed in Siberia was near the Russian weapons plant that housed a Russian scientist Anatoly Ivanov, which Iranian intelligence says Murray informed them was connected to the bio weapon development. That is all we know at the moment. We obviously don’t have a lot of resources in that area. We are checking signals intelligence for any connections or intercepts we can validate for this issue.
“Inform me immediately if there are any developments in this situation. Highest priority please. I want confirmation Murray is dead and I want to know who was involved and what the Russians know. We need to wrap up the loose ends here. And get from the Iranians everything they learned from their little ‘mission.’ We need to know the status of this weapons development and who has the technology. Our capability in the area is decades behind as we stopped research in this area some time ago per our treaty obligations.”
“Yes, Mr. President. We will do as you direct. I will update you when we have more.”
The Sultan terminated the call and slammed down the phone. I don’t like being outmaneuvered. Murray may be dead but if he’s alive he knows something I don’t know. I need to know this man is dead. He’s been a pain in my ass. I can’t have him screwing up my plans again. The caliphate for the next thousand years is just too important. Nothing will stand in my way of its creation.
The Sultan picked up the phone again and rang one of his assistants in the White House on a secure line. “I want an update on the Iranian nuclear plans immediately upon landing at Camp David,” he ordered.
“Yes, Mr. President. We will arrange.”
The Sultan hung up the phone again and looked out over the Virginia countryside as the Sikorsky aircraft smoothly carried him away from the District. No, I will not fail this time to destroy the Jewish State.
Peter sat in the back of the train heading to Tel Aviv from Ben Gurion airport. The man seated next to him was an IDF soldier, in uniform. Ever since arriving in Israel Peter had been fascinated with the country’s comfort with weapons of all kinds. The soldier seated to his left had his M-16 with attached grenade launcher across his lap. The barrel pointed absentmindedly at anyone that walked by. You wouldn't see that in America, he thought. Peter thought about taking a picture. Here is my friend and his grenade launcher. Peter chuckled to himself. Several rows up were a half dozen female IDF soldiers, weapons also nonchalantly laid across their legs. He studied each one of them. Each were young and very beautiful. Israel’s army of supermodels. Fascinating.
He thought back over the events of the last couple days.
Upon separating from Connor, he had swam towards the city of Annecy from the location of the grotto, occasionally stopping to surface and survey his surroundings. Once the sun had completely dropped below the horizon and night fell, he had crawled out of the lake and lay in the grass in the middle of a park to think and get his bearings. There was no one around; the lake was deathly quiet. He thought about calling Connor on his cell but decided against it. I will do as my friend requested and go back to make sure his wife is okay. He is once again on his own.
Eventually Peter walked into town and secured a room in one of the inns to seclude himself and make a plan. He pretended to be drunk after a night on the town and played the ugly American who fell into one of the canals. The proprietor of the inn shrugged him off in the rudest French way possible. Peter was pleased at his acting job.
The next morning, having dried and ironed his clothes, Peter caught a taxi, then a train to Paris, Charles de Gaulle airport. He did not risk crossing the Swiss border and the shorter distance to Geneva. He had decided he’d taken enough risks for a while.
The flight to Tel Aviv was uneventful and rather short. Peter caught up on his sleep inflight as much as possible and spent the rest of the time deciding what his actions would be once he was debriefed by the Mossad.
Upon exiting the train from Ben Gurion Airport in the center of Tel Aviv, he was immediately escorted by Israeli intelligence into a waiting car for the short drive to the Mossad headquarters.
Ahmed walked into the crowded coffee house in Tehran. The hookah pipes created a smokey glaze over the whole establishment, almost like a camouflage blanket hanging over each table. That was fine with him. He did not really want to be noticed. A male waiter took his order and he asked for an espresso. I need to think. After the coffee was delivered, Ahmed sat back in his chair and observed. No one was watching him; that was a good thing. He was sure he had not been followed on his route here. In addition, the noise from the men chattering and smoking was rather loud. That was good as well. He did not want any intelligence devices listening in on his imminent telephone conversation. This is the perfection location for the conversation to come. I can completely disappear in this place. God is great!
Ahmed had decided to make a move. He had to recover from the failure of the operation and he wanted desperately to kill his nemesis, Connor Murray. Ahmed was not one to be insulted, much less threatened. He would show the American dog who was boss. And I will enjoy killing him with my bare hands. That is, after I play with him a little bit. Yes, I will show him how we treat traitors in an Islamic prison. He will be my bitch for a few hours. Just like I was for my father. Then I will kill him.
Once he was very confident he was secure in his location, Ahmed took out his phone and dialed a number. He was taking a great risk. Iran’s intelligence contact within the Mossad was delicately placed and deeply undercover. His superiors would string him up if they knew what he was doing. Ahmed did it anyway. The consequences of failure were too great. At the least, his career would be ended. At worst, well, he did not want to think about that.
The phone rang and the call was answered on the other end. “Al-o?”
“Amir. It is me, Ahmed. I need to talk. Can you now?”
“Call me back in ten minutes.” The call was ended abruptly. Ahmed waiting impatiently and ordered a hookah pipe to calm his nerves. The waiter brought the bong-like device and poured in the hot coals on the tray near the top to heat the tobacco and create the smoke. Ahmed drew on the hose pipe and the smoke was drawn through the water and into his mouth. He relaxed somewhat and looked at his watch. Two more minutes.
Suddenly his phone rang. “This is Ahmed,” he responded.
“Why are you calling me like this?” Amir asked. “It is totally out of protocol!”
“Yes, I realize that. It is a, well, rather delicate situation and requires extreme measures.”
“Go on, you have two minutes.”
“The American, Connor Murray. I want to know if he is confirmed alive and where he is. I want to, I mean I need to, kill him, as soon as possible. When you find out the information, text me and I will call you.”
“I will do as you ask. Give me twenty-four hours.” The line went dead. Ahmed leaned back in his chair and smiled. Soon Mr. Murray, soon! If it is Allah’s will.
Chapter Sixteen
Connor sat outside at a small cafe in Buenos Aires. The air was filled with magic even at this late in the evening. He could smell the sea wafting in from the coast as the festivities surrounding him raged as people danced all around him under the decorations and lights. The city was magical and reminded him of Barcelona with the architecture full of art, style, and h
istory. But he was not here for a good time, even though he was tempted. He was here to find Anatoly. He had to remind himself of that as the gorgeous women danced the flamenco near his table in the open street.
The trip to Argentina had been rather easy. Connor had also taken the train to Paris, as had Peter the evening before, and bought a direct flight to the Argentine capital. From there, a taxi brought him into the city to an area near the sea he had visited long before in his military days. The area near the water looked almost exactly the same although it had been over a decade since he had been here.
Connor’ roommate at the Air Force Academy had been an exchange student from the Argentine Air Force. He and Fabian had been like brothers and talked constantly. Connor had visited the city with him ten years before and enjoyed the time of his life. This time however, he wasn’t so carefree. Those were the days. The only thing I had to worry about a decade ago were the markets. No one was trying to kill me and destroy an entire race of people.
He had contacted Fabian earlier in the day and asked him to meet him here. Fabian was now a high ranking officer in the Argentine military and once was a hell of an A-4 pilot, although now he was mostly relegated to command duties and rarely was able to get in the cockpit. When he did fly, he was no longer proficient, so he flew with an instructor in a two seat aircraft, though he still loved being at the controls of a fighter jet.
Fabian’s beloved Air Force had been in decline for years and now was only a shadow of its former self. Decades of mismanagement by a corrupt government had seen to that with funds meant for acquisition and maintenance routinely stolen and spirited off to some far off island in the Caribbean, never to be seen again by the Argentine people. However, Fabian did the best he could with what he had and was a true patriot to his country, if not so much to the current government. Connor respected that.
