He’d been sloppy, he had to admit, reflecting on the last week as he sipped his coffee. Perhaps he’d been too confident—but he’d always succeeded before. He knew he’d been excessively aggressive with Midway. Emma had voiced her doubt that his captive would recover from the videoed torture, and she wanted to consult with an Army medical officer. The US Army had a number of doctors on duty; probably because of the treatment meted out to prisoners. He was loath to agree and had eventually persuaded the psychologist to wait until after the weekend. He’d promised that if Midway was still in a coma, he would consider her request. He didn’t want to use a local Army doctor; it was far too risky to have the military nosing around NSA business or indeed, around his private activities. He needed Midway as bait for Schmidt, so he might have to arrange a visit by one of NSA’s tame doctors. That was a Monday decision, O’Hare concluded, and put the issue out of his mind.
He had other problems. Zarina.
He checked his watch. Still thirty minutes before his meeting. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon and normally he’d be more than willing to sit and watch the attractive young ladies promenading past as they went about their fashion shopping ventures. Today he was sitting at one of the pavement tables, but without noticing any of the passersby. That was careless, perhaps dangerous, he decided, and tried to focus.
His mind was running the same concerns over and over again. Homeland Security had taken Zarina, and she had disappeared into the jaws of their New York office, captive of a team investigating possible immigration fraud. The problem he faced was how to retrieve her. He’d tried forceful persuasion to get her released and hoped that did not end up backfiring. Oh, he was confident she would keep silent, at least if the only issue against her related to her green card. Other matters—he had major issues.
O’Hare swore to himself, a little more savagely than was warranted either by the coffee or the location, and customers at a nearby table looked alarmed. He took back his self-control and half-smiled an apology that was ignored. He wondered if Schmidt and his team had arranged for Zarina’s arrest; he’d tried to run that thread back to its spool—another failure. The two men he’d sent to grab one of Schmidt’s people had failed totally. He knew only they’d been taken by a team of MPs—the scary thing was that they were now held by Schmidt’s own battalion. There were cutouts with no direct link back to him. He did have doubts about the effectiveness of the cutouts, though.
He check his watch again. He had another fifteen minutes, He sipped his coffee. His next worry were the deaths at Midway’s New Hampshire property, which had been followed by a failed assault on one the local crime team technicians. The same people, he was certain. His Saudi contact had offered him the use of some of their Chechen resources, which he had declined. While his people had not fared well with the tasks he had given them, refugees, no matter how dedicated, were not people he wanted to use. Their Sunni background and wahhabi fundamentalism defined a street down which he was not willing to walk. Those links, he had decided long ago, if exposed, would not only endanger his life but also counter the longer term strategy he was pursuing.
O’Hare chuckled softly to himself; apparently he had been correct about the poor quality of the resources, if the reports he had received were anywhere near accurate. Somehow a twelve-year old girl had defeated the attempt by a two-man team to kill her, and later, a nineteen-year old technician had severely injured a third Chechen, who now was in a critical condition in the local Redmont hospital. He placed his coffee cup back on the table. If the opposition was so much better than he and others expected, perhaps he, too, would have to up his game.
He checked his watch—it was time to head to his meeting. His local contact, a senior officer in the Saudi General Intelligence Directorate, was a stickler for punctuality. He stood and edged past the neighboring tables and set off down the street, ignoring the feeling that his short collar was folded the wrong way. O’Hare did not notice the man on the other side of the street, who, looking totally bored with the world, had stood in the same place for thirty minutes. Now the man moved off and coincidentally was going in the same direction, trailing thirty yards or so behind.
O’Hare’s destination was Airyaman Persian Rugs, a well-established importer and retailer of expensive new and sometimes antique, carpets, silk rugs, and prayer mats. It appealed to O’Hare, in a quirky sense, that his fellow Americans were totally anti anything Iranian, yet Persian rug outlets flourished. Perhaps they did not realize Persia and Iran were the one and the same. He did not want to consider how purchase moneys for new stock was transferred to Iran. It appealed even more that a Saudi espionage mission was utilizing a Persian carpet warehouse to shield its activities.
He entered the store, waved a casual greeting to the senior salesman, ignored the two young carpet handlers and the handful of wandering customers, and continued through to the back office, avoiding the large piles of rugs that burdened the storage area. When O’Hare reached the small office, he picked up the furthest telephone and dialed nine. He listened for a moment and carefully set the handset back in its cradle. He left the office and walked further towards the rear of the building. He ignored the washrooms. He stopped at a door marked “Janitor,” tapped once, and opened the door. He ignored the buckets and mops, and, after closing the door, walked to the far wall. He tapped again and after a minute had passed, a section of the wall slid open, revealing a one-person elevator. He stepped into the elevator; the door closed and the sensation indicated the elevator was descending. It always seemed it traveled a long way, far more than one floor. He never inquired. Perhaps, after so many years of NSA experience, such hidden features were normal, not to be wondered at.
The elevator jerked to a stop and O’Hare waited patiently for the door to open. A long corridor stretched out in front of him, dimly lit and poorly ventilated. He followed the twists and turns of the passageway, covering at least, he estimated, forty yards. Last time it had seemed like sixty yards or more. The design was impressively devious, in his opinion. He suspected explosives were planted behind the walls and ceiling, and the passageway could be destroyed at the press of a button.
He reached a door and tapped a random pattern. The door opened and he stepped into a small office. A man was waiting for him, standing inside the office. Ignoring the hiss of the door as it closed behind him, O’Hare smiled inwardly when he noticed the clock on the wall had reached the hour. Impeccable timing, he thought.
“Dr. Chaborz,” he said, reaching out to shake the other man’s hand. “Assalam alaykum.”
“Wa alaykum a salaam,” came the reply. “You’re on time. Good.”
O’Hare nodded his head.
The doctor continued, “There is tea, freshly made. Come. We’ll sit and share our reports.”
It was going to be a long afternoon, thought O’Hare, as he sat at the small table where the tea making equipment and cups were set out. The first ten minutes, at least, would be used to discuss the weather and other general courtesy subjects. After they completed the courtesies, the real business of the meeting would commence. He sighed silently.
At last O’Hare thought it was time to take the lead in the conversation. He said, “Dr. Chaborz, we should commence. You can advise Prince Khalid the plan for delivery of the software programs and hardware details developed by Project ForeSight is on target. I’ll deliver the first tranche at the end of the month—that’s only a week away—and in return, I’ll expect to see a deposit of ten million dollars to the Lichtenstein account, details of which I’ve already provided.” He didn’t mention the deposit would automatically trigger a transfer out to accounts in British, Swiss and, Luxembourg jurisdictions.
“The prince will be extremely happy,” acknowledged Dr. Chaborz, his eyes twinkling. “I am certain the transfer will be made as you requested, inshallah.”
O’Hare considered the deposit of ten million dollars to be crucial, if nothing else, as a sign of Saudi goodwill. He had agreed with the Saudi prin
ce to make technology deliveries each month over the next six months. Sixty million dollars was the total fee and he had ten million to pay out, a net of fifty million dollars, which would be a comfortable bonus. The General Intelligence Directorate, of course, in turn would receive a complete picture of NSA’s foreign satellite interception activities, including big data collection and analysis, satellite hacking, tracking, and control software, and even the detailed specifications and design of their new satellite killer.
He said, “Good. Sometime over the next few days, I’d like to have a teleconference with Prince Khalid to discuss again how we validate the contents of this and subsequent technology transfers. His Directorate people may not have the skills required. We have this and a further five transfers scheduled, and the details will become progressively more technical in content and structure.”
“That is a valid concern.” Dr. Chaborz bowed his head. “I understand the prince is recruiting senior experienced personnel, but whether he will be successful in time to review your transfers is not known.”
“That’s all I have to report,” O’Hare concluded, leaving the floor for the doctor to raise any items for discussion.
“I have some minor items, if you’re not too busy?”
“Of course, Dr. Chaborz. I am here to listen.”
“How is your campaign proceeding against Cromarty?”
“The pace is slow. There is progress, though.”
“You should accelerate your plans.”
“I may not need to.” O’Hare didn’t bother to defend his activities; for once he was able to deflect the doctor’s focus. “The Senate is threatening to investigate how Iran was able to purchase arms when there were stringent sanctions in place—it seems Cromarty is their target.”
“Aah. That is good to hear. You will keep me informed?”
“Of course,” O’Hare said.
Dr. Chaborz continued, “We discovered the whereabouts of some of Satan’s creatures, these genetically modified Devil’s spawn. We lost two men. They attacked a young child, a girl, yet they were both killed. How can this be?”
It’s not my problem if your resources are inept, O’Hare thought.
He said, “That’s difficult for me to assess. I don’t know if others were involved, or if the men you sent were—possibly—not highly skilled.” He shrugged. “It may have been a simple accident. I don’t have enough data.”
“Yes, I understand. We sent a more skilled man—at least, so we thought—to track down this child, and if the opportunity arose, to kill her. Our man was bested by a youth and is in hospital with severe concussion. I admit, we are disappointed with our failures. I suspect it is God’s will, yet we are trying to do what we believe is His will. Do you have any suggestions?”
O’Hare shook his head. “I had heard of the misadventures and wondered about the skill level of the team you sent.”
“That too, is our concern. We now have two men, exceptionally skilled; they are assassins who have worked in Europe and America. They are now tasked with finding this girl and her companions, whoever is protecting her. They are to terminate all. We hope for better results.”
“Dr. Chaborz, may I suggest caution?”
“Certainly. If you have advice, I welcome it.”
“The girl is undoubtedly genetically engineered. I have no idea about the youth; however, I suspect your experts may experience difficulties. There are over five thousand of these Cerberus people, all capable. You may not be able to field enough people here in the United States to overwhelm their defenses.”
“I understand. We could utilize resources that are more—dedicated—to do the job.”
O’Hare understood the reference was to Chechen jihadists, fundamentalist wahhabis, who had fled Chechnya and settled in America as refugees. He hoped the Saudis were not seriously considering the doctor’s idea.
“Americans may not appreciate your necessity for waging a jihad in this country,” he said.
“We might be able to form an alliance with one or more of your fundamental Christian groups?”
“Very dangerous, very dangerous.” O’Hare inwardly shuddered at the thought of mixing Muslim jihadis and extreme Christian groups. It was one thing for NSA to train members of the Saudi intelligence community, but it was another to see Saudi-sponsored jihadists working with American extremists.
Dr. Chaborz smiled, his eyes twinkling. He said,“Inshallah.”
Chapter 30
Schmidt was extremely reluctant to permit the children to watch the video he’d downloaded from the Cerberus cloud. He was in two minds about allowing Anna and Ladder to see it; he suspected the contents would be traumatic. The debate was loud and aggressive until at last he surrendered.
“Okay. If you all have nightmares for the next year, don’t ask me to come and hold your hands,” he said. “This is going to be unpleasant. It will be the worst thing you’ve ever experienced.” He overlooked the experiences of Camp Brewer, when assassins had calmly poisoned and shot their Cerberus siblings, and Anna had taken a weapon and killed the murderers.
Anna and the children, pale and anxious, gripped each other’s hands. Ladder was in the middle, with Alex on one side and Gabrielle on the other. Niland sat next to Anna, holding her hand. Schmidt sat at the computer and clicked on the video file. The beginning of the tape was blank, except for a metallic-sounding voice, electronically disguised.
“General Schmidt, I hope you don’t have anyone else watching this video, ‘cos it’s not pretty. I have your friend Midway and he’s completely at my mercy. Oh, and remember, he’s at your mercy, too. I’m willing to consider an exchange, you for this man. The offer ends of course, if Midway dies—this is a stressful experience for him. Now watch while I show you what he’s been experiencing for the last week.” The voice faded out.
So, thought Schmidt, part of the motivation for the video is to put me under pressure, by suggesting to others who view the recording that Mark’s torture can be eased—no, stopped—by swapping me for him. He’s trying to drive a wedge between me and my team or between me and Anna and her family; that’s something I need to stop as quickly as possible.
An image slowly took shape on the screen to reveal Mark strapped to a metal table. Schmidt recognized it as an autopsy table and fervently hoped no one else made the connection. The view was from directly overhead. Mark was naked and straps across his arms and legs held him down. Additional straps restrained his body so that his ability to move was completely restricted. An IV was attached to the back of his right hand. Round pads—Schmidt estimated there were twenty leads and assumed they were electrical contacts—were attached to his body. Mark’s arms were stretched alongside his body and his hands were visible. His eyes were open. His face, unshaven, was gaunt.
A white-coated attendant moved into view and stood next to Mark. Schmidt thought the person was female, although her face was covered and shielded from the overhead camera.
She was checking the electrical contacts. Apparently satisfied, she stepped back out of camera view.
The voice over said, “As you can see, we have Midway wired. Four of the contacts allow us to monitor his heartbeat, so we can tell if his heart stops beating. The other fifteen, no, sixteen, deliver electrical currents. We can select the connections or deliver voltage to all. See.”
Mark’s body spasmed and he appeared to hold back a scream. Anna hid her face. The two girls were crying. Niland had his hands across his eyes, reluctantly watching. Ladder was staring, entranced, focused on the screen.
“We can shut the power off and apply it again, at an even higher voltage. Let me show you. Watch.”
This time Mark screamed and his body locked into an arc, straining against his restraints. Schmidt checked. Ladder was still entranced. He wondered how the young man could watch—it was difficult for him to see Mark tortured.
“Oh, dear. That’s so shocking.” The tone was glib. Schmidt thought the man had no empathy and indeed, was psychopathic.
The speaker paused as though checking notes. After a few seconds, he said, “We’ve been medicating your friend. We have a particularly helpful hyperalgesic mix. What’s a hyperalgesic? Let me see. Think of it as a pain enhancer. This one is derived from a refined mixture containing opioids and platypus venom and enhances pain to an excruciating level. It’s a helpful medication for my purposes, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate. My assistant is adding some to Midway’s medication, and this time we’ll use a low voltage.”
Schmidt was intent on the screen—and so was Ladder, he noted—as the attendant adjusted the IV and stepped back out of camera view.
“Now watch. This is a far lower voltage. Saves power and helps the planet, don’t you think? I’ll cycle through the connections on a random basis to demonstrate the benefits.”
Mark’s body jerked and jumped, twitching and straining at the straps. The restraints were cutting into his limbs and he was bleeding onto the table. He screamed and moaned as the voltages were applied.
“I’ll stop for a minute to allow Midway to recover. He promised to say a few words to you. Well, he said he would, after I thumped his head on the table a few times. My attendant will give him some water otherwise his throat will be far too dry for him to speak. We’ll probably use a hose after we’ve completed the video, to wash him down. Or we may leave him.”
Schmidt and Ladder watched as the attendant presented a paper cup and straw to Mark, who sucked down the liquid.
“I forgot to mention his drink contains a hallucinogen. It will take—oh, a couple of minutes to hit—and he’ll think he’s flying or covered in insects or something. It’s entirely unpredictable. We’ll let you watch the beginning of his trip while I tell you, General Schmidt, what you need to do.”
Anna moaned. “I don’t think I can listen to any more,” she sobbed. She fled the room, followed by the three children. They were trying to comfort Anna while coping with their own emotional reactions.
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