The Secret Corps

by Peter Telep

  —Corey McKay (FBI interview, 23 December)

  The Sig Sauer P220 was an effective compact pistol and preferred by one Nicholas Dresden, who whirled, drew the .45 from his waistband holster, and blew a sizable piece of Edward Senecal’s head off. The elder businessman in his $2,500 suit tumbled to the board room floor, his head bouncing like a bowling ball before his body went inert. Dresden stepped over to the corpse, casting a long shadow over the man’s ashen face, a face now haloed in blood. Senecal’s eyes snapped open, and he shouted, “You wouldn’t take the bet!”

  Dresden shuddered against his twisted imagination.

  He was an hour early for the board of directors meeting, not that his staff found this unusual. Be early, be over prepared—especially when you were on defense, he always told them. He stood at the panoramic window, watching the morning commuter traffic creep across the Queensboro Bridge. The corporate chopper ten floors above granted him permanent escape from being mummified in a mobile tomb. Off to the left were Central Park and The Pond lying beneath a mantle of black clouds. The forecast called for rain, with a high of only 41 degrees. The ten-day outlook called for blood.

  With a huff, Dresden left the window and crossed to the mahogany table with seating for twenty. He ran a finger across the polished surface. From dorm rooms to Third Avenue, he and Senecal had won Roosevelt’s glorious triumphs and built themselves an empire. They towered sixty floors above the unsuspecting minions. Swearing under his breath, Dresden tugged out a chair and flumped into the soft leather. As he leaned back, the door swung open, and in paraded Senecal. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I told you to stay away from the office.”

  “Not with the board breathing down our necks.”

  Senecal reached the table and leaned against it, folding his arms over his chest. “I talked to our friend. There’s nothing going on at UXD. You didn’t call?”

  Dresden glanced emphatically at his partner. “This is insane.”

  “Insanity is our government-sanctioned arms sales to Israel followed by our government-sanctioned arms sales to her enemies.”

  “That’s just foreign policy business. We mollify the Muslims by keeping our Middle East attack dog on a short leash—so they’ll keep selling us their oil at usurious prices. But Eddie, what we're doing isn't like that at all.”

  “It’s exactly like that.”

  “Look, if this were some kind of vigilante attack on Muslims, I could almost reconcile with it. They murdered your boy. I understand that. But this—”

  “Excuse me, have you forgotten about Namibia?”

  Senecal was referring to the Taliban-backed Kavango uprising in the Republic of Namibia, a country in southern Africa. He and Dresden had had a multimillion dollar deal in place with Prime Minister Ngodji, but the fat bastard would not make the leap and commit to the purchase. Back then they never hesitated in getting creative. They hired a mercenary team to supply the rebels with two dozen RPGs, over one hundred AK-47s, and thousands of rounds of ammo. When those rebels slaughtered an entire village outside the capital, Ngodji’s wallet flew open. Dresden and Senecal used to laugh about it.

  “This is the same deal, Nick. Only on steroids.”

  Dresden shivered as a realization took hold. “Is that how you got a contact here in the states? You used our merc in Namibia?”

  “Of course I did. He turned us on to the major players here.”

  “Oh my god. Can we trust him?”

  Senecal pushed off the desk, his brows narrowing in arrogance. “He’s already done his job, and our money keeps his mouth shut.”

  “I’m not convinced.”

  Senecal closed his eyes and lifted a finger. He was about to say something but caught himself and eyed Dresden, his expression now weakening. “Nick, the board is about to put us on the hot seat for this drone deal. Things won’t get any better. Do we agree on that?”

  “We do.”

  “Now, because you’ve been my partner for over thirty years, I’m going to stand here, and I’ll take you through it again.” Senecal returned to the door, locked it, then resumed. “First, think of it this way. We’re just speeding up history, feeding the jihadis intel and supplies. That’s all we’re doing. They’ll attack with or without us. We just need them to do it now, before it’s too late.”

  Much to Dresden’s chagrin, Senecal paced the room and gesticulated like an impassioned defense attorney delivering his closing arguments. The attacks, he contended, would serve multiple purposes:

  They would force the current administration into more aggressively going after these domestic threats, including known terror camps inside the United States.

  They would create a resurgence in both the personal and military defense markets, which would rescue many of their companies from the brink of bankruptcy and open new doors for government contracts, including the Aero-Vista deal currently on the table.

  They would foster a less tolerant political climate to help thwart Islamic dominance and Sharia Law legislation that was already encroaching upon local governments in both the United States and Canada.

  They would coax congress and the nation into examining divisive issues like gun control, school violence, racial profiling, the war on drugs, immigration reform, and even health care within the newer and more influential context of a domestic terror attack that was far more deadly than 9/11.

  They would renew a sense of patriotism in the nation as evidenced during the weeks following the World Trade Center collapse.

  They would inspire a surge in military recruitment and retention numbers, which would both strengthen the nation and bolster their businesses.

  And finally, they would allow for a small measure of revenge and closure on the injustices perpetrated against both Dresden’s and Senecal’s families.

  “You’re right about me,” Senecal said. “I am a madman. I want to kill our enemies. And this is the only way to get this do-nothing government off its ass and into action. The only way.”

  Dresden stared at the table, unable to meet his partner’s gaze.

  “Nick, no more stalling. They have the target list. You make that call. You get UXD on board right now.”

  “Has it really come to this? You sound blood-thirsty.”

  “Me?” He snorted loudly. “Your family has this obsession with trying to track down your great grandfather's killer. And for what? Assuming he's still alive, do they really want to kill a ninety-five-year-old Muslim? What satisfaction is there in prosecuting a man that old for war crimes? He wouldn't survive the trial. So why does your family keep looking? The son, the one your grandfather saved? He wasn't responsible for your grandfather's murder, so I ask again, why is your family still on the hunt?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you ready to kill an innocent man for the sins of his father?”

  “I want to know more about what happened.”

  “You know exactly what happened. The only sticking point between us is the amount of blood we’re ready to spill.”

  Dresden pushed back the chair and stood. “I need some coffee.”

  “You’re not going anywhere.” Senecal moved in closer. A weird light came into his eyes. “What if I told you I’ve located the family. The old man who killed your grandfather? Beb Ahmose? He’s still alive. I have him. I’ll ask again, do you want to kill him?”

  “Is this the surprise you’ve been promising?”

  “It is. It took us years, but I finally located him for you.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Some place accessible.”

  “So you’ve been holding him for leverage.”

  “You haven't answered my question.”

  “Don’t play this game, Eddie. You can’t drag me into this nightmare.”

  “Holding out to the bitter end. That’s all right. I expected nothing less.”

  “Eddie, do you know what I was thinking about this morning?”

  “What?”

 
; “I was thinking about killing you. That’s what you’ve done to us. That’s what you’ve done to this firm.”

  Senecal grabbed Dresden by his tie. “Our enemy believes in jihad and sacrifice. So do I. And I’ve sacrificed my blood. Now you grow a pair and make that call.” Senecal shoved him backward, and he nearly fell.

  Swallowing, Dresden drew his smartphone from his inner breast pocket. He started to dial... then stopped.

  Senecal approached. “I’m warning you, Nick. When the board sits down in a little while, I’ll unload. We’ll go down together. I don’t care anymore. Is that how you want to end your career. In disgrace? In jail?”

  Dresden thought he might crush the phone in his hand. Trembling, he glanced down and finished dialing.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Look, stud, I’ve traveled the world and spent a lifetime doing things most people read about. I’ve gone downrange, been shot at hundreds of times, done night jumps at over 30,000 feet. I’ve stared the grim reaper in the face on multiple occasions, but I’ve never experienced anything like this. No, I wasn’t scared. The feeling was much worse.”

  —Johnny Johansen (FBI interview, 23 December)

  “Where are you now, Johnny?”

  He grimaced. “That’s classified.”

  “Don’t give me that.”

  “Elina, look here, we’re all okay.”

  “That’s what you said yesterday. Still no news?”

  “The leaves are falling. We’re getting closer.”

  “You said that yesterday, too. How long do we have to stay down here?”

  He rolled his eyes. “You’re complaining about a beach house in the Keys? Really? Really?”

  “Look, you dummy, I miss you and I miss... the dogs.”

  The tremor in her voice tugged at his heart. “Look, just... just keep yourself busy. Take the girls shopping for Christmas presents.”

  “I took them to Sloppy Joe’s.”

  “See now, that’s good. They like it?”

  “Yeah. Kate got the Sloppy Joe, and Isabelle ordered the blackened chicken. I didn’t realize they’d never been there before.”

  “All right, that sounds great. Look, I have to go. I’ll call you tonight or tomorrow, okay?”

  “Love you, Johnny. Please be careful.”

  Johnny leaned forward on the bed, exhaling against the burning in his chest.

  In his mind’s eye, Elina lowered her cell phone and glared at the jihadi holding the pistol to her head. Behind her, the other women were stripped to their bras and panties and cuffed to chairs. Their eyes were blackened and swollen, and welts rose from their arms and legs. Another jihadi reared back with his folded belt and struck Jada across the shoulders. She cursed and spat in his face. The man with the belt moved toward Elina, who closed her eyes—

  And Johnny sprang from the edge of the bed.

  “Whoa, you all right?” Josh asked, pulling on a sweatshirt.

  “Yeah, I’m good. Easy day.” He rubbed his eyes and reminded himself that Elina and the others were fine. His G-shock watch read 0810. They had about an hour and fifty minutes until something happened. Perhaps something big. It was time to link up with Corey and Willie.

  The Holiday Inn Express stood on a road fittingly named Veterans Way in Warminster, Pennsylvania. Johnny and the others had rented a pair of SUVs, had geared up, and had GPSed their way up Interstate 95 for about nine hours. They had been in town for the past two days, reconnoitering the 40,000 square foot Blue Door Firearms manufacturing facilities and adjoining offices. The company was a well-known international supplier of firearms and one of the few that produced the majority of its own components in house. Johnny was not only familiar with Blue Door, but he had met one of the company’s military salespeople at the SHOT Show—a convention for commercial buyers and sellers of military, law enforcement, and tactical products and services. While at Blue Door’s booth, Johnny had watched a video tour of the entire facility. The factory housed more than forty CNC machine tools, with everything from Swiss Turn CNC lathes to vertical and horizontal machining centers. The company machined, fabricated, welded, heat treated, coated, and assembled almost every component of their rifles, pistols, and suppressors. Blue Door’s CEO was always looking for avenues inside the military, and even a small company like Triton 6 interested him for future partnership opportunities. In sum, Blue Door was an American owned and operated business, fully legal and legitimate, and was well-respected in the industry—

  All of which made the situation even more bizarre.

  The Islamic card Johnny had found at Shammas’s real estate office had led them here. Scribbled on the back of the card were Blue Door – 10 a.m., along with a date three days in advance. Why did Dr. Ramzi Shammas, an engineering professor and suspected jihadi, have a meeting with an American firearms manufacturer? Perhaps the card did not belong to him? Then why was it found at his real estate office?

  Johnny had reminded them that Blue Door complied with International Traffic in Arms Regulations (ITAR), just like Triton 6, meaning all of their weapons were subject to the scrutiny of the Department of State and the ATF. Those deals were researched in great detail and were only approved by the government. There was no way anything illegal was happening through those channels.

  However, Shammas could be engaged in legitimate purchases on behalf of a company or companies (or acting as an informal liaison or more formal broker). While the State Department recorded the serial numbers of those weapons, once they were delivered to said country, they were not tracked after that. The cache could easily be diverted to Shammas’s jihadi brothers.

  At one point in the conversation, Johnny had thrown up his hands and said, “We need to get this guy by the throat.”

  The industrial park off Mearns Road was home to other manufacturing facilities like Blue Door, thus Johnny and Willie were able to park their SUVs in the lot behind a large warehouse next door, hike through the tracts of undeveloped property, and establish a temporary observation post from within stands of oaks and bushy red cedars. Johnny marked the comings and goings of employees, the time the offices opened and closed, and he noted the locations of each of the security cameras.

  Today their recon operation would be riskier. They would park in the lot opposite the main offices, ensuring they had a clean line of sight on the glass entrance doors whose frames were anodized in a brilliant blue. While they knew the company’s cameras would be on them, they had little choice if they wanted to tail or intercept their target in time. High collars, ball caps, sunglasses, and tinted windshields would all help, as would facing east so that that rising sun would glint off their hoods.

  “Ready?” Josh asked.

  They left the room and headed down to the hotel’s continental breakfast, where they prepared four coffees to go and procured enough muffins and bagels to keep a squad of famished Marines happy. Corey and Willie had spent the night in the woods with eyes on Blue Door. They were cold and hungry, and Johnny was coming to their rescue with coffee and carbs.

  Just as they climbed into the SUV, Johnny’s phone rang: a local number from Holly Ridge, a number he should have added to his contacts. He answered and tensed at the sound of Detective Lindquist’s greeting.

  “Yeah, how are you, Detective. Any news?”

  “Sorry, Johnny. Seems like your brother’s place was the last one they hit. No other robberies since then. Where are you now? I swung by the house this morning, and one of the neighbors told me you were all gone.”

  Johnny looked to Josh, who mouthed, Tell him the truth.

  “The girls wanted to go down to the Keys. We took a little road trip up here to Pennsylvania. I have a buddy who works for Blue Door.”

  “Really? I have their forty-five cal Cochise with an extended fifteen round mag. It’s a really nice piece.”

  “Yeah, anyway, we’re going to pick him up and do some hunting.”

  “What’re you going for, elk?”

  That Johnny had prev
iously hunted in Pennsylvania was a godsend—because Lindquist’s question was a trick one, and Johnny recognized it immediately.

  “No, no, we’re not going for elk. Season’s already closed on them. We have a tight window to bag a couple of whitetails, or maybe even a black bear, but that’s damned hard. You should call in sick, come up here, and join us.”

  Lindquist chuckled under his breath. “Son, that sounds great, but the Mrs. tells me I need to work. You believe that?”

  “I do.”

  “Johnny, before I let you go, I’d like to ask you something. We have another investigation going on, and it’s got me curious. This could be a coincidence, but I don’t know if you heard about that kid who crashed his pickup on Castle Hayne near the river?”

  Johnny feigned ignorance, and Lindquist gave him a capsule summary of the situation, concluding with, “So he was a student of a professor right across the hall from your brother. How do you like that? Your brother ever mention that name? Shammas? Dr. Ramzi Shammas?”

  “No, he did not.”

  “You sure? You want to think about it for a little while? We know your brother knew him pretty well. He even chaired Shammas’s hiring committee.”

  “I’m sorry, but we didn’t see each other that much, and when we did, he talked more about his students than the guys he worked with.”

  “But you never heard the name Randall LaPorte before?”

  “No.”

  “What about a student named Abdul Azim Mohammad? Your brother ever talk about him?”

  Johnny opened his mouth, about to say yes, that Mohammad was the kid who had won the engineering contest. He was one of Daniel’s very best pupils and vice-president of the Muslim Student Association at UNC Wilmington. Instead, Johnny answered, “Honestly, I don’t remember. My brother worked with so many kids, and a lot of them came from the Middle East, India, China, all over the place.”

  “But that name’s not familiar.”

  “No. He’s not a suspect in my brother’s case, is he?”