by Peter Telep
“Who?”
“Charles Plesner, the E-A-D of National Security. I need to be honest, Johnny, I wasn’t expecting this and neither was Donna.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean this guy Plesner is a first-rate ball buster who stabbed a lot of folks in the back to get where he is now. If he drops the hammer, I’m not sure I can help.”
Johnny cursed under his breath. “I was just trying to find out who killed my brother and his wife. I didn’t realize this would turn into a national security nightmare.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Because I’m a Glock fan, I knew the Glock 22 was the service issue pistol of the FBI. I didn’t need Plesner’s reminder that he carried one. And like I’ve said, we always train as we fight. You take your most familiar weapons downrange.”
—Willie Parente (FBI interview, 23 December)
Johnny suffered another restless night plagued by dreams of Sergeant Oliver on that staircase in Fallujah and of Daniel bowing toward Mecca. At one point, lying on the evaporating border between consciousness and some darker realm that reeked of rubbing alcohol and latex gloves, Johnny found himself on an operating table, his chest being cracked open by surgeons who tugged down their masks. They wore malicious grins and introduced themselves as Dr. Rasul and Dr. Shammas. Johnny should not worry about a thing; they would only remove his infidel heart, which resembled a hunk of blackened beef, and his soul, which, much to their amusement, they were still trying to locate.
“So the only thing you found in your brother’s office was a note written in Arabic and the keys to the storage facility?” asked Plesner, peering over the rims of his bifocals.
“That’s correct, sir.”
Johnny glanced up at the slight man in his late fifties. He was clean-shaven, with thinning hair gone silver at the temples and skin like a drought-riddled plain. He seemed dwarfed by his own chair and overcompensated by leaning toward the table.
“Mr. Johansen, you expect us to believe that the local police examined your brother’s office and didn’t find those items?”
“I know my brother. He used to hide things when we were kids. I knew where to look.”
Plesner steepled his fingers and smirked at SAC Lindhower, who was seated beside him. He faced Johnny, and his expression shifted once more, caught between accepting the explanation and wanting to pry further. He set his lips and glanced down at their statements. “And you say you followed up on those items, found the storage unit empty, went to Reliance Tactical, questioned a clerk named Kyle Jessup, and used him to lure LaPorte into a trap.”
“Not exactly a trap, sir. We only wanted to talk to LaPorte. But for some reason, he took off, we gave chase, and he lost us. We found out later he crashed.”
“I can read, Mr. Johansen. And next you say you found a card with Arabic writing in Mr. LaPorte’s backpack. You also state that Mr. Jessup told you about Mr. Shammas’s real estate office in Jacksonville.”
“That’s correct.”
“Any reason for him to deny he said that?”
“Not that I know of, sir.”
“Well he’s denying he ever told you.”
“You’ve interviewed him already?”
Plesner consulted another report. “Mr. Johansen, I find it remarkable that you’ve already forgotten where you are. We’re the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We interviewed Mr. Jessup yesterday at 8:14 p.m. Eastern time.”
Johnny shrugged as convincingly as he could. He needed this lie in place to protect Pat Rugg and Billy Brandt, two Marine Corps brothers he was unwilling to give up. “Sir, I’m not sure why Kyle’s lying about that. Maybe he’s afraid of retribution. The fact is, he sent us up there, and that’s where we found the second card.”
“And the writing on the back sent you up to Pennsylvania. To Blue Door.”
“Yes, sir.”
“They make some fine weapons.”
“They do, sir.”
“Not as good as Sig Sauer, though. I like my P226 much better than anything Blue Door produces. I like it even more than my service issue Glock 22.”
Johnny glanced at Willie, as if to say, Imagine that. Willie just shook his head.
“We questioned the security officers at Blue Door. There’s no record of anyone named Shammas taking a meeting there, although the team did identify the men in the photos and video you provided. We believe they were operating under aliases. The sales person you named, Sameh Ismail, flew out last night to Peru. We’ll track him down there.”
“Thank you, sir,” Johnny said.
“So at this point, you and Mr. Eriksson go after a man you’re calling Rasul because you heard his girl friend scream his name while you were inside the compound.”
“That’s correct.”
“And Mr. Parente? You and Mr. McKay tracked a man you nicknamed Easy Money up to New London, Connecticut. You observed this man go into the Pequot Inn and Marina. While you were there, Mr. Johansen called you to rendezvous in West Virginia, and you left.”
“That’s correct,” answered Willie.
Plesner hardened his gaze. “So you’re unaware of an anonymous phone call placed to the local police? You have no idea who tied up Easy Money and left him in his car?”
“No, sir.”
“A glove was found in the man’s car. Only one glove. For some strange reason, he tried to explain away the incident as a practical joke played by some old friends and said the glove belonged to one of them. You’re not one of his old friends, are you, Mr. Parente?”
“No, sir. Guy sounds like some O.J. Simpson wannabe.”
“Do you believe that glove would fit either your hand or Mr. McKay’s?”
“If it did, sir, that’d be a coincidence.”
“I see. And if your DNA matched DNA found on the glove?”
“That would be impossible, sir.”
“What about you, Mr. McKay?”
“Sir?”
“Do you concur with Mr. Parente’s statements?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
Plesner grinned and shook his head. Surprisingly, he allowed their lies to thicken the air without comment. “So, if I read your statements correctly, you gentlemen linked up in West Virginia and trespassed on private property with the intent of kidnapping this individual you’re calling Rasul.”
“No, sir,” answered Johnny. “We only wanted to talk to him.”
“Why didn’t you go to the gate and knock?”
“We worried that if we did that, he’d run. So we figured we’d sneak in there and just corner him and have a little talk.”
“But that didn’t work out so well, did it?”
“Not really.”
“Recon Marines, huh? What happened to swift, silent, and deadly?”
Willie cocked his brow and leaned forward in his chair, ready to return fire.
Johnny shot him a look.
Plesner went on: “So you’re saying that you were spotted, that shots were fired, and that the man you call Rasul was accidentally hit by his own people, but you’re not sure if he’s alive or dead. You just got out of there A-SAP.”
“That’s correct, sir,” Johnny said.
“Which brings you here,” Plesner finished. He gave them the once over, seized his jaw, closed his eyes, then sighed deeply in dramatic fashion. “I need some time alone with these gentlemen.”
Lindhower gave a look to Agent Seibert, and they quickly exited.
Plesner switched off the recorder, then turned back to the ceiling-mounted camera and motioned to stop recording. The camera’s green status light turned to red. “All right, boys. As veteran Marines you’re used to following orders.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Johnny
“Good.” Without warning, Plesner slammed his fist on the table. “Now stop lying to me!” His shout hung for a long and uncomfortable moment while he returned to his reports. “The police down in North Carolina found rat poison inside LaPorte’s truck. You know anything about
that?”
Johnny’s mouth went dry, and he fought to maintain his composure. “No, sir.”
“Mr. Johansen, are you taking any medication that might affect your memory?
“No, sir.”
“So you’re naturally full of shit?”
“Maybe LaPorte was thinking about killing himself,” Willie blurted out.
“Well, he put his mind to it, didn’t he,” Plesner snapped.
Willie snorted. “He sure did.”
Plesner continued. “The police also found some Styrofoam plates and wrappers from lean ground beef, the kind you find in the supermarket. Another interesting find. You know what I think? I think Mr. LaPorte was going to poison someone... or some thing... maybe an animal. A dog, perhaps? Is there anything else you’d like to tell me, Mr. Johansen?”
“Look here, they killed my brother and sister-in-law. I wanted to know why. That’s what got us here. Now it seems like everyone who knows what happened is gone or dead. See what I’m getting at? Is the FBI willing to take this on and help me out? These guys are jihadis. There’s something going on. It’s not isolated to a small county in North Carolina. It crosses state lines, so isn’t that when you guys take over? Like you said, you’re the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Indeed we are. But if you took the law into your own hands, then it’s my job to help you go to jail. But like I said, we’re off the record. So let’s talk like men. That bastard killed your dogs, didn’t he? Where did you bury them?”
“You think I killed LaPorte,” Johnny said. “Well, I didn’t.”
“We can check for body paint transfer against every vehicle you own. Maybe you just forced him off the road. That would complicate matters, Johnny, wouldn’t it? And in a way, I don’t blame you. But I want you to understand that you can’t lie anymore—because when we dig, we dig deep, and we don’t stop. Not ever.”
Johnny’s cheeks swelled, and he puffed air. “Roger that.”
“Good. Did your brother convert to Islam?”
“No.”
“But you’re not sure.”
“I know my brother.”
“You have no doubts?”
“None,” Johnny snapped.
Plesner’s lip twisted. “We just had a very pointed conversation about lying. Is English your first language?”
“Sir, all right, I have a few doubts. Why does it matter?”
“Good. We’re making progress. Now, Corey? Willie? Who came up with the idea to use Easy Money’s shoelaces to tie him up?”
“We don’t know, sir,” said Willie.
Plesner lifted a finger. “I’ll bet it was you, Corey. You have an innovative look in your eyes.”
Corey lowered his gaze.
“You find anything else on that guy? His phone? Maybe that’s the phone you used to call the police?”
Willie gave an exaggerated shrug.
Plesner leaned back and pillowed his head in his hands. “You see, gentlemen, I can use my position to scare up a lot of information. You don’t get to be me by asking for permission. Around here my suggestions are considered commands. I don’t make recommendations. I issue edicts. But you know what my problem is? This administration has turned my beloved agency into a bunch of pussies. Case in point: I can use your statements to get a warrant to search that enclave, but I’ll get a lot of push back from my own people. They’ll say we need to be careful so we’re not accused of racially profiling them. We need to respect all of their rights. We need to leave them alone so they can teach each other how to kill us.”
Johnny snickered. “That’s insane.”
“Sitting right here in this room, we all agree. But it doesn’t matter if we go up there now, does it? We wouldn’t find anything... maybe a few traces of blood, but any bodies are long gone, and those jihadis will never admit there was any problem. In a strange way, they’re your allies now. I mean, you guys could have shot and killed someone, and no one up there would talk, right?”
Johnny realized he had a white-knuckled grip on his chair and relaxed. He would not dare look in Willie’s direction.
Plesner retrieved his briefcase from the floor and set it on the table. From inside he extracted a fistful of files and gestured with them. “These come from the DOD on short notice. This is everything we know about the four of you. It made for some interesting reading on the plane. And the truth is, I’m glad you’re on our side. I know I ragged on you about your Marine backgrounds, but honestly, they paid off because your experience drove you closer to the truth. I value that, I value your security clearances, but there’s something else I value even more.”
“What’s that, sir?” Johnny asked.
“We’ll get there. First let me say that like every other government agency, at some level, the FBI’s been infiltrated by jihadi operatives, people you’d never suspect—even converts who look like you and me. If you don’t believe that, then you’re a naïve fool or a leftwing nut job. The fact is, we recruit translators, specialists, and consultants from the Muslim American communities, and while we vet the crap out of them, there’s no guarantee that in their heart of hearts they’re all loyal to America. Our intelligence organizations are lumbering beasts, and they’re not as secure as politicians would have you think. If I had to pick one group that does a great job of maintaining its operational security, despite its diversity, that’d be our Joint Terrorism Task Forces.”
“We already talked to some of those people.”
“I’m aware of that. But things are different now, Johnny.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean as I’m sitting here, listening to you, I realize I’ve had a bad case of tunnel vision. You boys operate as a team and stay locked on target no matter what. The Corps taught you that.”
“That’s right,” said Josh.
“You’re four veteran Marines who’ve uncovered a terrorist operation that we didn’t know existed.” Plesner spoke more emphatically. “How the hell does that happen?”
Johnny glanced at the others; no one was answering.
“I’ll tell you how,” Plesner continued. “You four are nobodies. You’re outside the system, and no one has eyes on you. Between this administration, the spineless bastards in my own agency, and the jihadis leaking our secrets, I can’t move on these people. Let me tell you something: this country will fall if men like you and me are not free to act.”
Johnny leaned toward Plesner. “I couldn’t agree more, sir.”
“Good. Now before I do anything, I need a promise from you, Johnny. If you find out your brother was a jihadi, you can’t let that interfere with this mission.”
“What mission?”
“Look, I run the Counterterrorism Division, the Counter Intelligence Division, the Directorate of Intelligence, and the Weapons of Mass Destruction Directorate. I oversee a lot of people, but no one like you guys. Despite severe limitations you sons of bitches identified a threat to the United States. I’d be a fool not to take advantage of the current situation. With direction and oversight, who better than you? You’re a four man special recon and tactics team. You’re being contracted as outside consultants to the Counterterrorism Division. We’ll do it under your company name, Triton 6. You report only to me. You mention this to no one—and that includes my colleagues in the FBI. We’ll finally get something done around here without congressmen breathing down our necks.”
“Sir, I’m not sure I’m hearing you correctly,” said Corey. “Are you saying you want to hire us?”
“Exactly. Come on, Mr. McKay I know what you’ve been doing these past couple of weeks. I need you to keep on doing it, and we’ll catch these bastards.”
Willie raised his hand again. “Do we get badges?”
Josh elbowed him in the ribs.
“Sir, is this legal?” asked Johnny.
Plesner chuckled. “I’m flattered you think I’m a cowboy like you boys. Of course it’s legal. We hire consultants all the time Hell, all the big defense co
ntractors and security companies hired by the government are staffed by former military folks.”
“I see how we’re playing this. And if you’ve read our files, then you know this won’t be the first time we’ve done contract work for the government, mostly for the DOD. I’m just looking for the red tape.”
“Red tape is what got us into this mess. You won’t find that shit here.”
“Outstanding.”
“Sir, what kind of support do we get?” asked Josh.
“You’ll need to run whatever you need through me, and I’ll decide if we can risk that asset and if doing so might compromise operational security. I’ll draw from our JTTFs, but I’d prefer you keep this as compartmentalized as possible. We don’t know who’s looking over our shoulders. Nevertheless, I’ll try to provide you with whatever you need. No promises, though.”
“Roger that,” said Josh.
Plesner got to his feet. “Gentlemen, welcome to the FBI.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Yes, you must look at the world through the eyes of your enemy—but you must never forget that your enemy is doing the same.”
—Josh Eriksson (FBI interview, 23 December)
After a vigorous workout on his stationary bike in which he completed a series of threshold intervals designed by his personal trainer, Nicholas Dresden retired to his living room, where he reclined on the sofa with a cup of coffee and a notebook computer glowing on his lap. The call from Senecal at 6:45 a.m. confirming that Beb Ahmose and his son were “taken care of” had left Dresden feeling equally lifeless, as though a thread had been pulled, and now his entire life was unspooling into an abyss. The workout had provided a temporary distraction, but he wound up back on the computer and unconsciously scouring the web for articles about the Muslim Brotherhood and its relationship with the Nazis and Hitler. His motivation was pathetically clear: he needed to reassure himself that Beb Ahmose and his ilk were evil men who deserved to die.
In truth, Ahmose was in Berlin because the Nazis and Muslims shared a hatred of Jews. He had not sought justice against the soldiers who killed his wife and injured his son. He had exacted retribution by killing an innocent, unarmed soldier in the Medical Corps, a man who had saved his son’s life. Yes, he had felt threatened. Yes, Franz Dresden was going to report him, but Franz Dresden did not deserve to die—
