Patriot

by M. A. Rothman

  Connor shrugged. “I checked this morning, didn’t see anything from Pennington.”

  “Just came over, division-wide. He has everyone looking into silver purchases over the last six months. The price of silver bullion has doubled in the past week, and there are several firms buying large quantities like it’s going out of style.”

  “Why the hell would he care about the price of silver?”

  Christina raised her hands, palms up. “Hey man, I just work here. Boss Man sends out a memo, I go forth and fight the good fight. Anyway, it’s Pennington, what are you going to do? The guy’s wired all kinds of screwy.”

  “That’s the understatement of the year. Have you started looking into it yet?”

  “Ya, and there’s some obvious stuff. Some firms out of Istanbul picked up a couple hundred million in bullion last Thursday, right before the markets closed. Same thing happened on Friday, different firm though. Then a company out of Austria bought more Tuesday afternoon. Hundred and fifty million worth.”

  “They know something we don’t?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. This is the kind of crap the SEC is supposed to be watching, isn’t it? Anyway, there’s a running pool on whether or not Pennington’s got investments tanking or not.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt that,” Connor said.

  Chad Pennington, the Deputy Director in Charge of Operations of the CIA, was a throwback to an era just after the Cold War when the agency had a drawdown of sorts and operations were cut back. In other words, he was an operations hatchet man. He’d risen through the ranks, but not as quickly as he’d wanted, even though the truth, as far as Connor was concerned, was it was a miracle he’d made it to his lofty position at all. He wasn’t the most intelligent operator, he’d never even been in the field, and his people skills were subpar to say the least. But he had drive and tenacity, and that had propelled him into his current office. Much to the disappointment of his subordinates.

  Christina stood. “So,” she said. “You in for wings later?”

  Connor laughed. “Evans already reminded me. Yeah, I’m in.”

  Chapter Four

  Two hours later, a knock sounded on Connor’s door and Christina entered with a large manila envelope. “I noticed you cc’d me on that Utah query,” she said, “so I picked it up for you.” She dropped the envelope on his desk.

  “Thanks.” Connor picked up the envelope. The sealed flap had already been opened and the red string untied. He gave her a sideways glance. “You couldn’t help but open it, could you?”

  Christina shrugged. “I was curious. And besides, I figured since you put me on the query, you wanted my view on things.”

  Shaking his head, Connor pulled out the envelope’s contents and started leafing through them. “Anything interesting?”

  “Some location data, that’s about it. No record of operations in the area, and I confirmed that the counter-terrorism guys have nothing going on there as well. Just a whole bunch of empty water. Maybe Hakimi’s out for a nice, relaxing cruise before he goes on his jihad.”

  Connor laughed. “I highly doubt that. You were right, by the way—this guy Hakimi is kind of a mess. He was born in Beirut, but his father and mother were killed in a bombing at the American University Hospital just about a year later. Bounced around orphanages until he was fourteen, then he fell off everyone’s radar for five years before reappearing as a freedom fighter with Hamas.”

  Connor pointed to one of the black-and-white eight-by-twelves pinned to the wall beside his desk. The grainy image was from a security camera positioned high above the ground. The poor quality of the camera and the distance made it almost impossible to make out much, but Langley’s photographic forensic team had told Connor, with a hundred percent certainty, that the photo was of Mohammad Hakimi. “That’s him right before the 2005 London bombings, at Heathrow.”

  Christina stepped around the desk and studied the collage of pictures. “One of the worst attacks in London history.”

  “Fifty-six people killed.”

  “I thought those were all suicide bombings?”

  “They were. He was part of the advanced team that scouted out the locations. He left just before the bombings started. Hopped a flight to Karachi, where he vanished.” Connor tapped a color photograph. “Popped up again ten years later in Yemen, when four suicide bombers killed one hundred and forty-two people in Sana’a.”

  Christina crossed her arms. “Likes to send others to do his dirty work, doesn’t he?”

  “Definitely seems like it.”

  “Okay, so where is he now?”

  Connor pointed to a map of the East China Sea. He’d drawn a circle around where the GPS coordinates had placed Hakimi when he made his call. “As of four days ago, he was here.”

  Christina snapped her fingers. “You know, there was an email…” She trailed off and shuffled through the pile of papers Connor had taken from the envelope. “Yeah, here.” She handed him a sheet of paper.

  * * *

  Deep Sea Research and Salvage

  58-1 Nazeuragami, Amami 894-0068, Kagoshima Prefecture

  * * *

  Mr. Mohammad Hakimi:

  * * *

  This is in regards to the salvage operation we conducted on your behalf 152 kilometers southeast of Kikaijima Island. The payment that you provided was not honored by your banking institution.

  * * *

  We regret that you must be charged a ten percent late penalty. Payment in full, including the penalty, must be received by us within the next thirty days or we will have to contact our attorneys on this matter.

  * * *

  Your assistance in this matter is appreciated.

  * * *

  Sincerely yours,

  Yoshi Takahashi

  Executive Director, DSRS

  * * *

  “Utah pulled that off a server cluster in Tokyo,” Christina said.

  “Okay, so what’s a hundred and fifty kilometers off of Kikaijima?”

  “Something worth salvaging, apparently.”

  “Hakimi said something about it ‘being intact.’”

  “Lot of wrecks out there,” Christina said. “Subs, destroyers, planes, you name it. I’m sure there’s a ton of ordnance scattered all over the bottom of the ocean. But what would be down there that anyone would find worth picking up? I mean, if they wanted an unexploded bomb, it would be easier to just build one with fertilizer and ammonium nitrate.”

  “You’d think so.” Connor rubbed the back of his neck. “I feel like I’m grasping at straws here.”

  “No luck on the FISA warrant?”

  A warrant from the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court would allow Connor to dig deeper through the local telephone records and pinpoint exactly where the phone call Hakimi had made went to. Abdullah’s phone number in New York City had returned with over a thousand references, meaning it was being used for lots of international communications. He clenched his jaw as he thought of the red tape holding him back from investigating who this guy was. For all Connor knew, the name could be an alias. He’d thought about handing the case off to the FBI or Homeland, but without knowing what exactly he was handing off, there wasn’t yet much point to approaching the sister agencies.

  “Nope. Pennington shut me down cold.”

  Christina slapped the printout with the back of her hand. “Well, you didn’t have this before. Maybe it’ll help.”

  “Maybe. But I’m not looking forward to going back up there.”

  “Better you than me.”

  “Thanks.” Connor leaned back. “I really need to know where that phone call went.”

  “What if it went nowhere?”

  Connor raised an eyebrow. “Hmmm?”

  “I mean, what if the call was just a decoy? Those bastards all know we listen to their phone calls; we know they’ve had conversations specifically to throw us off and get us looking in the wrong direction. He even said in his call that he couldn’t talk long, ri
ght? Have you thought about that?”

  Connor paused. “No. No, I hadn’t, but I should’ve.” He looked up at the tiled ceiling, working through that rabbit trail. It was definitely possible, but what would Hakimi gain by tricking them into looking deeper into his history, or the East China Sea, or any of it? He’d have been better off not making the phone call at all and just showing up out of nowhere. Now he had a big red flag on his name. Connor had already made sure his face had been loaded into every facial recognition database in the country, as well as at Interpol.

  “Everything that Hakimi’s been a part of so far has been some kind of suicide bombing of soft targets,” Connor said. “From the intel I’ve seen, none of those attacks were telegraphed beforehand. It’s clear that he orchestrated much if not all of those operations and was close at hand to supervise them all.”

  Christina nodded. “Okay, so work through that. Figure that he knows we know him. And he knows we’d be listening to his phone calls. He’s not dumb, he’s crazy. You think he’s going to show up in New York with a bunch of suicide bombers and wreak havoc on the city?”

  “It’s not outside the realm of possibility. And if that is what he’s planning, I need that warrant so I know where he’ll be. I can stop all this before it even gets off the ground.”

  “You’re extrapolating a lot from a thirty-second phone call,” Christina said. “It could just be nothing. It could be he’s just found the perfect present for his niece or something and he’s planning on giving it to her on Ramadan.”

  Connor glared at her. “You don’t really believe that.”

  “No, I’m just playing devil’s advocate here. You know Pennington is going to say the exact same things. I just want you to be ready for him.”

  For someone who had only worked for the agency for a year, Christina could navigate the politics of the intelligence world with the grace of a seasoned operator.

  She tapped Hakimi’s picture. “If you’re going full speed ahead on this guy, you need real evidence. And you’ll lose credibility every time you go to Pennington without one-hundred-percent confirmation.”

  Connor slammed the heel of his hand against the desk and stood. “That’s exactly what happened before 9/11, Chris. Everyone wanted to be one-hundred-percent sure. Well, damn it, sometimes you can’t be one-hundred-percent sure until after a thing happens, and by then it’s too late.”

  “Hey, I’m on your side, here.” Christina lifted her hands as if surrendering. “Go see him—I’m not saying not to. You’ve got more evidence this time. But if he shuts you down, you’re going to need overwhelming evidence to sway him the next time.”

  A thought popped into Connor’s head, and he fell back onto his chair and smiled. He scooted toward the computer and pulled up flight schedules.

  Christina frowned at him. “Uh-oh. What’s going on in that sneaky little ex-military, screw-the-rules mind of yours? Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I’m going to get some information.”

  Chapter Five

  Anastasia “Annie” Brown rubbed her face with both hands, keeping her eyes closed, letting the warm water run down her ebony skin. She pulled in a long, deep breath, held it, then blew it out slowly. She opened her eyes and stared back at herself in the dirty mirror, remembering in that moment who she really was. Annie was in control, despite the herculean effort it was taking to resist the urge to kill the man in the next room.

  She was only thirty, but her first professional kill had been well over a decade ago. Annie had earned a nickname over the years, and it had become her nom de guerre, her professional name: The Black Widow. It was also a frame of mind that she put herself into when business needed to be done. She’d slice the man’s throat in a second, without giving it a moment’s thought.

  But she couldn’t afford to let this gold mine off that easily. If the Black Widow got her way, she would stand there passively, watching as the man’s lifeblood spilled across the generic hotel comforter. And Annie would curse the Black Widow for throwing away such a valuable asset.

  It was Annie staring back at her through the mirror, wanting nothing more than to set the Widow free, to allow the monster to do its work. The man deserved no less.

  But not tonight.

  She did, however, make a promise that, in time, the Widow would return and set the record straight. The smiling, exhausted man, lying naked in the next room… he’d pay the bill he’d racked up. The price of which was steep.

  She toweled off her face and slipped back into the main room. Marcus Alvin, a captain in the Montana National Guard, lay on the bed, eyes closed, sleeping peacefully, still tangled in the white sheets. His multicam uniform was tossed over the back of the chair, and his wallet and keys lay forgotten on the floor. It’d been a mad dash to get to the sheets when he’d finally arrived, two hours late. And the man’s grunting and groaning over the subsequent three hours had been almost more than Annie could endure.

  On her secret list of people she wanted to kill, the bastard who had invented Viagra was near the top.

  Her phone beeped on the dresser, and the screen came on. She padded over and checked the caller ID. What now? she thought.

  Holding up the phone, she looked directly into the camera lens, which doubled as a retina scanner. The screen changed from black to white, displaying a ten-digit keypad. She punched in the code, knowing that her fingerprints were being scanned and run against the stored copies in the phone’s memory. After the two-stage verification was passed, the phone unlocked, and Annie swiped to the new message.

  FLIGHT 1284 - DULLES - FREDERICK WAGNER

  Annie sighed and swiped the message away.

  “Something wrong?” Alvin said, propping himself up on his elbows. The sheet slid off his stomach, revealing the excitement he was clearly feeling.

  Annie flashed him one of her winning smiles. The smile designed to send any man to his knees with lust. They were so weak. “Not at all.”

  Alvin patted the bed next to him. “How about round three?”

  The Widow wanted to tell him that he wasn’t nearly as good between the sheets as he imagined he was. But Annie simply laughed. “Aw, honey, I wish I could.” She showed him the phone. “You know how it is. The boss calls…”

  Alvin kicked the rest of the sheets off and moved to the edge of the bed.

  Annie put a hand out. “No, no, please, stay. Relax. You deserve it after the work you just put in.”

  “You liked that, huh?” He grinned, raising an eyebrow.

  Stroking your over-inflated ego is so much more fun than stroking your… Annie left the thought unspoken. She moved forward and leaned across the bed, pushing her breasts together with her arms. Alvin scooted forward, eager, but Annie backed away, waggling a finger at him. “Ah ah, not now.”

  Alvin stuck out his bottom lip, and Annie laughed. “Got to keep you coming back for more,” she said.

  “More?”

  She pulled her skin-tight jeans on, wiggling back and forth to get them over her hips. “Of course. Can’t let a catch like you get away that easy.”

  The captain settled back down onto the bed. “When can I see you again? How will I get ahold of you?”

  She pulled her red T-shirt over her head. “I’ll get ahold of you. Don’t you worry about that.”

  She zipped up her black leather jacket as she stepped into the warm summer night. Morning, she corrected herself, checking her watch. She pulled her phone out of her pocket, unlocked it, and dialed the number. It rang twice, connecting as she reached her all-black Ducati Panigale racing motorcycle.

  “What’s this all about?” she asked, without giving Rick Thompson, her handler, any time to speak. “I didn’t get everything I needed.”

  “You identified the source of the weapons, right?” Thompson’s voice sounded dismissive. She knew he already knew the answer to that question, and she was only slightly annoyed that he’d asked it.

  “I mean honestly,” she said, “do you just
like hearing the sound of your own voice, or are you just one of those guys that needs constant reassurance?”

  “Neither,” Thompson said.

  Annie rolled her eyes as she pulled her Bluetooth earpiece from her jacket pocket and slid it into her ear. “Hold on.” She tapped the button and waited. The earbud beeped, connecting to her phone. She slipped the handset into her inside jacket pocket and zipped it closed. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe what you want, I just like to stay on top of things.”

  “You’re becoming as bad as Henderson.”

  Thompson laughed. “I resent that remark.”

  “Resemble, you mean.” Annie pulled her full-face helmet down over her head, her close-cropped black hair moving only slightly against the interior padding. She pulled a small case from the compartment under her seat, unzipped it, and produced a pair of clear glasses. She slid them on and pressed the small, almost invisible button on the upper corner of the right lens. A translucent holographic display flickered into existence on both lenses.

  It took less than a second for the phone to sync with her smart-lenses. Thompson’s name and number appeared in small letters in the bottom left corner, her current GPS coordinates appeared in the top right, and speedometer, fuel data, RPMs, and engine temperature appeared in the bottom right.

  “So what’s so important?” Annie asked, swinging one leg over the padded seat. She inserted the key into the ignition, and the bike rumbled to life.

  “Frederick Wagner,” Thompson said.

  A man’s face appeared on Annie’s smart lenses, with his name, age and other information beneath. “German national, self-proclaimed New World Order nut. Hangs around with a few extremist groups in Berlin, and he’s a bomb expert. He’s been spotted in various places around the Middle East over the past several months, meeting with various Islamic fundamentalist groups and leaders.”