“How shall I have the letter delivered?” Combs asked.
“Send it through the Swiss, as always. Now, what are the early polls saying about the new commercial against Howard and Bains?”
“It’s received a very favorable rating with Democratic voters, a favorable rating with Independents, and a somewhat favorable rating with the Independent Republicans. After the first week, we had a fifteen point spike in the polls; but since then, Howard’s rebuttal ad aired and our margin has dropped to just three points. It is likely to swing Howard’s direction in the next forty-eight hours,” Jason concluded.
“How the hell is this happening? Jason, I expect you to keep the pressure on and don’t let up. I want the man shut up for good. You’ve got an unlimited budget so make it happen,” Starks ranted at Combs.
“I’d just kill him. But then, that’s me,” Bascome quipped.
“Roger, get men on that bastard and that bitch Bains. Find me some dirt, or I’ll find me another NSA director,” Starks snarled.
“I’d be careful, Mr. President. You’d be very unhappy with dissension in the ranks. In fact, I expect it would be a major detriment in the polls,” Bascome asserted as he allowed a smile to cross his face.
Breaking into a smile himself as phony as a three dollar bill, Starks replied, “I like that about you, Roger. Here I am, the most powerful man on earth, and you just let my threats roll off your back and return the threat in spades. Jason, you need to learn from this man. He understands bargaining chips and how to negotiate.”
“Yes, sir. I’m trying to learn all I can,” Jason replied.
“Okay, where do we stand on getting Congress to play ball with expanding my power to the point that I can limit access to the Internet?” Starks asked.
“The votes are there and in line. They will slip it into the Highway Reconditioning Bill that is up for a vote in two weeks. We can expect a strict party line vote on the bill which gives us five more votes than we need. We even managed to keep the line about hate speech in the bill without adding any definitions.
“Plus, there was a nice little touch added by Senator Harcord. He added a few lines dealing with the print, television and radio media. At your discretion, they will have to submit their stories before broadcast or publication. It’ll cover any and all stories that deal with legislation, police matters at a federal level, and military matters during war time. All the information will be run through a new commission appointed by you, and it will report directly to you. It gives the executive branch control over what the public hears. Like the Highway Bill, it will go into effect next year in June, one hundred fifty-one days before the elections,” Jason finished and smiled widely.
“That is excellent news, Jason. Fine job,” Starks praised him. “Roger, what do you have on the Homeland Security Force?”
“I have good news there, as well. Homeland Security Director Massey will ask Congress next week for funding for twenty-five hundred troops. They will be drawn from law enforcement and the military. They will be directly under his control, which means under your control. They’re function will be to provide investigative and armed support for critical situations in the Washington, DC area or other areas designated of national importance. It’s very liberal interpretation of what can be classified as a national security interest. The best part is that the oversight will be strictly controlled by the executive branch. Any future expansion of the force will be at your discretion.” It was now Bascome’s turn to smile.
“Hot damn, things are finally falling my way. Why don’t you boys take the night off? You’ve earned it. We’ll consider this our nightly briefing. The wife and I have a dinner guest anyway, and you know how I hate to leave in the middle of my dinner,” Starks stated as he rose from his seat and started for the door. “Remember, don’t disturb me unless there’s a nuke headed for the White House from old Ahmadinejad. Everything else can wait.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
He took his time and listened to the tape several times before he was satisfied that the woman in cell sixty-four had indeed told Ron, his old friend whom he thought worked for the CIA, exactly how to find David Ashrawl. He took even longer making sure he typed the message perfectly to avoid any confusion in the translation. It was in a code that they had provided to him, and it utilized a random cipher which changed daily making it unbreakable or so he was told. But what did he know? He was just an old jailer who needed the money.
In all his years in the KGB, he had never been expected to learn such a code or to pass messages such as these. He had been the final inquisitor for a thousand or so prisoners that had been brought to him at Tverka Prison. Once it was decided that a prisoner was to be sent to him, there was no reprieve. No one could countermand his orders. No one supervised his work. No one bothered to tape or film his work. He was given total freedom to conduct his work in whatever fashion he chose, provided he obtained the information requested. Life, death, pain or suffering were of no consequence. Extracting the information was all that mattered.
He worked a regular nine-to-five schedule officially, but he was known to arrive early and stay late when an important client was being served. He liked the little euphemisms; it made what he did seem so normal, so civilized. He had lied convincingly to his wife for twenty-six years, telling her that he was a supervisor of the guards, sparing her the ugliness of his work.
Over the years, he had managed to gather information above and beyond his required task and had used that information to blackmail many a black marketeer into providing a supplemental income for him and his wife. The extra money allowed him to live well—very well—for not being a member of the politburo. Along with his apartment in Moscow, he’d had a small cabin in the Ural Mountains where, when he had time off, he and his wife would spend their time hunting and fishing, simply enjoying nature. He had loved the mountains. Life for him there had been sweet.
When the old empire fell, he was targeted by the new regime as an undesirable. He was the KGB’s number one inquisitor/torturer, and he was Jewish. He had many enemies that he never met, who sought to hold him responsible for the thousands of victims attributed to the KGB. They wanted to kill him after a show trial for crimes real and imagined. It mattered little that he was given the worst of the worst to break. They were hardened criminals, spies, or Muslim terrorists, Chechens, Taliban, Mujahedeen, and members of the Russian Mafia.
Using the wealth he had stolen from the condemned, he bought freedom for himself and his wife. They received new passports with new identities, and they were allowed to immigrate to Israel. They hated it here. It was hot and dry—nothing like back home—but it was home now. They had no choice. As in the old days, he was able to learn valuable information which was easily turned into hard currency. It turned out the Israelis were even stingier with their salaries than the old empire had been. Despite having been welcomed into the prison system as a warden, the pay was half of what he had received in Mother Russia.
He had started as he had done back home. He applied a little force to help persuade the prisoners to share what they knew. He felt good exercising his demons and collecting the reward for being considered a good guy and above reproach. It helped him quadruple his income in short order. Life was good again, until the day the note arrived on his windscreen while he had been shopping.
The note requested that he meet with an unidentified person several miles outside of town in the desert. He was to come alone and to come right now. The author threatened to alert the authorities to his real identity if he did not comply. The note recounted a good deal of what he had thought had been erased from his records in Russia. Apparently, the records still existed, and he was on the verge of being discovered. It would mean a death sentence to be returned to Russia, so he drove out of town and met with the man.
The man was a young Arab who knew all about his past and instructed him to do as he was told if he wanted his secret to remain a secret. The Arab surprisingly offered very generous compensati
on for the performance of the task making it a very easy choice to make.
He had gladly taken the money for the ‘assignment’ as the young Arab had called it. He justified his actions by telling himself that a man must make a living. Besides, what choice did he have?
He was to copy every tape made of the discussions and interrogations with prisoner sixty-four. He was then to analyze the tapes, provide his impression of what was really said, and send both the tape and his impressions to a predetermined address which would be provided each time with his payoff. That was two years ago.
Placing the original tape in the proper canvas bag for pickup by the Mossad, he left it with the guards at the first gate and departed for his two days off. He drove most of the way home as usual, but at the last second, he turned onto the motorway and drove beyond his home and into Tel Aviv. He drove to a specific package shipping store and dropped the packet in the drop box outside. He didn’t have to speak to anyone— just drop it in the store’s mailbox. In two days, he would receive his payoff money along with instructions for the next drop-off. It was a good system. It was foolproof, or rather it seemed so. Soon he would have enough to purchase a house by the sea. He and his wife would spend his off hours there, and life would be good again.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tom and Pam arrived at the Kilauea Corporate hangar at about one o’clock that afternoon. The hangar was at a small, out of the way private airport several miles outside of Rishon. Ron and some guy (who Ron would later introduce as the pilot) were already aboard the bright yellow-colored Bell 260 Jet Ranger going through the preflight checklist when they arrived.
“I’ve mapped the grid we’ll run across the northern Jordan Valley,” Ron stated as he unfolded a map on a table nearby. “Pam, I’d like you to watch the EM band for emissions. Tom can help me scout for farmhouses that look ‘too’ buttoned up and have a small orchard and not too many animals. It shouldn’t take too long; there are only a few dozen farms situated along the Jordan River up there,” Ron explained his plan.
“I hope your friend is as good as you think she is. I’d hate to meet the same fate the Israelis did,” Tom bemoaned.
“Not a chance,” Ron stated with a big grin on his face. “She has always provided me with the best intelligence, and I’m so good at what I do, it’s impossible that we’ll fail.”
“Don’t forget modest,” Pam added.
Once airborne, it took the better part of an hour to reach the search zone, not because it was any great distance away but because they took a roundabout way to get there. In keeping with their cover under the guise of a sightseeing tour, they flew over the city of Jerusalem, taking extra time circling the main sights of the city. They turned east from there, taking in the sights around the Dead Sea, and then headed towards the ruins of Jericho on their way north as they followed the Jordan Valley—the border between Israel and Jordan.
“Zuhair, there is a helicopter circling to our west,” a tall, beardless boy with dark features and pitch black hair, stated loudly as he stepped into the garage area, rousing his superior from his dozing in the shade of the somewhat cooler garage.
“Oh?” Zuhair uttered as he set his AK-74 assault weapon down next to the lawn chair and eased his short, stout frame to a standing position. He slowly waddled towards the vehicle entrance of the garage. He was almost twenty years older than the boy, with similar features like those found in distant relatives.
“You can see it from the corner of the house,” the young man noted.
“Mmph!” Zuhair uttered gutturally as he walked towards the front of the farmhouse, with the younger man a step behind.
Once Zuhair reached the corner, he slowly stepped to the edge and looked tentatively around the corner. He moved slowly and cautiously as if he expected to be met by an intruder. Zuhair had forgotten his sunglasses along with his weapon so he was forced to squint against the bright sunlight. He used his hand to provide a small modicum of shade for his eyes as he stared into the distance at the bright yellow helicopter. It seemed to be circling an old farmhouse a couple of kilometers away.
“You woke me for this?” asked Zuhair. “It’s a tourist chopper. You know the kind. They fly fat Americans or Europeans around to look at the holy sites. It is nothing. Go back to your post,” Zuhair ordered.
“I don’t remember seeing any this far north before,” the young man protested.
“They come by often enough. They’re just trying to earn a larger tip. They are showing the infidels some worthless sites while claiming they are of historic value. Now, get back to picking olives before I take a switch to you,” Zuhair stated as he shoved the young man roughly. “If you were not my cousin’s only son, I’d have left you in the refugee camp in Lebanon.”
Zuhair turned and walked slowly back to the garage area and his lawn chair. He quickly relaxed in the relative coolness of the shade and began dozing once again. The boy quickly returned to the shade of the nearest olive tree.
“Yeah, that one, off to the east. It’s got an olive grove with just a few chickens and a couple of goats. There was a young guy running towards the rear of the house a minute ago, and now he’s back with an older guy. They’re taking a hard look at us. The young one has an AK over his shoulder,” Tom alerted Ron and Pam over the comlink.
“The EM over there is off the charts,” Pam announced.
Ron tapped the pilot on the arm and told him to circle a bit wider. Tom and Ron peered toward the farmhouse through binoculars, while Pam ran the EM scan again.
“It sure does look like they’ve closed it up pretty tight,” Tom commented.
“Yeah, it does,” Ron confirmed. “I count seven men wandering around down there. They all have a sack over their shoulder as if they’re picking olives, but they don’t seem to be picking all that many. Mostly they’re just standing in the shade of the trees trying to stay out of the sun.”
“Yeah, they aren’t exactly working the farm,” Tom confirmed. “I’ll bet they have AKs in the sacks.”
“Can we get anything on the parabolic dish, Pam?” Ron asked as she held the dish up to the open window towards the farmhouse.
“That would be a negative. All I get is white noise,” Pam informed them.
“How about infrared?” Ron asked next.
“I’ve got several people outside and one under the garage roof, but I can’t get any reading from inside the house. The sun’s reflection is too strong off the house,” Pam stated.
“Okay, I think we can call it. I’d bet next month’s pay that’s the house. It’s not exactly a going concern with a couple of chickens, a couple of goats, and a really small olive grove. Then add in the white noise, workers who don’t seem to be working, armed guards and a farmhouse that is closed up tighter than a drum. The final piece of the puzzle is that it’s all neatly tucked up against the Jordan River without a neighbor in any direction for over a kilometer.” Ron confidently ticked off the reasons why it made sense.
“There’s not much cover on this side of the river,” Tom mentioned as he continued checking the place out through his binoculars. “Once we move away from the river, we’ll be exposed for fifty to sixty yards until we reach the grove.”
“At night it won’t seem quite so exposed. We can come in from Jordan and use the river weeds and brush to set up snipers to take out the guards in the grove. Then we’ll join up at the farmhouse and clear it,” Ron stated.
Tom dropped the binoculars from his eyes and turned towards Ron as he spoke. “We don’t have any way of confirming that our friend is in there. Unless our target comes outside, we won’t be able to confirm he’s here until we get in there. I’m not sure I can ask the team to do this blind.”
“Let’s not count us out just yet. We need to get ourselves into Jordan and set up surveillance. We won’t make any moves until we’re sure that it can be done with a reasonable chance of success, but I’m willing to bet that this is the place,” Ron stated.
Tom fixed Ron with a
hard-glaring stare. He didn’t like being patronized, but the suggestion was the right thing to do. “Can we get there by tonight?” Tom asked as he continued to watch the farmhouse through his binoculars.
“I think so. I’ll have to find us some lodging that's within a reasonable distance, maybe a B&B in the spa town of Revaya/Rehov. That’s about ten kilometers. We’ll book a few rooms as if we’re just some Kilauea Corp people taking a little R&R,” Ron suggested.
“Sounds good,” Tom replied, more concerned that they gather intelligence than what cover story they use.
“We’ll have to make a show of talking about computer networks and drinking too much while keeping a team on watch at all times. Revaya/Rehov is fairly close to the border between the West Bank and Israel which was created by the 1949 Armistice Agreement with Jordan, but the actual border has changed several times over the years— every time Israel kicked Jordan’s ass.
“We can connect with the Nahal Moda Motorway. It’s also known as Route 90, and it runs north and south. The motorway will take us into Mehola, the town south of us.” Ron pointed out the window towards the town.
“We’ll need to drive across the desert,” Ron continued, “to reach the town after we perform the mission. We can take the Nahal Moda from there to the border crossing into Israel. If things go right, it’ll only take about an hour to be back into Israel proper.”
“They have bed and breakfasts here?” Tom asked.
“Sure. I’ve stayed at a couple. There are dozens scattered around the countryside. It’s the only way to beat the heat, unless you go to the Mediterranean or the Sea of Galilee.
“Can we get a drone to help with the surveillance?” Pam asked Tom and Ron.
“That’s a good idea,” Ron grinned at Pam flirtingly. “Maybe I can get one with a little firepower, just in case.”
“That would be a good idea,” Tom added as he looked back at the farmhouse through his binoculars, counting the number of men visible in the grove.
Reprisal!- The Gauntlet Page 9
