And Into the Fire

by Robert Gleason

  “Are you sure you’re spoken for?” Adara asked.

  4

  “Can we shoot the women on sight?”

  —Shaiq ibn Ishaq

  The president, Shaiq, and Conrad sat in the president’s private study. They were wearing white shirts, loose ties, and slacks. Dimly lit with brass table lamps, the study was all dark wood and leather. The walls were lined with books, whose shelves were interspersed with Rembrandt and Rubens prints. The president had personally ordered it swept for bugs and had even patted Conrad and Shaiq down as soon as they’d shut the door. Conrad and the president had allowed Shaiq to do the same to them.

  Conrad recycled the events of the last seventy-two hours for the two men.

  “Those two women killed thirteen of your best men?” the president asked, after Conrad had finished.

  “Two other people appear to have helped them, but then escaped undetected,” Conrad said.

  “I’d have paid anything to have seen her eliminated,” Shaiq said. “She’s been digging up dirt on me for over a decade.”

  “Me, too,” the president said, “and we have no idea where and how she gets her information.”

  “She’s found shit on me,” Conrad said, “I didn’t even know about.”

  “They both think you’re financing nuclear strikes against the U.S.,” the president said to Shaiq.

  “Can you imagine anything loonier than that?” Shaiq said, laughing.

  “When Elena presented her crazy ideas at a meeting,” the president said, “I immediately revoked her security clearance and had Conrad relieve her of her ID.”

  “If she went public,” Conrad said, “we promised to put her in the penitentiary.”

  “Jules took that story to The Journal-World,” Shaiq said. “Her main source was obviously Elena. I killed that, but then Jules shotgunned it to every major news outlet, and The Huffington Post ran with it. The other outlets followed suit, and now the whole planet thinks I have ISIS on speed dial.”

  “Don’t you?” the president said. He was only half-joking.

  Shaiq shot him an irate look. “Not funny. My people have more to fear from them than you do.”

  “Point taken,” the president said. “Those women, however, have hurt us badly—each of us in this room.”

  “You must have some sort of backup plan,” Shaiq said, “some way to stop them.”

  “We have a full-court press out there,” Conrad said. “All-points bulletins, surveillance of their best-known hangouts, cell phone and computer searches, known credit cards, biometric facial matches from surveillance cameras. If they enter a 7-Eleven, we can spot them.”

  “The problem is they’ve dropped off the map,” the president said. “They found some place where they don’t need gas, food, money, anything.”

  “Neither of them have vacation cabins,” Conrad said. “I doubt they have friends who are willing to harbor treasonous fugitives.”

  “And risk life in prison for harboring treasonous fugitives,” the president said.

  “Very few people have friends like that,” Conrad said.

  “With that much surveillance, we will eventually catch them,” the president said. “It’s only a matter of time. The problem then is, what we do with them?”

  “Can we shoot the women on sight?” Shaiq said.

  “We tried that,” Conrad said.

  “After Jules’s articles linked you and me, Shaiq,” the president agreed, “we can’t simply gun them down.”

  “I can,” Shaiq said.

  Both men stared at him in silence.

  “In my country, we are less squeamish about exterminating such vermin,” Shaiq said. “I think this matter is best left to me.”

  “I hope your people are better than the ones we sent,” Caldwell said.

  “Send me a file on their most likely whereabouts, all and any known associates. Photos might help. I already have another crew in place.”

  The president turned to Conrad. “Give him anything he needs.”

  “Got it,” Conrad said.

  Shaiq rose wearily from his overstuffed leather chair. Conrad and the president walked him to the door.

  5

  “You’re hotter than a two-dollar pistol.”

  —Rashid al-Rahman

  Adara and Rashid lay atop a king-sized bed in one of Jamie’s back rooms. The lights were out, and all Rashid could see was the red, burning tip of her Turkish cigarette.

  “You really want to go through with this?” Rashid asked her softly.

  “What else can we do?” Adara asked.

  “It sounds crazy.”

  “We were crazy to get into this whole damn business,” Adara said.

  “We were even crazier to get involved with Hasad,” Rashid said.

  “So what’s kept us with him?” Adara asked.

  “He pays better than anyone else,” Rashid said.

  Adara nodded her agreement. “And I always dreamed of that one big score, the one that would set me up for life.”

  “And let you walk away clean,” Rashid said.

  “With Hasad, we each had a better chance at that than with anyone else,” Adara said.

  “And this could be it,” Rashid said. “Hasad’s offered to set us up for life.”

  “If we see this through to the bitter end,” Adara said.

  “‘Bitter’ is the operative word,” Rashid said.

  “He also said if we back out, we’d die a thousand times.”

  “You believe him?” Rashid asked.

  “I believe the part about dying a thousand times,” Adara said.

  “But do you think he’d pay off—big money?” Rashid said. “Like he promised?”

  Her silence spoke volumes. “Something tells me he’s in deeper shit than we are,” Adara finally said.

  “And if he goes down,” Rashid asked, “where does that leave us?”

  “In hell.”

  “You want to run for it?” Rashid asked.

  “I don’t know,” Adara said. “I’m starting to think this thing with Elena, Jules, and Jamie has a chance.”

  “You may be right,” Rashid said. “Jamie sure as hell has the money, and you’ve seen the way he looks at Elena. He’d do anything for her.”

  “I never had a man look at me that way.”

  “Hasad seems to feel the same way about her,” Rashid said.

  “What’s she got that I don’t have?” Adara asked. “Sex? I got sex.”

  “You’re hotter than a two-dollar pistol,” Rashid said, “but you don’t have billionaires risking their lives and their fortunes for you.”

  “Maybe she’s got moves I don’t know about,” Adara said, nodding. “You know, in bed.”

  Rashid turned and stared at her in blank astonishment. “You kidding? If pussy were bullets, you could kill France.”

  “Maybe, but whatever it is with Jamie,” Adara said, “money’s no object—not when it comes to Elena.”

  “You think he’s our pot of gold at the rainbow’s end?” Rashid asked.

  “I trust him to pay off more than Hasad,” Adara said.

  “You think if we can help Elena beat this thing,” Rashid said, “Jamie will pay off?”

  “Like we’d robbed Fort Knox,” Adara said.

  “One thing’s for sure,” Rashid said, nodding, “Hasad’s ordered us to look after those two until they’re safe. If we cut out now and if Hasad survives and if he finds us…”

  “I wouldn’t want to be us,” Adara said.

  “I’m starting to think this is the score we’ve been looking for,” Rashid said.

  “And I’m not crossing Hasad,” Adara said.

  “That’s a lock,” Rashid said.

  Adara put out her cigarette in the bedside ashtray.

  Rashid stared at her in the dark a long hard minute. “Can the dying man get a last fuck?” he asked.

  “You back my hand when this goes down,” Adara said, “you get me out of this alive and help me f
ind that big fucking pot of gold, you can have anything you want.”

  “But will you love me in the morning? Rashid asked.

  “Morning, night, daylight as well.”

  “Then fuck me dead,” Rashid said.

  “That, too,” Adara said, pulling off her jeans and climbing on top of him.

  Rashid slowly began unbuttoning her blouse.

  PART XI

  For the great day of His wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?

  —Revelation 6:17

  1

  They were on their way.

  Hasad watched the eight dark commercial vans parked behind the big barn. They were filled with men dressed in jeans, T-shirts, and running shoes. Guns, ammunitions, MREs, first aid kits, money belts, water bottles—everything they needed to get them through the next few days—were packed and sealed in plastic boxes and bins.

  * * *

  Hasad had dragged the men through three long weeks of planning and training exercises. A lot of it was done in the huge empty barn with sentries stationed on all sides, often at night. They were in one of the least populated counties east of the Mississippi, so they were far away from prying eyes. They were also seasoned soldiers, some of the most brutal killers in the Mideast.

  Their drill included endless map work and chalkboard exercises, in which Hasad hammered them relentlessly on their itinerary, tactics, and strategy. He instructed them on how they would enter the nuclear power plant, how they would work with the trusted insiders—two men who had each worked at the HRNPS for over a decade—perfect sleeper agents. They were recognized in their communities, never went near a mosque, and when they went to services at all, they went to a Catholic church.

  One of them was passing for Italian.

  Each session began and finished with physical training—push-ups, pull-ups, crunches, and jumping jacks, with Fahad barking out the time.

  * * *

  Hasad went to the head of the line and climbed into the lead vehicle.

  He was already sick of the op and eager to get it over with.

  At last, they were on their way.

  2

  “Think of it as boudoir patriotism.”

  —Elena Moreno

  Elena Moreno woke early. Finding the bed empty, she got up, went to a chest of drawers. Grabbing a pair of gym trunks and a T-shirt, she put them on, followed by her sneakers. She went to the kitchen and found Jules in sweat clothes in the kitchen, making Arabian mocha in a demi-litre French press.

  “Jamie with you?” Jules asked, pouring her a cup.

  “I don’t know where he is,” Elena said.

  Elena and Jules left Rashid and Adara asleep in the living room and went looking for Jamie. They found him in his office—a large sprawling work area with a half dozen desks, a big conference table with a dozen swivel armchairs, and two leather couches. Flat spaces were everywhere, and they held every kind of computer imaginable—laptops, desk models, notebooks. Smartphones of every make and description were also scattered around the room. On one desk was an open box of burners.

  Still dressed in a black karate gi, Jamie was sitting at his desk behind an HP Z840 desktop computer, staring into a twenty-one-inch flat-screen monitor. A white porcelain coffee carafe and a matching mug were at his elbow. The mug was half-full of old, cold black coffee. His hollow eyes were streaked with red, his face drawn and haggard. He’d been up all night.

  Elena stood behind him and placed a cup of fresh-brewed French roast next to his computer. She began rubbing his temples, neck, and shoulder muscles.

  “You poor baby,” she said softly in his ear, “you’ve been up all night. Are you getting anywhere?”

  “It’s not that tough. It’s a Beijing rip-off of a security program I designed four or five years ago. I’ve just got in.”

  “They didn’t add any safeguards?” Elena asked. “No additional encryption?”

  “The Chinese pirate so much stuff that in this case they were in too big of a hurry. They unthinkingly lifted the entire system, even the encryption program and its back door. They never learned or understood what was in it.”

  “Okay,” Jules said, “but now you’re in. Are you having any trouble cracking the encryption?”

  “Of course not,” Jamie said. “I designed and built the system myself and wrote its code directly.”

  “What kind of security do Shaiq and Jari have?” Jules asked. “Air gap?”

  “The distances separating these two are so great they preclude the use of an air gap,” Jamie said.

  “Also, air gap switches are overrated,” Elena said to Jules. “For their computers to connect to each other within a building, they have to have Bluetooth systems. But we have a software that can switch off Bluetooth, then access the computer’s contents through the dormant Bluetooth.”

  “Shaiq and Jari,” Jamie said, “have something much more impenetrable—a single dedicated line and server system between them that goes directly and exclusively through their router.”

  “Couldn’t they communicate through couriers and stay off the Internet?” Jules asked. “Give each other flash drives?”

  “Sure,” Jamie said. “Then I wouldn’t be able to get in period.”

  “Staying off the Internet kept bin Laden free all those years,” Elena said. “He communicated solely through letters and flash drives.”

  “Fortunately for us, Shaiq and Jari need instant access to each other,” Jamie said. “They don’t have time to swap flash drives.”

  “True, but Islamabad and Riyadh are just a few hours apart by air courier,” Jules said.

  “Correct,” Jamie said, “but then you have to trust your couriers, which they apparently didn’t.”

  “Bin Laden was eventually betrayed by his messenger,” Elena said.

  “But did you install a back door when you fabricated the program?” Jules asked Jamie.

  “Of course,” Jamie said. “Since I wrote the computer code myself, I even made the back door an organic part of it. The entrance is so intrinsic to the program it’s not visible to anyone scanning for it.”

  “No chance the ISI could have located it?” Elena asked.

  “I buried it so deep God Himself couldn’t have found it,” Jamie said.

  “But you can,” Jules said.

  “Yes, and my back door allows me to access their hard drives. That’s more difficult, but at some point we may have to go in there.”

  “Now I’m curious,” Jules said. “How does a back door work? Do you just shout ‘open sesame’ and walk in?”

  “Almost. I gave myself secret access to all the root passwords, the usernames, and the three IP addresses.”

  “Three IPs?” Jules asked. “I understand that Prince Shaiq and General Jari each have an IP address, but who’s the third IP address for?”

  “Since it’s a line and a dedicated server, the machine governing the data transfers has an IP,” Jamie said.

  “Can you also probe the illegal offshore tax-free bank accounts he set up for President Caldwell?” Jules asked.

  “That’s a cakewalk,” Jamie said. “One of my Chinese surrogate companies set up those computer systems, and Shaiq’s and Jari’s banks don’t allow dedicated lines for those financial transactions. Shaiq and the president have to go through the Internet. Even without back doors, I’ll slip through his and the bank’s roadblocks and firewalls at will.”

  “How long will it take you to get in?” Jules asked.

  “Bingo! What Jung called ‘synchronicity.’ We’re in.”

  “What do we do now?” Elena asked.

  “Every parcel of data is called a packet. We capture each of them, decode their raw information, then analyze it, all of which our ‘packet-sniffer’ is about to do—message after message after message.”

  Suddenly, Jamie fell silent. Staring quizzically at the table, he shut his eyes and began rubbing his temples.

  Elena went to him and gave him a neck rub. “What’s wrong?” she a
sked.

  “It’s all laid out, and we can get into his hard drive. There’s one problem though. If Shaiq is on the computer while we’re doing it, he may very well be able to detect our presence. At that point, he’d know his computer is being breached, and he’d shut down all communications. We have to hope he’s not on it.”

  “Would it help if we could distract him?” Elena asked.

  Jamie and Jules stared at her.

  “You know how to get Shaiq away from his computer?” Jules asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Oh my God,” Jamie said. “You haven’t…?”

  Elena treated them to a faint ghost of a smile. “Let me borrow one of your encrypted sat-phones,” she said to Jamie.

  “That one on that table will reroute and sat-bounce your call all over hell’s creation—here to the Rapture,” Jamie said. “The NSA won’t even be able to intercept it.” He pointed to a portable phone on the work table next to him.

  Walking over, Elena picked it up and punched in a brief, cryptic text. She came back a half-minute later. “Done. He’s being distracted,” Elena said. “In five minutes, you’ll be able to enter and copy his hard drive files with a vengeance.”

  “We have to be absolutely sure he’s not at his computer screen,” Jamie agreed.

  “Wouldn’t matter,” Elena said. “He won’t be able to see straight for the next two hours.”

  “Why?” Jules asked.

  “Why do you think?” Elena asked back.

  “You say you have one of his mistresses working for you?” Jamie asked in blank disbelief.

  “His most accomplished courtesan,” Elena said. “Who do you think got her the job in the first place?”

  “You evil bitch,” Jules said, stunned. “You pimped a high-priced call girl on Prince Shaiq?”

  “With whom he’s fallen madly, devastatingly into … lust,” Elena said.

  “There are laws against that, you know,” Jules said.

  “Think of it as boudoir patriotism,” Elena said.

  “But you procured a whore,” Jamie said, stunned.

  “Think of her as our whore,” Elena said. “Anyway, she comes by it honestly.”

  “She’s an honest whore?” Jamie asked.