Zima nodded.
“Everything is in connection with last month’s bombings,” stated the commissioner. “That’s why we chose you, Zima. You understand?”
Zima’s enthusiasm tempered immediately. “Yes, of course.”
What is there to understand? The only thing I know is that I’ve lost two friends. But I didn’t really lose them, did I? They were stolen from me. Murdered!
“The investigators assigned to these two cases have come across some evidence showing that the terrorists behind the attacks had outside help,” the commissioner continued.
“That was to be expected,” Zima said.
“Yes. But we never thought it would come from an allied country,” Green interjected.
“We’re not sure about that yet, sir,” the commissioner said, turning toward the minister. “That’s why Zima’s here.”
Zima was intrigued. An allied country? “You think France was involved in the bombings?”
“Not France per se, but maybe someone at the highest level of their national police force,” continued the commissioner.
Zima was shocked. It was difficult to believe that someone who had reached the upper echelon of the country’s police force would commit such an act of treason. “How did the investigators come up with this information?”
“They found a cell phone on Asad Wafid. We believe he was the man in charge of the sleeper cell,” the commissioner explained. He walked to his desk, grabbed an eight-by-ten picture of Wafid, and showed it to Zima.
Zima remembered the face well. He was the guy who’d injured Mike Powell. “I believe that as well. When the investigators interviewed me following the shooting, I mentioned the same thing to them.”
The commissioner sat back in his chair and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. “The information we were able to retrieve from his cell phone was fascinating, to say the least.”
“What did it consist of?” Zima asked.
“It contained encrypted data that, once cracked and analyzed, provided us with the specific coordinates of the Irving Oil Refinery.”
“The one in Saint John, New Brunswick?” Zima was mystified. What does that have to do with anything?
“That’s correct,” the energy minister answered. “It produces over three hundred thousand barrels a day. Needless to say, Canada would suffer a disastrous long-term economic impact if it were to be shut down. The effects would be even more catastrophic than the minicrash we experienced worldwide following the bombings. ”
“What’s the connection to France?”
“That’s where it gets tricky, Zima,” said the commissioner. “The French gendarmerie’s second-in-command is a general named Richard Claudel. Among other duties, he oversees the physical security of all energy-producing facilities, be it oil and gas or nuclear. He’s well liked among the troops and seems to be above reproach. However, his name came up in a note found in another encrypted file on Wafid’s phone.”
“Could it be another Richard Claudel?” Zima asked.
“I doubt it,” the minister said. “I should add that I’ve met General Claudel a few times in the last few months, mostly during oil and gas conferences, and I didn’t like him. He seemed too nosy about very specific details regarding the Irving Oil Refinery. Following protocols in place, I spoke to the commissioner about my doubts toward Claudel.”
“So when I read the investigators’ report, I called the minister, and we put two and two together.”
That’s big, thought Zima. “So you want me to spy on Claudel and find out if he’s dirty?”
The commissioner nodded. “Exactly. Your mission will be to collect as much information on General Claudel as possible. He travels a lot, but I believe that with the help of the support network CSIS already has in place, you’ll be able to gather all the evidence needed for us to evaluate his allegiances.”
A few minutes later, with her marching orders in hand, Zima shook both men’s hands and exited the commissioner’s office. His aide was waiting for her in the hallway. He escorted her to the elevator, where he pressed the down button.
“Here,” he said, giving her a piece of paper on which a phone number was written. “It’s the commissioner’s direct line.”
She put the paper in her left jeans pocket. “Thanks.”
I’m back into the action, just like that, she thought. I couldn’t have hoped for a better project. Or a more dangerous one.
CHAPTER 13
Johns Hopkins Hospital
Baltimore, Maryland
The man Mike recognized from the day before made his entrance. Dressed in a black Brooks Brothers suit, a crisp white shirt, and a two-tone red tie, he looked like a stereotypical Zurich banker. His deeply tanned skin was in sharp contrast to his full head of silver hair, stylishly combed back.
“Charles,” Lisa said, smiling.
“Hello, Dr. Walton. How have you been?”
“He doesn’t know about the new last name yet. I didn’t have time to cover everything with him,” Lisa said, looking at her husband.
“That’s not a problem, Doctor. I know you two had lots to talk about. But let’s get on with it now, shall we?”
Mapother approached Mike and extended his hand. His grip was strong and sincere. “Good morning, Mike. It’s nice to see you sitting up and looking well. I’m Charles Mapother.”
Mike stared at him, saying nothing.
“And they swept this room?” Mapother asked Lisa.
“Yes. A team came in before we got here, and it was clean. The regular sweeps of Mike’s room haven’t turned anything up either, but I thought it would be best if we held this little get-together in a soundproof room. We’re actually in one of the psychiatric examination rooms.”
“Good thinking,” Mapother answered, sitting down in the chair facing Mike.
For the first time, Mike noticed the acoustic baffles on the ceiling. They’re probably in the walls too, Mike thought. Somebody better tell me what the hell is going on here soon.
Mapother unbuttoned his suit jacket and crossed his legs. “I’m sorry I couldn’t answer your questions yesterday, Mike. I thought it would be best to wait until your wife arrived.”
Mike looked at Lisa, and she nodded.
Mapother reached for the briefcase he had placed next to his chair and positioned his thumb over an optical reader located next to the briefcase’s handle. The scanner, satisfied that the incoming fingerprint matched the one in its memory, sent an electromagnetic signal to the two internal briefcase locks. Following a barely audible click, the briefcase opened, and Mapother removed a newspaper. He handed the well-thumbed issue to Mike.
“You should start by reading the article on page three. It will make you more receptive for what’s coming next.”
Hating the feeling of being the only one in the room who didn’t know what was going on, Mike snatched the newspaper. He looked at the date, then opened the newspaper to the advised page. His eye was immediately caught by the eighteen-point headline about him, and he started reading.
Sergeant Mike Powell of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police succumbed to multiple injuries yesterday at The Ottawa Hospital. Sgt. Powell, the Mountie who single-handedly killed three of the terrorists involved in the attack to the Ottawa International Airport, was fatally wounded during the ensuing firefight.
In one of the National Capital Region’s saddest stories in memory, Powell’s pregnant wife, Dr. Lisa Harrison Powell, and their twenty-two-month-old daughter were killed at the Ottawa Via Rail train station the same morning when two suicide bombers detonated their explosive vests. The attack at the train station also claimed the lives of…
Mike raised his tearing eyes and searched Lisa’s face. Her smile, encouraging and compassionate, reminded him he wasn’t the only one feeling the pain. They thought she was dead, too? How could this be? He scanne
d down to the end of the article.
At the request of the family, there will be no service or visitation. Donations in memory of Sgt. and Dr. Powell can be made to the Children’s Hospital of Eastern Ontario Foundation…
Mike slowly closed the newspaper and handed it back to Mapother. So that’s what he meant yesterday when he said I had died.
“All right, you’ve got me curious, Mapother. And you were right to wait until my wife arrived to show me this. Otherwise, I might have thought you were a fraud—and to be blunt, I’m still not convinced that you aren’t.”
Mapother smiled. “I assure you I’m not. Isn’t that so, Dr. Walton?”
“Why do you keep calling my wife Walton?”
“Walton is my new name, Mike,” Lisa answered. “From now on, you’ll have to learn to call me Lisa Walton. Same goes for me—I’ll learn to call you Mike Walton. And, to set the record straight, Charles isn’t a fraud.”
That’s why the nurse called me Mr. Walton, Mike realized. The change was already in effect. “Why the name changes?” Mike asked. He wasn’t angry; he was just trying to understand.
“I’ll get to that soon enough,” Mapother promised.
“Okay. Please continue,” Mike said. What else could he say?
“After 9/11, the president decided to invade Afghanistan because that was where al-Qa’ida was hiding,” Mapother said. “Our armed forces destroyed their training camps, smashed the Taliban’s army, and put a new government in place. Did that stop al-Qa’ida? Did it slow the growth of homegrown terrorists? Or the creation of ISIS, for that matter?”
Mike wasn’t sure if Mapother was asking rhetorical questions or not. He decided to answer anyway. “It put a dent in their ranks, that’s for sure. But it certainly didn’t stop them and probably sped up the process of radicalizing young Muslims at home.”
Mapother nodded. “You see, Mike, the US military is the most powerful armed force in the world. It’s great at protecting our interests abroad in a sort of wide-strokes approach, but it doesn’t have surgical-precision capabilities.”
Seeing that Mike was about to interject, Mapother held up his hand and pushed on. “Of course, there are some highly skilled units, like the Army Special Forces, the Navy SEAL teams, and the Marine Force Recon, and don’t get me wrong—they all do an excellent job. But they’re still operating under the umbrella of the US Armed Forces. They have to obey the rules, and they’re held accountable for their actions because American taxpayers pay for it all.”
“But the SEALs did take out Bin Laden, and they did a pretty good job at it,” Mike cut in.
“Yes, but what if I told you they’d known where he was for nearly fourteen months before the actual raid took place?”
Mike didn’t know what to think. Mapother continued, “They couldn’t get political approval to act on it. In the meantime, civilians all over the world lost their lives in terror attacks that he planned from his hideout in Pakistan. Same logic goes for the CIA, the NSA, the FBI, and all the other agencies. Congress and the Senate oversight committees are restricting their capabilities so much that they can’t do the job.”
“And in your opinion, Mapother, what exactly needs to be done?” Mike asked sarcastically.
Mapother didn’t take the bait. “Well, off the top of my head, I’d say stopping a twenty-million-dollar cash transaction about to go down in Zurich between a Soviet banker and the chief financial officer of Hamas in, oh, I don’t know”—Mapother looked down at his expensive Swiss watch—“forty minutes.”
Mike raised his eyebrows. Was this for real, or was Mapother being dramatic?
Mapother continued, “Let’s just say that we know half the money is going to be used to finance Hamas’ combat operations in Gaza, but we have absolutely no idea what the additional ten million is for. What would you do?”
Mike thought for a moment before answering. “Well, it depends on what type of resources I had available. But I guess I’d try to stop the transaction.”
“As you know, cash transactions are extremely hard to stop via official channels,” answered Mapother calmly.
Mike could tell that the older man was enjoying every moment of this. “We certainly can’t start unofficially bombing Switzerland.”
“We certainly can’t,” Mapother said with a chuckle. “What if I told you that IMSI is a real eighteen-month-old company doing real foreign-market analysis for nine of the biggest corporations in the United States? You can find the company and its New York headquarters telephone number in the Yellow Pages,” he said, “although we’re not able to take on any new clients at the moment.”
“Too busy with a little side project in Switzerland, perhaps?” Mike asked as the meaning of Mapother’s words dawned on him.
This time it was Lisa who answered. “That’s right, Mike. That project will bring terror to the terrorists. And we need your help. I need your help.”
CHAPTER 14
Sierra Leone, Africa
The predominantly Muslim Pujehun District, one of the twelve administrative divisions of Sierra Leone, borders the Atlantic Ocean to the southwest and Liberia to the southeast. Prior to the civil war that raged in Sierra Leone from 1991 to 2002, the Pujehun District had huge potential for the two hundred and thirty thousand people who lived within its borders. Mining, agriculture, and fisheries had promised job opportunities and steady incomes, but the civil war had ruined it all.
The war, initiated by the Revolutionary United Front with the help of the National Patriotic Front of Liberia, killed tens of thousands of civilians and created more than two million refugees—all for the primary objective of controlling the diamond mines.3 The RUF was merciless and didn’t hesitate to hack off the arms and legs of villagers to make sure that they wouldn’t join opposing forces. Recruitment of child soldiers was also common practice in the villages. Even though United Nations forces finally defeated the RUF, many senior RUF officers went unpunished and found great fortune in the diamond mines.
One of these ex-officers, Major Jackson Taylor, was seated in a wooden chair facing one of his team leaders. His men had just returned from an operation in Conakry, the capital city of Guinea.
“Have you personally checked all the explosives?” asked Taylor.
“Yes. All of them.”
“Good. That means if they failed to detonate, I’ll be blaming you,” Taylor said, poking his finger at the man’s chest.
The team leader swallowed hard but nodded nonetheless.
“Give me the cell phone,” Taylor told him. The man placed an old Motorola in Taylor’s waiting hand. “You’re dismissed,” Taylor barked and watched his subordinate leave the hut without looking back.
Taylor examined the cell phone and glanced at the Sheik’s representative, Dr. Ahmed Khaled.
“If my men did their job correctly, the Conakry Grand Mosque will crumble.”
Dr. Khaled laughed out loud. “So, that means if the mosque doesn’t collapse, I’ll be blaming you?”
Taylor didn’t respond directly. “Why does the Sheik want to bring down the Conakry Grand Mosque?”
Khaled’s grin died away. “Who are you to challenge his will? You’ll do as you’re told.”
Taylor briefly wondered if he should break the doctor’s neck. It would be so easy, Taylor thought. He was tired of Khaled’s condescending tone. While the Saudi Arabian doctor was short and fat with a long, unkempt black beard, Taylor was huge, strong, and in his physical prime. The scar from his chin to the middle of his forehead, courtesy of a British U.N. soldier’s knife, reminded everyone how ruthless he was. Taylor didn’t give much thought to the scar except to reminisce about the revenge he’d doled out for it. After he had wrestled the knife away from the British paratrooper, he’d turned it against its owner and plunged it deeply into the Brit’s abdomen. But instead of ending the paratrooper’s agonizing suffering with a m
erciful slash to the throat, Taylor had let him suffer for nearly two days until he died of thirst and blood loss.
Thinking about all the agony the Brit had endured before being allowed to die calmed Taylor down. He smiled at Khaled. “Of course, Doctor. I’ll do whatever the Sheik requires of me.”
Khaled appeared satisfied with the answer. “What about the other undertaking we talked about last week?”
“It will take a few months to mount the operation…and it will be expensive,” said Taylor.
“We know it will be expensive, but we’re confident that three million dollars will suffice. As for the time line, the Sheik wants this done before the end of August.”
Taylor didn’t like to be told what to do. He didn’t like rules. But he loved money, and the job the Sheik was proposing promised lots of it—half a million American dollars, to be exact.
―
Taylor’s first contact with the Sheik’s organization had taken place in 2001 while he was fighting the British for control of a diamond mine. He’d been desperate to buy weapons powerful enough to resist the well-equipped British Army. Machine guns, grenades, and antipersonnel mines were easily obtained, but what he’d really wanted were some surface-to-air missiles so he could take down the British helicopters. They had massacred his troops with their 20mm cannons and miniguns mounted on external pylons.
He didn’t care much about his troops, mostly children between the ages of eight to fifteen, but he didn’t want to lose the mine. His adjutant officer—the tall, lean, devout Mohammad Alavi, who always prayed the required five times a day—had mentioned that he might be able to tap someone who could help Taylor make his wish come true. If he could have a short leave from his training duties, Alavi had said, he’d try to make contact with this source on the major’s behalf.
To Taylor’s surprise, Alavi didn’t desert but returned to the training camp a week later. Accompanying him was a young but tall and ruthless-looking man who never gave out his real name. The newcomer looked like he was of Arabic origin, but his piercing blue eyes and light skin tone indicated that one of his parents might have been Caucasian. The man said that he represented the Sheik, an insurgent who was sympathetic to the major’s cause. He was willing to help and wanted nothing in return—except maybe a favor in the years to come. Taylor, knowing that the British would attack again soon, accepted the offer.
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