The Nabatean Secret

by J C Ryan

  Russell recognized his braggadocio had given them information he didn’t intend to give, and now he had to bluff it out. “To steer the investigation in a certain direction,” he said, lifting his chin again.

  “You mean, like framing and accusing innocent people of treason,” Dylan stated in a cold tone dripping with anger.

  McCormick didn’t answer. Dylan asked the same questions in several different ways, trying to trip McCormick up, but got no answers. Dylan decided to change tactics. He opened a briefcase that was lying on the table.

  “What about your share in this?” he asked, showing McCormick several photos of the devastation at Patch Barracks.

  Russell glanced at them and then up at Dylan. He shrugged. Dylan clenched his fists, resisting a powerful urge to punch McCormick in his smug face. Instead, he selected a few more photos, close-ups of the wounded and maimed bodies. He kept hammering. “How about this? Or this?”

  For every pair of photos Dylan thrust in his face with both hands, Russell shook his head. “I don’t know anything about that. I had nothing to do with it.”

  Dylan chose more and more heartrending photos—small children crying, parents and wives touching the flag-draped coffins of the victims, and sobbing men and women with missing limbs or in hospital beds covered in bandages. Over the course of half an hour or more, he shoved photos in McCormick’s face and yelled, “What was your part in this?”

  When Russell started shaking and denying any complicity in the explosion more and more desperately, Dylan knew he had his prey where he wanted him, ready to break. Suddenly, he softened his voice and asked a different question.

  “Why do you drive out to Prince Georges County every Wednesday?”

  Russell had been staring at the floor, unable to meet the eyes of his accuser. Now his head came up. “What?”

  Patiently, Dylan rephrased his question. “Why do you drive out toward Hyde Field every Wednesday?”

  “How the hell would you know that?” Russell burst out, oblivious to the fact he’d just admitted his secret.

  “Vee haf our vays,” Dylan taunted, faking a German accent. “Never mind how. Why do you do it?”

  Russell slumped. They had him on the trips to Hyde Field. How, he didn’t know, but if they knew that, then they likely knew other stuff. Now it was a matter of his own survival. “I’m just supposed to. Every Wednesday. I don’t know why. If I can’t do it during the day after a certain time, then I must do it at night. And if I can’t do that, I just wait for the next Wednesday.”

  “Tell us why.”

  “I don’t know why. That’s just my orders.”

  Dylan, Sean, and Kelly exchanged looks. The bastard was lying, but they were making progress. Every small admission was a crack in his façade. Dylan raised one eyebrow. Sean nodded. It was time to bring out the big gun.

  “Tell us about the Nabateans.”

  Russell’s reaction to the word was an admission. He flinched so hard he almost went over backward in his chair. Barely recovering, he let his chair settle for a moment and then carefully smoothed all expression from his face.

  “I only heard about them from Kelly.”

  Kelly jerked in surprise. Dylan glanced at Sean.

  Sean slowly stood up. McCormick cowered. He’d watched Sean and his reactions while Dylan had been questioning him. No question Sean was the one with the short fuse, and it looked like he’d run out of time. If that dude’s taking over, I’m SOL.

  “W-wait. Okay, m-my father. All right? My father is into genealogy. He told me about them. Said we were descendants, but I can’t remember exactly how. It never interested me that much.”

  Dylan wasn’t through asking him specific questions. “Have you heard of the Council of the Covenant of Nabatea?”

  “Yes, Kelly told me about them. She got it from James Rhodes and Irene O’Connell of A-Echelon.”

  “Tell us about Shadow,” Dylan demanded.

  Russell shrugged. “Don’t know anything about shadows. No idea what you’re talking about.’

  “Stop playing games, Russell!” Kelly shouted. “I told you I got an anonymous package from someone called Shadow. Now, tell us what you know about Shadow.”

  With Dylan asking more and more pointed questions, and Kelly or Sean throwing in an occasional jab, they slowly dragged the truth out of McCormick. Yes, he was Shadow. He was the one feeding Howard Crane, and he’d had the package delivered to Kelly when Crane dragged his feet on the story.

  And that was the admission they needed for the payoff. Dylan took a deep breath, glanced at the other two, and asked the million-dollar question. “Who recruited you, when, and how?”

  McCormick turned white. “You don’t know what you’re asking me.”

  “Sure, we do,” Dylan said. “Who recruited you, when, and how? It’s easy—give us a name, tell us when, and how. Just open your mouth and start speaking.”

  Russell looked around and summoned the last of his arrogance. “For all the good it will do you, I was contacted by a man about three or four years after I joined the FBI, and he convinced me it would be in my best interest to do as I was told.

  “For about twenty-five years, I’ve done just that. Never saw the guy again, but now and then I’d get written messages about tasks I should perform, or information I should get and leave at dead drops. I knew the consequences if I refused. So, I didn’t refuse. But if you think I know who they are, you’re dead wrong.” He set his jaw and stared at Sean.

  Dylan took the information in stride. It was a story as old as history itself. But a piece was missing. “We need to know what this man had over you. Twenty-five years is a long time for a secret to remain so dangerous. The quicker you tell us, the quicker we can move on and see if we can help you out of the shit you’ve created for yourself.”

  McCormick had recovered his composure in telling his story. “No, I think it’s the other way around. Maybe you’ve created more shit for yourself than you can handle. Shit man, I’m an FBI agent! Do you know what—”

  Sean had heard enough and interjected. “You really don’t know in how much shit you are, do you? Mr. FBI Agent.”

  He proceeded to relate the story of Durand and his killing, the Algosaibi children’s deaths at the hands of the Council, and more. Things Russell should have known or suspected but never thought about.

  Sean wasn’t above embroidering the facts when Russell stuck out that annoying, arrogant chin. And he kept it up until he played his final hand, only after seeing the doubt creep into Russell’s eyes.

  “You know, we had Durand in protective custody when he was killed. We’re good, McCormick, we’re damned good—and they still managed to find and kill him. Do you think we’ll even try to protect you if you don’t tell the truth?”

  Russell tried one last, desperate ploy. “If you can’t protect me anyway, why should I tell you anything?”

  “Well, I didn’t say we couldn’t protect you. We’ve learned a few things. But right now, seeing that you have given us nothing, it doesn’t look too promising for you, McCormick. All we have to do is have Kelly arrest you.”

  Russell looked over at Kelly, who was nodding enthusiastically, with a big smile on her face.

  Sean went on, “Then we contact the media. The headline reads ‘New discovery about the A-Echelon case – Russell McCormick, the Assistant Director Counterintelligence Division FBI head offices in DC found to be involved in illegal activities.’”

  “It’ll never stick. I’ll accuse her of framing me.”

  “Hypocrisy in full bloom, I see.” Sean smirked. “You had no problem framing other people. But that doesn’t matter. The Nabateans will terminate you in less than twenty-four hours. You’d be dead before you can be brought before a judge to ask for bail. That’s how they operate. That’s what happened to Durand and Algosaibi’s children. And that’s probably what happened to Peter Nikolaev, the Director of the Federal Security Service (FSB) of Russia, who ordered the attack on Freydís. He die
d before he could be arrested and questioned.”

  “But I’m valuable to them,” Russell tried.

  “Well, in that case, let’s find out just how valuable you are to them. Shall we?

  “Kelly arrests you, and we make sure the Nabateans get to know about it via the media. Then we set our watches and see what happens.”

  “Shall we put a wager on it?” Sean looked at Dylan and Kelly. “What’s your bet?”

  “Eighteen hours, max,” Dylan replied.

  “Maybe he’ll get to twenty-three, although, as far as I’m concerned, the quicker the better,” Kelly ventured.

  Russell’s eyes were darting back and forth between the three while they were speaking as if he wasn’t there.

  Dylan and Kelly were looking at Sean to tell them what his bet would be. “If they can kill people in US protective custody and the Director of the Federal Security Service (FSB) of Russia before his men could give him up… I reckon twenty hours at the most,” Sean said and turned to McCormick. “So, Russell what’s your bet?”

  Everyone fell silent to let McCormick reflect for a moment. When the silence had stretched to an uncomfortable two minutes, Dylan took it as Russell’s tacit agreement to answer the questions and resumed.

  “So, where were we? Oh, yes. You wanted to tell us about the power this mystery man wields over you.”

  McCormick sputtered. “It’s not like that. I benefit from this arrangement. I told you, money flows into my bank account. I get tips on cases and solve them. That gets me commendations and promotions. That’s why I’m where I am, career-wise, now. Why would I throw all that away?”

  Dylan crossed his arms. “Are you kidding me? What part of you’ll be killed within twenty-four hours do you not understand? What do they have on you?”

  ***

  McCormick was defeated, and he knew it. Damned if he told them, dead if he didn’t. He was hungry, physically and emotionally exhausted, and confused about how he’d gotten to this point.

  Sean pulled his pistol and pointed it at McCormick’s right knee.

  “Stop! I’ll tell you,” Russell blubbered. A spot of wetness appeared on the front of his trousers. “I… Oh, God, this is so embarrassing. A couple of years after I joined the FBI, I was undercover, about to bust this child pornography ring. It was the kid or me, I swear.”

  “What do you mean?” Kelly asked, her voice like ice.

  “I molested this kid, okay?”

  Kelly went ballistic. She lunged for McCormick with both hands outstretched. Russell used his feet to scramble backward, chair and all, but it went over backward with him. He kept scrambling and managed to turn himself, chair and all, on his side.

  Once again, Dylan had to hold Kelly back. When she went still, he let her go but stayed alert. She didn’t go after McCormick again, though. Instead she left the room.

  McCormick tried to justify himself. “He was already a child prostitute, right? They suspected me. If I hadn’t, they’d have killed me. I thought no one would know, but then not long afterward, this guy showed up and showed me a video. If I hadn’t done as he asked, I’d have gone to prison. Help me up, okay?”

  Dylan clenched his fists, as did Sean. Neither made a move to help Russell right himself. The two of them were still trying to control their impulse to beat him senseless when Kelly flew back into the room with a large butcher knife. This time, Dylan had only a split second to decide what to do. Tackling her might cause her to stab herself, and grabbing her around the waist like he’d done twice before might get his arm slashed or worse.

  “Stop!” Dylan’s shout made Kelly hesitate and turn toward him, butcher knife still dangerous in her upraised hand. “Think what you’re doing.”

  “I know exactly what I’m doing,” Kelly answered, her voice shaking slightly. “I’m going to make sure he can’t ever do that again.”

  Dylan put out his hand to stop her, and she slashed at it with the knife. “Tell me I’m wrong,” she snarled.

  Sean used his most commanding tone to say, “Give the knife to Dylan. Now.”

  Kelly turned a wild expression on Sean. “No. I’m going to Bobbittize him. He’s done enough damage with that thing.”

  Dylan was approaching her stealthily as Sean engaged her attention, but Russell screamed, “No!” when she uttered the threat, and she whirled toward him. The wet spot near his crotch was now prominent.

  Dylan was within arm’s reach. He snatched the knife out of her hand, receiving a cut to his palm in the process.

  “Dylan! I’m sorry… I didn’t… Oh, God!” Kelly gasped.

  “You need to calm down, girl. Or we’ll have to truss you up like McCormick. Capisce?” Dylan said. “Can I trust you not to lose it again so I can go take care of this blood?” He held up his injured hand to demonstrate that blood was dripping from it freely.

  Kelly hung her head. With tears in her eyes, she said, “Yes. I’m sorry, Dylan.”

  He winked at her as he walked out of the room, heading for the kitchen.

  The crisis averted, Sean walked over and hauled Russell and his chair upright again. “Next time, we don’t stop her. You’ve got a choice right now. You start cooperating or—”

  Sean’s grim, veiled threat was the final straw for McCormick. “Okay! Okay! I’ll talk, but I want a deal.”

  “You’re in no position to make deals,” Kelly spat.

  Sean quelled her with a look.

  Russell’s jaw clenched. “What do you want me to say?”

  “The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about those trips to the airport. No more bullshit. Or we give Kelly back the knife.”

  Kelly gave a faint smile. She didn’t think she could go through with it now that the heat of her burst of temper was gone. But the smile looked a bit evil, and it did the trick.

  “Okay, but keep that crazy bitch away from me! I told you, I’m supposed to drive around that place. I drive around until I hear five short beeps. That means I’m done. I don’t know what it does, or what happens afterward.”

  “I told you no more bullshit. You know what it does.” Sean gestured toward Kelly.

  “Okay, yeah. They told me it’s a data download. But I swear I don’t know anything about what happens next. I go back to work, or home, Kelly’s, wherever. And the next week I do it again.”

  “Who’s your contact?” Sean asked, growing impatient and showing it in his sharp tone.

  “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t have one.”

  Dylan walked back in with a dishtowel wrapped around his injured hand. “Don’t have what?”

  “He claims he doesn’t have a contact to hand the data to,” Sean said, looking steadily at Russell.

  Dylan gave Russell a hard stare. “Do you want me to go back in there and get that knife? If Kelly can’t follow through, I sure as hell will.”

  Russell’s desperate glance at Sean finally convinced him. “So, you’re telling us that you never see anyone retrieve the data from that device?”

  “What device?” Russell asked.

  “Shit!” Dylan yelled, finally understanding. He hit the doorframe with his injured hand and yelled out again.

  Sean and Kelly turned to look at Dylan. He motioned with his head for them to follow him. They got up and followed him to the bedroom farthest from the living room where Russell remained handcuffed and tied to his chair. “We’re going to have to keep him active to try to trap them,” Dylan said. “They’re too well-organized.”

  “It’s a risk,” Sean said. “If they suspect he’s talked to us, he’s dead inside twenty-four hours. And he might just be stupid enough to try and do something about our little chat with him tonight.”

  “Those are risks we have to take. Can’t be avoided. Let’s go give him the choice.”

  Back in the room with McCormick, Sean made the offer. “You can work with us, or you get arrested tonight.”

  “Oh, no. You already told me I’d be dead in forty-eight hours if they get wind I’ve
talked. Like that Durand guy,” Russell said.

  "Twenty-four hours,” Sean corrected him. “We can try to protect you, and we’re pretty good at what we do, now that we know what we’re up against. No guarantees, though. The only thing that’s going to keep you alive for long is bringing down the Council. Could be four weeks of survival with our help, could be longer. Either way, it’s better than a guaranteed death in twenty-four hours, right?”

  It didn’t take Russell long to agree. “What do I need to do?”

  Sean deferred to Dylan, who explained, “To stay alive to a healthy old age, you’re going to have to help us bring down the Nabateans. Specifically, the Council. You must carry on as if nothing is different, and we’ll give you instructions as they come up. No one can know you spoke to anyone but Kelly this weekend. We’ll take you back to the cottage tonight, and you two will have the nice weekend you planned. Then we’ll be in touch.”

  Kelly had heard enough. “I object,” she said. “I can’t keep up this charade any longer. If I have to be alone with the scumbag one more time, he is going to lose his family jewels.”

  Russell was almost as vehement. “You can’t leave me alone with her! I’d rather take my chances with the Nabateans.”

  “Hold on,” Sean said. “Kelly, may we see you in the other room again?”

  Back in the bedroom, Sean spoke intensely. “May I remind you of your complicity in this case? And your boss’s words? As I recall, General Fleming used words to the effect of, ‘…defer my decision about your indiscretions. …an opportunity for redemption. …it is in your hands and your hands only…’.”

  “You’re asking me to—”

  “You don’t have to be intimate with him. But you do have to keep up appearances. Or would you rather we told Fleming you won’t cooperate? Or worse, let the Nabateans explode another antimatter bomb, this time vaporizing DC?”

  “I hate you, Sean Walker.”

  “I’ll get over it.” Sean grinned. “And if it helps us nail those Nabateans’ scalps to the wall, you’re welcome to keep on hating me.”