FATAL eMPULSE (25 page)

“My card?” Beck tried to make sense of this news. Was he now a suspect?

“Fortunately for you, sir, you had the best alibi in the world. You were at the White House meeting with the president when it happened. I checked.” The agent paused. “Sorry. We had to know where you were at the time.”

“Just doing your job. Thanks for letting me know.”

He closed the phone and slipped it in his pocket.

Frank eyed him. “Trouble?”

Beck grimaced. “Devon McAllister is dead. Killed while in our interrogation cell.”

Frank simply nodded. “We can never underestimate the reach of this organization…whatever it is. And whoever is running it.” He slammed the hood of his car and let loose with a short curse.

Beck shook his head. “I screwed up.”

“How could you know they’d reach inside the FBI and make the hit? Don’t beat up on yourself.”

“No, Frank, I’m talking about what I forget to get before I left him. I was so concerned with Joe and the others in the Middle East that I focused all my questions on them and not our other big question.”

“Who is the White House leak?”

“Exactly,” Beck said. “And now the answer may have died with McAllister. That, and any evidence he might have provided against Brandimir. We have just enough for paper, but it might not ever get into court with our key witness dead.”

February 28
Damascus, Syria.

I
may die in this god-forsaken place because of a man whose name I’ll never know!

Deep down, Scott Henderson knew the man’s name was not Richard Dunsmuir, but he could not prove it. Besides, he was in too deep to bail out, and he sensed Dunsmuir might be a dangerous man to cross. Their meeting in Honolulu less than a week earlier seemed like ages ago.

He had never been in this part of the world before, and he never planned on visiting until this week. Dunsmuir had met him at his flight in Rome and marched him to another part of the terminal where he gave Henderson a one-way ticket to Syria and a contact once he touched down in Damascus. Once he landed and disembarked, two men dressed in black with bulges showing under their coats, latched on to him.

They stayed by his side ever since, even when he went to use the bathroom. They both looked like a couple of stereotypical thugs in a B-rated Hollywood flick—pockmarked faces, angry looks, and shifty eyes. People in the near vicinity took one look at those two guys and gave them a wide berth.

They shoved him into a white van with rusted doors, one man squeezed next to him, and the other took the wheel. The man next to Scott reeked of some kind of spicy seasoning and sweat, despite a chill from a slight snow shower falling outside. This was so not what he thought his Mediterranean trip might look like. He envisioned bikini-clad women decorating the French Riviera, white sandy beaches, and deep-blue sky peppered with wisps of cotton-white clouds. He thought of himself, sitting beside a pool, enjoying one of his favorite beverages from the bar.

Instead, he’d be lucky if he even scored a beer and in Syria—forget the bikinis. He knew just enough of this country to know that he’d better watch himself, or some fanatic might take his head off. He was getting more nervous by the hour.

The driver wheeled around slower vehicles, pounding on the horn and yelling words that Scott could only guess were profane. The man next to him never returned his gaze, just stared straight ahead like he was some kind of zombie.

Scott scooted back in the seat. At least the money he earned on this trip would help him finally dig out of debt. Ever since he lost his job with the technology research company in California, he’d slipped deeper into a financial hole.

How long would he be stuck in this giant sandbox? When Scott had tried to press Dunsmuir on how much time this would take, the man skirted the issue, saying a few days to a few weeks. Then Scott saw his destination printed on the ticket—Damascus. Before Scott could raise his voice, Dunsmuir quickly ushered him onto the plane headed for this forsaken part of the world. Fingers of cold air crept into the car. Bitterly, he folded his arms around his chest. This whole trip was a pain. He did not even dress for this kind of weather. Who ever heard of snow in the Middle East?

“Where are we headed?” Scott asked, eyeing the man next to him. The guy looked like a neighbor next to Scott’s apartment, a man he dubbed Oscar because he felt like it. Like Oscar back home, this guy was heavyset, with a dark complexion, flashing black eyes, and slicked-back oily hair the color of midnight. Oscar never responded, but continued to stare forward, sullenly intent on the journey ahead.

Scott nicknamed the driver Killer because the man looked like one. Both Syrians were dressed in black trousers, black shirts, and black faux-leather jackets, but Killer looked to be more dangerous. The man’s dark brown eyes were cold, lifeless, and his face devoid of any emotions. He spoke tersely in what sounded like Arabic, although Scott could not tell one language or dialect from another. They all sounded alike. Scott wanted to keep Killer at arm’s length if possible.

Neither man responded to Scott’s question, so he studied the city of Damascus as they continued toward an unknown destination. They had taken a four-lane divided highway from the airport into the heart of the city. They passed under a street sign with some kind of Arabic scribble, and underneath that the name Damascus. No indication how far. He spotted a block of gray concrete with the greeting “Welcome to Damascus” etched on its face. First clue they reached the city limits.

He saw a sign pointing to “Old Damascus” as they drove farther into the city, where they parked the van. Oscar motioned Scott to get out of the vehicle and grab his bag. “We walk,” Oscar said, as Killer tossed Scott’s belongs on the street and locked the van. Oscar shoved Scott. “Hurry! We go.”

At least they spoke a little English. Scott grabbed his belongings Killer tossed on the ground and hurriedly tried to catch up. The streets seemed to close in on them as they approached an arched gateway, leading to what he saw identified as the Hamidiyeh souk, a marketplace protected from the weather by an arching corrugated iron roof running the length of the street.

They hurriedly walked several blocks until they came to a labyrinth of tangled side streets and alleyways, teenagers lurking near the entrances, beckoning others to visit their stores deeper in the marketplace.

It was as if Scott had walked back in time. The world here seemed to be one swirling mass of chaos: merchants crying out in their singsong hawking, cymbals clanging, and boys pushing two-wheeled carts laden with bowls and pottery, dresses and shoes, and any item that might catch the eye of potential buyers. The offending odors of overripe fruit and occasional raw sewage wafted out. Somewhere close, he picked up the rich aroma of strong coffee. He took a deep breath and savored the smell.

They walked down one alley in which the light of day seemed to be blotted from sight. Yellow gaslights flickered overhead as they approached one dwelling. Killer unlocked the door and jerked his head toward the doorway.

Oscar came back to where Scott had stopped. He roughly grabbed Scott’s arm. “You. Inside.” Killer glared.

Hesitantly, Scott clutched his bag closer and walked inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He heard the door close and a lock turn. Just as his eyes began to take in his surrounds, Scott saw Killer point to a rickety staircase leading to the floor above. Scott started up the stairs, wooden steps groaning and squeaking with each tread.

On the top landing, he walked down a narrow hallway as Killer pressed closer. The man grabbed his shoulder. Scott looked back and saw Killer pointing to one of the doors.

Scott obeyed and opened the door. It was a bedroom the size of his closet back home. A narrow mattress had been squeezed inside, almost touching wall to wall, with barely enough room at the foot for him to move around. There were no windows, but a skylight let in a flicker of sunlight.

Oscar came up the stairs and joined them. He glanced in Scott’s room. “You stay here.”

Scott nodded. “Bathroom?”

Oscar pointed at the end of the hall. “There. Everyone share.”

Looking back at his room, Henderson asked, “How long will I stay here?” He glanced back in time to see Oscar shrug. The other two men disappeared in rooms farther down the hallway.

Throwing his bag on the mattress, he looked around the bare room and at the filthy mattress at his feet. So far, everything had turned out to be far below his expectations. “With my luck this bed is lousy with bedbugs,” he said, not caring if Killer or Oscar heard. “I don’t expect there is any room service?”

He sensed they might be here a long time. Wait until he saw Dunsmuir again. This was no way to treat him. If they were going to pay him big bucks, then his role here must be very important. They needed to show a little more respect.

Scott sank down on the mattress. Oscar and Killer didn’t seem to care whether he was important or not. The way they shoved him around, it was as if he was just one step up from dirt. Dunsmuir would hear about this once Scott verified the money was safely tucked away in his hidden accounts. Until then, he’d keep his mouth shut.

March 1
Dubai, United Arab Emirates

G
errit shot up quickly when he heard pounding on the front door. It took a moment for him to wake up. He rose from the couch. Why didn’t the visitor use the doorbell? The military’s hazmat unit had taken hours to vacuum up this place and make sure that none of the toxin had been left behind. Joe’s bag had been quarantined and carted away for further examination. It was sometime after midnight when they were able to return and get some sleep.

He guessed the others were still sleeping in their rooms. He’d been unable to rest and came out in the living room to watch the city lights below. He must have dozed off. Another dawn began to paint the sky to the east. More pounding sounded at the door.

He felt along his waistline, subconsciously reaching for a weapon, but the weapons he recovered from the gunmen yesterday were still in one of the bedrooms where the women slept. He strode to the door and pressed his right eye to the peephole.

A man stood in the hallway who seemed to be a few years younger than Gerrit. The visitor appeared to be alone. The man softly called out, “Alena?”

This must be the guy Joe said would be arriving. Gerrit unlocked the door and turned the knob, opening it wide to allow the man to enter.

“What? I felt like I had to wake up the dead you took so long. You suffer from old age?” The man shot him a grin. “You must be Gerrit O’Rourke. Shalom! Max Salk at your service.” The man shook Gerrit’s hand before entering.

Max walked and talked like he was on a fire and looked like he was an Israeli model of Jack Thompson—only twenty years younger with shaggy brown hair with the ends a lighter shade. His large brown eyes shifted from person to person, a lazy grin on his suntanned face. He was a man on a mission. He stood equal to Gerrit, but leaner less muscular.

As they walked into the living room, Alena crossed into the room, a look of surprise on her face.

“Max?”

“Alena.” Max took her into his arms and gave her a big hug, kissing both cheeks. “You are as beautiful as I remember.”

Alena ran her fingers through Max’s hair. “A little lighter than last time we met. A disguise?” Without waiting for an answer, she shot a quick look at Gerrit. “Max and I worked together at one time. Before I—”

“Before you broke my heart.” Max smiled broadly. “I wanted them to keep it a secret until I got here. Now we will be working together—as man and wife.”

Again, Alena looked surprised. “What are you talking about?”

Max swung a briefcase he carried onto the coffee table and sat on the sofa. “Here, I’ve brought a complete set of documents—passports, visas, and a set of identification for each of us.” He pulled out an envelope and handed it to her. “You and I are in the oil business. Gerrit and his new wife are into solar energy.” He handed another packet to Gerrit.

Gerrit eyed Max as the stranger interacted with Alena. Who made these decisions? And why was Max calling the shots? Gerrit tightened his jaw as he watched Max get up, slip his arm around Alena, and guide her to the sofa.

Max reached over and opened Alena’s envelope, bending the flap open so she could see inside. “They thought of everything. Our wedding rings. I am sure they’ll fit.” He showed her a silver double-banded wedding ring encrusted with diamonds, then slipped it on her ring finger. “With this ring I hereby—”

“Wait, Max. You’re moving too fast—”

“Better than last time. I didn’t move fast enough and you disappeared from my life.”

“No, I mean, what is with this husband and wife cover?”

Laughing, Max leaned back on the couch. “Well, I guess the honeymoon is over.”

Gerrit heard another person enter. Shakeela came over and stood next to him. He introduced Max as they all gathered around the coffee table, with Shakeela and Gerrit taking single armchairs at each end of the coach.

Gerrit leaned forward. “Max, we’ve been cooped up here nearly two days waiting for word on the operation. Since one of our team members was poisoned and Alena almost killed, I think we need to rethink this. For all we know, the cops and secret police might break in here at any moment. We’ve got to get out of this country—soon. Tell us what they want us to do and how we’re supposed to accomplish it.”

“I’d like to add something,” Shakeela said, speaking for the first time. “Our plan was to get inside Syria, find out what Hassan and his contact planned to do, and stop it. Has something changed?”

“That’s still our plan,” Max said, “but something troubles me about this whole scenario.”

“There’s a lot that troubles me,” Gerrit said, “but we have our orders. Now tell us what has changed.”

“We are going to take separate routes into Syria,” Max said. “Frank Collord has arranged for all of us to leave Dubai on a military transport. Alena and I will be dropped off in Kuwait, where our covers have been established, even the fact that we both entered that country a week ago.”