Execution Of Justice - Covert Ops Thriller

Jul 22

Jul 22 Execution Of Justice - Covert Ops Thriller

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Book excerpt

Chapter One

Safi, Morocco

The young American did his best to look casual as he approached the Moroccan bar. His eyes constantly scanned for incongruities – anything more interesting than an infinite expanse of sand and about a dozen rugged four-wheel-drive vehicles. He saw none.

The bar itself looked ancient, having a wooden frame plastered with a tan adobe, making its color indistinguishable from the surrounding desert. The slate roof appeared on the verge of collapse. The windows were arched and glassless, about twenty feet from the ground, with heavy wooden shutters latched open with hasp locks.

Elan had selected attire generic to the region. His tan robes concealed his slightly trembling hands, as well as the Colt .45 automatic in his shoulder holster. Luckily, the desiccating atmosphere evaporated sweat, helping mask his anxiety.

The locals called the bar Shaqra, although it bore no markings either outside or in. Elan grabbed the huge iron ring serving as a doorknob and pulled. The thick wooden door eventually surrendered to his will and swung open with a creak, attracting the attention of some of the locals inside. Rheumy, bloodshot eyes turned toward the offending desert sunlight cutting through the dimly lit room, but quickly lost interest when they saw Elan.

Elan blinked as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The main room was large, with about a thirty-foot ceiling. The only light had to fight its way from the open windows through thick clouds of hashish, opium and tobacco smoke. The air hung motionless. In the center sat a square bar. A solitary bartender cleaned his fingernails with a US Army issue bayonet. No wait staff was visible.

This is it, Elan thought, the next fifteen minutes will decide the course of my career. Elan knew his Arabic heritage was the main reason Major Briggs had selected him for Operation Sierra. Nonetheless, he prided himself on the progress he had made. For the past six months he had worked his way up through the Moroccan black market, establishing contacts and credibility through a series of increasingly larger business deals.

With a little help from Uncle Sam, Elan had been able to produce enormous quantities of valuable merchandise ranging from toilet paper to Soviet AK-47’s. Now, he waited to meet the man who ran the most powerful and despicable enterprise in the region. Tartus ran an ancient business, one whose tentacles had only recently infiltrated Western civilization. President Nixon declared Tartus’ operation a threat to national security and sanctioned the creation of the Sierra task force. Elan felt honored to be selected as the principle Sierra operative - Sierra One. Men such as Tartus stained the reputation of good Arabs all over the world. Elan would take enormous pleasure in bringing this heinous operation to its knees.

When Elan reached the bar he ordered whiskey in Arabic, with the hint of French accent so common among Moroccans. He had lost his university grammar and enunciation months prior. The bartender gave him a menacing look, but reached below the bar and placed an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels on the counter. When Elan did not reach for the bottle, the bartender begrudgingly produced a glass of questionable cleanliness, giving Elan a look saying now what; you want me to drink it for you too?

Elan paid the exorbitant price of fifty Dirham - equivalent to about twelve US dollars. Such robbery, commonplace in countries who forbade alcohol, did not surprise Elan. Still standing at the bar, he poured himself two fingers, neat. Just one drink, he vowed, I need my wits about me today more than ever. He took his bottle in hand and began working his way through the crowd; scanning for the red neckerchief Falon told him would identify Tartus.

Falon, perhaps the nastiest man Elan had ever met, frightened Elan despite his training. A calm sadism in the man’s eyes distinguished him from Elan’s other business contacts. Elan knew Falon would relish killing him at a leisurely pace if he suspected he were an American agent. He repeated the mantra to himself - Remember your training. This is your job. While others wanted American and European creature comforts, Falon shopped for dangerous merchandise – rocket-propelled grenades, anti-tank weapons, heroin, and much, much worse.

In a city where black and brown were the predominant wardrobe choices, Elan had little difficulty spotting the red neckerchief. His pulse quickened. He smelled the fear on his upper lip as he considered the man he prepared to meet. It had taken months of courting Falon to gain an audience with Tartus. Men that cautious were not to be underestimated. He downed his drink in one motion and approached the man who would become the instrument of his destiny.

Elan estimated Tartus was about forty years old. Tartus’ face - lean, taught, and weather-beaten from years spent in the desert – carried no expression. Elan felt Tartus’ coldness even from a distance. The tables surrounding Tartus were all empty. All Elan’s training and months undercover had led to this moment. He braced himself to initiate a conversation with one of the world’s most venomous and clever men. Although Falon’s treachery made him a local icon, he lacked the fear and respect Tartus enjoyed.

“Hello,” Elan said in Arabic, meeting Tartus’ level gaze, “I notice the weather here is much harsher than in the South.”

“But the opportunities are so much better,” Tartus replied, completing the code phrase. “Please, have a seat and let us discuss such matters.”

The cordiality in Tartus’ voice belied the brutality and heartlessness Elan knew were the staples of his trade. He forced himself to maintain contact with Tartus’ soulless, obsidian eyes. Those eyes evoked primal fears from Elan’s genetic memory. Images of alligators and sharks flashed through Elan’s mind – ancient predators, machines designed exclusively for killing. Elan, a seasoned combat veteran, felt the first familiar tingling of fear. As always, he tried to let the adrenaline work in his favor.

Elan hoped his training had prepared him for this encounter. Although Elan did not subscribe to the Christian concept of the Devil, Tartus gave him reason to reconsider. Tartus had the presence of some supremely evil denizen of the underworld, visiting Earth in search of souls to steal.

When Elan sat, Tartus immediately began his business. “So, you have gone to a great deal of trouble to talk with me. What makes you think I have any interest in what you have to say?”

Elan calculated that Tartus would respect nothing less than complete candor, and replied, “Well, that you’re here, for one thing. And that I have access to merchandise that would bring a much greater price than your normal wares.”

“So Falon told me. And what, exactly, is the source of this wonderful merchandise?”

“America, of course. West coast. California.” Elan paused to let the statement sink in. Tartus’ eyes probed Elan, searching for any sign of weakness. “Surely there will be abundant profit for all parties involved.”

“You propose something with great risk.” Tartus’ hard eyes bored into Elan’s face.

“High risk, high return,” Elan quipped. “Besides, you don’t impress me as a man afraid of a little risk.” This statement skirted dangerously close to arrogance, but Elan had to pass himself off as a callused murderer, a man who knew fear merely as something he saw in the faces of his victims. He behaved as Tartus’ equal.

“You should not confuse wisdom with fear, my friend.” Tartus’ voice took on an icy, challenging edge. “However, I am still listening.”

“I have a friend who is a travel agent. His operation is a perfect front for moving merchandise of this sensitive nature through American customs.”

Tartus’ eyes narrowed to slits. He leaned forward on his elbows until his face nearly touched Elan’s. “Just like that? You appear out of nowhere and want to cut me in on your foolproof enterprise?”

Elan forced himself not to back away from Tartus. At this distance, he smelled curry mixed with alcohol on the man’s breath. “Tartus, like you, I’m a businessman. I don’t have the network you have, and I don’t have access to the end users. That’s where you come in. We’re both familiar with the Brazilian and Philippine crap flooding the marketplace. I propose moving a top-end product into the market, the business opportunity of a lifetime. I can deliver in quantity. How does one unit per month sound?”

Tartus mulled this over for a few seconds that seemed an eternity to Elan before he responded, “You do make a good case. I’ll discuss this with some of my high dollar clientele and meet you here tomorrow at the same time with an answer.”

As Elan stared into those reptilian eyes, he kept the most important poker face of his life. Inside, he surged with triumph. He looked at Tartus differently – meaner.

“This conversation is over,” Tartus said. He stood abruptly and walked toward the exit. When he opened the door, an intensely bright light flooded Shaqra, temporarily blinding anyone whose eyes followed him. After exiting the bar, Tartus turned left into the parking lot.

Elan’s mind struggled to process what had just transpired. Did he just cut a deal with Tartus after his first meeting? If so, this mission would exceed his wildest imaginings. He couldn’t wait to call Major Briggs to arrange the sting. Once they had Tartus in custody, they could begin to dismantle his entire operation, beginning with that beast - Falon.

After waiting an excruciating five minutes, Elan recapped the bottle of Jack Daniels on the table and left. Outside, he squinted against the desert glare and turned left toward the parking lot. As he walked toward his jeep, he began to plan Phase Two. He would need at least two squads from special ops, maybe more. From what he had observed, Tartus would have several layers of security, ranging from well-paid locals in the crowd to short range snipers armed with AK-47s. Tomorrow, he would earn his captain’s bars.

Elan’s pensive trance twisted into an anguished mask when the garrote unexpectedly snapped his head back. The piano wire cut through his esophagus, trachea, and both carotid arteries before his mind registered that he had grossly miscalculated Tartus’ business ethics. As he lay on the ground with his life force rhythmically gushing into the Safi sand, Elan thought of the daughter he would never see again.

*****

Langley, Virginia

Special Agent Robert Fulton sat at his desk, drumming his fingers as his mind raced. His new assignment exhilarated him. The Director of Central Intelligence had sanctioned him to solve the single biggest economic threat to America’s future - the OPEC oil embargo. If successful, Project Crossfire would be the crown jewel of his career with The Agency. This project, right on the heels of his promotion to Director of Middle Eastern Operations, would make him top contender to become the next DCI.

He reflected with pride upon a life of hard work and the commensurate rewards. After his Cum Laude graduation from MIT with a degree in mechanical engineering, he had entered Officer Candidacy School in the Marines. He made Captain by the age of twenty-five, resigned his commission for a detour through the FBI Academy. His six-year career with the Bureau had been stellar in every respect, peaking when his two-year deep cover operation had culminated in the capture and conviction of one of the biggest cocaine dealers in Miami.

Shortly thereafter, his supervisor told him the CIA wanted to talk to him. The DCI commanded an audience. At that point, he knew he would be a player. Robert Fulton would make a difference in this world. Of course, intelligence work was not conducive to glory, at least not the public variety. Fulton’s sole glorification would be in his own mind and within a tight group of coworkers. Such was the nature of covert ops. People who required validation from others were speedily identified and expunged from the program for security purposes. Fulton derived his satisfaction from knowing he served the cause of freedom. Project Crossfire, for instance, would shift the balance of power in the civilized world, and no more than a handful of people would ever even know it took place.

The enormous question in his mind was how to bring this multi-billion dollar juggernaut to a grinding halt in the space of a few months. Americans citizens were waiting in line for hours to purchase their paltry allocations of gasoline. President Nixon had declared the embargo to be a national crisis, urging Americans to conserve power wherever possible. By presidential order, air conditioning units were to be set at seventy-eight degrees during the summer and sixty-eight degrees during winter. While the most powerful nation on the planet shivered and sweltered in their homes, the OPEC nations grew richer by the day.

Fulton ran through recent events, searching for leverage to use. Since the Fourth Arab-Israeli War had begun, tensions were high among the Arab nations. Syria, with support from the Soviet Union, had launched an offensive against Israel during Yom Kippur in 1973, ostensibly over a territorial dispute. The sneak attack on the Jews’ holy day was an insult of the highest magnitude to Israel.

The Arab extremists saw the fight with Israel as a Jihad, a holy war bringing religious purity to the Middle East. They referred to the conflict as the Ramadan War, named after the Muslim holy month. The moderate Arabs wanted to avoid conflict with Israel to remain in the good graces of the United Nations. The UN and especially the US were strong supporters of Israel, and the moderates saw no profit in making an enemy of the US. Some of the more liberal Arab factions even entertained the idea of recognizing Israel’s status as an independent nation, thereby qualifying the Arab nations for membership in the UN.

Although the Arab nations constantly bickered among themselves on political and religious issues, they presented a united economic front. Every time the Oil Council met, they further reduced production, driving oil prices through the ceiling. They had an economic stranglehold on the West.

The US had begun to drive a wedge between the Arab nations when Anwar Sadat rose to power in Egypt. Sadat appeared all too happy to accept strong economic support from America. However, Egypt carried merely one voice among seven in the Oil Council, and none of the Arab nations would publicly make a stand against the all-powerful Saudis. The President deemed Diplomacy too sticky and slow to resolve this issue in a reasonable timeframe.

The king and prime minister of Saudi Arabia, Fahr al-Azon Al Saud, kept his hand on the lever the Arabs used against the West. Fahr led the Oil Council and was perhaps the only man who could bring an end to the embargo. Fulton had to find a way to get to Fahr.

As he ruminated at his desk, Fulton’s face lit up. The answer wasn’t to influence Fahr. The answer was to become Fahr. What if the US led the Oil Council? With control over the world’s power supply, the US would be politically and economically omnipotent. But, how could such a thing come to pass? Once Fulton knew the right question to ask, the answer became obvious.

Fulton jumped from his seat and began to pace the office, wringing his hands in nervous energy. Would it work? Yes, he believed it would. Could it be covered up? Yes, although doing so would require a certain level of ruthlessness. But, as his father liked to say, if you want to make an omelet, you have to break a few eggs.

The details were already beginning to crystallize in his mind. He sat at his desk and began to make notes. He had much to do in an extremely compressed time frame. Special Agent Fulton had a war to start.