Chapter Seven

Black

Idling at the security booth at the front of the Iniquus campus, John Black accepted his identification back from the guard. He raised his car window and waited for the massive gates blocking the entrance to edge open.

He'd left a message with his assistant that he'd been called into an emergency meeting this morning, and he'd get to Langley when he could. "If Grey reaches out to you," he'd noted, "no matter what, I need to know immediately."

That mission was at the forefront today. And he didn't need whatever it was that Iniquus was about to throw into the pot. He just didn't.

Impatiently drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, Black hoped against hope that the asset's information about Poole was accurate.

If it was, then Red made a hell of a security save with her new mole.

They'd know one way or another very soon.

Knowing what happened when there were too many cooks in a kitchen, Black didn't want to be an obstacle that confused the forward momentum in the capture of Daniel Poole. He took a step back and had Grey work with JSOC and the White House on this since Grey was boots on the ground in that area.

Still, this was Color Code intel, so it was Black's name and reputation on the top of the Poole report. While that meant he was first in line for congratulations, he was also first in line to deal with negative ramifications.

When Iniquus's gate attendant waved him through, Black slowly pulled forward, tracing his way down the tree-lined drive. A drive that Black typically enjoyed. He found it soothing.

Today?

Every tree irritated him.

That Iniquus Panther Force called this morning, pulling him away from his focus on Poole and Syria, irritated him.

The tight window in Syria was what had his nerves frying.

That and it all fell in line a little too neatly. It seemed a little too good to be true.

A little more time and a better chance to vet the information would be a "best of all worlds" scenario. But Black didn't live in that world. He lived in a world that could catch fire at any moment, and his team had better have extinguishers in hand.

There was at least some information that the Pentagon verified.

Of course, that could be staged. Someone could have snagged Poole and been holding him somewhere, an innocent man.

Black just didn't know. And wouldn't know.

Yeah, the regime in power or any of those elbowing and jostling to gather regional supremacy might have set this up.

What if Color Code sent a team of Delta Force operators to a GPS coordinate in the middle of nowhere, told them to go naked with a lost hikers' tale, and someone threw a net over them?

They'd grab up six elite warriors and a highly trained combat K9.

Four. Two of them would be on a raft off the coast.

Four would still make horrific snuff films. Would be incredibly powerful terrorist recruiting tools. And what those men would suffer … Black's lips pulled into a deep frown.

The intelligence game was not for those with a weak stomach.

And on this one? Yeah, Black could feel his coffee churning around, giving him heartburn.

He pulled into a parking place designated for guests, turned off his engine, and flipped his phone over to see if, somehow, he'd missed a call.

Popping his door open, Black reminded himself he wasn't steering this ship. It wasn't his choice what happened next. All the information had been handed over, and people with higher ranks than his were debating what should happen next.

Echo would be sitting on a tarmac in Türkiye, waiting for the sun to set. They were seven hours ahead of Eastern Standard Time.

Black got out without bothering to lock his door. Iniquus was one of the most secure locations in the world. Black planned to tap all his contacts here at Iniquus to let him in the gate if it looked like a nuclear war was starting. He was sure they had the best fallout plan around. Maybe second to POTUS, but Black wouldn't be on that survival list.

Tucking his phone into his pocket, Black straightened his tie, using his side window as a mirror, then started for the atrium door.

If this went down, Red would have to stay in close touch with her asset to make sure that there wasn't any blowback on the guy, Black thought. Though, if this went down perfectly , it should look like Poole disappeared into the night. No one would think that there was a mole telling tales from the office where the asset had listened in.

Never assume. Not everything goes into a report.

As soon as he knew anything, Black would apprise Red. He made the mental note as he walked through the soupy morning air.

Red had sounded like shit when they were on the phone. He and Grey had been on video feed; she had been a black square. Her phone, when she wasn't speaking, had been switched to mute, and her voice was weak and raspy with the hitch-breath delivery of someone who was bracing against pain.

It was the personality of a field officer to bite down on the bullet and get the job done.

That was probably what was happening. Black trusted she could handle whatever was going on.

Red, like all field officers, carried all the standard pharmaceuticals and knew how to treat herself to keep her name, face, and—most importantly—DNA samples away from anything that had governmental control or connection.

Red was definitely on his mind. Not only her health and the Poole situation but also, while Black had no idea why he was here at Iniquus, he did know it was Red-related.

Could it be something to do with her illness?

Since the Iniquus call came in about an hour after Black got off the phone with her, and since Red didn't respond when he reached out, Black would admit that the heat and pressure behind his sternum had become painful.

He reached into his pocket and took out his roll of antacids. He popped one in his mouth, pocketed the roll, then yanked open the atrium door, moving from the ninety-five percent humidity into the crisp air conditioning that made his sweat evaporate and chilled his system.

The waiting escort gave Black a slight bow. Visitors weren't free to move around the building on their own. The CIA had tested some of their best officers, asking them to breach Iniquus and take a picture in the executive suite to prove they had gotten in. No one had been successful. This organization ran with the fine-tuned precision of a hand-crafted watch.

"Sir, if you'll follow me, I'll show you up." No introduction. No further chit-chat, just a crisp turn, and his guide took him to the elevator, up to the corridor that held the Iniquus forces' office spaces, down the hall that Black had traversed many times before, stopping with a quick rap on the door that read "Panther Force War Room."

Panther Force's tactical operations coordinator, Nutsbe, opened the door. The guide gave a slight bow and disappeared toward the elevators. Nutsbe held out his hand for a shake.

When Nutsbe had called this morning, referencing Red with a "this seems time-sensitive" dangle, Black headed straight over.

He'd considered Red's health, but could this possibly be about Poole?

Black's gaze swept past Nutsbe to take in the room where a woman sat at the highly polished conference table. She looked small in the black captain's chair. Her ebony hair and navy blue dress made her sink away until all that was truly visible was a determined face.

"Miss Abadi," he said. This was one of Red's most important assets with essential contacts in both Lebanon and Syria.

"It's Mrs. Ackerman now, but you can call me Sophia," she said without standing. Instead, she opened her hand toward the chair next to her by way of invitation. "I'm sorry if I'm disrupting your day. I tried to reach Red but was unsuccessful. I just received news from a friend of mine." She stopped and slid her hands down her skirt, smoothing the non-existent wrinkles on her lap. "I understand that you and Red are on the same team and that all information is shared between you? I remember you from before."

Okay, she wasn't bringing him bad news about Red. That, at least, was a relief.

"Yes, exactly. That's how I was able to intervene on your behalf when the FBI mistakenly took you into custody."

Sophia bit her lower lip and looked over her shoulder at Nutsbe, who sat just behind her and to her left with an enormous bullmastiff dripping drool onto the carpet. When Nutsbe didn't warn her off, Sophia turned back to Black. "Okay. Red isn't answering, and I don't think holding on to this story is wise. I'm just going to tell you."

Black reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a digital recorder. "May I?"

"I prefer that you don't, actually." She gave a tight shake to her head. "AI can trace voices now, and I'm not interested in getting on anyone's list. I'm meeting you here because it's safe for us to talk at Iniquus. No one would know I was passing on information. I have every reason to be at my husband's office, even if he's out of town."

"Notepad is okay?" Black tucked the device away and extracted a pad and pen. He sat back and waited for her to start in her own time.

"Yes. Okay, so I typically offer Red information about conflict relics sold to fund terror. This time, it's more of a treasure hunt that I want to bring to your attention." Sophia cleared her throat. "There is a man named Zayd Ali Kamal. Do you know of him?"

"Yes." Kamal was one of the wealthiest men in the Middle East.

"He has offered a forty-million-euro prize for anyone who finds his fiancée's great grandmother's wedding gift. It's a ring with a rare red diamond."

"Fire of the Desert." Black nodded. "Last seen at the end of World War II when she was imprisoned in Marrakesh, Morocco."

"Exactly." Sophia licked her lips, then lifted the water bottle resting in her lap for a sip. "Since you know that, did you know it was found?"

"What?" Black edged forward in his seat. "No. By whom?" Forty million euros in the hands of an entity like ISIS could be cataclysmic. And if this had nothing to do with funding terror, why would Sophia Abadi Ackerman be involved?

Sophia drew a hand across her forehead and exhaled hard. "I received a call from my friend, Dr. Wajeeb."

Black nodded. "Syrian antiquities professor."

"Retired. Yes."

That he knew the name and could label him seemed to lower Sophia's distress. That disquiet was understandable since she was out of her chain of command, and the information she dealt with usually put lives on the line.

"Okay. Dr. Wajeeb received a phone call yesterday from a friend, Dr. Klein of Munich." She looked over to his pad when he hesitated and spelled. "K-l-e-i-n. Dr. Klein and Dr. Wajeeb have been friends for decades. They are in similar fields, and they often discuss rarities. Dr. Klein called Dr. Wajeeb and told him that five men had just come to his office—"

"In Munich, Germany?" Black asked.

"Exactly. They had the Fire of the Desert ring with them and asked that Dr. Klein authenticate their find."

"But it's been missing since World War II … How?"

"I know nothing about that." She twisted the cap off the water, then twisted it back on. "I know that Dr. Klein agreed that the ring was authentic, signed the papers verifying his opinion, and the men left his office. Dr. Klein then called Dr. Wajeeb to share this story. Dr. Wajeeb was on the phone when Dr. Klein yelled that there had been gunshots. Dr. Wajeeb said he then heard the sound of the phone thudding, presumably onto the floor, and the sound of running feet leaving the office and going down the stairs."

Black pressed the tip of his ballpoint into the pad.

"Dr. Wajeeb, of course, was horrified. He waited for his friend to get back in touch with him to give an explanation. When day turned to night, Dr. Wajeeb searched the Internet for information about gunshots fired in Munich to see if he could figure out what he had heard over the phone. Dr. Wajeeb discovered that there were five men shot in the head by what was described as more than one sniper on the rooftop across the street from Dr. Klein's office address. Dr. Klein was also dead. Pending autopsy, they believe it was a heart attack. The police, of course, have no idea why someone targeted these men. None of them had identification, though things of value—watches, for example, and phones—weren't taken. At first glance, it didn't look like a robbery. The only thing taken was a briefcase. I can show you this." She pulled out the phone that she had tucked under her thigh. "This video was recorded by the street cameras and shown on the news."

Sophia scrolled, then held the phone out to him.

Black watched a video clip of a woman bending low over a downed man, not to check on him but to take a briefcase. Then, she calmly walked down the road away from the carnage. The cane and the foot of an elderly man slid into view, but from the camera angle, nothing more was visible except the edge of a car door when it opened and the legs of the woman when she slid into the driver's seat.

The car moved sedately into the street and drove away.

"That was on the news," Sophia repeated. "They asked for anyone with information to please come forward."

"When was this?"

"Dr. Wajeeb spoke to Dr. Klein yesterday around eighteen hours, Munich time. This video was on the late-night news in Munich. Dr. Wajeeb waited until he knew I would be back from taking my boys to daycare before he called me. So he waited four hours."

Forty million euros. Forty million euros. What were the chances that these were thieves and not terrorists? Murderers who thought all was fair for a pirate on a treasure hunt?

With the names that Sophia was mentioning now? Those odds weren't good. Black made quick notes about the time as he asked, "The woman took the Fire of the Desert. Correct?"

"That's what Wajeeb understands."

"Do any other authorities know this?" Black handed her phone back.

"Dr. Wajeeb is leaving this to our intelligence community to consider. He's afraid if he says anything to anyone else, then well … I guess the closest American phrase would be ‘too many cooks in a kitchen.'"

Wasn't it interesting that she'd used the phrase that Black had just been using to describe the Poole situation? Wajeeb was right about this. It was better to hand it to a single trusted resource.

"Dr. Wajeeb told me and me alone. And, of course, I am handing it off immediately. I mentioned a delay between the late-night news in Europe and my taking the call this morning."

Black leaned forward. "You spoke over an encrypted channel?"

"Always. There's a little more. During those hours, Dr. Wajeeb did what he knows to do when something of that value is in the hands of a criminal. He tried to figure out who had possession of the ring and what they might be funding with the sale. His concern was and remains that forty million euros could wreak enormous destruction."

Black felt the blood draining from his face. This was what he was fearful of. He wouldn't be here unless both Dr. Wajeeb and Sophia concluded that this was about terrorism. Otherwise, why involve the United States government? "Who has it?" Black asked as evenly as possible, cutting to the chase.

"A woman. Dostoevskia Elena Yakovna She is Syrian born with a Russian father and a Syrian mother." In Russian paperwork, a name is written with the surname, followed by the person's first name, followed by the patronymic. "A" is often added to the surname, and the female patronymics end in either -ovna or -evna.

Yakov—as an American would write it—was a name familiar to Black. Yakov had been with the military for most of his career and was now retired. And yes, he had worked for the Russian government in Syria from around nineteen eighty on the Treaty of Friendship and Cooperation signed by Russia and Syria. Working between the two countries, Yakov mostly lived in Syria through the outbreak of the civil war, but that was twenty-eleven. Also, the Yakov Dostoevski that Black knew was married to a Russian woman, an oligarch's cousin. They had four children together, all of them grown, some with their own children.

So, Black was thinking of the wrong man. He'd figure out who Elena's father was when he got back to Langley. He needed to work with his targeters to see if this had come within their research. "Keep going."

"Elena is known within the circles who sell conflict relics. She speaks Arabic, Russian, and English fluently and enough Turkish to get by. She frequently flies to Western Europe to meet with people who would like special items, gathering wish lists from her clients and trying to match that up with available pieces found at archaeological sites."

"As its own crime or to fund terror?" Black asked.

"ISIS maintains control of all the digs in Syria. In order for her to function, it is with the blessing of ISIS."

"Red is familiar with Elena's work?"

"Yes, as am I. Of her name, at least. But we didn't know what she looked like. Now, we do. Dr. Wajeeb figured out that Elena used the last name Savas when she was in Europe. That was the piece missing. We know her as Elena Savas, not her Russian name. Once he connected those dots, he could make progress finding her image."

Black was making quick notes in a shorthand that only he could read. "Savas is a Turkish name?"

"Yes, and somehow she has Turkish papers and a Turkish home near the Syrian border where things are porous, so it's easy for her to cross back and forth."

"How did they decide that was Elena of the video?"

"No one is sure that it is her in the video. It might not be. It could be someone who works with her." Sophia filled her lungs and released a sigh, obviously trying to shed some stress. "Look, Dr. Wajeeb blames Elena for his friend's death. He feels certain that had Dr. Klein not seen the murders, he wouldn't have had the heart attack. Ever since Dr. Wajeeb heard the news, he has been working his considerable web of information. That's how he discovered that Elena Savas had contacted Zayd Ali Kamal's people and told them she had the sought-after ring and authentication papers. And he also discovered that Savas is an alias for Dostoevskia Elena Yakovna of Damascus."

"I see." Black paused, imagining the timeline. "And just so I'm clear about who possesses the ring, has Elena handed it over to Zayd Ali Kamal? Was Elena paid the money?"

"Not yet." Sophia said, "Kamal is an interesting man. He doesn't follow straight lines and seems to enjoy intrigue. Those are my observations. Kamal's right-hand man—uhm, his name is Joel Brighton—said he—he being Joel—would be at a charity ball in Vienna this week. Saturday. Kamal said he'd provide Elena Savas with a ticket—which, by the way, were sold out at least a year in advance. It's a centuries-old social event. It's called—"

"Secret Order of the Raven's Gate Gala?" Black asked.

"That. Yes. Joel will be there, and he asked Elena to come with the ring and the paperwork to prove this is on the up and up. And if that looks good, he'll give her instructions for how the exchange will go down."

"Interesting." Black would agree that Kamal found life a bore. Money made everything come too easily for him. If there was any drama to be had, Kamal would try to make a meal of it. "Security?"

"Yes, Dr. Wajeeb said he wondered the same thing. He discovered that Security is provided by the Order. No one is allowed—not royalty or heads of state—to bring in their own teams. That's my understanding, but I'm sure you have the resources to figure that out. It should be a safe environment for her to show him."

"Just to be clear, the him is Joel Brighton?"

"Yes, an American. Joel and Kamal went to university together in the U.S. I have his picture." She flipped through the phone again and showed it to Black.

Black knew Sophia wouldn't want to send this to his phone, and he didn't want that traceable connection either. He turned to Nutsbe. "Can you get that to me?"

"I will."

"And pictures, Dr. Wajeeb tried to get pictures of Elena." She scrolled forward. "This is old, but here is a Syrian school picture of her." Sophia showed Black the picture. It didn't pull up any connections for him.

Nutsbe leaned forward to look at the image. "I can put it through our AI to age that photo. How old would she be now?"

"Mid-thirties," Sophia said.

"We have a crime. We have the possibility of the criminal getting a forty-million-euro payout. We have a date for the meet and greet that you're sure of?"

"A hundred percent." Sophia nodded. "While waiting for Red to call me, I reached out to a friend who is part of that charitable society. She was able to check the ball's invitation list. Elena Sava's name was added this morning as Joel Brighton's guest. Before, it was listed as ‘Joel Brighton plus one.' And I thought I might be able to use my connection to score a couple of tickets so someone from our government could get in and observe or intervene. But there's no wiggle room. There are no more tickets. I'm sorry."

"What do you think is happening here?" Black asked. He had heard the ramping tension in her voice throughout the interview. He watched as she used both hands, petting the dog's neck and back. Sophia had been doing this kind of work for many years. She should be used to this level of danger. And yet, it was obviously impacting her hard.

"Elena Savas funds terror." Sophia sat with her back ramrod straight. "She develops terror cells outside of Syria. She has had money before—money in what would be, say, a million dollars in a year's time. She has never had forty million. The ring is going to be an international story. Once it is out there, the media will look for the lucky treasure hunter. They'll find Elena. The world is too small for her to hide her identification. And Zayd Ali Kamal and his people have no reason to protect her. That means Elena is about to be exposed, and she doesn't care. Dr. Wajeeb has concluded—and for what it's worth, I concur—that Elena doesn't mind the exposure because she will want to be the victorious face of what comes next. Dr. Wajeeb further believes that what is coming was already planned and is underway. They were simply trying to find a funding source to send it over the finish line."