Darkness Above

By Ernie Wenk

Operative Mark Salmon works for Alpha Group, and they must track down a group planning to ship unknown materials to Iran. His mission is sidetracked after an attack on a hotel in Iraq at a secret meeting killing the Secretary of State from the United States along with leaders from six other countries allied with the United States. Also killed at the same meeting is a ruthless terrorist leader and questions arise as to why he was even there. Was he the specific target, or was it the other leaders? With help from CIA Agent Karen Maxwell, they uncover a plot that could change the course of history, forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ernie Wenk
• Release date: Feb 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301119653

Ernie Wenk

Ernie Wenk has been writing most of his career that has spanned over thirty years, creating and designing business processes and procedures, employee manuals and orientation booklets. Yet, at the end of 2004 he took a different road in writing and began to write fiction. He's the author of "Darkness Above" and of the newly released novel "Hidden Deceit". He's also released in April 2013 a new non-fiction series for those who have just been promoted. It will provide insight into the opportunities they will encounter after their promotion. Please check out his website at http://www.erniewenk.com/ and sign up to receive posts about the writing life where he will fill you in on the progress of his current works. He also includes information and tips from many experts in the field of writing that will provide insight and encouragement to writers.

Book preview

Prologue

The midday heat scorched the arid city. She hated how hot it was walking down the sidewalk wearing the black Hijab and long, loose fitting black gown. Her destination still two blocks away, the traffic in the street had come to a standstill, exhaust fumes choked the air. Car and scooter horns blared. She kept her focus on the ground, careful not to look up and risk being caught eye to-eye with any man. Only her eyes were exposed. She had walked this path several times in the past month and knew it by heart. The crowded sidewalk slowed her momentum, yet she was careful not to rush.

She risked a quick glance ahead and saw why the traffic had come to a halt. The police closed off the road ahead and diverted the traffic away from the hotel to a two lane side street. This created the huge backup, as the street leading up to the barricade was four lanes. Arriving at her destination on time was paramount. Several moments later, she reached the driveway to the city's largest hotel. Fortunately, the police had not stopped those on foot from getting near the hotel, yet. Several Rolls Royce's lined up in front of the hotel's entrance; their passengers exiting the vehicles after their armed escorts first scanned the area then signaled it was safe to exit the vehicles. She still wasn't sure how she'd get past the armed policemen at the hotel entrance.

Her pace slowed as she came up to one of the vehicles at the end of the line. She saw her way in. Several women dressed as she was, were exiting the rear of a long, black limousine. As they quickly made their way to the front doors, she hurried and fell in behind them. The policeman standing guard at the door gave a hard look at the group before he waved them through. She stayed with the group until they reached the middle of the front desk; then she broke away, veering to the right and went to the large sitting area, adorned with huge gold and diamond encrusted chandeliers. She sat in one of the many lounges covered in supple leather. Several other men and women were there, but paid no attention to her as she settled in her seat, resting folded hands in her lap. The air conditioning brought her welcome relief from the unbearable heat outside, yet she didn't have time to enjoy it. Her informants told her the hotel was closed for patrons, except those invited to a highly private meeting with Abdul Aziz. Tomorrow, the hotel would once again re-open to the public.

From her seat, she had an unobstructed view of the hallway and the doors to the largest of the meeting rooms. Careful again not to catch the eye of any men, she kept her head lowered and glanced up to scan the crowd. A sudden chill went down her spine; what if she arrived too late. How would she know when he arrived? The information provided the day before confirmed his attendance. If she missed this window, weeks of planning would be all for naught. There wouldn't be another opportunity like this again for weeks, months, or even years.

She resisted the feeling of dread. All of her training came down to this moment in time. It was critical to stay focused and complete her job. She'd give it another ten minutes before she would have to leave. Even with the chilled air in the lobby, she felt the droplets of nervous sweat run down her face.

A sudden lull filled the room. She felt her pulse quicken, and dared to take another glance at the front door. As if choreographed, the front doors of the hotel flew open and five large men entered. Behind them, five more men followed. She noticed a large bulk under the guard's jackets. None of the men spoke, the crowds parted in front of them like the Red Sea when Moses held out the rod. In the middle of the wall of armed bodyguards, a man of great girth seemed to float across the marbled floor, his gaze straight ahead. It took only seconds for the group to pass by, and the nervousness she felt seconds before had dissipated. Her target arrived.

As they moved down the long hallway, she watched until they entered through the large double-door entry to the large meeting room. Unknown to her, another large group of dignitaries had entered the hotel at the rear entrance. Without delaying, she stood up and exited the building. There was one more thing she had to do. When the front doors closed, she lifted her right hand towards her face as if to fix her head wrap, and spoke into a hidden mike; a small black patch taped to the inside of her long sleeved garment. The antenna was part of the patch, sending her signal to a satellite.

Target arrived. You have a green light.

As she put her arm down someone from behind grabbed her right arm. She whirled around and faced the same policeman who moments before had stood outside the entrance to the hotel when she arrived.

What are you doing? he bellowed.

She panicked, caught herself and quickly looked down. She said the first thing that came to her. I am finished with my shift and must meet my husband.

You lie. The policeman pulled her closer; stale cigarette odor assaulted her nostrils. I'm sure your husband wouldn't mind if we go back inside to see if you tell the truth.

He yanked her back towards the hotel. Something needed to be done and quick, but taking this man down in public would not bode well for her departure. Another plan came to mind. A few steps later, she feigned tripping and fell to her knees. Her arm felt like it almost had jerked out of its socket when he didn't ease his grip.

Get up.

Just as she was about to plead with the man, someone called out to the policeman. He turned and told the man to wait. However, the other man barked an order. The one holding her pulled her closer and glared, before he released her arm and left. He muttered a foul word; she wasn't sure if he directed it at her, the other policeman, or the world in general. With no time to waste, she got back up and headed back the way she came earlier. Once she reached the street, she took a quick look back and didn't see anyone following, including her new friend the policeman.

Ten minutes later, she stepped inside a small coffee shop. The bell over the door rang loud, a strong bouquet of coffee and stale cigarettes filled her nostrils. If only she had time to sit, down and enjoy a cup of the dark, rich coffee. Several men reading their newspaper at the small tables didn't even glance her way, except for the owner of the shop, who eyed her watchfully. He never moved from his chair, but his hand lowered to the holstered handgun under the counter.

At the rear of the shop out of view of the customers were a set of rickety stairs that led upstairs to several rooms. She ascended the steps two at a time, passed the first door belonging to the owner of the shop and stopped in front of the one at the end of the hall. She removed a key out of her hidden pouch; her eyes moved up to the top of the door near the hinge and noticed the small filament string she had placed before she went to the hotel hadn't been disturbed. Hurriedly, she unlocked the door, went inside and closed it behind her.

The room was bare except for a small bed with an old cover thrown to the side, a small wooden table made of olive wood with a small candle placed in the center, and a sink that dribbled rust colored water. A small window with grates looked out onto the crowded street below. On the floor near the front door lay her backpack. After she'd locked the door, she went to the opposite side of the room, knelt down and pulled back the frayed rug and the aged plywood panel. Inset in the wooden floor she reached for a small ring with a combination lock. Her hands trembled slightly as she spun the dial. Panic tried to come back. She forced herself to remain focused, still she had to maintain control so she stopped and took a couple of deep breaths.

After she spun the dial and stopped at five different numbers, there was a faint click; she pulled open the metallic panel, reached in and pulled out the large duffel bag. She took out the clean clothes, shed her Hijab and black outfit, and dressed in jeans and sport shirt, blending in with the hundreds of other westernized tourists milling about the large city. She grabbed several passports from the duffel bag, shuffled them and took one, throwing the others back in the bag and slid the one she chose into her back pocket. She then took out a dainty gold watch, checked the time and saw her plane would leave in two hours. Not a lot of time. Lastly, she took out the boarding pass, her ticket out of this god-forsaken country.

She stuffed the duffel bag back into the hiding place, closed the panel, spun the combination lock and spread the rug back over the area. She grabbed her backpack filled with another selection of woman's clothes, a Brad Thor novel and two bottles of water. She bundled up the sweaty garments, left the room and locked the door. Then she went to the next room, paused, knocked twice and the door opened a crack. A wrinkled hand reached out, and she dropped the bundle of black garments into the hand, and proceeded downstairs. This time she exited the back door, sat atop a moped parked to the left of the door. She fired it up and raced off to the airport.

The rumble of the blast from down the street shook the ground as she drove in the opposite direction. She smiled; glad her work had been a success, praying she'd never return to Iraq. Ever.

****

The shop owner heard the back door shut and the moped speed off. He got up from his stool, stood at the bottom of the stairs, caught a wrapped bundle and took it outside to an incinerator located several doors down. A fire roared inside, adding to the inferno. He opened the metal door, threw it in and watched the fire consume the bundle with the black garment. Returning to his shop, the door slammed shut the same time a loud explosion rocked his building.

****

Something about her bothered him. Even with only a small part of her pale face exposed, he knew she didn't belong. His curiosity first rose when he noticed she broke off from the group of women and sat down alone instead of staying with them.

No way should he have let her go; but to disobey an order from his superior would meet with painful penalties. Except this time, he should have ignored him and not let her go so he could interrogate her. Instead, he obeyed, and for what? His boss ran out of cigarettes. He pulled out his half empty pack, threw it at his boss, and ran back outside to finish what he started.

He reached the sidewalk, looked up and down the street. It was difficult with the hundreds of pedestrians crowding the sidewalk, unable to find the woman. He grunted anther epithet and trudged back inside the hotel, in hopes of cooling off both his anger and the heat of the day. Inside, the lobby was empty except for the clerk behind the large reception desk. The meeting had begun.

A hotel servant pushed a serving cart past him with a half emptied tray of appetizers. He ordered the boy to stop, reached out, took several dates, and tossed one up in the air. He turned to leave and resume his duties watching the front door of the hotel and hoped Allah would bless him with finding the woman. When he reached the sea of people out near the street, he heard a whistle above him just before the wave of energy propelled him forward, his head striking the asphalt. He'd later learn what happened when he woke up lying in a hospital bed with a concussion.

Chapter 1

The black tie event started out well for Mark Salmon until he noticed one of the waiters glancing in his direction one too many times in the past hour. Mark looked once more at the man making eye-to-eye contact. The man must have known Mark spotted him because he set down his empty serving tray of drinks turned quickly and dashed through a set of double doors to the kitchen. The man had dark military styled hair, of medium height with a tapered body and the physique of a body-builder. The uniform he wore looked too tight. Mark turned to his date Marci Boyd and whispered in her ear.

I'll be right back. I need to check on something.

Marci kept her playful smile on and nodded slightly. Mark placed a small kiss on her cheek. Don't be long, she said.

Mark spoke to the couple on their right, If you'll excuse me, I'll be right back. There's someone I need to speak with.

Of course, Karl Jameson said. When you return, I have another question for you about our business arrangement.

I look forward to it, Mark said as he stood and headed towards the kitchen doors.

Karl's eyes followed Mark.

As Mark walked amongst the table, he scanned the room wondering if there were others watching him.

Mark and Marci arrived at the evening's invitation only event of Washington's very elite, those with money, prestige and influence. Even though touted as a non-political event, Mark knew it had everything to do with the shakers and movers in this country as several Senators and Congressmen were in deep conversations around the room. Even though Mark and Marci's combined income and assets weren't even a tenth of those here tonight, their invitation had come from one of the most influential political figures of all, Senator Austin Wyatt, who unfortunately was unable to attend due to other pressing matters.

Mark deposited his half empty champagne glass on a serving tray and continued his trek to find the waiter. Mark reached the doors, stepped back as several other waiters came through with large trays of salad. As he waited, he touched the small of his back and felt the 32 caliber Beretta Tomcat tucked in its holster. The two extra magazines each with seven rounds were within easy reach in a specially designed pocket on the right hand side of his dress jacket. The last of the waiters passed by, Mark quickly stepped through the door and scanned the busy kitchen. There were at least fifty other waiters and cooks in a hurried frenzy to serve the hundreds of hungry folks in the room behind.

Mark quickened his step and darted between the workers, looking for his target. He was half way through the kitchen when he looked past the row of ingredient filled shelves and saw the emergency door closing. He started to jog towards the door, when one of the chefs stepped in front of him holding a large serving tray of freshly broiled Alaskan king crab. The two collided, the head chef landing hard on his rear, the crab flying. Mark kept his balance, looking down at the angered chef.

You idiot, what are you doing here, the chef said, his face bright red.

Mark reached down to help the man up. I'm really sorry buddy, let me help you up.

The chef pulled away, Get the hell out of my kitchen before I call security. He rattled off a few more choice words in French as he strained to get back up. Mark stepped around the chef, accidently knocking the man back down again with his knee. He didn't stop to help the chef, ignoring the commotion and raced towards the closed emergency door. He burst through the door and found himself in a back alley of the hotel. To his left an engine roared, tires squealing on the dry pavement. Mark turned just in time to jump out of the way of a low profile racing motorcycle. He tripped on something and just missed the biker kicking him in the leg.

The rider wore a black, full-faced motorcycle helmet, the shield tinted so he couldn't see a face. Mark was certain it was the waiter. Mark reached around for his Beretta, aimed it toward the rider and started to squeeze the trigger when two hotel security guards barged through the door, blocking his shot. Mark took his finger off the trigger and quickly put the gun back in his holster. He started to stand up when the guards pulled their own weapons and demanded he stay on the ground.

It took Mark the next ten minutes to explain his actions. He told them he thought he'd seen a friend and just wanted to catch up with him. A weak story Mark thought, but he had to come up with something. Mark heaved a sigh of relief when they finally let him go, without frisking him and finding his gun.

After he brushed off the dirt and started to return to the party, he noticed tossed to the side of a garbage can a black vest and apron, the same style the waiters inside were wearing. The guards apparently didn't notice the clothes as they followed Mark back inside and secured the door. Mark could feel the eyes of everyone on him in the now disorderly kitchen. He brushed by the chef he ran into and saw the rage still boiling.

I don't ever want to see you in this kitchen again, the chef hissed.

Sorry buddy, it won't happen again, I can assure you.

The chef lunged toward Mark; had it not been for the sous chef who held them back, Mark was certain they'd be on the ground wrestling.

Mark ignored him and went back to his table.

****

Back in the kitchen behind the ice machine, Karl Jameson slipped out of the shadow, took out his cell phone and made a quick call. He then walked out through another set of doors on the far end of the kitchen and went back to the table for dinner. Mark Salmon was proving to be a formidable adversary.

****

The tables were set with Belle Bianca dinnerware, accompanied with pure silver utensils. The Lalique crystal water glasses from France sparkled under the lights from the jeweled chandeliers above. A grandiose flower arrangement of red and pink roses, graced with Queen Anne's lace cast off a sweet perfume mingled with the many varieties of overpriced perfumes.

Mark arrived back at his table and noticed Karl was gone. He sat and was ready to ask of Karl's whereabouts when he came from behind and took his chair next to Mark.

Sorry, I had to use the restroom, Karl said.

Mark glanced over and caught Karl winking at his wife Lydia. Marci pretended to pay attention to Lydia's droning on about the world cruise she and Karl took last year on their sixty-foot yacht, with an exhaustive reciting of all they did at each port. Mark knew Marci pretended only to hang onto Lydia's words, yet he knew she concentrated on his conversation with Karl with the help from a small hearing aid type amplifier in her left ear.

Mark, tell me again why we should consider your partnership, Karl said as he leaned closer to Mark, so the other two couples at the table couldn't hear.

Mark took a sip from his new champagne glass, set it down and looked directly at Karl. I've already told you, I have the contacts you need to make your delivery.

Karl lowered his voice. The group just needs to take every precaution with any new associates. It wouldn't be, let's say profitable, if someone chooses not to play by our rules.

Karl's sudden cold demeanor with his question and warning caused Mark to wonder if he somehow compromised his cover. He needed to say something; losing this deal was not an option. He kept his eyes locked with the man who was the go between to some very powerful people, of whose identities were Mark's goal to ascertain.

Karl. I can make things happen. You won't be sorry. I don't know what else to say to convince you.

Karl leaned back, took his wine glass, held it out to Mark for a toast, a grin on his face and said, I'm convinced. I'll pass on your assurances once more and see if we can seal this deal tonight.

Mark picked up his glass and the two glasses clinked as they brought them together. Perfect, when will I find out? Mark said.

Let's enjoy our meal and time together. I'll make a call afterward and hopefully we can celebrate our new partnership.

Mark smiled, put down his glass and glanced over at Marci. She winked at Mark as she pretended to listen to Lydia detailing their African safari.

As the wait staff removed the dinner plates, Mark hoped he had convinced Karl enough that they needed him. It was just six months ago, Mark was able to get his foot in the door when his boss suggested they put the word out he had contacts in different parts of the world who could move any commodity anywhere and anytime, avoiding nosey questions; the shipments accomplished successfully without any government or police agency knowing they were happening under their very noses.

The plan worked. Mark had finally received contacted two months ago via a note left on his table at his home to call a private number the next day at noon. At the end of the note it said if he either didn't call, or was one minute late, he'd never hear from them again.

Mark wasn't amused. He still remembers kicking the kitchen chair after he read the note knowing someone had entered his home without setting off the security system he had in place. Whoever worked for this group is obviously very good at what they did. These guys didn't mess around, and neither did Mark.

Mark made the call, on time, and from that day forward, they had him go to several locations throughout the Washington DC area. Sometimes it was a restaurant, bar, hotel, and once was a liquor store, where he was to find a hidden throw away cell phone, and answer the endless barrage of questions from the group's members. It was the longest interview he had ever done. They were very careful and thorough, but Mark had no choice.

Chapter 2

A quartet entertained the guests while the waiters served an expensive glass of Cognac and dessert. Afterward, another group cleared their table of all dishware when Karl pushed back from the table to make the call, telling the women it was for a smoke break. He nodded at Mark and left the table, exiting the hotel through the lobby of the hotel, the humidity covering him like a wet blanket. The din from the traffic and exhaust fumes made for a typical big-city night.

Karl took a circuitous route around to the back of the hotel, checking to see if anyone followed in his wake, especially Mark Salmon. He didn't trust the man, yet it wasn't his call, or his place to second-guess the others. Still, he had a job to do. He finally made his way to the kitchen's rear door Mark had exited earlier chasing a waiter. Looking around, working to keep his face away from the cameras placed high above, he removed a Monte Crisco cigar from his breast pocket, and spent the next minute lighting it, blowing out the thick smoke hoping it would block the odor of garbage in the alley.

After five minutes enjoying one of his few pleasures in life, he removed his cell phone, looked through his email, read one from his broker about some investment he thought would be a real money maker, deciding he'd call him first thing in the morning and tell him no thanks. Karl deleted the email, pocketed his phone, took a few more long drags from his Monte Cristo before he put it out and threw it across the alley. As he headed back, he looked down and found a clump of clothes.

He took a closer look, and grunted in aggravation. It was the waiter's uniform he procured for the man Mark had chased. Karl gathered them up and looked around the alley. He found a dumpster behind a tavern thirty feet further down the alley, ran to it and threw the bulk of clothes inside, covering them up with scraps of menu items tossed earlier. He took another quick look around to make sure there wasn't anything else the waiter had left in his haste to leave. He headed back to the hotel lobby and went to the restroom, washed his hands and after another inspection of his clothes returned to the table.

****

Instead of sitting back down, Karl motioned for Mark to follow him. The two men made a roundabout path to the lobby again, stopping several times as