The Ulterior Motive

By Jack Coleston

The fate of the United States hangs in the balance and only a select few can prevent the impending disaster.

Stanley Carmichael is an intelligent and hard-working member of the Central Intelligence Agency. Yet, he never expected to be named Deputy Director of the CIA so soon in his career. Nonetheless, he finds himself stepping into shoes that feel impossible to fill.
Anna Carmichael is a legend. She's one of the fiercest ex-members of the Special Activities Division, where she saw more than enough blood and war for a lifetime. Now, she's still CIA, but stuck behind a desk and bored. Luckily for her, it seems her fieldwork isn't done yet. For as soon as Anna's partnered with rookie FBI Special Agent Blayze Phillips, she realizes his investigation is a lot more dangerous than it seems—especially when it turns its attention to the mysterious Caliph al-Maqasid.
They know that the Caliph spent the last few years successfully uniting fractured terrorist groups in the Middle East. Now he's formed the most well-funded, strategically efficient operation that's on its way to becoming a true global caliphate. But who is the Caliph, really? Why doesn't anyone know anything about this infinitely clever, charismatic, and terrifying man? And what, exactly, is he plotting next?

The Carmichaels will have to work together to find out because the Caliph is about to strike at the heart of America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Everlast Media
• Release date: Mar 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9780473384777

Book preview

Acknowledgments

The elevator doors swung open and a blast of hot air hit Stanley square in the face. The air delivered smells of freshly burnt gasoline, carbon monoxide, and the acrid stench of something rotting in one of the nearby dumpsters. It was a stark contrast to the pure air-conditioned comfort of the nine-by-nine steel box where he had spent the last two minutes of his fifty-floor descent.

Yet Stanley was unfazed by the change because he was in an exceptional mood.

Shifting his shoulders to settle his finest Italian suit jacket in place, Stanley used both of his hands to smooth the white cotton shirt collar that curved around his thin neck. He emerged from the elevator into the corner of a large rectangular parking garage.

Rolling back his left jacket sleeve he glanced at his Rolex Submariner. The big hand rested on the twelve and the little hand pointed to the one.

A big smile creased his face. Time could change anything, even the things that had always seemed impossible, like a childhood dream.

Then the second hand stopped.

He tapped the face with his forefinger in irritation.

What’s going on?

Stanley was jolted from his irritation by a disturbing commotion at the opposite end of the garage. The voices of men speaking loud and fast in a foreign language echoed above the distinct sounds of shoes squeaking sharp and harsh on the smooth concrete floor.

Swiveling his head in one quick movement, his eyes locked onto the source.

The timing couldn’t have been worse.

Stanley’s eyes widened with fear and his mouth dropped open in shock. His mind raced and he tried to comprehend the sight of four men in black ski masks wielding silenced MP5 submachine guns. For a second it looked like they were coming towards him, until he saw them change direction, revealing the man they were carrying. It was a sight materialized out of Stanley's worst nightmare. The kidnappers stuffed the limp body into the back of a waiting Range Rover.

Fear coursed through him. No time to waste. The men weren’t taking notice of Stanley and he didn’t want them to. With all the courage he could muster he sprinted across the concrete. The white fluorescent light bounced off the polished surface and into his eyes, causing a dull ache in the back of his head.

This is a bad idea; it’s a bad idea!

Huffing and puffing, Stanley covered the distance to his car as fast as his long, skinny legs could take him.

Behind him he heard a roaring engine and distressed tires echoing throughout the confined space.

Don’t look back!

Fumbling in his pocket with hands that shook like a fish out of water, he managed to grasp the fob with sweaty fingers and pressed the remote control to unlock his car. He reached forward and grasped the handle, swinging open the door of his black Maserati Quattroporte.

Stanley threw himself onto the driver’s seat, his heart pounding so hard he feared that one of his ribs might break.

Damn, damn, damn!

Turning the key, the V-8 engine roared to life.

Manage the situation, Stanley. Don’t let them out of your sight.

Throwing the gear selector into reverse, he maneuvered the Maserati out of the parking space before slamming the transmission into drive, then he pressed the accelerator to the floor in frustration.

The rear wheels screeched in loud protest and wisps of pale blue smoke curled up from the tires as they spun and fought for a hold on the slippery concrete.

It took a few seconds before the tires found their grip. The engine shrieked and snarled like a wailing banshee. Stanley’s body was sucked back into the seat by the sudden gravitational forces at work on his lean frame. He spun the steering wheel in a frantic motion and the car drifted around the corner sideways, then it hurtled at breakneck speed towards the exit.

Swerving, he managed to avoid clipping a reversing car.

Stomping on the brakes, the car decelerated to a stop as it reached the exit.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of the rear end of the offending black Range Rover disappearing from view.

Anna! Of course, what the hell am I thinking! She’ll be able to help.

He pushed the speed dial for his wife’s number into the car phone.

Anna's line was busy.

Great, what am I going to do now! He thumped the steering wheel and sighed.

It was at a time like this that Stanley needed his wife with him. It was just his luck that she wasn’t.

Maybe I can scare these kidnappers into … who am I kidding? These guys are obviously professionals.

Reaching down for the semi-automatic Glock 17 fixed to the side of his seat caused his hands to shake more than they already were. Anna always kept the pistol cleaned and loaded for him just in case, but she always hoped he would never actually need to use it. The cold polycarbonate shell of the gun made him want to recoil while he removed it from its holster with the utmost care. He could smell the familiar chemical scent of the gun oil that Anna used on every gun they owned.

Pulling back the slide on the top of the weapon as far back as it would go, he could feel the tough spring fight against his grip and the solid grooves digging into his skin. Letting go, it produced a resounding click and a fresh nine-millimeter cartridge was seated in the Glock’s chamber. Stanley received comfort from this gesture, however his hands refused to stop shaking as he placed it gingerly in the mouth of the center console.

He jammed his right foot onto the gas pedal once more. The back end of the Maserati slid to the right and then left, fishtailing out onto the road and missing the oncoming traffic by a hair’s breadth.

Turning away from the slide, the wheels regained their desperate grip on the blacktop. His eyes hunted for a sign of the Range Rover up ahead. The excitable Italian V-8 catapulted him forward faster and faster. He had to keep up with the kidnappers no matter what the cost.

This was more than just a matter of life and death. It was an unequivocal issue of national security.

Five months earlier…

Thursday, April 10, 2014

Sighing, Stanley stared down at his feet, hoping that somehow they would walk of their own volition in the opposite direction.

No backing out now; any minute I’m going to be marched into the Oval Office. But, it’s not the office that scares me, or the president—it’s him.

His eyes shot from one point to another: the ceiling, the floor and the president’s chief of staff working away behind his desk. Anything in the room was a welcome distraction to keep Stanley’s mind from thinking about him.

I’ve always wanted to be the director of the CIA. One day, when I was ready—like when I’m fifty-something. Now, they want to make me deputy director? Now, when I’m just thirty-eight? My kids are still in elementary school.

Sucking in fresh air through his thin lips he tried to maintain his cool while continuing to internalize his complicated situation.

Sure, I’ve had two and a half years running the National Counterterrorism Center, but that’s different from co-running an entire agency. Apparently they want me to swim in the deep end or die trying. Damn politics! By the end of today, I could be buried in a mountain of paperwork across the hall from the director. Unbelievable… Damn! I don’t want this, not yet.

Stanley played with the ring of keys in his pocket while he reflected on the man whose job he might replace.

Jamie Hanfield’s favorite saying was, If you feel like you’re in over your head, you probably are. Don’t worry though—fake it till you make it.

Jamie Hanfield had died of a sudden heart attack only two weeks earlier at age forty-seven, leaving his wife and three teenage children behind.

Everyone could see it coming, but they hadn’t expected it so soon. For as long as anyone could remember, Jamie had downed food in vast quantities like the acceptable social drug it was. Twinkies, Ding Dongs, sugary doughnuts and every kind of fast food known to man had conspired together to produce his portly three hundred and fifty pounds. Hanfield’s looks were very deceptive though. Behind the mountainous rolls of fat had been a charming man with a big heart and an extraordinary mind, honed from years of service both on and off the field. A critical eye for detail—that’s what had made him so good at what he did.

Many CIA officers reflected, on why Jamie never made it to director. No doubt, he had been the people’s choice hands down over the ruling tyrant, General Sandro Johnson.

Despite being a fifty-four-year-old general, Johnson was the man everyone called Colonel Sanders or the Colonel. All this behind his back, of course. The name was in reference to the late founder of Kentucky Fried Chicken—an unwitting analyst had somehow figured out Johnson was a distant relative of the late Colonel Sanders, a cousin of a second cousin. Even Hanfield had joked he was off to get fried chicken from the Colonel whenever he’d been summoned to meet with the pompous, self-centered, ill-mannered, short-statured, and short-tempered director.

It was probably a bit unfair to the real Colonel Sanders, but the name stuck.

The Colonel was whom Stanley was afraid of. Hanfield had figured out exactly what buttons to press to keep the Colonel happy. Stanley wasn’t so sure that he could do the same. Just working alongside the totalitarian Colonel held some sort of unnatural terror over him, not to mention the thought of occupying an office just across the hall.

Stanley stopped staring at his feet when the president’s aide appeared.

Dr. Carmichael, they are ready for you now. This way please.

Thank you, Stanley said, faking an air of nonchalance like he visited the oval office every other day. Okay, let's get this over with.

He reluctantly stood up from the antique chair, and took a brief, longing look out the white-arched French doors opening onto the beautifully manicured grass and gardens of the South Lawn.

The view provided him with no solace. In fact, the knot in his stomach began to tighten, squeezing down on what was left of his half-digested lunch. Turning his head, he focused his vision on the looming doorway twenty feet away and licked his drying lips.

Hanfield’s voice echoed inside his head again, "Fake it till you make it, Stanley."

When Stanley walked through the door into the Oval Office, he saw three men seated on antique couches.

President Elroy McKenzie, the first ever African-American Commander-in-Chief, sat with his legs apart on the couch farthest away from Stanley. His mid-sized, middle-aged frame was spread across almost half of the sandy brown velvet lounge chair he had chosen when he took office. The president looked the most comfortable and confident of the three men. A big grin parted his lips to reveal glowing white teeth.

The president looks like one happy cat today.

Seeing Stanley enter, the president motioned to the two men to stay seated and then straightened up and rose to his feet.

Stanley, it’s a pleasure to see you again. How are Anna and the kids doing?

Stretching out his large hand, he enveloped Stanley’s in a firm grip. His eyes softened as they stared into Stanley’s with a compassionate expression that oozed reassurance. It seemed that he knew all about the inner battle that Stanley had been fighting moments before he stepped through the door.

Stanley replied, The pleasure’s all mine, sir. Anna and the kids have never been better.

Stanley, call me Elroy. Please don’t worry about formalities in here.

Okay, sir…sorry, Elroy.

Stanley looked across at the two men seated on the other couch. Their body language made it apparent that they were each other’s kryptonite—both men seated as far away from the other as physically possible, while still remaining on the same piece of furniture.

The man seated at the far corner looked up at him with a genuine fatherly smile that warmed Stanley’s heart and gave him an extra dose of courage.

I’m going to be okay.

John Durham was the director of National Intelligence and responsible for overseeing the seventeen agencies that made up the United States intelligence community. Durham was also Stanley’s mentor, the man who had recruited him to work for the CIA fourteen years earlier.

The third man in the room looked like he didn't want to be there. Seated on the end of the couch closest to Stanley, he was skinny and short with flat silver hair that was slicked down in a still wet look with fresh comb marks running through it. He wore an immaculate class A military uniform with three stars on each shoulder, not a wrinkle in sight. Stanley couldn’t help but notice his murky brown eyes looking back at him with a striking dark stare. It was the sort of stare that made Stanley feel ten inches tall on the inside, sucking away his shaky confidence like a giant vacuum cleaner.

It was the kind of effect the Colonel had on certain people. An expert in the game of power, he liked to dominate and manipulate those under him like simple pawns in a game of chess. The Oval Office, however, diminished his usual power and ability, for here he was subject to a higher power.

The president gestured for Stanley to take a seat, and without any hesitation he complied. The aide closed the door to the room. President McKenzie took his place on the couch next to Stanley, his posture emanating confidence and authority.

Sorry to keep you waiting, we had a few details to go over before we brought you in. This meeting has to happen under rather unfortunate circumstances, with the recent passing of Hanfield. I’m sure you are aware, we have been discussing your suitability for the Deputy Director of the CIA role. You were on our short list from the beginning—a credit to you and your abilities, which have been clearly demonstrated by the excellent work you've completed in your two and a half years at the National Counterterrorism Center. The NCTC has intercepted more threats during your tenure than under any other director since it was first established eleven years ago.

Thank you. It really is a team effort, sir… Elroy.

No, thank you, Stanley. You and your team have helped make America a safer place for all of us.

Stanley glanced over at the other men. He noticed the Colonel fighting to stop his lip from trembling and his stare intensifying. He bit his lip.

The hell is his problem? Looks like he’s about to become a victim of spontaneous combustion or something.

The Colonel couldn’t take it any longer, his impetuous nature got the better of him.

How come he couldn’t damn well stop the Boston Marathon bombings then?

The Colonel had lost a close friend in the attack, a man that he’d known since he was a recruit at West Point Military Academy. It had become a sore point between them.

The president’s face clouded, I’m going to stop you right there. We have already discussed that at length, and your opinions and feelings have been taken into consideration.

With all due respect Mr. President. I admit Stanley is qualified for the role, but my personal preference would still be Michael Freemont.

Stanley couldn't look at the Colonel any longer, so he turned his head away.

Of course he wants Freemont! His lapdog, almost as much of a stubborn, hard-nosed and difficult sod to get along with as the Colonel is! It will never happen. They need someone more personable and approachable in the role, someone similar to Hanfield—someone like me. All I need to do is step up and they’ll be happy.

I’m not so sure Carmichael is a man I can trust or rely on the way I can with Michael—

John Durham cut him off. That's enough! Stanley is one of the best and brightest up-and-coming talents we have. So what if he’s not your protégé? Yes, one day he might put you out of a job. If he’s the Deputy Director today, he’s more likely to be the Director of the CIA tomorrow. But you’d rather have someone you can influence in the position, wouldn’t you?

The president spoke again, Gentlemen! Compose yourselves. We all agreed beforehand that Stanley is the most suitable candidate for this role. Nobody could’ve predicted the bombings, it’s like blaming President Bush for what happened on 9/11. That was institutional failure, not individual failure. We live, we learn, we make changes, we move on. End of conversation.

The president turned to Stanley. Stanley, you know the CIA inside and out. Nobody has a legacy in the agency that goes back further than your family. You are an asset to our country.

The president looked across at the Colonel and addressed him.

Stanley has got what it takes. Competence, resilience, intelligence and an ability to articulate concepts and ideas well; people with these characteristics will lead the way into the future.

The Colonel’s face remained impassive, etched in stone, his tongue barely held.

Stanley, it’s true, you have the potential to be the Director of the CIA one day, the president said. Don’t let the opinions of others dictate your future. All that aside, I’m pleased, to have the approval of the National Security Council, to offer you the position of Deputy Director of the CIA.

John Durham shot Stanley a quick grin.

Please don’t take offense at the general's reaction, said the president. He’s still mourning the loss of Hanfield.

Stanley waited for a moment for things to sink in.

Okay. So what happens next?

You are going to be handing the reins of the NCTC over to Mark Hunter.

Mark Hunter? Wait a minute. You're giving Mark Hunter my job? Surely he’s more qualified for the role than I am.

Wait, did I just say that out loud?

Well, Mark wanted to ease his way back into the intelligence community after his stint in the private sector.

Helluva way to ease himself back in.

Durham and General Johnson will meet with you to discuss the finer details and help you ease into the new role. Do your country proud, son.

Yes, si… Elroy. Thank you very much for this opportunity. I will do my best.

If the past is anything to go by, I’m sure you’ll do an excellent job. Gentlemen, you are dismissed.

As Stanley stood up to leave, the Colonel caught his arm in a vice-like grip and whispered in his ear, Carmichael, outside.

They walked out of the oval office and stood on the edge of the South Lawn. Stanley turned to face the Colonel.

I bet he’s about to try to steam-roll me with one of his crappy motivational speeches.

The Colonel looked at Stanley and smiled, baring yellowing teeth. He pulled a packet of Camels out of his breast pocket along with a well-used stainless steel lighter that glinted in the sunlight.

Taking a death-stick from the packet, he held it steady between two fingers in his right hand. Then he spoke, So, Carmichael. You think you're cut out to be a politician, eh? Think again, boy! This here's a dirty game with dirty rules and I've seen you, I know how you operate. Quite frankly, I think you don't have the guts to make the hard decisions. You know, the kind of decisions that bend the rules to breaking point. Hell, in this game you've got to have a set of rules just for breaking the rules, and even those damn rules have to be broken from time to time.

The Colonel paused to light the cigarette and take a quick puff. A politician has to take what he wants and then lie in such a way that's palatable for the people. If he's talking to a reporter, he'll spin the lie with subtle differences depending on whether the reporter's agency is biased towards the Democrats or the Republicans. You're a stand up guy Stanley, but do you have what it takes to live the lie when it’s required?

Stanley stood there still and silent as the Colonel blew a puff of smoke in his face before starting again, Could you kill a man's wife and children? Cause you probably will if you order a drone strike. Now if you're going to be my deputy, I'm going to expect you to do everything I ask of you. Your days as an analyst are over. But in my opinion, you should have stayed there, stuck to what you were good at! Writing psycho-analyses and threat reports on every terrorist and anti-American politician between Washington and New Zealand. That's what you’re good at. Yeah, I'll give you some credit for your work at the NCTC too, but that was child's play compared to being up at the top of the C-I-A. The Colonel shifted his weight from one foot to the other and stared hard at Stanley.

Boy, when I'm done with you, you're not going to be able to recognize yourself any more. Either that, or this job will chew you up and spit you out faster than you can get up and say your own damn name! The lights will go out and then it'll be goodnight. The fact is, Washington doesn't like honest people and honest people don't like Washington.

The conversation ended as abruptly as it had started. The Colonel was half-way across the lawn before Stanley could think of an appropriate response.

The Colonel says that an honest man can’t work in the CIA. Well, I’ve done it before and I can do it again. I’m going to prove that arrogant half-wit wrong!

Thursday, May 1st, 2014

Stanley walked into the conference room. He was met by walls covered from floor to ceiling in a neutral color. Flat screen televisions dotted the sides of the room like windows to another world. The wall facing the entrance contained a commanding feature: an imposing example of the CIA crest, which was nine feet in diameter. The most striking part of the crest was the bald eagle in the middle, presiding vigilantly over the empty room—a silent sentinel that saw and heard everything from the hidden microphones and cameras plastered behind the wall’s surface.

Stanley stared at it for a moment, transfixed by the eagle’s dominance over the room. He felt the pressing weight of the responsibilities he now held as Deputy Director of the agency. It was the same weight that had pressed down on him since his meeting with the president several weeks earlier.

Fake it till you make it. Ha, maybe it’ll work one day if I just give it enough time.

Stanley flicked a switch on the wall. A hidden motor whizzed and whirred as a big white screen descended from the ceiling, slowly obscuring the CIA emblem.

Stanley walked across the thin blue carpet to the far end of the round, stained oak table. His eyes took in all the empty office chairs that curved around its circumference. He slung his bulky, black, high-security briefcase up onto the table and then placed his thumb on the fingerprint reader. The blue two-by-two LCD screen displayed a spinning hourglass and then lit up green with the words Match confirmed. Latches clicked and opened. Stanley removed his laptop and plugged it into a box on the table which connected it to a projector hanging from the ceiling. He then removed a manila folder that had I.M.J.I.W. printed on a white label that ran along the front.

Important people started to file in one by one. Impatience oozed out of their pores and set the mood. They were sick of meetings, no doubt; they wanted this to be a short one, so that they could get home to their families.

John Durham came in and walked up to the end of the table. He took a seat next to Stanley and greeted him cheerfully.

Stanley, how are you adjusting to the new role?

I’m doing great, John, just great, Stanley replied, his tone laced with boundless sarcasm.

Stanley could feel his palms already coated in a thin film of sweat.

All eyes in the room turned to watch the Colonel strutting into the room with an air of control and authority.

Carmichael, let’s get this briefing under way. I don’t have time to waste! I need to be on a plane to Texas in an hour. Any late comers can watch the video and review notes later, he barked the same way he would if he was giving orders to a private.

Why does he have to be such a jerk to everyone around him?

Stanley didn’t even wait for the Colonel to get seated before starting the briefing.

Key Iraqi assets have provided our analysts with priority level information about a new threat to the stability in the Middle East. We all know that a threat to Middle Eastern stability is a likely threat to our national security; therefore this needs to be managed in an appropriate manner. I know some of you are not entirely familiar with the situation, so I’m going to have to give you the full background. Please bear with me if you have heard some of this before.

Stanley paused to take a deep breath before continuing. Since 2011 we have seen several off shoots of al-Qaeda engaging in terrorist activities in both Syria and Iraq. Fresh intelligence confirms our fears: we have substantially underestimated the power and influence of the most prominent of these groups.

Stanley clicked a button on his presenter remote and a black flag with Arabic writing filled the screen at the end of the room.

The terrorist group is known as IMJIW, Islamic Mujahideen for the Jihad of Iraq and the World.

Stanley peered across the room at the Colonel; his eyes were glazed over as if he was about to nod off to sleep.

"While our troops were on the ground in Iraq, IMJIW conducted terror attacks against US troops, Iraqi Security Forces, and important Iraqi officials. They proved a constant thorn in our side and have become an even bigger thorn in the side of the fledgling Iraqi government.

The Bush administration’s mistake of disbanding the Iraqi army left many Sunnis with guns and nothing to do. The Sunni were then recruited en masse by IMJIW and other radical groups and indoctrinated into their way of thinking: a devastating combination which has contributed to the deaths of hundreds, if not thousands, of American troops."

Stanley thumbed the right button on his remote and the next slide appeared on the screen. The projected image displayed IMJIW fighters slaughtering a group of unarmed Syrian soldiers.

In 2011, IMJIW joined the fight in the civil war against the Syrian Regime in an attempt to overthrow President Fakhr Hussaini. They sent commanders in to recruit fighters to their cause and develop new IMJIW terrorist cells within the country—

General Johnson interrupted, Tell me, Carmichael. This group, IMJAW, IMJOW, or whatever the heck they’re calling themselves this week, is it true that they’ve been disowned by al-Qaeda?

"Al-Qaeda has disowned IMJIW due to their brutality towards other Muslims, including innocent civilians. These militants have sunk to a new low, they won’t hesitate to kill anyone. They’ve been known to kill and torture women and children. This is something that al-Qaeda simply doesn’t do. IMJIW has been breaking all the rules and that is why Hafsa Alnasseri, the leader of al-Qaeda, has openly cut ties between al-Qaeda and IMJIW."

If al-Qaeda has disowned them, then why do we need to be concerned?

That’s what I’m about to tell you, if you’ll let me.

Go on then, kid.

Since joining the Syrian war in 2011, assets confirm IMJIW has recruited a further twenty-five thousand men in Syria. This isn’t just Syrians, but foreign nationals also. Add this to the existing fifteen thousand in Iraq and we have a problem. In the last few months, they have gained control over a considerable amount of territory within Syria, including six oil fields which they are using to fund their fighting force in both nations. Furthermore, they have taken the cities of Fallujah and Ramadi in the Anbar Province of Iraq, Stanley said.

So you are telling me that this group has forty thousand foot soldiers in Syria and Iraq and I’m only hearing about this now? Why the hell hasn’t this been reported earlier? The Colonel was livid, his eyes searching the room, looking for someone whom he could condemn for the oversight.

Stanley sighed, "While