The Ragnarök Conspiracy: INTEL 1, #1

By Erec Stebbins

"Fortify your shelf of Armageddon thrillers with this promising newcomer." -Library Journal. 

A Western terrorist organization targets Muslims around the world, and FBI agent John Savas must put aside the loss of his son and work with a man who symbolizes all he has come to hate. Both are drawn into a race against time to stop the plot of an American bin Laden and prevent a global catastrophe. 

"Outrageously entertaining: epic, explosive, subversive, engaged and compassionate, like a Michael Bay movie written by Aaron Sorkin." -Chris Brookmyre, author of Where The Bodies Are Buried

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erec Stebbins
• Release date: Jul 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781942360308

Book preview

Part I

Targets of Vengeance

Image of snake circling world with Norse letters

The significance of myth is not to be pinned on paper by analytical reasoning. —J.R.R. Tolkien, Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics

1

Monsters

Near the back of a rank dive in the Bronx, in one of the deeper recesses and darkest corners, FBI agent John Savas hunched over a shot glass, a caramel-colored liquid halfway to the rim. His slumped posture and navy fisherman’s cap obscured most of his features. Dark hair flecked with gray spilled out from under the cap and melded with the rough layer of stubble on his face .

The smoke in the bar created a tangible fog, infiltrating every crevice, staining curtains and nearly obscuring the obligatory No Smoking sign. A jazz band played its heart out against a side wall.

A select group of patrons ignored the music. Huddled in black corners, their faces turned to the walls, obscured figures whispered into the shadows.

Savas clenched his jaw. He’d been waiting too long, and this was a dangerous game. His recent injuries tore at his concentration, and fatigue began to set in. He shouldn’t be here; he knew that. His choices hadn’t pleased the physicians.

But they don’t understand.

He glared at the whiskey in front of him- a prop, but once a poisonous balm. Beginning one rain-drenched night at the Church of the Holy Trinity in 2001, he’d nearly drowned in that sea, losing his job, his home, his wife. After his son’s death, John Savas had lost himself.

He hadn’t touched a drop for nearly a decade. Not since the day he’d made a life-changing visit to the FBI. God worked in mysterious ways. Or at least friends do. Friends in high places, who had connected him to a new and experimental division at the FBI seeking unusually motivated recruits. Friends who had brought his file to the attention of Larry Kanter, a new branch chief, a man determined to rewrite the rules of national security, beginning with unorthodox methods and staff. Kanter had seen something in Savas, his record at the NYPD, the spark in his eyes at the mention of counterterrorism. Kanter had taken a chance on John Savas and been amply rewarded. But Savas had won that exchange, grasping a new lease on life—and a mission.

A moaning door hinge snapped him to the present. He glanced up discreetly, his slovenly posture belying an inner intensity.

A large man stepped inside, his appearance clashing with the interior of the bar. A battered coat poorly disguised his tailored clothes. His skin was a sandy brown, his features Arabic but obscured by the fat deposited over many years of high living. His stance indicated a man of power, but his eyes flashed fear. As the door closed behind him, two hulking bodyguards took positions outside. The man nodded toward a lone drinker near the door, a clone of the two hulks outside. A scout.

Savas returned his gaze to the drink. His contact was anxious, and frightened men were far easier to manipulate. Now the trap will be set.

The Arab walked slowly toward Savas at the back of the room. His eyes darted in several directions, and he approached the booth like a hunted animal. He slid into the opposite seat, placing his hands on the table.

This place is not safe.

Savas squinted above the whiskey and nodded, his olive skin blending into the stained wood around him. He scratched the three-day growth of beard.

"What place is safe?" he replied, a false Greek accent, modeled on his immigrant grandfather’s, inflecting the words. He opened his palms upward. "You want safe, sell smartphones. You want to bring in your shipments, talk to me."

Again, the Arab glanced around the room.

He’s very frightened.

Dimitris, said the Arab, "I have my connections. We must know who we deal with. Your name is not in any shipping records. Your prints match nothing in any database. You don’t seem to exist."

Savas mulled this newfound paranoia. He glanced at the latex false-skin over his fingertips. Bless my own paranoia. He only hoped they didn’t have access to DNA analysis. Ambassador Hamid, he said with his most crooked smile, I have been a disservice?

The ambassador rumbled deeply over the music. No. But we need to know more.

Savas shook his head. Is my cover blown? He felt the bulge from his pistol and tried not to glance toward the bodyguards. "If you know more, it’s not so good for me, katalaves? He held up his hands. No one knows these hands, Ambassador. My business is better with shadows. Not you, not the Americans, no one knows Dimitris."

Is that your real name?

Savas only smiled. I have boats. Good boats, also shadows. Never traced. We pay good money and they stay shadows. If you change your mind, then find other boats. He paused dramatically. If you can.

The ambassador squirmed. Savas didn’t envy the two-faced game Hamid played at the UN. That position gave him tremendous opportunities to exploit weaknesses in U.S. security. But he risked much to play the role of a terrorist pawn, whatever they paid him. Hamid wasn’t any kind of idealist. He was simply greedy scum that enabled the monsters.

The ambassador whispered tensely, "We would have been less uncertain if you hadn’t disappeared for a month!"

Savas had anticipated this. His injuries from the Indian Point insanity had pulled him off the street. Hamid had asked for meetings he could not honor. Dimitris the smuggler had simply disappeared. "It was, as the Americans say, too hot, Ambassador. Dimitris was in danger."

The ambassador’s eyes widened. Danger? From where? Who knows about you? Can they connect you to me?

Savas waved his hand dismissively. No danger, no discovery. After those bombs at Indian Point, the FBI was busy. Nuclear power plants make them very nervous, no? Everyone was quiet.

"FBI?" the frightened man asked, desperately.

Yes, FBI. Who else?

The man relaxed. Relaxed! Whatever had put the fear of God into Ambassador Hamid, it wasn’t U.S. law enforcement. His cover wasn’t blown. He still had a hook in this big fish. But the ambassador’s reaction disturbed him. What would frighten him so much that arrest seemed a relief in comparison?

Who, indeed? said the ambassador, an awkward smile across his wide face. He scanned the room again and checked his watch. Then we are still good. If you do not disappear again! But we must meet in more protected locations. Hamid seemed to have finished an internal argument of some kind. Captain Dimitris, we will have our deal.

Savas put on his greediest grin, but he was also smiling internally. Swallow the bait whole, Ambassador. Soon the FBI would have an unprecedented catch, one they’d exploit to uncover a web of underground contacts. Then they’d toss him in jail until he was too old to remember his lucrative moonlighting. Diplomatic immunity be damned.

The ambassador continued. We will contact you soon. You will come to a place we designate. Savas groaned inwardly; the ambassador was introducing complications.

"Of course, Ambassador. But, after Indian Point, business is much more difficult. More expensive. You understand?"

The ambassador hardly frowned. Yes, of course. This was anticipated. What are your terms?

Savas suppressed a laugh. Predictable. He would drive a hard bargain to cement his character. Double, Mr. Ambassador, and a quarter in advance.

That’s outrageous!

So is whatever you want to put on my boats.

The man nodded. We will consider it and be in contact.

Hamid rose, having never ordered a drink, and checked again with the bodyguard by the door. He walked to the exit, throwing nervous glances across the bar. The seated goon followed him outside. Savas watched them through the window as they waited for their driver.

He pushed the drink away. He'd return to the FBI and talk to Kanter. They'd need enormous resources to bring in Hamid. After two years of tedious work, slowly bringing to life the Greek smuggler, luring several interested parties into the net, Savas had hit the jackpot. The monsters needed gremlins to enable their crimes, and there were always greedy men like Hamid to play the part. Relying on them was a weakness, a trail back to the hive. And I will follow it.

A sharp sound tore through his consciousness—a slap from outside. Images of weapons danced through his mind, but he lurched away from the details and stood, staring forward.

The music stumbled to an awkward halt. People in the bar screamed and backed away from the window. Like the first stages of a Jackson Pollock commission, red paint was flung wildly across the glass—thick, languid drops tracing slow paths toward the sidewalk from a central bull’s-eye. Crumpled on the cement was a figure in a trench coat, three large forms dancing over it, screaming into cell phones. A fist-sized hole ruptured from the coat, crimson rivulets spilling to the ground.

Dumbfounded, Savas stared. Years of work collapsed along with that body. Openings into terrorist cells slammed shut in his face. As chaos erupted and patrons scrambled for the exits, Savas stood still, glaring at the downed shape outside, knowing too well that it wouldn't rise. A perfect shot, through the heart, the bullet fired by a professional.

Ambassador Hamid had been assassinated.

2

Special Ordnance

Through the window of the bistro, Savas watched an elegant woman in a gray pantsuit step out of a cab. Her highlighted hair shone a rich gold in the May sunlight, and she darted with a confident stride across the sidewalk to the restaurant entrance. She spoke politely to the maître d’, who directed her toward a table at the back. He waited as she surveyed the establishment—tables well separated, sounds absorbed by the old woods and carpets—approving of his careful choice. They were ensured a private and comfortable conversation. Savas smiled when several heads turned as she made her way to his table .

Dr. Wilson, your medical training’s paying off.

She sat and rolled her eyes. Okay, John, the punch line?

Well, three men looked your way. At forty-eight, that's a serious anti-aging formula.

She smiled. Requisite flattery: check. Quotation of age: Uncheck. Decent digs for lunch: check. And the check?

Check, nodded Savas.

You owe me dinner for this one.

Lorrie, this case is three years, five agents, several hundred thousand dollars . . .

And one dead diplomat.

Savas frowned. He was plugged into terrorist networks I’d give my right arm for!

He was plugged, all right.

Somebody wanted him out of the way. I don’t know if it’s a competitor, another government, or what. But he was taken out for a reason. I want to know who and why.

A waiter stopped by the table, and they ordered, resuming their conversation when he was out of earshot. Wilson pulled out a manila folder and slid it across the table. Savas put his hand on it.

This is everything? he asked.

"Jeez, you’re one greedy bastard. My husband’s alive because of you, but there have to be limits, John."

Savas was already flipping through the pages. How is Mike? he asked.

"Fine. Look, John, everything you need is there. They recovered the bullet—high caliber—damn thing blew right through him. Traced the angle of fire to a rooftop a block away. A distance shot. The shooter was thorough—not a print, not a shell, not so much as a hair anywhere up there. The diplomatic turbulence on this pushed them to work overtime. Top forensics team. Several people flown in from other crime labs. I wouldn’t be surprised if they brought in a board-certified psychic. Nothing."

Mmmmm, said Savas, reading.

"But you are right about something."

He glanced up from the papers. Yes?

The ballistics report's eyebrow raising.

Go on, said Savas. He'd forgotten how she liked the stage.

7.62 × 51 millimeter, .308-caliber hole and bullet.

Wait. Sniper rounds?

Standard issue U.S. Army and civilian law enforcement. With a twist, she said, sipping her water, her attractive face angled slightly. Savas just stared at her. "Slight variant on the ammo. Ballistics had to call in help. Turns out it’s limited production used at the beginning of the Iraq War. Definitely not civilian ammo."

Savas leaned back in his chair and squinted at the physician. You’re telling me that my contact was gunned down by a limited-edition military bullet from a high-powered rifle?

Fired over a block away with enough accuracy to strike the man’s heart. She flashed him a winning smile. That’s it, Johnny-boy. It's a weird one.

"How the hell did that end up in New York?"

"I don’t know. That’s your job. This CSI shit isn’t what I went to med school for. Now, the rest is there for you to read at your considerable leisure. She glanced purposefully around the restaurant. I’m hungry—for food and a drastic change in the topic of conversation."

Savas nodded, still fixated on this absurd piece of information. Sniper rifles with obscure military rounds. The assassination of a dirty diplomat in the pocket of international terrorists. Blown apart outside a Bronx dive by a mysterious and highly skilled sniper.

What the hell is going on?

3

Hit Men

CIA agent Brad Thompson squinted at the monitor, watching a large crowd gathered restlessly around the mosque on the outskirts of London. The onlookers strained to hear the words from loudspeakers drowned out by surrounding noise and distance. He didn’t know what worried him more—Imam Wahid’s rhetoric or the number of people the extremist could draw salivating to hear it .

He approved of the heavy presence of British military to keep the peace. The task was underscored by the boiling unease and anger simmering beneath the surface of the youthful and mostly male crowd.

Agent Thompson cursed the faint rain that misted over the people, the streets, and the rows of cars lining the curbs, making their surveillance that much harder. At least they were hidden. He imagined how it looked from outside: a few hundred feet from the edge of the crowd, a wet and rusted white van parked roughly between two cars. Everything about the vehicle said that it was in disrepair, neglected, and on its last legs. Only a thick black antenna on the side of the van might give any hint of the reality within.

Inside, it was a different story. Behind the deeply tinted glass, several computer monitors displayed video feeds from many angles around the mosque. Members of Thompson’s team sat in front of these monitors, earpieces relaying audio, microphones over their mouths.

He glanced back at the feed, shaking his head at Wahid’s angry words, his youthful charm. Your charity fronts don’t fool us, buddy. The man was a powder keg of Islamic radicalism. They’d stop him, but not before getting the bigger picture.

The United States wants to control your world, rang out a strong voice. One video feed showed the passionate gesticulations of the imam; another, the rapt attention of the young men in the crowd. Yes, with the dollar and the sword, they subdue every nation, every people, every religion. But what chance does an empire, however grand, have next to the power of God? God will channel great power through each of you. Each of you is a soldier of Heaven against the armies of Satan. The world will be Islam!

An agent in the van whistled softly. The bastard’s really on. Goddamned towel-head revival. Thompson leaned over one of the monitors, staring at a pan of the crowd near the speaker. Keep an eye on those—the ones he acknowledges, singles out, greets, walks with. Let’s get face shots, front and side. We need to ID these people.

A woman’s scream wailed over the speaker system, and everyone in the van stiffened. A man monitoring the speaker focused intently on his screen and shouted to the others present.

Wahid’s down!

What? Thompson gasped.

Switching to stage views.

All the monitors lit up with images at various angles of the platform. The podium was empty, the crumbled body of the imam near its base. Figures leapt onto the stage and raced to the body, turning it over as panicked screams rose from the crowd.

Oh, shit, whispered Thompson. The images made it clear that the imam would not return to the podium. Figures around him were tearing at their beards, several covered in Wahid’s blood. One cradled the man in his arms, the body limp, a large bloodstain over the left breast. The rain washed over their forms, diluting the red.

Thompson mobilized his team. "Move people! We’ve got a hit on Wahid! Long range, rifle shot, and from high ground, I’d put money. Sync with the Redcoats! Rooftops, exits—we need it all covered! I need agents moving now!"

The van erupted in an uproar of sound and activity, voices over the speakers in ears, commands shouted into microphones. The crowd outside seethed. Men began chanting angrily, fists raised in the air. Several pummeled the car next to the van, smashing its windows.

Holy hell. Radio British police that we’ve got a riot brewing. Let our people know where the violence is and how to avoid it.

The van began to shake, fists impacting loudly against its sides and the dark glass. Several shouts announced the arrival of the mob.

Don’t panic! The glass is strong. Thompson removed his gun, dark metal gleaming in the lights of the computers. Except in training, he had never used it. Michelson, let’s try to get this piece of junk moving!

He checked the cartridge, released the safety, and moved to the front seat of the van. Daylight spilled into the dark vehicle as several angry arms forced open the door. The CIA man aimed the weapon and fired.

4

Death List

An awkward man with a bearded grin turned away from a computer monitor, a blue glow painting one side of his face .

John, I think I might have something.

Savas leapt over to the console. The man’s face turned back to the screen and was partly obscured by the enormous beard and long, disheveled hair curled below his shoulders. The sounds of keys clacking burst from underneath the hair.

Savas suppressed a laugh. Manuel Hernandez. Our very own Jesus. Except for the porn. He tried to decipher the multiple open windows, filled with database output, open web pages, and photographs of crime scenes.

I don’t see it, Manuel. We’re looking for known hit men with MOs that might match what we’ve got on the Hamid assassination.

Hernandez nodded. "That’s how I started. But it’s a long shot, like you said. I’ve been in front of these databanks for three days cross-correlating materials and methods from every known killer against the forensics. Larry’s got us drawing from FBI and CIA records. If there’s a known assassin with any consistency in style, it’d show up. Three days and nothing. Gets boring, John. I always get in trouble when I’m bored."

That why they tossed you out of grad school? Savas asked, still squinting at the screen, trying to see the pattern.

No one believes I quit! Honestly, John, there were weirder people there than me.

Yeah, but not so much trouble.

Can’t a man just want to serve his nation in the war on terror?

Savas waved his hand at the screen. Explain.

Hernandez indicated windows from online news organizations. All were dated reports, weeks to months old, from diverse locations across the globe. Each had an image of a dead body and police. The headlines in every case contained the word assassinated.

"Since I wasn’t getting anywhere looking for a who, I started looking for a what. What unsolved crimes in the last two years might have matched the MO? Honestly, after drawing a big zero in the database, my feeling’s that our killer, or killers, aren’t in there—that we’re looking for something new. Our fancy intel databases are useless. What’s left but the papers?"

Savas nodded. And?

It’s thin, John, but there’s something. Remember the Al Jazeera reporter killed in Atlanta, right as he left the airport?

"Mohammed Aref? Of course. Larry reassigned the case while I was in the hospital. Lighten my workload, he said. Aref was a real tap dancer. He’d been fingered by the Sheikh—money laundering through some of the East Coast mosques."

"The Sheikh?"

Savas smiled. My double-agent friend.

Right. The one whose real name not even Larry knows?

That one.

So, he ratted out Aref?

And several others, as he collected from them, too, no doubt. The Sheikh’s a real charmer. Second-generation Syrian street punk. Broke away from his conservative parents, but not before he picked up enough Arabic to make him very valuable to certain underground scum. Kid’s addicted to gold and adrenaline, thinks he’s smarter than everyone he’s conned.

"That’s what you call charming?"

Anyway, the Al Jazeera job was a cover for Aref, for his real work. He had a good scheme going. Charity dollars from many uncharitable sources. We used Aref to trace an assassination plot against a diplomat from Pakistan. We’re still planning to move on the entire operation, as far as I know. Savas glanced at the computer scientist. The connection?

Hernandez gestured toward the screen. Aref was gunned down by a high-powered sniper rifle. Single shot. Right through the heart. Sound familiar?

Savas furrowed his brows. Coincidence?

And so’s this, I suppose, said Hernandez as he enlarged another window. Savas read aloud from the web page.

Raahil Hossain, a lawyer and lobbyist for a Saudi construction conglomerate, was gunned down today in Egypt on a business trip. Known for his outspoken stance on Arab rights of ownership of oil and gas sites developed by foreign powers, he had become a controversial figure in the international community. Condemned by many Western governments for alleged ties to jihadist movements in several countries, he had found his ability to travel outside the Middle East increasingly restricted.

Skip to the end.

Savas paused and scrolled the text up on the monitor. Reports claim that Mr. Hossain was struck by a bullet as he exited his hotel in Cairo and that he died instantly, suffering a direct hit to the chest. The gunman was never found. Police speculated that the killer had fired from a distance and escaped in the ensuing panic.

Savas was quiet for a moment. Hernandez used the silence to bring up a list of names, dates, and locations. He rolled his chair backward and let Savas lean in closer.

All killed by snipers, mumbled Savas as he read through the list. All taking direct hits that killed them instantly. Each a player in the underground terrorist network. There must be twenty names here, Manuel. You think they’re all linked?

Beats me. Some don’t exactly fit—head-shots, for example, even though the bullets were military grade. Not the special ordnance you discovered, but we don’t know how careful the ballistics teams were. Half these kills were in parts of the world where they likely don’t even do a full workup, let alone release the data.

Savas put on his best Larry Kanter voice. "This is really thin, Manuel."

Hernandez nodded dejectedly. Yeah, I know. But it’s all I’ve got.

I didn’t say I thought it was wrong. Savas sat in a chair beside the IT specialist and breathed out slowly, lost in thought. Remember those Army studies on soldiers in Iraq, the ones who survived multiple IEDs?

Not really, John.

"They all had strong emotional responses to environments, hunches and gut feelings about danger. The studies showed that these guys had hyperactive attention to detail, keen sight and other senses, noticing details others missed. They weren’t consciously aware of it."

Right, now I remember. The guy who thought ‘the concrete slab didn’t look right’ and inside was an IED waiting to blow them apart.

"Exactly. He’d processed a lot of data subconsciously about the slab—imperfections, mismatches in colors, location—and without knowing why, his brain sent an alert. All he knew was it looked wrong."

Hernandez shrugged his shoulders. So what’s that got to do with this?

Savas looked back at the list of names. "After that article, I started believing in intuition, that it’s more than flighty emotion. Sure, for some it is flighty, useless stuff, and that’s why we get nut-jobs paranoid about things that aren’t there, conspiracy theories, and people afraid of their own shadows. But for those with a history of survival, or solving mysteries, let’s say, I think it’s real. Represents a lot of neurological processing we aren’t aware of. Something like that."

Hernandez simply stared at Savas.

What I’m trying to say, Manuel, is that I know it’s thin, he said, gesturing to the list. "I can’t justify it logically, but my gut tells me there’s something here. I think yours did, too. Like that cement block, something just doesn’t look right."

But what?

I wish I knew. There are a lot of dead men on that list.

5

Modus Operandi

Kanter stood and leaned over the table. " This is what makes sense ?"

Standing was the first sign things weren't going well for Savas. Once Kanter began running fingers through his graying hair, it was over, only a matter of time before the lecture began.

"A special meeting of Intel 1 you called me in for? You do realize that I manage other groups in this division?"

"It does make sense, Larry! They’re using guerilla-style methods. Removing those who are the key links in the international terrorist web! What else could unify all these attacks?"

Kanter threw up his hands. "John, that’s the point—I don’t see that they are unified. That’s your task, to prove it to me. This isn’t very persuasive."

The rest of Intel 1 was silent. The group was fully assembled, torn from different tasks and assignments, interrupting their work of digging out international terrorists. Because I called this meeting with high priority. With their eyes on him and Kanter’s tone, he felt like an idiot.

They’d listened intently to Savas as he presented the information. A list of assassination-style killings, each connected to the international terrorist underground. Some were middlemen, some were spokesmen, and some were fundraisers. But all were significant players, and all had met untimely deaths in similar ways. The same MOs. It was so clear!

Someone's moving systematically and ruthlessly, crushing the pressure points. They're crippling the ability of terrorist groups to function. The silence he received was maddening.

He glanced around the room for support. Any hint of support. JP Rideout and Matt King had their eyes cast down. The dark-haired Rideout, trim and stylishly dressed, had been Kanter’s steal from Wall Street and Bloomberg monitors. Rideout retained a residual superiority passed down from his French forebears, his style sharply counterbalanced by the analytical bookworm named Matt King. King, a former energy lawyer for oil firms, had turned do-gooder after witnessing the 9/11 attack on the Pentagon from his hotel window. Both Rideout and King clearly thought he was nuts. Across from them at the round table frowned Frank Miller, a hulking ex-marine. Miller held his gaze with a thoughtful expression as he parsed what Savas said.

Last of all he looked to Rebecca Cohen. She sat on his right, dwarfed by the solid wall of marine next to her, brown eyes troubled and nearly lost in the thick mane of chestnut hair that swept down her shoulders. Cohen had risen through FBI counterterrorism for a number of years and was snagged by Kanter because she was so bright. She had come to the states as a small