Code Name: Merlin

By George Wise

When women begin disappearing from U. S. Military bases around the world, the President calls in his personal troubleshooter. Can he find and save those women who have suddenly disappeared? Join us in a desperate journey that begins in San Diego and continues on to Washington, New York, London, Paris, Saudi Arabia and Israel, trying to find those missing women.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456712099

George Wise

An international businessman who travelled extensively, was exposed to the shady side of international relations. This personal involvement was a great help in the planning of this novel.

Book preview

Chapter 1

San Diego

JULIANNE NELSON HAD NEVER been so afraid. It was the kind of dread a mother feels when she sees her four-year-old child dart into traffic. She was driving to work on what seemed to be an average day, but with a terrible feeling deep in her bones. She had dropped her daughter, Mia, at her mother’s house on Homer Street and was on her way to work.

Since both she and her husband Scott worked, Julianne’s mother took care of Mia for her. Her mother lived alone since Julianne’s father died years ago; she and Mia were good company for each other. So, on a sunny day in San Diego, with birds singing, and everyone healthy, with both she and her husband having secure jobs and close family and friends around them, she should have been happy and content…instead she was trembling, using great effort merely to drive the car and to keep from crying.

It was a short drive down Chatsworth, a curvy street lined with Spanish- and Craftsman-style homes, past the house that belonged to the parents of one of the infamous Manson family women, up Catalina, past the wooded section of Point Loma, and out to SPAWAR Systems, where she was the secretary to the Commanding Officer, Admiral Harold (Hal) Sykes. SPAWAR (Space and Naval Warfare) supports the U.S. Navy’s submarine fleet with tactical weapons and information systems.

At first she felt flattered to receive the note, even though she was married and the note anonymous. It felt good to know someone thought she was beautiful. Secretly, she knew she was attractive, had a pretty face and what guys called a great figure…though it was fuller than she liked. It occurred to her that guys tended to say great figure and women tended to say I need to lose a few pounds, both talking about the same figure. The whole thing was unsettling but flattering. Just when she thought that would be the end of it, more notes appeared, and then they started getting personal. Frankly they began to embarrass her. They including language she didn’t even use in private with her husband. Because the notes were anonymous, she could neither respond nor get the writer to stop. At one point it was merely an intrusion, but then the notes got threatening, and now they were downright nasty as well. The writer said that she was ignoring him, didn’t care about him, and that she was a snob. Then they got worse. Now they reached a point where they began to threaten not only Julianne, but her daughter, and even her mother. He obviously knew a lot about her private life, and that was part of the problem; she wasn’t the only one in peril, so were her daughter and her mother. Moreover, if this were a casual acquaintance or a stranger, how did he learn so much about her personal business? So now here she was, trembling, about to cry, almost at work, and she had no idea what to do about it. She certainly didn’t want to tell Scott about it; he had enough on his mind, what with him being a fighter pilot on deployment to the Persian Gulf. He didn’t need to be distracted with something he could do nothing about

With SPAWAR Systems looming ahead, she found a place to park and went in. The guard, Barney, gave her a big smile, checked her ID and waved her through. Julianne was a little early so she had time to stop at the restroom and do a quick repair to her make-up. If she was lucky, nobody would know how upset she was. It was nobody else’s business. Things like this were kept to oneself; that was what her mother taught her and she thought that was good advice.

She went through the normal early morning routine of organizing her office and making coffee for the Admiral. He liked his own brew; French roast from Trader Joe’s, and he liked it made in his own pot, brewed strong and served with sugar. She had been the Commanding Officer’s secretary for several years, but since the position rotated every two or three years, she only worked for this Admiral for a little over a year. She took a few deep breaths, popped a Breath-Saver into her mouth, and was ready to start her day at work. She kept her poise all week, but for some reason today, Friday, it all seemed to be too much to handle. Just then the Admiral walked in.

Good morning, Julianne.

Good morning, sir.

Julianne, please come into my office, bring your note pad, and get me a cup of coffee. We need to plan the week ahead and I need some letters sent out.

Yes, sir.

Julianne picked up her pad, went into the inner office, got the Admiral his coffee, got herself a cup at the same time, then sat down opposite him at the desk and waited for instructions. She was still trembling a little and afraid a tear would start to fall, but all in all felt she had control. It was then that he said Julianne, what’s wrong? I can tell that something is bothering you. I need you to be able to concentrate on what’s going on here, and it’s obvious that something has gotten to you. If it’s something too personal, I’ll butt out, but if you’ll talk to me maybe I can help.

She couldn’t keep all the emotions bottled up; the tears started flowing, she was having trouble breathing, so she just let it all go. After what seemed like forever, she finally stopped and told him what happened. She also told him that it was her problem and it wasn’t fair to get him involved.

He just smiled and said, "You know, before I was assigned here I was an Assistant to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Every so often a problem would come up and they always called on the same guy to help them. These were problems too small and frankly too delicate for the CIA or FBI or Military Intelligence. They needed to be kept secret, so they called a guy whose code name was Merlin. He was called that because somehow, once he got involved, the problem magically disappeared. Officially, he is one of the Special Assistants to the President of the United States, but he serves the President, the Cabinet, and the Joint Chiefs as well. Being listed as a Special Assistant to the President, he has access to anything he needs to solve a problem, from weaponry, to aircraft, to intelligence, and he has the most top secret of clearances. Because of his proximity to the President, he gets whatever he wants, whenever he wants.

"The reason I mention him is that he lives here in San Diego and I believe he’s between assignments. He and I have become close friends and, if he’s not on an assignment, I’m sure he can help solve your problem. In fact, you’re in luck, because today is Friday and when he’s in town he has lunch every Friday at Seau’s restaurant in Mission Valley. He and a few of his friends enjoy a good cigar and have lunch out on the patio. Outdoors is one of the few places left they can smoke. He should be there today. In fact, I’ll take you over there myself, treat you to lunch, and introduce you to him. He usually gets there by 11:30 A.M. and the rest of the guys trickle in around noon, so plan to leave with me at eleven and plan to be gone till one-thirty or two. This may well be the most productive lunch you’ve ever had.

"I’ll only ask one thing of you: everything you learn about him must be kept secret. No one can know who this guy is or what he does unless he himself tells them. He has a favorite saying, ‘There is something to be said for done,’ and he somehow will get the job done. No publicity, no one will ever hear about it, but suddenly the problem is gone. As I said, that’s why they call him Merlin, because, like magic, he’ll take care of things. That little talk made Julianne feel a lot better and in fact, for the first time in a while, she believed that things could work out for her. The rest of the morning seemed to whiz by and before she realized it she was in the Admiral’s car on her way to lunch and to meet the mysterious Merlin.

They sped down Catalina to the Nimitz on-ramp and up to I-8, then east to Mission Valley and Seau’s restaurant. There was plenty of parking available, so they stopped, got out, locked the car and went to the patio area outside of the restaurant. There were about twelve round tables inside a glassed-in area just outside the main part of the restaurant, to the left of the entrance. At one of the tables set slightly away from the rest was a man, casually dressed in khaki pants and a blue oxford-cloth shirt, reading what turned out to be the latest Dan Brown novel. He was quite unremarkable, being of average height or less, and well-groomed

As they approached, he looked up and said,

Admiral, how the Hal are you? I assume you’re here to pay off that last bet you lost on the Chargers?

Admiral Hal Sykes just smiled and said, As I remember, Joe, you’re the one who lost the bet, and so that you’ll be more careful with your wagers next time I decided to bring along my secretary so today you can buy lunch for both of us. Julianne, this is my friend, Joe. To tell you the truth, I brought her along because she’s got a problem that maybe you can help with. If this is an imposition, or you’re involved in something else, we’ll try to find another way to deal with it.

Joe stood up, pulled out the chair next to his, offered Julianne a seat, and told her to order a drink. She protested that it was the middle of a workday, but he said that they were now operating under his rules; they had about twenty minutes before the others drifted in, and so unless she had moral or religious reservations she was to order a drink, try to get comfortable, and then tell him her story.

Julianne ordered a Rum and Diet Coke, and Joe and the Admiral each ordered a Bloody Mary. After she told her story, Joe told her he may be able to help, that he was in between assignments at the moment, and that he would see her at her office later in the afternoon. He took note of her address, phone number, her mother’s address and phone number, and a few other details, such as what kind of car she drove and the license number and color. He then told her that as of that moment she was under his protection and by mid-afternoon her mother and daughter would be as well.

A few minutes later four guys showed up and they were introduced as Steve Golden, Tony Lewis, Kevin Stone, and George Martin. Steve was about 5’6, slender, and balding, although he appeared to be in his early forties, and he was dressed like Joe. Tony was about the same age, with what seemed to be way too much hair for the average person, and dressed in Levi’s and a plaid shirt. Kevin was dressed in a suit and was about six feet tall with lots of curly hair, and George was about 5’9 tall and just as wide. They took seats and enjoyed a raucous lunch, complete with cigars. It was obvious they liked having an attractive, young woman join them for lunch; they flirted with her and teased her unmercifully, with Julianne blushing throughout their lunch.

As she rode back to work, she realized that she felt relaxed for the first time since this whole thing started, even though the threat was still out there. Talking to Joe felt like talking to an old friend. During what seemed to be innocuous conversation, he managed to get a lot of detail about her personal life and her routine without seeming to be intrusive. In fact, she now had a label for her problem: she was being stalked. This was something that happened to other people, something one read about in the newspaper, but now it was happening to her. As difficult as it was to acknowledge, it was a relief that she was getting help and apparently from a real pro.

Chapter 2

Joseph Abraham

I HAVE AN UNUSUAL routine because my job requires unusual preparation, but we’ll get to that later. I am officially listed as a Special Assistant to the President. Yes, that President. When Franklin D. Roosevelt was elected to the White House, he had already been stricken with Polio, so in order to have someone with immediate and unconditional access to the Chief Executive, someone who could tend to him in his times of need, the Office of Special Assistant to the President of the United States was created. The Special Assistant would be given all necessary clearances and access whenever the President required assistance.

Since those days, more Special Assistants have been added and their assignments varied. My position is an inherited one. The need for a very private investigator and trouble-shooter became apparent early on and I am the latest to hold that position. Technically, I serve only the President, but he has extended the use of my talents to assist the Cabinet and the Joint Chiefs of Staff as well. Needless to say, I am kept busy.

My routine includes some martial arts exercises; those mainly designed to disable or kill. In addition, I work on strength and agility exercises. One of the more unusual parts of my routine involves exercises specifically designed to speed up my reflexes. I am training myself to react instantly to given situations, and this involves recognition as well as reactive training.

By the way, my name is Joe Abraham. I’m forty-eight years old and live in a Cape Cod-style home with my sexy, understanding wife, Jennifer, and two dogs. My parents named me after the biblical Joseph because he was one of the most important and most unappreciated men in the Bible, and this was their way of paying homage to him. I must say that I agree and am grateful for their choice. In an era when so many people are unhappy with the names their parents gave them and even go through a legal process to change their names, I am delighted with mine.

I won’t tell you where in San Diego my home is located, but I have a panoramic view of downtown and the Coronado Bridge. The view is spectacular. On those occasions when I’ve flown into town with the President on Air Force One, my wife can see the plane land at North Island Naval Air Station. I keep trying to get the pilot to flutter his wings as he’s arriving in town but so far all I’ve gotten is: Get the hell out of my cockpit. Flying on Air Force One is very nice, but they keep making me put out my cigar, and they don’t even have jellybeans to compensate anymore. Aaah, the sacrifices I make for my country.

After Julianne left lunch, I asked Kevin to cover her mother’s house while I met Julianne at her office and got the rest of the information I needed. Tony would tail Julianne from the time she left her office, and in four hours Steve and George would replace the first two on the protection detail. If this took longer than one day, I’d call in a few other guys who worked with us occasionally. If this stalker didn’t expect surveillance or protection, the job would be quick and easy.

As it turned out, the eight A.M. to twelve noon shift caught someone putting a note under her windshield wiper. We photographed and followed him back into the SPAWARS offices. I’d made arrangements previously with SPAWARs security, so it was no trouble to follow the fellow back to his own cubbyhole. Now we had a face and a name. Neal Williamson worked in the Mail Room and had apparently seen Julianne on his travels throughout the building.

We continued to follow him for several days and determined that he was acting alone and not as an agent or courier for someone else. Our team then had a conference to decide what to do with this jerk. There were some votes for taking him out of there and beating the shit out of him; that may still happen . There were other votes for kidnapping him and making him disappear, but the final decision was to take him into a private interview room, confront him with the evidence, and get a confession. Afterwards, he would be fired from SPAWARS and prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Frankly, we expected a much tougher time resolving Julianne’s problem, but Neal was a few sandwiches short of a picnic.

Thereafter, whenever she could, Julianne joined us at our Friday lunches and she didn’t even have to smoke a cigar. We sat her upwind. A few members of the gang who drop in are smokers, some are not, and some just come by to piss us off, like Raider Jim or Packer Johnson. They cheer for the Raiders or the Packers instead of the Chargers. Now I can understand someone cheering for the Packers, but the Raiders? Yuck! As an old-time San Diegan, I am one of the legion of Raider Haters. Those guys are nevertheless welcome members of our group, in spite of their misguided allegiances, and many have found a way to help us when a problem comes up, as they are all specialists of one kind or another.

You see, one of the things I do is collect people. I constantly meet new people; most are very good at one particular thing, and if I ever need help in their area of expertise they are usually happy to help. Over the years I’ve learned to be a good judge of people and often will do a background check on those who come to us without the kind of references I trust.

It turned out that it was a good thing we caught the stalker so quickly. That afternoon my cell phone rang. I carry an ultra-secure, satellite enabled phone which can reach me anywhere in the world. This time it was from Charles, my coordinator in the White House

Whenever I’m needed on assignment or merely called to attend a meeting, the call is from my coordinator, who is also listed as one of the President’s Special Assistants. Believe it or not his name is Charles Atlas and he looks nothing like the legendary bodybuilding guru. This Charles Atlas is 5’5’’ tall, weighs maybe 120 pounds soaking wet, and is so immaculate he looks like a portrait. In trying to describe his personality, I’ll put it bluntly; no one fucks with Charles…no one. Sometimes I think his personality reaches out to me before my phone actually rings. Luckily for me, he likes and respects me, so we developed a close relationship. Because of his position, he can bypass all the normal red tape and get me whatever I need whenever I need it. The conversation was brief; I was told to go to North Island Naval Air Station and report to the Base Commander.

I reported to the North Island Naval Station, showed my ID at the gate, and was taken to the Base Commander, who welcomed me and ushered me into his office. I was told that there was a jet waiting to fly me to Washington. I was scheduled to attend an emergency meeting. Furthermore, the meeting was at a high enough level that even the Base Commander was not cleared for more information.

I always keep a bag in my trunk packed with the basics for a three-night stay, including a dark suit with accessories, so I retrieved my bag and was flown to Washington. From the airport I was taken by limo to the White House, and ushered into the War Room. I was assigned a seat opposite that of the Secretary of Defense, who was to chair the meeting; was offered refreshments, and waited for the meeting to begin.

Seated around the table were the Directors of the most important police and investigative agencies we have, including Naval Intelligence, Army Intelligence, Air Force Intelligence, the CIA, the FBI, the NSA, and the DIA. This meant there were going to be some serious subjects put on the table. I was just hoping that it wasn’t World War Three, because seldom are all these people in the Room at the same time. I frankly didn’t know why I was included. Most of the time I’m called in when there is a problem too delicate for the major agencies, such as FBI or CIA, to deal with, and then only if it’s a problem, usually a personal one, affecting the President, the Cabinet or the Joint Chiefs. Any other kind of problem is assigned to an agency with direct responsibility for that area, such as Navy Intelligence or Army Intelligence. They try to be discreet, but their goal is not discretion, it is resolving the problem. I am a heavy-duty guy myself, but I handle very discreet problems in a discreet manner. Here I was with the most important Intelligence and Police agencies in the world in attendance. If they’re involved, it’s usually to mop up what I started, or I’m not involved at all. Something extraordinary was going on.

The Secretary of Defense opened the meeting: "Gentlemen, we’ve got ourselves a serious problem and this one seems to be worldwide, although that has yet to be confirmed. You’re here because each of you represents a specific area with the expertise we need to resolve the problem. We’re not yet sure how widespread the problem is, nor if there has been infiltration into the military. There is a possibility that this problem has ramifications involving National Security. I will not take any chances with this, and that is the main reason you are all here. If this turns out to be a minor problem, so much the better, but if not, we’re getting a head start on it. You will all be working together on this, each in your own way, but there will be total cooperation with everyone represented here today…no territorial disputes will be tolerated. All reports will be sent to me and I will share information with all the others. I will make final decisions on everything. Now, to the problem: We have discovered that females have been disappearing from our Naval installations and military bases around the world. And by disappear, I mean no trace of them is left. Had this been an isolated incident, we would have assigned one of you and your agency to take care of the problem. Obviously, we are concerned about them, but more than that we are concerned about the possible ramifications. Are they being held for ransom, brainwashed and reprogrammed? Are they being used to blackmail their husbands, boyfriends, or parents in exchange for money or classified information? We can only speculate at this point.

You will see in front of you a folder containing some basic information about each of the missing females. Contact my secretary if you need more detailed data about any of these individuals. The CIA will begin its investigation on the Naval installations outside the U.S., as will Naval Intelligence. You two will coordinate your efforts. The FBI will work with Naval Intelligence here in the USA. For those who don’t know him, the gentleman at the opposite end of the table is Joe Abraham; his code name is Merlin and he works for the President. He is a hands-on problem-solver. He’s here principally because he is one of the best investigators I’ve ever met and he’s never failed in an assignment. He’ll be of great help to us all, but will be conducting his own investigation into this problem. Are there any questions?

Well, of course there were questions; is a frog’s ass waterproof? After the meeting, we got to know one another and exchanged ideas about how to proceed. I told them that in my opinion someone should go to each woman’s residence and see what could be found. Maybe something would jump out at us, some similarities, a note, something we can use. Also, we needed to confirm that this was a coordinated and directed effort. We needed to find out how these women were being selected and how they were being made to disappear. Since my home is in San Diego and there had been six disappearances from that area, I would begin my investigation there.

We said our goodbyes and I was taken back to the airport, got back aboard the jet, and was flown back to San Diego. I still didn’t get a wing-flutter and my request to light up a cigar was turned down flat. Again, they didn’t carry jellybeans, although I only requested them to pull their chain.

Somehow I have never been able to sleep on a plane. If it’s a train or a car, sure, but not a plane, so when I finally got back I was exhausted. I’m trained to get by on very little sleep if I have to, but in this case I saw nothing wrong with recharging my personal batteries before starting in on this latest assignment.

After all these years together, my wife has learned to read the signs and so she wasn’t particularly worried when I was suddenly called away. We have a mutual trust and respect that has been built up over a long time. But like any couple where one member is in the military, I can be on deployment for a good long time. This aspect of our relationship has its obvious drawbacks. But it also has its advantages. When we see each other, it’s like having a honeymoon all over again. So when I got home she greeted me in her birthday suit and asked, So do you want to eat, rest, or what? I decided on what, after which we had a late dinner on the terrace consisting of Quiche Lorraine and a Caesar salad, along with a chilled Chenin Blanc. We enjoyed the night-lights of downtown San Diego, and then finally, I slept. Oh the sacrifices we men make for those we love.

Chapter 3

Farasan Islands (Six Months Ago)

OFF THE SOUTHWESTERN COAST of Saudi Arabia lies a group of islands called the Farasan Islands, or more correctly, Jaza Ir Farasan. The large central group of these islands is known as an exotic and sought-after destination for scuba divers. The closest port city is Jizan, with Gizun being nearby as well. Off the northwest coast of the main group of islands one will find two islands that are unnamed and unapproachable. There are signs posted prominently warning people to stay away, that no visitors are allowed. In fact, none of the pilots of the scuba boats will go near these islands. There have been too many stories of others straying near and disappearing without a trace. This, in addition to the armed patrol boats, serves to keep these two islands very private indeed.

Both islands are the private property of Prince Ali Ahmad Nasrallah, who uses one of the islands for his headquarters. It is complete with palace, servants, an airstrip and a helipad, as well as the other comforts he requires, including tennis courts with bleachers and several swimming pools. There is also a private golf course, stables, and riding trails. The other island is used for the receiving, training, and selling of slaves; for the Prince is in the business of filling orders for a specific type of slave for his exceptionally wealthy clients throughout the Arab world.

His clients are welcomed to his palace and are treated as a Royal would expect to be treated. After dining and dinner relaxation, complete with Port and Cuban Cohiba cigars, they are shown a series of photographs from which they are free to make a selection. Delivery time is approximately six weeks, which includes a short training period. All sales are final and there is no return or exchange. There is never a judgment nor comment made regarding the order; as far as the Prince is concerned this is strictly business and each of his clients is free to request whatever he wants, from the r standard selection of women, to fat to voluptuous to thin; to men; to the young or middle-aged; to twins, or mother-daughter combinations. They can order whatever they desire and the Prince will attempt to provide.

In some cases research is needed to fill special orders, and thereafter a complete dossier, including photograph, is provided for each client. Special orders are always more expensive but, let’s face it, these clients expect to pay dearly in exchange for getting exactly what they desire, and furthermore, they can all afford whatever they desire. They are hugely wealthy people and command their own domains. In addition, by using the services offered by Prince Ali, they are assured of discretion.

In 2002, Prince Ali Ahmad Nasrallah, who was exactly number seventy-three in line for the throne of Saudi Arabia, and who detested the United States of America, finally decided to take action. He began his enterprise with an advertisement. It appeared in Soldier of Fortune magazine and called for mercenaries with military experience who have some Naval background. References or vitaes were to be sent to the magazine at a specific postal number and were then forwarded to a post office box in New Orleans, Louisiana.

In New Orleans they were picked up by Mahmoud Ferendhi, the second in command of the operation and the hands-on Commander. Mahmoud Ferendhi was a very scary guy, and had a reputation to match. He was completely bald, heavily muscled, and stood six feet eight inches tall, with a nasty-looking scar running down the left side of his face just to the side of his eye. He was one of those big-boned individuals who loved to beat the hell out of somebody and was very good at it. He also had a strong streak of loyalty, not unlike the Japanese Samurai of old. Make no mistake about it though, in order to accomplish a mission, he would do anything, no matter how ruthless or brutal. His only weakness was the food, drink, music, and general ambiance found in New Orleans. He loved everything about it, and thus made it his headquarters.

As a result of the ad in Soldier of Fortune, Ferendhi hired thirty-six mercenaries, who were then dispatched to a number of locations. They worked in pairs. The two assigned to the west coast of California were Henry (Jumbo) Horstman and James (Jim) Wesslauer. Jumbo was the brawn and Jim the planner and thinker. They, in turn, carried out Ferendhi’s orders perfectly.

The plan was a simple one: the Prince would receive a series of e-mailed or faxed photographs of several women, along with other pertinent