Praesidium

By Bret Lambert

The fight against world terrorism continues unabated.
Within the massive walls of two ancient fortresses --- one surrounded by the vast Indian Ocean, and the other surrounded by the expansive Libyan Desert --- plans are made, one against the other.
Alexander Shaitan has learned that his arch enemy las left himself vulnerable, having spread his resources thin across the globe. To use this to his advantage, the terror leader has spirited a French terrorist out of a maximum-security prison with the express purpose of killing his arch enemy.
Tika, whose evil is matched only by her father's, will also participate. Between the two ruthless killers, how could the mission fail?
Either way things work our. Tika has plans of her own.
Erik Racher has his teams eradicating terrorists wherever they are found: in a market in northern Spain, in a jungle encampment in the Peruvian mountains, in the dark alleys of London, in a Kurdish enclave in Iraq, and on a road in the Syrian Desert.
When he learns that trouble has arrived to Momanzia, it becomes a race against time to reinforce the ocean bastion, and to save the small handful of inexperienced defenders.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bret Lambert
• Release date: Feb 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463163764

Bret Lambert

The author was born in the jungles of Sumatra. He has traveled extensively in Southeast Asia and the Mediterranean Sea. His military service included time in Germany (when there was an East and a West) and Turkey. After the military, he worked in the CSI unit of a midsized West Texas city. He now resides in Arizona with his family.

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PRAESIDIUM

For The Innocent: Book Four

By

Bret H. Lambert

Copyright © 2019 Bret H Lambert

Distributed by Smashwords

All rights reserved. Except as permitted by U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, or organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design: Joshua D. Lambert

Proofreading and editing: Peter Illidge

Ebook formatting: ebooklaunch.com

Other Titles

FOR THE INNOCENT

VINDICTA

REGINA MARIS

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Epilogue

ONE

The man standing on the rampart of the tenth century desert fortress, his praesidium, was of indeterminate age. His black hair, neatly combed back from a high, intelligent forehead, had some distinguished graying at the temples. His complexion was Mediterranean, or perhaps Southern or Southeast European, Western or Central Asian, or perhaps even from certain parts of South Asia or North Africa. No one really knew, and those who did either would not or could not talk. His black eyes were piercing, cold and terrifying. His black eyebrows were thick, but not bushy. He was clean-shaven, with a straight, aquiline nose. When these features were combined with his high forehead it gave his face a certain intelligent characteristic. Deadly intelligence.

He leaned lightly against the polished mahogany walking stick, his long, strong fingers wrapped comfortably around its solid gold handle in the shape of a wolfs’ head. His emotionless black eyes gazed northward across the vast wasteland of the Libyan Desert. It was an early December morning and the air was crisp and cold. He could see his breath as he exhaled. The sky was clear; the indigo of the night sky was gradually lightening to a beautiful, rich azure blue. He ignored the exquisiteness of the early morning as he ignored all things that held little interest for him. When the weather mattered, only then did he pay it any attention. This was not one of those times. On this particular morning, he was waiting for a visitor of sorts.

Low on the distant horizon to the northwest he saw the speck that was his personal AgustaWestland AW109S Grand helicopter. With a crew of two and capable of carrying up to seven passengers, the sand-colored rotorcraft cruised at one hundred and eighty miles per hour across approximately five hundred miles of scorching—or freezing depending on the time of year and time of day—desert. It was crewed by his personal pilot, former Soviet fighter pilot and member of Russia’s Tsitadel (Citadel) organized crime group, Stanislav Besedovsky, and Kōzō Wakō, formerly of the Japanese Red Army, a crack navigator and an expert bomb maker. The sole passenger would be Sabine Archambault, considered to be the most dangerous woman in France. Spirited out of the European nation by members of his Illuminatos Societate Libertas (Enlightened Society for Freedom), she was a shadowy member of the now-defunct Action Directe (Action Direct) revolutionary group.

A slight smile touched his humorless lips as he turned away from the stone parapet and proceeded inside his desert redoubt. He walked down stone steps worn smooth by centuries of use, from centuries ago. The dark, thick stone walls had a textured smoothness from hundreds of years of being rubbed against. Absentmindedly he allowed his left hand to caress the smoothed stonework. He followed the wide corridor with its flagstone floor to a set of huge, iron-bound wooden doors. Effortlessly he pushed them open on their well-oiled hinges and stepped into the fortress’s courtyard. At one end, there was the natural spring around which the fortification had been built one thousand years before. Numerous date palm trees of unknown age grew nearby, providing the inhabitants, and passersby, with a continuous supply of sweet dates.

Alexander Shaitan hated dates.

He quickly crossed the sprawling courtyard and went through another pair of huge, iron-bound doors. The wide gallery in which he found himself had several intricately carved wooden doors on both sides going the length of it. He opened the first door on his left and stepped into the air-conditioned comfort of his spacious and well-appointed study. Antique Persian rugs covered the cold flagstones, and colorful, antediluvian tapestries hung from the thick stone walls. Wooden latticed windows let in the strengthening morning light. He settled himself into his high-back leather chair behind his massive, and ornately carved, teak desk. He sat back, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair, his fingertips steepled before him.

A smaller door to his left opened and a blond giant entered carrying what appeared to be a diminutive silver tray in his massive hands on which was a silver coffee service. At seven feet tall and three hundred fifty pounds, Gustav Kleinemann was a colossus. The towering German placed the service on Shaitan’s desk and the silent man poured up a cup of steaming hot coffee. He handed it over without a word. He stood, noiseless, waiting, watching with small pig-like blue eyes.

Shaitan sipped at the hot liquid, feeling it flow down his throat, warming him as it went. He nodded to the giant. Excellent as usual, Gustav, he said approvingly. After another swallow he added, We will be having a guest soon; ensure that everything is prepared for her.

"Es ist vollbracht, mein Herr," growled Kleinemann in a deep, raspy voice.

Again, Shaitan nodded. Very good. Have my . . . daughter . . . join me at her earliest convenience. He still had trouble accepting the thirty-year-old woman as a part of him.

Kleinemann bowed slightly at the waist. "Jawohl, mein Herr," he said, and departed from whence he had come.

Shaitan watched the man vanish through the small door, closing it behind him. As he took another long sip from his cup he found himself amused, again, that Kleinemann was ‘little man’ in English. He also pondered the fact that Gustav Kleinemann was a twin, the older twin by two hours. Oskar Kleinemann was the spitting image of his older brother, only an inch shorter. Blond crewcuts and clear blue eyes, they were mountains of solid muscle who came with immense strength. They were former members of the now defunct Bewegung 2. Juni (2 June Movement) and the still active and violent self-described urban guerilla organization Revolutionäre Zellen (Revolutionary Cells). They had proven themselves to him on numerous occasions. He particularly appreciated their skill at killing with their massive bare hands.

The primary door to his study, the same one he had used only minutes before, opened and a beautiful Eurasian woman entered. She was slightly taller than average height, with wavy black hair and large brown eyes. There was innocence in her face with its flawlessly smooth skin and inviting lips. She did not look her age of thirty. Tika Alexanderputri, however, was anything but innocent. She was the only person he knew, or had ever known during his many years in the terror business, who frightened him. Something he carefully concealed from everyone, especially her.

You summoned me, Father? she asked in a soft, deceptively sweet voice as she settled into a plush leather armchair near the cold hearth.

He observed her with a detached expression. She was the result of a torrid affair between him and an Indonesian woman with power and position. It had been three decades earlier, during the time when he was just establishing his place in the underground world of international terrorism. I asked that you come here, yes, he said flatly.

She smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile. Is she here?

Soon, he replied. Sabine Archambault, I think, will be a very useful addition to my organization.

A libertarian communist, useful? Tika scoffed, her brown eyes flashing.

Her beliefs are immaterial to me so long as she serves her purpose.

Hmph! she grunted sarcastically. How did you manage to get her out of France’s maximum-security prison?

Where there are people involved, there is always a way, he said smugly. Bribery or blackmail, everyone has their price.

How very clever of you, she said dryly.

Have you been able to learn anything further about Erik Rächer? Shaitan asked quietly.

She shrugged. Nothing new, she replied indifferently. The latest word is that he is paralyzed from the waist down. But you already know that. He is out of the picture.

The terrorist shook his head. Oh, no, he is not. As long as he is alive he is a threat to me. He may not be able to come after me personally any longer, but he can have others do it for him. He has a brain, a clever mind, and he will not quit.

And neither will you, Father, she said dismissively. She looked carefully at him. Is that why you spirited Archambault out of France? You want to use her to get at Rächer?

Why not?

Why not, indeed, Tika murmured quietly.

It was several minutes later when the door to the study opened and a tall, dark and handsome man with chiseled features, and wearing a tan flight suit, ushered in a woman of average height with short, dark hair, hazel eyes, and a pronounced Gallic nose. She brushed past the grinning pilot with an air of superiority and strode purposefully to the teak desk. She placed her feet shoulders’ width apart, thrust out her generous chest, her fists resting on her rather ample hips, and she glared down at the man in the high-back leather chair.

Who are you? she demanded in a curiously squeaky voice. What is the meaning of this . . . this kidnapping?

The terror leader sat in his chair and looked at the woman over his steepled fingers. For a full minute he said nothing, merely stared with his emotionless, black, piercing eyes. Allow me to introduce myself, he finally said in a level voice, barely a cold whisper. I am Alexander Shaitan.

The color drained from her face as the fists fell away from her hips. She glanced quickly about the room, her hazel eyes stayed in motion until they came to rest on a black-haired Eurasian woman with a caustic smirk. Seeing that she obviously had no ally there, she returned her eyes to the man with the Mediterranean-like complexion. She licked her dry lips with a small pink tongue and tried to swallow. I, ah, did not realize, she murmured apologetically. "Excusez-moi, monsieur."

Shaitan inclined his head ever so slightly. "C’est compréhensible. Ne pense rien de lui."

"Merci, Monsieur."

"Cukup! declared Tika in Indonesian from her chair by the hearth. Enough of these nauseating pleasantries! Tell us why we are here, Father!"

He glanced uninterestingly in the direction of his daughter. "You must learn patience, noni, he told her in a cold voice. To the Russian at the door he said, Close the door on your way out, Stanislav!"

Besedovsky clicked his heels together and gave a slight bow at the waist, and then he stepped out of the study, pulling the heavy wooden door shut behind him. The large room with its collections of antiquities became as silent as a tomb. There was no sound from outside the room or within. Two sets of cold eyes rested on the standing figure at the desk. Sabine Archambault felt her knees begin to jellify.

Sit down before you fall down! snapped Tika unkindly. "Dungu!"

The French terrorist all but collapsed into the nearest chair in front of the desk. "Oui, monsieur?" she asked him weakly.

Let me tell you what I want, he said quietly with a cold, calculating smile.

TWO

The sun was at its zenith in the cloudless sky, beaming down its warmth and light upon the city of Santurtzi in northern Spain on the Bilbao Abra Bay. The snow that had fallen the previous week was all but gone. There remained small, dirty patches in the shadowy alleys where the sun did not reach. And in those shadows there stood two men. One, the taller of the two, wore a long trench coat, and a slouch hat that hid his face from a casual observer. The other wore a similar coat but no hat. Both men had a swarthy complexion, with dark hair and eyes. In this city, even with its large immigrant population, they would stand out. There was something in their behavior, in the way they walked and talked, in the way they interacted with others. They were not unfriendly, but rather indifferent.

Alejandro Salazar had grown up hating the government, local and national. The Basque, like his imprisoned father, was a proud member of the Euskadi Ta Askatasuna (ETA). Since its founding in 1959, his family had supported a free and separate Basque Country. His adult life had been spent pushing for independence from Spain. Once again, he was going to draw attention to the plight of his people, and once again he was going to make a statement that only a deaf government could hear. Never mind the truce declared by the ETA the previous year. He was going to cause such mayhem, such chaos, that the government would surely have to listen. That is what he had been told by his mysterious benefactor, the man who had materialized from nowhere and generously supported his cause financially. The man with black, piercing eyes, cold and terrifying. Alejandro remembered especially the polished mahogany walking stick with the gold wolf’s head, and the large emerald ring on the right ring finger. There had been a look about the man, a look of deadly intelligence. He was not a man with whom one trifled.

Eduardo Salazar stood beside his older brother. There was moisture on his youthful upper lips, and a nervous flitting of his dark eyes. Constantly he looked over his shoulder into the twilight of the alley. He too wanted an independent Basque Country, but his conviction was not as strong as his brother’s. He fought gallantly against the government’s armed forces, and had proven himself on numerous occasions, but this was different. It was very different and he did not like it. But he idolized his brother and would follow him anywhere, and so he found himself in a darkened alley off the busy Avda Murrieta. He glanced up at his brother, praying that Alejandro would change his mind.

From beneath his coat the elder brother produced a Spanish-made Star Z62 9mm sub-machine gun. Quickly he checked it, but he knew that it was ready for action. He glanced down at his younger brother, quietly ordering him to do the same. Eduardo followed his brother’s example, though his heart was not in it. Alejandro smiled, but there was no warmth, and he curtly nodded his approval. Then he stepped to the edge of the alley and looked out into the light.

The Fruteria Izaskun farmers market on Avda Murrieta was busy on this Saturday; it was the first nice day in weeks. The voices of the hawkers mingled with the speech and laughter of the shoppers. Children played, running freely amongst the stalls, weaving in and out of the throngs of pedestrians. Women, with their hand-woven market baskets, went from favorite vendor to favorite vendor haggling for the best price on the fresh goods. There was a festive feeling in the air, as there was every market day. The scent of a myriad of flowers filled the air as sellers called out to those who passed them by.

It was midday.

It was time.

Alejandro’s smile was cold as he produced two hand grenades, courtesy of his enigmatic patron. He carefully pulled the pins, and then lobbed them into the two most densely populated crowds. There was a delay of several seconds during which he wondered if they were duds, and then came the explosions. The sudden, undulating screams of his victims met his ears. He watched as the terrified masses scrambled in every direction, not knowing from where the attack had originated. It was then that he stepped out of the alley, raised his weapon, and began shooting indiscriminately into the humanity.

Eduardo stood frozen in the shadows of the alley. His face was pale, and he felt queasy. He watched as his brother calmly reloaded to continue the carnage. He wanted to turn and run but found that he was rooted. His brother began walking into the pandemonium, shooting at anything that moved. There were people everywhere on the ground. Some were dead, some were wounded, and some were trying to help. Alejandro shot the helpers. Amongst his screaming, weeping victims he stood, savoring what he had done.

The shooting stopped.

Silence descended on the bloodied Fruteria Izaskun farmers market on Avda Murrieta. Alejandro turned and grinned at his brother. He raised his arms in victory. And then he took a staggered step backward. The grin faded. There was a confused countenance which replaced his triumphant expression. He looked down at his chest and saw a growing red stain on his shirt. He looked to his younger brother and saw the horror on the boyish face. He felt his knees begin to buckle. He dropped to the bloodied avenue in a kneeling position, still not understanding what had just happened.

With a scream of rage Eduardo ran into the Avda Murrieta with gun in hand. He looked desperately around for whoever had murdered his hero. The scream died in his throat as he felt the impact of a single bullet to his chest. He staggered backward under its effect. Through sheer willpower he moved forward to his kneeling brother, and then collapsed beside him.

From a nearby vehicle two men emerged. They wore mottled charcoal grey battle-dress uniforms with no markings. Balaclavas hid their faces. In gloved hands one of the figures carried a Heckler & Koch G3SG/1 battle rifle with a Zeiss telescopic sight. The other carried a silenced 9mm Beretta M-12 sub-machine gun. The two men moved quickly to the brothers and checked their vital signs; both were dead.

We were too late, growled one man angrily.

We tried, Kyle, said the other in accented English. "Tutto era contro di noi. Everything was against us. At least we got gli assassini."

Sirens could be heard in the distance

Let’s get out of here, Pietro, said the first man, turning in the direction they had come. Help will be here soon and we can’t be found here.

The two men were gone as the first police vehicles came upon the carnage.

Pietro Battaglia was a former member of Italy’s 9th Parachute Assault Regiment (similar to Britain’s Special Air Service), with dark hair and eyes, aquiline nose, and olive-toned skin. The bombing of the Stazione Centrale di Bologna August 2, 1980, had killed eighty-five people, including his parents, and left more than two hundred others injured.

Kyle Murphy was a former Drug Enforcement Agency man who had lost his best friend, a fellow former DEA agent, the previous year on a mission to Colombia to kill a drug lord. They had wound up involved with InterOps in rescuing the President of the United States. He had been with the anti-terror group ever since.

Their powder blue 1978 Citroën LNA had seen better days. The paint was faded and chipped, and rust was visible in numerous places on the dented sheet metal. The three-door hatchback was a B-segment mini-car as defined by the European Commission, that is to say that it was larger than the A-segment (subcompact) superminis but smaller than the C-segment (compact) cars. It maneuvered quite well on the narrow streets of Europe’s older towns, and its 652cc Flat-2 engine was sufficient to get it from one place to another in decent time. It was, by no stretch of the imagination, the sporty car one would envision members of International Operations, LLC, to be using during a clandestine mission; certainly not in Hollywood’s version of their missions. It was the kind of car that did not stand out, that did not draw attention. It would get them where they needed to be; the Aeropuerto de Vitoria, to the south, outside the town of Vitorio-Gasteiz in the Basque Country.

The road south was not a busy one that day, and they were able to make good time. They took the AP-68 south from Bilbao, past Laudio, Orozko and Baranbio before exiting southeast on the N-622. Where the N-622 intersected the AP-1 at the cloverleaf they would turn south again onto the N-624, which would