Nothing but Ashes

By Skip Allen

The U. S. government believes it has put an end to the Al Qaida organization. Little do they realize, though, how another threat is looming on the near horizon.

The brainchild of a secretive, rich, and ruthless power broker will take terrorism to a level the world has never seen. The third phase of the Phoenix Operation is his means to an end for eradicating the infidels and ruling the world from the throne of a radical global caliphate. He is preparing to unleash his deadly arsenal of conventional, biological, and nuclear weapons and vast jihadist army upon the U. S., and then the world.

Aware of the threat, a Russian intelligence agent meets secretly with a U. S. government leader. The agent suggests a provocative black op to counter the threat. The leader accedes to the agent’s plan, bowing out of any involvement in the op. Not entirely, though. In Nothing but Ashes, the sequel to Requiem for the Phoenix, Ryan Daniels, Matt and Annie Garret, and their forces return to engage in another death-defying confrontation. They must secretly vanquish at any cost the power broker and his organization before he can dominate the world and annihilate the infidels.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9781663254160

Skip Allen

Skip Allen served in the U. S. Air Force for 25 years in various capacities, including intelligence and communications security operations. He holds Master of Arts degrees in Public Administration and Human Resources Development from Webster University and a Bachelor of Science degree in Electrical Engineering from the University of New Mexico. He lives in Texas.

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Copyright © 2023 Skip Allen.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-5413-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-5416-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023911512

iUniverse rev. date: 06/26/2023

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

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CHAPTER 1

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O n this warm summer evening, the No Name Pub in Big Pine Key, Florida, lived up to its decades-long reputation of being one of the most popular places to party along the chain of islands known as Florida’s Lower Keys. As expected, during the summer’s evening hours, it was standing room only in the place that catered to the beach crowd. There was, however, another kind of customer in the pub, blending with the crowd but not striking up a conversation with any of them. He was a grizzled, hunched over old man with a scraggly beard and dressed in rags instead of the laid-back clothing worn by the pub’s usual patrons. He had come to the pub for two reasons—to see the late news broadcast on the TV above the bar and have someone see him. Twenty minutes later he quietly sauntered across the barroom floor and nodded subtly at a man sitting at a table with his wife and another married couple. The man at the table just as subtly returned the nod. The reasons for his visit achieved, the old man, with a hint of satisfaction on his face, quietly exited the pub.

Khalid al-Qatari had disguised himself perfectly, playing the role of a disheveled, washed-up author and chronic alcoholic. A fitting disguise for hanging around in a community that would pay him no attention. The Lower Keys had a small population of destitute members of society, none of which were worth remembering. Not gaining any attention also meant he could live out his sequestered existence in obscurity. However, underneath his disguise was a six-foot, fortyish, sinewy figure of a man, with rugged looks, and dark wavy hair. His disguise, a necessary measure to keep anyone from discovering that he was a former Al Qaida terrorist and double agent with international governments and unsavory organizations throughout the world. After deciding to divest himself from Al Qaida, he helped the CIA put an end to the terrorist organization’s first phase of its Phoenix Operation. As a result of his action, he accepted the CIA’s offer to live under its protection program.

His life had changed dramatically, now free of the threat of retribution from his former employer. Along with the program’s protection, the CIA provided him with more than just his basic living needs. He had a secluded, rundown, single-family house bordered by a mangrove row, generous monthly stipend, a dilapidated, 20-foot flat bottom boat with two outboard motors, and a secure satellite communications system. The latter item was essential to the role he had to play. The system enabled him to communicate regularly with a cadre of other operatives throughout the world, the CIA, and the president’s national security advisor.

The one thing the CIA wanted in return for their generosity was his being a consistent source of credible and verifiable intelligence that he could obtain from his considerable number of sources. More importantly, he had to help without question, from the confines of his Lower Keys abode, the U.S. government, and its allies’ efforts to fight terrorism throughout the world. Unfortunately, dealing with the growing dreariness of his sequestration was something the former Al Qaida terrorist found harrowing. As the months in the program turned into less than a handful of years, al-Qatari’s sequestered life in this prison-like environ had finally taken its toll on him. Living in a prison was not what he considered living. He found himself daily considering suicide. But he also knew that ending his life so foolishly was not the answer to a problem that had plagued him for two decades. Solving the problem meant his remaining alive. If only he had a means of escaping the CIA’s stranglehold.

As al-Qatari walked away into the peacefully warm summer darkness of the Big Pine Key evening, his senses signaled an alert. Confused by this unexpected but familiar sense of things, he first thought that Al Qaida had discovered his location and how the price they had put on his head was mere moments away from his having to pay it, in full. This can’t be possible. During the second phase of the Phoenix Operation, his efforts had helped a U.S. SEAL team, accompanied by a handful of Greek intelligence agents, take out Saad bin Laden and his cohorts. They had been meeting in Greece to celebrate a hoped-for victory of their operation and plan its next stage. With their deaths, al-Qatari had believed the threat of retribution was something he no longer had to worry about.

He quickly scanned the No Name Pub’s parking lot for threats. There were none. But across the road from the pub was a Chevrolet Suburban, its windows tinted dark black. Suddenly, all the doors of the SUV opened, and armed men dressed in tactical gear emerged, followed by a well-dressed older man who said, as his small entourage drew closer, "That’s a good disguise, Ramrod, but not good enough."

Al-Qatari—code name Ramrod—uttered in a clearly surprised voice, "Osiris! You’re the last person I thought I’d run into in this part of the world. Tell me, my double agent friend, you didn’t come all the way from the power stronghold of Mother Russia just to have a beer with me at Big Pine Key’s No Name Pub."

No drinks for me tonight, old friend, Osiris replied. As you may have guessed I’m here on business. It’s extremely sensitive in nature and doesn’t warrant our trust in the allegedly secure satellite communications equipment the CIA provided you. Bottom line, officially you didn’t see me tonight, and with that caveat there will be no evidence of our meeting. He paused briefly and then said, Join me in the Suburban.

They both walked quietly to the SUV and entered it. Osiris’s security detail closed the doors and stood guard outside the vehicle. Another member sat in the vehicle. Once inside, al-Qatari knew what would come next. Osiris would tell him what he needed to know and do, and al-Qatari would listen without interruption. Osiris got to the point without delay.

As you know, with our intelligence assistance, Osiris said, "the governments of the U.S., England, and Greece readily believed they had stopped Al Qaida’s second phase of the Phoenix Operation. They were thoroughly convinced of this by the deaths of Al Qaida’s leadership along with the prevention of the terrorists’ efforts to poison a sizable percentage of London’s population and detonate a suitcase nuke in Columbus, Ohio. Unbeknownst to them and the rest of the world, another threat has taken Al Qaida’s place. A threat that’s been brewing for a few years. It’s been waiting to appear and take terrorism to an unprecedented level. They have an arsenal of conventional, biological, and nuclear weapons that will devastate this world. They’ll begin their reign of terror here in the U.S. with a major disruption to the re-election of President Richard Samuelson.

"More recently, Samuelson may have accepted his party’s nomination, but he’ll never make it to election day. Senator Bill Cavanaugh, the president’s former national security advisor, Jack Goldman, and a group of clever investigative journalists have uncovered a multitude of damning evidence. They’re about to blow the whistle—with documented proof and credible witnesses—on the president about his illegal activities and lies he’s told the public for more than two years. His party and its delegates will soon react to a breaking story in tomorrow’s newspapers. One thing is certain, Samuelson will be held accountable for his underhanded, and clearly unconstitutional, ways of managing the Oval Office and governing the country.

"I’m here to tell you several things, though. One of them being how this effort by Cavanaugh and his cohorts, though credible, is a deceptive political move to get the party interested in giving the senator the nomination for the presidential run. Ramsi al-Rajhi and a secretive, rich international power broker are about to launch a plan to get rid of Samuelson before your nation’s election day. With him out of the way the party leaders will lobby for Cavanaugh to be their nominee. It still amazes me how Samuelson captured the nomination, all the while abandoning an influential segment of his party. He may have first campaigned to be a far-left liberal, but he wasted no time rushing to the political right of center.

"Unfortunately, there can be no delay in carrying out your mission. This evening you’ll leave your CIA protection program and destroy the assets they gave you. You’ll also have a procedure done to alter slightly your facial appearance. After that you’ll begin this next mission immediately. A mission whose purpose is to keep the new threat from causing a massive amount of destruction and deaths reaching into the millions throughout the U.S. and its allies. It might also evolve into a global threat. If that happens the late Saad bin Laden’s plan to create a global Wahhabism-based caliphate and take control of the world oil and gas market will become a plausible reality. If that reality comes to fruition, the economic collapse in the west and its domino effect on Russia will be so great that all hopes for our respective countries to keep our standing in the world’s oil and gas market and our governments intact will disappear along with a sizeable part of the world’s population.

Finally, you’ll be interacting with the secret leader of this reprehensible operation and his plan to transform what’s left of Al Qaida into the most powerful terrorist organization the world has ever seen. The man leading this effort is Mohammed Kahn. Heavily guarded around the clock, Kahn typically communicates with people through a video conference system. Hardly ever in person. Those instances of in-person communications are reserved for his trusted colleagues. It may seem a bit strange, but due to the nature of his questionable business practices throughout the world, Kahn has become a target for all sorts of government organizations and unsavory individuals. His choice for the way he lives is odd, but necessary. That’s all I can tell you about him for now.

Al-Qatari suddenly noticed a subtle but noticeable change in Osiris’s facial expression, even though he tried to hide it. It was as if he wanted to tell al-Qatari something about himself or Kahn, but for reasons unknown chose to withhold this information. Al-Qatari was smart enough not to question Osiris about the sudden change. Even the member of his security detail sitting behind them appeared uncomfortable. A moment of silence prevailed before Osiris continued. He gave al-Qatari more details about what he had to do starting this evening. When he finished the mission summary, Osiris reminded al-Qatari to check the usual drop box. In it was a sealed envelope, which contained his full mission briefing and an assortment of fake IDs. Al-Qatari exited the SUV, watched it drive north, and then slowly walked to his car and left for his hideaway in Ramrod Key. He pondered a multitude of thoughts as he drove further into the darkness of the night, and whatever unknowns that lay beyond.

The security detail member who was privy to their discussion conversed with Osiris shortly after they left Big Pine Key. Pardon me, sir, but I don’t understand your withholding two things from al-Qatari.

What two things are you referring to?

First, the true identity of Mr. Kahn.

It was wise of you to remain silent about the matter, Osiris said with a tone of despair. Had I told him more about Kahn he surely would have erupted into a fit of anger, or worse, temporary madness. He might have jeopardized the mission and his own life by trying to deal with Kahn now rather than later. The risk was too great. Nevertheless, al-Qatari is one of the best operatives I know. In the coming month he’ll discover who Kahn really is and all he needs to know about him and his operation. And despite any lingering feeling of anger in his heart, al-Qatari can be depended upon to do what he must to first fulfill the mission. Then, and only then, will he deal with Kahn in his own way. I’ve also made sure that nothing will interfere with al-Qatari’s choice of how he and Kahn spend their last moment together. I owe him that much. What’s the second thing you want to ask me?

It’s about my secretly entering, earlier this evening, the child’s home. As you instructed, I first made sure her teenage babysitter was talking on the phone. Then, I entered the child’s bedroom and administered into her nostrils a dose of the over-the-counter saline-based decongestant you gave me. I don’t understand the reason for this. Nevertheless, I’m glad the child was a heavy sleeper.

For the time being, Osiris said, all you need to know is the child is recovering from a cold. The nasal spray serves two purposes. One, to help her breathe easier, especially while she’s sleeping. And two, it will contribute to the successful accomplishment of al-Qatari’s mission. At this point, you don’t need to know any more than that.

Minutes later, Sabrina Daniels, a beautiful, engaging, and successful Key West realtor, whispered in her husband’s ear that it was getting late, reminding him it was time to leave the party they were having at the No Name Pub. Ryan, a handsome, rugged, experienced CIA field agent, and former Army Ranger, whispered back suggesting they stay a little longer. Matt and Annie Garret, former undercover operatives with the U.S. government’s Phoenix Task Force, needed this respite from the hell they had been through during the Phoenix Task Force’s latest operation to put Al Qaida and its leadership out of business. Sabrina went a step further and nodded toward Matt and Annie. Ryan took the hint. You’re right, honey. Matt and Annie both need to call it a night.

The din emanating from the Lower Keys’ famous night spot continued unabated and as intense as usual since the summer crowd’s raucous celebration was the status quo for popular hangout. It seemed to grow louder and rowdier as the patrons were hoping to continue their enjoyment in the bar, and delay the inevitable last call, though it was fast approaching. Nevertheless, at Sabrina’s urging Ryan got up and asked Matt to join him at the bar.

As much as Annie and you deserve this night on the town, Ryan said, Sabrina told me that Taylor’s babysitter needs to get home. We better call it a night.

Thanks for the reminder, Ryan. Annie and I got caught up in the party atmosphere. You know, I can’t seem to get our operation against Al Qaida out of my head. The report on the pub’s TV about Jack Goldman’s long-overdue departure, the latest about Samuelson’s Camp David meeting with the Dead Sea oil and gas venture principals, and the death of Senator Cavanaugh’s campaign manager didn’t help matters either. Annie and I needed to chill out for a while. Too bad our country will never know how close Columbus, Ohio, came to becoming a nuclear wasteland.

That was one moment in my life I’ll never forget, Ryan replied. It was touch and go for a while there, and I began to think we weren’t going to pull it off. Especially when the president was giving his nomination acceptance speech at the convention.

You got that right! Matt took a deep breath and continued. It was the biggest gamble of my life when I told Annie to take that shot in the dark with her Glock. In fact, I may never gamble again . . . well, except for poker.

Both men uttered a resounding laugh at Matt’s last remark. Then Matt said, But something’s still bothering me that I want to discuss with you.

Anticipating what Matt was about to say, Ryan had an overwhelmingly guarded feeling well-up inside him. "Uh, what’s that, Matt?’

Earlier, after the TV reports aired, you and that old salt you mentioned recognized each other as he left the bar. He wasn’t an old salt, was he? He was—

You’re right, Ryan said quietly. It was al-Qatari, in disguise. I couldn’t say anything more than that with our wives and all the people close to our table. Ryan paused. And even now I can’t tell you much more about his involvement in our past Task Force operation, including what’s about to happen this evening.

I understand, Matt said quietly. With all that’s occurred lately I had a feeling you weren’t working alone. I’m grateful for how things turned out.

I know how you feel, Matt, Ryan said guardedly. But despite what you know about our effort to put Al Qaida and its leadership out of business, the threat hasn’t come to an end. If anything, the terrorist threat is gearing up for an even greater assault on our way life, the likes of which no one on this planet has ever experienced. Things may seem quiet for now, but soon it’s going to get a hell of a lot worse.

What do you mean ‘worse,’ Ryan? What’s worse than trying to nuke downtown Columbus and poison a large part of London’s population?"

In less than a month from now we’ll both be working together on a dangerous mission and how it may impact the nation’s future. Ryan’s face took on an almost frightening appearance, something Matt had not seen since Al Qaida’s deadly ambush of their multi-car convoy during their undercover mission in Athens, Greece. I’ll be telling you more soon. One immediate caution, though, and that’s letting you know that a lot of people may die. That includes you and me as we fight to put terrorism in its final resting place. What’s left of Al Qaida is about to undergo a major transformation. I hate to admit it, but what’s on the horizon is beyond most people’s imagination.

But you’re no longer a field operative, Ryan, Matt said. So how are you going to be able to do what you do best while sitting at a CIA analyst’s desk? Does this mean you’re going to assign a new field agent to work with me?

Don’t kid yourself, Ryan said. "This analyst job has me worried, too. Even though Sabrina did her best to convince me to take the desk job, I’m not cut out for that kind of work. Add onto that her recently telling me she refuses to move with me to Langley. Sabrina has no intention of giving up her real estate business in Key West. All I can say right now is that we’ll have to wait and see.

We’ve had more than enough arguments already about my job change and what it means to our future. For the time being take what I told you about our upcoming status and leave it at that. Ryan looked over at Sabrina, who was signaling him to hurry up and leave. On that note, Matt, he said, giving Sabrina a thumbs-up, this is as good a time as any to get back to our table, have another bottle of beer before ‘last call,’ and call it a night. Or shall I say, before all hell breaks loose.

Pockets of celebration echoed throughout the offices of the Executive Mansion. Though the Democratic National Convention ended two weeks ago, the White House staff continued to relish the lingering pomp and ceremony of the event. But such was not the case with President Samuelson. While often referred to by the press corps as a linebacker in a suit, his receiving this morning’s daily intelligence estimate briefing from his key staff (i.e., chief of staff, acting national security advisor, and two agents from the CIA and NSA) was putting him in an intensely dour mood. CIA agent Lauren Cooper finished the briefing while the commander in chief sat uncomfortably in his favorite Queen Anne’s chair. At that moment, his mood reached an unfortunate state, the strain on his face showed how he was fighting to regain a semblance of self-control. The minute pause between Cooper’s finishing the brief and President Samuelson’s routine of asking post-briefing, hardball questions caused an undeniable tension to escalate among the staff members in the Oval Office. Then the president began his questions, though the staff, as of late, likened them to a vicious assault. Each question became a poignant salvo. The staff had learned through trial and error not to respond to any of his questions until it became obvious that the president had exhausted his usual rant and rave routine.

He launched an uninterrupted offensive at the group as only the president, and de facto linebacker in a suit, could. "Didn’t we just go through hell putting Al Qaida out of business? Why are you hitting me now with this untenable situation? How could the best intelligence agents in the world allow this to happen? Do any of you realize what this outrageous front-page article in the Washington Post is going to do to my presidential campaign? And here I am now without my campaign strategist, may he rest in peace. No one saw that attack coming from an overly aggressive cancer that took his life so quickly. Though his office has some knowledgeable colleagues, I can’t trust any of them. With election day but three months from now who could have leaked such a story to the Post? I’ve got a press conference in an hour, so what am I going to tell them? President Samuelson breathed deeply and then continued his rant.

Give me some answers, people, and be quick about it. Another deep breath. And don’t even try to convince me to feed my acting press secretary to that ravenous pack of wolves. And they have the temerity to call themselves journalists. Don’t just sit there! Say something!

CIA agent Cooper glanced quickly around the room wondering who would risk sitting in the hot seat, now that everyone recognized the president’s rant had taken a pause. Their solicitous looks at Cooper told her she should be the first to step into the lion’s den and give the president the answers he wanted. What made matters worse was Cooper’s feeling she could read the troubled thoughts of her colleagues, not wanting to put themselves in harm’s way. Especially since she and her NSA colleague, agent Michele Bishop, could not reveal to anyone the most critical parts of the intelligence they had gathered. She took a deep breath of her own, convinced no one was going to come to her aid. Cooper began to speak, addressing the president with her often-welcomed demeanor and normally unflappable composure.

Mr. President, it appears that Jack Goldman and Senator Bill Cavanaugh have blown the whistle on you. We believe he and the senator are working together to achieve two things. First, to put the senator in the post-convention limelight. And next, they’re working together to convince the Democratic National Committee to invalidate your nomination and give it to the senator. In fact, the senator—

That’s bullshit, Agent Cooper! the president bellowed, rudely interrupting one of the CIA’s most experienced and trusted agents. How can he, or anyone else, steal my nomination?

The chief of staff quickly noticed how Cooper looked like she was about to falter, so he came, though reluctantly, to her rescue. Mr. President, given your razor-thin win of the party’s nomination, the senator has also gathered quite an arsenal to make his efforts defensible. Forgoing the voluminous details of the arsenal’s contents, the CIA and NSA’s sources revealed that he can allegedly produce documented evidence and credible witnesses to contradict all that you’ve told the nation regarding the past two Phoenix Task Force operations. And it may be enough to convince the DNC to give the nomination to Cavanaugh.

The acting national security advisor also came forward. We’re all on your side, Mr. President. And, if need be, we’ll fight this one all the way to the Supreme Court. We believe the case will easily pass Constitutional muster. There’s no historical precedent for this kind of attack on a president nominated to run for a second term.

So, Cavanaugh believes he’s got enough dirt on me, the president replied with his usual incredulous political conviction. I need all of you to do everything possible, and impossible, to dig up even a greater amount of dirt on the senator. I’m depending on each of you to do whatever it takes to get me results, results that will put him out of business. Yes! If need be, just like how we put Al Qaida out of business. From this point forward through the day before my inauguration, we’ll meet every morning in the Oval Office to plan and implement your response to the situation. That’ll be all! Oh, Chief of Staff, you need to stay. I’ve got much to discuss with you, especially since I just made you my new campaign strategist. Time to get ready for that press conference, have an in-depth discussion on how to strengthen my campaign, and launch a counterattack on Cavanaugh and Goldman.

As agents Cooper and Bishop exited the White House, they both looked at each other with an undeniable concern for what they had told the president this morning and how it paled in comparison to what they were ordered to withhold from him. Michele Bishop said, It’s becoming more difficult for me not being able to tell the president what’s brewing on the horizon. And I was shocked by his telling us to put Cavanaugh out of business like the way we did to Al Qaida. That borders on being criminal, Lauren.

Agent Cooper replied, I feel like you do, but try not to read too much into the president’s rhetoric, Michele. He was just blowing off steam. We’ll never be able to tell him more about our upcoming mission. As a reminder, with the maelstrom forming up ahead the CIA director has ordered us not to divulge any information about the black op of which we’re both now a part.

Cooper and Bishop said their goodbyes and wasted no time returning to their respective workplaces. They had more work to do to become mission ready.

A lingering August heat high had the Chicago area in its clutches. Weather forecasters kept making promises of relief from the blistering temperatures by an approaching cold front that would help usher in a welcomed early fall. As could be expected, though, the only break in the oppressive heat was the abundance of the meteorologists’ broken promises. Nevertheless, it was business as usual for everyone in the city. However, Ramsi al-Rajhi, the leader of a local mosque, and former stateside undercover operative and coordinator for the U.S. part of the second phase of Al Qaida’s recently failed Phoenix operation, had other thoughts on his mind.

He had just completed his morning salat and began the workday in his private office on the second floor above an obscure mosque in south Chicago. Ever prayerful during this spiritual ritual, its usual lingering effects were absent. Unexpectedly, he found himself sitting at his desk feeling a growing level of anxiety, despite the normally tranquil view of the city center and shimmering waters of Lake Erie he had outside the window. A representative of an influential but secret international power broker had scheduled a meeting with al-Rajhi. No topic of discussion nor agenda came with the meeting announcement. Still, al-Rajhi believed the focus of the meeting might have something to do with the second phase of the Phoenix Operation. This fed his growing anxiety with the suspicion that his former days as a most valued and respected member of the now defunct Al Qaida organization were over.

What made matters worse was his inability to cast aside another thought where the Wahhabi leadership in Saudi Arabia might have scheduled this secret meeting with him not to discuss the failure of the operation but to carry out his death sentence. The once extraordinary firebrand in the Al Qaida organization had received during the recruitment process an ultimatum in person by the Al Qaida leader—the now late Saad bin Laden—to do blindly and without question Allah’s will. Moreover, abject failure of any major task on his part was not an option. To do otherwise meant committing ritual suicide to remain in good standing with Allah and the Al Qaida leadership. Those not committing ritual suicide did not have to wait long for an assassin’s bullet.

He had done everything in his power, and more, to ensure the success of the stateside part of the Phoenix Operation. Unfortunately, the three key operatives from the area’s sleeper cells, though well trained and trusted, had unexpected weaknesses in their faith. So much so that they had succumbed to these weaknesses and took matters into their own hands, failing miserably at their duties. Two of them met their deaths during the operation’s final hours. The third in a maximum-security prison after the operation’s end.

Presently caught up again in trying to resolve his troubled thoughts, al-Rajhi’s intercom rang. Yes, he said to his secretary’s announcement.

Your visitor has arrived, sir.

Send him in and then hold all my calls until further notice. Make sure no one disturbs us. He hung up the phone before his secretary said, Yes, sir.

Expecting the imposing figure of an assassin to walk into his office, al-Rajhi faced instead a welcomed surprise. His visitor was an average-sized man in an expensively tailored three-piece business suit, well groomed, and carrying a leather briefcase. He stood to greet the gentleman, temporarily relieved to take the man’s extended right hand in a friendly handshake.

Good morning, the man said with a pleasant smile and tone of voice. My name is Thomas Preston. I represent the Northern New Mexico Spiritual Center.

Al-Rajhi offered a seat to Preston and asked if he would like refreshments. Preston graciously declined the offer and wasted no time to begin the meeting. Your offer is truly kind, but my time is limited for what may be the first of two meetings we’ll have this month. In that regard, allow me to tell you why I’m here.

An adept and observant Al Qaida operative, al-Rajhi did a quick, but subtle, scan of the Preston’s demeanor, primarily looking for any slight bulge in his suit that might show he was carrying a weapon, or a convincing deception that might also have deadly results. Satisfied Preston presented no immediate threat, it was clear he was not an Al Qaida assassin. Rather, a man of business, more likely a high-priced attorney here to discuss a confidential matter of importance. Seeing no need for a preamble of his own, al-Rajhi took a seat and listened without interruption to the man’s presentation.

Al-Rajhi felt relieved to learn the purpose of the meeting was not to take him to task for the failed operation, nor the untimely and tragic deaths of Al Qaida’s leaders while meeting with a renown, radical Wahhabi cleric from London. On the contrary, Preston offered a proposal to al-Rajhi, focusing on the formation of a new terrorist organization where al-Rajhi would become its operations director. He would have to give up his position in Chicago and begin work at the Northern New Mexico Spiritual Center where he would join a team secretly forming the new organization. In honor of the deceased Al Qaida leaders the title of the next operation was the third phase of the Phoenix Operation. Preston asked if he had any questions.

Yes, if I may be allowed to ask them, he said.

You may. But know that until I have your commitment in writing to accept my client’s offer, I can say nothing further. He took a one-page document from his briefcase and handed it to al-Rajhi.

The former Al Qaida operative easily recognized what this offer meant. Without delay, he read and signed the document, handed it back to Preston, and said, Allow me to say thank you for letting me see for myself that there was no deception in your nature and what you told me. I remain a devoted member of what once was the Al Qaida organization. Given my lifelong commitment to Allah, I accept your client’s offer.

Preston smiled with a look of satisfaction and continued his presentation. Less than ten minutes later both al-Rajhi and Preston stood, shook hands, and agreed to have their second meeting in northern New Mexico seven days from now.

A little more than thousand miles from Chicago, in a safe house nestled in a heavily wooded area of the Florida Panhandle, a masked operating room nurse pushed Khalid al-Qatari’s gurney into a small but fully functional surgical suite. He had no thoughts about his approaching facial surgery, only about the previous evening in Ramrod Key. After his meeting with Osiris, al-Qatari hurried to a secret drop box to pick up his mission orders. Then he drove to his small house on that island and read the contents of the envelope. Osiris’s orders were clear about his departure from the house.

You must depart this evening and leave absolutely no trace of having lived there.

Al-Qatari understood that to mean the destruction of the CIA-provided house, its alarm system, secure satellite communications system, and every bit of incriminating evidence associated with his living there. He made quick work of destroying the necessary items in the house and then loaded everything in his flat-bottom fishing boat. Al-Qatari started the boat’s two Evinrude outboard motors and made for deep water in the Florida Straits where he would give the load the deep-six. As he drew closer to shore on his return to a secluded beach on Ramrod Key, he actuated a self-inflating life raft, set it in the water, and did what was necessary to let the flat-bottom boat sink quietly to the bottom of the Straits.

After rowing the final quarter mile to Ramrod Key’s shore he took a half-full gas can and placed it, along with assorted fishing gear, near the curtains covering the front window of the house. He then attached a C-4 charge with a timed detonator to the side of the gas can. Al-Qatari set the timer to detonate the explosive at sunrise. He would be long gone when the house went up in flames.

Al-Qatari drove through the night to a safe house in the Florida Panhandle. But after he reached the point where the Lower Keys connected to the Florida mainland he pulled onto the shoulder of the road. Then, as the sun was about to rise, he exited his car, lit a cigarette, and looked due south toward the Keys. Imagining the splendor of his house going up in flames, he spent quiet moments contemplating a long-awaited goal. From this day forth he was forever free from his sequestered existence in the CIA protection program. He glanced briefly at a prized possession lying on the back seat of his car. Then turning his attention to his former Lower Keys home, al-Qatari’s last thought, before crushing out the cigarette and getting back on the road, was that neither Ryan Daniels nor any other CIA agent would interfere with what would soon be the most important mission of his life.

Suddenly, the gurney came to a halt as the masked operating room nurse positioned it beneath the surgical suite’s overhead lamp. Since al-Qatari’s mission was on a highly secret, need-to-know basis, the medical personnel in the suite knew him only as Mr. Smith. Two masked gentlemen approached the gurney, one of them saying, Mr. Smith, I’m your surgeon and the man beside me is your anesthesiologist. The procedure today, as requested by your personal physician, is a simple one and will take about two hours to complete. Your recovery time will also be short in duration. Do you have any questions before we begin? Al-Qatari shook his head. Very good. The anesthesiologist will now give you something to sleep during the procedure. The surgeon nodded to his colleague. Shortly thereafter, al-Qatari slipped into unconsciousness. Unbeknownst to the surgical team, al-Qatari began to dream.

Khalid al-Qatari and his girlfriend, Hanna Abdel, were taking a morning stroll together along the outskirts of Halabja, their home in Iraq’s Kurdish region situated in the northern part of the country. They had taken this stroll nearly every day since first meeting each other several months earlier. A stroll, which they never found tiresome, afforded them an enchanting view of the region’s rugged beauty, characterized by its majestic mountains, green rolling hills, waterfalls, and clear natural springs. The area had long been renowned in Middle Eastern literature as a paradise on earth. Hanna was the daughter of Halabja’s mayor. From the time they first met Khalid had become utterly captivated by Hanna. Her long, shining, coal-black hair, piercing yet warm brown eyes, sensuous figure, engaging smile that often caused his heart to skip beats repeatedly, and perpetually effervescent personality, had him convinced she was the one. The one woman in his life he wanted to marry, be the mother of his children, and to spend a lifetime of wedded bliss.

Following a long-standing tradition, Khalid asked Hanna’s father for his daughter’s hand in marriage. Her elated father insisted that Khalid and Hanna begin a formal courtship. But to their surprise, the mayor also suggested they make the courtship a short one since the country of Iraq was rife with political turmoil, which made planning a formal wedding day sketchy at best. A year earlier, after the politically astute and ruthless Saddam Hussein forced Iraq’s president, Ahmed Hassan al-Bakr, to resign, Hussein ascended to the presidency. Now in charge of the country, he rid the undesirables from his Ba’ath Party. Immediately, he named in public 68 members of the party’s assembly and charged them with treason. A month later, hundreds of Hussein’s foes had either met their untimely demise or left to rot in prison.

Believing his days as mayor of Halabja were in jeopardy was reason enough for his urging Khalid and Hanna to cut short their courtship. More importantly, Hanna’s father believed his was in jeopardy due to Hussein’s ongoing, and now escalating, conflict with the country’s Kurdish population. The dictator had launched a wide swath of chemical weapon-based, genocidal attacks on the region. Understandably, Khalid kept his activities as a member of the Kurdish Resistance a secret, which if revealed would have made him a prime target for Hussein’s forces. A month later, Khalid and Hanna married. Two months after that joyful day she let Khalid and her father know she was pregnant. Though Khalid felt elated, deep within his mind, he began to sense a storm lurking on the near horizon. Not just any storm, but one of epic proportion that would dramatically change the course of his life and impact the blessings Allah had bestowed upon Hanna and him.

At this point in Khalid’s life, he had yet to learn of an illegitimate child born twenty-five years earlier as a result of the womanizing ways of Saddam Hussein with one of his early, but secret, Iraqi mistresses. Instead of bearing the future dictator’s last name, Hussein named him Majid Kazem. During his bastard son’s early school years, Hussein saw considerable promise in Kazem, a precocious child having a near a genius-level aptitude. So, he arranged for him to attend the finest schools in Europe. Shortly before graduating his post-secondary school, Hussein saw his son having a future as a burgeoning, highly gifted man of business. Cambridge University was the young man’s next stop. A straight A student throughout his time at Cambridge, Kazem completed his studies in half the normal time. Finally, Hussein did not delay bringing him into his political and dictatorial fold. Shortly thereafter, Kazem proved himself by showing his natural leadership abilities, compounded by a natural level of ruthlessness mirroring those of his father.

Saddam Hussein decided to test his illegitimate son’s mettle by including him in his plan to launch a major chemical weapon attack on Khalid and Hanna’s city. During the attack, Khalid and his Kurdish Resistance movement fought bravely, but suffered considerable chemical-weapon related losses and injuries. Halfway through the battle Khalid, in a part of the city that escaped a portion of the toxic chemicals, fell prey to a mortar shell’s destruction of the building he was using as a defensive position. As pieces of the upper floor of the building came crashing down upon him, Khalid’s view of the world became a soundless void of impenetrable darkness. Days later he regained consciousness, healing from his injuries in a makeshift field hospital. His first conscious words were, Where is my Hanna? The medical staff sent for the mayor.

Within the hour, his father-in-law stood by Khalid’s bedside. An ever-compassionate man, with tears rolling down his face, he quietly broke the shocking news to his son-in-law. I’m deeply sorry, my son, but . . . Hanna . . . our loving Hanna perished in the battle.

Khalid, with a conviction honed by his Kurdish Resistance activities and the recent battle, asked him, How did she die? With anguish in the tone of his weakened voice, Khalid’s father-in-law tried to speak but found himself temporarily choking with sadness.

Tell me! Khalid demanded harshly. Hanna’s father summoned an inner strength and began to tell Khalid the tragic story of how Hanna died.

We found Hanna shortly before she died, he said, trying desperately to keep control of his troubled mind. In the midst of the rubble of a damaged building, Hanna lay there groaning in pain. In between her cries of pain, she struggled to tell me what happened during the attack. A dangerous-looking young soldier began beating her with the butt of his rifle and then carried her off to an undamaged part of the building. It was there . . . that he . . . repeatedly and savagely . . . raped her. Hanna’s trying to fight him off only served to feed the madman’s unconscionable brutality. He found a metal bar, picked it up, and continued beating Hanna mercilessly, breaking every major bone in her body.

After taking a moment to try to quell his mounting hatred of what had happened to his daughter, Khalid’s father-in-law continued describing Hanna’s last moments with her attacker. Before beating her with his last stroke of the bar, the madman drew closer to Hanna and said while staring into her swollen, bleeding eyes, ‘Don’t die on me yet, you Kurdish bitch! Not before you know the name of the one who killed you. I’m Majid Kazem, the bastard son of Saddam Hussein.’ Hanna managed to spit in his face and say, ‘Revel all you want, you bastard, in what you think is your victory over me. But beware! My husband, Khalid al-Qatari, will find you one day. And when he does, you’ll pay with your life for the crimes you’ve committed against me, and yes, his unborn child.’ She spit in his face once more, and then felt the final blow of the bar as it came crashing down on her skull.

Khalid let forth a scream of unbelievable agony. Then he reverently said, Allah, I beg for your mercy. Please help me find Hussein’s bastard son. And when I find him, allow me to unleash my revenge on him for what he did to my wife and unborn child.

After recovering from his battle injuries, Khalid told his father-in-law that his life was in more danger than before the attack since Kazem now knew of his existence. I’ve no choice, my father, but to flee Iraq and prepare for a time when nothing will prevent me from killing that bastard. My Kurdish Resistance brothers have told me about Osama bin Laden’s Al Qaida in Afghanistan. I’m going to join him. Given my experience fighting with the Kurdish Resistance, I believe bin Laden will find me to be a worthy jihadist. Allah willing, I’ll find a place and time to unleash my revenge on Kazem, a final act in honor of Hanna and my unborn child.

With Khalid’s parting words spoken, his father-in-law presented him with a gift, a cherished 19th century family heirloom. After briefly examining it, the two men nodded to each other with a look of mutual understanding. Khalid was grateful for the unexpected gift. His father-in-law and he shared a final traditional hug and kiss. No further words were necessary to explain their feelings, and the singularly important purpose of the heirloom.

Surprisingly, as al-Qatari regained consciousness from the effects of the anesthesia, his grogginess subsided quickly, allowing him to contemplate the now fading memory of his dream. Ensuring he was alone in the recovery area of the surgical suite, foremost in his thoughts were words he whispered to himself, "Why did I find myself dreaming about Majid Kazem? He’s dead. Osiris, and other contacts of mine, told me he was dead. Or is he? No matter. I must be about my mission." A handful of days later, with the facial bandages removed, and his satisfaction with the surgeon’s work intact, al-Qatari left the Florida panhandle’s safe house in his car and began his drive to northern New Mexico.

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CHAPTER 2

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R amsi al-Rajhi disembarked from Southwest Airlines Flight 317’s on-time arrival at the Albuquerque International Airport. Following the advice of Thomas Preston, the Northern New Mexico Spiritual Center representative he met with in Chicago, al-Rajhi had abandoned his traditional Muslim garb for a two-piece, dark gray business suit. Preston did not want al-Rajhi gaining any unnecessary attention during his entry into New Mexico’s largest city. Minutes later, as al-Rajhi entered the crowded baggage claim area, he noticed a man of Middle Eastern appearance dressed in business attire standing near periphery of the area. He held a sign that read, Northern New Mexico Spiritual Center. There’s my ride, al-Rajhi thought . Just like Preston said would be waiting for me. Happy to see his luggage approaching him on the now rotating carousel, he grabbed hold of his luggage and walked to the man holding the sign.

Hello, al-Rajhi said to the man. Al-Rajhi then looked at his watch. My watch seems to have stopped working. What time do you have?

The man, sporting a poker face, looked at his own watch and replied, Five minutes before the noon hour. In case you didn’t know this is a smoking area, so you can smoke if you like.

Thank you, al-Rajhi replied. Searching his suit pocket for a pack of cigarettes, he said, I guess I must have left my pack of Marlboros on the plane.

Don’t worry, the man said. That’s my favorite brand. I have an extra pack in the limousine.

Satisfied they both exchanged the correct conversational phrases, al-Rajhi nodded once. The two men exited the baggage claim area and casually walked to the short-term parking lot. Fifteen minutes later the limousine, with darkly tinted windows, merged onto Interstate 25 North. Al-Rajhi leaned forward from the vehicle’s rear seat, tapped lightly on the right shoulder of his driver, and said, I believe you have something to give me. The driver nodded and handed al-Rajhi a small, locked briefcase. He thanked the driver. Al-Rajhi examined the case’s exterior for signs of tampering along with any indications of a subtly placed booby trap. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he unlocked the two combination locks using the combinations Preston had given him. Al-Rajhi then released the case’s latches, took a deep breath, held it, turned his face toward the window on the right side of the limousine, and slowly opened the case. Pleased that the case’s interior posed no clear dangers, he eyed its contents and started to breathe normally.

Al-Rajhi began reading a multi-page document—information he needed to prepare for his second meeting with Preston. A half-hour later, he finished studying the document and its instructions. He picked up a burner phone from the case and pressed on the small keypad a speed dial code, noted on the last page of the document. Al-Rajhi heard two rings, followed by a man answering the call.

What is your lucky number? he heard the man say.

Luck is fleeting, al-Rajhi replied.

But surely you recognize how the beauty of an enchanting landscape is priceless.

And also unforgettable, al-Rajhi said, followed by his repeating the phrase once.

You’re near, the man said. Sit back and enjoy the scenery. The call ended as expected. Al-Rajhi returned the burner phone to the brief case and locked it. He spent a tranquil moment saying his mid-day salat, and for the rest of the drive sat back admiring the northern New Mexico landscape, knowing that within an hour he would arrive at the Northern New Mexico Spiritual Center prepared to begin the next step of his mission.

Four days after Annie and Matt Garret spent an evening at the No Name Pub, she gently embraced her daughter in the pediatrician’s examination room, trying to ease Taylor’s tear-filled apprehension. During every visit to the pediatrician’s office for a routine vaccination, the young child’s normally cheerful disposition erupted into a massive fit of crying and screaming, something made even worse when she was sick. Annie brought her today to the doctor’s office because Taylor was showing all the signs of an influenza infection. After receiving a thorough examination by the pediatrician, the doctor ordered his recently hired nurse to draw a sample of Taylor’s blood so he could further diagnose the cause of her illness.

The new nurse approached Taylor with a small butterfly needle and collection tube. As she sanitized the crook of the child’s right arm with an alcohol swab Annie experienced an unexpected, disturbing vibe emanating from the nurse. Taylor had also begun crying and screaming even more with the feel of the cold alcohol on her arm. The slight sting of the needle put Taylor’s screams to the top of the chart. Despite Annie’s sense of bad vibes from the nurse, she was grateful for the nurse’s adept skills in making short work of the blood draw. A second or so after the draw, the nurse placed a gauze pad and colorful medical wrap over the site. Annie hugged and kissed her little girl, calming her understandable reaction to the traumatic experience. A few minutes later, Taylor became happier but still ill from her bout with the flu. Annie had a talk with the pediatrician after he gave Taylor a mini-sized peppermint pattie, the three-year-old’s favorite.

I believe we’re having an early flu season, Annie, he said.

What makes you say that?

Well, there’s been a recent uptick in flu cases throughout the state, the doctor said. The symptoms are strangely similar to an avian flu variant normally a result of animal-to-animal transmission.

But Taylor hasn’t had contact with anyone who’s had the flu, she said. And we’ve not taken her to visit anyone with poultry on their property.

I understand, Annie, he replied. But my having the nurse take a sample of Taylor’s blood will let me check for any indications of an avian flu variant. So far there have not been any cases reported of human-to-human transmission of the variant.

So, can I take Taylor home?

Of course. But be sure to give her my prescribed child doses of Tamiflu for three days. Keep her well rested and hydrated. It won’t be long before Taylor’s back to her normally happy, playful self. I also want you and your husband to begin taking Tamiflu doses for a week, just to be on the safe side.

Thank you, Annie said with a smile of relief.

After seeing Annie and Taylor leave, the nurse prepared the blood sample for testing at the local laboratory facility. She excused herself, needing to take a break outside. Not just a routine break, but to make a quick call on her burner phone. The person answering the nurse’s call said, Update me.

The nurse replied, I’m sending you the package now. Make sure to follow the special instructions for the analysis of its contents. Be sure to call me with the actual results and send an edited hard copy report to the pediatrician’s office.

You’ll have your results in a few days, as will those sent to the doctor’s office.

A few days before Ryan Daniels was scheduled to report to the CIA at its Langley Headquarters and start his duties as an intelligence analyst, Sabrina and he had another intense argument. Sadly, this looked like the last straw for them. Though their few years of marriage had initially set the stage for a promising lifetime of wedded bliss, the end of the second phase of Al Qaida’s Phoenix Operation marked the moment of the marriage’s abrupt and precipitous decline. Sabrina had demanded that Ryan end his CIA field agent duties, which had caused him to be away from home eight to ten months out of the year. Never knowing what his covert missions entailed, nor where they took Ryan, his prolonged absences were beyond her ability to deal with them any longer.

I’m telling you for the last time, Ryan, she shouted, though you’re starting your new job soon, it’s still not the kind of life I want, no matter how many weekends you promised we’d be able to spend together.

And for the last time, Sabrina, Ryan replied angrily, even after thoroughly thinking about this job change, it’s not what I want to do. Not now. And certainly not for the rest of my life. I’m not cut out to be a desk jockey. I’ve been a field agent for years, and I like it!

So, you’re going to just up and leave, abandoning me, she said with swollen, tear-filled eyes, just so you can continue gallivanting covertly around the world, and putting your life on the line righting the world’s wrongs, no matter what they are. Sorry, Ryan, as much as I love you, enough is enough. Do what you want!

Ryan, fuming and about to erupt into another hopeless, anger-filled tirade, picked up two suitcases from the hallway and said, I’ll have someone pick up the rest of my belongings tomorrow. He turned away, walked through the open front door, and purposely made no attempt to look back, leaving Sabrina unable to see the tears rolling down his face. An hour later, Ryan reached a safe house where he had his secure satellite communications system that supplied him worldwide access to a host of agents, operatives, and other intelligence community contacts. He first called his contact in the Lower Keys and told him where to pick up his belongings tomorrow and where to store them. Then Ryan sent a secure message.

Osiris. Ready to begin our plan to disrupt the New Mexico operation. Notify all concerned parties of my status. Will arrive my destination as scheduled. Valrico.

Almost six thousand miles from the oppressively hot, mid-August, midnight hour in Florida’s Lower Keys, Dorita Markaris entered her office at the Greek Ministry of Public Order in downtown, Athens, Greece. Before she could pour herself a first cup of coffee, her cell phone beeped the arrival of a text message. She quickly accessed the phone’s message section and saw the all-too-familiar Unknown Number notice on the caller ID screen. Markaris went to the privacy of an unoccupied office to read the contents of the message. Exercising caution born out of years of handling unexpected messages on her non-secure phone, she locked the office door and opened the message.

Our Lower Keys’ friend awaits your arrival.

The Greek intelligence agent, without sending a reply, deleted the message from her phone. She routinely took no chances of inadvertently developing a potentially dangerous, mission-compromising text thread. Besides, the sender would automatically receive a system-generated Message Read notice. Markaris returned to her office. She had much to do before boarding an Olympic Airlines transatlantic flight later that evening to take part in the most critical and dangerous mission of her career. Fraught with far more than the usual host of covert mission dangers, she could not reveal to Nikos Giotopoulous, her former co-worker and now supervisor, the mission on which she was about to embark. The secrecy of the mission began with a series of secure communications she first had with Ryan Daniels beginning in mid-July, after the U.S. president accepted his party’s nomination to run for a second term. Before that first communication, Markaris, and a group of the Ministry’s trusted agents, had unearthed an unexpected cache of valuable hard copy intelligence within Al Qaida’s abandoned mountainous headquarters in the region known as Central Greece. It pertained to the terrorist organization’s plans for its next attack on the free world and its infidels.

At 4:00 p.m., Agent Dorita Markaris cordially delivered her usual end-of-workday goodbyes to her supervisor and co-workers. Exiting the Ministry, she hailed a cab parked outside, conveniently waiting for a fare. Markaris arrived twenty minutes later at her apartment in the Athens suburb of the ever popular, touristy Glyfada. Once inside, she packed a single suitcase with outfits worn by most women in the U.S. She made sure there was no evidence in the apartment of where she was going, including subtle clues that only one of her more competent fellow agents could find. Markaris locked her apartment, left the building, and hailed the next available cab. Being one of the Ministry’s more adept agents, she employed her often-used fieldcraft skills in traveling to her destinations. She had planned a tortuous route that made use of a series of stops. At each stop she would change cabs or buses and the direction to her destination. Time consuming, but a sure-fire way to lose someone shadowing her.

Dorita Markaris arrived on time for her flight leaving Athens International Airport. She made no use of her government agent’s privilege to bypass baggage check-in and the plethora of security checkpoints. She walked to the departure gate, not as Dorita Markaris, but as Callie Angelos, assistant manager of an import-export business in downtown Athens. Thanks to her underground connections, she carried a foolproof fake passport and an assortment of equally foolproof fake IDs. Less than an hour passed before Angelos boarded her plane. She found her seat assignment and settled in for a peaceful, uneventful flight. Once the plane reached its cruising altitude, she began thinking about how she reached this dangerous, yet more importantly,