Jack Coughlin - Running the Maze

Fred Ellison, chief of the State Department’s Diplomatic Security Service, sipped some sweet lemonade before continuing his pitch. Andy Moore of the Central Intelligence Agency and David Hunt of the Federal Bureau of Investigation listened with growing astonishment as Ellison spun his tale of how Undersecretary William Lloyd Curtis of the U.S. Bureau of American-Islamic Affairs had recently stepped far beyond his pay grade and used DSS assets to track an American citizen. “I put a stop to it as soon as I found out, then I read Curtis the riot act,” said Ellison. “At the time, I chalked it up to a mistake in judgment, although he was no glad-handing rookie diplomat. I underestimated him.”

“Is he a heavy hitter in the administration?” asked Hunt.

“Absolutely. Former ambassador to Kuwait and Egypt. Heavy campaign contributor to both parties as a civilian, with lots of experience, contacts, and knowledge about the Sandbox countries. He hosts swanky parties that cover as a backdoor channel for communication between Washington and the Islamic world.”

“Man, we could probably send him to prison just for that security breach, but it’s pretty thin. No real red flags that I see,” said Moore.

“It became a burr under my saddle,” admitted Ellison. “Not so much that he did it, but why would he do such a stupid thing? So I started showing a special interest in him.”

“So, since we all work in Washington, why are we here in New York?” Hunt leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees.

Ellison drew out a photo of a middle-aged fat man with dark hair and passed it around. “This man is Mohammed Javid Bhatti, who works for the Pakistani Foreign Office right over at the UN, and he has been showing up frequently, either in person or by phone or e-mail, with Undersecretary Curtis. I ran him by our resident security officer in Islamabad, who got back to me this morning. We’re here because there are too many leaks in Washington. I’ve known and trusted you guys for years, and want to keep this on the down-low.”

“Javid Bhatti is your Fish?” Hunt looked curiously at the photograph. “Pardon my French, Freddy, but this guy ain’t no Moby Dick. More like a fat flounder.”

Ellison rapped the table with his knuckles. “No, Dave. Undersecretary Curtis is the Fish. My RSO in Pakistan reported that this flounder, Mr. Bhatti, really works for the New Muslim Order.”

Moore and Hunt exchanged frowns, and Hunt cleared his throat. “You think this Bhatti and the NMO are trying to manipulate or blackmail a ranking American diplomat?”

“Worse. I think Curtis is working for them of his own free will. My opinion, the son of a bitch is a closet jihadist.”

“Why? He had to have gone through a complete security clearance just to get his job”

There was silence in the room, and the noise of New York drifted up to the fifteenth floor, a muted burble of yells, taxi horns, and a siren from a traffic accident. “I want to do another one, deeper this time. All the way down to the bone because I missed something the first time around. I propose a full-court press on this, guys, but keep it quiet. All three of our agencies have to be involved and cooperate.”

“What about Homeland Security?” Hunt asked with a slight smirk.

“Who?” laughed Moore, removing a white legal pad from his briefcase to draft a game plan.

SECURITY CHIEF AYMAN AL-MASRI of the New Muslim Order remained confident of the outcome of the fight, despite the setbacks. The untrained rabble at his disposal was clearly outmatched by the professionals of the Zionist raiding party, but the trail of bodies on the lower levels and the battle noise in the east tunnel indicated the raiders were still headed topside. If they expected a ride out of here, at some point their rescue helicopter had to arrive, and the enemy would have to emerge from the tunnel to board it.

In the distance, he had watched a blue golf cart carrying one of his teams emerge from the east tunnel and zip across to where heavy earthmoving equipment was parked. Good men. Finally, some of these cowards were showing the aggressiveness needed to overcome the flaws in the general attack. They had taken a good defensive position behind the big machines without being told, and that action gave him an idea for a final strategy.

Instead of wasting his fighters belowground, al-Masri decided to reorganize into a pair of strong defensive positions around both main entrances, and simply wait for the targets to present themselves. When they did, he would finish them off.

“Leave the guard and those other two down at the west tunnel mouth, but gather the rest here,” he told his bodyguard, who radioed the instructions to the other teams. “I will instill the fear of Allah in them, and they will fight!”

About thirty men had gone into the tunnels, but fewer than ten came out and drifted over to him. Twenty dead? Al-Masri snorted; some of the foreign contract workers were hiding down there to save their skins. He would deal with them later. There was still some shooting below, so others were still engaged and unable to break contact.

“Now listen carefully, you worthless dogs,” he shouted and took a deep breath to begin explaining his trap. He never finished, because he heard the pounding thrum of approaching aircraft.

IT IS HARD TO kill someone behind a wall, and Kyle Swanson huddled down tight in a small alcove on the first basement level while a tight curtain of bullets whizzed by him. Finally, he had run into someone who knew how to fight.

Swanson was bottled up in the wide tunnel that sloped up to the main entrance, and he had about a minute and a half left, with the seconds falling rapidly away. Soon, the bird would touch down for a moment and then be gone.

If he missed the extract, he planned to haul ass back downstairs as fast as possible and crawl out of a firing slit in one of the gun pits. Once in the valley, he could evade, find a new hide, and arrange another pickup.

He would stick here for a few more seconds and raise some hell to divide the attention of any topside fighters and help the Ospreys come in safely. He could only hope that Coastie and the engineer were ready, although he had not heard from them for several minutes.

Another fusillade of bullets buzzed his way, sliding and bouncing along the wall, gnawing at his hiding place, and he stuck the CAR-15 out and returned a burst. The other guy was shielded at a corner and was cold locked in on Kyle. There was too much open space to rush the gunman, and if reinforcements came in to help, Swanson would have a real problem. The one thing he could not afford to do was nothing.

THE BRIGHT GLARE OF the sun had made Beth Ledford shade her eyes with her palm when her cart swept out of the tunnel and onto the bridge. Free of the tight confines of the subterranean levels, she found herself in the open, driving across a wide roadway that had broad aprons spread on each side, with high guardrails along the edges. To her left were the cloth cubicles of the bazaar, although the hawkers had abandoned the area when the shooting started. Far to the right at the other end of the bridge, she saw a group of men gathered in a circle.

She swerved to the apron and parked between heavy excavation equipment, then shoved the engineer out, grabbed his leash, and hauled him down beside a huge bulldozer. As she checked her weapons, she heard the planes and pressed her radio earpiece hard, calling for help, praying for a response.

“Limo Three-Two. Limo Three-Two. This is Bounty Hunter Bravo.”

During years of controversial development, the Osprey had gained such a bad reputation that Marines assigned to fly on them grimly called themselves death crews. As the bugs were finally worked out, the twin tilt-rotor aircraft became a gem of the fleet and far surpassed the capabilities of the old medium-lift CH-46 Sea Knight helicopters. A pair of them were a minute out from the bridge.