Mike Maden - River of Gods

“With the kind of cash the Fieros have? Absolutely. And if they really are using her to turn the kinds of decisions we’ve talked about, then they’re even richer than what we think, I’m sure.”

“How so?”

“This isn’t about blackmailing individuals. They’re extorting whole industries. Imagine how much money they could solicit from the entire banking industry, or the entire oil industry, if they could deliver legislation that would save those industries tens of billions of dollars in taxes and regulatory expenses. And then imagine the stock picking they could do, knowing months in advance that these sectors were about to benefit from huge changes in favorable legislation or court rulings.”

“I’m still not buying it. You’re talking about the next Democratic nominee for the presidency. The senator is already quite wealthy thanks to her husband, and she’s already one of the most powerful politicians in Washington. Why would she play these kinds of games?”

“When is anyone ever satisfied with the money and power they already have?”

Myers didn’t have an answer for that. Time wasn’t their friend and they had limited resources. They could start digging into the six other candidates they had generated as well, but that would only put them further behind. She’d gotten as far as she had in life by learning to trust the people around her, and Ian clearly thought the Fieros were the two best suspects to pursue.

“Okay, then. Those are our targets. The Fieros and CIOS.”

“Targets? Are we talking wet work?”

“No, but they’ll wish it was wet work when we’re through with them.”

“Best be careful with CIOS. Bath will have every security precaution in place, as well as the means to retaliate against us if she thinks we’re coming after her in any way, wet work included.”

“Agreed.” Myers frowned.

“Problem?”

“It’s hard to imagine Barbara Fiero would be caught up in something like this. But as I think about it, maybe it’s not so far-fetched. She has a reputation for being the luckiest woman on the Hill. She always seemed to know exactly the right place to be or the right vote to cast or the right person to meet at just the right time. If she has the kind of extreme insider information we’re talking about, that would explain a lot.”

“Knowledge is power, Margaret. You of all people should know that.”

“They say genius is seeing the obvious. Clearly, I’m no genius or I would have seen through her earlier.”

Myers remembered Fiero during the NSA hearings held by her committee in the Senate. She was one of the few Democrats on that committee adamantly in favor of the NSA’s domestic spying program. One of the Democrats asked the NSA straight up, “Are you spying on Congress?” Fiero interrupted the question and said, “That’s a national security question that shouldn’t be asked in a public forum. But I, for one, support the NSA’s security programs both here and abroad, and I for one wouldn’t care if they were listening in on my telephone conversations, because I have nothing to hide.”

The gall of the woman, especially if what they now believed about her actually turned out to be true. She should have seen it.

“Ian, now we have to go on the offense. Are you still with me?”

“To the bloody end.”

“Thank you.”

Myers hoped that Ian’s words weren’t prophetic. They divided up tasks and went back to work.

Maersk Oil Pumping Station

Tamanghasset Province, Southern Algeria

10 May

The sobbing Algerian was twenty-three years old, clean-shaven and close-cropped. The knees of his Maersk oil coveralls were soaking up the Danish engineer’s blood on the cement floor, seeping from the headless corpse a few feet away.

“Are you a woman? Quit crying!” Al Rus shouted in Arabic. He slapped the young man’s face.

The Algerian fought back his desperate tears, gasping for breath, trying to stem the tide.

Al Rus hit him again.

“Are you a Muslim?”

The boy’s eyes sparked with hope. “Yes! Yes!”

“Then why are you helping these Crusader dogs rape your country?”

“My father. He is not well. We needed the money—”

“Thieves steal because they need money.”

“I am no thief. I was only an apprentice to that man.”

“You are no Muslim.”

“I am of the faithful!”

“You swear it?”

“I swear it!”

“Why should I believe you?”

“I repent!” The young man turned his head and spit on the corpse of his dead Danish friend.

“You will stop helping the Crusaders?”

“Yes, yes, a thousand times, yes! Mercy. In the name of Allah,” the boy whimpered.

Finally, Al Rus nodded. “Yes, I believe you have repented of your thievery. But I think you are weak in your faith. You are no Salafi. I think you will turn back to your thievery and burn in the fires of hell in the next life.”

“No! I am strong in my faith. You will see.”

Al Rus nodded again. “Yes, we will see.”

He stepped over to an interior door and pushed it open. On the floor, a woman. Naked, bruised, bloodied. But still very much alive.

Al Rus held out the knife handle. The Algerian glanced at the woman, a friend, and then at the knife.

Salvation.

The young Algerian stood up unsteadily on trembling legs and took the knife. It shook in his hand. He glanced back up into the Norwegian’s merciless face.

Al Rus’s satellite phone rang. He pulled it from his belt. Saw the number. Nodded to the Algerian, then to his men, and stepped outside into the burning sun to take the call.

It was already hot, and not yet noon.

“Yes, of course. I have been waiting for your call,” Al Rus said in English. It was Guo.

The woman’s screams echoed from the pump room. He ignored them, focusing on Guo’s instructions. Didn’t notice her screaming suddenly choking off, like a needle lifted from a record.

“I understand.” He snapped off the phone. One of his fighters, a Chechen, approached him. “Here’s your knife.”

Al Rus took it, wiped the bloody blade on his pant leg.

“Did you take a video?”

“Yes. Of course,” the Chechen said. “It will be posted shortly.”

“Good. There is still one more lesson for the others. No one is fooled. ‘A dog always returns to its own vomit.’” Al Rus hated secularized Muslims worse than devout Jews, or even Christians.

The Chechen glanced back at the pump house, nodding in agreement.

Al Rus smiled. “And then we have a new mission.”

Pearce Systems Headquarters

Dearborn, Michigan

10 May

Ian’s task was clear: spy on Jasmine Bath and Senator Fiero. The risks were equally clear: decades in a federal penitentiary—or worse. The trick was coming up with a strategy that would accomplish the former and avoid the latter.

Jasmine Bath was the best in the business. Period. Her cyberdefenses were impeccable, but her ability to counterattack was fearsome indeed. On the other hand, Senator Fiero and her husband would be more vulnerable and less able to retaliate in the digital realm, so they were the better targets to pursue. Undoubtedly, there would be some sort of exploitable link between Bath and the Fieros. Ian knew if he could break through the Fieros’ defenses, he might have a good shot at breaching Bath’s.