King's Ransom Read online

  Connor had changed into jeans, red wing boots, and a black windbreaker. She was referring to the Glock .40 on his shoulder and the Beretta 9mm on his hip. She couldn’t see the Ka-Bar knife tucked inside his boot.

  He didn’t acknowledge the comment.

  She took the hint. “It was an intelligence transfer. Colton was gathering encrypted information from a deep-cover agent stationed in Lebanon. The agent’s assignment was sensitive. We think he was compromised.” She waited a moment, then added, “His primary body of work was in Syria.”

  As she watched Connor’s reaction, he looked nothing like the person she had met in the classroom. It was as though she were speaking with a different man entirely.

  “Where?” he asked.

  “Paris. Colton was last seen at a café on Avenue Montaigne. It’s near—”

  “I know where it is,” Connor cut in. “When?”

  “48 hours ago.”

  He looked away, his face scrunched.

  “We have no reason to believe the worst. But unfortunately, we have no confirmation to the contrary either. Neither Colton nor the agent he was meeting have been seen since that morning.”

  Connor was staring in the direction of the lake. “Leads?”

  Sampson shook her head. “Very few of any promise. It was intuitive to suspect terrorist involvement considering the agent’s assignment, but we’ve found absolutely nothing to confirm that supposition.” She tapped her fingers on the wooden tabletop. “To be honest, Connor, we haven’t found much at all.”

  “What action has the Agency taken?”

  “The agent’s apartment in Beirut was searched by a team of operatives, as was the café in Paris. But like I said, they found nothing of significance.” She shrugged. “Other than that, there’s just me.”

  Connor finally looked at her. “Let me guess, the situation is…delicate?”

  Hesitating, Sampson nodded.

  Connor knew all about the issues in Syria—The Syrian Slaughter. It was all over the news. The last thing the CIA wanted was to have its august name muddied by the mess. They would make sure this stayed quiet, and though it likely wasn’t her fault, the woman sitting in front of him was the messenger they had chosen to do it.

  Their own investigations had failed and now they were enlisting the help of higher talent in hopes of saving tail.

  But there was a sizable hole in that logic.

  “How much do you know about me, Agent Sampson?”

  Her dark eyes didn’t blink. “Enough to know you can help.”

  “Meaning?”

  She glanced anxiously over both shoulders then turned pensive, as though she wasn’t sure how much to say.

  Seeing that he wasn’t budging, she leaned forward. “I was briefed on Operation Mirkwood.”

  The look of sheer horror on Connor’s face told Sampson she had timed the revelation perfectly.

  Connor was very still as the shock rushed over him. Some very powerful people had promised him that information was buried so deeply the President himself wouldn’t be able to find it. Of course, promises rarely meant anything anymore—especially when coming from very powerful people.

  “Who else knows?” he asked calmly.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, it really does.”

  When she didn’t answer, he abruptly rose from the table and set off back across the field. Though Sampson had long legs, she had to jog to catch up with him.

  “I’m sorry, okay. I don’t know who all knows. My security clearances climb pretty high and I couldn’t access anything. There was nothing about it in Langley’s files. I checked. Not even a trace.”

  Connor didn’t slow down or acknowledge her words.

  “I was briefed on the mission by my superiors. That’s all I know. I was assigned the case and they told me what I needed to carry it out.”

  Connor dug his keys from his jacket pocket as they approached the parking lot.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To find my brother,” he said, climbing inside the black F-150. “Thanks for all your help.”

  As he cranked the engine, Sampson knocked pleadingly on the window.

  “I’m coming with you. I can help you find him.”

  He shifted into reverse. “Goodbye, Agent Sampson.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Damascus, Syria

  The Arab man studied himself in the dusty mirror.

  His skin was brown and creased like worn leather. A gray beard clung to his jawline. His head was wrapped with a white turban and on his frail body he wore a kaftan; on his feet were sandals.

  Satisfied, he splashed his face with cold water and extinguished the light above the sink, plunging the small loft into darkness.

  Taking measured strides across the filthy apartment floor, the Arab came to the window and pulled back the dark sheet. Streaks of sunlight filled the room, illuminating the spartan interior.

  There was a wooden table, a single plastic chair, and a threadbare cot in the corner. More than enough.

  The Arab watched as vehicles kicked up dust. His apartment was located in a secluded part of Damascus—if such a thing really existed in a city containing three million people—but traffic was light. Many that lived near him not only didn’t have cars, but never would; poverty threatened to swallow this part of the city. And that was precisely why he had chosen it as his base of operations.

  He checked the time on his cell phone. As if on cue, a car slowly came to a stop outside the apartment. The Arab released the curtain and grabbed his cane from the cot.

  He locked the door as he exited and pressed a button hidden in the wood paneling near the window. In doing, he engaged an alarm system linked to the phone; if the apartment were breached by way of either door or window, he would be notified immediately. If he didn’t manually deactivate the alarm within thirty seconds, the resultant explosion would level the whole block.

  Bits of sand riding the breeze peppered him as he limped across the pavement and gingerly got into the vehicle. The driver pulled away as the Arab closed the door.

  The Arab didn’t know the driver’s name and the driver didn’t know his; it was a simple arrangement. This was a ride they had taken together many times before.

  The Arab paid little attention to the submachine gun lying across the console. It was loaded, he knew, and could fire off a devastating number of rounds in only a few seconds. The Arab never packed that sort of heat. Though he carried a pistol at all times, his most lethal weapon rested between his ears.

  The drive took them into the precinct of Al Mouhajrin, only a short distance from the Presidential Palace. They continued on for a few miles until the buildings and foot traffic grew sparse.

  It was then that they turned into a complex, the wrought iron gate swinging open as they entered and slamming shut behind them.

  A half-mile later, as they rounded an S-curve in the now all-dirt road, the building gradually came into view. A line of trees obscured it, but its top stories could be seen peeking out above them.

  The building looked like most of Damascus: weathered stone covered with layers of sand and dust deposited by warm Mediterranean winds. It was five stories tall, but as the Arab and few others knew, the basement was the only functional floor. The five levels rising above ground were a purposeful misdirection meant to prevent undue attention, as was the official signage on the barbed wire fence identifying the complex as a Municipal Facility.

  It was owned by the Syrian government. But the activities conducted in the building were kept far from the President’s attention, and even further from that of any Syrian civilian.

  Though not accurate in every sense of the term, most operatives called this place a black site; in covert telecommunications, it was known simply as The Core.

  The driver reached a blue and white booth where two thick portions of fence came together. Beyond the booth was another iron gate. The man standing watch was dressed in light green fatigues, which acce
nted his dark skin, and an AK was strapped over his shoulder. In his other hand was a comm device.

  He spoke into it as the driver pulled the car to a stop and held something out the window, careful to keep his eyes trained straight ahead.

  The man took the card from the driver, spoke into the comm device as he ran the card over a scanner, then handed it back to the driver and waved them on. The gate slowly rose as the fence receded in both directions, granting them access to The Core.

  They had barely made it into the lot fronting the complex when a man dressed in an expensive suit exited the building. Two armed guards were with him, one at his side, one following. Both wore fatigues similar to the sentry in the booth.

  The Arab climbed from the car as quickly as his decrepit body would allow and hobbled on his cane to the sidewalk, where the triad awaited him.

  One of the guards kept his weapon pointed at him as he approached.

  The man in the suit took a careful step forward. “Name,” he prompted, in Arabic.

  “Abdul Hameed Al-Fariq,” the Arab replied. It wasn’t really his name but that had long ago ceased to be important. Names were tools, nothing more.

  At this, the man in the suit smiled and signaled for his guard to lower the weapon.

  “Hello Samir,” the Arab said kindly, a smile breaking as he kissed the man in the suit on both cheeks. “I hope things are well.”

  Samir laughed heartily. “Well, Hameed, as always, that is entirely up to you.” The group of men turned and Samir ushered the Arab into the building, then into an elevator. “I trust it is good news you bring us…”

  The Arab nodded. “At long last.”

  The elevator gave a slight jolt as it dropped to the bottom floor.

  The group shuffled down a long hallway, limited by the Arab’s slow pace, and finally reached a wide doorway buffeted by two more guards.

  “Here we are,” said Samir, giving the older man the assistance of his arm.

  Samir signaled for the guards to remain outside. They obeyed.

  The room looked much like it had upon their last meeting. It was basically a conference room. An oak table spanned the full length of the large space and leather chairs lined both sides of it.

  Five people were at the table. The Arab recognized them all from previous visits.

  The man at the head was dressed in a suit worth several times the value of the Arab’s apartment. The Arab had not been given the man’s name, but he knew he was a deputy prime minister, appointed by and reporting directly to the Syrian President.

  Seated on the deputy prime minister’s immediate right and left were feriqs, or lieutenant generals. Their uniforms were traditional Syrian green.

  The final two men, seated beside the generals, wore black slacks, black jackets, and white collared shirts. The Arab didn’t know their names or why they were here, but it was abundantly obvious they weren’t men to be crossed.

  Samir motioned for the Arab to sit and Samir sat opposite him.

  The men had been in a heated conversation upon the Arab’s arrival, but that had fully abated. No one had spoken since the Arab sat down. All eyes were on him.

  After a moment, Samir nodded.

  The Arab turned to the deputy prime minister. “As promised, I have received correspondence from my American contact. It seems our threat has finally been fully heeded.” He paused, remembering the precise words that had been relayed to him. “Certain actions have been taken that suggest a plan is being implemented to address our ransom. It appears the American has taken the bait.”

  “What actions?” asked one of the generals.

  “One event in Paris, one in Beirut. The two occurrences may seem isolated, but I assure you they are not. They are intimately connected, to each other and to our cause.”

  The deputy prime minister was leaning forward, his elbows resting on the table. “How can we be sure?”

  “My contact has information confirming the motive. It’s been established. Further, I know the American quite well. Too well. And this is exactly the sort of action I expected him to take.”

  The deputy prime minister lifted a piece of paper from the table and adjusted his glasses. “Colton King and Xavier Thorsby,” he read, then placed the paper back on the table, carefully aligning its edges with the others. “Both were CIA. Relevance?”

  The Arab was silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “Unclear as of now. All we know is that both men are part of the bigger scheme. A scheme that will ultimately land a crushing blow to your opposition.”

  The Arab knew far more than he was divulging, but that was always the case. He had spent his life several tactical steps ahead of those around him. It was a skill that had kept him alive.

  One of the generals spoke up. “You seem awfully confident this American can get the job done, Hameed. But you of all people should know it won’t be easy. In fact,” he motioned to the men in black jackets, “some think it to be impossible.”

  The Arab nodded. “I’m fully aware. My position with Hamas has helped me see more clearly with each passing day. But let me assure you, this American is a savage, an expert at selectively and clandestinely ending life. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.” He pointed to the stack of papers in front of the deputy prime minister. “And after receiving an offer like ours, he’ll do anything to make sure the right people end up dead. As I’ve told you, nothing motivates this man like self-preservation.”

  Placated, the deputy prime minister stood and began placing the papers in a dark briefcase. As he did, one of the men in black turned toward the Arab. His eyes were as black as his jacket and his voice was cold.

  “And how can we verify the allegiances of this contact of yours if we don’t even know his name?”

  The tension in the room multiplied but the Arab had been expecting the question. He was actually surprised it hadn’t come up sooner.

  “As I’ve told you from the onset of our arrangement, my sources remain anonymous. I will never betray those confidences.” He eyed the man with equal intensity. “Even at the cost of my own life.”

  Just when it seemed weapons were about to be drawn, Samir stood and helped the Arab from the room. The guards met them in the hallway and escorted them back to the elevator. None of the men spoke, not even Samir.

  As the Arab eased back into the car, he thought of Teresa Ferrell. He had pledged to keep her safe, and though that was all but impossible in matters such as these, it was a pledge he intended to keep.

  As for his other colleagues, he would simply have to trust they could take care of themselves.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Coal Creek, Kentucky

  78 hours remaining

  Carson King looked out across the cemetery, watching as the light autumn breeze tossed fallen leaves among the tombstones. It was cold for October. The temperature had already dipped into the forties and was still falling. In the distance, tendrils of fog crept along the creek and lingered above the graves.

  He was leaning against a maple tree, his breath coming out in small white puffs. There was a plug of Red Man tucked in his right cheek. Though he’d once been addicted to the stuff, he now only chewed tobacco once a day—when he came here.

  A few paces in front of him, amid a sheath of flowers he kept fresh year-round, was his father’s grave.

  Clive Patton King

  1948-2005

  A more honorable man there never was

  Despite the circumstances of his father’s death, Carson believed the epitaph with all his heart. Clive King had been a man of unyielding patriotism, of integrity, and of complete selfless devotion to his family.

  The fact that he had committed suicide didn’t diminish Carson’s view of him in the slightest.

  There were myriad reasons why his father wasn’t at fault for his death, even though he had pulled the trigger. Though Carson had been several thousand miles away when the .40 caliber bullet obliterated his father’s brain, he knew much of the blame fell squarely on
his shoulders.

  Clive King had been a member of a dying breed. A faithful husband, a devoted father, and a damn proud American. And Carson had let him down.

  Though few people knew it, Carson’s father had spent the majority of his adult life fighting depression and anxiety. It started as mild post-traumatic stress disorder following his time in Vietnam, but had grown into something much more enduring.

  Carson wasn’t a psychologist, but he, like his father, had seen and done horrific things. It changed the core of a person. Those experiences molded the soul in unpredictable ways, and the searing memories assured the change was permanent.

  Change. It was the only sure thing in life, the only unfailing element that persisted regardless of circumstance. It was an odd concept, Carson thought, the idea that change is the only thing that never changes.

  It always persists, always remains, and often in the most brutal of ways.

  Change had not been kind to Carson King. He’d had an All-American childhood, the kind of clichéd life mediocre writers write about in storybooks. He had two parents that loved him, two brothers he would have gladly died for, and a hometown that adored him. He was a 4.0 student, an All-American football player, and was awarded a full ride to the University of Kentucky to play inside linebacker.

  Carson King had embodied the American dream in all its enviable glory. And in a matter of two hours on a crisp September morning, a handful of Islamic extremists had decimated it all.

  Change. Everything had changed.

  The tobacco becoming dry, he dug it from his cheek and tossed it into the grass, still mulling over the events that had led him to this place.

  Even as he stared at his father’s grave, he thought of his mother. He had just come from the nursing home where she was enrolled indefinitely. A year prior to his father’s suicide, his mother had been diagnosed with early-onset dementia; during the seven-year interlude her ailment had grossly progressed. She no longer recognized her family, couldn’t go to the bathroom unassisted, and could barely speak.

  When he visited last week, the doctors had told him it was only a matter of time.