Black Widow Read online

“That’s what I was thinking,” said Therrien. “I mean, you’d have to either really hate your country or be blinded by greed to risk that. My guess is they had some sort of assurances beforehand.”

  Morrison smiled. “Guessing is all well and good, but we need facts if we’re going to act. Do we have anything to actually show this happened?”

  Sonya Tong raised a finger. “We did pick up some chatter that a Chechen cell had something for sale at a huge price on one of the dark web arms trading networks, but the listing went down. We didn’t pay it too much mind until we had this bit of intel to match it against.”

  Leroux tapped his desk as he chewed his cheek. “Sir, if the listing went down, either it was BS in the first place—”

  “Or it’s been sold.”

  Leroux nodded at his boss. “Or a sale has been arranged.”

  “What do we know about these Chechens?”

  Leroux motioned to Sonya. “Go ahead.”

  She smiled at him and Leroux resisted the urge to look away. He was in a committed, long term relationship with the most incredible woman he had ever known, and young Sonya Tong had a bit of a crush on him. He had always considered himself a geek, socially awkward, few if any friends his entire life that weren’t cyber, chronically single with no prospects, but when Sherrie White had come into his life, all that had changed.

  He was no longer single.

  He was still socially awkward and all that nonsense, but he no longer cared. He had a girlfriend that he felt was way out of his league though truly did seem to love him, and now the attentions of this other woman.

  It was too much for his fragile ego to know how to handle.

  So he ignored it.

  Almost thirty years with no girls interested, and now two at once.

  He smiled. Inwardly.

  You da man! Self-five!

  He tuned back into what Sonya was saying. “—Alambek Vok even running for office now, though we think that’s a cover. He has numerous offshore accounts where he seems to be funneling money.”

  “Retirement fund?”

  “That was the prevailing wisdom. He lost the war against Russia so he’s looking to set himself up somewhere comfortable.”

  “Exactly how much money does he have?”

  Sonya waved her tablet. “None.”

  Morrison’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

  “Mr. Vok’s bank accounts were completely drained over the week leading up to Colonel Chernov’s alleged meeting.”

  Morrison sucked in a breath, pursing his lips. “The SVR payoff.”

  Leroux nodded. “That’s a good assumption.”

  Morrison looked at him. “What does your legendary gut tell you?”

  Leroux flushed a bit.

  His “gut” was well known at the CIA, it how he got his job as a supervisor, something he had not wanted. He had a hard enough time dealing with people as it was, so to become the supervisor of a team of almost ten, many of who were much older than him, had been unbelievably stressful.

  He had turned it down.

  But he wasn’t given a choice.

  Forcing him had been the right decision, and he was now excelling at it, though at times he still felt awkward. But his team had been great, and after running a few successful ops, they were solidly behind him, everyone benefiting from his uncanny ability to take seemingly unrelated data and find how they were related.

  And today was no different.

  He looked at Morrison, the man who had given him no choice. “I think Colonel Chernov is telling us the truth and that Chechen separatists, with known ties to Islamic fundamentalists, now have their hands on enough nuclear material to create a dirty bomb that could render much of Manhattan uninhabitable for decades.”

  8

  Al-Raqqah, Syria

  ISIL controlled territory

  Maloof glanced over his shoulder, seeing no one. He casually walked farther out of the town, puffing on a cigarette, it a nasty habit he had acquired while here. The cigarettes were plentiful, and there was nothing else to do, the joke here that if anyone ever lived long enough to get lung cancer, they weren’t trying hard enough.

  But he had no intentions of being here much longer.

  He had his intel.

  A conversation today referred to a meeting that would take place in two weeks with a group of Chechens to make the final purchase necessary for the largest ISIL operation in history, and he knew immediately what it was for.

  The missing nuclear material.

  His latest briefing from Mossad suggested a not insignificant amount of Cesium-137 had been sold to the Chechens and that they were looking to flip it. The Americans were desperate to find it, and Mossad sources within the CIA had caught wind of it, passing the intel on. Since he was one of only a few agents embedded in the area, he had received a burst communique a few days ago.

  And now it appeared the group he had infiltrated were directly involved.

  He had to get that intel to Mossad so somebody could act upon it. Who, it didn’t matter. No one with half a brain wanted Islamic fundamentalists with anything nuclear. He always returned to the example of Pakistan. When they finally had the bomb, what happened? Their nuclear scientist, a national hero, immediately sold it to the Libyans, Iranians and North Koreans. And God knew who else. It reminded him of what an old lecturer of his from university said.

  The Mutually Assured Destruction doctrine only works when the other side doesn’t want to die any more than you do. With Islamic fundamentalists, you can’t be that sure.

  Which was why any Islamic state with the bomb was a terrifying prospect.

  Especially Iran.

  When a government and its leaders call for Israel to be wiped from the map, its citizens forced into the sea should they survive, when Hitler’s Final Solution is described as a good start in one breath and a hoax in another, one could forgive the Jews he worked with for being a little nervous.

  He cleared the rise to the south of town then dropped down the other side and out of anyone’s line of sight who might be watching. Sprinting to the east several hundred feet, he dropped behind a rock outcropping and quickly began scooping sand away, a plastic bag a foot down soon revealed. With a glance over each shoulder, he unzipped the bag and removed the phone and satellite transmitter.

  Firing up the transmitter, he waited for the phone to boot up as he gathered the sand around in a pile next to the hole he had just dug.

  There wasn’t a second to waste.

  The phone was up and he quickly typed in his message, letting them know about the meeting he had overheard and the meeting to purchase possible nuclear material from the Chechens in two weeks.

  A foot scraped behind him.

  He spun toward the sound and saw a sneering Safar standing with his gun pointed at him.

  “I told them you couldn’t be trusted.”

  Maloof rose slowly, his hands up at his shoulders. “What are you talking about?” He motioned toward the phone. “It’s how I keep in touch with back home.”

  “I could smell the Jew on you the moment you arrived.”

  Interesting. Having lived among them all my life, I didn’t realize they had a smell.

  “I’m not a Jew, of that I can assure you.”

  “You’re not one of us. And when I show the Caliph your equipment there, he’ll agree with me having killed you.”

  Not planning to take me prisoner, are you?

  “He might not be too pleased, since I’m doing his work.”

  Safar’s smile disappeared, replaced with confusion. “Umm, what do you mean?”

  Maloof took the opportunity to take a step forward, a smile on his face. “Listen, brother, how do you think we update social media? We need computers and satellite uplinks. But we have to hide them from the infidel.” Another step. “We can’t be sending these signals from within the towns, they’ll be able to track them then bomb us.” Another step. “We hide them outside in the middle of nowhere so that if they
do bomb the source of the signal, no one gets hurt, and they waste a million dollar missile destroying a cellphone.” He laughed, taking the final step. “You see, it’s all explained, no need to be concerned.”

  Safar stared at him. “Then why did the Caliph himself send me after you.” Safar squeezed the trigger, a single shot erupting from the barrel of the AK-47, the searing hot round tearing through Maloof’s stomach before he could stop him. Agony ripped through him as he reached behind his back, pulling his knife while swatting the barrel of the gun away, the next several shots firing harmlessly into the sand. His knife surged forward, into Safar’s own stomach, plunging deep into the fleshy mass, all the way to the hilt. Safar cried out in shock and pain as Maloof twisted the blade, scrambling the organs, the two of them dropping to the ground.

  Maloof let go of the knife and grasped at his stomach. Blood poured over his fingers and he knew he was going to die, the life sustaining fluid quickly draining from him.

  He had only seconds.

  He turned, crawling on his knees, back toward the phone, its bright display beckoning, as Safar moaned behind him, his prayers getting weaker. A jolt of pain surged through Maloof’s body, taking his breath away, and he fell forward, onto his hands, the last few feet covered on all fours. He reached out for the phone, falling onto his side.

  And hit Send.

  Then rolled over onto his back, staring up at the stars, more brilliant than he had ever noticed before.

  And hoped that his service to Allah had made him worthy of the same paradise Safar seemed to think he was destined for.

  9

  Khirbet Awwad, Syrian-Jordanian Border

  “Allahu Akbar!”

  Kane smiled and returned the salute, he soon exchanging pounding hugs with several men he had just met. Yet today he wasn’t Dylan Kane, he was Bryce Clearwater, a naïve young man who had converted to Islam and wanted to join the cause, his profile, built up over a couple of years online by the CIA, now given a face.

  His.

  And here he was, the latest misguided foreigner yearning for a life of violence and sex, denied to him by his oppressive Christian regime back home.

  “How was your trip?” asked his contact, Aziz Kanaan, as his duffel bag was taken and tossed into the back of a waiting pickup truck.

  “Fine. A little surprised at how easy it was to get here.”

  Kanaan laughed, nodding toward Kane’s pocket. “It’s that American passport you carry and that smooth white face. It’s like a key that unlocks any door.”

  The others laughed, all clearly Middle Eastern men with thick beards. Kane ran his hand over his face. “I cut it off before I left. I thought it would help.”

  Kanaan slapped him on the back. “My friend, you definitely did the right thing. Whenever one of us goes somewhere the infidel controls, we shave, otherwise our devotion gives us away.”

  Kane smiled, climbing into the back of the truck with Kanaan, the other two taking the cab. As they pulled away from the border, he couldn’t help but marvel at how easy it indeed had been. He was deep undercover so he hadn’t used his CIA contacts to smooth the way, just in case there was a weak point along the journey. He was going into the lion’s den, and someone knowing who he was would mean certain death.

  He had bought his own ticket to Jordan, met up with a Médecins Sans Frontières team, made it to the frontlines, then walked away.

  All too easy.

  New York City to the Islamic State in less than forty-eight hours.

  Now he just hoped he could confirm the intel provided by Mossad and get it back to his handlers so they could call in a team to recover the black market nuclear materials.

  “What are you thinking?” asked Kanaan, staring at him.

  Kane smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know, I’m just so excited. I can’t believe I actually had the guts to come, you know. It’s like, the craziest thing I’ve ever done.”

  Kanaan roared with laughter. “You think this is crazy, wait until tomorrow! You’re going to be so busy you won’t know what hit you!”

  Kane smiled. “Your English, it’s very good.”

  Kanaan nodded. “Thank you. I’ve had a good teacher. And now you will teach others as well. We need converts like you, not only to help recruit others to the cause, but to teach us English and the ways of the infidel. You grew up as one and only recently came to Allah. There’s much we can learn from you.”

  “I look forward to serving Allah in spreading his word as told to the Prophet, peace be upon him.”

  Kanaan leaned forward and slapped him on his leg as the truck bounced along what some might call a road, though most wouldn’t. “I think you will fit in here very well, my friend. Now let us rest. It is a long journey.” With that, Kanaan lay down in the bed of the truck and closed his eyes, his head resting on a rolled up jacket. Kane propped his duffel bag against the cab then leaned back on it, turning to his side so he faced outward.

  And with one eye closed, he watched the terrain whip by, using the stars overhead to guide him, allowing him to know pretty much exactly where they were when they arrived several hours later.

  The truck skidded to a halt, a cloud of dust flowing over them causing Kane to cough. Kanaan laughed, slapping him on the back before jumping to the ground and stretching. Kane followed, aping the movements, not to fit in, but because he truly was tight, the accommodations of the past few hours sadly lacking.

  Kanaan motioned to him. “Come, come, let’s get inside and out of sight of the infidel.” Kanaan pointed up and Kane glanced at the sky. He had no doubt there was a satellite overhead, watching him, though there’d be no drones.

  It could raise suspicions.

  He stepped inside a rather modest building and two men raised their weapons, aiming them at his chest. “Hey, what’s this? I thought we were all friends here!”

  Kanaan stepped in front of him, removing Kane’s duffel bag from his shoulder and tossing it to another who quickly began to empty it on a nearby table. “We are, my friend, we are. But you are leaving your old life behind and committing yourself to Allah. Lose the clothing of the infidel and all his trappings.”

  “Really?”

  Kanaan nodded. “Please.”

  Kane frowned but knew he had no choice, the two men, AKs aimed at him, didn’t appear to have been properly trained, their fingers actually on the triggers instead of resting against the guard. Any surprise, any twitch, and lead would be belching at him.

  With that in mind, he carefully undressed, down to his underwear.

  Kanaan pointed at them. “Please.”

  Kane sighed, dropping his underwear to the dusty floor, naked for the world to see. Or at least his new friends, all of whom seemed a little too interested in his junk. He eyeballed one of the men who couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away, his trigger finger twitching. “Never seen a white one before?”

  The man looked at him, startled, then flushed, raising his weapon slightly higher.

  Kanaan roared with laughter, slapping Kane on the back before coming between the embarrassed man and Kane. “You’re lucky he doesn’t speak English, my friend, or he may have killed you.” Kanaan pointed at the only thing that remained on Kane’s person. “The watch. Give it to me.”

  Kane felt his heart slam a little harder as he removed his only lifeline to the outside world. As the man searching his bag would find, there was absolutely nothing there to find. He had brought no weapons, no comm gear, nothing that could raise suspicions.

  Except his watch.

  An ordinary looking watch with extraordinary capabilities.

  He handed it over.

  It would appear to anyone to be a regular watch, it deactivating the moment he removed it. If he was lucky, Kanaan would take to wearing it, which would give him a chance to retrieve it later.

  Kanaan tossed it to the floor and crushed it with the heel of his boot.

  Well that makes things a little more interesting.

  10

>   Operations Center 3, CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  “How late is he?”

  Leroux frowned, glancing at his boss then at one of the displays on the massive, curved wall of plasma in front of them. “Two days.”

  Morrison shook his head, dropping into a spare chair, the operations center currently manned by Leroux’s staff plus several support personnel. “Two days.”

  “Yes, sir. He hasn’t responded to our communication attempts, and we’re getting no indication that the messages have actually been received by his watch.”

  “What’s the log show?”

  Leroux motioned toward Sonya Tong, she responding. “Last signal was an indicator that it had been removed from his wrist, then nothing.”

  “You’re sure it was removed?”

  Sonya nodded. “Yes, sir. It transmits a distinct signal when that happens unless the agent presses down on the face first.”

  “In case they’re monitoring for signals.”

  “Exactly. And since he didn’t do that, we believe he wanted that signal sent.”

  Morrison pursed his lips, looking at Sonya then at Leroux. “Or it was taken off without his consent.”

  Leroux nodded. “Definitely a possibility. Either way it suggests he’s in trouble.”

  “And with it being two days, we wouldn’t even know where to go.” Morrison sighed, clasping his hands behind his head as he leaned back in the chair. “I wouldn’t be concerned if he was at least wearing the watch. It wouldn’t be the first time an operative was under constant surveillance. Hell, days or weeks isn’t out of the question.” He tilted forward, unclasping his hands and resting his elbows on his knees, his voice lowering slightly. “Right now, for all we know, he’s dead.”

  Leroux felt weak, his chest tightening, blood rushing, pounding in his ears at his boss’ words.

  Kane. Dead.

  It was too much. Kane was his only friend besides Sherrie, someone he rarely saw yet always knew was out there, somewhere, ready and willing to help if ever needed.

  He looked at Morrison. “Can we at least assume he’s alive for now?”