Blaze (21 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

DR. GABRIELLA MANCINI'S OFFICE, WASHINGTON, DC

“H
i Gabriella.”

The President showcased a countenance that hinted towards a sense of subtle deflation in his spirit. It was evident in the tone of his greeting.

“Hello Mr. President. What do we have to look forward to today?”

Gabriella was chipper and ready to dig in as usual. She was an extremely smart and energetic therapist and her inherent personality strengths often served to help her clients more than her actual words.

“Oh hell, I don't know Gabriella, my world is full of all kinds of snares and pickles.”

Jack Fitzsimmons wasted no time in revealing his true state of mind. Jack often played the flustered, disgruntled world leader.

“You signed on for it Jack, hell, you
campaigned
for it,” reminded Dr. Mancini.

“That I did…that I did”, pondered the President.

“Where do you want to start? What is weighing the heaviest on your mind?”

Jack thought for a moment. He decided to initially stray away from the personal stuff—his struggles with his wife, his attraction to internet porn, and his larger spiritual battles. He thought it proper to start with work, specifically, his recent reflections on the Iranian nuclear program.

“Besides all the personal stuff, I'd have to say the entire labyrinth that is the issue of Iran is in the forefront of my daily thoughts and concerns.”

Gabriella didn't expect the discussion to start there, but why not? It was, in fact, probably one of the most important challenges facing the globe at the moment.

“Tell me more.”

“Well, a very heated discussion occurred this week between myself, Mahoney, and Sapp. For the record, it all ended up well and good, and I'm thoroughly satisfied with the unique dynamic and healthy tug and pull interplay that exists between the three of us, but it was quite a discussion. Sapp was unbelievably hawkish on the issue, so much so, that I began to seriously wonder if he was a neo-con mole. He insisted that we needed to pursue aggressive measures of all sorts to stop Iran from getting the bomb. As usual, this position was advanced amidst a haze of unwelcome cigarette smoke and swearing that would make the
Sons Of Anarchy
blush.”

Gabriella never watched television. She was a bit of a recluse and a nerdy bookworm. She had absolutely no clue in the world who the
Sons Of Anarchy
were, but she nodded her head and went along with his line of thought anyhow.

“How did you react?”

“I instinctively came from the other direction. I've been more and more leaning towards the notion that Iran having the bomb would not be the end of the world. Pakistan has the bomb and they are Islamic. Israel has the bomb and no one, save the Islamic world, really challenges them. And of course, we have the bomb. I just don't think that starting a war would be a better option than trying to diplomatically handle an Iran with the bomb. I know they have an extreme religious slant with the whole Shia Twelver thing, but at the end of the day, I just refuse to believe that they're anything but rational. I don't believe that they can't be managed with a reasonable batch of carrots and sticks, like any other rogue nation.”

“So you're weighing the known risks of war versus the unknown risks of allowing Iran to get the bomb. Keep in mind, I am your psychologist. I can't give opinion on policy, nor should any of my comments be interpreted as such.”

She knew he understood this, but it had to be continually re-emphasized as a matter of requisite CYA.

“I know Gabriella, it goes without saying.”

“So what has shifted your thoughts? Last time this issue came up, you were leaning towards doing whatever you could, short of going to war, to stop Iran from getting the bomb.”

Her face crinkled with a feigned look of confusion.

“I haven't moved from that position. I'll continue to support aggressive sanctions and covert actions to stop them. I've already just commissioned a series of new covert actions against their nuclear development efforts. That said, in my heart of hearts I am bracing for the reality that all these efforts may only slow them down. I suspect it is simply a matter of time, which means that I have to imagine a world in which Iran has the bomb, and strategize how that inevitable reality might best be managed.”

“That's quite a stark realization.” Gabriella deliberately contained her own thoughts on the matter, which were quite different than the President's. But she knew her role. He paid her to listen and to prompt deeper reflection, not to interject with her own beliefs and opinions.

“I suppose. I'm not sure how a thinking person can come to a different conclusion.”

“Who else shares this sentiment?”

“Well, Maksim Koslov does, but that's to be expected. For as many areas where I can find agreeable overlap with him, he's still by and large not a certified friend of the United States in the eyes of many, and he clearly minimizes the Iranian threat. However, we've both been very open about our desire to see a unified world in which borders are eroded and a centralized, fair global governance emerges.”

A silence fell over the room for about twenty seconds or so. Fitz stared off slightly upwards and to the right as he pondered the magnanimity of his vision. Conversely, Gabriella sat with a neutral look on her face, while internally she was horrified with what she was hearing. She thought of the biblical and historical traces of global unity and one-world government aspirations. The Tower of Babel came to mind first. She couldn't imagine that the fleshing out of Fitz' utopian vision could possibly end any differently.

“Do you truly think that such a vision of a unified world is not only achievable, but inherently benevolent and a worthy goal? Do you really trust that Koslov truly wants that as opposed to a re-empowered Russia?”

She was pushing it with this question, and she knew it. She scaled back her body language and temperament after launching this question. She hoped to disarm Jack by signaling to him that it was nothing more than a naturally challenging question intended to provoke him to more deeply scrutinize his own ideas.

“While I suspect Koslov is a nationalist at heart and will always care about Russia first, he still sees the need for larger global cooperation and unity. Gabriella, the growing consensus among the world's power brokers is that this is a necessary and inevitable structure the world must move towards in order to preserve itself in this current information age. The world is getting smaller by the minute. Processed information makes the world go round. Divisions, hate crimes, and prejudices are condemned by the citizen's of the globe. In order to continue to manage such social threats, along with terrorism, we need a comprehensive global structure. We have global banking, global trade unions, global commerce, but yet we have failed to install a global currency or a global government? It's a normal progression. Those who stand against might as well get back on their horse and buggy and get out of the way.”

“It sounds like you're convinced on this.”

She was diametrically opposed to the notion and didn't buy for a second that Koslov was doing anything but using the global governance rhetoric to bend Fitz his way. It was times likes this when it was extremely difficult for her to keep her thoughts to herself during a session.

“It's one of the main goals I purposed to strive towards upon taking office.” Fitz's face was full of perceivable focus.

“Do you trust the intentions of leaders like Koslov when it comes to the coordination of such ideas?”

“Everyone knows how Koslov is. The rumors of his unseen brutality and dictator tendencies are ubiquitous. I've no illusions about him. That said, it wouldn't be the first time in history in which two leaders, or nations for that matter, joined together for a positive common purpose despite the inherent flaws or unfavorable actions of either individual leader or nation.”

His naiveté was astounding to Gabriella. It was as if the clear lessons of history were completely lost on Jack. Gabriella struggled to fight her instinct to further challenge his thinking.
I'm a citizen of this country right? Do I not have the right, or even the responsibility, to challenge him if I think he is way off course? Is he delusional? Is he living in some sort of fantasy world? Peaceful global governance? Really?
She fought her internal thoughts and struggled for an appropriate way to get her point her across without overstepping. She couched her warning in her extremely soft, soothing voice. “As long as you're on guard. You're in a position of extreme power and many will attempt to influence and manipulate you if you're not perceptive of their true intentions.”

“I hear you loud and clear. Koslov is always a concern of course, but my main target of scrutiny remains Samani. This conversation has been helpful, but I still have much to pray on, if I could find the focus.”

With that Gabriella informed the President that the hour had come to an end. The President thanked her as usual. He walked out with a sense of validation in all that he had been contemplating, oblivious to the true thoughts that his therapist would have loved to share with him in response, had she had the appropriate chance.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

EVIN PRISON, IRAN

H
orrific screeches of incomprehensible agony curdled within Arash Jafari's ears. He laid on his stomach, naked. On the dirty floor of his cell. He listened intently to the sounds coming from the other cells—vile and torturous. The sounds were so awful he'd almost rather be one of the prisoners screaming in agony, than one of the cellies having to listen to it. The pleas of the prisoners prompted mockery from the guards—and further beatings. Arash heard the diabolical exchanges in full, loud and clear Farsi. The begging never stopped. The torturers didn't relent. Neither did Arash's misery.

His cell was no larger than a bathtub. Walls kept him trapped in with heavy, menacing cement blocks. They crushed his soul as he stared at their cold affront. The luxury of a window could not be found. The doors were built of thick, impenetrable metal. Two ventilation holes could be spotted in the ceiling that hung a claustrophobic distance of a mere six meters high above.

Arash rolled over slightly to one side. He reached down and gently touched his sore testicles. They swelled with pain. He felt more excruciating pain lingering in his lower abdomen. Earlier that day, his guards had laughed at him and his faith as they beat his balls with a nightstick repeatedly. It was payback for the bullets he shot in the officer's crotch back at the plant.

Having been in Evin for several days—Arash didn't know how many—he had been amazed both at the immense cruelty with which he had been tortured and with the miraculous stamina that he had somehow summoned to withstand it.

He had been mumbling prayers since he had been dumped into the Godless abyss and he had been holding onto the spirit of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego as inspiration to get him through. He would not sell out. There would be no trial in Rasht for Arash, just secret torture in Evin.

His captors constantly reminded him of his offense as they administered their tortures. He was still fully naked and had been since he was placed in his cell. His flesh burned with an undying sting that was exacerbated by the salt they had rubbed into the razor cuts. The razor cuts came the night before. Food and sleep deprivation screwed with his sanity. The lights in his cell were kept on twenty-four hours per day. When Arash would finally find a momentary interlude of rest, the guards would promptly beat him until he was awake. Even when they stuffed his face in a toilet full of feces, he held fast and did not denounce his faith in Christ. Instead he quoted scriptures from the Psalms and Ezekiel with a wild and maddening howl. He was deprived of sound, other than the piercing screams of his fellow inmates. This only proved to help Arash push through the physical realities plaguing him and meditate on eternal truths and strengths.

The stories and rumors about what occurred at Evin had always troubled Arash, even when he was a devoted follower of the Mahdi and a believer in the regime. He knew full well what he still may have in store for the duration of his stay.

Tears dripped from his eyes and merged with the blood that coagulated randomly all over his face. He prayed to God that he wouldn't next have his fingers broken and the webs of his hands and feet cut with razors. He feared that such measures were coming, even as he prayed for a miracle. Specifically, a miracle involving the CIA, and this Blaze McIntyre character Gallagher spoke so much about. The one he was told had filled the wires and the war rooms with enough combat folklore and third party storytelling to intrigue anyone within earshot.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CIA SAFE HOUSE, SOMEWHERE IN IRAN

W
hen Blaze was assigned to an op, he insisted on signing off on every detail of the plan from surveillance, to communication boundaries, to weapon preparation, to every item stocked in the safe house. He required everything that would be needed to recover from what were often tumultuous battles, extractions, and assassinations fraught with snares and snafus of all imaginable varieties. Blaze preferred controlled environments and he took an active hand in forcefully crafting as many environments as he could. This was particularly true in his downtime because in the heat of an op there was only so much you could control. The rest you often had to leave up to God and your arsenal of firearms.

When the safe house was introduced into the conversation of planning the op at Esfahan, Blaze knew where his head would be at post-op and made the appropriate provisions. First, he requested some choice food to be stocked in the kitchen: whole wheat bread, brown rice, fresh chicken, pulled pork, broccoli, collared greens, green beans and a plethora of different hot sauces, protein powder, coffee, barbeque sauces and spices. He also demanded a variety of California red wines, and several Italian ones. Moving on from the soft stuff, he made sure that there would be at least two bottles each of Red Breast Irish whiskey, Sailor Jerry spiced rum and Blanton's bourbon. Better to be over-prepared, he reckoned, as he never knew how long he would need to squat at a safe house after an op.

In the entertainment realm, he always made sure he had a pre-loaded iPod sent with all of the tunes he needed. Loaded with cuts from all different genres—rock, punk, Oi!, metal, hardcore, rockabilly, the Italian crooners, Irish folk, psychobilly, outlaw country, alt-country, and Americana. He never knew what mood he'd be in post-op, so he planned for all sonic possibilities.

His viewing tastes often varied, but for this op, he made sure he had streaming access to old Clint Eastwood flicks such as
Heartbreak Ridge
and
White Hunter, Black Heart.
As for TV series, he looked forward to digging into past seasons of
24
,
Rescue Me
, and the only season made of FX's
Lights Out
.

Depending on what physical state he found himself in after an op, Blaze intended to work out and train as much as he could in a safe house setting. Enemies never stopped training or preparing and neither could he. Heavy equipment conducive to heavy weight training and bodybuilding was an impossibility, so Blaze kept it simple with these requests. An array of small, easily portable functional equipment would suffice; TRX suspension bands, kettle bells, training rope, jump rope, agility ladder, weighted vest, boxing gloves, and the most cumbersome piece, a quality Lonsdale heavy bag. All his requests were accommodated.

The only other unusual request that he made was for a stash of his favorite cigars. They were supplied in a portable humidor and included fine choices from brands such as Perdomo, Rocky Patel, Alec Bradley, Camacho, Oliva, Padron, Room 101 and La Flor Dominicana.

It was with one of these fine cigars that Blaze sat in the tub enjoying on the first evening he arrived at the safe house in Iran. Sitting in the tub, puffing on his much-earned cigar, he felt like Lee Majors in the old TV show
The Fall Guy
. He was in no mood to talk to the agency personnel who were there to receive him. He needed to decompress, clear his head, and analyze what went wrong,
and what went right
, at Esfahan. More importantly, he needed to reflect on what response his actions might have set in motion, and what the response might require of him.

The water temperature in the tub was perfectly warm and soothed his aching bones to the core. Blaze re-traced the images of the op sequentially in his mind and was amazed that he had escaped unscathed. Especially with that straggler guard gun butting him and taking him hostage. There was a strong chance that he could have been caught and captured and that this very moment he would be making love to an electric shock device in some barren, dusty warehouse basement as opposed to enjoying an Alec Bradley New York cigar in a tub at a safe house. Nonetheless, he'd have to soon face the music and fess up to his lack of preparation on the linguistic front.

Not being up to speed on his Farsi was a ginormous mistake and he was already cringing at the barking and verbal beat-down he knew Gallagher was going to give him. Gallagher showed no mercy for preventable mistakes.

The agency knew this was Blaze's modus operandi. Blaze had a history of pulling off hairy, risky ops that no other spook would attempt, and yet he always managed to fail at the simplest, easiest and most basic aspect of an op. He was a natural prodigy as a spy, and an assassin, but had the Achilles heal of strange idiosyncrasies that arose amidst otherwise tactical perfection. He had somehow managed to avoid any real consequences for these troublesome idiosyncrasies time and time again. He attributed it to the fine meeting point where superstitious Irish luck met the pre-ordained Providence of his Protestant faith. A meeting point he knew didn't really exist.

Blaze exhaled some smoke as he listened to the tunes erupting wonderfully from his iPod speakers. He chose a playlist with a diverse mix of artists such as The Marshall Tucker Band, George Jones, The Dubliners, Wayne Hancock, Kid Rock's country stuff, Johnny Cash, Larry and His Flask, David Allan Coe, Nick 13, The Zac Brown Band, The Head Cat, Blood or Whiskey, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Gene Vincent, Stray Cats, Waylon Jennings, Gordon Lightfoot, and all the Hanks—Hank Williams, Hank Williams Jr., and even Hank III.

But it was The Zac Brown Band that played as he fully felt himself relax. His mind transported itself to far-off and imagined tropical beaches as he felt the deep soak of the bath water and took a sip of the rum and coke cocktail that sat beside the tub on a bench. It was one of his favorite rums. He was a fan of everything Sailor Jerry had done, and the rum bearing his name was no exception.

He had always admired the simple, bold tattoo designs that Norman Collins, aka Sailor Jerry, had created and the way the images spoke of the spirit of the pacific, the pride of WWII Sailors, and the strength of America. Sailor Jerry was also an early pioneer of conservative libertarian talk radio. This was a little known fact that also greatly intrigued Blaze. He was a renaissance man who was full of life—sailor, renowned tattoo artist, poet, talk radio personality, and a man full of art, patriotism, passion, and a well-documented history of being a fun-loving prankster.

Blaze did not stay long in the beach-ensconced fantasy he was enjoying. The reality of where he was, what he had just done, and what tomorrow could bring forced its way back into the foreground of Blaze's mind. He was feeling anxiety about writing his report on the op because he was exhausted and couldn't imagine completing it that night. He would have to get it done early in the morning though because he knew that the day would not get very far before Gallagher would demand a secure video conference to discuss everything. And Gallagher would be rip roaring pissed if he hadn't already read, and thoroughly digested, a report prior to that call. Blaze knew the old warhorse all too well.

Blaze also felt anxiety because he knew this was just the beginning. He had been paying attention while he was living the quiet civilian life and he knew that regular assassinations of Iran's scientists were taking place. Thinking back to recent conversations with Gallagher he had a sense that he was going to be commissioned for such a task. Gallagher peppered his conversations with vague references to such past exploits and always said it in ways that made it clear that he was testing Blaze's reaction to the concept.

Blaze took another strong puff on his cigar and exhaled slowly. He needed an extra buffer day to unpack everything before diving into writing a report and dissecting the whole scenario with Gallagher on a video call. But this was a spy's life, and an assassin's life, and he was in Iran. Time was entirely of the essence and it waited for no damn man. Blaze included.

Diem was on his mind. A lot. He missed her with an eternal ache. Visions of her and the boys teased his mind constantly since he had been away. He wondered how they were all doing. He wished he could steal a private jet, grab a bottle of Jameson, a bouquet of roses and some gold jewelry—that he couldn't afford—and run to his bride.

Blaze decided against continuing to wish, and he did the next best thing, he began to pray. He pulled up the New Testament app on his iPhone and began meditating on some scripture. He skimmed through the Psalms, but had a hard time wrapping himself up in David's petitions to the Almighty for some reason. He moved on to Matthew and was comforted by the thought that the big Guy would be with him ‘even until the end of the age'. Right now, he would settle for the ‘end of the mission'.

His eyes eventually focused on the book of Ezekiel and he began to take a deeper look at the passages that McCardle always mouthed off about. As he read through Ezekiel, he saw the pattern of prophecies described and how a good many of them had all ready been fulfilled, especially the ones detailed in Ezekiel 37 regarding the state of Israel. Blaze ingested the words from verse 20-21:
 “
Hold before their eyes the sticks you have written on and say to them, ‘This is what the Sovereign
Lord
says: I will take the Israelites out of the nations where they have gone. I will gather them from all around and bring them back into their own land.” Blaze paused and took in the implications of the words. After a moment, he moved on to the 22
nd
verse: “
 
I will make them one nation in the land, on the mountains of Israel. There will be one king over all of them and they will never again be two nations or be divided into two kingdoms.” His mind was fully blown by the specificity of all the prophecies regarding the rebirth of the state of Israel and the convergence of Jews in the land as the end times emerged.

But it was the unfulfilled prophesies of Ezekiel 38 and 39 that he had been trying to avoid. Now he had no choice but to wrestle with their implications. The scenario that was laid out was rather clear. The enemies of Israel were described and identified in such a way that made it hard to interpret them as anything other than Iran, Russia, and a host of surrounding Islamic Middle Eastern and North African nations. He re-read the first four verses of Chapter 38: “The word of the
Lord
came to me:
 
“Son of man, set your face against Gog, of the land of Magog, the chief prince of
Meshek and Tubal; prophesy against him and say: ‘This is what the Sovereign
Lord
says: I am against you, Gog, chief prince of
Meshek and Tubal.” Blaze knew that it was widely sited that Magog referred to the land now known as Russia, as Magog was the grandson of Noah who had settled in that land.

Blaze read on finally focusing on verse five of Chapter 38: “Persia, Cush
and Put will be with them, all with shields and helmets, also Gomer with all its troops, and Beth Togarmah from the far north with all its troops—the many nations with you.” It didn't take a scholar to figure out who Persia was. Their pairing with Russia in the prophecy lent credence to McCardle's analysis concerning the remarkable cooperation now between Russia and Iran. Cush was the ancient term for the modern country of Sudan. Blaze knew that one. He looked up the root of the reference to Put and discovered it referred to the lands known now as Algeria and Libya. He then did some research into the mention of Gomer and Beth Togarmah and discovered that the general consensus was that these references most likely were describing the land occupied today by Turkey. That certainly fit the times given Turkey's increasing anti-Israel policies.

As he continued to pour through the text, it became clear that the attack on Israel would be supernaturally thwarted in a horrific and thunderous display of divine strength. Blaze's eyes fixated on the 22
nd
and 23
rd
verses of Chapter 38. The passages referred to divine punishment promised for Magog and their allies: “I will execute judgment on him with plague and bloodshed; I will pour down torrents of rain, hailstones and burning sulfur on him and on his troops and on the many nations with him.
 
And so I will show my greatness and my holiness, and I will make myself known in the sight of many nations. Then they will know that I am the
Lord
.' ” Blaze got the chills and his heart quickened.

He thought of all the flash points around the world that Gallagher had alerted him to. Almost all of them were in the nations described in the prophecy and they all involved jihadists hell-bent on Israel's destruction. Russia fit the bill without question. Koslov continued to make Putin seem like a pussycat with his military advances, strong power grabs, and outright bold proclamations. The idea that their assistance with Iran's nuclear program was at all veiled at this point was laughable.

Blaze decided it was best to stop reading Ezekiel for the time being. He was trying to search the scriptures for comfort, but all he found this time was a window into future terror and chaos. He put his curiosities on the back burner and decided to re-visit them the next time he spoke with McCardle.

For now, he would have to access the Lord's comfort through the sung words of Johnny Cash, particularly the Rick Rubin recordings. He would need as much rest as he could get. The next day would bring a tough workout and an even tougher call with Gallagher. And although he longed to speak to Diem, he knew that that call would ultimately be emotionally draining and he was concerned that it might become a distractive wedge in his day. He would call her tomorrow after he wrote his report and talked shop with Gallagher.

Blaze extinguished his stogie, got himself out of the tub, dried quickly, put on a silk robe and climbed into bed.

He logged on to his Netflix account and watched a
Rescue Me
episode from Season 4. Momentarily, he pondered whether he would have been better off being a smoke-eating fireman instead of a covert assassin and spy. He knew the answer. He was born to blow things up and set fires, not put them out.