The Reformers: A Matt Blake Novel (The Matt Blake legal thriller series Book 2) (19 page)

“I’m sure I must have told them about the book you’re writing. You have information that they need, or think they need.”

“He’s right, doll,” Woody said. “We should have thought about this. I’m sure that you’re next on their list.”

“Who are you calling, Woody?” Matt asked.

“That guy Jack Logan, the head of FBI Counterterrorism. I have a secure line. He’ll get Diana a secure location for tonight.”

***

After Woody and I left Matt at the hospital, I was led into a building in the Rogers Park area of Chicago by two armed FBI agents. Oh my God, here I am again. I thought that I was done with the Witness Protection Program three years ago when Matt and I were involved in that
Sideswipe Conspiracy
.  This shit is getting old. At least Matt will be here with me tomorrow when he gets out of the hospital. I wondered how long this was going to last, I thought.
Not For Long
, I said to myself, hoping that some lame humor would make me feel better.

Chapter 40

Bartholomew drove his Toyota Land Cruiser up to a modest house on the outskirts of the Kurdistan Regional Government. In the past few months, Bartholomew spent a great amount of his time in Kurdistan. He liked the Kurdish people, he liked their desire for autonomy, and their non-fanatical version of Islam. He also liked their way of thinking. Like him, most Kurds thought in terms of facts, of the reality around them. They liked to make plans based on data and numbers. That alone endeared them to Bartholomew.

Massaud
Miraudeli, his key contact in Kurdistan, awaited him. Miraudeli was more than a contact. Bartholomew thought of him as a regional manager. The men shook hands and Miraudeli handed him a glass of ice tea.

“Massaud, please give me your report on our progress,” Bartholomew said.

“I’m pleased to say, Bartholomew, that we have made some vast strides since you were here a month ago.”

“Massaud, my friend, you know that words like ‘vast strides’ are absolutely meaningless to me. I did not ask for your opinion, I asked for your report. As you know, that means data. Please give me the numbers that lead you to say that we have made ‘vast strides.’ Better yet, I shall ask the questions and you will be kind enough to provide me with the answers—the facts.” 

“Certainly, Bartholomew.”

“What is our current force level?”

“One hundred and twenty-six thousand combat troops and 38,000 support personnel.”

“Make-up of the forces?”

“Kurdish, 60 percent; American, 40 percent.”

“Number of attacks in the past month?”

“Twenty-five attacks within a radius of 100 miles.”

“And the result of the attacks, Massaud? Please be specific.”

“We killed 2,337. We took no prisoners.”

“What about the most important number, Metric Alpha,
the leadership
?”

“Of the 2,337 dead, 173 were leaders, Metric Alpha numbers.”

“Excellent, my friend, and thank you for being so specific. Our quest depends on data, and that’s what you’ve given me.”

“Now tell me about our weapons acquisitions.”

“As you know, sir…”

“Please don’t call me ‘sir.’ My name is Bartholomew. It’s much more specific.”

“Yes, Bartholomew. As you know, our inside group at the Pentagon has opened a weapons supply pipeline. To give you the numbers, in the past three months we have acquired 75 Predator drones, 1,568 rocket-propelled grenades, 372 launchers, 5,356 M16 automatic machine guns, and 9,349 pistols of various calibers.”

“Were the drones used in any of the 25 attacks?”

“Yes, sir, I mean Bartholomew. Drones were used in every one of them, backed up by infantry and artillery attacks.”

Bartholomew smiled. Drones are a key to the future, he thought, if not the present.

Massaud handed Bartholomew a piece of paper with all of the numbers. Bartholomew sat down and put a number in front of each line of data.

“Massaud, I want a monthly email report. Do not write the categories, but simply list the data after each number I have written. Make sure it’s done on an Excel spreadsheet so I can study and compare numbers.”

“It will be prepared for you this afternoon, Bartholomew.”

“Now, Massaud, I want to inspect the training facility.”

The two men climbed into a Jeep and Massaud drove them four miles to a chain link fence, which was interwoven with green plastic strips, obscuring the site from view. Guards, armed with M16 machine guns, stood every 100 feet along the fence.

When they entered the training facility, Bartholomew smiled. The site reminded him of the Navy special forces training facility in San Diego, where he qualified as a SEAL after he graduated from Annapolis. The similarity was no accident, because Bartholomew himself had designed the training camp. The one thing that bothered him was the lack of uniforms. He would prefer the efficiency of American combat uniforms, outfits that are designed for trouble and do their best to make the man wearing it safe. But he realized that in Middle Eastern combat, it’s important to “blend in” with the enemy. So flowing robes would have to do—as long as they wear Kevlar body armor underneath the robes.

The two men walked up to an area where a few dozen men trained on launching rocket propelled grenades (RPGs). The range safety officer walked over to them.

“Good morning, Bartholomew. Good morning, Massaud,” Robert said.

“Hello, Robert,” said Bartholomew. “Please give me the results of your session this morning. Just the data, if you will.”

“We’re simulating attacks on small targets, such as the size of that shed over there. To conserve ammunition, we’re using small explosives to tell us if we scored a hit. The result today so far is 85 percent of the targets were taken out, an 11 percent improvement over last month.”

“Are you pleased with 85 percent, Robert?”

“No, Bartholomew, I’m not, but with the huge increase in weapons we just received I’ll be able to schedule more practice.”

“Gentlemen,” Bartholomew said, “I have other matters I must attend to. I’m pleased with the data you’ve given me. I’m also pleased, Robert, that you have a specific plan to increase training sessions on the RPGs. Well done, gentlemen. NFL is proud of you.”

***

“This is Shepard Smith of Fox News, ladies and gentlemen. I have some shocking news this afternoon, and so far nobody has been able to figure it out. We’ve heard from a reliable Pentagon source, that there has been a huge theft of American weapons, including Predator drones, rocket propelled grenades, and a large variety of guns of all sizes and calibers. These weapons disappeared from various Marine and Army bases around the country. How this can happen to the most powerful military force on earth is confounding. I have with us retired three star General Frank Pantaneri, a man once in charge of weapons for the United States Army. Good morning General.”

“Good afternoon, Shepard.”

“Are you able to give us any explanation at all for a weapons heist of such huge proportions?”

“Please keep in mind that I’m retired, Shepard, but from what I’ve learned there can only be one reason for this theft. It was an inside job. Someone, or rather some group, has been able to infiltrate and take these weapons out from under the noses of the American military.”

“Are you concerned, sir that the weapons may have fallen into the wrong hands?” Smith was irked that his producer put those words into his earpiece. What a stupid question, thought Smith.

“Well Shepard, the very act of stealing the weapons tells me that they
are
in the wrong hands.”

“Thank you, General. We’ll be following this news closely, ladies and gentlemen, and we’ll be updating it throughout the day—and probably in the weeks to come.”

Chapter 41

I cannot fucking believe that Dee and I are once again living in a secret undisclosed location. It’s been a week since my kidnapping and fall, and I’m almost feeling 100 percent, except for some occasional dizziness from my concussion. It feels great to be back to work, even though I have to wear a disguise to get there. Every morning Dee applies some foundation makeup under my eye so that I don’t look like a boxer who lost a fight.

I think I mentioned how I love to bring good news to people. The feeling of excitement you get from the feedback is one of the payoffs in my sometimes stressful occupation. Today I had some wonderful news to deliver.

I asked my assistant Barbara to patch in a conference call with Georgina Rice, Jerry Blackwell, and me.

“Hi Georgi, hi Jerry” I yelled into the speaker. I spent a few minutes answering their questions about my fall, except, of course the details about my kidnapping. Jack Logan from the FBI asked me to keep it quiet.

“If you guys aren’t sitting, please do so now. And don’t sip any hot liquids until I’m done. I’m calling about the matter of
Ali Yamani,
Mustafa Almeth, Muhammed Sidduq, and Fatah Alumina vs. Gamal Karam.
Do you guys have time to listen?”

“Keep talking, wise guy,” said Jerry. “I just spilled coffee all over myself. Did you get a settlement offer?”

“Yes, I did. Rather than torture you guys with suspense, here it is. Karam has offered $31,000,000. One million is for our nurse friend, Bootsie, and the other $30 million is split between our three guys, $10 million each. After we each take out attorney’s fees of $3.3 million, each of our guys receives $6.7 million. And because the damages are compensatory, our clients don’t have to pay taxes on the settlement. We do, of course.”

I let the words seep in. I heard no sound over the pho for a half a minute.

“Holy shit,” Georgi Rice said softly. “Matt, you’re the greatest trial lawyer in the country.”

“Correction,” Jerry yelled, “you’re the best in the fucking world.”

I’d be an emotional eunuch if I said I wasn’t touched by such kind words from people I really liked. I told you that it’s fun to deliver good news.

“My hunch proved correct that Mr. Karam wanted to avoid a trial. This guy and his lawyers wanted to get rid of this case badly. Naturally we’re all going to sign confidentiality agreements, promising not to tell anyone, especially the press, about the settlement. We all have to confer with our clients. I propose we meet tomorrow at the WPP house in Tenafly, New Jersey. I’ll talk to Bootsie, myself. She’s still in protective custody.”

The next day we met with our aspiring author/clients. I can’t even describe the scene. Three guys of modest means were told that they were suddenly multi-millionaires.

Dee and I agreed that it was overkill for us to be in the Witness Protection Program any longer and we returned to our apartment after conferring with Rick Bellamy. Rick assigned an armed guard to watch our building.

Dee was in Wisconsin all day at one of her endless academic conferences. Her cell phone was turned off. I’ll wait till tonight to tell her about my big settlement in the wrongful imprisonment case.

Chapter 42

“Matt, it’s Jack Logan. How are you feeling, buddy? Hey, congratulations to you and Dee for getting Al Yamani that great book contract. I always worry that a person in the Witness Protection Program often wilts away and loses every skill he ever had. See if you can get a book deal for the other two guys. Oh, and also congratulations for settling the case against that scumbag Karam. I read that the amount of the settlement is strictly confidential, but I hope it was big.”

“Well, Jack, let me just say that I’m still smiling.”

“But that isn’t why I’m calling, Matt. I want you to come to New York to meet somebody important. Brush off your provisional FBI badge. My secretary will arrange your travel plans.”

“Who do you want me to meet, Jack?”

“A guy who you’ve heard me refer to—our mole, Imam Mike. He called and wants to meet me.”

“But isn’t he the guy you were worried about?” I said. “I recall you saying that the last time you saw him he lied to you.”

“Yes, and I have a feeling he wants to come clean about something,” said Logan. “I want you to meet him because you know as much about those NFL characters as anybody. I also want your skeptical mind on the case. Our friend Buster from the CIA will be at the meeting too, as well as Bennie Weinberg. We want a professional bullshit detector with us. How’s the day after tomorrow? Meet me at Federal Plaza at 10 a.m.”

***

Jack had told me that they always meet the mysterious Imam Mike at a restaurant in Central Park. But he thought this meeting might be extremely sensitive, so he told the imam to meet us at Federal Plaza in a heavy disguise. I’d been told that Imam Mike was a master of masquerades.

I sat in the conference room with Jack and Buster from the CIA. The Imam was due in two minutes. I looked at my watch.

“Don‘t worry,” Jack said. “Imam Mike is the most punctual guy I’ve ever met.”

We heard a knock on the door and Jack opened it. A guy with white hair and a flowing white beard walked in. He wore a blue uniform with National Cleaning Contractors stenciled on the front. As soon as Jack closed the door, the man pulled off his wig and the fake beard and tossed them onto a chair.

“I prefer your female costumes, Mike,” Buster said as he chuckled.

“Thanks, wiseass,” Mike said. “Hey, I notice that Bennie Weinberg, my favorite psychiatrist, is here. Do you guys think I need therapy?”

Jack introduced me to Imam Mike. The guy strode over to me, looked me square in the eye, and gave me a strong handshake.

“Nice to meet you, Matt. Heard a lot about you. Thanks to you and your wife, that
Sideswipe Conspiracy
went nowhere.”

“And a hell of a lot of thanks goes to
you
, Mike,” said Buster.

“It’s always nice to exchange pleasantries with you, Mike,” Jack Logan said, “but let’s get to the point. You asked for this meeting. What’s on your mind?”

“Whenever we get together,” Imam Mike said, “it’s because I’ve got something, some information that you guys want. Well this time it’s me who wants something.”

“What is it you want, Mike?” said Jack Logan, a slight frown appearing on his face.

“I want my fucking credibility back.”

“Are you referring to our last meeting when you lied to me and Buster?” Jack said.

“Of course. I was lying through my teeth and you guys knew I was doing it.”

I noticed Bennie Weinberg staring intently at Mike. Jack had told me that Imam Mike was a straight shooter. The only doubts they had about the guy was after the meeting they told us about.

“Mike, I’ve known you for a long time, a lot longer than Jack has,” Buster said. “Yes, we both knew you weren’t being straight with us.”

“Don’t sugarcoat it, Buster. I was fucking lying to you.”

“Okay, you lied. As soon as we brought up the NFL the
Not For Long
people, you shut up like a clam. Do you want to discuss that now?”

“Yes, and I’ll tell the truth. How’m I doin so far?”

Buster laughed.

“We’ll give you a truth-telling grade at the end of our meeting, and Bennie will sign off on it. So tell us what you know about this strange group of people, Mike.”

“Yes, there is a group of people known as NFL. I think the best way to describe them are
radical reformers
. Like me they got fed up with the endless slaughter of innocent people. They got fed up with a cultish belief in something that started in the Dark Ages. They got disgusted with Sharia law and its subjugation of women and dumbing down of children. NFL, as you know, stands for
Not For Long
. It means that they intend to stop radical Islam in its tracks, that its time is limited. But unlike me, they have turned to violence, big-time violence. They are one tough bunch of fuckers.”

“How did you hear about this group, Mike?” I asked.

“A lot of my contacts could be described as reformers, a whole lot. A few months ago, my contacts would talk about NFL in hushed tones, like they were afraid of something. Thing is, I’ve never heard any incident where one of these NFL types harmed anyone who wasn’t a radical. Whacking radical Islamists seems to be their reason for existence.”

“You may be interested to know, Mike, that I was kidnapped and drugged by some of these NFL types recently. They gave me sodium pentothal, truth serum, so they now know everything that I know.”

“Holy shit, Matt” said Mike. “Is that what your black eye is all about?”

Apparently Dee’s makeup had worn off during my flight.

“They didn’t beat me. The black eye is from me falling to the pavement, still drugged, after they released me. I’ll tell you more about it later, not that I have a lot to tell.”

“Mike,” Jack Logan said, “my wife is a homicide detective.”

“Yes, I know. She used to be with the Philadelphia Police Department, but recently took a job with the NYPD. She’s a very pretty woman if you don’t mind me adding.”

Buster cracked up. “And you people call
me
a spook. I’ve got nothing on Mike.”

“Yes, Bonnie is quite pretty, and thank you for saying so,” Logan said. “How did you meet her?”

“Every week or so in the newspapers, Jack.”

“Have you gleaned that Bonnie Logan seems to have developed a specialty of investigating mass killings of Muslims?” Logan said.

“Yes, I’ve gotten that from the papers,” said Mike. “She’s been the lead detective in some of the big recent killings.”

“There’s a big similarity that Bonnie has noticed in these shootings, and I’ve noticed it as well,” Logan said, “Care to guess what it is, Mike?”

“My guess is that they were all carried out with military precision. That doesn’t surprise me.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because the NFL is stuffed to the rafters with former military people, combat veterans mainly. My contacts have told me that in order to get into one of their elite units—yes, they have elite units—you have to be a combat vet.”

“I’m going to ask you a straight question, Mike,” said Buster. “Are
you
a member of NFL?”

“The simple answer is no, the complicated answer is ‘I don’t know.’ There’s no doubt about it, I share some of their values, but I don’t share their preference for violence. Nobody ever tried to recruit me, but I think that they see me as a fellow traveler, sort of like your client Al Yamani, Matt.”

“You know about Al?” I said. “How can you know about Al?”

“They’ve been keeping his secrets hidden on the front pages of major newspapers, Matt. I know your guy is a budding novelist, and I know he’s a reformer, like me. I’ve read his first book,
The Sands of Destruction.
He’s a pretty good writer, but he risks getting beheaded every time he sits down at a keyboard. He’s really critical of radical Islam. I keep my mouth shut, as you guys well know, otherwise I’d go from being a useful mole to a dead mole. Your client, on the other hand, puts it right out there. I guess that’s why you have him in the Witness Protection Program.”

“How the hell did
you
know that?” Jack Logan asked, loudly.

“Hey, Jack. You guys are always amazed at the shit that I know. So I’ve just amazed you some more. But don’t worry, nobody seems to know his location. If I find out, I’ll call you immediately.”

“Okay, guys, before we go any further,” Jack said, “I want to summarize what we’ve been talking about. We know there’s an organization called NFL, which stands for
Not For Long
. They’re a group of radical reformers who aren’t afraid to kill jihadis in large numbers. Mike has told us that they like to recruit American combat veterans to conduct their raids. Would you guys say that about summarizes where we are right now?”

“Hey Jack,” said Imam Mike, “you haven’t mentioned the fucking 10-ton elephant in the room.”

“And what, pray tell, is the 10-ton elephant that I’ve been ignoring, Mike?”

“The big question, Jack—why should any of us care? The NFL is the lesser of two evils, no? Yes, they’re bad guys because they go around killing people, but they kill the right people.”

“I’ll give you the simple answer, Mike,” Logan said, “The three of us who you’re talking to have the responsibility to uphold the United States Constitution, including Matt, an attorney who’s been sworn in as a provisional FBI agent. I know that may sound like some corny high school civics stuff, but it’s no bullshit. We’re law enforcement, and we don’t get to pick sides.”

“All of which brings me to an important point,” said Imam Mike, “which I haven’t discussed so far. I’ve been fucking with your heads.”

“Mike, are you saying you’ve been lying to us again?” Buster asked.

“No, Buster, there’s a difference between lying and fucking with somebody’s head. I’ve been playing devil’s advocate with you guys, especially when I asked you if any of us should care about the NFL. I said that they’re the lesser of two evils, but I’m about to show you that they may be equally evil.”

I felt like an electric jolt went through the room. Mike, it was obvious, was about to drop a bomb.

“Something tells me you know a lot more about this NFL outfit than you’ve let on so far, Mike,” said Buster. “Can you tell us about its inner workings, its command and control, and most importantly, what they’re really up to?”

***

“NFL is an evil organization,” Mike said. “That’s the first thing you need to get into your heads. The Soviet Union fought the Nazis, but that didn’t make Stalin a cuddly puppy did it? So NFL kills radical Islamists. So far so good, but suddenly it starts to get weird, weird and scary. I told you that they actively recruit American combat veterans, and not just Americans. Here’s their goal, sweet and simple: They want to conquer and control the Middle East, especially the oil fields. The organization is run by one of the strangest and meanest bastards I’ve ever heard about. He goes by the name Bartholomew. His last name is Martin, but he never uses it. He’s a genius, plain as that. He graduated from Annapolis, then went to Navy SEAL training. He finished up his service as a SEAL lieutenant. He’s one of the richest people in the world. Bartholomew is the head of a securities outfit called Metro Metrics. They’re right here in Manhattan. On the side, he runs one of the most successful hedge funds in the country. Ever hear about some dude running a big hedge fund
on the side
? He financially supports a lot of the operations of NFL, but don’t think of him as a philanthropist. And don’t think of him as a reformer like Martin Luther. Think of him as Benito Mussolini. He’s looking for hearts and minds, but only as a road to power, and once he gets it we’ll long for the good old days of Osama bin Laden.”

“Mike,” said Jack Logan, “how do you know so much about this guy?”

“From two of my most trusted contacts. They both used to work for him, starting when he was a vice president of Amazon. They followed him to Metro Metrics, and almost to the NFL. They backed off big time once they figured out what he was up to. Both of these guys, like me, are fed up with radical Islam, but they told me some stuff about Bartholomew that scares the hell out of me.”