Vengeance: A Derek Stillwater Novel (Derek Stillwater Thrillers Book 8) (9 page)

“So, Dr. Stillwater. We are to share information about Syria. What would you like to know?”

“Do you know if the Syrian government has actually used sarin gas on the rebels?”

Shoulders slumped, Chaadayev peered at him over the rim of his glasses. “Well, you don’t mess around, do you?”

“It would simplify our lives a great deal if you had evidence and just presented it to the world.”

Chaadayev tsked. “Yes, well, if we knew that, and as far as I know, we do not, I suspect my government and your government would use that information in different ways.”

“I imagine.”

“You have been to Syria, Doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Recently?”

“Last week.”

Leaning back in his chair, Chaadayev crossed his arms over his chest. “In what capacity?”

“Trespasser.”

Chaadayev chuckled almost soundlessly. “Where specifically?”

“Aleppo.”

“A beautiful city at one time.”

“Pretty much a wreck right now.”

“I spent several years in our embassy in Damascus.”

“What do you know about al-Qaeda in Syria?”

“I known they are there. That cells have aligned themselves with the rebels.”

“What about splinter groups?”

“As far as I’m concerned, all al-Qaeda cells are splinter groups.”

Derek knew what he meant. Part of the genius of al-Qaeda was how individually each cell operated. Derek had been one of the authors of the State Department’s Global Terrorism Assessment and for the most part he agreed that the core of al-Qaeda had been significantly degraded. He also, unfortunately, agreed that although most of the core
AQ
leadership was on the run, there were plenty of opportunities around the world for independent cells to operate. He and most terrorism experts felt that there was a vacuum to fill and there were plenty of Islamic extremists itching for the opportunity. Kill the bad guys, create the environment for worse guys.

“Well,” Chaadayev said, “if you’re referring to the an-Nusrah Front, that’s basically al-Qaeda in Iraq working under an alias.”

“I’m interested in an Egyptian group.”

“I’ve heard rumors. What do you know, Doctor?”

Derek provided a sketch of his experience in Aleppo. For the first time since being introduced, Chaadayev seemed to come alive. “The Nazif Brigade?”

“Named after Hussein Nazif?”

“Yes. That would be the one. But I have very little information about them. Hussein Nazif is Egyptian, although that’s about all we know. I am not an expert on Egypt. Russia’s relationship with Egypt is, shall we say, weak.”

“I’d like anything you do know about him.” Derek leaned back in his chair, tipping it back on legs.

Picking up his phone, Chaadayev texted someone then turned back to Derek. “Tell me more about him.”

“Quid pro quo?” Derek said.

“Of course, Doctor. I do not believe the United States, the Russian Federation, or the Assad government have any desire for the Nazif Brigade to gain too much power in Syria or the Middle East.”

They spoke for three hours, drinking black coffee and focusing on what they both knew about the Syrian government’s chemical weapons capabilities, which were significant.

“But why use them?” Chaadayev said. “They are killing plenty of people using traditional weapons.”

“They are an excellent weapon of terror,” Derek said. “And because they often contaminate medical workers, NGOs and other aid workers become less likely to want to provide assistance.”

Chaadayev sighed. “I am not sure I understand the moral distinction between poisoning innocents with chemical weapons and blowing them to pieces with bombs.”

“Low-hanging fruit,” Derek said.

“What do you mean?”

Derek shrugged. “From a practical point of view, I’m mostly concerned about keeping biological and chemical weapons out of the hands of terrorist organizations. From a military point of view, chemical weapons are ineffective and biological weapons are ineffective and difficult to control. But you deal with them. But in terms of low-hanging fruit, it’s a lot easier for governments to give up use of them. They had no particular plans to use them anyway. So they become something governments are willing to
negotiate with.”

“Except Syria.”

“Syria has limited military weaponry. Chemical weapons are cheap and easy to make. They become strategic rather than tactical.”

“The threat is more important than the actual use.”

“For governments. But when it comes to terrorists, they can do an enormous amount of damage to civilian populations and create a lot of panic and death using chemical weapons.”

“And you think that is what the Nazif Brigade was doing?”

Derek hesitated. “It’s complicated. But yes.”

“It’s always complicated, isn’t it?”

A knock came at the door and a tall angular woman with black hair pulled into a bun stepped into the room. “Ah,” Chaadayev said. “Ogafia. Thank you for coming. Dr. Derek Stillwater, this is Dr. Ogafia Pac.”

Derek shook her hand. She was probably about sixty years old with a long, lined face and dark brown eyes. She wore reading glasses around her neck on a silver chain. Her suit was black, unflattering, and severe.

“You’re American,” she said in English with a British accent.

“Yes.”

“And you have a question about an Egyptian terrorist?”

“He encountered Sheikh Hussein Nazif,” Chaadayev said.

Her gaze sharpened. Sitting down opposite Derek, she folded her hands in front of her. She had not brought in anything with her—no computer, no files, not even a cup of coffee. “Tell me,” she said.

So Derek ran through it again. She nodded along, but asked no questions. When he was done she said, “We have a name, but no photograph or image. Could you help us produce an image?”

Glancing at his watch, Derek said, “I need to spend some time with my son, but yes. I can come back tomorrow and work with you on that. What do you know about Nazif?”

“Almost nothing. Except he was thrown out of the Muslim Brotherhood for being too radical.”

“He has a brother. He’s at Guantanamo Bay. I don’t know much more than that yet,” Derek said.

“Perhaps your government knows more about the Nazif Brigade than we do, then. Here is what I do know. We are worried about them. They are very radical. They seem to have resources. They appear to be intent on destabilizing Syria, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Iraq and Iran, with the additional goal of destroying Israel. And for Egyptians, they seem to be very hostile to Egypt.”

“That’s fairly standard
AQ
dogma,” Derek said.

“We haven’t proved it yet, but there have been a number of bombing attempts on the Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan and Druz oil pipelines in Azerbaijan. We think the Nazif Brigade may be involved. No proof, but we think so.”

“That explains many things,” Chaayadev murmured.

Derek shot him a questioning look. The Syrian expert said, “Many European and Middle Eastern countries have offered to pay the United States to intervene militarily in Syria. That’s somewhat unusual, but Syria not only has promising gas fields around Homs, but it’s an important energy transit route to Europe. There was talk of a gas pipeline through Syria that would run from Qatar to Turkey and the Mediterranean. From here, all over Europe.”

“It always come back to oil,” Derek muttered.

They talked a while longer, then Derek left, promising to return the next morning and produce an image of Sheikh Hussein Nazif. Meanwhile, he had a little boy to take to the zoo.

Derek spent most of the
flight back to the U.S. working on a report for Mandalevo. He slept for a while, but woke up gasping for air, heart racing, drenched in sweat. The flight attendant bent over him. “Sir, are you all right?”

Clutching the armrest, he struggled to catch his breath. “Water,” he croaked.

She returned quickly with a bottle of water. Twisting it open, he knocked back a swallow, closing his eyes and visualized performing a tai chi form. Over the years he had studied a lot of different martial arts and received his black belt in several of them. Tai chi wasn’t one of them, but he found the movements relaxing. Concentrating on the movements and focusing on the controlled breathing slowly brought his panic attack under control.

“Fear of flying?” the flight attendant asked. She was a middle-aged blonde, probably in her fifties, and seemed concerned, but not necessarily worried.

“Not exactly,” he said. “I’m fine. Sorry about that.”

“If you need anything, let me know.”

“Sure.”

The heavy-set man sitting next to him slept through the entire thing.

Derek reflected that his panic attacks were more frequent these days. He had been having them for years. The first one had occurred in Afghanistan more than twenty years ago. The typical triggers were starting an operation. Once he was in motion, he was usually fine. Sometimes he thought of them as stage fright. He freaked out, got it out of the way, then he was okay.

But since Syria he had experienced some sort of attack almost every day.

He drifted off again and woke up as they descending into Dulles.

Home was a
sixty-foot CrissCraft Constellation moored at Bayman’s Marina near Baltimore. As he was unlocking the door to the cabin, one of his neighbors, a woman with the unlikely name of Misty Rivers, popped up and waved hello. Misty was about sixty years old, looked in her forties, and when she wasn’t on her boat, spent her free time doing CrossFit competitions. She was a retired economist who’d done something esoteric for the Commerce Department and apparently used her education to invest wisely.

“How are you, Misty?”

“Good. Where were you this time?” She knew he worked sometimes for Homeland Security or for the State Department and that he traveled a lot. When she had questioned him about his job, he’d said he was a troubleshooter, which was, in fact, his job title at Homeland. He didn’t really have a job title at State because he was technically on loan to them, although he supposed troubleshooter was as good a title as any.

“Turkey,” he said. “Then Russia to see Lev.”

“How is he?”

“Growing.”

“You’ll have to come over soon and tell me all about it.”

“I’d like that.”

“Dinner tonight?”

Derek hesitated. Misty was older than he was by quite a bit, although she was about the fittest, sexiest sixty-year-old woman he’d ever seen. He also knew that Misty was interested in getting him into the sack. “I just flew in from Moscow and I’m not sure what time zone I’m in. Can I take a rain check?”

“Tomorrow night?” she offered.

No getting out of it, he thought. He plastered on a smile and nodded. “Sure. I’ll bring something. Wine or scotch?”

“Oh, surprise me! See you at seven?”

“I’ll be there,” he said, and let himself into the salon of his cabin cruiser. It smelled stuffy. He opened the windows and went about unpacking.

Getting a load of laundry going, he sipped at a glass of Laphroaig then laid down on the bed in the master bedroom. Thirteen hours later he woke up.

When Derek had
been loaned to the State Department, he had been assigned a cubicle in the basement of the Harry S. Truman Department of State building in Foggy Bottom. He shared the cubicle farm with twenty people who were more directly affiliated with the State Department’s Bureau of Intelligence and Research, the intelligence gathering and analysis wing of State. Mostly his duties were to either provide his opinions on various intelligence regarding biological and chemical weapons in a variety of countries, or to actually meet with those countries’ experts to discuss problems. As a result, he could either work on a laptop almost anywhere, or he was in a plane or meeting with people in embassies or coffee shops.

He showed up in his cubicle, which was decorated solely with a photograph of Lev. It had been about four weeks since he’d last been there. The analyst in the next cubicle was a twenty-something Harvard graduate who was apparently an expert of some sort on Central Africa. Derek had spoken with him briefly about Derek’s brother, who was a physician in Congo with Doctors Without Borders. For a moment he couldn’t remember the guy’s name. Then it came back to him: Jerome Tenbon.

He said hello, then pulled up his email. There were a number that were employee related that didn’t interest him much and he flagged to read at his leisure. Joe Moore had sent one first thing in the morning. It indicated he wanted a meeting with Derek at 10:30, followed by a brief meeting with the Secretary afterwards. Derek replied to the affirmative, and went about finishing up the report he had started about his opinions on what should be done about Syria and chemical weapons.

At 10:30 he stepped into the outer office of Joe Moore, the Secretary of State’s Chief of Staff. One of Moore’s staffers said Moore was running behind, but only by a little bit. It was about fifteen minutes, which in Derek’s experience wasn’t bad. He was asked into Moore’s office, which had a large oak desk and chairs and a more comfortable setting of three chairs and a sofa. Every time Derek was in Moore’s office there was a different painting on the wall. He seemed to request them rotated by the week. He thought the current one might be a Renoir. He was convinced the last time it had been a Whistler.

Moore, chunky and bald with a round face and a gray goatee, sat behind the desk peering at the computer through bifocals. “Sorry I’m running behind. Take a seat over there. The Israelis can be such a pain in the ass.” He typed for a few minutes, reread what he had written then hit send.

He came from around the desk and shook Derek’s hand. “How’s the shoulder?”

“Mending.”

“Have you been over to Walter Reed?”

“Not yet. I need to call for a follow-up.”

Moore nodded. “I read the initial report. More to the point, Derek, I read John Hammond’s report.”

Derek waited.

“You were waterboarded.”

“It’s effective,” Derek said.

“I’m sorry. The Secretary doesn’t mean to put you in these situations. Do you want counseling?”

“I’ve been through that before. No thanks.”

Moore nodded again. “Are you ready to continue working on the Nazif Brigade?”

“Sure.”

“Where do you want to start?”

“Guantanamo. His brother is there.”

Moore sighed. “Go ahead and make the arrangements.”

They talked for a few more minutes about details of the reports and of the report he was working on. “Okay, the Secretary’s ready.”

Derek followed Moore into Mandalevo’s office. Mandalevo was on the phone. “Yes, that’s a possibility. In two weeks? Perhaps in three. I know Joe’s working on it … well it’s complicated, dammit. Okay, fine. Maybe in two weeks.”

He hung up the phone and looked at Derek. “How’s the shoulder?”

“Getting better.”

“Get your ass over to Walter Reed and have it checked.”

“Do you and Joe coordinate your opening remarks?”

“Joe knows how I think.”

“Walter Reed’s on my to-do list.”

“Good. That was Melissa Wilson over at the White House. You ever met her?”

Derek shook his head. Moore sighed.

Mandalevo chuckled. “Joe does.”

“She’s one of the security council’s Middle East experts. She’s coordinating the meeting.”

Ah, Derek thought. They’re getting to it. He waited.

“The meeting,” Mandalevo said, “is between myself and representatives from Russia, Syria, Israel and a few other countries to try to get Syria to back off.”

“So we don’t have to get involved militarily,” Moore said.

“Which is where you come in,” Mandalevo said. “I want you there.”

“Why? This is a summit?”

“Not that official. But you’ve been there, you’re an expert on chemical weapons and counterterrorism. I want you there.”

“Fine. Where is it?”

Moore said, “That’s what we’re working on. Possibly Geneva, although it could end up in Israel.”

“I can’t imagine Syria would be too thrilled about that,” Derek said.

“They aren’t. So Geneva’s more likely. But it’ll be in two or three weeks. So I’ll want your full report on the Nazif Brigade as well as your thoughts on how to solve this problem before then.”

Derek almost rolled his eyes. “Anything else?”

“That’s enough for now,” Mandalevo said.

Sure, Derek thought, heading out. Just create a solution for peace in the Middle East while you’re at it. No problem at all.

Sandra Singh was
the State Department’s go-to person for all things Egyptian. As far as he could tell, she wasn’t Egyptian, although he thought maybe Indian. There was a PhD after her name and she had been the person Moore suggested he talk to about Sheikh Hussein Nazif. She was an extraordinarily beautiful woman, Derek thought. She looked to be in her early thirties with smooth caramel skin, shiny black hair she wore long and straight, with high cheekbones and large brown eyes.

“Doctor Stillwater,” she said. “Come in. I read your initial report.” She gestured at his arm in the sling. “How are you feeling?”

“Not too bad,” he said. In truth, by this time of the day his shoulder ached, the pain ran up his neck and caused a tension headache. He was about due for some pain meds.

Dr. Singh had her own office on the second floor and wasn’t stuck in a cubicle. There was even a window, although the view was of C Street
NW
. “You’re one of those guys,” she said.

“Those guys?”

“Yes. One of those guys who gets blown up and shot and shrugs and says, ‘Oh, all in a day’s work.’”

“It was just a flesh wound,” Derek said with a straight face.

She laughed. He decided he liked her laugh. Unfortunately, he also noted the wedding ring.

“Fine,” she said. “You want to know what I know about Nazif.”

“Yes.”

“Nothing.”

“I was hoping for more than that.”

“I’m sure you were. I have a file on his brother, Abdul, who’s still down at Guantanamo. And I’ll forward it to you. But I don’t know much about him. Abdul is the eldest brother of children, five boys, three girls. Hussein is brother number four. As far as we can tell, the second oldest brother is dead. The other two, we don’t know much of anything about. The sisters have apparently disappeared into traditional Muslim marriages. We know nothing about them. We don’t know much about Hussein.”

“He’s a sadist,” Derek offered.

She shrugged. “He’s in good company. We’re pretty sure he was under Ayman Mohammed Rabie al-Zawahiri’s influence several years ago, say seven years ago. Before the Arab Spring. You know who al-Zawahiri is?”

“Current head of al-Qaeda, wherever he may be.”

“Very good. Both of them were in the Muslim Brotherhood. Al-Zawahiri is older than Nazif, who we think is forty-three. That seem about right?”