Tears of God (The Blackwell Files Book 7) Page 5

  “How—?”

  “It’s my job, remember? And yes, you can bring him. But he waits outside. No one must overhear our conversation, not even him.”

  Teng laughed. “You’re as formidable as I’ve heard. Let’s go eat. I’m starving.”

  Minutes later, Teng and Vaziri entered the restaurant, while the bodyguard cooled his heels outside in the mall’s corridor.

  Vaziri requested a corner table, far away from the restaurant’s other patrons. Black and white tiles covered the eatery’s floor, while hanging partitions of white linen separated four-person maple tables surrounded by wooden chairs adorned with cushions of red velvet. Floor-to-ceiling windows allowed sunlight to flood the room, rendering cream-colored Japanese lanterns, for now, unnecessary.

  The business partners took a seat, and Teng removed his hat. After the waitress brought two bottles of water, he took a long drink from his. “Your boss told me more than once how difficult my request was. You’re sure this product is going to work?”

  “‘Difficult’ is an understatement,” replied Vaziri. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to develop a neurotoxin that reacts only to a particular person’s DNA?”

  Teng grinned. “I didn’t know such a thing was possible until your boss proposed it.”

  “It’s possible, but it isn’t easy. But don’t worry. If the Director says it’ll work, you can count on it.”

  “Excellent.” He took another swig of water. “But that leads to a concern I have: getting the product in place.”

  Vaziri frowned. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see how that’s my concern. Isn’t that something you should have been planning for the past three months?”

  Teng licked his lips. “Of course, but the man who was supposed to execute the mission fell ill yesterday, and we don’t have time to line up a suitable replacement.”

  “So wait a little longer and find one.”

  Teng leaned in over the table and lowered his voice to a desperate whisper. “There isn’t time. The hearings are next week. Once that happens, we may as well not bother to take Mai out.”

  Vaziri spoke through clenched lips. “Don’t say that name again. Are you insane? What’s so important about the hearings, anyway?” The Director made a point to know as little as possible about the victims of his potent creations.

  “Most Vietnamese lawmakers can be bribed quite easily. Mai—excuse me—our friend, I should say, refused…said he wouldn’t agree to pass the safety inspection of my Red River factory. He has scheduled a hearing on factory safety in the National Assembly next week. Guess whose factories will be reviewed first?”

  Vaziri nodded. “I understand.”

  “But our friend has made a fatal mistake. Like every politician, he can’t help but grandstand. He wants to take credit for the ‘discovery’ and make himself out to be a champion of the little people, so he has kept the record of my factory’s safety inspection to himself.”

  “So if he dies ahead of time,” inferred Vaziri, “the outcome of the safety inspection dies with him.”

  “Exactly,” said Teng. “The inspector himself is perfectly willing to be bribed. Only our friend stands fast. So I would like you to take a proposal to your boss. Ask him if he would be willing to send you to execute the mission.”

  Vaziri cocked her head. “Why me? Surely there must be others who have more training in that sort of thing.”

  “None of them are as familiar with the neurotoxin as you. None know how to place it, the correct dosage, the impact of the toxin’s exposure to sunlight…in short, the many little details that make the difference between success and failure. And you’re known as a person who moves as a cat in the night.”

  “You’re right. I probably would be best suited.” She leaned back in her chair. “You understand this won’t come cheap?”

  “Yes. Ask your boss to name a fair price, and I will pay it. I need our friend eliminated—quickly.”

  CHAPTER 14

  The day following their phone conversation with Vega, Alton and Mallory arrived at their scheduled NSA conference room with only a minute or two to spare.

  Ernesto Vega sat at the head of a long, walnut table. “Help yourselves,” he said, motioning to a back-wall table where someone had laid out a continental breakfast. “We’ll get started as soon as everyone is here.”

  By the time the Blackwells had gathered some fruit and coffee and taken a seat, the rest of the attendees had arrived. Six people now shared the conference room with Vega.

  The NSA manager cleared his throat. “Good morning. You’re all here because you’ll be participating in a mission to investigate the activity of Pasha Tech, an Afghani chemical company. Officially, the company folded fifteen years ago, but we have evidence it not only exists but might be conducting some kind of illicit activity. The purpose of this meeting is to introduce the teammates to each other and to kick off the mission itself. Understood?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “I’ll work the introductions around the table,” continued Vega. “To my right is Nick Gilbert.” Gilbert looked much like his photograph: mid-fifties, silver temples, and thick glasses. The man’s slightly pudgy midsection, a testament to years of working a desk job, lent a less favorable impression than his penetrating gaze.

  “He’s the NSA’s resident toxicologist,” said Vega. “If and when you’re able to dig up information on Pasha Tech, he’ll be the person interpreting your findings to determine if we should be worried.”

  Gilbert produced a nervous smile and waved to those seated around the table.

  “Next is Jessica Silva,” said Vega. “She has extensive tactical experience. She’ll provide transport and detail security. She’s also an expert in camouflage, intelligence, and target penetration.” The pretty Latina turned an unsmiling face towards the others and nodded.

  “At the end of the table is David Dunlow,” said Vega. “He’s on loan from the Secret Service at the request of Alton and Mallory Blackwell, whom I’ll introduce in a moment.”

  “What’s his role?” asked Silva.

  David shifted his six-foot frame in his chair. He placed a muscular forearm on the table but remained silent.

  “Agent Dunlow is a former Army Intelligence officer,” replied Vega. “He was deployed with the Blackwells in Afghanistan and has served with them on several non-NSA investigations over the last few years, so he brings some continuity to the team makeup. Operationally, he’ll provide intelligence and expertise in combat and tactical planning.”

  “It seems like his skill set is kind of redundant, to be honest.” said Silva. “But with such a small team, that’s probably a good thing.”

  Vega raised an eyebrow. “I’m glad you approve. Sitting next to David is his adopted daughter, Mastana Dunlow.”

  Silva examined Mastana with her own arched eyebrow. “Aren’t you a little young to be on an NSA team? What are you? Twenty-two, twenty-three?”

  Mastana couldn’t help but grin. “I am sixteen.”

  Silva’s jaw dropped. She turned to stare at Vega. “Since when did ‘Bring Your Daughter to Work Day’ start applying to NSA missions? We can’t possibly—”

  “Agent Silva,” cut in Vega, frowning, “could you entertain the notion that I know what I’m doing? At least long enough to hear how she fits into our operational plan?”

  Silva started to speak again but silenced herself.

  “Thank you,” said Vega. He swept his gaze from person to person as he spoke. “Let me explain some background so you’ll understand the purpose of this mission and how Mastana fits in.

  “Fifteen years ago, an Army CID officer was investigating an Afghani company called Pasha Tech when he died of an apparent a heart attack.”

  Alton glanced at Mallory. It was probably a good thing Vega hadn’t mentioned the deceased CID officer was her father. Otherwise, Silva and Gilbert would have been left wondering to what extent Mallory’s judgment would be impacted by the personal nature of their mission.
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  “A few days ago,” continued Vega, “Max Creighton, one of our NSA agents, died unexpectedly. We can’t absolutely prove it, but we’re pretty sure Creighton was poisoned. The Blackwells found him just before he died. His last words were ‘Farid Safi’, a person’s name, and ‘Pasha Tech,’ the name of a company.”

  “Was Creighton investigating Pasha Tech, too?” asked Silva.

  “He hadn’t logged a formal case,” said Vega, “but he told the Blackwells someone was following him and arranged to meet them. That’s why they were able to find him before he died. Considering ‘Pasha Tech’ was the last phrase he uttered, you have to figure he had launched some kind of investigation into the company.”

  “And you’re thinking they silenced him, right?” said David, whom Alton and Mallory had already briefed.

  “That’s right,” said Vega. “Now stop and think about that. Despite the fact that Creighton had logged no formal case and that, from what I can tell, no one in the NSA knew of his investigation, Pasha Tech somehow found out and killed him. It stands to reason that they’d only do that if they had something significant to hide.

  “Your mission will be to travel to Afghanistan, locate Pasha Tech, and determine what they’re up to. It goes without saying that extreme secrecy will be key to the success of this mission. Therefore, I won’t be logging an official investigation, either. You’ll all travel on separate flights and under plausible aliases. That’s where Mastana fits in. Since she looks a lot like Mallory Blackwell—dark hair, small stature, that sort of thing—she’ll travel as Alton and Mallory’s daughter. Few people will suspect a couple traveling with their teenager are part of an NSA mission team.”

  Silva looked unconvinced. “I get that she helps sell the cover story, but does that really justify bringing her along? What if we’re involved in combat? What do we do with her?”

  “Those are reasonable questions,” said Vega. “Let me address her contribution to the team first. Any Pasha Tech documents you find will probably be written in Pashto, the native language. Last year, Mastana immigrated here and became a U.S. citizen. But she’s a native of Afghanistan. Pashto is her first language, so she’ll act as your translator.”

  Silva nodded.

  “As to the possibility of combat, your orders are to leave Mastana in a safe zone if and when the mission carries you into a known dangerous situation.”

  “You got that right,” chimed in David Dunlow. “I had to promise my wife to keep Mastana out of harm’s way. It was the only way she’d agree to let Mastana go.”

  Alton grinned. He had needed every bit of his persuasion skills to help David convince Fahima on this point. Perhaps seeing a bit of herself in the teen, Fahima had agreed, albeit reluctantly.

  “We’re glad you’re coming,” Alton told Mastana.

  “But even if Mastana is mixed up in combat,” said Vega, “she won’t be helpless. Agent Dunlow has been teaching his daughter small arms skills over the last few months, and Mastana is also a student of the martial art known as Silat.

  “Now, let me introduce the final two members of the mission team,” said Vega, “and then we’ll discuss next steps. To my left is FBI Agent Mallory Blackwell. As I mentioned a minute ago, she served as an Army officer in Afghanistan. She brings a wealth of combat and investigative experience. I should mention, too…she and her husband have proven to be an effective team for ferreting out the truth.

  “Speaking of her husband, let me introduce your mission supervising agent, Alton Blackwell.”

  Silva turned to Vega. “Supervising agent? I thought you said…”

  “This will work,” said the mission manager. “Trust me.”

  “Is there a problem?” asked Alton.

  Vega cleared his throat. “The supervising agent on Silva’s last mission made some…unprofessional advances. Silva asked me to ensure it wouldn’t happen again.”

  “I thought you’d assign a female commander to my next mission,” said Silva.

  “I never said that. I did commit to assigning a mission lead who would respect you and your capabilities.”

  “Agent Silva, for what it’s worth, I’m married…happily married,” said Alton, glancing back at Mallory. “I have no intention of treating you in anything but a professional capacity.”

  “That’s what my last mission supervisor said.”

  Alton could believe it. Silva’s toned frame and wide, cinnamon-colored eyes would certainly have appealed to him had he not found all he wanted in Mallory.

  He spoke with reluctance. He would have preferred to discuss her concerns in a private conversation. But the objections having been raised, they needed to be addressed now. “I can see how it must be frustrating.”

  Silva scowled. “What would you know about it?”

  “I imagine a lot of men either come on to you or assume that good looks somehow means you’re not really that qualified for your role, right?”

  The scowl remained. “Yep.”

  Mallory nodded in understanding. Her appearance frequently attracted unwanted male attention.

  “And you’re tired of people making unwarranted assumptions about your mission fitness based on your physical appearance,” continued Alton. “You just want to be treated like the professional you are, right?”

  “Yeah. No offense, but as a guy, you wouldn’t really know what that’s like.”

  Alton paused to gather his thoughts. “Did you happen to notice my limp when I walked in here?”

  “Yeah. What about it?”

  “That’s not from some weekend flag football game. It’s a combat injury I sustained in Afghanistan four years ago. I can’t tell you the number of times, including my last case, I’ve had to convince people that this injury doesn’t somehow diminish my leadership or analytical skills, as if those abilities are somehow channeled through my leg. So yes, I think I do understand.”

  Silva fell silent.

  “I propose an agreement,” continued Alton. “I suggest we each assume that the other is fully capable of fulfilling his or her duties on the team. I also suggest neither of us use appearance or physical ability as an excuse to treat each other in a way we wouldn’t want to be treated ourselves. Agreed?”

  Silva looked skeptical. “Look, Blackwell, that’s a nice speech and all, but I’ve heard it before. Now, you put some action behind those words, that’ll mean something.”

  “Fair enough,” said Alton. “On this mission, I think we may have plenty of opportunities to do that.”

  Vega cleared his throat. “Look, I’ve assembled the best team for the mission, and I expect everyone to work together as professionals.

  “Now let’s finish the introductions. On top of being a former Army officer with combat experience, Mr. Blackwell also has extensive experience in cryptology and cyber-warfare. He’s a senior VP at Kruptos, arguably the world’s leading cryptography software firm.”

  “Now that we have an understanding of everyone’s roles,” he continued, “let me cover our next steps. The NSA has never known Pasha Tech’s location, and until now, we never had a reason to commit a lot of resources to find out. At this moment, I have five analysts conducting metadata searches to seek out its location, both physically and in cyberspace. Assuming we’re able to track it down, we’ll determine the best way to penetrate its defenses. Ideally, we’ll locate the server they use to store company records and can pursue them that way. That’s where your cryptology experience will come in handy, Mr. Blackwell. Server files are normally encrypted, and we’ll need someone to decode them.”

  Vega turned to face the group as a whole. “Let’s talk logistics. All of you will be traveling to Afghanistan under the guise of civilians. I’ve touched on the cover story for the Blackwells. Here’s the rest: Mallory Blackwell will travel as an accountant for Chupp Incorporated, an oil and gas conglomerate looking to perform exploratory drilling in northwestern Afghanistan. Alton, her unemployed husband, and Mastana, their daughter, will be accompanying her in o
rder to do some sightseeing.

  “Gilbert, you’ve mentioned to me in the past that geology is a hobby of yours, so you’ll be traveling as an amateur geologist hoping to search for samples of rare lapis lazuli minerals in the Badakhshan Region of northern Afghanistan.”

  The toxicologist nodded. “Makes sense. I actually would like to see some of those crystals in person.”

  “Dunlow,” said Vega, “you’ll travel as an employee of Kyle Solutions, a private firm that provides security for foreign dignitaries.

  “Agent Silva, you’ll travel as the mistress of the fictitious General Holland of the U.S. Army.”

  Silva snorted. “Really?”

  The mission manager produced a knowing smile. “Afghanistan is still a chauvinistic, male-dominated society. It won’t take much to convince them a pretty face is all you have to offer. And what better way to stay under the radar?”

  Silva waved her hand in a dismissive gesture.

  “At least you have a job,” said Alton with a grin. “I’m unemployed.”

  “Here are your passports,” said Vega. He passed out the blue booklets as if dealing a deck of cards. “In a couple of hours, I’ll send each of you a more detailed dossier of your cover identities in an encrypted file. Here’s the password for all the files.” He wrote a string of alphanumeric characters on a legal pad and placed it on its side for all to see. “You have three minutes to memorize it. Do not write it down.”

  After a few minutes, Alton broke the silence. “You said you have analysts seeking out Pasha Tech’s location. Will we be waiting to travel to Afghanistan until you find it?”

  “No,” said Vega. “No need to wait. I hope to have the answer by the time you all get there. Speaking of travel, I’ve booked different seats on different flights for everyone but the Blackwell ‘family.’ Once the Blackwells arrive and check into a hotel, they’ll text their room’s location to the rest of the team so you can rendezvous. That way you won’t be seen together during your travels.”

  “Yes,” said Alton, nodding. “That’s good. Without a preplanned meeting location, there’s no possibility of someone learning it and waiting there for us.”