Bashir poured himself one more drink before leaving the porch and ambling into his private gallery. With a passion for collecting various forms of Middle Eastern artifacts, Bashir’s collection ran the gamut from the scepters of famous Egyptian kings to ancient scrolls unearthed in the desert sand.
He stooped down and inspected the crown jewel in the impressive stash he’d amassed over the years. He’d restored and preserved a small portion of the Dead Sea Scrolls he bought on the black market from an enterprising archeologist. He read the words aloud and shrugged at their meaning. Tradition was just another antiquated way of life to Bashir, an ancient language that wasn’t spoken in his new progressive world. However, the items all enclosed in glass display cases scattered throughout the room were all deemed to be of great worth. And valuable commodities spoke a language Bashir understood as much or more than his native tongue.
CHAPTER 9
WHEN BLUNT FIRST STARTED Firestorm, his involvement was minimal when it came to operations. Despite his immense knowledge on security-related issues and inner workings of the CIA, he remained content to let the professionals do their job. He’d been in politics long enough to experience the discomfort of having one’s toes danced upon, though in Washington it was often akin to a stomp from a boot heel rather than a passive aggressive overstepping of bounds. Years ago, he’d vowed not to be the kind of boss who felt the urgency to leave his lasting mark on every venture he undertook. But that time was past. If Firestorm was going to succeed in one of its most critical missions, it needed his perspective along with his skill and expertise of the region and The Missile Man.
Blunt hovered over the table, studying the topographical map in front of him. There were plenty of moving parts to pull off a successful operation, especially for one that stretched across the Middle East. But he was confident the plan he’d concocted with General Fortner would succeed.
Hawk turned a toothpick over in his mouth. “What makes you think this is going to work?”
Blunt shrugged. “Call it a hunch or a well-devised scheme. Either way, I’m most confident in the team we have to pull this off.”
Alex patted Blunt on the back and laughed softly. “You do realize that this is the team,” she said, gesturing to the three of them standing around the table. “Unless you’ve got some other kick-ass agents you’d like to introduce us to.”
“Fair enough,” Blunt said. “Though you won’t be doing this alone. I’ve actually arranged for a battalion of Army Rangers from Fort Benning to assist you at the most crucial point in the op.”
“How’d you swing that?”
“I called in a few favors.”
“That’s all well and good,” Hawk said, “but I’m a little more concerned with us reaching that point in the plan alive.”
“And what if Fazil has already seen The Missile Man? He’ll likely be able to spot Hawk as a fraud almost immediately.”
Blunt pointed at the box at the edge of the table. “For starters, that’s why we have this machine for you.”
“What’s it do?” Alex asked.
“Take several pictures of The Missile Man after you kill him and then upload his photos,” Blunt explained. “In less than an hour, you’ll have a mask replicated in his image. You’ll be a dead ringer for him.”
They all stood in silence while they studied the map before Alex spoke up.
“I hate to be the wet blanket here,” she said, “but there are other issues about this plan that concern me.”
Blunt rocked his weight from one foot to the other. “Better to air them now than later. Out with it.”
“We don’t know what The Missile Man looks like, correct?”
Blunt nodded.
“So, how will we know he’s not sending us a decoy when we meet with him?”
“Because we’re going to speak with a guy who has actually met with The Missile Man in person.”
Hawk furrowed his brow. “And lived to tell about it?”
“Not only lived to tell about it, but has a great relationship with The Missile Man. In fact, that’s how we’re going to initiate contact with our favorite arms dealer.”
“A great relationship? And you expect him to help us out?” Alex asked.
Blunt grinned. “If there’s one thing I know about Dr. Tarek Ngozi, it’s that he will do anything for money when he discovers his funding is low.”
“And you think that anything would include betraying a weapons dealer?” Hawk asked.
“Absolutely. How do you think the two of them initially met? It wasn’t over drinks at a bar, that’s for sure.” Blunt folded his arms and pursed his lips before continuing. “There’s no way Dr. Ngozi is going to turn down the kind of money we’ll be offering him.”
“Sounds like you’ve thought through everything,” Hawk said. “When do we get to meet him.”
Blunt produced a pair of tickets from his pocket. “Your plane for Cairo leaves at 10:00 a.m. tomorrow morning.”
CHAPTER 10
Washington, D.C.
PRESIDENT MICHAELS GRABBED the lectern with both hands, his knuckles whitening as he tightened his grip after each question. Facing the press corps ranked near the top of his list of things he hated about leading the free world. While he attempted to answer each question truthfully, he knew that no matter how careful he was with his words, they would be twisted and misconstrued. Instead of letting his words speak for themselves, the deceitful media members would parse everything he said, presenting his quotes sometimes without context or couching them in terms that would prejudice the viewer or reader. Michaels often felt it might be a better tact to ignore the press corps altogether since they never treated him fairly. But according to his chief advisor, the optics of such a move would result in more harm than simply letting the press push their own version of the truth that would surely prejudice the public against Michaels.
However, not everyone
