“What’s it for?” asked Tracy.
“A private voice mail box belonging to the president of the United States.”
And with that Harvath knew that whoever Anthony Nichols was, he was a lot more than a professor of history at UVA.
He was about to say as much to Tracy when she looked over at where Nichols had been sitting and said, “He’s gone.”
CHAPTER 5
WASHINGTON, D.C.
At just over six feet tall with dark hair, dark eyes, and a strong jaw-line, thirty-five-year- old Aydin Ozbek looked more like someone from the pages of
A second generation American of Turkish descent, Ozbek had grown up in a tony suburb of Chicago, where he was a high school wrestler of considerable note. With an intense intellect and outstanding SAT scores, he attended the University of Iowa on a full academic scholarship and wrestled all four years; attaining repeated all-American status as his team took three Big Ten titles.
Wanting to serve his country after college, Ozbek, or “Oz” as his friends called him, joined the United States Army with his sights set on the Fifth Special Forces Group. He excelled at everything the Army threw at him and broke several records in Ranger School.
Then came the Special Forces Selection and Qualification courses, which were some of the most physically grueling and mentally demanding experiences he had ever undertaken. Being awarded the Green Beret was one of the greatest accomplishments of Ozbek’s life.
Prior to 9/11, he had served as a medical sergeant, known as an 18 Delta, under a president and national defense strategy that didn’t allow the Special Forces community to carry out the kinds of missions they had been trained for. In short, they didn’t see much action.
With his Special Forces, medical, and Arabic training, it wasn’t hard for Ozbek to find exciting employment elsewhere. He worked extensively for the State Department, operating out of embassies around the world, and even did a short stint with storied U.S. operative Painter Crowe and his elite Sigma Force unit before landing at the CIA with the National Clandestine Service.
The mission statement of the NCS, formerly known as the CIA’s Directorate of Operations, was to coordinate human intelligence, known as HUMINT, between the CIA and other agencies like the FBI, DIA, DSS, INSCOM, Marine Corps Intelligence Activity, and the Office of Naval Intelligence.
In addition to eliminating turf battles with the FBI, State Department, and Department of Defense, the NCS’ mission included conducting covert operations and recruiting foreign agents. The NCS oversaw a myriad of units for political, economic, and paramilitary covert action. It also housed a group responsible for counterterrorism tasks known as the Special Activities Division.
Special Activities was run by and composed of former Special Operations soldiers highly trained in weaponry, escape and evasion, covert transportation of men and materials, guerrilla warfare, explosive ordinance, counterinsurgency and counterintelligence.
This was the area of the Central Intelligence Agency that Aydin Ozbek called home. His office was in the heart of a highly classified NCS/Special Activities program known as the
If an American or allied intelligence officer went freelance or went missing, especially if they were in possession of information critical to the interests of the United States, it was Ozbek’s job first to find out why. Had they been captured? Had they gone rogue?
If the operative in question had in fact been captured, his or her dossier was turned over to a Special Activities “recovery” unit. If it was determined that the operative had gone rogue, Ozbek’s team then created two folders- one blue, one black.
Placed in the blue folder was a full operational blueprint for locating the target and bringing him or her back to the United States, or another suitable facility overseas, for interrogation and an assessment of the damage they had or may have caused.
The black folder included plans for locating and terminating the target.
Both folders contained suggestions for damage control and additional mop-up operations, which sometimes called for elimination of persons the rogue intelligence officer had been in contact with.
It wasn’t a game. Ozbek didn’t like killing people. But sometimes it was necessary.
Stepping off the elevator on the fourth floor of CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, Ozbek had almost made it to his office when he was spotted by his teammate, Steve Rasmussen, a five-foot-eleven wiseass in his late twenties with red hair and blue eyes.
“Well, look who’s finally here,” chirped Rasmussen.
Ozbek didn’t feel like getting into it with him. His fifteen-year-old Labrador, Shelby, had cancer. She had been up most of the night in pain. Her medication wasn’t working anymore. Even upping the dosage hadn’t helped, so Oz woke his vet and convinced the man to meet them at his office first thing in the morning.
Shelby meant the world to Ozbek. She was the only woman in his life who didn’t complain about the insane hours he kept. For the time being, the vet was holding her for observation, but Oz knew he was going to have to start facing the inevitability that she would need to be put down soon. Rasmussen wasn’t a dog person, and Oz doubted he would understand.
“Actually,” said Ozbek as he brushed passed his colleague and stepped into his office, “early mornings seem to be the only time your wife and I can be alone anymore.”
Rasmussen followed him in and sat down on the couch. “That’s not true, Oz. If you came by on Saturdays, you could have the whole day together and I could get some golf in. We’d all be winners.”
Their status as CIA operatives notwithstanding, if Patricia Rasmussen heard either of them talking like this, she’d kick both their asses. “What’s up?” asked Ozbek, changing the subject.
Steve Rasmussen was silent for a moment and then dropped a black file folder on the coffee table. “Someone from the Transept program needs to be dealt with.”
CHAPTER 6
Ozbek walked over and picked up the file. The ultra-secret Transept program was responsible for producing the most proficient killers the Central Intelligence Agency had on its payroll. And, as the American Government and the CIA didn’t condone assassination, technically the Transept program didn’t exist.
“Selleck wants you on this personally,” said Rasmussen, picking up the intricate wooden puzzle Ozbek kept on his table.
The NCS Director. Ozbek raised his eyebrows as he perused the file. “Why me?”
“Because it’s complicated.”
“Obviously, but complicated how?”
“Sunday night there was a murder at the Jefferson Memorial,” said Rasmussen.
Ozbek finished scanning the file and handed it back to his colleague. “And?”
“Somebody whacked an employee of the Foundation on American Islamic Relations. Are you familiar with them?”
Ozbek was. The Saudi-funded Foundation on American Islamic Relations, or FAIR as it was ironically known, was one of the biggest Islamist front organizations in the United States. It had offices across the country with representatives who rushed to the microphones any time a Muslim was accused of anything. They were knee-jerk
