Counter Caliphate (A Jake Adams International Espionage Thriller Series Book 11) Page 3

  “Then you better hurry.”

  Against his better judgment, he gave her the quick version, saying he had been approached by the think tank man, General Tom Graves, who wanted Jake to meet with the Spanish billionaire. All true, but not the eventual mission.

  “What does this Carlos Gomez want you to do?” she asked.

  The jet engines powered up immediately after the jet turned and lined up onto the runway. Within seconds they streaked down the runway and headed into a steep climb.

  Finally, Jake said, “We’re airborne, Alexandra. I don’t know exactly what is planned.” The truth. “Let me meet with Gomez and get back with you.” He hesitated long enough to glance across at the priest, who had a death grip on the leather seat arms. Then he said to Alexandra, “Now tell me why you’re really in Berlin?”

  She huffed. “You are relentless, Jake Adams.”

  “I’ve been told that before.”

  “You’ve heard about the protests here in the north,” she said.

  “The anti-immigrant groups?” he asked.

  “It’s more complex than that, Jake.”

  “Continue.”

  “The German government wants to know if there are elements of neo-Nazi influence in the groups.”

  “Is it true?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. It has been documented that these Nazis attended a number of the protests, but there’s no way to stop them from doing so. These are public streets. I’ve infiltrated some of the leadership of the main group in Berlin, indicating I’m sympathetic to their cause.”

  “What is their real cause?” he wanted to know.

  “From what I can tell so far,” she said, her voice starting to break up, “is that they are a pro-German nationalist group.”

  “So were the Nazis,” Jake reminded her.

  “True. But. . .”

  “You’re breaking up.”

  “Okay. Anyway, this group is concerned about the Islamization of Germany, diluting our Christian heritage.”

  That made a lot of sense, Jake thought. “The Caliphate is on the move, Alexandra. They won’t be happy with just the Middle East and Africa. This is a worldwide event. Let me call you once I’ve talked with this billionaire.”

  “Good. We need to talk.”

  She cut out and Jake looked at his phone. The call had dropped. They must have gotten out of cell range. He shoved his phone into his pocket and glanced across at the priest.

  “Are you all right?” Jake asked.

  The priest nodded, but the sweat on his face indicated he was not even close to all right.

  “You’re closer to God,” Jake said with a smile.

  “Eventually I would like to meet my God, but not today,” the priest said.

  The flight attendant walked over to Jake and asked, “Would you like something to drink.” Her English came through with a thick Spanish accent.

  “Do you have Scotch?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Single malt.”

  “Great. Bring me two. Neat. One for me and one for the priest.”

  She nodded and went toward the front of the jet.

  “I’m fine,” the priest said.

  “Let’s turn that fine to outstanding.”

  The flight attendant came back with two fingers of Scotch in each highball glass, handing one to each of them.

  “Thank you,” Jake said. The attendant smiled and was about to leave when Jake grasped her arm. “Hang on. I’m curious why Carlos Gomez owns a Gulfstream but is afraid to fly.”

  “He’s not afraid, sir,” she said. “He’s a reluctant flyer.”

  “Kind of like me,” the priest said, and then took a long sip of Scotch.

  “Exactly.” The flight attendant went back to her seat in the back.

  Jake shifted toward the priest and took a drink of Scotch. “Why are you here?”

  The priest’s eyes swished to the right. Finally he drank some more Scotch before saying, “My boss thought, perhaps, that a priest could come in handy. Open a few doors.”

  Shaking his head, Jake said, “Where I’m going, Father, the only doors I’m likely to open will be with my boot.”

  “Let’s hope that’s not necessary,” the priest said. Then with one quick motion, he downed the last of the Scotch from his glass.

  Jake had a feeling there was more to the story, but he didn’t want to put the priest in a position to have to lie about his motives. Instead, he drank the last of his Scotch and set his empty glass on the deck next to his chair. Then he turned, closed his eyes, and tried to rest. He didn’t get much sleep the night before, since his mind was reeling with the thoughts of this potential mission.

  4

  Barcelona, Spain

  The 150 foot Trinity yacht cruised slowly into the private harbor just a few blocks from the city’s famous landmark, the Christopher Columbus monument.

  Billionaire Carlos Gomez could afford any yacht in existence, but he preferred this smaller vessel, which with its lower draft could pull into much smaller ports without much advanced notice.

  After his meeting in Monaco, his crew had shoved off almost immediately and steamed west toward Spain, arriving in just twenty hours.

  Gomez sipped on a cappuccino and watched his small crew prepare to dock. His entire crew was Spanish—Catalan to be more precise. Historically he considered them the best seamen in the world. The Italians would argue that point, since Spain had hired Columbus to discover the new world in 1492.

  He considered his own actions in the past 24 hours as well. After all, he would be hiring an American to head up a team to find and rescue the fifteen medical workers, including his sister’s son. Jake Adams was a well-known entity in Europe. He knew of a couple friends who had hired the man over the years to handle discreet matters. Everyone had a favorable opinion of the man, but they were equally adamant about the man’s integrity. Adams could not be corrupted with money. And that might be a problem. Who even thinks that way anymore? Money was everything. With it came influence and respect.

  The yacht gently nudged against the pier, and then his men threw lines to the harbor crew, who wrapped the lines over dock tie downs and tightened the yacht snuggly.

  The first mate, dressed in his white uniform, walked up to Gomez and said, “Sir, your jet has landed. A car will drive the men here.”

  “Thank you. And nice job getting us here in short order.”

  The first mate nodded his head. “Thank you, sir. Will that be all?”

  Gomez knew the man had been up all night at the helm. “Yes. Go get some sleep.”

  His head stewardess came over and removed the cup and saucer from his table. “Would you like anything else?” she asked, her brows rising with anticipation.

  His eyes discovered every inch of her, his memory fresh from the night before when she came to his cabin and stripped down to nothing. She was a damn fine stewardess and a better seductress. Gomez checked his watch and tried to calculate how long it would take his men to drive Adams and the priest to the harbor. Yeah, he had time.

  Without saying a word, he simply nodded for his stewardess to follow him back to his cabin.

  •

  Jake had gotten some sleep on the Gulfstream flight from Italy to Spain. After landing in Barcelona, Jake and the priest were picked up by a man in a black Audi A8 with plush leather seats. It had been some time since Jake had been to this city. He had always found it inviting, with its interesting architecture and great food. But he knew this trip would be different. He wasn’t in Barcelona for pleasure; he was here for business.

  The driver cruised along the waterfront and Jake first observed Montjuic, the Jewish Mountain, which had been used as a Jewish cemetery and then for political prisoners and the killing fields for Franco’s enemies. Then he gazed out the right at the newer port terminal, where two cruise ships were docked.

  “Have you been here before?” the priest asked Jake.

  “Yes.” He didn’t want to mention under wha
t circumstances, since that mission had been with the CIA and was still classified.

  “If you get a chance,” the priest said, “you should go to nearby Montserrat. It’s a beautiful monastery built into the mountains. You could visit the black virgin.”

  “Sounds interesting,” Jake said, without vigor, his eyes observing the road ahead.

  Soon they entered an area along the waterfront that Jake knew well. He had been involved with an operation along La Rambla, a mile-long pedestrian shopping area frequented by both natives and tourists. Quaint during the off season and downright obnoxious with people during weekends and holidays.

  The driver angled around the Christopher Columbus monument, with the man himself pointing to some unknown location out at sea. Certainly not toward the new world.

  Finally, the driver pulled up to a small marina filled with mostly high-end yachts, both motorized and sailing vessels.

  Jake and Father Murici got out, slung their packs over their shoulders, and then the driver pointed toward a large yacht down the first slip.

  “Wow,” the priest said. “Such ostentatious wealth is nearly obscene.”

  “You think?” Jake said. “Some people have more money than brains. Let’s hope this man is not one of them.”

  “God willing.”

  Jake stopped and pulled the priest to a halt. “I don’t think God has anything to do with this man.”

  The priest shook his head. “You are wrong, Mister Adams. He is a devout Catholic.”

  Letting out a huff of air, Jake said, “So was Hitler at one point.” He continued down the pier toward the massive yacht.

  Two heavily armed men waited for Jake and the priest at the small gangplank. They insisted on patting down both of them for weapons.

  “This isn’t necessary,” Jake said. “Your boss knows I’m armed.”

  Neither guard said a word. But when one of the men grabbed at Jake’s backpack, Jake quickly grasped the man’s hand, twisted his arm to near breaking, bringing the man to his knees. The second guy came toward Jake in a rush, but Jake shifted his hips and back-kicked the man in the groin, collapsing the guy to the ground in agony.

  “That’s enough,” yelled a man aboard the ship.

  Jake glanced up and saw the man he had looked up on the internet the night before. Billionaire Carlos Gomez was a tall man with striking features. His dark hair was perfect, with just enough gray at the temples to make him distinguished—even to those who didn’t know he was a billionaire.

  “Please don’t break my man’s arm, Mister Adams,” Gomez said. “He was only following previous orders.”

  Lowering his head toward the man in the arm lock, Jake whispered, “Know your enemy. Sun Tzu, The Art of War.”

  “Let the man go,” the priest said.

  Jake reluctantly let the man go, shoving him to the ground.

  Then Jake and the priest went aboard the huge yacht. They shook the owner’s hand and were escorted inside to a small lounge area with plush leather seats and a bar against one wall. A pretty woman stood next to the bar and a bartender waited behind the wooden structure waiting to take orders.

  “Please take a seat,” Carlos Gomez said. “Would you like something to drink?”

  Jake took off his backpack and set it next to a chair. Then he sat down. “I’ll have a rum neat, as long as it’s aged and doesn’t have a bat on the bottle. In that case, you can mix it with coke.”

  Gomez turned to the priest.

  “I’ll just have water,” the priest said, taking a seat next to Jake.

  The billionaire nodded his head to the bartender, who went to work. In just a minute the elegant woman handed the priest a bottle of water and a glass of rum to Jake.

  “It’s Dominican,” the woman said. “Aged twenty years.” Her accent was nearly Spanish. She smiled and walked away, her hips swaying seductively with each step.

  Jake took a quick sniff and then a sip. “Very good.” Then he glanced around the small cabin and aimed his glance at the billionaire. “Mister Gomez. I appreciate your hospitality, but I think we need to get to work.”

  Carlos Gomez shifted his head to all his help, who immediately left the three of them alone.

  “Since our mutual friend, General Graves, contacted you yesterday,” Gomez said, “we’ve gotten a little more information.”

  Jake looked at Father Murici, who had barely touched his bottle of water. Then he turned back to the billionaire. “Go ahead.”

  “According to my contacts in the Spanish Navy, the medical workers were flown off the relief ship during very windy conditions.”

  “By helo?”

  Gomez nodded. “Yes. An old military craft. Identified as a Sikorsky H-34.”

  “Wow,” Jake said. “A Choctaw? It’s amazing it’s still flying.” Then he thought back on the specifications of that helo. “Wait. The H-34 is like a flying rock with limited range and speed. No more than a hundred-twenty miles an hour. I’m not sure it can hold fifteen hostages plus the kidnappers.”

  “Good memory,” Gomez said. He clicked a remote and the large-screen LED on the far bulkhead lit up, showing an old image of the H-34. “Spec sheet says it will hold sixteen people. But in an emergency they can pack in at least twenty, I’m told.” Then he clicked to the next image, a map of the region showing the Canary Islands and the west coast of Africa—specifically Morocco. Someone had pinpointed a location in the ocean with a circle drawn at four hundred miles.

  Jake got up and went closer to the TV screen. Within that four hundred miles were all the Canary Islands to the west and about two hundred or more miles into Morocco.

  “With refueling,” Jake said, “they could be well into Algeria to the north or Mali to the southeast. Your analyst considered the three-hundred kilometer range, but that’s under ideal conditions. Not to mention the fact that the helo didn’t start at that point. They had to fly out from somewhere. Roundtrip is less than a hundred fifty kilometers each way, especially with the increased load and the headwinds in one direction. The passengers would have bounced around in that contraption like fish in a blender.”

  Carlos Gomez got up to join Jake. “I was told you worked for the U.S. Air Force as an intelligence officer before moving on to the CIA. Now I know why. Very good, Mister Adams.”

  “Can we just go with Jake?”

  “Absolutely. And call me Carlos.”

  Jake checked out the map closely. “Mauritania is mostly Sahara Desert. Although the make-up of the kidnappers match, I’m not sure about the refueling.” He ran his hand to the southwest and pointed to a few small cities. “Maybe here. But I doubt it. Moving to the east, Algeria is a good option, especially with refueling. But, again, that’s mostly desert. They would need fuel in Morocco.”

  “You don’t think they went back to the Canaries?” Gomez asked.

  Shaking his head, Jake said, “Not likely. It’s not remote enough. Not a hotbed for terrorists.”

  Gomez smiled. “My thoughts as well.”

  Finally, the priest stood up and joined them. “What is their motive?”

  “These are terrorists, Father,” Jake said. “They’re assholes bent on destruction. Probably part of the greater Caliphate.”

  The priest shrugged. “But they must want something.”

  Jake hated to admit it, but the good father had a point. “You’re right padre. Have there been any demands?”

  The billionaire shook his head. “None.”

  “Well, that will come,” Jake said. “They’ll make some outrageous demand and then start cutting off heads.”

  “My God.” The priest closed his eyes and started to pray.

  Turning to Gomez, Jake said, “I understand the Spanish doctor is your nephew. Is there any way the kidnappers know this?”

  “I don’t think so. He’s my sister’s son. She took her husband’s name. Even if we had the same name, Gomez is very common in Spain.”

  Jake thought about his own quick research from the night befo
re. Nowhere did any site mention the fact that Carlos Gomez even had a family. It was as if the billionaire had been grown in a lab somewhere. Jake sucked down the last of his rum, and Gomez took his glass around the bar.

  Finding the bottle of Dominican rum, Gomez poured another healthy dose for Jake and then one for himself. He brought both glasses with him and handed Jake his refill.

  They ticked glasses together and both sipped the fresh drinks. Then they all took seats again.

  “Are you sure you don’t want something stronger, Father?” Gomez asked.

  “It’s a little early for me,” the priest said.

  “What are you doing to find the medical workers?” Jake asked.

  Gomez hesitated. Perhaps the question came across too accusatory. Finally, he said, “With money comes influence, Jake. I have many good contacts in the Spanish government. But I also have business interests in Morocco.”

  Jake knew about money and influence. “So, if they’re still in Morocco, you should find out soon enough.”

  “I would hope so, Jake.”

  This man wasn’t telling Jake everything. He had secrets, no doubt. “Then why do you need me?”

  “Good question.” The billionaire gave Jake a wry smile. “You come with high regard. And I need someone who can give me unfiltered counsel.”

  “I don’t hold much back,” Jake said.

  “I saw that on the pier. My men can be overly protective. But I need more than security types. I believe you can build a team to extract my nephew from these terrorist.”

  “Along with the fourteen others,” Jake reminded him.

  “Of course.”

  Glancing again at the priest, Jake turned his attention back toward Gomez. “This has to be the end of the line for Father Murici.”

  “No, no, no,” the priest said. “I must go with you.”

  “This is gonna get dangerous,” Jake explained.

  “But I’ve got God on my side.”

  “And our enemy thinks they have Allah on their side.”

  “There is only one God,” Father Murici said.

  Gomez smiled and said, “The father is right. But he is why we have come together in the first place. The relief ship and the organization my nephew worked for is affiliated with the Catholic Church. Father Murici is the Vatican liaison between that organization and the church.”