Erec Stebbins
The Ragnarök Conspiracy
For Anna, Maria and Christina
EPIGRAPH
In today's wars, there are no morals. We do not have to differentiate between military or civilian. As far as we are concerned, they are all targets. If inciting people to do that is terrorism, and if killing those who kill our sons is terrorism, then let history be witness that we are terrorists.
Choose your enemy with wisdom, for him do you become.
PART ONE
TARGETS OF VENGEANCE
1
Near the back of a seedy bar in the Bronx, in one of the deeper recesses and darkest corners, FBI agent John Savas hunched over a shot glass, a caramel-colored liquid halfway to the rim. His slumped posture and a deep-blue Mediterranean fisherman's cap obscured most of his features. Dark hair flecked with gray spilled out from under his cap and partially melded with the rough layer of stubble on his face.
The smoke in the bar created a dense fog, infiltrating every open space, staining curtains and nearly obscuring the obligatory “No Smoking” sign. Here in a rundown basement, New York City health regulations held no concern for those seated around the jazz band.
A second group of patrons displayed no interest in the music. Huddled in dark corners, their faces turned inward and away from the room, pairs of often foul-looking men spoke of matters suited to the obscurity of the location.
Savas clenched his jaw. He'd been waiting too long, and this was a dangerous game. His recent injuries tore at his concentration, and fatigue began to set in. He should not be here; he knew that. His choices had not pleased the physicians. But they don't understand.
He stared at the whiskey in front of him. Now only a prop. Once poison and self-medication. Beginning on a rain-drenched night at the Church of the Holy Trinity in 2001, he had nearly drowned in a downward spiral, skipping work, drinking himself into numbness each night. He had known it was wrong, but he couldn't find his way out. Soon he had lost more than just his job. Or his home. Or his wife. After his son's death, he had lost himself.
He hadn't touched a drop now for nearly a decade. Not since the day he'd made that life-changing trip to the FBI. Thank God for friends in high places who had believed in him. Friends who had connected him to a new and experimental division of the FBI seeking unusually motivated recruits. Friends who had brought his file to the attention of Larry Kanter, the new branch chief, a man determined to rewrite the rules of antiterrorism, beginning with unorthodox methods and staff. Kanter had seen something in Savas, his past record of achievement at NYPD and the spark in his eyes at the mention of antiterrorism. As he would do with many others, Kanter had taken a chance on John Savas, and he had been amply rewarded. Savas had been granted a new lease on life. Beyond that. He had been given a mission.
At the sound of a moaning door hinge, Savas returned sharply to the present. He glanced up discreetly, his slovenly posture belying his inner intensity.
A large man stepped inside, his appearance clashing sharply with the interior of the bar. The battered trench coat poorly concealed his expensive tailored clothes. His skin was a sandy brown, his features faintly Arabic but obscured by the fat deposited over many years of high living. His stance indicated a man of power, now unsure of his footing. As the door closed behind him, two hulking bodyguards remained posted outside. The man nodded, almost imperceptibly, toward a lone drinker near the door, a carbon copy of the two guards outside. The man had obviously sent in a scout and had brought more muscle with him.
Savas swiftly returned his gaze to his drink and smiled to himself. His contact was anxious; frightened men were far easier to manipulate. Now the trap will be set.
The Arab walked slowly toward Savas at the back of the room. His eyes darted in several directions, and he approached the booth like a hunted animal. He slid into the opposite seat, placing his hands on the table. “This place is not safe.”
Savas looked up from his whiskey and nodded, his olive skin blending subtly into the stained wood behind him. He scratched the three-day growth of beard on his face, a useful contribution to the role-playing game he undertook with his criminal contacts. Along with his dress and body language, it had become part of the dangerous act often required to infiltrate terrorist networks that were all too real and growing in America. His friend across the table was as big a fish as Savas had ever hooked.
“What place is safe?” he replied, a false Greek accent, modeled on his immigrant grandfather's, partially garbling the words. He spread out his hands on the table. “You want to be safe, sell smartphones. You want to bring in your shipments, talk to me.”
The Arab once again glanced around the room.
He is very frightened.
“Dimitri,” began the Arab, “I have my connections. We must know who we deal with. Your name doesn't show up on any shipping records. Your prints don't match anything in any database. You don't seem to exist.”
Savas mulled this turn of events. His contact was indeed becoming paranoid. He thanked his own paranoia that forced him to insist on the latex false-skin worn over his fingertips. He only hoped these guys didn't have access to DNA analysis. “Ambassador Hamid,” he began with his most crooked smile, “I have been a disservice?”
The ambassador rumbled deeply over the bar sounds. “No. But before we go further, we need to know more.”
Savas shook his head slowly. He hoped his cover had not been blown. He felt the bulge from his pistol and wondered how he could survive a firefight if the man turned his goons on him. “If you know more, it's not so good for me, katalaves?” He held up his hands. “No one knows these hands, Ambassador. My business is better with shadows. Not you, not the Americans, no one knows Dimitris.”
“Is that your real name?”
Savas only smiled. “I have boats. Good boats, also shadows. Never traced. We pay good money so they stay shadows. If you change your mind, then find other boats.” He paused dramatically. “If you can.”
The ambassador looked distinctly uncomfortable. Savas did not envy the man and the two-faced game he played at the UN. His position gave him tremendous opportunities to exploit weaknesses in US security. But he risked much to play the role of a terrorist pawn, whatever they paid him. Savas didn't fool himself that Ambassador Hamid was any kind of idealist. He was simply the greedy scum that enabled the monsters.
The ambassador whispered tensely, “We would have been less uncertain if you hadn't disappeared for a month!”
Savas had anticipated this. His injuries from the Indian Point insanity had pulled him off the street. Hamid had asked for meetings he could not honor. Dimitris the smuggler had simply disappeared. “It was, as the Americans say, too hot, Ambassador. Dimitris was in danger.”
The look of fear in the ambassador's eyes was unmistakable, and the depth of it shocked Savas. “Danger? From where? Who knows about you? Can they connect you to me?”
The fake Greek captain waved his hand up and down toward the ambassador. “No danger, no discovery. After those bombs at Indian Point, the FBI was very busy. Nuclear power plants make them very nervous, no? Everyone was quiet.”