This is Far Enough

This Is Far Enough

A novel by Tom Scott.

Book Two in the Ben Stafford Series.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2019 by Tom Scott

ISBN 978-1-79453-781-5

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition, October 2019

For comments and news, go to www.BenjaminStafford.blogspot.com

Cover Helicopter picture attribution; Italian Army Aviation CH-47F transport helicopter. http://www.esercito.difesa.it/comunicazione/Pagine/capo-di-SME-180524.aspx

This work was created by the Italian Army and is from http://www.esercito.difesa.it which does not endorse the author or this work of fiction.

The picture has not been changed from the original submitted to Wikipedia Commons.

All Bible verses are from the King James version.

Other Books by Tom Scott;

Emperor of the World

The Way I See Things

(authored under the name of Thomas W Scott Sr.)

Crime and Punishment-Westernized Edition

(By Dostoyevsky. Edited by Tom Scott)

Dedication

To my Father, Clarence, and my brother Leroy. Who, by example, taught me all I needed to know about being a man.

Acknowledgments

Shannon Peck, for insights on fingerprinting.

Richard Bartlett, for his corrections, suggestions, and insightful observations.

Robert Clark, for his friendship these past 40+ years, and his corrections.

John Hampton, for his friendship and frequent encouragement.

Introductory Review

Excerpts from Book 1; Emperor of The World.

Homeland Security Investigations/ICE Special Agent Benjamin Stafford notices a dramatic drop in cocaine seizures along the Mexico-U.S. border.

Stafford re-read the reports he was working on, recalculating the numbers. Maybe there was a simple math mistake, he thought. It was a computerized report. The decimals were all in the correct places and the units of measure were all correct. He needed more information. He decided to call a friend in El Paso who might provide some insight.

He called the El Paso ICE office phone number from memory. ICE Special Agent James Dupree answered and Stafford listened to the required DHS phone greeting. Stafford let him recite the entire thing.

Jimmy boy, how’s it going?

Dupree recognized Stafford’s voice immediately. Hey Ben, what’s cooking? Why did you let me recite the whole greeting?

I just wanted to hear your voice again. I need to pick your brain, Jimmy. Have you got a minute?

Sure buddy, what’s on your mind?

About 12,000 kilos of missing cocaine.

Stafford’s office grew quiet. Every ear in the office was straining to hear what he was going to say next. There was silence on the phone line as well. Stafford wondered if Dupree had heard him.

Jimmy? Did you hear me?

How did you find out about that, Ben?

A retired American Army General, Andrew Jackson Miner, turns against his country and conspires with a Mexican drug smuggler named Claudio Roja.

The gun sounded like a loud clap. The man’s face disappeared and he dropped to the ground, as a mixture of bloody mist, gun-smoke, and dust drifted away. There was no need for a second shot. In the limousine, Roja and Miner did not hear the shotgun blast. They were already far away, heading to Roja’s ranch.

You know, General, I find it difficult to understand you. You spent 35 years in the Army of the United States. You took an oath, did you not, to defend the United States from all enemies?

Yes, I did. Every American soldier swears to support and defend the Constitution. Why does that make me hard to understand?

One could hardly believe that directing a drug and gun smuggling organization would follow that oath. Some might consider you unpatriotic. What made you change your mind about defending your country, General?

I haven’t changed my mind about defending America; I’ve only changed my methods. The oath of office says I will defend the constitution from all enemies… foreign and domestic. The United States has been taken over by politicians and judges who don’t believe what the Constitution says. They are the domestic enemies I swore to defend America from. They think the constitution is made of clay, and they twist its meaning to suit their political and social agendas. They think the people are too stupid to know when they’re being lied to and used. All that is about to change, Señor Roja. I can say no more than that.

General Miner’s group of seditious conspirators, known as the Gadsden Council, begins the wholesale murder of American citizens.

The Gadsden Council liked to conference call at least once a week. The phone meetings were chaired by the group’s founder, Major General Andrew Jackson Miner, U. S. Army, Retired. At today’s meeting, the members learned their covert plan, code-named Operation Plow, had begun.

Years of planning and positioning people was beginning to pay off. This week’s numbers were impressive; 1153 dead in Pennsylvania and Maryland alone. The general public, health departments, and law enforcement authorities were unaware of what was causing the deaths.

The meeting’s participants did not know the identities of the other group members. They had been warned not to try and find out. Miner knew everyone’s identities because he recruited them, one by one. The recruiting took five years, but he had to be sure they could be trusted with America’s future.

It had been six years since the death of General Miner’s wife, and three years since the death of his only son; an infantry Captain. His son was killed by an Iraqi soldier in training. The death of his son began Miner’s downward spiral. America was in trouble. The trouble was caused by gutless politicians. Miner planned to save America, by getting rid of all who were unworthy to be Americans.

Everyone in the council was willing to give their life for America. They were also willing to risk their fortunes for their country’s sake. Secrecy helped protect them and all they had acquired during their many years of faithful service. Death was still a possibility, but instead of death at the hands of America’s enemies, death might be the sentence of a Federal court for the treason and murder they were committing.

Homeland Security Investigations Agent Peter Nelson, a co-worker of Ben Stafford, and in the employ of General Miner, reports that a fellow agent is a security risk to the Council’s plans, and may have unwittingly given information to Stafford.

This is Nelson, HSI Agent in D.C. I need to speak to Bravo Two.

Stand by. There was a short wait.

Yes? A different voice said.

Is this Bravo Two?

Yes. Go ahead with your message.

Sir, El Paso ICE Agent Dupree just told me about an inquiry from hostile HSI headquarters personnel concerning missing cocaine. Agent Dupree panicked when he was asked a routine question, and may have made himself the target of an investigation. There was silence from the other end of the line, so Nelson continued, uncomfortably.

I believe I have the situation contained here, but Agent Dupree is in a panic. He gave an explanation that can be easily disproved. I believe he is a threat to our group operation. In my opinion, he must be dealt with, sir.

I see. Thank you for sharing your concern, Agent Nelson. Continue monitoring the situation at your location, and advise me of any change. We will handle Dupree.

Yes, sir. I will continue to monitor and advise.

Well done, Agent Nelson. The connection went dead.

Nelson closed his phone and started back to his desk. He knew that Stafford was the man to watch. Maybe Stafford would have to be dealt with, too. Taking care of Stafford, if he got too smart, might earn Nelson some good will from the people at the top, whoever they were. He figured Stafford might be onto something about the reduced cocaine seizures. Nelson knew there was a connection, but did not know what it was. He smiled as he walked back inside. He thought about what it would feel like to watch the life leaving Stafford’s body.

Agent Dupree is murdered.

The FBI becomes aware of General Miner’s illegal activities, and informs a Federal task force during a meeting at U. S. Customs and Border Protection headquarters.

From our intercepts of some of his communications, which were not encrypted, we identified a nationwide network of several dozen active and retired military officers and enlisted men, federal agents, and civilians, who are actively involved in a conspiracy to murder hundreds, if not thousands, of United States citizens.

We know the killings have started, because we’ve intercepted communications between the members discussing the number of deaths. There are no reported incidents of mass murder anywhere in the United States or Canada. We are not sure how these killings are being carried out. Nor are we sure what the group’s ultimate goal is, or even if there is a goal. It did not happen very often, but Ben Stafford was speechless.

After the task force briefing, Ben Stafford is chosen to head the investigation into Agent Dupree’s murder. Stafford selects his friend, Agent Frank Hernandez, to assist in the investigation.

Stafford called Hernandez’ government cellphone as he walked to the Metro.

ICE..., Agent Hernandez.

Frank, this is Ben. I know this is short notice, but the Customs Commissioner has given me a very important assignment.

Oh yeah? Are you going away? Hernandez said.

Yep..., back to El Paso awhile. He told me I could have the assistance of anyone I wanted to get the job done, and I want you.

Whoa..., slow down a minute. Me? Gomez isn’t your boss..., and what kind of assignment did he give you?

That’s all I can say for now, but you should pack a bag and be ready to go on official travel for let’s say… two weeks... starting tomorrow. Tell your boss to check with the Commissioner’s office, and mention my name.

What if I don’t want to go?

Trust me on this, Frank, you can name your next assignment if all goes well.

And if it doesn’t go well?

Gotta go now, buddy. You’re starting to break up. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.

That’s great. With friends like you, I don’t need enemies, huh?

You’re still breaking up. You’ll be thanking me later, dude. Bye. Stafford shut his phone.

Someone tries to kill Stafford.

…. he carefully took several steps to his left, away from the door, and closer to the kitchen door. He was in what would have been the dining room of the apartment, if he had a dining table.

The ambient light coming in from the windows and door provided some light. It was not difficult to see. Stafford heard footsteps in the kitchen. Someone was coming out. He was still pointing his SIG at the doorway. His point of aim was chest high and a little to the right. He already had a lead on whoever was going to walk through the door.

A man stepped from the kitchen into the dining room. Stafford took a mental snapshot; dark suit coat, dark pants, short gray hair, fair complexion, average height and weight.

…. His arm was coming up fast in Stafford’s direction. He was looking directly at Stafford. His expression made it clear that he had been taken off guard.

Stafford knew they were both going to shoot.

Stafford’s reaction was automatic. He had been mentally preparing himself for different shooting scenarios for most of his adult life. He mentally practiced when to shoot, when and where to take cover, and when to retreat.

While in El Paso investigating Agent Dupree’s murder, Agent Hernandez is kidnapped by Claudio Roja, who is supplying General Miner with shipments of cocaine in exchange for military weapons.

The cloth hood was thick and heavy, and he was barely getting enough air. His hands were cuffed behind him with his own handcuffs. He was momentarily sorry he had high quality cuffs, but knew with sufficient time he could get them off if he wanted to. He dismissed the idea. He had his family’s safety to consider.

For a moment, after the man at the hotel had showed him the picture of his wife and daughter, he had thought about killing the man where he stood. The animal part of him had almost taken over, but the intelligent part of him had won out, and so here he was.

He did not know the who, or why, of his kidnapping, but he did know something about the what and where. He was in a green Ford van. He had seen the van in the parking lot of the hotel before he was hooded. They were heading south. He knew it was south because he could feel the heat from the sun shining on the right side of the van he was leaning against, and it was afternoon. He tried to remember the small things he thought might be important later, if there was a later.

Stafford is coerced into going to Mexico to meet Roja, where he convinces Roja to release Hernandez and provide evidence against General Miner.

You’re welcome. But I see you don’t believe me. Please accept this gift as a token of my trust and good will, Stafford said smiling.

He jumped to his feet, and drew the knife he had hidden inside his belt….

After General Miner’s plans are revealed, he creates a delaying action by leaving a false trail, which leads investigators to a farm in rural Maryland. The farm is being used by Islamic terrorists as a base of operations. As Stafford and Hernandez arrive by helicopter to execute a search warrant, a battle erupts in which many police officers and terrorists are killed.

Stafford quickly moved to his left about 10 steps and as he moved further along the driveway. He started positioning a man every five paces. He showed each man where he wanted him to be, in the brush facing the road. After he had positioned everyone, he came back and took a spot in the middle of them. They were all in place, waiting and breathing heavily.

They did not have to wait long. Stafford heard heavy footfalls, and then saw them. A single column of a dozen armed men, running down the road toward his position. Almost all were carrying AK-47 assault rifles. They were timing their attack to kill the people who would be at the site of the bombing, trying to help the wounded and dying. Stafford knew the tactic too well. The Taliban, al Qaida, and others, had used it many times in Iraq and Afghanistan.

The jogging men were spreading out in front of Stafford’s position. There would be no warning given to these men. They had already made their intentions perfectly clear. To order them to drop their weapons would put Stafford and the other men’s lives in danger.

Stafford shouldered his weapon…

General Miner tries to escape to a safe area away from Washington, but is confronted at a remote airfield by Ben Stafford, Frank Hernandez and FBI agent Person.

Stafford had already entered the plane in a crouch. His pistol was in his right hand, and he was ready to meet any threat. Miner jumped out of his seat and turned back toward the doorway. He saw Stafford’s gun pointing at him and froze. They were only five feet apart. Stafford was baring his teeth, ready for a fight. Miner stood perfectly still, waiting for what was going to happen next. Stafford’s heart pounded in his chest. Blood rushed to his muscles. He breathed slowly and carefully, waiting for Miner to make a move. Miner stood still.

For capturing General Miner, Stafford is rewarded with a promotion and given a Supervisory Agent’s position working overseas in Gothenburg, Sweden.

Stafford’s departure to Sweden is delayed while federal prosecutors prepare the case against General Miner, and determine whether Stafford’s testimony will be needed at trial.

Chapter 1

Gorodets, Russia. 300 miles east of Moscow.

Monday morning, local time.

T

he bus was always late. Not once, in the three months since Valentin Bazhanov had been working at the Gorodets shipyard, had the morning bus been on time. He resigned himself to the fact he was going to be late for work again. He considered hitchhiking, but he was too tired to bother. It was already too late to try to walk to the streetcar stop. He put his hands in his pants pockets and looked at the ground. His feet still hurt from standing all day yesterday. There was nothing to do but wait a little longer, and maybe buy a new pair of boots.

Valentin lived with his older sister Viktoriya, in an area about 10 kilometers south of the shipyard, in Gorodets, Russia. He had a fair relationship with his sister, but they were getting on each other’s nerves. He would have rather lived with his brother, but he was a ship’s captain off the coast of Africa somewhere, and he lived on the ship. He sighed at the thought of his big brother. He missed him.

He saved some of his money, in hopes of one day being able to find and rent an apartment of his own, closer to the shipyard. However, most of his earnings passed through his fingers like water. He was a relatively healthy 36-year-old single man, and so he naturally spent most of his money, free time, and effort drinking and chasing women. He frequently caught one and was quickly worse off than before the chase began. As his brother Yuri told him many times, dealing with women was not one of his strong points.

Valentin made a habit of getting involved with shallow women who only stayed with him until the excitement died down and his money ran out. Broken romantic relationships were the main reason he went from job to job and city to city. He was leaving his disappointments behind, and hunting for new thrills on fresh ground.

After months of working, Valentin was almost broke. He was tired of never having enough money. He was tired of being hung over. He was tired of not having a steady girlfriend. He wanted a real relationship with a good woman. He wanted to do meaningful work, and be a positive influence. It was not too late to change, but he had to face the truth about himself first, and that would never happen.

He ambled over to the edge of the road, where the crumbling asphalt turned to rocks, dirt, and ruts. He placed his behind on top of a large, red, traffic bollard. He watched the cars driving past with a touch of jealousy.

He heard other waiting people talking and milling around behind him, and he glanced at them when someone said something profane or interesting. Mainly, they complained about the work and the lateness of the bus, but not in an angry way. Over the years, they had grown used to bad bosses and waiting. The younger people in the crowd inserted earbuds into their heads and listened to whatever music pleased them.

Valentin crossed his arms and waited.

********

Today was Ayndi’s Zakayov’s last day on earth. He knew it. Today he would see paradise. He was confident the holy writings were Allah’s word, sent through his prophet, may peace be upon him. He was striking a blow against Allah’s enemies.

One of the leaders of his group chose the bus he was to attack. It was a bus like any other; transporting people going about their lives. The goal was to strike fear in the hearts of those who were enemies of Allah, the unbelievers, the Christians and Jews, who would see there was nowhere they were safe.

The religious leaders at his underground mosque taught Ayndi from the verses of the holy Quran. He memorized many of the verses;

the Jews say, Ezra is God's son, while the Christians say, The Christ is God's son. Such are the sayings which they utter with their mouths, following in spirit assertions made in earlier times by people who denied the truth! May God destroy them! How perverted are their minds!

So today, Ayndi would be an instrument of Allah’s will on earth, as he always wanted to be. He would destroy Allah’s enemies, and if innocents were killed as well, then Allah would be merciful and they would go to heaven, too.

Yet, even with his course set, Ayndi felt troubled. One week ago, while he was out getting groceries, something very strange happened. As he was leaving the store with his purchases, a small, old woman stopped in front of him on the sidewalk outside the store; she frowned, pointed her crooked finger at his face and said YOU!

Ayndi did not speak or move.

God has spoken, she continued. He will pour out his Spirit on all flesh. Your sons and daughters shall prophesy, and your old men shall dream dreams, and your young men shall see visions… YOU! Then she walked around him. He could not move.

After a moment, he could move, and went looking for the old woman, but she was gone.

Ever since that day, he had not gotten a full night’s sleep. Each night, he would toss and turn, and after finally falling asleep, would awaken three hours later and have visons. He saw his father and grandfather standing together at the foot of his bed. They held their hands out at him, as if they were trying to push him down. They were shaking their heads left and right no. He heard crying, and saw his mother sitting on the floor, with tears streaming down her face. When he reached for them, they disappeared like smoke. Then he would cry, rock back and forth and hold himself. The visions were so real he could smell the tobacco smoke his father always had about him. He did not understand what was happening to him, but he remembered the old woman’s words; …young men shall see visions.

These visions must be a sign from Allah. I must talk to my teachers.

And so, Ayndi talked to his teachers. They too were troubled and confused, for they too were having visions and dreams. The teachers consulted with others in authority, and searched the Quran until they found solace in the verses they found.

And when everything will have been decided, Satan will say: Behold, God promised you something that was bound to come true! I, too, held out all manner of promises to you but I deceived you. Yet I had no power at all over you: I but called you and you responded unto me. Hence, blame not me, but blame yourselves. It is not for me to respond to your cries, nor for you to respond to mine: for, behold, I have always refused to admit that there was any truth in your erstwhile belief that I had a share in God’s divinity. Verily, for all evildoers there is grievous suffering in store.

Even so, the visions continued for Ayndi and the teachers at the mosque, but Ayndi’s mission was reconfirmed.

After one last vision-filled night, he got up, prepared himself with prayer, dressed, and went to the bus stop.

********

The bus finally arrived, and Valentin stood up. As he and the others at the stop boarded, opinions were expressed to the driver about his tardiness. The driver was apathetic but offered a mumbled apology anyway. The riders paid their fares, found their usual seats, and settled down for the 30-minute ride to the shipyard.

Valentin had a good boss; he would understand about the bus being late, but his job was not very challenging. He could have stayed in the naval infantry if he wanted more of a challenge, but after losing so many friends in Chechnya during the war, he knew he could not stay in the navy. But his navy training and experience got him his job. His infantry unit had tanks and armored personnel carriers, and he repaired their engines when they quit working. His superiors felt he could work on ships diesel engines as well, but under the direction of more experienced engineers.

Valentin knew many of the people on the bus by sight, and some by name as he saw them daily at the bus stop. But there was one young man at the stop he had not seen before. He thought the man was probably a new employee, or might be getting off somewhere before the shipyard gate. He remembered seeing the man nervously chewing his fingernails on one hand, while keeping his other hand in his heavy coat pocket. The heavy coat seemed unusual because it was not very cold outside.

Where was the new guy now?

He turned around in his seat near the front of the bus and scanned the faces of the other passengers. He saw the man sitting by himself near the middle of the bus on the left aisle seat. There was an empty seat next to him. Considering the recent suicide bombing at a train station in a nearby city, he decided he should have a talk with the man to satisfy his curiosity.

Maybe I should have been a police officer.

He got up and went to where the young stranger sat, thinking about what he was going to say when he got there.

Lord, protect me.

Valentin did not believe God existed, but figured it would not hurt to pray in case he was wrong. He knew death was a one-way street. No one could really be sure about God until one was dead, which might be soon.

Valentin smiled at Ayndi when their eyes met, but the stranger looked away and stared out the window. Valentin stood in the aisle, steadying himself with his hands on the metal bars above the seatbacks.

Good morning. Do you mind if I sit and talk with you? Ayndi looked up at Valentin, and then out the window again. He did not answer. He had both hands in his coat pockets as if he was cold, but Valentin could see his face was shiny with perspiration and lacked color.

Uh-oh. Bad signs.

Valentin leaned closer and spoke louder this time.

I said…, do you mind if I sit and talk with you? The stranger looked at Valentin again, only this time with a mix of hate and fear. His words came loud and sharp.

"

What are you…? a whore looking for a date? Get away from me you Godless pig!

"

That was all the provocation Valentin needed. He smiled at the young man and then pressed the bus’s stop button. As the bus stopped, the bi-fold exit door across from Valentin opened. Using both hands, Valentin grabbed the stranger by his coat and yanked him to his feet. He felt something hard and thick under the man’s heavy coat. It felt like books under his jacket. Ayndi struggled to be released.

A suicide vest? God help me!

There was only one thing Valentin could think to do, and he did it. He used all his strength and flung Ayndi out the open bus door, yelling as he did so, in anger, and in fear of holding death in his hands.

Valentin’s quick action took Ayndi completely by surprise. When Valentin yanked him to his feet, he instinctively attempted to fend him off with his hands. He let go of the trigger and began to fumble in his pocket to find it again.

Ayndi landed on his back next to the bus. He found the trigger and squeezed. The plastic explosives he had carefully strapped around his torso detonated. The nails, nuts, and bolts, that were arranged to inflict maximum injuries to the bus passengers, instead went into the ground and sky, along with most of Ayndi’s flesh, bone, and blood. Ayndi’s body was destroyed, but his soul lived on.

Wait. Where am I? What is this place?

The explosion’s shockwave pushed the side of the bus inward three feet and peeled the roof off like aluminum foil. Houses within 50 meters lost window glass and roof shingles. Bits and pieces of Ayndi flew in all directions, including a piece of his thighbone, which pierced Valentin’s heart, stopping it. Even if Valentin had not been hit in the heart, the shockwave would have killed him. Valentin’s body died, but his soul lived on.

I’m glad I prayed.

Valentin’s quick action saved lives. Many were killed, but because of him, other people on the bus would live, forever changed by the explosion. From this day on, they would remember the men on the bus; one trying to kill them, the other trying to save them.

Ayndi and Valentin’s actions during their last moments on earth would not prevent divine judgment from the Son of Man.

Chapter 2

Reagan Building.

Washington D.C.

Monday afternoon, local time.

C

ustoms and Border Protection Commissioner Eduardo Gomez told Stafford he would definitely be testifying at General Miner’s trial. Stafford figured the trial would be over quickly, followed by a death sentence for Miner. Stafford was not looking forward to having cameras and microphones shoved in his face like he was a Hollywood celebrity.

Retired Army Major General Andrew Jackson Miner was the alleged mastermind behind the conspiracy to overthrow the government of the United States. Alleged was a term lawyers advise clients to use so an accused person doesn’t sue them if they were later acquitted. As far as Stafford was concerned, they could weld Miner’s cell door shut today and throw food to him through the bars for the rest of his life.

Miner’s actions caused the deaths of over 200,000 people. The death count continued to climb as federal, state, and local investigators discovered ever more poisoned cocaine-related deaths from almost every jurisdiction in the country.

Canada was reporting thousands of deaths as well. The poisoned cocaine was mainly smuggled into Canada from the United States. Canadian politicians were trying to get as much political mileage as possible out of the American connection. They were bashing American leaders for lax drug enforcement at the Mexican border and elsewhere. To Canadian politicians, it was one more problem Canada had to deal with due to poor policy decisions made by American authorities. Canada, and the rest of the world, should have been used to that by now.

It could have been worse. If it had not been for Ben Stafford, thousands more people would certainly be dead, and General Miner might have succeeded in overthrowing the government.

As the increasing number of arrests of co-conspirators became public knowledge, reporters began asking questions about who had uncovered the plot. Naturally, they wanted to interview whoever that person was. So far, Stafford’s name was not in the press releases, but eventually someone was going to leak his name.

Some agency heads wanted to make a poster boy out of Stafford. It would be good publicity for the Department of Homeland Security specifically, and for the Federal government in general. Stafford would be the quintessential competent American law enforcement agent. He would be a draw for recruiting more agents, even pulling agents from other government agencies. Stafford just wanted to be left alone.

Miner plead not guilty at his first appearance in court. According to the newspapers and the Justice Department, the trial was going to be fast-tracked. Jury selection had already begun.

The jurors for Miner’s trial were being selected with some difficulty. Finding enough people who had not heard about the conspiracy, kidnappings, and drug deaths was a problem. That was only part of the much larger problem, which was the number of potential jurors who were so apathetic about the world around them they could not name the mayor of their city. Some could not name the president. The clueless, as a group, were acceptable to most defense lawyers. Trial by a jury of one’s peers indeed.

Everyone, including Miner’s defense attorney, knew Miner was guilty. However, this was the United States of America, where, at least in theory, defendants got a fair trial. Of course, the amount of fairness one got was usually proportional to the amount of money one had to hire a top-notch defense attorney. If there was going to be a lot of publicity, as there certainly would be in the Miner case, a defendant could get one of the best lawyers in the country for next to nothing. National publicity was as good as, and sometimes better than, money.

The amount of evidence against Miner and the other members of the council was staggering. There were over 150 people on the U.S. Attorney’s witness list. Many of them were men from Miner’s inner circle, who were busy cutting deals to lessen their sentences.

General Miner’s defense attorney immediately asked for a delay to study the witness list and gather his own witnesses. The judge approved his request. General Miner’s trial was scheduled to begin in six weeks, on a Tuesday. Appropriately enough, Tuesday was named after the Germanic god of war; an ironic and trivial fact lost to nearly everyone.

Some of Miner’s co-conspirators were being tried in various cities around the country. Many were pleading guilty. Amazingly, a couple of defendants managed to commit suicide before they could be arraigned, and more amazingly, some posted bail and fled the country.

The body of one of the bail jumpers was found at a trash dump outside Stafford’s old hometown of Dothan, Alabama. He had been beaten to death. Stafford thought he might ask his friend Rennie about that someday. Rennie lived in Dothan and had lost his daughter to the poisoned cocaine Miner’s group distributed.

Senator George Bacster, who initially was part of the conspiracy but had revealed the plot to the president, resigned his senate seat. He plead guilty to a lesser charge the Department of Justice pulled out of a hat, and received a 10-year suspended sentence. He returned to his home state and went into hiding.

All Stafford could do now was wait for official word about his possible testimony. He did most of his waiting in the ICE office at the Reagan building, going through his official emails. He had not been allowed to do any actual work since he captured Miner. After a flurry of upper-management briefings, statements for the press, and official emails to him from Commissioner Gomez, the U.S. Attorney’s office emailed and then called to tell him they would not be needing him until much later in the proceedings. Despite that assurance, Stafford’s official responsibilities were spread to the other agents around the ICE office of Homeland Security Investigations.

Stafford sighed and stared blankly at his computer screen. He knew it was time for another transfer. Even though he had not worked in Washington D.C. long, but he was sick and tired of it. He wanted out.

He put his elbows on the desk, leaned forward and propped his chin on his fists. He thought about living in Sweden. He heard stories about beautiful, free-spirited, tall, blonde, Swedish women. He read that Middle Eastern immigrants were experiencing severe culture shock in Sweden, and were causing some culture shock of their own. For example, in south Sweden, there had been several grenade attacks, and the murder rate was going up.

When Stafford told his father he was transferring to Sweden, Dan Stafford remarked, That’s where Ann Margret is from. His dad had seen her in an Elvis Presley movie a long time ago and never forgot her. He assured his son she was gorgeous, she was Swedish, and there were a lot more where she came from. Ben’s daydreaming was interrupted.

Hey, Ben..., penny for your thoughts, Beth said from behind him.

Hey, Beth..., a penny would just about cover them. Stafford did not turn around. He could see her reflection on his computer monitor.

Beth St. James rested her hand on his shoulder as she looked back at Stafford’s face reflected in the monitor. She pulled on his shoulder, and he turned around. Her chest was at his eye level. Feeling uncomfortable with the view, he stood up.

Thinking about getting out of here for a while? she asked.

Yeah. Want to go to lunch? he said, stretching.

Not lunch... dinner. She gave him a slight smile. He jumped at her suggestion.

How about tonight, then? Eight o’clock?

Make it seven... I’ve got to get to bed early.

It’s our second date then..., with real tablecloths and everything, Stafford said.

"That’ll be nice. Hey, what do you mean second date?" She looked annoyed.

The first one was the White House lunch, remember? he smiled.

The White House lunch doesn’t count. Pick me up at seven. She was smiling, but he still thought she was annoyed.

I’ll be there. She put her hand on his upper arm and let it slide all the way down to his hand. She squeezed his hand and let go. She was no longer looking annoyed.

You know we could have had dinner a dozen times by now if you hadn’t been on four months temporary assignment to Thailand, he smirked.

It was Singapore, she said quickly. She crossed her arms over her chest. "And it wasn’t my idea, although I wish I had thought of it. You know I’m part of the container security initiative, and we have to make sure each country program is being run properly."

It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it. So, what have those CSI teams found so far…, besides smuggled cigarettes? He was smiling. Beth was not.

That’s what I thought, he said. Beth unfolded her arms and put her hands on her hips. She looked down and shook her head.

We’ll continue this discussion later. She looked back up. Since you think so little of it, do you still want to be part of the program? As she waited for his answer, her eyebrows rose in anticipation.

Stafford did not answer right away. He was thinking. Beth did not talk much about the CSI program. He thought going to a foreign country to look at cargo documents was a fool’s errand, as well as a colossal waste of taxpayer’s money. However, Stafford was not one to look a gift-horse in the mouth. If Uncle Sugar wanted to give him a multi-year, rent-free assignment to a foreign country most Americans only went to on vacation, he was all for it.

Whatever’s good for the service, ma’am, he said cheerfully.

Well, Benny, that’s good to hear.

Stafford’s smile disappeared, but Beth did not notice. Stafford’s biological father called him Benny. When Stafford was a boy, he accidentally shot and killed his father while they were hunting. He had not told Beth about it yet.

By the way, she continued, next week, unless you change your mind, you’ll officially be assigned to the Container Security section. Your days of sitting around twiddling your thumbs will be over.

Really? Glad to hear that! he said.

So, I’ll see you later, hero.

Stafford hesitated, and then leaned in close to say something to her. She leaned in as well, turning her head so he could whisper in her ear.

Please don’t call me a hero…, because I’m not, he said. And please don’t call me Benny, either. Ben will be fine. She leaned back to look him in the face. She could see he was serious, but not angry. She nodded agreement.

So, I’ll see you later. She winked and walked out of his office.

The agents nearby turned their heads back to their work as Stafford looked to see if they had been watching. Of course, they had.

Voyeurs.

He sat down, looked at his watch, and then the computer screen. Neither had changed much. He sighed one more time.

Just a little longer.

Chapter 3

U. S. Navy Support Base, Gaeta, Italy.

Monday evening, local time.

S

even time zones east of Washington DC, on the west coast of Italy, sat Lieutenant Foster Saiid. The young U.S. Navy officer was spending a lot of time on this side of the world. The Navy loved the fact he could speak Arabic and Russian. He often used his language skills to translate recorded radio transmissions. Reading and writing Arabic was still a work in progress, but he was learning fast.

Foster Saiid was born in Detroit, Michigan to a first-generation immigrant family from Egypt. Saiid’s parents were university-educated medical professionals and were fluent in English. Because of their positions, the family was able to save enough money to move from Egypt to a more stable part of the world.

His parents did not name him Foster to honor anyone. They named him for the word, meaning ‘to strengthen’. His parents did a good job raising him. He was living up to his name.

His family was Coptic Christian, and had been for more than a thousand years. When Foster was old enough to understand, his father explained to him why their family moved to America. The Saiids were tired of living in fear. Christianity in Egypt was generally tolerated, until Anwar Sadat came to power. To gain political favor and power, Sadat tried to align himself with the Muslim Brotherhood, which Gamal Nasser, Sadat’s predecessor, had almost destroyed. After Nasser’s death, when more extreme elements of the Brotherhood resurfaced and gained power, attacks on Christians became commonplace.

During a particularly