White Jade (The PROJECT) (39 page)

Author's Notes
and Acknowle
d
gments

I did a lot of research for White Jade. The comments about
modern
weapons, Chinese arms and capabilities, the White House, etc. etc. are all as accurate as I can make them. If there are mistakes, they're all mine.

The history of the First Emperor is well documented, as is his quest for an elixir of immortality. His tomb at Li Shan has not been excavated. It's a very large building. The floor is said to be made of solid gold, laid out as a map of the Empire, with lakes and rivers of mercury. The ceiling is said to be studded with precious gems and pearls.

Of course, he might not be there.

Recently a large deposit of quality uranium ore was discovered in the Inner Mongolian region of China, vastly increasing China's reserves.

"Connorsville" is based upon a real gold rush town not far from where I live. There is a mine, it is dangerous. The Chinese did dig secret tunnels under Marysville and Sacramento. The
wealth
of the gold rush was often
brought to light by
the hard
sweat
of the Chinese who came to the "Golden Mountain" to build a better life for themselves and their families.

There are many people who helped with ideas and encouragement. My wife, Gayle, who read early drafts and made really good comments
and who has to listen to me, again and again
; Frank Macchi, formerly of the SFPD, who told me about the BART airshaft at the end of the Ferry Building pier and some
cool stuff about
the Chinese Triads in the Bay Area; Greg Skein, former Army Ranger; Glenn Frazier, a Vietnam Vet and neighbor, who ke
eps
asking for the next book.

Two
New York
agents, Emma Sweeney and Matthew Carnicelli, took a lot of their
valuable
time to look at the book and made excellent comments that have helped me
become (I hope) a better writer
.

There are others. Thank you, all of you.

July, 2011

About the Author

Alex Lukeman is a former Marine
and
professional musician. He likes old, fast motorcycles, Barbados rum
, playing guitar
and reading mysteries and thrillers. He lives in Northern California in the foothills of the Sierra Mountains.

You can contact Alex through his web site:

http://www.alexlukeman.org

B
l
og:
http://www.alexlukeman.blogspot.com

Turn the page for a preview of
THE LANCE
,
Book Two
in the series featuring the Project, Nick and Selena.
Book Three, THE SEVENTH PILLAR and Book Four, BLACK HARVEST are also available in print and digital editions. Book Five will be out at the end of 2012.

THE LANCE

CHAPTER ONE

Nicholas Carter looked at Elizabeth Harker and thought if there were any elves in the world, they probably looked like her. She was small boned and slim. She had milk white skin and small ears tucked under raven black hair. She had wide, green eyes. She was dressed in a black pants suit and white blouse with a Mao collar. In two years working for her he'd never seen her wear anything but black and white.

Harker ran the Project, the Presidential Official Joint Exercise in Counter Terrorism. She was Nick's boss. Her boss was the President.

On Harker's desk were a silver pen, a picture of the Twin Towers burning and a manila folder. The pen had belonged to FDR. The picture was a reminder. The folder was likely going to shape his day. Working for Harker meant he never knew if the day might leave him hanging out on the edge and wondering if he could pull himself back in.

He heard Harker say, "Someone's thinking about making trouble in the Middle East." 

"Someone's always thinking about making trouble in the Middle East. What's different now?"

He fumbled in his pocket, found a crumbly antacid tablet and popped it in his mouth. Carter felt the tremor of a headache starting. Harker picked up her silver pen and began tapping it on the polished surface of her desk. Each tap vibrated inside his skull.

"The President is speaking in Jerusalem on Thursday. We have a source who says there's going to be trouble. He wants a face to face meet."

Carter tugged on the mutilated lobe of his left ear
, where a Chinese bullet had taken off the lobe a few months ago. The bandage was off. It had looked better with it on.

It was the same ear that
itched whenever things were about to get dicey. It itched now. A gift or a curse he'd inherited from his Irish Grandmother, along with dreams
he didn't want to have.

"Have you passed this to Langley? What do they say?"

"I
'm
supposed
to back off and leave things up to the 'professionals'." There was an edge to her voice. "Lodge says there's no need for concern."

Wendell Lodge, Acting Director CIA.

"He says he and his Israeli counterparts have everything under control."

"Mossad?"

"And Shin Bet."

"What's Shin Bet?" said Selena.

Selena Connor sat next to Carter on Harker's leather couch. The ceiling lights caught the reddish blond color of her hair and turned her eyes violet. She wore a tan silk outfit and a pale blouse that went with her eyes. She was the first woman Nick had let get close since Megan died. He didn't know where it was going. Or if he wanted it to go anywhere. She was new to the team, which meant she had a lot to learn, which worried the hell out of him.

Selena brushed a stray wisp of hair from her forehead.

Harker said, "Shin Bet is Israel's version of the FBI, on steroids. They handle internal security and counter-terrorism. Mossad is foreign intelligence and ops, like MI6 or CIA."

Carter looked down at his hands and picked at a broken fingernail. "Lodge is a devious bastard and a narcissist."

"Whatever he is, he's not going to brush us off. You're going to Israel. You find something that threatens Rice's security, give it to Shin Bet and the Secret Service. They've
got the manpower, let them handle it. You leave today."

"I always wanted to see Jerusalem. Maybe I'll get a little sightseeing in."

She set the pen down and folded her hands. "
It's not a vacation, Nick.
You're booked into the same hotel as the President
as part of his party
, right outside the Old City.
T
he Israelis
may not
let you keep your weapon. They're sensitive about guns and you're not Secret Service.
"

"Who's the source
over there
?"

"His name is Arshak Arslanian. He has a shop in the Armenian Quarter." She slid the manila folder across her desk. "His photo and info is in there."

Harker turned to Selena. "Selena, you continue with Ronnie this afternoon."

Ronnie was the third member of Nick's team. He was
just
back from visiting his family on the Navajo Reservation in Arizona. He'd been coaching Selena. Physical training, weapons, codes, the tricks of personal survival.
All the things that might give her a chance to make it through the next year.

Harker tapped her pen and looked at Nick. "You'll need a lot of time to clear security. You'd better get going."

CHAPTER TWO

The sweet scent of Jasmine vines wafted through
the
open window
of a crumbling tenement
in the Old City of Damascus. A man bent over a wooden table with a soldering iron. He wiped sweat away from his forehead with the frayed sleeve of his shirt and concentrated on his task.

Another man watched from a sagging couch pushed against one of the stained yellow walls. He wore a dark suit of European cut. His crisp, white shirt was open at the collar.

The man on the couch had a face that was blank, forgettable. His features were smooth and calm, as if life had never quite reached the surface. It was hot in the apartment, but the man was not sweating. His eyebrows were unnoticeable above his colorless eyes. His nose seemed to disappear into the vagueness of his features. His lips were a thin, invisible line.

The man at the table was called Ibrahim. The man on the couch was called the Visitor, but Ibrahim didn't know that. It was better that way.

The bomb was almost finished. It was a very fine bomb, perhaps the best Ibrahim had ever made, and he had made many. He was well known throughout the terrorist network. If you wanted something unusual, reliable and easily concealed
,
with the most destructive result, you sought out the Syrian.

Anyone with a simple knowledge of electronics could build a suicide vest or a roadside device, but few could do what Ibrahim did. The truth of his skill was easy to see. He still owned almost all of his fingers and both eyes, no mean feat for an old bomb maker.

He soldered the final connection. He set the iron down and allowed himself to relax.

"It is ready?"

The man in the suit spoke in Arabic, his voice quiet, pleasant. He got off the couch, looked over the bomb maker's shoulder. Ibrahim tried to place the accent. German, perhaps.

Ibrahim took an unfiltered cigarette from a crumpled yellow pack, held it in nicotine stained fingers and lit it. The harsh tobacco smoke formed a blue cloud as he exhaled. The man in the suit concealed his disapproval.

"Yes, ready. When you place the charge, set and activate the timer. There is a twenty-four hour window."

Ibrahim showed his guest the arming device, small like a woman's wrist watch. A red arrow was etched on the bezel surrounding the dial. The face was marked for twenty four hours. A second, smaller ring within the first was divided into twelve five minute increments.

"Set the hour by rotating the outer ring clockwise. Then, set the inner ring counter clockwise for fine adjustment. You can reset until you press this button. After that, no. The timer will run until your mark is reached. The bomb is safe until the time chosen. Then, boom."

The Visitor nodded.

"Give me the pack."

The Visitor handed Ibrahim a backpack. Bright yellow letters over a yellow and green ram's head imprint spelled out Colorado State University on the flap. Inside were socks, two tee shirts, a teaspoon or two of beach sand, a pair of hiking shorts, postcards, dirty underwear, a pair of Dockers, a package of condoms, sandals and a water bottle.

There were also two books. One was a popular paperback listing hostels and restaurants in Israel. The other was a hardbound travel guide to the holy sites of Jerusalem.

Ibrahim opened the guide to a hollowed out space where the bomb would be concealed. The new compound his guest had provided was a marvel of technology, fifty times more powerful than conventional Semtex or C-4. It had a color like sand or old, yellowed limestone and could be molded and shaped as needed. It seemed small, but the explosive force it yielded was devastating. It was also undetectable by current methods. Even the dogs would never sense it.

The book was well thumbed, innocent in appearance. The pages concealed shielding that blocked detection by the most sophisticated electronic equipment. Of course there was always a chance of discovery. The Jews and the Americans were good at counter terrorism. Ibrahim assumed the bomb was meant for one or the other.

Success was not Ibrahim's concern, nor was he concerned about where or how the bomb would be used. He knew it was good. His work was done. He placed the bomb in the book. He locked the pages in place that would keep a casual observer from noticing anything. He closed the cover and put the book back in the pack.

The haunting sound of the call to prayer echoed through the ancient city from speakers atop the Umayyad Mosque. Ibrahim would go to the mosque and refresh his relationship with God. The other could do as he pleased.

"You have done well, my brother." His client's voice was quiet, toneless. "Allah will reward you in the afterlife."

"There is still this life, no? You have brought payment?"

"Of course. I have it here."

The Visitor reached under his jacket and took out a silenced .22 Ruger automatic pistol and shot Ibrahim in the forehead. The bomb maker's mouth formed a soft oh. His eyes opened wide and rolled upward. The Visitor fired another round into the Syrian's left ear, a whisper soft as a baby's breath. The body toppled sideways from the chair to the floor. A trickle of blood ran out onto the worn, scarred linoleum.

The Visitor bent down
and
wiped a few spatters of blood from the end of one of his shiny black shoes. He took the backpack and placed it in a cloth shopping bag
. He
turned on a small radio set on the table. The rhythmic notes of an oud and drums filled the room with sounds of life. Ibrahim's neighbors would not notice anything amiss for some time.

The Syrian had been a good asset, but all possible trails to what was going to happen, any loose ends, must be eliminated.
Ibrahim
had been a loose end.

The
so-called nation of Israel
would soon cease to exist
. A
ll it would take to start the process was this one, small bomb. The Visitor closed the apartment door behind him and walked down the stairs to the cobbled alley below, whistling to himself.