Michael Walsh Bundle: Hostile Intent, Early Warning & Shock Warning

by Michael Walsh

Genres: Spy Thrillers; Political Thrillers; Terrorism & Assassination Thrillers

Synopsis

It starts with the unthinkable--the most horrific act of violence ever committed on American soil. Only one man can stop them. Hostile Intent Code named Devlin, he exists in the blackest shadows of the United States government--operating off the grid as the NSA's top agent. He's their most lethal weapon. . .and their most secret. But someone is trying to draw him out into the open by putting America's citizens in the crosshairs--and they will continue the slaughter until they get what they want. All Enemies Foreign And Domestic The NSA's most lethal weapon is back. Code-named Devlin, he operates in the darkest recesses of the US government. When international cyber-terrorists allow a deadly and cunning band of radical insurgents to breach the highest levels of national security, Devlin must take down an enemy bent on destroying America--an enemy more violent and ruthless than the world has ever known. "You'll love Walsh's books!" —Rush Limbaugh Countdown To Armageddon It begins in California with a devastating biological attack—a horrific display of homegrown terror unseen on U.S. soil—just weeks before the presidential election. For the White House, it is a political nightmare, as it threatens to plunge the country into panic and economic chaos. But for the NSA's undercover agent Devlin, it is the ultimate warning. Devlin knows who's behind the mayhem. He knows who controls the media. And he knows that, unless he can stop it, the End of Days begins. . .on Election Day.

Release date: November 1, 2011

Publisher: Pinnacle

Print pages: 949

Sample

Echo Park, Los Angeles

Ghosts everywhere. Ghosts all around, ghosts of the past and ghosts yet to come. Ghosts looming through the fog, reaching out to him, some beseeching and pleading, some clawing and snarling. Vengeful ghosts, sorrowful ghosts. Ghosts of those whom he had once loved and ghosts whom he still hated. The ghosts of his mother, who died protecting him, and of his father, who died fighting back. The ghosts of Milverton, his back broken, and of Raymond, that boy under the Central Park Reservoir, his eye gouged out and his head blown off.

All of them dead. And all dead because of him.

Was there vengeance in the next world? “Vengeance is mine,” the Lord supposedly said, but if there was no God, then vengeance belonged to the shades, souls existing along the great continuum of being and nonbeing, of something and nothing.

And, as every scientist knew, the greatest difference in the universe lay between zero and one. Everything else was commentary.

If the greatest distance between two points was not one and infinity but one and zero, then the shortest distance was between life and death. Until the lights go out, there is yet light—but in darkness there is only nothing.

He strained his eyes in the darkness. Not yet nothing; he could hear his own breath. Even if the points of light he could still see with his eyes closed were illusions, optical memories, random bits of electrical impulses shooting through his eyeballs, there was yet light. God created light with a command, and Lucifer, best-loved, was the Bringer of Light. The light was both friend and enemy; in darkness lay solace. Because something was more terrifying than nothing.

Not yet nothing: his heart was yet pounding, his newfound heart, his reborn heart, his breathing becoming shallower and more insistent. He clutched life as he dealt death.

And there she was, just beyond his grasp, as real as he was. Looking away, unable to see him or hear the sound of his voice, her gaze fixed on something distant, her dark hair cascading down her naked back, moved not by the wind but by a careless toss of her head, almost coquettish, as she gestured to one unseen.

Was she looking at him, perhaps in her own dream, her own vision, her own fantasy? Or was there another?

Close enough to touch her now, he reached for her——and she dissolved at his touch. Melted, not like a real woman should but as a dream woman does, filigreeing away in a shower of light, as if she had never really existed, merely a figment of his imagination, a succubus come to save him from his own private demons, not a real woman to console him in his own private hell.

“Maryam,” he heard himself saying. Her name was an incantation to a god in whom he did not believe.

She could not hear him. Something was drowning him out. A sound, like the beating of the wings of a gigantic bird, the thwack thwack thwack of a helicopter’s blades, like the roar of an approaching tornado. Like the gunning engine of an airplane, and him alone on the Midwestern plain, helpless, mystified, and alone, like George Kaplan or Roger Thornhill. Or, worse, like his namesake, T. R. Devlin, who put the woman he loved in needless, fatal peril, just to do his job, and risked everything to get her out.

He screamed—

—and sat bolt upright in his bed in the house in Echo Park. The traffic on Sunset, down the hill, was quiet at this hour, the Mexican restaurants closed, the Dodgers game at the nearby Stadium long over. Not even the sound of gangrelated gunfire, which occasionally punctured the stillness of L.A. nights. The city was never this quiet, especially this close to downtown and the intersection of two great freeways, but at this moment he was all alone in the world. He could even hear the freight trains, passing through the central city like the ghosts of civilizations past.

But over everything was the beating of his hideous heart.

He rose and shook his head, trying to clear it of the ghosts who haunted him now, more than ever. But they would not go gently. . . .

He shook his head again, harder. A confidential op should never see ghosts. Seeing ghosts was a sign of weakness, or sentimentality, a sign of—if you were given to portents and runes—impending doom. Seeing ghosts was a sign of conscience. A sign of a heart. And a heart was the one thing he could not have. Not if he wanted to live.

A heart was no use in prison, especially a prison in which the lights were always turned off. In which you were not plunged into darkness, but in which you dwelled in darkness—the vast emptiness wherein the only sound was the voice of Lucifer, whispering that he could bring light that God Himself could not—would not. That he could salve the wounds, sever the irons bonds of superstition, and welcome you home.

“Maryam!” he cried.

A couple of blocks away, the spires of St. Andrew’s, the Ukrainian Orthodox Church, caught the first motes of sunbeams, the gleam in the eye of God.

He was not alone.

He would save her, no matter where she was, no matter what it took.

No matter what it cost him, no matter whether it cost him his life.

For a life was a small price to pay, to banish the ghosts and see the light once more.

For, God help him, he had sent her into the monster’s lair, a poisoned pawn, bearing the gift of NSA technology in the form of the secure computer he had given her. They both knew the chance she was taking, and they had both signed off on the operation. Consenting adults, and all that. It was only business.

But that didn’t make him feel like less of a heel.

He stepped into the shower and let the scalding water play over him. Water was a precious commodity in Los Angeles. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything—not about the ghosts, not about himself, not about anything. He cared nothing for the whole fucking lot of them. He only cared about her.

In the distance, the secure phone. Only three people on earth had that number, all of them on a need-to-know basis. Even more important, on a need-to-call basis. Since the events in New York and their aftermath, there had been little to know, and even less to call. The last phone call, the one from his stepfather, had said it all:

Stand down, for your own safety. Branch 4 will go forward without you. Keep your head down, stay out of sight, and, whatever you do, do not try to find her.

From this moment forward, she is dead to you, dead to us. While she may yet still live, her death is merely a formality of the future, an i to be dotted, a t to eventually be crossed, and crossed off. If you’re lucky, your photo and hers will go on the Wall of Shame in Fort Meade. If not . . . then you already have all the immortality you are ever going to need.

The phone, more insistent. The relays kicked in, routing the call through a series of secure servers, to determine the real number and the actual location from which the call was being made. Anybody could fake anything these days, especially the National Security Agency, but he knew them—because he was them. At least, he had been, for as long as he could remember.

It must be some sort of a joke. After what had happened, why would anyone call? Why would Seelye call him, or the new secretary of defense—or, even more unthinkable, the President of the United States? Skorzeny had escaped again, Maryam had defected to her native country, and everything he had done for his country, all the bodies he had left in his lethal wake, amounted to nothing.

Most likely, they had burned him, as they always said they would. It was the code of Branch 4, that once an op was burned he or she was no better than dead, and it was only a matter of time before the killer announced himself, two .22s in the back of the head, just like the mafia but more lethal.

It was always your friend, and never your enemy, because what worse enemy could a man in his line of work have than a friend?

This line was designed so that, if the incoming call passed all the security checks, the ring would continue to loop until it was answered. It didn’t matter that the person on the other end of the line would have rung off; the instant he picked up the secure instrument, he would automatically be connected, via a series of secure cutouts, with the person who had called. That way, the security checks ran in both directions, and both parties could be sure they really were speaking to each other.

He picked up the line and waited. No beeps and blips, just utter silence . . . until, finally, a voice:

“Is that you?”

“Who else?”

“You’re wanted.”

“Bullshit. Try to kill me and you’re in a world of hurt. I know where all the bodies are buried.”

“You should. You put most of them there.”

“And there’s at least three more to go if you fuck with me.”

“This is supposed to be a friendly call.”

“Then start acting like it.”

“Okay, I have three words for you.”

“They’d better be good. Because if they’re not, I have three words for you.”

“Skorzeny. Maryam. Devlin.”

For a moment, he had nothing to say. “Have I got your attention now?” said the voice, the voice he knew so well.

“Where?”

The answer surprised him. “The La Brea Tar Pits, tomorrow, one o’clock . . . not in them, don’t worry. Look for the wooly mammoth and await your contact.”

“Does he come armed or unarmed?”

“He’s a she. Jacinta. Act like a gentlemen.”

“And then what?”

“You’ll know what to do.”

“How? A miracle?”

The line went dead.

He stood there, still naked except for a towel around his waist, his hair dripping.

“Dad? Dad?”

Nothing. Emptiness, as usual.

He poured himself a short whiskey. It was a short step onto the terrace. To the south, he had a panoramic view of downtown. Nobody cared that he wasn’t wearing any clothes. This was L.A. Nobody wore clothes in L.A., not really, just costumes.

The Bruckner symphony he’d been listening to was still playing. The Fourth, all horns and majesty and a slow death march and a vision of the afterlife and just enough harmonic wild cards to keep a listener on his toes as he contemplated the face of—

He raised his glass in a toast to the desert city by the ocean—water water everywhere and not a drop to drink—to Hollywood, and to the wide world beyond. The Hollywood Sign, from which poor Peg Entwhistle had thrown herself in revenge against its utter indifference, was behind him and off to his right, out of sight, which was where it belonged. Danny could see it from his house on Hobart Street in Los Feliz, could look up at it, just off to the west of the Griffith Park Observatory, the original rebel without a cause, white, gleaming, illuminated—a beacon in the L.A. darkness, reaching out to the heavens—redemption, if not quite salvation.

Not like the pagan Hollywood Sign, which appealed to the basest instincts of every kid who got off the bus, every hack screenwriter, every hooker-in-waiting, the waitrons of the past, present, and future: buy here, buy now, but buy, buy, buy.

If he had his way, the sign would not read HOLLYWOOD. Instead, it would read: FUCK YOU, SUCKER.

“Here’s looking at you, kid,” he said.

In the silence of the night he could say things like that. Because he knew that, after this drink, he had a job to do.

He was Devlin.

Tehran, Iran

The Grand Ayatollah paused and waited for the reaction from his subalterns. Like all great imams—and none was greater than he, certainly not those Sunni infidels in Cairo, no matter their exalted titles at Al-Azhar University. Unbelievers, all of them. As they—and the world—would soon discover.

He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts, making sure they were in accordance with the sacred word of Allah, divinely revealed through his Prophet, Mohammed. He took a deep breath. How wonderful to have been freed of Western superstition—the blasphemy they called “science”—by revelation. Those years spent in England, at the London School of Economics—what a waste. How foolish had been his country and his countrymen, still in thrall to the throne of England, upon which, in just a few decades or, Allah (PBUH) willing, a few years, the new caliph would sit, resplendent in his glory and beckoning to the twelfth Imam, the Mahdi, the expected one, to deliver the world from iniquity and unbelief.

How close it all was.

“O Muslims,” he began, his intonation stentorian, as befit his station. Another pause. He looked out upon the sea of humanity—all male—that faced him expectantly. Hanging on his every word. Watching him for signs and wonders. Never was he more conscious of his station, or of his sacred duty.

The Grand Ayatollah Ali Ahmed Hussein Mustafa Mohammed Fadlallah al-Sadiq said a silent prayer to Mohammed ibn al-Hasan al-Mahdi, still occulted at the bottom of his well in Qom. Soon, my lord, soon will you come again, accompanied by Issa to unite the world of holy Muslims and benighted Christians against the Jews and infidels, ushering in the final era of peace and submission to Allah’s holy will.

Soon.

“O Muslims,” he began again. “For thirteen hundred years have we, the Faithful, awaited this holy day. For thirteen centuries, O my brothers, have we patiently and faithfully observed the strictures and commandments of the one true faith. Triumphant have we been, and oppressed by the lies of the Jews and infidels, who have taken from us the holy cities of al-Quds, of al-Andalus. We have patiently awaited the day of deliverance, the day on which even the rocks and the trees cry out to alert us to the presence of the Jew, and reveal to our holy warriors his infernal hiding place, that we might kill him, his women, and his children.”

The crowd rose and cheered its approval. The Faithful could always be counted upon.

“Signs and portents were we promised by the Prophet and his holy Imams. And today I stand before you, Ali Ahmed Hussein Mustafa Mohammed Fadlallah al-Sadiq, to bring you the joyous news of fulfillment. O Muslims, I bring you the news of our Brother Arash Kohanloo, a glorious martyr to the sacred cause, who has struck a great blow against the Great Satan, the United States—such a blow as not even the Great Atta and his fellow martyrs on that happy day of September 11, 2001, could have dreamed.”

An enormous roar rumbled up from the crowd of the Faithful, here in Azadi Square, beneath the great tower of Freedom. Let the infidels of New York call their blasphemous tower, still rising after more than a decade, a sign of their surpassing impotence and of the immanence of the Twelfth Imam, call their pitiful attempt at reconstruction the Freedom Tower. Here was the heart of true freedom, brought by the Arabs a millennium and a half ago but since purged and purified of their desert savagery. The destruction of the Sassanid Empire and the abolition of the Zoroastrian religion was a small price to pay for enlightenment.

Thus spake Zarathustra? Only in the infidel lands. Here, only Allah spoke, and always spoke the truth, immutable and eternal and preserved forever in the Holy Qu’ran.

From here he could see the Alborz Mountains to the north, from what used to be called the Square of the Shahs, Shahyad, before the Revolution. How inspiring they were—almost as inspiring as the Holy City of Qom and the holy mosque of Jamkaran.

Soon.

“O Muslims,” he began again. “Of signs and portents and wonders have we long spoken. Of the Occultation. Of the Expected One. For centuries have we endured and suffered under the false promises of men such as Mohammed Ahmad, who slew the infidel Gordon at Khartoum but left us with nothing but blood and desolation and disappointment while the Crusaders took our lands, even unto the blessed city of al-Quds, where the Jew sits, plotting against us.

“O Muslims—the time has come, for I bring you joyous news.” He paused once again, for effect but more—for divine inspiration. He breathed the air in deeply, letting the breath of Allah wash over him, purging and cleansing him, revealing holy Truth to him as had been vouchsafed to only a handful of great men in the centuries since al-Hasan secluded his holy person in the sacred well.

Greatness. It felt good. It felt holy. It felt right.

“O Muslims. The Day of Deliverance is at hand.”

He stopped and waited. Part of being a holy man was the sacred caesura, the final dramatic pause that signified to the Believers that Truth had been revealed, the sacred Promises had been made—Promises that must and would be kept. Because a holy man also knew that Promises unrealized, Promises unkept would be turned back on him with the force of a thousand suns—with the force of the infidel Jew Oppenheimer, who said “Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds,” at the birth of Trinity.

So far away and yet so near. Deep in the heart of the Jew city of New York, at one of the Jew holy places for a people who had lost their faith. No longer would the Brothers bomb their so-called holy places, for not even the Jew believed in them anymore.

No, this time they would strike at the heart. Their great financial center the Believers had already destroyed. But that was not enough. Not enough for the Jew, who could always find money. Money could be lost and found again—they had been doing that for centuries, frustrating the Believers, who had forced them into dhimmitude in al-Andalus and made both them and the Christian dogs like it.

But health—life—was something else. They might die for money, but unlike the Believers, they would not die for Death.

The infidel West no longer believed in the afterlife. It was too cowardly, too solicitous of its own misery. But a Believer would willingly give up his life and the lives of his women and children, in furtherance of the Truth.

Which was, at last, in the person of Ali Ahmed Hussein Mustafa Mohammed Fadlallah al-Sadiq, so near to hand.

“O Muslims,” he shouted. “The Messiah will not rise unless fear, great earthquakes, and sedition take place. The worst kind of humans will become leaders. Women will rid themselves of the hijab. Men will dress like women. Adultery will become common.”

They responded with a roar. The signs and portents were all around. They knew that the time of the Coming was near. They were shaking their fists at the heavens, their ranks a sea of signs proclaiming DEATH TO THE GREAT SATAN, DEATH TO ISRAEL, DEATH TO AMERICA.

“O Muslims, on all sides we are afflicted with oppression and injustice, just as the holy Prophet, blessings and peace be upon him, so long ago predicted. And what did he say? That a nation from the east will rise . . .”

He was working the crowd now, letting their anger and their faith swell and build like a mighty wave.

“. . . and prepare the way . . .”

“Allahu akbar!” shouted the crowd.

“. . . prepare the way—for the Coming of the Imam Mahdi!”

He threw out his arms as if to embrace all of creation, slowly raising them upward.

As that moment, a blinding flash of light tore through the sky. It was like a lightning bolt hurtled from the hand of Allah, propelled to earth, there to form and coalesce into . . .

“O Muslims,” shouted al-Sadiq, “so it is written, so shall it be done. After a thousand years—behold the Face!”

For a moment, as the vision became manifest, nobody said or did anything. And then, as one, the men prostrated themselves upon their prayer rugs in homage, and let out a deafening cry that shook the heavens:

“Allahu akbar!”

“Allahu akbar!”

“Allahu akbar!”

And then, once more as one, they rose, their faces purple with rage and yet suffused with a divine fire. Truly had they become holy warriors, mujahideen, ready for the final battle, which was now at hand.

The Face hung in the sky, the Face that none had ever looked upon, the Face that only blasphemers and infidels had ever imagined in their degenerate art . . . the Face now revealed at last to the Believers, the Face that would lead them to the final confrontation and to ultimate victory.

The Face of the Prophet, as he had been in life, and so was in life eternal.

“Allahu akbar!” he cried, and then dared to gaze once more upon its magnificence, forbidden no longer.

He glanced in the direction of the sacred well of Qom, the holy well in which dwelt Ali, the occulted Twelfth Imam, in hiding from the infidels and the crusaders all the Unbelievers since the year 941 in the Christian dog calendar. Deep within, he could already sense the stirrings. . . .

“Allahu akbar!!”

He heard the sound. And it was good.

At last, after more than a thousand years, He was coming.

And he, the Grand Ayatollah Ali Ahmed Hussein Mustafa Mohammed Fadlallah al-Sadiq, was the instrument of his holy wrath.

Central California—the San Joaquin Valley near Coalinga

“Get ready for stinky!” shouted Danny Impellatieri as they drove north on the Golden State Freeway toward San Francisco. The Five, people called it now, just as they now called the Santa Monica Freeway the Ten. It was a sign of the decline, he decided. The end of the world, for all real Californians. In the old days, when he was growing up in Los Angeles, people knew the difference between the Santa Monica Freeway, heading west, and the San Bernardino Freeway, heading east. Between Highway 101, heading north through the Cahuenga Pass, and the Hollywood Freeway, after it split off in Valley Village and became Highway 170. Between the 110 that was the Pasadena Freeway and the 110 that was Harbor Freeway.

Between the days when California had names and today, when it had numbers. Between romance and quantification. The poetry had fled, to be replaced by the accountant’s green eyeshades. And yet the state was broke, diminished, destroyed.

Progress.

Hope, Emma, and Rory had never been to San Francisco, and they were more than a little trepidatious. To all too many Americans, especially those in the Midwest, the City by the Bay was a combination of Sodom and Gomorrah without Lot’s saving grace—as Herb Caen used to call it, Baghdad by the Bay, back in the day when Baghdad meant Sin City, not Saddam City. But to Danny, it was the city of DiMaggio and Lefty O’Doul; the city of Geary Street, not O’Farrell Street. The city of white-gloved women on their way to take in Lucia di Lammermoor at the Opera, of foghorns, and the military might of America, over in Oakland, or Vallejo, or on Treasure Island. To Danny, it was a city of what America used to be, not what America had become.

All of which made him today the bad guy. When the thought police, the PC Nazis, came, he would be one of the first to go—maybe to Alcatraz, maybe straight to the needle at San Q. How fast the country had changed. But somebody had to be the bad guy, and it might as well be him. After all, his wife, Diane, was dead. And with her had died so much, more than a year ago....

He reached over and laid his hand, ever so gently, on the thigh of the woman sitting next him in the passenger seat. Not his dead wife but soon enough his new wife—the woman for whom he had released the past and embraced a new future that he had never envisioned, had never prepared or planned for, but which he joyously welcomed.

Was it wrong? Could you stay married to a ghost, or did the ghosts of the past demand that we, the living, go on living? Why wouldn’t they? Didn’t they want to go on living themselves? Had they died willingly? Didn’t all God’s creatures want to live? Wasn’t that the first principle of life, of the life force? To go on living, even after death? If you fought against the dying of the light, if you fought against death, did not that bring you closer go God? Or was He just another myth, a fairy tale told to children by their elders to explain away the terrors of the night? Those things that exploded in the midst of the safest environments, that robbed you of your certainty just before they stole your life and the lives of others, randomly, capriciously, in the way of the Greek gods, or the Fates, or, God help us, the meaningless lares and penates.

Her name was Hope. Hope Gardner—and soon enough, if she accepted him, Impellatieri. And then where once there were two families with four parents and three children, there would now be one family with three children.

He was going to propose to her in San Francisco.

“I know this place on Clement Street.” He pronounced it right, with the accent on the second syllable. In every city, there were test words, the ones that separated the natives from the locals. Cle-MENT Street was one of them. Like HOUSE-ton Street in New York. Not only was all politics local, so was pronunciation. And it was precisely in these interstices that spies and illegals and confidential ops got killed.

It was never the big things. It was never the cover stories. It was the little things, the details, that tripped you up, like DiMaggio’s batting average. The Great DiMaggio, who accompanied Hemingway’s Old Man on his fateful journey to the Sea, in spirit, if not in person. Simplicity, not complexity. The best cover story was 99.9 percent true. Everything important must be true except for the sliver of a lie that you told. Even to the ones you loved most.

And this was your life; to lie to everybody important to you, to everybody you loved, and to tell the truth, the whole truth and almost the entire truth, to those whom you despised, to those whom you loathed, to those whom you were about to kill.

After all they’d been through in the past year, it was a vacation well-deserved, and in his favorite city. No matter how nutty it was, San Francisco was still the best town in the country, a place devoted to wine, food, natural beauty, and the pursuit of sybaritic happiness. If Thomas Jefferson were alive, thought Danny, he’d live in San Francisco. Although maybe not George Washington . . .

“How stinky, Dad?” asked Jade, his daughter, from the back of the BMW. He could almost hear her mother’s voice. Diane’s voice. Diane, whom he’d loved so much that they had conceived the most wonderful daughter together. But she was gone now. And no matter how much you loved a woman, you could not make love to a ghost. You could not even love a ghost. All you could do was honor her memory and love the creature that allowed her to live on....

“Real stinky, I hope!” shouted Rory, Hope’s son and younger child. “Gross-out stinky! Barf-in-your-socks stinky! Girl gross-out stinky!”

Rory was sitting in the backseat, between his sister and Jade, still getting used to the idea that, horrors, he might have yet another sister in his future. Two against one was by his standards a fair fight on the playground, but the backseat of a car was an entirely different proposition. You couldn’t hit a girl, not if you were a real man. Not if you were like his dead father, or like Danny, who had lost his wife in that terrorist attack in Los Angeles, or like the weird guy who had saved him from the bomb back in Edwardsville, Illinois, where they used to live before his dad got killed and his mom met Danny and . . .

“Okay, hold your noses, kids!” shouted Danny. “Here comes Cowschwitz.”

Hope bit her tongue even as she held her nose. Everybody knew the term “Cowschwitz” was incredibly un-PC, even as most Californians who drove up and down I-5 between L.A. to San Francisco used it.

There would be cows as far as the eye could see on both sides of the freeway, that Rory knew. Cows for miles. Nothing but cows, mooing, lowing, farting, sending vast plumes of methane into the atmosphere, killing the ozone, destroying the climate, and alerting the aliens on Mars, or the Mother Ship or the planets orbiting Alpha Centauri or Betelgeuse to our malevolent presence. Nothing good could come out of Cowschwitz, thought Rory, except maybe some milk and some really good steaks.

The girls squealed. Rory expected shrieks from Emma, his real sister, but Jade, Danny’s daughter and only child, was an altog. . .