The Monroe Decision Read online

  The Monroe Decision

  by Patrick Clark

  © Copyright 2017 Partick Clark

  ISBN 978-1-63393-454-2

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other – except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters are both actual and fictitious. With the exception of verified historical events and persons, all incidents, descriptions, dialogue and opinions expressed are the products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Published by

  210 60th Street

  Virginia Beach, VA 23451

  800-435-4811

  www.koehlerbooks.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER TREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  PART 2

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  PART 3

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  PART 4

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  VENICE, ITALY

  SUNDAY, JUNE 5TH

  7:30 P.M.

  The order to terminate was confirmed. Two targets. Aaron Monroe knew their names, had their descriptions memorized, and knew where they would be. It was a simple assignment — except for one complication. He gazed out the window of the water taxi at the blue-green water of Venice’s Grand Canal and wondered: What will happen if Sarah finds out?

  His cover was as an analyst for the US Department of State. He was a “treaty expert.” That was all he could tell her. He couldn’t disclose that his life was dictated by coded messages, like the one on his cell phone received ten minutes earlier.

  He sat next to Sarah and held her hand. “I’m sorry, honey,” he said. “I know this is a disappointment, but I really have to take care of some important business in Trieste tomorrow. I know it’s our last day here but it can’t be helped.”

  “I know,” Sarah replied, her eyes downcast. “I’m not very happy about it, but I understand. Your job is important.”

  She’s incredible. Not demanding and always willing to accommodate. Those were just a few of the many reasons Aaron loved her. He turned his gaze toward Sarah and when she saw this she responded with a smile.

  Aaron felt the surge as the polished, red plank mahogany water taxi slowed. He held Sarah’s hand and they stood in the upholstered leather saloon area as the boat heaved in the swells. Aaron felt the boat rock as the pilot worked the engine throttles and slowly edged next to the fondamenta near the Ponte dell’Accademia.

  They stepped forward into the boat’s cockpit area to disembark. It was low tide so Aaron timed his leap with the swells from the gunwales to the pavement alongside the canal. The taxi pilot carefully handed two large boxes and a shopping bag up to Aaron, who placed them on the concrete walkway next to him.

  “Are you ready?” he asked Sarah.

  “As I’ll ever be,” she replied.

  The constant wake rocked the boat. “Hang on,” he told her. “It’s a little slippery here. I’d hate to see you fall.” He grinned at her.

  With a hint of her British accent, Sarah replied, “Don’t you even think about letting that happen!”

  Aaron reached down and took hold of Sarah’s hand and she placed her right foot on the pavement. As the boat rocked away from her, Aaron pulled her from the gunwale and into his arms. They started laughing.

  They had returned from a day-long shopping trip to the Venetian islands of Murano and Burano where Sarah had stopped at almost every one of the Venetian glass factories and fabric mills looking for the perfect, whatever. And Sarah knew what it was when she saw it, hence the boxes and shopping bags. Aaron, being the perfect companion, enthusiastically went with her every step of the way.

  Aaron bent over and paid the taxi pilot two hundred euros for the ride. “Grazie,” he said as he tapped his forehead and gave the pilot a two-finger salute.

  The pilot returned the salute as he throttled the engine and backed away.

  Aaron turned toward Sarah. She stood next to her bounty for the day smiling with her hands folded in front of her. She stood five feet ten inches tall with toffee brown hair in a shoulder length ponytail and wore a short yellow sundress with blue flower prints and brown leather gladiator sandals. Several men passing by ogled her.

  Aaron picked up the two boxes of Murano glassware, Sarah the shopping bag of fabric, and they turned to walk the fifty yards or so to the door of their rented apartment.

  “I had fun today,” said Sarah.

  “And I was delighted to be your pack mule for the day,” Aaron jested.

  Sarah bumped him with her hip and said, “Oh cut it out, you big whiner. I know you had a great time, too.”

  “Yeah, I did,” he replied.

  Sarah unlocked the front door and they climbed the four levels to their top-floor apartment. They each fell into comfortable chairs and after a few minutes Aaron closed his eyes and dozed off.

  A short time later, he awoke and showered, then stepped out of the slate-tiled shower, toweled dry, and put on a pair of running shorts. He saw Sarah in the large free-standing claw foot bathtub next to the open window across the room so he quietly slipped into a teak chair with a fat leather cushion next to the bathtub. He gazed over the side of the tub and admired Sarah’s toned shoulders and pert breasts surrounded by shimmering, blue bubbles.

  A soothing, smooth jazz saxophone played softly from the wall speakers and Aaron reached over and turned down the volume as he noted the sensuous Prosecco Rose scented candles that filled the air. Sarah’s head leaned to the left against soft Milano bath towels and she wore a content smile as she drifted in and out of her slumber.

  She opened her eyes, smiled broadly, and playfully asked, “What are you looking at?”

  “The most beautiful woman on Earth,” Aaron answered.

  She giggled and said, “Okay. Now, what do you want?”
/>   “The same answer applies.”

  Sarah chuckled as she stood. Drops of water rolled down the curves of her flawless, caramel-shaded body into the tub. “Mr. Monroe, you are a piece of work and I just happen to be in love with you.”

  He handed Sarah one of the bath towels and she dried herself off as she stepped out of the tub. He held a violet-colored terrycloth robe with the arms outstretched and Sarah stepped into it, then turned to face him. He grabbed both ends of the robe sash and pulled her close. Her breasts felt warm against his bare chest and he kissed her for a full minute. They allowed their silent embrace to linger and she leaned her head on Aaron’s shoulder.

  Aaron spoke softly in her ear, “Let’s sit on the patio for a while and enjoy our last evening in Venice. I opened a bottle of Brunello to let it breathe and it’s probably ready to drink.”

  She smiled.

  They stepped out to the patio that overlooked the Grand Canal and sat in cushioned chairs. Aaron poured two glasses of wine and they watched the sunset over the blue-gray dome of the Basilica Santa Maria della Salute while water taxis and gondolas slowly passed below them on the canal.

  “This has been one of the best weeks of my life,” said Sarah as she adjusted her robe to be a little less revealing to the gondoliers below. “I wish we could stay a little longer.”

  “We’ll come back some day.”

  Sarah turned her head to gaze over the canal. Her cat-like green eyes squinted and Aaron thought she looked pensive.

  She took a sip of her wine, then asked, “Aaron, do you really need to work tomorrow? Can’t your office send someone else to do” — she paused as she placed her glass on the table and leaned toward him — “whatever it is you do?”

  Aaron leaned toward her, took her hand, and said, “Baby, please let’s not do this. It’s only one day. You can sleep in. I’ve made arrangements for our luggage. All you need to do is take a water taxi to the airport, and I’ve arranged that, too. I’ll take care of my business and meet you at the airport in the afternoon.”

  Sarah’s eyelids slanted slightly upward and she held Aaron’s hand with both of hers. “Why can’t I come with you?”

  “Sarah, please,” Aaron implored.

  “Dammit, Aaron. I love you more than I can put into words but I can’t stand that you are so secretive about your work. It frightens me.”

  Goddamn it! I want to spend the rest of my life with this woman but I can’t tell her what I do. Aaron’s jaw clenched.

  “You’re getting mad now, Aaron. You’re getting that look on your face so I’ll drop the subject.”

  They sat quietly, each sipping their wine. After a few minutes, Sarah stood, opened her robe, and let it drop to the floor. She moved over to Aaron and sat in his lap facing him. “I want you to know what you’ll be missing when you’re in Trieste tomorrow.”

  He stood with her legs straddling his hips and carried her to the bedroom.

  CHAPTER TWO

  TRIESTE, ITALY

  MONDAY, JUNE 6TH

  1:15 P.M.

  Aaron sat beneath an umbrella at an outdoor café near the ancient Parco della Rimembranza sipping from a pint of Perrier. Two men walked past, the taller of the two with the help of a cane. The gray accents in his beard revealed his age. He wore a brown kurta with gold embroidery on the collar and a brown skullcap and carried a leather satchel strapped over his shoulder. The second man was younger by several decades. His gait was confident and athletic. He wore jeans and a collarless shirt. His jet-black hair brushed his shoulders, and he had a three-inch scar on his right cheek still discernable under a few days’ stubble.

  Aaron placed four coins in the tray on the table as the waiter approached and then picked up his secure smart phone, unlocked it with his thumb-print, then dialed Nigel Stafford, his handler in Washington. He tapped in his personal identification number and a brief, high-pitched pulse indicated his phone had synched with the handler’s line.

  “I have eyes on the targets,” reported Aaron.

  “Do you have positive ID?” asked Stafford.

  “Affirmative. Their descriptions match the intelligence reports. The elder man walking with a cane is Fadi Asadel. The younger one is Kameel Fatin. He has the large scar on his cheek that was reported in the dispatch from your contact,” replied Aaron. “And they’re right on time. Your source’s information was valid.”

  “Good.” The line buzzed soft static for a few seconds, then the handler came back on. “Operation Orthrus Hawk is green. I repeat, Orthrus Hawk is green.”

  “Green is good,” replied Aaron. He terminated the call.

  At the highest point in the city, the Parco offered Aaron a view of the Adriatic Sea and the streets below that ranged from serenely rational to bewilderingly crooked and steep as it flowed down to the waterfront. Aaron stood and followed the two men as they journeyed down the steep hill toward the industrial piers.

  Fadi Asadel was a financier who had coordinated funding for many al Qaeda and ISIS operations. Kameel Fatin was a senior ISIS commander. He had a reputation as a fierce fighter and for his ruthless treatment of captives and non-combatants. It was unusual for Fatin to be in Europe. He was more at home in the deserts and small towns in Iraq and Syria. When the Council was informed by intelligence sources that he was in Europe, they assumed he would not be there for long. They decided to act quickly. These two were numbers six and four on the coalition hit list.

  “There isn’t enough time to coordinate a response with the rest of the coalition,” Stafford had told him. “The Council knows that you’re in Italy, Aaron. This is a target of opportunity. They want you to do the job alone.”

  Aaron was experienced at tailing people. At a little over six feet tall with strawberry blonde hair and a lean physique, he stood out in a crowd so he had to be deliberate. He maintained fifty to seventy meters between himself and the two men, several times ducking into a store front or apartment foyer when Fatin stopped and turned to see if they were being followed.

  At the bottom of the long hill, next to the ancient Roman amphitheater, the pair turned left away from the city center and walked past the Muslim cemetery, the only one on the continent. The streets and sidewalks became less crowded and Aaron had to allow more separation between them so the pair would not detect they were being followed.

  They walked to one of the oldest areas in Trieste, a medieval neighborhood with narrow walkways and stone streets. He saw the pair enter a villa with crumbling, brown stucco walls through an arched doorway with an old, heavy, dark-colored wood door.

  Aaron slipped into a nearby alleyway, pulled a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket, and placed them over his hands. He pulled a Sig Sauer M11 assault pistol from his back holster and attached a sound suppressor as he surveyed the front of the villa. A small security camera above the doorway focused on the entrance. Pretty unsophisticated. Probably a temporary shelter, he thought.

  A young woman on a sputtering motor scooter slowly approached the alley. Aaron secured his pistol under his loose shirt. She wore a light blue tunic and a gray hijab and looked suspiciously at Aaron as she rode past him.

  He watched her continue up the hill past the villa entrance, then he crossed the street and scaled a short stone wall down to a wood deck behind the villa. Aaron stayed close to the outer wall of the villa and made his way toward a modern, glass-sliding patio door. He pulled out the assault pistol, slid the safety switch to the ready position, and slowly moved toward the door. He held the gun in both hands in a shooting position.

  Aaron stood next to the patio door with his back to the wall and heard voices inside. The door was ajar. He closed his eyes and visualized his targets. One, hit the younger man. Two, hit the older man. Three, hit anyone else as you sweepscan the room. Aaron took two deep breaths and counted to three. He slid his foot in the space in the doorway, then pushed the door open and burst into the room.

  The younger man with a scar on his cheek was seated at a table on the opposite si
de of the room. He reached for a pistol on the table. Aaron took aim and double tapped the trigger. Fffut, ffut. The younger man fell backward into his chair; two red circles expanded on his chest.

  The older man stood facing the table. He turned toward Aaron and advanced with his cane above his head in a striking position. Fffut, ffut. Two red circles expanded on his chest as he fell back against the table and then to the floor. Aaron cautiously approached the two men, prepared to place a bullet in their foreheads if needed. His shots had been accurate. Aaron watched the life bleed from them.

  He sensed motion behind him and turned toward his right as he dove to the floor. The rat-tat-tat of an automatic weapon filled the room and the wall behind where Aaron had stood exploded from the impact of the bullets. As he hit the floor, Aaron saw the young woman with the blue tunic and gray hijab standing near the doorway. He quickly took aim and double tapped the trigger. Fffut, ffut. She cried out and grabbed her right shoulder as she simultaneously lifted her Chinese G38 toward Aaron. Fffut, ffut. A crimson cloud exploded from her neck and jaw as she fell, tumbling through the glass door back onto the outside deck.

  “Fuck!” Aaron cursed as he jumped back to a standing position. His breathing was heavy but controlled — in through his nose and out through the mouth. He held the assault pistol in both hands, chest high in front of him, his finger on the trigger, his hands trembling just a bit.

  With his back to the wall, Aaron slowly walked to the doorway of the next room and entered. He kept his back to the wall and the pistol held in front of him. One by one he cleared the four rooms on the main floor. In the last room on a dilapidated metal desk was a laptop computer and four closed-circuit television monitors.

  “What the hell?” he said quietly.

  The four monitors displayed rooms crowded with young boys and girls, eight to ten in each, which Aaron presumed were in the villa. Three rooms were filled with young girls: one with pre-teenage girls, the other two with girls who appeared to be ages twelve to seventeen. The fourth room was filled with pre-teenage boys.

  “Dammit!” he cursed. This was not part of this mission! He fell backward and leaned against the wall. This was not in the fucking script! What am I supposed to do now? Lead these kids out of here like a Pied Piper and just walk them down the street to the polizia?