The Girl Who Wrote The New York Times Bestseller: A Novel (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thrillers Book 8) Read online

  The Girl Who Wrote The New York Times Bestseller

  John Ellsworth

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by John Ellsworth

  Reviews

  For my Family

  1

  They were headhunters.

  Twenty-first-century headhunters.

  They wanted the jihadist's head, severed from the body, lifted to the lens on Al Jazeera network.

  So they summoned her, Christine Susmann. She appeared as ordered. They deposited her in the waiting room while they conferred.

  The topic late that afternoon in Langley, Virginia was the sudden, overwhelming threat posed by MESA—the Middle Eastern State Army. Outside, the leafless maples and oaks looked stunted. Birds flitted among the branches, securing shelter in the deep winter. Men and women wrapped in pea coats and wearing watch caps scurried around in CIA spy school, hopeful of making the grade and grabbing choice field assignments.

  But inside the conference room, long-ago graduates huddled around the broad curve of cherry conference table at one end of the Assistant Director's office. Coffee was poured, pastries were plucked from silver trays, and cigarettes set to burning. Notes were exchanged, viewpoints aired, and then came time to vote. Or almost. Two more files to be passed around the huge table. One file was yellow, addressing civilian matters. One file was olive-colored, addressing military matters.

  The Assistant Director was a man of rigid bearing, ex-Army, a West Pointer with the required ruby class ring, crew-cut, and proud of the thirty-two-inch waist he had maintained since college. He bragged about his daily X-Factor workouts and weekend hundred-mile bike rides. He plucked the first artifact from the olive file and passed it left.

  "News clipping, Chicago Tribune, 2005," he said into the system that recorded all conversations in the room. The four intelligence officers did quick reads and handed it around the table. The ten-year-old military news clipping reported:

  Sgt. Christine Susmann, a military police officer in the Illinois National Guard, was awarded the Silver Star for her role in thwarting a Taliban insurgent ambush, the military said Thursday.

  In a two-hour firefight, Sergeant Susmann and two other soldiers fought off more than 35 insurgents armed with AK-47s, machine guns, and rocket-propelled grenades after the force attacked a supply convoy southeast of Kabul, Afghanistan. The Americans killed 30 and wounded or captured three others. Sergeant Susmann, 23, received her medal on Thursday in Kabul.

  Heads nodded, and looks were exchanged. She was an American patriot, which elevated the conversation. They could work with her.

  The Associate Director next passed around a single sheet from the olive file—bullet points from her military jacket.

  "Military jacket." Again, the invisible mikes sucked the words out of the air.

  Papers were flipped, read, and re-read. Assent was by silence: so far, she was their choice for the assignment.

  A second set of papers came from the yellow file. Her FE—family/education sheet. The father was Afghan, and the mother was French; both medical doctors, both naturalized U.S. citizens. The genetic admixture produced a dark-skinned woman who could pass for Middle Eastern. She would require no makeup, no disguises for the role. Her father had raised her proud of her heritage. He required daily conversations with him in Arabic. As a young soldier serving in Afghanistan, she interpreted for the M.P.'s. She spoke perfect Arabic to Arabs who didn't know she wasn't a local. So the language skills were in place.

  Against her parents' wishes, she had enlisted in the Army straight out of high school. So she was headstrong and independent, two traits required of spies.

  The Assistant Director prepared to close the deal. He strode to his desk, unlocked a drawer, and carried four final files to the table. They were identical in content and pinned inside red covers. He passed the files around the table and waited, contemplating while the officers read.

  The AD drummed his fingers on the table while the red files were finished off and evaluations made.

  Then the last file was closed. All eyes turned to him.

  "Vote?" he asked.

  Four heads nodded.

  "Afghanistan?"

  "Yes."

  "Syria?"

  "Yes."

  "Terrorism?"

  "Yes."

  "Military?"

  "Yes."

  "And I'm a 'Yes' too. It's settled; Christine Susmann is selected. Now to find out if she'll serve."

  They had voted she would be the operator sent to Syria to behead the leader of MESA. His name: Abu Nidal al-Zaqari.

  "Have you contacted her?" Syria wanted to know.

  "We have. She's in the outer office as we speak."

  "You were very sure about her," said Terrorism.

  The AD smiled wryly. "She was my choice all along. I've met her. It was ten years ago; but she impresses, as you'll see."

  "Family?" asked Afghanistan.

  "Husband, two kids. The husband is a problem."

  "He objects?"

  "He doesn't know the specifics, of course. But when we sent for her he fiercely objected."

  "She told you this?"

  "Of course. Availability interviews were completed, and it surfaced at that time."

  "What was her feeling about him?"

  The AD spread his large, thick hands.

  "You can ask her that yourself. Let me bring her in."

  He buzzed, and a receptionist opened the door to admit a young woman in her early thirties. All eyes were watching her. Christine was five-five and average weight, but that's where "average" ended for her. For one thing, she was beautiful. She had won a county beauty pageant in the summer of her senior year, right before enlisting. For another thing, she was built like an NFL safety: broa
d, heavily muscled shoulders and upper arms, muscular thighs, and calves. Physical Eval reported she could bench press 275, yet she only weighed 145.

  The AD smiled at her. He waved her to a chair halfway down the table.

  "You are Christine Susmann; we've met before."

  She wasn't smiling. She wasn't frowning, either. She had slipped into military-ambiguous-affect.

  She pulled a wave of hair from her forehead. "Have we?"

  "At the military academy, 2004. You had just completed basic and were partway through your advanced MP training in leadership."

  "All right."

  "Following Basic Training, you served in Afghanistan, correct?"

  Christine's dark eyes narrowed. "Am I confirming what that red file says? Or do you really not know?"

  The AD looked at his assistants. One gave an approving smile. That was Syria.

  "Touché. So let me get right to it."

  "Yes, please. I'm on the seven-thirty back to Springfield."

  "Sure. The people you see seated around this table all hold commands inside the Agency."

  "CIA. That's what the big gold seal said out in the lobby."

  He smiled. "We brought you here to ask for your help."

  "I did my tour. I will help with anything I can. Just don't ask me to serve in Kabul again."

  "Why's that?"

  She all but spat it out.

  "Shit hole."

  "Your opinion seems to be a majority one."

  "Whatever. So how I can help my country other than going back to Afghanistan?"

  "What we're going to ask you to do is allow us to put your military training and experience to one more use."

  "You want me to arrest someone?"

  "We want you to kill someone."

  "Okay, well, thanks for the trip back here, the luxury hotel, the great steak last night, and the chauffeured tour of the city. But I'll be on my way now."

  She stood and began to turn away.

  "Please. Sit down and at least hear me out. You will be able to catch your flight in plenty of time, I promise."

  "That's a must. I have a very upset husband at the other end."

  "We appreciate that. Please try also to appreciate our quandary. Your government has underestimated the consequences of allowing the Middle Eastern State Army to fester and spread."

  "MESA."

  ”MESA. All over the news, in everyone's mind, people are nervous about getting on subways or flying—it's much more of a perceived threat than we expected."

  "Which is worse, the perceived threat or the actual?"

  "Both, I would say. Both are equally unacceptable. So your president has decided to declare war. Starting with the top down. Cut off the head, and the body will wither and die. That's the administration's best thinking."

  She shook her head. "Which we all know is nonsense. Cut off the head, and the organism will instantly grow another. That's the reality of terrorism."

  The AD raised an eyebrow. "Maybe, maybe not. Cut off the head, immediately address the body, and you just might prevent that prediction from coming true. There can be no head without a body."

  "There can be no efficacious head without a body, you mean."

  "I stand corrected. Yes, that's true. Which is where you come in. We want you to take off the head. Give them some of their own medicine: a public beheading."

  "You mean literally? You want me to take off his head?"

  "On TV."

  "TV. This is your best plan?"

  "It's a world stage."

  "And how do you see me pulling off this act where the head of MESA disappears?"

  "You will gain admission to his inner circle."

  "And I would do that how? You still haven't answered my question."

  "We would smuggle you in-country. You would use your military skills and great beauty to get close to him. You would prove yourself worthy of his utmost trust."

  "And after I have terminated his command, how do I get home to my family? I'm sure my husband will want to know.”

  "We haven't got that far. We thought we'd ask your help there."

  She slowly shook her head. She blinked hard. "Got it. I was afraid it would be something like that. Long story short, I probably don't get to come home."

  "We'll have a plan for that. We'll have helicopters, S.E.A.L. teams—whatever you need, you'll get. We can promise that. No one has to die there. Except their leader."

  "But the chances are good that I will die. In that event, what does my family get?"

  "The usual assassin's package: ten million cash; full ride for the kids to any university, college, or other post-high school training desired; paid mortgage."

  "Sounds like they're better off financially if I don't make it back."

  "Then you'll do it?"

  "I didn't say that. No, I won't do it. I'm leaving now. Your Middle East strategy needs to change. It's wrong. Wrong approach."

  "I'm sure you have recommendations in that regard."

  "No, I don't. I'm a paralegal, not a political scientist. And I'm no longer a soldier. I was a soldier once, and I killed my share of bad guys. But I was young and hung then. Now I'm a mother and lots wiser. Gotta go."

  She stood to leave.

  "Wait. Ten million cash if you come back, as well. Plus the paid mortgage and education perqs. Now, what do you say?"

  Christine settled back into her chair.

  "That's my family's economic future you just guaranteed, either way."

  "True. One million today, balance on your return or confirmation of your death. Either way."

  She squirmed in her chair. It was getting very difficult to keep saying, "No."

  "You people are real assholes, you know that, don't you?"

  The Assistant Director allowed a small smile. He wasn't totally against acting human. Just mostly. "Your opinion is noted. Now, suppose you give us some account numbers. You will find the money in your account before you even leave here."

  "What about training?"

  "Don't have time for that. Besides, you're ready for this. You always were."

  "Leaving when?"

  "Sunday night."

  "What? This is Friday. I get one day with my family and then I'm gone?"

  "This can't wait, Christine. It will take you probably six months to make your way inside the castle walls. Time is of the essence."

  "You people amaze me."

  The AD smiled. "Then it's mutual. We're glad to have you on board."

  She unzipped her bag.

  "Here's a check. Routing number and account number."

  "And here are plane tickets out of Chicago. In your name."

  She accepted the packet. "Pretty sure of yourselves to buy these in advance, weren't you?"

  "Sergeant Susmann, you have an asthmatic daughter who visits the ER at least once a month. Your son has been treated for cerebral palsy since birth. He's going to need a lifetime of medical care. Your husband drives a dump truck, and you earn sixty-five-thousand as a paralegal working for Thaddeus Murfee. Meaning you make more than your husband. But even if your salaries were doubled, you still wouldn't be able to guarantee the health care your son will need after you're gone. So the airline tickets sounded to us like a solid investment."

  She opened the packet and studied the tickets.

  "My name is Ama Gloq? I'm flying Chicago to Zurich? Then what?"

  The AD touched the side of his head. "Need-to-know."

  She shrugged. "I find out when I get there. But I'm certain it's Turkey, then Syria. Correct?"

  He smiled.

  He extended his hand. She stared at it. Then shook her head.

  "I'll shake it when you cough up the other nine million. Or won't."

  "Fair enough."

  "And Gloq? What kind of name is that?"

  The AD crossed his arms on his chest. Slowly, right before her eyes, he made a pistol of the fingers on his right hand. He pointed it at Christine.

  "Glock. You code-named
me after the most popular gun in history."

  He lowered the thumb hammer and said, “Bang."

  "Is that it?"

  The AD sighed. "Not quite. We need cover for you in case you're recognized. So we've made arrangements for Thaddeus Murfee to fly on the same flight. But he'll be turning around and coming home once you land in Zurich. You will part ways."

  "Does he know about this? He hasn't said anything about it to me."

  "He was called this afternoon. Thaddeus Murfee is a patriot. He didn't hesitate to commit to riding along to provide cover for you. Good man."

  "Yes, he is a good man. He won't be in any danger, will he?"

  "Of course not. Milk run. Chicago-Zurich-Chicago. One and done."

  "I'll talk to my husband. I'll let you know."

  "Uh-uh. Too late for that. In or out?"

  Her chest heaved in a heavy sigh. "We need the dollars. I'm in. Stupid, but in."

  "Excellent. Then, away we go!"

  "One last thing. What is my nationality?"

  "See the passport. It says you're Afghan. Do you have a problem with that?"

  She grimly shook her head.

  "Would it matter if I did?"

  "Not in the slightest."

  "There you are, then."

  "Yes, here we are."

  2

  They operated out of a converted lube shop in Grozny, Chechnya. There were three of them, plus two PC's that still accepted floppy disks, a blue-eyed Bassett hound, and four feral cats living in the windows.

  But they were well funded. They spent a stack of cash and received an untraceable email that listed all Swissair pilots age sixty-three or older. They filtered that list to those who flew to Zurich; and of those, they chose the one who was sixty-four. His name was Royal Evans, and his was the perfect profile: mandatory retirement in six weeks, happily married, no criminal record, retirement fully funded. The seats and Zurich were confirmed. They knew they had their man.

  The Chechens entered the United States and made their way to Chicago. They set up housekeeping in a downtown Hilton suite and went to work.

  The pilot, Royal Evans, had to be taken down. Only then would he be useful.

  First order of business: they made sure Evans caught his wife with another man. The other man was one of them, name of Maritan. He was a physician—and handsome. Mrs. Royal Evans was swept her off her feet in just three days after a chance meeting at the Starbucks she visited every weekday morning. He was wearing scrubs and he wore the requisite stethoscope around his neck like a Hollywood producer sporting gold chains. He reeked of status and riches like lounge lizards reek of Musk.