End of Days, page 12
Chapter 24
Back in our Israeli paid-for Hyatt Regency high-end hotel room, we discussed what the next steps would be. We now knew beyond a shadow of a doubt this guy was somehow involved in the killing of the Ramsad, but we still had no proof of who his masters were—Iran or otherwise—which was the mission.
The text box—which was presumably embedded within the photo on the thumb drive that Qassim had used to send via ProtonMail—was asking about a linkup in Bahrain, and mentioned that the money would be coming with the man to pay for the next “operation.” He was apparently some sort of badass from Bosnia, and had impeccable credentials for unspecified skills. It didn’t say what, but I assumed it was for killing. Included, of course, were the usual bowing down to Allah and proclaiming the world would be free of the infidels, In’shallah. Meaning if God willed it.
The strange thing was the text seemed to be begging the far site to accept the parameters. It wasn’t like Qassim was just stating facts. He was asking for permission, which was weird, given that they were supposedly all working together. He made a hard sell that Iran was demanding this—which also didn’t sound right. If Iran was demanding it, it would just happen. No questions asked. He wouldn’t need to flaunt it in a text.
Given that, there was no doubt in my mind now that this asshole was in the kill chain. The only thing missing was proving it. Right now, we really only had a lot of smoke. A text message that said nothing other than a meeting about money with everything else cloaked in innocuous wording. Nothing illegal, in and of itself, and nothing pointing the smoking gun at Keta’ib Hezbollah.
By the text, he was going to return to get the linkup specifics at noon tomorrow, so we had a time frame. What we didn’t have was a new lead. Or any idea of what we should do about it.
Shoshana said, “So what do we do now? I can’t take this back to Mossad. We have nothing to prove that Keta’ib Hezbollah killed the Ramsad, or anything to prove they didn’t. All we have is evidence that he was involved.”
Knuckles said, “Let him do his little dance again tomorrow, then we just repeat what you guys did. Brett and I will do the B&E, clock back the Time Machine, and see what the message says.”
Jennifer said, “That’s a long shot. There’s only one in a hundred chance it will work. We were lucky that his Time Machine backup took a snapshot at that precise time he was using the program. He could do the entire message thing and more than likely it will be in between snapshots.”
I nodded, thinking. Then said, “There’s only one way to get that message.”
Shoshana said, “How?”
“We need to roll up Qassim after the drop tomorrow. We need that thumb drive.”
Nobody said anything for a moment, still processing my words. Finally, Brett said, “Did I hear that right? Are you talking about conducting an Omega operation on foreign soil when we’re not even operating as Taskforce? Seriously?”
I considered his words, nodded my head, and said, “Yeah, I guess that’s what I’m saying. We need to interdict him after he gets the instructions tomorrow, but before he transmits them. Make it look like a mugging. Rough him up a bit, steal his watch and wallet, and get the thumb drive. We get that lead, and we continue on.”
I looked at Aaron and said, “The point of this is to prove or disprove Iranian involvement, right? This guy that’s doing the linkup isn’t Iranian. He’s sketchy, and he’s sounding like what your Mossad skeptics think—somebody else pulling the strings. We need to sort that out. He’s the guy we ultimately want.”
Aaron said, “So how does our interdicting the Professor before he has the ability to transmit the plan help us? The guy won’t get the instructions.”
“No, he will, but we’ll be controlling the information. I say we roll up Professor, get the message, and then craft our own linkup plan—make him think we’re the cell. We go to Bahrain, roll up his ass, and squeeze him. That’s where the answers will come. And we’ll short-circuit anything they had planned as well. It’s a win/win.”
Aaron nodded, saying, “Yeah, that sounds good to me. Shoshana?”
She said, “I agree. We have a hit time tomorrow for him to retrieve the message, and we know his route. We’ll actually get two shots at it, since he’ll have to retrieve the message, come home to use the stego program to decode, then shack up his own message to the Bosnian guy, and finally return to the hotel to send it. We can hit him after he leaves the hotel, and if that fails, after he leaves his apartment again. We could do it.”
Knuckles tugged his ear, then glanced at me. I said, “What?”
“You’re forgetting we have no sanction over here. We can’t just go ripping people off the street because Israel thinks it’s a good thing. We can’t do it. Or more specifically, Brett and I won’t do it. You guys are civilians, so go ahead and get your jihad on, but we’re standing down.”
Knuckles was still an active duty Navy SEAL, and Brett was officially part of the CIA’s Ground Branch paramilitary division, unlike Jennifer and me, who were civilian owners of an archeological research company. I understood where they were coming from.
I said, “Come on. This is what you do. We’re derailing their ability to assassinate our allies—or maybe our own guys. You know what’s in Bahrain? The Fifth Fleet. You don’t think that’s a juicy target? They’re going to kill someone in Bahrain. We can stop it. And maybe stop a war with Iran if the hits are truly a false flag.”
He said, “That may be the case, but I’m not conducting an Omega operation without sanction. This ‘being an Israeli’ thing only goes so far, and you’re stretching it.”
I glanced at Jennifer. She pursed her lips and shook her head, telling me Knuckles was right. I turned to Brett and he said, “You know where I stand. Need some authorization for this.”
Shoshana said, “Pike, we can do this on our own. Just you and us. I don’t need authorization. I already have it.”
I looked at Aaron, and saw he was torn. He wanted my help, but understood my restrictions.
I took a deep breath and then let it out. I said, “I’m sorry, Shoshana, but my team’s right. I’d love to tag this guy, but we’re going to need authorization. Let’s take a look at what we can do without ripping the Professor off the street.”
Knuckles exhaled at my words, the act letting me know he didn’t want to go against me, but was going to do what he thought was right. It made me smile, because the worst thing a team leader could ever become was convinced he alone was correct.
I glanced at Jennifer, and she winked, letting me know she thought it was the right decision as well. Shoshana became incensed, springing up and saying, “We’ll do this on our own, then.”
I said, “Calm down, Carrie. We’re still going to help, but just within the charter we have. Which is surveillance only.”
She hissed, saying, “Your side is next. Your people are going to get killed next. And we could prevent that right now.”
I said, “I’m sorry, but until Wolffe gives me sanction to conduct offensive operations, I can’t do it.”
And then my phone came alive, with the distinctive Taskforce ringtone telling me to go encrypted.
Chapter 25
After finishing the establishment of his kill zone during daylight, Garrett sat in his car in the fading twilight, waiting on the darkness to fall, a precursor required before the streetwalkers began plying their trade like nocturnal animals digging through a trash can. Parked in the EUR neighborhood next to a small man-made body of water called Lago Dell’Eur, waiting on darkness to fall, his mind drifted unbidden to the ramifications of what he was about to do, kill an innocent solely to protect the mission.
Leonardo was going to get the linkup information for Bahrain tomorrow, but that still left about three days for the female police inspector to hunt him down, and he had no idea how close she was. For all he knew, they were within twenty-four hours of knocking on his door and asking for his DNA or fingerprints. He knew he’d left both at every crime scene.
The murder of Gabrielle Hernandez, the United States diplomat, had certainly generated the news he wanted, with the U.S. press’s endless cycle of cable talking heads demanding the obliteration of Iran. But the female inspector had nothing to do with that, and he was sure the investigation was going full speed ahead. He’d tried mightily to find out her identity or where she lived, but had so far failed. The police had held several news conferences discussing a “ripper” type character on the loose in the EUR neighborhood, but that story had now been overshadowed by the spectacular death of the American—but even before, the woman detective never took the microphone, was never introduced, and nobody ever referred to her by name. She apparently preferred to operate in the shadows, which concerned Garrett a great deal.
He needed to remove her from the equation to short-circuit the investigation, which necessitated him first discovering her identity. After he’d repeatedly come up empty using every investigative technique he could think of, wasting hours on the web trying to find her and calling various people he knew from his past, he’d decided on a different tack—instead of him searching for her, bring her to him.
The quickest way to do that would be another killing, but unlike the other three, this one would be premeditated. No rage, no sexual frustration, just a goat staked to a tree for the tiger to come find. When that happened, he’d learn who she was because he’d ensured that he would control the space where the body would be found.
At night, the streetwalkers were all over the EUR neighborhood, the majority clinging to the alleys that surrounded the park around the lake, but, as he’d learned, most had no place to go, with some wanting to offer their services in the darkness of the park itself, and others simply using the patron’s car. Earlier, when he was genuinely searching for sexual gratification, he hadn’t liked either choice, forcing him to solicit multiple women before he’d found one who had a place to stay. He wasn’t going to do that tonight. He couldn’t take a chance on another trailer encounter. He needed to prepare the location prior to arrival, and so he’d rented a VRBO apartment on the east side of the neighborhood, away from the lake.
That in itself had been a chore, because he had very specific requirements. The biggest hurdle was finding a host who didn’t require verified identification to rent. That cut his choices in half, as Airbnb not only required an official government ID, they also did a background check on the identification submitted before giving the renter “verified” status.
VRBO recommended verification, as some hosts wouldn’t rent without it, but didn’t actually require it, allowing him to use a fake driver’s license from the United States. The license had been bought off the internet just like any underage college student had the capability of doing, but he figured unlike a bouncer in a college town bar in the United States, nobody in Italy would know what to look for to prove it false. That, coupled with the complete collapse of rentals from COVID, made Garrett sure the host wouldn’t even attempt to verify. He or she would just want the money.
Beyond the identification problem, he had other needs. The rental couldn’t require him to meet the owner or agent of the apartment to gain access. That eliminated “apartments” that were really just makeshift rooms at the back of a house where the owner still lived or apartments that insisted on an in-person meeting with a rental agent to receive the key.
Finally, the location was key. He needed a place that allowed him to get within a hundred meters of the apartment without being seen, and not just by driving up like he had before. He wasn’t going to risk being discovered in his car again, and he would need to remain for possibly hours, which required a site that would allow such a stay.
It seemed to be an exhaustive list, and he’d actually considered renting a trailer himself, parking it somewhere in a dark alley to use, but assumed there was no way a whore would follow him into a sketchy back-alley trailer that she didn’t own.
After six hours of research, he’d stumbled upon a perfect location. It was a VRBO in four-story apartment complex right next to a park called Parco Mattia Preti, on the east side of the EUR neighborhood. With a school across the road—which would be closed at night, ensuring no coincidental eyewitnesses—a myriad of alleys surrounding it, and keypad entry that didn’t require him to meet anyone, he submitted his application. Four hours later, it was approved, and he paid for four days.
He’d driven to the location, carefully looking for surveillance cameras and seeing two mounted on the walls to the front entrance, one focused on the parking lot, the other focused on all who entered. He’d avoided them, entering through a side door and walking up two flights of stairs. He checked numbers, reached his door, and held his breath. He punched in the code he’d been given, and the lock clicked open. He exhaled and entered, taking stock of the surroundings.
It was small, a one-bedroom with a kitchenette and a bathroom, the tiny den barely big enough to hold the two chairs and a coffee table the host had provided, which was perfect for him. He opened his backpack and went to work.
He began installing Wi-Fi cameras and small, covert microphones throughout the apartment, using the cheap artwork on the walls, smoke alarms in each room, lamps on tables, and air vents along the baseboards. When he was done, he connected the system to the apartment Wi-Fi and checked the feed on a tablet. It appeared to work inside the apartment, but the real test would be outside.
He turned on the television, raising the volume to conversation level, then went back to his vehicle and drove to the park entrance a scant hundred meters away. He entered it, walking with a backpack until he reached a bench, ignoring the people out enjoying the sunshine. He opened the pack, pulled out the tablet, and attempted to connect to the apartment complex Wi-Fi. The signal was too weak. He stood up and began walking back toward the complex, looking at his tablet. He entered a wooded section, the fence to the park only twenty meters away, and feared his plan wouldn’t work. He found another bench and sat down again, waiting.
The tablet found the signal and connected. He dialed up his network of surveillance devices and smiled. The system worked perfectly. He had a clear view of both the bedroom and the den and could hear the television even inside the bedroom. He tapped the tablet, shifting cameras, pleased. Sometimes it paid to have specialized training and equipment.
He’d started to put away his tablet when a dog ran up to him with a ball, a young boy of about thirteen scampering behind. The boy approached and said, “What’s that?”
Before Garrett could answer, the boy saw the camera feeds and said, “Are you flying a drone? Can I see?”
Flustered, Garrett stood and said, “No, no. It’s pictures of my apartment.”
He walked rapidly away, regretting the contact and his reaction to it. The boy would remember Garrett. If he lived around here, he might be contacted in a canvas of the neighborhood.
Maybe he should kill the boy, too. Right now, before he could return to his parents. The thought made him physically ill.
He returned to his car, slammed his fist into the dash, and then began praying for his soul. He was on the verge of creating the return of Christ, but he was burning his afterlife to do so. He couldn’t believe he’d actually considered killing a thirteen-year-old child simply because he’d seen the tablet.
Three hours later, he was waiting for the sun to set next to the lake, trying to return to the promise of the mission. He feared he was losing focus of what constituted the work of Satan and what was for the greater good of humanity. The woman would be the greater good. The boy was not.
He thought it no different than Rahab in the Bible, a harlot who had protected Israelite spies in Jericho. She’d hidden them, and when the Israelites came to sack the city using the spies’ information, she had been spared by hanging a crimson rope outside her window.
This whore would be doing the same thing. Protecting a spy for the promised land. With that thought, he closed his eyes, waiting on the sun to set.
Two hours later, someone bumped his hood, startling him awake. Under the harsh glare of a streetlight, he saw a couple headed into the park. It was full night now, and the usual hookers were stalking around the greenspace next to the lake.
He left his vehicle and entered the park, surveying the various prostitutes walking about. He saw a black woman with a tube top, tight shorts, and sandals sitting on a bench, her hair in cornrows. She caught him looking her way and smiled. He went to her.
He knew how the game was played. Prostitution wasn’t technically illegal, but solicitation was, meaning the women couldn’t come to you and ask if you “wanted a good time.” You had to go to them.
She was small, about five foot four, which was in his favor. She was also a different race, which would help throw off the investigation. His other victims had been someone he was sexually attracted to, but he had none of that here, and any confusion he could interject on the case would only help.
In his broken Italian, he said, “You out here by yourself?”
She looked him up and down, saw no threat, and said, “Yes.”
He nodded and said, “You want some company?”
Hearing the magic words, she smiled. She hadn’t solicited him, so it was okay. “Sure. What would you like to do?”
He said, “My Italian isn’t that good. Do you speak English?”
She smiled again and, in English, said, “Yes. My Italian is better, but I speak English. You are American?”
He sat down next to her and said, “Yes, I am. Here on business. I have a rental apartment about a mile away. You want to go get some drinks?”
She stood, threw her purse over her shoulder, and said, “Sure. I can do that. What’s your name?”
“You can call me Splinter.”
She said, “My name is—” and he cut her off, saying, “I don’t want to know.”
