Blood Covenent, page 14
His targets were a series of three inch sporting clays piled haphazardly along the berm some forty yards away. Six hits and one miss later, he reloaded and continued to fire until all twenty targets were reduced to shattered yellow and orange pieces.
Scattered about his position were empty brass cases, some still smoking. Harper stood, dusting his shirt off. Clad in a T-shirt, shorts, an NRA ball cap, and New Balance running shoes, Harper walked over to the battered wooden picnic table and set the Charles Daly on its side—magazine empty and slide locked out.
It was working well these days. He had added an extended guide rod and heavier spring over the winter. Lynn called it “Chucky the Gun.” She named some of his guns but mostly quizzed him about the differences between all his weapons. “After all,” she would say with a teasing smile on her lips, “don’t you just pull the trigger, and they go bang?”
They had a tacit agreement. He never asked about her trophies from craft shows and she never really minded his fascination with loud hobbies.
Behind him some fifty yards away was his Pathfinder. He pulled the earplugs out and whistled. The enormous head of an oversized black Labrador retriever looked around the wheel wells from the shade. He motioned with his hand, and Indiana Jones loped across the ground between his shooting platform and parking area. Indy, for all his size and heritage, did not like the sound of gunfire.
Harper petted the big dog and hefted a new set of targets. They walked towards his various target spots in a manner practiced countless times. The dog’s huge tail wagged slowly side to side. Both heard the heavy V-8 engine turn into their shooting spot.
Harper and Indy turned as one. The hound’s ears perked up and a deep growl emerged. Harper absently rubbed the dog’s neck. “Maybe it’s someone just turning around.” He felt no conviction for that conclusion. The road was barred with a heavy chain and signed posted indicating private property.
He felt the reassuring weight from the Glock 17 in a holster positioned at the small of his back. It was loaded with Winchester 115 grain jacketed Silvertip hollow points. A second magazine was stuffed in the back pocket of his shorts. Shooting off the beaten track can have its hazards.
A black Suburban made the turn through the trees and rolled past his forest green Pathfinder. The dust kicked up by the big wheels and the tinted glass made it impossible to query who drove the vehicle. Harper knew it was not a chance encounter. The Federal Tax Exempt plates confirmed his worst fears. He set the target box down and whispered, “It’s okay.” His fingers brushed the Spyderco knife clipped inside his front pocket. He tossed the earplugs into the target box.
The Suburban came to a stop next to his shooting stand. Two rifles were leaning against a rail. Neither were very accurate: a Russian SKS and a Ruger Mini-14. The magazines were in a blue bag beneath the picnic table. Another black plastic pistol case was flipped open revealing a Taurus .357 Magnum with a six-inch barrel and compensator ports along the front blade. In the second layer of foam were the Glock 21 .45 ACP and a small Browning Buckmark with three spare magazines. Harper started to walk towards the Suburban.
Indy might not like gunfire, but this was their spot. They drove for an hour together to get here, and Indy loved car rides. The huge dog sensed his master’s tension. For Indy, there were two types of people: friends and enemies. For Harper, there were mostly enemies and too many dead friends. The tail no longer wagged. Harper spread his feet to shoulder width and clasped his hands behind his back. He eased the Glock 17 in its holster, running his fingers over the Hogue grip.
Jonas Benjamin emerged from the passenger side. It took Harper to another time.
* * * *
Exhausted, hungry. and bloody he swayed behind a boulder. Blood and gore was splattered over his BDUs. Sweat stung his eyes and the Iraqi soldiers trying to kill him swam in and out of focus.
He steadied his hands on a rock. They were trembling badly now. The day had caught the last of his strength reserves. The site picture continued to quiver in and out of focus. A bullet slammed into the Kevlar helmet and sent it spinning into the night.
Vomit swelled up in his throat. Had he anything left inside it would have spewed across the sand. His old companion, death, had come calling. The Reaper’s bony fingers were spread wide to receive him. There were too many Iraqis left. He wondered if Darby Hayes and Brian Stillwell got away. How would Lynn take the news?
He pulled the trigger on the Glock. Then the night exploded in thunder and fire for a final time. The heavy downdraft from thePuma helicopter spun sand and gravel about in a sweeping vortex. His thoughts muddy now, as he kept firing the Glock to no effect. ThePuma’s chain gun pulverized the line coming toward him before it landed. The Iraqi regulars broke apart like kindling on a cold day.
Time wavered and the Reaper held his shoulders. His knees buckled. He had no strength left. He had been operating on pure grit for the last hour. He closed his eyes and slumped forward. The Reaper’s grip was surprisingly strong as Harper stared into Jonas’s face. “You’re not a dream, are you?”
Jonas shook his head.
“Where you been?” he asked. His lips cracking. The last of his strength ebbing.
“Problems Jim—we had problems.”
* * * *
Darby Hayes stepped out of the driver’s side. Harper realized the dog and men were examining him. His dreams about Iraq had lessened almost two years later. Lynn knew something had happened, but he refused to burden her gentle soul with his horrors.
Harper rubbed the hound’s head and relaxed his shoulders. He breathed deeply and croaked out: “They sent you this time.”
Jonas nodded. He had read Harper’s Q file. There was enough in there to warrant the Medal of Honor, but it would never be awarded. White House ceremonies were not accorded Cold warriors. The soldiers of the black operations and non-existent wars never received any recognition; rather they were held in fear by the government that trained, equipped, and sent them. Louis Edwards and General Carnady had impressed on young Jonas that Harper was a living legend. Sometimes legends have a hard time adjusting to the real world of civilians with its PTA meetings, and grocery shopping.
He turned to Darby Hayes, looking ill at ease in civilian clothes. “Sergeant, you’re looking well.”
The black Marine acknowledged Harper with a nod. “You too, sir.”
Harper fished out a dog cookie and tossed it behind him. Indy looked the new pair of men over one last time before retrieving his treat. The master’s tension eased off; maybe it would be all right.
“I take it this is not a social call.”
“No, sir,” replied Hayes.
Harper moved his stuff to one side of the picnic table and waved a hand. “Have a seat.” Jonas had earned the courtesy of presenting his case. Hayes had bled with him in the desert. He settled himself on one side.
Jonas retrieved a briefcase from the Suburban. “I suppose it was too good to believe you’d let me live in peace,” Harper began quietly.
“We live in a dangerous world,” offered Hayes.
Harper nodded and tossed another dog cookie towards the hound. “We’ve always lived in a dangerous world, Sergeant. It’s usually people like us who pay for the folly that passes for reason in the Oval Office.”
Jonas flipped the catches on the briefcase. “It’s not like that this time,” he explained.
Harper grunted and shook his head. He pulled off his shooting gloves and set them on the table. “Jonas, you can’t hollow out the military, bomb everything in sight, and not expect problems. The whole talk about a peace dividend was a lie, and now the bills are coming due,” scowled Harper.
Jonas produced a sheet of paper with the FBI’s video captured front and profile photographs. Hassan Jamal’s murderer looked up to Harper from the page.
“Who’s he?”
“We don’t know,” answered Hayes.
Harper stared at the photograph again, then back to Hayes. “Okay, am I supposed to know him?”
“No,” continued Jonas. “We think he’s connected to a group of terrorists who had a suitcase-size nuclear weapon. The kind made at Arzamas-16.”
His left shoulder throbbed at the very thought. Every morning he saw the pinkish, puckered scar, and on cold days, something was not quite right in his shoulder. His eyes narrowed.
“And?”
“You heard about the terrorist incident in New York two days ago.”
Harper shrugged. “Trump Tower thing—what about it?” Instinctively, Harper already knew the answer and his stomach went cold. The warm summer day no longer seemed so nice.
Jonas explained about the weapon and its disarmament. He discussed Louis Edwards’ assessment that these were possibly prepositioned nuclear weapons, and more than one existed in the United States. When he finished, Harper stared past the two men and wonderedwas anyone this evil? He understood why they were here. They had a nasty job and Louis had decided he was the best man for the task.
“You think this joker has them?”
Jonas nodded. “You’ve a license to hunt him down.” He glanced at the fax he had received from Edwards earlier that morning.
“I don’t do that kind of work anymore,” replied Harper. It was so easy for someone to issue orders ending another man’s life. The people giving the orders usually sat in well-appointed offices. They never saw the bloody work killing entailed or heard the life breath sing past someone’s teeth.
“Sir,” interrupted Hayes. “I don’t think you appreciate the situation. Three NYPD cops are dead from Saturday’s attack, and the FBI—well, they’re being the FBI—”
“Why don’t you spell it out, Sergeant?” commanded Harper.
Hayes clasped his hands. “We understand the NYPD is out for blood and the FBI is out for glory. The Energy Department is still stinging from the Los Alamos, Rocky Flatts, and Lawrence Livermore problems, and—”
“And Louis Edwards is concerned that no one is working for the right motives,” finished Harper.
“Exactly,” said Jonas. “General Carnady and Louis have activated the remaining teams.”
A pained expression tinged with sadness crossed Harper’s features. “My partner’s dead.” Jerry was buried in an unmarked grave in the southern Iraqi desert.
“Yes, sir. I know that,” replied Hayes. “We were wondering if you’d accept me.”
Harper pursed his lips. “Put my life in your hands—and yours in mine. That’s what you’re saying.”
“Yes, sir.”
Harper fished another dog cookie from his shooting vest. He tossed it to the hound, who missed it. “Never could teach that dog to catch it in the air.” He sighed and turned back to Hayes. “Last time, Sergeant, you had secret orders. I was in charge, and you had different orders. Those orders were immoral and illegal. Someone going to pop out of the box this time with another wild card?” Hayes started to answer, but Harper held up his hand. “Before you answer, understand I won’t be so forgiving a second time.”
“Major, you have my word of honor.” He looked straight into Harper’s eyes.
After a long pause, Harper nodded. “Very well.”
“Then you’ll do it?” asked Jonas quickly.
“Not so fast, Jonas. I listened to you, because you pulled us out of the desert. I listened to Sergeant Hayes, because we bled together. But I want your word that we’re not playing with a hidden deck.”
Jonas frowned. “As far as I know, this is straight.”
Harper shook his head. “Jonas, nothing has ever beenstraight in this business.” Harper noted Jonas hedged his assurance. “All right, help me pack up and we’ll be on our way.”
Jonas pulled a certificate from his briefcase. “This is a Federal Firearms permit.”
Harper glanced at the paper. “You know I won’t carry that with me, Jonas. I’ll carry whatever weapons I need, but I refuse to look like something other than a database guy from Chicago. That’s my legend; resurrecting the past with paperwork only fingers me with people I’d rather not know.”
“The gun laws in Washington and New York are very restrictive,” he explained.
Harper smirked. “They’re not real good here. Our Mayor wants to sue Bill Ruger, because some dirtball used a stolen weapon. Look, if I get stopped, I’ll tell them to run a check. If they don’t want to be reasonable, make sure you send them some flowers at the hospital.”
Jonas nodded. “It’s just—”
“Jonas, you’re an analyst and gofer for Louis. There’s nothing wrong with that, but I’m the one you asked to do this business. I know what needs to be done. In case Louis didn’t explain, I do it my way—outside of the system. No FBI, CIA, or any other agency runs me.” He picked up the sheet. “You want me to find this man, I’ll find him—but I’ll find him my way.” He fastened his eyes on the photographs.I’ll find you and I’ll kill you. The ghosts of his past taunted him. It was happening again. The darkness in his soul threatened to overwhelm him.
Jonas opened his mouth; Darby Hayes set a gnarled hand on his wrist. “The Major’s saying it’s his job now. You run interference, and keep people out of his hair. He’ll find this man.”
Harper looked from the photos to Hayes. “We’ll find him,” he corrected. “We’ll find him,” he repeated softly. The hunter rolled his tongue over his teeth and wondered where this would take him. The huge dog sensed something had changed.
CHAPTER 14
Brooklyn, New York
Monday, July 5, 1999
3:00 P.M. EDT
Michael Rehazi pulled up the green corrugated door. In the dim light and dusty confines of the shed, he examined his cache. The shed was attached to a pole building. It had a raised wooden floor, a desk, chairs, and several mouse nests. The building had been built during Teddy Roosevelt’s presidency. There was still a batch of yellowing newspapers further back in the building announcing his plans for a National Park System and the Panama Canal. The steady roar of commercial jets rumbled the warped wooden doors and cheap windows. The building stood at the far end of a lot less than two miles from JFK International Airport.
When it became apparent that Iranian assets would remain frozen in American banks and brokerage houses, and the Reagan Administration intended to offer no forgiveness for the Embassy Crisis, Rehazi convinced his masters to establish a base of operations for future actions against theGreat Satan. It always helped to wave Uncle Sam’s bearded effigy in their faces. He traveled to Switzerland and established a series of accounts in as many banks. Armed with a line of credit, Rehazi met with a New Jersey law firm and established a trust fund. The Byzantine American tax code had enough loopholes to generate the type of financial instruments he required.
Rehazi had lawyers and money. The tandem purchased this building without any connection to Iranian clerics. Funds could be manipulated from offshore accounts and orders issued for future operations. Additional lawyers were engaged. Rehazi used a second firm in Connecticut to create an elaborate maze of legal roadblocks, and through this firm, he purchased vehicles. At a third firm in the center of Manhattan, he established his own accounts. The one hundred million dollars he skimmed during the purchase of the weapons from Yevgeny served to purchase two condominiums at Trump Tower. Rehazi had nursed his paltry hundred million to half a billion riding the Dow Jones and NASDAQ to dizzying heights.
Rehazi’s Princeton education did not languish half a world away. He used it to make himself a very rich man. The lawyers served the interests of the trusts, bank statements, mutual funds, and brokerage accounts. They executed their duties per instructions that arrived by courier. They never met or spoke to their client. It was one of those accounts passed along to junior members of the firm. The work was never onerous. The details to attend to were the renewal of licenses, preparation of tax returns, the sale and purchase of property. From time to time, money would be siphoned to offshore accounts. American lawyers, true to the fidelity of healthy billings and not a great deal of work, would defend the privacy of their faceless client from any and all inquiries. They unwittingly shielded the American government from the knowledge that offensive nuclear weapons were based on their soil and inside their largest city.
The four cases stared back at him in the building’s gloom. The atom’s awesome power under his control, Rehazi considered the weapons. He could turn away from a personal nuclear arsenal, and vanish behind a maze of Swiss, Jamaican, and Hong Kong banks. His features could be surgically altered in any number of South American locations. But then the game would be incomplete. His masters expected something for their money, and Rehazi did not wish to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder.
The Islamic state demanded obedience to a lifestyle in vogue when the Black Plague ravaged Europe. The Mullahs who held power were content live within a medieval society. They expected their servants to do the same. It did not trouble them to find themselves in the same league as Idi Amin, Joseph Stalin, and Pol Pot.
Rehazi epitomized their choice. No one with a soul would calmly contemplate the detonation of multi-kiloton weapons in densely populated areas. Ethics was nothing more than a word bantered about in college classrooms. Blood and death meant no more than his selection of an in-flight movie or the vintage he would have with an evening meal. Religious fervor did not drive Rehazi’s decisions, rather the practical matters of his hidden portfolios and a final exit from his masters.
He pulled a small black case from the top of the nearest bomb. He snapped open the latches and flipped it open. He pulled the small .22 caliber pistol from his coat pocket and placed it inside the case. His eyes traced the form and shape of the larger 1911 style pistol. Two seven-round magazines were next to the weapon, plus there was a third magazine already loaded into the weapon.
He hefted the Springfield 1911A1 .45 ACP. Originally, it was shipped with eight-round magazines. Rehazi never trusted those magazines to feed properly. He opted for the traditional seven-round magazines and spent the extra money for Bill Wilson’s finest. He racked the weapon’s slide. Its sound echoed through the empty room. He flipped the thumb safety up and placed the weapon in a holster on his weak side. The Bianchi in-the-pants holster was arranged in a cross-draw configuration. The two extra magazines he dropped into the side pockets of his jacket. He closed the case and set it back on the bomb cases.
