Blood Covenent, page 15
It was time to deal with Hassan’s remaining team—the ones lucky enough to be outside the condominium at Trump Tower. Rehazi was smart enough to realize he had missed some vital link in their security. The NYPD’s Emergency Services and the FBI did not simply stumble across his team. They either followed Hassan or were drawn to him by some clue.
He wondered if they understood the nature of their peril. There were additional weapons besides the four he had here. Three remained in Chicago using a similar legal arrangement and another dummy corporation. The last two were housed in St. Louis. Certainly, they would be successful with at least one or two of those weapons. The Mullahs expected nothing less than ten mushroom clouds blossoming in American Cities. The Mullahs would have to be happy with a handful.
He planned an act of terrorism beyond the common car bombs in Dublin and Beirut. Something more memorable than the TWA 800 shoot-down over Long Island or the Pan Am 103 Lockerbie bombing. America had created an illusion of hardening its airports; in reality, it was an excuse for the Federal Government to keep better track of its own dissidents. Oklahoma City demonstrated the need to watch its citizens more carefully.
The four remaining team members arrived in an airport rental car. Somehow, the four of them climbed out of a Plymouth Neon. They parked on the side of the building away from the traffic noise off the Van Wyck Expressway. The white car looked out of place. It was too clean and new for the neighborhood.
Rehazi watched them clamber up the concrete steps to the side door. He considered his odds of killing all four of them without significant injury to himself. The building would not hide the booming report from his Springfield, nor was he entirely certain what the return fire from their weapons might bring. He sighed. The mission must continue for the moment.
He walked over to a desk and settled in behind it. Four chairs were arranged in a rough semicircle facing him. He switched on a pair of arc lamps. His chair was behind the lamps, effectively placing him in shadows. Rehazi rarely left anything to chance as he pulled a Nomex Balaclava over his head, topped by a ball cap. He watched the inner door open.
They instinctively pulled their hands up to shield their eyes from the intense glare. With a pointer, Rehazi indicated the chairs. The arc lamps brought to mind the building’s dank and humid nature. The temperature seemed to go up by ten degrees in the span of a few short minutes, and the dry electrical smell from the lamps heightened the discomfort.
None of them were over twenty-five, and two of them looked like they needed a razor no more than once a week. Children sent to fight a war started before they were born. Bred on bitterness and guile, and nourished with chaotic zeal, they were his fighters—the instrument chosen for this particular mission. He seriously doubted any of them would be alive by the end of the month.
Rehazi held a voice synthesizer and began quietly in Persian. “Hassan is dead.”
No one registered much shock. They had witnessed the assault. The pounding from the .50 BMG and the lighter patter made by the 9mm Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns. The papers reported three NYPD officers were killed in the line of duty. One of the worst days in modern memory for the thin blue line pledged to protect and serve.
Police forces are trained for paramilitary operations. Lip service is given to the severe hostage situation like a plane or subway car. However, most of the time their overwhelming fire power is never truly tested. Typically, they can level their awesome power on some poor fool in a bungalow. Judging from the news shows and Sunday morning broadcasts, the .50 machine gun left a noticeable impression. When thereal bombs went off, no one would remember the machine guns.
“Nevertheless, we have a mission to complete.” He watched their eyes. Could one of these have told the Americans? “Our duty is to take the war to the Americans. Our comrades did not die in vain, and you shall make certain their sacrifice will not go unnoticed.
“The American Government has not revealed the presence of the weapon. Therefore, we shall demonstrate the power and detonate two more weapons within twelve days.” Their shoulders collectively straightened. He could sense the fire in their souls. Young and stupid would be a charitable description of his team. They believed something wonderful would be accomplished—so did the Mullahs.
Rehazi knew his history. Only fools attacked America, and only fools believed America was weak. True, she had let her war-fighting capabilities lapse, and she had over-committed her military forces, but only fools ignored her nuclear arsenal. Somehow, the Mullahs believed their terrorism would cause America to retreat. Rehazi wondered if there would even be rubble left to bounce should the Americans identify their attackers.
“Twelve days is not a great deal of time,” he continued. He used his pointer to tap the covers of two Tyvek envelopes. They were labeled TEAM 1 and TEAM 2. “I am splitting you into two teams. How you pair up is of no consequence to me. What is important is that you understand what we are facing.” It was always best to make it seem like a team effort. He intended to leave New York as quickly as possible.
“By now, the FBI has dismantled the bomb at Trump Tower.” It was always helpful to conjure images of Elliot Ness and G-men.The Untouchables was a cult favorite in certain Iranian circles. He knew they had all watched the film several times. They needed to understand they were up against a relentless pursuit. “They possibly suspect there were others who did not meet the same fate as Hassan. They may even suspect there are additional weapons.Never assume you are safe . We are committing an act of war in a country that has not seen battle in their streets for a hundred thirty-five years. They will have no mercy. No matter what you have heard, there are no rules regarding nuclear terrorism—on either side.” The younger two had been suckled at their mother’s breasts to the sound of firing squads.
“From this point on we will have no further contact. Each team will take one bomb and an envelope. Your targets, instructions, and safe houses are provided. Each envelope contains two thousand dollars for expenses, and a list of rally points,” Rehazi lied convincingly. It was a talent he found pride in. There were no rally points. He fabricated the locations, and ensured the phone numbers connected to phone company recordings or just plain line noise. It should lead the foxes astray.
Each acknowledged his words and accepted his direction. Who knows, they might even get lucky and set one of these things off.
“There is a set of keys in one of the envelopes. A minivan is in the garage behind this building. One team will take this vehicle. The other team shall leave in the vehicle it arrived in. You will depart in fifteen-minute intervals.” Operational security was stressed by Hassan’s failure. “Under no circumstances shall you return to this location. Any clothing or belongings are considered lost. You have sufficient funds to purchase what you need.”
While Rehazi doubted the FBI’s omniscience, he knew Murphy was along for the ride. He remembered his years at Princeton. His participation in Red Flag exercises with an F-14Tomcat between his legs. His American instructors constantly hammered home the concept that Murphy was always close by, and Murphy always caused problems. They even had a poster entitled Murphy’s Laws of Combat. Rule Number eight read:No plan survives the first contact intact. Michael had planned his strategy. He focused on the four boys before him. He had simplified the tasks, and decompressed the time element. They had a chance to survive, but he knew he had forgotten something.
Rehazi had forgotten rules twelve and thirteen: The important things are always simple, and The simple things are always hard.
“I will not see you again. As far as you are concerned, I don’t even exist. Go with God!” He settled further back in the chair.
They recognized his dismissal. The older two paired up, leaving the younger ones to fend for themselves. It struck Rehazi as a natural pairing. He never noticed the younger two were twins—Mahmood and Ahmad. They gathered their envelopes and began the task of moving the weapons to the vehicles. Somewhere along the way, the envelope contents got dumped on the ground outside. The boys hastily gathered everything back into their envelopes.They almost got it right .
Rehazi watched them drive away into the sprawling maze of the New York City Boroughs. He pulled off his Balaclava and tossed the hat on the desk. He remained silent in the dim light, staring at the last two New York weapons. What had he forgotten? He shrugged and shook his head. Time to deal with his weapons. He never noticed, but somewhere in the gloom, Murphy was smiling.
CHAPTER 15
Bartlett, Illinois
Monday, July 5, 1999
7:30 P.M. CDT
“Some more coffee?” offered Lynn Harper.
Darby held up his hands and shook his head. “No thank you, ma’am. Haven’t eaten this well since my Grandma fed me three squares each day,” he smiled.
Lynn’s continence twinkled. “I’m sure your Grandma was a great cook. Thank you.” She turned to Jonas Benjamin. “Any for you, Jonas?”
He held up a cup on its saucer. “Yes, please.”
Harper sipped on his iced tea in a tall glass with a lemon on the side. His youngest daughter, Grace, had left in search of the neighborhood bunny rabbit, and Catherine was off with her church small group for most of the evening. He watched his wife—always lovely in his eyes—maneuver through their small dining room attending to his impromptu guests.
Lynn gathered her own iced tea glass and topped it off before sitting down at her end of the table. She would have her answers tonight. She doubted she would like what she heard, or feel any better about Jim’s involvement—and he was involved. She could see it in his face and sense it in his spirit. His past—their past—had come calling again. It would do no good to believe it would not continue to return to their lives.
She knew some of what her husband did when he was in uniform, though she rarely saw him in a uniform. There were things he simply would not talk about. Not that he kept secrets from her, but she knew in their early years when it had been tough. Jim woke with cold sweats and heavy breathing. He still had the occasional nightmare reliving some horror he had witnessed or—worse—committed.
Twenty months ago, he left for a week. Before he left, he gathered his personal weapons together. It had something to do with Jerry, but Jerry had been gone these last seven years. Jerry had been his very best friend, and Jim told her he had buried him in the desert somewhere. It was strange to think of a big man like Jim bent over with his face in his hands crying his heart out, his muscled shoulder blades heaving with sorrow, and the powerful hands shuddering.
He explained snippets regarding the mission, and she learned about his foray into Iraq. It seemed her husband knew the southern Iraqi desert better than the Woodfield Mall down the road.
Nowthey were back and sitting at her table. She even liked Jonas, but it mystified her as to what they could have said to convince her husband. He despised the current administration, and considered the Congress to be little more than spineless wimps. The night NATO warplanes crossed the border into Kosovo, Jim glumly declared: “Everything the Russians ever said about NATO just came true.”
Yet, he loved his country. Too much blood and sweat had come his way to turn his back on the Stars and Stripes. So it must be a threat to the country, she concluded. Jim would put aside his distaste and distrust to go forth again.
“So, Jonas, what brings you this way?” she asked.
Jonas set down his coffee and smiled. It was a sincere smile, because Jonas had not learned to lie very well yet. He had an excellent mentor in Louis Edwards, but lies still stumbled from his tongue. “Eh, we need Jim for a while.”
She nodded, “Really—and what’sa while— this time?”
“I really don’t know,” he said finally. “I only know I was sent to ask him to work with us again.”
“Louis?”
He nodded. “And others, Lynn. The Major has certain talents we don’t really have access to in other parts of the government,” he explained, making reference to Jim’s rank.
“My husband was honorably discharged years ago. I remember; I was there with two preschoolers and his parents. It was one of the few times I ever saw him in full uniform. So what could you have told him to convince him to work for you again?”
Jim waited silently at his end of the table. Eighteen years of marriage taught him to understand when to keep quiet. Lynn would have her answers, and he wondered what Jonas would tell her.
“I really can’t say,” replied Jonas.
Jim shook his head.Wrong answer.
“Can’t say.” Her green eyes blazed angrily. “But you don’t deal with the nightmares, or watch when he goes silent.” She looked across to her husband—the man she loved and cherished. The man she knew loved her with every fiber of his body.
“I suppose this is some sort of national security thing. Jonas, I was there whenour men left for Panama and Iraq. They got on big old transports and flew away—the first ones in and the last ones out. No one ever gives them the medals they deserve or the credit they’ve earned. But we expect them to be there with their laser guidance systems so the Air Force can look good on TV.”
Jonas started to open his mouth, but it was a little late. “Oh, I know about these things. After all, there’s not much to do when your husband disappears for nine months at a time. They don’t have regular mail or phone service in some of the places he’s been. But someone had topaint— that’s the word isn’t it?” She glared directly at Darby Hayes.
“Yes, ma’am, that’s exactly right,” he replied. There was nothing worse than a frustrated colonel or an angry wife. Twenty years in the Corps taught him that much.
“Yes.” She looked back to Jonas. “Someone has topaint those bridges so thesmart bombs can hit their marks. That means someone has to go and stand close enough to do the job. It was classified material in 1990. It took them months to scout out the targets, report back, and coordinate the target list. My goodness, it didn’t just happen one night in January whenDesert Shield turned intoDesert Storm!
“And I sat there on the couch with other wives watching CNN and saw all those bullets over Baghdad. We watched and we all knew—” Her eyes narrowed. “We all knew our husbands were down there as much a target as everyone else. So do you still want to tell me I can’t know?”
Jonas sighed. “Lynn, why don’t you ask Jim?”
She laughed. It was a hollow and tinny laugh, but a laugh. Jonas sensed he had stumbled again. “Ask Jim? He won’t tell me and I won’t ask him to tell me. Do you know why?” she snapped. “Because he gave you his word of honor didn’t he? A long time ago he signed a secrecy document. He gave his word, and if you’ve learned anything about my husband it is that he is a man of his word!” Her limbs were trembling now.
Darby Hayes leaned forward. Twenty months ago in the desert, Jim Harper proved his honor. Darby had faced the business end of a .45 ACP, before he understood the orders he had been given were criminal. “Yes, ma’am.”
Lynn looked away from Jonas, and Jonas wondered what was happening. “Ma’am, I was with your husband the last time he went to the desert. What you say is exactly right. The Major will defend to the death a soldier’s code of honor, and he will fight to the end to complete the mission. I know, I was there—and so was Jonas.”
He paused looking at his hands. “Jonas pulled us out of the desert. I don’t know the whole reason for things getting ba—eh, messed up, but Jonas pulled us, and the Major here, out.” He closed his eyes remembering the battle sounds as he and Brian Stillwell ran for the Saudi border. “The Major, here, stayed behind to make sure we got out. If it weren’t for the Major, Jonas might have only found dead people.
“Ma’am, you remind me of my Grandma. I don’t know if you read the Bible, but my Grandma did.” He looked up at Lynn. “My Grandma whipped me when I stole an apple from the grocery store. You see, I don’t know who my daddy was, and my mamma died when I was born. So my Grandma raised me, and she taught me right from wrong. Like I said, you remind me of her.
“This is what I can tell you.”
Jonas cleared his throat. “Sergeant, I should warn—”
Darby cut him off. “Mr. Benjamin, sir. This is soldier talk now. This is the Major’s wife, and this is the Major’s home. You’ve been on the edges, sir. You ain’tbeen there . The Major’s been there, and the Major’s wife deserves an answer—a long overdue answer.” He looked back to Lynn.
“Ma’am, I can’t tell you specific details. But I can tell you someone—and we really don’t know who—may have brought some deadly weapons inside the country. I can’t tell you what they are, but I can tell you Mr. Edwards has some legitimate reasons.”
“And Jim’s mission?” prodded Lynn.
“It’s real simple: to stop it from happening, otherwise a lot of people are going to die. Civilian people, ma’am, like your beautiful daughters and the neighbors on this street.”
Lynn sat back. Someone was telling her the truth. Not that Jim lied to her; he simply would not violate his word. “Darby, can you tell me what makes my husband so special?”
“Lynn, please!” snapped Jonas.
Darby’s hand slammed down on the table. “Mr. Benjamin, sir!” he exclaimed.
Jonas blinked, caught like a deer in the headlights.
“She has a right to know. Maybe you had parents, I didn’t. I had my Grandma—God rest her soul. If you want to arrest me, sobeit! But she deserves to know. Now please, Mr. Benjamin, sir—shut up.”
He turned back to Lynn. “Excuse me, ma’am.” He looked over to Harper. “If you want to revoke our agreement, sir, I understand.”
Harper shook his head slightly. “No, Sergeant. I think you’ve just passed a test. The truth is a test,” he said quietly.
