Blood Covenent, page 20
“The Dick Tracy types downstairs don’t have a clue these boys were anywhere but on the bottom floor.” Harper followed the other two into the restroom.
“It would have been easier if you carried some ID, Jim,” whined Jonas.
“I showed them mine,” offered Hayes, “and they weren’t very impressed. Made me sit down next to the Major. Very officious.”
“And stupid,” Harper spat, completing a thought Hayes still had trouble verbalizing.
Hayes pushed in the stall door. It stopped at about six inches.
Harper spread one hand across Jonas’s chest and pushed him away. The Glock was already in his hand, and Hayes backed off the stall door. His Beretta held tightly by his stubby fingers. He glanced over to Harper who gave him a nod. Darby’s quick, sharp, thrust kick was delivered at chest level. A hinge broke and the toilet flushed. The door slammed wide and stopped. There, sitting sideways atop the commode, was one of David Kudrik’s bomb cases.
Hayes relaxed and pulled the case out of the stall. It bounced a couple of times on the tile.
Jonas moved past Harper and touched the top of the case. He flipped the latches. The ancient hydraulic pumps continued to work. With a hiss, they revealed a silent weapon with its dull burnished stainless steel case, the ten number keypad, and the deadly red LED panel.
The three stared at the bomb.
Jonas produced his encrypted cellular phone and punched up Louis Edwards’ number.
“Yes,” came the tin voice over the ether.
“I need a NEST team,” explained Jonas.
“You found one?”
“Not active.”
“Where are you?”
Jonas gave him the address.
Hayes started to laugh and said, “Could have been the loudest dump in history.”
* * * *
Boston, Massachusetts
Boston rests at the apex of a parabola stretching from Gloucester in the north down to Cape Cod Bay in the south. Downtown Boston is jammed up against the Inner Harbor, which curls around forming the eastern and part of the southern boundary. The Charles River forms the northern boundary. Across the Inner Harbor lie the Islands, East Boston, Logan International Airport, and ultimately the Atlantic. Boston is linked together by a series of interstate highways, toll roads, ferries, and the Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority. The MBTA is a web of commuter rail, subway systems, and bus lines. A wheel and spoke system, it provides access to the historic colonial attractions and downtown offices. It is a crowded, congested area and anyone who can reasonably avoid driving it, does.
Michael Rehazi emerged to daylight at the MBTA’s South Station terminal building. He had taken the Blue Line from Logan International Airport to State Station. There, he caught the Orange Line to Downtown Crossing. Finally, he switched to the Red Line and arrived at his present position. A glass-canopied building with the emblematic red, white, and blue striping identifying the MBTA station served as a shelter for the escalators reaching towards the surface from the cavernous vault below.
Across the street was Dewey Square
—a rounded, gray building backed against skyscrapers on the corner of Summer Street and Atlantic Avenue
. He was in the heart of Downtown Boston. He pulled a brochure from his pocket, checking the crude map before walking south towards the waterfront along Congress Street
. The signs led him to the pier where theBrig Beaver II was tied up. TheBrig Beaver II was a full-size working replica of one of three Boston Tea Party ships. The sounds of the fife and drums lingered over the din of late afternoon tourists. The three-mast ship greeted Rehazi as he looked about at the splendor and glory of colonial Boston against the heart of the government district.
A suitable target.
It was the site of the Boston Tea Party, where a scraggly band of American Patriots dressed in Indian costumes boarded three ships at Griffin’s Wharf on a cold December night in 1775 and dumped tea into Boston Harbor. They were the original tax protesters. The bomb’s epicenter should strike at the Eagle’s symbols. Symbols were so very important for a terrorist act. To utterly destroy an American historical site would be immensely satisfying.
He looked across the harbor and decided that renting a boat would be the easiest way to bring the bomb to its destiny. There was a myriad of places along the Inner Harbor where a truck could initially deliver the weapon. He looked at the brochure boldly titledThe Boston Tea Party Ship & Museum and tossed it into a trash bin.
TheBrig Beaver II would simply disappear in a fireball along with several tourists and slice of downtown Boston.
CHAPTER 20
New York City
Saturday, July 10, 1999
10:30 A.M. EDT
The morning briefing for Feldman’s army of FBI agents was breaking up. Harvey picked up his Stetson from the chair next to him. The only person brave enough or perhaps foolish enough to sit with him in his corner of the briefing room was Larry. Harvey sat in his trademark black denims, black T-shirt, and cowboy boots. He wore a khaki bush jacket over his shoulder rig, and beneath the Stetson was his file folder of faces.
Feldman laughed in Harvey’s face and threw the file folder into the trash. It was idiotic to presume a broken-down and disgraced FBI agent could accomplish something the supercomputers at Quantico were still struggling with. “We’re not looking for dead people, Harvey,” he explained as if talking to an idiot child. “We already know these people were at the Tower. NYPD has four dead cops to prove it. What do I need your pictures for?”
Harvey shook his head and explained again the connection between the shooters at Trump Tower, the twin boys and the Hassan Jamal’s killer. He had spent three days going over the tapes, another mark against him on Feldman’s ledger for lost causes.
“This man!” He snapped up a photograph taken at JFK. Janet Henry’s wonder system figured it out after only thirty hours of processing. Feldman did not comment on the acid bubbling in his gut, or the slipping feeling he felt. Like sand through his fingers, the strands of the investigation were dribbling away. “This man!” he said a second time. “He’s the link to the bombs, and while I have two hundred agents pounding New York looking for him, you’re playing computer games.”
The photograph in Feldman’s hands had arrived via encrypted fax less than eight hours earlier. No one was present in his office so thevaluable lead sat dormant until seven this morning.
Harvey retrieved two more photographs from the trash and brushed away the coffee stains. He spread them on Feldman’s desk only thirty minutes before the morning briefing. “These guys have a bomb. They are on the Trump Tower tapes. They were in the lobby with Jamal.”
“Using your logic, then everyone living at Trump Tower is a terrorist,” snapped Feldman. He tapped out a cigarette, ignoring the First Lady’s edict about smoking in Federal Buildings, and lit up.
“Look!” Harvey shouted loud enough to attract the attention of arriving agents and office staff. He slammed the flat of his hand on the desk. He pointed to the frames where the twins stood next to one of the Tower shooters. “They’re talking with each other.”
Feldman scowled. “They’re all dead! Dead!” he shouted back. “We need to find the live ones.”
“These are the lives ones,” he pounded the table again.
“Based on what—your hunch?” Feldman shook his head and wagged his finger. “The last time you had a hunch you created a diplomatic flap with the Chinese Embassy and embarrassed the Bureau.”
Harvey gave him a crooked grin knowing this was leading nowhere. “Yeah, I committed the cardinal sin, didn’t I?”
“You certainly did.”
Harvey pursed his lips, “I guess being right about the bad guys doesn’t count anymore.” He scooped up the two printer pages and wadded them up into a ball. “Lou,I am right.” He tossed the paper into the trashcan.
“You’re a fossil, Agent Randall!” yelled Feldman at Harvey’s retreating back.
Harvey flipped him the finger and walked through the door.
The next two hours was spent reviewing the evidence gathered about the twins’ escapade.
The weapons first confiscated by the NYPD were delivered to the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. A Treasury Department suit delivered the report. He was a short man, desperately trying to hold onto the little hair he had left by growing it long and combing the fringe forward over his pate. For ten monotone minutes, he detailed the descriptions of two Heckler & Koch MP5 rifles—assault weapons according to the correct political-speak. He told them the caliber, manufacturer, and magazine capacity. He ticked off the numerous laws broken, and then sheepishly explained the serial numbers on the barrel and receivers appeared to have been removed using acid. The same was true for the Smith & Wesson revolvers. He assured them the gun makers were cooperating fully with the investigation. The ammunition was Argentina surplus and available via mail order from several places inside and outside the country.
A political appointee from Energy detailed the bomb. The First Lady must have personally picked her for the position. She forgot how to smile, and kept murmuring about the terrible state of affairs. What state and what affairs were never really made clear. Feldman let her drone on for fifteen minutes. Her favorite word was classified.Classified this, classified that, and she explained absolutely nothing.
For anyone still awake, an NYPD evidence technician went through a list of items found in the van. He was young. Probably selected based on seniority, of which, he had none. His instructions were painfully clear. Read the report. And read he did. They found $1,253 and change, seventeen paperclips, and a set of documents written in a Persian dialect. The documents were still being translated. No one thought to clear translators for a major terrorist operation. A Yankee schedule had July 15 circled in red. There were several car and door keys, apparently copies of the originals. Besides the obvious keys to the van’s door locks and ignition, no one knew what they belonged to.
Somehow, the Bureau gained possession of the vehicles. They had managed to identify the taxicab. It had been cleared of any wrongdoing. The van was another story. The vehicle identification numbers were burned away using acid. The van was in various stages of disassembly as FBI technicians searched for part and serial numbers. Nothing matched, and the van was quickly looking like a dead end. A product of one New York’s many chop shops.
The twins were still a mystery. They resided in the City Morgue. Autopsies were performed to ensure the sudden impact of 9mm bullets led to their certain demise. Their teeth had no fillings. They wore no contact lenses and carried no prescription glasses. No medicines were found, and the convenience of a driver license, passport, or credit cards was absent.
It amounted to less than zero.
Feldman spoke last and displayed Janet Henry’s photograph of Hassan Jamal’s killer walking through JFK. The information was over forty hours old, and it did nothing except confirm the mystery man’s whereabouts on Thursday afternoon. It could have been dismissed, except it was Feldman’s pet project. It sounded like an Academy pep talk. Technology brought to bear on a problem. He ignored everything Harvey tried to tell him. Thenot invented here mentality was working overtime.
Feldman concluded by parceling out assignments to his agents. They were his for now, but circumstances could shift suddenly if things turned ugly. Harvey’s assignment was to find the van’s owner. Harvey acknowledged his assignment with a wooden stare. Find the owner of a van that had been reassembled from parts after it was stolen. No one was assigned to help Harvey. He was being banished from the office and cut loose. No more was expected of him.
Harvey understood the snub and quietly raged at a spot behind Feldman’s head. Too many times before people had made a habit of underestimating Harvey. Anything he came up with was getting buried.
Larry was assigned to the Yankee schedule with three other agents—so many clues and no idea where they led. Larry wondered idly if anyone at the JEH Building was putting together a puzzle. He walked out with Harvey as the briefing came to a close.
Harvey handed him a folder.
“What’s this?”
“The faces of the guys you’re looking for.” Harvey swung the bush jacket over his shoulder.
Larry froze in mid stride and opened the folder.
“Best look at it somewhere else,” continued Harvey as he strolled towards the elevators.
Larry snapped the file folder shut and hurried to catch up to Harvey. “What do you mean the guys I’m looking for?”
Harvey turned and gave him his crooked grin. “How about a Coke?”
The elevator doors snapped open. Even though there were other agents waiting for an open elevator, no one wanted to ride down with Harvey. The doors slid shut and Harvey said brightly, “Being a Pariah has its advantages.”
“Like empty elevators?”
“Yeah,” he said with certain relish.
“Harvey, you can’t keep yelling at Feldman the way you’ve been. You could end up in Guam.”
Harvey shook his head. “They don’t have buffalo out there. You see, I count buffalo turds. It’s a job with a definite future. There’s a never ending supply.” The doors slid open. “Besides, I’m done with Feldman.”
“How?” asked Larry.
Harvey led them to one of the street vendors outside. “Larry, you’ve got a lovely wife and your career isn’t in shambles.” He bobbed his head to the Federal Building behind them and the twenty-third floor they had just left. “Follow that idiot up there and we’re going to have a disaster on our hands.”
“Feldman?”
“You see any other idiots up there?” Harvey dropped four dollars on the counter and grabbed twoSnapple lemonades. He handed one to Larry, and they walked over to a bench.
“As a matter of fact, I did,” replied Larry.
Harvey propped his elbows on the back of the bench. “The file folder has the faces of the people you’re looking for.”
Larry stared at the blank folder and opened it a second time. “How do you know?”
Harvey smirked. “Old fashion, flat-footed detective work.”
“Does Feldman know about this?” He rifled through the several sheets examining the shots from the Trump Tower security cameras.
“Yeah,” grunted Harvey.
“He doesn’t buy your theory?”
“He doesn’t buy me. That’s why I got assigned the van. The van’s not very sexy, and the chances of tracing something through the mess they have on the van is slim.”
“Those guys will be at Yankee stadium on the fifteenth.” Sitting alone in a hotel room with no one to call and only memories to talk about gave Harvey too many hours of thinking time.
“Says who?”
Harvey slapped his abundant gut.
“No wonder Feldman didn’t buy it,” whispered Larry.
Harvey tipped the glass bottle to his lips and rubbed the back of his neck. “Feldman has his computer kids and us. He’s building an empire, Larry.”
“What are you going to do?”
Harvey smirked. “Find out who owns the van.” He stood up, and looked back at his old partner. “It’s times like this when I miss my wife. Your wife Cindy’s a real good woman. I made a stupid choice between my family and my job. The job’s not worth your family.” He turned and sauntered away.
Larry watched him leave, and asked himself,How did he know?
* * * *
Washington, D.C.
Janet Henry pushed her hair out of her glasses. The screen stared back at her. The phone call from Feldman this morning had not been pleasant. He seethed with anger about how long it took for her wonder machine to churn out useless data.
“We need a real-time picture!” he shouted. “This thing I got is almost forty hours old. What good is something that old? Or perhaps, you didn’t understand what we saw last week on the remote hookup with the bomb squad.”
Janet was a quiet, brilliant girl. She spent the better part of her first eighteen years being home-schooled by her parents who worked on the mission field in Papua, New Guinea. They were Wycliff missionaries translating the New Testament into theLote language for tribesmen who had never seen a Caucasian person before twenty years ago. They were a wonderful, loving people who adopted her as their own. A baby girl adored for the gift of life and laughter.
Life on this side of the Pacific was so much faster. She tried to explain to Feldman that the system was a test project. “Mister Feldman, I told you we might have problems.”
Feldman had no use for problems. Problems did not enhance careers. Results enhanced careers, and in Washington he was invited to sit at the power table. He was part of the White House situation team. He sat with cabinet secretaries and the National Security Advisor. He had the man’s personal phone number and an invitation to call day or night. Feldman knew the fall from such dizzy heights could be abrupt and fatal.
“Do you understand we are dealing with nuclear bombs?” Feldman said the word nuclear as NU-uk-LEAR.
“Yes, sir,” she whispered.
“Fix your problems. I don’t care what it takes, but I need something in real-time!”
She furrowed her brow, then asked, “The systems don’t work that way. The JFK system is a batch upload, and they do it on twelve-hour intervals.”
“Then call somebody, and fix it!” he shouted.
A silent tear dribbled down her cheek. No one could see it but the silent sentinels she worked with. Humming disk drives, flickering monitors, and mouse clicks are not much comfort. “I don’t know who to call,” she whispered.
Feldman lost control. It was fortunate in a climate of political correctness that his office door was closed and the Venetian blinds were down. It was a good bet Janet’s parents never translated those words intoLote .
She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand as she hung up the phone. Her hands were shaking. She pushed herself away from her workstation and walked around the space of the computer lab. The screen watched her quietly. He had called her design atrash system, little better than a card file. He explained her lack of effort would reflect poorly on her next review.
