Blood Covenent, page 35
“Oh, him.”
Louis catalogued the modifications to Janet Henry’s system. He concluded, saying, “By focusing everything on Washington, the processors were able to crunch through the data and come up with hits.”
“We’ll do the same thing in Chicago,” decided Feldman.
Harper focused back on the meeting and said quietly, “It won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“BecauseHarlequin’s changed his tactics,” explained Harper.
“How could you know that?” demanded Feldman.
“He knows we’re tracking him.”
Louis closed his eyes and silently shook his head.
“He might suspect—” protested Feldman.
“He knows,” pressed Harper.
“How can you be so sure?”
Harper looked up from his fingernails and found Feldman’s eyes. It was always best to deliver the news in person. “Because I told him.”
“Youwhat !”
Harper watched anger and incredulity ripple across his features. Then, calculation flickered through his eyes only to be quickly papered over with outrage. It was enough for Harper. He knew he could not trust Feldman. He knew he would meetHarlequin soon and quietly asked God to let him hold his girls once more. His fingers tingled as he considered the future. He doubted he would die an old man in his bed.
“We found his email address,” explained Harper. “I left him a message. Last night when he stopped in Harrisburg, he read it.”
Harvey furrowed his brow. “Jim, that wasn’t a smart thing to do.”
“We have shrinks who spend their entire professional careers working up profiles to handle people like this, and you want to be pen pals?” mocked Feldman.
Harper watched the bluster and fuss. Feldman might never understand the truth, butHarlequin was his. He was the hunter set loose to find his prey. When it came to the final moment, Harper would faceHarlequin alone.
“What’d you tell him?” asked Harvey after a few moments.
“Yeah, what damage have you done?” echoed Feldman.
Harper sighed and wondered how the words would sound aloud. He had thought about it many times and did not like what it said about the darkness in his own soul. “I told him I was coming to kill him.”
Feldman’s eyes lit up like he had been handed the winning Powerball number for the lottery. “Certifiably crazy.” He leaned over to the communications suite again. This time there was more relish in the process. “We’ll have a couple of US Marshals meet the plane and take you into custody.”
“No, we won’t,” corrected Louis.
Feldman looked from the phone to the older man and snarled, “This man is screwing up a Federal investigation. What do you mean we won’t?”
“Put the phone down, Agent Feldman,” ordered Louis.
Feldman shook his head, and before his eyeballs had a chance to quit swimming around, Mister Smith and Mister Jones were standing on either side of Louis. Their hands clasped before them and their suit coats unbuttoned. They were trained hounds and under Louis’s control. They also held no fear of Feldman. In Harper’s case, they would have drawn their weapons and spread apart. The man was far too dangerous to underestimate.
“Put the phone down, Agent Feldman,” repeated Louis.
He cocked his head sideways and asked, “Are you threatening me?” He waved a finger at the two bodyguards.
“Yes,” replied Louis.
Feldman set the phone back in its cradle.
“Thank you,” said Louis.
Feldman glowered at Louis. Harper understood the emotions.
Louis pursed his lips and said, “Agent Feldman, Harper was brought on board this mission to do exactly what he just told you. His job is to stopHarlequin. The methods, tactics, and ultimate outcome are Jim’s responsibility. You, Agent Randall, and I are all here to facilitate this outcome. There is no way, for various national security reasons, we would ever want this to come to trial. There will be no trial, Agent Feldman.
“In fact, what I just told is part of a secret presidential directive. If you even think about talking in your sleep concerning what you heard, then you’ll find yourself doing time in the meanest, filthiest Federal penitentiary I can find,” he finished. For the most part, he had been truthful. Of course, there was no presidential directive, and the wisdom for avoiding a trial was his. Louis felt confident he could convince the National Security Advisor to see things his way.
Feldman never learned about the anonymous remailer site on St. Kitts and Nevis. Nor, did he discover the third email Harper sent toHarlequin’s masters. Harvey kept to himself the midnight meeting with Harrison Arnold O’Toole. He had enough black marks on his record. Feldman figured out he could take credit for Janet Henry’s system, but he needed to determine how to make it work for real. Louis considered the trio before him and wondered at the tortured thoughts running through Harper’s head.
* * * *
Tel Aviv, Israel
Chaim Wanberg sucked down another cigarette. As quickly, as he lit one, he ground it out in the ashtray provided him. He stared at the Motorola radio and looked across the desk to the Israeli Defense Force colonel. He sat in one of the supervisor’s offices of Tel Aviv’s Central Bus Station just off of Harakevet.
Spread out on the desk was a street map exploded to show every building, alley, and cellar surrounding the bus station. Less than a block away, aSAMSON weapon quietly waited for the moment when its internal clock ignited the final countdown to oblivion. “Are you sure you want none of them left alive?”
Chaim contemplated the cigarette between his fingers and sucked on it one last time before he killed the ash. He savored the tobacco smoke in his lungs, hoping it would divert the throbbing pain in his hip. The rest of the operation depended on absolute surprise, and what could these fools tell him?
“Yes. No prisoners,” he concluded.
The colonel nodded, and asked the second question. “Are you certain you know what you’re doing, Chaim?”
The two men examined each other over the table and both understood the dangers posed to Israel by her neighbors. Peace was a convenient word used by diplomats. The American President seemed particularly enamored with the idea of a Palestinian State. If it was truly aSAMSON device, then Israel’s most intractable enemies had gained access to some of the more lethal weapons seeping out of the collapsing Russian Federation.
Chaim gave his old friend a half smile. “Remember, this operation went down, but the outcome falls on my head. The message needs to be sent.”
“And the message?” pressed the colonel.
“If they want to play with fire, then they’ll get burned,” he replied flatly.
The colonel nodded silently. The radio interrupted their mutual contemplation of an increasingly bleak future. “Colonel, we’re in place,” came the voice.
Both men looked down at the red circle on the map. It was a small shop less than two blocks from where they sat. It rested between the Central Bus Station and the New Bus Station amongst the curving streets and heavy traffic. Two eight-man squads were positioned above, behind, and on either side of the shop.
The colonel asked one last time, “No prisoners?”
Chaim closed his eyes, inhaling the acrid smoke. These orders never got easier, even when he was discussing Hezbollah scum. They were still men made in God’s image. While he had long since quit believing in YAHWEH, he was still a Jew—one of the people of the Book. Another side of him, from an innocent boy who became a man at hisbar mitzvah, believed God granted Abraham the land of Canaan—a land flowing with milk and honey. They had been fighting over the land ever since. They were men, but they were notchosen . “No prisoners,” he echoed softly.
The colonel nodded. “How many?” he asked speaking into the handheld.
“Two men, one woman, sir.”
“This is a JERICHO operation,” he said slowly. Jericho was the first Canaanite city conquered by General Joshua when the people moved to occupy the land YAHWEH granted them.The LORD said to Joshua, “See, I have given Jericho into your hand, with its king and its valiant warriors.” With the exception of Rahab, the harlot, they slaughtered every man, woman, and child, and all of the livestock. Yet YAHWEH acknowledged they were valiant men, but men in the wrong place and opposed to the wrong people.
“I am confirming a JERICHO operation.” The soldier’s voice came from the sharp end of the operation.
“JERICHO on my authority,” confirmed the colonel.
“Yes, sir.”
Chaim closed his eyes again. It was a blood-soaked land of rock, sand, and incredible beauty.
It happened very quickly. The ceiling, one of the sidewalls, and the back door all exploded in a collective bang. Flash bang grenades did not wait for the ancient plaster dust to settle. Helmet-clad soldiers flowed through the breached shop firing silenced Uzi submachine guns. The bolts snapped and brass flew. A sudden blue haze of smokeless powder filled the stifling air, and blood sprayed from the violated bodies. The wheezing of tortured lungs desperately seeking one last breath before the long sleep. The commanding officer pulled out his Gal .45 ACP and double tapped the two men and one woman in the head. The heavy caliber pistol bucked in his hand. There were reasons for the JERICHO protocol and it was not something casually invoked. It was over in less than five seconds. One of the soldiers walked over to the shop door and flipped over a red lettered sign: SORRY WE’RE CLOSED.
They broke into pairs and worked their way through the shop. They foundSAMSON in the small kitchenette next to the refrigerator. They flipped open the case and compared it to the photograph Louis Edwards supplied to Chaim. The commanding officer reported, “We haveSAMSON secured.”
Chaim refocused on the map. It was over. In a few hours, the debris would be swept up and bodies carted away. The explosions would never be reported in the Israeli press, and the presence of Israel’s elite anti-terrorist squads would fade into the shadows they occupied. Finally, a small truck would pack up the weapon and start the trip north toward Beirut.SAMSON was a weapon pointing in an unanticipated direction.
* * * *
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Michael Rehazi made the one-hundred-twenty-mile trip from Harrisburg to Pittsburgh in a little over three hours. He made sure he did not speed or break any of the many traffic laws along the way. Even though the air conditioner was cranked up and the blowers were turned up high, Rehazi continued to sweat the entire ride.
He knew he needed tolose the GMC Jimmy. If they did not have the vehicle description yet, the FBI would have it no later than midnight. They had witnessed two explosions, and as much as he would like to believe they were corrupt and stupid, he knew the truth to be a much grimmer reality. He could only imagine the dismay in Tehran. The Mullahs would be wondering what they had garnered for their money.
He left the Jimmy in a parking ramp, hoping it would remain unnoticed for a day. He took the automated parking stub with him. After tearing it to shreds, he dropped it into a litter basket. No need to give the FBI the precise minute he arrived in Pittsburgh. It was bad enough they knew he had been in Harrisburg a couple of hours ago. Night was beginning to crawl over the horizon. Rehazi walked quickly away from the parking ramp.
He found a Salvation Army store still open. Christian charity with their discarded clothes and broken appliances supplying the needs of an Islamic soldier of God—the irony brought a smile to Rehazi’s grim thoughts. Everything was extraordinarily cheap. For fifty dollars, he had two pairs of slacks, a tweed jacket that must have hung in somebody’s closet for twenty years, two plaid shirts, and pair of boots with holes. Rehazi rushed out of the store never waiting for his change.
The night sky fully gripped the city. Neon signs, street lamps, and early evening traffic lit up the streets. Rehazi made his way down an alley away from the public, the lights, and safety. He was an incongruous figure carrying his overnight bag, the laptop, and a white Salvation Army bag with red letters running diagonally. He made his way between Dumpsters setting the laptop and his money between himself and the ancient brick wall. He started to change his clothes.
Perhaps if he had been white or black instead of obviously Arab, he would have been ignored by the other denizens inhabiting the alley between buildings. The expensive clothes he discarded in favor of hand-me-downs, and the obviously new laptop leaning against the building, drew the unwanted attention of predators. Rehazi was a little over fifty and a bit less than one-hundred-sixty pounds. He looked like a mid-level manager from the suburbs come to play at Pittsburgh’s seamier side.
Standing barefoot in baggy trousers and a half-buttoned shirt, he acknowledged the two ruffians’ jeers. In the half gloom of the back alley, the three of them were more shadow than anything else. He stepped away from the wall and said quietly, “I don’t want any trouble, so why don’t you run along.”
The larger one chuckled evilly, saying, “We want your money.”
Under different circumstances, Rehazi might have considered handing them each a wad of bills. Cut off from a secure money supply, he decided against philanthropy. Michael Rehazi did not becomethe Terror of Tehran without some additional skills. Most in Iran forget Israel’s MOSSAD and America’s CIA trained the Shah’s dread SAVAK. The SAVAK was the Shah’s secret police. They maintained two prisons called Komiteh and Evin, where electric shock, beatings, and other horrors were perpetrated against the Shah’s enemies.
Rehazi has been sent to the United States as part of pilot training program. He learned how to fly the expensive F-14Tomcats the Shah was purchasing with his oil wealth, and he was also spying on his fellow pilots. The SAVAK operated under the cover of the Iranian mission to the United Nations with the full knowledge and blessing from the FBI, CIA, and State Department.
After Ayatollah Khomeini assumed power, he officially dissolved the SAVAK and had his own thugs purge the Shah’s thugs. There was a remnant that survived. Rehazi clung to the only refuge in the storm known as the Iran’s Islamic Revolution. He became a zealot and a survivor.
The two in the alley only saw a man three or four inches shorter and fifty or sixty pounds lighter. They lived a rough life, but the semblance of morality still clung stubbornly to their lives. The creature they dismissed as nothing more than an opportunity thought nothing of killing millions. His morality boiled down to simple, Darwinian survival. Rehazi had no memory of a soul. He attacked before they spoke another word.
He stepped so the nearest man stood in the middle between Rehazi and his partner. Rehazi exploded from where he was, landing his heel on the unprotected ribs. There was an audible crack as Rehazi kept his kicking leg locked and drove forward forcing his head toward his first victim.Whoosh went what breath he had in his lungs and his knees bent away from the sudden attack. Rehazi flattened his palms, twisting and shifting his weight as he slammed his palm flat against the side of his head causing his neck to snap sideways. Rehazi continued his forward momentum and twisted in the other direction, delivering his forearm to the man’s naked windpipe. The rush of wind through his tortured mouth stopped abruptly as the blow crushed his windpipe and larynx.
Rehazi stepped over his first victim towards the second, who had reacted by squaring up to the oncoming terror. Rehazi brought his back leg through and pointed his toes as he delivered a mind-numbing kick to the man’s groin. He squealed briefly as he pitched forward into Rehazi’s waiting hands. Rehazi grasped his scalp with one hand and his shoulder with the other as he brought his other knee straight up and demolished his face. This caused his body to snap backwards and straighten up. He never saw Rehazi’s fist form through the blur of blood-red tears. A single straight punch to his windpipe snapped his neck. His knees folded and by the time his brain box crashed to the ground, he had stopped breathing.
Rehazi finished dressing and left the two in the alley. He tossed the credit cards and driver license into the nearest Dumpster. He made his way to the Amtrak station and bought a ticket for the Capitol Limited. It was supposed to arrive at 11:59, but it came thirty-five minutes later. Rehazi found a spot on one of the coach cars next to a window and rolled up his jacket. He was asleep before the train pulled out of the station. Tomorrow morning he would arrive in Chicago. He had already forgotten about the two men he left dead in the alley.
Unfortunately, from his perspective, dead people have a way of developing complications. Two Pittsburgh homicide detectives were examining the carnage and wondering about the missing knife and bullet wounds. They wheeled heavy arc lamps into the alley and began the tedious task of reconstructing the action. Sometime, later they would discover the discarded VISA card and driver license.
CHAPTER 35
Bartlett, Illinois
Tuesday, July 20, 1999
6:00 A.M. CDT
The Elgin-O’Hare Expressway runs from the back end of O’Hare International Airport until it runs out of concrete and empties into Lake Street. It was maybe another seven miles before Harvey dropped Harper off at his driveway. Harvey noted the flower gardens, the pleasant trees, shrubs, and the paved drive leading to a secluded two-car garage tucked behind the house. There was a pair of bicycles lying on their sides along the drive.
Harper waved and stepped onto the crisp dew-filled lawn. It was early and the neighborhood was just beginning to clamber out of bed to face another commute. Harper slung his bag over his shoulder and ambled across the lawn. The house was silent. His girls were still asleep as school was not in session, and summertime hours were the norm.
He fumbled with his keys and let himself into his side office. The computer screens blinked at him, reminding him he had a business to tend. He assumed his sudden absence for the last two weeks probably had gotten some people bent out of shape. There was a low rumble to his left, before the big Labrador stretched to a standing position and nuzzled his leg. “Morning Indy,” he whispered as he pulled the Glock from his holster and set it on his desk. He flipped the overnight bag on his chair and hung his jacket on a hook.
