Blood Covenent, page 38
He jabbed Yevgeny in the chest and stood up, towering over the man. “You’re going to give me the list for where all these bombs are located, or so help me I’ll make sure you rue the day you were born.”
Yevgeny gulped. “Yes, of course, but we’ll have to go to Switzerland.”
Kolokol grunted and turned towards Feognost. “You better find out where the other two storage lockers are, or I’ll send you to where he just came from. And I’ll make sure no one brings you back to see the light of day.”
Feognost nodded and wondered where in the voluminous files such information existed. None of files accumulated by MVD, NKVD or KGB were computerized. It was simply stacks and stacks of folders, printouts, photographs, tapes, and letters stretching back beyond the October Revolution. For a brief time, Russia had opened the vaults to the West, but fear of what might be revealed overrode the need for Western good will and the vaults were closed.
Kolokol straightened his uniform. “Get him some decent clothes and deliver him to the airport. My jet leaves within the hour. He’d better be on it.” Kolokol stalked out of the office, disgusted.
CHAPTER 37
Lake Forest, Illinois
Tuesday, July 20, 1999
5:00 P.M. CDT
Michael Rehazi walked down the floating dock until he came even with theLady Slipper II . The boat was moored on one of the many marinas dotting Lake Michigan’s western shore. It was a forty-two-foot motor yacht with a small galley, a salon, and master and guest staterooms. Twin 502 horsepower Volvo diesel engines provided sufficient power range to navigate the length of the lake along the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore, around Beaver Island, and through the Mackinaw Straits separating Michigan’s Upper and Lower Peninsulas. Once safely through the straits, Rehazi could navigate Lake Huron until he found a place deserted enough along Ontario’s southern shoreline to beach theLady Slipper II and vanish.
He had decided Chicago would be his last shot for the Mullahs. The St. Louis weapons could wait for another day. Someone else could carry the fight to the Americans. Instinct suggested his luck was running out. The failures in New York, the near miss in Connecticut, and the absolute silence regarding the Washington weapon dripped like acid. The Mullahs could certainly place a price on his head and send bounty hunters chasing after him, but those problems were still speculative.
There was someone else much closer, someone who had picked up his trail. The email he had read at Harrisburg continued to reverberate in his mind. Something primitive had found him. He had been told what to expect, and more than once he caught himself looking over his shoulder. He realized the email had accomplished one goal: to keep him moving. It was one of the reasons he was standing inside theLady Slipper II taking inventory.
Providing everything went okay, he should be able to detonate three bombs in Chicago and make it to the boat. Escape and self-preservation were his dominant thoughts. Mission success retreated to a far corner in his mind. As he finished his list, the words from the email played through his mind:Every time you make a decision, you narrow your options. Every time you move, you leave a trail, and if I can track you down through cyberspace, I can track you anywhere.
He brushed the thoughts away. He finished the list of things he needed. When he returned to the boat, he would top off the tanks and head back to the house.
* * * *
Jim Harper hefted the ammo bag. He carried two magazines for the Browning Hi Power tucked inside his pants in the small of his back, and four magazines for the Glock 21 strapped in a low-riding holster on his right leg. There was a magazine pushed into the top of the holster along the length of the barrel as well. He wore a six-inch combat knife on his left hip, the scabbard tightly bound to leg. He did a couple of round kicks with both legs, first at waist level then up to head level. The gear was not terribly restrictive.
Besides the extra magazines for the handguns, he carried a variety of rounds for the Mossberg, including three-inch flechette, rifled deer slugs, 00 buckshot, and number four trap loads. He replaced the pistol grip with the standard shoulder stock and kept the Tac Star Forend grip in place. He worked the action a couple of times with the Mossberg empty, then carefully loaded six three-inch magnum Federal slug rounds into the tubular magazine. He pushed the thumb safety on.
He was dressed completely in black. His pants were a lightweight nylon and loose around his hips and knees without being baggy. He wore a black long-sleeved crew neck T-shirt and pulled a black ball cap backwards over his hair. He worked his arms into a combat vest. He slipped some additional slug rounds for the shotgun into the vest pockets. In the dim light of his basement, he appeared to be more shadow than man. Finally, he pulled on a pair of lightweight shooting gloves and pulled the Velcro strap tight along the back of his hand. It was time to leave. He tapped the side of his leg, and the huge black dog rose from its resting place next to its dinner dish.
Lynn met him at the top of the stair. Her eyes ran down the accumulated weaponry hanging off his body. With the exception of the walnut grips on the Browning Hi Power, every weapon he carried was black. Every holster and scabbard was equally black. His face shone like a bright moon on a dank night; behind him on the steps stood Indiana Jones, a black hound with brown eyes and a red tongue. They seemed to merge into the shadows.
“You’re going, then?” she asked.
He smiled disarmingly. “Off to save the world.”
“You have something for your face?” she asked pointing out the obvious disparity between his clothing and skin.
He flipped a camouflage stick from his shooting vest into the air and caught it. “Thought it would be best to wait until I’m there.”
“And where’s there?” she asked as he stepped by her into the kitchen.
The dog padded behind him. His tail waved back and forth like a radar mast. She rubbed the back of his ears and followed Harper. “Lake Forest,” he replied, laying the Mossberg along the breakfast counter next to the toaster and the country blue flour and sugar canisters shaped like geese.
She never thought of the war he fought being a thirty-minute car ride away. It was closer than the shooting spot Harper and the dog frequented during the summer and fall. “Indy is going with you?”
He looked down at the bloodshot brown eyes and said, “Yes. Two sets of eyes, a better nose, and better hearing. He’s what I’ll have for a partner on this trip.”
“What happened to Darby?” she was confused at the switch of a dog for a man.
“He’s with Jonas,” he answered quickly.
“I thought he was going to be your partner.”
“Jonas needs a shooter. I needed to stay here,” he continued to explain as he rifled through the refrigerator, grabbing some bottled water, string cheese, and a couple of plums.
“You’re not going to make this easy for me are you?” she said curtly.
He lifted his head out of the refrigerator and sighed. “Love, the less you know the safer you are. I could explain about operational security and all, but the less you know the better.”
Lynn was tired. “Just sit home, keep the lights on, and hope you don’t get yourself killed. Look at you. How many people are you dealing with?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But please keep the lights on. I intend to end this tonight.”
“And ending it—what does that mean, Jim?”
The smiles ended and he took her hands in his. “Love, this is what I do. It isn’t pretty. These people have tried to kill a lot of people in Boston, New York, and Washington. They’ve come to Chicago. They’re bringing their war to us. I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t seek it. It came to me. It’s my job to end it.”
“And someone might die?”
He nodded. “And someone might die.” He leaned forward and gave her a kiss. He hefted the Mossberg and headed towards the garage.
* * * *
Harvey Randall sat in a temporary office. He had a computer connected to every major state and federal database he might need. Phone, fax, and email were at his fingertips. He plopped the Stetson on his desk and proceeded to work through a file folder he had accumulated onHarlequin. Feldman shared the office space with him on a second desk. It did nothing for their relationship to appear as equals before the Chicago FBI office—disgraced agent and Assistant Director In Charge of Terrorism.
Harvey dialed the number Louis Edwards had given him when they arrived at O’Hare that morning. The phone rang twice before it clicked again and Louis answered. Harvey thought about the sounds on the line and realized the local number he had been given was simply a number set on call forwarding, and Louis was no longer in the city. Edwards had given him the idea he would remain in the Chicago area.
“Harvey Randall here,” he heard himself saying. Feldman from the other desk glowered at him again.
There really was no going back to the Bureau. He had collaborated with the enemy—the CIA. “Agent Randall, how good of you to call.”
Harvey began to doodle on his note pad. “I was calling to see if your computer wizards had any luck tracking downHarlequin. ”
“Not a whisper,” replied Louis.
Harvey pulled the police report from Pittsburgh. It had cleared his desk three hours ago. Two dead bodies and a wallet containingHarlequin’s credit cards and false ID were found. The bodies were interesting, in that they had been dispatched by unarmed combat. The Pittsburgh police were not terribly troubled by the loss of two citizens, since they attributed several street muggings and assaults to the pair—picked the wrong guy this time.If Harvey had the Pittsburgh report, so did Louis. Another half-truth, or just an outright lie, was only question in Harvey’s mind.
“We knowHarlequin was in Pittsburgh last night. Do you think he’s still headed to Chicago?”
“Most definitely,” agreed Louis.
Harvey nodded to no one in particular. “You know something, Louis?”
“What’s that?”
“You’re a lying SOB.” He hit the disconnect button on his phone and listened to the dial tone sing into his ear.
“Trouble in paradise?” sneered Feldman.
Harvey rolled his eyes and started dialing a second number. “You ain’t far behind Lou,” he muttered.
Feldman snickered and turned back to his desk.
The phone rang three times before Lynn Harper answered.
Harvey flipped a quarter. If it came up heads, he would be the brusque, officious FBI and attempt to scare Harper’s wife into cooperation. If it came up tails, he would be kinder and gentler, bargaining on the brief working relationship he had with Harper. The quarter came up heads in his hand. If Harvey had thought through the ramifications, he would have been himself.
“Mrs. Harper, this is Agent Randall with the FBI. I would like to speak with your husband,” he said sternly. Usually people melt at the mention of the FBI. Lynn Harper did not seem overly impressed.
“My husband isn’t here right now. Could I take a message?”
His eyes went to a map of the Chicago area and outlying suburbs. It was huge thing stretching halfway to Rockford and almost all the way to Wisconsin along Lake Michigan and south into Indiana.
Where are you, Harper? Have you foundHarlequin already?
“Where can I find him?”
Harvey hit the protective wall Lynn erected about her family hard. “I don’t see where that is any of your business.”
“Ma’am, your husband is part of—”
“My husband may be many things, Agent Randall, but connected to the FBI he is not. Now, I don’t wish to be rude, but goodbye.”
For the second time in as many minutes, Harvey found himself listening to the dial tone sing in his ear. He set the phone down in the cradle and closed his eyes. Harvey admitted he was a bit intimidated by Harper. The man was Edwards’ wolf and it appeared he was loose. If Harper was loose, then they knewHarlequin’s location. Edwards cut him out of the information loop, but Edwards was not the type out for personal glory.Something else was happening.
Harvey looked over at Feldman. “Lou,” he began, “I need a favor.”
“A favor?” he rasped. “The great Harvey Randall needs a favor. And what might you need?”
“I need to put out an all-points bulletin on Jim Harper’s vehicle to locate and observe. I don’t have the authority.”
Feldman played with his pencil for a moment and asked, “Why?”
Harvey sighed. Feldman would not make it easy. The competition would continue until Harvey was drummed out of the Bureau for good. “Because, I believe Edwards may have foundHarlequin. ”
Feldman glanced over to the photographs on his bulletin board. “We should know about that. I got the impression Edwards was going to tell us.”
“I thought so too,” Harvey agreed lamely.
“The spook cut you out of the loop,” concluded Feldman knowingly.
Harvey nodded.
“Yeah, I can do that. Only we pick up Harper.”
Harvey shook his head quickly. “I don’t think that would be a real good idea.”
“No one cares anymore what you think, Harvey. The man’s a menace and the sooner we have him off the streets the better.” He picked up the phone and started the bureaucratic wheels grinding.
“Better send an army, Lou,” he whispered, but Feldman was not listening.
* * * *
Harper circled the Conway Farms Golf Club until he found a service road off West Broadland Lane. The tar turned to gravel quickly, and he found one of the out buildings used to house some mowers and gasoline cans. He drove down a ditch until the Pathfinder was hidden from view by the out building, then he turned the SUV so it was parked between the trees and bushes.
Dusk was beginning to gather along the golf course. The sun was masked by a stand of trees to the west. Harper turned the rear view mirror and applied the camouflage paint to his face. He pulled the Glock from his side holster and racked the slide. A 230 grain Gold Dot hollow point chambered itself. Next, he pulled the Browning Hi Power and racked the slide. This weapon had an external thumb safety. He replaced it in its holster cocked and locked. Finally, he took the Mossberg and pumped a round into the breach. He checked the thumb safety over the top of the receiver and ensured the lever covered the red dot. He worked the camouflage paint over the rest of his face transforming the last of his humanity into the killing machine Louis Edwards trained those many years ago.
Indy stood on the rear seat, his head jammed between the buckets. Harper slung the ammo bag over his shoulder and whispered, “Time to go.” The two detached themselves from the car and moved along the tree line separating the golf course from the homes on Stablewood Lane. They moved quickly through the lengthening shadows. Harper pulled the map from his pocket and switched on a hooded flashlight. He played the light across the map and examined the houses against his hand-marked scribbles on the map he had printed off Mapquest.com.
He silently counted houses and saw where the homes on Stablewood Lane ended. They started moving again—two wraiths working their way along the trees. Any motion visible to the neighborhood was quickly dismissed as groundskeepers or golfers. The tree line followed the curve of the roads as Stablewood turned into Conway. Harper came to a crouch maybe one hundred yards from the property line. He lifted his binoculars to his eyes and pressed the zoom button.
The back of the house was dark. He waited another half hour until he was certain the house was empty, and the sun dropped below the horizon. They separated themselves from the trees and moved across the property line. Harper moved quickly to the sliding glass door. He checked the lower track for an entry-prevention rod. It was empty. He set the Mossberg against the side of the house and rammed the combat knife’s blade between the latch and jamb. He lifted and pressed his weight against the hilt of the knife. The aluminum latch snapped and the glass door slid open.
He dropped the knife back into his scabbard and snapped the retaining strap over the hilt. Indy’s paws clicked across the tiled floor. He slid the door shut behind them and hefted the Mossberg. His thumb pushed the safety off. He brought the shotgun to a ready position and started through the house. Indy went ahead, sniffing around the baseboard. Harper watched the dog and decided there was no one else in the house. He followed Indy down the steps into the basement. The first thing he noticed was there were no unobstructed windows. The door leading into the basement was heavy with extra padding on the inside.
He flipped the safety back on and pressed the pressure switch for the Sure-Fire light. He surveyed the pool table, dartboard, and wide screen television—a few creature comforts for the hard-at-work terrorist. Indy leaned against him before wandering off to inspect a darker aspect of the room. Harper pushed the downstairs door shut. It was like being sealed in a tomb. The ceiling was sheetrocked, not the conventional drop down tiles on a wire frame he expected. Of course if someone was soundproofing the area it made sense. He shuddered as he contemplated the planning involved.
Eventually, they came to the door with the three deadbolt locks. He pulled some earplugs from a zippered pocket and screwed them into his ears. He led the dog to a bathroom and closed the door. No need for either of them to go deaf. He hefted the Mossberg and fired a Federal slug into each lock. The shotgun slammed back into his shoulder violently three times. He remembered why he mostly practiced with the lighter Sellior & Bellot loads: the Federal rounds were hot and punishing. He nudged the door open and pressed the switch for the Sure-Fire light. Three cases stood like little coffins on the floor.
Bingo.
Harper went back to retrieve Indy. He dropped the earplugs back into his holder and listened.
Nothing.
He pulled the encrypted digital phone from his ammo bag and punched in the number for Louis.
“Edwards here.”
