[Lady Justice 08] - Lady Justice and the Watchers
Page 13
Mustafa gathered the men around the kitchen table and spread out a series of color photographs.
He had known that the fires that stoked the men’s passion would need to be fueled.
Zareef looked at the photos of burning huts and mothers carrying limp and bloody children in their arms.
“This is the result of the drone’s latest strike on one of our villages,” Mustafa said. “Our countrymen weep for the loss of their homes and their families, and you, my brothers, are the ones chosen to avenge their sorrow.
“It is indeed a great honor to give your lives for this sacred cause.”
Zareef felt the familiar burning in his bosom and vowed to do what needed to be done.
Mustafa saw the look of disappointment on Zareef’s face when they pulled up in front of the old rooming house on Linwood Boulevard.
“I know it’s not as nice as where you have been living, but it’s just a few weeks until this will all be over. You’ll be fine.”
Zareef climbed out of the car and watched as Mustafa disappeared down the street.
The sign above the porch read, ‘Three Trails Hotel’ and another sign hanging on the porch post read, ‘Room for rent. Inquire inside’.
He knocked on the door and a stout woman in her seventies answered.
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
“I’m inquiring about your room for rent.”
The woman looked at him closely, “You got a job?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m a vendor at the Royals Stadium.”
The woman broke into a big smile, “Well why didn’t you say so? Come on in.”
He followed her into her tidy apartment.
“My name is Mary. What’s yours?”
“Zareef Kahn.”
“Caan! You any relation to James Caan? He’s one of my favorite actors. I loved him on that TV show, Las Vegas. Damned shame they cancelled it.”
“No, I don’t believe so.”
“So you work at the ballpark. Cool! I love the Royals. I watch almost every game that’s on TV.
“Got my own bat,” she said, grabbing a thirty-six inch Hillrich & Bradsby from behind the door.
“Of course all I do with mine is smash roaches and threaten belligerent tenants.”
Zareef began to wonder if they’d picked the wrong building.
“The rent is forty bucks a week --- in advance. We have simple house rules --- no pets --- no girls in your room and no cooking. We can’t have you burning the place down.”
Zareef was confused, “Then where do I eat?”
“There’s a diner just a couple of blocks from here. Oh yeah, you share four bathrooms with nineteen other guys so if you get the squirts, clean up after yourself and if you’re constipated try to wait until everyone else has used the can.”
Zareef just stood there trying to make sense of everything he had heard.
“Well, do you want the room or not?”
“Yes, I’ll take it,” he said regretfully.
“Great! Forty bucks and I’ll take you to your room.”
He handed her the money and followed her onto the porch.
Two old guys were seated on the swing and he overheard their conversation.
“Just got back from seeing my doctor. Seems that my life of wine, women and song has finally caught up with me.”
“So what did the doc say?”
“He said I probably wouldn’t have to give up my singing.”
Just then, two gorgeous girls walked past the hotel.
One of the old guys said, “Just look at that! I wish I was twenty years older.”
“Don’t you mean twenty years younger?” his friend asked.
“Hell, no! Twenty years older. That way I wouldn’t give a damn!”
Zareef paused next to the two friends.
“Have you lived here all your life?”
The old man looked at him with a puzzled expression, “How would I know, I haven’t died yet.”
“Don’t pay them any mind,” Mary said. “They’re just crazy old coots.”
Zareef followed Mary up the stairs and as they passed one of the bathrooms, the door swung open and an old gentleman emerged followed by a stench that almost made him gag.
“That’s old man Feeney,” Mary said. “Try to avoid following him into the crapper if you can.”
Mary had just opened the door to his room when the next-door down the hall opened and a well-dressed, middle-aged man stepped out.
“Good, you can meet your neighbor,” Mary said. “Lawrence, this is Za --- Za ---.”
“Zareef,’” he said.
“Hi, my name is Lawrence Wingate.”
“Zareef works at Royals Stadium just like you,” Mary said proudly.
Zareef looked surprised. This man certainly didn’t look like a vendor.
“Actually, I’m not an employee. I’m a consultant --- a computer guy. I’m on loan there to help them set up some security circuits for the big game coming up in July.”
“Well, I’ll let you two get acquainted,” Mary said. “It’s almost time for my soap opera.”
“So what do you do at the stadium?” Lawrence asked.
“I’m a vendor --- hot dogs mostly.”
“Zareef? What nationality is that?”
“Pakistani. I’ve only been in the country a few months.”
“Well, Zareef, if there’s anything I can do to help you settle in, just let me know. We stadium guys have to stick together, right?”
After he was gone, Zareef looked at the bed, dresser and chair in his meager room.
This was a strange place, indeed.
Mary was certainly different. The old men seemed harmless enough and Lawrence, with his connections to stadium security, might prove to be useful.
It wasn’t the place he would have chosen to spend the last days of his life, but Allah must have had a reason for bringing him here.
It was not for him to question fate.
CHAPTER 15
I dreaded my going back to Professor Skinner with what I had learned from Suzanne Romero.
When he answered the door I could tell that the stress of the past few hours was weighing heavily on him.
“Walt, come in. I hope you have better news than I do.”
“Have you heard something new?” I asked.
“Just that Dr. Rhinehart and Amir were not the only ones taken. Apparently, all of the exchange students and their hosts were whisked away during the night.”
This, of course, confirmed what Suzanne had heard from her DOJ contact.
I told him what I had learned about the Patriot Act and the National Defense Authorization Act as well as my conversation with Mark Davenport.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I wish there was more that I could have done.”
“It’s not just you,” he replied. “The University has thrown its considerable weight into the situation without any luck.
“It seems that there is no one, other than the President, that these people answer to.”
“The more I learn about what’s going on today,” I said, “the more I wonder just how far away we are from the society that Orwell described in his 1984 novel.
“I read that the four ministries in that society had names that were totally opposite of what they actually did.
“I think that I remember reading that The Ministry of Peace actually concerned itself with conducting the countries perpetual wars.
“That sounds very much like our Department of Defense, which, along with the giant military-industrial complex has kept us at war for over a century, from World War I to World War II, from Korea to Vietnam, from Iraq to Afghanistan and now Iran is looming on the horizon.”
“Then there’s The Ministry of Truth,” the Professor added. “Like the Federal Communications Commission, it controlled the information that was released through newspapers and other media to make sure that events conformed to ‘Big Brother’s’ most recent pronouncements.”
The Professor shook his head, “And now with the Department of Homeland Security, it seems we have our own version of The Ministry of Love that was responsible for the identification, monitoring and arrest of dissidents, real or imagined.”
“This isn’t over,” I said. “Somehow we’ll get our people free. This is still the United States of America, not Nazi Germany or Communist Russia.”
“I hope you’re right,” he said.
I had uttered the words, but in my heart I wasn’t sure anymore.
I had tossed and turned all night, trying to think of how I could get Mark Davenport to listen to me, but I came up empty.
When I walked into the squad room the next morning, there were dark circles under my eyes and dark feelings in my heart.
“Geez, Walt,” Ox said, “you look like crap! What’s going on?”
“Thanks for noticing,” I replied.
I told him about the Homeland Security arrests and my conversation with the Professor and Suzanne Romero.
Just then, the Captain entered.
“Gentlemen, I have a special assignment for several of you.
“As you may or may not know, Kansas City has ‘sister cities’ in several countries around the world.
“The Municipal President of Guadalajara, Mexico and his family will be visiting for a few days and our department will be helping provide security.
“Ox, I would like you and Walt to meet Senor Velasquez and his family at the airport today and escort them to their hotel at Crown Center.
“Tomorrow, the family will be touring the new aquarium at Crown Center. Four other officers will join you while they are on their tour.
“See me after the meeting for the particulars.
“Your assignments are posted. Be safe out there!”
“Great!” I said. “How am I supposed to be Mr. Hospitality when I feel like Oscar the Grouch?”
“Who knows,” Ox replied, “this might be just the thing to get you out of your funk.
“We’d better go see the Captain.”
The Captain told us that Diego Velasquez, his wife, Maria, and his eight-year-old son, Julio would be arriving from Mexico City via American Airlines at two-thirty that afternoon.
He presented us with a placard with their names that we would hold up at the terminal gate.
The only good thing I could see about the whole deal was that we would be riding in a chauffeured stretch limo.
The driver dropped us off at the terminal. We were to call him when the Velasquez family had secured their luggage and were ready to be picked up.
We took our places beside the other travel agents and hotel drivers holding up their placards.
Soon the procession of weary travelers appeared from the gangway.
A small boy burst from the crowd shouting, “Madre, aqui! Policia!”
He was quickly joined by his parents, “Julio, remember, we are in America and while we are here, you will use your English.”
“Si --- uhhh, --- yes, Mother.”
A stocky man with coal black hair who appeared to be in his late thirties extended his hand.
“My name is Diego Valesquez. This is my wife, Maria, and this impetuous lad is Julio.”
We introduced ourselves and headed to the baggage claim area.
When all their luggage was secured, we called the limo driver.
On the forty-five minute drive from the airport, Mr. Velasquez told us about Guadalajara, Mexico’s second largest city.
Little Julio was filled with piss and vinegar after being cooped up in the airplane for six hours.
He bounced around the roomy limo and every time we passed something that caught his eye, which seemed to be about every five minutes, he would ask, “What’s that?”
After the umpteenth ‘what’s that’, his mother came to the rescue.
“That’s enough, Julio. These men are police officers, not tour guides. Give it a rest!”
You could see the disappointment in his big brown eyes, but he complied --- until the Kansas City skyline appeared in the distance.
This prompted a new round of questions. His mother was about to protest, but I shook my head.
“Not a problem. If I were visiting your country, I’d be asking questions too.”
The two officers that were to be with the Velasquez family throughout the evening met us at the Crown Center Hotel.
We said our goodbyes and made arrangements to meet them after breakfast the next morning for the tour of the aquarium.
When I pulled up in front of my building, the usual welcoming committee was lounging on the front stoop.
Dad was the first to greet me. “Hey, Sonny, how was your day?”
I told the assembled group about my babysitting duties with the visiting dignitaries.
The mention of Mexico set Jerry off onto one of his comedy club monologues.
“Do you remember when the Southwestern Bell Telephone Company had to break up into a bunch of smaller Baby Bells?”
I nodded.
“Any idea what they called the one in Mexico?”
I shook my head.
“Taco Bell!”
He moved on without skipping a beat.
“I knew a guy from Mexico. He had an addiction he just couldn’t lick. I even wrote a limerick about him.
I call it Pancho’s Lament.
My name is Pancho
I live on a rancho
I make five dollars a day.
Then I go see Lucy
She shows me her coochie
And takes my five dollars away.
Willie, who had been quietly listening to Jerry blather on, put in his two cents worth. “Man, you is jus’ sick!”
Undaunted, Jerry continued.
“Two Mexican guys were talking. One of them asked, ‘Are you going to siesta today?’
The other replied, ‘No, not today. I think her husband is home.’”
Willie just gave him a blank stare.
“Siesta --- See Esta --- Get it?”
Willie headed for the door, “I can’t take no mo’ of dis.”
As I hurried in behind him, I only hoped that Jerry and the Velasquez family would never cross paths.
The next morning, we met our guests and the two officers that had guarded them over the night, coming out of the restaurant.
After exchanging greetings, Ox asked, “Is everyone ready for the aquarium tour?”
I saw little Julio tug on his dad’s arm and whisper in his ear.
Diego smiled, “I think Julio might need to take a quick break. He ate a pretty big breakfast.”
One of the officers that had been with them spoke up, “I’ll take him. It’s just down the hall. I could use one of those breaks myself.”
We chatted while we waited for the two to return.
When ten minutes had passed, Ox said, “I think I’ll go check and make sure one of them didn’t fall in.”
Maria looked puzzled.
“Midwest humor,” I said.
Five minutes later, Ox and the other officer returned. You could see by the looks on their faces that something was terribly wrong.
“Julio is missing,” Ox said.
Everyone looked at the officer who was supposed to be watching the boy.
“We both went into the bathroom. I finished, but Julio was taking a number two.
“He asked me to wait outside in the hall. I figured he might be embarrassed so I waited just outside the door.
“A few minutes later, a man came out carrying a boy who appeared to be asleep. The boy was wearing a jacket with a hood. I didn’t think a thing about it.
“Then Ox showed up and we both went inside. Julio was gone.”
“But we did find this,”
Ox said, holding up a cloth. “Chloroform!”
Maria turned to her husband. “How could this happen here --- in the United States. We knew that in Mexico it was a possibility, but not here!”
Maria Velasquez burst into tears and buried her face in her husband’s chest.
Diego did his best to comfort his distraught wife.
“This is a real problem in my country,” Diego said. “There are more that ten thousand kidnappings a year, most of which go unreported.
“It has become a very profitable business. A child is taken, a demand is made, the money is paid and in most cases the child is returned unharmed.
“Kidnappings have increased more than five hundred percent in the last ten years.”
“I am so sorry,” the officer said. “I should never have left his side.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Diego replied. “Little Julio can be very persuasive.
“We are prepared to deal with this, but we must act quickly.”
He saw the puzzled looks on our faces.
“Knowing that our son could be taken at any time, we have taken precautions. Come with me to our room.”
A few minutes later, Diego opened his luggage and retrieved a small case about the size of a box of matches.
“Do you know RFID technology?” he asked.
We shook our heads.
“The acronym stands for radio-frequency identification. It is a new technology that is booming in my country because of all of the kidnappings.
“Those of us that can afford it have sewn into our child’s clothing, a biochip, which is also known as a radio-frequency transponder tag. It contains the data about our child.
“It also has a GPS transponder that can be tracked with this device,” he said, holding up the gizmo that he had taken from the suitcase.
“Let me show you.”
He flipped on a switch and a small screen lit up, just like the Garmin GPS that Maggie and I use when we’re lost.
“There,” he said, pointing, “they’re moving south on Main Street.”
“May we take this?” I asked. “We need to cut them off before they reach their destination.”