The Presence of Evil
Page 12
“Excuse me, ma’am, do you speak English?” He was curt and sounded annoyed.
Mena nodded as Sebastian had instructed. So far, everything was perfect. If intolerance and social isolation was considered good.
“I’m going to need you to stow your bags in this cavity.” He lifted one of the seats. “It’s easy to lift and close, so you can retrieve what you need when you’re airborne. The head…I mean the washroom, is aft…back to the left. We’ll be in Chicago shortly. No snack or drink service, so hopefully you brought something on your own.”
Mena nodded again. She saw an open cooler full of waters as she entered the plane and a wicker basket of snacks and fruit. Evidently, they were not for burka-clad passengers. So much for a State Department–contracted charter flight for United Nations dignitaries. Mena placed her personal bag into the compartment and then the Vera Bradley flowered bag that held Drake’s tools that he asked her to transport to their destination.
When the pilot was behind a closed cockpit door, Mena unzipped the bag and moved the cloth items aside to reveal the black metal pieces that Drake had already shown her in the “shop,” as he called it.
The disassembled British Sten Mk2 integrally “silenced” submachine gun and thin magazines spelled death even as pieces. She was resolved to it and tucked it back away. Mena had gotten her wish and quite literally all the baggage that came with it.
Mena buckled in, fighting with the black bulky full-body cloak chador, and yanked off the long capelike veil, khimer, that covered her hair, neck and shoulders. Under it was a smaller headscarf that she pulled behind her ears to get more air. She was hot, frustrated, and tired. The team had rehearsed all night with an overwhelming number of tasks to be memorized and “not fucked up,” as Drake had so delicately encouraged, certainly didn’t reduce her stress. Mena thought back to Iran. It was a lot less long ago than she had shared with Drake. That knuckle-dragger didn’t have the need to know about her covered status. Clearly Sebastian didn’t think so either. As a former Mojahedin-e Khalq, or MEK, the CIA had recruited “Mena” from her hometown of Natanz, in the Iranian Isfahan Province where the central facility for uranium enrichment was located. Her contact, another Iranian working on behalf of a CIA case officer, then handed her off to the Israeli Hatzomet who in turn passed her off to the Kidon, the Mossad’s tip-of-the-spear assassins chartered with killing Iranian nuclear scientists. She was eighteen at the time and agreed to the service for education and citizenship. By the time she was twenty-two and going to school in America, she had seven kills to her name. It had been over a decade since she had killed a man once becoming a legitimate US intelligence officer.
Still, she feared for what Woolf would do to her if he knew of her primary mission. That thought scared her more than the act itself.
The jet exploded from the runway, airborne faster than she had ever experienced on a plane before. Her nerves were fried. There were no cabin indicator lights to signify when it could be a good time to unbuckle and vomit.
How do I serve two masters?
Chapter 27
Saad, the Archangel cell’s chief security man and only part-time gamer, stepped out of the steaming apartment bathroom, a towel around his waist and another drying his damp hair. “We need to wash these,” he called to Youssef and Gebran. “They smell.”
Youssef was on the sofa playing his first-person shooter video games, but replied, “You use too many towels. If you had just one, you could reuse it more.”
“They all stink. We should ask someone down the hall to wash them for us today,” Saad babbled while walking into the living room still sniffing the mildewed cloth. “Gebran, does your towel smell?”
No answer.
“Hey, anointed one. Now that you got a private call from the Modarris, does your towel smell like mold or esteemed ass? Or do you make a chemist’s potion to make the smells go?”
No answer.
“He’s not in his room?” Youssef got up from the couch, looking around the room as if a kitten or puppy had to be asleep in hiding.
Saad darted into the scientist’s assigned bedroom then popped back into the hall. “No, I last saw him in the kitchen.” Youssef hurdled an end table and disappeared into the adjoining room. He called back, “Not here either.”
Both men then sped to the entry door, which had an unlocked deadbolt. They looked at each other in horror.
He was gone.
* * * *
For the first time in weeks, Gebran was free. He sucked through his nose the fresh air and cultural scents from the surrounding restaurants and hot-food carts.
Gebran sported jeans, a sweatshirt, a winter knit skullcap, and his favorite white Oakley wraparound sunglasses, which was fortunately one of the items he didn’t have to leave behind in his old personal apartment before Archangel started. He knew that he was a wanted man in Chicago, but it was more important to him that he exercise his right to freedom and desire to move the radioactive material for the Modarris now that proper assurances had been solidified for Gebran’s future. He walked with purpose to make quick distance between himself and the apartment.
As he made his getaway, Gebran swerved to avoid a foul-smelling vagrant foraging cans from the trash and then scurried past Devon Avenue’s Southeast Asian and Middle Eastern shoppers. Cutting through the pedestrian traffic, he scanned for a cab before realizing he had no cash. Reluctant to go on his mobile device for longer than was required to send the Modarris a confirmation message, an Uber ride was his best bet if his credit cards weren’t now frozen by the FBI. And if they were tracking him, he’d be at the hide site in no time and could turn off the phone as soon as the WMD compounds were moved. Then Gebran himself would be moved to a location for greater discussions with Hezbollah leadership about the attack plans. He had shared a great deal with the Modarris in private where the others couldn’t hear him speak. Mostly the compound properties, first order effects, time between symptoms to death, etcetera.
Out of his purview, the homeless man spun, searching around, crazed and speaking to himself.
A half-dressed Saad with Youssef turned onto the street at a fast gait. Saad turned to the left at an intersection while Youssef, his hand glued to his forehead, took the right, looking frantically for the man they were charged with babysitting.
A white Honda Accord pulled to the curb, the Uber sign displayed on a rear window. Gebran Daouk had fled his captors and just skirted past one of the most deadly men in the business, who sought to kill him.
* * * *
“What just happened?” The voice of Mojo startled Drake. “Did he just go right past you?”
Woolf didn’t care who saw him talking to no one. Such was unfortunately commonplace of the streets’ homeless but suited his cover for action. He spun, looking for anything out of the ordinary. “I didn’t see anything.” He paused. “Hold one. Got something.”
“Doubt it. The scientist that Chicago’s looking for just went past you and got in a car. He’s heading south.”
“I’ve got two other guys. They look like they just lost something important, but from the way they look, I don’t think they’re law enforcement or security. Belay that. Two concealed carries. They must be looking for the guy who bailed.”
“Nope, not seeing them on my radar. The mark is still headed south.”
“One of the guys near me is taking out a device. He’s talking. Maybe just short of fifty yards from me. Can you pull up some signals and sort?”
“Yes! Just saw it go on. It’s linked to…whoa.”
Chapter 28
Drake backed up toward the alley to avoid too much attention. “What’s whoa? I need to make a decision.”
“Hang on. I’m adding a social network filter on this and linking to another database,” Mojo responded. His typing was coming through Drake’s jawbone conductor.
“Dude, hurry.”
“Listen. That’s all fine, but the fight is here. Where’s the scientist going?”
“No clue, brah.”
“Go back and see where you got a signal hit of the scientist’s phone and when the credit card was charged using the device. Within the time of pickup. Maybe five minutes, see what signal was in immediate proximity to him when he got in the Uber. The driver would have to validate the pickup using his mobile, and that would coincide with the cellular transmission that sent the credit card payment.”
“Damn, bro. Nice. Give me a bit.” Mojo retained everything Drake had said and walked the data through the pattern. “I’m tracking.” Mojo added a few more filters to the signals that displayed at the snapshot in time. “Wow, okay. Got it. Yep, simultaneous transmission. Same rate of speed. That’s some slick shit.”
“Track it to see where he’s going and pin the drop point. I’m sure it won’t be right where he’s going, but that gives us a radius of a mile to work with. Probably less than a block, if my guess is on point.”
“I’m on it, man.”
“I’ll see if I can follow these guys to wherever their lair is. I’ll need Starfish to meet me before I can go say hello.”
“Roger that. Starfish 1 is on the ground en route to AO. I’ll direct to your location.”
“That won’t work. Starfish’ll have too much luggage. Have Starfish drop everything but the fancy bag at hotel first, and I’ll improvise until then.”
“Coolio.” Mojo thumbed an old MP3 player that was NSA approved for use on premises. He selected his Johnny Cash playlist and fired up the “Folsom Prison Blues” and sang aloud. “I hear the train a comin’…”
* * * *
Saad and Youssef had been with the Party long enough to know that an admission of neglect securing an operational cell could get them killed; however, a cover up or running would not only get them eventually killed but would endanger their immediate families, as well.
The news they shared with the Venezuelan Hezbollah touchpoint traveled quickly through the ranks outside of those who were otherwise operationally silent to the Qods Force handlers.
Senior Commander Majid Alawi, formerly of the Iranian Ministry of Intelligence and Security, presently of the IRGC Qods Force Unit 400, bypassed his boss, Major General Hamed Abdollahi, and went straight to Major General Soleimani. Alawi traveled from the Unit 400 Golzar Tower in northern Tehran past Harvi Square to the Qods Force headquarters, ironically located in the former US Embassy. A fact that still tickled Alawi to this day, as he approached.
After multiple waves and handshakes, the intelligence operative Alawi was escorted by two guards and given entrée to the modestly appointed chambers. “Qasem, my brother, pardon my intrusion, but I wish to discuss something with you in private.”
“Come in.” Soleimani rose from his chair and greeted the Persian spook with a hug and kisses on the cheek. “It is so good to see you. Please…” He directed Alawi to a leather chair to the side where they could both sit as equal men.
“Thank you. Forgive me for cutting to business and not exchanging pleasantries. I hope the children are well.”
Major General waved it off as nothing. “They are fine. Please. Something is on your mind.” He motioned for the man only a few years his junior to continue.
“You have no doubt heard news of the scientist’s escape.”
Soleimani again nodded, his face expressionless.
“He is no matter,” Alawi dismissed. “We have the material and can transport it to a safe location. We will pay our American partners for their troubles, as I know they remain valuable to our Hezbollah associates in the region.”
Soleimani reached out, putting his hand on Majid’s arm. “What is your question?”
The balding man shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “It is about the Modarris. Not so much a question, rather a concern.”
Chapter 29
Sean Havens readjusted on his recovery bed, mustering enough mobility to reach for a peanut butter and banana smoothie that was left for him on the roller cart while he slept.
He was stiff from yet another early morning orthopedic operation, which had him out for three hours and groggy in bed for another three. Now, he was just bored and decided to catch up on years of missed sleep since he would hallucinate either way.
Havens answered the knock on his room’s door with a cheerful, “Come on in, it’s open.”
A guard’s head popped in. “Mr. Havens, Special Agent Halliday is here at your request. You sure this is a good idea?”
“Thanks, Mitch. Yeah, it’ll be fine. She and I go way back. Justice won’t know anything more about this place after she leaves than they did before. Did you get what I asked?”
“Yes, sir, it’s in the fridge. I can bring it in if you’d like.”
“Please. Thanks, pal.”
The ex-CIA guard nodded, opening the door for the tall blondish-haired Amazon standing in wait. She cautiously stepped into the room.
“Hey, you came,” Sean beamed. “No candies or flowers?”
“You’ve got about thirty seconds to talk before I arrest you.”
“I think I would have gotten you a panda. Do you like pandas?”
“Talk.”
“Pull up a seat,” Sean offered, nodding to a chair at his side.
“I’ll stand. I’m not staying, and I’m trying to think of how quickly I can just arrest you.”
“Don’t do that. I just told my pal out in the hall that we go way back. It would be really embarrassing if this place got raided. I’m afraid I’ll have to snap my fingers and have him take you out of here.” Sean snapped.
Mitch reentered the room, carrying a six-pack of Wisconsin’s Spotted Cow lager. “Where do you want it?”
His reentry gave Halliday a start.
“Good timing. It’s for Special Agent Halliday. You can give it to her. That’ll be fine. Thanks again.”
Tresa accepted the bottles with a glare of impatience.
“I thought we would start with a peace offering. I’m sorry about Georgetown. I was out of line. Thought you might like a little taste of home.” Sean grinned and reached his hand out. “I’d shake your hand but figured we should start with a beer.”
Tresa pulled out a bottle from the pack on her lap and bypassed Sean’s hand, opening the top on the metal hinge of the hospital bed.
“Nice,” he conceded, taking the bottle. “Packers fan?”
She affirmed with a nod then used the same leverage to open her own beer.
“Where’d you get these? I didn’t think New Glarus distributed out East.”
“I have access to transportation. Don’t worry. Didn’t cost tax payers anything, but that six-pack did just cost me about five thousand dollars.”
Tresa was looking Havens up and down. “How many times were you shot?”
“More than I wanted.” He lifted his right hand, which was bandaged like a big Q-tip. “The ankle’s going to be okay. But this guy is definitely going to set off a metal detector. Body shot was a graze and a through and through. Can’t remember the other one with all these meds.”
“Should you be drinking?” she asked, then drank about half her bottle in a swallow.
“Look at you.” He admired her rawness and instantly liked her. Still, her masculinity under her beauty gave him pause and he eyed her throat for an Adam’s apple.
Havens’s smile was contagious, and she too cracked a smile. “No,” he said, “I probably shouldn’t have more than two or three, but the doctors come in and leave early then come back and leave really late. Day jobs and all. I never had a chance to ask them about beer, but I have a feeling you may finish them before I get my second.”
“Why am I here?” She circled her head to the room. “Is this a CIA safe house out here?”
“Nope. Completely commercial private medical facility located in a very large house. Now who their main customers are, I have no idea,” he confessed sarcastically. “I’m paying in cash.”
“Like your friend Patches?”
“Nice. Score two for the Bureau. You must have been closer than we thought.”
“And I saw that your reckless antics killed your big partner?”
Sean’s jovial face turned solemn. “He was my brother-in-law. Former police. Chicago.”
“Wow. Some family he must have been to just leave him burning in the dirt like he was just one of the dead terrorists.” She finished her beer and pulled out another.
Sean drank his without a word, set the bottle between his legs, and reached out to her for another.
“Yeah,” he finally said. “It was real shitty.”
“Sean. It is Sean, right?”
“I gave you my true name in the message. All cards are on the table.”
“You’re wanting immunity, I take it?” She handed him the bottle, from which he took a long pull. The beer dripped a bit, and he wiped it with his bandaged hand.
“Bet you wish you had one of these.” He waved.
“I can still get a handcuff around your wrist.”