by Rick Jones
Then from Johnston. “So, are you going to tell me what happened here or not?”
“Sure. These people were on the wrong end of a retreat.”
The FBI director shook his head. “Don’t think for one second that the Vatican can exercise their military actions on U.S. soil with impunity.”
“Who said anything about the Vatican. You did. Not me.”
“You know what I’m talking about here, Shari. This agency does not want a mess on our hands that we can handle differently.”
“We’re dealing with Mohammad Allawi here,” she shot back. “Did you not look out your window to see what he did to the Washington Monument? Or to the Statue of Liberty? Messes, Larry, at times cannot be avoided. It . . . happens.”
The FBI director gave her a sidelong glance. Though he suspected what caused the storm that had smashed through this residence with unrelenting violence, deep down he was glad. Shari Cohen had been an asset to the department and a person who had suffered greatly over the past two years. If she had a champion in her life, then he was glad for her.
“You can’t stay here, Shari. You need to get off the grid until we settle up with Allawi.”
“If you catch Allawi,” she returned.
“We will,” he told her. “We have a man in custody. An Allawi player. The dragnet is beginning to tighten.”
“It didn’t tighten here,” she responded. “They passed right through. Walked right through my front door” And then: “You need my help, Larry.”
“Nothing’s changed, Shari. I’m restricted. But—” In his hand was a manila envelope that he had rounded into the shape of a tube, which he extended to her.
“There is something you can do now that you’re on the beach.”
“On the beach? You’re suspending me?”
“With pay. I want you off the grid, Shari. Completely. I can provide you with a safehouse location, which I wanted to do to begin with.”
“I have a place. It’s out and away.”
“You’ll need security.”
“I have everything I need, meaning I don’t need anyone else.”
Meaning, you’ll have your champion, he considered.
When Shari unfurled the folder and opened it, she asked, “What’s this?”
“Information,” he told her plainly. “Now that you’re on the beach, I was wondering if you could do a little digging, a little research, regarding the contents on those pages, now that you have plenty of time.”
It was just two sheets regarding discussed details at the White House concerning Operation Herod.
She examined the pages, which were skinny on data. “I don’t get it,” she said.
“Since the administration does not want you directly involved, you can still be of value now that you’re off the grid and will remain so, doing whatever you want on your time.”
“I’m not getting it, Larry.”
“There have been discussions within the White House regarding messages sent to the administration by Mohammad Allawi, TS information. To know that I was responsible for giving you such information that require certain clearances could cost me my position, should it be known that I did so. What you have there in your hands could be a powder keg of data, though there is little to go on.”
She looked over the pages. “I’ll say.”
“It’s the opening chapter to something that may play out with devastating costs, if we don’t get a handle on this. Now, the administration said that they did not want you directly involved. Instead, you’ll be indirectly involved.”
“Yeah. You want me to research and intercept data, which we’ve already discussed, Larry. That’s NSA work for here, and CIA work for abroad. Not interested.” “Shari, getting you indirectly involved is the best I can do, since we’re talking about semantics here. I can justify direct versus indirect and state my case and reason. I will not be able to justify my act of providing you with those pages, however. And a risk I’m willing to take since we’re apparently on the clock here.”
She held up the papers. “There’s nothing here, Larry.”
“You’re wrong. Those pages tell something of great importance, though with vagueness.”
She lowered the papers to her lap. “What are you not telling me?”
“In those pages is a reference to Herod, whom we believe is King Herod of the Bible. After refusing to comply with Mohammad Allawi’s demands to the release of thirty-five terrorists, all high-level insurgents, he made a rather ambiguous statement that ‘Herod would have nothing on him,’ which we continue to find rather disturbing.”
“Are you talking about the Herod, the Judean king who allegedly ordered the slaughter of children in Bethlehem to keep the prophecy of the Messiah from happening?”
The director nodded. “When we did not comply with the demands, we expected an act against children instead of an act against the banks. The administration now believes that it was a red herring to look in one direction so that they could to attack in another.”
“Is that what you believe?”
“Honestly, Shari, I don’t know what to believe. No one does. So, I need as much help from those who I know can deliver. If Allawi is planning to kill children, we need to stop him, obviously. To discover his intent, however, is your department, since you were the one who developed his psychological profile. Get back into his mind, Shari, and locate his intent. I can provide you with more data as it comes along. Will you have a computer at your location?”
She seemed to be mulling this over, which was why she did not respond right away.
“Please, Shari. I know you wanted to get involved with the hunt against Allawi for what he did to your family. I get that. And yes, the principals did not want you involved because they thought somewhere along the way you might become emotionally compromised and ineffective, which could result in disastrous consequences.”
“Which you supported.”
“I did. Because I know it’s not easy to perform your best under such strain, knowing how close you were to your family. It would have been impossible for you to engage Mohammad Allawi with objectivity, no matter how strong you are, when you know what this man did to your children.”
Shari pitched a soft sigh. The argument, though she still had reservations, had merit.
“Shari, if Allawi has something in mind regarding Operation Herod, then we need to find out before the time to release the insurgents runs out in less than twenty-four hours. I will give you whatever access you need—whatever information. Right now, I need someone on my team who has the capability and determination to see this through . . . And to save the lives of children.”
Shari suddenly felt a knot tighten in her chest.
“You can help me, Shari, by not allowing the pain and suffering to those parents that you have suffered over these past two years. I know it’s been hard and impossibly difficult, but right now your skills are better suited to help me from your safehouse, if you’re willing. No direct involvement, which keeps with the political mandates.” The knot inside her was becoming a Gordian tangle. And then she nodded in agreement, a slight bobbing of her head. There was no doubt that Johnston had planned to get her involved all along if situations weren’t panning out, or if the investigations were moving glacially slow, which they apparently were.
FBI Director Larry Johnston, who was setting aside his orders for his moral compass, was reaching out to the woman who knew best the pain of suffering and loss. And there was nobody better who had ‘been there and done that.’ Shari Cohen was now fully committed to saving the hardships that were possibly coming the way of parents who adored their children the same way she adored hers. If extracting the possibility of causing such pain was in her ability to stop it, she would do so.
And then she thought about her grandmamma, an Auschwitz survivor who had seen and lived through unbelievable horrors daily, after losing her family to the gas chambers once they left the trains. But she had persevered and survived, begetting children of her own to re
create a whole new line. And during her lifespan as she found her way to the United States where she gazed upon the Statue of Liberty, she had learned how to live with the pain that had become her companion over a lifetime. Now as a test to her own testament of will, it was Shari’s turn to follow in her grandmother’s footsteps.
“Shari.”
She snapped out of her reverie. “I’m fine, Larry. And yes, get me what you can.”
He nodded. “Thank you.” After giving her his direct email at the department, she left the townhouse with no additional clothing, since the residence was in lockdown mode while in search of evidence.
Getting into her SUV, she started the motor, put the vehicle in gear, and began to make her way to her new residence, which was a cabin near a lake in Maryland. Once she was on the highway, she spotted a pair of following sedans from her rearview mirror that were meant to see her with safe passage. But a call to Larry Johnston pulled the plug on that, but only after the trailing agents were positive that they weren’t being tagged.
After the vehicles broke off and Shari found herself on the back roads, she said,
“Are you all right?”
“Is everything good?”
“They’re gone.”
In the backseat, Kimball Hayden sat up and looked out the rear window. Nobody was following them.
Chapter Thirty-One
Federal Blacksite Containment Center
14 Miles North of Richmond, Virginia
Jerhon Bellamy was cuffed and transported by a windowless cube van to a location fourteen miles north of Richmond, Virginia. Though he believed that he was being transferred to a county facility, he soon realized that the length of travel was taking him outside of D.C.
After the rise of a prison gate, the van traveled down a stretch of pavement, stopped, then backed into a sally port. When the rear doors to the van swung open, Jerhon immediately noted the heavily uniformed presence of armed guards. They were dressed entirely in black with composite shield guards on the shins, elbows and chest, and wore helmets with visors so dark that their faces could not be seen. Each soldier was carrying a powerful-looking assault rifle. Shackled by belly and leg chains, Jerhon’s movements were slow as he was ushered to a chamber that was surrounded by steel walls. Secured high on the walls at two of the room’s corners were CCTV cameras. After he was forcibly pushed down onto a metal bench that was attached to a steel table, he was then handcuffed to a metal ring that was attached to the tabletop.
As three of the guards left the room, two remained to flank the doorway. They stood regimentally straight with weapons in hand and looked not at Jerhon, but at an imaginary point on the opposite wall.
Six minutes later two men walked into the room. They were neatly dressed in well-pressed suits, had conservative haircuts, and had the look of actors who were about to play their parts in the upcoming routine of good-cop, bad-cop. The man in the pewter-gray suit sat to Jerhon’s left, and the man wearing the black suit and ruby-red tie sat on his right. While the man in gray poured through documents in a folder, the man in black pinned him with a hard stare. Then from the man in gray. “Mr. Jerhon Bellamy, AKA Mukhtar Ajam, born in the Bronx, New York, in 1996. Imprisoned for drug sales.” He closed the folder. “I won’t go into further details since you get the idea that we know who you are,” he told him.
“We saw you toss your vest into the river from the cameras,” said the agent dressed in black. “Big Brother is everywhere.”
“I guess.”
“You want to tell us about Mohammad Allawi?” said Mr. Black.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, man,” Jerhon returned.
Mister Black gave a one-sided smile. “You really want to play that game with us?”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“OK,” said Mr. Black. Then he gestured to one of the guards who crossed the floor in an instance, raised his weapon, and brought the butt down hard against Jerhon’s wrist, which incited him to cry out in pain. After the soldier fell back in line, Mr. Black asked, “You still want to play this game with us, Bellamy.” As Jerhon continued to feel an electric charge of pain shoot up his left arm, he clenched his teeth. Then: “You can’t be doing this to me, man! I want to see my lawyer!”
“You don’t get it, do you?” This came from Mr. Gray. “There are no lawyers here, no constitutional rights, no nothing for traitors who are hell-bent on bringing this country down to its knees. Such rights only belong to patriots.” After a pause, he added: “Are you a patriot, Jerhon? Do you have any regards for the health of this nation?”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
Mr. Gray didn’t hesitate when he ordered the guard to approach and dispense another brand of painful misery with the butt of his weapon, this time ramming the wrist until it broke with an audible crunch.
While Jerhon was crying out in pain, Mr. Black said, “We can do this all day, Jerhon. All day. And so that you know, there are two-hundred-and-six bones in the human body. So, if you don’t cooperate, I can promise you that this will be a very . . . long . . . day for you. Very long.”
“I need a doctor, man!”
“And you’ll get one,” said Mr. Black, “as soon as you tell us what we need to know. The quicker you tell us, the quicker you get help. It’s that simple.”
After a moment that was steeped in agony, Jerhon finally said, “What, man? What do you need?”
“Simple, Jerhon. We want the truth. You understand? The truth. So, we’ll start with this: what was your role in Allawi’s cell?”
“I was just a messenger, man. That’s all I was.”
“Were you a part of the raid on the site that imprisoned Allawi?”
“No, man. That was the mercs.”
“The mercs?” asked Mr. Black.
Jerhon nodded. “Mercs, man. The soldiers who’ve been there and done that. Real fighters.”
“How many soldiers?”
“Twelve.”
“So, you were just a puppet and nothing more?”
“That’s right. I thought I was a part of something important. But when the time came to pull the pin, I couldn’t do it. That’s when I realized that Allawi was using me to further his cause and that I meant nothing to him. I was just a tool, man. That’s all I was.”
“That’s right, Jerhon,” said Mr. Gray. “You were nothing but a tool to Mohammad Allawi. That’s how he works his soldiers. He drills rhetoric in the minds of his people by telling them that they’re special and unique, and that Allah has a special place for them in Paradise. Am I right so far?”
Jerhon nodded.
“Then he uses people to promote his plan by having them kill themselves in the name of Allah, and people like Allawi would never consider putting on a vest, would he?”
Jerhon shrugged, and then said, “I need a doctor, man.”
“You’ll get one,” Mr. Gray told him. “I promise. So, stay with me a little longer, Jerhon. You’re doing just fine.”
Then from Mr. Black, “Tell us more about the mercs. Were they responsible for bringing down the Washington Monument and the Statue of Liberty?”
“No, man. Allawi only sent the Messengers, those with no real skills.” He grimaced with pain.
“You’re doing fine, Jerhon,” said Mr. Gray. “Not too much longer now, I promise.” Then the agent leaned forward in his chair. “What can you tell me about these mercenaries?”
“All I know is that they’re skilled fighters who’ve been in battle before, like in the Middle East. Real soldiers. They’re the ones who raided the Blacksite facility. I didn’t do nothing, man.”
“But you were going to kill innocent civilians standing in line at the bank, weren’t you?”
“I told you, man. Allawi sent me and others. I, obviously, changed my mind.”
There was another strained grimace from Jerhon.
“You’re doing well, Jerhon. I need you so stay with me, OK? Now, was Allawi responsible for the downing of Ai
r Force Two?”
Jerhon nodded then shrugged.
“What does that mean?” asked Mr. Black. “Did he, or didn’t he?”
“He ordered the jet down. That was his plan. But he didn’t do it, man. That was Najm’s job. He’s the computer geek.”
“Tell me about this man Najm. What’s his real name?”
“I don’t know, man. I can’t pronounce half the names Allawi handed out to all of us. Hell, man, I could never pronounce my own first name.”
Mr. Gray reached into the folder. “I’m going to show you a few photos, Jerhon, and I want your full attention and cooperation on this, do you understand?”
Jerhon nodded.
Mr. Gray pulled out a photo of a man alleged to be Geoffrey Miner and placed it on the table before Jerhon. It was a military photo that had been taken months after boot camp, the picture recent. “Who is this man?” he asked him evenly.
Jerhon winced when he moved to get a better look. “Man, that’s Najm.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive. He’s the computer geek. Knows everything and then some.”
“Do you know his real name?”
“Naw, man. Like I said, whatever name Allawi gave us was the name we went by.”
Mr. Gray pulled out another photo, this one at a clothing store. In the photo were four men, Jerhon and three others. When Mr. Gray pointed to each figure, Jerhon pronounced the Arabic names as best he could. Two were dead, the bank bombers. The third figure was Najm, who purchased the clothes.
“This Najm guy,” Mr. Black began, “is he the second in command?”
“Yeah. He led and planned everything up to the point of the raid. Allawi took command once he was released.”
“This store,” said Mr. Gray, “it’s in Virginia.”
Jerhon nodded.
“Is it close to your base of operations?”
“Not too far.”
“How far?”
“Five, six miles.”
“So close by, then?”
“Yeah, man.”
“Can you tell me the address?”
“I don’t know the street name or the number. I know how to get there, though.”