Juggernaut

by Rick Jones

  “Yes, Mohammad.”

  “Find out what happened to Aarib Qadir. And most definitely find out what happened to Shari Cohen. If she’s still out there, I want her located.”

  “With all due respect, Mohammad, do you think that’s a wise decision considering—”

  Allawi was on top of Najm in a flash grabbing the man by the collar, then yanking him away from the screen. With the fabric of Najm’s collar bleeding through the gaps of Allawi’s clenched fingers, Allawi said with forced calm, “Never question my authority again, Najm. That’s not your right to do so. Do you understand?” Najm, whose face was beginning to turn crimson because Allawi was twisting the collar like a tourniquet, nodded.

  Allawi, releasing his hold, then patted Najm on the shoulder. “Make sure that you do,” he said to him softly and apologetically. “Find out what you can between the agencies . . . And find the woman, if she lives.”

  Najm, who was rubbing his throat, submissively answered, “Yes, Mohammad.”

  More pats to Najm’s shoulder. “Good boy,” Allawi told him, then he was off to another part of the kitchen to converse with his foot soldiers. Already, Mohammad Allawi was adapting to the situation and devising strategies, with Shari Cohen a subset within the plan.

  Najm, who continued to rub his neck gently as if to recirculate the flow of blood, watched Allawi and thought how his proclivity for retribution against the woman was going to be his downfall, if he wasn’t careful. Being a conduit to Allah was not enough, since Mohammad Allawi was still human at the end of the day. And humans, unlike their gods, were filled with foibles and follies. Don’t overstep your boundaries, Najm thought. Stay with the mission core. Or there may be something waiting for you on the other side that you may not like.

  Mohammad Allawi, however, was beginning to feel that he was invincible, which was a very human quality that often led to one’s ruin.

  Returning to his computer, Najm, whose skill at intercepting and plucking data from cyberspace was matched by no one, began to operate like a surgeon.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Kimball stood before the panoramic window that overlooked the lake. A mist was riding the surface of water, a thick blanket of cloud cover. And beyond the conical points of the pines was the first showings of dawn that were colorful blushes of reds, oranges and yellows that began to intensify along the ridgeline.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” Shari asked. She was standing behind him and was no longer wearing pajamas, but a pair of tight-fitting dungarees and matching shirt that accentuated her figure.

  Kimball raised a smile. “It certainly is,” he answered.

  Mallards and wood ducks floated casually through the mist-laden surface, simple and free. And along the tree line across the lake was a doe and her precious fawn, both nibbling on brush. Kimball had never felt so much at peace or without burden.

  “It certainly is,” he repeated as a whisper, while taking in his surroundings with absorption.

  Shari, with a steaming cup of coffee in hand, moved to her computer center and sat down. “If you want coffee,” she told him, “you’ll find a pot in the kitchen. I hope you like hazelnut.”

  Kimball did not respond, however, since he remained bewildered and fascinated by the countryside. Though he had seen beauty, this place was natural and untouched. If there was a slice of Heaven right here on Earth, he considered, then this lakeside cabin was it.

  “Kimball, did you hear me?”

  “Yeah. Not much of a coffee drinker. Never was.” I’m more of a whisky man. Setting her cup aside, she noted Kimball’s outline against the window. He was tall and broad with thick arms and a barrel chest. What she couldn’t see, however, was the way his spirit was blackening from the inside out, even though she could see the residuals of that effect in his face—that gaunt look of a man who was haunted.

  Returning to her computer, she contacted FBI Director Larry Johnston to notify him that she had reached her haven and that all communication regarding Operation Herod should be forwarded to this email address, not to her jobsite address. After hitting the send button, she eased back into her seat. Turning back to Kimball, she said, “Why don’t you get some sleep. You look like you could use some rest.”

  He nodded, the man refusing to turn away from the scenic beauty of the landscape. “I’m good,” he told her.

  Then as he finally pulled away from the window, he saw the small table to his right that was heavily stocked with photos of her family. There was her husband Gary with their two children, with Gary holding a rainbow trout he obviously caught at the like. The girls appeared excited, even made funny faces to show the gaps from missing teeth. And there were more photos, as well, all happier times in this idyllic slice of paradise. There were pictures of them kayaking, canoeing and hiking. Of toasting marshmallows over a flame or making s’mores. This was more than a place of remembrance, Kimball thought. This was a shrine.

  “I miss them,” Shari said. “A minute doesn’t go by that I don’t think about them.”

  Kimball nodded. He knew that there were different kinds of pain: physical, mental and emotional. He had lived through them all and struggled with some. And even though he never had children, he was told that there was no greater pain than that of losing a child. Within a blink of an eye, however, Mohammad Allawi had engineered the deaths of both her children.

  “I’m sorry, Shari, about what he did to them . . . What he did to your family.”

  She nodded, even though Kimball wasn’t looking in her direction. Then she said, “What kind of a monster kills children? That’s what I want to know.”

  Kimball felt his stomach beginning to clench into a slick fist from self-loathing. When he was a part of a wetwork team for the United States government, killing children was a sanctioned practice if the purpose achieved the means. And many times, he had achieved those means.

  What kind of a monster kills children?

  Her words, though he knew they were not meant to wound him because she knew nothing of his past, did just that by cutting him deep to the bone. Kimball, unable to regain himself completely, saw decanters filled with whisky and bourbon sitting on the bar across the room. His hands began to shake as his affinity for alcohol was becoming as great as his need to fulfill his craving. Closing his eyes, Kimball brought his fingertips to his Roman Catholic collar and touched the band. It was his reminder to the pontiff of the promise he had made. He would not be seeking his salvation through bottles of drink, since his pathway lay elsewhere.

  “Are you all right?” Shari asked him.

  He opened his eyes and gave her a smile that was slight and genuine. His hands, which were no longer shaking, went to his sides. “I’m OK,” he told her gently.

  She looked at the photos, at the shrine—everything on that table was a reminder to her as to why people like Mohammad Allawi needed to be put down, so that good people could make a wonderful difference. And then her face started to crack when she wondered what kind of people her daughters would have grown to be, their purposes, and contributions. And then she reflected about the grandchildren that would never be, a line that had been robbed from her.

  We’re like two peas in a pod, she could hear her grandmama’s declaration, as if she was speaking from the end of a long hallway. We shared incredible losses, you and me. We’ve both lost families. I lost mine to Auschwitz. And you to a man whose ambition is outweighed only by his hatred. In the end, my little one, it’s all the same— the camps, the feelings behind them. Now it is up to us to rise above the pain to forge a new path that will bring us peace. Be strong, my little one. We both know that you have the power within to do so.

  And then the voice faded and receded into whispers, and then she was gone. Grandmamma?

  Nothing.

  By the time she recovered, Kimball was standing beside her and talking, his voice turning from a drone to articulated words. “. . . see this through.”

  She looked at him. “I’m sorry. What did you say?
”

  “I said: Don’t worry. You and I, we’ll see this through.” Like two peas in a pod.

  “I know we will,” she told him evenly. Then she looked deep into his cerulean blue eyes and saw no comfort and all pain, the Vatican Knight little more than a shell of the man he used to be. She could see that he had no goals, no reaches, nothing for him to truly fight for that was deeply personal. And this pained her to know that he was still suffering. When she stood, she grabbed her cup of coffee and took a seat on the couch before the panoramic window with a million-dollar view.

  Looking at Kimball, she then patted the cushion beside her in invitation. And Kimball duly took the seat as the cushion became crushed under his weight. They sat there in silence watching the sun rise with her drinking coffee, and him dreaming of paradise.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she finally said.

  “Me, too.”

  And for a long time, nothing more was or had to be said. With the world imploding around them, they found comfort in each other’s presence.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The White House, Oval Office

  Washington, D.C.

  President Burroughs had the same look of consternation he always had just before his meeting with his national security principals, and the news was not getting much better.

  “Updates,” was all the president said.

  Rupert Moncrief, the Homeland Security Advisor, looked over the data that had been accumulated since their last meeting. “In regard to the raid in Winchester, Virginia, Mr. President, as I’m sure that you’ve already been informed about, we’ve lost fourteen men in the assault. The entire team, I’m afraid.”

  The president nodded. “They knew we were coming?”

  “Our guess is that Allawi monitored his field workers. And in this case, it was Jerhon Bellamy. Once Bellamy was apprehended, Allawi most likely believed that there was a possibility that he would talk and compromise their location, which he did. In turn, Allawi wired the house with explosives, most likely the same plastique that was used in the terrorist attacks. So yes, Mr. President, they knew we were coming.”

  The president continued to nod lightly. “And how was this proposed to the media?”

  “As a gas leak that resulted in the razing of the home.”

  “Nothing more? No attachments that the location was a terrorist stronghold?”

  “No, sir. Though curious eyebrows were raised to that possibility, we were able to sanitize the area and promote the gas-leak theory.”

  “The last thing I want to happen,” said the president, “is to keep Allawi’s momentum going. Now tell me about this guy Jerod Bellamy.”

  “Jerhon,” Moncrief corrected. “His name is Jerhon Bellamy.”

  “Whatever. Tell me about him.”

  Moncrief went into additional information regarding Bellamy’s interrogation, and then drove the nail deep when he apprised President Burroughs that ‘Herod’ was a genuine operation and less of a red herring, as they first suspected. However, since Jerhon Bellamy’s caste within the group was low-level, it also meant that he had no information regarding the ‘when, where or how’ of the campaign. President Burroughs sighed, which did little to calm him. In order to show the people that the nation was getting back on track, even though the strides taken were baby steps, schools were planning to open come tomorrow.

  “Local law enforcement is canvassing the schools by using dogs to sniff out explosives,” said Moncrief. “All precautions are being considered and taken.” “But is it enough?” the president asked rhetorically. “Mohammad Allawi seems to be a step ahead of us, which makes me wonder if he’s somehow tapping into the databases of our most secured mainframes.”

  “Unlikely, Mr. President.”

  “Are you sure, Rupert? I’ve read the reports. Bellamy also admitted that Miner, who we now know as Najm, though we still don’t know his real name, is the computer wizard who works under Mohammad Allawi’s thumb. If he has the capability to ping data off geostationary satellites to bring Air Force Two down, what makes you think he doesn’t have the skill set to breach our firewalls and misappropriate data without leaving a single cyber footprint?”

  “We’re being vigilant about that, Mr. President, believe me. Homeland Security is monitoring anything that appears to be an anomaly.”

  “Keep on it, Rupe,” he told his Homeland advisor.

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  Burroughs turned to CIA Director Doug Craner. “Any interceptions from the international front regarding Allawi?”

  Craner nodded. “Speculation and rumors—nothing that can be confirmed since we were able to debunk most of it with other reports being combed over. What we can confirm, however, is that recruitment in the Middle East and parts of Asia continue to rise exponentially.”

  “After finally removing ISIS from the Syrian theater,” the president stated, “we fail to neutralize Allawi’s order in our own backyard. That alone sends a statement to these people across the globe: it tells them how vulnerable we can be.” No one said a word due to the rising measure of the president’s tone. Then from President Burroughs: “School begins in two days as a show that we’re getting back on our feet, and that things are starting to return to normal, if that’s even possible. What I don’t want to happen,” he continued, “is to see children killed in the wake of the original bombings because we failed to comply with Allawi’s demands to release the extremists.” Then he looked out the window of the West Wing office, and for the moment appeared adrift. And then softly: “I’m in my second term. And the last thing I want as my political legacy is to be the president who allowed this country to bow down to a man like Mohammad Allawi. We came close to catching him once; I need you people to come up with a solution that assures that he will not escape the dragnet for a second time. Find him before school is set to open.”

  After nods and agreements, which was expected from his personnel, President Burroughs fell into deep despair. Mohammad Allawi was besting him at every turn, and he knew it. Instead of feeling like a king who sat upon the highest throne in the land, he was slowly being reduced to a pawn in the eyes of his constituency.

  President Burroughs continued to stare out the window.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Twenty Miles Outside of National Harbor, Maryland

  “Dad, did you know that God spelled backwards is dog?”

  Devin Monarque smiled as he drove his SUV down the turnpike to their hotel in National Harbor, where the National Spelling Bee Center was hosting 750 students from around the world. Emily, his eight-year-old daughter, had made the finals. But what he was smiling about was the aged memory about ‘God’ and ‘dog,’ something he also told his parents when he was a child. Some things, he guessed, were simply timeless.

  “Yeah,” he told her. “I know that. And do you want to know why?”

  “Why.”

  “Because a dog is God’s gift to man,” he said, still smiling. “You love Wrangler, don’t you?”

  “Of course, I do.” Wrangler was their mini schnauzer, who was more of a family member than their pet.

  “See. Now you know the truth.”

  He continued to drive and watched for the signs that would take them to their hotel for the night. Since she had already pre-registered, all they needed to do was to collect their nametags, lanyards and packets, which would be waiting for them inside the hotel’s lobby.

  “You’re going to do just fine, sweetheart,” he told her. “No matter how this turns out, I want you to know that I’m very, very proud of you. You’ve come a long way.”

  Emily smiled.

  “Now,” he began, “are you ready for a quiz?”

  She nodded.

  “OK,” he said. “The word is . . . koinonia.”

  “Origin and meaning, please.”

  “Koinonia is a transliterated form of a Greek word meaning communion or joint participation.”

  “K-O-I-N-O-N-I-A.”

 
“Very good, honey. You nailed it.”

  “As always.”

  “And you’re modest, too. Now, how about a harder word?”

  “Go for it.”

  And for the rest of the travel until they reached the hotel, father and daughter continued to challenge one another with one providing the questions . . .

  . . . And the other providing the answers.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The Lakeside Cabin, Maryland

  For a reason that was unknown to Kimball Hayden, he felt an intense up swell of emotion as he sat on a boulder that was approximately 100 feet from the cabin. In his mind’s eye he saw a white-picket fence surrounding the property, though it looked out of place with the wood-log cabin. Yet he was picturing something he had always dreamed about—that home in the burbs that was surrounded by this picket fence that was as white as the collar he wore around his neck. In the yard he pictured a garden filled with fiery blooms of roses with Shari manicuring the stems with a pruning shear. He could envision her smiling and enjoying this life far from the chaos of the world. And the children, with their daughter looking like her and his son looking like him, playing behind the fence with a golden retriever, who was also at play. And in the back that overlooked the lake, he visualized a barbeque for family gatherings that would be abundant.

  When Shari finally gave in to her fatigue and fell asleep on the sofa, he watched her chest rise and fall in the weary cycle of sleep before he left to find this perch by the roadside. The song of birds, the rustle of leaves with the course of a slight breeze, everything sounded so peaceful, so melodic and soothing. And as the rays of the sun washed over his face with a wonderful warmth, he closed his eyes and tilted his face skyward.