“They’re dead, Michael. Both of them. Dead.” Levi’s voice had been so flat and detached that Michael thought he was referring to his agents, until he said the names.
An addict desperate for money had burst into Levi’s home, then shot Anita and Michael to death. Detectives arrested him the next day. He confessed to killing Anita and even described how little Michael—all eighty pounds of him—charged down the stairs and flew into him with both fists. The gunman said he admired the boy’s bravery, and felt bad about putting a bullet through his brain. It happened on the Hart’s tenth anniversary.
Three days later, Michael and Nadia stood alongside Levi in the stern of a boat as he scattered the ashes of his wife and son atop the crest of a Pacific swell. Two months after that, he walked into the SAC’s office and handed in his resignation. Then with barely a farewell to anyone he contracted out as a Law Enforcement Professional, or LEP, and shipped off to Baghdad for a year, to identify and capture the gangs that were planting IEDs. Two years after his tour, he came to Vanguard International.
Michael raised his bottle. “To the boys, to Anita, and to Michael.” But after the toast, Hacksaw’s prophesy of dread at the bar echoed. He looked into Levi’s eyes. “Brother? If anything happens, promise you’ll bring me home to my family?”
“Come on, stop your worrying. You’re beginning to sound like my grandma.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” He paused. “It’s just that Hack said something. We all know how prescient he can be. Hell, I don’t know… maybe it rubbed off on me.”
“Well we don’t want any bad karma. Okay. It’s official, and I’m being serious here. I’ll make sure you get home.” He gulped down some beer and cracked a smile. “Now that we’ve got that outta the way…you feel like gettin’ your butt kicked?”
“Humph. Think you’re man enough?”
Levi snorted. “I know I am. How do you want it? The usual?”
“Five bucks a hand?”
“Make it ten.”
“Twenty.”
“You’re on.” Levi drained his beer. “Get the cards. I’ll break out more brews.”
The game was an excuse to unwind but still discuss the case. They played on, hoping for the epiphany that can surface during a state of mental relaxation. Levi was down two hundred eighty bucks when four knocks at the door were followed by two more. He got up, peered through the peep-hole, and opened the door for Joe Tucker.
Tucker marched in and got down to business. “Baker just sent a text. We’ve been given a green light to review the parking garage tapes.”
Levi said, “Tomorrow morning, then. I’ll take Michael with me. With luck, we’ll find someone in those tapes worth speaking to.”
“Concur. And if you do find someone, I’m confident that success will follow. Why? Because you guys are good with people, especially you, Michael. So, good hunting.” The business done, he turned and walked out of the room.
4
The next day Levi and Michael donned suits and drove to FBI Headquarters in Michael’s dark green 750Li BMW. Levi, knowing all about Michael’s poverty-ridden childhood, had talked him into buying it. “You don’t need to count every penny anymore, buddy. Hey, you deserve the best.”
They waited in the lobby until 8:00 a.m. sharp, when a gray-haired, tall and trim man stepped through a security door into the lobby.
Levi stuck out his hand. “Good to see you again, George.” He introduced the ASAC in charge of the photo analysis division to Michael.
George issued visitor badges and led them inside. “Our analysts have pored over the tapes of course, but you’re welcome to review them.” He tapped the American flag pin in his lapel. “We’re all on the same team.” After a brief walk through hallways overflowing with fast moving personnel, he ushered them into a tiny office containing a desk, two chairs and a computer. A fortyish woman appeared as if on cue and George said, “This is Ms. Collins, my chief analyst. She conducted the initial review and will get you started. Now if you don’t mind, I’m due in a meeting.”
Collins pointed to the computer. “I’ve already set it up for you. It’s from a single surveillance camera view of vehicles as they approach the parking garage cashier. I cataloged all of them for a period two days pre- and two days post-assassination, then ran the plates through NCIC. I got a hit on a gray Toyota minivan.” She pointed at the screen. “It’s indexed on the tape as Suspect One. The van left minutes after the attack and it came back as stolen. Go figure, right? Still hasn’t been found.” She pushed a stray hair from her forehead. “It’s our sole item of interest, at least so far.” Ms. Collins provided a brief tutorial of the program, an abstract of her findings, and her phone extension. “I’m two doors down. Call me when you’re done or if you need anything.” She left them alone.
Levi said, “Proceed.” Michael tapped the keyboard and the monitor came to life. They began with the indexed Suspect One, then settled in to review a steady stream of cars, pickups, minivans and SUVs arriving at the cashier’s booth before and after the attack. Four hours later they concluded a cursory first round and rubbed tired eyes. Then they began an intensive and much more exhaustive second round. Levi leaned back afterward and stretched his arms. “Ten minute break, then we start over.”
Fueled by coffee brought to them by a gracious staffer, they began the third round. They were fifteen minutes into their task when Levi leaned close to the monitor. “Hold it. Back up a few frames.” Michael entered the commands, wrapped his fingers around the mouse and waited. “There,” Levi said. Michael left-clicked. The image of a mature black woman in a uniform appeared in a blur at the camera’s outermost limit. “Parking attendant? Hmm. Do a slow-mo.” Michael keyed-in the command. Her uniform did resemble that of the white-haired man in the booth. “Stop,” Levi whispered. He unfolded a floor plan of the garage. “Let’s see where she’s situated.”
Michael placed a finger on the floor plan. “She could’ve been coming from that door along this wall here. It opens onto the street, see?” He traced a diagonal path that nicked the camera’s outer range and stopped at a symbol. “Rest room.” He glanced at the video’s time stamp. “This is nearly two hours before the assassination.” He punched in a command and when the woman’s image appeared again he froze it and zoomed in.
Levi got out the abstract. “The only witnesses interviewed were the male cashier and the manager. And the manager wasn’t even on the premises at the time.” He squinted at the screen. “Who is she, why is she there, and why wasn’t she interviewed?”
“Slip up? Or maybe she was on a list to be interviewed, but was ill.”
“Or she’s an accomplice.” Levi edged closer. “Roll tape.”
They watched her blurred image disappear again, only to reappear thirty minutes after the suspect minivan departed. When the camera showed her changing places with the male cashier in the booth, Michael said, “She seems to have been…”
“Waiting. But for who?”
Michael touched a finger to the time stamp. “Not who. What.”
“Hmm. I see where you’re going with this. It was four o’clock when she swapped places with the guy. Shift change.”
“Let’s curb any summary judgments, take our time and follow through with this.” Michael ran the sequence again. And once more after that. Then he settled back into his chair. “I think I know what’s going on. She arrived far in advance of her shift.”
“Because?”
“Because she’s poor and has to take the bus to work. She has to make transfers. That means she ends up arriving a good ninety minutes before she has to clock-in.”
Levi regarded his friend with kindness. “And you know about these things. Because you’ve been there.”
Michael shrugged. “Yeah, well…listen, we need to find her. Now.”
Michael’s BMW drew plenty of stares as he parked in front of a rundown duplex in Suitland, Maryland an hour later. He was about to knock when the door opened and an ageless woman appea
red. Her dark face was crisscrossed by thin lines resembling a waffle grid, and she wore her hair piled high atop her head. The men produced their credentials. Michael sensed her inherent fear of officials and smiled disarmingly. “Please. Don’t be afraid. We’re not from Immigration.”
She glanced at the credentials and settled her brown eyes on Michael’s. “You come about that day. Don’t you?”
Michael picked up on her Jamaican accent. “Has anyone interviewed you?”
“Nobody talk to me about that day, not ever.” She opened the door further, then stepped aside. “Come in, please.” She showed them into a small but tidy living room and gestured toward a pair of frayed easy chairs. She offered refreshments, but when they declined she settled onto an equally worn couch.
Michael said without overture, “You arrived early for work that day.”
“Yes. I come in early. The buses, don’t you know.”
“Is that why nobody’s spoken to you? Because you hadn’t punched in yet?”
She shifted in her seat and made tiny fists. “Maybe they thought I not there, because they see I not on the schedule to arrive yet. But I was.”
“You saw something,” Michael said matter-of-factly.
“It is a long ride. When I arrived I went straightaway to the ladies room. After I finish I take a back staircase to the third level. There is a green wooden bench near the south side. I can sit there, take the sun in peace.” She closed her eyes and fell silent. Half a minute went by before she opened them. “As I walk to the bench I pass by a white man sitting in a minivan. He in the driver seat but the motor is not on.”
“What color was this van?”
“Gray as the sky that day.” She paused until Michael nodded. “This man, he sitting all alone and he not looking at nothing. That why I notice him. I turn to him but he got that look, you know? Like he looking at you but he not really seeing you. Like he be staring straight through your soul into that place in the middle of the Earth.”
“Was that the only thing unusual about him?”
“Other people…they sometimes sit in their cars and wait. But they don’t have that look, that for sure.” She wet her lips and whispered, “Mister, I tell you something else ‘bout that man. I see him there before. Two weeks before that nasty day.”
Michael gently encouraged her. “What made you notice him then?”
“Because he arrive by taxi, that why. And I ask, ‘Why that man come by taxi’? Then I think, maybe he has car inside. But he don’t go to no car. He just walk ‘round an’ ‘round an’ then he get back in taxi and leave. But he come close to me and I see his eyes, and they the same eyes on the same man on that bad, bad day.”
Levi asked, “Can you describe the taxi? Is it one that’s been there before?”
“It was different from all the others. Not a Diamond Cab, and that’s all I know.” But then her eyes got wide and she edged forward on the couch. “Backsides. What’s the matter wit me? I remember now. It was one of those taxis that are…oh, what’s the word I looking for?”
“Independent,” Levi prompted. “Gypsy cab?”
“That’s it. Yes, gypsy taxi cab.” She squinted at him. “It had funny name, you know. ‘Taxi Way.’ Or something. It rhymes. Like a song.”
Michael said, “Take your time.”
She closed her eyes and rocked gently back and forth at the waist. Almost a minute passed before her eyes snapped open. “Halay!” She nodded emphatically. “‘Halay Taxi Way.’ An’ this name is painted in red. Red, on yellow color taxi. ‘Halay Taxi Way.’ Yes, I am sure.”
“What about the driver?” Levi asked.
“Black man. Very black. Thin. That all I see of him.”
“The man with the evil eyes,” Michael began. “Do you think you could describe him to a police sketch artist?”
“Oh, that easy. I never forget this devil.” Then she fell silent as she studied Michael. “It’s a terrible thing, this hatreds. People not liking other peoples because of the colors of their skin.” She looked away. “Did I help to stop this hatreds? No. I knew police come to garage for answers. But I say nothing. I was afraid.”
Michael asked gently, “Because you have no green card?”
“I am ashamed of myself.” She took a deep breath. “Take me to see artist man.”
It was dark when they returned to the Bureau with the artist’s composite drawing. George was there. Levi briefed him on what they had learned and handed him the sketch. “Let’s wash it through the facial recognition programs,” he began, “then cross-check each state’s DMV files.”
Michael said, “Then we’ll get started on military photos…”
“And all arrest records,” George added. “Now what’s this about a taxi cab?”
Levi said, “We find ‘Halay Taxi Way’, we find the cab. We find the cab, we find its driver. We find its driver, we find…”
“Mr. Evil Eye,” Michael said. “We find him—we find Amahl.”
AMAHL FELT COLD AND IRRITABLE. The cramped apartment was musty enough without Kalil’s moldy books littering the floors. He didn’t care to be confined, but had long ago reconciled himself to this simple cost of doing business. Now it was time for a small reward. He began reading a book, but put it down when he recognized Kalil’s footsteps on the landing. “How was your journey,” he asked when his favorite son stepped inside.
Kalil stifled a yawn with one hand and scratched his hip with the other. “Long. But rewarding.” He held up his carry-on. “I have some things to show you.” Kalil opened the bag and brought out a map, then sat next to his father and pointed to a spot. “There. The Fiveash Water Treatment Plant.”
“Why this place?”
“It serves a large population, it is a soft target and I wish to please you by striking another blow against the Americans. The blow is psychological but its effects will be far-reaching. I think it would help cripple their economy.” He showed an eager smile. “We have assets in place and need not fear their heightened security. We strike from within.”
“Yes, I see. Very good.”
“But better than all else? The Westerners still do not know of my existence. They cannot trace me to you.”
“Excellent.” Amahl paused as his gaze wandered from his son’s face to the blank wall. Then his eyes returned to the son. “So. Tell me of the plant’s security.”
“It is laughable. There are no security personnel. Only one surveillance camera is operational and it looks onto the landscaping out front.” His mouth puckered. “It seems someone once absconded with a potted plant.”
Amahl grunted. “Employees?”
Kalil rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Only three at night. The gates are open from six in the morning until six in the evening. Water is tested on an hourly basis.”
Amahl tapped a finger against his lip. “What else have you learned?”
Kalil opened a carton of duty-free Marlboros and offered a cigarette to his father, but Amahl declined. Kalil put one to his lips, struck a match and cupped his hands around it. The flame illuminated the five day growth on his face. He drew the smoke down deep and patiently exhaled as he waved the match out. “High pressure pumps deliver 48,000 gallons per minute. The plant supplies a total of seventy million gallons each day.”
“Good. How many customers does the facility serve?”
A harsh glare from the solitary table lamp caught the heavy dust motes that swirled everywhere. The mildew, thick even in the evening cold, drew the dust like a magnet and plastered it against the walls, the floors and the tiles even as Kalil turned and looked at his father. “Well, this is Fort Lauderdale in the State of Florida. If you include the city and its neighboring communities, and if you add Broward County as you should, then a million people drink from this water supply.”
“Excellent.” Amahl knew Kalil was eager to show that he was his own man and capable of initiating action.
Kalil moved with energy. As his cigarette dangled from his lower lip he cleared
an area of the table and spread out a sheet of paper. Taking a pencil, he drew a crude rendition of a municipal plant. Then he explained how water from the aquifer entered a basin, in which air was forced into the water to remove large impurities.
Amahl’s eyes met his son’s but he said nothing.
“Then,” Kalil said as he flicked an ash onto the paper, “it is channeled into the treatment unit. This is the heart of the plant, where they add lime, soda-ash and other chemicals.” He dragged deep at his cigarette and exhaled through his nose. The smoke flowed down, then upward as a blue cloud. “It gets quite simple now. The water is drawn into a chemical contact basin. Disinfectants are added, along with fluoride.”
“Hmm. Yes. Fluoridation of water. The great Communist conspiracy.” Amahl shook his head in wonder. “I adore their fears.”
After smiling at his father, Kalil took a final drag at his cigarette and flipped it into the sink where it settled with a hiss. “Now then,” he said while drawing. “These storage tanks have a combined capacity of fourteen million gallons. We tap into the system here.” He pointed to a pipe leading from a filter tank to the storage tanks. “The high pressure pump completes our task for us.”
Amahl traced his finger along the crude schematic, then looked at Kalil. “Superb. You have covered everything. Now describe for me your plan.” Kalil began talking. When he finished, Amahl sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “Yes. Your plan will work and your initiative pleases me.”
Kalil got a broad smile. “Thank you, Father. I’ve never known such happiness.”
Amahl let out a laugh. “These Americans and their conspiracy theories—their fears will become their undoing.” He gazed in silence at a line on the dimly lit wall, where the light stopped and the dark began. “You have discussed it with our men there?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Then he said abruptly, “Kalil, I have a task for you.”
The young man sat straighter. “Yes, Father?”
Amahl the Butcher reached inside the pocket of his Western-style trousers and produced his forged U.S. passport. He opened it to the photo page where the name Yoni Shochat was displayed and offered it to Kalil. “Copy this page on your computer scanner, and put the copy in here.” Amahl handed him a pre-addressed envelope. “Post it without delay. Can you do that for me?”
Cobra Clearance Page 5