He ran the next red light, power-shifted into third, and smoked the tires as he took the freeway entrance for Washington. When she followed, he floored it and threaded his way through the slow-moving commuter traffic, sped up to eighty, skirted two large trucks about to block the way ahead, then zoomed down the freeway. Once satisfied that he’d left her in the pack, he took the next exit for BWI, zipped past the local traffic, hung a left onto Elm Road, and made his way to Fannex.
The rest of Dragon Team had already settled into their seats, some with coffee, others with fast food breakfast sandwiches. Tucker waited until Levi plopped into an empty chair next to Michael, then stood to address them. “First off, Mr. Baker’s been called away. Pennsylvania Avenue. The Man wanted a breakfast chat. Item two. We got a hit on the sketch. The Bureau kept running up against a brick wall. Turns out their facial programs rely on pixel images from biometrics, and an artist’s rendition lacks those. So they borrowed from the facial experts—the Vegas casino security people. They’ve been experimenting with a reverse biometric management system. What they got wasn’t pretty but it was enough to develop three composite photos. The Bureau’s computers mixed and matched DMV and arrest photos, then tapped into military records.” He paused. “They got hits from New Mexico’s DMV and the U.S. Army. The Bureau already has a file on him, too. He’s a white supremacist.”
Tucker pressed a key on his laptop and an image appeared on the screen behind him. “Brent Kruger is single, fifty-five, stands five seven, and is descended from German aristocracy. He’s a trust fund kid. Worth a fortune. Graduated Princeton with a Ph.D. in philosophy. But what’s he do next? He keeps his degree a secret and joins the Army as an enlisted man. He served five years before they booted him.” He grunted. “There’s a notation in his personnel file characterizing him as ‘possessing chutzpah.’”
Levi hunched forward. “It said that? It used that exact word?”
“Let’s see.” Tucker picked up a folder and ran his finger down the cover sheet. “‘See Attachment J-26,’” he murmured. After flipping through the folder he read an entry and looked up. “Yep. It’s right here in his C.O.’s separation report. Chutzpah.”
“That’s good to know. We might be able to use that.”
Tucker said, “It’s interesting that his C.O. used that term, because Kruger couldn’t keep his anti-Semitic views to himself. Now he’s…”
“Don’t tell me,” Dentz began. “He’s got a following.”
“Give the man a hand. Yep, he’s got some seventy ex-cons, dopers and drifters tucked away in a compound east of Albuquerque. Probably twenty of them are soldiers. The rest are women and children. Lots of children.”
Sawyer said, “They’re breeding little white babies.”
“Affirmative.” Tucker scowled. “The report made a point of describing a common supremacist call to action known as the Fourteen Words: ‘We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.’” He shook his head. “Moving on, Kruger’s able to fund his entire operation.”
Levi spoke up. “Meaning he doesn’t have to hit banks and armored cars.”
“Right. Keeps him below the radar. Unfortunately, the Bureau can’t get an agent inside his camp. His internal security is rock-solid. Now then, item three. Our ATF friends carried out a raid on a suspected weapons cache in rural Virginia. They found a deserted farm with a private airstrip—but no weapons.”
Monica said, “But they discovered something else.”
“You bet they did. Three bodies.” He looked around the room. “Anyone crunch the numbers yet?”
“Middle Eastern males,” she said without hesitation, “whose faces match those involved in the assassination, courtesy of the media camera photos.”
A ripple of excitement passed through the room. Tucker hit a key and another photo materialized. “All three were executed at close range by a single gunshot to the backs of the heads.”
Hacksaw said as he examined a hangnail, “Amahl didn’t wanna leave witnesses.”
Monica studied the photo. “They must’ve been sleeping. Or else someone helped him. Amahl might’ve gotten the jump on one or two, but all three?”
“Circumstantial at best,” Sawyer said.
Tucker said, “Not so fast. Kruger’s a pilot. He owns a twin-engine plane and there’s a landing strip at the farm. Someone had to spirit Amahl and his men out of that garage. Why not Kruger?”
Sawyer pressed both palms against the table. “Because he’s not one of them. There’s no cultural link. No common ground.”
Tucker held up a hand. “There’s more…”
Michael interrupted. “I’m guessing the gray minivan wasn’t at the farm.”
Hacksaw shook his head. “Nah. They’re too sophisticated for that. I’ll bet they had a third cut-out vehicle stashed in another garage—an’ I’m sure they chose one that had no surveillance cameras.”
Michael shifted in his chair. “Back to the farm. Someone owns it. Is it wishful thinking to ask if it’s Kruger?”
“In fact,” Tucker said, “the Bureau traced the owner to an infant boy’s grave three miles west of Helena, Montana. The documents used to purchase it in the boy’s name were acquired thirty years ago, before states started safeguarding birth and death records. Someone’s been preparing for future actions of one type or another for decades.”
“Kruger’s old enough to have done it,” Levi said.
“And that brings us to item four. Some NSA intercepts.” Tucker worried the end of his nose. “They focused on Zurich, and…” He glanced at his notes. “And there’s…”
Levi said at once, “There’s a sudden increase in communications between the Zurich terminal and the New Mexico compound.”
“Close,” Tucker conceded. “Calls from different pay phones do originate from the terminal, but they’re directed to cell phones inside Albuquerque’s Cottonwood Mall.”
Dentz said, “And the calls are never to the same cell phones, the caller always uses pre-paid cards available anywhere, and they talk in bursts of coded phrases.”
“Of course. Unfortunately, we have no samples of Kruger’s voice, to see if the voice that was recorded at the mall is his.”
Michael stirred. “How far is the mall from the compound?”
“Sixty miles.”
“Hmm.” He made a tent of his fingers and tapped them against his chin. “I’d love to get inside that compound.” He peered at Tucker over his fingertips and muttered, “But we don’t have P.C. for a search warrant.”
Tucker said, “At least not yet. Okay. Item five. Voice analysts concur that the Zurich caller speaks English with a Tigrigna accent. Only six percent of Ethiopians speak Tigrigna, and as we’ve learned, it’s our cab driver’s mother tongue. The analysts also agree that the caller’s age is similar to Kalil’s, and he uses Arabic slang words that he could’ve picked up from Amahl.”
“The puzzle comes together,” Michael agreed. “But if Kruger bought multiple phones, then he and Kalil would need mutual lists of which phones to use on specific dates and times when Kruger would be among thousands of people at the mall.”
Monica asked, “Do the Feds have the resources for a follow-up?”
“This is why I love you people,” Tucker said, “because you think. Okay, this is where things stand. State has asked the Swiss to track Kalil, but the Swiss have begged-off. They don’t think there’s enough to pursue, and right now they’ve got their hands full with that upcoming IMF event.” He ran a hand across his close-cropped hair. “However, the buggers were kind enough to distribute copies of a sketch of Kalil to their various agencies, and they’re not opposed to us snooping around. Me? I think Amahl’s living with Kalil but the Bureau’s not convinced.” He cleared his throat. “Last item, and then we brainstorm. The Bureau thinks Amahl used a forged American passport issued under the name, Yoni Shochat. It’s an Israeli name if anyone’s interested.”
Dentz scoffed. “So it’s forged. Why do
we think it’s his?”
“Shochat is Hebrew for ‘the butcher’.”
“Amahl’s taunting us,” Levi said.
“Taunt or not, the passport’s path begins in Mexico City and ends in Morocco. It’s a short boat ride from there to Europe. Hell, he could’ve gotten off anywhere, and the EU countries stopped manning border checkpoints years ago.”
“But,” Hacksaw began, “we’re still speculatin’ about too many things, an’ like Michael pointed out, we still lack probable cause. Take this guy Kruger…”
Levi slammed his palm against the table. “Holy hell.” When all eyes turned to him he said, “It can’t be.” He pivoted in his chair and faced Tucker. “You said Kruger did time in the army. When and where?”
“Gulf War One. He served there.”
“In what capacity?”
“Military police.”
Levi slammed the table again, leaped to his feet and dashed to a cluster of bulging cardboard file boxes. He went straight to the fourth one and riffed through it until he pulled out a document. “Remember the duty officer log listing Amahl’s brief stint as a POW?” He held the document aloft. “If you’ll recall, the D.O. saw one of the MPs talking to Amahl right before he vanished. I’d glanced at the names of the MPs out of habit, and…”
Michael said it. “And one of those MPs was Brent Kruger.”
“Private First Class B. F. Kruger to be precise,” Levi began. Then he stopped and stared at some unseen thing, until his mouth became a straight line and his hands turned to fists. Finally he flicked his eyes at Michael. “Hallway. Now.” Turning on his heel, he marched out of the room.
Michael joined Levi and shut the door behind him. “Let’s have it.”
Levi said quietly, “The last three years I’ve wondered what it all meant, why my wife and son were murdered. Now I know.” He leaned forward at the waist and locked eyes with his friend. “They didn’t die because I wasn’t there. I’m here because they’re dead—and I’m gonna nail these bastards, or friggin’ die trying.”
PART TWO
7
President Cohen picked up the yellow legal pad that he’d been jotting notes on and shifted in his chair until he faced Baker. “I’ve not been in office ten days and I’m already encased in a bubble.” Cohen tapped a finger against the pad. “Take the Savannah River Works Project, for example. My advisers insist that Melchior proposed it. Now I discover that maybe he did and maybe he didn’t. Who am I to believe?”
Baker pointed to a portrait of Harry S. Truman on a wall of Cohen’s private study, nestled behind the Oval Office. “Truman encountered a similar problem. Roosevelt never informed him of the bomb, and Truman had no opportunity to acquire his own advisers before decision time arrived. So he relied on FDR’s men to provide insight into the plans for its use or non-use. Some said yay, others nay.”
Cohen hunched forward and rested a forearm on his leg. “Yes, yes. And too many of them were in fact pushing their own agendas. What’s your point?”
“Find someone you trust and pull ’em in. Someone who’ll give it to you straight.”
“The way you did when you shouldered your way past Westmoreland’s yes-men? And warned him that the siege upon Khe Sanh was a diversion? That the VC were certain to break the Tét truce?”
“Something like that.”
“It was exactly like that. And he didn’t listen, and the VC launched simultaneous attacks in all directions.” Cohen closed red-rimmed eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I inherited this office without a mandate of my own. Therefore I’ll form my own, and it begins with economic stabilization. That in turn will permit us to do something for those who are in desperate need.” He opened his eyes and looked at Baker. “But I’ll need help if I’m to succeed.”
Baker shifted in his chair. “To paraphrase JFK, unselfish victories often have a single father, but serve a thousand orphans.”
“Hmm. I like that—and I’d like you to join me in my endeavors.” As Baker reared back he said, “You would come aboard as one of a cadre of personal advisers. Unofficial, of course. That way you can still run Vanguard, and practice law.”
A microsecond passed before Baker said, “I stand ready to serve in any capacity, Mr. President.”
“But?”
“A sabbatical, sir. To begin the moment we locate the thugs who murdered Melchior. I want to be there.”
Cohen studied Baker’s face. “What is it you haven’t told me yet?”
“One of my team leaders called moments before this meeting. We may have established a link between Amahl and the leader of a domestic hate group. Federal law enforcement resources are strained, but one of my star players worked for the Bureau. I want to pursue that link.” He cocked his head to one side. “I’ll lure Amahl onto our turf, and into a Khe Sanh of his own.”
“And you want to participate in this—endeavor?”
“If only to have my last hurrah?” Baker shook his head. “Don’t insult me.”
“No, you would never ask for something so selfish.”
“The team in question is short one operative. Sure, I could reassign someone else, but they won’t have time to mesh and the team needs cohesiveness. But I know them well, and they’re comfortable with me.”
President Mark Cohen pondered the request in silence, then exhaled noisily and looked Baker in the eye. “Sell me on your plan first.”
JOE TUCKER HUNG UP after notifying Baker of the Kruger-Amahl link, and returned to the conference room with its cups of coffee and stacks of papers. He was about to sit when Levi handed him a note. He read it without comment and stuck it in a shirt pocket. “Okay,” he said to the team. “Let’s summarize what we’ve found so far. Then we’ll argue each point’s pros and cons.”
Michael cleared his throat and began ticking off items on his fingers. “Amahl and his men kill Melchior and escape.” He extended a second finger. “ATF conducts a raid in Virginia. They find three bodies. Amahl’s men.” He ticked off another finger. “We learn of a mystery man who was at the garage, and we believe it was Brent Kruger. He’s a white supremacist and Melchior’s black…we have motivation.” He held up another finger. “Amahl has a previously unknown son living in Zurich, and NSA has detected phone traffic between the terminal and Albuquerque—about an hour’s drive from Kruger’s location.” Michael crossed his long legs and said, “Finally. Kruger had contact with Amahl at the P.O.W. compound twenty years ago. All three elements for a case against Kruger exist: motive, means and opportunity.”
Levi sipped coffee from his mug and sat back. “True, but it’s no secret that plenty of other racists wanted Melchior dead, or that anti-Semites around the world don’t want Cohen to live longer than he has to.”
“But Michael’s argument is sound,” Tom Sawyer began. “Listen. Amahl enters into a contract of sorts. A sporting venture if you will. ‘We burn the black man for you, and you zap the Zionist for us’.”
Dentz held up a hand like a traffic cop. “Sounds far-fetched.”
“Nothing’s far-fetched since 9/11,” Sawyer countered.
“And because nothing’s far-fetched,” Levi interjected, “TSA does not profile airline passengers. Why? Because Timothy McVeigh showed that any white, clean-cut war veteran can also be a terrorist.”
Sawyer cleared his throat and spoke slowly, feeling his way. “Forget far-fetched. Why would Amahl commit to such a contract? One possibility is that he wants to spark a race war. He must know that we’re on the ropes economically, and if Kruger’s able to assassinate Cohen as part of a quid pro quo, stocks could drop off a cliff. Once the economy’s shot the real shooting begins—black on white, neighbor on neighbor, riots for available foodstuffs. But to be certain of this, we’ll have to infiltrate Kruger’s enclave.”
Tucker pulled Levi’s note from his pocket and waved it in the air. “Levi already came to that conclusion and he’s recommended a split—my group to Zurich, his to New Mexico. I concur.” He looked at Levi with a
glimmer of admiration.
“Wait,” Levi said. “There’s more to it.”
“There is?” Tucker looked sidelong at his ATL.
“Amahl won’t settle for a simple one-two punch. He’ll use a three-pronged plan. A triad. I’m betting he’s got a third attack already in motion.”
“Then that’s why we have to get Amahl, and you have to get Kruger.” Tucker dropped his voice. “The Feds have no assets to spare. Baker will push to have this given to us. Assuming another assassination plot at a bare minimum, we’re already against the clock. If we get the green light we’ll do our splits two days from now. Levi’s split might have to fly to Albuquerque without him though, since he’ll need time to prepare his undercover identity. Now let’s get ready to deploy. Give your official passports to Sawyer, so he can run them over to State for their Schengen Visas.”
Dentz said, “One other thing, Boss. Let’s photo-shop Kruger’s army ID photo to make him look older. Then Levi and Michael can show it to their witnesses for a positive ID. The more proof of a conspiracy we show, the greater our chances of getting the job.”
Michael turned around in his seat and looked at Dentz. “Very good. That hadn’t even occurred to me. Who knows—might open the door to a broader conspiracy.”
THE YOUNG MAN IN BLUE T-SHIRT, white shorts and flip-flops ambled along South Beach’s palm tree-lined streets. Tourists from around the world flocked here, so Zafir’s dark complexion was commonplace. But there were so many scantily-clad, long-limbed girls about that he ached. Praise God that I have been sent here, he thought. The brief prayer, unbidden and forbidden, jolted him into paying heed to his task, so he put on mental blinders. A short time later he reached the post office on Washington Street.
Cobra Clearance Page 8