Cobra Clearance

by Richard Craig Anderson

  Bronk play-punched Levi’s shoulder. “I’m gonna be riding shotgun for Brian, with a sweet little submachine gun.”

  “You’re with the mortar? Dude, I’m jealous. So—what’ll all ya’ll be riding in?”

  “Big old Mack dump truck.” He put a finger to his lips. “But don’t say nothin’.”

  After Bronk finally left for the mess hall, Levi, worn-out these past days, smoked some pot to come down, then crashed in one of the bunks. At 4:00 he got up, stood under a steaming shower, and shaved his face and head. Afterward, he put on clean black jeans, a pressed white T and red suspenders. He polished the Doc Martens and threaded them with the red laces, then pulled them on and went to a mirror. He felt a surge of pride at what he saw: despite the mission’s physical and emotional toll, he’d uncovered Kruger’s plans and reduced his ranks by three—Jackson, Brenda and Brian. Now he vowed to nail Kruger and Amahl in his own turn-about on the Ides of March.

  He shoved the thoughts from his mind and focused on defeating Kruger as he stepped outside. The sun was beginning to set and he caught a new scent in the air. A low pressure system was moving in, and there were greasy clouds in the high desert sky where none had been before. After starting the Harley, he dropped it into gear and rumbled past the guards at the front gate.

  Tucker called a meeting, and while the setting sun’s rays pierced the sheer inner curtains of his room’s windows, the team gathered and waited. His face revealed his troubled state as he gestured at a SAT phone on the table next to him. “Mr. Baker called. The Secret Service heard about this morning’s exercise with Jackson. They went ape, and one of their assistant directors wants us out, and real agents in.”

  Michael scoffed. “That’s absurd. It’s inter-agency turf-war crap.” Dentz stuck out a petulant lower lip. “What’s the word, Boss?” “The word is, we go full steam until forced to stop.” Monica asked, “What else did Mr. Baker have to say?” “That he’s taking it to the top—right now.”

  Amahl walked with brisk steps along the Rue de la Commune East, in Montreal’s Old Port complex. Bars and restaurants lined the Bonsecours Basin waterfront, but there were no crowds and many of the trendy restaurants were nearly empty. He flipped up his coat collar and went another dozen yards before reversing course and heading back in the direction he’d come from. There—he was sure of it. That young couple examining the menu in the bistro’s window; they were shadowing him. He wasn’t fooled by their show of normalcy. They were eyeing him without seeming to. He walked past them, and when he reached the corner he hurried into a tiny market where he knew of a rear door to the alleyway. He cursed Kalil for bringing the Westerners down on him. He would call Kruger tomorrow; they would have to exercise their options.

  As the usher showed Heath Baker into the Oval Office, the large, garrulous man took off his overcoat and held out a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. President.”

  President Cohen shook hands with him. Cohen’s face revealed nothing of the strain he felt as he wrestled with global economic collapse, a balky Congress and a public that had yet to accept him. Then there were the racial tensions, with riots breaking out in Lansing, Michigan after a group of whites assaulted a bus filled with black students. There was also the looming collapse of San Francisco’s traffic system, after new cracks were found in the Bay Bridge support columns. And it was only Monday. Cohen absently ran his fingertips along the buttons of his bright yellow sweater and gestured toward a brown leather wing chair. “Please, sit down. Coffee?”

  “No thank you, sir.”

  Cohen got a cagey smile and pointed to a small cart near his desk. “A martini, perhaps?”

  “Rocket fuel, if memory serves.” Baker smiled despite the sense of urgency he felt. “I accept, on condition that you join me on the road to Perdition, D.C.”

  Cohen went to the cart and opened a small compartment where two frosted martini glasses were already waiting, and held them up for inspection.

  “Mr. President, I see you’re already prepared.” Then he said with the mock indignation expected of him, “You presumed, sir!”

  “I presumed,” Cohen replied. He gathered ice into a metal shaker and poured in a hint of vermouth, followed by a generous amount of Grey Goose. He worked the shaker back and forth, rattling the ice cubes sweetly, then filled the glasses, adding two queen olives to each. He offered the first glass to Baker. “Straight up and slightly dirty, as you prefer.” They clinked glasses and took tentative sips.

  “Excellent, sir. Crisp; cold.” Baker waited.

  Cohen did not disappoint him as his face took on a stern visage. “I take it you’re here about the Secret Service.”

  “They want to shut us down after my people have made such deep inroads.”

  “They’ve a job to do.”

  “But we risk losing Amahl and Kruger’s gang if they make preemptive arrests.”

  “I’m well aware of the quandary.” Cohen sat back and held the frosted martini glass at eye level, then twirled it back and forth as the lamplight changed its patterns through the clear beverage. “It’s this damned internecine bureaucracy I’ve inherited, Heath. Every agency jealously guards its turf. It’s politics as usual.”

  Baker nodded. “I understand, sir. I don’t like it, but there it is.” He held up his hands in despair. “Mossad and Shin Bet still can’t grasp our multi-agency system.”

  “Know what I tell people who herald El Al’s vaunted security?”

  “No, sir.”

  Cohen sipped his drink and closed his eyes. “It took only ten post-9/11 years for this country to become lazy enough to revert to stop-gap screening. In the meantime I’m constantly reminded of El Al’s superior approach toward counter-terrorism.” When he leaned his head back the soft lamp light bounced against his yellow sweater, and was reflected beneath his chin. “What my advisors fail to comprehend is that El Al has only thirty-nine aircraft in their entire fleet. Ninety percent of their flights are international. They can afford the luxury of extensive security checks, because they don’t deal with five thousand flights a day. Our economy, such as it is at the moment, would grind to a halt if we utilized their program.”

  Baker nodded. He’d considered this before.

  “Instead, our agencies operate under the principle, ‘throw money at the problem.’ Humph. Let’s hope we don’t bury ourselves under the rubble of our own wealth.”

  Baker grunted. “Do that, and we hand Amahl a free ticket to the game.” He stood and let his voice rumble against the Oval Office walls. “My team’s in too deep.”

  In the silence that followed Cohen held his glass like a brandy snifter and moved it in circles. After watching the contents swirl, he squinted at Baker. “Even if they were not, I made a promise to protect your back.” Cohen pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your team may proceed, but with the Bureau ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  Cohen fidgeted, then crossed and uncrossed his long legs. “Your team—your man that’s in too deep. It’s Mr. Levi Hart, as I recall.” His face turned solemn. “And you know who he reminds me of. Don’t you?”

  As Baker regarded his old friend, the intimacy of the question prompted him to use the president’s first name. “Yes, Mark. Levi reminds me of your son, too.”

  Potts checked his watch. It was five local time, four in California. He phoned his source inside the Secret Service field office and asked, “What have you got for me?”

  SAC Brewer cleared his throat. “There’s nothing back on your request yet. Hell, we’re furloughing agents just to get by.”

  Potts scowled. “Can you get it by tomorrow?”

  After a brief pause, Brewer replied gruffly. “If I have to run the prints myself.”

  Levi opened Kruger’s gift packet of heroin and stared at it. He wanted it. Kruger wanted him to want it, wanted his Young Turk hooked; needed him hooked. It wasn’t until Levi began trembling that he said, “Oka
y, Kruger. I’ll be a junkie. But on my terms.” Tapping some heroin into the bent spoon, he moved it over the stove’s blue flame.

  After spiking the spoon with a fresh residue, he dumped the dope down the drain and prepared a fake dose, then wrapped the latex tourniquet around his left arm. Holding its bitter-tasting end with his teeth, he put the needle against an engorged vein and pushed until it went in with a soft plop. Loosening the tourniquet, he injected a partial dose and repeated the action with two veins in his right arm. Tossing the tainted syringe atop the nightstand along with the others, he settled back and waited. Soon, a black line grew from each of the three injection sites. He smiled and said, “Your move, Kruger.”

  But he had one more task to complete before he could pass as a junkie. Taking a sheet of paper from Brenda’s notebook, he folded it methodically until he’d formed a tiny envelope. He dropped two small chunks of heroin into it, turning it into a junkie’s bindle. Next, he gathered a metal screw-down cap from a wine bottle to cook his junk in, and a syringe. He wrapped all the items inside a handkerchief and voilà—the parcel became his “works”—paraphernalia that he would keep shoved in a pocket if he needed a fix in a hurry. It’s what every junkie carried—and Levi said a brief prayer for those who needed their works. Checking his arms again, he counted seven track marks, plus the swollen injection sites left by Brenda. He said to himself, Comes with the job.

  Amahl’s men were still in South Beach, still had assault weapons. He had hoped to keep Zafir’s cell available for a larger task, but now he couldn’t risk waiting. It was time to act—the Westerners were closing in on him. He could feel it. He would call Zafir and order the men into action. The plan was simple; its effect would be catastrophic.

  Airlines across the country park their precious Airbuses, Douglases and Boeings on open tarmacs when they’re scheduled for maintenance. Miami International’s tarmacs are especially vulnerable due to their close proximity to the surrounding expressways and secondary roads. Amahl had devised a plan months before, whereby Kruger’s cells would descend upon America’s major airports in the pre-dawn hours and cut loose with assault rifles on the 747s, 777s, and Airbuses—riddling cockpits, fuselages and electronics bays with lead. He’d rejected the use of shoulder-launched missiles: too balky and too training intensive. This plan was both simple and ruthless. He’d calculated that an all-out assault would cripple two hundred major aircraft for months, plunging a U.S. economy already teetering on the brink to the bottom of the cliff. Miami had twenty jets on their tarmacs at any given moment. He could live with that. Twenty airliners knocked out of action and requiring millions in repairs, by a hundred dollars worth of ammunition. He would call Zafir in the morning and then he would call Brent Kruger.

  The South Beach utility crew erected a safety barrier around the manhole and got to work. As they labored they watched the apartment on Alton Street.

  Levi radiated a spectral light as he sauntered into the Sunset that evening. As he unzipped his leather jacket the regulars sensed a change. He looked sharp but that wasn’t it. The tattoo adorning his forehead was still there—that wasn’t it either. Nor was it the muscular truck driver who took one look at him and leaped from his path. No. He had undergone some other, as yet unfathomable transformation. It was evident in the way he held himself; the look in his eyes; the sense of raw animal lust he projected. The crowd could see that he had reached a momentous summit in his life but no one asked his secret. Only he and Bronk, standing at the pool table with cue stick in hand, knew that he had killed a man and gotten away with it.

  So nobody was surprised when he swaggered up to the stunning redhead seated at the bar in a short black skirt and white satin blouse that clung to her curves, and said, “I want you in my bed tonight.”

  She touched a manicured finger to his forehead. “A Swastika. Quite topical. And you’re quite repulsive.” She showed gleaming white teeth. “If only my dear hubby hadn’t gone away on business.” Then she grabbed her clutch purse and stood. “Shall we?”

  He guided her toward the back door. Michael was sitting nearby but Levi didn’t acknowledge him—or Dance Girl, standing to one side in a halter top and a frown. But as he and the woman swept past Bronk, Levi said over his shoulder, “Stop by ’round closing time an’ burn one with me.” The big guy winked—and Levi saw him trailing behind as they disappeared inside the cabin.

  19

  They emerged from the cabin at closing time. Levi stepped into the doorway first, sweat-streaked and wearing only his OD pants. The woman shouldered past, her hair mussed and skirt and blouse askew. Bronk stepped from a shadow but she ignored him and clung to Levi’s tattooed torso. “When may I see you again?”

  He smiled with cruel confidence. “Depends. You gonna make it worth my time an’ have my white trash baby?”

  She bristled. “Don’t get too full of yourself.”

  “No?” In a flash he pinned her to the wall and worked his hips against her with sensual male hunger, taunting her while she cursed him, until at last he flung her aside. Then he slouched against the door and jerked a thumb at the parking lot. “Now beat it. But have your ass here tomorrow. I’m gonna plant that baby in you.”

  Her upper lip curled. “You’re an animal. An absolute animal.”

  “Yeah, but you like that. You liked it the first time, liked it the last time.” His eyes blazed. “Now clear outta here.”

  “Okay, okay.” She turned to go, stopped, and looked over her shoulder. “I—I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?” Then she walked off with stiff, brittle dignity.

  Levi said to a grinning Bronk, “Let’s get buzzed.”

  The room smelled of spent energy and Bronk chortled. “Dude, you’re my hero. You ice a guy for lunch an’ bag a gal for dinner.” He went to the kitchen and poked at the open packets of dope. Picking up the bent spoon, he sniffed it, then moved to the night stand, where he examined the congealed syringes and flicked one with his finger, sending it spinning. Finally he gawked at Levi’s arms. “Man, you definitely got a thing for skag. Me, I’m into glass.” He rubbed his hands together. “So where’s the reefer?”

  Levi made a sound and cocked his head at a pair of wooden chairs. After they sat and stretched their legs he rolled a joint, lit it and offered it to his guest.

  Bronk dragged deep, held it, and exhaled, sending a khaki cloud of acrid smoke to the ceiling. After a second hit he gestured at a closet overflowing with Brenda’s things. “You let Brian drive your chick? For all them days? Man, that guy’s a hound.”

  “She knows I’ll kill her if she does him.” Good. He sees she didn’t pack heavy. Now he can tell Kruger she plans to return. “Anyway, I trust Brian. He’s cool.”

  “Yeah, he is. Shame what we did to him.” He passed the joint and squinted. “Say, didja know I served on mortars too?”

  Levi carelessly flicked the ash, letting it fall to the floor. “Yeah? Talk to me.”

  Bronk droned on until he stretched his arms wide and yawned. Levi yawned also and saw him to the door. He thought, Thanks for validating me for Kruger. And when I’m done with him I’m going after you. Then he pushed the door open.

  Dance Girl was standing there. With no other option, he dropped his pants with idle indifference and stepped out of them, then beckoned her in. “You know where to find the blow,” he growled, while Bronk smirked and walked out.

  Monica locked her motel room door before reaching up and removing her red wig. Then she allowed herself a grim smile. When Michael relayed Levi’s need for a smokescreen, she proposed a tryst that would get her invited to his cabin. It also provided a conduit for a two-way transfer of intel. Tonight he passed along the details that he’d gleaned from Bronk about a Mack dump truck, and the use of submachine guns in the attack. Then they made small talk while waiting for the bar to close.

  When Bronk’s arrival drew near they did calisthenics and built up a sweat to give the impression of sexual activity. She peeked out a darkened window while he chang
ed. Then as Bronk approached, they stepped outside. The lewd and chauvinistic behavior had been her idea. Levi protested, but she argued that Bronk had to see a smoking gun of sorts before he could confirm Levi’s ongoing pledge to Kruger. She correctly predicted that Bronk would never see past her wig and breasts to identify her previous incarnation as the college girl. She’d also stated the obvious—the mission could not be skewered by political correctness. They had a job to do.

  As the sun rose, a dog-tired Levi got coked-up and had more sex. Two hours later he pulled up near Kruger’s office and killed the the Harley’s crackling engine.

  The little general stepped outside. “I’m told you bedded a woman of means last night—one who found herself attracted to your…pedigree.” Kruger smiled for once. “You take a man’s life, then you acquire a financially stable woman to create new life. The literary cliché of life and death creeps in but so what?” He chuckled. “Then you took your girlfriend to your bed. Well done.”

  “Girlfriend?” He spat into the dirt at his feet. “She’s my whore, is what she is.”

  “I see.” Kruger looked up as a crow cawed, then barked, “Roll up your sleeves.”

  Levi complied and revealed his scarred arms. When Kruger scowled, Levi shifted his weight. “Whaddya want me to say? Yeah, I been hittin’ it.”

  Kruger’s eyes bore into Levi’s. Then they softened. “I’d have thought something was amiss if you hadn’t been.”

  That’s what I thought you’d say. You’re not as clever as you think, you son of a bitch. Now for the sucker punch. “I’m backin’ off.” He flashed a sad smile. “Got to. I’m outta money an’ my whore ain’t turnin’ tricks yet.” Go on. Tell me not to worry.