by Ty Patterson
‘We don’t want traitors,’ were his last words as he signed off with his customary Al Qaeda slogan.
Three pairs of eyes turned to Hamdaan who had no answer. ‘My men are still investigating. It is less than twenty-four hours since the Butcher took out our rocket launcher.’
‘That man comes and goes like a ghost making your men look like fools,’ Razaq attacked Hamdaan. He hated the security and counter-intelligence commander even more than he disliked Omar. Hamdaan kept his cards very close to his chest and had a secretive air about him. Razaq had once obliquely sounded him out on a possible coup over Omar, but Hamdaan’s reply had been inconclusive.
‘We will find him. He is using our own guerrilla tactics against us, but he’s just one man against all our forces.’ Hamdaan used an authoritative tone to mask the fact that he and his men were scrabbling for answers and had nothing to go on.
The Butcher was just one man, but he was running rings around them.
Contrary to the Butcher’s spin, the mobile launcher had been heading to Iraq in a move to launch a rear guard action on the attacking forces. The Butcher’s destruction of the vehicle had not only stalled that action, it had also brought wind of it to the enemy.
‘We are losing men and equipment in this war and to add to that, The Butcher sows fear.’ Razaq directed his words at Omar who as usual sat silent and observed the rest of the commanders.
Razaq’s meaning was clear.
What do you plan to do about it?
‘What news of The Ghul?’ Tayyib asked Omar.
‘He is making plans.’ Omar replied shortly.
He had no intention of sharing the plans with his commanders. For an attack of this scale, ‘need to know’ was paramount and even the Supreme Leader didn’t know any details.
‘Whatever he is planning had better be worth it and soon,’ Razaq said sourly.
‘The Butcher is striking more terror than The Ghul. The Ghul is now being seen by our people as someone who beheads from behind the safety of thousands of our men. Some of my commanders have said he’s nothing special. Anyone can behead from safety. I had to kill one of my men to stop the dissent.’
Omar dismissed them after another hour, brooded silently for some time and then signaled his aide to set up the complicated but secure communication network.
The Ghul took the internet call in his apartment in Jamaica.
It was his third apartment in the city. He didn’t stay in any one apartment for more than two weeks. No one questioned the Trevor Johnson cover he used when renting them. He listened silently as Omar briefed him on the Butcher’s attack. The Ghul had already seen the video and for half an hour his blood had pulsed as a red mist descended over him.
‘We need to advance the dates,’ Omar told him finally.
The Ghul kept quiet, allowing the silence to convey his dissent.
‘I know what you are thinking, but we need to strike soon.’
The Ghul read Omar’s tone. The HOF’s war was stalling. The Great Satan’s forces along with its allies had succeeded in pinning back the HOF’s advance. The Ghul’s action would go a long way in winning back the hearts of its own followers.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said and Omar had to be satisfied with that.
‘How’s it going with that killer? I heard he has struck again.’ One asked him.
The Ghul had questioned the Flayer over a few more internet video calls, had grilled him on his apartment’s location, security, and the measures the killer took to conceal his identity. He had grudgingly accepted that the Flayer knew what he was doing. The latest killing had only reinforced that feeling.
He briefed Omar on all developments. ‘I have more or less decided on using his apartment as my kill site.’
‘How will it go down?’
The Ghul ran through his plans again.
The Flayer and he would each grab a victim from Penn Station even as Masood and his two men went on their killing spree. They would then head to the killer’s apartment and slay them.
He had yet to go through the plans with the Flayer, but Omar didn’t need to know that. In any case, The Ghul was confident the Flayer would go along with him.
Omar was astonished initially. ‘You will go with him to his place? He’s an infidel! How do you know he won’t betray you?’
The Ghul went through his reasoning patiently.
‘His being an infidel works for us. No one will think we are working together. He uses layers of identity, which is why no one knows who he is.’
Omar raised several questions to each of which The Ghul had an answer.
He finally went silent, an acknowledgement that The Ghul had planned well, and processed the slayer’s last answer. ‘Live? Isn’t that risky?’
‘He wants to do it live. I am not convinced either. I will persuade him to kill offline and then upload the video later.’
‘He’ll listen to you?’
‘Yes.’ Or he’ll die.
‘You plan to keep him alive afterwards?’
‘Yes. The authorities should have someone to focus on.’
Omar nodded thoughtfully. The Ghul thought of everything which was why he was the One’s most trusted killer.
‘What about Masood’s men? Once the first team kills in Grand Central, their entire lives will be turned upside down, all their friends, relatives... all in their circle will be questioned.’
A grim smile came over The Ghul.
‘Masood and his four men are already on another world trip. Their internet profiles are regularly updated. Their regular phones are manned by some other people who will answer calls like them. All of them are living separately and none of them know where the others live. Even if anyone survives or is captured, he will not be able to reveal the other locations. None of them know where I am staying. The plan is secure.’
‘Do they know about this killer?’
‘No. They don’t know who he is, or what I have planned.’
The twins were back in their office chasing down the bracelet purchases, the taskforce was tracking down carpet fibers that Cleary had identified on Kohler’s body. Other detectives were canvassing Stark’s neighborhood again.
Zeb, along with Bwana and Roger, was in Clementon, New Jersey, which was in Camden County, about 30 minutes southeast of Philadelphia. A town of about five thousand, where not everyone knew the other, but strangers stood out and pattern changes were noticed.
The country had been changing ever since 9/11. People had become more vigilant and when attacks such as the Boston bombing happened, the vigilance became ingrained; it became an integral part of everyone’s lives.
Five men in the small town, who lived together, prayed together and had been residents of the town for a long time, shaved their beards.
It took something as simple as that for someone to sit up and pay more attention to them.
Three weeks later, when one of the men bought fertilizer in large amounts, Joe Citizen got concerned and made an anonymous call to the local P.D. The men had never bought anything to do with gardening before. All five of them worked in an Asian restaurant. All five prayed in a mosque that some people said preached a radical brand of religion.
That call made its way through various law enforcement agencies, security and intelligence agencies and reached Clare.
She consulted various people and fired a text to Zeb.
Check them out. Work with local P.D. and State Police.
Zeb, Bwana, and Roger went in as interested observers, sat in on various meetings, discussions, learned about the men’s movements, their backgrounds, and the developing story.
The men didn’t have immediate family in the state, had never been arrested and were second generation immigrants.
Then the men bought another load of fertilizer. And a stream of messages from their social media profiles was sent out.
Surveillance was increased on them, electronic, human, cars, and cops.
One early morning, the five of them load
ed large sacks in a van and set out on the I-295, drove at a steady pace, well within the speed limit.
Drove northeast.
Roger read off towns as they fell in behind, listed off notable happenings in those towns.
The five men didn’t stop.
They branched off near Lawrence Township and took the US-1.
Headed in the direction of Jersey City.
The SWAT commander’s voice came through the speakers, urgent, but even.
One of the state’s senators was speaking at a local rally. Upward of six thousand people were expected.
Several of the men’s internet messages were directed against the senator.
The senator was hard on extremists and fanatics in the faith the men practiced. He advocated zero tolerance and harsh punishments on such people as home-grown terrorists or religious extremists who misused their faith to justify their actions.
Three miles later the US-1 miraculously emptied; a couple of patrol cars swung ahead of the van and signaled it to stop.
It didn’t.
The van picked up speed.
More cruisers joined the chase, more furious signaling.
The men ignored all signs.
A road block was formed five miles ahead, traffic was diverted, and a chopper hovered in the air.
The van came to a slowing stop when the men saw the roadblock.
No movement.
Then the sliding door opened and instead of any men, a rifle barrel poked out.
It cut loose, windows opened and other rifles spoke from within.
The response was short, brutal, loud, and entirely predictable.
When silence fell on the highway, glass littered on the street, smoke drifted away lazily and the interior of the van dripped blood.
A CSI team went through the van, found several handguns and a few assault rifles.
It also found homemade bombs and crudely drawn posters proclaiming death to the senator.
The sat-nav in the van was set to the rally’s location.
The SWAT commander approached Zeb and wiped his head which was matted in perspiration. ‘Those bombs were crude, but powerful. Would have killed and injured hundreds. We stopped them just in time.’
He breathed deeply, closed his eyes briefly and took in the wintry sun. He thrust a phone at Zeb and grinned. ‘Someone called my bosses and said you would be interested in what’s on that phone. It was on one of the men.’
He waved a hand. ‘Go ahead. We have made a copy of all its data.’
Zeb thumbed through the phone, scrolled through its contacts, calls, none of which were familiar to him.
He went through the photographs and his fingers froze when he came across a recent picture.
It was a bunch of men, five of them, with a sixth figure almost out of the frame.
The sixth figure was familiar.
Where have I seen him?
He looked out at the horizon, ignored Bwana and Roger’s questioning looks, allowed his mind to roam free.
Victims? Flayer? Butcher? Bracelet?
It came to him.
He ran back to the SUV and turned it around by the time his men jumped in.
‘Who?’ Roger asked him.
‘Someone in a New York café.’
‘Someone who was looking at a video of a killing.’
Chapter 22
January 8th- 14th
Werner ran the photograph through face recognition and two hours later it came back.
Seventy percent match. The message blinked on the screen.
Zeb scratched his stubble, thought back to the image Clare had forwarded.
Profile view of the man in the café. Not even full profile. That must be why Werner isn’t any surer.
Meghan spoke over his shoulder. ‘How did you link the images?’
‘His eyes. They are a curious brown. They stayed with me for some reason.’
He looked in those eyes and wondered if his own looked similar. ‘Why don’t we run John Doe past criminal records? Interpol too. All the databases we have.’
She sat down silently, ran the commands and walked away without a word.
What? What did I say? Or do?
He looked at her, then at Bwana and Roger who were grinning broadly.
Beth. She was quivering. Like a dog straining at a leash.
Meghan, she had the same electricity thrumming.
I didn’t notice.
He held his palms up. ‘Sorry. Hit me with it.’
‘We got a break, looks like a genuine one.’ The words tumbled from Beth no sooner had he stopped speaking.
‘We tracked down all women, parents, all those who had bought the bracelets. Not one of them bought for a guy with a name starting with R.’
‘Except one,’ her sister chimed. ‘Peggy Marchant, a retired school teacher in Texas. She was visiting her brother in New York all those years back, took him to one of the stores and bought it. She got it engraved with a Roberto, from a different jeweler and gave it to him.’
‘Where’s he now?’
‘She didn’t say. She wants to speak to us, in person.’ Beth’s eyes shone, ‘I have set up a call in half an hour.’
Marchant was in her sixties, but sprightly. Her face creased in a smile when she saw them on her computer screen.
‘I got the hang of this several years back when I used to mentor a few of my students. They used to Skype me constantly.’
She looked past the sisters, at Bwana and Roger and then finally at Zeb.
‘Those are some specimens you have there, Beth.’
‘You think so, ma’am? They reek of attitude and one of them can hardly talk,’ Meghan replied disdainfully.
Marchant played with a cat on her lap as she spoke. Behind her, Zeb could make out framed photographs on a wall and on a mantel piece.
She noticed Zeb’s gaze. ‘That’s Roberto, my baby brother. He would have been thirty-five now.’
Would have been?
‘He died in an automobile crash in your city, ten years back, just a year after I gave him that bracelet.’
She and Roberto had lost their folks when he was in his early teens and Peggy had raised her kid brother herself, working days and nights. She put him through college, after educating herself to become a teacher. When he was old enough, he left Texas for the big city.
She stayed back in her teaching role.
‘He was a difficult child. Rebelled. Experimented with drugs and alcohol when he was growing up. He seemed to mellow when he was older, but always wanted to live the big life, a fast life. When he insisted on moving to New York, I couldn’t stop him.’
They heard the cat purring as she stroked it with fingers that were wrinkled and gnarled.
‘Arthritis. Not bad, I can manage.’
That and caring all her life for a brother.
‘I visited him every year. He was good with stuff. He could build a kitchen, fix cars, he worked as a handyman when he was here. In the city, he found a job in a garage, fixing cars. He liked it.’
A shadow crossed her face. ‘I don’t think he had the best friends there. I smelled pot the few times I visited his apartment and one of his friends, I just didn’t approve of him. He looked down upon women and that attitude rubbed off on my Robbie.’
‘How did the accident happen, ma’am?’
She mentioned a date and Beth moved out of the camera’s range, pecked at her laptop.
‘He was driving in his Nissan and just lost control. It was early in the morning and luckily there was not much traffic. He jumped a curb, hit some scaffolding and burst into flames.’
Her voice trembled as she lifted a hand to wipe her cheeks.
Zeb glanced at the screen Beth pointed at them and read the news article briefly, focusing just on the key words.
Grand Central Parkway service road, four thirty in the morning, Jamaica.
He knew that strip of road. It was sometimes used as a drag racing strip by some drivers.
<
br /> ‘The moment you called and showed me the image, I knew it was Roberto’s. The R is distinctive. I spent time with the engraver to get it just right.’
Zeb asked the questions that were foremost on their minds. ‘Ma’am was he wearing it the day he died?’
‘He always wore it. Never stepped out without it.’
‘Do you know how the killer could have got it?’
A visible shudder went through her and the stroking became more urgent. ‘That’s why I wanted to speak. I have been thinking about it ever since Beth called.’
‘There was no bracelet found on his body. I am sure of that. The cops gave me all his possessions, that is, all that they could find.’
‘I think his friend took it.’
Friend?
Beth scrolled down the page and highlighted a sentence.
Roberto Marchant and his friend...
Zeb didn’t read further.
‘His friend was with him, ma’am?’
A vigorous nod. ‘Yes. This is the guy I didn’t trust, didn’t like. He was in the passenger seat.’
‘He survived.’
‘He had severe burns.’
‘What was his name, ma’am?’
‘Matt Rouse.’
Calls to the hospital got them nowhere. Bureaucratic red tape and records that didn’t go that far back. They got his description though and the height and body shape was a match for the video Leon had got.
It also matched the description of the man talking to Lena Diaz.
Chang dug out the old case files, looked up the address for Rouse and rattled off a number. He also emailed them Rouse’s file.
The number was dead, but the file drew whistles from the sisters.
‘That’s where the money comes from. Rich parents.’
They researched Dad, Philip Rouse, a dentist, who was still practicing, and Mom, Linda Rouse, a corporate attorney. Meghan checked out the firm’s name. ‘Big hitter. Takes on only the top five hundred companies. Linda Rouse has quite a reputation.’
She rolled back her seat and grabbed her purse.
‘Come on, Zeb. Drive us. Don’t laze around; you’ll swell up like a pumpkin.’
‘Where to?’ their faithful driver asked them.
‘Chelsea. Not far from Stark’s apartment in fact.’