Eves of Destruction

by Roy Berelowitz

  “We’ll be there in about twenty minutes,” he said. “When we get there I want all the CCTV tapes up and ready to go with a technician standing by.” He was quiet for a moment before he continued. “Yes, that’s right. Have the technician load the tapes that recorded across the street from the bombing. I don’t want to see the bombing but I do want to see what happened starting about thirty minutes before the bombing but across the street. Do you understand?”

  In the back seat, Casey was on the phone to her boss, Gordon Lewis. The connection was not very good and she covered her opposite ear with her hand in order to hear him over the sound of the siren.

  “Yes, that’s right,” she was saying. “Abd Al Rahman. Mr. Kosnar is certain it is him but we are heading back to Thames House to check the video, see if we can get a confirmation.”

  Lewis asked for description of the Al Rahman and in the dim light Casey read from the notes she had hurriedly written before calling him.

  “He’s in his late forties, about five feet ten inches tall. According to Kosnar, he is lighter skinned than most Arabs.”

  She turned to Vladimir who was sitting beside her and said, “He wants to know what nationality he is?”

  Kosnar paused for a moment before replying. “I think he might be Lebanese but I’m not sure.”

  Casey relayed the information and then said, “Gordon there is one more identifying item about him. He is missing all the fingers on his right hand.”

  She paused as Gordon Lewis responded and then said, “No, according to Mr. Kosnar, his fingers were cut off during interrogation. And Gordon, listen to this. The person who cut off his fingers was Devskoy.”

  She glanced over at Vladimir with eyebrows raised as she heard her boss’ incredulous response on the phone.

  “Right now we don’t know if they were working together and then had a falling out or if Al Rahman just disposed of him because he didn’t need him anymore. We just don’t know.” She paused as she listened to his response.

  “OK, I’ll call you if we have a confirmation from the video.”

  She hung up and glanced at her Russian companion who seemed to be quite agitated, clenching and unclenching his fists, his jaw tight. She reached over and touched his arm.

  “You seem very upset suddenly, even more than yesterday after the bombing. Why are you more concerned now than before?”

  Vladimir adjusted himself in the backseat to face her more directly before responding. “You need to understand this man, Al Rahman.” He closed his eyes for a moment and pursed his lips.

  “He is absolutely ruthless, but worse than that he won’t stop, he never stops.” His voice was agitated now. “When I chased him in Afghanistan he was so ruthless he would routinely take refuge with people in their homes and then kill them when he left so they couldn’t give us any information about him. He would just shoot them, men, women and children. It meant nothing to him. And after we captured him and tortured him, cut off all his fingers, he gave us nothing, absolutely nothing. Most men would be begging for mercy after one finger but not Al Rahman. He shattered some of his of teeth he was clenching them so hard against the pain, but he never gave in.”

  Vladimir paused before he continued. “Devskoy was a fall down drunk. It was just a matter of time before he made a mistake and he was caught or killed.”

  He leaned closer to her as he spoke. “The worst mistake we can make is to underestimate Abd Al Rahman. He will do whatever it takes to complete this mission.”

  “You mean he will kill all these women if, he in fact, now has the means?”

  His eyes remained fixed on hers as he nodded vigorously. “You must understand the difference between Devskoy and Al Rahman. I’m sure Devskoy was just in this for the money, but Al Rahman is a true believer, a ruthless jihadi and he will do anything to see it through.”

  As he finished speaking, he held his gaze on Casey’s face for a moment, then turned away slowly and stared out the window.

  * * *

  “That’s him right there.” Vladimir Kosnar was out of his chair pointing at a figure on the large flat panel television screen.

  The room was dark, illuminated mostly by the computer monitors arrayed around the room. The large plasma screen covered one wall and a small crowd was sitting on the few available chairs or standing behind them.

  After rushing back to Thames House from the spot where Devskoy’s body had been found, they had only been reviewing the CCTV tapes for a few minutes. Vladimir had suggested that instead of reviewing the tapes from thirty minutes before the bombing they should look from the moments just after the bombing when Kosnar thought he saw Abd Al Rahman. Campbell quickly agreed and the technician loaded the tape to the few seconds after the blast.

  The technician froze the image and moved his mouse pointer the face of the man Kosnar was pointing to.

  “This guy?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Vladimir replied.

  The technician tapped on his keyboard and the image of the man expanded to fill the screen, blurring as it did so. A few more clicks on the keyboard and the image became more focused but not completely clear.

  “That’s the best I can do,” he said.

  Vladimir Kosnar stood up and stared at the screen. After a moment he turned back to face the crowded room and said, “That man is Abd Al Rahman.”

  Peter Boyle who had led Kosnar’s interrogation spoke up. “Are you quite sure?”

  “Absolutely,” Vladimir responded. “It’s him.”

  “Very well,’ he said. “We need to confirm that Devskoy and Al Rahman were together. I want you to remain here, Mr. Kosnar, and assist us.” He turned to Ian Campbell who was in the back of the room.

  “I have to go and speak with the Director,” he said referring to the head of MI5, the Director General of the Security service. “She is going to need to speak to the Prime Minister. In the meantime I suggest you start coordinating with your people to get a manhunt started for Al Rahman.” He glanced back at the technicians before turning back to Campbell.

  “We’ll have these chaps find you the best set of images of Al Rahman from the CCTV tapes and get them over to you.”

  CHAPTER 22

  NO LONGER ACCUSTOMED to rigorous physical activity, snapping Devskoy’s neck and then mutilating the corpse had left Abd Al Rahman physically drained. Years away from the battlefield, middle-age and the limited use of his hands would normally have made the task of quickly killing Devskoy difficult, but a mad anger and hatred for the Russian overcame his physical limitations. Stabbing him in the neck with the broken glass was to just insure that he was dead but breaking the dead man’s fingers was an impetuous action that gave him a brief measure of satisfaction. Staring down at the mutilated body he felt somewhat detached, his mind wandering back to the bitter suffering he had endured from Devskoy in the Afghan prison.

  The sound of approaching footsteps snapped him out of his reverie and he quickly bent over the body to rifle through the dead man’s pockets. He shoved the few items he found into his jacket pockets and then quickly checked his clothes to make sure they did not show any obvious evidence of the murder, and walked out of the alley.

  He had to move fast. It was likely that his face, if not his identity, would soon be compromised. His anonymity, his ability to blend unnoticed and unsuspected in to western society was the reason they had selected him for this mission but the brief moment he and Kosnar had locked eyes might have been enough for Kosnar to recognize him and the security cameras were certain to have captured his image with Devskoy at the bombing. He had to get out of England quickly.

  A sudden rain squall took him by surprise and he ducked into a small corner grocery store to find shelter. Looking around the shop he walked over to the magazine and newspaper rack, waiting for the rain to pass. Glancing at some of the English and European papers, he reached for the New York Times European Edition, pulled it from the stack and began to glance at the headlines. The edition was too late to have any inf
ormation about the bombing earlier in the day and was mostly focused on the up coming American presidential elections. As he scanned the paper, one headline did catch his attention. ‘Candidate Finalizing Convention Speech’ the headline read. He quickly read the rest of the article and turned to walk out of the store with the paper.

  “Hey. Hey you!” The sing song Pakistani accented voice rang out and drew his attention.

  “Hey, you not pay for paper,” the proprietor shouted as Al Rahman stood in the doorway.

  “Oh yes,” Al Rahman mumbled and quickly dropped a couple of pounds on the counter and turned to leave.

  “Hey, you get change,” the Pakistani sang out again, but Al Rahman was already gone, oblivious now to the heavy rain.

  He squinted into the dark wet night as he looked up and down the street for the familiar site of an English public phone booth. He was reluctant to use his cell phone or Devskoy’s, both of which he had in his pocket, but he needed to make his plane reservation right away. He spotted two phone booths up ahead and quickly walked towards them. One was occupied by a woman who was on her cell phone and just using the booth for shelter and the other was broken, the smashed receiver dangling from frayed wires.

  Al Rahman stood outside the red phone booth and glanced at his watch. The woman inside the booth had her back towards him, still engaged in animated conversation. He looked back at his watch then tapped impatiently on the glass door. The woman glanced at him briefly then turned away, ignoring him.

  Al Rahman looked up and down the now quiet and wet street. The heavy rain diminished the light coming from the over head street lights and he saw no one else around. He pushed open the glass door and grabbed the woman’s wrist.

  “Bloody hell-” the woman started to shout.

  Shifting his weight and grip, he grabbed her collar, first pulling her and then pushing her of out of the booth. Standing for a moment in the rain, the woman screamed at him she tried to force her way back into the phone booth, still shouting at him.

  “You stupid little fuck,” she screamed, her mouth almost touching Al Rahman’s ear. “Get the fuck out of there!”

  Al Rahman turned to face her, his left arm driving into her neck, pushing her back against the glass wall. He said nothing, but stared into her eyes, his face inches from hers, his arm pushing hard against her neck.

  She looked back, eyes wide at the menace in his face the fight gone out of her now. He slowly released the pressure on her neck and she stumbled from the booth, regaining her balance as she backed away.

  “You fucking piece of shit,” she shouted, keeping her distance. “I’m going to find a copper and have him thump you a few times, you big shit.” She looked frantically up and down the street.

  “Why is there never a fucking policeman when you need one?” she screemed into the rain. “I’ll be back,” she shouted at Al Rahman as she ran off.

  But Al Rahman was not paying attention. He had to make reservations quickly and he had no time to worry about some hysterical English woman.

  * * *

  Ian Campbell, Vladimir Kosnar and Casey Jennings were sitting at a small sandwich shop near Thames House. Two uniformed policemen stood outside the shop and two more plain clothed security officers sat at a nearby table watching all the shop patrons with wary eyes. Their function was two fold—protect the threesome from an attack and secure Kosnar. His status was still a bit ambiguous and no-one in the police or MI5 was ready to release him.

  Of the three, Casey was the only one to have had any sleep in the past twenty four hours and she still felt exhausted. Campbell seemed to be the least affected and was eating heartily while Casey and Kosnar just picked at their food. She kept glancing at Kosnar who had discarded his sandwich after just a few bites and was slumped back in his chair. He seemed detached and emotionally spent, his eyes hooded and face gray with exhaustion and sadness. She had a strong urge to encourage him, but given the circumstances, despair was probably the appropriate emotion. If his sister was at large as he believed, Al Rahman could dispatch her at any time. He could be anywhere plotting his next move and they were powerless to stop him. A massive manhunt was on throughout Great Britain but the expectation of finding him before the next attack was low.

  “You know for a couple of seasoned agents you two seem to be taking this whole thing a bit personally, don’t you think?” said Campbell glancing first at Vladimir and then Casey.

  Casey shot a quick look at Vladimir who returned her look but said nothing. After a brief pause Casey said, “I think you need to tell him.”

  “Tell me what?” asked Campbell, a quizzical look on his face. “Tell me what?” he repeated.

  Kosnar said nothing but he nodded at Casey.

  “Look, what are you two hiding?” demanded Campbell, his voice getting agitated.

  Casey leaned forward in her seat and spoke softly. “One of the women Al Rahman controls is Vladimir’s sister.”

  Campbell sat up rigid in his chair, knife and fork suspended above his plate, color briefly draining from his face.

  “What? I mean… your sister…Oh my god….” His voice trailed off.

  Kosnar nodded briefly but did not speak.

  “Are you quite certain about this?” Campbell asked as he noisily placed his knife and fork on his plate, his appetite suddenly diminished.

  “Yes,” Vladimir responded simply as if he was reluctant to be discussing the topic.

  There was an awkward silence at the table as each person sat alone with their thoughts. After a few moments Campbell broke the silence. “There are some benefits to living on an island Mr. Kosnar. It’s hard to leave without being noticed. If Al Rahman does try to leave I am sure we’ll get him.”

  Kosnar said nothing but responded to the English detective’s comments with a slight smile, but his expression quickly returned to its impassive and unhappy state, eyes staring at the ground. Campbell looked over at Casey and as she returned his look he grimaced slightly and slowly shook his head. Casey said nothing as she stared back at him.

  CHAPTER 23

  THE POUNDING ON the door startled Casey awake and left her momentarily disorientated. She pushed her hair out of her eyes, clicked on bedside lamp and rolled out of the bed reaching for the bathrobe she had flung over a nearby chair before she had collapsed asleep. The pounding on the door was more insistent.

  “Hang on,” she shouted. “I’m coming.”

  “Casey,” a muffled voice answered through the door. “It’s Ian Campbell.”

  She unlocked the door and opened it a couple of inches, peering through the gap at the English detective.

  “What’s up Ian? What’s happened?”

  “We found him. I mean we traced him to the US.”

  Casey swung the door open and pulled the bathrobe tight around her as she stood in the open doorway. “You found Al Rahman?”

  “Well, we didn’t exactly find him but we traced him to the United States. He boarded a flight to San Francisco yesterday morning. He landed there about eight hours ago.”

  There was a pause as if Casey expected to hear more information.

  “Well, what happened? Was he arrested when he arrived?”

  Campbell shook his head. “Nope. Apparently he made it through US Customs without issue.”

  The phone rang and Casey quickly walked over to answer it as the English detective followed her into the room, closing the door behind him.

  “Casey Jennings,” she answered.

  “Casey, its Gordon Lewis.”

  “Hi Gordon-,” she began to respond but he cut her off.

  “We think Al Rahman might be here, in the US.”

  “Yes, I just heard so from Ian Campbell.”

  “Did he tell you he made it through Customs and disappeared?”

  “Yes, he’s right here with me now. He just told me Al Rahman was traced to a flight that landed in San Francisco about eight hours ago.”

  “That’s right.” Gordon Lewis continued to speak,
but Casey closed her eyes as she tried to recall something about San Francisco that was suddenly important.

  Then it hit her.

  “The Democratic National Convention,” she blurted out, cutting him off in mid-sentence.

  “What?”

  “I am sorry Gordon but aren’t the Democrats holding their national convention in San Francisco this week or next. Actually, I think it’s in a few days… I can’t remember exactly.”

  “Oh Christ,” Gordon said. “You’re right. It is next week.” Casey could hear the weariness in his voice.

  There was a pause as both FBI agents contemplated the magnitude of their realization. Thousands of delegates, congressmen, governors and two ex-presidents, it was a potential security nightmare and extraordinary threat to the national elections.

  “Listen Casey, Homeland Security is already deeply involved but I doubt they’ve made this connection. I am going to get the British police to turn Kosnar over to your custody. He is the only person who knows Al Rahman, how he thinks and operates and of course he can recognize him. I need him here right away. I’ll take care of the authorization with the British and US Immigration, you take care of the logistics.” There was a click as he hung up.

  Casey sat down on the edge of the bed and looked up at Campbell.

  “That was my boss Gordon Lewis. He wants me and Kosnar on a plane to the US right away. He is working to get the authorization from the British government to release Kosnar to my custody.”

  “Anything I can do to help?” Campbell responded.

  “Where’s Kosnar?”

  “He is still being held by MI5.”

  “Do you think they will release him to my custody?”

  Campbell shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I suppose it depends on the powers that be making the right phone calls.”

  “Ian, how do we know for sure Al Rahman boarded that flight?”