Sympathy For the Devil

by Terrence McCauley

  He sat with his back against the door leading to the roof while he watched the scene unfold on the street on his handheld via satellite. A late model Honda—not Omar’s Corolla—double parked in front of the building. The man who got out from the passenger side was tall and lanky and bald. He certainly looked Somali, but he looked nothing like Omar.

  Hicks was about to assign the satellite to pick up in the Honda’s black box signal, but he could see Jason had already done that. The young man was beginning to overstep his bounds. First sending the woman to study him, and then ordering the Varsity into the field without consulting him. Now this. He was using the fog of war to broaden his boarders. When the Omar mess was over, Hicks would make it a point to knock him on his ass.

  Through the thin wood of the roof door, Hicks could hear the man from the car running up the stairs. He tried to get the satellite to focus in on the driver, but the angle wasn’t right. It wasn’t Omar’s car, but he still could’ve been behind the wheel. The angle was too steep to see for sure.

  A text message from Jason appeared in a thin band at the bottom of Hicks’ screen:

  LESSON PLAN AMENDED. TERMINATE ALL PARTIES ON SCENE.

  Now Hicks saw Jason’s incursion for what it was. He’d probably been lobbying the Dean until he got approval for the bloodbath he’d wanted all along. Kick in doors, guns blazing. Sift through the wreckage and write a report. Jason would look to come out of this a hero and expand his influence in the University.

  Not if Hicks could help it.

  Hicks typed back:

  WE NEED TO KNOW WHO OMAR SENT FIRST. STAND BY

  Hicks heard the passenger bound up the stairs. Hicks switched the OMNI image to thermal and saw the heat signature of the man only a few feet below Hicks’ position on the roof. The man stood outside Kamal’s apartment, to the side of the doorframe. He turned the knob. He let the door swing in on its own. He stood with his back against the wall, listening, waiting, before looking around the doorframe and entering the apartment. This man wasn’t one of Omar’s rookies.

  A new message crawled at the bottom of Hicks’ handheld:

  TERMINATION LETTERS APPROVED. IMMEDIATE ACTION REQUIRED.

  But Hicks ignored the text. Killing Omar’s messengers wouldn’t do anything except scare off Omar and make him change his plans. Omar still had a man watching the apartment and a man in the alley. There was no way Hicks could kill all of them without it turning into a bloodbath. Omar had already gone underground once after Colin got killed. Hicks knew he was too close to uncovering Omar’s plot to let him get away now. They had to know what kind of threat they were dealing with.

  Hicks ignored the text and kept watching the feed.

  Via the satellite’s thermal imaging camera, Hicks saw the man exit Kamal’s apartment.

  The man held the bag of money in one hand and closed the apartment door with the other. But instead of heading downstairs to the car, he surprised Hicks by simply standing still for a moment. Quiet once more. Listening.

  Hicks didn’t move. He was already sitting with his back flat against the roof door. He didn’t have to worry about the gravel moving under his feet and giving his position away.

  Hicks watched his thermal image; he saw the man had his head down; maybe closing his eyes as he listened for any sudden sounds that might tell him where Kamal might be. He probably knew that none of Omar’s spies had seen him leave the building. He had to be somewhere close. Where could he have gone?

  And then Hicks saw the man look up the stairs toward the door to the roof.

  Hicks pulled the Ruger from his belt. Jason just might get his bloodbath after all.

  THE MAN looked down the stairs, then back up toward the roof. He shifted the bag of money from his right hand to his left, clearly trying to decide what he should do. Take the money back to the car, or take a look around. He probably knew Omar would ask him questions, and he didn’t want to lie. Hicks knew from surveillance that Omar was very good at spotting lies. His men knew it, too.

  Hicks knew what the man was thinking because he would’ve been thinking the same things in the same situation. The money was important, but at what cost? Knowing where Kamal was would help erase lots of question marks later on.

  The satellite’s thermal image showed the man had drawn a weapon. Details were tough to see, but it looked to Hicks like it might be a nine millimeter. He heard the creak of the old wooden treads as the man began to walk upstairs to the roof.

  Hicks pocketed his handheld and quietly got to his feet; slowly stepping away from the door. One sound could set the man firing, or worse, running. Hicks didn’t want to risk either if he could avoid it.

  Hicks slowly put one foot behind the other as he kept the Ruger aimed at the door. The other side of the door was plastered with warning signs that the door was alarmed and would emit an alarm if opened. A red sign on the alarm bar said an alarm would sound if the bar was pushed.

  But Hicks knew the door hadn’t been locked and no alarm had gone off when he had come in that way to surprise Kamal in his apartment. The signs were all bullshit. All Omar’s man had to do was turn the knob and pull it open. It would be the last thing he ever did.

  He could imagine his handheld was full with messages from Jason telling him to TERMINATE as he watched the whole thing from the safe comfort of his den in Maryland or wherever the hell he lived. But Hicks wanted the money man alive. He wanted him to bring the money to Omar so they could track it and learn whatever they were planning. But all of that depended on the money man leaving here alive.

  If possible.

  Hicks carefully backed up far enough away from the door so he couldn’t be seen when the door opened, but not close enough to the edge to be seen from the street. A delicate balance, but one he was used to walking.

  A cold wind picked up, filling his ears. He couldn’t hear if the man was close to the rooftop door or if he’d given up and gone back downstairs. But as the wind died down, he didn’t hear anything.

  He stole a quick look at his handheld. The man was still on the other side of the door, looking at the signs about the alarm.

  He didn’t know if the man could read English, but he’d probably seen warning signs before and knew what they meant. An alarm sounding would bring attention—maybe even police—and an armed man holding a bag with ninety grand in cash didn’t need attention. He needed to get that money to the man who was waiting for it.

  The wind finally died down enough for Hicks to hear the stairs squeak again as the man went back down to the car. Via the handheld, he watched the man put away his and pick up his pace.

  Both of them had come within the width of a door of having a bad day.

  Knowing Jason was watching, Hicks thrust a middle finger up at the satellite. Terminate that, you son of a bitch.

  He stayed on the roof until the moneyman got in the car and drove away. He knew he’d get a lecture from Jason about disobeying orders, but that didn’t matter. They had a solid lock on Omar and where he was going to be and when. Now, all they had to do was find out what that bastard was playing at.

  “WHAT THE hell was that?” Jason’s voice caused the Buick’s speakers to tremble as he drove back into Manhattan.

  But Hicks was still too charged to even let Jason dampen his mood. “That what a successful operation looks like, Ace. Now that you’ve actually seen one in real life, you’ll recognize it next time it happens.”

  “I demand to know why you disobeyed a direct order to terminate all suspects on sight.”

  “Because it was an order that made no sense based on the realities in the field. I’m not going to start a running gun battle in a crowded apartment building. All that would’ve done is drawn a hell of a lot of cops, blown our entire operation, and maybe get me killed in the bargain. Besides, this isn’t just about stopping Omar anymore.”

  “It’s about finding the extent of his network by watching what he does with the money we gave him. He was treated like a rock star yesterday
by people we didn’t even know he knew. That means Omar’s been carefully building up some kind of network even while we were watching him. Grabbing Omar right now is like mowing the lawn to kill the weeds. It’ll all grow back in time. We need to rip them out at the root.”

  “If only everything was that simple,” Jason admitted. “We’re still trying to trace the logo on the mailing label, but our lab has come back with the initial test results on the envelope, and it’s not good news.”

  Hicks had been afraid of that. “They didn’t find anything?”

  “Just the opposite. They found traces of several viruses on the inside of the envelope; among them SARS, MERS, and even the Ebola viruses.”

  Hicks grabbed the wheel to keep from driving off the road. Sometimes, he hated being right. “How much of a trace?”

  “None of them were large in and of themselves, but all traces were exactly the same amounts. I’d say Omar is playing with something he doesn’t fully understand.”

  Hicks knew Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome and Middle Eastern Respiratory Syndrome were deadly diseases that had threatened to turn into pandemics for years, but hadn’t. Yet. Ebola was difficult to catch, but equally deadly when someone caught it. There’d always been rumors of scientists in the Middle East and elsewhere who’d tried to weaponize these diseases, but failed.

  Hicks wondered if Omar had found someone who’d finally been able to make it work. And he wondered if the image of the man from the camera wasn’t involved in this somehow.

  “Has the Dean been able to get the British to release the identity of the man I found on the SD card yet?”

  “No, but that’s not a priority now,” Jason said. “We need to hit Omar’s house and hit it now before those viruses get out in the open.”

  “Bad idea, Ace. We don’t know how much he’s got or where the viruses are now. We have the place under surveillance and a go-team in place. If this mystery man on the SD camera is important enough for the British to hide, he’s important enough for us to know who and where he is.”

  Hicks wasn’t surprised to hear the Dean’s voice break into the conversation. “Unfortunately, they’re not cooperating.”

  Hicks had been afraid of that. Since Snowden, once the British dug in their heels on an intelligence matter, they were damned difficult to budge. “Fortunately, I think I know someone who might be able to tell us.”

  “I was hoping you might,” the Dean said. “How long would it take you to get in touch with this someone?”

  “Let me make some calls and let you know,” Hicks said. “In the meantime, have Scott’s people ready to hit Omar’s place if the situation warrants it. Keep me apprised of what happens.”

  “Wait a second,” Jason said. “Who are you calling? Where are you going?”

  “Quiet, Junior. The adults are talking.”

  Hicks killed the transmission and gunned the engine. He had another phone call to make on his way back to New York. He knew he couldn’t afford to be late.

  The British were sticklers for punctuality.

  HICKS HADN’T met his British counterpart in New York yet. There hadn’t been a reason until now.

  The British referred to their version of the University as The Club. They preferred to rotate the assignment to their New York Office every couple of years or so. They viewed the posting as something of a joke; a reward to agents in good standing who were close to retirement and looking to run out their string. They were men and women who’d been put out to pasture in the concrete jungle; given a chance to go to the Big Apple for a bit before they hung up their cloak and dagger for good. Enjoy the city, old boy and, while you’re at it, see if you can’t pick up a few things. Report back should you hear anything interesting. There’s a good chap.

  Hicks checked his watch again to make sure he was early. Postings to the Club might have been something of a joke to Her Majesty’s government, but ten minutes early was still on time as far as the British were concerned. Old habits died hard, even among spies approaching the last stop on the train.

  Hicks found his counterpart already waiting for him at the agreed upon rendezvous point: a wire bench in a park off Bleeker Street. The snow hadn’t shown any signs of melting and there were still large piles of it clumped on one side. The Brit had only cleared off enough snow for himself.

  The man Hicks knew as Clarke filled the entire other side of the bench meant for two people. He wasn’t simply big, but incredibly obese and seemingly happily so. The fleshy rolls of his body were evident even beneath his green parka; the zipper’s teeth appeared strained to the limit. Tufts of unruly reddish hair going an unseemly gray tucked out from beneath a faded black ski cap. His fleshy face may have been reddened a bit from the cold wind but Hicks would have bet that ruddy was his usual color.

  Watching him work his way around the falafel wrapped in tinfoil almost turned Hicks’ stomach. Bits of lettuce and meat had flecked on to his parka and he showed no signs of noticing them. They were cleared by a sharp wind blew up Sixth Avenue.

  The fat man glanced at Hicks from head to toe before going back to his falafel. “You the Yank?”

  Hicks nodded at the snow next to him. “Thanks for saving me a seat.”

  “I’m not your fucking butler, Yank. Clear it off yourself and have a seat. Standing up talking only draws attention.”

  Hicks pulled his gloves on tighter and shoved a mound of snow off the other section of the bench.

  “I’ll admit you’re not what I expected,” Hicks said as he settled on the damp bench.

  Clarke grunted as he took another bite out of his falafel. “You were expecting some poofter in a tuxedo, sipping a martini.” More bits of meat and lettuce fell on his parka as he spoke. “You bastards really make me laugh sometimes.”

  “I was actually expecting a professional who knew enough to pick a better location than this.”

  “What’s wrong with here?” Clarke said with a full mouth. “Park bench out in the open just after a snowstorm? No one around. Who’s going to bother with a couple of dodgy looking fuckers like us, gabbing on a park bench in the middle of winter? Besides, if you know what you’re doing, this won’t take long. You’ll be sipping hot cocoa in a fucking coffee house in no time.”

  Hicks knew he was being tested and tried not to let the fat man get to him. “I’ve been around a long time and I’ve never heard about you or anyone like you in the Circle.”

  “The Circle,” Clarke laughed. “You still call yourselves the University and your chief the Dean, don’t you? Awfully collegiate for the kind of work we do, isn't it? All ivy and marble, but no blood or guts. Christ, you bastards are kind to yourselves with your fucking names.”

  For the sake of progress, Hicks held his temper. “I said I never heard of you.”

  “That’s because I haven’t been in this bloody Circle of yours very long, least your idea of it anyway. Don’t worry, though. I’ve heard plenty about you. That stunt you pulled in Guatemala last year was the real thing. Some real Cold War stuff, that. I respect a man who can think on his feet and save his man’s life.”

  Hicks wasn’t in the habit of talking about his career with total strangers. “How about you tell me about the image your people embargoed? I want to know why.”

  “Sure you do,” Clarke said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then folding the tinfoil over the rest of his falafel. “Damned good, this. The fuckers might not be able to govern themselves, but their food is right tasty.”

  “The man in the photo,” Hicks repeated. “What about him?”

  “Watch the imperious attitude, cousin. We taught it to you, after all. And that goes for your Dean goes for you, too. I’m not telling you fuck all about him until you tell me why you want to know who he is.”

  Hicks kept it vague to see how far it got him. “We need him for questioning on a matter that’s come up.”

  “Oh, fuck off,” Clarke spat. “You’ll need to tell me a damned sight more than that. Your Dean cal
led my minister directly, demanding that we lift our hold on his information. That kind of call wouldn’t have been made if you were just looking for general information. Now, you play nice and tell me why you care about this man or I’m leaving.”

  Hicks had never heard of Clarke before. He didn’t know who he was or where he’d worked. He had no idea if he was capable or if he was just another fat man with a big mouth. He also didn’t have any choice but to trust him.

  “We think he’s involved in some kind of event that’ll take place in here in New York, probably in the next few days.”

  “Not good enough.” Clarke got up, but Hicks grabbed his arm.

  “It involves a small time Somali hack named Omar and some men working with him. This Omar turned two of my agents and it looks like they’re planning something big.”

  Clarke stopped moving away. “How big?”

  “Probably biological,” Hicks said.

  Clarke’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean ‘probably?’”

  “It means we found traces of MERS, SARS, and Ebola on the inside of an envelope we know was in Omar’s possession. They were only trace amounts of each virus in the envelope, but they were all exactly the same amount of contamination. We think they might be samples but that’s just guess work at this point.”

  Clarke sat back down on the bench without any prompting from Hicks. “You said SARS, MERS, and Ebola.”

  “Did you get anything on the envelope itself?”

  “It was an oversized padded envelope with a mailing label that had been torn off it. But we were able to trace the manufacturer and that the particular batch of envelope had been shipped to Saudi Arabia.”

  “Madinha,” Clarke muttered more to himself than to Hicks. “Those lying bastards.”

  “What about Madinha?”

  “I think you’ve found more than you know, Yank. More than any of us thought you had.”