Sympathy For the Devil

by Terrence McCauley

  “So cut the shit and tell me why you guys embargoed the picture I sent for analysis.”

  “Because the man in the image is an Algerian national named Rachid Djebar. He’s someone we’ve lost track of and want very much to find again.”

  Finally, Hicks thought, a name. Too bad it was a name he’d never heard before. “What does this Djebar have to do with Madinha?”

  “If you’d asked me that same question three minutes ago, I would’ve said he had nothing to do with it. But when I put it together with your envelope and his disappearance, I think he may be the link between the two. And that is very bad news for all of us, believe me.”

  Hicks waited for him to keep talking, but he didn’t. He simply sat there, going from ruddy to pale despite a steady cold wind.

  Hicks knew pushing a man like Clarke wouldn’t do much good. In this game, the importance of not panicking is often more important than rushing things.

  The fat man was probably deciding what we should say as he looked out at the traffic mulling up Sixth Avenue instead. Despite the snow and the slush, bicycles darted alongside cabs and cars and trucks and buses as the autumn sun’s harsh glare hurt his eyes. Several deep puddles had formed in potholes and at crosswalks, sending dirty water into the air every time a car or bike drive through one. It was a bland scene on a bland day that should’ve been forgotten as soon as it happened.

  But judging by Clarke’s reaction, Hicks had a feeling this was a moment he’d remember for a long time to come.

  “Anything I tell you stays between us, yeah? I’m talking about operational detail shit. We don’t like seeing our dirty laundry on CNN like you.”

  “All I care about is Djebar.”

  When Clarke spoke, his tone was quiet and clear. “Rachid Djebar is an Algerian national who burned one of our assets in Morocco during a joint operation with the French. This was about six months ago. The French have largely forgiven him for it, but we’re not as understanding and we’ve been hunting him ever since. The bastard has been completely off the grid until your picture hit the wire and set off all sorts of bells in a variety of places.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He fashions himself a dangerous man who shouldn’t be crossed. You’d do well to keep that in mind when you come up against him, because he’s every bit as dangerous as he thinks he is.”

  “So am I,” Hicks said. “What about him?”

  “At heart, he’s nothing but a common street peddler from Wahran; albeit an exceptionally good one. Over the years, he’s expanded his practice and network to the point where he’ll peddle anything he can get his hands on. Arms, information, state secrets, drugs, contracts on people’s lives. Lately he’s been peddling what he calls relationships; putting two particularly nasty fuckers together so they can do whatever their black hearts desire. Weapons and munitions mostly. He gets a finder’s fee for introducing them and brokering the deal, then goes on his way.”

  “Who does he work for?”

  “Anyone so long as they’re willing to pay his fee. Mexican cartels looking for arms. Drug dealers looking for new outlets. That sort of thing. No product for him to worry about and it’s very, very profitable. Little risk for a lot of reward.”Hicks realized he may have seen the name mentioned in a few intelligence reports over the years, but not specific details. If he’d been tied to a threat on American soil, he would’ve remembered. “What the hell is an Algerian like Djebar doing with a low-level Somali punk like Omar?”

  “Haven’t you been listening?” Clarke frowned. “I just told you he’s a Matchmaker now. If that’s what he’s done with your man Omar, then there’s two things you’d do well to consider and none of them pleasant.”

  “The first,” Clarke explained, “is that this Omar isn’t the punk you believe him to be. Djebar doesn’t come out of his fucking hole for less than a hundred grand, plus a small percentage of whatever the action is. Since he was on Omar’s camera shagging some whore, that can only mean Omar has money.”

  Hicks had seen Omar’s travel activity. He’d gauged his spending and his contributions and he had a fair assessment of how much he raised at the cabstand. He could’ve raised that much if he squeezed the drivers and ran a little credit card fraud on the side. Drunks wouldn’t notice an extra couple of miles on the odometer until the next morning, if then.

  The Djebar connection would also explain how Omar had gotten the numbers for the financiers he’d contacted. He’d probably spent every cent he’d raised on whatever meeting Djebar had arranged for him. The question was why.

  “What’s the second thing?” Hicks asked.

  “Given that you found an envelope with trace amounts of diseases inside mean Djebar was probably involved in helping Omar acquire them. There’s not really much of a commission in that sort of arrangement.”

  “So?”

  “So, it means your friend Omar really is planning something major. Because Djebar has always said his biggest regret in life was that he wasn’t connected enough to help Osama and his pals fund their grand show.” He nodded his fleshy face down Sixth Avenue toward the new Liberty Tower. “Right down there.”

  Hicks didn’t have time to think about past attacks. He was too focused on stopping the next one. “You said something about Madinha before.”“I hope your stomach is empty because you’re not going to like this.”

  “My stomach’s my problem. Tell me about Madinha.”

  “You may have read that there’s been a rash of small, but rather nasty, outbreaks of MERS, SARS, and Ebola in small villages throughout the Middle East for the past couple of years. The Saudis, being good neighbors, have taken the lead on studying the outbreaks and have their laboratories searching for ways to treat and cure these diseases. One of those labs is in Madinha.”

  Hicks didn’t like where this was going. “Go on.”

  “The Saudis believed these outbreaks were suspicious and so did we,” Clarke explained. “We helped them track down who might be behind the outbreaks and traced them back to three scientists in the Saudi lab in Madinha. Two of them were French and one of them was American. None of them were Muslim and all of them had passed extensive background checks before being employed at the lab. They’d apparently been contacted by some ruthless bastards who’d paid them well to look into ways to weaponize the viruses they were studying. The outbreaks were trial runs.”

  Hicks knew there’d been several attempts to figure out how to turn these viruses into biological weapons for years, but none had been successful. Yet. “Why haven’t I heard any of this before?”

  “Because the Saudis were embarrassed by the whole thing happening at one of their labs and moved in to quickly arrest all three scientists. All three were said to have been killed while resisting arrest. Forces fired upon their car, which conveniently exploded as it ran off the road. Bodies were burned beyond all recognition but authorities assured us they’d killed all three men. That was two months ago. They assured us all samples of all the viruses were present and accounted for. As they’re our allies and prickly about having their honor questioned, we took their word for it. Given this business with the envelope in Omar’s possession, I’d say they lied.”

  Hicks felt his hand begin to shake and not from the cold. “If we’d known about all of this, we could’ve been on the lookout for something like this. Maybe could’ve prevented it.”

  Clarke smiled. “I’m sorry, old boy, but American secrets have a habit of winding up on the front page of the New York Times.”

  Hicks didn’t smile. “The University is different, and you know it.”

  “So you say. Well, that’s all in the past now. Little we can do about it now except put a lid on Djebar and Omar. I trust you’re tracking Omar?”

  “We’ve got a go team sitting on his residence right now, but I need Djebar first.”

  Clarke’s eyes narrowed. “Why? You know where the fucker is. Grab him right now.”

  “Because Omar’s got more means and money than w
e know, and I need to know how much before I pull him in. I have a feeling Djebar can tell me that. And that’s why you’re going to release his information to me. And the information on the three scientists who were supposedly killed by the Saudis.”

  “Agreed,” Clarke said. “But only on one condition.”

  Hicks wasn’t in a bartering mood. “Name it.”

  “We get Djebar after you’re done with him. He won’t be easy to break, but you have to agree to not kill him or hurt him to the point where he’s useless to us. You honor your end of the bargain, my office works with yours in the future. You don’t, I never answer your phone calls again. Not even if your president himself calls the Queen.”

  “Fine,” Hicks said. “But we have to get Djebar first, don’t we?”

  Clarke held out a gloved hand to him. “Do we have a deal?”

  Hicks shook it. “We have a deal.”

  “Right. I’ll have the information you’re looking for released to you and only you. If I find out you shared it with those fucking brie eaters, I’m going to be furious.”

  Hicks assumed he meant the French. “You have my word. But he’s not going to be pretty when you get him back.”

  Clarke smiled. “I wouldn’t expect him to be.”

  AS SOON as Clarke released the information on the scientists and the embargo on Djebar’s file, the full resources of the University’s system went to work.

  It was times like these that made Hicks appreciate the true power of the University’s ability to digitally reach into any life it chose.

  Hicks had been with the organization for over a decade and not even he knew the full history or the reasons behind what the University was or even what it was. Where agencies like the NSA were only beginning to get their footing in the electronic landscape, the University had been in it from the beginning; from a time when microprocessors and wireless technology and the Internet were mere ideas on a classroom chalkboard.

  Hicks was interested in the Saudi scientists, but Djebar was the more immediate priority. Within thirty seconds of Clarke lifting the embargo on the image, OMNI began comparing it to millions of images taken in the New York area in the past week. Airport security cameras, social media pictures, even cell phone pictures from all over the New York area were examined.

  Within five minutes, OMNI had discovered fifty incidences of where Djebar had been before and after Colin’s murder. More hits on more images came in each second.

  The first viable hit came off a security camera at JFK airport a week before. It was a picture of Djebar as he stepped off a plane from Mumbai. Hicks made a note to tell his friends at the Indian Intelligence Bureau that he had been in their country for a time.

  Hicks noted the resemblance on Djebar’s forged passport to the blurred image they’d gotten from the SD card, only this one was much clearer. Djebar had a thin face and now sported a pencil thin mustache. He had deep set eyes and a light tan that probably helped him pass for Latin, Turkish, Mediterranean, Arabian, or even Persian if he’d wanted. Ambiguity was invaluable in the shadows.

  The next hit came at a surprising place: a traffic cam in Long Island City. The image showed a clear image of Djebar and Omar in the back seat of an Escalade. Two men in the front were stocky black men and vibed hired security. Hired security meant they were probably armed. Hicks didn’t waste time or effort searching for their identities because they were probably not part of Omar’s plans.

  The Escalade’s license plate was clearly visible and showed it was registered to Shabazz Security in midtown Manhattan. Another search for the car’s black box showed it was parked over at the Millennium Hotel in Times Square. That didn’t necessarily mean Djebar was there, too, but it was worth looking into.

  The University had long been tied into the lodging and security systems of all the major hotel chains in the world. He checked the Millennium’s lodging information to see if Djebar was registered under his own name or any of the aliases the British had provided.

  When all aliases came up negative, Hicks went old school and put OMNI to work searching the hotel’s security cameras for any matches of Djebar’s likeness.

  He had a hit from two nights before at the check in desk. Hicks matched the time on the image to the entries made in the hotel’s system and found that a Francois Andabe of Zaire had checked in at that exact moment. And he was scheduled to check out the day after tomorrow.

  Hicks’ mind flooded with questions. If Omar had the money to bring a man like Djebar to New York, then why the hell had he made a panicked phone call for funding? It didn’t make any sense.

  Not yet, anyway. And he hoped Djebar could tell him why.

  Hicks knew he had two choices: go straight after Djebar and find out why he’d met with Omar. Clarke had said Djebar wouldn’t go quietly, so getting him could draw attention they didn’t need and might tip off Omar. Omar was already probably on edge because of the Kamal mystery. And even if he grabbed Djebar, Roger might not break in time before Omar hatched whatever he was planning.

  The second option was to put Djebar on electronic surveillance while the Varsity raided Omar’s safe house. But the safe house was in a crowded Brooklyn neighborhood. If Omar was working on something like a dirty bomb, a lot of people could get killed.

  Hicks decided grabbing Djebar could answer a lot of questions. It was worth the risk.

  He called Roger and told him to get ready.

  AS SOON as he reached Times Square, Hicks checked his handheld to get an exact lock on Djebar’s location. Djebar’s security detail’s Escalade was still parked on the street next to the hotel and hadn’t been moved since Hicks had first located it on OMNI. A high roller like Djebar was above taking cabs or subways. He’d prefer to roll deep with an armed posse and a fancy car to take him where he wanted to go.

  Hicks liked to take down his targets while they stayed at hotels. If you went in at the right time of day, security paid no attention and the magnetic key card locks were a joke. Reaching a target in a huge place like the Millennium Hotel was a piece of cake. Djebar would be no different.

  The only tricky part would be the security detail he had with him. The fact they were twice his size didn’t bother him. From what he’d seen on the traffic camera, they were muscle bound and slow. Street thugs in suits who used to their size as their best deterrent.

  But the fact they were armed would make it harder to avoid a firefight and Hicks wanted to avoid a firefight at all costs. Gunfire would bring cops and cops would shine more light on this thing than Hicks could afford, especially now.

  He'd have to do this the old fashioned way—fast and by hand.

  THE LOBBY of the Millennium Hotel was too crowded for any of the staff to notice Hicks take the elevator upstairs. He’d checked the car as he’d walked by it and wasn’t surprised to see it was empty. That meant Djebar still only had a two man team with him; both either in the hallway outside the room or inside watching the door. He’d find out soon enough. Killing them wouldn’t be a problem. Not killing them would be the challenge. He’d have to hit them hard and fast before one of them started firing.

  Hicks had changed into the same blue coveralls and blue hat he’d worn to the storage facility. He knew there were cameras in the elevator, so he kept his head down as he subtly slipped his hand in his pocket; wriggling his right hand into a pair of brass knuckles he liked to use on such occasions. He knew there was a chance the footage from the elevator camera would be viewed before OMNI would scrub it if things went sideways. He didn’t want to give them a better look at him if he could avoid it. No sense in doing the cops’ jobs for them.

  As soon as he got off on Djebar’s floor, Hicks spotted one of the security men standing in the hall; the bigger, balder of the two from the Escalade. He was sitting on a chair at the far end of the hall.

  Hicks waived as he quickly walked toward him; yelling, “Hey! You the guys who complained about the water pressure? Room 1040?”

  The guard began walking tow
ard him and motioned for him to be quiet. “Not so loud, my man! Some people are trying to sleep.”

  Hicks kept walking toward him. “I don’t mean no disrespect or nothin’, mister, but I got a job to do here.” Ten feet away now. “I didn’t ask for this job, you know? I ain’t even supposed to be here today. This was supposed to be my day off, and I ain’t even gettin’ time and a half for this shit.”

  The guard squared up to block Hicks’ path. Three feet away. “I told you once to be quiet and I’m not gonna tell you again. I don’t know…”

  Hicks fired a straight right hand and buried the brass knuckles into the bigger man’s face; shattering his nose. Hicks grabbed the bigger man before he fell over and slammed him face-first against the wall. He dropped the knuckles in his pocket and pulled the .9milimeter Glock from the holster on the guard’s belt. He chambered a round and placed the muzzle against the back of the guard’s head. “Open the door and go inside like nothing’s wrong. Do what I say and everyone goes home. You get stupid or brave; I blow your fucking head off.” He pushed the barrel harder into the man’s neck. “Do you understand?”

  The big man was busy trying to stem his bleeding nose with his fingers. “You broke my fucking nose, man.”

  Hicks grabbed him by the back of the collar and pushed him toward the door. “Inside. Now.”

  The guard put his key in the lock and opened the door. Hicks put a shoulder into the guard’s back and sent him stumbling forward. As the big man fell into the room, Hicks heeled the door shut and aimed the Glock at the first man he saw.

  It was the other guard, the shorter and leaner of the two, caught flat on his ass on the couch watching television. As surprised as he was, he was smart enough to hold up his hands. “We’re cool, baby. We’re cool.”

  “Where’s Djebar?” The man on the couch looked genuinely confused, so Hicks said, “Your boss. The man you’re protecting. Where is he?”“He ain’t here. He’s out with a friend.”

  “Bullshit. If you’re here, he’s here.” Hicks lowered the gun until it was aimed the guard’s crotch. “Last chance. Where is he?”