“This makes no sense,” Control said. “No correlation that I can find between ‘bull and horse’ and ‘brutality and darkness.’ But here’s a dark passage from the Quran that I deciphered from Tom Coleman’s quotes.”
THOSE OF DISBELIEVE FROM THE PEOPLE OF THE BOOK AND AMONG THE POLYTHEISTS WILL BE IN HELL-FIRE, TO DWELL THEREIN (FOR AYE). THEY ARE THE WORST OF CREATURES. (96.6)
“In Tom’s eyes the disbelievers are the ‘worst of creatures.’ Even though the Quran teaches universal love, it also preaches supremacy, hatred, and hostility.”
“Show them the last entry,” McCall said.
“I used the Gronsfèld cipher, where there are only ten rows and the keyword is a number instead of a letter. It took another hour, but I came up with it.”
Control brought up the last line: JUNE 17TH.
“Here’s the deciphered text from Tom Coleman’s journal.”
NEW YORK CITY—BOERNE—SAN ANTONIO
ALAMO RENDEZVOUS—MINUTEMEN—VALENCIA
BULL AND HORSE—BRUTALITY AND DARKNESS
THOSE OF DISBELIEVE FROM THE PEOPLE OF THE BOOK AND AMONG THE POLYTHEISTS WILL BE IN HELL-FIRE, TO DWELL THEREIN (FOR AYE). THEY ARE THE WORST OF CREATURES. (96.6)
JUNE 17TH
Control sat back, totally exhausted, looking at the men in the room. “If these deadly attacks happen, they will be perpetrated on June seventeenth.”
“Which is tomorrow,” McCall said.
Silence followed as the import of the date sank in.
“We believe all three brothers are being protected by what McCall calls a ‘rogue assassin’ unit,” Control said, “operating from within an intelligence entity called The Company. I used to be the head of that unit. No one there will have any idea that these assassins are operating on a covert basis. They’re dedicated to bringing down the American government and sacrificing thousands of lives. All of their members wear these rings. If you see one of them, you’re looking at an assassin.”
Control took out the silver demon-claws skull that Kostmayer had lifted from Tom Coleman’s right hand, before switching the duplicate for it, and dropped it onto the desk.
Hayden Vallance turned it over. “What do the hieroglyphs signify?”
“I haven’t been able to decipher them.”
“Tom came back for his brother’s funeral at Arlington National Cemetery,” McCall said. “He’s wearing one of these rings with a tiny tracker in it. Mickey Kostmayer will be able to follow him wherever he goes.”
“I’m having lunch with Helen Coleman tomorrow,” Gunner said. “She’s a friend. I may be able to find out her son’s schedule.”
“I’m going to catch an early United flight from LaGuardia and get into San Antonio at noon,” McCall said. “I’ll pick up a rental car and drive to Boerne. Hopefully I can beat Dr. Cross there.”
“I’m also catching a flight out of LaGuardia that gets into San Antonio at 2:09 p.m.,” Control said. “I’m going to meet with local FBI agents.”
“What do you need from me?” Vallance asked.
“Can you put together a mercenary team and fly to Texas?”
Vallance nodded. “I can arrange it.”
“Remember, we have no proof that American terrorists are going to carry out these attacks. This mission has no sanction from any of the intelligence agencies. These Company mercenaries kidnapped me because I might have found out about the plot. My real name was known to Captain Josh Coleman. He whispered it to McCall before he died. If he hadn’t, we would have had no idea that this covert unit of rogue assassins even existed.”
“So these assassins are conspiring to attack their own country?” Kostmayer asked.
“And probably will be paid handsomely to protect our three terrorists. We have one chance to stop these terrorist attacks from being perpetrated on American soil. Good luck, gentlemen.”
Control lay down on the couch and closed his eyes. Gunner had a room at the Park Lane Hotel, where he always stayed when he was in New York. He agreed to meet Kostmayer for breakfast there tomorrow morning. They left the apartment together. McCall stood with Hayden Vallance, who looked down at Control on the couch. His breathing was shallow.
“I don’t want to leave him alone,” McCall said softly. “The assassins within The Company will be searching for both of us.”
“Are you buying into this conspiracy theory?”
McCall looked at Vallance. “You’re not?”
Vallance shrugged. “A college student is writing a hate-filled journal and is studying Islam in Istanbul. Your Doctor Without Borders physician may be visiting friends in Texas. The Minutemen Militia dude may be just a good old boy who likes to get together with his pals to down a few beers and rail against the government. Rogue Company assassins may have nothing to do with it. Getting rid of your onetime boss was just a coup. None of it means anything.”
“You want to risk that?”
“I don’t take risks. I’ll see this through.”
“I’m going to get Control some clean clothes,” McCall said.
“I’ll stay with him until you get back. When you go to LaGuardia, I’ll round up a couple of good old boys of my own and fly to Texas.”
McCall nodded. “Good enough.”
* * *
The lobby of the Liberty Belle Hotel was like a tomb at this time of the night. McCall went up to his suite, put together some clothes and toiletries for Control, and packed a small suitcase for himself. He took the second six-inch Black Tiger throwing knife from his backpack. He thought of bringing it with him, but he left it on the coffee table. He didn’t know what he was facing in Texas, and a weapon such as the throwing knife might not be viable. He’d take the Glock 19 with him in checked luggage.
Sam Kinney was waiting for McCall in the lobby. The old spy told him that the apartment building on Tenth Street had been torched.
“You’re all right?”
“Yeah, thanks to our real-estate mogul. He pulled me out of my apartment. Saved that little girl, too, the one who suffered all of those rat bites? He was quite a hero. Might be time to cut him a little slack.”
McCall nodded. “Call Brahms. He’d like to hear from you. He’s leaving for the Holy Land tomorrow. Ask him to put Norman Rosemont’s computers back online tonight.” McCall could sense Sam’s tension. “What else?”
“The arsonist tried to kill me.”
“Why would he do that?”
“We’ve all got our demons who come out of the woodwork. Rosemont picked this up from the floor of my onetime bedroom, before it went up in smoke.” Sam dropped the tarnished bracelet into McCall’s hand. “You seen it before?”
“I may have,” McCall said softly. He dropped the bracelet back into the old spy’s hand. “Keep it for me until I get back.”
“Where you goin’?”
McCall didn’t respond. Sam would tell Norman Rosemont the good news in the morning that his company was back in business.
McCall walked out of the Liberty Belle Hotel and flagged a cab.
He felt a sense of dread.
The terrorists’ countdown had begun.
CHAPTER 44
6:00 A.M. EDT
McCall arrived in San Antonio at 11:53 a.m. He picked up a 2015 Buick LaCrosse sedan at Hertz at the airport. At the counter were several hotel brochures. One of them caught his eye. It had the name Valencia on it. The girl behind the counter told him it was one of the best hotels in San Antonio. It had been called the Valencia, but it had been taken over a year ago and extensive remodeling had been done. It was now called the Riverwalk Hotel. McCall got into the Buick and pulled up twenty minutes later outside the hotel. A young Mexican American youth wearing a uniform with a name tag that said JESUS jumped forward to get the keys.
“Checking in, sir?”
“I’m meeting someone. I understand the hotel is under new management?”
“Yes, sir. It was bought by a Saudi sheikh about a year ago. But we’re up and running again, better t
han ever.”
“New front-of-house staff?”
“Yes, sir, very strict Muslims, but they’re supernice guys. Park your car for you, sir?”
“Keep it out here at the front.”
McCall slipped him a twenty and walked into the lobby. A big staircase of Mexican Talavera hand-painted ceramic tiles curved up gracefully to the first floor. A large modern fireplace was beside it. Waterfalls cascaded at several places amid plush couches and easy chairs. The front desk was pale sandalwood, and McCall could see two or three lounges leading to a bar area. He climbed up the staircase and noted a terrace with wood tables and blue-striped umbrellas and stairs that led down through gardens to the San Antonio River. He got a glimpse of River Walk with its multicolored umbrellas at the tables. One of the flat-bottomed boats drifted past, its guide working the tourists.
McCall walked back down the staircase and out of the hotel.
He recognized one of the parking valets who was just taking the keys from a young couple.
He was one of Bo Ellsworth’s Texas Minutemen Militia.
McCall couldn’t remember his name, but Control had written it down under Bo Ellsworth’s profile. Jesus brought McCall’s Buick LaCrosse right over to him.
McCall nodded at the young minutemen who whisked the couple’s Taurus away. “How’s the new guy working out?”
“He’s getting the hang of parking cars without denting them.” Jesus grinned. “He’s only been here a week.”
McCall slid into the Buick and drove away. He was carrying his iPhone and also a burner cell. From the burner he called Control, who answered at once.
“Where are you, Robert?”
“In San Antonio. You’re on your way from New York?”
“I’m in Houston, just about to get onto the San Antonio flight. Hayden Vallance is with me. He’s meeting a couple of his guys in San Antonio.”
“There’s a beautiful downtown hotel that used to be called the Valencia. It’s been closed for a year for renovation and just reopened. Now it’s called the Riverwalk Hotel. The front-of-staff employees are all Muslims.”
Control lowered his voice. “But it’s Americans that are being targeted.”
“Maybe not in this case. One of Bo Ellsworth’s Minutemen Militia is on the valet staff parking cars. The hotel could be one of the targets.”
“I’ll let Vallance know. “
McCall disconnected and headed on the I-10 toward Boerne, Texas.
11:05 A.M. EDT
Kostmayer waited outside Tom Coleman’s apartment on Eighteenth Street. He had seen Brittney, his nubile blond date, exit the building just after 9:00 a.m. She had caught a cab going uptown. Not until almost twelve did the tracking receiver in Kostmayer’s hands come alive. Tom Coleman came out of his apartment building and headed west. He was walking. Kostmayer got out of the Chrysler Delta he had rented and followed. The NYU student turned south on Eighth Avenue to the Fourteenth Street subway, which was accessed on Sixteenth Street. Kostmayer followed him down the subway stairs and went through onto the platform just as an A train came thundering in. Tom boarded. So did Kostmayer. Tom rode the subway past Fulton Street, Broadway Junction, heading toward Rockaway Boulevard. He got out at Grant Avenue. Kostmayer gave Tom time to get up to the street before he climbed up after him. The tracking signal had feathered in and out in the subway car, but once Kostmayer was back up on the sidewalk, it was back to full strength.
Tom walked along Sutter Avenue, turned down Forbell Street, then turned on Dumont Avenue, heading east. Kostmayer kept a good distance back. He found himself in what amounted to a slum. The underbrush in the vacant lots was so thick it looked as if it hadn’t been cleared since Prohibition. Kostmayer saw murky pools of stagnant water everywhere because there was no sewer drainage. He remembered this section of Brooklyn was known as the Hole. There were no corner grocery stores, no 7-Elevens, no McDonald’s restaurants, and few single residences. You didn’t venture into this neighborhood unless you were driving, and if you broke down, you were dead.
Tom Coleman turned up Seventy-Sixth Street. Fenced-off lots and brick buildings were ahead. To Tom’s left were some three-story warehouses. In the last one was a warped door half off its hinges. Tom looked around, but no one was in the rank street. He entered the building.
Kostmayer took a chance, ran over to the warehouse, and pushed inside. A short corridor was in front of him. He came to a door and listened. He could hear faint voices raised. The door opened into some glass-fronted offices. In the last one Kostmayer could see Tom Coleman talking to two Middle Eastern men in their thirties, maybe Syrian or Iraqi. One was short and chunky, the other one was taller, wearing thick glasses with wire frames. They were both casually dressed.
Kostmayer took out his cell phone and zoomed in on the faces of the men. He took photos before a small noise betrayed him.
Tom Coleman looked through the grimy glass from the other office. Kostmayer had knelt and kept still. One of the men asked Tom in Arabic what was the matter, and Tom said he’d heard something. They hadn’t heard anything. Finally they started speaking again. Kostmayer put the cell phone away and exited the office. He knelt down in the tall brush in the vacant lot opposite, looking at the tracking receiver. Tom Coleman was moving again. He came out of the warehouse carrying a square package. It had some weight to it, but it didn’t look heavy.
Tom walked back to Dumont Avenue. Kostmayer gave him a full two minutes before following. Kostmayer backtracked until he was at Grant Avenue station again and climbed down the stairs. A subway train was in the station, doors open. The NYU student was sitting in one of the cars. Only a handful of other passengers were with him.
Too risky.
The doors closed and the subway train headed into the tunnel. Kostmayer waited to catch the next train. He was taking a chance, but it couldn’t be helped. He couldn’t let Tom see him with this few people around. Kostmayer rode the next subway car back to Manhattan and walked to Eighteenth Street. There was no sign of Tom, but the tracking signal was blinking and put him back in his apartment.
Kostmayer slid into his Chrysler Delta. He could call Homeland Security and have them raid Tom Coleman’s apartment right now. But Kostmayer had no idea what was in the package that Tom had picked up. And two other components had to come together. Doing anything to tip off Dr. Patrick Cross or Bo Ellsworth would be the worst thing Kostmayer could do.
But he could run the faces of the two men he’d photographed in Brooklyn through a facial-recognition program.
1:24 P.M. CDT
McCall drove down Main Street in Boerne, Texas. Storefronts were on either side with colorful roofs above the boardwalks. He turned left on Rosewood Avenue, followed it to where it petered out, turned around until he was back on Main Street. He passed the El Chaparral restaurant, a local landmark. When he came to Frederick Street, he turned left and saw the Alamo Plaza Bar and Grill about halfway down the street on the right-hand side.
Not the Alamo.
Tom Coleman’s journal pages and specified Alamo rendezvous.
The Alamo Plaza Bar and Grill was built like a cantina, set back from the street with its own parking lot. McCall pulled into it, his Buick LaCrosse looking out of place among the SUVs and pickup trucks. He took out his iPhone and found Bo Ellsworth’s license. He noted Bo’s black Ford Explorer XLT was parked in one of the slots.
Now McCall had to wait for Dr. Patrick Cross to arrive—if he was, indeed, heading for Texas.
2:30 P.M. EDT
Colonel Michael G. Ralston slid into the passenger seat of Kostmayer’s Chrysler and glanced at the receiver in the panel between the seats. The tracking red beacon was still blinking.
“He hasn’t moved from his apartment?”
“Not since coming back from Brooklyn.”
Gunner took out some folded pages and passed them over to Kostmayer. “I sent the facial-recognition intel you texted me to my Army CO in Virginia, and his guys came up with two hits. Nedim al-Attar
works as a mechanic for Brooklyn Auto Repair on Union Street, and Khalid al-Fakhri has his own Laundromat on Avenue K, also in Brooklyn. Both of them are Iraqis who grew up in the United States and are US citizens. Both of them are on the no-fly lists. Did you get a good look at the package Tom was picking up?”
“Rectangular, maybe six inches in height, a little heavy for him to carry. What happened with Helen Coleman?”
“Over lunch we talked about Josh and how much he meant to both of us. She didn’t talk about her son Tom at all. When Captain Coleman and I came under fire from Jihadists in a Syrian village, Josh seemed to recognize one of the fighters. When we got back to the team house in Ar Raqqah, he showed me the man’s photograph on our bulletin board. But there was something about his attitude that didn’t ring true. I asked him if the Insurgent was one of our targets and he said he was.”
“But now you don’t think so?”
“I think Captain Coleman did recognize the Jihadist fighter, but he couldn’t share that intel with me.”
“Because it was his younger brother Tom.”
Gunner nodded. “It was the look in Josh’s eyes. It was as if he were haunted by the sight he had just witnessed.”
“You didn’t talk to him about it later?”
“I didn’t get the chance. We were separated when we came under enemy fire in a village called al-Sukhnah. I found out later that Robert McCall had picked him up and tried to get him out of Syria.”
“How did you leave things with Helen?”
“She is going to a meeting at the UN tonight about the worldwide refugee crisis. It deals with an amendment to Resolution 2139 that calls for easing of aid delivery to Syria and guarantees unhindered access for UN agencies and its partners, including to areas across conflict lines. I told her that I’d meet her there tonight.”
“That’s when you’ll tell her about Tom?”
“Maybe I won’t have to. Maybe we’re being paranoid. What’s your call on this?”
“I usually follow McCall’s lead. If it was up to me, I’d storm Tom’s apartment with a SWAT team and FBI agents. But that might blow the whole deal apart. So we’ll wait for Tom Coleman to come out and follow him.”
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