Crescent City Chronicles (Books 1-3)

by Judith Lucci

  "Sure. Anything else?" Elizabeth was frantically taking notes. Alex smiled to herself. Liz was so capable, but sometimes she just didn't get it.

  "Nope, I'm going home to clean up, do some thinking, and then I am picking up my grandparents at the airport at 10 so I should be back on campus around noon or so. If you need me, call, text, or email."

  "Will do, thanks Alex. Get some rest."

  Alex nodded, then turned to Jack and said, "Okay, big guy, walk me out of here. Can you give me a ride or should I call Martin?"

  "Nah, I'll take you. Dead is dead and there's no rush for me to get down there. I'll get you home,” Jack promised as the two friends left the hospital, walking through the police barricades, armed guards, and undercover cops.

  Alex marveled at how much easier it was to get out of the place than get in. Getting out was a piece of cake, but then, getting in probably wasn't that hard either. Not if someone was stealing body fluids and injecting them in other people and sterile dressing kits. What a bitch, she thought to herself. The world was going to hell all around her. It's a good thing he’s giving me a ride home. If he had carted the CDC around and not the hospital attorney, I'd be mad. She turned and said this to Jack.

  He gave her a dirty look and said, "Shut up, Alex. I drive you around all the time."

  She smiled at him as he continued to grumble.

  Chapter 27

  Habib felt out of place, a bit like a turncoat or defector, as he handed the thumb drive he had copied from Alex's computer to Mohammed. Perhaps he was the infidel now since he knew he wanted nothing more to do with Jihad. An interesting thought.

  As Habib considered his role as an infidel, Mohammed examined him carefully and asked, "Was there any trouble, brother?"

  Habib shrugged his shoulders and felt guilty. He had never met anyone with eyes like Mohammed. Mohammed’s eyes were blank and held thousands of secrets. They were unreadable. Habib’s voice was strong as he replied, "No, not really. I had to break into the lawyer's house to get plans of the hospital's electrical and design systems. She also had these hard copies of the electrical and HVAC systems for the Convention Center on her desk in her home office. I don't have the plans for the Hilton. I was unable to get those but perhaps I could find them online," Habib offered, unsure of Mohammed's response. He knew his voice sounded convincing but he felt weak and unsure. He noticed that Syed looked at him strangely. Habib cringed under his careful scrutiny. Habib felt his gut turn over and looked away.

  Omar grabbed the Convention Center plans from Habib and examined them. After several minutes, he nodded at Mohammed and said, "Brother, this will work. The heating and cooling system is well designed and there are many vents to assist us. We will have no problem."

  "What if the American leader does not go to the Convention Center? Then our plans will fail," Syed commented with an angry scowl. "We must have all of the plans," he said as he gave Habib a deprecating look and added, "You did not fulfill your mission, brother. What do you have to say for yourself?" He glowered with impatience and anger.

  Habib was silent for several moments and replied, "I did the best I could. There were New Orleans police everywhere, and I did not want to jeopardize our mission. I think I can find the hotel plans on the internet."

  Syed continued to scowl at Habib as Mohammed and Omar watched the exchange in silence.

  Habib worked hard to control his non-verbal behavior and kept his breathing normal. He felt his heart rate quicken, and the pain in his gut was fierce. It took all the strength he could muster not to double over. He met Syed eye-to-eye and said, "I have done nothing wrong, I have not disappointed Allah, brother."

  Mohammed gave Habib a half-smile and asked, “What of Yahwa? Was there trouble?"

  Habib felt his face redden once again as he replied, "No. There was no trouble. Yahwa was almost dead when I strangled him. He wouldn't have lived another hour. By the time I got him home, he was bleeding from his mouth and nose." Habib shuddered as he remembered how hard he had scrubbed to get Yahwa's blood off his hands and arms. He prayed he didn't catch the same sickness as his dead comrade.

  "The body?" Omar continued to give him the same steady look. "Did you dispose of it?"

  He shook his head. "No. I felt it better to leave it there, in his home. It will look as if he died from the virus. I doubt they will even do an autopsy. There are many bodies mounting up at the hospital. I saw an ambulance remove four bodies a little while ago. Besides, by the time they find him, we will be a long way from New Orleans and he will just be considered a casualty of the virus."

  Omar gave Habib a half smile and said, "Good work, brother,” and then turned to Syed and asked, “Was your trip to the hospital eventful?"

  "No, sir. Not eventful at all. I got my mission done and I can vouch that there are lots of dead people from the virus. It is very lethal. I hope we are safe from it,” Syed added, looking uncertain. Unknown to the others, Syed had showered twice since returning from Crescent City Medical. He hated germs. He could stand a lot of heat and eat a lot of sand but he couldn't handle germs. They freaked out the hardened, committed Jihadist.

  "We will be fine," Mohammed assured him. "We are working for Allah and will be kept safe."

  "What of Vadim? Any word of him?" Mohammed asked.

  Syed and Habib both shook their heads negatively.

  "Where are Nazir and Ali?" Habib ventured.

  "Nazir is sleeping in his room and Ali is back at the lab. We should all get some rest. Today and tomorrow will be great days for us. We will triumph! Death to the infidels," Omar said softly as he pulled his pallet from his bag.

  As Syed and Habib lay face to face on the floor in Nazir's apartment, Habib asked, "What did you do at the hospital, Syed?"

  "You have no need to know, Habib," Syed said as he turned away from his brother. "No need to know at all,” Syed muttered as he closed his eyes.

  Habib felt his gut constrict and he flexed his knees in pain. He knows I want out. What am I to do? Finally, Habib thought of a plan and fell into a troubled sleep.

  Chapter 28

  It was a beautiful October day. The morning air was crisp and clean. As Alex backed her black, seldom-driven Mercedes out of her garage and headed toward Interstate 10 to Kenner, she felt invigorated by the cool air. She had managed a short nap, felt clear-headed and well rested as she headed toward the airport. She had called Bridgett with a dozen 'chores', and had just gotten off the phone with Elizabeth who was doing an admirable job at holding the media at bay. Her last call was to Jack as she drove down the road.

  "Yo, Alex, what's up?

  Alex could hear the exhaustion in Jack's voice. She knew he hadn't had five hours of rest in the past 40 hours. She felt guilty and a little alarmed about Monique being alone for such long periods of time. Perhaps she and her grandmother could visit Monique later in the day if things were quiet. "Nothing, Jack. Just checking in. I'm on my way to the airport to pick up my grandparents."

  "Oh, yeah, I forgot they were coming. Are they staying at your house?" Jack was pleased. He was fond of Kathryn and Adam and saw them every time they were in New Orleans. He'd even visited them in Virginia several times. Congressman Lee was Jack's kind of politician, a law and order man, tough on the Middle East and Russia, a believer in kicking ass and kicking ass really well once you thought out the plan. In fact, he and the Congressmen had their own mutual admiration society. They were dedicated to each other. Jack smiled as he thought about their infrequent Jack Daniel's and White Lightin’ nights in Virginia.

  "Granddad's going to be living between the Palm Court, Hotel Burgundy, and my house but Grand and Beth Blankenship are staying with me."

  "I'll arrange for some additional police protection for you all."

  "No, Jack, don't," Alex started to protest. “We’ll be fine and I want this to be low key. Beth and Grand are stressed beyond belief.”

  "Yeah, Alex. That tennis shoe print they found in your yard has been traced to a brand man
ufactured in either India or somewhere in the Middle East." Jack stopped for a few moments and allowed the implication to sink in.

  Alex's stomach flip-flopped. "Huh, are you saying a terrorist broke into my house last night?" The thought of a terrorist in her home chilled her blood and her lungs were about to explode. There was no air in the car to breathe.

  Jack sighed, exasperated, "No, not exactly. At least, I am not speaking legally. I am saying that someone with a tennis shoe made in that part of the world broke into your home the day you will be entertaining two Congressional wives. Considering what is going on these days, I suggest you have more police protection. After all, your grandfather isn't a favorite of the Muslim world with his views on what should happen in the Middle East."

  "But we already have Secret Service agents who will be protecting Beth. I think we are okay. I really think we're fine."

  Jack was insistent. "Make up the beds in your Carriage House, Alex. You're having more NOPD and Secret Service around your house then you ever wanted to see," Jack said as he clicked off the phone.

  Damn, what the hell. I really wish my life were simpler. I suppose I'll have to feed these people, too, Alex thought, although she knew she really didn't have to. It was just her way. It was the way she'd been raised. In her grandparents' home in Virginia, everyone was fed, and they were fed well. Once you entered the long driveway at Wyndley Farm in Hanover County, Virginia, you loosened your belt in anticipation of Grand's wonderful food and drink.

  Alex picked up her phone again and dialed her cleaning crew, and asked them to clean and freshen the Carriage House and give her main house a quick clean as well. She remembered the dark prints near the French door in the living room. She had neglected to clean them this morning. That dirt had to be gone by the time she got her grandparents back to her house. Thank goodness, she had good connections and could get things done quickly.

  She also arranged for some great Cajun cooking via Carla, Martin’s wife. As she ticked through meal plans, the traffic on the notorious Interstate 10 came to a slow, halting stop at Causeway. She checked her watch. She was going to be late. Her grandparents were probably landing right about now. She could hear her grandfather growl when he didn't see her standing at ground transportation. She had texted them to let them know she’d be picking them up and not Martin as originally planned. She hoped this would defuse some of their angst.

  Alex jumped when her phone rang again. It was Jack. Again.

  "What's up, Commander?” Alex bantered. “I'm stuck in traffic at Causeway.”

  "We identified the body from the killing last night, you know, the one that was stabbed in the chest and had the syringe hanging from the stab wound?"

  Alex shuddered with disgust. "Yes, I remember. Thought he was shot in the chest? He wasn't?" Alex drummed her fingers impatiently against her steering wheel. She rarely drove in the city because she hated New Orleans traffic.

  "Yeah, turned out he wasn't. He was strangled and stabbed but even more important than that, he had been injected with the virus in his heart. The same virus that’s all over the hospital. He had blood coming from his nose and mouth unrelated to his assault."

  "Why would someone strangle him? It sounds as though he would have died anyway," Alex responded, her voice curious. "Right?"

  "Yeah, it does look that way. I think they strangled him so they could stick the syringe into his chest. And yes, the syringe was full of live virus. Maddy identified it and compared it to the fluids from other patient's she had gotten from Yvette. The lab matched them. It was an identical match."

  Alex thought for a minute and said, “Wow, this is pretty heavy. Why would they strangle someone who was dying from the virus and then stick a syringe of it in a stab wound? There's gotta be a message here. Certainly sounds like overkill to me."

  "You're right, Alex. There is. You don't know the worse part yet.”

  "Jack, they're all worse parts. There are no good parts in this drama. But, what's the worst part?" Alex probed.

  "Guy was NOPD. As a matter of fact, he was part of the NOPD blue security team. He was at yesterday's meeting."

  Alex’s mind flashed back to the young man of Middle Eastern descent who had seemed avidly interested in every detail of the meeting. Her heart rate quickened, "Jack, was he the uniformed officer standing at the door?"

  "Yeah, why? We hired him a year ago or so. I think he may be from Iran."

  "I noticed him yesterday at the security meeting. He was so attentive. It was like he was memorizing every word that anyone uttered. As a matter of fact, I was a bit suspicious of him. I meant to mention him to you. He looked to me like he had something up his sleeve." Alex stopped for moment and continued, "Jack, what do you know about this guy?"

  "Why do you ask?" Jack's voice was guarded.

  "Because I think he either contaminated all of the sterile supplies in the hospital or knew who did. I think it's interesting that whoever did it was pretty smart and knew their way around hospitals. He’s one of them.

  “Yeah, probably was,” Jack agreed.

  “Your cop was a terrorist. What a well thought out plan! Why risk your life trying to infect people who are already most likely going to die." Alex shivered at the thought. “They just wanted to kill the healthy ones.”

  It made perfect sense to Jack. "You're good, Alex. However, the dead cop did not infect the hospital. He was long dead before that happened. Maddy thinks he died before midnight. If you ever want to give up the law, you can come investigate for me. I think you're onto something. Where'd you learn to think like such a sicko?” Jack half-joked.

  Alex continued, nonplussed. "At the very least he is, well, was, a big part of this plan. He was a plant in the NOPD from a terrorist organization. That's huge, Jack."

  Jack sighed and said, "You're right, Alex. We checked him out via the FBI's facial recognition software. He was here under an assumed name. He has ties to several terrorist groups in the Middle East.”

  Alex groaned. "Oh my God, Jack. All of this is true and I hoped they were exaggerating. Do you think he was tied to Ben Blankenship's murder? Why did they kill him? Kill the terrorist, not Ben? Is it because they're letting us know they are behind the virus? Do you think it's a show of power for them?"

  Jack was thoughtful. "Yeah. For sure a show of power. I've no idea why they killed him and made such a public display, Alex. We're working on it. I've got to go. My phone is blowing up with texts and I've another call coming in. Be careful. The security will be at your house by noon," Jack promised and clicked off.

  Chapter 29

  Travis Stoner, Jeff Bodine, and John Houser gathered around a deck in the Police Commissioner's office at One Police Plaza. The table was covered with half-full coffee cups and empty doughnut boxes. Each man sat quietly, mesmerized with his own thoughts.

  Bodine spoke up, his voice sounded loud in the large empty room. "Ted. Where's Jack? Does he know we're meeting?"

  Bodine's voice jerked Commissioner Ted Scott back into a reality he didn't want to face. "Yeah, he does. He's running down some evidence on the murder of the Jihadist we found downtown last night, you know, the one with the virus and syringe sticking out of his chest." Ted stood and paced the room and wondered if Jack was also taking his time in order to miss the meeting. Jack hated coming downtown, always afraid he would run into the Mayor. Certainly, he wouldn't play that card today, would he? Just to be sure, the Commissioner pulled out his phone and texted Jack.

  Stoner said, "Let's get started. Jeff, do you have anything new?"

  "Just a little. We know that Mohammed Abdu and Omar Hassan arrived in New Orleans late last night. We know where they're staying. These two are Jihad leaders, have been for years, and are professors of Middle Eastern studies in New York. They are Chechen from the North Caucasus region of Russia. As we said earlier, this is a Russian Red Jihad mission. The North Caucasus region is a Russian hot bed of insurgency and these insurgents are fighting the Russians as well as the West. Moha
mmed and Omar have been on our radar for years, actually since before 9/11. We've got nonstop eyes on the place where they're staying and are watching and recording every movement they make."

  The FBI agent paused as Jack entered in room and dropped into the nearest seat.

  "Hey Jack, I was just saying the two Jihad leaders, Mohammed Abdu and Omar Hassan, arrived in New Orleans via plane late last night. They are leaders of a terrorist cell in New York. They met with a member of the local cell, Nazir, and his younger brother, Ali, at their apartment in the Foubourg Marigny. We know nothing of Nazir. Neither he, nor his little brother, are of great importance to us. We're assuming they’re minor players. We also know several other terrorists came in yesterday via car and are at the same location. We haven't identified them yet but will shortly. We’re running them through the FBI facial recognition software now."

  Jack nodded as he pulled an 8 x 10 glossy, black and white photo from a manila file. "I'm betting this is one of them."

  Ted examined the picture of a bearded man in western clothing bending over a body. "Yeah, I'd say this is the terrorist who murdered the guy with the syringe. Right?"

  Jack nodded and slid the picture across the table toward Houser.

  "What else do you have, Jack?"

  "The dead guy is unfortunately - NOPD, a street cop. He's been working in the U.S. under an assumed name for a number of years. We hired him from the Miami/Dade PD several years ago. His references were impeccable. He was clean as far as we were concerned. Unfortunately, we just learned he had an entirely new identity. His real name is Yahwa Amir Abbudin. He has worked in the U.S. for over 10 years infiltrating police systems for several terror organizations. He was at our meeting yesterday so we need to assume he passed on everything we talked about to Mohammed and Omar before he died."

  Bodine slammed his fist into the conference table and several half full coffee cups overturned. No one moved to sop up the coffee that ran everywhere. "Damn, I was afraid of something like this. We'll have to move to an alternate plan. Anything else, Jack?"