Mort and I sat in silence as Burnett navigated the roads. Then, no more than four minutes later, I felt him turn right and right again feeling certain this meant he’d turned onto South Laflin, then into the car-park. And sure enough, I was right: a moment later, the van stopped and the engine died. Then, after the sound of a door opening and closing, Burnett appeared at the van’s rear-door and jumped in.
‘Anybody spot you drive in?’ I said.
‘Not that I could see,’ he replied. ‘There’s nobody out there.’
I nodded at Burnett. Then, losing no time, we began setting up our equipment and within sixty seconds we had the computer booted, and a view of our surroundings displayed on three separate monitors. Sixty seconds later, these streams were accompanied by a fourth of the warehouse’s front. Immediately, Mort communicated over the walkie-talkie that we were receiving the stream from the wireless camera, and that we were in position, in response to which both the South Laflin team and Dotman confirmed they were also in position. Then Mort told Dotman about the two vehicles parked outside Drexler’s warehouse – a medium-sized white van, and a black sedan – quoting their make and number plates, in case Dotman should need to tail them later.
After this, Mort inputted these number plates, both of which were from Illinois, into the FBI computer. But they were rented, which meant tracing them was pointless. Because a rented vehicle in this sort of context doesn’t mean the person using it doesn’t have their own vehicle, it means they’ve rented a vehicle with fake identification to cover their tracks.
Then, finally, we got started on the most important job – the observation of Drexler’s warehouse. We were all experienced enough to know that in a stakeout, sustained concentration is paramount, since the situation can change in a second. And so it was with hawk-like attentiveness that we watched the morning slowly unfold. We watched as the staff at Lakeside arrived for work between 7:30 and 8. We watched as a truck arrived with a delivery for Lakeside at 9, as the workers unloaded the cargo, and as the truck departed at 10 and the staff returned indoors. And then we watched emptiness for minutes on end.
This wasn’t a two-minute Hollywood stakeout. This was the tortuous real deal.
At half past ten, however, there came a palpable rise in tension as Mort announced on the walkie-talkie we were thirty minutes from launching our assault. It was looking increasingly like we weren’t going to get a clue – like we were simply going to have to go in blind. But still I kept watching the monitors as Mort continued his countdown – as he announced we were twenty-five minutes away… then twenty… fifteen… ten…
But the countdown never got further than that. Because suddenly, about twenty seconds after Mort announced the ten minute mark, the warehouse’s rear-door swung open.
‘Look,’ I exclaimed, pointing at the monitor.
A half-second later, two men exited the warehouse, one ahead of the other. The first man looked happy and healthy. He was wearing a black suit, and a broad, charismatic smile under a mess of blond hair. His left hand was in his pocket, clutching something, and his right was holding a car key fob. This was undoubtedly Ivan Drexler. The second man, however, I didn’t recognize. And though he was also wearing a suit, he didn’t look remotely as happy or healthy. He looked wan and gaunt, like he’d been deprived of sunlight.
Drexler quickly surveyed his surroundings, his gaze flickering unsuspectingly over our van, then he pressed his fob and the sedan’s lights flashed. Then he paused, turned back to the warehouse, and said something – a word or two – to someone standing just out of sight beyond the door. Then he walked to the sedan’s passenger door and got in, while the second man got in the driver’s seat. And then, just as the car began to move, the unseen person closed the rear-door.
All this happened fast. There’d been no more than six seconds between the warehouse door opening and shutting. And no sooner had I processed it than Mort gave me something else to think about.
‘What the hell is an FBI man doing chauffeuring Drexler?’ he exclaimed.
Chapter 46
‘An FBI man?’
‘That’s Francis Bindle,’ said Mort. ‘One of the most senior agents in FBI Counterterrorism.’
There was no more time for talk as the sedan was already rolling across the back of Lakeside. I needed to react, or else lose control.
I snapped up the walkie-talkie and held down the button.
‘Dotman. Drexler’s just left the premises in the sedan, with a second man who we think is Bureau agent Francis Bindle. Bindle’s driving. It’s unclear whether Bindle is accomplice or hostage. Track the vehicle, but don’t be seen. It’s exiting the car-park now.’
I took my finger off the button.
‘Got it,’ said Dotman.
I held the button down once more.
‘South Laflin party, the warehouse appears still to be occupied. So we will proceed with the ambush as soon as Dotman confirms he has the sedan under observation. I want your party to enter ten seconds before ours. Understood?’
I released the button.
‘Understood,’ said Childs.
I knew Dotman would’ve heard this broadcast. But since he was concentrating on spotting the sedan, I knew there was a chance he hadn’t actually processed what’d been said. So after a tense minute, I held down the button once again.
‘Dotman. Have you got the sedan in your sights?’
I released the button. Five seconds later: ‘Yes. Traveling east along West 71st Street.’
I couldn’t worry about whether he’d keep track of the sedan, it was out of my hands. I just had to worry about launching our assault, pronto.
I held down the button.
‘South Laflin team. Head to the front entrance immediately. Contact when you’re about to enter.’
I released the button.
‘Right,’ said Childs.
There was no further discussion among my party. Mort opened the van’s door, and the three of us jumped out, paced quickly across the blacktop to the warehouse’s rear-door, then withdrew our weapons.
Childs’s voice came again through the walkie-talkie: ‘Entering now.’
Almost in the same moment we heard a clang – undoubtedly a bullet striking the front door – followed by a second, slightly louder clang, signifying the door getting kicked in.
I aimed my Glock at the bolt between the door and the jamb. The door’s lack of reinforcement told me it’d be easy to force.
Ten… Nine… Eight… Seven… Six…
We heard a short, muffled yell from inside. It wasn’t loud enough to make-out what was said – but it clearly came from the front of the warehouse.
Five… Four… Three…
Burnett got into position to kick down the door. We heard another muffled yell.
Two… One… Zero.
I worked the trigger and Burnett kicked the door down. Then all three of us ducked into the warehouse space. It was empty. Without hesitation, we moved quickly across the warehouse floor to the double-doors leading to the second corridor. Burnett got there first, and burst silently through, Mort and I following closely behind. This corridor, too, was empty. And just as the floor-plan had indicated, there were six further doors: one directly opposite us, shut, which led to the first corridor; two on the left-hand side; and three on the right. But two things immediately caught my attention.
Firstly, all these doors, save the partitioning one, had been fitted with heavy-duty locks and peepholes, which seemed to suggest the offices had been converted into cells. Secondly, while the three of these modified doors furthest from us were closed and their bolts engaged, the two nearest us – one on the left, and one on the right – were ajar.
Communicating to Burnett and Mort with my hand, I indicated that I wanted Burnett to cover the partitioning door while Mort and I investigated the open rooms on the left- and right-hand sides respectively. After both men gave me a nod of understanding and Mort darted off towards the left-hand room, I made for t
he room to the right, and entered with my Glock at the ready. The room was unoccupied, but not empty. There was an army cot in the corner, on which there were handcuffs, leg-shackles, a decrepit suit, and a bomb vest. The window had been covered by a metal sheet.
All this confirmed my suspicions that these offices had been converted into cells.
I returned to the corridor. Mort was already there.
‘The room looks like a cell,’ I whispered to the men. ‘Empty aside from an army cot and a bomb vest. I’m thinking it might’ve been Francis’s cell. ’
‘The other room also looks like a cell,’ said Mort. ‘It also has an army cot with a bomb vest on it. But there’s also a dead man in there, castrated. I don’t recognize him.’
I could tell by the look in Mort’s eyes he’d seen something chilling. But there was no time to dwell on it.
I gestured to the locked doors. ‘These doors have peep-holes. Let’s take a look.’
Immediately I made for the second door on the right, while Mort made for the only other door on the left, and Burnett continued to cover the partitioning door. The peephole revealed another room with metal-covered windows and an army cot. But this cot had someone on it – a dazed-looking, middle-aged man in a suit, with his chest in a bomb vest, his hands cuffed, and his leg roughly bandaged.
I recognized him as Ali Haddad, one of the FBI’s most senior translators. I’d met him a handful of times during my time at The Office of Intelligence.
I turned round.
‘They’ve got FBI agent Ali Haddad in there,’ I whispered. ‘He’s in a bomb vest; his hands are cuffed; his leg’s done in.’
Mort nodded solemnly. ‘Francis Bindle’s brother, Liam Bindle, is in the other one. He’s also a Bureau agent – also in a vest.’
Without another word, I approached the last door on the right-hand side.
The peephole revealed an even more sparsely furnished room, one without even a cot. But what it did have was a chair in its center. And bound to it was Vannevar Yeung.
His face and left hand were caked in blood. His chest was in a bomb vest. But he was alive.
‘It’s Vannevar,’ I whispered to the others. ‘Tied to a chair. Also in a vest.’
‘What do we do?’ asked Burnett.
‘We come back for them,’ I replied decisively.
With that, the three of us approached the partitioning door. Then Burnett, who was once again leading the way, eased it open.
As far as we could see, the corridor beyond was empty. But we were in no hurry to progress any further, because the scene before us was far from reassuring.
Firstly, the door directly opposite us, leading to the main office, was shut. This seemed to imply that for whatever reason, the agents who entered via the front hadn’t gotten this far yet. And if this was the case, it meant that the window of opportunity for catching by surprise anyone who might be in one of the rooms off this corridor had been missed – by this point, they would’ve realized the warehouse was under attack.
Secondly, the other seven doors in this corridor, of which there were four to the right, and three to the left, were not fitted with bolts and peepholes. In fact, most of them were not even closed. This seemed to imply these room were not holding pens for prisoners but were living spaces for cultists. And if this was the case, it meant that anyone who might be in one was not only aware the warehouse was under attack, but was hostile, too.
It was clear we’d have to progress with caution.
Suddenly, there was movement on the far side: the door to the main office swung open, and a figure holding a semi-automatic stepped through. But a moment later, we realized this wasn’t a threat, it was Rodriguez. He looked relieved at the sight of us.
I put my fingers to my lips, indicating the need to communicate without words – if there was anyone in these rooms, we didn’t want them hearing what we were planning, nor inferring where we were by the sounds of our voices. Rodriguez nodded his understanding. Then, with his hands, he told us that his team had two cultists subdued in the main office. I signed back that things were all clear behind us. Then we planned our next move. It was quickly established that there would be a countdown from five, after which Rodriguez would investigate the two rooms nearest to him on either side – which the floor-plan had indicated contained the kitchen and bathroom – while Mort and Burnett would investigate the first and second room on the right respectively, and I’d investigate the first room on the left.
With this plan settled, Mort raised his hand, and began dropping his fingers, one by one. When his last finger dropped, we pounced.
I approached my designated room and burst silently in. Given the two camper beds, it appeared to be a bedroom for two and, to my relief, it looked to be unoccupied. But I was determined to be thorough, and quickly set about checking every space within which someone could be concealed, until finally I was satisfied there was definitely nobody there.
Only then did I register that I’d heard no commotion. This was a good thing – it implied that none of the other agents had run into trouble. And sure enough, when I returned to the corridor, I found the other agents emerging from their rooms giving the all-clear.
This meant only two rooms remained unchecked: the middle one on the left, and the third on the right.
Without prompting, Mort and Burnett made for the middle room on the left. Then Burnett burst through the door, while Mort lingered outside, ready to provide backup. But he wasn’t needed. Five seconds later, Burnett re-emerged, once more giving the all-clear.
Now only one room remained – the one on the right-hand side, with its door a few inches ajar. We all moved towards it with mounting tension.
Surely, behind this door would be trouble. Surely, not every room could be empty.
Mort put himself forward, stepping in front of the door. Then, after a moment’s pause, he kicked it aside and trained his Glock into the room.
The concentration on his face turned to puzzlement.
‘Dennis Ericson?’ he muttered.
Instantly I recognized this name. Dennis Ericson was the son of Richard Ericson, the FBI agent who famously cracked Lockerbie. Parkes, who was a close friend of Richard’s, had told me all about Dennis when, two years back, he’d joined the FBI, making him the third generation of the Ericson family to work there.
But whereas all the other FBI agents we’d encountered were locked in cells, Dennis wasn’t. And this worried me. Because I reckoned this meant Dennis wasn’t a prisoner, he was a convert to The Order. And if this was the case – and my gut said it was – then Mort was standing, hesitant, in front a cultist who’d been trained to kill.
Not a moment after I thought this I hurled myself at Mort, barging him out the line of fire. As we hit the floor, I heard a bullet strike the wall behind where Mort had been standing.
My gut had been right.
In the next instant, Mort and I were back on our feet.
‘Was Dennis the only person in the room?’ I whispered to Mort. He nodded.
I approached the door, remaining just beyond the line of fire.
The difficulty of the situation was obvious. While Dennis had been caught off-guard by our stealth the first time round, he was now completely on guard. And this meant if any one of us wanted to take a shot at him, it would involve putting ourselves in the line of fire of an alert Bureau agent…
‘Dennis,’ I said, loud and clear. ‘It’s over, son. The building’s under our control. Put down your weapon and come out peacefully.’
The reply was vitriolic.
‘False Prophet scum. The Deluge of Euphrates is upon you.’
I took a deep breath. I was talking to a fanatic. But I was also talking to a young man; a wayward son of a FBI agent, just like Samuel. As a result, a part of me wanted to save him.
‘Dennis, there is no Euphrates,’ I said calmly. ‘You’ve been manipulated by a confidence man. We want to help you.’
‘My name’s not Dennis,’ he spat
.
‘Listen, son. You might think you’re about to go down fighting, and that you’re going to take one or two of us with you to make it all worthwhile, but that’s not gonna happen. While we’ve been speaking, five men with shotguns have entered the room next door and they’ll shoot you through the walls if need be. What’s more, we already have The Zahir, we arrested him shortly after he departed in the sedan. So throw in the towel. It’s over, son.’
‘Liar,’ he screamed.
‘You’ll be safe with us, Dennis. I promise. We can help you.’
I paused, hoping against hope he’d listen to reason. The silence stretched out. But then we heard the snick of a trigger, followed by the sound of a bullet passing through the air. I knew exactly what this meant.
I walked calmly into the room to find Dennis with a bullet in his brain.
*
When the four of us entered the main office, we discovered Sayle and Childs overseeing two cultists – one woman, one man – who were both sitting on the floor, and bound by handcuffs and rope which the agents must’ve found in the room.
Childs informed Mort, Burnett and myself that these cultists were refusing to speak. In response, I filled Sayle, Childs, and Rodriguez in about the captive agents.
But then, the next thing I knew, my attention was distracted by the equipment in the room. On a desk to one side was a cluster of monitors hooked up to serious computers.
‘It looks just like an FBI surveillance suite for a sting operation,’ said Mort, his attention having been drawn to the same thing.
I grunted. ‘I dare say that’s exactly what it is. Think about it – it would explain everything we’ve just seen. This warehouse was being used for a secret FBI operation. Drexler had a mole inside, Dennis Ericson, and usurped it. Then he kept the agents here as hostages, and used the place as his hideout, because why would the FBI expect their enemy to be based in one of their own classified locations?’
False Prophet Page 28