Dundalk, Maryland
"I don't want to be here, Vakha."
And Sharpuddin Daudov didn't. He had crossed into America over the Mexican border in 2004 along with his brother and ten other men. What he had found when they'd entered the country was very different to what he had expected. The leader of the group he had belonged to in his native Chechnya, a man who called himself Abu Tabak in place of his more Slavic sounding birth name, had preached for years about the imperialistic attitudes of the people who lived in places like America and Great Britain. He had told the group time and again about the endless atrocities committed by these people. Sharpuddin had witnessed such events at the hands of the Russians, whom Tabak assured the group were just like the Americans. "They may not be killing your brothers, your sisters and your neighbors, but they are killing your fellow Moslems across the world and taking their land." Those words had echoed through Sharpuddin's mind for months when he'd first arrived, but after a few years of living in American neighborhoods, shopping alongside Americans in supermarkets and working with them at the various jobs he did to support himself and his brother, he'd settled on the fact that Tabak's words had been one of two things; a lie, or the voice of a man who really didn't have the experience to back up what he was talking about and was only repeating a message that had been passed to him from someone else. Americans, as far as Sharpuddin could tell, were generally accommodating, kind and curious people who were far more interested in what was going on in the lives of their families and friends than in hurting or taking anything from anyone else. But here he was with his older brother, who still believed in and hung on every word and teaching of Tabak and other radical Imams. Here he was parked in front of a dilapidated building in an out of the way suburb of Baltimore, about to meet Abu Tabak for the first time in eight years.
"I'm not going in. I don't want any part of this anymore."
Vakha Daudov turned in the driver's seat of the tan, two-door Chevy Cavalier and stared at his younger brother. "Do not embarrass me, Sharpuddin!"
"Embarrass you? You're an embarrassment to yourself! You don't work, you live in squalor and you drive this rundown car just so you can say you still adhere to a way of life that we left behind a dec—"
Vakha lashed out and struck Sharpuddin on the face with a closed fist. The young man's head thumped against the passenger side window.
"Ah, c'mon man! What the hell?" Sharpuddin looked back at his older brother. He could feel tears in his eyes and the side of his face stung from the ferocious strike.
Vakha's nostrils flared with anger. "You're not going to embarrass me! The only reason you're in this country is because of Abu! You will do what he wants or so help me I will beat you senseless!"
"The hell with you, Vakha!" Sharpuddin pushed open the car door and stepped from the vehicle.
"Where are you going to go?" Vakha said getting out and rounding the car after him. "Where are you going to go?" he repeated as Sharpuddin felt himself being grabbed by the shoulders and pulled back until he hit the side of the car. "You're two hundred miles from home! Where are you going to go?"
"Anywhere but here, I don't want any part of what you're about to do!"
Vakha held him against the car as he struggled. "Stop, just stop!"
Sharpuddin gave up.
"Now," Vakha continued, "we're going to go inside and you're not going to say a damn word."
"You're going to get yourself killed."
"Not a damn word! Do you understand me?"
Slowly Vakha let go and turned towards the vacant-looking garage they were parked a few hundred feet from. "Not a damn word," he repeated.
Ruslan Baktayev got up from the stool he was sitting on, a cigarette hanging from his mouth, and looked to the workshop entrance as the metal door to the office of the former welding service banged open loudly. The laughter in the grimy workshop came to a quick halt as the door to the workshop was slowly pushed open. A tall man with dark closely cut hair and a vertical scar down the left side of his face leaned his head around the door and looked inside.
Baktayev grinned. "Vakha!"
The tall man stepped fully into the room and smiled. "Abu."
The two embraced tightly, their hands slapping over each other's backs loudly.
"I'm sorry I missed it," Vakha said as he drew back. "I missed your victory over the Jew."
Baktayev grinned and raised his arm, the sleeve of his coat covered in dried streaks of dark red that appeared to have run down his hand past his wrist. "I held his head up high! You were with me in spirit, little brother."
Vakha grinned broadly. "Glory be to Allah, you haven't changed a bit."
"The Russians could not break him," Anzor Kasparov said, as he stood from a lawn chair in the center of the room, where several men sat smoking and drinking. "Not in years of war or imprisonment could they break him! Abu Tabak!" The obviously intoxicated Kasparov raised a can of beer and several men followed suit with elated cheers of, "Abu Tabak!” A toast to their leader, Ruslan Baktayev.
The hinges of the door whined as it was opened again and a thin young man with shaggy brown hair and an almost sickly complexion stepped in, his face full of disgust.
"Sharpuddin," Baktayev said, as he looked past Vakha at the boy. "You've grown."
The boy leaned up against a workbench and folded his arms across his chest, turning his head to hide the reddish welt on his cheek.
Vakha turned slightly. "My little brother has gotten too used to American life. He has forgotten what it is to be one of the Nokhchi! But we'll remind him, won't we?" Vakha raised his fist in triumph as more cheers came from the small gathering of men.
The cheers stopped as the ringing of a phone echoed loudly through the high-ceilinged room.
Baktayev walked over to the workbench where the phone was located and picked it up. "Nokhchi Welding Service, how may we kill you?"
A barely contained snicker passed through the group of drunken men but Baktayev's face quickly turned serious. "Quiet," he barked. A hush fell over the room and the twenty men present looked at their leader, a question on each face as Baktayev listened to the caller.
"I'm not an errand boy," he said. "Find someone else!"
"You'll want to do this yourself, I promise," a tinny voice said over the phone. "The man we are talking about was once the bodyguard of the Jew. He is the man who killed your brother."
Baktayev's grip tightened on the phone as he thought about what Levent Kahraman was saying. "You told me that you didn't know where he was, that you couldn't find him."
"I couldn't. But glory be to Allah, he came to us."
"Where is he?"
"He is in the custody of the American FBI in a place called Rocky Mount in Virginia."
"And how the hell am I supposed to get to him if he's with the police?"
"I promised you I would help you get revenge on Kafni and, if possible, the men who worked with him to kill your brothers. This is me keeping that promise. They'll be transporting him from the jail tomorrow morning, with only one agent; I want you to follow them until you find a safe place and then kill them both."
Baktayev nodded as a smile formed on his face. "We will do it."
"Good. Make sure they are both dead. The agent cannot become a witness." Kahraman hung up and Baktayev lowered the receiver back to its cradle. Looking at the faces staring up at him from the center of the room he said, "I need three of you to gather some weapons and leave tonight. The Sheikh has found another of Kafni's men who needs to meet his maker."
"Me, Abu. I will go." Vakha said. "I will not miss another chance at victory."
"Vakha, you can't do this!" Sharpuddin said from across the room. "You're going to get yourself killed!"
Every eye in the shop moved to the boy standing near the door and a laugh passed through the room.
Vakha blushed. "I told you not to talk, Sharpuddin! If I die, it will be for Ichkeria in the service of Allah!"
"We left Ichkeria nine years ag
o! This isn't a game!" Sharpuddin shouted. "Do you think this man cares anything about you? Look at him! All he wants are mindless soldiers to do his dirty work for him!"
Baktayev strolled back to the center of the room, his eyes on Sharpuddin as he gripped Vakha by the shoulder and said, "Tomorrow you will kill a man for me, the man who killed my brother."
Chapter Thirty-Five
6:02 p.m. Eastern Time – Monday
Russell Senate Office Building
Washington D.C.
David Kemiss hung up the phone and dialed another number.
"I made the necessary calls. There'll be a federal warrant releasing McIver into your custody by morning," he said, as he poured two fingers of Glenmorangie into a glass and turned towards the window behind his walnut desk. With his office located on the fifth floor at the corner of Delaware Avenue and C Street, he could see the entirety of the Upper and Lower Senate Parks from his window. With the sun setting behind it, the waterworks of the Senate Garage Fountain glowed orange and the cherry blossom trees swayed in the light breeze; within the next month their pink and white flowers would be at full bloom.
"And what am I supposed to do with him once he's in my custody?" Castellano asked, over the secure connection.
Kemiss was certain Castellano already knew the answer. "This has gone on long enough, Seth. No more hired guns." He took a sip of the amber-colored spirit in his glass and listened as Castellano took a deep breath.
"Unless you want this entire thing to unravel at our feet," he continued, "you need to take care of this guy personally this time. You're a creative guy, I trust you'll find just the right place and time to make sure Declan McIver is no longer a problem for us. Any idea what he was looking for?"
"It appears that the owner of the security company somehow got our men to fill out DOJ paperwork."
"That could have been disastrous. I thought you said this guy, this Jack Turlington, was a professional soldier?"
"It doesn't matter what he was. He's dead. McIver saw to that and now I've got the paperwork, or rather I had the paperwork."
"Still, McIver's seen it. Any chance that he was able to transfer it to anyone?"
"I don't think so. He didn't have it that long and he was running the entire time. Besides, it really doesn't matter. Turlington was paid in cash and now that he's dead, he can't talk about who hired him. Either way you look at it, it's a dead end. What about the wife? What do you want me to do about her?"
"According to your interview with her at the hospital she didn't actually see anything, correct?"
"Yes."
"Then we'll deal with her later when she surfaces from whatever hole her husband has hidden her in."
"I found out earlier today that she mentioned a fishing cabin to a neighbor. The lady didn't know where it was, but it can't be too far away. There are probably two dozen rivers and at least a handful of lakes within a short drive of Roanoke, but we'll find it. I've got people on it now."
"Good. Call me in the morning once you're done and we'll get this thing back on schedule."
He set the receiver loudly down on its cradle before turning back to the window. He watched as the flashing lights of a Capitol police car patrolled the closed off section of Delaware Avenue, its driver shining a spotlight into the grove of cherry blossom trees at the edge of Upper Senate Park. Kemiss didn't like the idea of killing innocent people, but if he played this right than there wasn't an office in the land that was out of his reach. After all, it had been the war hawks in the previous administrations that had brought them to this point. Their constant imperialistic attitude towards other sovereign nations was what had set men like Ruslan Baktayev and those allied with him against the United States and set the stage for the continued acts of terrorism being suffered around the world. In the last year alone there had been three successful attacks on US embassies abroad and one had resulted in the death of a prominent ambassador. Bringing the kind of attack that was planned to the home front after nearly twelve years of avoiding any serious disasters on U.S. soil was a natural progression and with the electorate's distaste of lengthy wars and the expenditures that came with them, the success of such an attack would be a devastating blow to right-wing candidates and could all but ensure the victory of the opposite party in coming elections. And with the renewed vigor of leadership during a crisis under his belt, he'd be poised to regain much of his former prestige. What else could happen, a full scale invasion of Chechnya? He nearly laughed at the idea.
His thoughts were interrupted by the shrill ringing of the phone. Could a man not get some peace and quiet? Who would it be this time? Certainly it wasn't some petulant voter wanting to take issue with him over a piece of legislation; constituents were only given the switchboard number and more often than not asked to leave messages. The few constituent phone calls he took were scheduled for only a few times a month and normally only lasted for a maximum of half an hour. It was probably some overly dedicated reporter looking for quotes about the latest sleazy story to ooze out of the beltway. Who did he have to pretend to be outraged by now? He had staff that was supposed to handle such things. He glanced at his watch as the line stopped ringing.
From outside the office he could hear a male voice; he quietly stood and walked around his desk. Apparently someone was still around. He'd thought that he was alone and that his conversation with Castellano couldn't be overheard, but perhaps that was too much privacy to ask for in Washington. He should have been more careful. He didn't recognize the voice but it had to be one of the interns who were constantly buzzing around during the day. Their faces were a blur to him and he had to be reminded of their names constantly, but they had their uses. He stepped through a set of double wooden doors and into the outer room where his secretary normally sat. Sitting at her desk was a thin young man with gelled hair and glasses.
"Thank you for calling," he said, as he hung up the phone and looked up at Kemiss. "I didn't realize you were still here, Senator. Sorry."
"Working late, are you?" Kemiss asked, making a motion with his hand for the boy to say his name.
"Colin Bellanger, sir."
"Right, Colin. A bit late to be answering the phones isn't it?"
"Sorry, sir."
Kemiss knew the boy could have easily overheard the conversation just by sitting where he was, but what could he do about it? This was how secrets became headline news. Castellano had started out sitting in the same chair fifteen years earlier and had probably overheard his share of private exchanges as well. That relationship had certainly blossomed so Kemiss quickly decided the best way to handle Bellanger was the same approach; give him exactly what people who applied to be interns wanted; a foot in the proverbial door.
"Why don't you put the phone through to the switchboard and come talk to me for a bit. I like getting to know the new faces around here, especially the ambitious ones that like to work late."
Chapter Thirty-Six
7:02 a.m. Eastern Time – Tuesday
Franklin County Jail
Rocky Mount, Virginia
Vertical beams of sunlight cut through the barred window a few feet above Declan McIver's head as he lay staring at the underside of the empty metal bunk bed above him. Hearing the birds chirping in the early morning light, he swung his feet off the bed and stood. Resting his elbows on the concrete window sill he looked through the six inch spaces between the heavy iron bars onto the quaint town of Rocky Mount. From his vantage point in the third floor window of the 1920s era jail house that stood adjacent to the Franklin County courthouse in the heart of the small town, a person could see the two story brick storefronts of a bygone era and in the distance behind them the tall smokestacks of the furniture factories that provided the area's primary employment. But he wasn't seeing any of it. His mind was focused on his wife.
He had promised her that he would return to the remote cabin they were hiding in by nightfall of the previous evening and he had no idea what she was doing now that he hadn't s
hown up. While the jailers who were holding him had offered him the standard phone call with which to contact an attorney or loved one, he'd declined. Such a call could be traced and he didn't want her location to be known. As far as he knew there were still people out there looking to kill them and by all accounts it appeared as if the FBI's lead investigator was one of them. All he could do at this point was hope that word had gone out through the local media that he had been arrested and that Constance would hear it and at least know that he was alive.
He turned away from the window as he heard the sound of a key being inserted into the lock of the cast iron door at the end of the hallway, which contained nine cells including the one he'd spent the night in. At nearly eighty years old and probably not having been updated since, the jailhouse had none of the mechanisms of more modern facilities. Each cast iron door was still opened by a key on the set carried by a deputy stationed at the end of each of the six hallways, known as blocks, and a team of two to three deputies responsible for transporting or releasing prisoners carried another set of keys containing a key for each of the forty eight cells. Declan had seen them come and go throughout the night to release prisoners being held on much lesser charges than the ones that would soon be filed against him. He imagined that the average inmate in the facility was probably guilty of little more than a DUI or petty theft. Having someone in their facility that was suspected of murder was probably a new experience. If only he could convince them of the truth, that he wasn't guilty of murder and hadn't in fact done anything other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time; but in jail everyone was innocent and his words would be wasted.
He listened as the door at the end of the hall slammed and two pairs of boots began walking dutifully down the hallway. Who were they coming for this time? The drunk across the way, who had finally woken up and seemed to be getting more lucid by the minute? He leaned against the edge of the metal bunk bed as the two deputies stopped in front of his cell and looked in.
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