The Mather Triad: Series Boxed Set (Chloe Mather Thrillers)

by Lawrence Kelter

  “You know that I’m sworn to secrecy.” He grinned. “But I’ll tell you. First, though …” He poured his fourth glass of scotch, took a belt, and reclined in the sofa. “We’ve been following a mercenary, a man named Ahmed Kasab Gul.”

  Elias searched his memory. “I’ve heard that name, but I’m not current on him. What’s he done?”

  “We think that he’s been involved in plenty, but this is more about what he might do than what he’s already done. He came up on our radar in 2010 when a Palestinian militant group in Gaza with close ties to Hamas tried to carry out an attack by placing bombs in barrels and sending them toward the Mediterranean from the Gaza coast.”

  “Yes. I heard about that attempt. That was Gul?”

  “Perhaps. His name came up during our investigation, but we were never able to tie him to the plot. He was quiet for a while, but then in 2012 his name began to surface often. In January 2012 he was believed to have participated in a grenade attack in the Rwandan city of Muhanga. In May of the same year two car bombs exploded in Dagestan, Russia. He’s been active since then. He has no allegiances. It appears that he’ll work for anyone willing to pay his price. We’ve been investigating his finances for the past year. Several days ago he received a wire transfer for five million dollars, far and away the largest amount he’s ever been paid for a job. Compared to this, he’d been working for peanuts.”

  “Where did the money come from?”

  “A Swiss numbered account. A blind alley.”

  “So something big may be about to take place.”

  “Yes. We followed him from Switzerland to Canada and finally to New York. That’s where we lost him.”

  Elias rolled his eyes, sighed, and downed the rest of his scotch.

  “We’re working with American intelligence,” Ari continued. “We want to take him alive and interrogate him. We have to learn who was willing to pay that much money and what they were planning.”

  “But you say that you lost him?”

  “He rappelled out the courtyard window of his hotel, sixteen stories up, and caught the surveillance team completely off guard. American and Israeli undercover teams are scouring Manhattan and following up on every lead in the tri-state area.”

  “Tasker has a big set of balls. I don’t think I’d have the stomach for an operation with consequences as potentially devastating as that. No wonder he’s such an insufferable bore. He’s probably afraid of saying anything, fearing that any slip might lead to a national security breach. And American Homeland Security bought into this?”

  “It took some convincing, but yes they did. Gul is a threat to everyone, and if we can trace his funding back to the source, it will be a huge win for the fight against terrorism.”

  “Ari, is your head clear enough to participate in something this big? Because if it’s not …”

  Ari weighed the critical question his friend had just dropped in his lap, knowing well that any slipup in such an important assignment might lead to a geopolitical atrocity. He looked Elias squarely in the eye. “I suppose it will just have to be.”

  Chapter 50

  Faiza Soto waited at the traffic signal across from Concours Classic Cars in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, judging the appearance of the luxury car showroom and waiting for the traffic light to turn green. He had just come from an automobile detailer. The Jaguar’s finish had such depth and clarity that with the Florida sun beating down on it, the paint actually appeared to shimmer like liquid. The engine had been freshly tuned by a classic car tuner, who had adjusted the timing and carburetor settings so perfectly that the exhaust notes sounded like the purr of the ferocious beast for which the car had been named.

  Soto sped across the intersection and stopped with the vintage car’s bumper just five feet from the showroom window. He left the engine running and got out of the convertible. He waved through the glass at the only person in the showroom and waited for him to come out to greet him.

  “Yes! I love it,” Lou Leazy broadcasted wholeheartedly. He had barely cleared the showroom doorway when he extended his hand and raced up to Soto. “Faiza, right?”

  “Yes. Mr. Leazy, I take it?”

  “Call me Lou.” Leazy put his hands on his hips and ogled the gorgeous automobile. “My God, it’s just incredible, and the sound of the exhaust … That’s so impressive—it’s running as smoothly as silk. I don’t know why this one wasn’t on my radar. My God, a 1961 Series 1 Roadster in this condition.” He grinned with exuberance. “You know I’ve got more XKEs on my selling floor than anyone else in North America.” He looked at the odometer. “Oh my goodness, and only twenty-four thousand miles.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Amazing.”

  “Yes, as I explained over the phone. I hope the car meets your expectations. I’m leaving the country tonight, and I’m eager to conclude our business.” He looked around suspiciously out of force of habit. “You have the cash?”

  “It’s in the safe. I just need my technician to check the car. He’ll run the V.I.N., put it up on the lift, and take her out for a test drive. Shouldn’t take more than an hour. You said that you have all of the service records?”

  “Yes. They’re in the glove box.”

  “Cool. Help yourself to refreshments in our waiting room, and I should be ready to talk to you in about an hour. I’ve got New York-style bagels from Pomperdales, cream cheese, ice coffee, you name it.”

  “Excellent. If you could show me where I could wash up.”

  “Right this way, Faiza. Freshen up, and we’ll get down to business.”

  Soto had a craving for falafel but instead sated himself on bagels and cream cheese while he checked his itinerary. He was leaving on British Air at midnight with a stopover in London before landing in Dubai. He hated air travel but was not as tense about the impending flight as he was about the next twelve hours and what might happen to him before his flight took off.

  The Sultan of Brunei had at one time owned the exquisite automobile he was about to sell. The bill of sale was authentic, but no money had ever actually changed hands. The car had been deposited in a warehouse for him to use in the event that his US bank accounts became frozen. He knew without checking that they were. He also knew better than to create an internet inquiry the FBI could follow. He knew that technology had advanced to the point that almost any error in the car’s paperwork would be picked up. He prayed that his Middle Eastern benefactor had prepared the ownership paperwork with meticulous detail and that the sale of the Jaguar would proceed without issue.

  After securing the cash, he needed to get the arms shipment on its way to the Middle East, and then avoid arrest at the airport in Miami. He carried a US passport. It was a forgery bearing his photo and a dead citizen’s name. If all went smoothly, he would not be questioned at the British Airways check-in counter.

  He knew, however, that Homeland Security employed facial recognition software, and if he could not avoid the security cameras … He’d be wearing a wig and glasses, but obvious disguises did not stymie the sophisticated software program. All he could do was blend in as best he could and cross his fingers.

  Leazy bounded into the waiting room with an energetic spring in his step. “Faiza, we’re rock solid,” he announced cheerfully. “The numbers and service records check. The body and chassis are rust free, and the powertrain is humming like a kitten on a diet of mother’s milk. Come into my office, and we’ll do the paperwork.”

  “Wonderful. Wonderful.” Soto quickly collected his documents and stuffed them into his jacket pocket. He followed Leazy into his office.

  Soto signed and dated the transfer of ownership papers and the bill of sale.

  “That’s lovely,” Leazy said as he inspected Soto’s signature. He stood up and closed his office door. “Here we are.” He picked up an inexpensive faux leather briefcase and placed it on his desk in front of Soto. “Eighty thousand dollars. Cash as you insisted.” He held out his hand for Soto. “I’ve enjoyed doing business with you, Faiza.”


  “We’re all done?”

  “We’re all done. You can count the money if you like. There are eight stacks of ten thousand.”

  Soto unlatched the briefcase, looked inside, and made a quick count. He selected one stack at random and fanned the bills to make sure it contained only one-hundred-dollar bills. “Thank you. Now if you could just call me a cab.”

  “Hell, where are you going? I’ll drive you. I’ve got nothing but cars here in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “No, no. A cab is fine. I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Leazy looked through his Rolodex for the number and called the local cab company. “All set,” he said after hanging up.

  “Thank you. I’ll wait by the showroom door.”

  “If you insist. You’re welcome to sit in the waiting room, and we’ll call you when the taxi pulls up front.”

  “No. I don’t want to be any more trouble.” He offered his hand. “Thank you. Have a very nice day,” he said and hastily stood up.

  Leazy watched Soto leave his office. What a strange man, he thought.

  Tim Casey, his partner, appeared in his office doorway. “Wowzer. I just saw the XKE you took in. Man, that car is cherry, rust free, low miles … one of the best I’ve ever seen. So the guy did the deal for eighty?”

  “Yup. Eighty even. All green.”

  “You outdid yourself, Lou. That car is worth a buck-twenty if it’s worth a dime. It could possibly fetch one-fifty at Mecum or the Barrett-Jackson auctions. I’m going to take it for a spin. Coming?”

  “Maybe later,” Leazy replied, seemingly preoccupied. “Hey, Tim, can you close the door on your way out?”

  Casey winked and closed the door behind him.

  The US Patriot Act did not require Leazy to inform the authorities when he paid cash for a car. It only required that he file the proper paperwork when a customer paid more than ten thousand dollars in cash. Somehow, though, Soto had left him with a bad impression. He picked up the telephone and called the local office of the FBI.

  ~~~

  “Thank you for being a patriot. Your country appreciates your service, Mr. Leazy.” FBI Agent Earl Johnson hung up the telephone and dashed into his boss’s office. Grasping the doorframe with both hands, he poked his head in and spoke without announcing himself. “The money question has just been answered, sir. Soto just sold that classic Jaguar and now has eighty K in his briefcase.”

  Roger Basalt looked up from his computer screen. “Did our man make the pickup?”

  “You bet he did. We rerouted the call from the taxi dispatcher. They’re on I-95 headed south as we speak.”

  “And we’ve got plenty of units on standby?”

  “Yes. Just waiting for orders.”

  Basalt smiled. “Good. Let’s get mobile. I want to be there when this shit goes down.”

  Chapter 51

  Malaina lay face down on her bed, wallowing in tears, consumed with guilt and despair. The hateful feelings she had felt toward her father had completely disappeared, and all she could now think of was the shameful way in which she had treated him the night he was killed.

  Malaina had always been insulated from her father’s business affairs, and though she understood that he straddled the line between legality and illegality, his dealings were not palpable and, as such, were easily ignored. Through his death, however, murder had become her new acquaintance.

  Nikki Silvestri had tried to reach her by cell phone, but her daughter hadn’t answered.

  She had returned home unannounced and arrived amidst the turmoil and chaos of a full-blown police investigation and media coverage. Stopping outside the wrought-iron gates, she stared in disbelief at the frantic scene going on outside her home.

  An ambitious reporter grabbed her by the arm.

  Frightened, she spun around to find a microphone staring her in the face.

  The cameraman was rolling. “Are you Malaina Silvestri?”

  Malaina’s mouth dropped, and tears drizzled from her eyes.

  The reporter pursued her before she could take stock of what was transpiring. “Ms. Silvestri, any comment on your father’s murder?”

  It took a moment for the weight of the reporter’s brutally insensitive question to hit home, and then she took off, running frantically toward her front door. “Daddy, Daddy,” she cried. “Noooo.”

  Nikki picked up on her daughter’s wail and ran to the front door to meet her. She threw her arms around Malaina, hugging her with desperation.

  Malaina looked into her mother’s eyes. “Mommy, is it true?”

  Nikki felt little for her dead husband. It was more the shock of his brutal and sudden death that weighed upon her. But she understood her daughter’s love for her father and nodded remorsefully.

  Malaina passed out in her mother’s arms. When she came to, she was in bed with the ever-familiar family physician in attendance, providing ample doses of bedside manner and Valium.

  Nikki was by her side, patiently stroking her hair, ready to wipe away her tears.

  Malaina waited for the doctor to leave before looking into her mother’s eyes. “Mom, who would do this?” she asked angrily.

  She wanted to tell her daughter the kind of man her father really was, a vile insensitive fraud of a husband, a man who cared for himself and no one else. The words were already in her mouth, formed and ready to be spoken when she swallowed them. “Your father played a very dangerous game, Malaina. We both know that he had enemies.”

  Malaina could barely speak. “But I never thought …”

  “That this might happen?” She continued to stroke her daughter’s hair, hoping to lessen her pain. “It was your father’s time. That’s all I can tell you.”

  Malaina searched her mother’s face imploringly, hoping for more insight, anything that might provide a speck of closure, but nothing was there. The hurt in her mother’s eyes was for her and not for her father. She knew that her father could be cold and that her parents were not close. It was only now that she understood the magnitude of the rift that existed between them.

  “Are you hungry, Malaina? Can I make you something to eat?”

  Malaina shook her head. “I can’t eat.” She reached for a fresh Kleenex as a torrent of tears came forward. She sat up, drawing close to her mother, and rested her head on her shoulder. “I guess it’s just you and me now, Mom.”

  The telephone rang. “Ah, who’s this now?” Nikki asked with disgust. Despite her unwillingness to speak with anyone, she answered on the first ring and recognized the odd voice immediately. A smile swept across her face as she handed the phone to her daughter.

  “Who is it?”

  “Here, you’ll see.”

  “I can’t talk to anyone right now.”

  She forced the phone into her daughter’s hand and sprang from the bed excitedly. “I’ll make you some pastina. I know you love it.” There was a flicker of happiness in her eye as she left the room. Just outside the door she crossed herself and thanked the Lord for his well-timed intervention.

  “Hello?”

  “Malaina, it’s Cash.”

  “Cash? You’re the last person I expected to hear from. Did you hear about—”

  “I just saw the news report on TV. I feel terrible,” Ari Rabin said. I feel terrible for using you. I feel terrible for lying to you, and I’m sorry that your father was such a disgusting animal.

  Everyone was play-acting for Malaina’s benefit, first her mother and now Ari. He was still masquerading as Cash. It was only Malaina’s feelings that he or anyone else was concerned with. In truth, everyone that had ever known Anthony Silvestri was happier with him dead. Ari pictured his sister while he spoke with his victim’s daughter. The two young women were both very much alike, both young, dark-haired beauties with so much to live for. In some odd way, speaking with Malaina helped heal the wound that had been savagely inflicted on him when he learned of hi
s sister’s death.

  “Cash, I don’t know what to do.”

  “I know this has to be very difficult. I wish there was a way to lessen your pain.”

  Malaina’s words came slowly. “I could really use a friend right now.”

  His heart skipped a beat. Idiot, why did you call her? What are you doing? Is there no end to your selfishness?

  “Cash, are you still there?”

  “Yes, I’m still here.”

  “Can you come to the funeral? I don’t think I can do it without you by my side.”

  What? She had asked the worst of him. How could he attend the funeral of the man he had banished to hell, the man without a soul? What terrible sacrilege it would be to accompany her to her father’s gravesite. “I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

  “Please, Cash.”

  He could hear her break down on the other end of the line and could picture her crying hysterically. Dear God, help me. What can I tell her? “I have to go away for a while, so I can’t—”

  “Oh God no,” she interrupted, crying uncontrollably. “Please, Cash. Oh God, please. I need you. I need you with me.”

  “But we hardly…” Listening to this innocent, tortured girl tore at him. It was as if he was listening to his sister pleading for her life. How? How can I refuse?

  Ari Jacob Rabin was a servant of the nation of Israel. He had been trained in the arts of espionage and counterterrorism. He was morally prepared to torture and coerce if it was in the best interest of his homeland. He was responsible for the deaths of several state’s enemies and now two Italian mobsters. He felt no remorse about carrying out the duties of his position, and certainly took solace in having murdered the men who had violated and murdered his sister. But the agreement he was about to make made him feel unholy in a way he was certain he’d never forget.