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

by Lawrence Kelter

  Gul remained motionless for a minute, and then he nodded reluctantly, conveying the message that he knew he was carrying twenty-four sarin grenades, likely the most deadly neurotoxic gas ever manufactured, so deadly its use was globally banned.

  “How’d they get the sarin to you?” Wallace asked.

  Silence.

  Wallace and I looked at each other, each wanting to bitch-slap Gul like the horseshit-filled piñata we knew he was.

  “You’d rather be … coerced?” Wallace asked.

  Gul replied curtly, “Certainly you know better than that. “As I told you, I am not a member of a religious jihad. I’m an independent contractor working for anyone willing to pay the price. I’m only loyal to the money.” He stared at us, believing that he had the upper hand. “You have me, but I’m not the prize you and your Israeli friends are after. You’re not fools. I’m sure you realize that the window of opportunity won’t stay open very long, so if you want the head of the snake…” Finding himself clever, he grinned. “Now, do you want to waste time, or can we make a deal?” He panned back and forth between Wallace and me, waiting to see if one of us would fold. “The clock’s ticking,” he said in a mocking tone. “Tick tock. Tick tock.”

  Chapter 61

  Tasker read the New York Times while waiting for his dinner date at Ben’s Kosher Deli. He studied an article on the first page but couldn’t maintain his focus. The real story was spooling across his mind like the neon Morgan Stanley stock ticker emblazoned over Broadway. He glanced at his hand to make sure that it wasn’t shaking. “Age,” he grumbled, disgusted that advanced years had deprived him of his steely nerve.

  He stood when he recognized his guest coming through the restaurant door.

  Dr. Morris Rothchild was, as always, overdressed. He wore a wool coat and hat despite the moderate spring temperatures. “Shaul!” He grinned broadly as he approached the table. “Thanks for coming across town.”

  The two men embraced. Tasker plopped into his seat while Rothchild removed various layers of warm dress.

  “It’s no problem,” Tasker said. “I’ve got coleslaw and half-sour pickles. I’m in heaven. I can’t wait to wrap my teeth around a hot pastrami sandwich.” He waited while his lunch date removed his heavy coat, folded it, and placed it delicately on an unoccupied chair. Then came the hat, the scarf, and finally the sweater. “I see you’ve decided to ignore germ theory,” he chuckled. “What, no hot water bottle?”

  “I’m always cold,” Rothchild said.

  “You’re too skinny. I’m going to put you on a prescription of knishes and chopped liver.”

  Rothchild grinned. “Ah, so now you’re the doctor?” He was chief of pediatric surgery at New York University Hospital. His manual dexterity was the thing of legends—he could knot sutures with greater efficiency than a spider spins a web. “Let’s order. I’m starving,” Rothchild said.

  “Sure, as long as we have an agreement up front. I’m buying,” Tasker said, flashing defiance with his eyes. “Neshamah donated one billion dollars to the Israeli Defense Fund last year.” He smirked. “The least I can do is buy you a New York deli sandwich.”

  “Do you think I could perhaps have a full meal if we promise to donate a little more in the coming year?” Rothchild quipped.

  “Of course, just don’t order anything extravagant. Seriously, I can’t thank you enough. You and the other members of Neshamah are the single largest private contributors to Israel’s military defense fund.”

  Rothchild patted the back of Tasker’s hand. “I only wish I could do more. Now, hand me a menu. I think I’m in the mood for a nice bowl of beef barley soup.”

  ~~~

  Tasker and Rothchild exited the restaurant at exactly eight thirty p.m. Tasker waved to his friend as he got into a taxi and headed west down 38th Street. The closest post office was halfway down the block. He walked the short distance and slipped an envelope into the outdoor mailbox. He lingered for a moment while he looked up at the building across the street seemingly to read something stenciled on one of the garment center office windows. A shot rang out. Tasker clutched his chest, staggered a few feet, and noticed that blood had already saturated his shirt and sport coat.

  A woman passing by screamed at the top of her lungs.

  Tasker’s knees buckled, and he hit the sidewalk.

  Within moments, her scream was topped by the wail of a police siren. Traffic inched to the side as a police car sped toward the fallen man. Within a minute a second unit responded.

  An ambulance pulled up while a policeman worked on Tasker to stem the flow of blood.

  Chapter 62

  Sheik Yasin-Al-Atwah rested comfortably in the media room of his ocean-going yacht. The Al-Atwah, the second largest private yacht afloat, sat fifteen miles off the coast of New York, just outside US territorial waters.

  Sheba, a beautiful sixteen-year-old girl with large round eyes and skin as smooth as silk, manicured his nails while he sipped champagne and waited for the late evening news to air. She glanced at him frequently to make sure that he appeared satisfied with her, but he never acknowledged her presence as he was focused intently on the big-screen TV.

  Al-Atwah was a man of privilege and not accustomed to waiting for anything. This time was no exception. It was not yet the top of the hour when the current TV program was interrupted for an emergency news bulletin.

  An anchorman appeared on the screen. His face seemed gravely distressed as he delivered the emergency news report. “Tragedy struck today when Israeli Brigadier General Shaul Tasker was shot and killed outside a US post office on West 38th Street in Manhattan this evening. Tasker is believed to be a high-ranking Israeli intelligence officer. The reason for his visit to New York is at this moment unknown, as the Israeli consulate has yet to comment on the tragedy. We go immediately to the scene of the shooting for on-the-spot coverage.”

  “Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.” Atwah boomed a hearty laugh and then switched off the TV. He turned to Sheba, interrupting her task.

  She was giddy with excitement as Atwah pulled her close and slipped his hand under her blouse. His bearded chin prickled hers as he put his mouth on her fresh young lips and guided his serpent-like tongue into her mouth.

  Chapter 63

  Sunday, April 27, 2014

  The Chapters of the Fathers teaches us, “The world is built of three things: study, worship, and deeds of loving kindness.” But a house of worship is built of stone, steel, and stained glass. Despite its location near Central Park in Manhattan, Temple Emanu-El resembles the great cathedrals of Europe, with massive limestone walls decorated in Romanesque detail. The ceiling is one hundred and three feet tall with a wheel-like window set high above the front entrance. Stone lions atop tall columns bordering the window symbolically guard the temple. Three sets of artisan-crafted bronze entrance doors bear the symbols of the twelve tribes of Israel. Once beyond the entrance, you are engulfed within the massive sanctuary, which is one hundred forty-seven feet deep and seventy-seven feet wide. Straight ahead on the eastern wall is the main center of worship. Like most Jewish temples built in the Western world, the main center of worship is set to the east so that all of the congregants can sit with their eyes facing toward Jerusalem, the holy place of Judaism. The temple seats twenty-five hundred members and is greater in capacity than Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.

  1:45 p.m.

  Several notable congregants entered the sanctuary: the former mayor of New York City, the former governor of New York State, several celebrities, and several captains of industry. Dr. Morris Rothchild sat in the third row with his wife, nestled amongst the other members of Neshamah, two hundred philanthropists who were dedicated to a single cause: the protection and survival of the State of Israel. The word Neshamah means breath, to blow away, and Israel’s enemies are the metaphoric targets of their storm.

  The congregants were not gathered to observe the Sabbath or the celebration of a holiday. Rather, they were here to remember, to remember the
millions of Jewish lives squandered by the Nazis during World War II. They were gathered for the annual Holocaust Commemoration.

  The local media was out in force and was having a field day as local celebrities arrived and entered the temple. One by one they were captured by video cameras much in the way that the paparazzi photographed movie stars on the red carpet prior to the Academy Awards presentation.

  2:05 p.m.

  The entrance doors were sealed.

  ~~~

  Sheik Atwah had locked the doors to his media room and instructed his staff that he was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. His only companions for the event were his Turkish cigarettes, a bottle of Corzo Anejo tequila, and his eighty-inch ultra-hi def television.

  He was watching a live stream from one of his people who was disguised as a news cameraman and was providing coverage of the commemoration event from outside the temple. He laughed when Michael Bloomberg got out of his limousine and entered the temple with his family. He laughed twice as hard when Eliot Spitzer entered just moments after Bloomberg. “Who else?” His eyes glowed. “The chairman of Bear Sterns, the president of CNN … Lovely. Who else? Who else?” His delight grew with every notable face he recognized.

  He checked his platinum, diamond-encrusted Rolex. 2:23 p.m. Soon, he mused, very soon. He kicked off his slippers and tucked his feet under his legs to get comfortable on the sofa while he stroked his beard. He was still stroking his brittle gray chin whiskers when the sound of the first discharged grenade split the air and crashed through the temple’s enormous stained-glass façade. Bystanders cried out and ran for cover as a second and third grenade whizzed through the air, following the first through the stained-glass window, shattering and desecrating the holy shrine.

  The entrance doors burst open as congregants fled the temple. The scene quickly turned to bedlam. In their panic to escape, they pushed and shoved and fell on top of one another. Dozens of New York City police officers had been assigned to cover the sensitive event. Several hurried to assist the escaping worshippers. The air filled with the sounds of urgency and panic. Police cars sped in the direction the discharging rounds were coming from.

  Atwah grew so excited that he grabbed his foot and twisted it. He screamed out with joy when he saw a worshipper clutch his throat and collapse. Others followed, gasping and falling as grenades continued to whiz through the air and breach the stained glass.

  The stained-glass façade had been completely destroyed and yet the barrage of grenades continued. They flew through the clouds of white gas that spewed from where the ornate window had once been, and through the now open entrance doors.

  “Fantastic!” He clapped his hands, applauding the chaos and devastation. “The who’s who of Jews are no more.” He smiled at his impromptu rhyme. “Their money is no more.”

  It was too early for afternoon prayers, but he could not resist the opportunity to drop onto his sajada and offer a blessing to Allah. He continued to watch the TV screen while he prayed. Tactical police units and emergency vehicles arrived on 5th Avenue and 65th Street. The area in front of the temple was filled with sick people screaming, coughing, and gagging for air. Atwah was delighted when he saw the first policeman succumb to the gas and collapse. He had spent in excess of a million dollars on his home theater system. The components were the best money could buy: powerful Krell amplifiers and massive Wilson speakers. The sound of the assault was so loud and vivid that he felt as if he were there on the street along with his cameraman and spectators watching the destruction of the temple as it took place. The boom of the grenade explosions pounded his chest, and the screams of the stricken reverberated in his ears.

  A final grenade whizzed through the air. The assault had stopped, but the tragedy and misery continued unabated.

  “I do this for you, Allah. I do this for the Muslim world.”

  He was still marveling over the disaster when he opened his laptop and transferred the second and final payment of five million dollars from his numbered Swiss account to the mercenary’s account. “Money well spent,” he cooed.

  He jumped when he heard the sound of gunfire and turned back to the TV screen for an update. He saw police and SWAT officers running into Central Park and the sound of their discharging weapons. He was proud of himself for masterminding the extinction of the elite Jewish community in New York City and for choking off the flow of money to the Israeli defense fund. “I will be a hero regarded almost as highly as Allah himself.” He was already thinking ahead to the celebration he’d throw for himself that evening when he heard additional shots being fired. It sounds so real. He checked the TV screen to catch up on the action but couldn’t see weapons being fired. He was befuddled and disoriented when a team of FBI black ops agents crashed through the door of his media room. He cowered before the onslaught of armed law enforcement agents and fell to his knees. This time he was not facing Mecca.

  ~~~

  I stepped through the crowd of officers and pointed my assault rifle at Atwah’s head as the other agents cuffed him and took him into custody. He was face down on the floor, his nose ground into the carpet beneath Bill Wallace’s boot.

  “You’re too late,” he spat with contempt. “As always, America is too late.”

  I sneered at him and pressed the muzzle of my gun against his face. “No, we’re not, you stinking asshole! We’re right on time.”

  ~~~

  Sunday, April 27th, 2:30 a.m. Approximately twelve hours earlier.

  Atwah had finally retired for the night, drunk, every last ounce of lust squeezed from him by his harem wives. It was only after going to bed for the night that he allowed his personal quarters to be serviced and stocked for the next day.

  A supply boat had been anchored in the water adjacent to the Al-Atwah, waiting for permission to carry supplies aboard the luxury yacht.

  3:00 a.m.

  I rolled a service cart into Atwah’s media room and began restocking the bar. The instructions were explicit, anything opened was to be removed and replaced with a fresh bottle—half empty … gone. Two fingers light … gone. Seal cracked but bottle full … gone. I checked each and every bottle of premium hooch and replaced it with a new, sealed bottle of premium whiskey. Grey Goose, Cristal, Patron—Atwah didn’t imbibe a sip of alcohol that wasn’t the absolute best that money could buy.

  The room had yet to be cleaned. A glass table was filthy with cocaine and rolled US hundred dollar bills. I photographed everything before locating the wireless router that fed the signal to the big-screen TV and his personal laptop. I connected an interface between the router and the Ethernet cable, which fed the signal from the radar dish mounted above the bridge. It only took a moment, and then I was gone.

  ~~~

  We brought Atwah above deck, dragging him on his knees. He shielded his eyes against the violent wind being generated by two FBI choppers as they broke through the cloud cover and hovered on either side of the yacht like two massive, prehistoric birds of prey. The helicopters descended in unison. Marksmen on each of the helicopters had assault rifles trained on him, his staff, and his wives. The chopper blade downdrafts beat the water furiously, turning the surface into violent squalls. The birds were equipped for landing at sea. Their massive pontoons touched down almost simultaneously. Electric winches immediately deployed the anchors, securing the choppers’ tentative positions in the water. Additional special ops officers boarded the ship to assist in taking all personnel into custody.

  “This is an outrage,” Atwah spat as he watched his wives and servants placed under arrest. “I have done nothing. I am a citizen of the United Arab Emirates, and my ship is in international waters.”

  “Really, genius. Are you sure?” I scoffed.

  I turned to Wallace, who was just coming down off the bridge. “Sir, how far are we from Montauk Point? The sheik here claims that his boat is in international waters.”

  Wallace grinned. “Ten point three miles as the crow flies. You’re in US waters, sir
.”

  “That can’t be,” Atwah shouted incredulously. “We were anchored fifteen miles off the coast.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know; maybe you drifted.” I didn’t bother to tell Atwah that while I was in his media room compromising his wireless router, Wallace was replenishing the crew’s refrigerator on the bridge and had uploaded a virus into the navigation system. The crew must’ve been shocked when they noticed that they were twenty miles from shore instead of fifteen, and cruised five miles inland to correct their position. We gambled that the captain wouldn’t have the guts to tell the sheik that they had somehow strayed off course, and our gamble paid off.

  “Besides, any rights you had went out the window the minute you transferred five million dollars to the account of Ahmed Kasab Gul, who has already confessed to his role in your terrorist plot to destroy a house of religious worship, the assassination of Israeli Brigadier General Shaul Tasker, and the wanton genocide of twenty-five hundred Temple Emanu-El congregants. I’m afraid that the United States of America considers you an enemy combatant, and as such, you enjoy no rights or protections whatsoever.”

  “What are you talking about?” Atwah asked, his voice still ringing of entitlement.

  “You’re a little slow on the uptake, shit bird, so I’ll translate: your smelly, camel-riding ass is ours. We monitored the wire transfer from your account to his, proving that you funded a terrorist attack on the United States of America.”

  “Your words mean nothing, woman. I claim the life of every Jew who died today as a victory for LeJ and the Muslim nation.”

  “Yeah, we know all about you, your jihad, and your LeJ terrorist cronies.” I turned to the man who was making his way through the crowd of FBI ops agents. “Don’t we, Ben?”