Morris and Chastain Investigations: Play With Fire & Midnight at the Oasis

by Justin Gustainis

  A ruler was duly found. Libby held the pendulum over the Detroit area now, and set it swinging.

  A moment later, she said, “Mark it.” Colleen leaned carefully in with the ruler and grease pencil. “Got it,” she said.

  “Okay, Dale,” Libby said. “Let’s rotate the computer a little – about thirty degrees, or so.”

  Fenton turned the computer slightly to the right and then held it in place.

  “Mark it,” Libby said, a few seconds later. “Good. Now turn it another thirty degrees.”

  Once six intersecting lines had been drawn, the three of them peered at the screen.

  “Dearborn,” Colleen said. “Well, I can’t say that I’m surprised.”

  “Isn’t that the town with, like, the greatest concentration of Arabs in the country?” Libby asked.

  “That’s the one,” Fenton told her. “Can you say, ‘protective coloration,’ boys and girls?”

  “All right, then,” Libby said. “Let’s see if we can find us a city map of Dearborn online.”

  Forty

  THE MOON HAD just risen over the cornfields as Peters slowly drove the rental car toward the turnoff on Route 25 that led to the North American home of the Knights Templar.

  “Outside Toledo” covers a lot of territory, and it had taken Ashley and Peters almost a week to pinpoint the location. Ironically, they had done it with publicly available satellite photo images. The Knights were not the only ones who could use Google Maps and Bing.

  “I still don’t like the idea of you going in there alone,” Peters said.

  “What do you imagine is going to happen to me?” Ashley said, a trifle impatiently. “I’m going to be invisible, remember? And you might also bear in mind that I am Ashur Badaktu, Demon of the Fourth Rank, former resident of the bowels of Hell.”

  “Yeah, but these guys are all priests, as well as being killers,” Peters said.

  “So what? Do you think I’m going to cower in front of a fucking priest, like a vampire in some old horror movie?”

  “No, it’s just that –”

  “Remember Finlay – the guy we worked with in New York last year? He was a priest, too. Shit, he was a damn exorcist. But I bothered him a hell of a lot more than he bothered me – especially when I let him take a quick look at my true nature. You saw it – you were there.”

  “Yeah, I know. I know.”

  “Anyway, this is just a reconnaissance operation, sweet pea. Considering the power that Solomon’s Seal is supposed to have over demons, I shouldn’t have any trouble sniffing it out. I’ll slip in, find out where they keep it, and sneak back out again. Then we’ll put our heads together and figure out the best way for me to go back and swipe the damn thing.”

  “Okay, sure, whatever.”

  “When we get to the turnoff, don’t come to a complete stop. Just slow down to about twenty, and I’ll jump out. No sense in calling attention to the car. I’ll be waiting in the same spot at 5:00.”

  “Just be careful in there, okay?”

  She turned in her seat and looked at him. “Peters, you’re not getting all mushy about me, are you? A demon from Hell?”

  “Well, aren’t we here because you’re getting all mushy about Libby? You, Ashur Badaktu – a fucking demon from fucking Hell?”

  She turned away and faced front again. “Peters?”

  “Yes, Ashley?”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Yes, Ashley.”

  Forty-One

  THE MAN THEY were looking for lived in a third-floor apartment at 288 Leonard Street in Dearborn, out near the highway. Although Libby had been able to pinpoint the building in which the janbia’s owner now stayed, she had been unable to determine the specific apartment number. Magic will only take you so far.

  A conversation with the landlady, Mrs. Shadid, had solved that problem. There had been only four new rentals in that building over the past year, she’d told the FBI agents. Three had been to families with children. Only one had been to a single male – one Sofian Zakkout, a man in his late twenties. Mister Zakkout, whose English was halting, according to his landlady, had claimed to be a recent immigrant from Yemen. He kept to himself, paid his rent on time, and didn’t cause trouble. More than that, Mrs. Shadid didn’t know, or want to know.

  Any doubts that Agents Fenton and O’Donnell might have had about whether they had found the right apartment were erased when a phone call to INS determined that no immigrant named Sofian Zakkout had entered the United States legally anytime in the past three years.

  Now they had the name (probably an alias) and address of the man who had almost certainly left the dagger behind at Noah’s Lost Ark.

  Fenton and O’Donnell had a name and address. What they did not have was probable cause for an arrest, or even a search warrant.

  There had been fingerprints on the janbia all right, but they had not matched any of the seventy million sets on file with IAFIS, the Bureau’s automated fingerprint ID system. There was probably some DNA material on the knife, as well – but Fenton and O’Donnell had nothing of Zakkout’s to match it to.

  Claiming to a judge that Sofian Zakkout had been identified as a felony suspect based on witchcraft (even of the white variety) was likely to be unpersuasive – even in post-9/11 America, where civil liberties were being accorded somewhat less consideration than they had formerly enjoyed.

  But officers of the law did not need probable cause to question someone about his possible knowledge of a crime. A conversation with the man known as Sofian Zakkout could well be fruitful, especially with FBI “consultant” Libby Chastain sitting in to determine whether Zakkout was speaking truthfully. If nothing else, the FBI’s attention might panic the man, or his associates, into doing something stupid – something that would provide probable cause for a search or arrest.

  Mrs. Shadid had said she believed that Zakkout worked during the day, so the two FBI agents and their “consultant” called on him at 5:50 that evening – or, rather, they tried to. Mister Zakkout was not home, or at least was not answering the door.

  After getting no response to his repeated knocking, Fenton sighed and nodded at his partner. Colleen had prepared the proper spell in advance; a few seconds later the door to Zakkout’s apartment clicked open. What they were about to do constituted illegal entry, and anything the agents found or learned would not be admissible in a court of law. But they went inside anyway, for the same reason the bear went over the mountain – to see what they could see.

  And what they saw was a whole lot of emptiness. Not only was Sofian Zakkout not at home – the man had apparently left for good, and taken his stuff with him. The apartment wasn’t exactly clean – it seemed that Zakkout had been something of a slob – but there wasn’t anything left behind that mattered.

  “Well, fuck,” Libby said.

  Colleen nodded. “You can say that again, girlfriend.”

  “He didn’t waste any time,” Fenton said. “The bastard was in Ohio just four days ago, and now he’s in the fuckin’ wind.”

  “You know, in the movies,” Colleen said, “this would be the point where the cops find half a bus ticket, or maybe an open phone book with an airline’s number circled.”

  “Could be Zakkout’s seen the same movies,” Fenton said. “But we might as well find out for sure.”

  They split up and went through the apartment, looking for something – anything – that would provide a clue as to where Zakkout had gone. They were about to call it a night when Colleen called from the bathroom, “Hey, check this out!”

  Libby and Fenton found her holding a blue toothbrush. “How’d we miss that the first time through?” Fenton said. “And the second?”

  Colleen pointed. “There’s a three-inch gap between the vanity and the wall. See? It must’ve rolled down there, and the dude forgot about it. Shit, I almost missed it myself.”

  Libby took the toothbrush from Colleen and looked at it. “I don’t mean to rain on your parade, kiddo, but it
occurs to me this thing could have fallen down there last year, or five years ago. Just because we found it today doesn’t mean it belongs to the guy who lived here yesterday.”

  “That crossed my mind, too,” Colleen said, but she was smiling as she did. “Run your finger over the bristles, slowly.”

  Libby did as directed, and she began to smile, too. “Still moist.” Then the smile melted. “Unless he just spilled some water over the edge of the sink, or there’s a leak from the base of the vanity...”

  “I thought of that, and checked,” Colleen said. “It’s dry as a bone down there.”

  “Maybe I’m being slow,” Fenton said, “but I don’t see what the excitement’s all about. Even if that thing is covered with the guy’s fingerprints and DNA material, it’s still the fruit of an illegal search. It’s useless as evidence.”

  “As evidence, yes,” Libby said, weighing the toothbrush in her hand. “But still not entirely useless.”

  “Okay, stop dragging it out,” Fenton said. “Get to the punchline, so I can stop feeling stupid.”

  “As far as belongings go, you can’t get much more personal than a toothbrush, can you?” Libby said.

  Fenton’s eyebrows went up as he figured out where she was going.

  “That’s right, Dale,” Colleen said. “For us, it’s as good as the knife, probably better.” She looked toward Libby. “If she can find the bastard once, she can find him again.”

  “Hell,” Fenton said, “this sucker’s better than a bus ticket.”

  Forty-Two

  ASHLEY SQUINTED AT her watch. It was just past 2:00 a.m.

  “It ought to be a piece of cake,” she said.

  “Uh-huh. I think that expression is indexed in Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations,” Peters said.

  “Is it?”

  “Yeah – under ‘Custer, George A.’”

  Their rental car was parked on some high ground that overlooked the Knights Templar complex from about a mile away. The trunk contained a couple of items that the folks at Avis would not have considered standard equipment, including two black market RPG launchers that Peters had purchased the day before from an Ohio gun nut he’d become friendly with online.

  “I met Custer in Hell,” Ashley said. “He was an asshole there, too. Still couldn’t figure out what he’d done wrong at Little Big Horn.”

  “The mistake he made was attacking a vastly superior force,” Peters said. “Kind of like what we’re about to do.”

  “We’re not attacking anybody, dummy. This is subterfuge – like a commando raid.”

  “And commandos never get captured or killed,” he said. “That’s never been known to happen.”

  “Peters –”

  “Are you sure you can’t just carry the damn Seal out while you’re invisible?”

  “I’d be invisible, but the Seal wouldn’t – I already explained that. Having a chunk of the Great Seal of Solomon floating through the air, apparently under its own power, would draw the kind of attention we don’t want.”

  “And what we’re gonna do won’t draw attention – much,” Peters said.

  “It will draw attention where we want it to go. That’s called misdirection.”

  “Misdirection. Right.”

  “I go in invisible, and half an hour later you blow a hole in the rear fence with one of the rocket launchers. Everybody runs to the hole, expecting an attack, but none comes. Then you hit the front gate with the other rocket launcher. The Knights decide that’s the main attack and run to the gate, leaving me and the Seal to go out through the hole in the fence.”

  “They’ll leave guards at the fence, honey. These guys aren’t stupid.”

  “Then I give the guards a look at my true nature, they fall to the ground screaming, and I just keep on truckin’.”

  “It’s a great plan, Ashley. There’s only about twelve things that can go – what the fuck is that?”

  A stream of fire had appeared in the night sky, shooting downward. Whatever that was, Peters was damn sure it wasn’t lightning. Almost immediately, the quiet around them was shattered, as a huge explosion came from inside the Knights Templar compound. While Peters and Ashley watched, dumbfounded, it happened again – a streak of incandescence from above and an eruption of smoke and fire, with the roar of its detonation reaching them a second later.

  Then quiet returned to the car – Ashley and Peters were too far away from the Knights’ compound to hear any screams or sounds of burning.

  After a few seconds, Ashley said, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say we just witnessed the Wrath of You-Know-Who. But I’m reasonably certain that He doesn’t work that way, anymore.”

  “No, not since Sodom and Gomorrah,” Peters said. “But I figure it’s the next best – or worst – thing: the wrath of the CIA.”

  “You think?”

  “I’ve been catching up with the developments in covert warfare technology that occurred while I was... away. You never know when the knowledge will come in handy. And I’m pretty sure we just saw a Predator drone firing a couple of Hellfire missiles right into the lap of the Knights Templar.”

  “I saw in the Times that the government had started to use drones domestically, but it’s supposed to be just for surveillance,” she said.

  “Looks like at least one of them’s been equipped for more than reconnaissance, doesn’t it?”

  “I guess the Knights made a miscalculation, based on what Libby told me,” Ashley said. “They figured the CIA wouldn’t be interested in payback for that raid, and that the spooks couldn’t find the Knights even if revenge was on the agenda.”

  “Uh-huh. Sounds like a good example of what the gamer dudes call an epic fail.”

  “Oh, that concept is lots older than videogames,” Ashley said. “‘Pride goeth before destruction, and haughtiness before a fall.’ Proverbs 16:18.”

  “It still cracks me up that you read the Bible,” he said.

  “We all have our little vices, Peters.”

  They sat silent for a while and watched the flames down below.

  “Well,” Peters said, “this changes everything.”

  “It sure as shit does,” Ashley said. “But not necessarily for the worse.”

  Forty-Three

  “GOT HIM!” LIBBY Chastain said.

  In her room at the Dearborn Holiday Inn, Libby, with Felton and Colleen’s help, had been searching digital maps for the elusive Sofian Zakkout. The map of Michigan had failed to yield any joy; Zakkout, it seemed, had left the state. Libby had then checked Indiana – nothing. Illinois – nothing. Ohio – nothing. But the passage of the pendulum over the map of Pennsylvania had produced that familiar tingle that told Libby she was on to something promising.

  “Grab the grease pencil,” Libby told Colleen. “Ready? Mark it.”

  The six converging lines that eventually appeared on the monitor came together just off Interstate Route 80, at Lewisberg.

  “Lewisberg?” Fenton said. “What the fuck’s in Lewisberg – another zoo?”

  “There’s got to be some closer than Lewisberg,” Libby said. “Pittsburgh’s got a big zoo – I know that.”

  “Maybe if we can find out just where in Lewisberg he is,” Colleen said, “we can figure out what the fuck he’s doing there.”

  “Okay,” Libby said. “Back to work, kids. We need a map of the city.”

  Using an online map of Lewisberg, Libby was able to pinpoint Sofian Zakkout’s location to the part of town closest to the interstate – but that was as far as the map could take them.

  “Satellite images,” Libby said. “Now that we know what part of town he’s in, I might be able to pinpoint the building, if we can get a clear satellite picture.”

  It took them nearly an hour to find a satellite photo of northern Lewisberg. That allowed Libby to identify the building where Sofian Zakkout was staying, but it didn’t show what the building was.

  Twenty minutes later, they found a shot that allowed them to see written o
n the building, in big letters, “Hampton Inn.”

  “Okay, so the dude got himself a hotel room for the night,” Fenton said, and checked his watch. “It’s just after ten. He’s probably in his room, eating room service and watching porn flicks on the pay-per-view.”

  “Which means he’s having more fun than we are,” Libby said.

  Colleen was staring into space. “What?” Fenton asked her.

  “Let’s get this computer right-side up again, and look up the phone number for that Hampton Inn,” she said. “I’d use 411 on my phone, but I don’t know the area code out there. The computer’s quicker.”

  Google gave them the hotel’s website. Colleen clicked on it, and soon had the phone number.

  “What are you gonna do?” Fenton asked. “Call the guy?”

  “Gonna try,” she said, and picked up her phone. While the call went through, she riffled through the pages of her notebook.

  “Hi,” she said into the phone. “Could you please ring the room of Mister Sofian Zakkout?” She checked her notes. “That’s Z-A-K-K-O-U-T.” A few seconds went by, then she said, “Really? Okay, thanks, anyway.”

  Ending the call, she told Fenton and Libby, “Nobody by that name registered. And if he checked out, I’m pretty sure they would have said so.”

  “What if they’d put the call through, and the guy answered?” Fenton asked.

  Colleen shrugged. “So sorry. Wrong number.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a big deal,” Libby said. “Just means he’s using another alias.”

  Colleen sat on the edge of the bed. “Maybe – but why would he? The guy’s got no reason to believe his current ID is compromised. He sure as hell doesn’t know we’re looking for him.”

  “So, what’re you saying?” Fenton asked her. “That Libby messed up and picked the wrong building?”

  “Possible, but in due deference to the abilities of my Sister witch here” – she nodded toward Libby – “I don’t think it’s likely. Another possibility is the one Libby just raised. Even if he doesn’t know we’re on his trail, he might have gone to a new alias, simply as a matter of security. Maybe it’s standard procedure for his cell.”