Terrorist: Three Book Boxed Set

by Phillip Strang

‘What do we have on Shafik?’ Darius asked, feeling better after Michael Lincoln had dispatched Mustafa Hafiz with no casualties.

  ‘There’s a report of a couple to the north of the park who failed to arrive at their daughter’s house,’ replied Bill Hammond. ‘It may or may not be related. We’ve got the local police out in force checking, and we’re sending some of our boys up, as well. If he’s still up near the forest, then there’s not much he can do, although he probably secured a ride. Our troubles are not over yet.’

  Michael Lincoln isolated himself out on Jones Beach, out past JFK. The CIA had wanted to put him into an isolation cell. However, after his dramatic dispatching of the terrorist and the saving of thousands of lives, he had been granted permission to stay in a remote house not far from the beach. There, he would continue helping as he could, although he was feeling unwell, and his back was aching.

  He had grown up surrounded by concrete. He was determined to die on his own by the sea. It was ironic that, for all his arrogance and his tall stories about being descended from a long-dead president, he, at last, had something to boast about. Via a Skype video link, the Director of the Central Intelligence Authority bestowed upon him the Distinguished Intelligence Cross, its highest award. From the President of the United States of America, the Presidential Medal of Freedom.

  Shafik was relaxing on the bed in the Hotel Riviera on Clinton Avenue in Newark when Michael Lincoln received his award from a grateful President. He had used the name of Emerson Castro, his old landlord on checking in. Not the most original, he had thought afterwards, but it was too late. Besides, why would anyone have been looking for that name?

  He wasn’t to know, but his landlord had succumbed two days earlier from the spray to his face, not that it would have concerned him.

  It was to be a week, a slow week before he felt safe enough to venture further than the local McDonald’s to buy a cheeseburger. The Lebanese restaurant three blocks away tempted him, but an Arab, who did not look like an Arab might raise suspicions.

  Endless repeats of inane soap operas on the television and the minibar, but not the alcohol, kept him occupied. He was on jihad; a pure mind was demanded. The strip joint, with its no doubt willing women across the road, was off the agenda.

  ***

  Seven days after Shafik had settled himself into the hotel, a development in the hunt for him occurred. ‘They’ve found a couple of bodies not far from Cross Fork in Pennsylvania,’ Billy Hammond informed Darius.

  ‘Is it the two that were mentioned before?’

  ‘We’ve got the daughter making a positive ID, but yes, it’s almost certainly them. They’ve both been shot, and after so much time they’re looking pretty grim. The local mortician is trying to make them look a bit more presentable before the daughter sees them.’

  ‘Do you have any details on a vehicle?’ asked Darius.

  ‘Yes, it’s a Honda Civic, blue, nineteen eighty-four, registration number JDD 423. How’s Lincoln?’ Hammond asked.

  ‘He’s helping as he can, but he’ll stop answering the phone in a few days. He sure was a pain in the butt, but he came right in the end.’

  ‘He used to irritate me,’ said Hammond, ‘but it’ll be his picture up on the wall when you and I have long drawn our pensions.’

  It was confirmed later that day by the daughter, a fresh-faced woman of forty-three, that it was indeed her parents.

  After hanging up the phone with Bill Hammond, Michael Lincoln phoned in. His call was not unexpected. ‘Darius, what’s the latest on the car?’

  ‘We’ve got an all-points bulletin out. I’ll let you know when I hear something positive.’

  ‘Don’t, please. This is my last call. I just want to climb into bed and sleep. I just called to say goodbye. Sorry, I can’t be there to help you.’

  ‘So are we,’ said Darius. ‘You’ll be missed.’

  ‘Thanks, but I could be a pain in the arse.’ Lincoln managed a weak laugh.

  ‘You were the best at Grand Central and down by the hut. Thanks for saving my life.’ The phone clicked off from Lincoln’s end. Darius sat down for a minute to regain his composure.

  The phone ringing again refocused him. ‘There’s a report of a Honda Civic matching the description in Newark, corner of Elizabeth Avenue and Clifton Street. No sign of Shafik,’ Bill Hammond said.

  ‘Has anyone looked inside yet? Any sign of the sprays?’

  ‘Nothing visible and no one’s willing to open the door in case it’s been booby trapped. We’re sending up a remote control from New York to check it out.’

  ‘How long before it gets there? What are we doing in the meantime?’ Darius asked.

  ‘Our guys are on the way, checking hotels, the usual.’

  ‘Understood, keep me posted. I just hope he doesn’t see us first.’

  ‘That’s a risk we have to take,’ replied Hammond. ‘Besides, there’s not much traffic around. He can only do limited harm today. Once we have confirmation, we’ll put out a general warning, or at least get the Mayor to make a broadcast telling everyone to stay indoors.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll listen?’

  ‘Probably not, but what else can we do?’ Hammond answered a question with a question.

  ‘You’re right. Not a lot more.’

  The remote control vehicle had taken four hours to arrive and conduct a detailed searched of the apparently abandoned Honda Civic. Bill Hammond was quick to pass the news onto Darius.

  ‘The car is clean. They’ve found where Shafik was staying. The hotel reception barely recognised him from our description. It seems as if he has shaved his beard off, done something to his skin. The concierge said he wasn’t as dark as in our photo.’

  ‘Where’s he gone? Has anyone got any ideas?’ Darius asked of a severely worn-out and irritated Hammond. His girlfriend was giving him strife again about how he loved his work more than her. He was going to dump her once he got out of the office, which didn’t look to be anytime soon. She’d seen the news, knew what he was involved with, but she was neurotic and demanding, and he couldn’t be bothered. Besides, there was a beautiful young lady fresh in the office by the name of Anthea, and she had been giving him the eye.

  ‘He could be anywhere. We only have a vague description and no up to date photo. I suggest we focus on the main sporting events, parades that are going ahead regardless of terrorists, bombs, rain, hail or shine.’

  Darius for want of a better suggestion said, ‘We’ll go with your idea.’

  ***

  Hussein Shafik, naturally congenial, had a few days earlier struck up a conversation at the McDonald’s Burger joint just up from the Hotel Riviera. Its name did not belie its tired and depressed look. Both men of a similar age, heavy-set and with strong accents struggled to communicate as they munched into their burgers.

  ‘I’ve been here forty years,’ said Paddy Finnegan. ‘Every year I celebrate St Patrick’s Day, the patron saint of Ireland. County Donegal is where I come from, and every two years I go for a visit. Another few years and I’ll retire there. I bought myself a little cottage and, once I make the last instalment, then I’m off.’

  ‘I come from Russia, but I have no intention of going back,’ Shafik said, although, to Paddy he was Boris. No use telling anyone I’m from Egypt, he thought.

  ‘Why don’t you want to go back, Boris? It’s always good to maintain your roots. It gives you a sense of belonging, of community.’

  ‘It was unpleasant and cold. Besides, here is home now. It’s where my family is.’ Shafik alias Boris felt at ease as he spun a few lies.

  They met up over a few days, the patriotic Irishman and the jihadist, and neither had been completely honest. Shafik was determined on destroying as much as he could of the country he had professed love and patriotism for, while Paddy had no intention of returning to his country of birth. It was the result of an unfortunate incident with a fifteen-year-old girl when he was in his twenties. She looked older, even told him so, and then
there was the conviction of unlawful carnal knowledge with a minor and the ten-year prison sentence still waiting for him. He had skipped the country using forged papers and worked his passage across the Atlantic on a tramp steamer.

  ‘I’m going down to see the parade in Philadelphia. Do you want to come?’ Paddy had asked two days previous.

  ‘No, thanks, I’ve got something to attend to in New York.’ Shafik still planned to attack JFK.

  Shafik had chosen the Honda Civic’s parking position with care. Diagonally across from where he had parked was an old, red brick building. There, from the roof, he could check the vehicle. It was late afternoon when he saw that it was being watched from a discreet distance by two individuals in a Chevrolet.

  No longer nervous, he was on Allah’s business, he returned to the hotel and, taking his backpack, he casually strolled out of the back entrance. It was six hours later that the CIA found out where he had been staying, but it was too late.

  ‘Paddy, let’s go to Philadelphia, have a few pints of Guinness and a few laughs.’ Shafik decided to take Paddy Finnegan up on his offer.

  ‘Great, pick you up at eight in the morning. Where’s a good spot to find you?’

  ‘I’ll be in the car park on the corner of Market and Broad Street. I sometimes wander up there. I’ll buy you breakfast.’

  ‘Fine, see you then.’

  At close to nine o’clock the next morning they met. Shafik had slept under a bridge down by the river and was looking decidedly the worse for the experience. After breakfast, Paddy was insistent although Shafik wanted to get out of town as soon as possible, they both set off down Highway One: Paddy hopefully for a few drinks; Shafik intent on the deaths of as many people as possible.

  They encountered the roadblock as they turned off Girard Avenue into Broad Street on their arrival in Philadelphia, a city of over one million inhabitants. The road block was unexpected but, with both Paddy and Shafik in green wigs and leprechaun hats, the police soon let them go. They checked Paddy’s license, ignored Shafik entirely.

  The start of the parade was at the corner of JFK Boulevard and 16th Street, but it was still early enough for a few beers at the Irish pub on the corner of 20th and 12th. Shafik did not intend to drink ‒ he was on a holy mission, but with Paddy, it was impossible to avoid.

  ‘It’s only a few drinks. It’ll put us in the mood.’ He was a prodigious drinker and a few drinks to him had little effect, apart from the need to visit the toilet every few minutes. ‘Weak bladder,’ he said. ‘My doctor keeps telling me to ease up, but what’s the point in life if you can’t have a bit of fun?’

  Shafik, matching him drink for drink, was not immune to the alcohol. Distinctly unsteady, he could not afford to indulge in it anymore. He had to get rid of Paddy.

  Chapter 20

  ‘They’re refusing to close it down, terrorists or no terrorists,’ Darius said. ‘Why do you believe it’s there?’

  ‘St. Patrick’s Day – Philadelphia. Where else can it be? It’s the only significant event not cancelled, and they’ve had no smallpox victims reported for weeks. They’re feeling less vulnerable.’ Bill Hammond had checked out all possible locations. Shafik had obviously done a runner from Newark, and it was clear that he would be edgy, anxious to complete his task. JFK had been ruled out as the security was exceptional, and there would be at least a week before it eased.

  ‘You’re right, where else. Security is extremely tight in New York, and Washington is impossible to enter unless you run the gauntlet of the military blockades. We’re working on hunches and guesses again.’

  ‘So far they’ve worked out. We’ll just have to run with this, hope it is right. What time does the parade start? Where would be the best place to spray?’

  ‘We need to get people down there. Our team, are they ready to go, or should we contact the local police?’ Darius asked.

  ‘The local police, it’s out of their league. Contact if you want, but we don’t want to freak the general public. If Shafik’s there and he sees too many police, he’s likely to release it anywhere.’

  ‘Where’s the best place to release, assuming he is there?’ Darius asked.

  ‘That’s a tough question. The Irish get very boisterous and all the pubs full to the brim. He’s got six sprays, could probably do as much damage spraying through them as anywhere else.’ Bill Hammond said. A smart man, his supposition proved to be correct. Shafik had already installed the first of the spray cans in an automatic air freshener in the male restroom at the first of the Irish pubs.

  Paddy was determined to be as drunk as one man could possibly be. The Irish man’s drinking habit would condemn at least two hundred unfortunate drunken revellers to an unpleasant death.

  ***

  With Paddy, a drunken nuisance and unable to lose him, Shafik realised he needed to deal with the situation. The Fado Irish Pub on Locust Street and another couple of Guinness’ inside him, Shafik directed Paddy to an alley just around the block on Latimer. It was there that Paddy was shot with the same pistol that had wounded Darius some weeks earlier. Shafik dumped him in a dumpster bin, his green wig and Leprechaun hat still in place.

  It was Caterina Ferilli’s day off, and she had planned on joining her boyfriend, Daniel Mulroney, at the Irish pub around the corner. Her parents, both from Sicily, had prevailed on her kind, sweet nature to help them out in their delicatessen after her mother, Laura, had tripped over the cat at home and twisted her ankle.

  Daniel, tall, muscular with his shaven head, enjoyed his Irish ancestry as much as Caterina, hers. Her mother would complain as to why she couldn’t find a nice Italian boy, but it was more in jest these days. Daniel always knew how to charm the ladies, ‘a touch of the blarney stone’ as his father would say. Every time he saw her mother, he would joke as to where her sister, Caterina, was.

  She was due to meet up with Daniel in thirty minutes, at least for an hour or so while her father managed the store on his own. Her parents had come to America in the old days, a more conservative time. Whereas they had learnt not to be too judgmental, they were always a little upset when she went and spent the night at Daniel’s place.

  Her not being at the pub when it opened had two significant results, the first being that she had not been affected by the spray, even though it was in the male restroom. However, Daniel had been. Secondly, she would not have lifted the lid of the dumpster bin. She had a few old cardboard boxes to throw away. The bin, she discovered, had a body. In horror, she rushed to her father, quickly phoned Daniel and awaited the police.

  It was the luck that Darius and the team had been waiting for, but not the luck that either Caterina or Daniel needed. He had intended to make an honest woman of her – after all, they had been together for two years. He was planning to do the right thing and go down on one knee and ask for her hand in marriage, and her father for his permission and blessing.

  ‘What do you know about the body?’ asked Darius, who had taken a police helicopter earlier to Philadelphia on Ed Small’s advice.

  ‘There’s a name, Paddy Mulroney. He’s been shot,’ Police Officer Schuster said.

  ‘Do you have an address?’

  ‘Milford Avenue, Newark. It appears current.’

  ‘That’s sounds like the confirmation we need.’

  ‘Confirmation?’ asked the officer. ‘What confirmation?’

  ‘You’re under a terrorist attack. We recommended the parade should have been cancelled, but no one took any notice.’

  ‘There’s not much I can do. I’m just a policeman out on the beat.’

  ‘We know. We contacted your Mayor and the organisers of the parade. In their arrogance, they decided to disregard our advice.’

  Darius turned his attention away from the police officer and focussed on the phone call. ‘Bill, check the name out. See what you can find.’ Darius was relying on Hammond excessively, but he was good with a computer and seemed to find details that others missed.

  ‘I’m already
on it. I’ve found the car details, a late model Hyundai, black, registration WAB 36H.’

  Darius was confident of his facts. He needed a higher authority to enact his requirements, and authority came no higher than the White House. He phoned Ed Small who he knew was there. ‘It’s in Philadelphia.’

  ‘What facts do you have? What can I take to the President?’

  ‘We found a guy, Paddy Mulroney, down from Newark, dead in a dumpster bin. It’s just round the corner from an Irish pub.’

  ‘How does that help us? There are bound to be a few shootings and muggings during the day.’

  ‘They’ve just extracted a bullet from him. It’s a Federal Hydra-Shok Grain Jacketed Hollowpoint, the same type that I took in the shoulder.’

  ‘It could still be coincidental. You can buy them at any gun store.’

  ‘At this moment, it’s all we have. By the time we get detailed proof a few thousand people could be infected.’

  ‘So what do you have?’ Ed said. ‘A body from Newark, a bullet, and a missing idiot bent on destruction?’

  ‘You’re right, but we can’t just let it go and do nothing.’

  ‘I realise that, but we need proof. What about the Irish pub around the corner? Have you checked it out?’

  ‘No, we’re not willing to go in unless Shafik is there. He could have sprayed inside. The body reeked of alcohol.’

  ‘We need someone suitably suited up,’ replied Ed. ‘It is going to cause havoc with the patrons, but we’ll have to do it. Montgomery’s in Washington with me. I can get him on a helicopter in five minutes. Anywhere he can land?’

  ‘There’s a rooftop across the road, a commercial building of some sort. As long as the pilot can make a soft touchdown, it should be alright.’

  ‘He’s on his way out there now,’ replied Ed. ‘Should be thirty minutes, no more. You better get the local police chief on the phone and get his cooperation.’

  ***

  The St Patrick’s Day Parade was scheduled to start in ninety minutes and Police Chief Campbell, already under stress, was in no mood to listen to junior operatives from the CIA telling him to close down a bar. His men were the best in the country; there was no way they would have let anyone through who didn’t show proof of identity.