by Don Brown
"Okay, okay." Chris hesitated. "Dinner for two. Anywhere in the city."
"Anywhere?" A mischievous grin inched across Brad's face.
"Anywhere."
Brad hesitated. "I dunno. That's still asking a lot. My benefits." Another puff. "I need my medical."
"Look, Brad," Chris said, "I don't need Brewer's number. How 'bout this." Brad clasped his hands tepee style under his chin and leaned forward. "How 'bout if we still do the dinner for two, and you just slip me his address."
Brad rolled his eyes to the top of his head, threw his hands in the air, and leaned back. "You do drive a hard bargain." Looking at the ceiling, he pursed his lips into a circle. Perfectly formed O rings of white smoke wafted into the dark. "How 'bout this?"
"What?"
"We're still in for the dinner for two. Okay?"
"Okay."
"And..."
"And what?"
"And I share some very valuable information about Brewer that doesn't get me in trouble with Pac Bell."
"You're playing games." Chris flashed a contrived grin, trying to control his temper. "Why should I trust you?"
Brad beamed. "Trust me. If my information doesn't lead you to Brewer within three weeks, then I reimburse you for dinner. And you don't have to take me out again."
Blood boiled in the back of Chris's neck. "Deal." What choice did he have? "Whatcha got?"
Brad leaned forward, his smiling face within inches of Chris's. "I happen to know where Brewer sometimes goes on Saturdays."
Chris's heart pounded. "Tell me." He touched Brad's hand. "Please."
"Old Town."
"Really? Where?"
"Old Town Mexican Cafe."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure I'm sure. Some of my friends have seen him there. I even saw him once myself. Sometimes has lunch with that McGillvery chick."
"What time?"
"It was about twelve thirty when I saw him."
Chris swallowed hard. "Okay. Okay. I'll try that. Thanks." He drained the Corona. "Here's my card." He slipped a business card across the table. "I know you've gotta get to work. Let me know where you'd like to have dinner."
"But --"
Chris rushed from the dark room, past the host, out the front door of Gabriel's, and onto Fifth Avenue. He gulped in huge breaths of fresh air as if to cleanse himself of the darkness inside.
Then he smiled. What if what Brad said about Zack was true? Then maybe, just maybe, he would get a shot at Zack.
CHAPTER 7
Rue de Clignancourt
Base of Montmartre
Paris
Fadil Abbas aimed his binoculars up the hill and saw orange rays bathing the dome atop Sacre Coeur. Below the dome, the morning sun cast a heavenly glow into the early-morning fog that caressed the base of the cathedral.
Why were such magnificent structures controlled by Catholic infidels who disregarded Mohammed -- peace be upon him -- as the one true prophet? Perhaps to glorify Islam? Yes, that's it. France was home to Europe's largest Islamic population. One in ten Frenchmen now embraced Islam. In Paris, the Muslim ratio was even higher. Muslims in Paris would soon outnumber Catholics, who had controlled the city since long before the days of Napoleon.
"Are you sure she is there, Fadil?"
"Yes, Pierre, I saw her go in the side door. I'm sure of it."
"I hope you are right, Fadil."
Fadil felt for the nine-millimeter Beretta jammed in the back of his black jeans. If he was wrong, he would use the Beretta against his own skull to avoid the wrath of Hussein al-Akhma.
Outside Courtroom 1
Navy-Marine Corp Trial Judiciary
32nd Street Naval Station
San Diego, California
Court-martial of United States v. Lieutenant Wofford Eckberg, USN
Day 1
Shannon parked the white Taurus in front of the yellow stucco building that served as the military courthouse at the 32nd Street Naval Station. She was sandwiched between two other government vehicles, each carrying two NCIS agents, all assigned to guard her passenger, at least until NCIS determined that any immediate danger to Brewer had subsided. As for Zack, he was sitting beside her in his summer white officer's uniform, studying his notes.
Protecting Zack would be the challenge of her life. Could she remain professional in the face of her growing feelings for him? Should she ask to withdraw from this assignment?
Excuse me, Barry, but I don't think I can guard Zack. You see, there are these, well, feelings I can't really explain...
Imagine that. The top special agent in the NCIS, as Barry had called her, wimping out over something like this. Such a confession would make her the laughingstock of the NCIS.
Besides, a lot of women had a thing for Zack. Even People magazine said so, right?
She should sue People. The article had linked them together. And Zack had seemed friendlier after the article came out. That was when she noticed her feelings toward him had changed. She blushed like a schoolgirl just thinking about it.
Was her mind playing tricks? What did Zack think?
Get hold of yourself, Shannon!
"We're here, Matlock." She shifted the car into park.
"You're too young to remember Matlock." He looked up from his legal pad and smiled, flashing that irresistible dimple in her direction. He checked his watch. "Fifteen minutes early today. How could I ever question the efficiency of the Naval Criminal Investigative Ser vice?"
"Wal-Mart."
"Excuse me?"
"Wal-Mart. I bought some old Matlock DVDs." She scanned the outer area of the courthouse just as NCIS teams Alpha and Charlie, the agents in the cars to her fore and aft, jogged up the steps to make sure everything was okay. In the inconspicuous earpiece tucked in her left ear, the agents gave an "all clear," indicating that the area was safe for "Matlock," the code name that NCIS had -- unbeknownst to Zack Brewer -- assigned to Zack Brewer. "Any chance this one might settle, Zack?"
"Who knows?" He opened the door but kept his eyes glued on her. It was no wonder he was so deadly in the courtroom. Charisma could take a trial lawyer a long way.
"Wait."
"Can't. Gotta talk to Lieutenant Jacoby about settling. No point pinning a federal conviction on this guy if he's willing to resign."
"You're thinking admin discharge?"
"Why not?"
"Think this guy will admit to homosexual conduct?"
Zack tipped his officer's cap as he stepped out of the car. "Beats a felony on his record, doesn't it?"
"Can you at least wait until we get security in place?"
"No time. Gotta go." He smiled, grabbed his briefcase, and, flanked by two U.S. Marines, strode through the front doors of the military courthouse.
Main gate
32nd Street Naval Station
San Diego, California
The white panel truck with "Aqua Pacific Water Products" painted on the side turned right off Harbor Drive onto 32nd Street.
A U.S. Marine with a black M16 slung over his shoulder gestured for the truck to halt. With his other hand, he pointed to a parking area just to the left of the main gate of the naval station.
"Pull over here, please, sir," the marine ordered.
Mohammed's heart jumped. He had been assured that his paperwork was in order and that he could enter the base unimpeded. A greater cause depended upon the success of his mission.
And now this.
"Identification, please, sir," the marine snapped in a stentorian voice.
With his foot, Mohammed Khadiija shoved the gun under the seat. Without speaking, he handed his identification papers to the marine.
"State your business, Mr. --"
"My company has a contract with the Navy Exchange for beverage deliveries to the exchange and several other buildings around base."
"Nice panel truck you got there, Mr. --"
"Khadiija."
"Khadiija," the marine parroted. "Mind if my buddy and I have
a look?"
"Feel free."
"Mind stepping out, Mr. Khadiija?"
"No problem."
Mohammed stepped out of the white panel truck into the warm California morning sunshine. His organization had spent a considerable amount of bribe money to procure for him one of those very rare concealed carry permits issued by the San Diego County Sheriff's Department, but that permit did not extend to federal property. Of course, he was not yet on federal property.
"Want to step around the back and open the back doors, sir?"
"With pleasure."
Mohammed followed the marines around the back of the truck and swung open the back doors. Two rows of crates rose from floor to ceiling, each containing a dozen clear plastic bottles. One of the marines stuck his head in the back of the truck.
"Looks like water to me," the marine said. "Okay, sir, you're free to pass."
Mohammed tried not to look anxious as he got behind the wheel. He pressed the accelerator and waved at the stone-faced marine. Two minutes later, the white panel truck rumbled inside the barbed wires of the naval station.
Courtroom 1, Building 1
Navy-Marine Corp Trial Judiciary
32nd Street Naval Station
San Diego, California
Court-martial of United States v. Lieutenant Wofford Eckberg, USN
Day 1
Shannon slipped into the side door of Courtroom 1, just behind the prosecution table. Captain Reeves hadn't yet arrived. Zack, Lieutenant Jacoby, and the defendant, Ensign Eckberg, were decked in their smart-looking summer white uniforms.
Other than a few witnesses and two NCIS agents just behind Zack, the courtroom was empty. Good.
Still, she wanted more agents around covering the perimeter. But conventional NCIS doctrine held that inside the naval station, the threat level was diminished because the whole place was surrounded by barbed wire and water.
And the armed marine sentries posted at the entrances to the courthouse would, at least in theory, deter anyone not authorized to enter the building.
She sat behind Zack, then felt for the nine-millimeter Beretta under her blouse.
"All rise!" Legalman Senior Chief Fred Gimler, the military clerk of court, called out. Judge Reeves, wearing the summer white uniform of a U.S. Navy captain, complete with black felt shoulder boards with four gold stripes, walked into the courtroom and sat in the black leather swivel chair behind the bench.
Mohammed turned left for a good show, toward the Navy Exchange. He glanced in the rearview mirror. The reflection showed that the marines had stopped yet another vendor. When they disappeared from view, he turned right, heading straight down to the waterfront where a huge gray ship was moored on a large pier.
Concrete barricades about three feet high were positioned at the end of the pier, blocking vehicular access to the ship. On each side of the barricade, more marines stood guard like stone men.
Behind the marines, blue-dungareed sailors with "Dixie" caps and officers in khaki uniforms moved up and down a ramp from the pier to the ship. On the other side, attached to the railing where the sailors were walking, was a white bunting marked USS Ticonderoga (CG 47) in blue lettering.
Anger boiled under his breastbone. This was a navy that stood for discrimination. The likes of Mohammed Khadiija would never be welcome here.
As he turned right on the street paralleling the waterfront, he saw two other mammoth concrete piers jutting into the bay on his left. In the stop-and-go traffic along the busy naval station waterfront, he inched by the massive bows of several other gray warships -- sleek, triangular steel wedges hovering out of the water and casting long, triangular shadows over the panel truck.
A group of sailors stepped across the road just in front of him, their sea bags bouncing over their shoulders. Mohammed braked and glanced over his left shoulder. More buntings led upward to more warships, including the USS Yorktown (CG 48) and USS Valley Forge (CG 50).
The blast of a horn from the Humvee behind him brought Mohammed's foot off the brake. The panel truck rolled forward, turned right at the next stop sign, and eased down a narrow asphalt alleyway between two buildings. The back of Building 1, the military courthouse, was right in front of him.
Two marines guarded the back entrance of the building as Mohammed brought the Aqua Pacific Water Products truck alongside the curb just across the street. He stepped out and, eyeing the marines, walked to the back of the truck and opened the swinging rear doors. He felt for the pistol crammed in his back waistband, then slid a crate of bottled water into his arms. Cradling it, he walked toward the steps leading to the back entrance. He estimated he was about fifty feet away.
He had been told by the regular driver that metal detectors were not used at the entrances of the military courthouse. He needed only to slip past the two marines and reach his target.
CHAPTER 8
Near the west entrance of Basilique du Sacre Coeur
Rue de Chevalier
Montmartre, Paris
Fadil lifted the binoculars to his eyes and studied the movement of people entering and exiting the cathedral. He was seated in a black Renault parked on rue du Mont Cenis just around the corner from the back of Sacre Coeur. Ghazi Jawad, another Council of Ishmael operative, sat beside him in the backseat. The driver, Salah Abdul-Alim, sat in the front alone. All three carried nine-millimeter Glock pistols and Uzi submachine guns.
Fadil considered his predicament. Twice, earlier in the day, he had taken calls from Abdur Rahman, the number two man in the Council of Ishmael. He was also Hussein al-Akhma's most trusted lieutenant. Rahman, considered a genius and the financial mastermind behind the world's foremost terrorist organization, had been diplomatic in his approach.
But the call that had come twenty minutes ago was not so diplomatic. Fadil's stomach had knotted when he was told to hold for a call from the great Hussein al-Akhma himself.
"Can you give absolute assurance that L'Enfant is in the building?" the leader had screamed in an angry pitch.
"Yes, Leader, I am sure she is there," Fadil had lied.
"You had better hope that is right, Fadil. Because I hold you responsible for letting her slip away. Produce her within forty-eight hours, or you will be replaced "-- he drew out the word in a sinister tone -- "as ground leader of this operation. Do I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly clear," Fadil had said just as the line went dead. Indeed, al-Akhma's intentions were not ambiguous. The leader of the Council of Ishmael had just signed his death warrant. Within forty-eight hours, COI operatives would track him down, anywhere in the world, with the single-minded purpose of slitting his throat.
Still, Fadil had no option but to wait. He could not storm the building and go looking for L'Enfant. The building was too large. L'Enfant could be anywhere in it. That would alert the gendarmerie, leading to a potential standoff with elements of the French police who were not sympathetic with the council.
Council of Ishmael operatives, under his command, watched Sacre Coeur from every direction. In forty-eight hours they would become his assassins.
Rear entrance of Basilique du Sacre Coeur
Rue de Chevalier
Montmartre, Paris
Jeanette and Father Robert slipped down the narrow, twisting marble stairway in the rear of Sacre Coeur.
Their steps echoed into the heights of the cathedral, startling a nest of pigeons somewhere in the rafters.
When they reached the base, Robert, in black clerical garb, stopped and uttered a prayer of protection for what they were about to do.
"Our Father, who art in heaven, grant your divine protection for the journey we are about to take. Wherever that journey may lead, we beseech your safety in reaching our destination. And for the papers we carry, may they, Father, be given into the proper hands, and may your will, your mercy, and your justice prevail. In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, who died for us, and whom you resurrected from the grave. Amen."
He made the sign of the cro
ss, then pushed open the large wooden back door. They stepped into the late-afternoon sunlight toward the green Peugeot waiting on rue de Chevalier.
Jeanette felt awkward -- almost sacrilegious -- wearing the black garb of a Catholic nun. Her life was anything but pure. Yet somehow Sacre Coeur had been a spiritual sanctuary for her. It was as if the Spirit of God himself had been there with her.
The feeling evaporated when Father Robert guided her with his hand on her elbow to the backseat of the Peugeot. He jogged around to the opposite side, opened the door, and tossed his briefcase onto the seat between them.
"Allez! Maintenant!" Go! Now! Robert commanded the driver. The Peugeot lurched forward along rue de Chevalier, passing the green vegetation and white daffodils growing in Parc de la Turlure, just behind the great cathedral. A moment later they made a hard right onto rue Ramey, the centrifugal forces nearly slinging Jeanette from her seat.
By the time she recovered, the Peugeot merged from rue Ramey onto southbound rue de Clignancourt and sped down the hill, away from Sacre Coeur.
Fadil lit another cigarette when his cell phone rang again. His stomach knotted. He flicked the cigarette out the window and silently prayed to Allah that the caller was not Hussein al-Akhma again.
"Abbas here," he said.
"Fadil! Fadil!" The call was from a lookout posted in Parc de la Turlure.
"What is it?"
"A Catholic priest just got into a car and sped off. A woman was with him."
"Her description?"
"Red hair, Fadil. Wearing the dress of a Catholic nun."
"L'Enfant does not have red hair."
"She resembled L'Enfant. Similar facial and body features."
Fadil froze for a split second.
"Tag number?"
"8947747."
"Which way?"
"Right on rue Ramey."
"Stay here," Fadil ordered. "Keep sentries posted around the building in case we are wrong."