Black Ops #1

by William W. Johnstone

  “One can always use a few extra dollars,” Nighthorse replied with a chuckle. “By the way, my friends call me Temple, and I hope you like lamb.”

  “I love lamb.”

  “Good,” Nighthorse said. “Because that’s what we are having for dinner.”

  Nighthorse was wearing a long white jacket, but he removed it to show that, beneath it, he was wearing the army green summer uniform. The summer uniform looked like the winter uniform, except it was made of lighter material, and in this case he was wearing a light green short-sleeve shirt instead of the full blouse.

  “Do you always bring your own meals when you call on someone?”

  “Only if I don’t trust them to serve lamb,” Nighthorse said. He put the two dishes on a table, then lifted the silver tray covers, revealing the thickly cut lamb chops, roasted potatoes, and green peas.

  “Looks good,” Art said.

  “Looks good? That’s like saying Niagara Falls looks like a leak,” Nighthorse said as he sat down to the meal. Looking up, he saw that Art was still standing there, still holding a towel over his hands.

  “Are you going to stand there holding that gun all night? Or are you going to join me?” Nighthorse asked.

  “Oh,” Art said, looking down at his hands. “I’d almost forgotten I was carrying this.”

  He put the pistol down on the bedside table, then joined Nighthorse, who had already taken his first bite. Nighthorse closed his eyes and puckered up in an expression of pure joy.

  “Oh,” Nighthorse said. “I haven’t had lamb this good since my grandmother made it, back on the reservation.”

  “The reservation?”

  “The Rosebud,” Nighthorse said. “I am Oglala. Or at least, my father is. My mother is Irish.”

  “Funny, you don’t look Irish,” Art said.

  Nighthorse looked up in surprise, then laughed. “No, I don’t suppose I do,” he said.

  “Sioux, huh?” Art asked. He too took a bite of the lamb chop. “Oh, you are right, this is good,” he said.

  “Yes, I’m Sioux.”

  “My great-great-grandfather—” Art started, but Nighthorse interrupted him.

  “Was inducted into the Warrior Society,” Nighthorse continued.

  “Yes. How did you know that?”

  “Because my great-great-grandfather, Stone Eagle, was his sponsor and blood brother.”

  Art looked at Nighthorse in surprise. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said.

  “In a way,” Nighthorse said. “I suppose that makes us brothers.”

  “Yeah? Well, some brother you are, the way you prosecuted me.”

  “Let’s just say that was in lieu of making you undergo the ritual of the sun dance.”

  “Wait, the sun dance. Isn’t that where hooks are stuck through your chest and you hang by your skin?” Art asked.

  “Yes.”

  Art chuckled. “I guess I did come out ahead of the game at that,” he said. He stuck his hand across the table. “Brother.”

  “Are you getting all the information you need?” Nighthorse asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And equipment?”

  “Yes.”

  Those were the only two questions Nighthorse asked that were anywhere remotely connected to Art’s situation and position. The rest of the evening the two men just exchanged pleasantries. As it turned out, both were historians, and they spoke of such diverse things as the Civil War, the Indian campaigns, and Vietnam. Both had close relatives who had fought in Vietnam, Art’s father, and Nighthorse’s older brother.

  When Nighthorse left that evening, he left the long white jacket he had worn hanging on the hat rack just inside the door. At first, Art nearly called out to him, but then he realized that the jacket had just been a ruse to allow him to come up to the room without being noticed.

  That was when Art saw an envelope sticking out of the pocket of the white jacket. He retrieved the envelope, opened it, and pulled out a photograph, and a rather lengthy, typewritten page.

  Azoon Jabri Shadloo is employed by the Baldwin County School District, Baldwin County, Alabama. He works in the school bus maintenance department. It is not the first time Shadloo ever had anything to do with a school bus.

  Two months ago in Redha, Qambari Arabia, a school bus carrying American dependent children was destroyed by a remotely detonated bomb. Seven children were killed and four were badly wounded. The driver and the marine guard were also wounded.

  Our investigation has uncovered an overwhelming preponderance of evidence, as well as numerous eyewitness accounts, establishing that the operation was planned, the bomb was placed, and the explosion was detonated by Azoon Jabri Shadloo.

  Despite our presentation of the evidence to the authorities in Qambari Arabia, no action was taken. We then learned that Shadloo was sent to the United States on a diplomatic visa through the Qambari embassy as part of the Trade Council. We lost track of him for a while, but have since located him at the school bus maintenance facility in Bay Minnette, Alabama.

  Art examined the photographs that were included with the report. As usual, there was no mention, anywhere, of what disposition Art was to make of the information he had been provided.

  Bay Minette, Alabama

  It was within a few minutes of quitting time when Art reached the Baldwin County Board of Education transportation facility just off Highway 59. A fenced-in area contained two dozen busses, while half a dozen more buses were inside a large, barnlike building. These were the buses that were undergoing maintenance of some sort.

  The building was noisy with the sound of mechanics at work: hammers striking wheel rims, air-powered wrenches, and idling engines. At least three radios were playing, all on different stations. A couple of the men were carrying on a conversation, but as each was working on his own bus, their dialogue was quite loud. Art heard enough of it to realize they were talking about fishing.

  “Can I help you, sir?” someone asked. Unlike the mechanics, all of whom were wearing coveralls, this man was wearing street clothes.

  “And you are?” Art replied.

  “Tim Moser.”

  “Are you the supervisor, Mr. Moser?”

  “No, I’m the parts clerk. Ed Tracey is the supervisor.”

  “I wonder if I could speak to Mr. Tracey.”

  “Concerning?”

  “My name is Phil Wyman,” Art said, handing Moser one of his cards. “I am with the U.S. Department of Education.”

  “Oh yes, sir. Well, Mr. Tracey isn’t here right now, but if you would care to wait over there, I’ll call him.”

  “Thank you,” Art said.

  As Moser stepped into the office, Art began wandering around the building. He found who he was looking for at the far corner of the building. Shadloo was working under a bus that had been elevated on a lift.

  Looking around, Art saw a door that led out of the building. The door was located behind a shelf of tires, and a network of spiderwebs indicated that it was rarely opened. Taking care not to be seen, Art unlocked it, then opened it to make certain that it could be opened. He closed it, then stepped back out into the building, just as Moser and another man were coming toward him.

  “Oh, here you are,” Moser said. “I thought you were going to wait.”

  Art smiled. “I thought I would get a better look at your facility if I moved around on my own,” he said. He stuck his hand out. “Mr. Tracey, you are to be congratulated. From all that I can see, your maintenance facility is a model for others to follow. It will reflect on my report.”

  “Your report?”

  “Yes. I’m on an inspection tour just to see how many bus maintenance operations are meeting the federal code.”

  “I didn’t know there was a federal code.”

  “Oh yes, there is a code, and you would be amazed at how many facilities are not up to par. From my preliminary inspection, though, yours appears to be just fine. But, just so that you know, I plan to hang around for about three days i
n order to put together a full report.”

  “Oh, Mr. Wyman, I hope you don’t need me to be with you during that time, I’ve got—”

  “No, no, no, not at all,” Art said, holding up his hand. “As a matter of fact, I prefer to be alone. Don’t worry, I’ll be as unobtrusive as a mouse. I don’t want to do anything that will interfere with your routine. In fact, it won’t even be necessary for me to talk to any of your employees.”

  “Good.”

  Art had no idea what his plan was from this point on. He was just going to play it by ear until something developed. As it happened, something developed the very next day, when Shadloo asked Tracey for some overtime.

  Tracey sighed. “You are always trying to get overtime, Shadloo,” he said. “Trust me, the budget isn’t large enough to handle too many overtimes.”

  “You want the bus tomorrow?”

  “Yes, I want the bus tomorrow,” Tracey said. “I have three more coming in for scheduled maintenance.”

  “Three hours,” Shadloo said. “I need only three hours.”

  Tracey sighed. “Take all the time you need, Shadloo. But you are only going to get paid for two hours.”

  “That will do,” Shadloo said.

  That night, after supper, Art returned to the maintenance facility, but this time he parked a couple of blocks away. Walking back, he let himself in through the back door.

  The garage was dark, except for a few lights that shone dimly from high overhead, and did little to push away the gloom. The one exception was the corner where Shadloo was working. His area was very brightly lit.

  Art stepped up behind the tire rack where, shielded from Shadloo’s view, he could observe the mechanic working.

  At first, Art wasn’t sure what Shadloo was doing. Then he realized that he was strapping two large propane tanks to the underside of the bus. For a moment he considered the possibility that there might be an innocent explanation to that, such as an alternate fuel source, but he abandoned that line of reasoning when he saw what happened next.

  Shadloo pulled a small fuse from his pocket and connected it to a cell phone. He put the cell phone and fuse on a workbench, then, with a second cell phone, dialed the first. Art watched, as the cell phone on the bench responded to the call, first with a ring, then a flash, as the igniter fuse detonated.

  Smiling at the success of his test, Shadloo put his phone down and picked up the trigger phone. Connecting it to a second fuse, he went back under the bus to arm the propane bomb he had just constructed.

  As soon as Shadloo was out of sight, Art moved quickly out from behind the tire rack. He picked up the telephone Shadloo had left lying on the table, and left the ace of spades in its place. Then he hurried outside. He waited until he was a block away before he punched the redial on Shadloo’s phone.

  There was something satisfying about the sound of the explosion.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Washington, D.C.

  “Prince Azeer,” Senator Harriet Clayton said, greeting the Qambari prince in her office. “How nice to see you.”

  “It is always my pleasure to call upon such a beautiful woman,” Azeer replied graciously. “Especially someone like you, who understands the delicate dynamics between my people and a superpower like the United States.”

  “You mean a bully like the United States,” Harriet replied. “Don’t be frightened to say it. Lord knows, I have made a number of speeches, trying to hold this administration to count. Please, come into my office where we will be more comfortable. Jeanie, you will bring coffee and snacks?” she said to one of her interns.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the young girl replied.

  Once inside the office, Harriet showed the prince around, pointing out photographs on the wall.

  “As you know, I was the nation’s second lady for eight years, while my husband was vice president,” she said. “And during that time I got to travel rather extensively. Here is a picture of me with your father, I believe.”

  “Yes, my father spoke of that visit fondly,” Azeer said.

  Jeanie brought the coffee and a tray of pastries, set them on the table, and withdrew.

  “How do you like your coffee?” Harriet asked, as she poured.

  “Without cream or sugar, thank you.”

  With filled coffee cups in hand, the two moved to a seating area. Azeer sat on a sofa, Harriet sat in a chair at right angles to the sofa.

  “Now, Prince Azeer, what can I do for you?”

  “Senator, I’m sure you remember the unpleasant incident a few years ago, when you were held hostage by a terrorist named Mehdi Jahm Shidi?”

  “How can I forget? It was a terrifying experience,” Harriet replied.

  “You do remember, as well, that my government provided assistance to your government in bringing about your release ?”

  “Yes, I am very grateful.”

  “I remind you of this, because I want a favor from you.”

  “From the United States?”

  “No, Senator, from you, personally.”

  Harriet hesitated for a moment; then she cleared her throat. “Well, of course I will do all that I can,” she said. “What do you need?”

  “Perhaps an investigation,” Azeer suggested. “One that, as chairman of the Senate Human Rights Committee, you would be able to hold.”

  “Prince Azeer, if this is about the terrorist prison camps, I think you will find that there are many of us who are—”

  “Forgive me for interrupting you, Senator,” Azeer said. “But it is not about the prison camps. It is about a string of murders that are taking place right here in the United States, sanctioned, I believe, by the United States government.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you must be wrong,” Harriet replied. “As you know, I am one of the biggest opponents of this administration, but not even I believe it would sanction murders.”

  “Nor would I want to believe it,” Azeer said. “But consider these facts. Three men have been killed. And not just killed, Senator. In every case, the method of their death has been brutal and bizarre.”

  “Who are these three men, and why do you have a particular interest in them?”

  “The three are Abdulla Balama Shamat, Balli Daftar Taleb, and Azoon Jabri Shadloo. All three were my countrymen, working in America. They were all good men, from fine families. Now I am ashamed to face their families, because I, personally, arranged for the visas that allowed them to come to America. They thought they were coming to improve themselves, instead they came here to be murdered.”

  “What makes you think that the U.S. had anything to do with their murders?” Harriet asked.

  “You will recall that I said the method of their death was bizarre. In the case of Shamat, he was found nude, his body displayed in a shameful manner, with his, uh . . .” Azeer paused for a moment. “You will excuse me, Senator, for being indelicate, but his underwear were stuffed into his mouth. Taleb was beheaded, his head found in a tobacco humidor, and Shadloo was killed in a school bus explosion.”

  “Yes,” Harriet said. “I do recall reading about those cases. The press is referring to them as the ‘Ace of Spades’ murders, I believe, because in every case the killer left an ace of spades as his calling card.”

  “That is correct.”

  “But why does that lead you to believe that our government is involved?”

  “In each case, Senator, the method of death has duplicated, or nearly so, the method of death of a victim in the Middle East. And in each case, the United States government has made the claim that these were the men responsible. For example, Shamat was accused of the rape and murder of young Amber Pease, who was the daughter of Colonel Pease, the commandant of the marine guards at the American embassy in Redha. Taleb was accused of being the one who beheaded the American oil worker, the Jew, Bernie Gelb. And your government claimed that Shadloo was guilty of bombing the school bus that killed several American schoolchildren. In fact, the U.S. government has even gone so far as to offe
r to waive extradition and send the three men back to Qambari Arabia so they could stand trial.”

  “You do not think these three were guilty?”

  “No, Senator. We have conducted our own investigation, a much more thorough investigation than that conducted by the U.S., I must say.”

  “What makes you believe your investigation was more thorough?”

  “Well, as I’m sure you can understand, we have resources that are unavailable to the U.S. There were witnesses who would talk to us, who would not talk to the U.S. investigators. And, if I must say, our interrogation methods are a bit more severe. We are able to elicit confessions from the guilty when the American way of interrogation would leave them sticking by their lies.”

  Azeer sighed. “No, Senator, we are perfectly satisfied that those three men were innocent of the charges that were leveled against them. And yet, despite the fact that they were innocent, they were murdered in a duplication of the original crime.”

  “Very well, Prince Azeer, I will look into it for you,” Harriet said.

  “Thank you.”

  Washington, D.C., Senate Committee Room

  The meeting room was filled with spectators, reporters, and cameras. Senator Paul Harris banged his gavel several times until the room grew relatively quiet.

  “This Senate Subcommittee on Contract Services will come to order,” he said. “The committee calls Bert Mossenberg.”

  A tall, thin, gray-haired man stepped up to the witness table.

  “Mr. Mossenberg, you were sworn in yesterday, and I remind you, sir, that you are still under oath,” Senator Harris said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Please be seated. I believe Senator Clayton has the microphone.”

  Harriet Clayton leaned into the microphone. “Thank you, Senator Harris,” she said. “And I also want to thank the senators on my side of the aisle who have relinquished their time to me. Mr. Mossenberg, your company, Transworld Oil, is engaged in contract services in Iraq, is it not?”