by Tom Haase
She ordered a gin and tonic and waited. A half hour passed. Another half hour, and she knew that something must have come up. Avery was supposed to be here according to his schedule, as he had nothing else on for the evening. Mary Jean could not sit there all night. After paying, she left the restaurant at 9:35.
On her walk back to the car, the wind chilled her to the bone and her skin felt frozen, so she decided to test the remote motor-starting device for the first time since taking delivery of the car from the dealership. She didn’t know the exact range of the thing and tried from half a block away. Nothing happened. She stopped about a hundred feet under a streetlight and again pushed the button on her remote.
The Cadillac exploded into a fireball. Metal flew into the air, the heat and blast of the detonation sending Mary Jean flying. She impacted against a lamppost, where her lungs expelled all the air from within, and she felt pain as she rolled over on the sidewalk.
She didn’t lose consciousness but felt blood pouring down her forehead and into her left eye. Sprawled flat on the ground, she moved her hand to feel her head. She found a cut on her scalp above the hairline that proved the source of the warm liquid on her face. She wanted to get up but couldn't catch her breath. Rolling over onto her hands and knees, she pushed herself up. Eventually, exerting enormous effort, she gained an upright position, leaning against the lamppost.
"Oh, shit," she exclaimed as she viewed her new car.
In the seconds it had taken her to focus on the event, she heard sirens coming in her direction. She didn’t want to be here when they arrived. The attack was a direct hit against her, as the counter terrorist chief at the DIA. Someone had targeted her for elimination. Matt and Bridget weren’t the only ones in danger now. She retrieved her handbag, swiveled and walked away, rounding the corner on her right at the first intersection. She took out her cell and dialed Mike Anthony.
"Hello, Mike. I need your help."
"What’s happened?" Mike queried.
"Someone just blew up my car, hoping I’d be in it. I left the scene and need you to make some contact with the local police to get this painted as a stolen car that was burned by some teenagers on a joyride or gang-member initiation ritual."
"Why?"
"Because I waited at the restaurant for the man, but he didn’t show. When I came out and remotely started my car, it exploded. I’m seeing a direct link," Mary Jean said.
"I see what you mean. If you’re still in that area, there’s a decent chance whoever did it is observing you. I’m on my way to the D.C. police. Try to see if anyone is watching or tailing you. Meet me at our usual place in two hours. That’ll give me time to handle the scene with your car and take care of the reports."
"Okay. And . . . thanks." After she closed the phone, she felt like she’d recaptured some of her composure, but her hands continued to shake. She forced herself to focus on the situation. If the person who had tried to kill her remained in the area, she must try to identify him.
Mary Jean scanned around her immediate location and then surveyed the street. She saw no one peering in her direction. Many people passed by her and apparently hurried to the place where her car burned. A taxi came along the avenue. She stepped out and hailed it.
After she got in, she told the driver where to go and then began searching around to see if anyone had noticed her or attempted to follow the cab. As the taxi started to move, she picked out the Iranian diplomat as he turned the corner and observed her depart. A shiver ran up her spine. They had tried to kill her. Somehow they’d found out about her covert activity regarding Avery. She was right. It had to be Avery, but proving that would be another matter.
33
Two Days Ago — Savannah, GA
Matt and Bridget visited the Sapphire Grill, Vic’s, Jazz’D Tapas, and the Alligator Soul, to no avail. The evening breeze from the ocean brought in a fresh smell. As they walked around the city, they both commented on the wrought-iron works of the downspouts on buildings and the semicircular stairways up to the entrance doors on many houses they viewed on the way to the restaurant. They ate at the 1790 Restaurant.
Matt ordered the lamb for himself, and Bridget opted for filet of sole. Matt squinted his eyes and peered through the slits at Bridget. “I must say, you do look beautiful even after a rough day of tramping around town in search of a demented terrorist. How do you do it?”
"I can’t help it.” She blushed a little. “You’re just saying that because it’s true," Bridget quipped. The meal arrived and they ate in silence for a few minutes. "So what do we do next?" she asked.
“I think we should continue to look in the night spots. Someone might have seen him. If we have no luck tonight, it’ll be time to get the local FBI to assist in looking everywhere in Savannah for him. They’ll have the same difficulty we’re experiencing. As far as we know, he has no local contacts. No one here has ever met him. Snitches will be of no use to any agency, since they won’t know this man.” Matt stopped to sip his sweet tea for the first time. The waiter had called it the table wine of the South.
After wiping his mouth, he continued, “If they put the picture we have on TV, they’ll get hundreds of calls that will lead nowhere and take a long time to investigate. No, we have to find him if he’s still in town. So, after we finish dinner, let’s head to a place called the Pink House. I understand they have a sort of nightclub.”
"Sounds good. Let’s go."
They arrived at the Pink House a little after 9:30. The entrance was on the south side of the building, and they went down stairs. On entering the room, the place appeared festooned with wall-to-wall bodies. In one corner, a small jazz group played and a few couples, packed on a minuscule dance floor, attempted to move in the confined space.
Matt eventually made it to the bar and ordered a drink. The barman came back after a short time and Matt showed him a photo. He asked him if he had ever seen the man. "He’s a friend. We were supposed to meet here last night but we couldn’t make it. I’m checking if anyone saw him."
"You a cop?"
"No. Not at all, just want to find him."
"Maybe Joan might’ve seen him. She’s the photo girl. Ask her." Then he moved on. The orders for drinks were backing up even during this short conversation.
Bridget scanned for the photographer and finally spotted her at a table, making a pitch to capture the night on film for a young couple. She approached and waited until the two rejected the picture taking, but she noticed that the woman took their picture anyway. She heard her say, “In case you change your mind, I’ll have it for you.”
As the photographer moved from the table, Bridget repositioned herself to be in front of her. "How much do you charge?"
"Twenty-five."
"Okay, but I want you to see if you can remember this man." She handed over the old picture of Yuri with a fifty-dollar bill. The women glanced at it and then back at Bridget. Bridget said, "Yes, it’s important that I find the scumbag. He ran off with some bimbo and left me with nothing. He’s not even paying the child support, the dirty Russian bastard. I need to find him so I can tell the cops where he is."
The photographer looked back at the picture. "Sure, honey, I saw him in here last night with a young thing. I took a photo, but he didn’t want to pay and tried to avoid the camera. Now I see why."
"Did you hear anything they said?"
"Some. She was from Atlanta and worked at an airport. They were talking about what she did, like direct planes or something. When I approached and took the shot without saying anything, he tried to cover his face. Told me to get lost. I’m glad he’s your problem."
"Do you have it? So I can make sure it’s him."
"Sure, honey. But it’ll cost you for the picture.” Bridget handed over the additional money and waited as the woman departed and came back in a few minutes with the photo.
"That’s the bastard. Thanks," Bridget said and went over to Matt. "I think we struck pay dirt." She showed Matt the photo as she relayed
what the photographer had overheard.
“Let’s get this to the general. She should be able to identify the woman in the picture. She could be anyone at the airport, but if she’s someone working with planes, she might be a federal employee. Good job,” he said as he gave Bridget a high five. They left the bar and headed back to the hotel. There they faxed the photo to Washington and would DHL it in the morning. The fax machine display showed 12:10 a.m.
Now they had to bring the general up to date, Matt thought. They knew for certain of Yuri’s presence in Savannah last night with a woman. According to the girl, he’d even talked with her about her job at an airfield in or around Atlanta.
Whoever killed Basam hadn’t acquired the bomb, or Yuri wouldn’t be acting like he had it. No, he still possessed it and would use it sometime in the future. There remained only one task—stop him.
34
Yesterday — Washington, D.C. — 12:20 AM
Mary Jean ordered a cup of coffee. Outside, snow fell and presented the same sterile atmosphere as in the diner environment. The grill restaurant held only two other occupants, a young black couple who were apparently in love and unable to keep their hands off one another.
She waited on Mike Anthony. They had met here on occasion, and sometimes even this late at night. Based on the time he’d given her, he was long overdue. She forced herself to remain calm, because she had to talk with him. Pointless to call him, as he knew her location, and that she would be waiting, but something had obviously held him up. As she stirred the coffee with one sugar and no cream in it, the door opened, and Mike walked in.
He reached her table. "Shouldn’t you go to see a doctor? That blood doesn’t do anything for your red hair."
She smiled, "Thanks for coming. You seem a little beat yourself, and I’ll get a medic to look at it later, but I don’t think it’s bad. You know how head wounds bleed. This one has stopped, and I can feel that it’s only a small cut. Want some coffee?"
"Hell, no. I want to go home and go to bed."
"Okay, let’s make it quick. What happened?"
"It took longer than I expected to get the stolen car story through. One detective there was a combat veteran, and he suspected more than a gang initiation. Just a minute, I need a drink." He went over to the bar and got a soft drink. After he returned, he continued, "What really happened?"
Mary Jean related all the events of the night and concluded with her observation of the Iranian diplomat as she’d left to meet Mike. She felt her head as it started to really hurt. She needed to take some aspirin, she thought.
"I’m waiting on the rest of the report I showed you. Maybe tomorrow. I’ll let you know as soon as I get it. As far as your Iranian buddy, I think it’s time I allocate some assets to finding out more about him. The fact that you saw him observing you justifies it. As head of the DIA counterterrorist operations, it’s not a good thing to have an Iranian diplomat conducting surveillance on you ever again after what happened. Our legal mission is to monitor any suspected activity by diplomats. No need to mention the other thing for this to be a legitimate task. I’ll get it going tomorrow. You get home and attend to the head."
"Okay, but I think there’s more here than we are glimpsing," Mary Jean said.
"Maybe, and it’s time for me to find out a few things," said Mike.
Mary Jean’s cell rang, and she saw Matt's name. "Let me take this. You might want to wait a minute." She opened her phone and listened to the report from Matt, then told him to fax the picture to a number Mike had provided her. "I have a friend there who can help us get the identity of the woman. Good work. What are your plans?"
She heard his plan and then closed the phone. She glanced at Mike and gave a hand motion to the top of her head, "It’s starting to hurt. I need to get some pills. Er… anyhow, they’re in Savannah and have located a picture of Yuri and a girl from last night. She may be a federal employee if she works at an airport. We have to find out which one in order to help locate her. My people are on their trail, but they have nothing further to go on. They are planning to go to Atlanta in the morning to take up the search there, assuming the bomb won't remain in Savannah."
"I’ll get on the photo to see what we can find. Do you think Atlanta is the target of the bomb?"
"I don’t know, but I agree that it’s a more likely place than Savannah. I want to check, but I think the president is going there—maybe even tomorrow. I’ll incorporate this into a briefing paper for him. I'll put in about the Russian team operating on our soil. At least we can let him make up his mind on the trip."
"You know how determined and stubborn he can be. He’ll go no matter what," Mike said.
"I just don’t want it to be his last trip."
* * *
Ricky Jobin, aka al-Banna, arrived at his apartment while Mary Jean and Mike met in the diner. Claude Moreau went to the kitchen to make some tea while Ricky provided some sweets in celebration of their successful mission. A third member of his cell, Maurice Levasseur arrived to join in the festivities. He had served as the driver on the operation to eliminate the general.
The phone rang before the tea was ready, and Ricky picked it up, answering with enthusiasm due to the high spirits they were both in after completing the task in Georgetown.
"You blundering idiot, you did it again," came the female voice over the receiver, loud enough for Claude, standing ten feet away, to hear.
"Watch your mouth, bitch. Who’re you calling idiots? We did exactly what we were ordered." Ricky snapped as he nodded his head up and down toward Claude.
"You didn’t kill her. That makes you an idiot."
"We weren’t given the mission to kill the target, you sniveling bag. Our stated objective was to wire the explosive to the starter of the car. That’s all you told us to do, and we did that."
"What the hell did you think you were supposed to do?" she thundered.
"We did what we were told to do. You instructed us to wire the explosives to the starter of the car and to get out of the area. We did exactly that. We heard the explosion when the car started. If she wasn’t killed, that’s your problem, lady. You go and kill her. We did precisely what we were ordered to do, and I don’t want to talk to a woman again on this matter or anything else the leader wants done. He can call himself, but not a bitch like you. So get off my phone," Ricky said as he slammed it down.
The previous feelings of elation vaporized with that phone call. Ricky looked at Claude, who stood there dumbstruck. "What did you do?" he asked.
"I told her we are not taking instructions from a bitch like her, and it’s time we acted like the warriors we are under the banner of Islam. Women have to know their place, and she’s out of line giving orders to men."
"Do you know who she speaks for?"
"No. But … ahh, I expect I’ll be hearing from him soon. I’ll tell him the same thing," said Ricky.
The phone rang, and he picked it up with a hello.
"Al-Banna," Rick said using his Islamic name in an authoritarian tone, He heard, "You exhibited rudeness to my assistant, who is only relaying instructions from me. I assure you she speaks for me in conveying my orders to you."
Ricky interrupted, forcing himself to refrain from yelling into the phone, "That may be true, but we’re Islamic warriors and we don’t take instructions from women. You’re the one I was told to obey, and if you give me an order it’ll be carried out."
"You listen to me. You will carry out the orders you are given by my assistant, or you will be dealt with in a very unpleasant manner. You have already been noticed for your failure in the attempt on Higgins, and now the failure tonight. Another fiasco will not be tolerated. You’re in no position to make demands. Follow orders or you’ll be in hell before you can rethink your stupidity in crossing me. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"
Ricky started to shake. His hand trembled and his breath came in short gulps. The bastard could do what he had threatened and Ricky knew it. "I don’t even know who yo
u are," he said in a sheepish intonation.
"That’s right, and that’s the way it’ll stay. You recognize my voice from the tape you received from the man who indoctrinated you, do you not?"
"Yes, sir."
"That’s better. I don’t want to make a call to you again for something stupid that you’ve done. Send someone to take care of that general no later than tomorrow." The line went dead.
* * *
Mary Jean arrived at her Crystal City apartment that overlooked the Washington skyline. She could barely see the end of the runway at the Reagan International Airport on the Potomac. Her domicile exuded the epitome of modern-style black-and-chrome décor, including subdued indirect lighting.
She placed her purse down on the entryway table and headed for the bathroom to get some aspirin. Three ought to do the job, she thought, and after swallowing them, she applied a wet washcloth to her wound and cleaned it. In the mirror, she could see the small wound and put some Neosporin on it. Feeling a bit better, she went into the living room and poured herself a straight scotch with no ice from the small bar. She walked over to the sliding glass door, sat in a chair and viewed the beautiful scene of a peaceful and cold panorama of the capital. As she sipped her drink, she realized that the fears and troubles plaguing her had taken a greater toll on her clarity of thought than she’d previously understood.
The pressure of getting the demented Russian scientist turned terrorist, the president’s scrutiny of her efforts to stop a nuclear attack on American soil, and the worry about her own health issue caused her more and more concern. She knew she might make judgment errors under such pressure. She had to make sure she did not. At least no one knew about her medical problem, since she had gone to a private doctor and not the military facility’s medical personnel.