by Mike Brogan
But Mordeck suddenly slumped and looked very concerned they had video.
“So your choice is simple. Tell us who hired you to eliminate Ms. Daniels and maybe we can hold off extraditing you straight back to Texas where prosecutors are sharpening their injection needles over your death penalty cases. By the way, Texas executed two more guys just last month.”
Mordeck swallowed. “I’m entitled to my lawyer!”
“Like I said - not this time, Cecil.”
“Why the hell not? I’m a US citizen.”
“You’re also linked to a terrorist attack. The one that’s caused surging automobile deaths and injuries in several states. Three of those states, Florida, Kentucky, and Alabama have the death penalty. Which means you get a choice.”
“What choice?”
“The needle - or the electric chair.”
Mordeck looked sick. “I ain’t got nothin’ to do with that car-surgin’ shit.”
“The terrorist you work for does. Which makes you a co-conspirator.”
Mordeck said nothing.
“And as a terrorist, you are not entitled to an attorney. Ask the inmates at Guantanamo. In fact, they might be your new cellmates. How’s your Arabic?”
Mordeck looked panicked.
“One last thing,” Shaw said, “This offer is only good until I come back in this room in ten minutes.”
Shaw walked to the door. “Your choices are simple! Cooperate. Or we incarcerate. Or . . .”
“- or what?”
“Or Texas terminates!”
Five minutes later, Shaw walked back in the conference room, sat down and stared at Mordeck.
“Well . . .?”
“Let’s talk,” Mordeck said.
SIXTY TWO
What did Bruner say that day? What were his words? Brooke Daniels wondered, sitting in her office, editing an engineering release.
Whatever his words, they bolted her wide awake in bed last night. Bruner spoke them the day his wife and daughter died, and he repeated them at their funerals. It frightened her then and frightened her even more now. But for some damn reason she couldn’t remember them.
Maybe she wrote them down back then. Maybe on a scrap of paper somewhere, or in her day-planner that year.
She opened a file cabinet, flipped through her stack of old annual planners, and dug out the year Bruner’s wife and daughter died.
She paged through it, trying to remember the date. She knew it happened around this time of year. She found the right week and saw her note to send flowers to the funeral home.
She remembered the moment Bruner got the tragic news in the office. How hysterical he’d been.
How he’d gasped and cried, “No! No!”, then in Arabic shouted something like “waqalat ‘iinaha la ymkn ‘an yamuta! . . . No - she can not die!” - over and over again! He was incapacitated by grief and pain. But the pain soon ignited into rage . . . and revenge. He’d walked around the office, and later the funeral home, ranting about how GV’s braking system caused their deaths.
But what were his terrifying words that woke me up last night?
Were they so terrifying she was afraid to recall them?
She searched for any key words she’d written down. Found none. She noticed she had circled the date of their accident.
She stared at the date - and froze.
She blinked to be sure. She took a deep breath.
My God! The date is today’s date! The same month and day Bruner’s wife and daughter died in the crash.
TODAY is the anniversary!
And suddenly - the date - triggered Bruner’s exact words in her mind! They shot chills down her spine. Her heart pounded, as she dialed Agent Shaw’s number and prayed he picked up.
“Hi Brooke,” he said. “Thanks for the Romulus tip. We’re dragnetting Romulus for homes and apartments Bruner bought or rented. What’s up?”
“I just checked my old day planner from the year his wife and daughter died.”
“Yeah?”
“Today is the same date they died!”
“What? Really?”
“Yes. And I just remembered something he said about that day. And said again at their funeral. The words terrified me then, but even more now.”
“What’d he –?”
“He said, “This date and time will live forever in the history of Global Vehicles.”
Shaw paused. “You mean like 8:55 a.m. on 9/11 for the Twin Towers?”
“Yes. He even said “like 9/11 . . .”
“Did he say what time his wife’s accident happened?”
“Yes.”
“What time did it happen?”
She told him.
Shaw did not speak.
SIXTY THREE
FBI Agent Gretchen Strom hung up from Nester Van Horn’s urgent call. He’d just directed her to “find out if Cecil Mordeck confessed to attacking Brooke Daniels and gave them my name.”
Van Horn paid well for Strom’s updates.
She walked down the hall to the observation room next to the room where Agents Shaw and Agent Hayden were still questioning Mordeck.
She turned up the volume on her ear phone tapped into the interrogation room.
So far it appeared Mordeck had said very little. But she sensed he’d just agreed to talk to Agent Shaw and not wait for his lawyer, R. Spike Stoner, a flashy, successful mob attorney.
“So who hired you, Mr. Mordeck?” Agent Shaw asked.
“He never give me no name.”
“How’d he get your name?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you worked for him, right?”
“Yeah, a few times.”
“But you don’t know his name?”
“He never said it.”
Shaw didn’t believe him.
The door opened and a tall man with thin gray hair, thin mustache, thin-rimmed glasses, and an arrogant expression, stormed in.
Gretchen Strom recognized attorney R. Spike Stoner, resplendent in his luxurious black silk suit, slippery as eel skin.
“Stop badgering my client, Agent Shaw,” Stoner said. “He’s cooperating.”
“Not enough, Counselor. Before you arrived, Mr. Mordeck agreed to tell us what he knows. We need to know who asked him to attack Brooke Daniels. Whoever asked him is connected to the surging XCars casualties across the country. Americans are dying. These XCar casualties are a national terrorist attack.”
The words “terrorist attack” snapped Spike Stoner to full attention. He sat down fast next to Mordeck.
Shaw said, “Again Cecil, these surging car attacks and accidents are about to be charged as terrorism. Your attack on Ms. Brooke Daniels, is clearly connected to these attacks. That makes you a co-conspirator to the terrorist activity. As such, you will not be entitled to Counselor Stoner’s highly regarded services.”
Mordeck and R. Spike Stoner went silent. They stared at each other and then at Shaw.
“One moment, please,” Stoner said, placing his hand over his mouth and whispered something to Mordeck. Then Mordeck whispered back.
Shaw allowed them a little more whispering.
“Again, Mr. Mordeck,” Shaw continued, “unless you want to spend years sweltering in Guantanamo, and be charged with the attempted murder of Brooke Daniels, or immediately be returned to Texas to face your murder-one death-penalty charges, you’d better start talking!”
Mordeck and Stoner huddled and whispered some more.
In the adjoining room, Agent Gretchen Strom read Mordeck’s eyes. The guy was ready to cave . . . like he might cough up Van Horn’s name!
Finally, Spike Stoner nodded for Mordeck to talk. Mordeck wiped sweat from his upper lip, leaned toward Shaw.
“All I know is that the guy that give me the job has like two last names. You know, like a German soundin’ name. It was Van . . . something.”
“Van Bruner maybe?” Shaw said, hoping to see if the Bruner got a reaction. It didn’t.
“Nope .
. .”
Shaw knew it was Van Horn . . . but sensed that Mordeck knew it was Van Horn, but Shaw wanted Mordeck to say it. “What was Van’s first name?” Shaw asked.
“A weird one.”
“How weird?”
“I-never-heard-it-before weird!”
Shaw waited.
“Hang on . . .” Mordeck said. “I remember his first name was sorta like that weird guy on the old Gunsmoke TV show . . . What’s his name - Fester!”
“You mean Festus?”
“Yeah. Like Festus but -”
“How about Nester?”
“Nester! That’s it! Crazy fuckin’ name you ask me! Guy gave me good jobs though. Paid good money.”
Shaw could barely contain his excitement. “You’re saying that a guy named Nester Van something called you and told you to attack Brooke Daniels?”
Mordeck paused, shrugged, and slowly nodded. “Nester Van . . . still don’t remember his second, short last name.”
Shaw wanted to see how he reacted. “How about – Horn. Van Horn! Nester Van Horn.”
“That’s his fuckin’ name!”
In the adjoining room, Gretchen felt her stomach churn. Mordeck ratted out Nester Van Horn. She had to tell Van Horn now. The police could have him in custody in minutes if he was at his office or home. And her little insider FBI - information revenue stream would dry up fast.
Gretchen hurried back to her office, grabbed her burner to call Van Horn, then paused. She realized something. Once she told Van Horn, he’d be on the run from the FBI.
Soon after, so would she. Her FBI colleagues would eventually figure out that she told Van Horn about Mordeck and come after her.
Which meant she had to turn this situation into a major revenue producer for her now. Her insider’s information from Van Horn just got much more expensive.
SIXTY FOUR
In his home office, Nester Van Horn watched the latest surge-victims report on CNN.
Nationwide – one hundred eighteen dead, one hundred seventy nine critical, nine hundred eighty-one injured, and over a hundred million dollars in damage to vehicles and property so far.
And we’re just getting started.
XCar surges and crashes were destroying GV’s long-standing reputation for dependability and safety. Surge after surge, crash after crash pounded nail after nail into GV’s image.
A burner phone rang in his drawer.
Van Horn opened it and saw it was Gretchen Storm’s burner. She was calling from the Detroit FBI office with an update on Cecil Mordeck.
“What’s Mordeck doing?” Van Horn asked.
“Talking!”
“About . . . ?”
“You! He just coughed up your name.”
“WHAT?” Van Horn jumped to his feet. “That low-life bastard named me?”
“Yeah.”
“Has he agreed to testify in court against me?”
“I think he will.”
“Has he given them an official statement yet?”
“His lawyer and Agent Shaw are negotiating those details now. They’ll do it soon.”
Van Horn felt like steel bands were squeezing his chest.
“Handle him before he says more.”
“That’s extremely difficult, maybe impossible,” Gretchen Strom said.
“You have to! You can do it!”
Strom paused. “If I can, what’s in it for me?”
“Four times your usual fee.”
She smiled. “If I see two hundred grand wired to my Belize account in the next ten minutes, I’ll handle this. But you have to hurry! In twenty minutes they’ll move him to another room to videotape his full statement.”
“You’ll see the money!”
Van Horn hung up and called his contact at the Nevis Caribbean Bank. Minutes later, the banker had wired the two hundred grand to Gretchen Storm’s numbered account in the Belize National Bank.
The police were onto him. Time to disappear. He stood, looked out his home window at the street in front. No cop cars, no surveillance vans, no men standing around. Just the neighbors’ cars.
He’d known this day would come. Prepared for it. His millions awaited him in off-shore banks.
In his closet, he lifted the wood floor panel, and took out forty-five thousand in cash, plus three sets of ID, credit cards, and passports. He grabbed his pre-packed carry-on bag containing flash drives with his important documents, and the small disassembled pieces of his printer-made plastic 9mm gun that would pass through TSA machines disassembled and undetected.
Van Horn looked around his five thousand square foot luxury condo in Bloomfield Hills. He realized it would be the last time he saw it. In his garage, he started his Lexus LC sports car, realizing it would be the last time he drove it. He headed toward Metro Airport, realizing it would be the last time he drove toward it.
He phoned Kurt Krugere. No answer.
He left a message. “Our friend has talked to the FBI. He mentioned me. He may have mentioned you! Call me!”
Krugere always answered his burner. He carried it in his briefcase that was always with him. Why not answer now? Had the FBI already picked him up? How could they? He wasn’t sure Cecil Mordeck even knew about Kurt Krugere. Or maybe crazy Bruner mentioned his name to Mordeck. Or maybe I accidentally did.
Forty-five minutes later, Van Horn pulled into Valet Parking at Metro Airport. A driver took him directly to the North Terminal departure drop off area.
“Time for some Las Vegas fun,” Van Horn said to him. A little misdirection in case the cops asked the driver my destination.
“Good luck in Vegas!”
“Thanks.”
Two minutes later, he checked in at the Lufthansa desk. He bought a Detroit-Frankfort-Rome ticket, received his boarding pass, and walked away.
Next he walked down to the United counter and bought a Detroit-London-Paris ticket and took his boarding pass.
Then he headed to the nearby Royal Jordanian Airlines ticket counter and bought a ticket from Detroit-Amman-to Cairo.
He knew the airline computers would probably not catch up to his triple booking for a few hours. Hours he wanted the police chasing several destinations, wasting their time.
As he walked toward Security, he noticed two dark-suited men studying middle aged men walking by. Were they waiting for a business colleague? Or looking for a specific man?
Their sunglasses followed him a little too closely. Both seemed to study him. Cops?
After Cecil Mordeck gave the FBI my name, the authorities would have issued a BOLO. My photo is probably on their cell phones.
He took a deep breath and summoned up his Special Forces instincts and skills. They’d saved him twice during Desert Storm’s Battle of Al Busayyah, and a few times since. And they would now.
He checked again. The two suits were definitely watching him.
He walked ahead and pretended to enter the busy men’s room, but actually ducked around the restroom wall into a small hidden alcove. The two suits would assume he was in the men’s room.
Beside him was a passkey-locked door marked No Admittance.
Seconds later, the No Admittance door opened and an elderly, ID-badged worker stepped out.
Van Horn karate-chopped the old man’s carotid arteries hard. He dropped like a sack of hammers, unconscious. Van Horn grabbed the man’s ID passkey, swiped the door open, pulled the old guy back through the door and shut it. He looked through a small window and did not see the two suits. Probably still searching the men’s room stalls.
Van Horn hid the old man behind huge boxes, then hurried down a long hallway toward a door. Using the passkey, he opened the door and entered a baggage sorting area. He opened his carry-on, pulled out a blue Detroit Tigers sweatshirt and baseball cap, and put them on. He hurried through the area to an Exit door. He swiped it open, and walked through and found himself in Baggage Claim with masses of passengers hovering over the luggage carrousels waiting for their suitcases.
Van Horn merged into a group of suitcase-rolling passengers leaving the airport.
Outside, he flagged down a taxi and asked the driver to take him to an address sixty miles north of Detroit.
He never intended to fly to Paris or any other of his ticket destinations. He intended to draw the police to the Detroit Metro Airport where his car was parked. And then have them checking airline tickets sold in the last hour, searching the airport, every gate, every flight, viewing hours of boarding videos. He wanted them checking his Detroit-Frankfort-Rome flight. And his Detroit-London-Paris flight. And his Detroit-Amman-Cairo flight.
He wanted them wasting time.
He took out his burner phone and dialed.
A man answered. Van Horn told him what he wanted. A price was arranged.
Van Horn hung up.
The cops would be waiting for him in several large cities, while he was in Casablanca, Morocco. A beautiful country . . . with a non-extradition treaty with the United States . . .
. . . and perhaps with a beautiful woman he once knew.
Van Horn settled into the taxi seat and thought back to raven-haired Yasmine. Many years ago in Casablanca they’d been close; closer that he’d been to any woman in his life. And she cared for him more than any woman ever cared for him.
But after six months of growing affection for each other, trouble walked back into her life – Hadir - her former fiancé. Three years earlier, Hadir had been declared dead by his Moroccan military unit, who claimed he’d died heroically in a Berber attack. In fact, Hadir had deserted his military unit during battle and hid out for two years in Cairo’s bars and brothels.
Back in Casablanca, he claimed PTSD and begged Yasmine to honor the pre-arranged marriage their parents agreed for them. Yasmine was torn between fleeing with Van Horn to America and honoring her parents arranged marriage contract with Hadir.
Her parents threatened her with banishment from the family if she did not honor the agreement. She refused, wept, started to run away, but her cousins imprisoned her at a secret location. Several weeks later she was forced to marry Hadir.
Van Horn left the country . . . angry at the family’s stupid arranged-marriage laws.
