by Blake Banner
I headed south toward Manhattan. I planned to grab four hours sleep and be back before dawn, to wait for my opportunity. Then I’d find out exactly what Abdul Abbassi and his pals were about.
It was almost one AM when I left my car in the parking garage and took the elevator to my apartment. I knew something was wrong as I put the key in the lock. It’s a sixth sense you develop. It’s as though your skin prickles, like you can smell something on the air, but it has no aroma.
I turned the key and stepped aside as I pushed the door open. Nothing happened, but I could see the lights were on. Whoever it was wasn’t shy or didn’t expect me back. I cursed myself for leaving my 9 mm in the kitbag in the trunk, but slipped my knife from my waistband and stepped in. Ben’s voice came to me from the living room.
“It’s only me, Lacklan. You can close the door and put your weapon away. I hope you don’t mind, I helped myself to some of your Irish whiskey.”
He was sitting in my armchair with a Glock 19 on his lap. I still had my knife in my hand. He looked at it and said, “Are you going to kill me?”
I jerked my head at his gun. “What’s that for?”
“Insurance. You are unpredictable. I thought if you found somebody in your apartment you might go all ninja on my ass, so to speak. I left the lights on so you would be forewarned.”
“Are you here to execute me?”
He dismissed the idea with a small laugh. “No.”
I checked the kitchen, the bathrooms, and the bedrooms. They were clear. I came back and looked down at him. “Take out the magazine and put your weapon away, or I’ll cut your throat.”
He started to laugh and shook his head. He released the magazine, put it on the table, showed me the chamber was empty and put the weapon in his holster. I sheathed the knife, poured myself a whiskey, and sat on the sofa. “What do you want?”
“What happened at the ball? Cinderella got away.”
I sighed. I wanted to sleep. “We have a problem. She was coming with me. We were on our way. She wanted to go to the can before we left. While she was in there, I saw an old friend.”
He frowned. “Who?”
“Abdul Abbassi. He’s a jihadist, worked for the Taliban. He was at the party, in full tux and driving a Ferrari.”
Ben frowned. “Abdul Abbassi? The Butcher of Helmand?”
“You know him?”
“I know of him. He’s a very dangerous man.”
“If he’s here, as a guest of the prince, it means they are planning an attack, and in all probability on the conference.”
“I wouldn’t jump to conclusions, Lacklan.”
“Well, he isn’t here for the hot dogs, Ben.”
He thought for a moment. Sipped his whiskey and studied my face. “He’s not your concern. Leave him to us. We’ll deal with him.”
“Deal with him how? He’s a threat to Marni. I want him neutralized.”
“We’ll deal with it. I want you to focus on Marni. Bring her in.”
“You don’t give me orders, Ben.”
He sighed. “I am not giving you orders, Lacklan, but this is the best use of our resources. Bring her in, make her safe. Arrange a meeting. We’ll deal with Abbassi.”
I stared at him for a long moment. Then I asked, “Tell me something, Ben. Why don’t you go after Gibbons? Wouldn’t it be easier for you to get to her through Gibbons than through me?”
He shook his head. “We can’t go after Gibbons. Don’t ask why, I can’t tell you. You understand a fraction of what goes on. If you would see sense and join us, I could tell you so much more. And believe me, we could use a man like you to fill your father’s shoes.” He shrugged, drained his glass, and stood. “Just get Marni on board before it’s too late, Lacklan. Thanks for the whiskey.”
I heard the door close and sat a long while staring at my glass, thinking about Gibbons, about how he had been willing to sacrifice his own life to allow her to get away. That took real commitment. A man like that was a real danger to Omega, and yet they couldn’t go after him. How, I wondered, does an Oxford Don like Gibbons get that kind of protection from an organization like Omega?
I went to my room, set the alarm for five AM, and fell into a restless sleep.
Five
Forty minutes after five found me sitting at the end of Amethyst Street drinking black coffee from a flask while pre-dawn touched the edges of the sky with a sleepy gray. Twenty minutes after that, lights started coming on in the windows of the house, touching the red Ferrari with shiny amber highlights. Another hour and the sky seemed to stir and stretch. Beyond a giant cypress tree, where some guy had turned his yard into an orchard, the sun warped over the horizon, spilling molten light and turning the dawn into morning. Down the street, windows slid open, front doors began to bang, and car doors like volleys of rifle shots scattered the birds from the trees into the yawning sky. And the machinery of the great city started to grind into action, sending streams of people, its lifeblood, flowing through the streets, the arteries of the vast cyborg: men and women to work, to generate wealth for their masters and revenue for the state, children to school to learn to be like their parents and generate wealth for their masters and revenue for the state. Collectively essential, each one, each individual was a replaceable, expendable cell in the body of the beast.
By eight thirty, the street was quiet again, and half an hour after that, Abbassi’s front door opened and four men stepped out. They were talking and laughing as they made their way up the road toward Rhinelander Avenue, headed for the mosque. They passed within eight feet of the Zombie. The tinted glass meant I could see them but they could not see me. Abbassi was slightly ahead of them, staying aloof. Two of the others were clean shaven and looked as though they were in their early twenties, with short hair, sweatshirts, jeans, and sneakers. The other was older, maybe thirty, with longer hair and a beard. He wore an Afghan hat and a long jacket over baggy pants. It was easy to see the set up. Abbassi was the commander, the Afghan was the sergeant. Two got you twenty he had combat and field experience. The other two were grunts, new recruits, probably from the West.
I let them get around the corner and gave them five minutes. At an approximate speed of one and a half yards per second, that put them almost five hundred yards away. Then I started the silent engine and slipped down the road to park across from the Ferrari. I cocked my Sig and slipped it in my waistband. Then I walked across the road, fishing my lock picks from my pocket like they were a bunch of keys. I didn’t expect a real active neighborhood watch on this street, but it pays to be careful. It took me a few seconds, the lock yielded, and I stepped in, closed the door, and pulled the Sig.
I knew the chances were they had all gone to the mosque, but there was still a possibility somebody had stayed behind. I moved to the living room. The furnishings were sparse, basic, and cheap. There was a couple of old sofas and a dining table with four chairs. There was no TV and there were no bookcases. An open door led to the kitchen. I placed the first bug on the top of the door frame. In a house occupied by four guys, you can be pretty sure it’s the least touched place in the house. Another went in the same spot on the kitchen side. A kitchen is a place where people do a lot of talking.
I ran silently up the stairs. There were four bedrooms. They were unremarkable. Like the rest of the house, they were sparsely and cheaply furnished, with IKEA beds and melamine wardrobes. I placed a bug in each room.
They were essentially voice-activated, micro-cell-phones that were pre-dialed into my laptop. If anybody started talking, the sound of their voice would activate the cells and whatever they said would be automatically saved into a file on my hard drive.
I wasn’t sure how long I had, so I made only a cursory inspection of the house, searching the wardrobes, suitcases under the beds, and the cupboards under the stairs. I didn’t find any bomb-making equipment or explosives. That didn’t mean they weren’t there. It just means they weren’t easy to find. What I did find was three passports in the sideboard in the liv
ing room. The Afghan guy was Aatifa Ghafoor. The other two were a Pakistani, Ali Kamboh, and a British national of Pakistani origin, Hassan Barr. I photographed all three with my cell. I checked my watch. I’d been in the house for just over half an hour. I closed my eyes and went through everything I had done since I’d entered the place, checking if I had left any sign of my presence. I was pretty sure I hadn’t.
I let myself out, went to my car, and got in. I lit a cigarette and sat thinking about what I had to do next. I had to make peace with Gibbons somehow. I had questions for him that I needed answered immediately, like why was Omega so afraid of him? And, above all, where was Marni?
I pulled my cell from my pocket, selected the three photographs of the passports, attached them to a text message, and wrote, “These three men, plus Abdul Abbassi, the Butcher of Helmand, are the reason I needed to get Marni out of the party. They are here in New York. I had no time to argue or explain. We need to talk. I’ll call you.”
I pressed ‘send’, then fired up the engine and pulled away. I crossed via 3rd Avenue Bridge and made my way to Morningside Park. There I strolled by the pond and called Gibbons.
“What do you want, Walker?”
“I understand you’re mad at me. But that isn’t important now. I am getting tired of saying this, but you really need to talk to me, and above all, you really need to listen.”
“Give me one good reason why I should.”
“I just sent you three damned good reasons, but I’ll give you a lot more than that if you will just give me the chance.”
“That’s exactly what I am doing, against my better judgment. Talk.”
“OK, first, what happened last night would never have happened if you and Marni had listened to me from the start.”
“What the bloody hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Abdul Abbassi, a terrorist commander who, five years ago, was attached to the Taliban. I won’t waste time now giving you his CV, but believe me when I tell you I have seen him do things that would make a hard man weep. He was at the party last night, and whether you take it from me or not, Gibbons, you have to ask yourself what he was doing there.”
I gave him a moment. He didn’t say anything but I could sense he was thinking. I went on.
“You and Marni were driving me crazy. I had finally got her to agree to come with me. I knew you were going to cause trouble, and just as you were coming up the stairs, that was when I saw Abbassi. He was the guy stepping out for a smoke, remember? I had no time, Gibbons, I couldn’t risk a ruckus. I had to shut you up and get her out.”
I was half-expecting him to ask what made me think she was Abbassi’s target. He didn’t. Instead, he asked, “Who are these other men?”
“I don’t know any of them. I followed him last night after the party. He has a run-down house in Van Nest. These other three are living there.”
He was quiet again, then asked, almost to himself, “What does it mean?”
“Listen, we have to get off this line. For the hundredth time, we need to talk and we need to unite forces. Let’s meet.”
“All right. Do you know The Parlour, on West 86th?”
“The Irish pub? Sure.”
“It’s not far from you. We’ll meet there in an hour and have some lunch.”
I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “Sounds like a good idea. See you then.”
The Parlour is a big place, and at that time it was practically empty. He arrived punctually, ignored me even though I was the only person sitting at a table and he must have seen me, and went to the bar and ordered a pint of Guinness. He waited for it to be pulled and finally brought it over to the table where I was sitting, watching him. I decided he was obnoxious because that was his intrinsic nature. He couldn’t help it. There was also the swollen bruise on the side of his face, and that might have had something to do with it.
As he sat, he said, “I’ve been thinking it over on the way here, and it is fraught with all sorts of problems. Tell me what you have to say anyway, but be aware, I think any kind of cooperation is almost impossible.”
I sat studying his face, trying to suppress the desire to reach over and give him a matching bruise on the other side. Finally, I sighed and said, “Are you a pain in the ass on purpose or by accident?”
“That kind of thing won’t help.”
“And your strutting in with that kind of hostile, negative attitude will?”
“I am simply being practical and telling you how things stand.”
“OK, Gibbons, have it your way. Now let me tell you how I see it. Either ISIS or Al-Qaeda are planning an attack on the UN. If I am right, they will time the attack for the high point of the conference. That will be your talk and Marni’s…”
He interrupted me. “Why would Al-Qaeda or ISIS have any interest in bombing the conference? It doesn’t make any sense.”
I tried not to snarl but failed. “Just because you can’t see it, it doesn’t mean it isn’t there, Gibbons. You can’t see my foot, but believe me, it’s within striking distance.”
“More gratuitous violence, Lacklan?”
I sighed and carried on. “I don’t know what their purpose might be. It might be simply that there will be a lot of western leaders there. It might be a blow against a United Nations that they perceive as biased toward western interests. It might have something to do with the fact that if global warming and droughts escalate as Omega foresee they will, the Muslim heartland in the Middle East will be all but wiped out.” I shook my head. “These people are fanatics, Gibbons. I am not sure they need a coherent reason for the fucked up things they do.” I sat back in my chair and sighed. “Whether we understand their reasons or not, the fact is that in a party thrown by an Arab prince for the speakers and delegates at the conference, Abdul Abbassi was present as a guest. When he left the party, he went to a house that had all the appearance of a terrorist cell.” I held up my thumb. “Why was he invited to the party?” I raised my index to join it. “He was dressed in a two thousand dollar evening suit and driving a three hundred grand Ferrari, what was he doing shacking up in Van Nest with three down and outs?” I raised my middle finger to make a trio. “What have Abdul Abbassi, an Afghan, a Pakistani, and a British Pakistani got to bring them together, with Prince Mohamed bin Awad?”
He grunted and took a long pull on his Guinness. As he set it down, he smacked his lips and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “We don’t know.”
I shook my head. “Wrong. We don’t know precisely. But we can assert with a degree of confidence that they are not practicing for a spelling bee. We can be certain that if Abdul Abbassi is involved, it is related to jihad.”
He nodded. “Yes. You’re right.”
“And in my opinion, it is too much of a coincidence that it coincides so closely with the conference. Whether we can see it right now or not, there is a connection, Gibbons.”
He made a face of reluctant acceptance. “Yes, you’re right. You’re right.”
I waited a moment, then said, “So…?”
He shrugged. “What do you want?”
“For a start, I want to be able to protect Marni.”
He sighed. “That just can’t happen, Lacklan.”
“Why?”
He gave a small, exasperated laugh. “Well, for a start, because you’re so bloody dangerous. You attract violence. You’re like a walking war zone. People go their entire lives without seeing a bar brawl. Five minutes in your company and somebody get a broken bone, or their face pushed in.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I agree. It also happens to be true.”
“She would be safe with me and you know it. What protection has she right now?”
“She is safe.”
“This is a decision she should make. Why are you making these decisions for her?”
“This is her decision, Lacklan. For your information, she thinks you’re insane, and so do I. She believes something happe
ned to you during your time with the SAS, and you are not quite normal. Your absurd behavior at the party only served to confirm it.”
“I explained that to you.”
“Even so…”
I was learning that putting Gibbons under pressure just made him more obstinate, so I changed the subject.
“Explain something to me.”
He eyed me and waited.
“Why is Omega afraid of you?”
A barely perceptible smile. He thought for a long moment. “Omega is not the only organization that is aware we are on the brink of catastrophic change. There are others. You might be surprised if you knew who they were, or who was involved. Let me put a question to you. If the SAS decided to prepare for a coming holocaust, how do you think they would prepare? What would their focus be?”
I frowned. I had never considered it in that way. “I guess they would focus on survival techniques, appropriate armament, technologies, and materials to be able to make effective weapons in the new, changed environment…”
“Precisely. But now imagine that Harvard made contingency plans for such a catastrophic change. What would their focus be?”
I sat back in my chair, curious about where he was going. “I guess they would focus on preserving their libraries, their store of knowledge…”
“Exactly. We all want to preserve the things that we think are important. Who constitute Omega? I’ll tell you, bankers, lawyers, politicians, billionaires—the people who own the Federal Reserve. They are not all that scared of you, Lacklan, because you can kill a hundred of their men and they will just keep buying new ones, until they buy one who is bigger and more dangerous than you are. But they are terrified of me because I know. I have knowledge that can really hurt them.”
“Frank Gilbert’s research…”
“Partly.”
I leaned forward on the table. “Philip, divided we play into their hands. United we could be much more powerful, we could really hurt them. I have caused them a lot of trouble so far, on my own. With you and Marni, we could really make a difference..”
