by Jeff Siebold
* * *
They approached the examination room.
“Keep watch,” said Zeke. “There’s likely more action to come.” Browny took a watchful position outside the windowless door while Zeke crowded into the small room to see Gabby and the nurse. The door was partially blocked as Zeke pushed it open.
“How’s it going in here?” Zeke asked the nurse as he pushed the door open.
The nurse was a middle-aged woman who had obviously thickened in the hips and torso. She wore a white bra and beige scrub pants and crocks. She was lying on her back on the floor of the examination room, with a ballpoint pen sticking up out of her left eye. There was a clipboard on the floor next to her. There was no one else in the small room.
Zeke knelt and felt for a pulse, but there was none. He turned and pulled the door open again and said to Browny, “We’ve got a dead FBI agent in here.”
Browny reacted immediately. He spoke into his lapel mic, “We’ve got a DB and a runner in interrogation,” he said. “Close this place down!”
Chapter 29
Gabby, A’isha, opened the door and stepped into the women’s restroom of the interrogation wing of the FBI building. Her small frame pretty much swam in the nurse’s blouse, the hospital scrubs she’d taken from the dead woman. She stepped into a stall.
She was a warrior, she reminded herself. No time for fear. Right now, escape was necessary, and then a new plan of attack. Most all of the people she had seen in FBI headquarters were men, she remembered. A women’s bathroom is a psychological deterrent for most men, although she knew that they’d get around to looking there eventually.
Gabby figured that she had precious seconds before the nurse’s body was found, and she needed to escape the building before an alarm sounded. Interrogation was on the third floor, she remembered. There was security in the garage entrance, the entrance that they had used to take her into the building, but it was hired security with an x-ray machine, determined to prevent someone from taking something bad into the building, but not so concerned with those leaving the premises. And she was leaving.
Gabby took off her scrubs top and with some safety pins that she’d taken from the exam room, she tightened the blouse to achieve a better fit, and then put it back on. She left the stall and used the mirror to pull her black hair back into a bun, clipping it with a hair clip taken from the dead nurse’s head. It changed her appearance some. All done, good, she thought. She cracked the bathroom door, waited a moment listening hard, and then she went out the door.
* * *
Zeke was moving quickly, leaving the dead nurse in the hands of the FBI.
She came in through the garage, he thought, so she’s seen that entrance. It’d improve her odds of escape if she tries to exit that way. He found a stairwell and, as the alarm began to sound, he ran down the steps with good athletic balance.
At the lowest level, the underground garage, Zeke stopped and listened through the metal door. Then he opened it into the parking area. He recognized the two security guards standing by the x-ray machine at the nearby elevators.
“Looking for the girl we arrived with,” Zeke said.
The guards looked at each other and shrugged. One was a white man in his late 20’s, getting fat around the middle, Zeke thought, and the other was a tall black man, probably twenty-five and six foot four. The black man looked to be in decent shape, probably a college ball player a step or so too slow for the pros.
“Brown hair, about five eight,” said Zeke. “Brown eyes, and she was probably alone, exiting the building. I’d bet that she was wearing nurse scrubs.”
“Oh, sure, the nurse. She left about three minutes ago,” said the white guard. “Walked out to the street, right through there.” He pointed to the garage exit.
* * *
Back at The Agency, Clive and Zeke took time to address Roger Taylor’s murder.
“Let’s start at the beginning,” said Zeke. “The assassin was very likely hired by one of the cells that Roger’s anti-terrorist group was closing in on.”
“Yes, it seems most logical,” said Clive. “So, we did some research and reached out to our FBI friends. Based upon what we know, there are five possibilities, five known assassins that may have been involved…or some combination of the five. We eliminated some by age and location, and we’re left with these.”
“Hansen isn’t Middle Eastern,” said Zeke. “But he could easily be a hired pro. Maybe loosely affiliated with one of the terrorist cells. They’re all associated with colleges, but Hansen is older. In his cruise ship picture he looks to be in his late twenties.”
“If we assume that the moustache and longer hair is a disguise, we’re still looking at a possible contract, a pro,” said Clive.
“Knowing that Roger was first tased, then suffocated, we’ve got a fairly unique M.O.,” continued Zeke. “I’d think that Roger would be tough to get close to. His guard had to be up.”
Clive was sitting at the head of a long table made of dark wood with gold inlay. On the top of the table were the collective notes of several of Clive’s Agency operatives, outlining their research into each of the terrorist cells that Roger had identified. There were five large piles of legal-sized folders filled with photos, papers and computer printouts. In a matter of a few days they had identified most of the participants in the various organizations and constructed likely chains of command. The piles were arranged in order of their likelihood of being involved in Roger’s death, the most likely being, at present, closest to Clive. Zeke was seated at the table, two chairs down from Clive. No one else was in the room.
“I’m sure he was being watchful,” said Clive. Today he was wearing a muted green Glen Urquhart plaid vest over a crisp white shirt with arm bands holding up his sleeves, and with a pair of half-glasses that he put on and took off by force of habit as he spoke. “I’ve known Roger for quite a while, now,” he continued. “I was involved with him after he first joined the FBI. It was a fairly messy affair involving a group of computer hackers who were stealing information from mag strips on the back of credit cards and selling it to some eastern Europeans. The MasterCard and Visa people suggested to the FBI that they involve us in that investigation.”
“Right,” said Zeke. He was wearing a Tommy Bahama shirt with a matching brand sweater and jeans. He’d set his sunglasses on the table in front of him, and was leaning back in the chair, one foot against the side of the table, the other on the ground. Even sitting, Zeke had an aura of competence, of kinetic energy, waiting to be released. “Based on what we’ve found out so far, it looks like the UVA group has a pretty high probability of responsibility for Roger’s death.”
“Possible motive?” asked Clive, taking the half-glasses off his nose.
“To stop the investigation, to disrupt the FBI efforts?” said Zeke.
“Right, possibly, but they have to know that the FBI will regroup and come at them again,” said Clive.
“Unless there’s a pending action that would occur before they regroup,” said Zeke, thinking aloud. “Possibly a planned strike, which might raise the stakes enough to merit a murder.”
The table, known as the “work table” was located in a secondary conference room in The Agency headquarters in Washington, D.C. It had been the scene of quite a number of strategy sessions between Clive and his operatives.
“So, presently the FBI has accounted for four of these individuals, all currently in the United States, who have the skills, reputation and prowess to execute the action against Roger,” said Clive, glasses back on and looking at a computer generated report. “There were five, but one was eliminated because they were able to track him in California during the time of Roger’s murder.”
“Who are the four?” asked Zeke.
“Well, you know about Sergi Koprivach, allegedly from Bulgaria,” said Clive. “He’s been working the northeast coast, New York, New Jersey mostly.”
“Sergi’s over six and a half feet tall,” said Zeke, th
oughtfully, looking at a photograph. “And his ears are larger that this guy’s, more prominent.”
“Agreed,” said Clive. “You can’t disguise ears.”
“Second is Pierre LaFont, a former French Foreign Legionnaire. Which basically means that he’s a thug,” said Clive. “The FBI tracked him to Chicago before he disappeared a few weeks ago. “
“Most of LaFont’s work has been in Europe, right?” asked Zeke. “Particularly France and Amsterdam?”
“Yes, he’s typically stayed central to western Europe and the Middle East. The FBI was looking for him as a favor to Interpol. But there’s nothing that says he couldn’t have broadened his geography,” said Clive. “This would have been a highly specialized effort, and would make the killer’s reputation.”
“LaFont is about the right size,” continued Zeke. “And his features are somewhat similar. Let’s keep him on the short list.”
“OK, no worries,” said Clive. “Our third suspect is working out of Miami. You remember David Hoffman, I believe.”
“Never met him, but I’ve read his file,” said Zeke. “He’s supposed to have done some work for the Israelis here in the states, as I recall.”
“Yes, we suspect so,” said Clive. “He’s a body builder and a martial arts expert. Has some kind of black belt in something.” He paused and looked at Zeke. “But then, they all do, don’t they?”
“David’s a more remote possibility,” said Zeke. “He’s usually very specialized, and he’s probably not likely because the Jews and the Arabs don’t often work and play well together.”
“But the money?” asked Clive.
“It could be. He’s bulkier than this guy looks in the cruise ship photo, but it’s hard to tell…this is mostly a face shot,” said Zeke, looking at a blow-up of the killer’s photo. “The lighting is sort of weak, also.”
“Unfortunate, but that’s what we have,” said Clive.
“OK, who’s number four?” asked Zeke. “Ahmed Isaac?”
“Bingo,” said Clive, looking at the folder he was holding. “His mother was American born, and so Ahmed doesn’t look Islamic. Rather he looks more Italian, with sort of olive colored skin and dark brown hair. In the states, he’s been going by the name Tony Rossi.”
“That’s a possibility,” said Zeke.
“Yes, but the FBI lost track of him a while ago,” said Clive. “They have an old address in Philadelphia, and they think it’s his family’s home. He’s a good candidate.”
“So David Hoffman works out of Miami, the city from which the cruise ship departed,” said Zeke. “And Ahmed—Tony—we don’t have a location for him.”
“Right,” said Clive. “Who do you like, Zeke?”
“I think we need to chat with each of them,” said Zeke. “I’ll bet that helps us narrow it down.”
“Right,” said Clive.
“See if your people can get a reading on LaFont’s whereabouts, and Ahmed’s. I’ll start with Hoffman.”
Chapter 30
David Hoffman had finished his workout and was driving back to the condo. His Miami Beach location was convenient, he thought, minutes from the airport, and with multiple routes and bridges in and out of the area. It was a bright, sunny day with no clouds in the sky and a temperature of 30 degrees Celsius. He wore a silver warm-up jacket and matching pants with a blue stripe down each leg. His adidas YEEZY Boost 350 sneakers had cost him $1,300 at a high-end Miami retail store, but he loved the way they fit.
David pulled his Mustang Shelby GT350 into the underground parking garage and slid it into his assigned parking space. As he exited the car, he saw the entrance gate closing. The condo was in a very secure building, which suited David’s needs very well.
He stepped through the garage entrance to the lobby, nodded to the security guard, Tim, his sometimes sparring partner, and then stepped to the elevator and pushed the “UP” button. Waiting for the elevator car to arrive, David looked back at Tim, who was sitting behind the nearby desk, and asked, “All good today?”
“Sure is,” said Tim. “I’m off in a couple hours. Then home to Mama.”
David knew that Tim was married to a Latino girl, and that she kept track of his schedule pretty closely. “Maybe we can work out together later this week,” said David. “I need some contact work.”
“Can do, man,” said Tim. “Maybe Thursday? Martina has classes Thursday after work.”
“Sounds good,” said David. The elevator bell rang and the doors opened. A tanned blonde man who looked to be in his mid-30’s stepped off. David stepped back to give him room, said “Pardon” and then stepped into the elevator car. He realized that he hadn’t seen the blonde man before. The guy was about five foot ten. Based on his balance and motion—well, the small part that David had seen—he seemed to be fit and coordinated. David thought, I’d better ask Tim about him. The elevator door closed.
* * *
“Yeah, he just moved in,” said Tim, when David called down from the condo. David had carefully developed a relationship with the head Security Guard in his building, in order to get advanced warning in case trouble was looking for him. He considered Tim as his early warning system.
“Where does he live?” asked David.
“He’s on the seventh floor, number 710,” said Tim. “A couple floors above you.”
“Do you know much about him?” asked David.
“Just what Jenn told me,” answered Tim. Jenn was the Manager and Sales Agent for the condo building.
“Is he alone?”
“No one living with him now,” said Tim. “Jenn said that he’s got a job in downtown Miami and he leased the Zimmerman’s condo for six months. His wife and kids are supposed to be moving here in a couple of months. I think he’s from Boulder or Colorado Springs.”
“Hmm,” said David. “Any idea what he does for a living? He looks like he works out.”
“I did give him the address of the gym, when he asked,” said Tim. “And, you know he’s got a key to the condo fitness room.”
* * *
“4273,” said Sally, briskly.
“Hello, Franny,” said Zeke. “I’ve eliminated one.”
“Do tell,” said Sally.
“My neighbor, the Miami Hoffman. He’s clear. Hasn’t been out of the condo for more than a few hours, according to the security videos. They keep an electronic log of each tenant’s coming and going, using their key cards, and there’s a video camera in the lobby and on the elevator.”
“Were you able to check the video?” she asked.
“Yes, we coordinated with the local police and had a look at the videos for the dates of and around the cruise ship murder. The system actually stores the video in the cloud for 30 days, so we accessed it from the police station. The condo building owner gave us the access information, and we were able to get a visual on Hoffman in the building several times that morning. It wasn’t him.”
“Where to next?” asked Sally. “Are you heading this way?”
“Do we have a location for Ahmed Isaac yet?” asked Zeke.
“No, but we have his mother’s address in Philadelphia,” said Sally. “We might want to start there. Take a look at her bank account information, which I just sent to you.”
“Have they located the Frenchman yet?”
“No, not yet. So, Philly seems like the best next place,” said Sally.
“I’ll head to Philly, then” he said. “What else do we have on Isaac? Do we know where he is?” asked Zeke.
“We do have more info. I’ll e-mail you access to the electronic files,” she said.
“OK,” said Zeke. “Thanks. I’m planning on DC after this.”
“Oh, good,” said Sally. “I was hoping…” she said in a wispy, little girl voice. Zeke thought the voice shouldn’t fit, because Sally had an IQ close to 160. But, somehow it worked.
“Couple or three days, I think, Franny. Thanks,” he said as the phone line went dead.
Chapter 31
&nb
sp; It was ten after two, early Saturday morning when Zeke stopped and rubbed his eyes. The file on Ahmed Isaac was extensive and comprehensive, but it had ended when they lost track of him a year ago. Ahmed, or Tony Rossi as he liked to be called, was a half-Syrian and half-American. He spoke excellent English, as well as French and Arabic. According to the files, Ahmed was born in eastern Pennsylvania and had grown up in Philadelphia. After High School, he had spent several years with relatives in Syria, his father’s native country.
Now twenty-eight years old, Ahmed was suspected of being responsible for the death of Jersey City Mayor Artis Preston, who had been stabbed in an elevator in Hoboken, across the Hudson River from Greenwich Village. The elevator was discharging its occupants in the 9th Street Light Rail Station building. The building was a ten-story complex, the first two of which were occupied by the transit people; the higher floors were residential apartments. It was later found that Mayor Preston had been visiting his mistress who lived in a sixth floor apartment over the terminal.
Who rents an apartment right next to the railroad track? thought Zeke. Noise, smell, view of the tracks, parking issues, hundreds of people coming and going at all hours…
According to the report, Ahmed had coolly walked past the Mayor as he lay on the floor, bleeding out, and hopped on the train to the Light Rail Park and Ride. From there, he picked up a car and disappeared, probably drove south on Interstate 95 to Philadelphia and was lost amongst the heavy commuter traffic. The cameras had caught him leaving the elevator and the terminal, gray hoodie up, but there was no recorded evidence of Ahmed actually killing the Mayor. He obviously had known where the cameras were located.
He was certainly bold, thought Zeke. Maybe fearless. Many are before they turn thirty, he mused.
