An agency normally requires three to six months to approve an undercover op and obtain the Class One from Justice. During this time, support personnel are selected, surveillance apparatus allocated, per diems calculated and overtime budgeted. But the present crisis mandated a Herculean effort, and the Bureau accomplished a heroic task similar to the World War II effort made when the heavily damaged carrier USS Yorktown limped into Pearl Harbor. But with a decisive battle brewing at Midway, Pearl Harbor’s damage control experts, welders and ship fitters swarmed aboard Yorktown and made six months worth of repairs in fewer than seventy-two hours.
Tucker tapped the third envelope. “Tickets and official passports for your split.”
Levi opened it and found his maroon passport and leafed through page after page of blue, red and purple stamps from the countries he’d deployed to. The green, silver and purple Schengen Visa required for official passports was pasted across page ten. The odds were remote that his split might have to rush to Zurich to aid the others, but Tucker was thorough and Levi endorsed this level of contingency planning. Both men embraced the theory that there were two ways to carry out a task—the right way or none at all. Their work left no room for half-measures or errors. Levi looked up. “Anything else?”
“Yes.” Tucker looked sidelong at his assistant team leader. “I had you pegged as a lightweight the first time we met. But you sure saved my ass that night.”
“Tuck, it doesn’t matter who saved who. We had a mission to perform.”
“You don’t have to be modest with me. That was a helluva shot. That bastard had me till you put one right between his running lights.” Tucker held up a finger. “One shot, after you kicked the hell outta that first guy. Tell you what, partner. Next time some ex-Feeb civilian contractor tells me not to go down a dark alley? I’m listening.”
“I didn’t get any jollies shooting him, if that’s what you mean.”
“I know.” Tucker hunched over his checklist. “Right. Baker has some unfinished business in D.C., so he’ll fly to Zurich the day after next. The rest of my split’s catching an afternoon flight out of BWI to JFK, and then on to Zurich. That means I’ve gotta get going. Good luck.” Tucker stood and they shook hands.
Michael, Hacksaw and Dentz entered the room a few minutes later. Michael thought Levi looked haggard and studied him as he took a seat.
Levi distributed the tickets and passports, then opened the meeting. “Here’s our goal: I’ll make contact with the gang. If I gain their trust I’ll tweak them for intel. At the same time I’ll poke around for a master list of calls to and from Kalil. It’s not proof of a crime, but a list could incriminate Kruger as an actor in a larger plot against the United States.”
Dentz asked, “How do we play it?”
“I’ll go in-role as an uneducated twenty-six year old thug. My objective? Crash Kruger’s party in my quest for racial realignment. But he’s super paranoid. I’ll have to swagger enough that he’ll want me as a soldier, but have enough baggage that I won’t pose a threat to him. You, my trusty sidekicks, will be my handlers.” He glanced at his team. “I’ll need all the support I can get.”
Michael knew what awaited his friend. He asked, “You’re clear on the moral and ethical issues you’ll face, right? With their women, I mean.”
“We’re at war and there’ll be casualties. Make love not war, huh?” He blew air from his cheeks. “I just hope they screen their people for STDs.”
Hacksaw cocked his head to one side. “You gonna be smokin’ some herb, too?”
“You read the file. I’ll have to go proactive and do pot, coke—whatever.”
“Ain’t that too much ‘balls to the walls’? We’re talkin’ Addiction City here.”
“My emotional profile’s resistant to habituation.” Levi sat deep in his chair. “I used coke in other cases. But there’s a good chance I’ll have to do heroin, too.”
Michael threw his passport on the table. “That’s a dirty drug; addictive as hell!”
“The prospect does scare me.” He looked away. “There’s always rehab.”
Dentz grimaced. “Won’t they tatt you up?”
“Yeah, but I have an ace that I can play. Otherwise there’s laser surgery. Painful, but I knew the job was dangerous when I took it.” He held one of the manila envelopes aloft. “I’ve got an alias that includes DMV records, chat room activity, work history—even a poor credit history. Alarms will ring from here to Tibet when Kruger checks me out. He’ll fingerprint me but they’ll come back to my covert identity. I’m also insulated against a Savannah Check in case there’s a mole in one of the agencies. Nobody sees anything on me or my prints—unless they’ve got the Director’s personal say-so.”
Hacksaw raised a finger. “How we gonna communicate?”
“I’ve got a scrubbed cell and the Bureau’s providing plants in case Kruger calls people from the contact list. The plants will verify that they’re my girlfriend, former employer, drinking buddy…whatever.” He handed a cell to Michael and pushed a manila envelope toward him. “There’re five more inside. If I think my current cell’s been compromised, you’ll give me one of them as a replacement. Use yours if you need to contact me. It’ll send untraceable spam text messages to my phone in the form of ads for more air time. The ads signal me to call you back.”
“That’s not enough,” Michael complained, spinning the phone on the table top.
“We’re also getting two ultra-secure SAT phones. You keep one and hide the other in a location accessible to me. Incoming and outgoing messages are permanently deleted after each call, so they’ll be safe if someone runs across them.” He paused. “All military and law enforcement drones are already task-dedicated—Ravens as well as Predators. But a company called Avwatch will do covert aerial surveillances for us. The head honcho’s a former Coast Guard chopper jock with Top Secret clearances. He’ll fly a pattern five thousand feet up and five miles south of the compound each day at noon. They’ll never hear or see him, but his camera will see them and everything inside. He also has low-light capabilities for night ops.”
He pointed to Hacksaw. “You, my NCIS friend, will be issued a laptop. You can slave the plane’s camera and direct it with your mouse. We know Kruger has sensors and wireless intercept capabilities, so…” He handed a paper to Hacksaw. “See the diagrams there? I’ll try to walk a particular route each day at noon while Avwatch is there. Each route corresponds with a message next to each diagram.” He pointed to one. “See? This way we can keep tight without throwing emissions in the air.”
“Got it.”
Levi looked at his people. “Now listen up. I’ve got to infiltrate the group fast. That means making them sit up and take notice of me.”
He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “Here’s what we’re gonna do.”
Tucker’s split ignored one another as they wandered separately into the BWI terminal. As each one stepped up to a ticket agent, they discreetly produced their credentials and declared their armed status. The agents confirmed each credential’s authenticity by checking for its hidden helix with a ultra-violet light beneath the counter. Then the agent initiated paperwork that let the team member board the aircraft while armed. As each stepped away, a plainclothes security official escorted them to a back room, where they pressed their right thumbs against a biometric pad. The pad confirmed their identities and matched them against a daily list of personnel authorized to fly armed. Once done, they passed through a door into the sterile area. When it was time to board the aircraft, each made their secret handshakes with the purser to verify their authenticity.
Levi’s split arrived much later. He found a quiet corner of the terminal and got out his cell. Susan answered this time. He asked, “Did you get my message?”
A pause, then, “You’re leaving just like this? Without a real goodbye?”
“Susan. I tried. You didn’t answer.”
“I was…in-flight each time.”
“I lef
t voice messages.”
“You could’ve…”
“I tried, Susan. I tried as a friend would have.”
Her voice turned cold. “You could’ve found a way if you’d wanted.”
“We’re not doing this, Susan. We were friends but I’m afraid it’s over.”
She said hurriedly, “I love you, Levi. Please don’t leave.”
He began a gallant effort to let her down with dignity. “It’s not going to work. The chemistry isn’t there; never was.” He paused. “You’re a beautiful, talented woman and you’ve made me happy these past few days. But…”
“I can still make you happy, if only you’ll give me a chance.”
He said gently, “I’m afraid we’re beyond that. Now let’s say goodbye. I’m leaving in a minute and won’t have another chance to call.”
“Why not?”
He hesitated, then said, “I’ll be in a remote area with minimal cell coverage.”
“Wait. I’ve taken a month’s leave. It was use or lose and I thought we could spend more time together. We still can. Where are you going? I’ll meet you there.”
“No, my client requires secrecy. Proprietary information. Not unusual in my job.”
“Please. I love you. I don’t want this to end. We can work this out. You’ll see.”
“I’m not interested. Thank you for everything but now I have to go.” As three laughing youngsters chasing a fourth bounded past him, the P.A. cut in. “United Airlines flight nine to Albuquerque is now boarding…” When one of the children tripped over Levi’s feet, he helped the child up and said to the cell, “They’re calling my flight. I’m grateful for your friendship but anything more won’t work. I called to say goodbye.” When there was no response he hit the end button.
Susan’s trained flight attendant ear picked out the P.A announcement from the background noise. Albuquerque. No cell coverage. After a moment she pulled up a map of the city on her smart phone. The region wasn’t that big. She could find him and make things right. She had to, because she loved him. And if he gave her a chance to explain, she was certain he’d come around. Susan dialed her friend at the Transportation Security Administration office at BWI.
A female voice answered. “TSA. How may I help you?”
“Judith? Susan Kane. Listen, I wonder if you could check on a passenger for me.”
“You know I’m not authorized to do that.”
“Please? As a favor?”
Judith grumbled but said, “Okay. What do you need?”
“Check the manifests for tonight’s United Flight Nine. You’re looking for a Mr. Levi Hart. I need to confirm Albuquerque as his final destination.”
“All right, but it’ll take a while.”
Susan’s phone chirped ten minutes later. “Susan? Judith. Yes, he’s on that flight. I also ran another program and he has no other flights reserved.”
“Oh, Judith. You’re a dear. I can rest now that I know he got away safely.” Susan thought, I’m already on vacation and I’ve never seen Albuquerque, so…what the hell?
The Airbus 319 carrying Levi and his team pushed back from the gate at 1842 hours. Levi had already forgotten about Susan. He was now focused on the mission.
IT WAS PAST MIDNIGHT. A Broward Sheriff’s helicopter skittered high overhead as Zafir stepped on the battered van’s brake. The worn shocks banged against their stops when he hit a bump in the macadam driveway leading from Powerline Road to Fiveash Water Plant. After he coasted to a stop in front of a chain-link fence, one of his men ran to the gate, snipped the padlock with bolt cutters, and pushed it open. Traffic on I-95 whizzed past as Zafir eased through the breach and coaxed the van forward, stopping in front of a yellow curb with NO PARKING printed in red on the macadam. The building was modern glass and Santa Fe adobe. CITY OF FORT LAUDERDALE UTILITIES DEPARTMENT stood out from the front wall in black letters.
Zafir shut off the engine and scanned the rooftop until he found the surveillance camera. It was trained on the landscape. He eased open the door and got out, clutching the MP-5 close to his chest. His three men, armed and dressed in jeans and black shirts, gathered next to him and donned balaclavas.
They climbed six steps to the front door. Zafir knelt and examined the lock, then reached inside his shirt and produced a set of lock picks. Beads of sweat left cold trails from his armpits as he slipped a pick in and twisted it to the right with a deft flick of his wrist. The latch receded with a barely audible click. He whispered, “Let’s go.”
Holding his MP-5 at port arms, he moved with a stalking stride down a dim hallway. Stopping a few feet shy of a lighted work room, he peered inside its window. There was an emergency eye-washing station against a partition wall, with silver pipes rising from the floor and a green instruction placard posted above it. Half a dozen coffee mugs hung from a peg board to the right. Further on he spotted a coffee maker, then three workers seated at a small brown table, talking while they drank coffee.
Zafir’s palms were damp. He turned to his men, held up three fingers and drew a finger across his throat, then crouched low and crept toward the door. After saying a brief prayer he took a deep breath and burst through the door.
The workers spun around. One yelled, “Sweet Jesus. He’s got a gun!” His mug shattered against the floor, sending coffee in all directions.
Zafir’s MP-5 chattered as he sprayed the men with 9mm slugs. They fell in a heap of shredded bodies. Pools of blood spread beneath them. “Quickly now,” he ordered. “Check the building. Kill anyone you find. Return here in five minutes.”
The four men regrouped five minutes later. Zafir ran his hands through his dank hair. “Very well. We have much to do. Back to the van.”
They were laboring for breath by the time they wheeled the fifty-five gallon drum down the main hallway, moving past four sets of breathing apparatus with bright yellow air tanks mounted to a wall.
They reached the water filtering facility, the final purification step before water was pumped into storage tanks. Zafir called a halt and wheezed noisily. “I had no idea it would be so heavy. God willing, we will prevail.” They returned to the van to retrieve duffel bags containing boots, gloves, protective suits and respirator hoods.
Once back in the filtering facility they donned the suits. Inhaling with loud rasps through the masks they got to work. Zafir pointed to a wall. “The purification system is over there.” He watched carefully as his men hauled the drum into place and attached a transfer apparatus to the drum. By 0400 hours the contents were past the filters and inside the storage tanks. He stooped and tapped the bottom of the drum. It echoed with a hollow ping. “Very well. To the control room.”
They dashed to the main floor. Zafir pushed open the glass door. Meters, graphs and green electrical boxes sprouted along three walls, some to within a foot of the ceiling. A console dominated the center of the room. On it were three monitors, keyboards and eight black control buttons He inspected a regional map fastened to the fourth wall, then sat at the console. After studying the keyboard he entered two commands. When the computer prompted him with a message he pressed five of the eight buttons, then folded his arms across his chest. “It is done.”
Beneath them, gates and valves opened in a timed sequence. Water from the treatment plant, now laced with Type-A botulinus toxin, began infiltrating the drinking supplies of the one million residents of greater Ft. Lauderdale.
He pressed two more switches and diesel generators roared to life. They would power the pumps after first responders cut power to the plant. Following instructions, he taped the photocopy of Amahl’s passport photo across the console and left three empty vials beneath it. He would mail the others to NBC News.
They stripped off their protective suits and climbed back aboard the van at 0515 hours. Once through the gate, Zafir waited while his men secured it with a massive lock, then got onto I-95 south toward Miami. The first vestiges of morning rush hour traffic were filling the highway as he blended with the cars a
nd trucks. Forty minutes later they were in their apartment. He couldn’t believe their good fortune. They had survived, and God willing, they had struck a blow against the Zionist supporters.
TUCKER AWOKE FROM HIS POWER NAP. After their redeye flight landed in Zurich they checked into their hotel and crashed. Now it was 6:00 p.m. Zurich time. He switched on the TV and caught two minutes of CNN International’s breaking news out of Ft. Lauderdale before his phone rang. Lowering the TV volume, he picked up the receiver and listened, then hung up. As he got dressed he watched footage of a cabbie helping a white-haired man into Northwest Regional Hospital. The frail octogenarian gasped as he told the reporter, “I feel weak and dizzy and my vision’s blurred. Can’t see a dang thing.” He licked his lips. “I’m scared. Damn scared.” CNN cut to Memorial Hospital in nearby Hollywood, where police were trying with little success to hold back frantic crowds storming the ER with similar symptoms.
Tucker stepped from the Marriott into brisk night air five minutes later and turned toward Zurich Center. When he reached Walchestrasse he stopped. Passersby took little note of the innocuous blue Volvo pulling to the curb. He got in without a word and nodded at the Regional Security Officer.
The RSO drove to the U.S. Embassy’s side entrance and ushered Tucker into the comm center. After verifying Tucker’s identity, he took him to the STU-III secure phone and inserted a plastic Crypto Ignition Key directly into the phone, then waited the fifteen seconds required to transmit a message to the receiving phone that the RSO had a Top Secret/SCI clearance. Once the secure connection was completed, he gestured to Tucker and backed away.
Tucker rested his finger on the dead-man vigilance switch and said into the mouthpiece, “Tucker.”
“Baker here.”
Cobra Clearance Page 10
