The Repairman- The Complete Box Set

by L. J. Martin

  I haven’t mentioned the possibility of going on an all-expense-paid cruise as I thought it very unlikely to happen, when my cell sings with an unknown caller tone.

  He wastes no time. “Mort Meyer here. Fenderson told you I’d call?”

  Mort Meyer is the typical snotty Hollywood producer, but I can put up with an arrogant prick for a hundred grand and a month or six-week vacation. He’s just asked me if Al Fenderson, whose Maybach we recovered, had given me a heads up that he would call.

  “He said you might.”

  “I’m calling from the jet. Meet me at Signature in a half hour.”

  “Signature?” I ask, then realize he means the private terminal.

  “Yeah, you don’t know from Signature?”

  “Sure. My jet’s there,” I say, and roll my eyes at Connie.

  “Right. A half hour.”

  “Can’t make a half hour. I’m at the pool and it’s a twenty-minute drive.”

  “I thought you were a man of action. Did I hear wrong?”

  “Actually, I’m getting a little action at the moment,” and I give Connie a wink, “but for you, Mort, I’ll break off. Have a cup of coffee and I’ll see you in forty-five.”

  “If that’s the best you can do.”

  I ring off and turn to the beautiful tan blonde, who’s perfect—except, as I mentioned, maybe too damn smart. “Got to go and see about a new gig.” I check the time. “Three-thirty. Can you be even more beautiful by six, if that’s possible?”

  “I can put myself together. I don’t know about beautiful.”

  “I do, and you can go to the Golden Steer in your bikini for all I care.” Then I pause a moment and add, “Come to think of it, I don’t want to beat up every guy in the place, so maybe you’d better wear something showing a little less of that beautiful bronze skin.”

  She smiles and bats those lovely gray-greens at me. “I’ll be ready at six.”

  I grab a three-minute shower, the half inch of hair on my scarred noggin needs only a pat down, and pull on jeans and a polo shirt. And, since I’m meeting a Hollywood guy, loafers with no socks, and jump in my classic fifty-seven Vette and buzz over to Signature. The fixed base operator is a high-class operation, surrounded by a half-billion-dollars’ worth of private jets. I immediately spot Mort Meyer in the waiting area. Who else would be in a tan kid-leather jacket with a neon blue silk shirt with the top three unbuttoned, showing tufts of gray chest hair? His coiffed silver—dyed I imagine—hair looks as if he takes his makeup artist along to touch him up. And the Cuban he’s puffing—the size of a Great Dane’s leaving—puts a perfect topping on the sundae. I muffle my laugh as I see he too, has on sockless loafers. I called that one right.

  To his credit, he does stand and offer a hand as I approach. I’m complimented.

  “I’ve seen your picture,” he says.

  “And I’ve seen yours in the Hollywood Reporter, the New York Times, and the National Enquirer.” We shake. I’m sure he’s pulled a full report on me before offering me a job, so I’m not surprised if he knows my every scar and where it came from.

  “Let’s get out to the jet,” he says. “More privacy there.”

  He says it, but I know damn well it’s the Hollywood shtick thing, ‘see what I got and what I’m worth.’ I don’t give a damn as I’d like to see inside the Citation. Most of my flight time was in aluminum metal military seating. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got a lot of rich Jewish clients and love them, and I actually got to make this one wait on me. It’s usually the other way around. Making you wait is a Jewish power trip…not that many goy execs are not equally vainglorious.

  She’s configured to seat eight in the rear with a pair of tables between the front-facing seats—soft blue and brown kid leather seats—and it looks as if the interior was done by Ralph Lauren, blue trim around brown walnut, mirrored bar in the rear, masculine but plush as hell. A nicely dressed young man sporting a thin patterned tie and striped shirt, wearing his sunglasses inside, which doesn’t surprise me, pours us three fingers of single malt—that they screw up with cubes of ice, but I don’t complain. Mort doesn’t bother to introduce sunglasses and me, so I presume the young man is a flight attendant. He looks me up and down like he’d enjoy seeing me as I was when I climbed out the pool, so I don’t give him a wink as he might melt.

  Seated across from me, Mort again wastes no time. “My daughter, Sally…”

  “I thought it was Simone?”

  “Stage name. I’m on a short leash here, got a supper appointment with Steven in Phoenix, another movie deal, so let me finish.”

  I nod, not asking him if he’s having supper with Spielberg, which I’m sure disappoints him, but he continues.

  “Sally has booked a cruise, kind of a public thing for us and I’m concerned.”

  “So, you want a babysitter. Not my bag.”

  “I want a down-and-dirty bodyguard who has no compunction about chucking some overeager a-hole overboard if need be. And I’m always worried about kidnapping.”

  I laugh. “Did Al tell you my terms?”

  “He did. Six weeks, a hundred grand, ten up front…”

  “No, sir. Half up front.”

  “Fifty up front. A cabin for two. All incidentals. I can get a cabin directly under my daughter’s suite, or close.”

  “A cabin with a king size, a desk and veranda?”

  “No problem.”

  “The first incidental will be shipping a crate to a buddy in London as I can’t fly with what I’m carrying on board the cruise ship.”

  “Expected.”

  “And I’m working for you. I won’t be shagging drinks for your daughter. I’ll be watching her back.”

  “Yes, sure. You are licensed to carry?”

  “Of course, but no one is supposed to carry on a cruise ship. And London, France, Portugal, and Spain sure as hell don’t recognize my Wyoming concealed carry permit, even if thirty-six states do.”

  “And that matters?”

  “Not in the least. I have baggage that will allow me to board with enough fire power to repel Somali pirates. That’s the crate I’m shipping.”

  “That’s what I hoped you’d say. And I assume you’re proficient.”

  “Well, sir, bad guys in several countries can attest to it—or could if they could talk.”

  5

  I’m convinced, as who can’t use a hundred grand? But I have a couple more questions.

  “Your daughter isn’t travelling alone?”

  “No, a hired lady in waiting, if you will, Gretchen Sorensen, will be in the cabin next to yours, and Sally has a classmate from UCLA, Patty McCallister, who’ll share the suite with her.”

  “When do we sail?” I say.

  “One week, the Crimson Cruise ship Blue Pearl leaves from London.” He rises and extends a hand.

  I stand and shake with him.

  “You’ll get a delivery tomorrow, packet with tickets, et cetera. Your travelling companion?”

  “Constance Nordstrom.”

  “Any relation to the department store Nordstrom’s?”

  “Never asked her.”

  He laughs. “You don’t much give a shit about money, do you Reardon?”

  “She’s ex-CIA. She earns her way and is part of the deal. As to money, I only want to be paid for what I do and as agreed.”

  “Fair enough. A check will be in the material.”

  I stick out my hand, but he doesn’t take it. Instead, he gives me a hard look.

  “Reardon, I don’t tolerate failure.” I take it as a threat.

  “Mister Meyer, as a bodyguard I take the bullet if necessary. If trouble comes, it’s my middle name. That’s all I can offer.”

  He pauses a minute for effect, then in a low voice, “If she takes a bullet, you’ll have one coming.”

  I give him a sardonic one-sided smile. “So, if the worst happens, you’ll become the enemy? You don’t want me for an enemy, Mister Meyer.”

  His face fall
s, and he sighs deeply. “Okay, okay, I’m a little anxious about my little daughter insisting on this cruise. In fact, more than anxious…very concerned. It’s that little bitch she runs with, McCallister, who talked her into it.”

  “It’s not the hundred g’s that has you rattled?”

  He smiles. “Not at all. In fact, I’m her manager, and she makes me a hell of a lot more than that. And, even with this new tax crap, you’re deductible.”

  “So, we’ll take it all as it comes?”

  “Like you say, just do your best.”

  “I always do.”

  I head for the ladder and pass the steward, who bats his eyes and says, “Bye.” The kid is obviously Hollywood old-queen fodder…makes me wonder about ol’ Mort.

  I nod at the pretty boy and beat a trail. I forgot to mention that I haven’t said anything to Miss Nordstrom as yet. I’ve committed, unconditionally, so I guess it’s time to test the lady.

  The American jihadist now known as Mohamid left the United States with his real name on his passport, Sean McCord. Living in Ohio in a nearly all-white neighborhood, he was raised under what he perceived as racism. He was dark, as his mother was full-blooded Nigerian and his father a former Irish IRA radical who fled Belfast to Canada when only twenty, then illegally into the USA. Sean was easily radicalized although his father thought jihadists insane. Sean travelled to Pakistan when only twenty-two, crossed the border to Afghanistan and joined the Taliban. Having a father who took full advantage of American’s right to bear arms, he was raised from the age of ten on a gun range. He could break down and reassemble a Glock or AR15 nearly as quickly as any SEAL.

  His talents were soon put to good use by the Taliban, until he fell under suspicion and fled to Somalia where he joined Al-Shabaab and fought against the TFG, Somalia’s Transitional Federal Government. After the TFG captured all of Mogadishu from Al-Shabaab, and many of the senior commanders were assassinated, he fled to and became a favorite of the new Al-Shabaab leader Mukhtar Abu Zubair and was luckily sent out on an errand when Zubair was killed by an American drone. Mohamid fled to from there to join in the planning and execution of the Westgate Shopping Mall attack and the October Mogadishu bombings, after much training and indoctrination he was posted to London, to lead a small cell made up of only himself and two others. The others were killed by police as a result of their success in the 2015 Paris bombings, and now enjoy their seventy-two virgins in the company of Allah.

  Al-Shabaab has learned to remain as anonymous as possible, and they now operate on a need-to-know basis.

  Mohamid Ahmed—Sean McCord—is a disciplined and dedicated terrorist, enjoying a monthly stipend, a Libyan wife who is subservient to his every whim, and two children who attend London schools that are nearly one hundred percent populated by Muslims and respected Sharia Law.

  This current mission is to be his most important and will raise him to become one of the most respected Al-Shabaab leaders.

  He’s made few mistakes, until he made a cell phone call with that pay-as-you-go phone he was instructed not to use.

  The fact is it’s identical to the flip phone he keeps for his personal use, and since the call was dialed from his memory, not in the phone’s memory, he didn’t realize he’d pulled the wrong phone from a jacket pocket.

  I’m a little surprised and pleased at how receptive Connie is to this proposed trip. I know she’s expecting a call from Harrah’s as she sent them a resume looking for a job in their security department.

  I give her my most convincing smile. “Okay, since you’re getting a free trip with a dude to carry your luggage, me, then you can do us both a solid?”

  “And that solid is?”

  “A nanny, or lady in waiting as Mort calls her, by the name of Gretchen Sorensen, will be travelling with us. Simone will be accompanied by a Patty McCallister who was her roomy at UCLA. Let’s know all we can about them.”

  “No hill for a stepper," she says.

  I laugh as she gives me back one of my sayings, then continues, "How about the crew and passengers?”

  “You can do that?” I ask.

  She laughs. “You think I'm nothing but a pretty face? If I can’t, friends at the Company can. Crimson Cruise line, The Blue Pearl, leaving Greenwich, right?”

  “Are you a hacker, Miss Nordstrom?” I ask. She never ceases to amaze me.

  “Not the best in the west, but damn sure the best in this condo. Can I work with the kids at Weatherwax Internet Services?”

  “Pax is already pissed he’s not coming along, and he’ll bitch and moan but always helps. He’s a sucker for a good hack.”

  “Cool, I’ll go over in the morning.”

  “And he’s a sucker for a beautiful blonde, so don’t turn your back on him.”

  “Ha, I can whip you both.”

  “Ha,” I repeat. “I saw your workout. Yoga does not a killer make.”

  “And, ha again. You knock-down-dirty street fighters probably never heard of Krav Maga. It's the Israeli hand to hand. Pretty darn good. But I'll tell you, having had some touches of all of them I have a lot of respect for good old American boxing and wrestling if you add the illegal aspects to it...hit 'em in the throat and the nuts. Jujitsu, karate, and that most effective of all, shoot the fuckers between their pig eyes. Use what works, that's my style. Let me know when you want to go a few rounds."

  “Fuck me. Sorry I asked.” Like I said, she never fails to amaze me. Then I laugh, and add, “Let’s keep the battles to the bed, babe.”

  “Good by me. But right now, we’ve got to meet Pax and Ji Su. I’m starving.”

  “Then home for a few rounds of horizontal exercise?”

  “Or standing up or hanging from the rafters. Your call, big boy.”

  God, you gotta love a woman who accepts a challenge.

  6

  In a conference room in Langley, Virginia, at CIA headquarters, Frazier Mendleson, a senior case officer assigned to JTTF, the Joint Terrorism Task Force—that’s made up of over fifty agencies—leans back at the head of the table, comfortable in a swivel chair at the twelve-chair conference table. He’s addressing five others—one of whom is not present other than on screen—including, three from his section and Hortense Appleby from the U.K. desk at the State Department. On a secure line is FBI Special Agent Harry Weinstein, from the London LEGAT agency office, the Legal Attaché’s office, one of forty-six worldwide that conduct bureau business out of the country. Weinstein is also special liaison with the CIA for terrorist activities.

  Mendleson’s addressing Hortense, in particular, “NSA sent over an interesting text of a cell phone call made by an unknown caller to Abu Mansoor Mukta, who, as you may know, is on our terrorist watch list and the kill list. As soon as we glean some actionable intel from following his activities. He’s a Tier One player.”

  Harry Weinstein speaks up. “He’s a special interest of mine. Mukta was likely a player in the Paris magazine Charlie Hebdo shootings. We’ve yet to develop enough proof but SO15 has a group with Mukta as a primary person of interest. Have you communicated this text to them? I’m surprised they didn’t pick it up on this end.”

  “No, Harry. You’re the first one read in. We don’t know if they picked it up but doubt it as they’ve never mentioned Mukta having a throwaway—a pay-as-you-go in the U.K.— phone. Hortense Appleby is here now. I presume you’ll get a written copy from her office. See what you make of it. Here it is, translated: Manny, I will not be at Mosque for a while. I am going cruising. Then he laughs and adds. I will be serving the infidel. I hope to see you on my return, unless I’m martyred. Then Mukta replies, do you love death more than the cockroach loves life? Then the caller laughs again and replies: I do, and the passengers are cockroaches, but will not be so successful as that species. I had hoped for a hard target, not a bunch of blue-haired fat Americans. Mukta replies: Inshallah, may Allah welcome you with open arms, even if your fatwa is a soft target. The caller: ma’a as-salamah. That’s a standard goodbye
. Mukta: May Allah be with you. And that’s it.”

  Harry, on the speaker phone, asks, “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. Both phones are throwaways. We know of Mukta’s, of course, and will forward you what we know of the callers. Likely bought from some cigar shop in East London. And likely for cash so there’ll be no tracking it. Please coordinate with Angelina Lara in our London office. She’s out of pocket or would be read in on this call.”

  Harry asks, “And SO15?”

  “Not read in yet, but NSA is waiting for our clearance to feed a copy to their terrorism desk at Thames House. I’ve asked them to give it to Nigel Watterson.”

  “Everyone there at the moment are your unit people?” Harry asks.

  “And yours,” Frazier replies.

  “Then I can be frank. Watterson is a real asshole.”

  Frazier laughs. “Yeah, pretty much, but he’s a cooperative asshole and that’s way better than an uncooperative sweetheart of a limey who pays for the pints.”

  “True,” Harry agrees.

  Hortense, who seldom if ever smiles and has earned the moniker of Horrible Hortense, offers, “We’ll follow up on cruise ship bookings on our end, but you should too, Harry. Our only real lead is American passengers and a near departure date. If he’s not making Mosque, it’s likely within a week. That should narrow it way down.”

  “I’ll put some people on it. But until I get a handle on who the caller is, I’ve nowhere to start other than Mukta’s known associates, of which there’s damn near a hundred on our list, particularly all those in the East London Mosque. Does anyone have an asset there?”

  Frazier Mendleson clears his throat, then offers. “The company may have some help in that department. I’ll be in touch with London and get back to you. Let’s go to work.” He stops them all before they reach the door. “It’s long been a fear of mine that these bastards will hit a cruise ship. Some of those babies have thousands of passengers with nowhere to run. And if it’s a ransom thing, and they ask for millions for a freighter with a crew of twenty, what do you think they’ll ask for if it’s three thousand Americans? Let’s nip this one in the bud.”