No sooner had the crime squad finished dusting the place for fingerprints, Jonathan moved in the study-room taking the housekeeper with him.
“Helena, look carefully and let me know what you think is not in its usual place….”
He was making a rough sketch of the place and marking the things he himself was noticing.
The articles on the open wooden shelves and the books in the glass cupboards seemed to have been disturbed and in disarray, some items having fallen onto the floor, apparently subjected to random searches.
Someone had cleared the table-top, and emptied all the drawers of the main desk, of any paper or notebook or document.
Similarly for the files in the first two drawers of the steel filing cabinet that stood in one corner, whose locks had been picked. However, the folders with the files in the remaining two drawers, though showing signs of having been searched, were apparently left behind. Perhaps, these were not of any interest to the killers.
To Jon, this appeared to be a search led by an individual who knew what she or he was looking for and where.
Jon made a note of the folders and the nature of the contents. He’d need to examine the steel cabinet and the files later for any evidence or clues.
The long, dull-brown leather couch had been slashed in several places with its interiors protruding out.
Helena showed him the place where the computer and the printer had stood, whereas the assassins had left the modem and the table phone untouched.
“Señor, the three picture frames he had on his desk are also missing.”
Thinking it best to make an independent inventory of the things in the study room, he called officer Brian on the phone, who was out with the NYPD detectives, and asked Smith to join him.
“Helena, would you know, by any chance, who were in those photographs?” Jon knew he was merely speculating by asking the housekeeper.
“Señor Eugenio was in the first two photo-frames with a group of four men or six. In the smaller frame was the picture of a very beautiful woman, looking almost like a school girl, with straight, long black hair and narrow-eyes… like the Chinese, you know?”
Bradley indeed knew. She was Eugene’s longstanding Vietnamese girlfriend, who disappeared during the fall of Saigon.
“What about the men with the Señor in the other two frames? Did you see anyone of them come here to visit the Señor?”
The housekeeper appeared to constrict her brow in a bid to recollect. “Maybe, one or two of them, Señor. But the photos appeared to have been taken many years ago, because the Señor looked much younger. ”
“Did you see any title or names or even a date written or printed on the photographs; anything that you can remember…?’
He paused to let Helena think real hard, and saw that she was making an effort to recollect.
“Señor, I may be wrong… the oldest photo was in black and white. The Señor and the six men with him were all dressed like soldiers holding guns and they appeared to be in a jungle. At the bottom of the picture was written the name Phoe…,” she gave up in exasperation, “No, Señor it’s difficult for me,” then added, “I did go to a mission school in Mexico where I also learned to read and write in English. In America, my husband would make me read the newspapers to improve my English and I still do so...”
“I understand Helena. Don’t feel discouraged. You do speak better than most working people coming from non-English speaking countries.”
Meantime, he had written a word in his notebook, which he was now showing her.
‘Phoenix’
“Is this the word the word you saw?”
“P-h-o-e-n-i… Yes, Yes, Señor…. I am sure now. That’s the word I saw written on the photograph.
Eugene Lewek was in the army in Vietnam when he was recruited by the CIA. The Phoenix Program was in operation between 1965 and 1972. It was contrived by the CIA to identify and neutralize by means of infiltration, capture, terrorism, torture, and assassination of the NLF cadre - National Liberation Front of South Vietnam or commonly known as the Viet Cong.
Apparently, Eugene was one of the CIA Phoenix operatives who had hunted down suspected NLF operatives, informants and supporters while the Program lasted.
“What about the remaining photo frame, Helena?”
By this time she was feeling confident of her dormant abilities.
“Let me think for a moment, Señor Bradley…,” she closed her eyes and began to speak seconds later,
“I think that was taken much later because only this photo was in color. The Señor and the four men with him looked older. Yes, almost as close to what he looked like yesterday…” Her voice trailed away in sadness.
Meantime, the junior FBI officer had completed the inventory of the study-room and come to stand by his boss. They all signed it, including Helena, the housekeeper, as the witness. The NYPD forensic would have made their own inventory list.
In his first search, Jonathan did not find any USB or pen drive, or writing pad, or notebook. Brian’s inventory also did not mention any of these items. Someone had combed the place thoroughly, and taken away any self-incriminating evidence which could have helped in tracing the killers.
“Brian, please open a folder for Mr. Eugene Lewek and file a copy of the inventory list and whatever your report on the findings so far, including the information you have gathered from interacting with the Manhattan detectives. We shall all need to compare our notes when we meet again at the FBI office.
“By the way, Mr. Lewek would have had a safe, don’t you think?
“I looked for it in the obvious places. If there’s one, the safe has managed to elude us…”
Helena, interrupted him. “Señores, he had one when I first came to work here. It was there,” she pointed to where the filing cabinet stood, “behind that cabinet. But after a while, it was gone. He must have given it away. Maybe he preferred to use the bank safe box?”
“Helene, do you know if he had a safe box in the bank?”
She was definitely embarrassed thinking she had spoken out of turn. “Sorry Señores I was only assuming…”
“It is alright, Helena. By the way, do you know whether Señor Eugenio had any security-system installed at the house. Did you come across anything like that?”
“I know what you mean, Señor Bradley. I have seen these things in the some of the houses I worked before. The Señor did not tell me, and I haven’t seen any electronic system like that in this house,” she said and then shook her head, adding, “Or maybe, I wouldn’t know how to spot it.”
Jonathan Bradley had been wondering all along why Eugene did not have a house security system installed. Maybe after all these long years of a clandestine life, he wanted to spend the last years of his life in a natural and wholly unrestricted manner free from security apprehensions.
Still, he was not fully convinced. One of the first things that the NYPD Mobile Squad had done was to check the house for electronic surveillance and home security equipment. No trace of any kind had been detected or found.
“Brian, see if Detective Celli is ready to take her downtown for her statement, and later maybe one of the officers there can drop her home.”
Turning to the housekeeper, he said, “Helena, you have been a great help to us here. I or one of our officers will contact or visit you if we need to talk to you further. Meantime, think over what I have asked you to, and if you remember anything new, or anything that bothers you in some way, do not hesitate to call me or my office. Officer Smith will give you the official card. You can call any of those numbers, and at any time. Understood?”
As she turned to leave with the FBI officer, Bradley stopped them raising his hand, “Helena, don’t talk to the reporters. You are the main witness. They are bound to harass you. Even if they come to your house, refuse to speak to them. At least don’t give them any important information…”
It suddenly occurred to Bradley that the housekeeper’s life could be at risk if the ki
llers thought she was a danger to them.
“Don’t speak to strangers and don’t open the door to people who are not able to identify themselves.”
He observed that she had taken affright after he had warned her.”
“No, No… Don’t be afraid. You will be alright. Just do what I have told you. The police are there to protect you.”
“Thank you, Señor. You are a kind man.”
Officer Brian left with the housekeeper. Bradley glanced at his watch, and saw that it was 3.15 PM.
He was reaching out for his cellphone when he saw his FBI colleague, Allan Banks, approaching him with three CIA officials.
Coincidentally, the number he was about to call, was trying to reach him as the caller’s name and picture appeared on the screen of his cellphone. It was Victoria Kaye.
Jonathan listened to her for a while, and it made him feel better.
“Yes, I will be there as soon as I can,” he spoke into the cellphone, and put it off, before the four men reached him.
Williams went about introducing the CIA officials to Jonathan Bradley. They were all younger men, and he had not met them before, but they had heard of his name mentioned in Langley.
The senior-most of them was David Murray in mid-thirties, lanky and looking self-confident, the next in rank was Leo Maloney, tall, heavy-built and in his late twenties, and the youngest operative was Curtis Rawlings, of boyish appearance with the slim and muscular look of a gym enthusiastic.
“I understand you are now working with the FBI,” Murray said, “Is the FBI officially on this case?”
Bradley had the feeling that Murray already knew that the FBI wasn’t, but he had to ask.
“No. Not yet. The victim was a personal friend of mine. I heard his homicide reported on the police radio. The NYPD Manhattan Homicide Bureau is investigating the case as it falls into their jurisdiction. You may want to talk to Detective Celli.”
“I have already met and talked to Lieutenant Celli and the Police Captain, Danny Buckley. This case appears to be very much theirs.”
The inference of the last subtle remark was not lost on Bradley. He chose to ignore it.
“After retirement Mr. Eugene Lewek was sometimes retained by the FBI,” William, however, wouldn’t let go without a rebuttal, “but, I guess, the CIA wouldn’t be aware of that.”
Bradley took the opportunity to end the conversation. He glanced at his watch and said, “Gentlemen, I guess we are about done with here. Allan, you and Brian could leave now. I have an appointment elsewhere.”
“Just a moment. Mr. Bradley, what is your take on the investigation so far? You and your men have been looking over the crime scene for a while,” Murray was still doing the talking on behalf of his CIA team.
“That is right. But, Mr. David Murray, you will have to ask the NYPD for their official investigation report. You have just said, it is their Crime Squad that is working the homicide.
“By the way, is the CIA officially on this case?” Jonathan knew no answer would be forthcoming from Murray. CIA had no jurisdiction over local homicide cases, unless relevant to homeland security, espionage or terrorism.
“If the CIA wants to talk to me, you know where I will be?’
Having asked that, Jonathan walked away in the company of his FBI colleague who then went looking for Brian Smith. They would all be gathering next on Monday for the 11.30 AM meeting at the FBI office.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Zahlé, Beqa’a Valley - 2003
On road to Beirut City
Jameel Khalaf, did not know who the men were, and except for the mandatory exchange of greetings, they did not show any willingness to converse.
That they were local Shi'ite, he was sure of. Jameel did not want to know more as much as they did not want to know about him. That was the reciprocal understanding in covert interactions.
It had been almost thirty minutessince they started from the valley and were approaching the suburbs of the Zahlé city.
The time was getting to be around 1.30 AM. Though the surroundings were in darkness, Jameel could still distinguish the landscape as they drove past.
From Zahlé, it was only 52 km, which is about one hour’s drive to the Beirut city. The American Embassy officials were probably waiting for them in the city somewhere, and from there to conduct Jonathan to the American University Medical Center in the Hamra area of Beirut.
Presently, Jameel felt the speed of the car slow down, and come to a stop with the engine running. He stretched out his neck to look through the windshield. He could see nothing but dark, empty space ahead of them.
Without speaking, the Shi'ite in the passenger seat quickly got out of the car, and standing on the foothold of the SUV, reached out and took down the yellow-black Hezbollah banner from atop the vehicle. He, then, opened the SUV’s back door, threw the folded banner inside it, and returned to the passenger seat as the driver shifted gears and they were driving on the road again.
However, hardly seven minutes had passed when the driver abruptly reduced the speed, leaving the occupants jarred with the sudden loss of motion.
The SUV driver continued to proceed slowly. This time, however, Jameel could see some shadowy figures moving about in the distance ahead and he could make out the shape of a large vehicle with its parking lights turned on.
Beside Jameel, Jonathan groaned and his trained reflexes led him into a blurry wakefulness. Despite the high fever and the throbbing of his wounds, he strived to sit straight and focus his attention on what was happening around him.
Jameel questioned the obvious spokesman, sitting next to the driver, as to what was happening?
“Jaysh Lubnan. Shurtah. Lebanese Military Police.” He told Jameel that he would do the talking to the police.
Seeing the SUV approach, one of the military police officers stepped forward and waved the car to a stop on one side of the road. They were six armed men wearing the Lebanese army military police fatigues and the Green beret. A dark-green Land Rover was parked on the left side of the road.
At that hour, the road was free of any traffic. The policemen were seen chatting among themselves. There were no barriers put up.
Jonathan was fully conscious by now. He had seen the senior military officer wave their SUV to one side. The driver had stopped the car and cut off the engine, and only then did the officer approach the SUV.
They are probably from the anti-terrorism unit, conducting random checks for wanted or suspected militants, thought Bradley.
“Where are you headed?” The Officer had come to the driver’s side and was peering into the interior. One of the military policemen stood behind him with the rifle lowered and pointing.
“To Hamra, Beirut city.”
“Who are all these men?”
This time, the man in the passenger seat spoke, “We are farmers from Beqa’a…”
The military Officer, was carrying a flashlight in his hand. He turned it on Jameel and then lingered the light on Jonathan’s face. The latter winced under the sudden, stinging glare of the flashlight.
All at once, the officer became agitated and stepped back, ordering the driver, “Bar’rah! Yallah, bil sora'a! Come out. At once.”
The other military policemen heard his command and immediately joined him on full alert and weapons ready.
At another order from him, this time to his men, they moved quickly to surround the SUV.
The driver already had the car’s registration papers and his I.D. in his hand, and he extended them to the Officer, probably a “Naqeeb", an army Captain as Jonathan noticed from the insignia on his uniform.
He took his time to scrutinize the documents, and apparently satisfied said, “Tayyeb. Alright,” handing them back to the driver.
He then addressed the front passenger and Jameel.
“Bitaqat Hawiyyah. IDs,” he demanded. After having inspected them awhile, he returned the cards, and turned his attention to Jonathan.
“Inta’ ma Lubnan,�
�� he switched to English, “You are not a Lebanese. Who are… ?”
Jameel offered to explain, “Sayyed, houwa mareed. Houve ‘areed doktor…. Sir, he’s ill. Needs a doctor.”
“Uskoot! Shut up.” The Captain glared at him.
“Aasef! Sorry.”
“Who are you?” he again demanded of Jonathan.
“I am an American. I had gone visiting the Beqa’a Valley.” Bradley did not want him to know yet that he was an Embassy official.
Apparently not convinced with Jonathan’s reply, the Lebanese Officer ordered, “Come out of the car, and show your hands!”
Jameel stepped outside and made out to assist Jonathan.”
“You… move away from him,” the Captain cautioned him, turning his head to give orders to his team, “Guard every one of them. Shoot, if anyone makes trouble.”
Bradley’s whole system stiffened with pain as he slowly moved his body across from the other end of the seat and put his left foot out on the ground. He waited until he was able to shift his body weight on that foot while he lifted his right leg out of the car and leaned heavily against the SUV.
The Lebanese Officer and his military police were intently watching his every move. However, the Captain upon observing Jonathan’s pale countenance and his lack of strength to hold himself steady, softened his approach towards the foreigner.
“I see you are not just ill, but more than that, you appear to be wounded.” He was staring at the neck wound, and the visible portion of the bandage roll across his chest and right shoulder, which showed under the open shirt.
The Captain was well aware of the dangers to the Americans and Westerners caught up in the sporadic sectarian conflicts in Lebanon, particularly in the areas like the Beqa’a Valley, where the Hezbollah’s presence was predominant. This American was lucky to have come out alive from there.
Jonathan considered swiftly; in a situation such as this, and since these were the military police and not the Hezbollah or Islamist militants, he was better off in their custody.
CROSSFIRE: Ex-CIA JON BRADLEY Thriller Series (TERROR BLOODLINE Book 1) Page 9
