Dead East

by Steve Winshel

  “Yes, I heard you had some company with you. Brin disappeared from the hospital. The body count in Afghanistan is still a little unclear.”

  Jarvis hit the Speaker button, less to avoid a ticket and more to let Brin listen. “You Homeland Security guys seem pretty up to date on things happening outside the Homeland.”

  Timmons paused and the sounds of Turnpike churning beneath the wheels filled the air. “A lot of people are worried about the group you hit.” There was no humor in the voice now. “What you two did is going to save a lot of lives. And we couldn’t have done it as quickly – or with as little red tape or repercussions.”

  “Does this mean we get a medal?”

  Timmons’ laugh was instantaneous and sincere. “I’ll try to make sure you don’t get arrested for almost causing an international incident. But let’s wait until all the clean-up is done. Where are you two now?”

  Brin looked across the seat with concern. He didn’t like his existence to be known to anyone in the government, much less his precise whereabouts. Jarvis appreciated his pal’s paranoia. “I’m heading to the guy in New York I think has some of the stuff. He was the only one with a red check against his name, and I don’t think anyone else will be getting deliveries soon.”

  “Perfect. I’m in DC and have a helicopter waiting. I’ll meet you. What’s the location?”

  Brin shook his head vigorously. Jarvis concurred. “We’re fine. It’s probably a kid, scared and insecure because his handlers aren’t calling any more and his tweets to Afghanistan are ignored. I’ll try to take this one alive.”

  “Yeah, you’re track record’s been pretty spotty on that.” Timmons didn’t sound like he was going to be put off. “You can’t cowboy it on US soil anymore. The only reason you didn’t get pulled off the plane heading out of the country was because we were busy with the people on the pages you gave us. But now you have our full attention.

  Neither Brin nor Jarivs were fans of the “our” in Timmons’ comment. “Okay, the address is 2257 Prettybrooke Lane in Princeton. Not sure where the helipad is.” Jarvis hit the Mute button. “Better to let them in now. He’ll just be on our asses if we don’t.” Brin didn’t visibly nod but understood Jarvis was right. The Mute button went off. “We’ll meet you two blocks east on the main road. Easy to find us, you’ll smell the rental car.”

  He clicked off and they rode in silence for a moment. “I don’t think this means you can’t shoot the terrorist if that’s needed.”

  Brin looked temporarily assuaged. A hundred and fifty miles to the south Timmons used an encrypted cell phone to tell his aide to get the helo spinning now. He walked out of his boss’s office in the Homeland Security Department’s headquarters three blocks from the Capitol, leaving the sheets from Jarvis on the desk. Every name had several notes next to it. His boss’s voice echoed in his head: clean this up now.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The air in the rental car cleared out a bit as they drove through downtown Princeton. They didn’t need to go down the main drag to get where they were going, but Jarvis succumbed to the tugs of nostalgia. The town was on one side, the stunningly idyllic university on the other. They coexisted symbiotically, unlike other college towns that relied on the school and students for their identities. Princeton was a town in and of itself. Jarvis looked at the enormous wrought iron gates, massive stone buildings, and cute brainy chicks going in the doors. Brin punched him on the shoulder.

  “Thinking about going back to grad school?”

  They stopped at the main light and watched half a dozen kids crossed the street to the Hoagie Haven that already had a line out the door. Jarvis could taste the overly-mayonnaised tuna two decades later.

  “Yeah, thought I’d get a PhD in foreign relations, since that’s going so well. Travel the world, conduct diplomacy in faraway lands.”

  Brin tapped the handle of the automatic pistol in his pocket. “Sure, diplomacy. I’m in.”

  They passed through the north edge of town and entered a tree-lined section that was lush and fertile. People came to live here because of the beautiful homes, quiet streets, and easy access to New York. And because they had a few million to spend on the homes that spilled over the quarter acres they sat on. There were also more modest houses that hadn’t been torn down and rebuilt yet. Prettybrooke Road had both – large, well-maintained family homes paid for by Wall Streeters who could live where they wanted and rentals for students. Jarvis rolled past the address where the poisoner lived and a hundred yards later turned onto another side street that looped around and put him back on the larger road where he could again see the sign to Prettybrooke. He pulled off to the side and killed the engine.

  “We’ll wait for Timmons and see what’s what.”

  Brin looked up and down the street. One car every couple of minutes. “Remind me why we’re waiting for the suit to show?”

  Jarvis pulled out his Glock and checked the clip. “It doesn’t matter much to you because you’re a ghost, but I’ve got to deal with things like licenses, taxes, and other shit that keeps me in the life to which I’ve become accustomed.” Brin laughed. “So I’d like to keep on his good side. Besides, he’s cleaned up the part of the mess we don’t want to deal with, picking up the rest of the list. Wouldn’t be fair to keep him from the fun part.”

  That got a nod from Brin, who appreciated the fun stuff.

  There must have been a helipad within striking distance. A black Escalade rolled over the hill a hundred yards behind them. It broke the local speed limit and was parked behind Jarvis’ crappy rental in seconds. No doors opened for more than a minute.

  “Careful guys.” Brin appreciated caution as well.

  Jarvis opened his door. “Let’s go break the ice. Keep your hands in the open.” Both men sniggered. Jarvis was pretty sure if he had a gun held to Brin’s head he couldn’t pull the trigger faster than Brin could reach into his pocket, flip the safety, and put two between his eyes before the hammer on Jarvis’ gun had moved.

  Brin waited until Jarvis had stood, then opened his door and followed suit. The Escalade was ten feet behind the rental, close enough to ram them if need be, and far enough away to get around them if a quick exit were needed. Careful. The back door behind the driver opened and Timmons go out. Brin didn’t watch him, eyes on the driver’s door instead. The tinted windows didn’t reveal the number or intent of the occupants.

  “Kind of cliché, huh?” Jarvis nodded at the vehicle.

  Timmons agreed from where he stood. “Need to keep up appearances.” He looked over at Brin. “Glad to see you’re doing well.”

  Brin still didn’t avert his gaze. “Brought some friends?”

  Timmons pointed to the car. “Just a driver. I figured the three of us could take care of it.”

  Brin was unconvinced, but Jarvis broke the moment. He walked over to Timmons and shook his hand. “Guess you’re pretty much bi-coastal.”

  Timmons smiled and tilted his head at the Escalade. “Let’s take your car. Mine’s a little…conspicuous.” They walked to the rental and Brin watched carefully as the black SUV pulled back onto the road and sped off. Brin’s hand never left the gun in his pocket, despite Jarvis’ suggestion.

  “You’re looking pretty healthy considering…” Timmons was giving Brin a detailed once-over, like he was assessing a foe.

  “I’ll call shotgun for you.” Brin opened the front passenger door and nodded. Timmons looked at Jarvis and shrugged.

  “Nothing wrong with a little paranoia, especially when someone’s after you.” He got in the car, then Jarvis, and finally Brin in the back seat. Timmons wrinkled his nose. “Wish I’d brought you guys one of those little fresheners to hang from the rearview.”

  Jarvis started the engine to get the air conditioner going. It was still warm, Indian summer keeping the Princeton girls in shorts for a few more weeks. It was late afternoon and the setting sun heated the leather seats and the men’s cheeks. “The house is too nice for some kid
from Afghanistan to own. Maybe it’s a share, bunch of guys living together to save a few bucks. No cars in the driveway and no bikes near the door. Don’t think anyone’s home.”

  Timmons pulled out his cell phone and flipped through a couple of screens. “You’re close. The kid who lives here rents, but he’s got some cash. He picked up a masters from Princeton a couple years ago. In biological engineering. He works at a pharma company in Edison. He shares the place with another guy who came over from Afghanistan with him.” He looked at Jarvis and back at Brin, both of whom wore silent questions on their faces.”

  “I looked up the address you gave me and did a little research.” Still silence from his car mates. Timmons drew a deep breath, like he was about to sing an aria. “Yeah, it’s a little more complicated than that.”

  Brin’s gaze switched to Jarvis but his attention stayed on the Homeland Security guy. “What do you mean, ‘complicated’?”

  “I went through the list you gave me – the partial list.” There was a slight chastisement in that. “All the names except two were part of a program. Mohan and the supplier in Racine weren’t.”

  “What kind of program? The ‘Come to America and kill people’ initiative?” Jarvis’ voice was flat.

  “We have an asylum program. For people, mostly kids, who lose their homes, or families. Or who helped us out and are in danger.” Timmons looked out the window toward the street sign. Prettybrooke. Seemed painfully ironic at this moment. “All these kids came over after they lost family. No way we could know it was a plot.”

  “Goddamn, buddy.” Brin was irritated. “You know what we found in Afghanistan. These kids lost family because the Taliban killed a bunch of their parents and friends, making it look like we did it, and now they’ve turned them into little time bombs. And you let them in. Congrats.”

  Timmons turned to Brin and smiled. It was patient, and a touch condescending. “These things are complicated.”

  “Okay, fellas, no geopolitical debate right now. We’ve got to find this kid, Khalid Brown.” Jarvis looked back at Timmons. “Some old-style Ellis Island name change on that one?”

  No answer was needed. “Brown finishes work at six. Unless he’s planning on poisoning a bunch of people during happy hour, he should be home soon.” Timmons sounded sure of his intel. Brin was less impressed.

  “You tracking these guys or did you just Google the kid on the way over?”

  Timmons’ patience continued, but Jarvis sensed it was fraying. “Both. I pulled the records on Brown when you gave me the address and I got the file.”

  Jarvis surveyed the street quietly but his mind raced. “Khalid works at a pharmaceutical company? Could he be making the stuff? If he is, then he knows what’s going on because his handlers probably contacted him and he went to ground.”

  “No, not yet. He’s at work today. I called.” He looked straight at Brin. “From the air.”

  “You’re a little bit of a dick, aren’t you?”

  Timmons laughed at Brin, which didn’t break the tension like he’d wanted. “Let’s set up just past the house, wait for him to come in.”

  “Do you have field training?” Jarvis’ question was neutral. Timmons wasn’t offended.

  “I’m not a decorated vet like you guys, but I put some time into a few operations before becoming a desk jockey.” He opened his jacket and flashed the butt of a Sig that looked like it hadn’t spent its entire life in a holster. “I can shoot straight enough.”

  Brin snorted but kept his tongue. Jarvis started up the engine and drove the trio to the lane where Khalid lived, turned up the street, and went past the house to the curve that would circle them back to the main road. Just past the point where they lost line of sight to Khalid’s house, he pulled into a driveway and turned around. He drove toward the bend from the other direction and stopped just as Khalid’s house came into view. He cut the engine again. “6:23. Shouldn’t be too long – if you’re right.”

  The three men sat quietly, the ticking of the engine pronounced in the warming air. Timmons coughed unselfconsciously. Jarvis pulled out the sheet with names of terrorists on it, Khalid and one other name marked with red. “We’ll take care of this one, and the other guy, Jaleel Mekrobi. If we can get to him before he blows himself up maybe we can convince him to tell us if anyone else has the poison. But that still leaves a lot of name just on this sheet. You’ve got a couple dozen on yours.”

  The implied question left Timmons silent for a moment. A sharing mood came over him. “Once I got word of your escapades in Kandahar, I pulled the asylum records and matched them with the list – or at least the names you gave me.” No irritation in his voice, perhaps even a little amusement. “There were entry patterns.”

  Brin was derisive. “They were all carrying duffel bags marked ‘Hazardous Material’ and chanting ‘Allah Akbar’?

  Amusement evaporated from Timmons’ voice. “They were from the same town, even though they were spread out in time, and all were involved in an Allies-related collateral damage event.” It sounded much softer than ‘bombing.’

  Jarvis wanted to save the testosterone for the confrontation with Khalid. “So what’s the op?”

  “We located and neutralized everyone on the list. The analysts figured out the ones on yours and are working on that, too.” Jarvis raised his eyebrows. Timmons clarified. “We only took out the ones who resisted. Seven were detained and are on their way to Gitmo or Saudi Arabia. Or somewhere else.”

  There were half a dozen countries that still participated in rendition of foreign terrorist suspects in the US; several were still unknown to the press and Congress. The convenience of being able to send someone to another country where the rules of interrogation and detention were looser than in the States outweighed the risk of social or legal repercussion. Jarvis was just surprised Homeland Security had moved so quickly. So decisively. It was also disturbing they would let him and Brin participate now. It meant they were worried about taking more risks. That didn’t bode well for the government’s concern over Brin and Jarvis’ well-being. Jarvis found that oddly exhilarating. He knew Brin would find it positively heart-thumping.

  “That’s a lot of action in just a couple of days.” Jarvis hadn’t heard anything in the papers, which wasn’t an entire surprise, and he hadn’t really been glued to CNN for the last 72 hours.

  “Seemed wise to move quickly,” Timmons shot back. “A lot of lives at stake.”

  The ensuing debate on operational policy was interrupted by a Scion B flying up the road and pulling into Khalid’s house. The driver’s door opened almost before the car came to a full stop and the tall, thin, exceedingly handsome Khalid sprang out as though he’d been ejected. Black curly hair passed just under the front door frame.

  All three men silently checked weapons and open their doors simultaneously.

  Chapter Forty

  Brin didn’t wait for instructions, crossing the street and slipping behind the house next door to Khalid’s. He would position himself in the back, to catch the kid if he tried to escape or to enter if the other two were able to establish an interrogation. Timmons gave Jarvis a concerned look.

  “Don’t worry, he’s not setting up for a kill shot. Just keeping the kid from rabbitting.”

  “I’ll come from the west, you from the east. Just so we don’t draw attention.” Which meant separating so it would be harder for anyone in the house to kill them both. Jarvis nodded agreement and pulled the gun to hold at his side. There were no neighbors peeking out windows, no cars interrupting the early evening, though that wouldn’t last long as the work day wound to a close and residents headed home.

  They crossed the street near the spot Brin had disappeared into and Timmons split off and jogged thirty feet further. They were now on either side of the house, still on the sidewalk. Timmons had pulled his Sig and kept it near his side, loose in his hand. They approached the small front yard and came toward the front door at an angle. They met on either side of the
door.

  “Your asylum seekers all seem to know me. Better if he sees you first. He’ll probably think Homeland Security is just checking up on him to see if he needs anything, you know, groceries or a massage.”

  There was no rancor in his comment and Timmons took no offense. “I know the files, but the registrants don’t know me. It may take some convincing, especially if he’s gotten word from his handlers. He’ll be skittish.”

  Jarvis was quiet for a moment. “You know, if he’d heard the cells had been exposed, why would he be following his regular routine?”

  Timmons gave it some thought. “Maybe they told him to be sure not to act suspiciously. But he sure was in a hurry just now. Like he’d gotten instructions or something.”

  It seemed late to be debating. Jarivs nodded and Timmons rang the bell. “Khalid! Khalid Argami! Special Agent Timmons from Homeland Security – open up please!”

  They listened carefully. Not a sound. Timmons knocked and the door pushed open an inch. Khalid had swung it shut but not hard enough for the latch to grab. Incautious move for a potential mass murdered. But they were grateful. Timmons pushed the door further and led with his gun. Jarvis followed him in, in a slight crouch and swinging from the Glock from side to side.

  The front door opened into a small foyer. A closet to the right was closed. Straight ahead a small corridor lead back to what was probably the kitchen. A staircase waited ahead and to the right. The house was silent. Timmons nodded to the stairs and Jarvis agreed. Before he could step ahead of Timmons, the sound of rushing water broke the calm. It came from a door in the corridor leading to the kitchen. Both men turned toward the sound. Beyond the spot where the sound emitted there was a glimpse of movement and Brin came into sight. His gun was trained on the door in the corridor as well.

  The door opened and Jarvis saw a mirror in the background reflecting a toilet. Khalid had something in his hands and a look of relief on his face. The time it took him to take two steps out of the bathroom was the amount of time he needed to register two men in front of him holding guns. Surprise was his first reaction, then recognition – a look Jarvis was beginning to be tiresomely familiar with. The kid had nowhere to go and before he could do something stupid, Jarvis wanted to get him under control. He took a step toward Khalid but was interrupted by a the explosion of a gun firing and the whisper of a breeze passing his ear. A bullet slammed into Khalid’s chest. A second bullet tore a chunk out of his forehead and he would never be pretty again.