by Basil Sands
After the waiter walked away, Lonnie said, “Did you mention the cabbie from last night?”
“The cabbie?” Marcus asked. “What about him?”
“Oh, man!” Mike said, tapping his fingers on the table like an exclamation point. “We completely forgot to tell you about him. Do you remember a guy named Kharzai Ghiassi?”
“Kharzai Ghiassi? Al Gul?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Shit,” Marcus said.
“What?” Lonnie was shocked. Uncommon for a Marine, Marcus almost never swore.
“If he’s here, that’s bad.”
“Why?” Lonnie said. “He said he was lying low after an operation. I didn’t think about it last night, but at the accident scene with Farrah, he claimed he’d left his ID at home. He called himself Samuel McGee.”
Marcus took a deep sip of his coffee and closed his eyes for a moment, his mind firing back several years into memories he’d worked hard to put behind.
“That dude doesn’t take breaks,” he said. “He’d go to ground, maybe, but never rest. Whereever he goes, you will soon find bodies.”
“Are you saying he’s serial killer or something?” Hilde asked.
“In a sense,” Marcus replied, “but he only kills people he figures deserve it for the sake of national security, or self-preservation. Great covert agent, but he’s not the kind of guy cops like to have around.”
“He wouldn’t answer our questions last night,” Mike said. “I’m pretty certain he’s up to something shady.”
Hilde swallowed a mouthful of coffee. The cup clinked against the saucer when she set it down.
“I remember the cold-blooded way he acted during that case we had in Ohio. The man was simply vicious when the action started,” she said. After a brief, thoughtful moment, she asked, “Do you think he could have turned bad?”
“Anything is possible,” Marcus said. “He’s been in the field for a long time. When I knew him years ago, he had already been established in deep cover among the terrorists in Iraq. I have no idea what he’s been doing since.”
The waiter approached with a large tray covered with plates of steaming eggs, sausage, pancakes, and buttered toast. They stopped talking while he set the food before them, handed down extra napkins, and refilled their coffee. Once he was gone, the conversation continued.
Mike reached for the pepper, which he shook liberally over his scrambled eggs, the little black dots scattering across the bright yellow eggs. “Last year, he turned up in Ohio, posing as a terrorist working with a guy who had a suitcase nuclear weapon. He helped us bust them and stop the detonation. Like you said, though, he left bodies behind that we had to clean up.”
Hilde swallowed a bite of toast, then added, “He killed a man literally twice his size in a hand-to-hand fight in an RV, then a few minutes later, dove in front of a bullet to save a civilian, the whole while joking around like it was all a high-school prank or something.”
“Sounds like he's not right in the head maybe,” Lonnie said.
“When a guy spends as much time in the field as he has,” Marcus said, “whether it's undercover or in direct combat, it has a drastic impact on their mind.”
Mike nodded. His experience as a pastor had brought many cases of PTSD, Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, to his office in a professional counseling capacity. At a deeper level, though, twenty years of living violently as a special operations officer in the Marines had put him face-to-face with more horrors than the vast majority of his clients could even dream up in their nightmares. Over the course of his career, there had only been three other men he'd been able to confide in with his own nightmares. One had been church elder Harry Johnson, a retired Cold War CIA operative whose past was as secret as Mike's own. The other two were Paul Hogan and Marcus Johnson, both of whom had been with him during most of the bloodiest times of his life.
He blinked hard, as if pinching off a stream of thought, and said, “When it comes to the residue of espionage and combat alike, I’ve seen men break down into anything from suicidal depression to full-on schizophrenic megalomania.”
“Guys like Kharzai, luckily, are few and far between,” Marcus paused and let out a brief, humorless chuckle. “I pray there is no one else in the world like him. But he is the kind of the guy no one can figure out. Totally focused, perfect actor, perfect killer.”
“Is he a threat to the president?” Lonnie asked.
“I don’t know,” Marcus replied. “If he's watching the bad guys, someone is going to die. If he's switched sides, we’re screwed.”
Chapter 12
Captain Cook Hotel
Tuesday, June 21st
07:35 a.m.
They scraped up the last bits of omelet, toast, pancakes, and hash browns. Marcus went to retrieve his truck from the garage while the others paid the bill. They were on the sidewalk outside the front entrance as he pulled up. At a quarter to eight, the sun was already high in the sky, and it was turning into a warm summer morning. In a tree that stood in a round concrete planter in the sidewalk outside the hotel, a pair of birds chirped happily from their invisible perches hidden somewhere in the broad green leaves. Their song, repeated back and forth, sounded like a competition to see who could do it most perfectly.
“Listen to those birds,” Hilde said.
“Yeah,” Mike said, “they make it sound like we’re in a Disney movie or something instead of trailing a terrorist.”
They climbed into the F250 and Marcus drove the eight blocks to the FBI building on East 6th Avenue. There was no public parking area for the FBI building itself, but a row of spaces in the large lot at the Office Depot store across the street was labeled with signs that authorized FBI visitors to use the space. Marcus pulled in to one of the slots and turned off the truck. They got out and walked toward the building to the tune of more birds singing from inside baskets of flowers hanging beneath street lamps. The Municipality of Anchorage prided itself on the huge number of flowers it laid out every summer, taking full advantage of the limited months of bright sunshine. The streets were awash in the bright colors of every possible species of flower that could thrive in the Arctic. The swallows and jays acted like they were in heaven on earth as they flitted back and forth from baskets to potted trees, making the morning seem more like a party than a manhunt.
Hilde started to wonder if they were all overreacting—the place was just too peaceful for a terrorist attack. As they crossed the street, the happy bird song abruptly stopped, interrupted by the loud, flat squawk of a massive raven that stooped on the flag pole jutting from the parapet of the FBI building. The raven turned its head toward the foursome passing beneath, its beady black eyes staring malevolently at them from above its large beak. Hilde looked up at the bird. It stared back like an ill omen.
“Ravens,” Marcus said, “rude beggars of the wild. Those things have little fear of mankind, especially if you happen to have any kind of food trash sitting in the back of your truck.”
“That thing is huge,” Hilde said. “It looks like a crow on steroids.”
“Native lore says that they’re the reincarnated spirits of the dead, and their favorite thing is to play evil tricks and generally torment the living.”
“Let’s hope it’s not planning to trick us.” Lonnie said.
They reached the building and walked in to the small lobby. The space was packed with a security desk, behind which sat two armed federal police officers, and a bank of cameras that scanned the outside of the building, the streets around it, and the secure parking garage. The remaining area contained a pair of uncomfortable-looking government-issue chairs and a large metal detector and x-ray machine, leaving barely enough open space for the four of them to stand. One of the officers looked up as they entered. The other kept his eyes on the series of black-and-white surveillance screens. Mike and Hilde both pulled out their FBI credentials and said who they were.
“Yeah, Agent Caufield’s secretary just called down to let m
e know he was expecting you,” the officer said. “Are any of you armed?”
“Yes,” Lonnie said, producing her trooper badge and ID and adding, “Walther PPK in my ankle holster.”
The officer glanced at her as if she said something crazy. Then he looked over her credentials and nodded to Marcus.
“You?”
“No,” Marcus said. “I'm the only non-cop here, and I didn't want to push my luck bringing in a firearm.”
“Good,” said the officer, “cuz if you had, I'd need to disarm you, and by the looks of you, that's not something I think I'd enjoy much.”
He motioned them through the metal detector, which filled the only access point to the building like a gate with an electronic portcullis. Beyond it stretched a short, featureless hall that terminated at an elevator and a stairwell door. The guard told them to wait for a few minutes while the escort came down who would take them up to the second floor, where Special Agent in Charge William Caufield was waiting for them. Just as the words finished reaching their ears, Caufield's secretary, a smartly dressed middle-aged woman with a disarming smile, came out of the elevator.
“Good morning,” she said with a professional-sounding voice. “May I help you?”
“Yes, I am Agent Hildegard Farris from the Ohio Valley office. Undersecretary Paul Hogan said he had arranged a meeting with the SAC.”
“Yes, we just got the call a little while ago, and he’s waiting for you.”
She took them up in the elevator and led them down a long hallway lined with offices on both sides. As they passed each office, agents glanced up through open doors, throwing suspicious looks at the strangers as if they were trying to see through them with x-ray vision. It was the kind of look only a cop can give, or a distrustful mother-in-law. In the office, Hilde noticed that the secretary’s desk looked very expensive, a nice dark cherry wood that glowed reddish brown. The office was warm and comfortable.
“Is that them, Amy?” called a smooth masculine voice from an open door in the wall behind the secretary’s desk.
“Yes, sir,” she replied.
The SAC came out of his office as she spoke. Caufield was tall, about six feet, five inches, and handsome in a friendly way. The forty-something agent sported a thick mane of red hair combed straight back that seemed to strain in rebellion against the gel that held it in place. Beneath manicured eyebrows of the same solid red shone electric blue eyes that sparkled with a hint of mischief. A prominent nose, spattered with a collection of freckles, looked as though someone had tossed a handful of dots at him that stuck above his amiable smile. He looked more like a high-school chemistry teacher, the kind prone to wild experiments and having fun blowing stuff up in class, than a senior federal law enforcement officer.
“Come on in, folks,” he said. “Undersecretary Hogan called this morning and gave me a very brief overview of what you told him. He also faxed some paperwork regarding a Mr. Farrah who resides here in Anchortown.”
He led them into his office. The difference in décor was somewhat of a shock, as if they’d just stepped through a time portal and landed in 1982. Unlike his secretary, Caufield’s office was decorated strictly in the US government’s functional style. The desk was solid brown wood, large and clean, but at least thirty years old. Hilde remembered seeing one just like it in the office of her first SAC in the mid-nineties. A large, matching table with eight worn cloth-covered office chairs around it filled one side of the room. A flat-screen television topped with a video teleconferencing camera rested on a stand where it could both see and be seen down the length of the table. The TV and the computer on Caufield’s desk were the only modern looking components to the office.
While Marcus and Mike both seemed oblivious to the décor, Caufield noticed both women appraising the room.
“What do you think of the interior design?” he asked in a playful tone. “I call it retro-federal. I had considered going with the old seventies metal desks, but the climate up here convinced me to stick with eighties wood. Not so cold to the touch, you know.”
“Perhaps you should have opted to let your secretary’s designer do your office as well,” Lonnie said.
He smiled. “We’re in progress with that, actually. The last few SACs all had this notion that a federal officer should live like a Spartan and hadn’t spent a penny on new furniture since before I was even in the bureau. I don’t know why they did that—I think it cheapens the appearance of the position. We need to impress on people’s minds that we know what we’re doing, not that we’re penny pinchers. I’ve only been stationed here a couple of months now and don’t plan to spend the next four years sitting in the same chair my father may have sat in when he was an agent up here. This office will finally get its updated décor later this week. It’s being delivered as we speak. In the meantime, let’s talk business.”
He motioned to four threadbare cloth-bound chairs in front of his desk as he moved around behind it.
“Coffee, anyone?”
“Not me,” Mike said. “Had plenty with breakfast.”
The others nodded agreement.
“So what can I do for you?” Caufield refilled his own cup from a bone-colored plastic carafe that sat on a tray on the hutch behind his desk. Hilde started and they went over the details, beginning with the wedding and ending at the rail-yard confrontation.
“We called for a taxi to take us back to the hotel after the attack at the rail yard,” Hilde said. Mike glanced at her, discreetly signaling her not to mention Kharzai. “We tried to get hold of Tonia this morning, but couldn’t. I left a message on her cell phone, but she hasn’t called back yet.”
“Well, I might be able to shed some light on that last concern,” Caufield said. “Agents Warner and Roberts are inspecting the underground tunnels beneath the Delaney Park Strip and adjacent areas with one of my agents. They are going to be out of cell range as long as they are underground, which is probably going to be most of the day.”
He raised his eyes thoughtfully and looked at Lonnie. “Mrs. Johnson, I think you know one of my guys down there with them. Tony Tomer. He just got transferred here from Fairbanks.”
“Tomer is here?” Marcus asked. “In Anchorage?”
“You know him too?”
“Yeah, we’ve met.”
“A couple of years ago, Marcus assisted in a case Tomer was on,” Lonnie said.
Caufield scanned his mental Rolodex, his eyebrows arching when he hit the right memory. “The North Korean bio-weapon case. I remember hearing about that during my in-brief. Tomer was the agent assigned to it, along a trooper named…uh…Wyatt. He had a run-in with some Navy Seals, as I recall.”
“I’m Wyatt,” Lonnie said. “It's my maiden name. And Marcus was leading those Seals.”
“I see.” Caufield looked at Marcus. “Then I am going to assume you are the one who, shall we say, put Tomer in his place in that cabin?”
“How did you know about that?” Marcus asked.
“One of the other agents heard the story from a trooper who had been there. Tomer was never anyone’s favorite. The story spread pretty rapidly through the ranks. It made it all the way to Quantico, actually. Tony has a long list of people he's pissed off over the years.”
“Did he calm down any?” Lonnie asked.
“Not really.” A sly grin creased Caufield’s expression. “But he is more selective when it comes to commenting on women’s figures among unknown company.”
“Is he going to be on this case?” Lonnie asked.
“Yes, afraid so. His team is detailed to the presidential party already. Can’t take them off because of a personal issue.” Caufield made a conciliatory gesture. “It should be fine, though. He knows his situation in the social strata around here and has recently shown a desire to make friends rather than act like an ass.”
Mike leaned forward in his chair. “So what do we do next?”
“We’ve got Tomer and the Secret Service in that tunnel already,” Caufield said. “We�
��ve also got a couple of techs who can check deeper if there is something amiss. In the meantime, I’ll put a tail on Farrah and see where it leads.”
“Lonnie, you said Farrah showed up at the accident on Goldenview Drive,” Mojo said.
“Yeah. Just moments after the accident,” she said. “He came from the south, the neighborhoods instead of the highway.”
Mojo turned to Mike. “You want to go take a tour down that road and see what’s there?”
“I’m game,” Mike said.
“You guys can’t be searching anyone’s property without a warrant,” Caufield said.
“No, of course not,” Mojo shook his head in denial. “We’re just going to see what’s there. If there is anything suspicious, we’ll let you know.”
“I do mean it,” Caufield’s expression turned serious, almost scolding.. “Don’t go snooping around on anyone’s property. We don’t need some technicality that could free them after we make the arrest.”
“Not to worry,” Mike raised a placating hand. “We’re not agents, and we’re not working on anything for the FBI. We’re not going to be breaking any laws, and if there are any questions, you have perfect deniability.”
“Yeah, tell that to the judge,” Caufield replied.
“Will do,” Mike said. “Hilde, you want to come with us or stay here?”
“I’ll stay,” she said. “While you guys are over there, I want to get on the FBI database and do some digging on Farrah and anyone else involved.”
“I’ll stay with Hilde,” Lonnie said, massaging her abdomen. “I don’t feel up to any driving right now.”
Marcus and Mike walked out of the office. Caufield led the women to an empty office a few doors down.
“You can do your research here,” Caufield motioned toward the computer on the desk. “Just log in with your normal FBI credentials and the network should pull up your profile from your home office computer.”
Hilde turned to Caufield. “Is there any other way to get hold of Agents Roberts and Warner?”
“Down in those tunnels, there’s no cell phone reception, so you’re going have to wait until they surface for lunch.”
