by Dan O'Shea
“Gentlemen, meet Nick Hardin…”
Hickman made his spiel, his DC suits chiming in to back him on a couple points. The diamonds, Hezbollah, the Al Qaeda connection. They threw some kisses out to Starshak and Lynch, blew a little smoke up their asses – kudos for spotting Hardin, running all this shit down in just a few days.
A new shot popped up on the screen. A grainy blow-up picture of some guy taken from a long ways off. Olive-skin, dark hair, on the slight side, a little Omar Sharif vibe to him. He was in a sport coat, open shirt, at an outdoor café somewhere, chatting up a looker in a sundress. Lynch noticed one of the suits, one Bernstein had been eyeballing, tightening up just a touch.
“Husam al Din,” said Hickman. “Translates to the Sword of Faith. Intel we’ve got says he’s freelance, pretty much the go-to shooter for fundamentalist Islam.” Hickman looked at the Chicago PD contingent. “Lynch, we’re pretty sure this is your .22 guy.”
“When did you get this?” Starshak said, little edge in his voice.
“Relax, Captain,” said Hickman. “This is brand new. We have a dossier for you guys. We’re sharing everything we’ve got.”
“Where’d you get it?” asked Lynch.
“Except that,” said one of the suits. “We aren’t sharing that.
Hickman made his case on Hernandez, claiming he was after Hardin not for personal payback but because Hernandez was playing ball with the Al Qaeda and Hardin had queered their deal.
“We’ve got two huge criminal organizations, one with substantial amounts of cash that it needs to launder, one with significant non-cash assets it wants to get liquid.” said Hickman. “Fred, you want to give them a quick brief from the Treasury perspective?”
A short, heavyset woman got up, took over the laptop, bounced through a few spreadsheets, banks where they’d found overlap, transaction dates that tied together.
Starshak looked at the woman, then turned to Lynch. “Fred?”
“Probably lying about their names, too,” Lynch said.
Lynch heard a soft snort out of Bernstein. “Smell a rat?” Lynch asked.
“It’s BS. That much money moving around the system, the story would be if it hadn’t crossed trails at one institution or another. Of course there’s overlap. This isn’t proof, it’s spin.”
When Hickman was done, Jablonski piped up. “Feels kind of out there, Hickman. We’ve been working Hernandez forever. Never caught a whiff of anything like this.”
Tate, Hickman’s new Bureau boy, cut him off. “There are other elements of this we can’t share. But if we can put Hernandez and this al Din together, then we can throw the War on Terror net over the whole lot of them.”
Jablonski shrugged. “Good by me. I’ve lost enough people to this asshole. You guys want to take him off and waterboard him for a few days, I’m not crying over it.”
“Anybody else have questions?” Hickman asked in a tone that suggested no would be the appropriate answer.
“Yeah,” Starshak said. “You got a reason I’m not supposed to be worried about some terrorist running around town? Shutting down this money laundry of yours is fine, but I’m kinda wondering about, oh, I dunno, shit blowing up.”
“Our intel is that al Din is here strictly as security, protecting the diamonds on the way in and the cash on the way out.” Hickman didn’t look pleased.
“This the intel we get to know about or more of these other elements you can’t share?” Starshak asked.
“The latter.” Tate again, the head Feeb.
“We’re gonna get something nice and official on that, right?” Starshak pushing it. “Something big enough to cover my ass with if something in town goes boom?”
Hickman smiled. “You’re concerns are duly noted, Captain. And unwarranted.” Little pause for effect. “Hardin is the key, gentlemen,” said Hickman. “The good news is we should have him in the bag tonight.”
Meeting wrapped up, a little milling around, Starshak, Lynch, and Bernstein edging out. Near the door, they were next to the Washington suits. Bernstein said something to one of them in Hebrew. The man turned, opened his mouth like he was going to answer, then just smiled and shook his finger at Bernstein.
“What was that all about?” asked Starshak.
“I used to do the Israel thing with the family every summer. Spent enough time over there to pick up that IDF feel on somebody. I told him to say hi to Pardo for me.”
“Who’s Pardo?” asked Lynch.
“Head of Mossad.”
CHAPTER 44
Seephus Jones’ stomach was twisting on him. After a while, it seemed like he shouldn’t just sit at the station anymore, so he walked across to a coffee shop. He still had an angle on the condo. The yuppies ahead of him were ordering this shit in French or whatever, something-chinos, half this, dusting of that. Fucking coffee. Seephus needed a bump, he got a Red Bull maybe. Got to the front of the line, ponytailed white chick in the apron looking at him.
“That sounded good,” Jones said, trying to blend, figuring he’d never get this cap-a-presso-chino shit the guy in front of him had just ordered straight. “Have me one of those.” The chick putting this and that in a cup, running it through a blender, spraying shit on top. Stuck some kind of plastic dome thing on top of a big-ass cup, set it, down in front of him.
“That will be $6.50,” she said.
Seephus knew places on the West Side he could get his hose drained for $6.50.But he just handed over the coin, got a seat outside, took a sip. Fucking coffee milkshake or something. Weird shit these fuckers do out here.
Hardin guy still on the deck, reading his damn book.
Another hour until Hernandez was supposed to show. Supposed to watch for a black Escalade. Hernandez said he would come down Warren, turn off on Main, park out of sight of the condo. Meet up with them there. Meanwhile, Seephus was just supposed to keep an eye out.
After a bit, he was done with his drink, already read what he could out of the paper, reading not being a big thing with him. He was starting to get looks from the ponytail chick, it coming up on lunch, people waiting for tables. So he went across to this pizza place, got a slice. Couldn’t see the condo from there, so he took it back over by the station, found another bench, ate it there.
Then that Hardin fuck went back inside the condo. The door on the side of the building, on Main, Seephus could see that. But a big-ass building like that, there must be a lot of doors. Couldn’t watch them all. So he started walking around, watching the front, watching the side. The cha-ching sounds in his head were gone now, replaced with thoughts about what Hernandez was gonna do to his ass, he shows up and this Hardin had booked on him. The pizza and the damn coffee shake were rolling around in his gut now, on top of the malt he’d throated last night.
Wilson raced back to her condo after the meeting, unlocked the door and walked in; saw Hardin standing by the sliding door to the patio, looking out across the tracks.
“How well do you know this Lafitpour guy?” she asked.
“I don’t,” said Hardin.
“Somebody sold you out. We’re going to grab you tonight, at your meet.”
“We?”
“Interagency deal, us and the Feebs. Some kind of War on Terror bullshit, the cartels and Al Qaeda cozying up to launder money or some shit.”
Hardin nodded, still looking out the sliding door. Black guy in the red shirt was still out there, wandering around, kept looking at the condo, getting real twitchy. “We might have a more immediate problem,” he said.
Hardin told her what he’d seen, the black kid hanging around, watching the condo. Wilson opened her closet, reached up on the top shelf. She came out with a couple spare clips for her S&W and dropped them in her pocket.
“Let’s go,” she said.
“You’re not in this yet,” said Hardin. “Not to where you can’t back out.”
She froze. Then she turned and looked at him, her face set hard. “You son of a bitch. After eighteen years, you come bac
k, I bring you home, I spread my legs for you and you say that to me?”
“I just don’t want to assume–”
“Fuck assume. We’re together or we aren’t,” she said. “I thought you understood that.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, neither moving.
“We’re together,” he said.
She nodded, reached up and touched his cheek, then turned for the door.
He grabbed his duffle and they left through the garage. Didn’t see the guy in the red shirt.
CHAPTER 45
Hernandez sat in the passenger seat of the Escalade. Julio was driving, Miko, Gomez, and Roberto in the back. They were dressed to mix, but Hernandez worried a little about them all being in long sleeves, it being pretty warm. But the ink the rest of them had up and down their arms, anybody knew how to decode that, they’d have Five-O up their asses in a heartbeat.
He had a picture of Jones from the guy who ran his West Side crew. Julio was cruising down Warren, a little under the limit, starting to back traffic up behind them. Hernandez saw Jones, off to the right. Told Julio to turn down Main. Saw Jones get up, start to follow. Julio cut into a little alley on the left. Hernandez and the three in the back got out, and Julio got ready to drive on, start circling, wait for Hernandez’s call. Jones turned the corner, jogged up.
“I’m Jamie,” Hernandez said, putting out his hand. Seephus reached out and Hernandez took his hand, grabbing Seephus’ forearm with his other hand. “I owe you, brother. You ready to do this?”
Seephus nodded. “Got my nine in the bag here. Thought maybe I should toss the bag in the car, though. Got that brick in it still and all.”
Hernandez nodded. Seephus shucked off the backpack, dropped it on the passenger seat, unzipped the top, pulled out his Browning Hi-Power, and shut the door. Julio took off.
“What I want,” Hernandez told them, “is to spend some time with this guy. So we go up to his place, show him he got no chance. Then we call Julio, he pulls up, and we walk the fucker out.”
Seephus nodded. “What if he don’t play, though?”
Hernandez shrugged. “Time with him is what I want. What I need is the fucker dead. He don’t play, we put his ass down.”
CHAPTER 46
Bobby Lee’s brain was racing, trying to think of something he could give this guy that might keep him alive.
Bobby’d been taking a little break. He’d made a good chunk running a quick background check. It was a nice day out, and he’d run up to that Italian joint on Washington, one that made the good sammies. Got himself a beef-and-pepper combo he’d brought back to his place. Figured he’d sit out on the patio in back, watch the whiteys golf for a bit.
Which was when the skinny guy in the linen sport coat walked around the corner of his place, a .22 along his leg with a silencer on it, asking if they could step inside and have a word.
Now he was in his boxers, duct-taped to his office chair, blood pooling on the floor, and his left foot hurting like hell where the guy had cut off his little toe with a pair of pruning shears.
“Man, makes no difference if I tell you anything, you still gonna fucking kill me,” said Lee.
“You know that’s not true,” said Husam al Din.
“You already cut off my fucking toe. Whaddya mean I know that’s not true?”
Husam sighed. Americans. No experience with this sort of thing, he supposed. “Precisely because I cut off your toe. The psychological impact of a finger is far greater – and the nerves in the fingers are more sensitive. But you need your fingers to do your work. And my employer values your work. So I will leave you alive and relatively intact if you give me that option.”
Husam was actually a little surprised. He didn’t have faith in MOIS to do much besides identify his targets and wire his fee. But he knew the Mafia people who had tried to kill Hardin must have gotten intel from the same source he had. They, too, had found Hardin’s car. So he had called MOIS and asked them to find the source. They’d gone back through their middle man; someone had hacked through some complex security and tracked down the IP address. And here he was.
“Employers?” Lee blurted. “Who you working for, man? Let’s get ’em on the phone, sort this out.”
Husam shook his head. “You don’t deal with them directly.”
“OK, OK,” Lee said, thinking maybe he’d get out of this just down a toe. “Just tell me what you need.”
“I need to know everything you have given out on Nick Hardin, and everyone you have given it to.”
Lee quivered. “Jesus, buddy, you gotta know I can’t be ratting out people like that, or they’ll be by, start cutting parts off, too. I mean, whoever your guy is, you think he wants me telling anybody who shows up what he got?”
Husam al Din reached down and slid the blade of the shears around the fourth toe on Lee’s left foot.
“Fuck you doing, man?” Lee shouted. “You don’t gotta… JESUSFUCKINGCHRIST!”
Husam cut off the toe. These were fine shears. He’d bought them at the Home Depot store on Route 59 and they cut through the bone with almost no resistance at all. He would have to pack them when he left. He liked these shears.
“I’m not negotiating,” said Husam. “You can give me answers or body parts. And I have done this sort of thing before, many times. I know the people who will tell me what I need and those who won’t. You already know you are going to tell me. You are just wasting toes.”
Lee spilled – about Corsco, about Hernandez, all of it.
“But you don’t know where Hardin is now?” Husam said, leaning forward a little, opening the shears.
“NO! Man. Fuck no. I mean, I told you. My main gig is Chicago, right? Got eyeballs on everybody down there. Out here? I mean, I can hack systems and shit, been running checks on his Hardin ID, on that Fox ID he used. But I got nothing.”
“All right,” said Husam, fitting the shears around the next toe.
“FUCKFUCKFUCK! Hey, wait! One more thing. I mean probably nothing, right? But I got a call from Hernandez’s guy like an hour back, wanted me to run a check on an address. Turned out to be some chick who works for the DEA.I mean, I didn’t tell you cause I figure that’s just day-to-day stuff for him, nothing to do with Hardin that I can see, but I mean that’s something, right? I’m not holding back on you here.”
Husam pulled the shears away from Lee’s foot, sliced the tape off Lee’s wrists, and turned the chair toward the computer terminal on the desk.
“Print out that address.”
Lee clacked away at the keys for a moment. A printer to the left started spitting out a sheet.
Husam al Din shot Lee three times through the back of the head, close enough that one of the slugs punched through, coming out Lee’s eye socket, blowing some gore onto the monitor. Amazing what these Americans would believe. He pulled another of the disposable cell phones from his pocket and called a number in Tokyo.
“What do you need?” Al Din asked.
“Are you at the terminal?” answered the voice on the other end.
“Yes.”
“Good. Sit down. This will take a few minutes…”
Al Din followed the instructions from the hacker – not the MOIS middleman, but his own contact, one he had used before. After several minutes of entering commands, his contact told him he had what he needed – he could access the Chicago system remotely now. Al Din alone would have access to the surveillance system – not the Mexicans, not the Italians, and not his friends in Tehran. If knowledge was power, sometimes you became more powerful not by learning something yourself but instead by insuring the ignorance of your enemies.
“This system,” al Din asked, “you can use it to find specific people?”
“Maybe,” said the voice on the phone. “If you’ve got a good photo and you can narrow down the locations I have to search.”
“I’m texting you a picture,” said al Din. “He would be in a local hotel.”
“OK,” said the
voice. “If he’s in a hotel covered by the cameras, I’ll know in a few hours.”
Al Din ended the call, pulled up the picture he needed on his phone and sent it to his contact. The Stein murder, the stolen diamond shipment, these things would not escape the notice of Western intelligence agencies. And the size of the shipment would raise alarm. Mossad, they would know about the shipment, and they would want al Din’s head for Stein. They weren’t beyond operating in the US on their own, but most likely they would work through channels. Their relationship with Washington was too important to them. But how would the US react? Officially? Or had they sent Munroe?
If this was being pursued through normal channels – the theft of the shipment noted, the intel routed to Langley for threat assessment, notices forwarded to CIA residents in the usual places, and then to the FBI for domestic processing, perhaps some coordination with local authorities regarding Stein – then it was just business as usual. The CIA was very good at what it did, but it was bureaucratic, which meant it moved slowly and, to anyone who had dodged them before, somewhat predictably.
But if they had sent Munroe, that was another thing entirely. In al Din’s twenty years playing this game, Munroe was the only man who had ever gotten close to him – and he’d done it twice. Al Din’s Japanese friend would run the picture, then al Din would know.
Al Din grabbed the sheet from Lee’s printer. The address was in Downers Grove, the next town east and on his way back to the hotel. Worth a stop.
CHAPTER 47
Seephus Jones would get his payday. If you want to keep the troops motivated, they have to know that you will hold up your end. But Hernandez hadn’t been to war with Jones. He didn’t want any second-string talent fucking this up. Julio, Roberto, Miko, Gomez, they’d all shed blood for Hernandez before, theirs and others.
