His name was Renquist, but McCall didn’t know that.
He just knew the man was an assassin.
The funeral possession arrived at the graveside. Eight honor guards carried the coffin, draped in an American flag. Helen Coleman, dressed in black, sat in the front row of fold-up seats beside her younger son, Tom, who was wearing a dark suit and a tie, resolutely holding on to his mother’s hand. He was eighteen, lanky, and somehow fragile. On the other side was Helen’s daughter, Rebecca, probably twenty-five, with expressive eyes in a face that more than resembled Josh Coleman’s. Her hair was black and reached right down her back. She gripped her mother’s other hand. Colonel Michael G. Ralston sat down behind Helen and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. There was something courtly in his attitude that McCall liked.
The chaplain gave a eulogy that McCall couldn’t hear. The service took twenty-five minutes. Seven members of the firing squad raised their rifles in the air and fired three volleys. McCall knew the tradition dated back to the Civil War to alert the other side that the funeral of the dead was complete. The senior NCO of the honor guard folded the flag from the coffin. He passed it to the two-star general, who presented it to Helen Coleman. McCall could hear the general’s voice ringing above the sighing of the wind:
“On behalf of a grateful nation.”
Helen took the flag and nodded her acceptance. McCall had failed her. He had promised to find her son and bring him back. Yet the message that Josh had tried to bring back home now had a greater purpose.
A conspiracy, he had said. National security was at stake.
The funeral slowly broke up. McCall waited another half hour before he showed up at the Army and Navy Club on Farragut Square in Washington, DC. The reception was packed. The mood was somber. McCall saw Helen Coleman standing with her children. He caught her eye to let her know he was there. At that same moment Gunner detached himself from the three-star general he was talking to and moved over to McCall and offered his hand.
“Colonel Michael G. Ralston. They call me Gunner.”
McCall shook hands. “Helen Coleman has mentioned you. You were Captain Josh Coleman’s CO in Syria.”
“Yes, I was. She hasn’t told me much about you, Mr. McCall, except that she said you used to work in intelligence.” McCall waited. “She told me you were responsible for bringing Captain Coleman home.”
“She’s mistaken.”
“You didn’t fly to Syria to rescue him?”
“I’m here to pay my respects to him.”
“Our intel says you flew to Syria in a Bombardier Global 6000 VistaJet. You were parachuted into Syria south of Ar Raqqah and east of Aleppo, near Highway Six. The Insurgents fired at your plane with antiaircraft guns.”
“What else did your intel tell you?”
“Not much after that. Captain Coleman had been wounded in a firefight in the Syrian village of al-Sukhnah. That’s where we lost contact with him. You couldn’t have gone there. The village was evacuated right before I came Stateside.”
“Helen Coleman wasn’t given that information. She was only told her son had been killed in action in Syria.”
Gunner was tight-lipped. “The Army had to find out if Captain Coleman was still alive. We had no intelligence that could pinpoint his location. Helen Coleman was told that he’d been killed in al-Sukhnah.”
“But it wasn’t the truth. At least, it wasn’t at the time.”
“We were still looking for him. You must have found him. How did you do that?”
After a moment, McCall said, “Captain Coleman sent his coordinates to his mother. The intel he got from an Insurgent deserter in al-Sukhnah said there were forces working closely with the Jihadists. He didn’t know who in the military he could trust.”
“That’s very disturbing to hear.” McCall waited. “Your pilot is a mercenary named Hayden Vallance. He arrived in Berlin where he contacted us. How he got there from Syria is another gap in our information.”
“I’d say you pieced together your intel meticulously.”
“Whatever Captain Coleman told you in Syria is highly classified. The Pentagon wants to talk to you.”
“I haven’t got anything to say to the Army.”
“We’re also going to talk to Hayden Vallance.”
“If you can find him.”
Gunner nodded, glancing around at the mourners and the Army officers in the room. “You’re a civilian, Mr. McCall. I am familiar with the intelligence unit you used to work for, but their records are also highly classified and not for my eyes. You went into Syria and rescued an Army captain who was very dear to me. We don’t leave any soldier behind. I don’t know how you did it, but you almost got him out. I’m speaking on behalf of Helen Coleman and the US Army when I tell you that you have our gratitude and thanks.”
“But you want to know what Captain Coleman told me.”
Gunner looked back at McCall. “There was a list that Captain Coleman had in his possession. Names of American fighters who had been radicalized by our enemy.”
“Don’t you have that same list?”
“I’d need to see Captain Coleman’s list for comparison.”
McCall took out the folded piece of paper that Josh had given him in the helicopter in Syria and handed it Colonel Ralston. “I never gave that to you. I never came into contact with Captain Coleman.”
Gunner put the list into the pocket of his dress uniform. “Thank you. The Jihadist deserter from ISIS whom Captain Coleman had been liaising with had told him about some kind of a conspiracy.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“Helen told me you were someone who helped people. But we’re talking about national security and a very real threat to the lives of ordinary Americans. That’s why the Pentagon needs to debrief you.” Gunner lowered his voice a little. “My superiors are talking to Homeland Security. If they think they have enough evidence to issue a warrant for your arrest, you could be having this briefing at the Pentagon within twenty-four hours.”
“They would have to prove I was in Syria and I was in contact with Captain Coleman. Which they can’t. Whatever intel Captain Coleman had at the time of his death died with him.”
Gunner met McCall’s steady gaze. “But you’re going to act on it?”
McCall’s eyes were expressionless, but Gunner just nodded. At that moment Helen Coleman joined them with her children. Tom Coleman had wild hair that had been combed for the occasion. His eyes were red from crying. Rebecca Coleman was beautiful and had her mother’s eyes. She was tense, but it struck McCall that there was something more to her grief. Helen just put her arms around McCall.
“Thank you for coming,” she said simply. She reached into her coat pocket and brought out three brass casings. “The senior NCO of the honor guard explained to me these casings are from the three volleys the firing squad fired. I found them tucked into the folds of the flag.”
“It’s a tradition of respect from the soldiers,” Gunner said.
“Mr. McCall, this is my son Tom.”
He shook McCall’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”
“And my daughter, Rebecca.”
Rebecca didn’t shake hands. “Mom said you were someone who looked for the truth.” It was an odd thing for her to say.
Before McCall had a chance to reply, the three-star general whom Gunner had been talking to earlier motioned for Helen to join him and his entourage.
She took McCall’s hand and said, “Call me when you have time.”
She moved with her son Tom in tow. The general had included Gunner in his invitation, so he escorted Helen across the room. Rebecca Coleman looked at McCall as if making a decision. She took something out of her coat pocket and pressed it into his hand. Then she walked across the room to be with her mother and her brother.
McCall had paid his respects and needed to leave the reception before any more Army officers tried to confront him. When he got outside to Farragut Square, he walked down Sevente
enth Street NW until he was at the White House before he looked at what Rebecca Coleman had given him. It was a small envelope.
He tore it open.
A safe-deposit key fell into the palm of his hand.
CHAPTER 38
Bo drove down the I-10 toward San Antonio nursing a bad hangover after a fight at the Shadywood Cantina, where he’d had to teach some unruly yahoos some manners. He was already late for his meeting with his Texas Minutemen Militia. But his mind was somewhere else.
It was the anniversary of his niece’s death.
Crystal had been in a car crash in Pennsylvania, where she was going to college. Bo had arrived at the hospital, and the triage nurse had told him that his niece was still in the OR. He had called his sister and had told her to be strong.
Crystal had died just after 2:00 p.m.
She’d been on her way to a restaurant in Philadelphia. Crystal’s boyfriend, Diego, had been driving erratically. He’d survived because he hadn’t been thrown through the windshield. Crystal hadn’t been wearing her seat belt. They’d been hit by another car being driven by a male student and his three pals, who’d been drinking. All four of the undergrads had survived.
All of them were Muslims.
Ultimately the four students had been cleared of reckless driving. Their alcohol content and been just below the legal limit. Bo had harassed the police department to issue warrants to the students for vehicular manslaughter, but that never happened. So Bo had painstakingly collected information on the murderers of his sister. He knew what courses they were taking at U of Penn, who their friends were, where they hung out. He spent a lot of time in Smokey Joe’s tavern on South Street and in McGillin’s Old Ale House on Drury Street. He’d waited until Aaban, his pals called him Abe, had come staggering out of Smokey Joe’s one night shit-faced. Bo had dragged him to an alleyway behind the bar and beat him until he was a bloody pulp. He had dialed 911 himself, said he’d witnessed a fight but didn’t want to become involved, gave the 911 operator the name of the bar, and hung up. The cops had found Aaban’s body and had mounted a full-scale investigation, but it never led anywhere.
Bo gave himself another two months before he got the second Muslim. His name was Kahil, which meant “lover and friend,” or so the internet said. He had been coming out of McGillin’s Old Ale House in Philly with a group of friends. He’d said his good-byes and crossed the street when Bo had roared out of a side street and hit him. He had been flung over Bo’s Explorer and his head had split open like a ripe melon. None of his friends saw the make or model of the SUV. Bo had taken off the license plates for the night. He had waited another month to find the third student, whose name was Deen, not Dean, whom he drowned in White Clay Creek, a tributary of the Christina River in southern Pennsylvania. Deen had been going home to his folks and had got out of his car to look at the beautiful river. Bo had weighted him down with rocks and had watched as he submerged.
As far as Bo knew, the police had never connected the dots to the three students.
The fourth student, Shayaan, had dropped out of U of Penn halfway through his senior year. Bo didn’t know if Shayaan had been frightened by what had happened to his friends, but he had disappeared, and Bo couldn’t find him. It didn’t matter. He was out there somewhere and Bo had photos of him. He would find and kill him. By the time Bo was in San Antonio sitting at one of the small tables on River Walk, he had cleared his head of these vengeful thoughts.
There were new Muslim targets to be dealt with.
The riverfront was crowded with tourists strolling leisurely or sitting at the tables shrouded by their colorful umbrellas. Bo nursed an Alamo Golden beer and watched the flat-bottom boats drift by with their guides pointing out places of interest. He looked up at one of the magnificent hotels that fringed River Walk. It had been called the Valencia Hotel, but now it had a new name, Riverwalk Hotel. The renovations had taken almost a year. It was open again, bigger and better, bustling with activity.
Bo’s cousins Steve and Kyle arrived first. Both had forsaken their Texas Minutemen Militia uniforms and were casually dressed in polo shirts and Salvage Mayhem straight jeans. Randy Wyatt rounded out the trio, bringing his laptop with him. Randy was a good ole boy who had his own unique fashion statement. He dressed like Wild Bill Hickok in a long frock coat, a vest with a folding pocket watch and chain, a silk bow tie, corded pants, and big black calf boots. The tourists loved it. Particularly the young women. Big Teddy Danfield was the last to arrive.
Bo was a patriot. He knew his most trusted companions were equally loyal to his cause. The zealots who had taken over the Riverwalk Hotel weren’t Americans. They were Muslims, who did not belong in their city. Bo remembered seeing on the internet that when the mayor of London had been sworn in, there had been a great swelling of British pride. What the American public had not seen were the protesting and near riots that had taken place in the London streets. Muslims marched and chanted, carrying banners that said EUROPE YOUR 9/11 IS ON ITS WAY—BUTCHER THOSE WHO MOCK ISLAM—ISLAM WILL DOMINATE THE WORLD. Bo and his minutemen had not been radicalized in the way some Europeans had been and, yes, even some Americans had been. No member of the Jihadists would ever have recruited Bo or his men. But they would be labeled as terrorists just the same.
Except the Jihadists would take the blame and the responsibility.
Randy tossed his broad-brimmed cowboy hat on the table and opened his laptop. He brought up some schematics of the hotel and swung the laptop around to face Bo. He had done his homework.
Bo smiled. “Like taking candy from a baby.”
* * *
McCall took a train out of Penn Station to Red Bank, New Jersey. The OceanFirst Bank was at 175 Monmouth Street in the picturesque little town. Along with the safe-deposit key in the small envelope had been a folded letter, signed by Rebecca Coleman, authorizing McCall to open the box and remove the contents. The manager of the branch, whose brass plaque on his lapel said LEON OUDABASHIAN, was heavset with a ready smile who looked like Tony Soprano. He had not heard the sad news about Captain Josh Coleman. He asked McCall to convey his condolences to the family. He took McCall into the locked vault, took out the safe-deposit box, and led McCall to a small room, where he was left alone.
McCall opened the box.
Personal letters were in it, a duplicate copy of Josh’s birth certificate, letters from the Army, and various Star Wars action figures, keepsakes from Josh’s childhood. Under the letters McCall found three small photographs. One of the photographs was of Josh Coleman when he was fourteen or fifteen. The other two were also of teenage boys. McCall set the three photographs side by side on the table.
There was no doubt in McCall’s mind that the teenagers were related.
* * *
McCall had arranged to meet Helen Coleman at the Gallow rooftop bar in the McKittrick Hotel in Chelsea just after 7:00 p.m. Trellises of flowers were interspersed with towering trees sparkling with tiny white Christmas lights above a floor of pebbles and slate. From where McCall sat at the weathered wooden table, West Side buildings were stark against the Hudson. The entire bar had the feeling of an old colonial house that had gradually gone to seed. The setting was charming until you remembered that the bar, Gallow Green, was named for a Scottish field where six witches had been hanged and burned. The waiters and waitresses were dressed in white, with, for the most part, faux-British accents. There would be more of them after the improvised show Sleep No More was over and the actors mingled with the theater crowd.
Helen made her way through the tables and sat down opposite McCall. One of the waitresses appeared as if she’d come through a trapdoor set in a stage. Helen ordered a Sleep Bowmore, a single-malt Scotch with Madeira wine and orange shrub sweetened with demerara sugar poured tableside out of a pitcher over ice in a copper bowl. McCall nursed an eighteen-year-old Glenfiddich single malt. Helen looked out at the cloud-streaked sky that was darkening above the rooftop.
“I was grateful that you cam
e to Josh’s funeral. I didn’t know if you would be there. Your job was done.”
“But Josh’s job wasn’t. He was compiling a list, supervised by his CO, of Jihadist fighters. All of them are Americans. There were nine men on the list. There’s a rogue shadow unit within one of the branches of our intelligence departments who is protecting these traitors.”
“So this is a matter of national security?” Helen asked, concerned.
“Yes. There is a tenth Jihadist fighter on Josh’s list. I want you to look at three photographs.” McCall put the three faded photographs onto the table.
Helen picked up the first one immediately. “That’s Josh when he was fifteen! Where was this taken? I don’t recognize the setting at all.”
“It wasn’t for your eyes. Tell me about the young men in these other two photographs.”
Helen picked up the first photograph. It was Patrick Cross, taken at the same age, maybe a year or so younger. Helen stared at the teenager, without commenting, then picked up the photo of Beauregard “Bo” Ellsworth. He was a strapping youth, a couple of years younger than the others, grinning for the camera. Helen put the three photographs side by side.
“They’re all brothers,” she said, nonplussed. “Obviously Josh’s brothers. The resemblances are striking. But I don’t know them. I’m certainly not the mother of the other two.”
“Do you know who their father was?”
“Yes, of course, Richard Coleman. I divorced him over thirty years ago, right after I gave birth to Josh. But I haven’t seen him or heard from him for over thirty years.”
“But Josh heard from his brothers. They corresponded for years. All of the letters were in a safe-deposit box that belonged to Josh that I managed to get hold of. The letters are fairly innocuous, but you’d have to read between the lines to get a clearer meaning in them.”
“I never knew about these letters,” Helen said, clearly distraught.
“Josh didn’t want to share them, and he had his reasons. His brothers may have known those reasons. Josh was a threat to them.”
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