Killed in Action

by Michael Sloan

  “What kind of a threat?”

  McCall ignored her question. “I put the other brothers’ IDs into the system. Patrick Cross is twenty-eight years old, a doctor. He’s been working for Doctors Without Borders for four years. He just came back from a tour in Monrovia. He’s living in Atlanta with a wife and two kids, six and nine. Beauregard “Bo” Ellsworth, twenty-four, runs a pseudo-paramilitary unit called the Texas Minutemen Militia. They’re on the radar at the NSA, but not much is known about them. Bo is a loner who works as a manager at a plant in his hometown of Boerne, Texas. He’s been treated for severe depression on and off since his eighteenth birthday and is being treated now for schizophrenia. He’s been taking Vraylar for the past year.”

  “But if Josh had two brothers, whom he kept in touch with through occasional letters, what does that matter now?” Helen exclaimed. “Josh is gone. One of his brothers is a doctor in Atlanta, the other is a foreman at a factory in Texas. So what?”

  “I believe Josh was investigating links that his two brothers may have had with the Jihadist forces in Iraq and Syria. There is another person of interest he was investigating. One who may have been in contact with his brothers.”

  “Who?”

  “You have another son, Tom.”

  All of the color drained out of Helen Coleman’s face. “My God, what are you saying? Tom’s just celebrated his eighteenth birthday. He’s studying Arabic at the School of Islamic Studies at Istanbul’s Sehir University. He’s devastated by the loss of his older brother. I don’t want you questioning him.” Helen stood up abruptly. “I’m grateful to you, Mr. McCall, for trying to save Josh. Send me an invoice for your services and I’ll send you a check.”

  “Helen—”

  “Stay away from my son Tom. Stay away from my family. You and I have nothing more to say to one another.”

  Helen strode through the tables and the trees with their trellises and twinkling white lights and disappeared. McCall got up, put money on the table for their drinks, and moved to the bar.

  Rebecca Coleman scooted her barstool over to make room for him.

  “I told you that’s the way my mother would react. She’s very protective of Tom.”

  “She wouldn’t be happy to know that you were waiting at the bar for me.”

  “My mother and I haven’t got along since I was a teenager. She’s very driven. I’ve lived in Manhattan since I moved out of the house when I was twenty.”

  “How did you know about Josh’s safe-deposit box?”

  “He told me about it once. It was our secret. But then I got a letter from Josh. He sent me the key to the box. He wanted me to check that it still had the letters and photographs in it. I never had the time to go to Red Bank. Josh was killed three days later, or so we believed.”

  McCall set the three photographs of Josh, Dr. Patrick Cross, and Bo Ellsworth on the bar for her.

  She shrugged. “I’ve never seen his brothers before.”

  “Tell me about your other brother.”

  Rebecca took a sip of her Touch of Evil cocktail, which was made with Dorothy Parker gin, El Buho mezcal, sparkling mineral water, raspberry ale, and nutmeg.

  “Tom has been very high-strung since he was a child. Tantrums, then big tears, then mea culpa, sorry, Mom. But he always got exactly what he wanted. Tom starting reading about Islam when he was twelve.”

  “Nothing wrong with that. Millions of Americans study Islam and believe in its teachings.”

  “Tom was fixated on the Quran, and it became the cornerstone of his life. I don’t want to use the wrong word here … there is an intensity to Tom that borders on the fanatical.”

  “Was Tom ever in contact with the Jihadist forces in Syria? Would he ever have fought with the Insurgents?”

  Rebecca looked at him, shocked. “Tom is an American!”

  “Your brother Josh was compiling a list of Americans fighting with the Jihadists. He started to tell me about a marketplace in the village of Al Tabqah. There was chaos, Insurgents slaughtering the populace. Josh and his peacekeeping force were pinned down. He had a clear view of one of the Jihadist fighters standing beside a stolen US Army Humvee.”

  “Did he say it was Tom?”

  “No. I tried to get more from him, but he was dying.”

  Rebecca took another swallow of her drink, and her hands were shaking. “People were being killed. Who knows what Josh may or may not have seen.”

  “Where does Tom stay when he’s home in New York?”

  “He didn’t want to live on campus at NYU. He’s got a small apartment on Eighteenth Street near the Flatiron Building.”

  “Do you have a key to it?”

  Rebecca looked away. “I have a key.”

  “I need to get into Tom’s apartment tonight.”

  Rebecca finished the last of her cocktail and stood. “I’ll go with you.”

  CHAPTER 39

  He knew someone was in his apartment as soon as he entered it. Dishes were piled in the sink and several small glass bowls were on the kitchen counter filled with candy. The door to the bedroom was ajar. Kostmayer went into the kitchenette, took down a large sugar canister, took off the top, and pulled out an S&W 9mm pistol. He moved to the bedroom. Moonlight flooded through an open window. A figure got up from the bed in the shadows. Kostmayer gestured with the pistol.

  “Keep coming.”

  Candy Annie walked forward and stood in the breeze from the window. She seemed oblivious to the fact that she was naked and that the intruder was pointing a gun at her.

  “I’m a friend of Mr. McCall’s,” she said, as if that would explain everything in any given circumstance.

  “What are you doing here?” Kostmayer demanded.

  “Mr. McCall said I could stay for a few weeks. He said you were away on a trip. You’re Mr. Kostmayer, right? I recognized you from the picture on the mantelpiece. I guess you were startled by seeing a naked girl in your bed.”

  “It’s been known to happen from time to time,” Kostmayer murmured, and lowered the S&W. “Sorry about the gun, I wasn’t expecting company. You might put on some clothes.”

  Candy Annie pulled a T-shirt off the rocking chair and put it on. It didn’t cover much of her voluptuous figure. It came down to just below her hips.

  “I borrowed it from one of the Subs,” she said, embarrassed. “She’s a preteen who’s living in the tunnels beneath Columbus Avenue. I guess I should get a bigger size.”

  “You’re not living under the streets any longer?”

  “Mr. McCall got me a job in a restaurant here in the Upworld.”

  Kostmayer moved back into the living room and sank onto the couch. Candy Annie moved into the kitchenette and heated up a coffeemaker.

  “You look as if you could use some coffee. I’m—”

  “Candy Annie. I recognized you from McCall’s description. What’s your full name?”

  She looked at him as if surprised. “It’s Anne Levine. It’s so long since I ever heard anyone use it.”

  “Where is McCall? I went to his old apartment in SoHo, but he’d moved out.”

  “He’s living at a hotel on the Upper West Side. Liberty something.”

  “Liberty Belle. That make sense. Sam is the manager there.”

  “Who’s Sam?”

  “Someone who used to be in the same business with myself and McCall. I’ll go over there.”

  “Please! Stay for a little while. You look very tired.”

  “My last accommodations weren’t too comfortable.”

  “This is your apartment. I am just a guest. Let me at least give you some coffee and listen to your story. I’m a very good listener.”

  Candy Annie came around the kitchenette with a silver tray with two cups, a silver creamer, and a sugar bowl. She poured them coffee. Kostmayer took it black with sugar. Candy Annie curled up in one of the leather chairs with her long legs tucked behind her.

  “Your friend Mr. McCall is a good man.”

  “As I�
�ve said to him before, the jury is probably still out on that.”

  “He saved my life. He’s my only friend here in the Upworld. But sometimes, when he leaves, I have this terrible feeling that I will never see him again.”

  “There is always that chance,” Kostmayer agreed quietly.

  * * *

  Tom Coleman’s one-room apartment in Chelsea was the size of a postage stamp. Clearly it gave Rebecca pause to search it with McCall. This was a violation of her brother’s privacy. She looked in the closet and went through a small kitchenette with virtually no food. An end table was beside a single bed with rows of paperbacks on a shelf. At one end was a leatherbound English version of the Quran. Rebecca sat on the narrow bed and flipped through the pages, “The Opening,” “The Ascension,” “The Holy Prophet,” “The Believers,” “The Spider.” McCall knelt at a chest of drawers and was going through them methodically.

  “Maybe you’re not going to find anything.”

  But McCall had found what he was looking for. It was in the bottom drawer under some jeans and folded T-shirts. He lifted it out without unfolding it and set it on the foot of the bed. Rebecca stared at it in shock.

  “It’s an ISIS flag.”

  “I know what it is,” Rebecca said softly. “I watch the news. It doesn’t prove anything.”

  “Your brother is entitled to read as many books on Islam as he wants. Concealing an ISIS flag in his apartment is something else.”

  Something caught McCall’s eye on the shelf of books. He took out a couple of paperback thrillers, reached to the back, and took something wrapped in tissue paper. He carefully unfolded it. Inside the tissue paper was a silver demon-claws skull and a second silver ring. Rebecca picked up the second ring and read the engraving.

  “Memento mori,” McCall said. “‘Remember that you must die.’”

  He placed the silver demon-claws skull and the silver ring back in the tissue paper, returned them to behind the paperbacks, and restored the order of the books. He knelt back beside the open drawer.

  “This doesn’t feel right.” McCall pulled the drawer out and turned it over. A small book was taped to it. McCall gingerly untaped it and flipped through it.

  “What have you found?”

  “A journal. Hardly any entries in it, most of them in Arabic.”

  McCall took out his cell phone and photographed the pages. Then he retaped the journal to the bottom of the drawer and slid the drawer back into the chest. He moved over to Rebecca. “Your life could be in danger. Your mother’s also.”

  “I don’t believe that.” But the shock and worry were etched in Rebecca’s eyes. “I can’t believe it.”

  McCall looked around the small apartment. Everything was the same as when he and Rebecca had found it. Outside the building, McCall found her a cruising yellow cab.

  She gripped his hands. “Find out the truth,” she pleaded.

  Then she climbed into the cab and it pulled away.

  McCall knew he was being followed.

  His tail had picked him up at the Gallow rooftop bar and followed him and Rebecca to Tom’s apartment. McCall recognized him from Arlington National Cemetery, where the man had brushed past him. He was from The Company. Matthew Goddard had wanted McCall followed because he could lead them to Control.

  McCall walked ten blocks to Bentley’s. The restaurant was packed.

  Andrew Ladd was alone at the bar serving drinks and loading up the trays the servers brought. He smiled when he saw McCall. “Hey, there! Take a seat, if you can find one. I’m a little swamped right now.”

  “I need an apron.”

  Laddie reacted, surprised. “Are you back?”

  “Just for a few minutes.”

  Laddie reached down beneath the bar, came up with a folded Bentley’s apron, and tossed it to him. “I could do with a hand.”

  McCall put on the apron and went under the bar. Gina and Amanda came up. Gina was in her usual hurry. Amanda’s hair today was blue.

  “Are you back with us?” Gina asked. “I need a Yellow Rose of Texas, a Hunting Party—make sure it’s gold tequila—a White Russian, and a Tom Collins. Thanks, Bobby!”

  Gina rushed off. McCall starting mixing her drinks.

  Amanda looked at him with dreamy eyes. “We miss you here. I need a gin sour, a Blue Hawaii, and an apple martini.”

  McCall started mixing those drinks, too. “I like your hair color.”

  “It’s my Supergirl look.”

  He looked past Amanda to the front door. McCall’s shadower entered, looking around. He moved to one of the small tables.

  “You see the guy who just walked in?”

  Amanda followed his gaze. “Yeah.”

  “I want you to go over and ask him if he needs a drink. I want you to look at what rings he is wearing on his right hand.”

  “That’s easy.”

  Amanda grabbed the tray, loaded now with drinks, and made her way back into the fray. McCall reached into the refrigerator like he was looking for something.

  “Going to get more bottles of chardonnay.”

  Laddie nodded. McCall ducked under the bar. He saw that Amanda had delivered her drinks to her booth and had paused beside the shadower’s table. He gave her a no-thanks gesture, although he was momentarily taken by her blue hair. He nodded at the bar and asked her something. She nodded and smiled.

  McCall moved into the kitchen. It was the usual madhouse. He took off the black Bentley’s apron. A moment later Amanda entered after him, picking up a tray of food that was waiting for her.

  “Dude’s wearing a silver skull on his right hand. Kind of creepy, but I liked it.”

  “Did he ask you if I still worked here?”

  “Yeah, I told him you were our best bartender, no offense to Laddie. Don’t be a stranger.” She kissed him, then went out the swinging door. McCall went out the back door. He ran down the alleyway behind Bentley’s to the corner of West Broadway, where he could see both the front of Bentley’s and the side exit. His shadower did not come out of either one. McCall hailed a cab. He found Brahms just leaving the B’nai Jeshurun synagogue on the Upper West Side. They walked together down Eighty-Eighth toward Broadway.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your prayers. Will there be a service for Hilda?”

  “You won’t be invited. You’d have to be Jewish. Whatever it is you want, McCall, it’s the last time.”

  McCall took out the silver ring with the demon-claws skull that he had taken from the assassin’s hand in London. Brahms examined it. McCall told him what he needed. Brahms hailed a cab that took them to Lexington and Fifty-Second Street. Brahms unlocked the door to his Manhattan Electronics store and walked to his back office. He left the rest of the store in darkness. McCall made himself some Maxwell House Original Roast while he waited. When the old spy was finished, he dropped the silver demon-claws skull back into McCall’s hand.

  “I’m closing the store. Mary will need to find another job, God bless her. I’m going to make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. I want to go to the Western Wall and take the cable car to see the site of Masada and the palaces of King Herod. I want to pray at the Tomb of Rachel the Matriarch in Bethlehem. Hilda wanted me to do these things.”

  “Will you come back?”

  Brahms smiled sadly. “I don’t know. When God talks to me, Hilda used to say, I am listening to Brahms. Take care of yourself, Robert.”

  McCall couldn’t remember a time when Brahms had ever called him by his first name. When he got out onto Lexington, he got a text message. He hailed a cab and got out at Union Square. The chess players were hustling tourists for five bucks for a five-minute game, using their timers. It was especially crowded in the Greenmarket. McCall didn’t think he was being followed again, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He saw Jackson T. Foozelman standing in the crowd. McCall walked toward him and shook his head imperceptibly. Fooz sat down on a bench, took off his Mets baseball cap, and turned it around, begging for change. McCall paused to drop
a dollar into the cap, then walked on down Broadway. He unfolded the piece of paper that had been in Fooz’s cap. The address on it was on West Fiftieth Street between Ninth and Tenth Avenues.

  McCall hailed another cab to take him there.

  When he’d settled back, his cell phone rang.

  McCall looked at the caller ID.

  It was a call that he had never expected to get.

  CHAPTER 40

  He had no problem getting into Sam Kinney’s apartment. Working the lock on Sam’s door was child’s play. He paused for a moment in Sam’s living room and listened. He heard someone snoring in the bedroom. The Equalizer set down his backpack, took out the small can of kerosene, and doused the furniture and the drapes at the windows. He crept through the darkened alcove and kitchen to the open door to Sam’s bedroom.

  The old man was awake.

  He must have heard a small noise that had aroused him. Sam was getting out of bed when the Equalizer grabbed him. He rabbit-punched the old man down to his knees. His breath was wheezing and coming in gasps. The Equalizer hit him in the gut, threw him back on the bed, and hit him in the face until the old man lost consciousness. The Equalizer could have dragged him into the living room, but there was no need. The flames and black smoke would reach him and he wasn’t going anywhere. He was out cold.

  The Equalizer checked that the old man didn’t have a pistol stashed in the bedside table drawer. Then he retraced his steps back into the living room. He lit a match from an old book of matches and threw it carelessly onto the kerosene. It whooshed up with a roar. It wouldn’t be long before the couch and the drapes were alight. He had checked the fire escapes on the windows facing the street. The windows there were all stuck tight.

  The Equalizer packed the kerosene can into his backpack. He closed Sam’s apartment door, but he couldn’t get it to latch properly. It was an old building and the wooden door was warped. No matter. The fire would be blazing in the living room within a few minutes.

  He ran down the stairs to the third-floor corridor. He knew that apartment 3A was vacant. He had already jimmied that door and seen the lack of furniture, but drapes were at the windows. He doused them, struck a match, tossed it, and the drapes went up in a roar of flames. He carefully put the kerosene can back into his backpack and closed the apartment door. He wasn’t concerned with the old couple who lived in 3B. In fact, he wasn’t concerned with any of the other tenants who lived in the apartment building. They got out or they didn’t.