"Does Kafni always travel with this much security?" Constance asked, as they wormed their way between parked cars towards the path leading to the front entrance.
"No, I don't think so," Declan answered. "At least he never used to. There are a lot of other guests tonight in addition to Kafni; senators, congressmen, probably some ambassadors as well. No one wants to miss a photo-op."
"Always the pessimist," she said, rolling her big green eyes towards him and grabbing his hand.
"I prefer the term 'realist' when it comes to politicians," he said, pulling her closer as they walked.
Ahead of them the newly constructed C.H. Barton Center for International Relations and Politics stood separated from the main campus by the four lanes of Route 460. Nestled into the side of Liberty Mountain, underneath the university's gigantic hillside logo, the building was an impressive sight. The Barton Center, as it would likely be nicknamed by the students and faculty, was as ambitious an architectural project as the university had attempted to date. Not known for shying away from a challenge, the university had designed the building to look like a larger scale version of a retreat once owned by Thomas Jefferson, the third President of the United States.
Octagonal in shape, the Barton Center was three stories high, with two floor-to-ceiling windows on each level of the eight sides. Like Jefferson's former plantation, Poplar Forest, the building was capped at both the front and rear entrances by a white gabled portico supported by four marble columns. A one story rectangular hall jutted off the east side in the same position as the servant's quarters at the original property. At the base of a set of steps extending from the front portico, a circular hedge surrounded a mock carriage court paved with cobblestones. Wrought iron benches were positioned every ten feet in a wide circle. In the center of the court stood an imposing bronze statue of Thomas Jefferson, holding a feather pen and a copy of the Declaration of Independence. He looked down on everyone who approached the building, his soft but knowledgeable gaze conveying the seriousness of the task he had undertaken two hundred and thirty six years earlier.
Walking through the carriage court to the base of the steps, Declan and Constance entered a tent that had been set up as a covered valet. Several limousines were unloading their tuxedo-clad occupants, who strode into the entrance as if they were late for an important meeting.
"See what I mean?" Declan asked wryly as they approached the security team at the front door and one such tuxedo-clad man strode past the security without a second look.
"Name, please?" a guard seated at a gray card table announced.
"Declan and Constance Mc—"
"I said name, not names. Unless she's mute, she can speak for herself in a moment."
"I see the manners haven't improved much over the years," Declan grumbled, before repeating his name loud and clear. "Declan McIver."
The guard made a tick mark with his pen and motioned towards two other guards standing at the base of the steps. "Remove your coat and stand with your arms and legs open wide, sir," one of the guards said as Declan approached.
Declan took off his coat, as instructed, and handed it to a guard who patted it down and searched through the pockets. Meanwhile, as he stood spread-eagled, the second guard ran a metal detector over his body. As he endured the security screening, he took note of his surroundings. Inside the tent, in addition to the guard checking the list of names and the two currently dealing with Declan, there were several young men in black raincoats guiding cars into and out of the tent, and holding doors for the occupants as they exited their vehicles and entered the building. A white Ford Crown Victoria sedan sat parked at an angle behind the card table with a full set of clear LED emergency lights on its roof and bright red lettering down the side of the vehicle reading security.
"Good to go, sir," the guard with the metal detector said as he moved onto Constance, who had successfully stated her name and was next in line. Declan stood waiting for his coat, but the guard handed it to a woman in a black raincoat instead. She wrote a number on a ticket and tore it in half, placing the first half on a hanger along with the coat.
"Don't lose my coat," Declan said to her, as she handed him the stub. "I like that coat."
The woman flashed him a quick smile then took Constance's coat from the guard as Declan was joined by his wife. "C'mon," she said. "Quit giving them a hard time."
"What?" he asked, as she took him by the arm and led him up the stairs. "I like my coat."
Ahead of them at the building's front entrance, two more guards stood on either side of a set of open oak doors. A short man in a tweed three piece suit stood next to them and he smiled and extended his hand as the McIvers approached.
"It's good to see you, Declan," he said, in a Semitic accent. "Sorry about all of that."
Gripping the man's hand, Declan said, "I guess I should've taken Abe up on that car," as he watched an older gentleman step out of the back of a Lincoln Town Car and stride past the security. "It's good to see you too, Levi. This is my wife, Constance."
"Hi," Constance said, smiling as Levi took her hand and kissed it.
"I'd say something in French," Levi said, "but my memory fails me at the moment."
Constance laughed shyly.
"Constance, this is Levi Levitt, Dr. Abaddon Kafni's chief of security."
"And personal assistant and errand boy and everything else these days," Levitt said with a laugh. "I sometimes think I'm getting too old for this stuff."
"I bet the traveling schedule is horrendous," said Constance.
"Oy, you have no idea. If it weren't for e-mail, I wouldn't even remember my mailing address. Now, if you both want to follow me, I'll walk you through the room to Dr. Kafni. He's quite excited that you've decided to attend."
Levitt turned and walked through the double doors past the guards. He was a small man in height but made up for it in a sturdiness that communicated the idea that he was not a man to fool with. Declan knew that somewhere beneath the professor-like tweed suit, bushy gray beard and thick rimmed glasses lay the instincts and training of a former Mossad agent, much like his employer, Dr. Kafni.
Declan's road to friendship with him had been rocky. Levitt had been injured during an attempt on Kafni's life by a group of vengeful gunmen and it had been Declan who intervened to save the lives of both Kafni and his family.
Aware of Declan's past in the IRA, Levitt had regarded him with more than a little suspicion. despite Kafni's assurances to the contrary and insistence that Declan was the perfect candidate for their fledgling security team. It had taken three years and another assassination attempt before Levitt had let down his guard and began to trust him. Seeing Levitt again tonight, Declan still heard a flicker of the old mistrust present in the man's voice. Taking Constance's hand, he moved slowly after Levitt into the crowded room beyond.
The first floor of the Barton Center had been completely emptied of whatever fixtures would be present when it went into use as part of the university's new graduate programs. Blue velvet security rope ran around the entire room and was held up at six foot intervals by bronze-colored stanchions. Behind the rope, on the eight surrounding walls, hung artwork featuring scenes from Thomas Jefferson's tenure as Minster of France and Secretary of State. At intervals across the dark mahogany floor were approximately twenty-five round dinner tables, each draped in dark blue cloth and with enough room to seat twelve guests.
The murmur in the room was deafening. Like a crescendo of mating grasshoppers, four and five person groups of politicians, aides, journalists, and those hoping to become such, clamored for attention. Right away, Declan recognized several of the guests from interviews on various news programs and mailers that had flooded his postal box during the last election. With the agonizing speed of a snail caught in molasses they moved between the tables towards a stage decorated with the flags of various nations. In the center was a stately podium bearing the university's seal, ready for the evening's speakers to begin.
"
Osman and Nazari are making the rounds through the building. They'll be joining us later," Levitt said, referring to the other two bodyguards whom Declan had worked closely with during his time with Kafni.
"Grand," said Declan, as they neared the stage.
"This will be your table here," Levitt said, as he indicated a table with a tent card reading six.
"Right up front, I can deal with that," said Declan.
"Dr. Kafni wanted to make sure you had the best seats in the house," said Levitt, as he motioned them forward. "You'll be seated with Dr. Coulson, the Barton Center's dean, and Chancellor Falwell, once he arrives. But for now, let me show you to where Dr. Kafni is."
Declan and Constance followed as Levitt led them past the last row of tables to the side of the stage, on either side of which a blue velvet curtain had been hung from the ceiling to create a backstage area. Levitt pulled back the curtain and held it open as Declan and Constance entered.
Standing in the center of the space were two men, both dressed in suits. Declan immediately recognized Dr. Abaddon Kafni, known to anyone who had the honor of calling him friend as “Abe”, but had no idea who the second man was.
Dressed in a black and gray pinstriped suit that seemed to hang off his lanky appendages, and with a broad brow, a face that closely followed the contours of the skull beneath his flesh, and large ears that seemed to sit just a little lower than normal, Kafni looked the part of educated pundit. He smiled broadly as he saw Levitt returning, followed closely by Declan.
“I found him harassing the security,” Levitt announced with a grin as he stopped mid-way between the curtain and the two men.
“My friend, I'm glad you could come," said Kafni, in perfect but accented English. He extended his hand as the McIvers walked past Levitt.
Grabbing Kafni's hand firmly, Declan said, “Well, I've never been one to disappoint.”
“No, you haven't. You, my friend, have always been very consistent, and that is something of value." Kafni turned back towards the man he'd been standing with. “This is Dr. Michael Coulson. He is the dean of the new programs here at Liberty and a man I'll be working closely with as we attempt to win the hearts and minds of this nation's youth. Michael, this is Declan McIver, a close friend, and his wife, Constance.”
“Hi. How are you?” Declan asked, as his right hand left Kafni's and moved towards the hand of the tall, dark haired man. With a lined face and a bell-shaped nose that stood atop a bushy mustache, rather like a five and dime disguise, Coulson fit the academic persona perfectly. His well-tailored suit swished as he extended his hand; it was as if the polyester dreaded the movement for fear of a wrinkle.
“Let me guess, East Belfast?” he said, shaking Declan's hand, a toothy smile giving him the air of a politician or used car salesman.
“Galway, actually; close though.”
“Oh well. What can I say…I never was any good at telling the difference in the accents, even after seven years at Queen's,” Coulson said, referencing time he had apparently spent studying or teaching at Queen's University in Belfast. Declan didn't care enough to ask which.
“No, you did well. I'm surprised you picked up on it at all. It's been a long time.” Declan knew it was more likely that Coulson had picked up on his name rather than his accent. With the “Mc” prefix it was obviously British as opposed to the more Irish sounding names that often began with an “O”. East Belfast was home to the majority British Protestant population of Northern Ireland's largest city and Coulson apparently knew that much.
Conscious that the past held events that neither of them cared to discuss at any length with Coulson, Kafni clasped his hands together loudly and said, “So, this is your wife? She's more beautiful than you described, Declan, you should be ashamed."
Constance blushed as Kafni took her hand lightly. "Hi, Dr. Kafni, it's a pleasure to meet you."
"Abe, please call me Abe. I'm delighted to meet you."
Constance smiled and said, "Okay, Abe then."
"Did your husband ever tell you about the time he saved my life?"
"No, he didn't," Constance said, rolling her eyes towards Declan. "That must be quite a story."
"It is and I can't wait to tell you about it. I'm looking forward to catching up with both of you after my speech. Would you mind terribly if I took a moment to talk with your husband in the last few minutes before I am to go on stage?"
"Not at all," Constance said smiling.
"I'll escort the lady back to our table," Coulson said, as he guided her out.
Declan watched as they left and the curtain closed behind them. "Is the news that bad?" he said, when they were out of earshot.
"No," Kafni said, with a wave of his hand. "I didn't know how much you'd told her and I don't want to scare her. I know very well how families handle the kind of events we've been involved in."
Declan nodded. "Yeah, I suppose you do. How are Zeva and the kids?"
"Great. They are great. David just finished his last year of law school and is setting up his own practice near our home in Maryland. He's hoping to work alongside the American Center for Law and Justice. Hanah graduated at Virginia Tech this past spring and is starting veterinary school there this week," Kafni said, referencing the eldest of his five children. David and Hanah were the two Declan had had the most interaction with during his time helping with the family's security. The other three, two sons and a daughter, were much younger and still in grade school.
"Do you remember the name 'Baktayev'?" Kafni continued.
"Kind of hard to forget," Declan answered.
The Baktayevs had been two Chechen brothers that Kafni had run afoul of during his last assignment as an agent of Mossad. Having killed one of them during a botched weapons trade in which Mossad had been trying to capture an Iranian terror leader, the younger of the two brothers had sought revenge on Kafni when he'd immigrated to America a year and a half later. Through an incredible set of circumstances, Declan had been in just the right place to learn of the plot and had decided to intervene, since Kafni had done him a similar favor a few years earlier in Ireland. It could be safely said that without each other, neither of them would be alive.
"I thought they were both dead, but I'm getting the feeling you're about to tell me that's not the case."
"The two older brothers, Vadim and Deni, are dead, yes. You killed Deni yourself. But there is a third, a Ruslan Baktayev. I found out about him when I received a threat from him. As is the usual protocol, with the help of my contacts, we kept a close eye on him. After the second Chechen war broke out he lost interest and the matter died. He's been held in a Russian prison since the end of the Beslan School Hostage Crisis in 2004."
"He was involved in Beslan?"
"Oh yes, one of the architects of it, in fact."
"So if he's in prison, what makes him such a concern all of a sudden?"
"Two weeks ago he left the prison and hasn't been seen since."
Declan grimaced. "Corruption in the ranks again, huh?"
"Oh, I'm sure," Kafni said, raising his eyebrows. "As you well know, the Russian military is ceaselessly corrupt, and Moscow is being Moscow and telling bold faced lies, as usual. They are saying Baktayev died in a fight with another prisoner and that his body was incinerated, but Mossad had a sayanim in the prison, a sympathizer if you will, so we have it on good authority that he's anything but dead."
"And you think he's going to come after you?"
"Oh, I have no idea," Kafni said, with a shrug. "My family and I are well protected. I'm telling you this because this man has a personal vendetta against me and probably against you, too. Although you acted on my behalf, you were responsible for Deni Baktayev's death. I thought you should know so that you can take the appropriate measures to protect yourself and your wife. I am certain that if he could get into the U.S. he would try and kill me, and possibly you, too, if he knows who you are."
"That's a really big 'if', Abe. It's far more likely that this guy's running
and hiding right now. He's probably holed up in some derelict tent city in the Caucasus hoping he doesn't freeze to death."
"Normally I'd agree, but it's the manner of his escape that bothers me the most. He just left the prison and Moscow is denying it completely. Even with the notoriously corrupt system in Russia, do you realize the influence and money it would take to pull this off? Somebody wanted him out of there for a reason."
"Did he have any contacts with enough resources to get him out?"
"The Chechens have received a lot of aid from terror networks like Al Qaeda over the years, but to my knowledge Baktayev himself has no connections wealthy enough to pull off such a feat. They were in contact with an Iranian financier named Sa'adi Nouri in the mid-nineties, but Nouri is dead. He has been for over a decade and his network did not survive him." Kafni ran a hand through his hair. "Look, it's anyone's guess as to what that reason is and it probably doesn't have anything to do with us, but I thought you should know all the same."
Declan nodded. "Thanks."
Kafni looked down at his watch and clapped Declan on the shoulder. "It's almost time for my speech. I'll see you afterwards. We'll talk about old times and good friends, and leave all of this in the past where it belongs."
Declan nodded, smiled and turned to walk out, hoping as he made his way back towards the settling crowd that Ruslan Baktayev and whatever bloody intentions he had did, in fact, remain buried in the past.
Chapter Six
"What was that about?" Constance whispered, as Declan took a seat next to her in the now darkened room. She was seated with Michael Coulson, a woman that was apparently his wife, and two other couples. In addition to Declan's empty seat, there were four others. Declan recognized one of the men as the sitting congressman from his congressional district. He nodded to him politely before leaning towards Constance and giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. "Nothing," he said, "just a newsflash on an old friend of the family."
Black Ops Bundle: Volume One Page 4
