Kemiss sucked in a deep breath as several reporters took notice of him and ushered their camera men in his direction.
"Senator Kemiss! Senator Kemiss!" a top-heavy blonde said, as she ambled towards him in high heeled shoes and a red pants suit, dragging an obese camera man behind her. "Stacey Courtney, ABC News. Sir, as one of the ranking members of the Senate Intelligence Committee, what can you tell us about the attack last night? Are the bombing and the murder of Dr. Kafni connected in any way?"
"Dr. Kafni was the keynote speaker at the grand opening of the building that was bombed. Of course there's a connection," he answered as he brushed past her. "Excuse me. I really can't discuss this now."
"Senator, why are you here? Has the FBI called you?"
"No," he answered severely. "Why would the FBI call me? I'm a policymaker, not an investigator. I'm here for the same reason as everyone else. I've lived in this region for more than thirty years and I'm a concerned citizen here to make sure our federal government is doing everything within its power to apprehend the men responsible for these events. Now, excuse me."
He pushed past the throng of reporters crowding behind the journalist and entered the building through a glass door that was held open for him by two black-suited federal agents. The two men quickly closed the door behind Kemiss and began blocking off the reporters.
Inside the well-traveled entrance, the building smelled of wet carpet. Aging wallpaper lined the narrow hallway leading to the building's rear entrance; the walls studded with glass doors bearing the logos of several federal agencies.
"FBI?" he asked a man in a white button-down shirt who was walking towards the front entrance.
"They've taken over the fourth floor," the man said, grudgingly. "The elevator's on the left at the end of the hall."
The elevator pinged as it arrived on the fourth floor, and the doors hissed open. Kemiss stepped out and looked around; behind a set of glass doors directly in front of him men in suits buzzed around a hastily prepared office suite. What had probably been a sleepy field office housing only half a dozen agents yesterday had been transformed overnight into a veritable command center. Pulling one of the doors open, he walked inside. Several of the agents looked up from their desks and two men standing in front of an oversized map stretched over a large white board near the back of the room turned around. Kemiss flashed Seth Castellano a knowing look and the agent immediately excused himself from the man he'd been talking to and began making his way towards a corner office.
The entire scene made Kemiss nervous. Under normal circumstances he would have been proud and possibly even a bit excited at the sight of the law enforcement apparatus of the United States working so diligently to solve a terrible crime, but the circumstances he was here under were anything but normal. Thankfully, Castellano was in charge and would hopefully see to it that no link between him and the events being investigated was uncovered. It was in Castellano's best interest to do so, for both personal and professional reasons.
Castellano held the door open as Kemiss entered, then quietly closed it behind him. Inside the square room was a desk piled high with papers. The pictures in the office weren't of anyone Kemiss recognized; he figured it had belonged to the agent who had been in charge of the field office until the previous night and who was now probably sharing a cubicle outside.
"What's the latest?" Kemiss asked, touching Castellano's shoulder briefly after the agent shut the door.
"State Police found the SUVs near a farm in Spotsylvania County. Both of them were burned down to the axles, just as he was instructed."
Kemiss nodded. "Good. And there's no way to trace them through the rental company?"
"It won't take long for the men outside to trace the vehicles back to the rental company, but all they'll find when they get there is that they were rented by a man working for the Turkish embassy using a diplomatic fleet account and were reported stolen from a parking garage at 5 p.m. yesterday."
"What about the witness? What did you say his name was?"
"Declan McIver. I interviewed him this morning."
"And?"
"Well, it appears that Kafni was much better informed then we realized. Apparently he knew Baktayev was free. He told McIver that Baktayev had escaped from prison and that he might be coming after them both. It seems McIver killed Baktayev's older brother in ninety-seven while he was working for Kafni as a security guard."
Kemiss brought a hand to his head and stroked his clean-shaven face in frustration. "This is what I was afraid of," he said. He turned away from Castellano and looked out of the window to the city block below. "How the hell could Kafni have known about Baktayev being free?"
"Abaddon Kafni has a long history and most of it, prior to his immigration to the States, is a closely kept secret, but we need to relax, David," said Castellano. "Baktayev's involvement in this whole situation will be exposed eventually anyways. The fact that someone knows of him isn't that big of a deal. What we have to be concerned with is the timing. We have to keep his presence here quiet until after everything is over and done with."
"And how exactly are we supposed to keep this man McIver quiet?" Kemiss hissed over his shoulder. "He's not exactly a known entity that we can keep a close watch on day in and day out. He's a wild card!"
Castellano nodded, as if he'd seen Kemiss' reaction coming. "Yes. Yes he is."
"And we can't afford to have wild cards running around right now! What do we know about him? Everyone has skeletons in their closet. I want you to find them."
Placing his hands in his pockets and rattling the change he found there, Castellano walked around the side of the desk and sat down. Leaning into the black leather chair he said, "I already have."
He pulled a folder off the top of the desk and opened it. "Declan Scot McIver, born 1969 in Galway, Ireland. No parents listed. The file says he was raised in an orphanage in Ballinasloe and then nothing until he showed up here in the U.S. in ninety-seven. He applied for citizenship in o-two and on the INS forms he listed his former occupation in Ireland as 'fisherman'."
"So he dropped off the face of the earth until he turned twenty-eight? Why don't I believe that?"
"Probably because this immigration file is about as thin as they come. Somehow Mr. McIver went from being a fisherman in Ireland to being a bodyguard in the United States. He did a two month stint in a Massachusetts prison for his involvement with a violent series of events leading up to an assassination attempt on Dr. Kafni and his family, in which McIver intervened and saved their lives. According to the records I dug up on that event he was released from prison after Kafni brought the entire matter to the attention of Adam Ryan, who was the governor of Massachusetts at the time. Kafni claimed McIver was there under his employ and that the proper paperwork from Israel was misplaced by state officials."
"So he went from Ireland to Israel to America?"
"It would appear that way, but there's no documentation to back that up. It seems Governor Ryan was a staunch ally of the Israeli government and had an established diplomatic relationship with then Prime Minister Asher Harel."
"Great. So Ryan back-doored the entire thing and now we're going to pay for it."
"Well, if you ask me, the only place you find these kinds of gaps in a person's history is when you're dealing with some kind of military, but there's no record of any military service anywhere. In fact, there's nothing from the Republic of Ireland at all. Not even a birth certificate."
"What are you suggesting?"
"I'm suggesting that this immigration file is a complete fraud and that Declan McIver is hiding something pretty serious. All we need to do is find it and exploit it."
Kemiss placed his hands in his pockets and stared out the window.
"I don't like that. It could take months to uncover that kind of information and it could very well turn out to be nothing. Even if it is some kind of a whitewash there are plenty of people with secret clearances that do nothing but shine a seat with thei
r asses, and let's say he is some kind of Military Intelligence or Special Forces, how exactly does that help us? If anything it makes him more of a threat."
"Then we'll just have to go with plan B."
Kemiss looked over his shoulder at Castellano with a raised eyebrow.
"Our friends from the security company last night wouldn't argue with additional employment, I'm sure," Castellano said.
"Make it happen."
Chapter Fifteen
4:36 p.m. Eastern Time – Friday
Virginia Baptist Hospital
Lynchburg, Virginia
The automatic doors opened with an electric hum and the sun temporarily blinded Declan as he walked out of the hospital with Constance at his side. She hadn't been happy about his private conversation with Osman and Nazari, but he had assured her everything would be okay. Wishing he could convince himself so easily, he shielded his eyes from the glare; it was four in the afternoon and the sun was low in the sky. It felt good to be outside after being held in the hospital all night and most of the day. A light breeze blew across the parking lot and the springtime humidity, aided by the seasonal rainfall from the night before, clung to everything.
As they arrived at Constance's car Declan stopped and said, "I had Regan bring me a company truck."
Constance turned suddenly and looked at him. "So I'm driving back to Roanoke with Regan?"
Declan chuckled. "No, I had Dex give him a ride. I wouldn't torture you like that, would I?"
"Oh, of course not," she said, rolling her eyes. "Where are you going?"
"Abe and Levi are being sent back to Israel in about an hour. I want to be there, for Abe's family."
Constance nodded with a grimace. "The doctor said you shouldn't be driving for a few days."
"I'm fine," he said, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Really, I am. I have a hard head."
He smiled briefly for her benefit and pulled her toward the driver's door of her car. Opening the door for her, he waited as she got in and placed her purse in the passenger seat.
"I'll be home later," he said. "Probably not until after dark, though. Call me when you get home to let me know you made it safely. I've got one of the company phones with me. Here's the number."
She looked up at him from the car seat as she took the slip of paper he held out. "Why wouldn't I make it home safely?"
She was clearly taken off guard by his statement. Although he doted on her like any loving husband would, he had never been the overprotective type.
Declan shrugged. "I didn't mean to—I don't know, just with everything that's happened and all."
She smiled again. "Keep your phone on."
He closed the door and watched as she started the engine and backed out of the parking space. As she shifted the car into gear, she gave him a small wave and drove off. He stood watching until the pearl white convertible made a right out of the lot and disappeared behind a building. Pulling his keys from his pocket, he walked towards the white utility truck Brendan Regan had parked in the lot beside the hospital. Unlocking the door and sliding up onto the vinyl bench seat, he tapped his hands on the steering wheel as he stared out the windshield. He hadn't seen or talked to Kafni's family in nearly ten years. Seeing them now, under these circumstances, wasn't going to be easy.
Chapter Sixteen
5:46 p.m. Eastern Time
Lynchburg Regional Airport
Lynchburg, Virginia
Declan pulled the white utility truck to a stop in the short-term parking lot in front of the main terminal, a long rectangular building with a glass exterior supported by regular brick columns. In the center, above several sets of revolving doors, was a glass dome. It reminded Declan of a mosque. Engaging the emergency brake out of habit, he left his vehicle and walked toward the front entrance, which in the waning daylight was lit from within by an incandescent yellow glow.
At the front curb, next to a row of taxis, three men in blue uniforms stood checking the bags of passengers arriving for departing flights. Standing near them was Altair Nazari, his ever present dark suit and tie coupled with his naturally dark features making him blend into the shadows created by the well-lit terminal and the column in front of which he stood.
"Declan," he said with a solemn look, as he extended his hand. "I'm glad you could make it."
Declan returned a solemn nod and shook his hand. He knew this was the grimmest business either of them had handled in a long time. Losing a friend was never easy, but saying goodbye to a man who had been instrumental in securing the future he had dreamed of was infinitely harder. Although they hadn't been in regular contact for nearly a decade, he couldn't deny his feelings towards Abaddon Kafni.
They had met on the streets of Belfast in 1993 when Declan, in one of many betrayals organized by the leader of the Black Shuck unit of the IRA, had provided information to a group of British agents about an arms deal between the IRA's Belfast leadership and the Palestinian Liberation Organization. The agents, unknown to anyone at the time, had actually been Mossad led by Kafni and operating illegally in Northern Ireland to stop the PLO from obtaining both arms and essential training from the most successful terrorist organization in modern history: the IRA. Months later, after learning of a plot to wipe out Declan's IRA unit, Kafni had returned the favor.
Not only had Kafni been responsible for saving him from execution at the hands of the IRA's notorious internal security unit, known as the Nutting Squad, but he had also been responsible for his legal status in the United States, without which he would have never been able to build the life he was currently leading.
Following Nazari as he turned and walked through a revolving door, Declan entered the airport terminal. Across a brown tiled floor to his right was a row of neon-signed ticketing counters and in the distance to his left, a baggage claim filled with anxious passengers whose faces communicated the feelings of frustrated travelers. Between the two, a wide hallway stretched past a coffee shop and a newspaper stand to a row of metal detectors operated by TSA agents in bright blue shirts and black trousers. Approaching the security line, Nazari stopped and spoke briefly with a stocky lady with dark curly hair. After nodding several times she walked past Nazari with a handheld metal detector and approached Declan.
"Sir, I just need to pass this over you real quick before I can let you onto the field," she said with a smile.
Declan stood still and raised his arms as she waved the wand around his extremities.
"Thank you, sir," she said, and returned the wand to an agent standing at the row of walkthrough scanners. "I'll take you guys down now."
Nazari and Declan followed the woman to the right of the security checkpoint to a windowless metal door marked with an emergency exit sign. Using a set of keys from a carabiner hooked to her belt loop, the woman disarmed the alarm and pushed open the door. Holding it open, she waited as they entered a concrete stairwell. At the bottom of the stairs she unlocked another emergency door and stood aside as they exited the building onto a concrete staging area occupied by several baggage carrier trains.
"I'll take you over in this," she said motioning towards a white Ford Explorer with an orange light bar attached to the roof, red lettering identifying it as a law enforcement vehicle belonging to the airport.
As they got in and closed the doors the woman's eyes flitted between her passengers as she eyed them nervously. Obviously uncomfortable with the silence, she spoke as they pulled out of the staging area and onto one of the runways. "It's just terrible what happened. No one here could have imagined anything like this. I mean, we all go through training for various types of workplace violence, but you never think it's really going to happen, then it does," she said, her voice trailing off as she finished.
Declan grimaced. What kind of bureaucratic double speak was workplace violence? What had happened at the university was terrorism, plain and simple. He dismissed the thought as a camouflage Hercules C-130 transport aircraft came into view. Parked near the end of the runw
ay, the plane was surrounded on three sides by vehicles. As the Explorer neared the cluster, the woman turned the wheel sharply to the left and stopped.
"Thank you for the ride," Nazari said, as he got out of the passenger side front seat and closed the door. Declan followed suit but chose not to speak to the woman as he exited. The lady pulled away as they walked towards a group of people at the rear of the plane. A sharp breeze blew across the concrete runway. Declan's heart sank as he saw the faces of the bereaved; Kafni's wife and eldest son, David.
Zeva Kafni, a woman in her mid-fifties with long dark hair covered by a multi-colored scarf, looked up at the two approaching men, a look of recognition immediately crossing her face as she saw Declan. Breaking from the small gathering she walked towards them, opening her arms to embrace him as she drew near.
Declan hugged her tightly. Letting go, he tried to communicate his sorrow with his eyes as the words he wanted to say caught in his throat. "I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head. "I—I'm sorry."
He'd attended many funerals in years past and had never known exactly what to say to a bereaved widow or family. Not being the type of man to show emotion easily, most of the time a feeble apology had been all he could choke out. Thankfully, funerals in Northern Ireland had either been large affairs full of pipes and waving flags, where he could easily fade into the crowd, or small, masked gatherings of three or four where a sympathetic priest would open a church and allow a fallen warrior a flag-draped ceremony in the late hours of the night away from the prying eyes of the British army and loyalist mobs. Here on the tarmac of a regional airport with the sun quickly fading over his shoulder, his weakness was on full display.
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