The Shadows of Power

by James W. Huston

  Mostly they shared the silence and listened to the ticking of the clock in the hallway. Rat watched Stovic touch his sister-in-law’s shoulder. Stovic looked around at his wife and children, his parents, Debbie’s parents, and Debbie’s sister. They had all come as soon as they heard. Rat sat in the corner by the door. Stovic spoke. “All right. First, and before we do anything else, I want to apologize to everyone. This wouldn’t have happened—”

  “No,” Debbie said, clutching a handkerchief as she sat on the footstool of a fabric-covered chair. “No, Eddie, this was the fault of someone who had a gun. It wasn’t you, and even if he was that guy you think—the pilot’s brother—it wasn’t your fault. You did exactly what you should have done. We’re proud of you, Eddie. Rick was proud of you,” she cried. “God, he was proud of you. He was going to go to three air shows this year. He had them all planned out. We were driving to two of them. He told everyone he knew that his brother was a Blue Angel. He wore that jacket you gave him. . . .” She smiled, but the corners of her mouth were pulled down by heavy sadness.

  “I’ve got to quit the team. I can’t make it to the show this weekend with the funeral. In ten days we’re leaving for Paris. They can get the pilot from last year—”

  His father interrupted him. “I’ve never seen you quit before, or run away from someone. Rick wouldn’t have quit.”

  “Dad, it’s for the good of the—”

  “We’re having the funeral on Friday. You can still get out of here Friday night and make it to the air show before Saturday. Where is the next one?”

  “New Orleans.”

  “You can make it. You have to decide whether you want to.”

  “Dad, I’ve been putting myself first for so long I’ve brought disaster on my family. When did you hear the funeral is Friday?”

  “Just a minute ago. That was the minister on the phone. Friday at two. He wants to come over here this afternoon. He said if he’s going to talk about Ricky, he wants to hear all about him from his family. He wants us to get together here and talk about him for a couple of hours, tell stories about him, what we loved about him, what he did that was wonderful. . . .” He couldn’t go on. He pushed his silver-framed glasses up, trying to ignore the tears running down the sides of his nose.

  Stovic nodded. “Good idea. What time?”

  “Four.”

  “Okay.” The rest of the family waited for Stovic to say something, to tell them what to do or what was going to happen next. But he didn’t know. He sat down in the cloth chair and asked Debbie if he could hold his brother’s baby. He held her close, feeling the smooth innocence of her cheek against his rough, unshaven face. He whispered into her ear, “I’m sorry, Elizabeth, I’m so sorry.” She looked at his face with her big eyes, perceiving his distress but not sure what it was about.

  “Eddie, I think you’d better go call the head of the Blue Angels and make arrangements to be there Friday night,” his father said.

  Stovic nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “Mr. Stovic?” the FBI agent called from the back door on the other side of the kitchen, looking for the pilot in the group. “Special Agent Savage would like to have a word with you.”

  Stovic looked at Rat, who nodded. They both got up and went to the back door. Lew Savage and Patricia Branigan were standing in the backyard, where Debbie had just planted some flowers. It was a charming place that looked surreal in the falling mist, just short of rain.

  “Yeah?” Stovic said quickly.

  “I wanted to let you know that we have security in place. You don’t have anything to worry about while you’re here.” Lew looked at Rat and saw the skepticism. “You got something to say?” he said to Rat.

  “Yeah, but not in front of him,” Rat said angrily.

  “Let’s hear it,” Lew insisted.

  “Okay. You told me in Phoenix that you, you personally, were in charge of Stovic’s security, his family’s security. That right?”

  “I told you I was in overall charge. Another special agent was running the actual protection detail.”

  “So you never thought maybe Stovic’s brother might be a target? It never occurred to you?”

  “No, it didn’t. You saying it occurred to you? Because if it did, you surely told one of our special agents, right? I mean we’re all on the same team, supposedly, although I still don’t know what the hell you’re doing. So did you think of it?”

  “Yeah. I did. But it’s like thinking of closing your door when you get in your car to drive. You guys need me to remind you of that too? What about taking off your clothes and your gun when you take a shower?” Rat leaned toward Lew, furious, partially out of guilt. “What about brushing your teeth? Need me to remind you of that too?” Rat leaned back, remembering the people in the house. He spoke quietly. “We tried to stay out of your way. Looks like we should have been in the way. Maybe we could have stopped this. Did you even talk to Rick? Tell him he might be in danger, to watch for unusual situations?”

  “No. Did you? I mean you’re a friend of the family, right? What the hell did you do?”

  Rat stared into Lew’s eyes. He saw a man who was angry, probably with himself, certainly with others. “If you can’t handle this job, let me know. I’ll take care of it.”

  Lew directed his attention to Stovic. “If you need anything else, I’ll be within earshot. Just give me a yell.”

  Stovic nodded. “Anything else? I need to get back in.”

  “We’ll be set up for the funeral too. Just wanted to let you know not to worry about us.”

  Stovic turned to go, then turned back. “You getting close to this guy?”

  Lew glanced down at the narrow sidewalk leading to the back of the house. “No. Not really. He’s left the country. We think it’s safe, but we’re not taking any more chances.”

  Stovic turned back to the house. “You know that?” he asked Rat.

  “Yeah. He’s in Algeria.”

  “That’s good news, right?”

  Rat stopped Stovic at the top of the stairs. “I wanted to talk about this later. You’ve got enough on your mind right now. But I think he went back there to get ready for his next attack. Probably on the Blues.”

  Stovic was confused. “What do you mean?”

  “The Paris Air Show.”

  “Of course. We’ve made it easier on him by going to an air show in France.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t go.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe we go over there and get him.”

  Stovic looked at his brother’s backyard, the pretty flowers that looked lonely in the mist, and the house where his brother had lived. “I’m all for that.”

  “I’m sorry about your brother, Animal. I really—”

  Stovic shook his head. “Wasn’t your fault, Rat. We all should have thought to tell him what was going on with me. But that’s over. Rick is dead because the Algerian killed him. Simple as that.”

  “They don’t know that for sure. . . .”

  “You have any doubt about that?”

  “No.”

  “So maybe we’ll get a chance to see him in Paris.”

  Rat nodded and followed Stovic into the house.

  * * *

  Ismael and the other two stood in a room open to the outside; no windows, just a long opening along two of the walls that let in the fresh desert air. They greeted the man they had come to see. Ismael barely caught his name. He spoke softly in a very deep voice. He offered them refreshments like visiting dignitaries. They took coffee. They sat around a low table. The man spoke to Ismael. “So, you have returned safely.”

  “I’m glad to be home,” Ismael replied. He took a drink of the strong coffee. “May I ask you your name?”

  The man hesitated. “Chadli.”

  So it was him. Finally.

  “I have heard from Madani that you have not finished your work. Something remains to be done. Is that accurate?”

  “It is.”

  �
��What else do you have in mind, and what kind of help do you need?”

  “May we speak in private?” Ismael asked.

  Chadli jerked his head, and the three attendants that had been standing at the doors left the room. “Whatever you want.”

  Ismael waited until the others were outside. “I don’t want information in the wrong hands. I need weapons and some men to help me. That’s all.”

  “What kind of weapons?”

  “Stinger missiles.”

  The man laughed. “We don’t have any such missiles. No one does.”

  “Someone does.”

  “Who, the United States?”

  “There were two hundred Stingers left in Afghanistan after the war against the Russians in the eighties. They were received from the American CIA.”

  Chadli was unimpressed. “Everyone knows this. But you think some of them somehow made it out of Afghanistan after the war with the Americans? You are just going to carry them back through American customs?”

  “The Blue Angels will fly in Paris in ten days.”

  Chadli looked up quickly from his coffee. “Paris?”

  “Yes. At the biggest air show in the world. Hundreds of thousands of people.” He let that sink in. “We have friends in Paris, people who would be glad to help us.”

  “But why not Russian missiles? We have them here. They can do the job.”

  “They’re not as good. We will only have one chance.”

  “What do you know about Stinger missiles?” the man scoffed.

  “I’ve done some research. If we could buy a new Stinger, we wouldn’t be able to use it.”

  “Why not?”

  “New Stingers have GPS built in. If they are used outside of certain specified geographical regions, they will not fire. And you cannot change the geographical regions without a key that is not kept with the missiles. It is unlikely that a new Stinger would work in the United States. Or even Paris.”

  “Go on.”

  “Some Stingers were made before GPS.”

  “The Americans have not forgotten where those missiles went.”

  “But since the fall of Afghanistan the Americans have been chasing small remnants, not knowing who went where. But I know.”

  “What do you know?”

  “One group of friends was able to get out of Afghanistan early, before the fighting started. They went to Khartoum. I am told they took some of the Stingers with them.”

  Chadli understood. “Of course. You know them?”

  “Not personally, but others . . .”

  “Yes. They thought you might ask. You want to go to Khartoum. To ask them.”

  “Yes. But I must go with others, to ensure I still look . . . subordinate to them. I am not ready yet to assert myself. Perhaps after Paris.”

  Chadli nodded. “Of course. You must go to Khartoum. I will speak with Madani and ask him to go there and to take you along. He will not understand. Do you think they will give you Stingers?”

  “Perhaps. If I can meet with one man in particular, I think we will have great success. He is very sympathetic.”

  “Let me know if you need anything else. Money, support, anything.”

  “I will come see you, alone, when I return from Khartoum.”

  * * *

  Sarah St. John went to Brad’s desk and leaned over his shoulder until her mouth was near his ear. She whispered, “I want to meet with him.”

  He tried not to look alarmed. “You told him you’d never ask him to do that.”

  “I’ve changed my mind. It’s important. Tell him.”

  He had never met this man. He had only corresponded with him. He didn’t know who he was or who he worked for. He only knew what he was to pass on to St. John.

  He turned his attention to the intelligence brief he had just received from the CIA. He began reading. He didn’t absorb a word on the first page, or the second.

  * * *

  Before dawn on the day of the funeral, Rat went to the church where the funeral was to be. He didn’t expect anything to happen at the funeral, but he had stopped trusting the FBI. As he expected, it was covered on all sides with FBI agents. He drove into the parking lot and climbed out conspicuously. A special agent approached him. “Help you?”

  “Just wanted to check on your security.”

  “And who might you be?”

  “Friend of the family’s. So what do you have? Snipers? Explosive-sniffing dogs? You got a covert team with automatic weapons?”

  The special agent was amazed at the questions. “You know, as much as I’d love to help you,” the man said, “that isn’t the kind of thing we usually discuss with people.”

  “Well, I need to know.”

  “And why is that?”

  Rat pulled a small folding black leather wallet out of his pocket and opened it quickly.

  The FBI man read the badge and realized it was an FBI identification with the special indicator that the holder was a member of the FBI’s elite Hostage Rescue Team.

  “Sorry,” the man said. “Nobody told us you were here.”

  “We’re not here. I’m just looking around. Sort of a security backup. Show me what you’ve got in place.”

  “Yes, sir,” the agent replied, and showed Rat the entire security setup.

  Hours later, when the families came out of Debbie’s house to drive to the funeral in cars that were driven by friends of the family, Ed Stovic, Lieutenant, U.S. Navy, in his dress blue uniform, was first out the door. He looked into the street and noticed the headlights from numerous cars with Knoxville plates. They made the whole dreary day brighter. He could see the main road a couple of blocks away, and the line of cars snaked its way onto the main road and down past the pond and past the clump of trees, and he couldn’t tell how much farther it went. Hundreds of cars. All with their lights on, all with their engines running, all waiting for them to drive to Woodland Hills Baptist Church five miles away, a large brick church tucked into the side of a large hill at the foot of the nearby mountains. All showing their support for him and his brother.

  Surprised and humbled, Stovic climbed into the car he had rented. Rat drove. He wore a blue blazer with a black mock turtleneck. Hidden under his blazer was a compact Uzi submachine gun in a special quick-access holster. He didn’t expect to use it, but he and Groomer and the rest of the team were ready for whatever came. Karen and the children got in the back. They drove to the church, fifth car back, in complete silence. Stovic was lost in his thoughts. He was two years older than Rick and had always made his brother the brunt of his pranks and early tests of manhood. They were always in competition, and Stovic usually won, mostly because of his years. Stovic would brutalize him in strength sports—wrestling, weightlifting, boxing, or the shot put. But Rick was the faster of the two and more agile. They would go to the park, and Stovic would want them to play football and knock each other down, but Rick would want to play soccer and show his amazing footwork.

  Rick had closed the gap, gaining on his older brother every year. He had surpassed him in height three years before, when Rick grew to be six feet two inches tall and Stovic leveled off at six feet.

  Stovic knew that in their parents’ eyes Rick would always be the favorite, the baby. He remembered their rooms down the hall from each other, away from their parents’ room, the corners where they had sat and schemed, the bed frame they had broken when wrestling, the soccer ball on the shelf from the game where Rick had scored the winning goal against another youth team from Tennessee.

  He tried to escape all the images of his brother that flooded into his mind. They were wonderful memories that now represented only pain and anguish.

  The church had filled with mourners. Knowing they would never get inside the church for the service, many more parked along the street and walked to stand outside the church. The sun was invisible in the confused sky. The last few people that were going to be allowed into the church stepped into the doorway. Organ music could be heard on the speakers that
had been set up so those outside could hear the service.

  The organ got louder, then stopped. After introductory remarks and some humorous and sad eulogies, the minister spoke in his beautiful Tennessee accent. “This morning we come to honor the passing of Mr. Rick Stovic. His wife and daughter, as well as others from his family, are here to ask for comfort. While I do hope we can give his family some of the comfort they surely need, I deeply regret being here this morning. This is not about the tragic death of a man from cancer or an automobile accident, things we have experienced in the past, but rather the death of one of our family here at the hands of another man, someone who acted with evil intent to take his life.

  “In the New Testament, at Matthew chapter five, the forty-fourth verse, we are told to ‘love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you.’ It is at times like this that such a verse becomes real. It asks us to do something which is not humanly impossible. How can we love our enemies? How can we feel anything but hatred or anger toward someone who has decided to walk hand in hand with evil and take the life of a family man who wanted only to live in peace and raise his family in eastern Tennessee? Only with God’s help. And before this service ends this morning, I will ask all of you to join me in praying for the man who did this, someone acting of his own accord, with evil intent. Even though he is our enemy, we will pray for him.”

  He stopped and took a deep breath. “Don’t misunderstand me. We must also do justice. And loving someone, and praying for him, does not mean that we do not find him and bring him to justice. I am confident the killer will be brought to justice.

  “But today, let us focus on someone else, Rick Stovic, and his family. Let me tell you what kind of man Rick Stovic was.”

  * * *

  The flight was much longer than Ismael had expected. He had grown accustomed to flying on Western airlines and found himself listening to every sound the airliners made as he, Khalida, and Madani flew from Algiers to Cairo, then to Khartoum, Sudan. He had never been to Sudan and had looked forward to traveling to Khartoum ever since Chadli said he would make the arrangements. He had grown tired of Madani, but was willing to have him along, even with his inflated belief in his importance. The French-made jet touched down gently. Customs and immigration were almost nonexistent. Ismael, Madani, and Khalida walked through the checks without being stopped and were directed to an old Russian car, which had taxi painted on the side with a brush. They climbed in, and the car pulled away from the airport.