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The Consultant

Page 7

by TJ O'Connor


  Outside, we found only locked doors and windows, a wheelbarrow full of gardening mulch, and a rake left facing up in the grass that attacked me and left a welt on my cheek. There were no knife or pry bar scratch marks around any of the door or window locks. No cracked or broken glass where a thief broke in. There were no forced locks, broken hinges, or other signs of nefarious deeds. There was just nothing. I checked the two-story garage, but the doors were locked and showed no signs of tampering. The barn was unlocked, but there were no thieves hiding inside. Just a custom-built three-wheeled motorcycle trike shined and ready for the road.

  Kevin was a cowboy and a biker? To think he called me a risk-taker?

  Twenty minutes later, we returned to the kitchen.

  I said. “Were your doors locked, Noor?”

  “Yes, of course. No one around here locks theirs, but Kevin insisted.” Tears welled in her eyes. “He was never here. Even when he was not working, he was not here. So, I was extra careful.”

  “It’s okay, Noor. Let’s check the inside.”

  “Yes, good.” She pointed down the hall. “I will follow you.”

  She narrated the rooms as we searched the downstairs. Their home was warm and friendly with a side order of expensive antiques and good taste. The kitchen was small and modestly furnished. The main downstairs hall traversed the entire length of the house. It began at the front foyer beside the large living room. Around overstuffed furniture, the walls were covered with bookshelves loaded with books and a plethora of knickknacks and framed photographs. There was a small dining room with family photos on a cherry hutch stuffed with family heirloom dishes and crystal. On the back wall hung an elegantly framed set of photographs of an elderly Middle Eastern couple—Noor’s family.

  She checked each room’s drawers and cubbies. Each time, she gave me the “nothing’s missing” headshake. With each room, my breath became more evasive and my heart beat faster. But not from trepidation that a henchman lurked close. It was Kevin and Noor’s life. The Mallory home. It was filled with memories and remember-whens. With each step, my breath labored and my body threatened to turn and run. Photographs were everywhere. Frame after frame of reminiscences. Weddings and outings. Big gatherings where Kevin’s was the only familiar face. Camping trips. Waterskiing. Target shooting at the range. Teaching Sam to drive. Sam on his motorcycle. Kevin on his. Kevin here. Kevin there. Kevin alive.

  The wooziness invaded me. By the time we reached Kevin’s den in the far corner of the house, my wounds were deep and severe. The room had hardwood floors, tall, low windows, and a high ceiling. An old wooden teacher’s desk sat centered on the rear wall facing the doorway. On the side wall stood a file cabinet and a shelf where a fax machine sat idle and piled with papers. Along the other wall, bordered by two antique floor lamps, was an old leather recliner that faced the windows. There was a twelve-gauge pump shotgun and a bolt-action scoped rifle resting in a gun rack behind the desk. This was a man’s room. But the deeper I looked, the emptier and sadder it became.

  The man was missing.

  Emotions descended—a foreign feeling. Kevin’s dusty bookshelves pulled me to a photograph of him, Noor, and Sam at some celebration. Sam was a young teenager, perhaps fifteen. Smiles all around. Even though family photos and bric-a-brac adorned every shelf and cranny around me, not one memory was familiar. I shared nothing. There was a void in the room, and it was me. There were no photographs, no postcards. There were no souvenirs from my exotic travels. Nothing. This place—this home—and family and I were strangers.

  Shame drowned me.

  Grow up, Hunter. You blew it.

  “Jon?” Noor stood in the doorway as I tried to clumsily wipe a traitorous tear from my eye. “Are you all right?”

  “Absolutely. Not a scratch.” I flexed my left arm and noted the knife cut across my sleeve and the thin, shallow cut below. “Well, not a big one.” A photograph on the bookshelf bade my attention, and I picked it up. It was of a rustic pine-board hunting cabin surrounded by birch trees and firewood piles. “Dad’s old hunting cabin. We had good times there.”

  Memories cascaded in and swirled around me like a kaleidoscope. Yet, despite the years we’d spent at that cabin, this photograph had neither of us in it. It only captured the empty, lonely cabin secluded in the Shenandoah Mountains in midfall. A lonely photograph vacant of life.

  “I am so sorry, Jon.” Noor’s voice was meek. “We sold the cabin a year ago. Money. Please, we had no choice. I am sorry.”

  A gut punch. “He should have told me. I would’ve helped.”

  “You did not know him, did you?” She looked away.

  Ouch. I changed the topic. “How about some coffee?”

  “Yes, coffee.” She turned and walked out. “I can feel him here, Jon. Maybe you can, too.”

  Would I?

  She disappeared down the hall.

  I had no idea what I was looking for. I wasn’t a detective. Nothing in my training was going to help me sleuth around Kevin’s things and find the “Ah ha!” piece of evidence. Now, if, let’s say, a balaclava-wearing thug were hiding in one of the filing cabinets, I could handle it. Or if Noor had issues with a West Virginia tribe of anti-American, gun-slinging roughnecks, oh yeah, I’m your man. But a detective? Nope.

  After twenty minutes of searching, I had found nothing.

  I turned and found Noor watching me from the doorway. Her face was sad and angry at the same time. “What is it?”

  “I cannot reach Sam. He is not answering his cell phone.”

  “Maybe he’s on his motorcycle and can’t hear the phone.”

  She shrugged.

  “It’s convenient he was gone just before the intruder arrived.”

  “Convenient?” Her eyes nailed me. “What are you saying?”

  “Ah, convenient was the wrong word.” Jeez was I a jerk. “I’m surprised he left, considering what’s going on.”

  “Surprised?”

  “Never mind. Look, did Kevin ever mention anyone or anything? A book, a place, or anything that he called ‘G’?”

  She thought a long time and shook her head. “No. I have not heard that. Why?”

  “What about Khalifah? Or have you heard anything about Maya in Baltimore?”

  “No, should any of this mean something to me?”

  I told her what I could make out of Kevin’s last words, but before I finished, her eyes darkened. “I thought maybe—”

  “Maybe what?” She folded her arms and looked to the ground. “First, you distrust Sam. Now, you hear a Muslim name and because I am Iranian I must certainly know every Muslim in the country? Is that it, Jon Mallory?”

  Huh? “No, wait, Noor. I asked because—”

  “I do not know any Khalifah or what ‘G’ means.” Then she hit me hard. “I do not care what Kevin told you. Sam is not responsible for any of this, and being Iranian does not mean I am, either. Please wait on the police outside.”

  What? “I don’t understand what you’re upset about, Noor.”

  “Please go.”

  Outside, it struck me that I’d just learned the most valuable survival lesson of all. When confronted with danger and tumultuous events—regardless of the risks—never, ever piss off a beautiful woman.

  CHAPTER 14

  Day 2: May 16, 1815 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Noor Mallory’s Residence, Frederick County, Virginia

  ALTHOUGH NOOR was unhappy with me, she saved me from a trip to the sheriff’s office for more hot lights and thumbscrews. The deputy couldn’t hold me responsible for the home invasion. I’d probably saved Noor’s life, and the sheriff’s office promised to keep a deputy outside the house for a few days. So, after answering more questions and searching the house and surrounding area again, the deputy delivered the ritual, “Don’t leave town.”

  I had no plans to.

  There was nothing like a good life-and-death fight to get the creative juices flowing, so I decided to get to work. I’ve read plenty
of Dick Tracy, Scooby-Doo, and the Hardy Boys. You know, the classics. I’d learned that all good detectives returned to the scene of the crime. No, that was the killers. Well, the detectives had to, too, or they wouldn’t know that the killers had.

  I drove east out of town and headed back to the Shenandoah River.

  At the bottom of the hill at the Route 7 Bridge, where Kevin was murdered just hours ago, a Clarke County sheriff’s deputy blocked the road and directed traffic back through a cut-through between the east- and westbound lanes. As I approached, he waved me to a stop.

  “Road’s closed, sir.” He threw a thumb over his shoulder toward the bridge. “You’ll have to turn around and detour through Berryville.”

  I played dumb. “What’s up, Deputy? An accident? Not more terrorism like the mall this morning?”

  He shook his head. “No terrorists out here, sir. Who’d come all the way to a small town like Berryville? Nope, crime scene from last night.”

  “Crime scene? That cop who was killed last night?” I lifted a gun-finger and scowled. “I hope you guys kill the bastard.”

  “We’re working on that.” He gave me directions to a secondary road behind us, but I wasn’t listening. “Thanks. Good hunting.”

  The deputy smiled and directed me through the crossover, and off I went.

  He was lying. They didn’t need to divert traffic, and hadn’t last night, just to finish processing a crime scene. Something else was unfolding. I backtracked to a small gas station up the road, tapped into my GPS, and found a private farm lane just up from the roadblock. Minutes later, I turned off Route 7 onto a gravel and dirt track that paralleled the river for miles. An eighth of a mile in, I found another dirt road that headed for the river. I took it to a small clearing at the end. From there I went on foot down the slope toward the Shenandoah. In another hundred yards, I found a deadfall of trees with a clear view of the boat launch just upriver and knelt down to watch the circus.

  Panic had closed the road.

  FBI sedans were parked on the bridge with several local deputies, detectives, and agents peering over the edge. Below, around the boat launch, was a team of peculiar astronauts milling around a large, billowing white tent where the burnt pickup truck had been last night. I say astronauts, but I knew biohazard suits when I saw them. There were four of them outside a huge biocontainment tent. The suits were gray, baggie ensembles with elbow-length black gloves and knee-high boots. They wore space-helmet-like hoods and carried equipment I’d never seen before. Whatever they were doing, they had prepared the old pickup for a journey. Parked along River Road, backed into the boat launch, was a black, unmarked tractor trailer surrounded by several armed men. Each wore a windbreaker that read FEMA—Federal Emergency Management Agency. FEMA was the US agency responsible for national crises such as natural disasters—hurricanes, tornados, floods. They were also the agency responsible for unnatural disasters. Man-made ones—like, er, chemical and biological oops.

  As soon as I returned to my hotel room, I planned to stand with the lights off and see if I glowed in the dark. What the devil was going on?

  Even without binoculars, I saw a familiar face on the bridge overlooking the scene. Special Agent Victoria Bacarro stood with that slender Arab I’d seen last night—Agent Mo Nassar. Me being the inquisitive guy I am and her being so keen on me forgetting about him meant I was most certainly not going to forget anytime soon. There was something about Nassar that made me want to look over my shoulder a lot, and the last time I felt that, I got shot. In the dark. In the back. Twice.

  “Now, what are you two up to?” I said to no one as they walked along the bridge toward my side of the river. “Ah, crap.”

  The Arab suddenly stared in my direction. They both focused on the hillside where I was, if not on me. They exchanged words and their pace quickened. Bacarro pulled out a radio or cell phone.

  “Double crap.”

  It was time to follow old Bill Shakespeare’s advice and exit stage left. Fast. Quick-fast.

  I did.

  No sooner had I made it to my rental car when voices came through the trees. I didn’t want to spend another moment answering questions with Bacarro’s people, so I floored the rental back up the hill, disregarding its cries of pain and torture as it crashed over rocks and ruts. Ten minutes later, after two side roads and a few dings and dents on my rental car, I lurched out onto Route 7 and sped back to Winchester.

  What was in that pickup truck that Kevin’s killer had to torch it and FEMA’s biohazard team was needed? Did I have days, or perhaps hours, to live?

  What had Kevin known? What was he into? Terror bombings and biohazards?

  I needed a shower. A very long, hot, soapy shower. Maybe three or four. And a drink. Yes, definitely a drink. Not that I needed a drink to know that I was over my head and alone in whatever Kevin had pulled me into. No. I needed a drink—or two or three—before I made the call to Oscar LaRue.

  That call, like hypodermic needles and the IRS, scared the crap out of me.

  CHAPTER 15

  Day 2: May 16, 1815 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Arlington, Virginia

  CAINE SPENT TWO hours dry-cleaning himself—taking evasive maneuvers to shake any potential surveillance—on his way to DC. He drove to Reston, double backed twice, and took the Metro to the District. From the Mall, he hailed the first of two cabs and hopscotched across town to DuPont Circle, where he went on foot to a Metro stop and jumped another train. Forty-five minutes later, he hailed another taxi to Arlington, Virginia, where he got out in front of the Islamic Foundation for Cultural Understanding, known locally as the IFCU Mosque, and walked the last block to an underground garage and up the stairs to the second-floor suite 2E belonging to Hafez & Fasni, Public Accounts. Before entering the suite with a key, he checked the weight beneath his left arm and flipped the silenced semiautomatic’s safety off.

  “You’re late,” said the man Caine knew as Khalifah in a curt tone. “We’ve been waiting fifteen minutes. We were concerned.”

  “Traffic.” Caine neither offered nor received any handshake or greeting. “I don’t like meetings like this. I’ve warned you before. What’s this about?”

  Khalifah started to speak when a tall, sturdy man with dark, sunken eyes stood. The man came around from behind the office desk and spoke with a thick foreign accent. “There has been an unfortunate development.”

  Caine didn’t ask. He didn’t have to.

  The Foreigner continued. “Yes, your failure at the river.”

  Caine bristled. “My failure? Khalifah should answer for that one. You sent me here, Comrade, to look after your interests. I can’t when the rest are reckless.”

  “Reckless?” Khalifah said. “I fail to see …”

  “Of course you do.” Caine considered the Foreigner—the man who’d hired him three months before through an Iranian middleman. Since then, he’d met the Foreigner only twice. Once upon arriving in the United States to begin his assignment, and once a week before when the assignment had changed from babysitting a band of thugs who smuggled men and material into the country for a high-stakes poker game.

  “You should take care, Caine. Everyone is expendable.” The Foreigner lifted his chin and smiled dryly. “Even one such as you.”

  Caine forced a laugh. “You hired me to manage your crew. Then you changed the rules and demanded I take orders from him”—Caine threw a chin at Khalifah—“to help execute some crazy-ass plan. None of that was ever in the deal. Just what am I doing here? I don’t babysit for anyone.”

  “Babysit?” Khalifah sliced the air with his hand. “Had you been babysitting Saeed, we never would have lost that shipment.”

  “You were reckless, Khalifah,” Caine said. “If you’d told me what you were doing to begin with, I could have dealt with it personally. I have no control over Saeed and his cell, and I don’t know about other cells. Your carelessness—”

  “Carelessness?” Khalifah thrust a finger at him. “Re
ckless? That shipment was lost because of you.”

  “I saved it from discovery. Mallory is your disaster.”

  “Enough.” The Foreigner held up a hand. “This solves nothing. Caine, you will be brought into the activities of the other groups when the time is right. Until then, you are to focus solely on the big prize. The final strike. He will worry about Saeed Mansouri.” He jutted a disfigured finger toward Khalifah. “Once Saeed has executed his final mission and moves to support you, I will give you control over all the groups. Not until. Your current target is far more important and will take all your concentration.”

  “How am I to know what the other cells are doing?” Caine’s face tensed and his words were curt. “How am I—”

  “Khalifah will concern himself with the others for now.” The Foreigner hardened his voice. “Do I make myself clear? You all—you and Saeed—take your orders, and your money, from me. Mine is the only voice you need concern yourselves with.”

  Caine nodded. “As you say. For now. But if this begins to unravel, I want control or I’m out.”

  “Agreed,” the Foreigner said. His voice lowered. “Sokoloff is missing. Find him. Find him before the Americans do. If he is in their hands, eliminate him. If he is not, bring him to me.”

  Khalifah nodded and eyed Caine. “You handle that. I’ll deal with Saeed’s people. They’re behind in their planning.”

  Caine didn’t like answering to Khalifah. “Isn’t that backward? Considering your reach, shouldn’t you be hunting Sokoloff?”

  “No, he should not. No more unnecessary risks in the field.” The Foreigner considered Caine for a long time. Finally, he nodded and returned to the desk across the room. He turned back, lit a cigarette, and inhaled deeply on the dark, rich tobacco. “The scientist I sent you, Al Fayed, must prepare the incoming product to my standards. It must be done within three days.”

  “Working with that stuff isn’t like making tea,” Caine snapped. “He’s under pressure. Perhaps if you let him see his family …”

  “Three days.” The Foreigner folded his arms. “That is all there is. Sooner is much better, no?”

 

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