Paladine

by Kenneth Eade

Anderson liked Wokowski. He had finally found comfort in his new assignment. Now for the real prize – to catch Paladine.

  ***

  Unaware of but suspicious of law enforcement activity, Robert rose early and took a walk to buy supplies and pick up the dog. When he arrived at the kennel, the dog was more excited to see Robert than the bag of groceries he was carrying. He cried and jumped around and carried on like he hadn’t seen Robert in years. When they got to the front door of the apartment, Robert could hear the phone ringing inside. He opened the door, set down the bag and the dog ran to it and stuck his head in it, sniffing. Robert picked up the phone and said hello.

  “Hey, where have you been?”

  “Hi, Virginia. I’ve been away on work the past few days.”

  “No kidding. I’ve been worried about you. Why don’t you get a cell phone like everyone else in the 21st century?”

  “So I can be a slave to those things? No thanks. I’d rather have a ring around my nose.”

  “Well, at least I would have been able to text you. How are you?”

  Her voice didn’t sound nervous, only concerned, which didn’t bother Robert.

  “I’m actually a little under the weather.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, nothing. Just a little shoulder pain. It’ll go away.”

  Robert couldn’t possibly advance their relationship past friendship at this point. Once he took off his shirt, there would be no explanation other than the obvious for the gunshot wound. But it was pleasant to talk to her.

  “When can I see you?” she asked, inquisitively.

  “How about dinner tomorrow night?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Pick you up at eight?”

  “Great, and feel better.”

  “Thanks.”

  Robert disconnected. He looked over at the dog, who was panting with his dumb tongue out and wagging his tail. With relationships came responsibility. And danger.

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  Joshua Maynard received Agents Wokowski and Samuels among the inquisitive stares of his co-workers. They were obviously feds and none that they recognized. The three sequestered themselves in Maynard’s transparent office with its glass wall, which enabled his colleagues to sneak glimpses at them as if they were watching fish in an aquarium.

  Maynard walked Wokowski and Samuels through the notes on his whiteboard and discussed his theories that the same shooter was involved in all the shootings and that at least one of them – and probably all – were financed by Bryce Williamson, who had a hard-on for terrorists because his son had been a victim of an attack. The only catch was he had been unable to uncover any evidence connecting the two, not to mention the identity of the shooter himself. He spread out the files of his four suspects on his desk.

  “These guys are all ghosts.” Maynard threw up his hands. “And we still have to check out the others who are possibly in law enforcement.”

  “We’ve cleared them,” Samuels said. “We’ll give you the details.”

  Wokowski browsed Maynard’s files. He had studied them before he turned them over to Maynard but took a second look just the same. “Well, it would be easier if we had a DNA match on the blood in the stairwell.”

  “No record?”

  “Nothing.”

  Disappointed, Maynard paused and put his knuckle to his cheekbone, as if that helped him think. “Then we’ve got to run down each one of them. This one, Abdul Jabama, was a witness in a recent court-martial out in California. I’ve ordered the transcript.”

  “Good,” said Wokowski. “Maybe it’ll give you some leads. For now, we’re pretty much at a standstill.”

  “And while I’m waiting for the transcript, I’ll just go down the line – Lockman, Salim and Garcia.”

  Maynard filled them in on his discussions with Bryce Williamson and his Internet research. After about an hour’s discussion, they declined his offer for lunch and bid him farewell. When Maynard escorted them out of his office, all eyes seemed to look up curiously, then back down. Maynard noticed and smiled to himself.

  Later, while Maynard was munching on take-out pizza that the collective had ordered, a large box was delivered to him by FedEx. He opened the box and pulled out the transcript from the Ryan Bennington court-martial. He set the haystack on his desk and began leafing through it for the needle.

  ***

  Robert tended to avoid the Strip, but it was fun to look at from afar, so he booked a table for dinner at the Alize at the top of the Palms Hotel. The Alize was a fancy French restaurant which had a 360-degree view of the lights of Las Vegas Boulevard. For the occasion he even wore his one and only sports jacket, which held a dual purpose, just in case his wound bled through his shirt.

  The waiter led them through the modern, but richly adorned tables to a place by the window. Robert pulled out the chair for Virginia, who smiled up at Robert as she adjusted her stunning black cocktail dress to be seated. They dined on the seven course tasting menu. Robert had the impression the twinkling lights of the Strip were reflected in Virginia’s eyes. The sommelier asked if they would like some wine. Robert knew nothing about wine. He was a beer man, so he let the man suggest a selection of wine to go with each small course.

  Halfway through the meal, they were completely full.

  “Sorry to say this, but I don’t understand the point of an elegant restaurant stuffing you like a pig.”

  Virginia giggled. “Maybe they’re plumping us up. There’s a witch in the kitchen and she’s going to shove us into the oven.”

  Robert smiled. “Not on my watch.”

  They caught up on things, with Virginia sharing more of her life and Robert reciting the canned answers from his fictitious background in response to Virginia’s questions.

  “Have you heard about this Paladine terrorist killer?”

  Robert almost spit a mouthful of wine. He coughed and put his napkin to his lips. “No.”

  “Of course not. No cell phone, you probably don’t have a computer, either, do you?”

  Robert shook his head. The last thing he needed to do was create an email trail.

  “He’s like this super hero, you know? He tracks down terrorists and kills them before they can hurt anybody.”

  Robert was amused with the positive spin that had been placed on his path of mayhem and destruction.

  “And they’re trying to catch him. I think that’s terrible! He’s actually doing a better job than they are!”

  That comment brought Robert back to the stark, cold reality of what was his existence. Up until that moment he had enjoyed being there in her company. Now he realized that he had been kidding himself he could have some kind of a relationship, and this moment was fleeting, slipping away, like everything else in his life.

  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

  Maynard studied the court-martial transcript, which had detailed testimony from Jamal Abama, one of the suspects, as well as an unknown “John Doe.” Maynard called the attorney for the court-martial defendant, Brent Marks, but he refused to reveal the identity of the mysterious John Doe.

  Jamal Abama had been a sergeant in the US Army before serving for Special Forces under the command of Colonel Jeffrey Steelman. In the trial, he claimed to be part of a death squad, commanded by Steelman to kill whole groups of people which the CIA’s intelligence had identified as insurgents or insurgent sympathizers in an attempt to crush opposition to Shiite factions. All of his assignments for Special Forces were assassination jobs.

  The testimony of the witness known as “John Doe 1,” who had been allowed to testify in court under an alias for his protection was even more chilling. John Doe told the unbelievable story of the things he had done under Steelman’s command. Doe and the men on his death squad spoke only Arabic and dressed in native clothing. Under Steelman’s direction, they had wiped out whole camps of insurgent sympathizers, masquerading as Arab militants or jihadists. They even beheaded their victims at times. Maynard naturally p
ondered the question whether Doe himself was actually one of the seven suspects. Both he and Abama fit the profile, and both had served on death squads under Steelman.

  Maynard called Major Brinkman, the prosecutor on the case, who gave the not-so-useful description of John Doe 1 as a dark-skinned, bearded man of average height. He had no clue of the man’s nationality or background, other than the fact that he could speak fluent Arabic. This did not help Joshua nail down which suspect in his file could be Doe, or if he was even in that lineup.

  Maynard checked with Wokowski on the current whereabouts of Abama. The last record they had of him living anywhere was before he had enlisted in the Army, and that was in Sterling Heights, Michigan, so Maynard booked a flight to Detroit to check it out.

  ***

  Williamson kept insisting on contact with Robert, but Robert resisted. Finally, Williamson sent an ultimatum:

  “Advance deposit was based on fulfillment of obligations. Must be returned if you fail to perform.”

  Robert thought carefully, then typed: “I will perform.”

  He opened Zahawi’s laptop. The browser history had been erased, but he wasn’t worried about that. Zahawi had made the mistake of keeping data on his hard drive, something Robert never did. He spent several hours going over it, recovering, with a few tech tricks he had learned, even information from the disk that had been erased.

  From reading the drive, Robert understood that the Islamic State was planning a large organized attack, the likes of which had never been known since September 11th. What was more important than that to Robert was that it also contained the identity of ISIS operatives all over the United States. Suddenly, the dog made a whining noise and Robert looked down at him. He was wagging his dumb tail and sporting a pitiful begging face.

  “What?”

  He looked down at the dog and went back to reading. The dog slavered and smacked, and whined again.

  “What do you want?”

  Robert looked back at the computer. He felt a cold, slimy nose nudge him under the elbow.

  “Hey!” Robert looked at the dog, then at the computer screen. The clock in the corner read 10:43 p.m. Then he realized what it was.

  “You’re hungry! I’m sorry, boy.”

  He went to the cupboard and took out the bag of dog chow. The dog jumped and wagged his tail so hard Robert thought it would fly away. He poured the food into the bowl and the dog scarfed it down. Robert went back to the computer.

  Unlike Halibi’s computer, Zahawi’s was full of useful information, almost too much for Robert to memorize. Still, he couldn’t afford to have it lying around. There were not many details of the organized attack that was being planned, but enough to reveal to Robert that major financial centers and energy providers on the eastern seaboard were possible targets. As with the September 11th attacks, they were aiming at crippling Wall Street, the symbol of western decadence and aggression.

  Robert had no doubt that the higher-ups at the Islamic State were probably not religious and didn’t give a crap about Allah or Islam or the poor people they exploited. They had institutionalized terrorism as a political tool and were using it for their own profiteering, much like the politicians in the United States who had started the most vicious cycle of holy wars since the Crusades with their invasion and abandonment of Iraq and the assassination of Khadafi. He spent the rest of the day reviewing the information on the hard drive, then wiped it clean, smashed it, and threw it in a dumpster at a grocery store near the Strip.

  When he got back home, he made a last-minute check on his own computer, and found another encrypted message from Bryce.

  “Must see you.”

  Robert shook his head and wrote: “Impossible. Must wait.”

  Talk below the line on the Darknet and above the line on the traditional Internet and conventional media was all about Paladine. ISIS, Hamas, Nusra and Al-Qaeda had all sent messages and videos telling their “soldiers” to seek him out and eliminate him, which made Robert chuckle. They vowed to bring a reign of retribution upon the United States and Europe, the likes of which they had never seen before. That just made him angry.

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  Maynard discovered soon enough that Sterling Heights, although it appeared to be a typical suburban Midwest town, had an Arab section that was probably the largest in Michigan besides Dearborn Heights. Using the last known address of Abama that had been registered with the court-martial, he knocked on the door of the apartment manager. A white woman, about 60ish, opened the door a crack, looked at him over the chain and spoke to him in an unusual drawl.

  “Hello, can I help you?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I hope you can. I’m Detective Maynard from the Phoenix Police Department and I’m looking for a man who used to live here by the name of Jamal Abama. Maynard flashed his badge and she unchained the door and opened it completely.

  “Phoenix, huh? You say the fella’s name was Abama? Don’t have anyone o’ that name, present or past.”

  Maynard took a picture from his jacket and held it up for her to see. “Are you sure you don’t know him?”

  The lady lit up. “Well, that there’s Ramul. Yeah, he used to live here ‘til ‘bout six months ago, then he moved.”

  “Have any idea where? Did he leave a forwarding address?”

  “No, but I got’s a reference from him when he moved in.”

  “Can I see it, please?”

  “Just a minute.”

  The lady left and came back a few minutes later with a 3x5 card with some information penciled on it. “Here it is, he gave Miss Abigail Walker as a reference.”

  “Is her address there?”

  “Yup. 340 South Bender Street, Sterling Heights. Her phone number’s here too. I called it to check him out when he rented cuz I don’t trust just anybody off the street to rent an apartment. I rent to a freeloader and I get fired.”

  “Yes, ma’am. May I have the card, please?”

  “Sure, I don’t need it no more.” She thrust out her hand and Maynard took the card.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Abigail Walker was at work when Joshua called her, so he arranged to meet her during her lunch break at a little cafeteria in her office building. She was small and soft-spoken, not at all the type you would expect to be associated with a deadly assassin. Walker had a tray of food from the cafeteria, but wasn’t touching it. Maynard sipped on a cup of coffee as he spoke to her.

  “Why is the Phoenix police looking for Ramul?”

  “We just need to ask him a few questions about a case I’m working on – it’s just routine. Do you know how I can contact him?”

  “Well, I do, but I’m not sure he’d want me giving out his number. Besides, I don’t think Ramul’s ever been to Phoenix.”

  “Was he out of town on the fourth of last month?”

  “He hasn’t been out of town since he went to that trial in California. What day was the fourth?”

  “Friday.”

  “Ramul was with me that Friday. In fact, Friday is our usual night out and he never misses it. Not since he’s been sober.”

  “He have a drug problem?”

  “Had, he’s a recovering addict. He knows I won’t see him unless he’s sober.”

  “So, I assume he’s staying with you now?”

  She averted her eyes and looked down, then up. “Why would you say that? I didn’t tell you where he was.”

  “If I could just talk to him, Miss Walker. He’s in no trouble so long as your alibi for him holds up.”

  She looked offended. “My alibi! I told you he was with me!”

  “Yes, ma’am, you did. And that gives me no reason to treat him as a suspect. But I still would like to talk to him.”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “That’s police business, Miss Walker. Ramul may know something that may be important to the case.”

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  Maynard took a hotel in Sterling Heights. Part of polic
e work was patience – patience and persistence.

  ***

  Nathan Anderson leaned back in his leather executive chair and looked down at the high-tech great room of the NCTC. It had been weeks since the president had assigned him a two-man team of FBI agents and a two-man team of CIA men. He hardly ever saw the CIA agents and his relationship with them was one of giving information rather than sharing. But the FBI team was a little easier to work with – maybe because of the embarrassment their boss had suffered over the San Bernardino debacle. The terrorists in that case were on both watch lists – TIDE and TSDB – but were cleared as potential threats by the bureau – twice. Carpenter was giving Anderson a lot of slack on this assignment. This way, if there was any screw-up, it would be on his head, not Carpenter’s. Nathan thought it a brilliant political move, although he had his own selfish reasons for more enforcement control. Having only two agents was a joke, but it gave him two more field workers than he had before.

  Wokowski and Samuels showed up on time for the briefing and with a detailed report of their findings in New York. They, too, had picked up an itch to catch Paladine and had hit their databases like mad to try and pick up his scent. It was a major setback that there was no DNA record of the suspect’s blood, but that would have been too easy.

  “What about that detective from Phoenix?”

  Wokowski looked up from his report. “Who, Maynard? What about him?”

  “Well, it seemed to me he had a real interest in our suspect and, well, he’s kind of like a bloodhound.”

  Wokowski frowned as Anderson continued. “No offense to our nation’s best, but it seemed to me that this guy’s the type that never gives up. Are you comparing notes with him?”

  Samuels piped up. “We are, sir. We even went out to Phoenix to meet with him.”

  “Well, see what he’s been up to. He’s looking for one suspect, but for us it’s about the big picture – wiping terrorism from the face of the planet.”