by Scott Gamboe
Jim hesitated. "What do you say we meet? We have a room at the Fairfield Inn right off I-64 in Fairview Heights. Say, two hours?"
"I'll be there."
Jim hung up the phone, then dialed Rich's number. Krista had been in contact with her oldest brother. He had made arrangements to meet them upon their return, bringing several components of her home computer system. Rich answered on the second ring. After a brief conversation, Rich promised to meet the group in Fairview Heights.
When they reached the door to their hotel room, Rich was waiting for them. Jim introduced Amit and Rich to each other. Krista wasted no time in connecting her laptop to the hardware Rich provided. By the time Jim had finished his second bottle of beer, she was ready.
The only sound in the room was the music playing softly over Jim’s iPod. Krista was so intent on her task that she seemed oblivious to everything else around her. Amit, who had been unable to catch a nap on the plane, was snoring softly on the couch. Rich tapped Jim on the arm and motioned for him to follow.
"Hey, Krista. Rich and I'll be right back."
She barely acknowledged him with a slight dip of her head. They stepped out into the hallway. Rich gestured for Jim to keep walking. He fell into step beside Krista's brother.
"Look, Jim. You're a cop. I know you have no love for the Marcel family. In fact, if the circumstances were different, you would be doing everything in your power to put us all behind bars."
"You don't think you could just pay me off?"
He shook his head. "I know I couldn't. One of the tasks given to me by my father is to talk to the cops in any given area where we are expanding. I'm supposed to see which ones can be bought and which ones can't. I've gotten pretty good at it, actually. And I know for a fact that there is no amount of money I could offer you to get you to turn a blind eye."
Jim gave a half-smile. "True."
"Your sense of honor is what brings me out here with you. This war between my father and Tony is heating up. If Tony’s big transaction goes through, he'll have enough money and power that it won't be long before he comes after us. If he does, I can't say for certain who'll win, and who will die. One thing for certain, though. I want Krista kept out of it. The rest of us have morals, but Tony doesn't. I'm afraid he might use her to get to my father. I can protect her for the time being. But if something happens to me, she'll be vulnerable."
"Can't your father's bodyguards protect her?"
Rich waved a hand in the air. "Those bodyguards are mercenaries. Do you seriously believe if Tony starts waving hundreds of thousands of dollars around, those guys won't change sides? They would give her up in a heartbeat. By definition, mercs are notoriously susceptible to bribes . . ." He trailed off and stared out a window into the darkness. "No, I need someone who can't be bought. Someone she feels comfortable with, someone she cares for. Someone who, I think, cares for her. That someone is you, Jim. I need you on this."
They stopped walking, and Jim held out his hand to Rich, who took it in his own and shook it. "You have my word, Rich. Two things. First of all, I will guard your sister with my life. And second, I'll also promise you a truce for the duration of this mess with Tony. Nothing I see or hear in the meantime will ever be reported to anyone. For now, we're partners."
They returned to the room a half hour later, where an excited Krista awaited them. She took Jim by the arm. "I thought I was going to have to send out a search party. What were you guys doing?"
"Talking." Jim flopped into a chair. "What did you find?"
"Since our time was limited, I concentrated my efforts on the companies that made deposits to one of Tony's companies in the week before and the week after the Perkins murder. It took some doing, but I managed to trace the identities of five different depositors back to one man. She held out her handwritten notes, and Jim saw a single unpronounceable name at the bottom.
"Who is this?"
"He used to be on the ruling council of the Taliban," Amit told him. "When the United States invaded Afghanistan in 2001, he went into exile along the Pakistani border. Since then, while his whereabouts are unknown, he has been using his considerable wealth to finance several different terrorist groups, especially al-Qaeda, in their war against the United States and Israel. The Mossad has been trying to track him down for years without success. It is believed he has someone in the higher reaches of our intelligence service, because on several occasions, when we had solid information on his whereabouts, he was gone before we got there."
The ringing of Rich's phone interrupted the conversation. "Marcel. Hey, how are you?" He slowly paced across the room. He nodded at times, as if the caller could see the gesture. "Good. I'll come on down to the parking lot and show you up to our room. You can't get in from the rear of the building without a key card, and I don't think you want to go through the front. I'll see you downstairs."
He closed the phone. "Everyone, that was William Lakin. He's an acquaintance of mine from the family business. He has a solid contact in the CIA. They provide information to each other, because it's mutually beneficial." He glanced at his watch. "I'll be right back."
Jim tossed him a keycard. Rich disappeared out the door. Krista immediately turned on Jim.
"Okay, James, what did you and my brother talk about?"
"Nothing."
She glared at him with her arms crossed, tapping her tiny foot.
"Okay, you win. We set up an agreement to keep my involvement strictly non-police related. I'm privy to a lot of information on the structure of your father's organization, so I promised him I won't use any of what I see, when I return to work." He frowned. "If I return to work."
"And?"
"And what?"
"What else did you talk about?"
"You're entirely too clever, do you know that?"
The chirp of the door lock disengaging spared him from having to answer. Rich entered, followed by a tall man. His curly brown hair was neatly groomed, and his build was concealed behind a loose-fitting sweatshirt. With the weather outside as warm as it was, Jim assumed the newcomer's bulky shirt concealed a weapon. He turned down the volume on the speakers beside him but left his iPod playing.
Rich made the introductions. Jim recounted, for William, the events that led them from a possible suicide weeks earlier to their current state of affairs. Although Jim would not have done it, Rich told William about Agent Halliton of the FBI, and the assistance he had provided. Jim cringed; he was not even supposed to have told Rich about it. Now someone else knew. Krista gave a brief overview of the financial data she had recovered.
"I don't know much about your Taliban figure," William said in his deep voice. "But my friend in the CIA works entirely in domestic counter-intelligence. He and his co-workers concentrate on terrorist sleeper cells here is the U.S. I'm sure he could ask around with his colleagues and see what they have on him."
"Good," Jim said. "Maybe they could tell us why a Middle Eastern terrorist would want to pay a Chicago hitman to kill a retired college professor."
"Those cowards won't do anything without a reason. Despite what it may seem on the news, their violence is anything but random. Their resources are limited, so each strike is carefully calculated for maximum effectiveness and maximum carnage. Usually, there's something symbolic about the target. If it's an individual, it might be someone who has, in some way, insulted Islam. I'd start there. Check his published writing and see if he ever said anything that could have offended Muslims."
Jim rolled his eyes. "How exciting. That sounds like a job for an FBI agent."
William scribbled some notes on a small notebook he carried in his back pocket. "I'll dig into your professor's background and see what I can find. You'll hear from me tomorrow." He scribbled his cell phone number on a piece of paper, which he gave to Jim, then left the room.
Amit rose to his feet. "I want to check with some of my contacts, see what they can turn up. I probably won't see you until tomorrow. I may have to head up north."
#
Grigory turned his rented car into the parking lot of a sprawling shopping center on Peoria's northwest side. He had been assured that since it was a Friday night, most of Peoria's police officers would have been pulled to the city's troubled south side and west bluff neighborhoods. The Illinois State Troopers would be patrolling for DUI's. He hoped this would minimize the chance of an encounter with law enforcement. He drove his car around to the shopping center's north side, away from War Memorial Drive's sporadic one-in-the-morning traffic.
The facility looked empty. To be certain he was alone, he circled the shopping center once. He returned to the north side of the mall. He found a shadowed area affording him a decent vantage point and parked the car. He extinguished the lights and leaned back in his seat to wait. With the windows down, he enjoyed the breeze blowing across the prairie.
His journey was almost over. According to the information he had been provided, he was to meet a mob boss named Tony Marcel, and his associate, a local police officer. Tony would pay Grigory for the product, plus his fee for smuggling the items into the country. Grigory would give him the briefcases, and their business would be finished.
A light rain started to fall, soon becoming a downpour. He rolled up the windows to shut out the weather. The pattering of the rain had a hypnotic effect, almost lulling him to sleep. He rubbed his eyes. When he opened them again, he noticed the inside of the windows had fogged over. He turned on the defroster, and the filmy white layer slowly dissolved.
Directly in front of his car was a plain blue van, its headlights off, sitting at idle only twenty feet away. He twitched sharply before he recovered from his shock. It was the vehicle his contact had said he would be in. He stepped out of his car and was greeted by two men. He held out his hand.
"I'm Grigory."
One of the men accepted the handshake. "Yes. We spoke on the phone." The other man made no effort to approach Grigory or shake hands, which made Grigory nervous. Obviously, he was not along for his personality. And while Grigory had been through dozens of meetings such as this one, never had the stakes been so high. This time, Grigory had no one watching over him with an assault rifle.
"You are Tony Marcel? And you must be his companion, the cop."
The two men exchanged a desultory look, and Grigory sensed something was wrong. Perhaps he was never meant to know who the second man was. At the least, he should have kept the information to himself.
He ignored his nervousness. "Do you have the payment?" He wiped his sweaty hands on his pants. He tried to hide the gesture by clasping his hands behind his back.
By way of answer, Tony gestured to the other man, who walked around behind the van. He returned with a pair of large black suitcases, which he placed on the ground. Grigory opened and inspected each one. They were filled with banded stacks of bearer bonds drawn against the assets of companies in Central America and the Caribbean.
"As we agreed," Tony said. "$65 million."
Grigory closed the suitcases and placed them next to his trunk. He slid into the driver's seat to perform the ritual which would open the concealed compartment where his cargo lay. Although it might seem overly cautious, Grigory was not one to take chances, so he had modified his rental car. He turned the key to the "accessory" position, turned on the parking lights, and pressed firmly on the parking brake. The clandestine compartment sprang open with a pop. He opened the trunk, where the false bottom had been released, revealing what Tony had come to purchase.
Grigory pulled the two briefcases from where they lay hidden for over a thousand miles. He brought them around to where the duo waited in the rain. He placed the briefcases on the hood and stepped back. Folding his arms across his chest, he made a surreptitious move toward his pistol he had concealed in his pants. Tony's shadowy companion started forward, but Tony waved him off. Grigory handed him a handwritten note with the combinations to the locks securing the pair of satchels. Tony set the numbers on the dials. He held the parcels like he was afraid they might bite him. With his lips pressed firmly together, he lifted the lids only far enough to see the contents. He nodded his satisfaction. Tony carried the two briefcases to the back of the van. The other man's intense gaze betrayed his curiosity about the contents, but he was not in position to see. Tony made no effort to show him.
Grigory kept a close watch on Tony as the other secured the two briefcases. A sudden movement caught his eye. He looked to his right and saw Tony’s henchman bringing a pistol from beneath his coat. Grigory's own weapon had barely cleared his waistband before the other's pistol opened fire.
#
Jim wolfed down the last bite of his cheeseburger, chasing it with a long drink of beer. Outside, a brilliant flash of lightning was followed closely by a peal of thunder that shook the restaurant. The skies opened in a torrential downpour, which drowned out the sound of surrounding conversations with its fury. Krista looked tired. The dark circles under her eyes gave her the appearance that she had not slept in days. Rich seemed to be in better shape but was obviously nervous. Being on the run for so long was getting to all of them.
Jim had wrestled with an idea all day. He finally resolved to go through with it. He blocked the satellite phone's caller ID function before he dialed the number.
The answer came quickly. "Crime Scene Unit. Don Scott."
Jim took a deep breath to keep the tremor from his voice. "Hey, Don. It's Hunter."
The silence on the other end was almost palpable. "Where are you?
"Come on, Don. That's not why I called. I need your help."
"You need to turn yourself in, Jim. The killing has to stop."
"What are you talking about?"
"The five drug dealers here in Bloomington who have been shot in the last four days. The Morton Crime Lab put a rush on the cases. They confirmed that all of the victims were shot with your gun."
"Look, Don. I don't have my gun anymore, haven't since the night at the lake. I was shot that night and left for dead. I've been on the run ever since. In fact, I've been out of the country the last few days. Tony Marcel is your killer."
"The Chicago mobster? You're saying he came down here to kill some two-bit dope peddlers?"
"Competition. He also killed Perkins."
Don sighed. "So you said a few weeks ago. But Command ruled that one a suicide yesterday. The case is closed."
"Didn't you say you found partial prints at the scene?"
"Very partial. There wasn't enough to send them to AFIS."
Jim sighed. A good fingerprint examiner could make a positive identification off a fragment of a fingerprint. But the technicians who maintain the national fingerprint database had very specific requirements that a partial print must meet before they would even look at it.
"Please, Don, do me a favor. Try matching those prints to Tony Marcel. I'm sure you can get his ten-print card. See what you can come up with for me."
There was silence on the line for several seconds. "How can I reach you?"
"Look, Don. I . . . I still consider you a friend, but I can't trust anyone right now. I'm sure you still think I did all these things. So I'm going to stay in the shadows. But one thing you need to remember. Don't say a word about Tony Marcel to anyone on the department, and I mean anyone."
"So you want me to keep quiet about the fact that a guy, who is wanted for multiple murder counts, called me tonight."
"It's too dangerous. One of your coworkers is on Marcel's payroll."
"Look, Jim. I'll check into this fingerprint thing, because it's my job. But I'm calling Johnson right now."
The line went dead. Jim shook his head slowly as he put the phone back in his pocket. He should have known Don would not be receptive to the idea. In Don’s position, Jim would have done the same. Krista waved to the waitress and asked for their check. Rich rose to his feet, looking out the window into the rain-washed parking lot.
"I'll go pull the car up. You two can wait in
side."
"Jim's a gentleman," Krista said with a laugh. "Let him do it."
"I can get it," Jim assured him.
"No, I'll do it, Hunter." Rich regarded Jim for a moment, hands on hips. "You just remember your promise."
Krista paid the bill, and the trio walked slowly to the entryway. Jim held tightly to Krista's hand. Rich ducked into the rain and dashed across the parking lot. He fumbled with the key fob and almost dropped it. Krista placed her fingers gingerly on Jim's arm.
"What promise?"
"What?"
"What did you promise Rich?"
"That I would look after you and protect you. But I didn't need your brother to tell me that." He took her hands in his. "I was already-"
A colossal explosion ripped through the parking lot, shattering the restaurant's windows and showering Jim and Krista with shards of broken glass. Jim staggered to his feet, ignoring the ringing in his ears. He kicked through the remnants of the door and rushed into the parking lot. Their car was a smoldering ruin. Low flames danced and flickered along the sides. What remained of Rich Marcel lay scattered across the asphalt behind the car.
"Richard!" Krista's cry of protest rang out behind Jim. He whirled about to take her in his arms.
He did his best to shelter her from the scene. The last thing she needed was to see parts of her brother splattered behind the burning remains of their car. She struggled vainly against his grip, then collapsed weeping against his chest. He hugged her tightly for several moments. He gently held her at arm's distance and looked into her eyes.
"Krista, I'm so sorry, but we have to go." She stared straight ahead, not answering, but he thought he saw her give a slight nod.
Jim maintained his grip on her hand. He spied another couple standing nearby who stood immobile, eyes wide and staring. He pulled his badge from his wallet.
"Police officer! I need your car! I have to get this woman to a hospital!"
With a trembling hand, the man handed over his car keys. He indicated a minivan a short distance away. Jim scooped Krista into his arms and carried her to the van. He buckled her into the front seat, jumped behind the wheel, and drove away. The sound of the approaching sirens echoed off the nearby buildings.
