“In any event it seems our backgrounds are fairly similar.”
Ullman chuckled. “Our backgrounds are not similar at all, Agent Barnett.”
“Why, because you lost your husband and child to a suicide bomber?”
Ullman glared across at him for a moment.
“As you said, we do our homework too.”
She stared at him for a moment. “It is true that the deaths of my husband and daughter affected me greatly, less now than at the time to be sure, but I am only human. I have been on the front lines of my country’s battles against terrorists every day for the past fifteen years, while you have been doing what? Chasing West Virginia rednecks in a pizza delivery hat.”
“You have done your homework,” Barnett smiled.
“I saw the video. But the word is that you get more pleasure out of tweaking noses than following orders.”
“That’s my problem, Colonel.”
“Don’t make it mine. America is a big country. You can take many hits and absorb your losses. We do not have that luxury. Every hit hurts us greatly and can be catastrophic.”
“I meant no offense.”
“None taken, but you should not allow your news people to film you dressed like that. Like cockroaches and e-books, videotape lasts forever.”
Barnett smiled. “So do reporters. Do you have a solution for that too?”
“No, but to correct an earlier point, we can see inside the mind of a radical Islamist as easily as an Egyptian upper class diplomat sitting here in Washington DC. When the chips fall, do you really think your friend Khalidi will look out for your interests?” she asked. “Do you think he would chop down another Arab as fast as you or I would?”
Barnett had no answer for her.
“And I will tell you something else,” she continued as her eyes flashed, “if Khalidi ever crosses me, he will be Minnie Mouse; and I have no sense of humor, none whatsoever.”
“That comes as a real surprise,” Barnett replied flatly. “Look, we’ve got to get along, all three of us. So let’s change the subject.”
“Change the subject? Agent Barnett, I stood on that road outside Acre last spring looking at that burnt-out commuter bus and the line of body bags that Al-Bari and his little brother left behind. We think there were twenty people on the bus, but the damage was so extreme that all our forensics people could do was match the pieces so that the total added up. An arm here, a leg there —the passengers were shot up, blown to pieces, and burned to charred lumps, so it was hard to tell,” she said as her voice cracked. “When the rescue people were processing the bus, they had to cut open some of the charred lumps to see if it was a body part, a package one of the passengers was carrying, or a seat cushion.” She waved her hand in frustration. “Those were civilians, Barnett — Greeks, Filipinos, Koreans, Ukrainians, Palestinians — most of them weren’t even Jews, but Ibrahim Al-Bari didn’t care.”
“But…” Barnett tried to say until she cut him off.
“There are no ‘buts,’ Agent Barnett. It’s what they do. Women, children, old people, even their own people if they do not quite agree with them, or are just in the wrong place, it makes no difference to them, and it made no difference to Al-Bari when he and his brother attacked that bus. Somehow, he eluded our search teams and escaped into the hills. That is why I am here. He isn’t going to escape this time. I am going to kill that man, any way I can.”
“Colonel, that isn’t the way we…”
“Of course it isn’t,” she said as she leaned forward, her face only inches from his. “Have no fear, it will all be done correctly and by the book, by your book, and in the end, he will be just as dead if I have anything to do with it.” She paused to look at him with complete contempt. “Because, when the time comes, I can be every bit as cold-blooded. Do not worry, though. I will not be the one shooting innocent bystanders. My target is Ibrahim Al-Bari.” Finally, she paused to rub both hands down her face and through her hair. That seemed to break the tension. “You did not deserve that,” she said quietly. “You are an American, and I cannot expect you to understand what we are up against. You and Khalidi have been here too long. You are civilized and this is not a civilized war we are fighting.”
Barnett said in frustration. “I know that every bit as well as you.”
“No, you think you do, but you do not and I cannot expect you to. You have not seen the atrocities up close, over and over again, until you are numb. You have not listened to their lies, and know that they will never stop what they are doing. Never. Two nations, two people want the same land. It is as simple as that. We can give in and surrender or we can kill them before they kill us, one by one if we must. That is the way we think and it is the way they think.” Her voice was calm but intensely serious as she tried very hard to explain the depths of her feelings to Barnett. “We must show them, over and over again if we must, that we are the only people in the world more determined than they are, more serious, and more vicious. More so if we must be, because that is the only way a counter-terrorist program can work. Someday one terrorist will stop, think, and decide it is not worth it. He will turn around, lay down his gun, and go back home. On that day we will have won.”
Ullman paused and lit another cigarette, inhaling deeply as Barnett watched, mesmerized; but he could think of nothing to say in rebuttal. Finally, he stood, took one last slow look at her and walked out of the room, leaving her sitting alone.
That same evening, another meeting was well underway in Beirut.
“Is there no word of Al-Bari yet?” Khaled Sayef pleaded with his hands as he looked around the table at the members of the Shura, his now silent and supposedly ‘loyal’ entourage. “Surely someone must know what the man is doing.”
“No, Khaled,” his Chief of Operations replied. “All that we know is that he entered the US by taking a series of flights through Athens, Rome, Amsterdam, and Toronto into Washington, presumably to confuse the Americans.”
“And presumably to confuse us as well.”
“Presumably… after that, he and his Cousin Arazi vanished, taking a considerable amount of the Egyptian Embassy’s ‘special account’ funds with them.”
“That was our money! It was intended for Hamas cells in America and Canada. He knew that!” a council representative from the Bekaa Valley suddenly spoke up
“You should tell him that, when next you see your friend, Khaled,” an elderly Imam from further down the table interjected.
Sayef glared at both of them for a moment, until his Chief of Operations finally continued and broke the strained silence. “We checked with our contacts in Cairo but the Embassy in Washington has learned nothing. It was Arazi’s signature on the bank withdrawal slip and the bank manager identified his picture. The young man was alone, very pleasant, and under no stress or duress that the bank manager could see. He counted the money, put it in a briefcase, shook hands, sauntered out of the door, and disappeared. They have no explanation for it. Arazi was vetted and well trusted.”
“And he is Ibrahim Al-Bari’s cousin. Those fools!” the Imam said.
Sayef looked around the table at the smug, vacant faces watching him. Al-Bari had been his man. He had been a nobody, until Sayef chose him, supported him, and funded him over their objections. Now, he was an anchor around Sayef’s neck. One more mistake and the Shura would throw them both overboard.
“We have reports that the Americans, the Egyptians, and the Israelis are all frantically looking for him. Should we disavow him, before he does something?” A nervous voice asked.
“No, no, that would be the worst thing we can do. It would tell the world that our discipline is so lax that we have lost a top operative. Would they please help find him before he hurts himself?” His derisive voice sliced through the room and left the others squirming.
“Besides, he may do something we end up liking,” the Imam pointed out in a sly voice.
“True, true,” Sayef nodded at him out of respect. “And he is my probl
em. I accept full responsibility. Now go through his room, his papers, his maps, his contacts, every message he ever sent, every letter. There must be a clue somewhere.”
“Then what, Khaled?”
“Must I spell out what we do to traitors? Kill him.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Boston, Tuesday, October 16, 5:30 p.m.
It was late afternoon when Ibrahim Al-Bari arrived at Logan Airport in Boston on the shuttle flight from Washington, DC. For this trip, he was dressed much more casually, in a sports jacket and an open collared shirt, but he carried his expensive, hand-tooled leather attaché case. All it contained was a random selection of Washington newspapers and some sports magazines for temporary filler. Later, he would need that space for other things.
When he reached the main terminal, he blended into the large, milling crowd, all the while carefully watching for any signs that he had been followed, not that he expected any. He had been very careful, he thought, as he took the escalator down to Baggage Claim, and exited the terminal through the doors marked ‘Ground Transportation.’ As he had done before, he ignored the line of cabs and hopped in the one at the end. As before, a $50 bill salved the driver’s conscience and they were soon headed for the airport exit. This time, the driver appeared to be a Kenyan, with skin as dark as road tar.
Leaning forward, Al-Bari said, “I need to go to the FedEx office on McClellan Road in Revere to pick up a package. Do you know where that is?”
“Oh, yes Sah, just up the road.”
“Good, and I have another stop to make after that.” As the cab drove away, Al-Bari glanced back though the rear window. Again, he saw nothing that posed any threat, and began to relax. It took no more than ten minutes to exit the airport and make the short drive north along the Bay through East Boston, past Chelsea, toward Suffolk Downs racetrack. Al-Bari told the driver to wait while he went inside and handed his package receipt to the clerk behind the desk. Glancing around, he saw there were no security cameras in the office, and relaxed slightly. In less than a minute, he was in the back seat of the cab with the 20-pound FedEx box he had mailed to himself from Virginia.
“You may drive on. Take me to the Holiday Inn in Saugus. Do you know where it is?”
“Oh, yes, just up Route 1. Fifteen minutes, no more,” the driver answered.
As they drove away, Al-Bari put the FedEx box on the floor and glanced quickly around once again, looking for any suspicious cars as he ripped the top off. Inside were stacks of American hundred dollar bills and a cigar box. He transferred the money to his briefcase. Inside the cigar box lay a Swiss SIG Sauer 9 mm semi-automatic pistol, two loaded magazines, a breakaway shoulder holster, and a short, tubular silencer. Al-Bari screwed it onto the barrel, slipped his jacket off and put the holster on, and snapped the SIG inside. While the Americans had built an impressive security system to protect their airports, there would always be ways to move sensitive items from one city to another.
The sun was already beginning to set as he saw the bright green and white hotel sign in the distance. “Drop me here at the corner,” he told the driver as he ripped the shipping label off the box and handed the driver another fifty-dollar bill. “I need some exercise and will walk the rest of the way. And I would appreciate your throwing out this box.”
From the cab, he walked to the corner, circled the block, and approached the modern, suburban hotel from the opposite direction before entering the now-dark rear parking lot. Slipping into the shadows behind a large dumpster in the rear corner, he waited. From this vantage point, he had a clear view of the parking lot and the road beyond. If this were a setup, he would know soon enough, because Murphy would never try to take him alone. If the Irishman had sold him out, he would begin to see the heavy-footed signs of police and the FBI. On the other hand, if Murphy had decided to double-cross him and take the money, he would expect to see at least a half-dozen IRA gunmen scattered about. Murphy did not know it yet, but in either event, he would be the first to die.
Parked in the empty rear row against a board fence, Al-Bari saw an old Chevy sedan with Massachusetts plates and an orange U-Haul trailer attached to its rear bumper. Other than that, he saw nothing suspicious, although he did not trust the Irishman. Al-Bari stepped out of the shadows, and walked over to the U-Haul trailer. There was a thick padlock on the trailer’s rear door. He rattled it, but the lock would require a key to open it. Satisfied, he slid his briefcase under the trailer and headed for the lobby. He entered through a side door and walked up to the desk clerk. “Mr. Sean Murphy’s room,” he said. The clerk dialed and handed him the receiver after the Irishman answered.
“Well, now,” Murphy answered. “I’ve been expecting your call, lad. Why don’t you come on up to Room 212.”
“Is everything ready?” Al-Bari asked tersely.
“As stipulated, and to be frank, I’d like to be rid of the thing as quickly as possible. You might say it has gotten hot around here.”
“Fine. Then meet me in the rear lot in two minutes. No longer.”
As he walked back out the rear door, Al-Bari checked his SIG Sauer and seated a round in the chamber. He was far too experienced to trust the Irishman. That was what separated a dead amateur from a live professional.
Al-Bari stood near the rear door of the U-Haul trailer when the Irishman finally came out the hotel lobby door and sauntered over. “Ah, Mr. Teraki,” the Irishman gushed and extended his hand. “The merchandise is all inside the trailer, as I guess you figured.”
“The key,” Al-Bari held out his hand.
“Oh, of course,” the startled Irishman answered as he fumbled through his pants pockets and handed it over. “And the money?”
“There is a leather briefcase under the trailer. The money is inside. You can bring it here and count it if you wish.” Al-Bari said as he opened the padlock, swung the rear door open, and stepped inside. In the dim light from the motel sign, he saw a thick, rolled carpet that lay down the center of trailer. He unrolled it far enough to find the end of a thick, five-foot-long steel tube. Under the carpet lay a round metal base plate. Next to them sat four heavy wooden boxes with 'US Army' stenciled on their sides. Al-Bari pried the top off one and saw three long, fat shells, painted olive green with white lettering. Each weighed twenty-four pounds. He picked one up, examined the markings on its side and the labels on the box.
“A full dozen, I see, Murphy,” he said as he tossed the shell back and forth between his hands. “You did well.”
“Lord, be careful with that thing,” Murphy said as he stuck his head back in the door.
“You obviously know nothing about the weapon. The shells cannot explode, not like this, not without the detonators screwed in,” the Arab replied as he tossed one up and down, then put it back in the box. “But you did well. It appears everything is here.”
“I told you we’d do our best, didn’t I?” he stuttered anxiously. And I tell you, Teraki, you have no idea how hard it…”
“Nor do I want to know,” Al-Bari cut him off. “You did well, and you were paid handsomely to do it.” He looked down at the briefcase dangling from Murphy’s hand. “The balance of the money is in there. I assume you counted it?”
“No need between ‘gentlemen’… but I did give it a quick look.”
“Has the theft been discovered? Has there been any unusual reaction yet?”
“Oh my, there’s been plenty of reaction, all right, if that’s what you want to call it. Me and my boys have been called in and sweated twice now. Boston coppers like to bust down on us ‘freedom fighters’ every chance they get. You know how them ‘oppressors of the people’ can be, but that all blew over when they found the nigger Sergeant’s body.”
“What do you mean, ‘found that nigger Sergeant’s body?’ ” Al-Bari asked suspiciously.
“Well, you can’t go knock off a bleedin’ Armory without a fall guy, Mister Teraki. Now, they’ll blame the whole thing on some black separatist gang and stop beatin’ the crap out
of us. You see, there was a white supply clerk at the Reserve Center who owed us seven large…”
“Seven large?”
“Seven thousand dollars, a gambling debt,” Murphy explained. “The lad got himself way behind on the vig — you know, the interest — and he knew he’d never catch up.”
“You had leverage on him.”
“Leverage?” Murphy chuckled. “Let’s say he liked his arms and legs the way they were, ‘unleveraged.’ Anyway, we cut a deal with him to leave the rear gate and the arms room door open one night so we could get your stuff out. He’s white, see, but there was this nigger who worked under him. The two of them didn’t get along at all, and our guy knew the nigger would figure out who set it all up and tell the cops. When we started, we figured we’d have to kill the white guy when we were done, but then I had this flash of brilliance, you might say,” Murphy beamed. “Rather than kill the white guy, we killed the nigger with the white guy’s gun, dumped his body near the Muslim mosque, and kept the gun as insurance. The white guy knows he’ll go down for murder if he opens his yap. It sends the coppers in the wrong direction, and it don’t point a finger at us like it might if we killed the white guy, see? Of course, he’ll have a little accident in a few months, just to make sure he never does talk.”
“Very clever, Murphy,” Al-Bari smiled. “But do not get too clever. I told you what will happen if we have any problems, didn’t I?”
Murphy pulled out his handkerchief and wiped it across the face. “No, no need to worry,” he said, avoiding the Arab’s flashing black eyes, which reached out to him from the darkness. “There will be no trouble from my end. I can assure you of that.”
That was when a battered white delivery van with ‘BERMAN'S KOSHER MEATS’ painted on the side drove into the lot and parked next to the U-Haul trailer. Two large men got out of the van and joined Murphy. “These are me mates: Big Pat the bartender, and John, my Under Chief. You spoke to Pat last week. He’s dumb as mutton, but strong as an ox when there’s liftin’ to be done.”
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