by Ace Collins
“Nate, there are no easy parts.”
“Your message was kind of cryptic, Lije. I don’t understand what you’re doing here today.”
“Good. That’s what I wanted.” Lije’s expression was now grim. “I wanted anyone who knew I was at OBU to be confused. As far as the world is concerned, I’m a taxi driver delivering Robert Cathcart to a meeting with the head of your history department.”
Brooks nodded. “But the real reason for making the trip is…”
What had seemed like a good idea when Lije left home now felt wrong. Should he involve this friend in something that had the potential for deadly fallout? This was not some college project. This might well be life or death. He ought to leave.
“Lije, I asked why you’re here.”
“It’s not important. Just stopped by to check on you, relive some old memories.”
“You never were any good at lying to me. You need something.”
“I can get it somewhere else. No reason to waste your time.”
“Lije, if this has something to do with Kaitlyn, I want in. Now what is it?”
Lije shook his head. “It’s too dangerous.”
“So’s playing with test tubes. A friend of mine at Ole Miss was killed the other day when one of his research projects blew up in his face. So what’s you got? If it has something to do with Kaitlyn’s murder…”
“I should never have come. Yeah, I do need someone with your skills. But just my talking to you might be aiming a gun at your head.”
Brooks looked at his friend without saying a word, his dark brown eyes slitted. “I’ll duck.”
“You have to promise that this isn’t talked about anywhere but here and now. My visit is just two friends killing time while I wait for Cathcart. If you don’t agree, I won’t tell you a thing.”
Brooks was obviously intrigued. “I kind of like you having to come to me. How did you put it? Oh, yes, I have ‘skills.’ “
Lije leaned closer and whispered, “This is dangerous. This concerns finding a motive for Kaitlyn’s murder. You need to know that someone is still after something that is hidden on some property I bought. And that someone is willing to kill to get it.”
“So we aren’t taking a walk in the park.”
“No. Consider the risk carefully. In the last week, three attempts have been made on the life of an investigator who works for me, including a bomb rigged by a professional. We don’t know who’s behind this. I’ve tried to keep a blanket over the purpose of this trip. Only one other person knows, and she can be trusted. Even the man who rode with me thinks this trip is all about finding answers to an old legend. I can’t guarantee that we can keep the lid on. I’m asking you to pass on this. I shouldn’t have come. I suggest you tell me to leave.”
Brooks grinned. “I’m all ears.”
“This is no game, Nate. You can tell no one.”
“I won’t.”
Just then a large yellow cat walked out of an inner office, slowly crossed the tile floor, and jumped up on the teacher’s desk. The teacher, momentarily distracted, gently stroked the animal’s head.
“What’s its name?” Lije was glad for the diversion.
“What else? Tiger. I found him in a dumpster two years ago. He’s become our department mascot.”
“I thought there were rules against having pets on campus.” “There are, but everyone just pretends Tiger isn’t a cat. The president was in here the other day, and when he left, he accidentally dropped a treat. That’s the way this works.”
“The real world needs to be more like college.”
“Enough stalling, Lije. What do you need?”
Still wondering if his trip had been a mistake, Lije finally leveled with his friend. “I have a chemical formula. I need to know what it’s for.”
Brooks moved the cat to one side. “Let’s see it.”
Lije handed him a copy of the paper Janie had found between the two page markers. He watched as his friend studied it.
“Never seen anything like it. Kind of old school, the way it’s written. The symbols, and therefore the chemicals, are common enough. But it’s as complex as all crud. Off the top of my head, no clue. Let me run this through my computer and see if it triggers anything.”
Brooks set the paper to one side and entered the information into a special chemical analysis program on his laptop. He hit Return and waited as his machine went to work.
“You’re worried I might get killed over this?”
“There is that risk,” Lije said.
The computer beeped. “My program informs me it’s a harmless powder. I can’t figure out what it would be used for. Is this the whole formula?”
“As far as I know.”
“It seems incomplete. Could be a step in a process. Tell you what. I can order the chemicals, make some up, and run a few experiments. Maybe I can figure out what’s missing. What do you think it is?”
“A weapon of death.”
“Don’t think so, but give me a few days and I’ll see if I can spot something that would trigger an effect. I think it’s harmless.”
Lije nodded. “Even if you find it is, you must show no one the formula or your work. Promise?”
“You made that pretty clear.”
“I’m serious, Nate.”
“You’ve got my word. But if folks are killing people over this, then—”
“I think people have been murdered over this. And even if you find it’s worthless, there are a few folks who won’t believe that until they can test it for themselves. This is for your eyes only. Now, my breakfast was small and a long time ago. Want to grab lunch at Burger Barn?”
Brooks smiled. “You know my answer. Let me erase my entries on this formula and I’ll lock this copy in my safe. Then we can go.”
Lije was disappointed. Janie’s find appeared to be just another dead end.
42
KENT MCGEE SAT ON THE DECK OF HIS VACATION HOME and looked out over Greers Ferry Lake, a manmade sportsman’s paradise. The lake had been dedicated and officially opened by President John F. Kennedy in 1963. The president’s action led to millions enjoying the pristine beauty of the Ozark foothills. But it became the political icon’s last public appearance until the day of his death. An end and a beginning.
The attorney sipped a Dr. Pepper as he watched the setting sun. No words could properly describe the scene playing out before him. Three deer—two does and a fawn—had wandered out of the woods to drink at the shoreline. A raccoon was washing a crawfish a few feet farther up the sandy bank. A hoot owl somewhere on a timber-filled hill signaled that it was almost dusk, when his time of the day began.
Most of the recreational boaters had made their way to the docks. The true fishermen had the placid summer waters to themselves. Many were now anchored, setting out lights and waiting to drop lines into the clear water. For them, the day was just beginning.
In the distance a small boat driven by an outboard cut steadily across the still waters. When the boat veered to the left and away from McGee’s private dock, the lawyer returned to his living room. He switched on a table lamp between two large leather chairs and plopped down, laying his head back against a cushion. It was time to wait, time to reflect, and time to chart a course.
Earlier in the day, he had phoned Warden James Ray Burgess and asked to speak to Jones. After the conversation, Burgess had called back asking if McGee was officially on the case. Feeling no need to hide the fact that he was working to free the condemned man, or at least buy him some time, he had said he was. Burgess seemed pleased, a reaction that puzzled McGee. Most wardens did not welcome McGee’s involvement with a death-penalty case. Maybe Burgess wasn’t lying when he said he liked Jones. Or maybe there was a more sinister reason. No matter, the defense attorney was geared up to maintain his perfect record in death-row appeals.
He closed his eyes and listened for the lake sounds in this, the best time of the day. The first stars would be reflecting off the water.
The only sounds were those created by nature—the croak of a frog, the splash from a jumping fish, the call of a bird, the symphony of insects. McGee listened to the rhapsody of nature for a while, then drifted off into a deep sleep.
Three hours later, a man’s voice said, “Hey, boss.”
McGee didn’t move. He didn’t even open his eyes. “You’re late, Ivy.”
“My flight was delayed in Atlanta.”
“Figured as much. How was the meeting with Klasser?”
“He gave me some interesting things to chew on,” the investigator replied, “and he also got us a file we may need.”
“What did you tell Hillman?”
“That I was checking out Schleter. Made him real nervous. He still thinks I’m worth the grand a month he’s paying me to keep an eye on you. Anything else you want me to feed him?”
“No. Just break down for me what Klasser told you.” McGee still hadn’t raised his head or opened his eyes.
It took just five minutes for the muscular bald man to tell what he had learned. It was far less than McGee needed.
“What about the file? Anything good there?”
“It concerns the Iraqi who was once part of Klasser’s team. During his early days with the Mossad, the information he passed along was mostly generic stuff, but Abdul Arif became a star in 1999 and early 2000 when he gave his superiors letter-perfect reports helping to prevent at least three Al-Qaeda-linked small bombing operations in Europe. This led to several lower-level operatives being apprehended. So, when he was the one member of Klasser’s organization who was sure the chatter before 9/11 was false, it carried a lot of weight.”
“What else did you find on him?”
“He’s single, no living family members, and was in the U.S. most of 2001. He pretty much dropped off the radar in 2004. Klasser doesn’t believe he’s dead, just thinks he opted to take his money and fade into seclusion somewhere in the Middle East.”
“In other words, he retired.”
“Looks like it.”
McGee, his eyes still closed, said, “That doesn’t give us anything for an appeal. Unless you’ve got something else, we still don’t have evidence of a frame.”
“The only other thing I have is personal information. Arif was born in Baghdad, raised in an orphanage until the age of two, when he was adopted by a professor of English at Baghdad University. He was educated there and is fluent in several languages. He has no outstanding physical features. Klasser said he speaks English like an American.”
Arif was perfect for spy work, McGee thought. Smart, well informed, and generic. He knew the region, the people, but could still be just another nonspecific face in the crowd. Hollywood was the only place where spies stood out. In the real world they blended in. The file meant nothing…Or did it?
McGee opened his eyes and for the first time looked at Beals. “Does the file have the date of his birth?”
Beals glanced down at the pages. “January 14, 1976.”
That was it! Cause to celebrate! For the first time, they had real traction!
McGee hurried to his desk and flipped on a lamp. He opened a file, scanned several pages, stopped, and tapped his finger on what he had uncovered. He smiled. “Ivy, how are your contacts in Baghdad?”
“Never been asked that before.”
McGee rubbed his hands together. “Do you know anyone who can get us birth records from Iraq?”
“If the records weren’t destroyed in the war or the looting, I might have the means of coming up with something.”
“We need everything we can get on Arif. Start with a copy of his birth certificate, and then get me school photos. Anything and everything. I need it all! And we need it fast. If you need to, fly over there. As Sherlock Holmes would say, the game’s afoot.”
Beals shook his head. “It’ll cost…a lot. Bribes in that part of the world are an accepted and expected business practice. For documents like this, the price is steep.”
“Money I have, time I don’t.”
By now the exhausted Beals had been absorbed by his chair. It was hard to tell where his body began and the cushion ended. “Can I get some sleep before I leave?”
“As long as we can get the information, you don’t even have to leave Arkansas. But hold off on sleep until you’ve run down your contacts in the Middle East and pushed them into action.”
Beals shook his head. “Kent, I’m a bit lost here. Why is this so important? How does it tie to Omar Jones?”
“Ivy, go with me on this. I’m building a wild scenario that just might be crazy enough to be the truth.” McGee was pacing as he did when addressing a jury during closing arguments. “It would appear the Israelis were being played. I think Arif was planted by someone in the Middle East—maybe even Osama bin Laden. After all, bin Laden needed to know what the West was thinking and what they knew. He allowed Arif to build a bridge of trust by revealing a few small operations before September 2001. This gave Arif credibility and cost Al-Qaeda nothing but a few bodies.
“Arif was on the inside when the Mossad overheard the chatter before 9/11. So he knew the CIA and the White House weren’t buying into the talk of hijacked planes and had dismissed the chatter as meaningless. He reinforced that dismissal. But then he found out that Joshua Klasser was convinced the chatter was real and credible. With me on this?”
“Like duct tape.”
“Good. If Arif was a double agent planted by Al-Qaeda, he knew that Joshua’s brother Albert worked for the FAA. He might even have known about his link to Johnson, a known bulldog in the FBI. Let’s assume he learned that Joshua Klasser was trying to get someone to take the chatter on the hijackings seriously. Arif’s job then morphed into keeping an eye on Albert. And the best place to keep an eye on him was in Texas.”
“Okay, I follow,” Beals said, a second burst of energy now injecting life into his tired body. “Arif probably had a tap on Albert’s phones—at least his cell and home phones. He could’ve even used his contacts to get a tap at the FAA office.
“He had probably been watching the Klasser home for a few days. Saw Jones, an Arab, living next door. Figured he had the perfect fall guy. He could’ve easily bought a car like Jones’ car. That make and model is everywhere. He could’ve dressed like Jones.
“He learns about Albert’s meeting with the FBI agent and gets rid of both. And the family. It all sounds good, but we still have a wall we can’t get around.”
McGee leaned back in his desk chair. “What have I forgotten?” “It’s simple,” Beals said. “If de la Cruz is telling the truth, and you think he is, then how did Arif fool the man with the eye for detail? Every judge you face will never buy into the idea that the man with the perfect memory was fooled.”
McGee tapped his desk. “That’s why we need to get the information from Iraq on Arif. Ivy, what is the only case in which fingerprints, blood evidence, and DNA can’t point to the killer?”
“If the guy’s an ex-football player who won the Heisman Trophy?”
McGee shook his head. “No. All that perfect DNA evidence doesn’t work if you’re dealing with identical twins. Arif and Jones were born on the same day and the same year in Baghdad. They were both adopted. Arif got lucky. Somehow he found out that Jones was his twin brother. This made the murders practically foolproof.”
The lawyer walked back over to the window. Two men from the same womb, split apart by fate, had each played into splitting the world asunder. It almost seemed biblical.
43
BARTON HILLMAN SNAPPED HIS CELL SHUT WITH A grim smile that defined his mood. The bait had been taken. In spite of a couple of hitches he hadn’t anticipated, he now had what he needed. Evans would be focused on the Jones case for the next month. If McGee could wrangle a stay or an appeal, maybe longer. Yet, to really ensure he had the time he needed without any interference, there was one more thing he had to do.
He punched in a number on his phone.
“Harlan, Barton here. I’ve got something
interesting for you. Why don’t we meet? Discreetly. I’m headed over to the governor’s office. I’ll park in the south parking lot. Just be walking in that area when I arrive. See you in ten.”
The director put on his gray suit coat, picked up his briefcase, and headed out the door. “Be back in about an hour,” he announced as he strolled by the receptionist’s desk.
“I’ll hold the calls,” came the disinterested response.
The short drive was uneventful. Stepping out of his car, Hillman took a moment to study the building that housed the seat of state government. It was almost an exact duplicate of the original capitol building in Washington. Several movies and television shows had used it for background in historical dramas that needed to show the Washington of the 1800s. He’d even been an extra in one, The Blue and the Gray. He’d played a Union captain, a rank he still felt was too low.
Today, little was going on. Most of the elected representatives were on vacation. With little news, the media would be hungry, and it was that hunger he had come to feed.
Harlan Brisco was the lead reporter for United Press Service in Little Rock. With more than three decades of experience, much of it overseas, he was seasoned and tough. He was used to filing reports from war zones and disaster areas. He had moved back to Arkansas because of his wife’s cancer. Emily had fought the disease for three years, been told it was in remission, and decided she enjoyed having roots. She found her dream home and they moved in. She was happy, he was not. Harlan was starved for excitement and feared that if nothing changed, his batteries would discharge.
“Barton, what are you doing here?” The dark-eyed, well-built middle-aged man dressed in brown slacks and a cream dress shirt looked like something out of a 1930s MGM newspaper drama. Brisco was the perfect choice to stir up the director’s recipe for chaos. And no one would suspect. To anyone watching, this would seem like a chance meeting.
“Harlan.” Hillman stopped and waved. “It’s been much too long. If you’re going to the capitol, walk with me, catch me up on Emily and the family.”
