by Rick Jones
She set the photos aside and started to leaf through the pages of his history: she went through his rap sheet, his NCIC history, and his Scope. She looked for outstanding features and landmarks such as spectacular-looking moles, scars or tattoos.
Nothing.
Then she looked at old tapes of his prior arrests looking for physical habits, like nervous twitches or tics. But Montrell Thompson was as cool as ice. Then she searched for behaviors of favorability, usually a downfall such as a certain brand of smokes, beer, food, types of women, something to set him apart from the normal core of people.
Nothing: Montrell Thompson didn’t smoke; didn’t drink; preferred his own company over the company of others, men or women; and didn’t appear to cherish one ethnic flavoring of food over another. The man simply chose to live a lifestyle based on self-imposed restriction and icy-cold fortitude. The only thing he had was his twisted ideology.
There was a knock on her door.
It was Larry Johnston, Director of the Bureau. He pointed to the chair in front of her desk. May I?
“Of course,” she answered, trying to muster a smile.
The Director took the seat, put his hands on his knees, and offered her a small but genuine smile in return. “Honestly, Shari, how are you?”
“Are you here to see if I’m up to this?”
“To tell you the truth: Yes. You just went through the most horrific event in your life, I’m sure, which I can’t even begin to imagine.”
“Which is precisely why I’m here,” she answered. She looked at the framed photos of her family on her desk, her husband and two daughters, and was able to choke back a sob but not the gelatinous quiver in her voice. “My home … You never know how truly big or empty it is when there’s no laughter or voices other than your own, no one to keep you company or share a kitchen table with when you want to talk about your day–” She let her words hang for a brief moment. “It’s a tomb, Larry. A shrine. I was rotting away in there. At least here”–she made a sweeping gesture with her hand to emphasize her office–“I feel better. I’m active instead of dwelling. So this is medicinal for me. I need this.”
“I get that,” he said. “I do. But you’re charging into a case that speaks volumes of vengeance rather than justice. You want the man who killed your family. I understand that. But there’s law and there’s justice. I’m afraid that your personal attachment to this situation may cloud your judgment … and derail your career if you end up mismanaging department protocols to suit your needs. I think you see where I’m going with this.”
She nodded. “You’ve known me for how many years, Larry?”
“A long time,” he said, smiling lightly as if recalling a fond memory. “But in this case, Shari, measurable prudence must be taken on my part to ensure that you do not stray from any of the listed policies.”
“I’m doing my job, Larry. Montrell Thompson–or Mohammad Allawi–is a dangerous radical for the Islamic State who is working within the borders of the United States. It is my duty as a supervising agent of the FBI to uphold the responsibilities of my position–”
Larry Johnston cut her off by raising a hand and patted the air to stop her. “Look, Shari, you don’t need to lecture me about your responsibilities,” he said. “I’m the one who gave them to you. But upholding these responsibilities doesn’t mean that you feel the same about them.” His face quickly took on a saddened, almost crestfallen, look. Then: “You want to hunt down the man who took your family,” he finally said. “That’s understandable. The question is: can you maintain your emotions when you finally catch him?”
She didn’t want to say ‘yes’ too quickly, a dead giveaway that she wouldn’t be able to control herself should she come face to face with Allawi. Truth was, she wasn’t sure if she could maintain herself. So she took a different direction. “Larry, I’ve been working the Allawi case for a long time now. His escaping the net was sheer luck on his part, or perhaps wise judgment to stay away from the warehouse all together. Who knows? All I can say is that Mohammad Allawi is a very dangerous man, one who is highly intelligent, and someone who is most likely planning a strike against a Washington landmark as we speak. I want him.” Then in a voice that was softly beseeching, she said, “Larry, I need this.”
He held her with a neutral stare for a long moment before answering. “Find him,” he finally said. “You’ve been working this case for a while … so find him.”
She gave him a smile that said I-want-to-hug-you. “I will.”
“Just keep in mind that this office is not your home. It’s an office. I don’t want you here twenty-four-seven.”
She couldn’t guarantee that. But: “I won’t.”
He nodded and got to his feet. “I just want you to know that you have family here.”
“I know that.”
Then caringly and like a father, he said: “Welcome back, Shari … Welcome home.”
She could feel the sting of tears, but she successfully suppressed the emotion. “Thank you, Larry. It’s good to be back.”
He gave her a quick wave and left the office.
Shari sat unmoving in her seat. Her desk was a mess with photos and papers lying errantly about. And then she sighed through her nose.
If she did find Mohammad Allawi, would she be able to control herself?
She would discover the answer, she guessed, at that moment of time when they confronted one another with heated stares.
Shari went back to work.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Intel regarding Abbad Chahine was scarce. But not as scarce as the man he was linked to: Mabus.
When everything about Abbad Chahine was attained by Vatican Intelligence, the SIV, Kimball was called to the agency’s Comm Center that was located in the sublevels west of the Basilica and close to the Archives.
Jesuit priests manned the consoles and were the primary controllers of intel going in and out of the facility. They also had communication ties with agencies across the world, including the Mossad, the CIA, MI6, the BND, the MAD in Germany, the DGSE and DRM in France, and in Italy the AISE and the CII. Everyone was well connected and shared information accordingly.
When Kimball arrived at the lower level, he had to use a retinal scan to open the first of two doors, then passed through a heavily guarded second door that led into an area encased by bomb-blast glass. Banks of monitors lined the walls capturing the hotspots in the world through eye-in-the-sky satellite systems. Others captured near-ground images by hacking into CCTV security systems.
Sitting at the main console were co-directors Auciello and Essex. Father Auciello was a theologian scholar from Harvard; whereas Father Essex was from Oxford.
When Kimball neared their station, both priests got to their feet with Father Auciello beckoning Kimball to join them at another part of the center that was partitioned off from the main area. They walked down a pristine white corridor that had side doors that exposed rectangular-shaped mainframe computers, all state-of-the-art. When they reached the last room, Auciello placed a hand over a monitoring screen that scoped the lines of his palm, and gave a predetermined voice command to the unit that would measure his voice to within minute degrees of his identifiable octave. After a moment of quick processing, the automated voice, in Italian, welcomed Father Auciello. A second later the steel door parted with a hiss, and then it closed just as quickly behind them.
Motion sensors lit up the room. In the center was a table capable of hosting eight people. Along the far wall was a giant monitor that could be divided into showing a dozen live segments of global activity during a single moment, or be adapted to become one large screen used for Power-Point presentations. For the discussion regarding Abbad Chahine, they would use Power-Point.
Auciello took one of the seats. “Power-Point on,” he said. Then: “Abbad … Chahine.”
The screen lit up and began to cyc
le through the files until a numbered list came up on the screen.
Kimball and Father Essex also took seats at the table.
“We know little about Mabus,” said Father Essex, his accent as a Brit standing out. “And that’s because he knows that he’s a highly wanted man in the global community.”
“Then we go after those close to him,” said Kimball. “If I can get to them, if I can get to a guy like Chahine, then I can get to Mabus.”
Father Auciello turned to Kimball. “If the information you received from Farid is true, you do know that we’re obligated to inform other intel agencies about Chahine. They’ll want to know where we obtained the information.”
“I realize that,” said Kimball. “But every intel agency on this planet is going to want that boy in order to dissect and mine him for information. He’s just a boy who needs to be far from what’s going on. He didn’t ask for any of this.”
“No. He didn’t. But there are accords with other intelligence groups that we’re obligated to follow for the sake of global security. It is what it is, Kimball. It’s an agreed-upon protocol by allied nations.”
“Don’t you think that before we do anything,” Kimball stated as rhetorical, “that we need to see if any of this pans out as truth?”
Auciello concurred. Then he faced the screen. “File number one,” he called out.
The screen flashed a moment before a picture appeared on the screen. It was one of three regarding Abbad Chahine. It was grainy, the photo taken at a bazaar in Raqqa approximately two weeks prior. The man was small and slight, maybe five feet in height and weighing close to one hundred ten pounds–hardly a soldier. He was sporting a beard, thick and heavy.
“That’s Chahine?” asked Kimball.
“That’s Abbad Chahine. One of six Abbad Chahines. But this particular Chahine is believed to be a courier for the Islamic State and has a history going back three years. There is, however, no mention of Mabus regarding any of his dealings. But it doesn’t mean that Chahine doesn’t work with Mabus. He might. We just don’t know because Mabus is entirely off the grid. And nobody–the Mossad, MI6, the CIA, us–nobody knows what he looks like.”
“Farid does. He said Chahine was Mabus’s personal courier. So if I find Chahine, then I find Mabus.” And the world will be better for it. “You have other photos?”
“We do,” said Father Auciello. Then to the screen, he ordered: “File number two.”
A second photo of Chahine showed up. It was a little crisper, a little clearer, the picture also taken in Raqqa.
“The only identifiable feature of Chahine is that he’s very small. In fact, he’s not much bigger than Farid.” Kimball pointed at the screen. “Was this also taken in Raqqa?”
“One week ago,” Father Essex answered.
“So he lives in Raqqa?”
“Unsure,” said Auciello. “He’s not an A-lister for violence or considered to be a leader at any level. Which means we have very little information on him. Intel doesn’t place all too much emphasis on those considered to be marginal game players. They just keep them on the map.”
“But that’s the point. Mabus stays under the radar because he keeps his man under the radar as well.”
“Yeah. True,” said Auciello. And then: “File number three.”
It was a photo of Chahine dealing with another man, the photo taken recently, like the day before from a CCTV. Ironically the hack-job wasn’t looking for Chahine at all. The facial recognition software happened to hit certain landmarks on the second man’s face, which brought up his ID. This photo was also taken in Raqqa.
“This was taken yesterday,” said Father Essex. “We happened upon this photo-strike in Raqqa, regarding the man with Chahine, a known radical believed to be a highly trained assassin within the Islamic State. His name is Atwa. And we believe that Atwa and his team of assassins were responsible for the theft of the True Cross a few days ago.”
“How do you know that?”
“Unlike Chahine who has little to no history of his involvement with the Islamic State, Atwa’s history is quite extensive. Now Raqqa, an ISIS stronghold, at least to a degree, is marginally supported by the people there, so getting in and out is difficult. Right now it serves as a safe haven for members of the group. The question is: Why is he meeting with Chahine?”
“And you’re sure it was Atwa who stole the True Cross?”
“Without a doubt,” said Father Auciello. He then sounded off with another order at the screen. “Show video three-six-four.”
As soon as the photo of Chahine and Atwa winked off, the video of the theft within the Church of the Holy Sepulchre downloaded. It was edited to show Atwa’s entire movement from the entryway by the Adam Chapel, to the breach of the vault that was above the tomb of Christ.
To Kimball they looked like anyone else, assassins cloaked in dark clothing and face wraps. But it was the actions of one assassin in particular. He had killed two guards with double-edged weaponry, and three priests by throwing his bladed weapons with ultra-keen accuracy. Kimball had never seen anything like it.
“Atwa,” began Father Essex, “is also known as the Man-of-Many-Blades. He’s fast. He’s good. And he hits everything he throws at.” He turned to face Kimball. “He may be better than you, Kimball, when it comes to the use of double-edged weaponry.”
Kimball couldn’t deny this. He was one of the best in the world with few equals. But this man Atwa, the way he killed with such surgical precision from a distance and to do it consistently, set him on a level higher than Kimball, who was a master of blades at close combat.
“And you believe positively that he took the True Cross?” asked Kimball.
“No doubt. Nobody on record has that type of skill set other than Atwa. Then on the following day, Atwa meets up with Chahine who just happens to be, or at least according to Farid, a close associate to Mabus.”
“You think Mabus ordered the theft?”
“Atwa has the True Cross. So why take it to Raqqa?”
Kimball pondered this for a moment. “Because ISIS gets their money from two sources,” he said. “They sell oil on the black market … And they steal and sell ancient artifacts on the black market as well.”
“That’s right,” said Auciello. “Now we have to determine who they plan to sell the True Cross to and why. Right now we only have pieces to a puzzle. One, we have Atwa who stole the True Cross with his team to sell on the black market. Two, he meets with Chahine in Raqqa a day later. Three, we’re now learning that Chahine may be a top courier to Mabus.”
“I can confirm it,” said Kimball. “I need you to print off these photos of Chahine.” If there’s one person who knows, Kimball thought, one person who could direct me, it would be Farid.
“You plan to show the boy the photos?” asked Father Auciello.
“I do.”
Kimball knew that the Jesuits were intuiting Kimball’s motives to find Mabus. True enough Mabus had spearheaded the attack on the Vatican. And for all of Mabus’s planning, Bonasero had died in the assault. At least in Kimball’s mind he owed Bonasero that much to find the man who was responsible for so many deaths on that day. What Kimball planned to do to Mabus the moment he found him was still questionable. Either way, no matter the restrictions placed on Kimball’s soul as to what he could and could not do, he would definitely bring closure.
“And if the boy says that Chahine is the man closest to his father?” asked Father Auciello.
Then I’ll hunt them all down like the animals they are … And bring back the True Cross.
“Kimball?” Both Jesuits were waiting for an answer from Kimball.
“The pictures,” was all Kimball said. “Print me the photos.”
Less than ten minutes later Kimball had what he asked for.
#
Kimball was sitting courtside at a basketbal
l game inside a gymnasium located close to the Basilica where altar boys usually congregated. He was watching a pickup game between those in training to become Vatican Knights, and those like Farid who would never fit in simply because he simply didn’t have the physical tools to do so. Though basketball was alien to him, he nevertheless gave 125% when everyone else on the court was giving 110%. He was awkward and gangly, and his movements lacked any grace or coordination. He reminded Kimball of a puppy who was trying to fit in with a pack of older dogs at play. No matter how much Farid tried to get involved, he appeared invisible to the pack. But the young Arab’s grin was from ear to ear, a wide stretch of a grin.
And Kimball watched the game as Farid ran up and down the court without a clue as to what he was supposed to do in the game such as picks and rolls, or to guard his opponent. He was just a kid being a kid, Kimball thought, having a great time.
The magic of being a child was the innocence they still carried deep within their hearts. Kimball recalled the time when he had the same magic as a child. The times he made believe that he was a champion for good by playing Army with friends and defeating the enemy, and on other days Cops and Robbers where he became a crusader to defeat evil. He imagined himself standing in the batter’s box of an imaginary baseball game with two outs and two strikes with the bases loaded, and down by three runs. He was the team’s last bastion of hope of winning the game. And then the magic happened in his mind’s eye. He took a mighty swing that sent the ball high, its arc climbing to greater heights, the crowd was cheering, the ball continued to sail, and then passed over the fence that was 100 feet tall, a homerun, the ball still climbing, the game won.
And then one day it all disappeared. There were no more dreams of mastering opponents or hitting the game-winning run. And Kimball couldn’t remember the day the magic vanished. One day he was a boy, the next he was a man.
Kimball looked at his hands, at his palms, thinking how they had taken so many lives. How we forget, he thought.
