by Rick Jones
“What the ‘ell do you want from me?”
“Simple. I ask you questions. You give me answers.
Tearfully, Beckett said, “What is it you want to know?”
Kimball got to a knee and hunkered over him. “Atwa said something was already in motion. Something that can’t be stopped. What was he talking about?”
When the arms dealer hesitated, Kimball started to reach for Beckett’s bad hand.
“All right, for chrissakes!” yelled Beckett.
“What did the two of you negotiate?”
“Weapons for the True Cross,” he answered.
“I know that. And that’s not going to happen. What else was he talking about?”
“I had to serve as a catalyst in good faith,” he said. “He wanted my facility in Mexico to move five weapons to the United States in two days.”
“What for?”
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me. He just said I needed to act in good faith in order to receive the True Cross.”
“Did he say where they were to be delivered to?”
“To a guy outside of Washington, D.C.?”
“Where exactly?”
“Maryland, I believe.” He pronounced it as Mary Land. “At a warehouse in Bethesda. Number twelve, I believe. Between eight and eight-fifteen in the evening.”
“And this was good faith for what?”
“They would be the prototypes to see if they worked well in the field. If they did, then a transfer for the Cross and weapons would take place in Syria. Mabus would oversee the transfer.”
“Where in Syria?”
“My liaison was to meet a man in Raqqa at a certain time and place. Then this man would lead my liaison and a convoy containing five thousand weapons to Mabus, who has taken refuge from the bombings in Raqqa within a small village in the south. But I can’t remember the name of the village.”
Five thousand weapons! This number was staggering to Kimball. “Does this contact have a name?”
Beckett nodded. “Chahine.”
Kimball knew the name well. Better, he knew what the man looked like.
“When and where were they to hook up?”
“No time was set until the rifles had been field tested. Once they passed muster, then a date would have been set to meet with Chahine.”
“In Raqqa?”
“Yes.”
“Where in Raqqa?”
“At some bloody bazaar.”
“What bazaar? Raqqa’s a big city.”
“I can’t remember.”
“I would think a guy like you would have an outstanding memory considering that you’re a business man with incredible acumen. Business people like you wouldn’t make it too long in the business if you didn’t have recall.”
“It was some Syrian name. I can’t even begin to pronounce.”
“Try.”
“I can’t. It’s just not coming–”
Kimball didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Beckett’s hand, found the forefinger, which was beside three badly bent and damaged fingers, and snapped it, causing Beckett to holler out. “For someone who’s supposed to be bright,” said Kimball, “you’re really as dumb as a bag of hammers. I said try.”
Beckett worked his lips soundlessly. But when he saw that Kimball was eyeing his thumb, he said, “Busco. Bosco. Something like that.”
“He means Busqua,” Moreland intervened. “The Busqua Bazaar.”
“Why Busqua?” asked Kimball.
“That’s where Chahine transfers messages from Mabus to his couriers. Chahine is the conduit.”
“When?”
“When what?”
“When do these messages get transferred?”
“Daily. He meets the couriers at this bazaar between ten and eleven.”
“In the morning.”
Beckett nodded, his face showing the immeasurable pain he was in. Yes.
Kimball leaned back. Now he had a time and place–in Raqqa, between ten and eleven in the morning at a place called the Busqua Bazaar. Now he had a starting point. Chahine was Mabus’s right-hand man, the mouthpiece that passed along commands from the ISIS chieftain. Now he had to get inside Syria, inside Raqqa, which was not such a nice place to be in with the constant bombings from Russia. Worse, it was an ISIS stronghold. Every bearded face, every set of steely eyes, would belong to a member of the Islamic State.
Kimball got to his feet while continuing to look down at Beckett with a disdainful look. Beckett continued to rock against the ground with his badly injured hand held close to his body, the man sobbing in pain.
Moreland took position beside him. “Well, I’ll say this for you,” he said, maintaining a half grin.
“What’s that?”
“You’d make a bloody poor preacher, that’s for sure.”
Kimball faced Moreland with humorless features. “Like I said before and what I’m about to say again … I’m not a priest.” Then he walked away to check on the welfare of his teammates.
CHAPTER FORTY
Washington, D.C.
Early the following morning, Shari received an urgent call from Director Larry Johnston. Intel had come back from a couple of fronts: the black-site and London. The best news of all was that she was back in the game.
FBI Director Larry Johnston was sitting behind his desk poring over documents, while Shari sat across from him examining her own set.
Pooling resources and information concluded that ISIS was working an operation on American shores, whereas the London principals confirmed that a large consignment of weapons was to be shipped to Syria.
“Five thousand weapons,” said Johnston. “The thing about the M600 rifle is that it wasn’t really built for desert warfare due to its short battery life, and the lack of ability to recharge them in areas that have no means to revitalize them. They’re only as good as the life of the battery. Without it, then it’s just another rifle.”
“Five thousand,” she said. Then she looked directly at Johnston. Both were thinking the very same thing. “They want these weapons where they’ll be most functional,” she said. “Inside areas with power grids–places where power is abundant.”
“Precisely. The Islamic State is making a push into the European Front. First there was Paris, then Belgium, after that Vatican City. But if ISIS gets hold of this technology, this weapon will revolutionize everything. Terror doesn’t come by way of taking out a dignitary here and there. Terrorism comes by way of taking out soft targets like men, women and children who get up every day to put their pants on one leg at a time. They’ll take down people whose only concern is to get to work on time, or perhaps a soccer mom driving to school to pick up her kids, or maybe some poor schmuck pumping gas into his car. Suddenly everyone in the Islamic State becomes a sniper with a pull of a finger from a third of a mile away. And nobody will know where the shot came from because there’s too much ground to survey. People will never leave their homes. Businesses would shut down. Economies would diminish because people will be afraid to walk the streets.” Then he shook his head admonishingly: “These smart weapons,” he said softly. “Sometimes I think we’re too smart for our own good.”
“But the London team handled this, correct?”
“The men who negotiated the deal have been caught or killed. In fact, the industry who put out this weapon is in the process of being shut down and everything confiscated–computers, records, documents–in every country Oliver Beckett has a stake in, due to pressures from the international courts.”
“So if the deal has been quashed by forces, which it appears that it has, why am I here?”
“There was a second deal in this, one that was contingent upon the first. Intel states that five of these rifles are making their way to the United States to be field tested, and are to be used by members of the Islami
c State to take out several dignitaries who are arriving for a summit at the Ronald Reagan Building and International Trade Center.”
“Do we know for sure if they got across the U.S. border?”
Johnston shrugged. “Not known at this time.”
“The summit is the day after tomorrow,” she said.
“I know. The weapons are supposed to arrive tomorrow night. And intel informs us that the delivery is supposed to take place at Warehouse Twelve in Bethesda, Maryland, at approximately eight-fifteen in the evening. Problem is, which warehouse in Bethesda do we look at?”
“People often take the path of least resistance,” she answered. “Warehouses, docks–places like these are often run by the union and are heavily guarded and constantly under surveillance. Smaller ones, however, usually aren’t. Maybe a CCTV here and there, but nothing over the top.”
“I know I’m asking a lot in such short time, Shari, but I need you to find these people before the deal goes down. We cannot afford the Islamic State to get their hands on these weapons. The delegates are being rerouted, so their safety has been assured. But that won’t hold for the future should these people use these rifles against soft targets.”
“Understood.”
“Do what you can to locate this warehouse. You’ll have every resource available and every person necessary. Once you have pinpointed a location, then assemble the HRT. This is your baby, Shari. You’re in control.”
She smiled faintly. She really did live for this: not to destroy evil since evil couldn’t be destroyed. But it could be contained. “Thank you, Larry.”
Then she left, leaving the director to wonder if her mind was still in the game so close to losing her family.
#
Bethesda, Maryland.
The Islamic State. Everything had Mohammad Allawi’s fingerprints all over this, Shari considered. He was a major player. And to be back in his playing field of Bethesda soon after she had taken his cell down in the same vicinity. Then she thought: Some people can never give up their comfort zones. But she also knew that the advantage belonged to the HRT, again. There was no way that Allawi could have been alerted to the knowledge that the Feds were on to him. Beckett Industries were shut down by local authorities for alleged misappropriation of firearms. But Allawi wouldn’t know that he and Mabus were the reasons why. Beckett would offer weapons to anyone on the black market for relics, which he had. This particular shutdown could have been the result for a number of reasons.
“But you let me know and reminded me in no uncertain terms that you’re still around,” she whispered to herself, referring to Allawi. “And I know this is all about you. It’s always been about you.”
She brought up personal files regarding her previous investigation on Allawi, the places he visited and set up shop before she had taken down his cell. Then she examined the warehouses in Bethesda, immediately dismissing all but three due to their security concentrations. Of those three one was too small, having six warehouses. The second had twenty-four warehouses, but warehouses #9 thru #14 had been gutted and razed by fire and never rebuilt. That left the third, which had seventeen warehouses. A meeting here made the most sense. The grounds were often surveyed by an unarmed security guard who often wore a tin star that was meaningless. And perhaps a minimal amount of CCTV and security cameras. Taking out the guard and cutting the feeds to the cameras would be no problem for people like Mohammad Allawi.
Still, this was a gamble since she was banking that Allawi would use the path of least resistance. It simply made sense not to make the deal when there were armed guards working secured gates, as most of them were. In fact, his cell had set up shop in a similar location; one with weak security. And that’s what Mohammad Allawi was all about, she thought. Always searching for a weakness.
She took the information regarding this particular warehouse and mapped out its routes, making special note of the ins and outs.
Then proffered it to Director Johnston. HRT would be there long before 8:00 P.M.
And if things worked out–and there was no reason for Shari to believe otherwise–she would get her man.
But she would be wrong.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Cromwell Hospital, London
Leviticus was laying on the slightly elevated bed with his arm heavily bandaged and supported by a sling. He also had a body wrap around him to keep his broken ribs from shifting. Now that the ribs had been secured, it would take several weeks for them to mend. Breathing, however, would not be without its pain or suffering.
Kimball stood at his bedside with Isaiah and John Moreland. Twelve-Gauge was seeing to the respectful handling of Chance and Hammerhead elsewhere.
Leviticus grimaced with every breath. “Never had broken ribs before,” he said. “Not a good feeling.”
“No, I’d imagine not,” Kimball returned.
Then Leviticus shook his head in disgust. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m getting too old and sloppy for this.”
Moreland intervened. “You didn’t get sloppy, mate. Let me tell you something about Oliver Beckett. He doesn’t hire the best or the best of the best. He hires the best of the best of the best because he has the money to do so. The man you took out was Chris Montgomery. Name ring a bell?”
Leviticus shook his head. “No. Should it?”
“Chris Montgomery is lower than a snake’s belly. He was a former military elite from a very proud and honorable regiment. It doesn’t matter what he did or why, I won’t be telling you his faults here. What I will tell you is this: Chris Montgomery was a black belt second-dan in Taekwondo. His skills were elite. That kick you took to the side should have done you in. Even with your wounds, my friend, you man handled him well enough.” Then after looking at Kimball and Isaiah, he added. “I’ve seen you boys in action. And I’ll tell ya, the Vatican should be glad to have you. And here I thought you boys would get in the way. Truth is, I ain’t never seen anything like you. Not even with my own. So my hat goes off to you. All of you.”
Kimball nodded his appreciation. “Thank you,” he said. “And I’m sorry for the losses of your team.”
Moreland sighed at this. “Yup. Chance and Hammerhead were good boys, they were. Honorable and committed. They were good soldiers in the past, and they were good soldiers until the end when it mattered most. They gave their all.”
“That they did,” said Isaiah.
“Well, we got what we wanted. Beckett’s no longer a threat and the deal is off.”
“There’s still the matter of the five rifles going to America,” said Leviticus.
“The Feds have been notified,” said Kimball. “The ball’s in their court right now.” And then he thought about Shari.
“But you ain’t got the True Cross,” said Moreland. “Now what will you do?”
“We finish the mission,” said Kimball.
“It’s in bloody Syria,” reminded Moreland.
“It’s our job. It’s what we do.”
Moreland looked at Isaiah and Kimball and tilted his head like a baffled dog. “Just the two of you? Alone?”
“It needs to be returned to Golgotha,” said Leviticus. And when he said this he did so as if the topic of the True Cross shouldn’t have been questioned at all.
“Yeah, well, if I was a praying man, then I’d be praying for you both. But since I’m not, I’d like to hold my hand out instead.” He held his hand out to Kimball, who shook it, and then to Isaiah. “Godspeed to you boys.” And then he was gone, leaving the Vatican Knights alone. A brotherhood of three.
“You know I’d be there in Syria if I could,” said Leviticus.
“We know that,” Kimball returned.
“Getting in and out won’t be easy.” Leviticus grimaced. The pain in his side was aggravating, to say the least.
“But not impossible,” returned Kimball. “Even if it was impo
ssible, the word ‘impossible’ doesn’t mean that it can’t be done.”
Leviticus finished for him. “It only measures the degree of difficulty.”
“That’s right.”
And the degree of difficulty in this case would be immeasurable. Kimball and Isaiah would have to enter the heart of Syria and step right into the lion’s den to achieve the means. No matter the operation, no matter how they planned or looked at ways to accomplish the mission, percentages were low across the board.
“There’s no one else to back you up?” asked Leviticus.
“Everyone’s busy across the globe,” said Kimball. “After what happened at the Vatican a few months ago, gives reason to keep a team of Vatican Knights behind for security purposes. What happened to Bonasero will never happen again. So the few we have available must remain behind.”
Kimball placed a reassuring hand on Leviticus’s shoulder. “It’ll be all right,” he told him, offering a half smile. “We’ll get the Cross.”
“I know you will,” said Leviticus. “But I know you, Kimball. You won’t let it stop there, will you?”
Kimball hesitated a long moment before answering. “I can’t.”
“You’re going after Mabus, aren’t you?”
“I have to.”
“It’s not what we do.” Leviticus sounded deeply concerned. Getting the True Cross was one thing. But then to hunt down the man behind the mask of atrocity.
“He took the life of Bonasero,” said Kimball. “Maybe not directly. But he certainly masterminded the event that did.”
“He’s dangerous.”
“He’s a cancer that needs to be stricken.”
“I understand your anger,” said Isaiah. “With Bonasero and Yara–”
Kimball cut him off, the man becoming heated. “And what about Sister Patty? What about the other children that didn’t make it because they were caught in the crossfire?”
Isaiah remained cool as he always did. Then calmly: “It’s just not what we do.”
