by Arno Joubert
Neil looked at her for a second before answering. “We find him. We question him.”
“OK, that’s simple enough. How do we find him, Sergeant?” Alexa asked, shoving his knee playfully with her foot.
Neil caught it and started massaging it gently. “Follow his itinerary. Grab him when he least expects it.”
She held up a finger and fetched her laptop from the bedroom, then she put her foot back on his lap, opened her laptop, and typed a search query into Google. Neil massaged the bridge of her foot with his thumb.
“He’s giving a speech at the House of Representatives on Friday. Ooh, that feels good,” she said.
Neil stopped for a moment and looked up. “Nope, too much security.”
She scrolled her finger down Metcalfe’s itinerary. “He’s opening a new golf course in Long Island next week,” she said brightly.
Neil smiled and gently bent back her big toe. “How is your golf, Miss Guerra?”
“Ouch,” she said kicking his hand away, scribbling the venue’s address on a notepad. She grinned at Neil. “A lot better than your foot massages.”
Long Island, New York.
Voelkner queried the Nassau County deeds office and found out that Senator Metcalfe had two properties registered to his name in New York state: a luxury apartment in Manhattan and a large mansion in Long Island that Metcalfe used as a weekend retreat.
Latorre staked out the Manhattan apartment for a couple of days. He found nothing unusual about the place. Metcalfe’s wife and kids followed their normal routine of going to school and shopping. Metcalfe arrived late in the evenings and left again early in the mornings.
The Long Island property interested them more. The family was never there, but the place bustled with activity. Voelkner contacted the owner of a small condominium across the road and negotiated a week-by-week rental deal with him. The owner charged them an exorbitant amount, but it was worth it. The irony that they were paying for the unit with Dalerian money didn’t escape Voelkner, so he didn’t negotiate too hard.
The large compound spanned four acres, and an Italianate mansion was built on the sprawling lawns. From their viewpoint they could see the back of the building. The front of the property sloped down toward the ocean. Voelkner could only imagine the view that the occupants had from the terrace in front. Large and ancient beech trees bordered the property and were scattered around the lawn. The wall consisted of a concrete rock base three feet high. On top of the base, a red brick wall was built, five bricks deep and another nine feet up.
Inside the walls, a walkway meandered around the property, keeping more or less equidistant from the wall, as far as Voelkner could see. Every two hundred feet there was a black panel on the wall, about four feet up. The guards touched these black plastic boxes with their batons as they made their way around the property. Voelkner guessed they were sensors that the guards had to activate, proof that they had patrolled the entire area.
There were always two guards circling the area, clockwise. After a two-hour shift, they would be relieved by the guards at the gate, and they were then assigned to gate duty for the next two hours. The switchover took approximately two minutes.
A lot of security measures for a weekend retreat, he thought.
Metcalfe would visit regularly. He drove a black Buick, no chauffeur. He would drive into the large driveway circle and throw his keys to a butler. He slapped the butler on the back and they exchanged a quick greeting. He then bounced up the stairs and disappeared into the house.
His visits were always preceded by a brown panel van with darkly tinted windows. The guards exchanged jokes with the driver, peering inside, ogling the cargo. The van would drive around the corner on the eastern side of the house and would leave several hours later. Shortly after, Metcalfe would leave in his Buick.
A refrigerated delivery truck arrived at the mansion at ten every Tuesday morning. It would also disappear around the side of the house out of view, stay for an hour, and leave. Voelkner figured it was supplies for the house, groceries and such.
Voelkner leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. “The guards swapped right on time again. Like clockwork.”
Latorre stood up and stretched his limbs with a yawn. “At least we know there is a definite schedule. Staff come and go at fixed times. The delivery truck arrives at ten and leaves an hour later.” He glanced at the notepad on the table in front of him. “Guards complete their rounds of the house regularly. The only thing that seems random is Metcalfe’s visits.”
Voelkner paged through a moleskin notebook. It had a section with a weekly planner, and he skimmed through the times and dates. “Well, the panel van arrives approximately four hours before Metcalfe’s visit, give or take a couple of minutes. Monday it came in at 5:00 a.m., and Metcalfe arrived at 9:00 or a couple minutes past. Thursday at 11:00 a.m., and Metcalfe was here at 3:00 p.m. Friday at 7:00 a.m., and Metcalfe duly arrived at 11:00. And they always leave together. So there’s a definite timing to his visits.”
Latorre scratched his chin. “Hm, that can’t be a coincidence. But why the four hour delay?”
Voelkner’s phone rang. It was Captain Guerra. Voelkner answered, snapping upright as if standing to attention. “Good day, Captain.”
“Hello, Lieutenant. The cargo has arrived at Port Newark in Newark Bay. The signal is active. I need you to get down there ASAP. Leave Latorre to monitor the mansion.”
Voelkner saluted. “On the double, Captain,” he said then disconnected the call.
Latorre chuckled.
“What?” Voelkner asked.
“You don’t need to do that, you know?” Latorre said.
“What?” Voelkner asked again, looking confused.
Latorre stood up, mimicking a phone next to his ear with a thumb and forefinger. He stood to attention. “Yes, Captain. No, Captain. Where should I kiss your ass, Captain?” He saluted and paraded around the room, doing a goose step.
Voelkner walked up to him and slapped him against the head. “Shut up, you idiot. Have some respect.”
Latorre got him in a neck hold and rubbed his ears. Voelkner picked Latorre up and was about to slam him down on the bed when the phone rang. Voelkner answered the call, still holding Latorre in the air. “Voelkner.”
“Voelkner, this is Captain Guerra.”
Voelkner stood to attention, holding Latorre in his free arm. Latorre had his arms around Voelkner's neck. “Yes, Captain.”
“You haven’t left yet, have you?”
“No, Captain,” he said, shaking his head.
“Well get your ass over there, now,” Alexa commanded.
“Yes, Captain,” Voelkner said and saluted.
“I’m boarding a flight now. I’ll be there tomorrow at 7:00 a.m. Send Latorre to pick us up at La Guardia,” Alexa said.
“Yes, Captain.”
The captain sighed and disconnected the call. Voelkner pushed Latorre away. “Get off me, the shipment has arrived. You need to pick the Captain up at La Guardia at seven, tomorrow morning, sharp,” Voelkner said.
Latorre looked at Voelkner, trying to suppress his grin. Then they both broke out in a hysterical fit of laughter.
Alexa pulled the Yankees cap over her eyes and moved deeper into the crowd. Metcalfe waved at the people, pinned the peg into the teeing green, and placed his ball on top. His caddy handed him a three wood. He took a couple of practice swings and hit the ball sweetly. It sailed off and landed three hundred yards away, in the middle of the range.
The crowd hoorayed and clapped, and Alexa joined them.
Metcalfe turned toward them and waved, smiling, then made a little bow. "Thank you, thank you. Remember that my policy on labor reform will be just as dead center as my drives."
The crowd laughed and cheered. He sauntered toward them and started signing campaign pamphlets, making small talk, and shaking hands.
Alexa moved backward and made her way to the footpath. She punched a number into her c
ell phone. Neil answered. “OK, he's finishing up here and will be on his way to the eighteenth hole within a couple of minutes. Get ready.”
“Thanks for the heads up,” he said.
Alexa glanced over her shoulder. Metcalfe was still chatting up the assembled crowd on the tee. “Grab him when the guards go pick up the golf cart. I’ll be right behind you.”
Neil snorted. "You keep to the kitchen, Miss Guerra. Let a real man handle the dirty work.” He clicked off.
Alexa grinned and shook her head. That guy drives me crazy.
Metcalfe and his caddy climbed into the back of a golf cart. A man with a black suit and dark glasses slipped in behind the wheel and circled the cart toward the footpath.
Alexa turned around and headed toward the eighteenth hole.
Neil Allen slipped between the curtains that hung on the metal frame of the pavilion displaying the sponsors’ logos. People sauntered toward the pavilion, chatting and chewing on snacks, waiting for Metcalfe’s arrival.
Metcalfe's ball landed on the green and rolled toward a bunker. It slowed down but had enough momentum to roll down the lip. The crowd groaned.
Neil took a couple of steps to his left and found an opening between a pair of hairy legs and clean-shaven calves wearing floral sandals.
Metcalfe arrived moments later, got out of the cart, and waved at the crowd. He walked to the center of the green and held up his hands, waiting for the clapping to die down. “The American economy has been abused by greedy politicians who care more about lining their own pockets than their loyal constituents. Lazy bureaucrats and red tape have denied access to primary health care benefits and social security grants.”
He sauntered toward his ball in the bunker. The crowd was humming in agreement. He entered the bunker and took a practice swing.
Metcalfe positioned himself for the stroke, looked up, and shouted, “Let me help the country out of the bunker of economic collapse and onto the greens of prosperity.”
Neil turned around as he heard the noise, then he fell unconscious as he was knocked out and gripped by two pairs of strong arms.
CHAPTER NINE
Alexa jogged to the eighteenth hole. She watched as Neil slipped between the curtains.
Metcalfe arrived and gave his rah-rah in the center of the green. From the corner of her eye, she saw two men dressed in black suits move around the pavilion, their hands touching their ears, listening to instructions from an anonymous source. They parted the curtains and went inside.
Here we go again, Alexa thought.
Alexa moved from behind her cover, stopped and thought the better of it. Metcalfe had now walked from the green and disappeared in front of the pavilion.
An instant later, a hand moved the curtain aside. A head popped out and looked around. Two men came out, dragging Neil between them. Another golf cart drove up, and they dumped his unconscious body next to the driver. The two men got in the back and whizzed away.
Alexa heard a rustle behind her. She swung around, saw a man approaching her, a gun aimed at her chest. He held an NYPD badge in the other hand.
“Don’t move,” he said.
Alexa went for the gun in her shoulder holster.
“Stop!” the man shouted. “I have orders to take you in alive, but I will shoot you if you resist.”
Alexa held her hands in the air.
“Put your hands on your head,” the man said, motioning with his gun.
She obeyed.
He cuffed first the one hand and then pulled both down and cuffed her hands behind her back. He recited the Miranda to her and asked her if she understood her rights.
“What am I being taken in for?” she asked.
“Threatening the life of a congressman. Attempted murder,” he said, pushing her forward. “Any more questions?”
Alexa chose to exercise her first right. He led her down the pathway, past the inquisitive gazes of curious onlookers, toward the parking area. A brown panel van was waiting. The side door slid open, and he shoved her inside, following behind her.
They waited for a couple of seconds. A man came walking down the pathway, puffing a cigarette. He wore a Gap tee and jeans, a baseball cap pulled low over his brow. The door slid open and the man climbed inside. The van made a three-point turn and headed toward the exit.
Neil woke up and squinted. His hands were bound in front of him with plastic zip ties. His arms felt numb, the circulation cut off. He was seated next to a man in a golf cart. He heard a muted conversation behind him. He sucked in a breath and rammed the driver with his shoulder.
The driver tried to hang on to the wheel. The golf cart swerved sharply and plunged nose first into a small duck pond at the side of the road. Neil crawled out of the cart as the driver splashed toward him.
Neil head butted him before he could throw a punch. The man went down with a splash, and Neil left him floating facedown in the water. He swung around and kicked the gun from another guard’s hand. It plonked in the shallow water. Neil scrambled up the slippery dam wall, using his bound hands for support.
The guard went down on all fours and started groping in the mud, searching for the gun. The third guard stumbled after Neil and grabbed him from behind.
Neil hit the man in the face with the back of his head. The man stumbled back a couple of steps, holding his nose, blood streaming from between his fingers. Neil looked over his shoulder and saw another guy shove Alexa down the pathway, toward the parking area, a gun jammed into her ribcage. Alexa looked at him, desperation painted on her face.
“Neil, behind you.”
Neil spun around and kicked the bleeding guard between the legs. The man fell to his knees, one hand on his nose and the other on his groin. He tried to stand up, and Neil finished him off by clubbing him against the temple with both hands.
The other man gave up his futile search in the duck pond, ran up the embankment, and tackled Neil from the side, driving his shoulder into Neil’s chest. Jumping up, he started bouncing around Neil, bucking and swaying, waiting for an opening. Neil lay on his back. He shook his head and blinked water from his eyes. He swiveled his body and aimed a sweep at the guard’s legs. The man’s legs went up, straight out under him, and he broke his fall with his neck and the side of his head. Neil jumped up and landed with a knee on the man’s stomach, stood up, and aimed a final kick at the guard’s head. The man’s head slumped to the side. Neil glanced around him then nodded, satisfied.
He peered over the shoulders of a small crowd that had gathered around them but didn’t see her. He sprinted toward the parking lot and saw Alexa being pushed into a brown panel van. He jogged to a concrete park bench and slipped his wrists between a wooden slat on the seat.
He stood up and pulled, straining against the cuffs. The zip tie gave a little, and he managed to work the slat deeper between his wrists and the plastic ties. He swayed to the one side and then to the next, using the rung as a lever to twist the cable ties apart. He heard his pulse throb in his temples as he strained, then he rammed his body to the side and the tie broke.
He massaged his wrists as he bolted toward the van but had to give up the chase as it screeched away.
He fumbled for his phone. It was dead. Neil shook the excess water off and tried to switch it on. Nothing. Shit.
He jogged toward their rented Impala and fished out the keys from his pocket. He unlocked it and sped away.
Mossad Headquarters
Tel Aviv, Israel
Major Sal Frydman walked up to the entrance of the OPS room. He glanced up at the camera positioned above the door and nodded a silent greeting. He dug out his security key from his pocket and swiped the card through the reader.
The startled operator on evening shift quickly took his feet off the table and jumped up, saluting. "Good evening, Major. I wasn't expecting a visit from you,” he said.
Frydman scrutinized him, deciding against a reprimand. “Good evening, Sylbermann. I have a secure job that needs to run. Priority Blu
e.”
Private Sylbermann nodded. "Yes, sir. Give me the details and I'll initiate it for you, sir.”
Frydman shook his head. "No, this one is for my security clearance only.” Frydman waved the soldier out of the room. “Take the rest of the night off."
Sylbermann frowned. “Are you sure, Major? What about all the other jobs?"
"Don't worry. We’ll push them back. You may go now." Frydman nodded toward the door and waited for the soldier to leave.
Private David Sylbermann saluted. “Good evening, Major.” He walked out briskly, a smile on his face.
Frydman removed a cassette from his pocket and loaded it into the robotic feeder. He positioned himself behind the main console and started typing. The cassette was fed into the reader, and Frydman initiated a job.
"Hello, Major. You're working late,” a metallic voice boomed from the intercom speaker above him.
Frydman stood up quickly. "Ahem, ah, yes. Important job direct from the superiors."
The metallic voice went silent for a while. “So what does job KB777 do? Let me see. Written in C++. One hundred twenty-eight megabytes. Big, bulky, primitive. Antivirus software with a heuristic search engine,” it said mockingly.
Frydman looked up at the speaker. “You have no right. This is top secret, you cannot go prowling around like this as if you own the whole damn system; I thought we agreed on this.”
The metallic voice laughed and answered in a mocking tone. “But I do own the whole damn system. I built it myself. I upgraded the processing core just last week, and I have access to all jobs run, secure or not. And obviously I need to look out for myself. Is there a reason you want to remove my search algorithm? Something I'm not supposed to know?"
“This just isn't right. We cannot have a rogue program running a top-secret military facility such as this one. You must disengage, now,” Frydman growled.
