Black Ops #1

by William W. Johnstone

  “You’re back, I see,” the bartender said, picking up an empty glass from the space in front of Art and passing his towel over it. “Have any trouble?”

  “No,” Art said. “He came along peaceably.”

  The reference was to Art’s current job, chasing down bail-bond jumpers. He had just brought a prisoner back from Newport News, Virginia.

  “I wouldn’t care much for a job like that,” the bartender said. “You never know what you are going to run into.”

  “That’s all right,” a man sitting a couple of stools down from Art said. “If the colonel there runs into any trouble, he’ll just shoot ’em. That’s what you do, ain’t it, Colonel? You just blow people away, like the prisoner you blew away in Iraq? And if you don’t have a gun, why, hell, you’ll just eat ’em. You are that colonel, aren’t you?”

  “I am no longer a colonel,” Art said.

  “Oh yeah, that’s right,” the man said tauntingly. “You are no longer a colonel. Fact is, you ain’t nothin’ now, are you? What I can’t figure out is why they ever let your sorry ass out of jail.”

  “Do you have a problem with something?” Art asked.

  “No, I ain’t got no problem,” the belligerent man answered. “Fact is, I’m happy as a pig in shit. See, I was a lowly EM, and I like it when a high-ranking muckety-muck like you winds up getting your ass in a crack.”

  The music changed then, and a very pretty woman came up to Art.

  “I tell you what, handsome. Why don’t you dance with me before you and that unpleasant gentleman get into a fight?”

  Art hesitated for just a moment.

  “Unless you don’t want to dance with me,” the woman said.

  Art smiled. “I would love to dance with you,” he said.

  They began dancing and halfway through the dance the woman moved very close to him and spoke quietly into his ear.

  “When you leave tonight, take your napkin with you,” she said.

  Art didn’t respond. He realized then that the belligerent man at the bar and this beautiful woman were part of a contact team. Whether they were from the military, the FBI, or the CIA, he didn’t know. He just knew that, for the first time since taking his assignment, he had been contacted.

  When the dance was finished, Art returned to the bar. The belligerent one was gone.

  “Another drink?” the bartender asked, returning to Art’s end of the bar.

  “No, thanks,” Art said. “I think I’ll just have this one and turn in for the night. I’m beat.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” the bartender said.

  Art finished the drink, then picked up the napkin and put it in his pocket. He didn’t look at it until he was back at his apartment. Check key in potted plant by south elevator. Go to security storage locker building. Key fits locker 5689.

  Art waited until nearly midnight before he went out into the hall at his apartment complex, then walked down to the elevators. There were two elevators serving the occupants of the seven-story building where he lived. He approached the security camera from an angle that could not be observed by the camera, then draped a towel over the lens. After that, making sure that he wasn’t being observed, he went over to the potted plant, felt around until he found the key. Then, returning to the camera, he took the towel off and went back to his room.

  After his run the next morning, Art drove down to the building that housed the security storage lockers and, going inside, found locker 5689. Again, waiting until he wasn’t being observed, he opened the door and took out a manila folder.

  Art made no attempt to look at it until he was back in his apartment where he poured himself a cup of coffee, went into his study, and settled down to see what he had. The folder contained two photographs and a single sheet of printed information.

  Art studied the photographs. The first was of a man with Middle Eastern features, dark skinned, dark eyes, and with a mustache. He looked to be in his midfifties and his hair was beginning to turn white. On the back of the picture was the name Adulla Balama Shamat.

  The second picture made him gasp, then feel an instant wave of pity, followed by anger. The picture was of a young blond girl, obviously taken at a crime scene, for she was nude, spread-eagled, and very dead. Her eyes were open, still imprinted with the horror of what was happening to her. There was something sticking out of her mouth and for a moment Art didn’t know what it was. As he studied it more closely, though, he realized that it had to be her panties.

  He turned it over to see what was on the back. The writing said Amber Pease, age fourteen.

  Art read the report.

  Information on Abdulla Balama Shamat

  Shamat is a rug dealer who now lives in Dallas. Before coming to the U.S. Abdulla was an enforcer for the Jihad of Allah. One of the ways he enforced fatwahs was by raping females in the family of his target.

  We now know that one of his victims was Amber Pease, the daughter of Lieutenant Colonel Anthony Pease, the marine commandant of guards at the U.S. embassy in Redha, Qambari Arabia. Eyewitnesses saw Shamat, and semen found on the young girl has positively identified Shamat as her rapist and killer. He left young Amber spread-eagled, nude, and with her panties stuffed in her mouth.

  The DNA evidence, though damning, would not be considered by the government of the Kingdom of Qambari, as they consider semen “unclean.” As a result, they have no interest in extraditing him. On the contrary, Prince Azeer recently arranged for Shamat’s entry into the United States on a diplomatic passport.

  Shamat is currently living in Dallas, Texas, doing business out of a shop on Preston.

  The fact sheet on Shamat went no further than to tell who he was, where he was, and a bit of his history. It did not suggest that Art take any specific action as a result of the information provided him.

  Art knew that specific orders would never be written, thus preserving the option of deniability. Anything Art did, as a result of the information given him, would have to be of his own volition.

  That was fine. Art preferred to work that way. He liked the trust in him that such an arrangement implied. He also liked the freedom of operation. He knew they would never comment if his decision was correct, and they would not come to his assistance if anything he did would have a sudden, and very negative, worldwide reaction.

  Art picked up the phone and dialed a number as he stared at the photo.

  “Yes,” he said when the phone was answered. “I would like a ticket to Dallas.”

  “When would you like to leave?”

  “In the morning.”

  “And return?”

  “I think Friday.”

  Art could hear a tapping sound as the agent at the other end of the phone was using a computer keyboard.

  “All right, sir, I can put you on American Airlines flight number 1705, departing DCA at 7:06 a.m., that will put you into DFW in Dallas at 9:16 a.m.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “That will be eight hundred and thirty-two dollars. How will you be paying for that?”

  “American Express,” Art said. He gave the card number and expiration date.

  “Very good, sir, your ticket will be at the American Airline desk. Please have a photo ID.”

  “Right. Thanks,” Art said.

  Dallas, Texas

  The problem with flying into DFW, Art decided, was that when the plane touched down on the runway, you were only halfway to your destination. The terminal buildings were so far away as to be low-lying smudges on the distant horizon. The airplane had to taxi for nearly half an hour, waiting frequently as it crossed other runways, until finally reaching the arrival gate.

  Art rented a car, then drove toward Dallas on the LBJ until he reached Preston, where he turned north. He found the shop just south of Campbell, tucked in between a service station and a bagel restaurant. Ali Baba’s Persian Rugs.

  A yellow ribbon sticker was on the front door, stating SUPPORT OUR TROOPS. A bell rang as Art stepped inside.

&nb
sp; “Yes, can I help you?” Although he was Middle Eastern, the clerk who came to speak to him was not Shamat.

  “I’d like to look at some rugs,” Art said. “I’m interested in Tabriz.”

  “Ah yes, yes, a very nice rug. We have some back here, may I show them?”

  “Just show me where they are and let me look for myself,” Art said. “I might look around at some of the other rugs as well.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Are you the owner?” Art asked as he was led toward the section of Tabriz rugs.

  “No, my name is Rafeel. The owner is Mr. Shamat. Do you wish to see him? He is in his office in the back.”

  “No, that isn’t necessary,” Art said.

  The Tabriz rugs were very near the office and, through the open door, Art could see Shamat on the telephone. Shamat was speaking in Arabic.

  Rafeel left Art and hurried to the front of the store to greet another customer.

  Art looked through the rugs for a while, then moved to another pile. That was when he saw Rafeel summon Shamat to talk to the customer who had just come in.

  Art slipped into the office when Shamat left and, very quickly, put a bug into the telephone, and another just under the shade of his desk lamp. He barely managed to get back out of the office before Shamat returned.

  “Have you found something you like?” Shamat asked.

  “I’ve found two or three that I like,” Art said. “But I had better talk to my wife first. I can’t make a decision like that on my own.”

  Shamat chuckled, and shook his head. “American men are dominated by their women. You would never hear anyone in my country say anything like that.”

  “Where are you from? Iraq? Iran? Saudi Arabia?”

  “Qambari Arabia,” Shamat said. “Our women know their place.”

  “Yes,” Art said. “I imagine they do. Well, I’ll be back.”

  Leaving the store, Art drove away, heading north on Preston. Turning east on Campbell, he left the road just the other side of the service station and parked in a large parking lot. There, he opened up a laptop computer, made a few adjustments, and was able to pick up conversation from within the store.

  Most of the conversation was in English, and it had to do with the normal business of the store. Then he heard a voice he recognized as Rafeel’s. And Rafeel was speaking in Arabic.

  Art called up the voice recognition translation program and watched as the words, spoken in Arabic, were typed out onto the screen. There were a few errors on the screen, but no more so than for any other voice recognition program.

  I go to eat my lynch if with you is okay. [Rafeel].

  Where go you? Yesterdaxx too long you are gone. [Shamat].

  To get bagels.

  A Jewinx fxxd you eat?

  I like bagrels. Bagels popular with Americans.

  Bagels food of infidelxys. Americax are infidels.

  Why do you live in America if Amergls you like not?

  I have reasox to live herxg

  [Rafeel laughs.] I think your reaxsn is money.

  From where he was parked, Art was able to see the entry to the bagel restaurant, and a couple of moments later he saw Rafeel going in. Then he heard the tones of a telephone being dialed. His computer determined the number from the tones as 212-555-2740.

  It then did a quick reverse-number check, identifying the recipient of the call as the Qambari consultate, New York City.

  “Qambari consulate.” The answer was in English.

  “Shamat for Prince Azeer.” The response was also in English. There was a pause, then another voice.

  “This is Hamdi.”

  The language now switched to Arabic, and Art had to read it in translation.

  This is Shamat. With Prince Azeer I wisx with sprak.

  [A moment of silence.]

  Azeer. [A new voice.]

  You were rigxht abxt Rafeel. To the CIAXX is hx speaking.

  You know whxt to do.

  Yex. His family I will take care of so he wilx know then I wixl of him taxk carx.

  Allah Akbar.

  Art turned off the laptop, then picking up the photograph of Amber, he got out of the car. Walking casually, he crossed the service-station drive, then went up the alley until he reached the back of the carpet store. The back door was secured but Art picked the lock in a matter of a few seconds, then let himself in. The door opened into a storeroom at the back of the shop. Art moved through the storeroom to the front door and looked out over the shop itself.

  At the moment, the only person in the entire store appeared to be Shamat himself. Art waited a moment longer, just to be certain, then stepped out into the showroom.

  “Who are you?” Shamat said, startled when he saw him. “I did not hear you come in.”

  “I didn’t want you to hear me come in,” Art said.

  “What?” Shamat said, confused by the strange reply.

  Art held up the picture. “Do you recognize this young girl?”

  Shamat looked at the photo while Art studied his face. Art saw a very slight reaction to the picture, though he had to hand it to Shamat for being able to maintain his composure.

  “You look at rugs,” Shamat said as he started toward the office. “If you need me, call.”

  “Thanks,” Art said.

  Art remained where he was, knowing that Shamat could see his reflection in a mirror at the back of the store. Then, just as Shamat went through the door into his office, Art stepped behind a pile of rugs so as to be out of sight. Bending over at the waist, he moved quickly, using the long row of rugs as cover.

  It was no surprise to Art when Shamat appeared a second later, bursting out of his office with a gun in his hand.

  “Allah Akbar!” Shamat shouted.

  Art waited until Shamat was even with him, then stepped out and swung the knife-edge of his hand hard, against the base of Shamat’s nose. The blow broke his nose and sent splinters of bone into his brain.

  Shamat died instantly.

  Art moved quickly to the front of the store where he turned the OPEN sign around so that it read CLOSED. After that he positioned Shamat the way he wanted him, then let himself out the storeroom door in the back in the same way he had arrived.

  When Rafeel returned to the shop a few moments later, he was surprised to see the CLOSED sign. He supposed that Shamat might be taking a noon nap, so he let himself in, using his own key.

  “Shamat!” he called. “Shamat, I’m back.”

  Not receiving an answer, Rafeel began exploring the shop. He gasped when he found his employer.

  Abdulla Balam Shamat was lying back on a pile of rugs, spread-eagled, nude, and dead. His underdrawers were stuffed into his mouth. His right hand was open, but his finger was wrapped around the trigger guard of his gun.

  Lying on his forehead was a playing card, the ace of spades.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Two weeks after the incident in Dallas, Art received a DVD through the mail. The slipcover for the DVD read: Fishing Opportunities in the Missouri Ozarks. The label of the DVD showed a smiling man holding up a large crappie.

  Art knew that the slipcover and label were to camouflage the actual contents, so he put it into his computer.

  The picture of a Middle Eastern man came up. He had large, liquid brown eyes, a nose that had been broken, a scar on his left cheek, and a heavy mustache.

  After a few seconds of silence, a voice-over began speaking.

  “This is Balli Daftar Taleb,” the voice-over said.

  “And this is also Balli Daftar Taleb.”

  This time the picture showed an American prisoner, holding a sign. There were two masked men standing on either side of the American prisoner, and there was a fifth masked man standing just behind him. An arrow pointed to the man behind the prisoner.

  “The prisoner is Bernie Gelb, an American citizen who was working at one of Iraq’s electrical-generating stations. He was taken prisoner shortly after the fall of Saddam.”


  The masked man behind Gelb bagan speaking. The camera moved in close enough to be able to see his eyes and mouth, though the full hood covered the rest of his face.

  “We, the Freedom Fighters of the Jihad of Allah, have tried this Jew for crimes against Islam. He has been found guilty, and the sentence is death. Let this be a lesson to all Americans, Jews, and other infidels who would come to Iraq.”

  The picture on the screen went into freeze-frame, and once more there was a voice-over.

  “Be warned that the next scene is a very graphic and difficult one to watch.”

  Anticipating what was about to happen, Art braced himself for the next scene. The freeze-frame dissolved, and the man who was previously identified as Balli Daftar Taleb produced a long, curved knife. Grabbing Bernie Gelb by his hair, Taleb brought the knife across his neck. Blood began spewing immediately as Gelb cried out. His cries were soon silenced, however, as Taleb continued to carve. It took several seconds before Taleb was able to separate the head from the body. Then the men who were holding Gelb’s now headless body let it go and it fell forward. Taleb held the severed head up for a close-up from the video camera.

  “Death to all Americans, Jews, and infidels,” Taleb said.

  The grisly scene left the screen, to be replaced, once more, by a picture of Balli Daftar Taleb. This time, Taleb was speaking to a reporter. The voice-over continued.

  “A voice analysis has confirmed that this man, speaking to an Al Jazira Television reporter, is the same man who appeared on the video with Bernie Gelb. In addition, we have confirmed by several other sources that Balli Daftar Taleb was not only the one wielding the knife, he was also the leader of the group of kidnappers and assassins who killed Mr. Gelb. Now it is known that Taleb is living in the United States.

  “An investigation of Taleb, designed to prove his participation in the brutal murder of Mr. Gelb, was halted when the ACLU filed a protest against the Justice Department for harassment and violation of Taleb’s privacy.

  “Today, Balli Daftar Taleb lives in Springfield, Missouri, where he operates a tobacco shop.”