Black Ops #1

by William W. Johnstone

  That concluded the information on the DVD, and the screen went black. As before, there were no instructions, nor was there any suggestion as to what was expected of Art. There was only the clinical presentation of the facts surrounding Balli Daftar Taleb.

  St. Louis, Missouri

  As the airliner began making its descent into Lambert Field, Art looked through the window at the Mississippi River below. He saw the remains of the I-70 bridge, some of which had been cleared away to allow barge traffic to pass through. The barge traffic did not have an unrestricted passage though, as a pontoon roadway had been put in place as a temporary bridge, and because it was at surface level, it halted all river traffic.

  The pontoon bridge was one two-lane road and could be crossed at no more than twenty miles per hour. As a result, traffic was backed up for several miles on either side of the river.

  In addition, every two hours the center span of the pontoon bridge would have to be opened by tugboats to allow the river traffic through. The center span would remain open for one hour, during which time all road traffic came to a halt. As a result, much of the traffic was being diverted south to Ste. Genevieve, Missouri, and Chester, Illinois, and in some cases as far south as Cape Girardeau, Missouri, and Cairo, Illinois. And even those bridges were choke points, since all vehicles crossing had to go through a security checkpoint now.

  Art had read an estimate that taking out the bridges in St. Louis and Memphis, thus interrupting the free flow of traffic along the I-40 and I-70 corridors, was costing the U.S. economy over one billion dollars per week.

  Once on the ground in St. Louis, Art rented a car. He could have made a flight connection all the way to Springfield, but figured that driving from St. Louis would provide him with more cover. The drive to Springfield would be about three hours down I-44. And, again to provide himself with some cover, Art decided to go to Branson, rather than directly to Springfield.

  Although he had heard of Branson, Missouri, this was the first time he had ever visited the town. The WELCOME TO BRANSON sign indicated that the population was six thousand, but when he drove down Highway 76, known locally as the Strip, he could swear that there were at least that many in the parking lot of just one of the many theaters.

  Art pulled into a small and unassuming motel on Gretna Road. The lobby was little larger than a telephone booth, and nobody was behind the counter. The counter was filled with brochures of the various shows and entertainment venues. Art rang the little bell.

  “Yes, sir,” a man said, coming out of a little room from behind the counter. “Can I help you?”

  “I’d like a room.”

  “Yes, sir, and for how long?”

  “Oh, three days should do it,” Art said. He picked up one of the brochures and started looking through it.

  “Are you a country music fan?” the clerk asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you are going to love Branson then. We have the best musical shows in the country, if you ask me.”

  “I’m sure I will enjoy myself,” Art said, as he filled out the registration form. He passed it back to the clerk and the clerk looked at it for a moment, then chuckled.

  “Jensen. I’ll bet you don’t know that you have a very famous name,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “Well, maybe it’s not quite so famous now. But I’m a western history buff.” He pulled a book out from under the counter. The title on the cover was Gunfighters of the Old West.

  “This is a very good book if you are into such things,” he said. “It has stories of all the famous old gunfighters, men like Wild Bill Hickock, Bat Masterson, Wyatt Earp, Falcon MacCallister, and the fella some say was the best of ’em all, Smoke Jensen.”

  “Is that a fact?” Art asked. “Well, sir, then I had better make sure I don’t do anything to dishonor the name.”

  The proprietor chuckled. “I’m sure you won’t,” he said.

  That night Art had dinner, then went to a show. The show ended with waving flags, and a salute to all veterans. For someone who had been living in the jaded society of Washington, D.C., the almost-over-the-top patriotism was refreshing.

  After the show, Art drove the forty miles into Springfield. The data on Taleb indicated that he lived alone, in an apartment, over the top of the Smoke Shop.

  It was after midnight when Art drove by the little shop. A sign in front advertised EXOTIC HOOKAH TOBACCO FROM THE MIDEAST.

  Finding a used-car lot a block down the street, he pulled the car in and parked it with the others. That way the casual passerby would not see a car sitting alone somewhere.

  Wearing dark shirt, trousers, and gloves, Art stayed in the shadows as he moved up the alley toward the Smoke Shop. Reaching the rear of the shop, he used the drainpipe as a means of climbing to the second story. There, he opened a window and let himself in. Once inside, he put on a dark hood, exactly like the hood Taleb had worn when he killed Bernie Gelb.

  Stopping by the kitchen, Art looked through the cooking utensils until he found what he was looking for. The butcher knife was long, and the blade was sharp.

  Moving down the hallway, Art could hear snoring coming from the bedroom. Stepping into the bedroom, he moved quietly to the side of the bed, then turned on the bedside lamp.

  There was only one person in the bed and Art could easily identify him from the pictures he had seen on the DVD.

  Taleb woke up, and seeing Art standing over him, wearing a hood, gasped in fear.

  “Balli Daftar Taleb?” Art asked.

  “Yes. Who are you? What do you want?” Taleb asked, his voice cracking with fear.

  “Was it like this for Bernie Gelb? You took him from his apartment in the middle of the night, didn’t you?” Art asked in a low, hissing voice.

  “What?”

  “You do remember Bernie Gelb, don’t you?”

  “The Jew, yes, I—” Taleb started, then realizing that he might not want to confess to knowing him, changed in midsentence. “No, I . . . I don’t know who you are talking about.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Balli Daftar Taleb. I get upset when people lie to me.”

  “I . . . it wasn’t my fault,” Taleb said. “I wanted to let him go.”

  Suddenly Taleb reached under his pillow and produced a pistol. Seeing that Art was armed only with a butcher knife, he smiled as he pointed the pistol at the intruder.

  “There is an old Arab saying,” Taleb said with an evil smile. “Never take a knife to a gunfight.”

  “Actually, I believe that is Irish,” Art said calmly. “You did kill Gelb, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. And the Jordanian and the Italian and the Jewish cow.”

  “Well, when I kill you I will settle accounts for a lot of people, won’t I?” Art said.

  “How are you going to kill me, when I have the gun?” Taleb said, pointedly aiming it. Art saw his finger tightening on the trigger.

  Reacting quickly, so quickly that Taleb was unable to even fathom what was happening, Art slapped the gun hand aside. The gun went off, but the bullet plunged harmlessly into the wall. At almost the same time, Art brought his right hand around quickly, the blade of the knife slicing about two inches deep into the front of Taleb’s neck.

  Taleb, his eyes showing shock, put his hands to his neck in an attempt to stop the bleeding. The blood poured through his fingers.

  “This is for Bernie Gelb, and the others you murdered,” Art said, stepping closer to the bed.

  Watching the news from his hotel room the following night, Art saw the report.

  “A grisly discovery was made at the Smoke Shop located in the nine hundred block of West Sunshine early today,” the news anchor on KYTV said. “The Smoke Shop, which specializes in Middle Eastern tobaccos, was run by an Iraqi named Balli Daftar Taleb. KY3’s Karl Anderson files this report.”

  “Steve, when Jerry Balder came to work today, he found the severed head of his employer, Balli Daftar Taleb.”

  “Robbery, Karl?” Steve as
ked.

  Karl shook his head. “Apparently not. According to Mr. Balder, there was no sign of any rifling of the cash register, nor did anything else appear to be missing. And, even more telling, and chilling, is the condition of the head. It was found wearing a black hood, much like those worn by the terrorists who have made videos of themselves with their prisoners. Those hoods have become all too familiar to American TV viewers as we have seen men, and women, killed by their captors.”

  “Karl, is there any significance to the fact that Mr. Taleb was Arab, and that he was found wearing just such a hood?”

  “It seems that there is,” Karl replied. “For indeed, today, we have learned from our sources that the U.S. Justice Department had attempted to investigate Mr. Taleb for complicity in the beheading of Bernie Gelb a couple of years ago.”

  “Did they find any connection?”

  “They were unable to continue the investigation,” Karl explained. “The ACLU demanded that the evidence which was leading them to investigate Taleb be made public, but the Justice Department, fearing that making that information public would put into danger some of their underground contacts in the Middle East, refused to make that information available. Because of that, the federal court sided with the ACLU and issued a cease and desist order on any further investigation.”

  “So what you are saying is, there appears to be some linkage between that suspicion and the killing and beheading of Taleb?”

  “At this point, there is no way of knowing for sure,” Karl said. “But, in addition to the hood that the severed head was wearing, there was one more thing that would lead one to think this. Protruding from the mouth of the victim was a solitary playing card. The ace of spades.”

  “Is there any significance to that?”

  “Again, it is only speculation,” Karl said. “But some of our viewing audience may recall that last month, Abdulla Balama Shamat, a rug dealer in Dallas, was found dead in his shop, also with the ace of spades prominently displayed. And, like Taleb, there were very strong suspicions that Shamat had deep ties with the terrorists.”

  “So, we are dealing with what? Someone who is seeking revenge?”

  “Of course, that is always a possibility, a relative or close friend of Bernie Gelb, perhaps, but police say that isn’t likely.”

  “Oh? Why not?”

  “Well, for one thing, whoever did this seems to be a professional. There was not one piece of evidence found at the scene. I’m told that there aren’t even any fingerprints.”

  “What about the weapon?”

  “Even the weapon that was used deepens the mystery,” Karl said. “The killer used a common butcher knife, and in fact, left it at the scene. It almost certainly came from the kitchen of the victim.”

  “Perhaps so. But I doubt that there is going to be too many tears shed over the deaths of these two men. In fact, a great deal of fresh evidence, directly linking Shamat with the Jihad of Allah, and, more specifically, with the rape and murder of young Amber Pease, has been leaked to the press. I would not be the least bit surprised if the same thing doesn’t happen with Taleb. Now that the constraints are off, I’m certain that the investigation will be continued, this time without ACLU interference. And I wouldn’t be surprised if we found Mr. Taleb very much involved in some of the more heinous crimes perpetrated by the terrorists.”

  “It sounds as if there is some personal vigilante out there, doing his best to make things right,” Steve said.

  “That is so, Steve,” Karl answered. “And indeed, some of the policemen who are working the case are already comparing the ‘Ace of Spades,’ as they are now calling him, with the vigilante portrayed by Charles Bronson, in the Death Wish movies. And, like his character, this vigilante, I feel, will garner some public support.”

  “Thanks, Karl, good work. In Jefferson City yesterday, a spokesman for the governor’s office said that he would—”

  The report ended in midsentence when Art picked up the remote and clicked the TV off. He had left the ace of spades with Shamat, and now with Taleb, not to garner any public support for what he was doing, but to send a message. He wanted whoever was the head of the group that called itself the Jihad of Allah to know that someone was on their trail.

  Art put on his jacket and went out to the parking lot to get to his car. He had another show to see tonight.

  The Potomac Mall parking garage, Alexandria, Virginia

  When Nighthorse stepped out of the elevator on the fourth level of the parking garage, he saw the lights flash one time in the Lincoln Navigator. He walked across the garage and got into the car.

  Giles was behind the steering wheel, and he chuckled. “I feel like a character in a Tom Clancy novel,” he said. “Arranging secret meetings in secret places.”

  “I know,” Nighthorse said. “At least we know that there is no likelihood of our conversation being overheard here.”

  “You saw the news coming out of Springfield, Missouri?” Giles asked.

  “I saw it.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think our . . . operative . . . is doing exactly what we intended him to do.”

  “Yes,” Giles said. “The only thing is, I wish—” He stopped in midsentence.

  “You wish what?”

  “I wish he weren’t so damn flamboyant about it. Shamat found spread-eagled with his pants in his mouth. Taleb beheaded.”

  “Sort of poetic justice, though, don’t you think? Duplicating the crimes they committed?”

  “That’s not what we set out to do,” Giles said.

  “Oh? What did we set out to do? If we had been able to bring them to trial, we would have called for the death penalty, would we not?”

  “Yes, but they would have been executed in a structured way.”

  “Right. And everyone would have known about it, and would have drawn from it the inference that if you commit a capital crime against an American citizen, you are going to pay for it,” Nighthorse said.

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t you see, that’s exactly what Jensen is doing. He is showing the terrorists that if they commit a capital crime against the U.S., they will pay for it. And since he doesn’t have the structure of a public trial to do the job for him . . . he has to find some other way.”

  “I suppose you are right,” Giles said. He sighed. “I just hope this doesn’t all blow back in our faces.”

  “Mr. Secretary, let’s remember who is taking the real risk here. It could be our careers, it could be Art Jensen’s life.”

  “You’re right,” Giles said. “You are absolutely right. You have my word, Nighthorse, you will never hear another peep of indecision from me. You and General Jensen will have my one hundred percent support.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Secretary. That’s all either of us can ask for.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Prince Azeer Lal Qambar stood at the window of his forty-second-floor apartment, and looked out over the skyscrapers and commerce of Midtown Manhattan.

  “The ace of spades?” he said.

  “Yes, Al Sayyid,” Hamdi replied. “It was found with both martyrs.”

  “This is not good, Hamdi. It means that someone has penetrated our network. Someone is providing the Americans with information.”

  “Surely, Prince Qambar, you do not believe that the American government killed Shamat and Taleb?”

  “Do you think they did not?”

  Hamdi shook his head. “I think it is against the American law to do such a thing. And I do not think the Americans have the courage to do such a thing. You have seen how slowly they react to everything. We attacked and killed them with impunity until nine-eleven, and not once did the Americans strike back.”

  “If it was not the American government who killed Shamat and Taleb, who was it?”

  Hamdi shook his head. “This, I do not know,” he replied. “But I think perhaps it is the act of one man, and he is working outside the government.”

  “Why woul
d one man do such a thing?”

  “He may be what the Americans call a hot dog,” Hamdi said.

  “A hot dog?” Qambar asked, clearly puzzled by the term. He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “A hot dog is someone who does something in order to be noticed,” Hamdi said. “It is someone who seeks attention.”

  “He seeks attention?”

  “Yes.”

  Qambar was silent for a moment, then nodded his head. “Good, good. Let him seek attention. In that way, we will learn who he is. And when we do learn, we will give him the attention he seeks.”

  The Watergate Hotel, Washington, D.C.

  When Art let himself into the room it was empty. He waited for half an hour, but no one showed up. Then, just as he turned on the television and settled back to watch a TV show, the phone rang.

  “Yes?”

  “This is the dining room, sir. Your order will be right up.”

  Art started to say that he had made no order, but held back.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  Earlier today, Art had discovered an envelope under the potted plant just outside the door to his apartment. Inside the envelope was an electronic door key, of the type issued by hotels. It was wrapped by a single sheet of paper, and the only thing on the paper were the words Watergate—412.

  Less than five minutes after the telephone call, there was a light knock on his door.

  “Room service.” The voice was muffled.

  Art started toward the door, then thought better of it. Instead, he picked up his pistol and covered it with a towel as if he had just come from washing his hands.

  “Come in,” he called.

  The door opened and a cart was pushed in. At first, Art did not see the bellhop who was pushing the cart, because his back was turned as the door was being shut. But when the bellhop turned, Art gasped in surprise, then laughed.

  “Colonel Nighthorse!” he said. “Doing a little moonlighting, are you?”