by Joseph Flynn
As a last resort, and purely for spite, she might send a copy to James J. McGill.
Give him the chance to break a few noses for real.
Shortly before Galia decided to execute her counterattack, she would have the bugging equipment removed from Rangel’s house, leaving no trace of how the recordings were made and preserving Roosevelt’s position within the enemy camp.
Buenos Aires, Argentina
Special Agent Abra Benjamin looked at her reflection in a full-length mirror, unsure of the presentation she should make. She knew how to dress for the office. How to dress for a formal dinner. How to dress for a date with a guy who … damnit, wouldn’t remind her of Byron DeWitt. But she was uncertain about how to dress for her debut as a high-priced hooker.
A display of cleavage was a given, but just how much was a matter of debate. Too little and she wouldn’t look the part; too much and she’d look cheap. The same question applied to how much leg to show. A hemline above the knees, sure, but nowhere near a minidress. That would not only be déclassé but also, God help her, inappropriate for someone her age.
She decided to go with a happy medium in both cases. She needed to get Busby to look at whatever his preferred anatomical feature was. That and keep his eyes off her hands. Her fingernails were the only giveaway. She had the face and the figure for a high-end, if slightly mature, call girl, but her nails, though neatly trimmed and polished, were too short for a courtesan. She could have gotten extensions or overlays, but she wanted to keep her hands suited for punching, gouging, poking and shooting. She’d be carrying her gun in her handbag. A pair of flat, rubber-soled shoes, too.
She’d kick off her spiked heels if she had to beat feet.
Abra had finally arrived at a look that was acceptable, if not personally pleasing, when her cell phone chimed. Byron DeWitt was calling; she’d just been about to call him. Tell him she was on her way to nab Busby and would have her phone off until she’d cuffed the bastard.
She’d been looking forward to hearing Byron’s surprise when she informed him she’d found their target. Only the SOB had to spoil her fun. Damn him.
He didn’t even say hello. Only: “We’ve got him, Abra. We’ve got Busby.”
“What?” She couldn’t believe it. “You’ve arrested him?”
“No.”
“Somebody else arrested him?”
“No.”
“Then what the hell are you talking about?”
She knew it was impolitic to talk to her boss that way but didn’t care.
For his part, DeWitt didn’t seem to notice. “We know where he is right now.”
“So do I.” She gave him the address in Punta del Este. “Busby’s pimp set me up with him. Apparently, he likes Jewish girls.”
To his credit, the deputy director said, “Well, good for you, Special Agent. That was fast work.”
“Yeah. You should see how I look. I’m going to knock Busby’s eyes out. Then when he’s blinded, I’ll cuff him and call the local cops.”
She was hoping Byron would fix on the comment about how she looked. Maybe ask for a peek on FaceTime. He didn’t. He addressed her mention of the police.
“About that: Don’t contact the locals.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to get into that right now. I’ll be sending an extraction team.”
He gave her a number to call.
“What? Why?”
“Because, Special Agent, you are going to expedite Mr. Busby’s return to the U.S.”
Christ, Abra thought, Byron was telling her to kidnap the guy.
“Are you sure about this?” she asked.
DeWitt responded indirectly. “I’m going to resign soon, Abra. My slot will be open for someone deserving to fill.”
It was easy to read between those lines. Who could be more deserving than the special agent who brought Tyler Busby back home to face justice?
“That’s good enough for me,” she said.
J. Edgar Hoover Building — Washington, DC
FBI Deputy Director Byron DeWitt felt only slightly guilty about what he’d just ordered Special Agent Abra Benjamin to do. If things went wrong, he’d take the brunt of the blowback, but Abra would get scorched, too. Might well lose her job, and then she’d have to devise a whole new future to build.
He was sure she’d see that, too, and soon. Once the initial excitement of thinking she might leapfrog to the upper reaches of the FBI organizational table wore off. Still, she’d do everything she needed, up to and including burning down Montevideo, to get away with Busby in chains.
Thinking about the capital of Uruguay being put to the torch, DeWitt felt bad about betraying Captain Calvo and Lieutenant Reyes. The FBI had a reputation for running roughshod over other police agencies, foreign and domestic, and much of it was deserved. DeWitt had always tried to play nice, but he couldn’t take the chance that a small country in South America might give Busby the wiggle room he need to wind up in, say, Beijing.
If the Chinese wanted to, they could allow Busby a fair amount of freedom within their borders. He might even live like a member of the politburo. Twit Washington with photos of himself enjoying the high life. That would immediately cause both domestic and international turmoil.
It was impossible to believe the U.S. would go to war with China over Busby, but relations would grievously suffer, and if American ships or aircraft had close encounters with their Chinese counterparts, bloodshed might easily ensue. Once that dam had been breached …
DeWitt didn’t like to think what might happen.
Or some deep thinker in the CIA might decide the thing to do was assassinate Busby. Show Busby, the Chinese and the rest of the world that no one was beyond the reach of the United States. Succeed or fail, something like that might also lead to a far greater conflict.
So DeWitt had decided to take his chances with offending tiny, non-nuclear Uruguay.
He’d send flowers and chocolates if Montevideo got upset.
As if bringing in Busby wasn’t enough, DeWitt still had Philip Brock to consider. He was already under the lock and key of the Uruguayan National Police. The deputy director wasn’t quite ready to stage a raid to put his hands on Brock. But he’d be damned if that prick was going to skate away free either.
DeWitt picked up his phone again. He called the embassy of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan. Speaking to only one intermediary was necessary before the ambassador came on the line.
“Mr. Ambassador,” DeWitt said, “I apologize for calling you so late on a weekend.”
“For matters of importance, sir, I am always available to my country’s American friends.”
“Mr. Ambassador, within the past hour, I was informed by the National Police of Uruguay in Montevideo that Congressman Philip Brock has been arrested for entering that country on a false passport. I immediately requested that Brock be held as a person of interest in the planned assassination of President Grant.
“What I need to tell you now, sir, is that the FBI strongly suspects and is developing evidence to show that Mr. Brock also killed United States Senator Howard Hurlbert and your own personal physician, Bahir Ben Kalil.”
The ambassador took a moment before asking, “How strong is your evidence, sir?”
“Persuasive enough that Mr. Brock fled the United States using a false passport.”
The ambassador asked, “And you personally, sir, do you believe that Brock killed Ben Kalil?”
“I do. I called not only to share that information but also to inform you that Brock has told the Uruguayans that he is a political refugee, a man being framed by my government. That is simply a lie. Still, Brock has offered to post a huge sum of money to be allowed to remain free in Uruguay. My police contact there told me that it is at least a possibility bail will be granted.
“The FBI has urged the Uruguayans not to do this. Brock might find a way to run and hide. Senior U.S. officials will be talking to their counterparts in Montevideo in th
e morning. It would be helpful, sir, if Jordan would add its voice to ours in this matter.”
The ambassador paused before saying, “I will contact Amman.”
“Thank you, sir. That’s all I can ask.”
Breaking the connection, DeWitt added, “But it’s not all I can hope for.”
Ideally, the Uruguayans would send Brock back to the U.S. with no muss or fuss … but snatching the bigger fish, Busby, from right under their noses might make them cranky. It was possible they would even release Brock out of spite. DeWitt wouldn’t blame them if they did.
He just hoped he’d prepared adequately for that possibility. The late Bahir Ben Kalil had been a close friend of the ambassador, as well as his doctor. The dead Jordanian doctor was also the twin of Dr. Hasna Kalil. DeWitt had met her when her brother’s body had been found.
Ostensibly, a physician who worked with the charitable organization Doctors Without Borders, Hasna Kalil was rumored, if not yet proven, to also work with terrorist groups in the Middle East. It was said she used her surgical skills to extract information from prisoners: operating on them without bothering to use anesthesia.
DeWitt was counting on two things now. One, the Jordanian ambassador was already in contact with his nation’s capital. Word would be passed to their embassy in Montevideo. Even if the Americans acted badly, the Jordanians had done nothing wrong. They could ask for Brock to be surrendered to them to stand trial for the murder of one of their prominent citizens.
If the Uruguayans honored that request, the FBI would agree to share its evidence against Brock with the Jordanians only if they would agree to send Brock back to the U.S. to stand trial for conspiring to assassinate Patricia Grant.
Two, on the possibility that the Uruguayans might be steamed enough to honor neither the U.S. nor the Jordanian request for extradition, the ambassador would contact Dr. Hasna Kalil, have her and an assortment of her jihadi colleagues on hand in South America. They could snatch Philip Brock when the Uruguayans freed him. Let Brock discover how much pain a vengeful sister with a medical degree could inflict on the man who’d killed her twin brother.
A small part of DeWitt was rooting for that outcome.
Not that anyone could blame him if that was what happened.
All he’d done was make a call to the embassy of a friendly country.
Great Falls, Virginia
Though he was far from any sort of martial artist, Edmond Whelan managed to kick T.W. Rangel’s front door open. It wasn’t all that sturdy. People in that Great Falls neighborhood had little reason to fear home invaders. Further aiding Whelan’s break-in, the lots on which the houses in the area sat were large and densely landscaped to ensure privacy.
The only immediate concern Whelan had was Rangel’s burglar alarm system. Whelan estimated he had 30 seconds to disarm it before it signaled the security company that something was amiss. At that point, a call would be made to the homeowner. If he or she didn’t report in a convincing tone that all was copacetic, a security company car would be sent and the police would be notified. In a place like Great Falls, the private and public guardians of the well-heeled would race to see who could come to the rescue first.
Whelan wouldn’t have the time to retrieve his treatise, much less give Rangel the beating he deserved. Fortunately, from their past acquaintance, Whelan knew the security code for the alarm. The old bastard had delegated the chore of fingering the keypad to him many a time. Assuming Rangel hadn’t changed the numbers recently. Say shortly after he’d had Whelan’s property stolen.
Whelan’s concern about the alarm vanished when he heard his former mentor rummaging through his nearby office and cursing about his lack of progress. With good reason, Rangel wasn’t counting on anyone else saving him. The old alarm code hadn’t been changed.
Rangel’s complaints grew louder and more desperate as he looked for … what? His old army Colt .45 semi-auto? The fucker had worked a desk job at the Pentagon in the early Vietnam War era. He had made one three-day trip to Saigon. He’d had more to fear from VD than the VC during his 72-hour tour of duty.
Still, if Rangel put his hands on the weapon that would seriously change the complexion of the night’s events. Whelan thought he should have gone home to get his own firearm before setting out for Virginia. With a bitter taste in his mouth, he felt he was getting all too good at recognizing his mistakes a beat too late.
He dashed into Rangel’s study as two things happened.
Three, if you counted the gunshot.
Somebody moving far faster slipped past him.
Rangel finally found his old sidearm and with a huge smile said, “Ha!”
He pointed the weapon at Whelan with every intention of firing it.
The gun did fire, but, intent on Whelan, the old man completely missed seeing the guy who grabbed his wrist with one hand and grasped the barrel of the weapon with the other. The second intruder shoved the barrel upward, causing the trigger guard to break Rangel’s index finger as the shot went into the ceiling. Rangel screamed in pain, holding his damaged right hand against his chest with his left hand. The man who’d taken the weapon pushed Rangel down into his desk chair.
Whelan was about to slip away when the gun was again pointed at him, a moment before the man holding it even looked at him. Whelan froze in place. The man turned his head and smiled.
“Good choice,” he said. “You know who I am? Just nod if you do.”
Whelan nodded.
“Who’s this old fart?” He pointed his free thumb at Rangel.
“His name is Thomas Winston Rangel.”
“Is he anybody important?”
“He likes to think so.”
“What’s he do?”
“He thinks for people who aren’t smart enough to do it for themselves.”
“Isn’t that what you do, too?”
A moment of honesty overtook Whelan. “Used to. I got fired today.”
Despite his pain, Rangel managed to laugh at his former protégé.
Whelan said, “Do me a favor and shoot him first, will you?”
Eugene Beck sighed and told Whelan, “See, that’s how you got in trouble, talking like that. What do either of you dipshits know about killing people?”
Punta del Este, Uruguay
Special Agent Abra Benjamin’s push-up bra was annoying the hell out of her as the taxi in which she was riding pulled into the semicircular driveway of the address she’d been given, but she still spotted an anomaly. A woman just up the street was pushing a baby buggy. Hell, as fancy as the thing was, they probably called it a perambulator. Fit right in with the flossy neighborhood. What didn’t fit to Abra’s eye was the woman steering Junior down the block.
She was a bit too lean and fit. The spring in her step belonged to an athlete not a nanny. Abra read her immediately for what she was: a cop. Maybe someone working an angle of her own, not what her boss had told her to do.
The taxi driver announced the fare in English. Abra paid him and added a substantial tip. The guy hadn’t ogled her in the rear view mirror, hadn’t made any wisecracks about her appearance. From what she could tell, he’d taken her to her destination without going out of the way. His thank you even sounded genuinely grateful about being tipped well.
“Would you mind if I ask you something?” Abra said.
“What is that, señora?” His English was pretty good, too.
“In your country is it common for a woman to be out walking her baby at night.”
“I saw her, too,” he said. “No, it is not common in this place.”
“You think she’s a cop?”
The driver thought about it. “The police presence here is more …”
Abra made a guess as to the word the driver wanted. “Straightforward?”
“I was going to say honest but, yes, I like your word. Is it a problem for you, if she is the police? If so, we can come back in ten minutes. No extra charge.”
“No, that’s all right, thank you.
”
They both turned their heads as the woman pushing the buggy passed by the driveway. She must have noticed the idling taxi sitting in front of the house, but she didn’t look their way. That in itself struck Abra as suspicious.
She asked the driver, “You think, maybe, she could be the lookout for someone doing something they shouldn’t?”
He shook his head. “No, she is the police.”
“Yeah, I think so, too.”
Just what the hell she needed, Abra thought, a snooping cop.
She said to the driver, “You have a cell phone?”
“Yes, señora.” He gave her his number without even being asked.
“If you’re still on duty,” she said, “I might need a ride later.”
“I work all night. It would be my pleasure.”
Abra exited the taxi just in time to see an Asian woman with an infant in her arms open the front door of the house. “Are you having trouble with that driver?” she asked in English.
“No,” Abra said. “Just took a minute to get the right money to pay him.”
The taxi pulled out of the driveway.
The baby turned to look at Abra, staring at her wide-eyed. Cute kid.
The woman holding the infant said, “And you have also been paid, correct?”
“Yes, I have.”
Satisfied that all accounts were current, the woman opened the door wide.
“Then come in, please. My husband is already in bed waiting for you.”
Abra stepped inside, telling the woman, “Nice to meet you, too.”
Great Falls, Virginia
“That was some slick driving, Leo,” John Tall Wolf said. “My compliments.”
Tall Wolf and Leo had spotted the car that pulled into Thomas Winston Rangel’s driveway about a mile out from the man’s house.
Well, Leo had noticed it first.
He’d said, “That ol’ boy ahead of us, he’s up to something, and I don’t think it’s throwing toilet paper into people’s trees.”
