by Roland Smith
Using the bed pillows, she stuffed them under the covers to make it appear she was sleeping there. She spent the night sitting up in the corner of the dining room, dozing with her gun close by. It was dramatic and quite paranoid. But it was also how the Leopard stayed alive.
In the morning she awoke and stretched. She tried putting the matter of the mysterious envelope out of her mind. But she could not. She recalled the details from when she had returned from running errands the previous day.
The envelope had not been there when she entered the house through the back door and passed through the dining room. She was positive. From upstairs, she heard the noise in the house below. It was almost certainly a door clicking open or shut. When she came downstairs to investigate, there it was. Immediately she assumed an intruder was in the house. So she cleared it room by room, gun drawn.
Someone was testing her. As she worked her way through the house, she would hear a noise or rustle in the next room. But upon entry, pistol at the ready, no one was there. She could not explain it. The Leopard did not like things for which there was no explanation.
Whatever it was that was causing the noises was no longer here. Malak shook her head. For a moment she wondered if she was losing it. The Leopard was beginning to hear ghosts.
There was a television set in the living room. The kitchen had been stocked with a few staples and she made a simple breakfast. As she ate, she watched the local news. Flipping through the channels she looked for any news story that might give her an indication of what the ghost cell could be planning. But she could find nothing.
She strolled to the front window and studied the street. Both sides of it were lined with parked cars. Somewhere among the sea of vehicles Ziv was watching. Like always. Now he was with Eben. She wondered if they were getting on each other’s nerves. Ziv was set in his ways. In what she knew of Eben, though one of Mossad’s best, he was aggressive, impulsive, and driven. Ziv was quiet, patient, and capable of both inner and outer stillness for hours at a time. Not the best combination of stakeout partners.
She was so antsy she knew she needed to get out of the house. As she was changing into running shoes the cell phone rang. Malak pulled the phone from her sweatshirt pocket and answered.
“Hello,” she said.
“Listen to me carefully and do not lie.” It was the same electronically disguised voice as before.
“A man named Tyrone Boone. Do you know this man?”
Malak was instantly on guard. Why would Number Two be asking her about Boone?
“I have heard the name. There were stories … legends, really. That he was a famous NOC agent of the American CIA. But I don’t believe he really exists. Tales of Boone’s exploits have been around for years. If there is or ever was a ‘Tyrone Boone’ he is very old. Or he’s a CIA fiction, a concoction of the American intelligence community to spread rumor and fear. The Leopard pays no attention to such nonsense.” The mention of Boone’s name had caught her off guard. All she could think of was to go on the attack.
“Why are you bothering me with this? If there even is a Tyrone Boone, he is no threat to us. I could easily kill an old man. Are we now afraid of ghosts and legends?” Malak tried to sound convincing.
There was silence on the other end for several seconds. Then the voice finally spoke.
“Never accuse me of being afraid of anything again.”
More silence. Malak could barely hear the sound of breathing through the phone. As if whoever was speaking was attempting to gain control of their emotions.
“Boone is no rumor. He is real. You are correct in that he has been active in intelligence work and is quite old. Never forget that even an old lion still has teeth and claws. He is a NOC agent for the U.S. government.”
Malak snorted. “And why would you believe such a ridiculous notion?”
“Because for years Mr. Boone worked as a … are you familiar with the term ‘roadie’?”
“Yes. I have heard it. Someone who works in the music business.”
“Correct. Mr. Boone is currently in the employ of a musical group known as Match. They are here in Chicago and were also in San Antonio. A roadie, traveling the world with musical groups, would have easy access to countries all over the world. Especially in those places where official agents of Western governments would be unwelcome. In many ways it is an ideal cover.”
“What does this have to do with anything? You are wasting my time!” Malak demanded.
“We think Mr. Boone is still acting as an agent for the U.S. government, investigating the ghost cell. And we have reason to believe he may have uncovered crucial intelligence regarding our plans.”
“Why would you think that?” Malak’s throat grew tight. She nearly choked the words out.
“Because Mr. Boone is currently running a team of former spies. Yesterday we arranged an ambush for him and his companions. They survived the attack unharmed. The operation was carefully planned. Yet they prevailed without a single casualty. Mr. Boone would seem to have some kind of sixth sense about these things.”
Malak gripped the phone so tightly her knuckles turned the color of cotton.
“So what if he has? The rumors and stories about this legendary Boone have been around forever. One old man—even if he is real, as you claim—is the mighty ghost cell afraid of an old man?” Malak tried to sound exasperated and impatient.
“We are afraid of no one and you will remember your place!” The synthesized voice shouted into the phone. “The cell survives and kills the infidels because we take no chances. Boone will be dealt with. However, the Chicago operation is aborted. You will remain here until tomorrow. Number One is flying in. He wants to meet with you. You are now Number Three. Preparations and discussions must be held to fill the two remaining spots left on the council of the Five. We will review candidates and discuss our next moves. You will meet me at 8:30 a.m. in Grant Park, on the east side of the Buckingham fountain.”
Malak’s pulse was pounding in her ears now. Things were unfolding quickly.
“Do you understand?” the voice asked again.
“Yes. How will I know you?”
“Take the phone with you. Stand at the fountain at the appointed time. Hold the phone to your left ear. Pretend you are listening to a conversation. I will meet you and take you to Number One.”
The phone went dead.
Boone. Malak breathed slowly in and out, thinking quickly. The cell was planning on taking him out. And he was in charge of keeping Angela and Q safe. Which meant they were also in harm’s way. She needed to get to Ziv. But she could not risk a call from inside the house.
It was time for the Leopard to go for a run.
The Leopard Pounces
Ziv and Eben sat quietly in the car. It was a silver sedan parked about one hundred yards down the street from the safe house. Eben thought this might have been the safest safe house he had ever seen. They had been watching for hours. No one had approached the house. Not a single person passed by who looked suspicious.
“Here she comes again,” Ziv said. He raised the binoculars and worked the focusing wheel with his finger. An elderly woman who lived four doors down from the safe house was out walking her white Pekingese dog.
Eben raised his arm, the sleeve falling back to reveal the Omega Seamaster watch. “The woman has brought the animal out every two hours, on the dot. Like clockwork.” It was all Ziv could do to refrain from putting his head in his hands.
“I do not think a woman in her eighties, owner of a small yappy dog, is an agent of the ghost cell,” Eben said.
“You can never tell. It would be the perfect cover. She could be providing regular updates on the Leopard. Perhaps it is the dog who is the spy,” Ziv said. “He looks so untrustworthy.”
Eben shook his head in disbelief.
“You and I have seen enough in our time in the game to know that no one is to be trusted,” Ziv said.
“I do not think the woman is a spy, Ziv.”
“Exactly. Which makes her immediately suspect. Why else would she walk the dog every two hours, exactly?” He pointed at Eben’s watch.
“Perhaps she is obsessive-compulsive and likes to stay on a regular schedule. Maybe the dog needs to stay on a regular schedule. I have heard old people like to stay on regular schedules. But you would know more about this than me,” Eben said.
“What? Why?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, you are old,” Eben said.
“I am not that old!” Ziv complained.
“Yes, you are.”
They were interrupted by the back door to the car opening and Malak tumbling inside. Both men were ashamed to admit they were startled and had instinctively gone for their guns.
“That is a good way for the Leopard to die,” Eben said, though he was disgusted with himself. He had been so intent on his argument with Ziv, he had neglected to notice that Malak was sneaking up on them.
“Malak, what are you doing here?” Ziv asked. He sat up in the front seat but did not turn to look at her as she slouched in the back. Concern was etched in his face and evident in his voice. It was unlike Malak to break protocol and contact him directly.
“I just received instructions to meet Number Two at Grant Park at 8:30 a.m. tomorrow on the east side of the Buckingham fountain. It was not safe to use any of the phones inside the house. The woman with the dog is making me suspicious. I couldn’t let her see me making a call outside the house. Jogging and keeping in shape are part of the Leopard’s regimen. So I jogged three blocks over and around the corner and came up behind your car, out of sight of the woman and her dog. Only to find the two of you arguing like a couple of old women.”
Eben and Ziv tried not to look sheepish. And failed.
“Give me the details of the meet again,” Ziv said. Malak repeated the instructions she had been given.
“So, tomorrow you will join this Number Two at Grant Park and then will be taken to an undisclosed location to be introduced to the leader of the vaunted ghost cell?” Ziv frowned as he considered these developments.
“If we can follow you, we can grab both One and Two,” Eben said.
“There’s more. The voice claiming to be Number Two asked me about Boone. They believe he is working for the government. And that he has uncovered something about their plans here in Chicago. They are aborting their attack. But they want to hold the meeting anyway, apparently since two of us are already here. You need to get word to him that his cover is blown.”
Ziv was quiet a moment. Then he shook his head.
“Boone will not relent,” he said. “Regardless of whether or not he has been compromised.”
“Boone will relent and get Angela and Q to safety. If anything happens to them, I will kill him myself. I told him so to his face in Texas.” Malak was suddenly angry. “They already tried to ambush him and failed. What happens if they try again and Angela is in the cross fire?”
“Yes, they tried, Malak, and they failed. Miserably. Boone and his team killed every single member of the assault team. I am not ashamed to say there is no one in our … business … who is better than Boone. No one. Do not fear, he will take every precaution to keep Angela and Q safe. But he will not give up a chance to end this. Boone will agree that we must proceed as if he is unaware the ghost cell suspects him. Sending Angela and Q away will tip our hand.” Ziv was patient.
Malak pounded on the back of the front seat in frustration. Ziv and Eben let her go until she composed herself.
“But they have canceled the attack—” Malak started to say.
“So they say,” Eben said, quietly interrupting her.
The realization began to dawn on Malak. Maybe they were all being played.
“Go to your meeting. Be the Leopard. Stay strong. Boone and his team will make sure Angela and Q are safe. We will stop them. We must stop them. Then you will be free, Malak. It will be over,” Ziv said quietly.
Malak let out a long sigh. She opened the car door, but before she left she looked at Ziv. “Tell Boone to remember what he promised me in Texas. Angela and Q are to be safe at all costs. Even if it means pulling the plug on all of this.”
“Malak, you and Angela are my blood. If Boone fails to keep her safe, it will not only be the Leopard he must answer to,” the old man said.
Malak left the car and jogged in the opposite direction of the safe house. She would take a circuitous route on her return. Making anyone watching think she had only been out for a run.
Ziv was silent a moment, thinking.
“What are you going to do?” Eben asked.
“What would you do if you were in my position?” Ziv replied.
Eben, unable to restrain himself, looked at his Omega Seamaster. “I think it is time to have a talk with Boone. In person,” he said.
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Ziv sighed and slumped in the passenger seat. Eben started the car and pulled out onto the street.
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 10
6:15 p.m. to 11:00 p.m. CST
Backwards and Forwards
Backstage at the United Center it was full-fledged, preconcert organized chaos. Roadies were moving the final pieces of equipment and the instruments into place. The noise from the crowd escalated as the concertgoers filed into the arena. Boone watched over the roadies—gesturing and pointing—and a walkie-talkie appeared to be permanently attached to his cheek. He was constantly chattering into it, all the while checking a tablet. His good-ole-boy drawl was continually giving orders and commands. I couldn’t figure out how he kept it all straight. He was flawlessly setting up for a major concert and trying to destroy a terrorist cell at the same time. Talk about multitasking.
Mom and Roger were in the greenroom backstage. It was like a glorified dressing room. It was the place where the musicians readied themselves and relaxed before the concert.
Once I asked my mom why it was called a “green” room since the rooms weren’t usually green. Apparently it came from the early days of theater performances in London. Most of the dressing rooms in fancier theaters were painted green. The name stuck.
Most acts had elaborate requirements for their greenrooms. Their contracts demanded they had to have certain foods, the thermostat had to be set at a certain temperature, or any of a million other odd requests. Of course Buddy T. was shouting at some poor concession person that the greenroom had the wrong kind of hand sanitizer. But that’s what Buddy T. does.
Mom and Roger were pretty low-key about their greenroom requirements. All they ever asked for was some bottled water and a vegetable tray. I toyed with the idea of getting one of the concession guys to switch out the veggies for a meat tray. Just to see the look on Roger’s face. And also so there would be some meat to eat. But since we’d just dodged the boarding-school bullet, practical jokes were probably not the best way to go.
Angela and I wandered around backstage. I didn’t like being cooped up in the greenroom. Angela was quiet and moody because P.K. had sent her a bunch of new info about Boone. As usual, Boone was busy, surrounded by people, trying to get a concert under way, and didn’t really have time to talk. Or he didn’t want to talk. Boone had already shared some of his secrets with us and promised to tell us everything. He just forgot the part about Angela being impatient. As far as she was concerned, Boone was responsible for keeping her mother alive. Boone and his secrets didn’t sit well with her.
“Okay, I know P.K. sent you more intel. You’re dying to tell someone. So spill,” I said. We stood off by ourselves behind a stack of crates. Angela opened her mouth as if she were going to complain about something, but then closed it.
“P.K. got into some kind of genealogy database at the National Archives. Lots of records, deeds, birth certificates, and other stuff to comb through, but P.K. is as curious about Boone as we are. Boone, or his exact double or whatever, has lived a long time. He changed his name ever so slightly every couple hundred years. P.K. found portraits and pictures of Boone with the
last name Bertoni, Beroni, and similar spellings, probably to throw people off track. I guess before computers and cameras he could just become someone else pretty easily,” she said.
“Why would he do that, though?” I asked.
Angela shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe so if he ran into people who knew him he could claim to be someone else or something. But I have a bigger question. Let’s just say Boone is some kind of … I don’t know … magician, like you said. And he’s been alive all this time. What’s he been doing?”
I thought of the pictures we’d seen of Boone in the woods in a Nazi uniform, the Civil War painting, and the other stuff we’d found out about him.
“A lot, from what we know, mostly fighting,” I said.
“Yeah, but why? If you could live all that time, why would you be in every single war?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. And I didn’t. “And now that I think of it, it sort of ruins the time-travel theory. Boone just has to be old somehow. If he could travel through time, couldn’t he go back in time and do stuff to stop wars, like, give Hitler poison or something?”
Angela nodded. “Anyway, P.K. found this portrait that dates to the 1100s. It’s of an Italian nobleman named Sir Tonye Borneo. From there until the early 1500s the name didn’t change. And in all that time there wasn’t a portrait or painting of him, at least not one P.K. could find. Then, he did find something,” she said.
She pulled out her phone and showed me a photo of a statue. “This was on an estate that belongs to the Borneo family in Italy.” The statue was Boone. But a younger version. Not the old, wrinkly model we were used to. And standing next to statue guy was a dog that looked like a younger Croc. The dog looked like Croc when he went after Speed in the coach. Younger and friskier, not old and smelly like he was now. But it was definitely him. It was an amazing likeness—for a statue.
