by Roland Smith
“Why do we care where Buddy is?” she asked. “As far as I’m concerned it’s better for everyone if he stays lost.”
“Boone has his reasons,” Callaghan said.
We followed him to the lobby where Boone was waiting for us outside the elevators.
Angela was still full of questions for Boone, but for whatever reason, Boone wasn’t up for talking about it yet. It’s probably why he sent Agent Callaghan after us. Still, she couldn’t resist twisting the knife a little. As we walked across the lobby she asked Boone, “Do you know anything about the Bill of Rights?”
“What? No … I mean, I know that we have one and … why do you ask?” he stammered.
“It’s for a school project on the Constitution. You’ve been around so long, I thought you might know some of the authors personally,” she said.
Agent Callaghan laughed. “Boone is old, but he’s not that old!”
“You’d be surprised,” I said. Callaghan looked at me with narrowed eyes for a second then looked away.
“Let’s head outside to the intellimobile and see if we can get eyes on Buddy T.,” Boone interrupted. It was just like him to change the subject, and Angela looked at me and rolled her eyes. I had a feeling if Boone didn’t start spilling the beans soon he and Angela were headed for a massive confrontation. Even if it meant exposing his secret to the group. Angela was so wound up about her mom she was past the point of caring what happened to him.
Luckily we didn’t have to walk too far, since the intellimobile was parked out on the street in front of the hotel. Boone knocked on the door and X-Ray let us in. I had finally gotten used to the old one. It was still a shock to see the new version. Although X-Ray had added those touches only he could. Mainly all kinds of extra monitors, keyboards, electronics gear, and stuff that looked like it belonged on some spacecraft that hadn’t even been invented yet. X-Ray’s grin never left his face. He sat in the chair and from the looks of all the gizmos and gadgets surrounding him, I was pretty sure he could run the entire country.
“X, I need you to get inside the hotel’s security cameras and pull up footage from the last three hours. Buddy T. has gone off the grid and we need to find him,” Boone said.
“Buddy T. has gone off the grid?” X-Ray repeated. “Why isn’t that a good thing?”
“It’s not necessarily bad. But something smells,” Agent Callaghan said. “I just want to find him and ask him a few questions.”
X-Ray’s hands flew over the keyboards. None of us were sure exactly what it was he was doing, but somehow he did it and the lobby of the Four Seasons appeared on the screen. X-Ray scrolled and scrolled through the footage. Buddy T. never showed.
“Maybe he just called the hotel and checked out,” I said.
Boone shook his head. “He had luggage. Wouldn’t leave it behind.”
“There he is,” Callaghan said.
X-Ray slowed the video to normal speed and we watched as Buddy T. sped into the lobby. It was readily apparent his rage from the argument at the United Center hadn’t dissipated at all. His face was still twisted into an angry red mass. He stomped across the lobby like a bull ready to charge. He spoke to no one, just entered the elevators and was gone.
X-Ray scrolled through the footage for the next several minutes but we never saw Buddy T. emerge.
“Could he have left some other way?” Angela asked.
“Maybe,” Callaghan said. “He could have used the auto checkout on his TV and then left through one of the other exits. X-Ray, can you pull up the other—”
“Wait, go back,” I said. “X-Ray, scroll back … back … right there … stop.”
The image froze on a guy coming out of the elevator. He didn’t look anything like the normal Buddy T. Buddy always wore expensive suits, with shoes made from the finest cordovan leather, a Rolex watch, and Hermes ties. This guy didn’t look anything like that. He was wearing a plain blue baseball cap with a Chicago White Sox hoodie, jeans, and really bright yellow Nike high-top tennis shoes. He was also wearing glasses, which I’d never seen Buddy T. wear before. The frames were big ovals and obscured a lot of his face. But I’d been around him enough to notice his mannerisms and the way he walked. It was definitely Buddy.
“Are we sure that’s him?” Agent Callaghan asked.
“He has the same walk,” I said.
X-Ray pressed a button and the recording played. The newly dressed Buddy walked across the lobby and out the door. More buttons were pushed and a facial-recognition program ran over a captured image of Buddy’s face and in a few seconds the words “Identity Confirmed” appeared on the screen.
“I’ll be darned,” Boone said. “Good catch, Q. X-Ray, get into the exterior cameras. Find out where he goes.”
X-Ray reminded me of a concert pianist. He bent over the keyboard and typed faster than I thought humanly possible. His concentration was total. But a few seconds later, we had a shot of Buddy T. getting into a cab outside the Four Seasons.
“Traffic cams, X,” Boone said. “Don’t lose that cab!”
Now X-Ray really went to work. He hacked into the Chicago traffic cam system. Somehow he pulled up their archived footage. We followed the cab from the front of the hotel until it turned on Michigan Avenue. A few blocks away it stopped. Buddy T. got out, crossed the street, waited at the curb, then climbed into another cab. Only this time he was reversing direction on Michigan Avenue, back toward the hotel. But about a mile down the street, the cab pulled over, he got out and walked west to State Street. He went inside a Starbucks and we couldn’t see him for a while.
X-Ray spent a couple minutes fast-forwarding through the recorded footage. While we waited my itch was getting worse. I don’t even remember reaching into my pants pocket, but without realizing it, a deck of cards was in my hands. I was absentmindedly practicing a swivel cut. Finally, Buddy T. emerged and grabbed another cab, this time traveling up State Street toward the museums. But he didn’t go quite that far. He got out of the cab, walked back to Michigan Avenue, and cut into a twenty-four-hour drugstore. We thought we’d lost him but he came out a while later with a shopping bag and hailed another cab.
“What is he doing?” Angela said.
“It’s called ‘running errands.’ Some agencies refer to it as ‘picking up the dry cleaning,’” Agent Callaghan said. “It means he’s doing normal-looking stuff to make sure he isn’t being followed. It’s a classic countersurveillance technique.”
“But that … that would mean … Buddy T. is …” Angela couldn’t quite say it.
“It would mean that Buddy T. is a spy,” Boone said.
“And we’ve got trouble,” X-Ray said. “He’s got into another cab headed toward Lower Wacker Drive.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s a Chicago street. It feels like you’re underground when you’re on it. There’s about a million places to hide down there. X-Ray, can you keep eyes on him?” Boone asked.
It was quiet for what seemed like several tense hours. The only sound in the van was our breathing and X-Ray’s fingers clicking the keys. Finally X-Ray pounded on his keyboard in frustration.
“Sorry, Boone, it’s dark down there, most of the lights don’t work, some of the cameras are out. I’m afraid I lost him,” X-Ray said. He sounded sad. The man took such pride in his work. He didn’t like it when he couldn’t come through.
“Don’t worry about it,” Boone said, “we’ll find him another way.”
“So Buddy T. is in the wind,” Agent Callaghan said.
“Poof!” I muttered. Boone heard me and gave me a curious look.
And I tried really hard not to think about the itch.
The Martyr
Buddy T., or Buddy Tufayl, as he referred to himself, found the van where he’d been told it would be. It was parked in a dark corner of Lower Wacker Drive near a construction site. It was covered in a light layer of dust. It was white with red letters on the side that read “Citywide Plumbing.” And beneath tha
t was a slogan, also in red, “You Don’t Have To Live With A Drip.” The key was hidden in a small magnetized box under the rear bumper.
Buddy retrieved the key and opened the back doors. Stepping quickly inside he found everything waiting for him. Just like Number One promised. Buddy quickly changed into the Citywide Plumbing overalls. Buddy T. was Number Two in the ghost cell. He couldn’t help but smile as he started up the van. The plan had worked to perfection.
As he drove he pulled out his phone and placed a call.
“I’m on my way,” was all he said.
The next call would be more difficult. His instructions were to call Number One when he had retrieved the van. Buddy took a deep breath. While the plan had worked perfectly, something kept nagging at him. Numbers Three, Four, and Five were now dead. All of them killed in the last few days. The way the cell was structured, he only knew that they were dead. He didn’t know the details, other than the sketchy accounts of the deaths of their aliases on the Internet. Number Three, Miss Ruby Spencer, was a victim of an automobile accident. Number Four, a man named Paul Smailes, was missing in the Kitty Hawk area, thought to be a victim of the violent hurricane that had recently passed through the area. Of course Number Five had died during an interrogation of the Leopard. He knew about that. But on the others the information was sketchy. If a U.S. intelligence agency was on to them, then details had intentionally been kept to a minimum. Number One had no additional specifics, or if he did, did not offer them.
What Buddy did know is that they all somehow perished within hours of meeting with Anmar, the Leopard. She was the common denominator. And frankly, she scared him. The Leopard was legendary for her viciousness. It had taken some doing, but he finally convinced Number One the Leopard had become a liability. Buddy had no desire to see her as part of the Five. Now she would be remembered as a martyr. When her body was recovered in Grant Park after the attack, the U.S. government would believe she had been responsible. But at least she would be off the board. It would allow them to go to ground and rebuild.
Buddy glanced down at the phone. Truthfully, as frightened as he was of the Leopard, Number One terrified him more. Especially lately. Something had dramatically changed in his demeanor. For one thing, he seldom contacted Buddy directly. Occasionally he would send a messenger with a note, or Buddy would receive an untraceable e-mail telling him to buy a burner phone and call a number at a certain time. But for the past few months, he had insisted on numerous personal meetings.
These last weeks their activity and missions increased dramatically. Number One had been demanding, angry, and impatient. Buddy felt the attacks they planned were rushed, logistically problematic, and unnecessary. Trying to kidnap the president’s children, for example, had proved to be a disaster.
Lately though, Buddy knew better than to question Number One. His temper had become volcanic. After the problems with the car bombs in Kitty Hawk, Buddy had argued for caution. But Number One would not hear of it. Everything was to go ahead. Plans were to proceed without delay. So Buddy asked no questions.
For now, Buddy T. went along with whatever Number One wanted. He knew the other members of the Five had viewed him as a toady. But they didn’t have the experience with Number One that Buddy did. They went back a long way. Number One was just … different. There were things in Buddy’s life no one should ever be able to know but somehow Number One knew them. There were times when Buddy felt like Number One was always watching. That if he turned and looked over his shoulder he would find the leader of the ghost cell standing there, peering at him.
Whenever they met in person, Buddy left the meeting feeling uneasy. Number One would ask penetrating questions about things Buddy had done. The people he talked to, and what plans he was making. The strange part of it was, Buddy always had the feeling that Number One already knew the answers.
His palms had grown damp as he drove. But he could delay no longer. For all he knew, Number One could be watching him right now. He entered the number and pressed “send,” putting the phone on speaker. The phone rang once and someone answered, but remained silent.
“It’s me,” he said.
“Hello, Buddy Tufayl,” the voice on the other end said, “it’s almost time.”
“What are your instructions?” Buddy asked.
There was silence for a moment. Buddy felt a bead of sweat run from his forehead down between his eyes and along the bridge of his nose.
The voice gave Buddy his orders.
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 11
12:15 a.m. to 9:45 a.m. CST
Up All Night
Boone had Angela and me call Mom and Roger and tell them we were both beat and turning in for the night. Mom and Roger were still on a postconcert high and they were fine with it. Usually, if you call your parents to tell them you’re going to bed, they’re not going to ask many questions. I just hoped Mom didn’t walk down the hall and check on us. I was pretty sure she wouldn’t. Mom liked to revel in the success of a show for a while after it was over. As long as she knew we were safe, she’d trust us to be in our rooms. Which, of course, made me feel guilty for deceiving her. Like I said. I’m not cut out for this spy business.
Boone had Felix, Uly, and Vanessa in a vehicle patrolling around Lower Wacker Drive. Eben and Ziv were watching Malak. Inside the intellimobile it was me, Angela, X-Ray, Agent Callaghan, and Boone. And, of course, Croc, which significantly lowered the van’s air quality.
The new intellimobile had a monitor for each of us. There were four main high-definition monitors. But it also had several extra monitors that folded into and out of little nooks and crannies. It seemed like every time you turned around a monitor folded up or down from somewhere. Or was built into a console and silently dropped down from the celling or something. All of us except X-Ray were watching video footage of cameras from all around the city, looking for any sign of Buddy T. Agent Callaghan was watching bus and train terminals. Boone was watching the airports. Angela and I were sorting through the major hotels to see if Buddy had holed up somewhere else.
“Why are we doing this?” Angela groused. “If he’s gone, he’s gone. I still don’t understand why you don’t just pull my mom in.”
I hadn’t told Angela, or anyone else, about the itch. Which was getting worse by the moment.
“It’s got to be a setup,” Boone said. “Up till now, everything the cell has done has been secretive, unexpected, and compartmentalized. Now they’ve lost three of their highest-ranking members in the last few days, all of whom were last seen with your mother.”
“I don’t follow,” Angela said.
“They’re going against their playbook. An ambush in the middle of the day, in a deserted cornfield? That’s not their style. Then they want your mother to meet in Grant Park at a time when it will be packed with people? Not a coincidence. My guess is they knew the concert was happening when they called Malak. It’s a classic case of killing two birds with one stone. If her body is discovered among the dead, it will be the Leopard who martyred herself in a deadly terrorist attack. It wraps everything up in a bow. They clearly don’t trust Malak. They think she’s either gone rogue or is working with me somehow.”
“I still don’t see where Buddy T. fits in to all of this,” I said.
“If you were going to ask Match to play at a special concert, who would you call?” Agent Callaghan asked.
“Their manager,” Angela said.
“Win,” Agent Callaghan said, smiling.
“So his whole fit was an act?” I asked.
“That’s my guess,” Boone said. “He expected your parents would be asked to play, waited for the mayor to show up, and used the free concert as an excuse to get out of the danger zone.”
“Do you think he’s part of the ghost cell?” Angela asked.
“I don’t know about that,” X-Ray interrupted. “But he’s clearly involved in something and he’s also got a very unusual past.”
“What do you have, X?” Boone asked.
>
“Buddy T. Born September 14, 1974. Birth mother and father died in an automobile accident. The ‘T’ in Buddy T. stands for Tufayl,” he said, swiveling around in his chair to look at us.
“Is that important?” I asked.
“Yes,” Angela said. “Tufayl is Arabic for ‘baby.’”
I didn’t catch the implication at first, because I was chuckling at the thought that Buddy Baby would have been a much better name than Buddy T.
“Grew up in San Francisco,” X-Ray continued. “Adopted at the age of three months …”
“Who would adopt Buddy T.? Even as a baby?” I asked. I couldn’t help it. It was too easy.
“He grew up in San Francisco,” X-Ray continued. “His adoptive parents are also deceased and he’s never been married.”
“I’ll be darned,” Agent Callaghan and Boone said at the same time.
“Find out where he’s going,” Boone said.
“I’m on it,” X-Ray said.
Croc barked.
Preparations
The Citywide Plumbing van cruised down a dark street not far from the United Center. Buddy smiled at the irony. Only a few hours ago he had staged his elaborate ruse at this very spot. Shortly everything would be in place. Then he planned to disappear. Someplace where not even Number One could find him. If such a place existed.
Buddy T. preferred not to think about that one minor flaw in his plan.
A little over half a mile past the arena he pulled off the street and into a narrow alley. At the end of the alley a slatted metal door opened into a small garage. Two men waited for him.
Buddy T. put the van in park and climbed out. None of them spoke to the others. They would communicate only as much as was needed to complete the mission. This was strict ghost cell protocol. There was no exchange of names, no small talk. Should they be captured and interrogated, no one would or could be coerced into compromising the other team members.
His companions were already dressed in the plumbing company overalls. They stood next to a large wooden crate. Stenciled on the side were the words “Commercial Backflow Preventers.” The words meant little to Buddy. The top of the crate contained the actual plumbing devices, but they were interested in what lay beneath.
