by Roland Smith
Number One had tasked Buddy with making a “big splash,” as he called it. He wanted the ghost cell to send a statement. It was to be a coordinated assault for maximum casualties that would both shock and paralyze all of the West’s intelligence agencies. As he often did, Buddy argued against it. “Big splashes” were not the ghost cell way. True, they used their attacks to maximum effect, but their entire existence had been all about deep cover within the United States—attacking, but letting other groups take credit for their work. At least it had been until recently.
Since he was not Number One, he followed orders. Try as he might he could not understand the changes taking place in the one person above him. The strange and conflicting instructions. Raising the group’s profile when before they had always remained in the shadows. These things troubled him.
Buddy thought back to San Antonio. Number One had decided to have Number Three kidnap Quest Munoz and have Angela Tucker killed. Why? What did they have to do with anything? He still didn’t know all the details—Number Three was dead, after all—but it had been botched somehow. Some hick sheriff, who had been at the concert to help the San Antonio PD with crowd control, had stopped the car bomb. At least that was what he’d read on the Internet.
Yet, no matter how wrong he thought the plan was, Buddy always voted with Number One. With the way the vote was structured, it almost always ensured Number One’s wishes carried the day. The other members of the Five could make fun of him all they wished. They didn’t know their leader as he did. Buddy T. had been with him far longer than the others. Buddy T. feared him.
Nothing had gone right these past few days. Which is why Buddy kept pushing Number One to pull back and regroup. They had time. With better planning and more caution they could strike a heavier blow against their enemies. But his words were ignored.
Oh, well. Buddy T. had not become the best manager in the music business without knowing how to negotiate his way out of a tight situation. He pulled up the sleeve on his coveralls and looked at his Rolex. He loved that watch. It had cost him thousands and it had a bright-red stainless steel band. Being around rock stars and musicians for most of his adult life had given him an appreciation for the finer things. He would hate to give it up. The thought that he could easily afford another one made him smile.
He glanced at his companions. They didn’t know it, but one of them was going to die tonight. And furthermore, one of them was going to become Buddy T. His charred remains would be found in the burned-out van, which would be ditched after they were finished. A bright-red Rolex around his wrist, and Buddy T.’s ID in his pocket. He knew the ruse would not stand up to long-term investigation. Eventually they would conclude he was not the dead man.
Until then, he would have a healthy head start.
The heavy crate was loaded into the back of the van. The doors slammed shut. Everything was ready.
“Let’s go,” he said. The three of them climbed into the van.
Buddy T. smiled as he pulled out of the garage.
He was about to become a martyr to the cause.
Under Undercover
“Why do I have to be a homeless person? Why not Uly or Felix?” Eben asked.
“Because I need them to be available for other things,” Boone patiently explained—again. “And also they’re a little too … noticeable.”
“I do not know how to do this,” Eben said. “Never, in all my years at the Institute, have I gone undercover as a homeless person. I tell you what! You should bring Ziv. He has been sitting in that car for almost forty-eight hours straight. I am certain he would fit your needed profile. The man is getting scary looking,” Eben said.
“He’ll be watching Malak. And most homeless people aren’t scary,” Boone said. “They’re just … they just don’t have anyplace to go.”
Eben shook his head. They were two blocks off Grant Park, standing in the northeast corner on the third floor of a parking garage. Boone had already briefed Felix and Uly, who were stationed at the elevators at either end. Both of them making sure no one stumbled upon their little impromptu briefing. X-Ray had given Boone a little electronic gizmo designed to prevent anyone from listening to them with a parabolic microphone or other device. Plus Croc was there, curled at Boone’s feet. Boone knew the dog would hear or smell an intruder well before Felix or Uly noticed anything.
It was still dark. They had only a few hours to get everything in place. So far the plan was for Eben, Callaghan, and Vanessa to portray members of the homeless population that were normally found wandering through Grant Park. In order to look the part, they were sorting through a pile of clothing of very uncertain origin. It was shoved into a battered shopping cart Vanessa had secured somewhere. Eben picked up every item by the barest margin possible. He held out a green- and yellow-checked shirt, pinched between his thumb and forefinger as if he were afraid to touch it. It had a large red stain on the left front pocket and a copper-colored splotch on the back.
“How?” Eben said. “Someone tell me how I am supposed to wear something like this? What are these stains? So disgusting.” He let the shirt fall back into the basket.
“I sent Uly and Felix shopping at a Goodwill store,” Vanessa said. “But don’t worry. I washed everything at a laundromat. Then I got it dirty again. It’s clean dirt.”
“You spent money to wash these clothes? At this time of night?” Eben asked, skeptical.
“No. Earlier. Boone figured we might need to go under, told me to gear up,” she said. Vanessa was an old hand at this. She’d found a pair of dirty, dilapidated, and mismatched canvas tennis shoes. Her bare toe stuck through a hole in the blue one, while the other foot had on a sock that might have been white cotton at some point in its life. She wore a faded pink housedress that came to her knees and a dirty green down jacket with a few of the feathers poking through the fabric.
Eben examined her.
“It’s only September. Still warm and humid outside. Won’t you stand out in such a thick jacket?” Eben asked.
“That’s exactly the point,” Callaghan said. “I was undercover at President’s Park across from the White House for over a year. Homeless people have to carry or wear whatever they own, regardless of the time of year. She won’t stand out at all.”
Callaghan pulled a plastic bag full of dark powder from his pocket and opened a bottle of water. Pouring a small pile of the powder into his hand he splashed water on it. Then he rubbed his hands together, making a paste.
“I smell coffee,” Eben said.
“Yep. Coffee grounds with a little water mixed in, then rubbed into your face, makes you look really dirty. The paste works its way into the lines and wrinkles of your face. You’ll look like you’ve showered in soil. Everyone will give you a wide berth.” Callaghan held out his hand and Vanessa dipped her fingers into the mixture. After rubbing it around her face and neck, and shoving it under her fingernails, she pulled on a yellow winter hat. She was now completely transformed.
Callaghan held out his handful of goo to Eben.
“No,” Eben said.
“It’s not that bad. You like coffee, don’t you?” Callaghan asked him.
“Yes. But not on my face,” he replied.
“You’ll get used to it,” Callaghan said. Eben sighed and dipped his fingers into the paste and rubbed it over his forehead, cheeks, and chin. Vanessa produced a tube of hair cream and he drizzled some of that into his dark hair. It had the effect of making it look greasy and unwashed. Eben donned the ugly, stained shirt and pulled a long trench coat from the shopping cart. He groaned in disgust as he dressed. A pair of black, battered high-top sneakers with no laces completed the look.
“I cannot believe I’m putting my feet inside these shoes,” he said.
“You look like you haven’t had a bath in weeks,” Boone said, satisfied.
“I will need to bathe for weeks once we are done,” Eben complained.
“All right, let’s do a comm check,” Boone said. He put his fin
ger to his ear.
“X-Ray, do you have us?” Boone said.
“Reading all of you five by five,” X-Ray replied through the earpiece in Boone’s ear. “The signal is perfect.”
They all wore specially designed earbuds. Each one was small enough to sit inside their ear canals. For Vanessa, Eben, and Callaghan it was critical that they show nothing. No cords or a Bluetooth or any type of transmitter could be noticeable or their covers would be blown.
One by one they checked off with X-Ray. Once again Boone had to marvel at the relentless march of technology. These devices were made of transparent plastic. It would be nearly impossible to spot them unless one was looking directly into their ears.
“Okay, I think we’re ready,” Boone said. Felix and Uly left their posts at the elevators and joined the group.
“One more thing,” Callaghan said. He removed a torn and faded yellow scarf, a yellow rubber bracelet, and a folded, dirty baseball cap that was also yellow from his coat pocket.
“I checked with a buddy of mine at Chicago PD. I trust him completely. We each need to wear something yellow. It’s today’s color of the day. If you’ve got anything yellow clearly visible on your clothing or body, the cops won’t hassle you too much because they’ll think you’re undercover. If something starts to go south, if we need some kind of diversion, I’m going to start an altercation with a Chicago cop. If someone approaches Malak, even if it’s not Buddy, and you want Uly to get them out of there without being noticed, give me a holler on the comm. I’ll make a big ruckus. If necessary, I’ll get myself taken down and arrested. I’ll use my badge to get out of it later.”
“Good plan, Pat,” Boone said. “For some reason, I don’t think Buddy T. is going to show, but I’m going to have Felix on the roof of one of the hotels nearby with the rifle. Uly will be in the crowd, close to Malak. Just in case. And watch out for Ziv. He’ll be watching her but we won’t see him unless he wants us to. So don’t shoot him by accident,” Boone said.
“I have a question,” Uly said, raising his hand as if he was in grade school. “Yes?” Boone asked.
“How come Felix always gets to be the sniper way up high, where it’s safe? I always have to be down on the ground, close to where all the shooting, stabbing, and exploding happens. X-Ray made me put a tracker on the Tahoe the other day and my face was about six inches from a gazillion pounds of C-4. How come Felix is always the one who gets to shoot?”
“It’s simple, really,” Felix said, as he removed a sniper rifle from the back of the new Range Rover. He put the stock of the rifle against his shoulder and sighted down the barrel. “I’m a better shot than you are.”
“You wish,” Uly said.
“Higher scores at Marine Scout Sniper School, my man. The paper don’t lie,” Felix gloated.
“That’s a … that’s not even … I …” Uly stammered, annoyed at Felix giving him the needle.
Boone let it go on for a little bit. He knew this back-and-forth banter was a way that teams like this relieved stress before they undertook their mission.
“Uly,” Boone said, “Felix is yanking your chain. The truth is, Felix did grade out a little higher than you in sniper training. Barely. But you came out ahead in hand-to-hand combat. Also barely. That’s why I need you in the crowd, watching Malak’s back. We don’t know what we’re dealing with. If somebody tries to take her out, I’m going to need both of you.”
Uly smiled and flexed his muscles in Felix’s direction. Felix smirked and rolled his eyes before he quickly disassembled the rifle. In a few moments it was secured in a specially designed backpack. You couldn’t exactly walk down a Chicago street carrying a sniper rifle in plain sight.
“I wish we had better intel,” Boone said. “We’re flying by the seat of our pants here. Thanks to Malak, we’re higher up in the cell than we’ve ever been. What bothers me is both her previous meetings with the leadership—at Kitty Hawk and San Antonio—were done in quiet, off-the-grid type places. Now they want a very public meeting in a venue that’s bound to be full of innocent civilians. I don’t like it.”
The team was quiet for a moment. No one spoke up.
“All right, Vanessa, you move out first and get into position. The rest of us will follow at staggered intervals. If they have anybody watching, we want it to look like people are arriving at the park naturally,” Boone said.
Vanessa pushed the cart toward the elevators. The squeaky wheels echoed off the concrete floors and walls of the parking garage.
“Croc, you go with Eben,” Boone said. “Try and keep him out of trouble.”
“What? Oh no,” Eben said. “It is bad enough the way these horrible clothes make me smell now. To add to my misery I am to be accompanied by the world’s smelliest dog? I must refuse.”
“He’ll make you look more … natural,” Boone said. “Trust me.”
Croc nudged Eben in the back of the leg with his snout and pushed him toward the stairs. Eben left, muttering curses in Hebrew the entire way.
“Hey, Boone, where are you going to be?” Uly asked as he and Felix readied themselves to head out.
“I’ll be here and there,” Boone answered.
Additions to the List
I had a new item to add to my list of things I didn’t like about being a spy. You can be blown up, kidnapped, stuck with a knife, drugged, have guns pointed at you, and get pigeon poop on your hands. But it’s also quite possible you can die from boredom. Even in the middle of a crisis, if you didn’t pay attention it was hard to keep focus.
Sitting in the intellimobile with Angela and X-Ray staring at grainy surveillance video of really exciting places like bus stops, car-rental counters, hotel lobbies, and especially traffic cams … hundreds of different cars on different streets that went on and on and never, never, ever ended. Well, let’s just say I was sure watching that could result in premature death by extreme monotony. I tried hard, really I did. It was important. But my mind is just not suited to this kind of work and it makes me restless.
I put my elbows on the console and rubbed my eyes. They were burning from staring at the screen. It made me wonder if you also could perish from burning eyes. Probably. My hand automatically went into my pocket and my fingers wrapped around a deck of cards. But Angela had developed a sixth sense for when I was getting fidgety. She glared at me. I meekly withdrew my empty hand and waggled my fingers at her. She shook her head and turned back to look at the screens.
“How many more ways can there be to get out of Chicago?” I groused. “We’ve been at this forever. I think Buddy T. is gone,” I said.
“There’s hundreds of ways, in addition to just driving out by car or any other vehicle,” X-Ray said. “We’ve covered the airports, bus stations, and train terminals. But we haven’t even begun looking at the marinas or private landing strips or—”
I held up my hands in mock surrender.
“Okay, okay, I get it.” In truth, I thought we were wasting our time. It seemed like it would be impossible to find someone who knew how to make sure they weren’t going to be found. The thing is, it wasn’t an easy leap for me to imagine Buddy being involved in planning something bad. The entire time I’d been around him he was overbearing, obnoxious, and a total jerk. But he’d never seemed like he was really evil enough to be involved in a terrorist plot.
“Did you ever imagine Buddy T. could do something like this?” I asked Angela.
She shrugged. “I guess I never really thought about it, but honestly I’d have to say no. He’s a tool, but … I don’t know. All of these terrorists are sort of hiding in plain sight. Leading what looks like a regular life, until they take action. Maybe being such a jerk was part of it. He had us all fooled,” she said.
I thought about that for a minute. Now we knew how the ghost cell always seemed to be around wherever Match was. Buddy never seemed like a good guy. But I just didn’t see him having the stones to be involved in something bad up close. Which is why I believed he’d already s
crammed.
The tedium was more than I could stand and I needed to stretch. If I didn’t, there was a better than fifty-fifty chance I would fall asleep. Which would probably lead to Angela tae kwan do-ing me in the back of the head. Fresh air would do me good.
“Where are you going?” Angela asked sharply as I scooted out of my seat.
“Just need a little air. Then I’ll come back in and start with all of the bicycle rental places or something,” I said.
Angela gave me a dismissive wave and I headed toward the rear door of the van. As I passed by X-Ray, I noticed he wasn’t studying video footage like we were. He was looking at photographs. And I recognized them. They were the photos from Miss Ruby’s phone. The one I had managed to steal while she was holding me prisoner.
“What are you doing, X-Ray?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“I’m trying to figure out what the ghost cell is up to,” he mumbled. “Something is … off.”
“I don’t get why we aren’t looking for car bombs. It’s what they’ve used every time so far. Isn’t that their signature?” Angela asked.
“Yes, but there’s also something to be said for changing things up. Not using a car bomb because that is what we’re expecting.”
X-Ray made a clucking sound and shook his head. “Despite what you see on television and in the movies, it’s not that easy to get your hands on that much C-4 or Semtex plastic explosives. It’s heavily regulated. They might be able to buy some on the black market but it would be risky. Especially with every federal agency in the country looking for them. And they already used two in D.C. and four more in Kitty Hawk and San Antonio. I think they’ve got something else planned,” he muttered.
“Like what?” Angela asked. She hit a button, pausing her streaming video on the monitor, and swiveled around in her chair so she could look over X-Ray’s shoulder.
