Countdown to Mecca (15 page)

“Ready for your new … assignment?”

So that was what they were calling being “MacArthured” nowadays. “Yes, sir, I am.”

“Good.” The pause that followed told Brooks that playtime was over. “I understand you gave a speech at Livermore last night.”

“Yes, General. Part of my farewell tour.”

“Huh,” Ortiz grunted. “I'm told it was quite … provocative.”

“It's nothing I haven't said before.”

“Well, that's just it, ‘Bomb-em Brooks.' You don't have a cotton mouth, like me. Yours gets you in trouble time and time again.”

Brooks remembered one of those times in particular, when mouthing off to a certain firstie had earned him a good thrashing—for which he, Brooks, was then punished with a boatload of demerits and several hours of “walking the area”—essentially going back and forth with a rifle on his shoulder. Of course, somehow his punishment didn't interfere with his pitching schedule—a good thing for the Black Knights, as it came during his string of twenty-two innings of no-hit baseball.

“Frankly, General, you don't do yourself any favors by implying that America should go to war with Islam.”

“I'm not in this to help myself and I'm not ‘implying' anything,” Brooks corrected. “The West is already at war with Islam. We've been under attack since the Beirut bombing during the Reagan administration, and you know it. Islam won't be satisfied until we're wiped out. There's an epic war going on in the Middle East right now. Egypt, Syria, Iraq—the radicals are marching. The problem is, most of the West has closed its eyes. And our leaders—”

“Damit!” Ortiz interrupted. “Now I know why you didn't get CENTCOM. Look, I don't care what you say in private. But you keep Tommy-gunning your mouth off in public while you still have those stars next to those huge chips on your shoulders, and you'll find out what the Chairman can do. Think we can't do worse than put you out to pasture? Think again. In short, Thom, this is coming from the commander-in-chief. Shut. Your. Big. Mouth. That's a direct order. Do you understand?”

Brooks thought of many things he wanted to say. But what he did say was, “Yes, sir.” Ortiz sighed, and took a more conciliatory tone now that the message had been delivered.

“Look, Tommy-gun, be reasonable. Keep your trap shut for the next week. Just one week. Then, once we shift you out of the army, you can say whatever you'd like and the public will be free to label you a lunatic crank on their own.”

“Are we done here, General?”

“We're done here, General,” Ortiz replied. “I have more important things to do than explain to everybody that one of my senior officers is trying to start World War III.”

On that, Ortiz hung up. General Thomas Brooks looked at the phone and spoke quietly but distinctly.

“I'm not trying,” he stated. “I'm doing it.”

 

20

Montgomery Morton typed furiously on his smartphone, trying to get the message finished before the general came out of the office. They were going to be tight on time getting to the airport. There was too much going on, all of it bad: Pyotr, the last pieces of the device, a sick technician in Saudi Arabia—to say nothing of regular army business related to the turnover of commands.

On top of it he was trying to contain the damage he had caused from overreacting to the escort overhearing the wrong thing. His old G-2 friends, the ones who were ready, willing, and able to help him out, were back at their units, scattered all over the country. The wounded one's story about a car accident had been accepted. Morton was certain that none of them would ever betray him. All of them would rather forget the whole stinking SNAFU.

He rubbed his eyes and tried to switch mental gears. Brooks was full of last-minute questions about everything; the latest was on the aircraft. And there were payments due. Or missing—Morton couldn't keep everything straight. He was suspicious that the Russian mercenaries Brooks had hired had tried to double-deal with someone; there were communications on the website system they'd set up that he couldn't account for. But for some reason, Brooks didn't want to hear it. He trusted them, and their leader Pyotr Ansky, more than the people who'd been with the conspiracy since the beginning. Even more than he trusted Morton, it seemed.

Well, he deserved that,
Morton supposed. If an underling had behaved the way he had, Morton might've done the same as Brooks. But it was best to stop dwelling on it. That fiasco is over. He concentrated instead on the fact that the Russians had been hired to deliver the material, which had been stolen and placed on the plane by two hand-picked former Special Forces members. He thought Pyotr's involvement was to end there. But it seems he was too talented to let go.

To top it all off, Morton's wife was almost as bad as the general when it came to his promised presence at his son's sixth birthday party. He wanted to go very badly, but didn't she understand it really wasn't up to him? Morton felt the beginnings of another headache coming on. He pulled the small case with his medicine from his pocket and quickly popped out another pill. He was about to shove it in his mouth when his peripheral vision caught a bulletin on his computer's 24/7 newsfeed alert.

“German Industrialist Killed in SF Attack,” it read. All thoughts of the pill were gone. Morton leaned over and read on furiously. “Helmut Schoenberg, the CEO of German conglomerate Der Warheit Unternehmen was shot to death this morning in a bold attack outside a building belonging to one of his companies in Oakland, California. Police have questioned at least one eyewitness, identified as former cable television host Jack Hatfield.”

Hatfield? Again
? he raged inside.

“The murder occurred at approximately seven
A.M.
, when Schoenberg was apparently inspecting a building owned by DR Inc., a subsidiary of the German conglomerate. The building has been vacant for approximately three months, following consolidation of their manufacturing operations overseas and the relocation of the business offices.”

“Can I get you a glass of water?”

Morton jerked in his chair, his head snapping up at the sound of the quiet, lightly accented, voice. “What?”

“For your pill,” said Peter Andrews solicitously, back in his handsome pinstriped blue serge suit. “Headache?”

Morton looked at the small white orb in his hand like it was an alien from outer space. “Uh, no, I mean yes, it is a pill, but no, you don't have to get me any water.”

“Very well. I am here with the car to take the general to the airport.”

“Oh. Great. I'll let him know.”

“Thank you.” Pyotr walked calmly away, but stopped just inside the office door. “Hope your headache goes away.”

“Me, too,” said Morton. Then, a moment later, Morton's headache went back to the general's car, and he finally got to take the pill. Even before he swallowed it, he felt better. If Brooks didn't harangue him further, all would go according to schedule, and he might, just might, be able to make it to his son's birthday party as well.

 

21

As they drove back toward Jack's secret apartment in Sol's newest car, a factory armored BMW—“This baby gives new meaning to ‘auto erotic,'” Doc said admiringly—Jack filled the mobster in on the latest developments while Doc added his own detailed observations and insight.

“Do you think the Mossad killed Schoenberg?” asked Jack.

“Why?” asked Sol.

“For helping the Iranians,” Doc suggested. “It's something they would do.”

“The Mossad wouldn't assassinate someone on American soil,” Sol decided. “Too risky.”

Jack shook his head. “Two years ago, I would've agreed with you. But now is the idea any more outlandish than the Chinese trying to use San Francisco to poison the country, or turn the Golden Gate Bridge into ground zero for a dirty bomb?”

“Hmmph.” Sol pressed his lips together.

“It's possible,” said Jack.

“Of course it's possible,” Sol complained. “Anything is possible.”

“There's possible and there's probable. The Mossad killing someone they consider a traitor: that's possible. Radical Muslims trying to destroy this country: that's reality. See the difference? So, can you find out what is possible?” Jack pressed.

“Maybe.”

The answer satisfied Jack more than a quick yes or no: it was honest, a word Jack never thought he'd apply to a gangster.

“What's your beef with the Mossad?” Sol inquired.

“How much did you hear before your dramatic entrance in the police station?” Jack asked.

“I thought I heard plenty, but now I'm beginning to doubt it,” Sol admitted. “What did I miss?”

Doc cut to the chase. “The authorities are putting all their eggs in Ana's basket,” he said.

“They're buying that she heard what she says she heard?” Sol asked.

Jack nodded. “So the question is, besides your instincts, how much can we really trust what she says?”

Sol chuckled. “You don't have to trust anything she says, Jack. That's not the point.”

Jack tried to get it and failed. “What is the point, then?”

“You know a man or woman by the quality of their enemies, right?”

“So it's been said.”

“Well, look who attacked her. In all my years working the underbelly, I've never seen an angry pimp or vengeful drug dealer marshal a team like that, or go after a German industrialist for that matter. Drug lords do it, but Ana would've told us if she were in with that crowd. Just thinking about them scares the words out of your mouth. It's a special kind of fear in their eyes because they all know what these guys do to people.”

Jack nodded at the sense Sol was making, and was just beginning to find the right track again when his smartphone buzzed. He was expecting the call, so he answered immediately.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Can't talk long,” Dover said, equally as softly but even more quickly. “The weapon that was used to kill Schoenberg was a high-powered sniper rifle. It's very expensive and rare, and the State Police and Bureau have already begun helping to check for recent sales. It uses a bullet that's a little larger than your normal hunting rifle and that is even rarer. They may be able to identify the actual gun model. My weapons expert has two candidates, but there may be more.”

Jack nodded. Long rifles did not require a permit in California, but the gun that had been used could only have been bought in a few dozen places in the state. That gave them some hope that they might be able to identify the buyer. Dover quickly informed him that they were going over Doc's video as well as looking for other surveillance camera footage.

“You won't find any,” Jack told her with certainty. “Whoever this guy is, he's better than the Levi Plaza gang.”

“I agree, but we have to try.”

Jack totally understood. “Are they really attributing all this to Anastasia's secrets?”

“I doubt it,” Dover assured him. “Not by the way they acted after you left. These are very dangerous waters. I think they were trying to lull you into their confidence so they can keep you close.”

“Bastards,” Jack grumbled.

“Only sometimes, Jack.” She paused. Jack imagined that someone was trying to get her attention. “Gotta go,” she said, and then the connection was gone.

Anxious to get back to his workstation, he looked up to see where they were.

“Hey!” Jack complained as they pulled up to the safe house. “What are we doing here?”

Sol looked at him knowingly as he turned off the purring engine. The locals didn't think twice about the luxury car. Many luxury cars came to the neighborhood to visit their wayward children in the halfway house. “You wanted to know if the Mossad was involved in this.”

“Yeah. And?”

Sol motioned for Jack and Doc to follow him. He led them into the public part of the halfway house rather than upstairs. He moved through the cafeteria to the far side of the counseling room. There they saw Ritu working with a young resident along with the safe house's manager, a ruddy, young, tall, brown-haired man.

Jack thought he saw the hands of the Indian escort and the manager touch, but he couldn't be sure. The man stood swiftly, almost as if coming to attention, at the sight of the halfway house's benefactor. Jack did notice Ritu smile before returning her attention to the resident.

“Boaz,” Sol said to the man. “Could we see you for a moment?”

“Of course, Mr. Minsky,” he said in a low, slightly accented tone.

He motioned toward a plain door in the corner. They followed him there, but Jack noticed a smile was growing on Doc's face.

“What?” he asked his experienced old friend.

“Wait for it,” Doc replied, further noticing that the door looked wooden, but was actually metal.

The manager brought them into a plain room that reminded Jack of the police station's interrogation room, except that it had a fridge, coffee machine, and simple computer table.

“Please, gentlemen,” the manager said, motioning toward the plain chairs around the plain table. Then, with a flick of the bolt, they were sealed in.

“Gents,” Sol said as he sat, “May I introduce Boaz Simonson. Boaz, this is Jack Hatfield and Doc Matson.”

“Good to finally meet you both,” Boaz said, shaking each man's hand.

“Israeli, right?” Doc said as the two men shook, not bothering to check each other's strength.

Boaz nodded, grinning. “If the name doesn't peg me, the accent does.”

“Hey, should we be talking like this in here?” Jack wondered, crooking his head toward the seemingly thin walls separating them from the recovering alcoholics, addicts, and prostitutes.

Boaz's smile widened. “You are now in one of the most secure places in the city, Mr. Hatfield. This building was basically built around this room. And this room took us years to secure, design, and build.”