A Murder of Crows (24 page)

A
S HE
drove the Buick down to Savannah, Hicks tried to ignore the Carousel of Concern beginning to turn once again in his mind.

Stephens. Jabbar. The entire University operation. Roger’s plan. Rahul. Shaban. Tali. The Mossad.
And now:
The Trustees.

Hicks kept one hand on the wheel as he thumbed open the lid on a bottle of Advil, shook out three tablets into his mouth and necked them down. He took a swig of water from the bottle in the center console to make sure they went down. He hoped they would be enough to dull his headache enough for the long drive ahead.

The OMNI GPS system on the Buick’s dashboard screen told him the drive to Savannah would take at least twelve hours if he was lucky. He didn’t mind. The time on the road would keep him from constantly checking his handheld, which was exactly the kind of break he needed. The events of the past two days had happened too fast for his liking. He needed to slow things down because in the intelligence game, speed often killed.

He could have cut his travel time to a fraction if he had decided to fly, even commercially. But air travel left a trail, even when it was covered up in the airline’s system, and he wouldn’t have been able to take his Ruger on the plane. With three angry federal agencies on his trail, going unarmed would have been foolish.

He could have had Jason rent a private jet, but such flights had a tendency to conveniently crash, especially when they carried people like him at times like these. The anonymity of the open road was the best choice.

Hicks’ Buick LaCrosse was already tied into the OMNI system, so he could still do most of his work as he drove. He was also much safer in the Buick than he would be in a jet, especially this particular Buick.

About a year ago, he had the Varsity technicians overhaul the entire automobile and replace all the windows with bulletproof glass. They had also re-enforced the frame, installed armor plating, and upgraded the electronics so the car was tied in to the OMNI system.

The technicians had also swapped out the Buick’s standard V6 engine for an AM 29 V12 engine taken from an Aston Martin he had seized from an Asset: a real estate mogul who had made some unsavory deals with the Iranians. It was a choice between the man going to prison for the rest of his life or allowing Hicks to take his car. Hicks cut him a deal: he could keep the car, but Hicks got the engine. He wasn’t a total bastard.

Hicks had stashed the Ruger in a hidden compartment in the console in case he needed it. If a cop happened to stop him on the way, he’d never find it. Hicks wanted the pistol close since it might come in handy before this was over.

As the miles rolled by, Hicks was able to check how OMNI was monitoring the actions of all the names in the Bajjah/Jabbar network. The scope had expanded to include names not already on his list, but Hicks’ primary focus was still on Rahul’s progress in following Shaban, Bajjah’s supposed money man in London.

Hicks had hoped the fire in Weehawken would sideline the Barnyard’s interest in him for at least a day or so. Stephens and Avery would have to answer a lot of questions about losing a black site that wasn’t supposed to exist on American soil. The bureaucrats of the Barnyard were still bureaucrats. They would demand answers while they covered their asses. He figured Avery and Stephens would come back at the University with a vengeance, but he’d worry about it when the time came. From now on Stephens would need to be far more cautious, if he was still in the game at all.

Maybe by that point, they would be willing to listen to reason. Maybe he could find a way to work with them and get them to back off, the way he’d tried with Tali and the Mossad. He remembered the Dean’s directive, but Hicks knew the University couldn’t fight off three government agencies and the Mossad and investigate Jabbar’s network all at the same time without something getting fouled up.

And if Roger’s plan worked, Stephens and Avery would find themselves on the bench permanently.

Hicks hit the voice activation button on his steering wheel and said, “Call Rahul.”

“Calling Rahul,” the female voice repeated.

He was glad Rahul picked up on the first ring. “Funny you should call. I’ve got some news for you.”

Hicks was glad his voice sounded clear and strong. It was a big difference from the way he’d sounded in Rockefeller Center. “Good or bad news?”

“A mixed bag, I’m afraid. I’ve already tried to establish contact with my former assets in the Middle East. They’re all still alive, but they’ve been a bit slow to respond. It could be from an abundance of caution at my sudden reappearance or it may be due to other things. I’ll keep you updated on how it turns out.”

“Make the Middle East names a distant priority,” Hicks said. “They’re already being watched by several foreign agencies and a few of our own. OMNI can track agency surveillance on them remotely. I’m more concerned about Shaban.”

“Which brings me to my good news. You’ll be happy to know I’ve not only located Shaban, but I already have a team in place watching him right now.”

Hicks was impressed, but kept it to himself. He knew complimenting a drunk too early in an assignment could lead them into a false sense of security and right back to the bottle. Guarded optimism was best. “Tell me more.”

“If Shaban is Bajjah’s money man, he’s doing a hell of a job covering it up.”

“Explain.”

“Shaban has a reputation as a street corner revolutionary. I had OMNI dig deeper into his real identity and discovered his real name is Mohammed Shaban Ispahani. He’s Iranian by birth and goes by the name of Shaban in his day-to-day life. He’s managed to get himself a job at a local Islamic community center under the impressively vague title of ‘Community Events Coordinator,’ whatever the hell that is. Gets paid a pittance as a salary for the largely a no-show job since Shaban never seems to be there. The owner of the center also happens to own the building where Shaban has a flat in Whitechapel, so he’s living practically rent free.”

Hicks was glad his instincts were proving to be right. Even if Shaban wasn’t the money man of Bajjah’s organization, there was more to the London side of Bajjah’s network than met the eye. “Anything on the owner of the center and the flat?”

“Another aged zealot,” Rahul said. “Believes in the cause and funds young people like Shaban who carry forth hatred. You know the type. He likes the warmth of the fire but never gets close enough to get burned.”

Rahul went on. “Shaban is a real hellfire-and brimstone-type, though. Likes organizing protests against Israel in public squares on the weekends, hands out leaflets and gets himself on camera. Posts his venom on several blogs, so he’s attained something of celebrity status online. I learned the local police suspect him in having a hand in organizing some attacks during the London riots back in 2014, but there’s no solid evidence against him at this point. He’s a crafty one, our Shaban.”

“How many pairs of eyes do you have on him already?”

Rahul said, “I used part of the money you put in the account to hire some of my old colleagues from the NIA. In fact, I have two of them watching him as we speak. There’ll be two shifts of five before I’m done, bringing the total number to ten in all. And before you warn me about leakage, they’ve all been separated from the NIA under less than ideal conditions. None of them will be reporting back to anyone in New Delhi or anyone else. Good men through and through. They aren’t trigger happy, but each one of them is a stone killer if it comes to it.”

Hicks was encouraged, but he wasn’t turning cartwheels yet. “Email me whatever OMNI has on each of the people in your team as soon as possible.”

“Why? Don’t you trust me?”

“I do. But I trust OMNI more.”

Rahul laughed. “You’ll have all of their records within the hour. I’ll have ten men watching his flat in Whitechapel around the clock in two-hour shifts so I’ll always have five bullyboys ready to strike at a moment’s notice. All ten if we have to respond to something heavy.”

“Where is Shaban now?”

“At his flat. According to the calendar on his phone, which we’ve hacked, he’s due to go on his weekly trip to Mantes-la-Jolie tomorrow. It’s a town outside…”

“Paris. I know where it is.” Over the years, Hicks had tracked a lot of persons-of-interest in Mantes-la-Jolie’s active Islamic community. Like most Islamic communities, an overwhelming majority of the residents were peaceful. But terrorists didn’t need large numbers. They only needed a few zealots to accomplish their goals. “Any idea who Shaban is meeting there?”

“According to what OMNI was able to find, he’s been helping to organize a network in the areas around Paris. My men are still trying to uncover what he’s up to here in London, but it is slow going. We’re trying to move cautiously so we don’t tip our hand and scare him off. I’ll make sure one of my men trail him to France while we dig deeper into his operation here.”

“I want reports on this son of a bitch twice a day. I want images of whomever he meets and audio of what he says. I want to make sure we keep track of every keystroke on every device he has and funnel all of it into OMNI for analysis. I don’t want any surprises if we can avoid them.”

The dashboard screen changed from a map view of his location to an alert of another call coming through the OMNI system. It was a call from a University extension, but the caller was listed as
UNIDENTIFIED
.

Strange. Hicks knew all extensions on the University system were labeled, even the Dean’s.

“I’ll have to call you back,” Hicks said to Rahul. Hicks killed the connection and answered the incoming call. “Who is this?”

“Hello, James.” A woman’s voice came through the Buick’s speakers. The voice was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. “I am one of the Trustees our mutual friend discussed with you before his untimely demise.”

That explained the unidentified extension. This must be the same Trustee who had contacted Jason. “Our mutual friend mentioned you.”

“I know he did. You and I need to talk before the funeral service this afternoon. There are a few things I want to make clear to you about your new position from the outset. I want to make sure we get off on the right foot and all.”

Although Hicks had been expecting to be contacted by a Trustee, he had no intention of simply rolling over for one. “I don’t take blind meetings, especially given the current difficulties we’re facing right now. If you are who you say you are, you’ll appreciate why. If you want to talk, let’s talk now. It’s a secure line.”

“And someone in your position should appreciate the idea that some conversations are best held face to face.”

“And polite conversations begin with introductions. You already know my name. What’s yours?”

“Even if I told you my name, it wouldn’t mean anything to you. You have never heard of me, and we have never worked together. You also wouldn’t find my name in an OMNI search because all mention of me has been scrubbed clean from the system. The fact I’m calling you using a University device should be enough to prove my identity. The fact I know the Dean told you about the Trustees during your last conversation should prove I’m an ally, not an enemy.”

Hicks couldn’t argue with her logic, but logic hadn’t had much of a place in his life the past few days. “Fine. Send me the address of where you want to meet and I’ll see you there.”

She killed the connection and Hicks activated the OMNI voice prompt button on his steering wheel. “Trace the location of my last call.”

OMNI’s electronic female voice reported, “Call was from an unnamed University extension.”

Hicks figured such would be the case. “Location of the call?”

OMNI responded, “Call originated from proximity of Savannah, Georgia.”

A second later, an appointment alert popped up on his dashboard screen. It was scheduled for twenty minutes after OMNI said Hicks was due to arrive in Savannah according to his current rate of speed. Whoever had made the call and sent the appointment knew when he’d arrive in Savannah. They only could’ve known that if they had access to the OMNI system.

He hit the voice prompt again. “Map the address of the appointment.”

The voice said, “Working,” as it produced a map of Savannah on the screen. The location was Columbia Square, one of the dozens of quaint green spaces dotting the city. It was public enough so as not to be a set-up, but private enough for two people to talk.