Cobra Clearance (4 page)

After a brief silence Tucker continued reading. “Analysts are consistent in their evaluations of President Melchior's assassination. The general agreement is that al Qaeda was not involved, and Amahl and his men remain the sole suspects. But erring on the side of caution the Secretary of Homeland Security has raised the national security level, and President Cohen has secretly invoked the provisions of Titles One, Two and Eight of the Patriot Act, authorizing utilization of all assets in identifying and apprehending the assassins.” He turned a page and said in a clipped tone, “Therefore, the use of contract personnel to assist in this endeavor has been approved by the Attorney General, and endorsed by POTUS.” He checked off another item in his folder and looked up. “That means us. We're the only Vanguard team not committed to other exigent tasks.”

Baker brought out an unlit briar pipe and twisted its stem. “Title 28 United States Code, subsection 561 authorizes the Director of the U.S. Marshals Service to deputize ‘persons designated by the Associate Attorney General.' You'll be provided with the
credentials of sworn Federal law enforcement officers and yes, you will be carrying.”

They discussed the assassination. All agreed that the killers had brought sudden, overwhelming violence to bear in a confined area, and were willing to die in the process. They also agreed that the Secret Service failed to screen the crowd, had been outgunned, and unable to bring effective counter-fire to bear without killing bystanders.

“Didn't stop the bad guys from spraying the crowd,” Hacksaw growled. “Gotta admire those media people though. They were on total auto-pilot. Pure muscle memory. And that guy who jumped in front of their leader? Pure balls.”

Baker closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “Yes. The leader. Our Langley friends have identified him. His name is Amahl, aka The Butcher. He's of Arab descent and quite wealthy. He's charismatic, intelligent, and an absolute sociopath. He's rumored to have had a hand in several suicide bombings in Tel Aviv and elsewhere.” He sighed. “Former Secretary Tom Ridge said it best. Terrorists are patient. They don't set their wristwatches as you and I do. They're strategic thinkers and they do not make unplanned moves.”

Tucker said, “According to a Bureau report I saw, al Qaeda hasn't taken hold in the U.S. because American Muslims are resistant to their radical ideology. The major threat comes from smaller, home-grown groups.”

“And the difference between a band of amateurs accomplishing nothing,” Levi said, “and small groups carrying out dangerous attacks, is in having a determined and technically competent leader.” Then he voiced what everyone was thinking. “Got to hand it to this Amahl, he sure was bold.”

Baker grunted. “Yes, I'll give him that. On the other hand, notice the lack of celebration in the Muslim world? There's no dancing in the streets as there was on 9/11. Quite the opposite. There's
universal condemnation not only of the assassination, but of the mode.” Baker shoved his pipe inside his jacket. “The NSA has focused its numerous antennae on the Middle East. They're monitoring cell phones, the Internet—everything. Perhaps with a bit of luck …” He squinted at the far wall. “But even with luck there's not much we can do until we get everyone re-certified with firearms and sworn in.” He looked at his TL. “Tuck?”

Tucker ticked off an item in his blue folder. “Listen up. We'll use our standard cover story: we're independent consultants and the client insists on anonymity for proprietary purposes.” He studied the folder and called out, “Training? How long to get everyone squared away with firearms?”

Dentz answered. “Tomorrow, boss. An ATF buddy will run us through.”

“Excellent.” Tucker turned to the lone female member. “Weapons?”

Monica said at once, “SIG Sauer P-229s chambered for .357 SIG magnums. The Marshals carry Glocks but the SIGs are superior.”

“Thank you, Monica.” Tucker turned to Levi. “Here's the lineup if we do a split: I'll take Monica and Sawyer, and Mr. Baker will join us if needed. Levi? You'll have Michael, Hack, and Dentz.”

Sawyer quipped, “Well played, old chap,” and jotted something on a pad.

Baker said, “This will be our workplace and we're staying in a Hilton two blocks east of here. Nabbed their best suites, too. Okay. We have no further intel and we can't do much anyway until we're sworn in. Let's call it a day and get settled.” He got up from the deep chair with surprising agility and left the room.

DRAGON TEAM'S MEMBERS DROVE
separately and at irregular intervals to the Hilton, which was perched atop a small rise within a wooded
area. After Tucker registered, he went to his room and reached inside his carry-on for his document holder. He inspected his extra credit card first, his international driver's license next, then the personal and official passports. There was also a third passport, provided by Canada as a courtesy to the U.S. State Department. Each Dragon Team member had one. Tucker's was issued in the name of Robert Langdon Smith, of Vancouver. These throw-down passports were provided as last-ditch measures to safeguard their identities in case of a hijacking, or for some other unforeseeable catastrophe.

After placing the documents inside the room safe, he ran down a mental checklist of Dragon Team. He had a sixth sense when it came to spotting talent, was blind to matters of race, religion, height or gender, and he'd vetted each member. He considered Monica: brains and beauty, and one tough gal. And Michael—even tougher. Like Tucker, he came from trailer trash. But Tucker hadn't been abused as Michael had been. Poor guy. Horrible, the things that happened to him. But he had made it; made it on sheer guts and raw talent—a teen Golden Gloves champ, but with a feeling for people. Yep, he'd done well, and good for him. Then there was Levi. Hard to figure out but what a powerhouse he could be. Tucker admired him and wished he could tell him so. Maybe he would someday. He closed the safe and locked it.

Levi glanced out his hotel room window to get his bearings, squared away his luggage, and jumped into the shower. When he was done he donned a tailor-made shirt, impeccably-pressed trousers and Johnston & Murphy lace-ups. Fishing through his toilet kit he found the Bulgari Aqua. After applying a hint to the base of his throat, he picked up an elegant Patek Phillipe. As he touched his fingertips to the crystal face he thought of the day his wife had given it to him, and smiled as he attached it to his left wrist.

Then he grabbed the phone and dialed Michael's adjacent room. When he got no answer he put the receiver down and went out the door. Stepping into the hotel bar a few minutes later, he saw the woman at once. She was stunning. Thirty, perhaps. Her legs were tan and slim, her skirt short. She sat alone at the bar drinking Perrier. He went to her, put on his most disarming smile and said without the least hesitation, “My God, you're beautiful.”

Michael Bailey sat at his room desk and dialed his home near Ocean City, Maryland. A masculine, teen-aged voice answered. “Hello?”

Michael's eyes lit up. “Hi, Levi. How're you doing, son?”

“Dad. Guess what? I made the water polo team. Coach Pepé says I'll play driver.”

“Ah, that's great. Wait till I tell your Uncle Levi. He played driver.”

“I
know
, Dad. You think I'm dumb or something?”

“Young and dumb,” Michael teased.

“You'll help me? ‘Cause I'm gonna need you to swim laps with me.”

“Of course. Soon as I get home.” He shifted the receiver to his other ear. “Where's Nicholas?”

“With his friends. Football.”

“Okay.” He paused. “Son? I expect you to look after him.”

“Don't worry, Dad. I will. Okay, gotta go. Here's Mom.”

“Hello, darling,” Nadia said. “I was about to leave for Rainwater.”

“Thought so.” She loomed large in his mind's eye—tall and slender, with soft brown hair and high Slavic cheekbones. “Levi sends his love.”

Her voice turned quiet. “How's he doing?”

“Better, I think.”

“I wish we could do more to help.”

“I know,” he said, and moved on. “You saw the accountant today didn't you? What's the word on that miserable restaurant of yours?”

She said with obvious pride, “Rainwater has pushed us into a new tax bracket. You and I are now worth a cool five mill. We can give the boys the best education.”

“Yale, like their mother?”

“A community college if it makes them happy, but the best community college.” Her voice trailed away. When she spoke again she sounded tired. “The schools are closed tomorrow for the funeral. I'll watch it with the boys.” A silence grew until he wondered if she was still there. At last she said, “Isn't it odd how we cling to normalcy? We're talking about colleges and bank accounts, when the lives of the First Lady and her poor children have been altered forever.”

“Nadia? I love you. You're my best friend in the world.”

“Oh, Michael. You've only been gone a day and already I…” She cleared her throat. “Come home to us, my love. Keep yourself safe and come home to us.”

After hanging up, he dialed Levi's room. No answer. He decided to go to the hotel bar for happy hour; maybe he'd catch him there.

Michael glimpsed Levi leaving the bar with a woman in tow. He went inside anyway, eyeing every customer before sitting at an ornate Brazilian cherry-wood bar and ordering a draft Guinness. A mirror behind the bar let him keep an eye on everyone in the room. The flat screen nearest him was tuned to CNN. Another screen carried ESPN and although he craved the distraction of the sports station, he needed to remain abreast of current events—and he got it when CNN interrupted with
Breaking News
to announce the name of the president's assassin. When the bartender put the tall frothy Guinness in front of him, Michael ordered a Reuben sandwich and settled back.

He'd wanted to talk to Levi over some drinks, but didn't begrudge him his female companionship. Too much had happened to Levi and he didn't need loneliness heaped on top of his other
burdens. Michael sipped some beer, then settled the glass atop the bar and pushed it in little circles. He worried about Levi, as any brother would.

The bartender arrived with the Reuben just as another friend arrived. Hacksaw Jones pretended not to know Michael. That was OPSEC;
do not acknowledge each other around strangers; avoid all compromising situations
. He asked Michael if the seat next to him was free, then perched on it. The tiny, ex-NCIS investigator's dark face shone bright as he got the bartender's attention and pointed toward Michael's Guinness.

Hacksaw ordered a club sandwich and said in a low tone, “Glad to see Levi's doing better.” He quietly added, “Tell you what, I got me a bad feelin' about this job.” He took a swig of his beer. “Someone's gonna get hurt this time 'round.”

“I'm with you there. And the sooner we get rolling, the safer I'll feel.”

“Damn straight. An' I'll tell ya somethin' else.” Lines erupted across Hacksaw's forehead as he made eye contact with his colleague. “I fear that we may find answers to questions we can't even formulate yet. And I shudder, Michael—I positively shudder as I contemplate what else might be in store for our nation.”

Michael noted Hack's rare reversion to a rarified Southern style of speech, and it unnerved him. Hack only did that when he felt something to the core of his soul. Michael finally replied, “Concur. I also think this job will take us in multiple directions.” Then he bit into his sandwich, while outside a heavy snow began to fall, as day turned to dusk.

B
rent Kruger wished he were still flying his beloved airplane as he slowed the Ford F-150 to navigate a sharp twist in the dirt road. Once past it he sped up; with only two hours of light left, he had to reach his destination soon. Peering up, he gauged the sky. The light snow that dusted the region earlier should be hitting the East Coast about now, but the cold air left in its wake blasted through the open window. Kruger didn't care. This way he could hear any unusual noises, and he turned his head like a radar dish as he drove through the high desert thirty miles east of Albuquerque.

“Jesus, they sure got his black ass good,” T.J. Jackson said. The young man stretched his long legs up against the floorboard, then fished a pouch of chewing tobacco from his woodland cammie pants. Getting no reply, he asked insistently, “Didn't they?”

Kruger regarded Jackson with lifeless black eyes. “What're you yapping about?”

“Melchior.”

He grimaced. The boy wasn't likely to shut up unless he got an answer. “Yeah. They sure did.”

Jackson packed a pinch of tobacco inside his lower lip, and after pulling his black cowboy hat low over his eyes, he let out a little laugh. “That Jew-boy's gonna be next.” Then he licked his lips and said in a rush, “You should see the girl I met last night.”

“Met?”

“Yeah, over at the Sunset. New barmaid. Name's Brenda. You should see her. Man, she's got these bodacious tits.”

Kruger scoffed. “Bodacious? Is that your word? Bodacious?”

Jackson cupped his hands in front of his chest. “Oh yeah.”

Slowing for a small wash-out in a road bordered by chaparral, Kruger said in a monotone, “You talk women but I never see you with one.”

“Whaddya mean? I like women. Don't you remember that girl I dated last year?”

Kruger said to the infrequent juniper and the more abundant yucca, “That proves nothing.” When he saw Jackson open his mouth, he jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, past the .30-.30 carbine hanging from the gun rack. “Stay focused on what we're carrying in the back there. That's the only reason you're along. That, and you're white.”

Jackson blurted, “We'll get that Jew-boy. Cohen's never gonna see it coming.”