Cobra Clearance (7 page)

“You saw something,” Michael said matter-of-factly.

“It is a long ride. When I arrived I went straightaway to the ladies room. After I finish I take a back staircase to the third level. There is a green wooden bench near the south side. I can sit there, take the sun in peace.” She closed her eyes and fell silent. Half a minute went by before she opened them. “As I walk to the bench I pass by a white man sitting in a minivan. He in the driver seat but the motor is not on.”

“What color was this van?”

“Gray as the sky that day.” She paused until Michael nodded. “This man, he sitting all alone and he not looking at
nothing
. That why I notice him. I turn to him but he got that look, you know? Like he looking at you but he not really seeing you. Like he be staring straight through your soul into that place in the middle of the Earth.”

“Was that the only thing unusual about him?”

“Other people…they sometimes sit in their cars and wait. But they don't have that look, that for sure.” She wet her lips and whispered, “Mister, I tell you something else ‘bout that man. I see him there before. Two weeks before that nasty day.”

Michael gently encouraged her. “What made you notice him then?”

“Because he arrive by taxi, that why. And I ask, ‘Why that man come by taxi'? Then I think, maybe he has car inside. But he don't go to no car. He just walk ‘round an' ‘round an' then he get back in taxi and leave. But he come close to me and I see his eyes, and they the same eyes on the same man on that bad, bad day.”

Levi asked, “Can you describe the taxi? Is it one that's been there before?”

“It was different from all the others. Not a Diamond Cab, and that's all I know.” But then her eyes got wide and she edged forward on the couch. “
Backsides
. What's the matter wit me? I remember now. It was one of those taxis that are…oh, what's the word I looking for?”

“Independent,” Levi prompted. “Gypsy cab?”

“That's it. Yes, gypsy taxi cab.” She squinted at him. “It had funny name, you know. ‘Taxi Way.' Or something. It rhymes. Like a song.”

Michael said, “Take your time.”

She closed her eyes and rocked gently back and forth at the waist.
Almost a minute passed before her eyes snapped open. “Halay!” She nodded emphatically. “‘Halay Taxi Way.' An' this name is painted in red. Red, on yellow color taxi. ‘Halay Taxi Way.' Yes, I am sure.”

“What about the driver?” Levi asked.

“Black man. Very black. Thin. That all I see of him.”

“The man with the evil eyes,” Michael began. “Do you think you could describe him to a police sketch artist?”

“Oh, that easy. I never forget this devil.” Then she fell silent as she studied Michael. “It's a terrible thing, this hatreds. People not liking other peoples because of the colors of their skin.” She looked away. “Did I help to stop this hatreds? No. I knew police come to garage for answers. But I say nothing. I was afraid.”

Michael asked gently, “Because you have no green card?”

“I am ashamed of myself.” She took a deep breath. “Take me to see artist man.”

It was dark when they returned to the Bureau with the artist's composite drawing. George was there. Levi briefed him on what they had learned and handed him the sketch. “Let's wash it through the facial recognition programs,” he began, “then cross-check each state's DMV files.”

Michael said, “Then we'll get started on military photos…”

“And all arrest records,” George added. “Now what's this about a taxi cab?”

Levi said, “We find ‘Halay Taxi Way', we find the cab. We find the cab, we find its driver. We find its driver, we find…”

“Mr. Evil Eye,” Michael said. “We find him—we find Amahl.”

AMAHL FELT COLD AND IRRITABLE
. The cramped apartment was musty enough without Kalil's moldy books littering the floors. He didn't care to be confined, but had long ago reconciled himself to this simple cost of doing business. Now it was time for a small
reward. He began reading a book, but put it down when he recognized Kalil's footsteps on the landing. “How was your journey,” he asked when his favorite son stepped inside.

Kalil stifled a yawn with one hand and scratched his hip with the other. “Long. But rewarding.” He held up his carry-on. “I have some things to show you.” Kalil opened the bag and brought out a map, then sat next to his father and pointed to a spot. “There. The Fiveash Water Treatment Plant.”

“Why this place?”

“It serves a large population, it is a soft target and I wish to please you by striking another blow against the Americans. The blow is psychological but its effects will be far-reaching. I think it would help cripple their economy.” He showed an eager smile. “We have assets in place and need not fear their heightened security. We strike from within.”

“Yes, I see. Very good.”

“But better than all else? The Westerners still do not know of my existence. They cannot trace me to you.”

“Excellent.” Amahl paused as his gaze wandered from his son's face to the blank wall. Then his eyes returned to the son. “So. Tell me of the plant's security.”

“It is laughable. There are no security personnel. Only one surveillance camera is operational and it looks onto the landscaping out front.” His mouth puckered. “It seems someone once absconded with a potted plant.”

Amahl grunted. “Employees?”

Kalil rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Only three at night. The gates are open from six in the morning until six in the evening. Water is tested on an hourly basis.”

Amahl tapped a finger against his lip. “What else have you learned?”

Kalil opened a carton of duty-free Marlboros and offered a cigarette to his father, but Amahl declined. Kalil put one to his
lips, struck a match and cupped his hands around it. The flame illuminated the five day growth on his face. He drew the smoke down deep and patiently exhaled as he waved the match out. “High pressure pumps deliver 48,000 gallons per minute. The plant supplies a total of seventy million gallons each day.”

“Good. How many customers does the facility serve?”

A harsh glare from the solitary table lamp caught the heavy dust motes that swirled everywhere. The mildew, thick even in the evening cold, drew the dust like a magnet and plastered it against the walls, the floors and the tiles even as Kalil turned and looked at his father. “Well, this is Fort Lauderdale in the State of Florida. If you include the city and its neighboring communities, and if you add Broward County as you should, then a million people drink from this water supply.”

“Excellent.” Amahl knew Kalil was eager to show that he was his own man and capable of initiating action.

Kalil moved with energy. As his cigarette dangled from his lower lip he cleared an area of the table and spread out a sheet of paper. Taking a pencil, he drew a crude rendition of a municipal plant. Then he explained how water from the aquifer entered a basin, in which air was forced into the water to remove large impurities.

Amahl's eyes met his son's but he said nothing.

“Then,” Kalil said as he flicked an ash onto the paper, “it is channeled into the treatment unit. This is the heart of the plant, where they add lime, soda-ash and other chemicals.” He dragged deep at his cigarette and exhaled through his nose. The smoke flowed down, then upward as a blue cloud. “It gets quite simple now. The water is drawn into a chemical contact basin. Disinfectants are added, along with fluoride.”

“Hmm. Yes. Fluoridation of water. The great Communist conspiracy.” Amahl shook his head in wonder. “I adore their fears.”

After smiling at his father, Kalil took a final drag at his cigarette and flipped it into the sink where it settled with a hiss. “Now then,”
he said while drawing. “These storage tanks have a combined capacity of fourteen million gallons. We tap into the system here.” He pointed to a pipe leading from a filter tank to the storage tanks. “The high pressure pump completes our task for us.”

Amahl traced his finger along the crude schematic, then looked at Kalil. “Superb. You have covered everything. Now describe for me your plan.” Kalil began talking. When he finished, Amahl sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “Yes. Your plan will work and your initiative pleases me.”

Kalil got a broad smile. “Thank you, Father. I've never known such happiness.”

Amahl let out a laugh. “These Americans and their conspiracy theories—their fears will become their undoing.” He gazed in silence at a line on the dimly lit wall, where the light stopped and the dark began. “You have discussed it with our men there?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Then he said abruptly, “Kalil, I have a task for you.”

The young man sat straighter. “Yes, Father?”

Amahl the Butcher reached inside the pocket of his Western-style trousers and produced his forged U.S. passport. He opened it to the photo page where the name Yoni Shochat was displayed and offered it to Kalil. “Copy this page on your computer scanner, and put the copy in here.” Amahl handed him a pre-addressed envelope. “Post it without delay. Can you do that for me?”

“Instantly.” Kalil took the drawing and passport to where a computer, printer and shredder sat at a far wall. He fed the drawing to the shredder, scanned the passport, and slipped the copy into the envelope and sealed it. Then he put on his coat and left.

GEORGE LED LEVI AND MICHAEL
to the room they had used to view the surveillance tapes. “The computer is stand-alone. It doesn't…”

“Require passwords to sign on. Open source internet.”

George coughed. “Exactly.” He went to the door. “Have at it. Call me if you need to get into Bureau files.”

Michael sat at the keyboard. Using the KISS rule of Keep It Simple, Stupid, he googled ‘Halay Taxi Way' and got a hit. “Copy this phone number.” While Levi jotted it down, Michael went to the D.C. licensing authority site. “No record. Definitely a gypsy.”

“Then he probably has a fake permit number stenciled on his taxi,” Levi said. “We'll get George in on this, but first try googling ‘halay' by itself.”

Michael keyed the commands and got hits for translations in half a dozen foreign languages.

Levi looked over his shoulder. “Okay. ‘Halay' can be a Turkish folk dance.”

“It's also a Tagalog slang word. Lust. Or sensual.”

“Hmm, I'm liking how this guy thinks.” Levi rubbed his chin. “Filipinos are dark but I've never heard tell of very black ones.”

Michael scrolled down. “Here's another slang word. It's in Tigrigna, whatever the hell language that is.”

“And?”

“Humph. It means, ‘Dumb Ass.' Michael clicked on a hyperlink next to the definition. “Tigrigna,” he began, “is a dialect spoken by a small number of Ethiopians and Eritreans.”

“Very black,” Levi said. “Okay. We've got a very black gypsy cab driver. Could be from East Africa. He's also got a sense of humor…but who is it directed toward?”

Michael made a sound. “Either he's a dumb ass driver, or his taxi is used to haul dumb ass customers.”

“So he's sarcastic.”

“Hmm. It makes sense for Mr. Evil Eye to use a gypsy cab, because…”

“There's no dispatcher. No trail.” Levi nodded. “Okay. Let's get George.”

They found George seated behind a desk laden with neatly
stacked piles of paperwork. Steam swirled from the coffee cup near his right hand, and although it was long after business hours, he still had on his suit jacket.

George logged into the system and started with the taxi's name. Nothing. Then he ran the phone number associated with it. All he learned was that it was listed to a cell phone. He pushed away from the keyboard and turned to Levi and Michael. “Patriot Act. Section 215…”

“The ‘library records provision,'” Levi said.

Lines creased Michael's forehead. “Enlighten me.”

George said, “I can search business records so long as they're associated with foreign terrorists—and that's what we're working. But the request for a court order must come from someone who is at least an Assistant Special Agent in Charge…”

“As you are,” Michael said, with a tinge of humor in his voice.

“But I'll need a district court or magistrate judge to sign the request.” He looked at the two men. “Coffee's just down the hallway to the left. Help yourselves while I write-up the request.”

It was nearly midnight when the three men returned to George's office. The courts closed at 4:00 p.m., so George had been forced to track down a friendly magistrate judge. But a phone call to the judge's home went unanswered. George called the court clerk next. The clerk's acid response was to demand a number for the judge to call. The desk phone rang forty-three minutes later. The judge was indeed friendly, but averse to authorizing the request over the phone. He was also at a party. He gave a Manassas, Virginia address. The three men piled into George's car, and after a delay caused by a serious auto accident they finally reached the judge. Then they raced back to Bureau Headquarters.

It took another twenty-eight minutes to make the appropriate calls to the wireless carrier, but finally the data began to appear
on George's terminal. George let out a low whistle. “Hmm. Look at where those calls are coming from.”

“Interesting,” Michael said as they huddled around the screen.

“You think?” Levi reached into a pocket and pulled out a quarter. “Call it.”

“Heads,” Michael said. “And tails. I want this guy. I think I can connect.”

Levi said as he pocketed the coin, “You've got it. First thing tomorrow.”

The taxi pulled to the curb under a sunlit sky. It wore a mustard-colored paint scheme, and ‘Halay Taxi Way' was emblazoned in red on its doors. Michael stepped from the curb, opened the rear door and told the driver, “Library of Congress, please.”