CROSSFIRE: Ex-CIA JON BRADLEY Thriller Series (TERROR BLOODLINE Book 1) (9 page)

    “Just a moment.  Mr. Bradley, what is your take on the investigation so far?  You and your men have been looking over the crime scene for a while,” Murray was still doing the talking on behalf of his CIA team.

    “That is right. But, Mr. David Murray, you will have to ask the NYPD for their official investigation report. You have just  said, it is their Crime Squad that is working the homicide. 

    “By the way, is the CIA officially on this case?” Jonathan knew no answer would be forthcoming from Murray. CIA had no jurisdiction over local homicide cases, unless relevant to homeland security, espionage or terrorism.

    “If the CIA wants to talk to me, you know where I will be?’

    Having asked that, Jonathan walked away in the company of his FBI colleague who then went looking for Brian Smith.  They would all be gathering next on Monday for the 11.30 AM meeting at the FBI office. 

Zahlé, Beqa’a Valley - 2003

On road to Beirut City

    Jameel Khalaf, did not know who the men were, and except for the mandatory exchange of greetings, they did not show any willingness to converse.  

    That they were local Shi'ite, he was sure of.  Jameel did not want to know more as much as they did not want to know about him.  That was the reciprocal understanding in covert interactions.

    It had been almost thirty minutessince they started from the valley and were approaching the suburbs of th
e
Zahlé city.    

    The time was getting to be around 1.30 AM. Though the surroundings were in darkness, Jameel  could still distinguish the landscape as they drove past.

    From Zahlé, it was only 52 km, which is about one hour’s drive to the Beirut city.  The American Embassy officials were probably waiting for them in the city somewhere, and from there to conduct Jonathan to the American University Medical Center in the Hamra area of Beirut.

    Presently, Jameel felt the speed of the car slow down, and come to a stop with the engine running. He stretched out his neck to look through the windshield.  He could see nothing but dark, empty space ahead of them.

    Without speaking, the Shi'ite in the passenger seat quickly got out of the car, and standing on the foothold of the SUV, reached out and   took down the yellow-black Hezbollah banner from atop the vehicle.  He, then, opened the SUV’s back door, threw the folded banner inside it, and returned to the passenger seat as the driver shifted gears and they were driving on the road again.

    However, hardly seven minutes had passed when the driver abruptly reduced  the speed, leaving the occupants jarred with the sudden loss of motion.

    The SUV driver  continued to proceed slowly. This time, however, Jameel  could see some shadowy  figures moving about in the distance ahead and he could make out the shape of a large vehicle with its parking lights turned on.

   Beside Jameel, Jonathan groaned and his trained reflexes led him into a blurry wakefulness.  Despite the high fever and the throbbing of his wounds, he strived to sit straight and focus his attention on what was happening around him.

    Jameel questioned the obvious spokesman, sitting next to the driver, as to what was happening?

   “
Jaysh Lubnan. Shurtah
. Lebanese Military Police.” He told Jameel that he would do the talking to the police. 

   Seeing the SUV approach, one of the military police officers stepped forward and waved the car to a stop on one side of the road. They were six armed men wearing the Lebanese army military police fatigues and the Green beret. A dark-green Land Rover was parked on the left side of the road. 

    At that hour, the road was free of any traffic.  The policemen were seen chatting among themselves. There were no barriers put up. 

    Jonathan was fully conscious by now. He had seen the senior military officer wave their SUV to one side.  The driver had stopped the car and cut off the engine, and only then did the officer approach the SUV.

   
They are probably from the anti-terrorism unit, conducting random checks for wanted or suspected militants,
thought Bradley.

    “Where are you headed?” The Officer had come to the driver’s side and was peering into the interior.  One of the military policemen stood behind him with the rifle lowered and pointing.

    “To Hamra, Beirut city.” 

    “Who are all these men?”

This time, the man in the passenger seat spoke, “We are farmers from Beqa’a…”

     The military Officer, was carrying a flashlight in his hand. He turned it on Jameel and then lingered the light on Jonathan’s face.  The latter winced under the sudden, stinging glare of the flashlight.

    All at once, the officer became agitated and stepped back, ordering the driver,
“Bar’rah! Yallah, bil sora'a!
Come out.  At once.”

    The other military policemen heard his command and immediately joined him on full alert and weapons ready.

    At another order from him, this time to his men, they moved quickly to surround the SUV.

    The driver already had the car’s registration papers  and his I.D. in his hand, and he extended them to the Officer,  probably a “
Naqeeb",
an army
Captain as Jonathan noticed from the insignia on his uniform.

    He took his time to scrutinize the documents, and apparently satisfied said, “
Tayyeb.
Alright,” handing them back to the driver.

   He then addressed the front passenger and Jameel.

   
“Bitaqat Hawiyyah.
IDs,” he demanded.  After having inspected them awhile, he returned the cards, and turned his attention to Jonathan.

    “Inta’ ma Lubnan
,” he switched to English, “You are not a Lebanese. Who are… ?”

    Jameel offered to explain, “
Sayyed
,
houwa mareed. Houve ‘areed doktor….
Sir, he’s ill.  Needs a doctor.”

   
“Uskoot!
  Shut up.”  The Captain glared at him.

     “Aasef! Sorry.”

    “Who are you?” he again demanded of Jonathan.

    “I am an American.  I had gone visiting the Beqa’a Valley.”  Bradley did not want him to know yet that he was an Embassy official.

    Apparently not convinced with Jonathan’s reply, the Lebanese Officer ordered, “Come out of the car, and show your hands!”

    Jameel stepped outside and made out to assist Jonathan.”

   “You… move away from him,” the Captain cautioned him, turning his head to give orders to his team, “Guard every one of them.  Shoot, if anyone makes trouble.”

    Bradley’s whole system stiffened with pain as he slowly moved his body across from the other end of the seat and put his left foot out on the ground. He waited until he was able to shift his body weight on that foot while he lifted his right leg out of the car and leaned heavily against the SUV.

    The Lebanese Officer and his military police were intently watching his every move. However, the Captain upon observing Jonathan’s pale countenance and his lack of strength to hold himself steady, softened his approach towards the foreigner.

    “I see you are not just ill, but more than that, you appear to be wounded.”  He was staring at the neck wound, and the visible portion of the bandage roll across his chest and right shoulder, which showed under the open shirt.

    The Captain was well aware of the dangers to the Americans and Westerners caught up in the sporadic sectarian conflicts in Lebanon, particularly in the areas like the Beqa’a Valley, where the Hezbollah’s presence  was predominant.  This American was lucky to have come out alive from there.

    Jonathan considered swiftly; in a situation such as this, and since these were the military police and not the Hezbollah or Islamist militants, he was better off in their custody.

    “Captain, I am a diplomat from the American Embassy. I can show you my I.D. if I may?”

   “Show me.”

    Getting out his wallet from his trousers pocket was painful enough, and the fingers of his hands shook badly while he looked for his I.D.  in the wallet. 

    All this time, he was subjected to the blinding glare of the Captain’s flashlight, who then used it to check out Jon’s ID particulars pausing to glance at Jonathan’s face to see if the photograph matched. 

    “Excuse me,” he said to Bradley as he moved a few feet away from him.  He was seen talking on his mobile-radio probably to someone higher-up whilst referring to Bradley’s I.D. particulars in the hand.  Five minutes later, he returned and handed back Jonathan’s I.D., this time with less rigidness.

  “Captain, can I request to make a phone call to the American Embassy?”

    “Maybe 15 minutes later.  I am expecting a call from my Headquarters.  Meantime, you can wait inside the car.”

    “Officer, a moment please,” Bradley glanced towards the car occupants, “This man, Jameel Khalaf, is my guide.  The others are farmers who offered to take me to the American Medical Centre in Hamra.”

    “Their I.D.s are in order.  I will let you all go after I receive the permission from my H.Q.”

    When the green signal came from the Captain’s headquarters, Jonathan borrowed the passenger seat Shiite’s cellphone to call the Embassy. 

    Bradley got the Embassy PRO, Johnson Crane, on his personal line, and asked him to make hospital arrangement for him at the American University Medical Centre; that he would be arriving there in about half an hour’s time.  He cut off the line before the PRO could say anything by way of response.

St. Morgan Hospital, NYC - 2006

Saturday - 4.15 PM

    He drove to the nearest restaurant and had a quick lunch before driving to the
St Morgan Hospital Center | Psychiatry at the 462 1st Avenue.

    Victoria was busy with a patient when Jonathan arrived at her office.  He waited in the reception room until she was free.     

    The patient, who came out of her room ten minutes later, was an attractive middle-age blonde woman.  She seemed familiar to Bradley as she  walkedpast hi
m
hurriedly with a somewhat embarrassed look on her face.  Perhaps, she had recognized  him, but he could not exactly place her in his  mind because of the dark glasses she wore.

    Psychiatrist Victoria was on her feet, behind her desk when he walked in. “Hi, Jonathan.  Sorry to have kept you waiting….”

    “Hello, doctor. Think nothing about it.  You have an attractive receptionist out there,” he kidded her.

    “I hope you’re not thinking of dating her over me,” she reciprocated, “well, jokes aside, I think you are entitled to  being enthusiastic since you have some real encouraging news coming your way.”

    “Is that so, Dr. Victoria?  No doubt, I feel my spirits elevated already. But, I think the credit for that ought to go to you.”

    “Jonathan, what’s important is that the outcome is better than what I had expected.

    “Come, sit down, and let me explain.

    “I don’t know if you are aware that I am also a certified Hypnotherapist.”

    Bradley shook his head negatively.

   “Well, I had been after Samantha for her consent to submit to hypnosis treatment.  Most lay people fear hypnosis, believing that their privacy would be transgressed. 

   “On the contrary, it’s a useful clinical tool for an Alternative Treatment of Rape Trauma Syndrome. Under hypnotherapy, the victim learns to do away with the fear, anxiety and helplessness, further helping to recover her self-esteem and learn to trust once again those close to her, and finally the society.

    “Sometimes, the simultaneous hypnotherapy of a rape victim with her husband or partner who shares her rape-related feelings can serve to expel the anger towards self and the assailant, and her doubts and frustrations.

   “In the case of a rape victim, it is at first not necessary to go as far back as her childhood, unless she has suffered sexual abuse in her early past. We call that science, Psychodynamic therapy.”

    “Does the patient come under absolute control of the therapist?”

    Bradley was reminded about the CIA’s clandestine mind control experiments, and the public furor over the Agency’s violation of human dignity and values.

   “Absolutely not… Nothing ever happens without the patient’s consent. She is in control at all times.  There shouldn’t be any doubt about that, because this is the main reason that the people in general fear and do not want to submit to hypnosis.”

    “Did Samantha finally give her consent, and what was her experience?”

    “I first put her at ease by narrating a few rape cases, while respecting the clients’  confidentiality. Then I let her mull over the outcome of the instances shared, and recommended reading a book or two written by victims of similar assaults. At the next session, she showed some willingness; albeit not fully convinced.

    “Early last week, I made her write down the questions I’d be asking her under hypnosis so that she was aware of the nature of the questions she’d answer.

    “We have had two sessions since then.  Understandably, at the first one, she was a bit nervous, but soon felt relaxed and submissive.

    “The last one was much better and already shows promising results. I certainly see early signs of recovery, both in her thinking and behavior patterns.”

    “Good work, Dr. Victoria.”

    “Perhaps, at her next session you’d also want to undergo the hypnosis with her…?” She chided him, knowing well what his line of work was.

    “I have my absolute trust in Samantha, and if she feels what she is doing is the right thing for her, that’s all I’d ever need.  And, no intrusive therapy for me, doctor. Unless you want to be held as an accessory after the fact.”

    “Don’t worry, Jonathan, I am adequately protected from any future  evil intent of the government, under HIPAA Privacy Laws.”

    “So, when will Samantha see me now?  It’s over a month since I last saw at the hospital.”

    “Poor boy….  Well, she is waiting for you to ask her out.  What are you now waiting for?” She grinned at him.

    Victoria saw his face light up, as she heard the phone ring on her desk.

     “Thanks doctor for the good work.  I am indebted to you.”

    Victoria was in the act of picking up the phone, “That’s part of my job, Jonathan,” she answered. “See that she doesn’t miss her remaining sessions.’

    “Sure.  Goodbye, Doctor.”

***

   Jonathan felt much relieved and spirited as he walked to his Ford.  He hadn’t been in such a terrific mood since a long while.

    He phoned the florist to send the best bunch of red roses to his lady and make it an express delivery.  He dictated the message to go with the flower-bouquet. 

    Just as he dialed Samantha’s number, he remembered about Steve Turner and the others of the FBI and NYPD holding the press meeting at the terror cell crime scene.  It had already been in progress since last 20 minutes.

    The FBI did not make it mandatory for Jonathan, who was retained as a contract worker, to attend press meetings.

   As soon as he heard her voice on the other side, Jonathan said to her, “Sam darling, how’re you feeling today?  I’ve just come from seeing Dr. Victoria.  She tells me that you are making real progress.”   

    “I am fine, Jonathan. She put me under hypnotherapy and ever since then I feel I am getting to be my old self again.  My sister’s family also seems to  think so.  They have really gone way out for me. “

    “I’ve really missed you, darling.”

    “I missed you too very much… I am sorry, Jon.  I was so selfish not to have realized the hurt I was causing you, by refusing your presence or even talking to you...”

    “Samantha, you don’t need to feel that way; not now, anyway.  We all know the trauma you suffered.  It is natural for a victim, as you were, to shut off from the world, even from your dear and near ones.

     “Dr. Victoria believes  that once having  come to terms with the reality of what happened to you, you will gradually come back to normal.  You are not alone.  Several women victims  go through this phase and recover.” 

    Jonathan was trying to convince her that he fully understood her situation, and was with her all the way.

    “Thanks for the flowers you have been sending, darling. Elaine tells me that you have been very supportive all along despite my shunning you.“    

    “That’s history now, Sammy.  We should be happy to have found ourselves again.”

     “Yet, I feel I shouldn’t have behaved that badly towards you…,” her voice showed the extent of her emotions, but Bradley wanted to brighten her mood.

     “Sam darling, now is an occasion for us to rejoice and not think back.  We can look ahead to a larger picture of our lives  together.

    “Tomorrow, it’s Sunday. What do you say, we spent the day together?  I will pick up in the morning for breakfast  And then, it is just us… just us, Sammy.”

    “Oh!  That’d  be so wonderful, Jon darling… but you will have to be patient with me…”

    “Don’t let that bother you. I love you, Sammy.  I’d gladly spend an eternity waiting for you…”

   “So cute, beloved.  But I wouldn’t make you wait that long.  I am already yours and shall always be.”

***

    Since he had the rest of the evening to himself, he decided to visit the lady detective who was assigned to investigate Samantha’s assault case.  He was impatient for the results. Quite a few weeks had passed since the horrific incident took place.

    Halfway to the NYPD police station, he considered it best to phone and let the detective know that he was coming. 

    Her desk phone merely rang, no one lifting the phone, and so he disconnected it. The Sergeant at the desk answered that she was probably elsewhere but inside the station.  He drove  on thinking he would take the chance, anyway.

****

    Steve Turner chaired the press meet and both his FBI officials, SAS – Alan Banks and SA – William King, were present on his either side and the PRO occupying the seat next to Officer Banks.   Police Captain, Frank Barros, was also present representing the NYPD.

    For the first fifteen minutes, Turner and then Barros each gave the media, an almost similar overview of the preliminary investigation of the alleged shootout between the warring drug dealers, referring to the combined press release, which was later handed out to the press and TV channel reporters.

    Afterwards, Steve Turner stated, “We will now take any relevant questions.’

    The FBI PRO stood up, “Only two questions per press or T.V. channel for the remaining 10 to 15 minutes. So, please be short and specific.  Give the others an opportunity to ask. Alright, let’s begin. You…,” he was pointing to a TV channel reporter.

    “You have stated that it was a shootout between drug traffickers.  What evidence have you to support that statement?  Because our inquiries in the neighborhood reveal that the occupants of that house were mid-eastern looking men, some even said that they could have been visiting the New York City.”

    “I assume, these are two separate questions. The answer to your first question is that we have known for some time about this secret hideout used by the drug traffickers since placing them under surveillance.  Their rivals, it’d now appear,  raided  the place before we could make our case.

    About your second query, haven’t you found that there are several

Arab-American communities living in this Yonker neighborhood?

    And, you all know that drug traffickers do not belong to a specific country or race,” the FBI Special Agent remarked with a wave of his hand  as if brushing aside the question.

    “Next…,“ he uttered.

    “Did you find drugs inside the house? What type and how much?” asked another reporter.

    “My officers are still accessing that. We shall release that information later.“

    Allan Banks came in, “But, I can tell you that we did find a pile of weapons hidden in the ceiling, mostly automatic

handguns and ammunition. All illegal and unaccounted for, of course.’

     “Sir, can you be more specific about the number of bodies found and if they have been identified?” one of the pressmen asked.

    “Pending the autopsies, I can inform you that in all three bullet-riddled bodies were found in the detached house, apparently victims of the alleged shootout. They were Lebanese-Arab Americans.

    “As for the only body found on the first floor of the adjoining house, it is the landlord’s by the name of Hariri. He rented out the house to the men next door.  We do not know how many shared the house.  But, the owner himself is a Lebanese American like them.”

    “Sir, what about their next of kin?  Have you contacted them?”

    Steve Turner looked at William, who took the cue and answered the questioner, “We are in the process of doing so.

    The  PRO got up to his feet.  “Two more questions and we end this press meet.  Those of who have not collected the official press release, please do so.”

    “Sir, is there more to it, which the FBI is not telling us?  Could the men have been part of a terror cell and they were taken out before they could cause any damage?”

    “By whom?” Turner was quick to interrupt the investigative reporter of a local crime journal whom he knew by sight. Moreover, Steve did not want the other reporters present to dwell on this line of questioning.

   “DHS – Directorate of Home Security,  is the one who would take them out.  The very fact that they did not know and, therefore, were not involved, answers your speculation.” 

    He made a deliberate show of looking at his wrist watch which showed 4.55 PM, and he thought it was time to end this show.

    “One last question, Sir.” A TV channel reporter was asking, “A widow and her son, it appears, were attacked last night at about the same time as the shootout. They were left tied up and locked inside their house.  The alleged assailant, it seems was a young woman….”

    “Must have been the burglary,” interjected the police captain matter-of-factly, “There was a report of one in this area late last night.”

    Then the FBI officials and the NYPD Captain got up to leave, as the FBI PRO thanked the press and was the last official to leave the scene.