Patriots & Tyrants (10 page)

He pulled the Lotus to a stop at the intersection of Phillips and West Cedar, a block north of where O'Rourke said the hit was to take place. Having failed to bring along any police, Declan knew he was on his own. Turning the wheel sharply, he pulled into the middle of West Cedar and stopped. The gull wing door of the Lotus made a pneumatic hiss as it opened. Declan turned off the engine and removed the key from the ignition. Stepping out of the car, he closed the door and activated the alarm before throwing the keys across the street and into a drainage grate. Pulling the Clock pistol from its holster on his belt, he struck the driver's door glass with the grip until it broke, chunks of greenish glass raining onto the street. The vehicle's emergency flashers and headlights lit up and the horn sounded.
That ought t
o
attract some attention
he thought as he moved south along the cobblestone sidewalks.

Abaddon Kafni looked at each of the six faces staring towards the head of the table where he was seated. The faces of his wife and five children beamed at him with expectation. Today was the day his oldest son, David, turned thirteen. Today David became a man in the eyes of Jewish law.

Standing, Kafni drew his wiry frame up to his full height and cleared his throat. He was a man of average height with a Mediterranean complexion, dark hair that receded to the back of his head and a set of soft brown eyes that communicated a compassionate and educated world view. Looking towards his son, who was seated at the opposite end of the table, he said, "David, you have made me proud since the day I first heard your cries fill our house and today my pride in you continues, entering a new arena. Today you become a man."

Kafni looked around the deserted restaurant momentarily overcome with emotion. His family was seated in the center of La Jetee at a rectangular table meant for eight to ten guests though there were only six of them. Tables for two and four guests, covered with luxurious looking white tablecloths, surrounded them in the dining room. Two double doors at the rear of the room led to a kitchen where the kindly owners. The Perliere Family, were busy preparing a special meal for the Kafni family. The Perlieres were French Jews who had immigrated to Israel in the 1980's and had become close friends before moving to America. Now, with the Kafni family's own migration to the United States, the Perlieres had become their most fervent supporters and had agreed to open their restaurant on a night in which it would normally be closed in order to allow the Kafni's to celebrate in peace and security. At the front door, a lone figure in a suit stood looking through the hand blown glass windows of the nearly two hundred year old federal house.

Kafni removed his glasses, cleared his eyes of the tears that had gathered, and said to the man at the door, "Levi, my friend, you are making me nervous. It is only a car alarm going off. Please come back and have a seat with us."

"I am sorry," the stout man said, turning from the windows. His salt and pepper beard coupled with his short, stocky frame and thick glasses gave him a professorial look. His intense eyes softened at the sight of Kafni's family. "I only want to ensure your security."

"I doubt my enemies have followed me so quickly to America," Kafni said. "Give them a few years to catch up, please."

Like Kafni, Levi Levitt had been an agent in Mossad and one of Kafni's most trusted allies. Having no family of his own, Levitt had insisted on coming with them as a security measure when he had decided to immigrate to the United States.

"I am sorry," Kafni said turning back to his family who continued to look to him from their seats. Cleaning his glasses on the edge of his suit coat, he replaced them on his nose and said, "I know that this celebration is less than what we had planned at home. For that I am sorry. There are many things that I am sorry for. My absences, the constant threats you have had to endure, living with the knowledge that I may not come home. 1 am sorry for it all. But 1 am so very thankful for you David and for all of you. Without you I would not have had the strength to proceed. I want this celebration to not only be a celebration of your becoming a man, but to be a celebration of a new beginning for our family here in America."

Kafni's family clapped politely at the conclusion of his toast. He beamed at each of them. His wife, Zeva, had stood by him for nearly twenty years as he had worked as a spy for the Israeli government. His duties had taken him across the world to such diverse places as Belgium, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Northern Ireland and Cyprus. At times, he felt as though he barely knew the younger members of his family. He had spent so much of their lives at work and had not even been present at two of their births. He regretted it more than he could ever put into words, but he believed then, as he still did, that the state of Israel was under constant threat of annihilation and needed men like him to ensure its continued existence.

Kafni continued, "As we begin our journey here, 1 hope that we will enjoy many years together in America. I tell you today that I will never leave you again. Today, I want to become the father and husband you deserve."

The kitchen doors swung open and a lone figure entered. Kafni looked up at the face of Daniel Perliere as he entered. Immediately upon seeing his host's crestfallen face, Kafni's instincts kicked in. The feeling of a threat hung suddenly and clearly in the air. When Perliere was half way to their table, the kitchen doors swung open again and the threat became visible. A broad man with dirty blonde hair, an unkempt beard and a bulbous nose entered the room. He was wearing a camouflage jacket over otherwise black garb. In his hand, held at his side, was a forward curved knife that Kafni recognized as a Nepalese Kukri. As Kafni's eyes met with his, the newcomer raised the Kukri and hurled it forward with an audible growl. The blade sliced through the air with a whistle and lodged itself between the shoulders of Daniel Perliere. The middle aged restaurateur stopped walking as the blade struck him. Blood pooled at his mouth as he fell, first to his knees and then to the floor where he lay face first. Levi Levitt stood suddenly from the table, his hand entering his coat to draw a pistol he kept in an underarm holster. The kitchen doors burst open again and two black clad men in masks entered with suppressed machine pistols. The guns made two soft clicks and Levitt fell backwards over his chair, his gun clattering to the tiled floor.

Zeva Kafni and her younger children screamed and huddled together. Kafni and his eldest son David looked on, horrified as the newcomer began clapping politely. "Very sorry to inform you that you will not be spending very long together in the United States," he said in a thick Slavic accent.

Staying in the shadows created by the circular beams from the torch-like street lamps, Declan walked towards the intersection of Revere Street. Up ahead, The navy blue awnings that covered the first floor windows of the upscale French seafood restaurant known as La Jetee came into view. The building was separated from its rear neighbor on Phillips Street by a narrow alleyway secured with a wrought iron gate.

From behind, he could hear the sounds of O'Rourke's Lotus blaring its horn. Flashes of yellow light illuminated the brick walls on the opposite side of the street as the vehicles headlamps flashed off and on. As he approached the alleyway, the sound of rusted hinges filled the air and a figure stepped out of the alley onto the cobblestone sidewalk. With his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Declan could make out the machine pistol held at the man's side and knew he'd found the assassins' lookout.

He stepped towards the brick wall to his left and pressed his back firmly against it as the man looked in the direction of the blaring car horn. Even if the distraction hadn't attracted the police yet, it had certainly worked to attract the attention of the lookout. Relaxing as the man saw him, Declan placed his hands in his pockets and pretended to lean against the wall.

"Hey, you," the lookout said in a Middle Eastern accented voice from about ten yards away. "What are you doing here? Get lost."

Doing his best to shed his Irish accent and trying to sound inebriated, Declan said. "It's a free country man. I can stand where I want."

"Not here it isn't, the restaurant is closed. Go away."

The man stepped further from the alley, cautiously moving in Declan's direction but doing his best to keep his weapon hidden at his side as not to alarm any of the area residents who may be watching from a window or somewhere else nearby.

"Are you going to leave or am I going to have to make you?"

"Just lookin' for a drink man relax." Declan answered, swaying slightly.

"There are no drinks here! Leave!" the man said becoming more belligerent and stepping to within a few yards. Suddenly the man closed the distance and raised the machine pistol, "I told you to lea…"

Declan grabbed the suppressed barrel of the weapon as the man brought it up, stepping forward and placing his thumb behind the trigger as he twisted the gun away from his face. Letting go of the barrel and drawing the suppressed Clock pistol from his belt, he raised it and fired a single round into the lookout's head. Even with the suppressor, the report of the gun echoed through the street like the popping of a helium balloon. The bullet entered the side of the man's head and blood sprayed a white Mercedes parked along the street. Keeping hold of the body as it went limp, Declan lowered the deceased man to the ground. Replacing his pistol and picking up the H&K MP5, he removed the magazine. Inside, was the subsonic ammo from the crates on the Revenge. He replaced the magazine and flicked the selector switch to single round mode before moving away into the narrow alley.

Inside the wrought iron gate Declan aimed the MP5 ahead of him as he moved methodically down the cobble stoned walkway. On either side, multiple trash containers stood, some overfilled with refuse and others reeking of dead fish. He stopped at the rear door of the restaurant and listened for any voices or movement inside. Hearing none, he tried the doorknob, locked. He moved back from the door and looked up towards the roof. The building was four floors high, a metal fire escape switch backed down from the roof, its lowest level well out of reach. The back wall of the building had eight windows, one located at the base of each section of stairs along the fire escape and another adjacent to it along the opposite side of the structure.

Declan considered his options. Knowing there was likely another lookout on Revere Street in front of the restaurant, he decided his best chance of entrance was the rear door. Keeping the MP5 aimed, he examined the area around the door. Seeing the door frame was made of wood instead of brick, he aimed the weapon and fired. With three nearly silent shots at the joint of the door near the lock, the locking bolt was exposed. With the bolt secured only by two one inch screws, Declan raised his leg and kicked the door with the heel of his foot just above the lock. With a splintering sound, the door flew open and Declan stepped out of the doorway, placing his back firmly against the wall beside the door.

The sound of Middle Eastern voices speaking their native language rapidly sounded from within the now opened restaurant. Declan listened as the voices grew silent, the sound of footsteps moving over the wooden splinters of the door frame reaching him. Slowly the suppressed barrel of another machine pistol moved into view beyond the doorway. Declan allowed the MP5 to slowly slide out of his grip and hang from his shoulder by its strap, waiting as the gunman inched outwards. When the hands holding the rifle came into view, he made his move, striking at the man's groin with an openhanded chop and pulling him out of the doorway by the barrel of the gun. Nearly inaudible, but rapid clicks filled the air and bullets began hitting the wall opposite the door, chunks of brick tearing loose and raining down onto the cobble stoned alley. From the cover of the wall beside the doorway, Declan fired three shots into the back of the man who'd landed face first in a pool of stagnant water. The man's body jerked as the bullets hit him and the pool of water turned a rust color beneath him. As the automatic weapons being fired from within stopped, Declan flicked the selector switch on the MP5 back to automatic and rounded into the doorway, keeping his body shielded by the edge of the building as he pulled the trigger. Two men inside chattered loudly in Arabic as their fire was returned. One scurried away behind a metal cabinet as Declan's shots impacted the other, his body falling backwards onto the floor. An upside down MP5 was thrust over the top of the metal food preparation counter and held aloft by a ducking gunman. Suppressed automatic gunshots began anew. Declan ducked out of the doorway as more bullets struck the walls around him. The shots stopped as the gun's magazine emptied and Declan rounded back into the doorway, firing several rounds until he heard the metallic clicking of the empty weapon. The man behind the counter scurried away, staying low as he bolted through a set of double doors yelling something in Arabic. Declan stepped fully into the restaurant as the man vanished from site. Looking around the darkened room it was clear from the metal tables, sinks and walk-in freezers that he was in the restaurant's kitchen. Dropping the MP5 and drawing his pistol, he aimed it in front of him as he moved into the room, clearing each alcove and potential hiding spot as he went. On the floor, he found the body of the gunman he'd just killed. In a corner, leaned up against the wall, was the body of a woman who worked in the restaurant, her throat slashed.

With the kitchen clear of any threats and the electricity obviously turned off throughout the building, Declan made his way carefully towards the double doors the gunman had fled through. He kicked the left side door open with his foot and waited as it swung into the dining room eliciting no response from outside. With his pistol aimed, he rolled out, clearing the room like a pie chart. Moving all the way into the dining room, he spotted a staircase along the wall that led upwards, a podium where a host would normally stand to greet guests as they arrived stood in front of it and a sign reading
Employees Only.