Veil of Civility: A Black Shuck Thriller (Declan McIver Series) (12 page)

"I guess it's true what they say about the luck of the Irish," the doctor continued, with an arid smile. "You are Irish, right?"

"Aye," Declan said. In fact, he actually thought of himself as an American, having been in the United States for fifteen years, but he was constantly reminded of his heritage whenever he opened his mouth.

"I'd really rather that you not be watching television," the doctor continued. "It's important that you rest for the next several days. It's not uncommon for people who suffer head trauma to have spurts of vomiting and in some rare cases loss of consciousness. You really are quite lucky. If you'd suffered even a shade more trauma than you did, we'd be talking about an entirely different injury. But as it is, the stitches in your hand should be out in a week and you should be back to normal within a week or two at the most. None of the x-rays we've taken in the last twelve hours indicate any continued swelling. Save for that bit of broken skin above your eye, there's no sign you were even hit. I'm going to recommend the doctor on shift this afternoon release you. We should have you out of here in time for dinner, but I still want you to take it easy. Beware of operating any vehicles or equipment."

Declan nodded his agreement, trying to keep his elation at finally being released to a minimum.

"You have a visitor," the doctor said tucking the clipboard under his arm. "I'll show him in."

"Be brief," Declan overheard the doctor saying to someone in the hallway. "He's already spoken to two of your men this morning against my recommendations. As quickly as his injuries seem to have healed, he needs rest, not to be constantly reminded of everything he's witnessed."

Closing the door behind him, a tall, brown haired man in a perfectly pressed three piece suit entered; he was carrying a thick manila folder. His hair was heavy with product and brushed to one side; a soapy fragrance followed him as he strode to the single chair in the room and took a seat, pulling one leg up to rest across his knee.

"Mr. McIver, I'm ASAC Seth Castellano," he said opening the folder. "I'm glad we're finally getting a chance to talk."

An air of youthful superiority emanated from the agent and bells rang out in Declan's subconscious. Unsure of whether it was his bureaucrat BS detector or something else, Declan nodded but remained silent.

"I understand from the staff here that you spoke with the local police earlier, is that correct?"

Declan nodded. "Aye, that's right."

"Let's get one thing straight right off the bat, Mr. McIver; the local police have no jurisdiction over this investigation, none, zero. This is a federal matter and as such it falls to me. It's my case, and you don't talk to anyone about it but me. Clear?"

"Hardly a time for politics and inter-department quarrels, is it?"

"The local police aren't inter-department. They're not inter-anything. Sheriff Andy and Deputy Fife will screw this case up six ways to Sunday and have their men out looking for turban-wearing camel jockeys at the local mosque."

"They were Chechens and Turks. Maybe an Armenian or two, but they weren't Middle Eastern."

"Chechens, Turks and Armenians, that's your story?"

Declan nodded slowly, taken back by the agent's wording. What exactly did Castellano mean by the term “story”? Was he implying that he didn't believe what Declan had told the police?

"I talked to the locals myself," the agent began, with an air of incredulity. "You're saying you witnessed a terrorist cut off Mr. Kafni's head and then hold it up in triumph, is that correct?" Castellano closed his fist and waved it through the air as if he was holding a severed head by its hair.

"That's not what I told them. I heard the leader of the group say he was going to do that." Declan stopped for a moment and took a deep breath. "I heard him say he was going to decapitate Kafni and mail his head to his family. Then I saw the group leave and one of them, the leader, was carrying a white sack with blood pooling in the bottom. Are you watching his family? You can't let anyone deliver anything to them!"

"Well, then, you see my point about the locals," Castellano said, ignoring the plea. "They'd have everyone believing in and searching for the Legend of Sleepy Hollow complete with a flaming pumpkin and a broadsword."

Declan gripped the railing of his bed tightly, his knuckles whitening. Castellano was baiting him for some reason and he didn't appreciate it.

"So who were these men? You told the locals they were Muslims. Then you told me they were Chechens, Turks and Armenians. How do you know the one carrying the sack was the leader? How many were there? What did they look like? What were their names? How did they get there? What were they driving?"

Declan knew that Castellano was trying to confuse him into making a mistake with the rapid fire questioning, but it wasn't going to work. Despite being injured, he was sure of what he'd seen and of the descriptions of the men involved. "I don't know who they were and I don't know their names. It's your job to find that out and catch them. They were driving two dark red GM Suburban model SUVs and there were thirteen of them. I shot two of them and eleven escaped. In the dark it looked like most of them had dark hair and light complexions, but I only got close to the two that tried to kill me. I know the man carrying the sack was the leader because the others were protecting him as they escaped. He had little or no hair and looked like he could have been sick because his skin was pallid and he was thin for his height. Chechens, Turks and a small percentage of Armenians are Muslims, look it up."

Castellano took a breath and seemed to be fighting back a smile. Was he enjoying this? Declan looked down at the white bedding that was covering his legs and fought back a surge of anger.

"I did look it up," Castellano said, "along with some other things. There are no bodies to back up your assertion that you killed two of these men."

Declan looked up remembering the two men who had run towards the garage to investigate the gunshots and had returned in one of the SUVs. Had they taken the bodies with them? That was the only explanation.

"They must've taken them."

"I see," said Castellano as he looked down at the paperwork in the folder on his lap. "And this leader, the bald sickly man, you told the locals he spoke with a Slavic accent and that you believe he could be a man named Ruslan Baktayev. Is that correct?"

"Aye, that's right."

"But you don't know for sure?"

"I've never seen him, but Kafni told me he'd escaped from a Russian prison and that he had a personal vendetta. It seems like a reasonable conclusion based on the accent, but no, I'm not sure it was him."

Castellano nodded. "Well, let me tell you the problem I have with that and see if maybe you can help me. Abaddon Kafni passed off his suspicions about this Ruslan Baktayev to people in our State Department and they've been in contact with the Russian government in Moscow recently, and they told us this Baktayev is dead. He has been for weeks now."

Declan shrugged. He knew that Kafni had told him the Russians were lying and that there had been someone inside the prison sympathetic to Mossad, but Kafni's first career as a spy was not public knowledge. "Then it wasn't him," Declan said, unwilling to discuss Kafni's connections with Mossad.

Castellano looked up from the folder and stared in Declan's direction. Meeting his gaze, bells again sounded in Declan's subconscious. What exactly was this agent's angle? Why had he been combative from the beginning? Was he not interested in finding the men responsible for the bombing of an American university and the assassination of a man who had tirelessly defended both his adopted home in America and his native land?

"And what about you, Mr. McIver, how exactly do you know Abaddon Kafni and his entourage?" Castellano asked, suddenly changing the subject.

"I worked for him for six years."

"Right," Castellano said closing the folder. "Let's cut the crap. I don't believe this story you've given me that an escaped Chechen terrorist with ties to the
Mujahideen
somehow made it into the United States and took out a man as well protected as Abaddon Kafni. Islamic radicals have been trying for nearly two decades to kill Kafni and so far every one of their mediocre attempts has been foiled by his security."

"I know. I was his security and was personally involved in stopping three of those attacks."

"Which leads me to more questions," Castellano said smugly. "Your immigration file indicates that you arrived in the U.S. from Galway, Ireland, in 1995 and that your occupation there was fisherman, a role you briefly continued in once you arrived here in the U.S. Would you mind telling me how an Irish rodman came to be employed as muscle by a Jewish firebrand?"

Declan had expected this line of questioning to come up at some point, but the confrontational position adopted by Castellano surprised him. He'd been interviewed by federal agents before when he'd been involved in stopping the assassination attempts Castellano had referenced and each time the agents had readily accepted his statements. The fishing industry was rough. Men were employed for long periods of time aboard vessels with less than desirable facilities and forced to endure some of the most vicious weather cycles on the planet. To most it hadn't taken a big stretch of the imagination to believe that someone with that background could end up as a bodyguard, but Castellano didn't seem to be buying it. And, of course, Declan knew he was right not to, the background story was a fabrication. While he'd certainly spent some time fishing as a boy and time aboard fishing trawlers in the waters around Ireland, the trawlers hadn't been bringing in hauls of tuna or lobster, but munitions and armaments intended for use in the IRA's war for independence.

"I met Kafni in Boston in ninety-seven," Declan said. "Some of the Islamic radicals you mentioned made one of their attempts at a restaurant in Beacon Hill. The leader of that group was a man named Deni Baktayev, Ruslan Baktayev's older brother."

Castellano looked up from the file and raised an eyebrow.

"And you rushed in like the boy wonder and saved the day," the agent said in a monotone and looked back at the file.

Declan nodded in confirmation though he knew the question had been rhetorical. It was the truth, or at least partly so. He'd left out the bit where he'd met Kafni a few years earlier in Belfast when he'd still been working for Mossad and that the assassination had been orchestrated in part by Declan's Boston-based employer, a surly maggot named Lorcan O'Rourke who ran a smuggling operation in the American northeast and who'd been paid handsomely by a Palestinian named Hashemi to arrange Kafni's demise.

"So one thing leads to another and you ended up as part of his detail?" Castellano said, looking up again.

"Aye, that's it."

"Let me speak plainly for you, Mr. McIver," Castellano said, standing up, "I—don't—believe—it."

Declan flashed him an amused look as if to say
No kidding.

"The events at La Jetée in April 1997 are well documented and say that you took out eight Palestinian gunmen who were holding Kafni and his family in the restaurant. It goes on to say that none of Kafni's security was able to return fire because they'd been incapacitated and that you were armed only with a pistol," the agent said, placing his hands on the railing at the foot of Declan's bed. "Now, I'm no military man, but a little bit of experience makes me think that the odds of a fisherman taking out eight heavily armed terrorists are pretty damn lousy."

"I don't gamble," Declan mused, but again he knew the agent had him dead to rights. He'd taken out the gunmen as he moved systematically through the restaurant like the trained soldier he was. One had died in the alley watching the back door, two more in the kitchen, another on the second floor, three on the third floor, and the last one, Baktayev, on the roof.

Drawing himself up to his full height with a deep breath, Castellano said, "You're hiding something, Mr. McIver, and I'm going to find out what it is."

Before Declan could respond the door to the room opened. Constance entered, followed by Okan Osman and Altair Nazari, Abaddon Kafni's remaining bodyguards. Castellano buttoned his suit coat and straightened his tie as the twisted expression he'd been wearing melted away, leaving only a youthful charm.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. McIver," he said in an entirely different voice. "I'll be in touch if I have any more questions."

"I'm sure you will be," Declan said, watching him as he strode from the room with his folder under his arm.

Sensing the tension in the room, Constance looked anxiously at her husband. "Is everything okay?"

Declan smiled and said, "Of course, love. It's grand."

As Castellano clicked the door closed, Declan knew it wouldn't be the last time he saw the agent and that he would probably like their next meeting even less then he'd liked the first. Whether it was bureaucratic ambition or something more sinister he couldn't be sure, but for some reason the FBI's lead investigator on the case of Abaddon Kafni's assassination and the bombing at Liberty University had pegged him as public enemy number one.