Cobra Clearance (14 page)

Beneath them, gates and valves opened in a timed sequence. Water from the treatment plant, now laced with Type-A botulinus toxin, began infiltrating the drinking supplies of the one million residents of greater Ft. Lauderdale.

He pressed two more switches and diesel generators roared to life. They would power the pumps after first responders cut power to the plant. Following instructions, he taped the photocopy of Amahl's passport photo across the console and left three empty vials beneath it. He would mail the others to NBC News.

They stripped off their protective suits and climbed back aboard the van at 0515 hours. Once through the gate, Zafir waited while his men secured it with a massive lock, then got onto I-95 south toward Miami. The first vestiges of morning rush hour traffic were filling the highway as he blended with the cars and trucks. Forty minutes later they were in their apartment. He couldn't believe their good fortune. They had survived, and God willing, they had struck a blow against the Zionist supporters.

TUCKER AWOKE FROM HIS POWER NAP
. After their redeye flight landed in Zurich they checked into their hotel and crashed. Now it was 6:00 p.m. Zurich time. He switched on the TV and caught two minutes of CNN International's breaking news out of Ft. Lauderdale before his phone rang. Lowering the TV volume, he picked up the receiver and listened, then hung up. As he got dressed he watched footage of a cabbie helping a white-haired man into Northwest Regional Hospital. The frail octogenarian gasped as he told the reporter, “I feel weak and dizzy and my vision's blurred. Can't see a dang thing.” He licked his lips. “I'm scared. Damn scared.” CNN cut to Memorial Hospital in nearby Hollywood, where police were trying with little success to hold back frantic crowds storming the ER with similar symptoms.

Tucker stepped from the Marriott into brisk night air five minutes later and turned toward Zurich Center. When he reached Walchestrasse he stopped. Passersby took little note of the innocuous blue Volvo pulling to the curb. He got in without a word and nodded at the Regional Security Officer.

The RSO drove to the U.S. Embassy's side entrance and ushered Tucker into the comm center. After verifying Tucker's identity, he took him to the STU-III secure phone and inserted a plastic Crypto Ignition Key directly into the phone, then waited the fifteen seconds required to transmit a message to the receiving phone that the RSO had a Top Secret/SCI clearance. Once the secure connection was completed, he gestured to Tucker and backed away.

Tucker rested his finger on the dead-man vigilance switch and said into the mouthpiece, “Tucker.”

“Baker here.”

“Affirmative. What's your favorite reptile?”

“The cobra.” Baker paused. “You've seen the news?”

“Yes.”

“Elderly people are dying, but it's not as severe as the media have played it. Yes, there are trace amounts of toxins but they've degraded spontaneously. We're not sure if the bad guys are aware that massive amounts are required to attack a water supply, or else knew this and simply wanted to create panic.”

Tucker grunted. “Suspects?”

“Who else?”

“Our man?”

“Correct. This hasn't been disseminated to the media, but either he or his people left behind a photocopy of his
I'm the Butcher
passport.”

“Clever. Say goodbye to South Florida's economy.”

“God Almighty. It'll be a virtual wasteland by week's end. Have
you seen the Dow and the Nikkei? Never mind. I need you to stay focused.” Baker paused. “Do you recall the briefing you and Levi attended near the Key Bridge?”

“Affirmative.”

“You discussed alternatives if we couldn't take our man into custody.” Baker cleared his throat and whispered, “Execute the option.”

Tucker stiffened. “Acknowledged.” He removed his finger from the dead-man switch and the STU-III clicked off. Then he sat still and contemplated his new orders: locate Amahl and exterminate him.

L
evi sped past a deserted used-car lot, downshifted the Harley and made it roar as he came to a dust-swirling stop in front of the Sunset Bar and Lounge. The engine settled into a
potato potato potato
rhythm as he studied the building. Peeling school bus-yellow paint seemed to be all that held the wooden edifice together. A blue and green neon sign flickering from a short-circuit promised dancing, darts and other distractions. Traffic from I-40 rarely diverted south onto State Highway 41 to get to the Sunset, but college students often stopped by to shoot darts and play pool—or to go slumming. The FBI dossier identified the Sunset as a known hangout for Kruger's followers.

A faded green Chevy pickup and a mottled blue Ford sedan that had seen better days sat in the dirt parking lot. Levi made a mental note of them as he shut down the Harley. The red and white '68 Electra Glide with its Shovelhead engine thundered as good bikes should, but it rattled his body and offered no protection from New Mexico's March winds. Because he needed an appropriate steed for his lone-rebel role, he'd drawn this vintage model from a special Bureau motor pool of untraceable vehicles.

Adult riders didn't need helmets in New Mexico, so his heavy auburn hair was blown into a tangle. He had a two-day scruff and his face was streaked with dust except where sunglasses had shielded his eyes. After getting off the Harley he unzipped his
leather jacket to reveal an oversized light blue flannel shirt, its tails hanging out of his OD fatigue pants. At 3:00 p.m. he grabbed his knapsack and went in-role as a twenty-six year old drifter who lived a hard life governed by harsh rules. From this moment on every word he uttered, every move he made, would be calculated. His battered brown work shoes clumped against wooden steps as he trudged to the door and opened it.

A noxious odor greeted him. The place reeked of spilled beer, stale tobacco and vomit. Two old timers were hunched over beers at the far end of an ancient bar. He gave them a once-over and concluded they posed no threat. NASCAR posters and neon signs for Coors and Bud hung helter-skelter from the walls. A pool table sat to one side. There was a dart board on a back wall. A sign above two green industrial-metal doors read
Rest Rooms
. He thought, if this was where Kruger's people came for fun, what kind of hell must their daily lives be like?

A young woman behind the bar had the front part of her blonde hair done up in Bo Derrick braids. The top three buttons of her ebony blouse were undone, revealing a black velvet choker. As he drew closer he spotted a small, heart-shaped tattoo at her left breast. She wore lipstick, her nails were lacquered bright red and she smelled of jasmine. She said, “Hey there, cutie. What can I get you?”

The two old guys paid no attention as Levi plopped onto a green vinyl stool, its white innards revealed through several rips. “Bud.” He pointed to a row of cupcakes on a display rack, nestled between a huge jar of pickled pigs knuckles, yellow packets of beef jerky, and multi-colored liquor bottles. “An' gimme one a them Ding Dongs.”

She grabbed a package and set it in front of him with a wide, warm smile, then got busy pulling a draft Bud. The cellophane crinkled as he tore it open, but when he wolfed down the cakes
her smile vanished. Bracing her feet against the floor, she planted a hand on her hip. “What's it been—couple a hours now since you shot up?”

“Ain't been slammin'.”

“Tweakin' then?”

“Don't do glass.”

“X?”

“Nope.”

“Then what are you on?”

“Dope smoke.” He tilted his head. “That okay with you?”

Her smile reappeared. “Oh. Pot's okay.” She finished pulling the beer. “That your sweet-sounding Harley I heard?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“You don't gotta ‘yes ma'am' me.” She set the frosty glass before him. “Besides, you're probably older than me. What're you, 'bout twenty-five?” Before he could answer she held out her hand. “Brenda.”

He took her hand in his. “Eric. Eric Briggs.”

She leaned across the bar and touched the two rings in his eyebrow, then the labret and the stud in his left ear. “Nice. I like 'em. So. Passing through?”

“Dunno. Right now I'm drinking a beer and talking to a beautiful babe.”

Brenda worried her lower lip with bright clean teeth. “Um, there's cabins for rent out back. I look after 'em. If you end up stayin' I could let you have one on the cheap.”

“Might take you up on that.” Then he said in a casual way, “I'm looking for this guy. Heard he's got a place nearby but I don't wanna barge in. His name's Kruger.”

Brenda's body grew taut. “You one of them skinheads?”

“Nope.”

“You believe in them guys?”

“I don't think whites and blacks should mix, if that's what you mean.”

She swiped a dish rag across the bar. “But you don't hate nobody…do you?”

He drank some beer, set the glass down and pushed it around in circles. “No.”

“Then why you wanna mess 'round with them boys?”

“I need work. Heard he pays well.” He picked up his beer and drained half of it.

Brenda pushed her Bo Derrick braids back. “Tell you what. There's this fellow comes here most nights. T.J. Jackson. Closet commando type. He's got a puppy dog crush on me, so he'll be here around eight. I'll introduce you. He knows Kruger.”

“Maybe I'll take that cabin then.”

She reached beneath the counter and produced a key. “Cabin six. It's next to mine but don't get no ideas. Twenty bucks for the night, hundred by the week—payable in advance.” She dangled it in front of him, then dropped it to the bar.

Levi parked his Harley next to the cabin and walked inside. A bed was jammed against one wall of the tiny room, a bureau against another. A kitchenette sat off to the side. He stashed his gear, stretched out on the lumpy mattress and took a nap. At 8:00 p.m. he sauntered through the Sunset's rear door and was instantly engulfed in a haze of blue tobacco smoke. The jukebox played rock and several college kids had taken to the tiny dance floor. There were two dozen other customers, the men outnumbering the women two to one. Levi spotted Brenda seated at a table and started toward her, walking past a lone, black-haired guy at the bar without so much as a glance. Dentz paid no notice of Levi, either.

“There's the one I want you to meet,” Brenda said as Levi dropped down on one of three chairs. “Over yonder there.” She called out, “T.J. Come on over here.”

Jackson swept a hand through his dark hair and worked his way through a small knot of people. He held a bottle of Millers and when he reached the table he looked from Levi to Brenda.

She said at once, “This here is Eric. He wants to meet Kruger.”

Levi stood and held out his hand, but when Jackson ignored it and scowled at Brenda, Levi dropped it and made an instant appraisal: Jackson would do anything for female companionship. Whether he would reach his goal was another matter and Levi didn't care. He needed to meet Kruger and would push whatever buttons he had to. He glanced at Jackson's beer and said, “I'm buying. Lemme get you another.”

Jackson worked his mouth and flicked his eyes back and forth between Levi and Brenda until he grumbled, “I won't turn one down.”

Levi got a round of drinks and fell in with the music's rhythm as he carried them to the table, working his hips and moving his arms. He passed a Miller to Jackson, bought another round later, and after a third beer Jackson thawed and stopped glaring at Brenda. Levi said, “Some friends told me to look up this guy Kruger if I got out this way.”

Jackson's eyes narrowed. “Your friends don't know what they're talking about.”

“I'm betting they do.” Levi hunched forward and planted both palms on the table. “Listen. I can buy you fourteen beers right now, or eighty-eight later on.”

Jackson stiffened at the 14/88 phrase—the fourteen words of the slogan to make a better world for white babies, and eight for the eighth letter of the alphabet—H. Double eights signified HH—Heil Hitler. “I'll think about it,” he said finally.

The jukebox segued to a dance number. Half a dozen couples were on the floor, the guys moving listlessly at best and leaving their partners wanting. Brenda touched Levi's hand. “Dance?”

“Sure.” Levi noted Jackson's frown and led her to the floor. As they caught the beat it was instantly clear that he could dance. He had that kid-from-the-wrong-side-of-the-tracks rhythm that couldn't be ignored. He was a playful pup one moment, inventive the next and sassy in between, and Brenda matched his elegant moves skillfully. His fluid movements evidently pleased the other women, for they began to smile with pure pleasure as they watched. As he urged Brenda on her dancing became sexier. Others whispered and pointed, while she stared at him with obvious desire.

Levi took her through three numbers. When they returned he bought another round. After Brenda excused herself to visit the restroom, he turned to Jackson. “How about it? Can I meet Kruger?”

Jackson glared at him but finally said, “What's in it for me?”

“Whaddya want?”

“You know what I want.”

Levi knew. He took a pull at his bottle. “I ain't tryin' to cut in on your babe.”

Jackson said to the floor, “I don't need help with the ladies.” “‘Course not.”

Jackson worked his dark eyebrows. “Tell you what. Be here tomorrow at five. Maybe I'll take you to meet him.” He glanced in the direction of the rest rooms, then looked pointedly at Levi.

Levi drained his bottle and set it down. “Well, I'm outta here,” adding with a degree of manipulation, “By the way? She was talking 'bout you earlier.”

The effect was immediate. Jackson's face brightened. “Yeah?” He chugged the rest of his beer. “Tomorrow. Five sharp.”