Cobra Clearance (2 page)

Tucker studied Levi's face. “You think so, Pretty Boy?” He drew a deep breath. “Hmm. Glad it shook you too, 'cause it sure did me.”

Levi respected Tucker. Their personalities were a study in contrast but Tucker performed as a disciplined professional. He punched Tucker's shoulder. “Nothing wrong with healthy fear,
amigo
.” He scoffed. “At least Harve didn't put any restrictions on us. That makes us free agents, and I have some free-thinking ideas.” He pointed to the exit. “Let's move.”

Once outside he followed Tucker to a bland Buick rental and they set off. The Key Marriott lay along their route, the property cordoned off while swarms of FBI agents scoured the crime scene. Levi studied the site as the Buick inched among a throng of rubberneckers, while mournful onlookers stood along the roadway.

Tucker broke the stillness. “Guess we needed to see it.”

“Yeah. Sure is dismal.” Levi grimaced. “Did you hear Cohen's remarks after the swearing-in?”

“About avoiding further civil and racial unrest? Yeah, and I'll bet Amahl figured he'd end up exploiting the racial end.” Tucker goosed the accelerator and edged along.

Levi stirred in his seat. He'd faced down some evil players before, but Amahl was different. News footage of the assassination had revealed his ruthlessness of course, but it was Amahl's calm demeanor that troubled Levi. He wondered how he would handle that level of detached and therefore clear-thinking malevolence. Turning to Tucker he asked, “Any new info on how they got away?”

“Nope. At least none that I'm aware of.”

Levi knew only what he'd gleaned from the media: the assassins had charged back inside the hotel after beheading Melchior, then burst from the parking garage a minute later in a SUV. After blasting their way through a police roadblock already in place for the event, they raced south through Crystal City's canyons of high-rise office buildings. A police helicopter was broadcasting their direction, but lost the SUV when it turned into a public parking garage three blocks away. The helicopter observer did her best to keep track of the vehicles that were leaving, but she could only watch helplessly as they blended with the traffic before ground units could arrive. Worse still, the garage had only one surveillance camera, and it had been directed at the attendant's booth.

Levi said rapid-fire, “Okay. Here's what we do. The Bureau's gonna review the parking garage video. I'll take it for a spin too,
fresh pair of eyes and all that. We'll have the team do follow-up interviews.” He scowled. “The Bureau's thorough, but some of the agents can be a bit…”

“Stiff?” Tucker snorted. “Unlike our crew.”

“Right. We'll also have our people scour the open-source data.” Although they'd been given a mandate, the team currently faced an intractable bureaucratic hurdle—they needed credentials to act officially, but couldn't acquire them until the team got qualified with firearms. Levi cursed the niggling detail and turned quiet as they crossed the Key Bridge into Georgetown. His mind was working even as he examined the closed shops, the gray skies, and the defeated-looking pedestrians. Then he saw something. His leather jacket creaked as he gestured out the window. “Check this out.”

A squat African-American man in business suit and overcoat was hard on the heels of a tall man with a full white beard, mustache and black turban. The tall man kept glancing over his shoulder as the businessman waved his fists. Levi cracked the window as the black guy yelled, “…killed my president, you Muslim bastard.”

The old man said over his shoulder, “I am
Sikh
. Sikh, I tell you.” But the businessman still marched after him.

Levi pointed to a beat cop approaching the angry man. “Problem solved.”

“Good,” Tucker said as the officer confronted the stalker and stared him down. Checking the traffic, he drove past the deserted, high-end Shops at Georgetown, crossed Wisconsin Avenue—then stood on the brakes and spun the wheel hard right. The tires groaned in protest. The Buick shuddered to a stop.

Two white men with shaved heads had a young, dark-skinned woman backed against the front of Miss Saigon's restaurant. The bigger of the guys was a behemoth at six feet four and two-fifty, and had a Swastika tattooed on the center of his forehead. He also held a broken bottle near the woman's neck, while passersby scurried away.

Levi leaped from the car, tore past an elderly man, and wedged himself between the woman and the men.

Swastika snarled, “She's black. She dies. Beat it, or I'll slit your throat too.”

Levi replied in a dead-calm voice, “No. You will not.”

Tucker's footfalls alerted the thugs. They turned as he skidded to a stop and told them in a clipped but firm voice, “You don't want to take us on. Walk away from this one. Do it now.” He said to the woman, “Edge past my friend and come to me.”

The assailants stiffened. A nasty grin spread across Swastika's face as he pointed the business end of the bottle at Levi.

Tucker urged the woman toward him with an outstretched arm.

Levi stared at Swastika with a street-fighter's glazed eyes.

Swastika reared back, then lunged at Levi.

Levi captured the man's wrist in a vice grip and jerked him forward. Then he wrapped his arm around the punk's elbow and clamped down. Using the joint as a fulcrum, he yanked the forearm back with brutal force. The elbow snapped with a sharp crack. Swastika screamed, then fell to the ground, writhing in agony.

Tucker grabbed the woman's hand and hurried her toward the car.

The other man, stunned by Levi's ferocity, moved in. That's when Levi went wildcat. The guy rushed. Levi uncoiled a strike. He hit the thug's neck with the knife-edge of his hand. Perfect brachial stun. The guy's legs folded. He collapsed in a heap. Levi ran after Tucker.

He caught up as Tucker half-dragged, half-carried the victim to the Buick, flung her into the front seat and dove behind the wheel. Tucker jammed the gear into drive and floored it. Seconds later they were three blocks away.

Levi took the trembling woman's hand in his until they dropped her at a mall six blocks away. He pressed a fifty dollar bill into her
palm and said, “Take a cab home.” She thanked them with her eyes before blending into the crowd.

Tucker said to Levi as he turned north on New Hampshire Avenue, “What was that you used on them? Krav maga? Dieter?”

“A combination of both.”

Tucker asked in a low tone, “Is that what you used in Baghdad that night?”

“The night of the shooter. Yes.”

Tucker looked him over. “You're like Israel. Small, but nuclear capable.” Then he added before Levi could reply, “But we have a higher priority and that was a problem for the cops. Still, we had no choice.”

“Concur. And I'm damn glad we were there.” Levi made a fist. “Now let's find Amahl. He could be anywhere. Or nowhere. But we'll find him.” He turned pensive. “I'm betting he's already far away, roadblocks be damned.”

TRAVEL AROUND THE COUNTRY
had been halted in a crisis control attempt to contain the assassins. Those who did get into lines for rigidly vetted international flights, or tried to drive into Mexico or Canada, faced long delays as authorities checked each person through facial recognition programs. Elsewhere, added scrutiny meant trucks and trains could not move, and produce, supplies and gasoline reserves were frozen in place. As commerce ground to a halt, the country's economic depression worsened.

The FBI meanwhile set about trying to locate the assassins, and for the most part other government agencies set aside their rivalries and pooled their resources. There were some exceptions—higher-ups who maintained the belief that information-sharing spelled doom for their agency. But as a whole, the machine rumbled on.

At the same time, Homeland Security had ordered that suspicious activity of any kind be reported to the nearest authority. “If
you see it, report it.” Americans, while polarized in their views of the president, did not countenance an attack by foreign terrorists on their own turf. Neighbors scrutinized neighbors, and friends turned against friends. But as everyone focused their attention on turning over rocks, the nation's street cops operated based on their own wisdom: that criminals often hide in plain sight.

AS LEVI AND TUCKER DROVE ON
, a Caucasian pilot in a khaki bush jacket and matching trousers eased back on the control wheel of a twin Navajo and touched down at San Diego's Montgomery Field. The plane had originally taken off from a private landing strip twenty miles from the Key Marriott, three hours post-assassination. The pilot relied on the fact that there are 6,000 general aviation airports in the USA with as many private aircraft in flight at any given time, and monitoring so many airfields and aircraft was as fruitless as a lone state trooper trying to stop every speeder on a rush-hour turnpike. To add to his comfort zone, they departed prior to the declared state of emergency. But to make detection even more difficult, he flew VFR to avoid filing a flight plan and talking to air traffic controllers. For two days he leapfrogged from one small field to another to refuel, while a freshly-shaven, western-attired Amahl remained inside the cabin at all times.

When the props stopped spinning the salt and pepper-haired pilot turned to Amahl. “Okay,” Brent Kruger began, “you've rid us of the mongrel president. That was a great touch lopping off his head, by the way.” He looked Amahl in the eye. “Now my people will fulfill our end of the bargain.”

“Yes, Brent. Now you shall kill the Zionist. Or else.”

Kruger stiffened.

Amahl regarded Kruger and said in a cold voice, “Do not think for one moment that you and I are equals. We are not. I am far beyond
you, in intelligence as well as in depth.” Kruger opened his mouth but Amahl held up a hand. “It is true that you assisted me when I disposed of my men, but do not fool yourself into thinking that you are more ruthless than I. You are not.”

Brent Kruger held his tongue. Deep inside the dark room of his soul that he dared not open, he knew Amahl was right, and Kruger cursed himself. He had underestimated this man he had known for two decades, and his error was a grave one. Despite this he put up a bold front. If Kruger valued nothing else, he put a premium on bravery. “Don't push it, Amahl. We'll uphold our end of the contract.” He uttered a harsh laugh. “And you're invited to join us when we carry it out. Yes, sir. I'll be sure to notify you of the exact time and place for
that
particular party.”

“And now? What party do you attend now?”

Kruger considered telling Amahl to attend to his own business, but said, “I'll refuel and head back to Albuquerque.” He grunted. “To handle some contractual details.”

“Be certain you keep our pact in mind, for although we vowed to bring the world to its knees, we cannot recast it in our favor until you are reminded of one thing. There shall be but one authority, one god. And that god shall be me.”

“Amahl? Once we're done, you work your damn side of the street and I'll work mine—beginning with a boom of white babies.”

“You may reconstitute the Caucasian race all you wish. I have not expressed any misgivings. But in due course I will rule whatever realm evolves. That, my friend, shall be my side of the street.” He fixed Kruger with a cold stare, released his seatbelt, then turned toward the plane's rear door as a bald, tattooed man opened it.

Amahl descended the short set of stairs and stepped into a waiting van. The bald man drove him straight to a marina on Shelter Island
Drive where a thirty-foot sloop was tied alongside the far end of the pier. The sea smells were pungent. Gulls cried and circled overhead, while cooking smoke from a small weather-beaten eatery promised good chowder inside. To the few passersby, the chap in the Brooks Brothers outfit and wraparound sunglasses was one of many men of means frequenting the marina. Few paid attention as he climbed from the van and boarded the sloop.

A red-haired skipper started the inboard engine and cast off at once. The bow swung south, then picked up speed on the receding tide. Ten minutes after motoring past the imposing hills of Point Loma, the three-man crew hoisted the sails and caught the offshore winds. Inside the sloop there were fishing licenses for each person aboard, as required by the Mexican government. There were also assault rifles and RPGs to deal with any Mexican marine patrol officers who got too curious.

This was the best escape. The U.S. air and sea ports would be on high alert. So would Canada's. Flying out of Mexico was far simpler. But a land crossing into Mexico could be suicidal, given the scrutiny of facial recognition scanners brought about by the border drug wars. Conversely, a pleasure boat day-trip from San Diego would not arouse that much suspicion. Besides, there weren't enough harbor policemen to stop them.

The sloop sailed into a fishing town thirty miles down the Baja coast without incident and tied-up to a lonely pier. Minutes later the most televised man in the world stepped unchallenged from the boat, and a waiting sedan whisked him away.

Amahl checked into the Rosarito Beach Hotel. His expertly forged U.S. passport identified him as Yoni Shochat, and listed Israel as his place of birth. As he walked beneath the lobby's timbered ceiling and signature fresco to the elevator, a Yorkshire terrier with a
tiny red bow in its forelock leaped from a frail woman's arms and landed with a yelp in Amahl's path. He bent down and held out his hand. “What a noble animal,” he said to the woman, while using the opportunity to note all possible escape routes. He gently picked up the dog and cradled it in his arms, then ran his fingers through the animal's silky hair while he scanned the area again. “Very nice.” After handing the pet to its mistress, he turned and walked away.

Once inside his room he drew the drapes and lay on the bed. The 9mm Beretta in his waistband pressed against the small of his back but he didn't care. In the darkened room he closed his eyes. All had gone as planned. The men? The woman and her child? They served his purposes and now he was rid of them. As for Melchior? Amahl had not known such pleasure in too long a time. Even now he could feel the grit of the knife against bone, the power he felt as the blade sliced through. He relived the scene again, then once more.