Cobra Clearance (8 page)

The young, very black driver rolled his eyes and mumbled, “Another staffer.” He flipped the meter and dropped the transmission into drive, then checked his mirror before pulling into traffic. If he noticed the dark green 750Li BMW five lengths behind that was also pulling from the curb, he showed no reaction.

Michael ignored the driver's attitude and gave him the onceover. Tall. Slender. Long tapering fingers. “What part of East Africa are you from? Eritrea? Djibouti?”

The driver examined his passenger in the mirror and replied with a noticeable accent, “Ethiopia.” Then he said curtly, as if explaining to a child, “E-theo-pee-
ah
.”

Michael refused to rise to the bait. “Ah yes. Ethiopia. That land of the great Haile Selassie.”

The driver's face lit up and his smile revealed stunning white teeth. “
Yes.
”

Michael said quietly, “Selassie—the Lion of Judah.”

The driver closed his eyes and whispered reverently, “The Lion of Judah.” He opened his eyes in time to avoid crossing in front of
an oncoming car, and looked at his passenger with great curiosity. “How do you know of this man?”

“How can I not? Ethiopia is a great land, made up of a great people.”

The driver laughed out loud and turned his head until he could study this rare white man. His eyes were filled with a new light and his smile shone bright. “You are only saying this to me,” he teased.

“No. It is. You are.” After a brief pause he said, “Pull to the curb for a moment, please.” The driver complied and turned around. Michael knew that the dark green BMW was also pulling to the side. He reached inside his suit jacket and produced a copy of the composite sketch, and held it up to the driver.

The young man regarded him. “You are police, no?” When Michael nodded, the driver flicked his eyes at the sketch. “I do not know this man.”

Michael said, “Thank you,” and pointed to the street. “Change of destination. 600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Proceed, please.”

Beads of perspiration popped across the driver's forehead. “F.B…I.?

“Proceed, please.” They traveled the next few minutes in silence. When they drew close to the Bureau, Michael directed him to a parking facility secured by a ten-foot high chain-link fence. There was an armed security officer at the gate and George stood next to the officer. The officer waved the taxi through. He also let the BMW in, and Levi parked it a short distance from the taxi.

Michael said to the taxi driver, “Keys.” The driver handed them over and Michael stepped out and said, “Let's go.”

After handing the keys to George, he and Levi frisked the man for weapons, then led him inside to an interview room. Once they were seated, Michael advised him of his Miranda rights, and after getting a signed waiver, he produced the composite sketch, then leaned forward slightly and said, “Talk to me.”

The driver folded his arms across his chest and looked away. “I tell you, I do not know this man.”

“No?” Michael reached into another jacket pocket and produced a sheet of paper. “This is a computer print-out of all calls made to and from your cell phone.” He held it up for the driver to see. “The same phone listed for your taxi. You know the name. ‘Halay Taxi Way.' The ‘Dumb Ass Taxi Way.'” At this the driver looked sharply at Michael. “Which is it?” Michael probed. “Are you the dumb ass? Because I assure you, we are not.” He tapped his finger against the paper while Levi edged his chair closer to the driver from behind, intruding on his space and putting him at a psychological disadvantage.

The driver's eyes flashed with defiance, but his lower lip trembled. “I am not dumb.”

Michael sat back, giving him a degree of space, and dignity. “No. I don't think you are. I think you're a survivor. And I think you hate Americans, and got yourself caught in someone's net. Now you need a way out.” He let his words hang in the air.

The driver turned surly. He jutted his jaw at the phone log. “That means nothing. Why am I here? I want my attorney.”

Levi growled from behind him, “Fine. You've invoked your rights.” He looked at Michael and said
sotto voce
, “There'll be no deal. Go ahead. Let him make his call.”

“Wait.” The driver fell silent, then wet his lips. “What is this deal?”

Levi leaned into him, invading his space again. “For conspiracy in a presidential assassination? A good deal, I assure you.”

“Phooey! What conspiracy? I know nothing of conspiracy. I was asked to provide a ride. That is all.”

“Let your conscience help you decide. Here's the offer: free room and board in a Federal facility, instead of Guantanamo. You know about Gitmo, don't you?” The driver sniffed and Levi continued. “A comfy Federal facility with three hots and a cot, maybe time off for good behavior.” Levi drew back to let him consider
his options, but added, “Really, I shouldn't even be talking to you at all. You've invoked your rights.”

The driver waved a dismissive hand in the air. “So I wish now to talk.” He looked into Michael's eyes. “But I talk only to you—the friend of the Lion of Judah.”

Michael nodded, then looked at Levi and flicked his eyes at the door. Levi was already walking away when Michael said to the driver, “We'll start with the man you drove to and from the parking garage.”

“And that is all I know about this man,” the driver said fifty minutes later.

“Thank you.” Michael sat back slightly. “Now tell me about these phone calls you've been receiving. You know the ones. The calls from Zurich.”

The driver was silent for a moment. Then he said, “It is unfortunate that this President Melchior was murdered. This is true not only for the United States of America but for all peoples.” He glanced at the door. “This man who murdered him, this Amahl, he has a son born out of wedlock. It is a very shameful thing in my country to be born a bastard. So this son remains unknown to the world, yes?” He licked his lips and said, “He is Amahl's favorite, however.”

Michael's pulse quickened. He leaned forward, exerting his willpower to remain calm. “How do you know all this?”

“How do I know this thing? I grew up near the village where this son lived. We are same age. We go to, how you say—rural school? Yes, we go to school together.”

A light went off in Michael's head. “Is this son in Zurich?”

“Yes. He lives near the train terminal. He attends university and works as waiter in fine dining restaurant.” He sniffed. “He is the person who has been calling me.”

Michael questioned him for twenty more minutes. Finally he got up and opened the door. After Levi walked in and sat across from the driver, Michael found George and they spoke briefly. Then Michael called Tucker.

Fewer than eighteen minutes passed before NSA's giant antennae in Ft. Meade, Maryland slowly shifted the focus of their azimuths from the Middle East in general to a more specific location at 47°21'48"N, by 8°32'22"E. While they moved, technicians adjusted the computer programs that filtered intercepted and sometimes enciphered text and voice messages. The agency's ability to gather and analyze the myriad data gleaned from electronic surveillance, and the speed with which its computers performed these functions, had gone phenomenal after computer designers broke the petaflop barrier in which time is measured in femtoseconds. That was then. Now the computers worked at yottaflop speeds equal to a septillion (beyond10
²³
) operations per second. The systems began to sort and signify, to compare and contrast. The vast electronic intelligence apparatus, impotent until now, had been provided a new vitality by an angry Ethiopian who now understood the dignity of cooperation—which in turn might attach itself to a reduced prison sentence. Who would have known to look for Amahl in Zurich?

Michael returned to the interview room and summoned Levi to the door. “The Bureau techies are still poring over the cab. We'll get our man processed and turn him over to the JTTF guys. I'm sure they'll want to have a long chat with him.”

The Joint Terrorism Task force would definitely want to learn all they could about the driver—his possible ties to al Qaeda, political affiliations; the name of his pet rabbit when he was five years old.

“Then they can decide if a conspiracy charge would stick.”

Levi said, “I'm betting it will. He sure ponied up once he saw his options.”

“I'm with you there. Okay, we hand him over, we grab something to go, then beat feet to Fannex—the team's gonna go berserk when we tell 'em what we've learned.”

T
he next day was Sunday and the team gathered early. Michael provided a detailed review of their findings, finishing with some new information. “Kalil made several calls to our taxi driver in the weeks leading up to the assassination. Every call originated in Zurich's main train terminal. Each was made from a different pay phone using prepaid cards.”

“Untraceable, of course.” Hacksaw folded his arms across his chest.

“Naturally. Now pay attention. Kalil asked our taxi driver to bring a man to the getaway parking garage. The driver waited while the subject in question conducted a reconnaissance. Then he drove him to the Smithsonian's Air & Space museum, where the subject got out of the cab and melted into the crowds. But our driver confirms that a sketch we obtained is the same guy that he took to and from the garage.”

Tom Sawyer cleared his throat. “Mr. Mystery man leads us to Kalil—and Kalil is the link to Amahl.”

Tucker said, “Congratulations to both you guys for digging up that information.”

Dentz asked, “What's next?”

“We wait for the Bureau to determine whose mug is on that sketch. But it'll take a day or two. In the meantime we'll continue to plow through anything and everything.”

It was 10:30 p.m. when Monica Mastronardi entered the hotel lobby just ahead of Levi and Michael. She thought the thirtyish woman leaving the bar looked radiant in a black blouse that set off her blonde hair and green eyes. The woman was walking in Monica's general direction when Levi and Michael appeared.

The woman stopped. Her mouth worked soundlessly. Then her face lit-up and she said, “Levi,
darling
. My, gosh how long has it been? Fifteen years? And yet you've barely aged a day.” Then she looked past him and gushed, “And there's Michael Bailey, still gorgeous as well.” She chuckled deep in her throat. “And why am I not surprised to see ‘the two brothers' still together after all this time?”

Monica accepted as
de rigueur
Michael's use of a covert surname as he made the introductions. “Susan Kane may I introduce Monica Masters.” She noted Susan's instant assessment of her unadorned wedding ring finger, followed by a brief smile.

“I'm pleased to meet you, Monica.” Susan touched Monica's hand. “And what brings you into proximity of these two characters?”

“We're independent contractors. And yes, they are a pair of rogues.”

Michael leaned toward Monica. “The three of us were friends in college.”

Susan said, “Levi shared a room with Michael back then.” She looked sidelong at Levi. “Except for a brief period when he shared a room with me.”

There followed a brief catching up: as contractors they often worked together for private clients. Monica was divorced. Michael, married with two sons, Levi stoically declaring that he wasn't married; Susan admitting that she remained single, and had lost her position as art critic for a failed magazine—victim of the recession.

Susan offered a wan smile. “I'm a flight attendant now, here on a routine layover.” She turned to Monica. “Well, let me tell you about our college days…”

But Monica knew the details: Michael was pursuing a degree after a hitch in the army that had helped him escape a hellish childhood; Levi was three years younger, the son of loving parents; they came from diverse worlds but focused on mutual interests, and one of those interests was women; they loved women—as friends, as companions, as lovers; they'd played varsity water polo, a sport matched only by lacrosse for stamina and aggression. She also knew that both men harbored a deep dislike of prejudice; both were also generous. Michael had offered insight into life on the streets while Levi, the product of private schools, tutored his scholastically deprived friend, so that in the end Michael graduated with a 3.6 GPA as opposed to Levi's 4.0.

“…
And
the two studs,” Susan continued, “also worked the ladies club circuit.” She said
sotto voce
to Monica, “They claim it was to supplement college expenses.” She arched an eyebrow. “I suspect they had ulterior motives.”

Monica tittered as expected, but the men's stint as male strippers was old news. However, to maintain the illusion that they were only casual acquaintances she asked wide-eyed, “You mean, with G-strings?”

“Of course,” Levi said, taking his cue. “What the hell. We were young and cocky. Hell, maybe too cocky for our own good.” He added with glib detachment that the G-strings came off for private parties.

Susan smirked. “Private party
favors
, I'll bet. Listen, you guys can dance for me anytime—though not for the…friendliness of your penises.” Then she let out a long sigh. “You and Michael were such fabulous dancers.”

Taking
her
cue, Monica coughed politely and excused herself.

Susan's hand shot out and touched Monica's arm. “Oh, but you mustn't. Let's all go in for a nightcap.”

This time Michael cleared his throat. “I need to call home. You do layovers here. We can do it another time.”

Levi exchanged looks with Michael before saying, “I'll have that nightcap, if you don't mind waiting while I run upstairs and take care of some business, first.”

Monica knew what that business was—securing his weapon in the room safe before indulging. She said, “Why don't you go. I'll keep Susan company till you return.”