Cobra Clearance (31 page)

To make it work, Monica had put her Hollywood F/X expertise to work while Hack and Sawyer kept vigil over Jackson in the motel room. First, she rigged the hat with a squib—a tiny explosive charge—and attached it to gel-packs of animal blood and sheep brains. Next, she inserted a micro-thin sheet of sensors inside the hat's crown, then glued a thin sheet of Kevlar behind it to shield Jackson's forehead. Wires from the sensors led to the squib in the back of the hat. That morning Levi chambered a live round in his .45 so that when he fired into the dirt and sent the geyser, Bronk would see he was using live ammo. But the next round was a blank, and when Levi fired it at Jackson's forehead, the blank's gases struck the sensors, detonated the gel-packs, and spewed blood and brains out the back in a classic exit pattern. The gas impact
also jerked Jackson's head enough to simulate a gunshot wound, and per the plan it knocked him unconscious. Levi had loaded the rest of the magazine with live rounds to deal with Bronk in case of system failure, but the ploy worked and they had Jackson back in custody. With Jackson “dead,” Kruger and Amahl could now be lured into Dragon Team's trap.

Potts placed a call to the Secret Service field office. “SAC Brewer, please.” When Brewer came on the line Potts said he would overnight a set of prints to him. “I need to know who this character is.”

Bronk wasted no time in heralding Levi's accomplishment and sociopathic behavior. Kruger listened as Bronk described every gory detail, including Levi's eerie look as he killed, a point that caused Kruger to nod knowingly. When Bronk finished, Kruger said to Levi, “You don't appear upset.”

Tilting his head to one side, Levi squinted. “Am I supposed to be?”

“No. Not really.” He tossed a packet of red boot laces at him.

Levi caught it with one hand. “Thanks.”

Kruger then gave Levi four street-packets of dope. “Two each of your preferred products. Take the day off guys, and enjoy.” He looked at Levi. “I'm proud of you, son.”

Son, huh? Hmm
. Levi pocketed the cocaine and heroin. He wanted to catch some sleep. But Bronk wanted to relive their kill over coke, so they went to the barracks. Levi snorted a line and got Bronk to do three, then got him to talk. And talk he did, describing the gang rape of a woman that walked into the wrong bar on the wrong side of the tracks, bragging about men he'd raped and murders he'd committed. Levi pushed his disgust aside, and
in time said, “Guess you know I'll be on that trip to the White House. I know my job—but what's Kruger got you doin'?”

Bronk play-punched Levi's shoulder. “I'm gonna be riding shotgun for Brian, with a sweet little submachine gun.”

“You're with the mortar? Dude, I'm jealous. So—what'll all ya'll be riding in?”

“Big old Mack dump truck.” He put a finger to his lips. “But don't say nothin'.”

After Bronk finally left for the mess hall, Levi, worn-out these past days, smoked some pot to come down, then crashed in one of the bunks. At 4:00 he got up, stood under a steaming shower, and shaved his face and head. Afterward, he put on clean black jeans, a pressed white T and red suspenders. He polished the Doc Martens and threaded them with the red laces, then pulled them on and went to a mirror. He felt a surge of pride at what he saw: despite the mission's physical and emotional toll, he'd uncovered Kruger's plans and reduced his ranks by three—Jackson, Brenda and Brian. Now he vowed to nail Kruger and Amahl in his own turn-about on the Ides of March.

He shoved the thoughts from his mind and focused on defeating Kruger as he stepped outside. The sun was beginning to set and he caught a new scent in the air. A low pressure system was moving in, and there were greasy clouds in the high desert sky where none had been before. After starting the Harley, he dropped it into gear and rumbled past the guards at the front gate.

Tucker called a meeting, and while the setting sun's rays pierced the sheer inner curtains of his room's windows, the team gathered and waited. His face revealed his troubled state as he gestured at a SAT phone on the table next to him. “Mr. Baker called. The Secret Service heard about this morning's exercise with Jackson. They went ape, and one of their assistant directors wants us out, and real agents in.”

Michael scoffed. “That's absurd. It's inter-agency turf-war crap.” Dentz stuck out a petulant lower lip. “What's the word, Boss?” “The word is, we go full steam until forced to stop.” Monica asked, “What else did Mr. Baker have to say?” “That he's taking it to the top—right now.”

Amahl walked with brisk steps along the Rue de la Commune East, in Montreal's Old Port complex. Bars and restaurants lined the Bonsecours Basin waterfront, but there were no crowds and many of the trendy restaurants were nearly empty. He flipped up his coat collar and went another dozen yards before reversing course and heading back in the direction he'd come from. There—he was sure of it. That young couple examining the menu in the bistro's window; they were shadowing him. He wasn't fooled by their show of normalcy. They were eyeing him without seeming to. He walked past them, and when he reached the corner he hurried into a tiny market where he knew of a rear door to the alleyway. He cursed Kalil for bringing the Westerners down on him. He would call Kruger tomorrow; they would have to exercise their options.

As the usher showed Heath Baker into the Oval Office, the large, garrulous man took off his overcoat and held out a hand the size of a catcher's mitt. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. President.”

President Cohen shook hands with him. Cohen's face revealed nothing of the strain he felt as he wrestled with global economic collapse, a balky Congress and a public that had yet to accept him. Then there were the racial tensions, with riots breaking out in Lansing, Michigan after a group of whites assaulted a bus filled with black students. There was also the looming collapse of San Francisco's
traffic system, after new cracks were found in the Bay Bridge support columns. And it was only Monday. Cohen absently ran his fingertips along the buttons of his bright yellow sweater and gestured toward a brown leather wing chair. “Please, sit down. Coffee?”

“No thank you, sir.”

Cohen got a cagey smile and pointed to a small cart near his desk. “A martini, perhaps?”

“Rocket fuel, if memory serves.” Baker smiled despite the sense of urgency he felt. “I accept, on condition that you join me on the road to Perdition, D.C.”

Cohen went to the cart and opened a small compartment where two frosted martini glasses were already waiting, and held them up for inspection.

“Mr. President, I see you're already prepared.” Then he said with the mock indignation expected of him, “You presumed, sir!”

“I presumed,” Cohen replied. He gathered ice into a metal shaker and poured in a hint of vermouth, followed by a generous amount of Grey Goose. He worked the shaker back and forth, rattling the ice cubes sweetly, then filled the glasses, adding two queen olives to each. He offered the first glass to Baker. “Straight up and slightly dirty, as you prefer.” They clinked glasses and took tentative sips.

“Excellent, sir. Crisp; cold.” Baker waited.

Cohen did not disappoint him as his face took on a stern visage. “I take it you're here about the Secret Service.”

“They want to shut us down after my people have made such deep inroads.”

“They've a job to do.”

“But we risk losing Amahl and Kruger's gang if they make preemptive arrests.”

“I'm well aware of the quandary.” Cohen sat back and held the frosted martini glass at eye level, then twirled it back and forth as
the lamplight changed its patterns through the clear beverage. “It's this damned internecine bureaucracy I've inherited, Heath. Every agency jealously guards its turf. It's politics as usual.”

Baker nodded. “I understand, sir. I don't like it, but there it is.” He held up his hands in despair. “Mossad and Shin Bet still can't grasp our multi-agency system.”

“Know what I tell people who herald El Al's vaunted security?”

“No, sir.”

Cohen sipped his drink and closed his eyes. “It took only ten post-9/11 years for this country to become lazy enough to revert to stop-gap screening. In the meantime I'm constantly reminded of El Al's superior approach toward counter-terrorism.” When he leaned his head back the soft lamp light bounced against his yellow sweater, and was reflected beneath his chin. “What my advisors fail to comprehend is that El Al has only thirty-nine aircraft in their entire fleet. Ninety percent of their flights are international. They can afford the luxury of extensive security checks, because they don't deal with five thousand flights a day. Our economy, such as it is at the moment, would grind to a halt if we utilized their program.”

Baker nodded. He'd considered this before.

“Instead, our agencies operate under the principle, ‘throw money at the problem.' Humph. Let's hope we don't bury ourselves under the rubble of our own wealth.”

Baker grunted. “Do that, and we hand Amahl a free ticket to the game.” He stood and let his voice rumble against the Oval Office walls. “My team's in too deep.”

In the silence that followed Cohen held his glass like a brandy snifter and moved it in circles. After watching the contents swirl, he squinted at Baker. “Even if they were not, I made a promise to protect your back.” Cohen pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your team may proceed, but with the Bureau ready to move at a moment's notice.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

Cohen fidgeted, then crossed and uncrossed his long legs. “Your team—your man that's in too deep. It's Mr. Levi Hart, as I recall.” His face turned solemn. “And you know who he reminds me of. Don't you?”

As Baker regarded his old friend, the intimacy of the question prompted him to use the president's first name. “Yes, Mark. Levi reminds me of your son, too.”

Potts checked his watch. It was five local time, four in California. He phoned his source inside the Secret Service field office and asked, “What have you got for me?”

SAC Brewer cleared his throat. “There's nothing back on your request yet. Hell, we're furloughing agents just to get by.”

Potts scowled. “Can you get it by tomorrow?”

After a brief pause, Brewer replied gruffly. “If I have to run the prints myself.”

Levi opened Kruger's gift packet of heroin and stared at it. He wanted it. Kruger
wanted
him to want it, wanted his Young Turk hooked;
needed
him hooked. It wasn't until Levi began trembling that he said, “Okay, Kruger. I'll be a junkie. But on my terms.” Tapping some heroin into the bent spoon, he moved it over the stove's blue flame.

After spiking the spoon with a fresh residue, he dumped the dope down the drain and prepared a fake dose, then wrapped the latex tourniquet around his left arm. Holding its bitter-tasting end with his teeth, he put the needle against an engorged vein and pushed until it went in with a soft
plop
. Loosening the tourniquet, he injected a partial dose and repeated the action with two veins
in his right arm. Tossing the tainted syringe atop the nightstand along with the others, he settled back and waited. Soon, a black line grew from each of the three injection sites. He smiled and said, “Your move, Kruger.”

But he had one more task to complete before he could pass as a junkie. Taking a sheet of paper from Brenda's notebook, he folded it methodically until he'd formed a tiny envelope. He dropped two small chunks of heroin into it, turning it into a junkie's bindle. Next, he gathered a metal screw-down cap from a wine bottle to cook his junk in, and a syringe. He wrapped all the items inside a handkerchief and
voilà
—the parcel became his “works”—paraphernalia that he would keep shoved in a pocket if he needed a fix in a hurry. It's what every junkie carried—and Levi said a brief prayer for those who needed their works. Checking his arms again, he counted seven track marks, plus the swollen injection sites left by Brenda. He said to himself,
Comes with the job
.

Amahl's men were still in South Beach, still had assault weapons. He had hoped to keep Zafir's cell available for a larger task, but now he couldn't risk waiting. It was time to act—the Westerners were closing in on him. He could feel it. He would call Zafir and order the men into action. The plan was simple; its effect would be catastrophic.

Airlines across the country park their precious Airbuses, Douglases and Boeings on open tarmacs when they're scheduled for maintenance. Miami International's tarmacs are especially vulnerable due to their close proximity to the surrounding expressways and secondary roads. Amahl had devised a plan months before, whereby Kruger's cells would descend upon America's major airports in the pre-dawn hours and cut loose with assault rifles on the 747s, 777s, and Airbuses—riddling cockpits, fuselages and
electronics bays with lead. He'd rejected the use of shoulder-launched missiles: too balky and too training intensive. This plan was both simple and ruthless. He'd calculated that an all-out assault would cripple two hundred major aircraft for months, plunging a U.S. economy already teetering on the brink to the bottom of the cliff. Miami had twenty jets on their tarmacs at any given moment. He could live with that. Twenty airliners knocked out of action and requiring millions in repairs, by a hundred dollars worth of ammunition. He would call Zafir in the morning and then he would call Brent Kruger.

The South Beach utility crew erected a safety barrier around the manhole and got to work. As they labored they watched the apartment on Alton Street.

Levi radiated a spectral light as he sauntered into the Sunset that evening. As he unzipped his leather jacket the regulars sensed a change. He looked sharp but that wasn't it. The tattoo adorning his forehead was still there—that wasn't it either. Nor was it the muscular truck driver who took one look at him and leaped from his path. No. He had undergone some other, as yet unfathomable transformation. It was evident in the way he held himself; the look in his eyes; the sense of raw animal lust he projected. The crowd could see that he had reached a momentous summit in his life but no one asked his secret. Only he and Bronk, standing at the pool table with cue stick in hand, knew that he had killed a man and gotten away with it.