Dirty Harry 10 - The Blood of Strangers (6 page)

“See you then.”

He said nothing more. But that in itself was a concession. Ellie smiled to herself. Well, she had won a victory of sorts. She only hoped that it would be worth it.

As it happened, Harry did not begin work at noon but rather at eight-thirty in the morning, which was not the sort of hour he wanted to begin anything. But there was no getting around it. The wave of terrorist activities in the last twenty-four hours amounted to an emergency situation and a hastily called conference was deemed advisable to discuss measures that might be adopted to combat the growing threat.

Harry expected something big. And to be sure there were several men who to all intents and purposes ran the Justice Department, including the Commissioner who had arrived back from Washington on a Red Eye Special before dawn. He barely looked conscious. The D.A. was there, squashing cigarettes into an ashtray every few minutes. He got through half of one, then put it out in favor of another.

There were others who were vaguely familiar to Harry, the sort of men who are always quoted and getting their picture in the paper but never seem to actually accomplish anything in particular.

An FBI agent, introduced to Harry as Tim Connelly, was there, and he did not appear nervous at all. Maybe because his job was not on the fine. Then too there was another guest, Jake Brady, and he was particularly interesting because of the agency he represented. “I am with the CIA,” he had said, a terse but fascinating introduction and a terrific one to liven up dull cocktail party conversations.

It was the Commissioner who took the floor first. The only problem was that he had very little to say since he had been out of town while all hell was breaking loose in his district. After rambling for several minutes, he deferred to Connelly.

Said Connelly, “We’re dealing with a potentially grave situation here.”

To Harry this sounded like understatement. Why
potentially
? He wondered again about the competency of the FBI.

Connelly continued to say that he doubted that the men who held up the Mark Hopkins were tied to any terrorist organization. He did not credit the phone calls claiming otherwise with much veracity. How information about the weapons leaked out was another matter but in Connelly’s estimation there had to be a reasonable explanation. But the Alpha Group seemed to be very real. All they could hope for was that its promised manifesto would give the authorities some clues as to what it represented. This was when he offered the floor to Brady.

Brady was a tall, angular man going bald. He had the look of a ghost about him and there was a certain evil in his eyes as though he had conducted one clandestine operation too many and had lived to regret it.

“Gentlemen,” he began, clearing his throat more like an after dinner speaker who is about to inflict a clichéd anecdote upon his bored audience, “Although the identity, and the motives, of this Alpha Group are as yet unknown, this administration is convinced that it is a manifestation of a vast terrorist network, sponsored by the Soviet Union and its surrogate in the Western Hemisphere, by which I mean Cuba, to create discord and chaos. Moreover, we have reason to believe, based on reliable intelligence sources, that Libya and perhaps other Arab states are involved in fostering this network and in bankrolling it with petro dollars. Accordingly, with the cooperation of my colleague here, Mr. Connelly, it is my pleasure to announce that the Federal government is going to actively participate in bringing to justice all those who threaten our security and well-being.”

He gazed out at those assembled about the green felt conference table with no more interest than he would have had had he been observing an amateur baseball game in Golden Gate Park.

“As you know,” he said with a certain weariness in his voice, “the Central Intelligence Agency is not permitted to engage in covert operations within the borders of the country and for that reason my role will be limited to transmitting intelligence to you on a need-to-know basis. Mr. Connelly here will be in charge of the day-to-day logistics.”

“Does that mean that to all intents and purposes you’re running the show?”

Brady looked across the table at Harry.

“So that we can get to know one another,” Brady said with false cheerfulness, “would you please introduce yourself before asking questions.”

“That’s Callahan, Harry Callahan,” Bressler said resignedly.

“Well, Mr. Callahan, to answer your question, you might put it that way. The relevant Federal agencies that are involved in this do have the final authority, but we mean to cooperate in the fullest with the City of San Francisco and with its law enforcement agencies. I do not expect that there will be any tension. On the contrary, we are approaching this investigation as equal partners who seek the same goals.”

Bullshit was the one word that sprang to Harry’s mind.

“Next question?”

He did not expect to receive the next question from Harry; that much was obvious from the suspicious look that crossed Brady’s face.

“Specifically, how do you propose to do this equal partners number without everyone tripping over each other’s feet and endangering the legal rights of suspects, so we don’t end up blowing the case in court?”

“That was just what I was going to ask,” said the D.A., adding, “in slightly different terms.”

Brady seemed to regard these potential problems as relatively trivial and his tone was clearly patronizing as he answered, “Gentlemen, your interest and ours coincide in this matter. We intend to do nothing that will jeopardize either the course of the investigation or obtaining the appropriate convictions. Let us worry about the logistics, all right?”

There were other questions, but Brady deftly handled all of them, mostly by failing to respond to them directly. As befit somebody who had spent much of his life pursuing a clandestine trade, he was at his best when he was evasive.

At the conclusion of his address, the Commissioner again rose to advise everyone to wait behind. “We have drawn up a protocal for you, a division of labor I’d guess you’d call it. We are assembling task forces to concentrate on different aspects of this case. We plan a several-pronged attack here that will be coordinated on state, local, and Federal levels.”

Harry was bemused. What aspects of the case? Until further analyses could be completed by the forensics people, they had no leads to go on—not for who shot the two patrolmen or blew up the international terminal or attacked the Mark Hopkins. The bodies of the
gentlemen bandits
had yet to be identified. As individuals who were so given to heisting other people’s wallets it was ironic that they had carried none of their own.

Harry had an idea what all this would come to: a great many officials, flashing ID’s and breaking down doors with an abundance of firepower and a paucity of warrants, causing one hell of a commotion while the terrorists went on detonating explosives in public places and blowing holes in people.

But for now there was no sense in protesting. The time might come when the Feds would go home and they could then work on actually solving the case.

“Mr. Callahan?”

Harry turned in his chair to see Brady standing beside him. “I’d like to speak to you a minute if I may.”

Harry shrugged. Didn’t make any difference to him.

“I am told you are an excellent detective, tough, shrewd, and not always disposed to complying with regulations. I was surprised when you brought up the issue of legal technicalities. You don’t have a reputation for worrying about them.”

“That’s true, but I have been made acutely aware of them.”

“Yes, I see your point. Well, no matter, for our purposes I think you will do just fine. I want you to go to Los Angeles for us.”

“Los Angeles? Any particular reason?”

“Naturally. There’s a man we want you to stay on top of. He’s coming into the country tonight. We believe he may be tied into a major terrorist network here.”

“Just how is he tied in?”

“Money. He acts as a conduit for funds emanating from Libya, Yemen, and Cuba. He is quite wealthy in his own right. His name is Gamal Abd’el Kayyim and ostensibly he represents the government in Tripoli. He is here in an official capacity to present a check for five million dollars to the state college system for the establishment of a chair of Arab-American Studies. That’s officially. Unofficially, we believe he is here to pass millions more to the terrorists operating in this area.”

“And how am I to stay on top of him as you put it?”

“Naturally, he expects that the host government will look after his security, particularly in light of his beneficence to our institutions of higher education. I presume that he has security of his own, but it probably will consist of only a couple of bodyguards. We will supplement those bodyguards with some of our people.”

“You want me to pretend to be looking after him as a cover.”

“Exactly. We will provide you with all the proper credentials.”

“Have you any plan in mind if I discover that he is definitely linked to terrorists in this country?”

“Until we know exactly what the situation is, it’s premature to discuss any sort of plan at this stage.”

“That’s just what I thought,” said Harry.

At noon on the dot, she was in his office waiting for him.

“How are you today, Miss Winston?” Harry marveled at how attractive she looked. As far as he knew, journalists often got as little sleep as police officers, but if Ellie contended with long hours it did not reflect in her appearance.

“Ellie, please, and I’m fine.”

“You seem to have made yourself at home.”

She was sitting on the other side of his desk and he guessed that when he entered she’d been trying to read his papers upside down. The woman couldn’t stop nosing about other people’s business to save her life.

“I try hard.”

“I am afraid I have some bad news for you.”

“Oh? You don’t sound unhappy.”

“Bad news for you I said, not me. I have to go away on a special assignment. I can’t tell you how long I’ll be gone.”

“That’s all right.”

“All right?” Was she caving in so easily after last night?

“I’ll go with you. I should have no problem turning my news show over to someone else for the duration.”

“I don’t think you understand. I am going undercover. I am about to stop being Harry Callahan, San Francisco cop, for a while. So it wouldn’t do either of us any good for you to be tailing me around.”

Her face darkened. This would be a difficult one to win.

“But I have the authorization from your superior . . . Lieutenant Bressler . . .”

He didn’t allow her to finish. “It’s been taken out of his hands. It’s gone far beyond Bressler now.”

Though Ellie had suffered a setback, she did not view it as an outright defeat. On the contrary, her resolve was heightened. Yesterday she would have walked away from this assignment, not now; she had too much invested in it. She decided then and there that she would simply have to find out what he was up to and track him down herself.

Six hours later, right on schedule, Gamal Abd’el Kayyim disembarked from the AirFrance Concorde that had conveyed him from Paris, and, accompanied by a pair of strapping mustached gentlemen in olive paramilitary jackets, entered U.S. Customs.

So that there would be no repetition of the bombing that had occurred in San Francisco, the international terminal building had been cleared two hours in advance of Kayyim’s landing and scrupulously gone over by investigators and bomb squad teams of the LAPD. The entire area, even after it was pronounced free of any explosives or concealed weapons, remained sealed off. By the time Kayyim actually arrived, the terminal building was teeming with police, Federal agents, and airport security. Everyone armed to the teeth, everyone striking intimidating poses, their eyes inevitably hidden behind tinted glasses and polarized lenses. No one smiled. Except for Kayyim. He smiled broadly as though this public display for his well-being was vastly amusing.

Like his bodyguards, he wore an olive uniform which, however, bore no insignia of rank. Until Qaddafi had ousted King Idris several years ago, he had been a junior officer. With Qaddali’s ascent, he had advanced to a ministerial position that was vaguely related to foreign affairs. It was believed that he had a great deal to do with ordering the assassinations of dissident Libyan students in Paris, London and elsewhere, but this could not be proven.

The customs authorities were methodical in inspecting the luggage he and his bodyguards had brought with them, but not fanatic. The man had five million dollars in his pocket that he was going to give to a state university and whatever his politics and alleged involvement in murders in far off capitals, that five million dollars evidently entitled him to a certain amount of deference.

Only after he had been passed through customs were newsmen allowed to obtain a glimpse of him. And then only through a glass barrier. Cameras flashed. Abd’el Kayyim smiled more broadly and waved.

He scarcely looked like a sinister assassin. Quite the opposite, television viewers would be reminded of a popular movie actor, for he was extraordinarily handsome, with magnetic black eyes and a radiant expression. Here was a man who a dinner party host wouldn’t mind inviting as his guest of honor.

Trailing in his wake as he proceeded in the direction of his waiting limousine were his bodyguards, supplemented by the police and the security men, all of them looking so glum that they might very well have been marching off to a funeral—perhaps their own.

Among them was Harry Callahan, who for the duration of Kayyim’s stay in this country was to be identified as Dan Turner, one of several detectives recruited from a private agency to insure that no harm came to this important and affluent visitor.

That evening Kayyim threw a party in his suite on the fourth floor of the Beverly Wilshire. This was not a party, however, that people had fought to wrangle invitations for. Many of those present, mainly from academic and political circles, would rather have been elsewhere but in this case, with five million dollars in the offing, obligation took precedence. It was not the lack of food for the food was abundant, nor was the problem with the quality because it was of the highest and had been provided by one of the county’s major caterers. Nor was it the guest list, for the suite was filled with brilliant conversationalists. No, the problem was that Kayyim had chosen to obey the Koranic injunction against the imbibing of alcohol. There was nothing more stimulating to be had than artificial champagne and fruit juices. This put a damper on the party and the guests, after stuffing themselves on hors d’oeuvres and roast beef, soon found excuses to leave.