Kabakov gave a sigh of relief. It was the first hard evidence that he was on the right track, that the Super Bowl was the target. “I hope we can separate them from the plastic before we take them. Otherwise there will be a very loud noise.”
“So today’s the day,” Jackson said. There was no alarm in his voice. He was steady.
“I don’t know,” Kabakov said. “Maybe today, maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow is Sunday. He’ll want to see you working on Sunday. We’ll see.”
Three hours and forty-five minutes later Abdel Awad got off a Delta jet at New Orleans International Airport. He was carrying a small suitcase. In the line of passengers behind him was a large, middle-aged man in a gray business suit. For an instant the eyes of the man in gray met those of Corley, who was waiting across the corridor. The big man looked briefly at Awad’s back, then looked away.
Corley, carrying a suitcase, trailed the debarking passengers toward the lobby. He was not watching Awad, he was looking at the crowd waiting to greet the new arrivals. He was looking for Fasil, looking for the woman.
But Awad clearly was not looking for anyone. He went down the escalator and walked outside, where he hesitated near the line of passengers waiting for limousines.
Corley slid into the car with Kabakov and Moshevsky. Kabakov appeared to be reading a newspaper. It had been agreed that he would lie low in the event that Awad had seen his picture in a briefing.
“That’s Howard, the big guy,” Corley said. “Howard will stay with him if he takes the limo. If he takes a cab, Howard will finger it for the guys in the radio cars.”
Awad took a taxi. Howard walked behind it and stopped to blow his nose.
It was a pleasure to watch the trailing operation. Three cars and a pickup truck were used, none staying immediately behind the taxi for more than a few minutes on the long drive into the city. When it was clear that the taxi was stopping at the Marriott Hotel, one of the chase cars shot around to the side entrance and an agent was near the registration desk before Awad came to claim his reservation.
The agent by the desk walked quickly to the elevator bank. “Six-eleven,” he said as he passed the man standing under the potted palm. The agent under the tree entered the elevator. He was on the sixth floor when Awad followed the bellhop to his room.
In half an hour the FBI had the room next door and an agent at the switchboard. Awad received no calls, and he did not come down. At eight p.m. he ordered a steak sent to his room. An agent delivered it and received a quarter tip, which he held by the edges all the way back downstairs where the coin was fingerprinted. The vigil went on all night.
Sunday morning, January 5, was chill and overcast. Moshevsky poured strong Cajun coffee and passed a cup to Kabakov, a cup to Corley. Through the thin walls of the construction shack they could hear the rotor blades of the big helicopter blatting the air as it made another lift.
It had been against Kabakov’s instincts to leave the hotel where Awad was staying, but common sense told him this was the place to wait. He could not perform close surveillance without running the risk of being seen by Awad, or by Fasil when he showed up. The surveillance at the hotel, under the direct control of the New Orleans Agent in Charge, was as good as Kabakov had ever seen. There was no question in Kabakov’s mind that they would come here to the helicopter before they went to the bomb. Awad could change the load to fit the chopper, but he could not change the chopper to fit the load—he had to see the helicopter first.
This was the place of greatest peril. The Arabs would be on foot in this vast tangle of building supplies and they would be dealing with civilians, two of whom knew they were dangerous. At least Maginty wasn’t here and that was a boon, Kabakov thought. In the six days of the stakeout, Maginty had called in sick twice and had been late on two other days.
Corley’s radio growled. He fiddled with the squelch knob.
“Unit One, Unit Four.” That was the team on the sixth floor of the Marriott, calling the Agent in Charge.
“Go ahead, Four.”
“Mayfly left his room, heading for the elevators.”
“Roger Four. Five, you got that?”
“Five standing by.” A minute passed.
“Unit One, Unit Five. He’s passing through the lobby now.” The voice on the radio was muffled, and Kabakov guessed the agent in the lobby was speaking into a buttonhole microphone.
Kabakov stared at the radio, a muscle in his jaw twitching. If Awad headed for another part of the city, he could join the hunt in minutes. Faintly on the radio he heard the swoosh of the revolving door, then street noises as the agent followed Awad outside the Marriott.
“One, this is Five. He’s walking west on Decatur.” A long pause. “One, he’s going into the Bienville House.”
“Three, cover the back.”
“Roger.”
An hour passed and Awad did not emerge. Kabakov thought about all the rooms in which he had waited. He had forgotten how sick and tired a man gets of a stakeout room. There was no conversation. Kabakov stared out the window. Corley looked at the radio. Moshevsky examined something he had removed from his ear.
“Unit One, Unit Five. He’s coming out. Roach is with him.” Kabakov took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Roach” was Muhammad Fasil.
Five was still talking. “They’re taking a taxi. Cab number four seven five eight. Louisiana commercial license four seven eight Juliett Lima. Mobile Twelve has—” A second message broke in.
“Unit Twelve, we’ve got him. He’s turning west on Magazine.”
“Roger Twelve.”
Kabakov went to the window. He could see the ground crew adjusting a harness on the next load, one of them acting as loadmaster.
“One, Unit Twelve, he’s turning north on Poydras. Looks like he’s coming to you, Jay Seven.”
“This is Jay Seven, Roger Twelve.”
Corley remained in the construction shack while Kabakov and Moshevsky took up positions outside, Kabakov in the back of a truck, concealed by a canvas curtain, Moshevsky in a Port-O-San portable toilet with a peephole in the door. The three of them formed a triangle around the helicopter pad.
“Jay Seven, Jay Seven, Unit Twelve. Subjects are at Poydras and Rampart, proceeding north.”
Corley waited until Jackson in the helicopter was clear of the roof, settling toward the ground, then spoke to him on the aircraft frequency. “You’re going to have company. Take a break in about five minutes.”
“Roger.” Jackson’s voice was calm.
“Jay Seven, this is Mobile Twelve. They’re across the street from you, getting out of the taxi.”
“Roger.”
Kabakov had never seen Fasil before, and now he watched him through a crack in the curtain as though he were some exotic form of wildlife. The monster of Munich. Six thousand miles was a long chase.
The camera case, he thought. That’s where you have the gun. I should have gotten you in Beirut.
Fasil and Awad stood beside a stack of crates at the side of the pad, watching the helicopter. They were closest to Moshevsky, but out of his line of vision. They were talking. Awad said something and Fasil nodded his head. Awad turned and tried the door of Moshevsky’s hideout. It was hooked. He went into the next Port-O-San in the line and after a moment returned to Fasil.
The helicopter settled to the ground, and they turned their faces away from the dust. Jackson swung down from the cockpit and walked toward the ground crew’s water cooler.
Kabakov was glad to see that he moved slowly and naturally. He drew a cup of water and then appeared to notice Fasil for the first time, acknowledging his presence with a casual wave.