The intersection was clear now, blocked that way by the city cops. Art had no traffic to fight going east, back to the Bureau office.
It was almost seven when Art ran into his office. Carol was on her way out after a semi-normal day, unlike the previous two.
“I need you, Carol,” he said. “It’s important.”
She sensed the real urgency in his voice, like time was an important commodity right now. “Okay. What can I do?”
“Get the evidence bag from the Hilton. I think it came over earlier. There’s one with a picture we took from one of the shooters — it’s of a young guy and a little girl.”
“Anything else?”
“Is Jerry around?”
“No.”
Art wanted to bounce his thoughts off someone, but he couldn’t wait. He might catch hell for going over his bosses, something he’d never done. Time. Time was a problem. “Get me a line to the director. Don’t get him on, just yet,” Art admonished her. Carol started back for her desk. Art grabbed her arm gently. “Carol, Eddie was shot.”
“Dear God,” she responded, her voice cracking. “How bad?”
Art shook his head. “I don’t know. It looked bad.” He rubbed her back. “I thought you should know. Now, we’ve got to do this, and you’re my right arm. Get the evidence, and the line to the director, okay? I’ll find Jerry.”
“Okay.” She wiped her eyes and walked away.
Jerry Donovan took the news like any man in charge of others would. He also listened as Art quickly explained a theory, but took no position on either side of it. That was all right with Art — a least he didn’t shoot it down.
The senior agent thought the idea was credible. It made sense, and it came from Art. That was enough. But his subordinate had also made a major error in judgment. Jerry wasn’t about to say anything at this stage, but there was going to be a change. He hated the fact that he had to make that decision.
“Go to the director with this,” Jerry said.
“First I’m going to confirm something.”
Jerry gave him the go-ahead and left.
Art dialed the number and waited. After it was answered he found himself waiting again while Meir Shari was tracked down by an assistant, half a world away. It would be the very early morning in Tel Aviv, just the time when someone wanted to be bombarded by questions.
The evidence bag was on his desk. In it was the picture.
So this is all about you? Art asked the smiling girlish face. She had dark, curly hair, and big brown eyes.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Shari. This is Arthur Jefferson, Los Angeles FBI.”
“Good morn — well, I believe it is good evening for you.”
“Yes. I’m sorry to accost you this early in the morning, but something very disturbing struck me a short time ago. The Khaled brothers have been identified as the killers of the president — your assistance was invaluable. Well, I was wondering if there was possibly a third brother?”
“I don’t know. What makes you ask?”
“This picture that we found, it looks like Nahar Khaled, but then it also looks like the older one. And they look very much alike themselves. What I’m getting at is a possible link to another event. Apparently someone in our government thinks the assassination could be related to the hijacking, and that would make sense when trying to figure out a reason.”
“Can you hold on while I check? We may not have a file on another brother, but there might be a notation of one in a family reference. It is a chance.”
“I’ll wait.”
Art wondered if he was creating something where nothing was. No. Something was fitting together, making sense. If there was a third Khaled, he could be the link, but beyond that he would provide the reason for this all. The assassination, as strange as it might seem, might have been only a prelude to a greater attack, one that the Khaled brothers had been cajoled into. They had a true sense of vengeance, and Art really couldn’t blame them for that honest emotion. Someone had used them.
“Arthur.”
“Yes?”
“You are truly a psychic. There is an older brother. Saad Khaled. There is a notation that the little girl’s body was released to her brother for burial. The two others were deported by this time, so it had to be another. We find that sometimes deportees sneak back in and use the names of others. That does not appear to be the case here.”
“Dear God, Meir…” Art had figured right, and the rest now made complete sense. He had the link, the motive, the players, and most important of all, the intent. “I have to go. Thank you so much.”
“Good luck, and shalom.”
Art had no time to waste. The last news he’d heard was that the aircraft had left the Canaries. He buzzed Carol and asked for the director.
What had been a murder investigation with probable international ties now was small in comparison to what he knew was going to happen. Art was relieved, but still found himself taking deep breaths to compensate for the tightness in his chest.
He was no longer in his Army uniform. That had been stripped off him during booking and was replaced by a white jumpsuit. His left hand was cuffed to the table, which was bolted to the floor for obvious reasons. Sammy’s hastily arranged attorney from the PD’s office sat next to him.
“Gentlemen.” His name was Bob Lomax, the special agent in charge of the Chicago field office of the FBI, and at the moment, he was one pissed agent. Word had spread that a brother agent was lying in the hospital, a bullet in his body, an event only slightly mitigated by the fact that the perp had bitten the big one. So you’re his brother. Have we got a surprise for you. Lomax was a tough agent, but one blessed by both street and administrative finesse. There was a need here, for information. All else was secondary — he could hate this man later.
“Lomax,” the attorney began, “this is highly irregular. You won’t release my client to custody, instead you keep him — keep us — in here.” He motioned to the cubic room. “Let’s all get some sleep. How about it?”
Bob Lomax smiled at the lawyer, then shifted his happy gaze to Sammy. “Sam, guess who’s here to see you. Well, actually he’s here to see us, but maybe we can arrange it so he can drop by.”
“Who…who are you talkin’ ‘bout?” Sammy asked. He was shooting looks between his lawyer and Lomax.
“Your brother,” Lomax answered, his smile becoming cheeky.
“Marcus? He’s here?”
“No, he’s dead.” The smile disappeared instantly. His face was flat, physically and emotionally.
“What?”
“Lomax, what the hell is this?”
“You, mister attorney, had better listen carefully, just in case your client is too grief-stricken to comprehend what is happening.” He turned back to the youngest Jackson. “Your brother shot and seriously injured an FBI agent in Los Angeles before he was killed. Now, you can and will be held as an accessory to assault on a federal law enforcement officer, plus multiple counts of conspiracy to commit murder, and anything else we can find. You are had, Mr. Jackson. We have you cold. The cases that held the weapons used in the assassination were found with the stencils still on them. Marcus wasn’t too bright, huh? And interestingly there was an inventory done just prior to a certain duty shift you worked, and those weapons were logged in — still in their packing crates. But,” Lomax said sarcastically, bringing a finger to his lips, “some of your fellow soldiers just finished another inventory and — guess what? — the weapons are gone. Can you believe that?”
“This is unheard of!” the lawyer protested, which only earned him a wave-off.
“And you know what? Your brother Ernest is next door saying that he knows nothing about any of this. He says his El Rukn days are far behind him, and he does have a hell of an alibi. So, it looks like you’re going to take this rap all alone.”