Savas leaned back in his chair and squinted at the physician. “You're telling me that my contact was gunned down by a limited-edition military bullet from a high-powered rifle, fired over a block away with enough accuracy to strike the man's heart?”
She flashed him a winning smile, obviously enjoying the look of confusion and surprise on his face. “That's it, Johnny-boy. This is a weird one.”
“How the hell did that end up in New York City?”
“I don't know, John. That's your job. This CSI shit isn't what I went to med school for. Now, the rest is there for you to read at your considerable leisure.” She glanced purposefully around the restaurant. “I'm hungry — for food and for a drastic change in the topic of conversation.”
Savas nodded, still fixated on this absurd piece of information. Sniper rifles with obscure military rounds. The assassination of a dirty diplomat in the pocket of international terrorists. Blown apart outside a Bronx dive by a mysterious and highly skilled sniper. What the hell was going on?
3
CIA agent Brad Thompson squinted at the monitor, watching a large crowd gathered restlessly around the mosque on the outskirts of London. They seemed to strain to hear the words of Imam Wahid, broadcast over the loudspeakers yet drowned out by surrounding noise and distance. He didn't know what worried him more — the imam's inflammatory rhetoric or the number of people the nut could draw who were eager to hear it.
He approved of the heavy presence of British military to keep the peace. The task was underlined by the boiling unease and anger simmering beneath the surface of the youthful and mostly male crowd.
Agent Thompson cursed the faint rain that misted over the people, the streets, and the rows of cars lining the curbs, making their surveillance that much harder. At least they were hidden. He imagined how it looked from outside: a few hundred feet from the edge of the crowd, a wet and rusted white van parked roughly between two cars. Everything about the vehicle said that it was in disrepair, neglected, and of a very limited life span. Only a thick black antenna on the side of the van might give any hint as to the reality within the vehicle.
Inside, it was a very different story. Behind the deeply tinted glass, several rows of computer monitors displayed video feeds from many angles around the mosque. Members of Thompson's team sat in front of these monitors, earpieces relaying audio, microphones over their mouths.
He had been assigned only three months ago to investigate Imam Wahid. He glanced back at the monitor, shaking his head at Wahid's angry words, his youthful charm. Your charity fronts don't fool us, buddy. The man was a powder keg of Islamic radicalism. They would stop him, but not before finding out the bigger picture.
The words of the imam's speech were broadcast at a low level throughout the van. “The United States wants to control our world,” rang out a charismatic and strong voice. One video feed showed the passionate gesticulations of the imam; another, the rapt attention of the young men in the crowd. “Yes, with the dollar and the sword they seek to subdue every nation, every people, every religion. But what chance does an empire, however grand, have next to the power of God? No, God will channel His great power through each of you. Each of you becomes a soldier of Heaven against the armies of Satan. The world will be Islam!”
An agent in the van whistled softly. “The bastard is really on. How many future martyrs has he recruited today, I wonder?” Thompson leaned over one of the monitors, staring at a pan of the crowd near the speaker. “Keep an eye on those close ones — the ones he acknowledges, singles out, greets, walks with. Let's get face shots, front and side. We need to ID these people. They're possible nasties, folks.”
An agent at the back spoke up. “Hey, you all hear that they've come up with a new punishment for suicide bombers?” He paused for effect. “Death penalty.”
There were a few scattered chuckles and several rolled eyes. “Stay on task, Johnson,” Thompson barked. Chastised, the agent quickly returned his attention to the monitor in front of him.
Suddenly, a woman's scream wailed over the speaker system, and everyone in the van stiffened involuntarily. A man monitoring the speaker focused intently at his screen and nearly shouted to the others present.
“Wahid's down!”
“What?” Thompson gasped.
“Switching to stage angles.”
All the monitors lit up with images at various angles of the platform on which the speaker had stood. The podium was empty now, the crumbled body of the imam near its base. Figures leapt onto the stage and raced to the body, turning it over as panicked screams rose from the crowd.
“Oh, my God,” whispered Thompson. The video feed made it very clear that the imam was unlikely to return to the podium ever again. Figures around him were tearing at their beards, several covered in Imam Wahid's blood. One cradled the man in his arms, the body limp, a large bloodstain over the left breast visible on the video. The rain washed softly over their forms, diluting the red.
Thompson mobilized his team. “Move people! We have a hit on Wahid! It's long range, rifle shot, and from high ground, I'd put money. Sync with the Redcoats! Rooftops, exits — we need it all covered! I need agents moving now!”
The van erupted in an uproar of sound and activity, voices over the speakers in ears, commands shouting into microphones. The crowd outside was turning violent, with men grouped and chanting angrily, fists raised in the air. Several men pummeled the car next to the van, smashing its windows.
Shit. Thompson thought quickly. “People, this will get ugly. Radio British police that we have a riot brewing. Let our people out there know where the violence is and how to avoid it.”
The van began to shake, fists impacting loudly against its sides and the dark glass. Several shouts announced the arrival of the mob.
“Don't panic! The glass is stronger than the walls.” Thompson pulled out a gun, its dark metal gleaming in the lights of the computers. Except in training, he had never used it before. “The door isn't going to last. Michelson, let's try to get this piece of junk moving!”
He checked the cartridge, released the safety, and moved to the front seat of the van. Daylight spilled into the dark vehicle as several angry arms forced open the door. The CIA man aimed the weapon and fired.
4
"John, I think I might have something.”
Savas leapt over to the console next to a shy-looking man sporting an awkward grin. The man's face turned back to the screen and was partly obscured by an enormous beard and long, disheveled hair curled down below his shoulders. The sounds of keys clacking burst from underneath the hair. Savas had to suppress a laugh. What did the team call Hernandez? “Our very own Jesus.” Yeah, exactly. Except for the pornography. Savas frowned as he tried to decipher the multiple open windows, filled with database output, open web pages, photographs of crime scenes, and more.
“I don't see it, Manuel. We're looking for known hit men with MOs that might match what we have on the Hamid assassination.”
Hernandez nodded. “That's how I started. But it was a long shot, John, like we discussed. I've been in front of these databanks for three days cross-correlating materials and methods from every known killer we have in there with the forensics. Larry's got us drawing from FBI and CIA records. If there's a known assassin with any consistency in style, it would show up. Three days and nothing. Gets boring, John. I always get in trouble when I'm bored.”