He wanted to hear it all, SAC Johnson said. Every last fucking detail. And so Decker told him. When he had finished, Johnson continued to rail. “What a fucking mess, a fucking disaster. Why didn’t you shoot the prick before he stabbed your partner? Jesus Christ. My grandmother would have handled this better. It was a simple stakeout. Mark my words, Decker, there’s going to be an inquiry on this. I ought to take your gun and badge right now. Jesus fucking Christ.”
Decker could feel himself grow angrier by the second. When he’d finally had enough, he said, “Well, perhaps, sir, if you hadn’t ordered Williams and Kazinski to attend that lecture this evening — no disrespect, Warhaftig — this might have been avoided. We were shorthanded, sir, and now I’ve lost my partner and a friend… ”
Johnson looked at Decker with a look of such penetrating venom that Decker felt the words stick in his throat. Decker had only just gotten out of the doghouse for sending those photographs of the PC wallpaper to Washington without apprising Johnson first.
Tall and thin, with pale gray eyes and even grayer hair, Jerry Johnson had a handsome, suntanned face, a black and gray mustache, well coiffed, and a polished nut-brown tonsure. His forehead was furrowed by meditation. He wore a jaunty brown tweed cashmere blend with natural shoulders, and a rust cravat in his breast pocket. His raincoat was Aquascutum. He cultivated the look of the 1960s British character actor typecast as “the Colonel,” home from the Raj. But his chin was surprisingly weak. It tended to slip into the warm folds of his neck and all but disappear.
Despite his affectations, Johnson had risen through the ranks with startling speed, earning three special commendations in the last year alone. His handsome, well-shaped lips quivered as his eyes bore into Decker. He shifted from one foot to the next, glanced at Warhaftig, the Intel specialist on loan from the CIA, and bit his tongue. After a moment of unbearable silence, he looked up at the falling rain. It had grown heavier in the last few seconds. He raised the collar of his coat and started up the street. “Let’s take a look at the apartment,” he said over his shoulder.
Someone alerted the landlord and he let them into the apartment without a fuss. Johnson had brought along a search warrant from a local federal judge based on the tax evasion charges linked to the cigarette heist. The suspects had yet to be categorized as foreign agents under the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act (FISA).
The team picked their way through the apartment fastidiously, finding dozens of cell phones and hundreds of badly printed radical Islamic tracts but nothing conclusive. Williams did, however, uncover pay stubs for three men, including presumably the third suspect, Mecca.
His “real” name was Salim Moussa. He drove the night shift at the Imperial Taxi Company of Queens — the same cab company where Ali Singh worked — and labored as a handyman at a place called East Village Jukebox, on Broadway and Eleventh Street in Manhattan. They photographed everything. Johnson still huffed and puffed. When Decker asked to examine the hard disk of the PC, the SAC denied it. The search warrant didn’t permit them to scan or copy any hard disk, Johnson said. Decker noticed that a standard Windows background had replaced the PC wallpaper he’d spotted earlier. He pointed this out but Johnson was adamant; he didn’t want to overstep his bounds. “Fruit from the poisoned tree,” he kept on saying.
“Well, I took some photographs before,” said Decker. “It was raining pretty hard but they should come out.”
Warhaftig, the CIA Intel specialist, was mildly interested. “What did you see?” he asked.
Warhaftig looked like an ex-Sergeant. He was fifty, with a tough but friendly face, large brown eyes framed by a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, a nose that appeared to have been broken more than once, and a grim no-nonsense kind of mouth. But he’d grown a bit of a paunch the last few years. He was always chained to his desk, and if he did get out, it was generally to the choicest restaurant, drinking or dining with someone with expensable tastes. Veal was his principle weapon these days.
“Some kind of Arabic calligraphy,” said Decker. “Bordered by an arabesque design.”
“You may be some kind of genius with languages and cryptoanalytics,” Johnson cut in, “some kind of wunderkid, but you’ve got a lot to learn about field work, Decker. This was a simple stakeout.” He then told Williams and Kazinski to set up additional surveillance teams where they knew the suspects worked. “Decker,” he continued, “you go back across the street and keep your eyes peeled.”
“They’re not coming back! With your permission, sir, I’d like to break the news to Bartolo’s family. I know them.”
“So do I, you may be surprised to learn. You have your orders. Try not to fuck them up this time.”
And then Warhaftig said, “Sir, if you wouldn’t mind. I’d like to accompany Agent Decker. Keep an eye on things.”
“Good idea. Better to have someone along with some experience.” With that he turned and walked away.
Decker and Warhaftig made their way back to the surveillance squat across the street. Decker ducked into the bathroom to clean up; he still had blood on his cuffs. When he returned to the window, Warhaftig was smoking a cigarette — a Camel. “Don’t take it too hard,” he said. “It wasn’t your fault. You probably didn’t have the shot. And Johnson, if you don’t mind my saying so, is a bit of a blowhard. I’ve never heard of anyone not being sent home or to counseling after losing a partner. He’s just pissed off his unit’s down a man.”
Decker sat down beside him and peered out through the camera at the apartment across the street. It was hauntingly empty now. Pitch black. The suspects must have turned the lights off before they left. Warhaftig said he was sorry that Decker had missed his lecture. “What do you know about El Aqrab and the Brotherhood of the Crimson Scimitar?” he asked.
“Not much,” said Decker, reluctant to start yet another conversation bound to blow up in his face.
Warhaftig filled him in about the organization, and about El Aqrab himself. It was a quick synopsis from his humble birth in Lebanon. Trained in Kazakhstan with the renowned guerrilla leader Gulzhan Baqrah. Explosives expert. Implicated in a number of bombings, including the U.S. Marine barracks and U.S. embassy in Lebanon in ‘83. Blew up oil wells in Kuwait during the first Gulf war and was responsible for dozens of bombings in Lebanon and Israel, including the booby trap in Shiheen in ’93 that murdered twelve Israeli soldiers.
Trained suicide bombers over the last decade during the intifadah, and then disappeared about three years ago, presumably killed after being targeted by an Israeli rocket strike.
But Crimson Scimitar cells continued to blow up U.S. soldiers in Iraq and in Afghanistan. The organization never died. Israeli information was uncharacteristically sketchy, especially concerning someone of El Aqrab’s renown. One thing was legendary, however: Signature pyrotechnics were a featured part of each event.
“If he was killed, what’s all the fuss?” asked Decker.
“Well, that’s just it,” Warhaftig said. “After three years, he’s resurfaced. According to our sources, he’s now in Israeli custody. Caught after slaughtering some family in Tel Aviv.”
The two sat in silence, watching the rain fall on the window. Decker could still feel the incision of the wound in Tony’s back. He could not get the image of his partner’s… his ex-partner’s fingers out of his head. He kept seeing them open, splay apart, and then slide across the balustrade, just out of reach. Just gone.
“Don’t worry,” said Warhaftig, as if reading his mind. “These things happen. I’m telling you, it wasn’t your fault. Don’t let Johnson get to you. It’s just part of the job. Won’t affect your file much.”