Kate's Gifts

  She breezes through customs like any British businesswoman coming off a red-eye, with only carry-on luggage. Since her new partners wouldn’t arrive for at another day, she’ll try to get some shopping in.

  Before long, she finds the car left for her in the long-term parking lot, pays the bill and goes south on the New Jersey Turnpike. The ridiculously large SUV handles well enough, but it is nothing like her little BMW. She laughs at the sight of other women driving beasts like hers. “No wonder they invaded Iraq. They need the oil to feed monsters like these.”

  She finds her hotel with the GPS, stopping at a home supply store and a supermarket along the way, parking in a spot right in front of her ground-floor room. It’s not the Ritz, but it is better than the travel lodges back home. She rolls in the big suitcase that had been waiting for her in the truck and closes the door. Unzipping the top flap, she begins to take inventory of the tools she has to work with.

  “Nice stuff,” she smiles, sliding a magazine into one of the new 9mm Sig-Saur handguns and then laying it on the bed. The other two will be for her partners, after making a few adjustments.

  Then a little snack will get her ready. She is after all, a nocturnal predator.

  Chapter 20

  Trenton Transit Center

  Vanya finds Moody waiting for him at the top of the escalator in the Trenton train station. He waits until the other disembarking passengers file by and go out of earshot. “Who was she?”

  “Someone who took great interest in you, since Union Station. Perhaps my presence distracted you?” Moody suggests, playing on his self-doubt.

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Vanya counters. “So what do you want?”

  “Like I said. I am here to help you.”

  Vanya still hesitates. “We’ll see about that. In the meantime, help an old solider with his bag.”

  Part III

  “Our civilization is founded on the shambles, and every individual existence goes out in a lonely spasm of helpless agony. If you protest, my friend, wait till you arrive there yourself!”

  -William James

  The Varieties of Religious Experience

  Monday

  Chapter 1

 

  Woodcrest Road

  It had been a long and difficult journey, but Dan McDowd is finally home. Bone was safely in the hands of the mortuary staff of Dover AFB. Someone had tipped off the FBI that their wayward recruit had returned, and so he finds his soon to be boss, Special Agent Shelly Haddad from the New York office of the Joint Terrorism Task Force waiting for him. It wasn’t the homecoming he had hoped for, but a ride is a ride.

  After about an hour’s drive, McDowd and Haddad sit in front of a charming house on a lush tree lined suburban street. At 8:30, the mad dash that starts the workweek is in full swing. Minivans and school buses dash here and there while tired teens lug their impossibly heavy book bags through piles of orange leaves.

  “This is it, brother, this is what it is all about. This is what you fought for. This is what your buddy Bone died for. This is what we have to protect now,” Haddad observes philosophically.

  “It looks like cereal a commercial. Will Bone get his picture on the front of the box?” McDowd asks.

  Haddad laughs. “No, but some Dominican making twenty million dollars a year playing baseball will.”

  Two girls burst from a house and race past them, causing McDowd to smile. “My nieces, and there’s my sister Julie right behind them.”

  Haddad sees the warm fuzzies hit McDowd from the Rockwellian scene. “Is it worth it, Dan?”

  He doesn’t have to think. “Yeah, it’s worth it.”

  McDowd jumps out of the car after Julie passes. “Julie!”

  She takes a second to react, but when she does, it’s worth all the waiting in the world.

  “Dan! Oh my God!” She runs at him, nearly knocking him down, then almost squeezing the life out of him. “Please, Lord, let this be real.” she says, her eyes clenched tight, as if doing so would make it happen.

  Julie pushes him away to get the full view, patting him to make sure he’s all there. Satisfied, she hugs him again. “For good, right?”

  “For good.”

  Now the tears come, but she maintains her composure. “Good, come on and say hello,” she says, dragging him down the block.

  Haddad can’t help getting a little misty himself. “I just love happy endings. I just hope this one lasts.”

  Taking McDowd’s stuff out of the trunk, he holds up a locked box, making sure McDowd sees it before placing it inside the folded parka.

  McDowd shouts to him. “Thanks, I’ll call you.”

  Haddad emphatically gestures again to him the importance of what he was leaving behind, but McDowd’s look assures him he understands.

  “Hey, kids! Look who I found!” Julie calls out.

  “Uncle Dan!” The girls come running over, leaving the other kids and moms standing at the bus stop. The women get all aflutter at the sight of the handsome young solider, some despite their feelings about the war. As Julie makes the introductions, one woman in particular catches McDowd’s eye.

  “Hi, Kate!”

  Kate comes over and gives him a big hug. “Welcome home, soldier.” There is the instant electricity when they touch, and it unsettles them both.

  “Julie told me you were coming home yesterday. We’re all proud of you, and happy you’re here.”

  “Thanks, Kate, you look great. Still running, huh?”

  “Yeah, but life keeps catching up with me,” she laughs.

  The sudden squeal brakes of a school bus break the spell.

  Julie’s youngest knows an opportunity when sees one. “Mom, can we stay home with Uncle Dan, please, just today...huh?...huh?”

  “No way!” she tells her bouncing kitten. “He’s not going anywhere. Besides, it looks as if he could use some sleep.”

  Dan nods as he strokes his niece’s head. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  The kids file onto the bus, and as it pulls away, the moms wave to their babies before getting on with their days.

  “I’ll call you tonight, Julie!” Kate shouts, rushing off, waving. “See you, Dan, and welcome home.”

  Calm begins to settle back on the neighborhood and holding hands, brother and sister shuffle back to the house.

  “You stink,” Julie says.

  “Thanks,” he says, picking up his stuff. Julie grabs some as well, but McDowd makes sure he gets the box Haddad left for him.

  “Something to hide?”

  “It’s my service piece.”

  Being a cop’s kids, it is nothing new, but it brings them back to a place neither wants to go: their father, guns and booze.

  “Did you get any meetings over there?” Julie asks.

  “A few.”

  “Ask Kate for meeting suggestions,” she says, pausing at the door, but not opening it. “I know she can use the diversion. She’s having a hard time with Michael.”

  “How so?”

  “She doesn’t seem to want to admit it, but it seems he’s been cheating on her,” Julie says, opening the door.

  “He needs to get his head examined,” he tells her.

  “I’ll say.”

  “Well, I’ll be sure to ask…about the meetings, that is.”

  Dan’s drinking hadn’t been that bad to begin with, but the potential was there. AA meetings always kept that in perspective. Dan is a “high bottom drunk”, the pain that brought him into the rooms wasn’t as bad as many others, but that means he has a lot farther to fall if he ever goes out again. It only gets worse, never better

  Julie, on the other hand, got lucky. She doesn’t seem to have the genetic “on” switch, blessed with their mom’s genes, not their dad’s. That doesn’t mean she got off scot-free. Booze took it toll on her too. Alcoholic parents really can fuck up a kid’s head. Her nightmarish childhood memories of their father’s drunkenness were just as
bad as Dan’s.

  She takes him up to the extra bedroom, where the large bed calls to Dan. She neatly puts down the things she carried. “I’ve got some errands to do. Make yourself at home, this is your home.”

  “Thanks…”

  She come over and hugs him again. “I’m so glad you made it back in one piece.” Soaking up the wonder of holding him, she doesn’t want to let him go.

  “You know, a lot of people around here commute up to the city,” she says, beginning her campaign to keep him here for good, but he cuts her off.

  “Save it, we’ll talk later.”

  “Okay.” Julie walks to the door, but pauses before going out.

  “Do me a favor, though?” she says, without turning around.

  “Sure.”

  “Put that thing away, I don’t want to see it again,” she says to the box with his new service weapon on the bed.

  Chapter 2

  Tehran

  Americans aren’t the most welcome folks in Iran. After all, “Death to America” is still the number one chant at every government rally. So rather than cause a stir, Bob has transformed himself into Hans Schalgher, a German telecom executive. In the spirit of cooperation, the BDN has provided Bob his cover, made even more credible by his near perfect German, a leftover from his cold war posting in Berlin.

  The Iranians, like the Chinese, quickly recognized that technology such as social networking sites and smart phones are a threat to regimes that don’t want their people to speak, or plot, freely. As a result, the government has the welcome wagon out for anything that can help them keep the lid on chatter. Unfortunately, the waiting room where Bob has landed is filled with foreigners willing to help.

  “Herr Schlagher, the Minister will see you know,” the male secretary tells him.

  Getting up, he gets angry glances from the mix of Asian and Latin American businessmen who were waiting long before he arrived.

  “Right this way.” The secretary leads him through double doors into a spacious office where the Minister of Commerce stands behind his desk, back to the door as he finishes reading a report.

  “Mr. Schlagher, welcome back to Tehran,” the Minister says cheerily. He is an elegant man, finely tailored in an expensive Italian suit. He should be, for Mohamed Reza is for all practical purposes Iran’s top businessman and a member of the Revolutionary Guards, helping it to manage its nearly twelve billion dollar empire. His mood quickly changes when he turns to welcome his guest. He was not expecting this Hans Schlagher.

  “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Minister,” Bob says in accented English as they shake hands. Before Reza can say anything, a side door opens, and an armed military officer enters. Bob doesn’t even flinch, even though his being here is kinda like putting his head in the lion’s mouth.

  “This is Colonel Ramzi of our Interior Ministry, I’ve asked him to joins us. I’m sure what you have to say will interest him a great deal.”

  No handshake here. “Yes, spying is my specialty.”

  “Well then, I’m in the right place!” Bob says with a chuckle.

  “So please, what do you have?” Reza asks.

  Bob is too cool to be rattled by the military man. “A solution to a challenge. I know you’re having problems with monitoring e-mail accounts. You have the ability to do deep packet inspections, but the increasing volume slows service down, therefore revealing your surveillance. Yes?”

  Reza glances at Ramzi, who casts a wary eye.

  Bob shrugs, “This is common knowledge now. I don’t need to be a spy to know this. It was written in The Wall Street Journal, but it seem you prefer The Onion.”

  Bob pauses to let the dig settle in. “We can offer you a technology bundle that will optimize your existing system and dramatically increase your capacity.”

  “How soon?” Ramzi asks.

  “We could begin within a few weeks,” Bob says smoothly.

  “And a price?” Reza asks.

  “That will depend on integration logistics, but somewhere in the thirty million Euro range.”

  “I would assume that number is flexible, based on the possibility of future projects?” Reza suggests.

  “Perhaps,” Bob says, “But the window of opportunity to do business with you is beginning to narrow, considering the political climate…”

  This pisses off Ramzi. “Then we will do business with the Chinese!” he says loudly, standing in offense.

  “If you’d prefer a cheap knock-off, please be my guest. You have to pay for quality.”

  “Now Colonel, let us not be too sensitive. It is a business reality, but although windows close, windows also can open,” Reza soothes.

  “So diplomatic,” Ramzi sneers sarcastically. “You must excuse me, the air has becomes somewhat stale,” he says, storming off.

  “I did not mean to offend,” Bob says with surprise.

  Once Ramzi is out of the room, Reza places a small frequency-jamming device on his desk and flips it on. “What in God’s name are you doing here? Are you out of your mind? You’ll get us both killed,” Reza says under his breath, simmering in fear.

  “Us? I don’t think so. You? Sure. Me? I’m too valuable. You’re spoiled goods in my book.”

  “Do your bosses know you’re here?”

  “No, why don’t you pick up the phone and call them? I know they’d like to hear from you. They’re worried about you,” Bob says sarcastically.

  One key to being a good spy, like everything else, is moderation. It’s the greedy ones who usually get busted. Reza’s involvement with the CIA goes back to the days before the revolution. Recruited when the two countries were still pals, he had been home on break while getting an MBA at Georgetown when the revolution started. Being a student got him in on the ground floor, thanks in part to his friend who now happens to be President of Iran. At first, he was a gold mine, helping to set up the Iran-Contra deal, and then later feeding information on Iraq during the first Gulf war. But as Iran’s seemingly benign isolationism became malignant, with its support of Hammas and Hezbollah and then its pursuit of nukes, Reza’s love affair with the west began to fade. He didn’t need the CIA’s money anymore, but he failed to understand that once you’re in, you’re in for good. Bob thought it a great opportunity to remind him.

  “What do you want, Herr Schlagher?”

  “Your people took out a Russian. I thought the Russians are your friends. They tortured him for information. I want to know what they got,” Bob says cordially. He can tell by Reza’s reaction he knows something.

  “I do not know the specifics, something about tricking Russian commandos into pulling off a terror attack. That’s all I know.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what I know. I know we have you on videotape from your last transaction in Zurich. The one that made your secret account fatter by about twenty-five million, thanks to that Chinese company. I’ll bet your bosses would find it interesting, say if it was posted on YouTube.”

  The color begins to drain from Reza’s face.

  “Actually, we have a few other clips to post. They’ll be posted automatically if I don’t make it home on time tomorrow. So, your memory better improve, real quick.”

  Reza realizes he doesn’t have a lot of options. “All right. The man’s name is Hamdi, of the Guardians. He has close ties to the Supreme Leader. I know he has a brother-in-law in the States. His name is Mahmoud Barabi. He is a top member of the Free Iran Movement. If anyone were to be involved, it would be Moody.”

  “Well now, wasn’t that easy?” Bob says, getting up. “I certainly hope it all works out, for your sake. We like to keep our friends in high places. We never know when they’ll come in handy. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a plane to catch. “

  Reza is not a happy camper right now. Sitting back down, he begins to weigh his options. He would like Bob dead, but he can’t have him killed, not until he holds up his part of the deal. Then he thinks of that Sw
iss bank account and how much is in it. It makes him wonder, “Why am I sitting behind this desk, instead of sitting in lounge chair on a South Pacific beach?”

  It is a very good question indeed.

  Chapter 3

  Morrisville, Pa

  TRENTON MAKES, THE WORLD TAKES boasts the red neon sign on the bridge spanning the Delaware River between New Jersey’s capital and Morrisville, Pennsylvania. At one time it was true, but not anymore. The days of busy mills and factories are long gone, and if not for the state government, Trenton would have suffered the same fate as Camden, collapsing into a black hole from which there is little hope of escape.

  Morrisville does its best to keep the trash out, however very now and then a body turns up, usually drug related. In the deep undergrowth by an old canal is a fresh one, and this time it is a bit unusual.

  It is the classic crime scene. Yellow tape flutters in the cool autumn breeze, a photographer snaps pictures, detectives talk into cell phones, and the uniforms take full advantage of a chance to bullshit. The press catches wind of it, and the choppers from Philly show up.

  A New Jersey Transit Police supervisor, hearing about all the commotion, stops by for a look while on his way to the NJT yard in Morrisville. “Heard you guys got quite the show going on here,” he says to the local cops, all of whom he knows.

  “Odd one. Throat cut ear to ear. No wallet, no ID. Looks like he got cut up there and rolled down,” the investigator says, pointing up the embankment.

  The NJT cop looks up at the assembled rouges gallery of gawkers. “Who found him?”

  “Crack heads come down here to light up.”

  “Anybody see anything?”

  “That bunch?” the investigator scoffs.

  It is a silly question, but he had to ask. “Mind if I have a look?”

  A cop pulls back the tarp to reveal the remains.