Текст книги "Penance"
Автор книги: Dan O'Shea
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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
CHAPTER 41 – CHICAGO
Ishmael Fisher took a quick reading with the range finder from the planned location of his next hide.
Fisher had planted cameras and mics in seventeen churches, all over the city. Once Weaver picked up the signals, he’d have to start running intel, matching possible targets against locations, trying to ID shooting hides, trying to set up ambushes. He wouldn’t have enough bodies or enough time. And he wouldn’t get a signal here. Not until the chosen day.
CHAPTER 42 – CHICAGO
Lynch, Slo-mo, Starshak, McCord and Cunningham were crammed in a corner both at McGinty’s. 10am, the place not open yet, McGinty in back cleaning up.
Starshak had the paper from 1971, files on the Hurley case and the raid on the AMN Commando. Lynch brought what he’d found in the garage, papers scattered around the table. Lynch ran down what he knew, and Cunningham filled them in on the spook angle, on Ferguson, the Dragon, Fisher.
“This shit has all got to tie together,” Starshak said. “Too many intersections.”
“Whatever happened back in ’71,” Lynch said, “this Fisher’s got the facts. And he had them before we did.”
“But why now?” said Starshak. “Been forty years.”
“Doesn’t matter in a way,” said Bernstein. “We’ve got enough to start putting a murder case together for 1971.”
“Murder case for who?” Lynch said. “Riley’s dead. Old man Hurley’s dead. Riordan’s dead. I checked on the ME from 1971. Anthony? Guy who put the serology together? Died of a heart attack the same night my dad was killed.”
“Convenient,” Starshak said.
“You want more convenience? The two Feds in my dad’s notes? The ones at that meeting? One was killed in action in 1975. The other one died in a car crash in 1977. This Zeke Fisher? If he’s not dead, he’s gotta be a hundred years old. And I can’t seem to prove he was ever alive.”
“Except now we have somebody half that age with the same name running around the city shooting people,” Bernstein said.
“Got the beginnings of a conspiracy case against Clarke,” Cunningham said.
“Obstruction maybe, statute’s run out on that,” said Starshak.
“Tie him to the murder, then the clock keeps ticking,” Cunningham said.
“Except we can’t, not with what we’ve got.”
“One thing we could do, exhume the bodies,” said McCord.
“Which ones?” said Bernstein.
“Hurley Jr and Stefanski. Lots of advances since ’71. Might be able to get some physical evidence. Anthony, too. Heart attack my ass.”
“But where’s that get us, except more evidence for a case against dead guys?” said Lynch.
“Might shake the tree a little,” said Starshak. “Somebody’s got a bug up his ass about this stuff. He sees somebody taking a look at ’71, maybe he makes a move we can spot.”
“It’s an idea,” said Lynch. “What about Fisher? Any thoughts on who else he might wanna shoot?”
“Gotta throw the mayor in the mix,” said Starshak. “Guy seems to be going after survivors.”
“And the president,” said Bernstein.
“Shit,” said Cunningham. “We notify the Secret Service, they’re going to want to know why. We tell them why, we’re sticking our heads up a little higher than I want to right now.”
“It’s all been Chicago so far,” said Lynch. “Maybe we can hold off on the president, at least until we have more evidence he was actually in on it. Everybody who got it so far is tied to somebody who was in on it for sure.”
“But the mayor’s a lock,” said Starshak.
Nods from everybody.
“Still gonna be putting our heads up,” said Cunningham.
More nods.
“Anybody else?” asked Lynch.
“Stefanski never had kids, so far as I know,” said Starshak. “Kind of a notorious skirt hound, though, so who knows? Tommy Riordan’s got a sister and a couple kids of his own, so that’s possible. There’s Eddie Marslovak. Riley’s kid croaked from cancer, and his wife’s dead. Got a nephew that’s an alderman.”
“We start going out to nephews and such, we’ll be in the hundreds,” said Bernstein.
“OK, so I at least gotta get on the phone upstairs, tell them about the mayor,” said Starshak.
“Maybe I ought to do that,” said Lynch.
“Why?” asked Starshak.
“Because I’m on the list, too. If this ties to ’71 and Fisher is targeting the descendants. Officially, the rest of you are out of this. I’d like to keep it that way.”
“I’m not hanging you out to dry, Lynch,” said Starshak. “We all get in it, the jig’s up. They know they can’t take us all down.”
“But once they know we’re in, then they’re going to start covering their tracks. Nobody knows we’re looking back to ’71. I let em think I’m playing ball, just me, maybe I can still sneak up on somebody. I’ll call Paddy Wang.”
“Risky play,” said Starshak.
“I’ve been living with the fact my father was murdered for most of my life, but always thought the guys who did it went down at the same time. Just found out they didn’t. Worse than that, just found out they set him up. Risky or not, I’m in.”
“Just keep an eye out,” said Starshak.
“An eye’s all I got left right now,” said Lynch.
CHAPTER 43 – ABOVE VIRGINIA
Weaver was sitting next to Nancy Snyder on the plane heading out to Chicago, the new troops in the back.
“Your Moriah tip didn’t play out too well, Doc.”
“Our Mr Fisher has an impressive mind, Colonel. I believe he anticipated us understanding his motivations in general and so looked for an opportunity to add an element of religious symbolism upon which we would seize. It fit in very nicely with all the data that you believed, I might add.”
“I’m not playing gotcha here, doc. We all fucked up. You still think this all souls go to heaven angle is the right one?”
“It might help if I had more context. I am not one of your shooters, as you like to call them, but I have to assume that choosing to shoot people only immediately after they attend the Catholic sacrament raises considerable tactical complications for our friend. If he could shoot whomever he wanted where and whenever he wanted, then you wouldn’t even know where to look.”
“You got me there, Doc.”
“So I still believe that the victims being in a state of grace is a central feature of Fisher’s pathology. However, he has moved away from the geographic line, which we now assume to have been simply part of his ruse. And he has returned to Chicago, where he was raised. And, if I understand correctly, his father did favors of a certain sort for the ruling family there.”
“Yep.”
“In all likelihood, then, these killings are meant, in some way, to expiate familial guilt for some previous action, either by Fisher or by his father.”
“Makes sense.”
“So, Colonel, if you would kindly share with me whatever details you have been hiding about these activities, then perhaps I can provide some meaningful assistance.”
“Who says I’m hiding something, Doc?”
“You are always hiding something. It is your nature. And you used something to undermine the Judge.”
Weaver thought for a minute. And, strange as it was, he trusted Snyder. “OK, why not. My ass is hanging out so far now, it’s not going to matter.”
He gave Snyder the entire story – what happened in ’71, the current investigation, what happened between him and Ferguson, everything.
“My, what a tangled web we do weave,” said Snyder when he had finished. “I assume that we have the president’s blessing.”
“We’ve got the president’s nuts in a vice is what we’ve got.”
“Along with yours, if I read things correctly.”
“Doc, my nuts have been in a vice since Vietnam. I’m used to it.”
“I think, then, that Fisher’s motivation is fairly plain. He is not, as I previously assumed, trying to balance his books, as you put it. He is trying to clear his father’s account. You’ve said before that Fisher and his father shared not only their religious zealotry but also their patriotic zeal. I now believe that killing bad men did not and does not trouble Fisher. But what may trouble him is that his father killed a good man. One can assume in the context of the Fishers’ shared patriotic mania that the black activists framed for the old murders were acceptable victims – political apostates, if you will. But the detective, this Lynch? He was a truly innocent party. Beyond innocent, even. Actually heroic. And so Fisher is harvesting innocent souls connected with Lynch’s murder and offering them to God as a holocaust in penance for his father’s sins.”
“Great,” said Weaver. “Mess of guys involved in that. How do we narrow it down?”
“The victims have to be religious. As I understand it, confession has fallen out of favor with many Catholics, so that should help. After that, some direct ancestral involvement with the act itself.”
“Marslovak barely qualified.”
“But she did. Her husband maintained his silence in order to benefit from the act. And when Fisher took Marslovak, he was also baiting his trap. Riordan would have been more overt, so he was harvested after your little tête-a-tête downstate.”
“Fisher is a tricky bastard.”
“You have to remember, Colonel, that his motivation, however demented it may appear to you, makes perfect sense to him. His pathology in no way compromises his cognitive skills or his training.”
“Swell.”
Snyder and Weaver rode in silence. Just as the plane began its descent, Snyder spoke again.
“Colonel, I am in no way competent to offer what you would consider tactical advice, but I did have a thought.”
“Shoot.”
“How droll. In any case, you told me that a Darius Cunningham is assisting Lynch the younger with his inquiries.”
“That’s who ID’d Ferguson.”
“Darius is an odd name. It sounds as though he may be an African-American.”
“He is.”
“And I assume that, with your usual passion for detail, you have a dossier on him?”
“Most of it. His father was a Kenyan national, immigrated during the Mau Mau business – seems his name was on somebody’s chop-chop list. Settled in Chicago, went into social services, got pretty political during the whole civil rights deal. Real pain in the ass for the Hurleys. He wasn’t one of the Panthers, more in the work-inside-the-system crowd, but he sure as hell played footsie with them. He was real wired in with King and the SCLC people during their fair-housing shindig in Chicago in ’66. Got roughed up pretty good during one of their marches, some kind of back injury, never came all the way back from it. Our Darius enlisted in the Marines in1968, eighteenth birthday. His old man died in ’71.”
“The same year as Lynch’s father.”
“Same month.”
“And Cunningham is a contemporary of Lynch’s?”
“Same age? Give or take.”
“Colonel, I assume that, in addition to addressing the Fisher situation, you would like to provide an alternative explanation for the killings so as to divert an investigation?”
“Ideally, yeah. But I’ll settle for Fisher in a body bag.”
“Don’t you see, Colonel? Lynch is seeking to avenge his father. Yet four other men, black men, also innocent by legal standards, died that night. Given Cunningham’s race and your talent for adjusting history, it should not be difficult to establish that Cunningham is also seeking to avenge a murder – if not his father’s then some other connection to the radicals killed in the raid. Given his father’s history, that should not prove overly difficult.”
Weaver turned and looked at Snyder for a long moment. “And Cunningham is one of the few guys in town with the skill set to have done these church killings.”
“Exactly,” Snyder said.
“Blame the whole thing on the nigger with the gun?”
“It is the American way, Colonel.”
The plane landed at O’Hare and taxied to a hangar used by the local Air Force Reserve unit. As the team unloaded, Weaver pulled aside four of his new recruits. He had to admit Clarke had gone all out, cashed in some heavy markers. These guys were on loan from Mossad.
Weaver handed a couple of files to Uri, the team leader. “Got a special job for you four. I know you don’t have much background on this whole situation, but we had a command breakdown a couple days ago. Two of our people went rogue. They still think we’re on the same side, and I want them to keep thinking that right up until you take them out. They’ve got tac support from us – money, comm. We can use the credit cards to track them and the phones to GPS em. Paravola’ll get you what you need for that. I want them off the board by tonight. Pictures, background, it’s all in the files.”
“They any good?”
“Damn good.”
The Israeli smiled. “So are we.”
CHAPTER 44 – CHICAGO
“Young Lynch, after all these years, finally you honor me,” said Paddy Wang, standing behind his desk in his dark, intensely ornate office. The young Asian woman who had ushered Lynch in backed out, bowing. A tough-looking young guy in the black suit of Wang’s people stood next to the desk, eyeballing Lynch.
“Something I needed to run past you, pretty sensitive. I thought you might be able to offer some guidance,” said Lynch. “Be better if we talked alone.”
Wang turned, said something in Chinese. The man walked out past Lynch, walking closer to him than he had to, radiating threat. Wang waved toward one of the chairs in front of the desk.
Wang, sitting down, chuckled at his aide’s behavior. “To be so young and with so much need to prove oneself. Is that a blessing or a curse?”
“Probably both, like everything else,” said Lynch.
Wang laughed. “Are you sure you’re not Confucian?”
“Just don’t tell the Pope.”
“I have not yet met the new Pope, but I shall keep your secret when I do,” said Wang. “So, what concerns you, young Lynch?”
“I never know what you already know, Paddy, so I usually just figure everything,” said Lynch. “You know I’m working on these sniper shootings?”
“I have heard,” said Wang.
“The thing is, a pattern may be emerging.”
“The religious involvement?”
“A historical pattern. A potential relationship with the murder of the mayor’s father.”
“This I had not heard. How disturbing. There is evidence of this?”
“Nothing direct. Riordan’s father, of course, was very involved, helping to identify the Black Panther wannabes. The widow Marslovak? Her husband worked very closely with Stefanski at the time.”
“Ah, the man that the blacks killed along with Hurley.”
“Right. So what’s concerning me is that these shootings – so far, we have two – both have this tie back to figures associated with the killings. Clearly, the shooter has some kind of agenda, possibly a pretty powerful psychological agenda. If his target profile really is driven off that event, then the mayor may be on his list – the mayor or others close to him.”
“I understand your concern. But why come to me?”
“Come on, Paddy. I go through channels with this, it’s on the news by the weekend. I know how the Hurleys are about family. I don’t need that aggravation.”
“And it does involve your father,” said Wang. “You may be in danger too, young Lynch.”
“I thought about that. Won’t be the first time a cop had somebody come after him. I’m taking precautions.”
“I am glad. And the mayor will be as well. The Hurleys have always felt indebted to your family.”
“Anyway, I figured you’d know who to get word to and how to get it there. I solve crimes, I don’t create dirty laundry.”
“I appreciate your sensitivity, young Lynch.”
“I was also wondering if there was anything you could add that might shed some light. Any other potential targets? The mayor we got. Riordan’s sister, Eddie Marslovak we got. Stefanski or Riley have any relatives we should watch out for?”
“Alderman Riley is a nephew, of course, and he has a family. Sadly, Riley’s son died very young, and his wife is long dead. Stefanski was a bachelor.”
“Heard he sowed his share of wild oats, though. Anything ever come of that?”
“So long ago, young Lynch. Certainly nothing that I recall.”
“OK, well get the word to whomever, and let me know if there’s anything I need to watch.”
“I shall, young Lynch.” Wang rising from behind the desk to show Lynch out. “And now, of course, you must attend the Connemara Ball.”
“Come on, Paddy, you ever going to give up on that?”
“It is the algebra of favors. You have asked for my intervention. Only for the good of my friends, granted. But now I ask that you and your striking new companion grace my festivities tonight. I must insist.”
CHAPTER 45 – CHICAGO
Uri, team leader for Weaver’s lend-lease Israelis, sat in the rented Ford watching the blips for Ferguson’s and Chen’s phones on the nav application that Paravola had uploaded onto his phone. They were booked into adjoining rooms at the Palmer House on State Street. Chen was in her room, or her phone was anyway, and she was online. Paravola was working on hacking her feed, but she was doing some kind of non-standard encryption, backing up what InterGov already had. Paranoid little bitch. Weaver said they were good.
Ferguson had been out since the team arrived, GPS from his phone bouncing around the south side. But now it looked like he was headed back to the hotel. So the Israeli waited. Better to take them both at once.
Uri watched the side mirror, saw Ferguson coming down Wabash on foot. Must have parked in the garage up the street, keeping his transportation separate, not wanting to rely on the valet. Uri let Ferguson pass, let him get to the intersection. Ferguson was stuck, waiting to cross the street, waiting for the light to change. Uri got ready to move, just waiting for a bus to pass the car, give him a little cover.
Uri watched the bus, watched Ferguson, didn’t see the bicycle messenger speeding along the edge of the parked cars, going against the one-way traffic. As Uri swung his door open, the bike messenger slammed into it, bike crashing over, the messenger taking the spill in a roll, popping back up on his feet, coming at the Israeli.
“Fuckin’ tourist,” the messenger yelled, extending his arms, locking them to shove Uri.
Ferguson had just started across the street when he heard a crunch behind him. Didn’t turn his head to look, too many years of tradecraft. Instead he checked the reflection in the big plate-glass windows that lined the arcade of shops on the ground floor of the hotel. In the reflection, he saw the bike on the ground, the open car door, saw the messenger roll up, spring at the guy getting out of the car. The guy slipped the shove easily, quick move, great balance, then an elbow into the bike messenger’s ribs as the momentum of the shove carried him past. Krav Maga move – that home-grown shit the Israelis taught all their guys. Mossad move. Three other guys had gotten out of the car, too. All the right age, right size.
Four Mossad guys popping out of a car behind him? Ferguson didn’t know what it meant, beyond nothing good. Meant they were waiting for him, though. Which meant they knew he was coming. Probably the damn phone. Probably Weaver.
Ferguson continued across the intersection, watching the window. The Mossad guys were spreading out, two heading north up Adams, two continuing after him. Not hurrying, trying to look casual.
Ferguson kept on Wabash and then turned into the retail arcade on the ground floor, below the lobby, saw a guy coming toward him carrying a shopping bag. Face wasn’t a good match for him, but the guy was the right size, was wearing the same type of nondescript raincoat, same color hair. Ferguson dropped his phone into the guy’s shopping bag and then ducked into one of the shops, turned behind a display.
He saw two of the Israelis come through the revolving door into the arcade, scanning. They stopped. The taller one, the one who had dropped the bicycle messenger, pulled a smartphone out of his pocket, checked the screen. Guy scrunched up his brow, nudged the other guy, and they went back out the door. Turned north. Same way shopping bag guy had gone.
That proved it.
“Fuck,” said Ferguson.
“May I help you?” A voice behind him, a little disapproving.
Ferguson turned. Little, nattily dressed guy, maybe five and a half feet, might go one hundred and twenty-five with a pocket full of change. Gelled hair, manicure.
“No,” said Ferguson. “No, I don’t think you can.”
Uri and his wingman were most of the way up the block, Uri splitting his attention between the screen on the phone and the pedestrian traffic. Sidewalks were crammed. Had to get a good look more than a couple of people ahead. Then he saw the guy in the raincoat. Short, salt-and-pepper hair, right size. Could be. Sped up. Drifted left. His wingman knew the drill, drifted right so they’d come at Ferguson from both sides. Only a couple yards back now. Readout on Uri’s screen said he was right on top of Ferguson’s phone and pacing it. But he was close enough to see this guy wasn’t Ferguson. Fucking bike messenger. Should have killed the son of a bitch.
He stopped, punched the team button on the phone. The other two should have been coming in the west end of the arcade just after he left the east.
“You guys see Ferguson go out that way?”
“No. He didn’t come west.”
The Israeli thinking Ferguson was probably gone. Probably got a sniff because of the damn bike messenger, planted his phone on this schmuck for cover and took off. But the Israeli still had numbers and firepower on his side. Attack, always attack. That was the Israeli way. Both at once was better, but one was better than none. Get Chen, then run Ferguson to ground.
“OK, screw Ferguson for now. We take Chen. Cover the arcade, both ends, watch the elevators and escalators. Looks like she’s still in her room.”
The Israeli and his wingman jogged back toward the door.
Ferguson figured the other two would be spreading out to cover the arcade. Best move would be to break contain, get outside, get clear. But only if he wanted to sacrifice Chen. Figured it was time to decide whether he believed his own bullshit. Called out Weaver because he’d lost his moral compass, such as it was. Now he had to decide. Did he throw Chen under the bus to save his own ass or did he stand up?
Big crowd coming, trade show group or something, all in suits, those lanyards with name tags hanging around their necks. Ferguson used them as cover to cross the arcade, got into the knot of suits, went up the staircase to the lobby. He was all in now. Only way back out was through the Israelis. One of the suits split left, texting away on his BlackBerry, heading for the men’s room. Ferguson needed comms, trailed the guy into the john, gave him an elbow across the base of the skull as soon as they cleared the door, dropped him to the floor like a bag of flour. Grabbed the BlackBerry, hoping to hell Chen was online. He knew she used some kind of tech voodoo to keep her connections secure, mostly just to piss off Paravola. Didn’t know whether that would help with an incoming message, but it was the only chance they had. Ferguson started texting.
014. Her room number backwards, that was their emergency identifier, let her know to answer.
Go
Blown 4 Mossad
In house?
Yes
Your 6
Lobby
Roger
All he could do. Ferguson dampened a paper towel, wiped down the BlackBerry, dropped it next to the guy on the floor, the guy just starting to moan. Ferguson slipped back into the lobby.
Good hide in the corner – big ass planter, out of the traffic flow, with a view of the elevators.
Chen worked quickly but knew better than to hurry. She slipped her laptop into her backpack, along with the operational cash – ten thousand dollars in twenties. Then she twisted the silencer onto her .25, dropped that into her right hand pocket, put the 9mm in her shoulder holster, slipped on her jacket, grabbed the backpack, flipped it on, adjusted the coat so the 9mm didn’t show, made sure the backpack straps were clear in case she needed to draw.
She picked up two small black boxes from the desk, peeled the strips covering the adhesive patches off the back, stuck one on each side of the door, and threw the switches. Next she picked up the landline in her room, dialed the ops desk, and set the phone down, leaving the line open. Went through the connecting door to Ferguson’s room, walked across the hall listening at doors. No sound at the first door, but TV noise from the room directly across from hers. She tapped on the door.
“Yes?” A man’s voice. Good.
Chen remembered to smile, how supposedly people could hear that in your voice.
“Hi, um, this is kind of embarrassing, but I think I left my key down in the locker room after my workout. I called the desk, they said they’d send somebody, but it’s been like fifteen minutes. I’m going to be late for an appointment. I was hoping maybe I could borrow your key? Or you could just run down there with me?”
Heard movement, the guy walking to the door. She looked up at the peephole, made sure to put a little flirt in it. She put her hand in her jacket pocket.
The man’s voice. “Sure.”
The door opened, the guy stepping back, letting Chen in.
“I’ll just grab my key,” he said.
He turned into the room. Chen pulled the .25 from her pocket, shot him through the back of the head. She closed the door behind her and watched through the peephole. The Israelis would be there soon.
Uri knew the Asian woman should still be on the fourth floor. He had one team covering each other up the stairwell and one man watching the elevators. Uri stayed behind to cover the lobby, watching the stairs and escalators, just in case.
Ferguson had to be gone. Only tactical play for him. So get the woman at least.
Beep on his smartphone. He checked the text. Paravola. The landline had just gone active in her room. She was there. Called the guys in the stairwell.
“Her landline just lit up. She’s in the room. You up the stairs?”
“Holding at the fourth-floor door.”
“Three doors down, right hand side. 410. Go, go, go.”
Ferguson watched from his hide as three of the Israelis entered the lobby. One took a covering position, the guy leaning on one of the ornate pillars, straight line of sight to the elevators. The other two went straight to the stairs. Ferguson scanned for the fourth guy, Krav Maga guy, couldn’t see him. Wall to Ferguson’s right blocked his view that way. Guy was probably back there, in front of the stairs and the escalators, covering the exit to the ground level.
Ferguson slipped out the hush puppy. Long way across the lobby with a .22. Had to be thirty yards, lots of crossing traffic. Ferguson braced his hands on the top edge of the planter, sighted, squeezed off one shot, taking pillar-guy right at the base of the skull, pillar-guy crumpling straight down. Then Ferguson heard a muffled explosion. Chen.
Chen watched the hallway through the peephole. The two Israelis edged open the stairway door, eyed the hallway, then stepped out. They stayed to the right against the wall, not wanting to show through the peep hole in 410, just in case. That kept them clearly in Chen’s view. The first one ducked down, below peephole level, went to the far side of the door.
They nodded to each other. The first pulled out an electronic pick, slipped it into the lock, waited for the click, then spun and hit the door, driving the door handle down, the other guy pivoting to follow.
The door opened into the room, crossing the beam between the flashbangs Chen had stuck to the doorframe. She closed her eyes and clamped her hands over her ears. Lots of noise and light, some smoke, no real damage, but enough to disorient anyone close. Chen stepped into the hall, the .25 already level. The second guy hadn’t been all the way in, hadn’t caught as much of the blast, had enough operational training to be spinning, looking for a target, but his eyesight was shot, his hearing shot. He was just bringing his gun up when Chen shot him twice in the forehead. The first guy was further into the room, still staggering. Chen gave him one to the back of the head, walked across the hall, gave each of them a double tap to be sure. She swapped to a full magazine, then headed for the stairs.
Uri saw his guy drop by the pillar just as he heard the explosion. Son of a bitch. Tried the upstairs team, no answer. Had to assume they were off the board, too. He turned, walked fast down the escalator, headed for the car. Nothing else to do.
Weaver was right. These two were good.
Turning out of the hotel, he saw the bike messenger still holding his ribs, walking his bike up the street, looking down at the ground. Fucker’d screwed this whole thing, cost Uri three men. As the guy passed, Uri said, “Asshole.”
The guy looked up. Uri drove the straightened fingers of his left hand into the man’s neck, felt the trachea go. Quick, close, nothing anybody would see. The bike messenger fell to the ground, grunting out that “ach, ach, ach” noise people make when they can’t breathe.
