The Zero Hour (17 page)

When they were all seated, Ullman said: “Let’s start with the most obvious ones. Eliminating all those dead or in custody, that leaves mostly Arabs. Also, most of the better-known terrorists are fairly old by now.”

Taylor nodded encouragement.

“Ahmed Jabril, the leader of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine/General Command. Former captain in the Syrian army. Ba’athist. Hard-line Palestinian. He and his group are responsible—”

“Jabril’s a creature of Syrian intelligence,” Taylor interrupted. “Go ahead.” He was leaning back in his office chair, eyes closed. Vigiani and Ullman sat in chairs sandwiched among pillars of dossiers. As Ullman made his presentation, Vigiani pored through a stack in her lap and made notes on her clipboard.

“All right, well, Abu Nidal, of course,” Ullman went on. “Nom de guerre of Sabri al-Banna, broke with Yasir Arafat in 1974 to found the Fatah Revolutionary Council. Brutal, brilliant, the shrewdest operator there is. Estimated to have killed a thousand people, two-thirds of them Palestinians. Responsible for terrorism in more than twenty nations, including the Istanbul synagogue massacre in ’86 and attacks at the Rome and Vienna airports in ’85. Never captured. Lived for a while in Libya. He and his organization are now based in the Bekaa Valley. Do you know, there’s no picture of him available?”

Taylor shook his head. “One of that rare breed of terrorist, a true ideologue. Never hire out. Go on.”

Christine Vigiani looked up from her dossiers. “Actually, he takes money.”

“Only for someone he wants to kill anyway,” said Ullman, flashing her a look of profound irritation. “Anyway, this doesn’t smell like an Abu Nidal op. But I was intrigued by Abu Ibrahim, a.k.a Mohammed Al-Umari. Leader of the May 15 Group. Expert in the use of barometric detonators and plastic explosives. Perhaps the most technically proficient bomb maker around. Also, there’s Imad Mughniya, who masterminded the hijacking of that Kuwaiti airliner back in 1988, who’s tied to Hezbollah.”

“Problem is,” Taylor said, heaving a sigh, “none of them can plausibly pass as Germans. I’m not going to rule them out, but I wouldn’t be quick to count them in either. Chris, who are your prime suspects?”

She sat up straight, took a large swallow of coffee, widened her eyes. “Okay if I smoke?”

“I’d rather—” Ullman started.

“All right,” Taylor said. “You probably need it.”

She pulled out a pack of Marlboros and lighted one, inhaling gratefully. Russell Ullman glanced at her with snakelike distrust and shifted his chair a few symbolic inches away.

“If we’re talking Arabs,” she said, “I can’t believe he didn’t mention either Islamic Jihad or Hamas. Particularly Hamas, which has really been acting up lately. If Warren Elkind is such a big Israel supporter, this sounds like a Hamas kind of thing, given how much they hate Israel, and how they set off that car bomb outside the Israeli embassy in London in July 1994. And that bombing in Argentina that killed—”

“Because we’re not talking Arabs, we’re talking mercenary terrorists for hire, and none of those organizations has anyone that hires out,” Ullman said darkly. “Unless you know better.”

There was a poisonous silence, and then Vigiani continued: “There’s an ETA Basque terrorist who worked as muscle for the Medellín cartel, but that was some time ago. He’s believed dead, but reports vary. I’ll keep on that one.”

“That guy’s dead,” Ullman said impatiently.

Vigiani ignored him. “And at first I would have thought that among the Provos—the Provisional Wing of the Irish Republican Army—we’d find some good possibilities, but none of them fit the profile. None are known to hire out. Though I suppose any of them
could.
Also, according to the most recent intelligence, some of the Protestant groups in Northern Ireland—the Ulster Defence Association and the Ulster Volunteer Force—have started using mercenaries, paid assassins, for the real serious, clinical operations. I didn’t bother with those assholes who did OKBOMB,” she said, using the Bureau’s code name for Oklahoma City. “Way too primitive. And, let’s see, there’s a South African guy, but he’s locked up for life in Pretoria or Johannesburg or something. And this may seem sort of left-field, but there’s Frank Terpil, the former CIA guy Qaddafi hired to train his special forces.”

Taylor nodded, eyes still closed.

“Well, his buddy Ed Wilson’s serving a long sentence in a federal penitentiary, but Terpil’s still at large. File says he’s been involved in assassinations in Africa and a coup attempt in Chad in 1978. He’s alive and hiding somewhere, and for all I know he may still be active.”

Taylor opened his eyes and frowned at the acoustic dropped ceiling of his office. “Maybe.”

Vigiani jotted something down on her clipboard. “And all those old East German training camps—they may be history, but some of the folks who trained there are probably still on the market. Problem is, our data on those guys is pretty skimpy.”

“You contact the Germans?” Taylor asked.

“I’m working on it,” Ullman said.

“All right,” Taylor said. “I’m inclined to take a second look at this Terpil fellow and any of the East German-trained personnel we can turn up. Tell your staff to keep digging. Chris, what did you turn up in the computer search on Warren Elkind?”

Vigiani snubbed out her cigarette in the large glass ashtray she’d taken from Taylor’s desk. A plume of acrid smoke curled. She presented a quick biographical profile of Elkind, emphasizing his charitable work on behalf of Israel. “Apart from that, there’s not much, unfortunately. We’ve got an agent in Boston who just did a complete computer search on Warren Elkind.”

“Really?” Taylor said with interest. “What’s he assigned to?”

“OC, I believe. And it’s a she.”

“What’s her name?”

“Cahill, I think. Sarah Cahill.”

“I know the name. Big in Lockerbie. Counterterrorism expert. Wonder why she’s looking into Elkind. Hmm. I want to talk to her. Get her in here. Meantime, why don’t you two go home and get some sleep?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Early the next morning, after Peter had arrived to take Jared for the day, Sarah drove in to work. Saturdays at the office had become ritual since Peter’s weekend visits had begun. Anyway, she had a lot of work to catch up on, and she wanted to search for anything she could find on Valerie’s killer.

It turned out not to be necessary.

When she arrived at work, there was a voice-mail message from Teddy Williams. She listened, and immediately took a drive over to the Homicide Squad.

“What have you got?” Sarah asked him.

“Blowback,” Teddy said. This was the sometimes invisible spray of a victim’s blood found on the shooter’s clothing.

“On what?”

“A sport coat we found in the giant closet belonging to a guy named Sweet Bobby Higgins.”

Sarah leaned against the wall, eyes closed. She felt queasy. “Sweet—?”

“Sweet Bobby Higgins lives in a big house in Maiden with no less than four wives. They refer to each other as wives-in-law. I think three of them are sisters. Each of them has his made-up crest tattooed below her navel.”

“Sort of like you’d brand cattle. Who is he?”

“Sort of an on-again, off-again boyfriend of your friend Valerie’s madam. An enforcer.”

“I doubt it.”

“Valerie was cheating on her, and the madam knew it.”

“Maybe she knew it, but I doubt she’d have some pimp whack Val. You got a tip?”

“We were there on a routine search warrant, based on the madam’s phone records. Your ex-husband saw it first. A white-and-gold jacket, looked like the sleeves were soiled. Peter looked closer, saw tiny drops, like elongated tears or commas, maybe a sixteenth of an inch long. Sweet Bobby didn’t see any blood. When we found it, he looked like he was getting ready to flex.”

“You did a PGM test?” She was referring to a phosphoglucomutase enzyme test.

“Precise match with Val’s blood. And if you’re thinking it’s a plant, he doesn’t have an alibi. Hinky as hell.”

“Does he deny the jacket is his?”

Ted laughed raucously. “Not with a straight face. That’s the ugliest jacket I’ve ever seen.”

“Ballistics?”

“Sweet Bobby’s got a Glock. Matches the 9mm rounds used on Valerie Santoro.”

“You think that clinches it? What did Ballistics tell you?”

Defensively: “They got a match.”

She shook her head. “Glocks aren’t bored. So it’s a lot more difficult to make a definitive ballistic match. But you want to say Sweet Bobby did it, go ahead. That’s your business. I really don’t give a shit, and as far as I’m concerned, the more pimps you lock up the better.”

“Degrading to women, is that it?”

“They’re just scumbags. You’d better hope he doesn’t have a lawyer slick enough to pick up on the Glock thing, or else the case’ll be dismissed without prejudice. You still don’t have a witness, do you?”

“This is a guy with priors.”

“And if you guys don’t get your clearance rate up, you’ll both be transferred to Auto Theft. No need to get defensive on me, Ted. I really don’t care. Congratulations, okay?”

*   *   *

Late in the afternoon, driving home through the streets of Cambridge, Sarah passed a large grassy field and saw Peter and Jared. Wearing muddy jeans and T-shirts, they were throwing a football. It had just started raining. Peter was making large, sweeping gestures; Jared looked small and awkward. He gave his mother an enthusiastic wave when he saw her get out of the car.

Peter turned, gave a perfunctory thumbs-up.

“You’re early,” he shouted.

“Mind if I watch for a couple minutes?”

“It’s okay, Mom,” Jared called out. “Dad’s just showing me how to run pass patterns.”

Peter now pointed, making jabbing motions. “A square-out,” he called to Jared. “Go straight five yards, and then cut right five yards. All right?”

“Straight and then right?” Jared asked. His voice was high, reedy.

“
Go!
” Peter shouted suddenly, and Jared began running. Peter hesitated, then threw the football, and Jared caught it. Sarah smiled.

“No!” Peter yelled. “I said a square-out, didn’t I? You’re supposed to cut on a dime. You’re running a square-out like a fly pattern!”

“I don’t even remember what a fly pattern is,” Jared said.

“You run straight out, fast as you can, and I throw it over your head. A square-out, you cut right. Get it?”

Jared ran back toward his father. As he ran, he shouted defiantly: “Yeah, but I caught it!”

“Jerry, buddy, you’re not catching the ball right either. You’re just using your hands. Don’t just use your hands. Bring it into your chest. Get your body in front of it.”

“I don’t want to get hit.”

“Don’t be a pussy,” Peter said. “You can’t be afraid of the ball. Don’t be a pussy. Try it again, let’s go!”

Jared began running, then pivoted to the right, slipping a little in the mud.

“Now when you get it, tuck the ball into your chest,” Peter shouted, tossing the football. It soared in a perfect arc. He shouted: “
Tuck
the ball into your chest.
Tuck
—”

Jared stepped aside, and the football slipped through his hands and thunked hollowly into the grass. Vaulting after it, Jared lost his balance and slammed to the ground.

“Jesus,” Peter said with disgust. “The ball’s not going to hurt you. Get your body in
front
of the ball! Don’t be afraid of it!”

“I did—”

“Get
both
hands around the ball!”

Frustrated, Jared got to his feet and ran back toward Peter.

“Look, Jerry,” Peter said in a softer voice. “You gotta bring it
into
your body. All right, we’re going to do a button hook.”

“A button hook?” Jared repeated wearily.

“A button hook. You get out there, run ten yards, and turn around. The ball will be there. You get it?”

“I get it,” Jared said. His voice was sullen; he hung his head. Sarah wondered whether her presence was embarrassing him, decided it was, and that she should leave.

“All right, let’s go!” Peter shouted as Jared scrambled ahead. As he ran, his pace accelerated. Peter threw the ball hard and fast, a bullet. Just as Jared stopped and turned, the football hit him in the stomach. Sarah heard a
whoof
of expelled air. Jared buckled over, sank clumsily to the ground.

“Jared!” Sarah shouted.

Peter laughed raucously. “Man,” he said. “Buddy boy. You really screwed the pooch there, didn’t you.” He turned toward Sarah. “Wind knocked out of him. He’ll be fine.”

Jared struggled to his feet, his face red. There were tears running down his face. “Jesus, Dad,” he cried. “What’d you go and do that for?”

“You think
I
did something?” Peter said, and laughed again. “I told you, you gotta tuck it into your chest, kid. You looked like a clown out there. You want to learn this or not?”

“
No!
” Jared screamed. “Jesus, Dad! I hate this!” He limped away toward Sarah.

“Peter!” Sarah said. She began to run toward Jared, but the heel of her left shoe caught in a tangle of weeds. She tripped and landed with her knees in the mud.

When she got up, Jared was there, throwing his arms around her. “I hate him,” he sobbed against her blouse, muffled. “He’s such an asshole, Mom. I hate him.”

She hugged him. “You did so well out there, honey.”

“I hate him.” His voice grew louder. “I
hate
him. I don’t want him to come around anymore.” Peter approached, his face set in a grim expression, his jaw tight.

“Look, Jerry,” he said. “I don’t want you to be afraid of the ball. You do it right, the ball’s not going to hurt you.”

“You get the hell out of here!” Sarah exploded, her heart racing. She grabbed Jared so tightly he yelped in pain.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Peter said. “Look what you’re doing to him.”

“Get the hell out,” Sarah said.

“You’re a goddam asshole!” Jared shouted at his father. “I don’t want to play football with you again. You’re an asshole!”

“Jerry,” Peter coaxed.

“Screw you, Dad!” Jared said in a quavering voice. He whirled around and stomped away.