Shepherd One (9 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

Minsk
, Russia

Evening

Yorgi Perchenko sat on the expansive
veranda of the Madison, a discotheque and nightclub in the city of Minsk which overlooked the dazzling lights of urban sprawl. The night was cool and brisk.
And a bottle of Cristall Vodka stood before him at his exclusive table, which
was the only table on the landing. On most evenings he liked to get away and
reminisce, his recollections far from fading—his mind still crisp.

In the background the thrumming beat of a disco tune was muted
through the walls and doors. But to Perchenko it sounded like a radio on low
volume. Often he would close his eyes and hum to a rhythm he enjoyed.

To enjoy such a moment of solitude he paid good money,
reserving the complete landing for what would be pocket change to him, but a
financial windfall for the Madison.

It was money easily passed off because money was all he had.

Pouring vodka in a glass chilled by the night air, Perchenko
felt at peace. Behind him two of his best soldiers stood sentinel by the door,
barring anyone from entering the veranda. Other than their presence, he was
alone wading in memories. Although life was good, it was not the same. He
missed the times as a KGB operative, as well as his subsequent role as a
leading magistrate within the branch. What he missed most were the times when
he meant something to his homeland. Now he simply existed.

Raising the glass toward the nightlights of the city, he
saluted his country. “To Mother Russia,” he murmured, and then drank.

From his seated position he did not hear the gunshots that
were no louder than someone spitting, or see the muzzle flashes coming from the
rooftop on a building across the way. The kills were quick and efficient, the two
guards standing by the doorway now lying sprawled on the floor in awkward
configurations.

When the door leading to the veranda opened music piped
loudly through the air, only to be muted after the door closed behind the man
who approached Perchenko’s table.

The man was silhouetted against the backdrop, a black mass
moving with the collar of his jacket hiked up. He was cadaverously tall and
thin and stooped against the cold. And his vapored breath was indication enough
to Perchenko that the Grim Reaper was alive, and real, and beheld the true
sustenance of flesh and bone rather than the cowl and scythe of folklore.

In the business he was in, he knew this day would come.

A few meters from the table the man stood silent and still,
appraising Perchenko from the depths of his shadowy eyes.

In invitation, Perchenko kicked a resin chair hard enough
for it to skate about a meter away from The Man, but close enough to the
table’s edge. “Please,” he said. “Sit.”

The Man took the chair, the features of his face barely
perceptible in the darkness.

Perchenko held up the bottle. “Drink?”

The Man nodded.

“Then what do you want?”

The Man reached into the inner lining of his pocket and
produced a single photo, held it up in display, then tossed it before
Perchenko.

Grabbing it—and with enough lighting provided by the
fixtures over the veranda’s entrance doors—he immediately recognized the man in
the photo, gave it a quick onceover, then tossed it back without betraying his
emotions. “You have two of my best men killed to show me this?” he said. “And
for what? Because you think I know who this is?”

The Man leaned forward. “Yorgi—”

“Do I know you?”

“No. But I know you.”

Perchenko worked the muscles in the back of his jaw before
speaking in a calm manner. “You kill two of my men and then deny yourself the
opportunity to drink with me. At least give me the respect of not calling me by
the name my friends would.”

The Man nodded. “Granted.” And then he pushed the photo back
toward Perchenko. “His name is al-Khatib Hakam. He is a terrorist for
al-Qaeda.”

Perchenko shrugged. “So.”

“Six months ago you sold this man some very special weapons
on the black market. The weapons I’m talking about, Mr. Perchenko, are weapons
of mass destruction that, if the truth be known, would jeopardize our standing
in the world community.”

“You’re wasting your breath. I don’t know what you’re
talking about.”

The Man never wavered. “If it was known that Russia is willing to sell nuclear weapons to insurgent groups, we will lose face and fall
to worldwide condemnation and sanctions, which will kill us as a nation.”

“Mother Russia died when Communism fell.”

“Mother Russia still lives, but is moving towards a new and
bolder direction. You failed to see that. Mother Russia will be greater than
she ever was.”

“Mother Russia has become a weak bitch that has allowed the United States to win.”

The Man slowly fell back in his seat, his shoulder slumping
in defeat.

In the darkness Perchenko could see The Man shaking his head
in dismay. “What?”

“You were a god to me,” he said. “You were a god to all of
us.”

 “Were?”

 “Everyone looked at Yorgi Perchenko as the man nobody
challenged; a true man within the ranks of the establishment.”

“True.”

“And until yesterday you continued to be held in high regard
for your commitment to the organization and for your service to your country.”

Perchenko creased his brow, which was a mistake on his part.
The facial read now gave The Man leverage.

“Now you are known as the man who will single-handedly
destroy Russia and make her the pariah of the world. Every nation will cast a
stone against us.”

“What are you talking about?”

 “Economic sanctions placed on us will no doubt destroy
whatever progress we have made over the last decade, financial surpluses will
be lost, every semblance that once made Russia a proud nation will be gone and
we will be hurled back into third-world status.”

Perchenko appeared dumbfounded. “I’m not a traitor. For what
I have done for this country . . . How could anybody believe I was a traitor?”

“Do you not see the position you have placed us in?”

“What position are you talking about?”

“Those weapons you sold to al-Khatib Hakam have made their
way onto American soil. And they are holding this country indirectly
responsible for allowing this to happen.”

“It’s something that should have happened a long time ago.”

“America is no longer our enemy! Times have changed,
Perchenko.”

Perchenko leaned forward. “I assume you are SVR?”

The Man said nothing.

“Now you listen to me,” said Perchenko. “I am a big reason
why Russia was a major power.” He fell back into his chair and pumped his fist
high in the air. “
A powerhouse
! I have never betrayed my country!”

Over The Man’s earpiece, which Perchenko could not see, came
an audible warning: “
It looks like you got company. Either take him and
move, or get what you need. But hurry.”

The Man spoke with more insistence. “That’s not the way the SVR sees it,” he told him.  “Because of what’s happening, your picture has been removed from The
Hall of Heroes.”

This was almost too much for Perchenko to bear. He had loved
Russia more than his own family. In fact, Russia was more of his bloodline
than the actual blood that ran through the veins of his children.

He shook his head. His voice was no longer strong or
confident, but detached and distant as his eyes slowly scanned the landscape of
Minsk, one of his country’s truly great cities. “But I’m not a traitor,” he
whispered.

“Do you want to be a hero again? Do you want your picture in
its rightful spot?”

Perchenko just stared. The Man was losing him. He had pushed
Perchenko too far.

“Hurry! A team just entered the Madison”

“Do the right thing,” said The Man. “Tell us how many units
you sold, so we can contact our sources to stop this. Become that hero for Russia once again.”

The old agent’s lips moved, but nothing came forth.

“Perchenko! How many units?”

“Three,” he finally said. And then more boldly, “Three.”

The Man immediately lifted the sleeve of his coat in spoke
English into a mike with noted urgency. Once the information was duly received
and copied, The Man stood up and produced a firearm bearing a suppressor that
was as long as the barrel. 

Perchenko looked at the man. “You spoke English.”

The Man said nothing.

“You’re not SVR, are you?”

The Man nodded. “CIA.”

Perchenko clenched his teeth, the muscles in the back of his
jaw working furiously. He had lost that ‘special sense,’ that intuitive feeling
that had once made him an elitist in his field. “At least I’m still a hero,” he
said.

The Man raised the weapon and shot Perchenko twice, once in
the forehead and once in the center of body mass.

The Man quickly moved across the landing with the agility of
a cat, swift and graceful, to the concrete banister of the Madison, which
overlooked the city’s busy traffic. To his right was a fire escape ladder, a
requirement for the nightclub in case a fire trapped patrons on the veranda.
Just as The Man took the rungs and began his descent, members of the SVR rushed through the doors, the music blaring, and took shots at the escaping man, the bullets
taking out chunks of concrete from the banister around him but missing.

From a rooftop across the street, muzzle flashes flared and
two SVR agents immediately went down as boneless heaps, forcing the other
agents to pull back for the cover of the club.

By the time they made it down to street level, The Man was
gone.

They had been taken totally by surprised.

#

Raven Rock (Presidential Bunker)

Early Evening

The president was quickly informed
of the mission’s status. Perchenko was dispatched and his black marketing
empire, at least for the moment, gone. More importantly, however, operatives
were able to ascertain the number of units sold.

“So that leaves two available targets,” said the president.
“So we can assume one of the targets is Washington D.C.”

“And the other most likely New York City,” added Thornton.

After agreeing, the president continued. “OK, people, listen
up. I want all available resources including military, law enforcement, even
kids with bad attitudes, posted at every possible way into cities of strategic
value such as D.C. and New York. Also look into Los Angeles. Although it’s not
really a city of strategic value, it does have the second highest population in
the country, and the closest point where the first weapon was found.”

“I would think they would try to take out the highest
political seat in the land with Washington,” said Thornton. “And the financial
district of New York. I really don’t see them deviating from their plans of
9/11, especially now since they’re highly equipped to finalize the job.”

 “I agree,” said Burroughs. “But let’s not get complacent
either. If we have to violate certain inalienable rights to achieve the means,
then do so. Our optimum goal is to find Hakam and his team before they’re able
to achieve their agenda.”  He turned to Craner. “Doug, you got anything from
the security end?”

“As you already know, Mr. President, every airport is on the
highest alert. All chartered aircrafts have been grounded nationwide, and every
terminal in the nation is under the microscopic eye of TSA. There is no way a
package the size and shape of the unit we appropriated at the border is getting
on any plane.”

“Which leaves ground transportation,” said Hamilton. “I have
agents from California to the Florida panhandle checking into all car rental
agencies for those of Middle-East persuasion, who have rented a vehicle within
the past thirty days.”

“Any leads thus far?”

“None that fit anybody in Hakam’s known team. But we’re
still looking into the matter of those who rented vehicles in case there are
coverts working under Hakam’s commands that are not yet named or listed in
Homeland Security’s data base.”

“Good.”

Although pleased that the situation was moving forward, even
if it was by the inches, it made the president feel less ineffective.
Nevertheless, it still was not enough.

Somewhere, whether it be some Podunk town or major
cosmopolitan city, two weapons of mass destruction with half the yield that
took out Hiroshima were making their way to their assigned stationary points.

If not Washington or New York City, then it would be
somewhere else.

No matter what, the president saw no upside at all.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Los Angeles
, California

1837 Hours Pacific Standard Time

Al-Khatib Hakam was in the moment of
prayer within his hotel suite. The room was simple and far from luxurious. In
fact, it wasn’t rated much higher than the room of a franchised motel. But
Hakam wanted to keep a low profile.

In the room’s center, Hakam knelt on a prayer rug with his
forehead resting against the fabric, and then sat up with his eyes closed and
his hands held in homage. He repeated this motion for twenty minutes—bowing and
rising, his meditation so deep everything around him did not seem to exist.

When he completed his session he rolled up the rug and
placed it on top of the bureau, treating it with reverence by passing his hand
over the fabric the way most people would stroke the fur of a loved pet. It was
the first rug he ever possessed, since joining the ranks as a Muslim. And it
would be the last rug he would ever own since he had less than thirty-six hours
to live. Although he would not live to see the outcome of his mission, he knew
the Muslim world would revel in the success of his team once the assignment was
completed.

Al-Khatib Hakam, American born citizen from Dearborn,
Michigan and an honorary graduate from Columbia University, was about to
cripple a nation.

In the aftermath of his session he still spoke to Allah,
asking Him to see this through. And he did so with a preamble of a smile on his
lips. There was no doubt in his mind his team was fully capable of performing
their assigned tasks, since they were the best in their field as seasoned
soldiers. They had fought wars up front, close, and personal. And they had
served as well-traveled journeyman fighting from Afghan to Baghdad with venom
in their hearts and devotion in their spirits before finding a place by his
side.

He was certain nothing could stop them or save the enemy.

And for the moment he felt something tremendously wonderful.

He felt . . .

. . . invincible.

Looking at his watch, Hakam ordered the final commencement.
Right now his team was moving into position. And if all went well, then by this
time tomorrow Hakam and his team would be airborne with an incredible arsenal.
All he had to do was sit back, be patient, and rely on his team to get the job
done. 

So with the patience of a saint, Hakam waited.

#

The Chateau Grand Hotel, Los Angeles, California

2239 Hours Pacific Standard Time

Mario Morgenessi had been a
navigator-slash-co-pilot for Alitalia Airlines for more than twenty years, most
prominently serving as part of the airline’s special troupe to the pope as part
of the crew of Shepherd One, the papal plane.

Now with the Symposiums behind him and the crew gearing up
for the return home the next day, Mario took comfort beneath the covers of his
bed wanting to be well rested for the seventeen hour journey back to Rome.

He left the window of his suite open, the drapes waving in
lazy drifts with the course of a soft breeze as he slept. And light the color
of arctic blue filled the room, casting long shadows across the floor.

As much as a light sleeper that Mario was, always tuned to
the slightest sounds that would be imperceptible to most, he did not hear the
door to his suite open, then close. The snicker of the bolt locking back in
place went unheard as a man crept across the room and stood beside the
co-pilot’s bed. In the man’s hands was a garrote, the line taut as he extended
the wire to its outermost points.

At first Mario thought he was dreaming, the voice hollow, as
if echoing off the walls of a tunnel—whispers really, the voice calling his
name. In the often vague quality of the dreamscape mind for which things made little
sense or took on disturbing shapes, Mario saw something of a shadow standing
over him, a blotted mass of darkness against the blue light, something calling
his name. In its hands was something that glinted silver in the light, perhaps
the chain of a magic talisman to be worn around his neck.

And then he realized it was not a dream at all.

He was not alone. 

The moment Mario cocked his head from the pillow, the shape
swung the garrote around his neck and yanked tight, the serrated edges of the
metallic line biting deep into the flesh and severing the carotid. Splashes and
founts of blood jettisoned across the walls creating Pollack designs, his hands
grasping futilely for the fine cord nearly an inch deep in his throat as his
eyes bulged and threatened to take flight from their orbital sockets. As he
gagged his tongue projected slightly from pressed lips that were becoming as
blue as the cold light.  

And then it was over; the man dead within thirty seconds.

The assassin then used the cord to pull the co-pilot off the
bed and dragged him into the bathroom, heaving the body over the edge of the
tub and into the well. Along the edges of the tub were crimson smudges and
drops of blood, which the assassin did not bother to clean since the walls of
the hotel room already held the bloody hallmark of the man’s slaughter. All
that mattered was to kill, do it silently, and leave the scene unnoticed. 

Checking the hallway to see if all was clear, the man exited
room 616 and placed the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door.

Within the next two hours the Garrote Assassin successfully
dispatched the entire crew of Shepherd One, with the exception of its pilot.

Hakam was most pleased.

#

The Chateau Grand Hotel

Los Angeles
, California
 

0043 Hours Pacific Standard Time

Enzio Pastore had been a military
pilot in Italy’s prestigious
Aeronautica Milatare
for twenty-five years
before signing off with a military retirement. At fifty-three he appeared young
and fit, keeping his body regimentally in shape. With a copper-hue to his skin
and a handlebar mustache to bracket lips too small for his face, he also
possessed that steely determination of a man with a set jaw line and incredibly
intense eyes. 

For seven years he had been the Vatican’s lead captain
flying Shepherd One and the pope all over the world, knowing the mechanical
intricacies on this particular plane that no other pilot in Alitalia Airlines
would know about.

He knew every nuance of this aircraft and its modified
defense mechanisms, such as the equipment to ward off attacks from insurgent
weaponry by having been outfitted with flares and high temperature decoys to
attract heat seekers, interceptors to take out ground-to-air missiles, and a
state-of-the-art laser jammer deliberately designed to confuse any laser-governed
source, most notably the laser-guided missile. The main fallback, however, was
that the 787, like all jumbo jets, was not an aeronautical gymnast in the sky.

Finding his hotel keycard and slipping it into the slot,
Enzio waited for the red light to turn green before turning the handle to his
room. Tonight he moderately celebrated at the hotel bar which happened to stock
his premium brand of Italian beer, Birra Moretti, drinking no more than two
bottles, which was the maximum allowed the night before a flight.

Reaching blindly in the darkness for the light switch, Enzio
found the lever and slapped it into the ‘up’ position. The two lamps on the
nightstands came to life, the feeble glow of light casting upon a man of slight
build and youth sitting at a table by the glass sliding doors that led to the balcony.
The man possessed a natural calm to his demeanor with one leg crossed over the
other, a hand on a knee, his other hand lying on a closed laptop computer.

At first Enzio was caught off guard, his state of non-action
interrupted when the door closed behind him. A second man, also dark in
complexion and wearing a well-tailored suit and tie, held a pistol with
attached suppressor to Enzio’s head. In Arabic he ordered the pilot deeper into
the room and away from the door with a quick motion of the firearm. Although
Enzio didn’t understand the language, he understood the Arab’s intent as the
armed man pointed the mouth of the weapon to a designated spot in the room’s
center, then shoved the pilot forward, the pistol now touching the base of
Enzio’s skull.

The man sitting at the table was cleaned shaven and didn’t
look much older than his late teens or early twenties, but held the dark,
intelligent eyes of a seasoned person with all the forbearance of someone much
older and wiser. For a long moment the man said nothing, his eyes studying,
penetrating, his body as still as a Grecian statue until he finally leaned
forward and spoke in perfect Italian.

“Captain Pastore, I have a proposition for you that I believe
would be in your best interest.”

Enzio actually macho postured, puffing his chest and raising
his chin in defiance. But Hakam accepted this as nothing more than an act of
bravado, and expected nothing less from an experienced pilot of the
Aeronautica
Milatare
. “What do you want?” he challenged, his voice keeping a hard edge.
“What is this all about?”

The small Arab spoke in a tone that was even with
indifference. “Captain Pastore, what I want from you is simple,” he said.
“Tomorrow, I want you to navigate Shepherd One to a set of coordinates that I
will provide you with. I want you—”

“What you want is of no concern to me,” he interrupted. “None
whatsoever. Now get out of my room.”  

The Arab said nothing, nor did he show any emotion or make a
verbal counter for what seemed to be an interminably long time to Enzio. Moving
his left hand, Hakam opened the lid of the laptop so the screen faced Enzio,
and tapped a button on the keypad. Images began to load up, that of his wife
and children sitting on the couch in their home in Italy, terrified and crying,
the man who now held the pistol to his head was the same man on the screen with
the point of a wickedly sharp knife pressed to the underside of his wife‘s
chin.

Enzio immediately felt his heart misfire as his shoulders
slumped. He could do nothing but watch.

The segment on the laptop’s screen showed Hakam sitting in a
chair with the grizzled beginnings of a beard lean closer to Enzio’s family
while the other Arab drove the point of his knife beneath the soft tissue of
her chin. “
What I want from you
,” Hakam told her, his Italian perfect, “
is
to look straight ahead and scream
.” In the following segment he leaned
forward in his chair, and then commanded, “
I said . . . scream
.”

And when she did Enzio could feel his soul suddenly
eviscerated from what made him whole. Now he felt completely hollow as he
dropped to his knees, his defiance and bravado gone, his skin suddenly
alabaster white.

The image on the screen was stilled; the freeze-frame photo
of his wife bearing the look of absolute horror elicited something from Enzio.
It was the feeling of being rendered powerless, which absolved him from the
rank of manhood and granted him the right to sob like a frightened child.

“My family . . .” It was all he could muster between tears.

“Your family, Captain Pastore, is quite fine. They are being
cared for as we speak.”

Enzio’s eyes filled with the task of pleading and turned to
the small Arab, his hands held together in prayer. “Please,” he said. “My
family.” 

Hakam tapped another button on the keypad, which brought up
a second screen that was hidden beneath the first as a tab. The banner read
‘LIVE FEED.’

“Do you want to see your family?”

Enzio’s jaw dropped slowly, as if the question itself placed
him in stasis. Then, “Yes—yes,

of course. My family.”

“Are you willing to listen to my proposition?”

He quickly conceded by nodding.

“Then you shall see your family.” Hakam tapped another
button.

On the screen was a live feed of his wife and children,
obviously terrified, but alive.

“Speak to her,” said Hakam.

Enzio quickly crawled forward on his knees toward the laptop
and was about to embrace and kiss the screen before the gun-wielding captor
forced him back with a solid shove. Holding his hands up imploringly, and then
in an attitude of prayer, Enzio became emotional as he spoke to his wife and
children, ensuring them everything would be fine.

When Hakam tapped the feed dead, the image growing to a mote
of light in the center of the screen, Enzio employed a look of infuriated
resentment.

“Captain Pastore, I strongly suggest that you keep your
emotions in check. Or your family
will
pay the ultimate consequence.
This I promise.”

Enzio’s face shifted back to that of complete and total
submission, his head nodding in compliance.

“Shepherd One,” began Hakam, “does not follow the same
strict security guidelines as commercial airliners, correct?”

Enzio nodded.

“And it carries no other passengers besides Vatican principals, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Therefore, I assume there will be no air marshals to
contend with?”

Enzio closed his eyes. “There’s no need for air marshals
since it’s an exclusive charter. It’s the papal plane.”

“Yes . . . Yes, of course.”

Hakam’s subdued manner never wavered, his constantly calm
appearance a disturbing factor to Enzio who saw him as a sociopath who believed
rules did not apply to him. Executing his family would be like swatting a fly
with a newspaper, the matter soon forgotten without so much as an afterthought.
So he had to be careful.

 “Now Captain,” said Hakam, “and keep in mind that if you
should present me with any falsehoods or deception on your part, then I will
issue an immediate order for the death of your family. Do you understand?”