The Screaming Eagles (32 page)

The man was watching a small black and white television. Perry waited. In the center of the room stood a worn desk, a table and an open filing draw. A calendar showing a woman naked, her enormous breasts hanging out like oversized watermelons was partly obscured by the man’s jacket hanging from the same nail on the wall. The man had seen him in the mirror, but continued to ignore him. Finally the man turned. Opening the desk drawer, he took out a gun, put it on the desk, his hand inches away from it. He was a small man with thick, sweet smelling gel plastering his hair. He looked at Perry. “Its loaded fat boy, and I know how to use it good and fast. Boy, rooms cost twenty-two dollars, plus taxes, even twenty-five bucks. Understand me now, fat boy, unless you got your own towels and blankets, you give me another twenty dollars deposit. If you don’t need towels or a blanket, you give me only ten dollars deposit. When you check out in the morning, providing there ain’t cigarette burns or such, you get your twenty or ten dollars back, whichever. Understanding me so far fat boy? Good. You got a car, boy?”

“No, sir, friend of mine dropped me on Maxwell Street, picking me up tomorrow about nine o’clock. Don’t worry none, sir, won’t cause no trouble, sir, I just want the furthest room away from the street, sir, so it be nice and quiet sir, so’s I can sleep good, sir.”

The man wiped his mustache with his hand and as if searching for crumbs that might be stuck in between the hairs. “Boy, I’m ‘out ready to close up and go on home. Can’t stand here talking all night. Twenty-five bucks, or forty-five. What’s it gonna be?”

Perry pulled out singles and a ten from different pockets, carefully counting then putting them on top of the desk. Sheepishly he said, “Guess I’ll sleep in my clothes sir. Only got me twenty-five, plus ten for your deposit, sir.”

Shrugging his shoulders the man scooped the notes into his pocket took a key from the row in front of him, put it on the desktop. “Room’s at the end of the yard. On the wall next to the door handle, press the rubber button. The light above the door will burn for fifteen seconds then it turns itself off. Understand fat boy, fifteen seconds.” Perry picked up the key, bowed slightly. “Thank you sir, thank you kindly. Don’t you worry none sir, I cause no trouble.” He turned, opened the door and walked into the darkness.

In the office, the man smiled to himself as he unfolded the bills, smoothed them out, then put the wad back into his pocket. He stuck the gun into his belt, turned off the lights and the neon signs, locked the door and walked toward Maxwell Street, humming to himself.

Hidden in the darkness, Perry watched the man leave.

Milton Leffeld was enjoying himself immensely. Barry David, the new president, had been inducted and all the speeches were concluded. He was working the room saying his goodbyes. The reason for his enjoyment was that in approximately three months, at least a quarter of all of the people attending the dinner that evening would be bankrupt. At gatherings like this throughout the United States were hundreds of people who would be wiped out. Lemmings all, going over a cliff together.

Before the dinner, he had spent most of the afternoon concluding the paperwork that finalized the sale of his last remaining properties in the States. His treasury bills, shares and dollar currencies had long been converted into gold and deposited safely in Switzerland. The two hundred seventy Fortune five hundred companies that he’d targeted with the Saudis over the last six years would be the first to fall. Using the dummy companies in various strategic areas, they would start a Wall Street panic when the Saudis began massive selling and dumping of shares in the targeted companies. The dollar, and all countries tied to the dollar currency, especially the ones that had large dollar reserves, would also crash when the panic began. He and the Saudis for years had been slowly positioning themselves to collapse the stock market. Black Monday had been triggered purposefully to see how the government would re-act. Now, with the new regulators to automatically correct any market swings, it was comparatively simple to sell off shares and decimate highly leveraged, vulnerable companies. They would crash and the market would crash with them. The regulators would be powerless. He was counting on the fact that when the Chinese smelled blood, they would also come in for the kill.

Tomorrow he would be leaving the States for Switzerland, and the man known as Milton Leffeld would disappear forever. Plastic surgery, which had created Leffeld, would now create a new person with a new face. This new face would in a few years be known throughout the world when he was proclaimed President of the Greater Iraqi Nation, which by then would include Iran, Syria, Kurdistan, Lebanon and Israel. The Saudis would have annexed all the other Sheikdoms on the Arabian Peninsula.

Arranging to assassinate his cousin Abdel Amir, the present ruler, wouldn’t be a problem.

All the plans were progressing perfectly. The lemmings were getting closer and closer to the edge of the cliff, and he thought to himself, it couldn’t happen to a nicer bunch of pompous, opinionated assholes.

He continued making his way toward the exit, smiling, patting acquaintances on the back and shaking hands. Gudjohn someone or other from Hanover Pennsylvania shook his hand moving it up and down, not letting go. The man smiling hugely showed his bad teeth, a smell of whisky exuded from his mouth with every word he spoke. Winking slyly he started telling a joke. Leffeld smiling, excused himself, tearing his hand away so vigorously that Gudjohn nearly fell forward. Leffeld felt a hand squeezing his elbow. The pressure became painful. Annoyed that someone was hurting him, he turned smiling tightly, expecting to see some drunk.

The first thing he noticed was that the man holding his elbow had a white patch of hair in the middle of his forehead. There was no smile on his face. The face was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it. “Do I know you? Please let go of my arm, you’re hurting me.”

Instead of releasing the arm, the man continued to apply pressure, expertly pinching the nerves along the bone of the elbow. “Sadegh Muzahedi, Leffeld, it doesn’t matter. You hanged my father Dara my name is Jalal. Remember me now?”

Leffeld reacted as if he’d been hit. The man’s words, sledgehammers, each of them delivered with the force of a physical blow, dredged up wisps of memories. Involuntarily he tried to pull away.

Stomach churning, his smile forced, Leffeld replied, “There must be some mistake, excuse me please.” He tried to take a step backwards, but Jalal still held his arm.

The man put his hand in his pocket and extracted a small piece of paper. He began stuffing it slowly into Leffeld’s jacket pocket, the expression on his face mocking as if talking to a small child. “You will find a telephone number on that paper. I know all about your plans. Call me at midnight, I will not wait longer than one full minute at that telephone. We will talk further then. We will also talkabout what guarantees my people the Kurds will receive, and who will guarantee the guarantors. For not only are you a killer, but you are also a liar, as is Abdel Amir. Do not be late with your call to me. The newspapers go to press at two a.m. If you are late, you will read about yourself in tomorrow’s newspapers. If you decide to fly out of O’Hare, police will be waiting for you. Like you, I do not play games. If you try to hide, I will come looking for you. You will not know where I am, but I have been following you for months and all this time, you, the head of SAVAK, were not aware he was being followed. You must be getting too old or too complacent or maybe you have forgotten what it is like to be hunted.”

Flustered, unable to think coherently, Leffeld tried to stall. “Excuse me, sir, but I cannot call you at midnight. You must have the wrong man.”

The man smiled a fleeting hint of irony in his smile as he released Leffeld’s arm. He patted him on the shoulder. “I will expect your call, Sadegh Muzahedi. Oh, I nearly forgot. I also know about the Screaming Eagles. You see, you and I will have a lot to trade. I want the Kurdish nation to receive their fair share of your grand scheme with the President of Iraq and the plans that you to have for the future. If your call is one minute late, I’ll bury you and your cousin Abdel Amir the same way as he blew up the bunker that buried his son.”

Turning, Jalal walked out of the room.

As he watched the man walk out of the room, Leffeld was sweating. A thin feather of sweat slid down his back and ice churned in his belly. Mystified and unbelieving, momentarily dazed, not sure if he was correct, he realized the dampness in his underpants was warm piss.

For a few seconds he stood, uncertain what to do, then ignoring the members wanting to shake his hand, he walked quickly out the same door that the man had exited. Holding onto a banister, Sadegh ran down the steps two at a time, stopping at the swing doors. Breathing heavily, he pulled out his wallet, glanced down quickly and extracted two twenty-dollar bills. Standing back slightly in case Jalal turned around, he saw a cab draw alongside and watched as the man got in and closed the door. The cab started to move, turning as it edged into the traffic. Sadegh pulled the hotel door open and ran toward the taxi line, elbowing and pushing people out of his way as he jumped into the front car. The driver didn’t turn around, just looked into the mirror, cocking his head slightly and waiting for the address. Sadegh touched the man’s shoulder with the hand that held the twenties. “I want no talking, no questions. Just follow that cab, concentrate on not losing him and you’ll get a few more of these as a tip.”

The driver nodded as he took the money. He pulled away from the curb smoothly. Only then did Sadegh settle back into the seat. It took about fifteen minutes to get to Maxwell Street. Jalal’s taxi was crawling along, the driver unsure of where to turn. Sadegh had cautioned his driver to stay well back. Suddenly the front car turned down a side street and Sadegh’s driver accelerated. Sitting forward, Sadegh whispered to the driver, “Careful round the corner. If they’ve stopped, pull over and turn off your lights.” As they turned into the side street Sadegh saw the cab in front had pulled up about a hundred yards away. Standing in the middle of the road, the cab’s exhaust sent clouds of smoke spiraling upwards disappearing into the darkness. The interior light was on as Jalal completed paying the driver. Jalal got out, walked quickly onto the sidewalk and disappeared into the darkness. Parked on the side of the road, lights off, Sadegh watched as the taxi made a U-turn. It came toward them, traveling fast, slowing only slightly as it turned on to Maxwell Street.

“Slowly now, keep your lights off.”

They drove down the deserted street, coming parallel to the motel office. It was in darkness. Sadegh saw the parking lot had no cars, and a solitary light was shining from a window at the far end of the lot, probably Jalal’s room. Looking around, he noted with satisfaction that the motel seemed to be empty. No cars were parked anywhere nearby on either side of the street that they were on.

Smiling to himself, he relaxed against the back seat. “Hilton Hotel, step on the gas.” He took out his wallet, pulled out three twenties, the smile still on his face.

*

Sadegh arrived at his home in Lake Forest forty five minutes after the taxi had dropped him. He hadn’t been to Lake Forest for nearly a year, so if the Kurd’s spies were watching his Highland Park home, they would have nothing to report and he was confident that they were not aware of Lake Forest. Lake Forest was his safe house, surrounded by a high fence, and surveillance cameras. Lake Forest was where he brought people he intended to torture and kill.

Sadegh spent an hour in the basement, his work area, laying out instruments neatly in a row, making sure that they were in the correct order so that he could easily get to them as he tortured the Kurd. After so many years of perfecting his craft, he knew every pressure point in the body that caused massive and excruciating pain and he enjoyed searching and finding how far the victim’s mind strength would allow him to go, thus denying him the luxury of fainting. Holding it up to the light so as to examine the rubber grip carefully, he put his favorite weapon, the iron bar with its over sized rubber grip, next to the gurney. Tugging on each restraint strap to make sure it wouldn’t break, he slid a sleeve of thick plastic over the gurney which had been tailored in such a way as to fit snugly without any creases. No blood would stain the rubber mattress as it splattered all over while he worked on the man. He checked how many pairs of sweatpants and tops were folded on the shelf. Pairs of rubber gloves and waterproof shoe covers were in a cupboard alongside the gurney, each stacked in a neat pile. Turning on a portable generator he heard the soft hum and knew it was in working order. Turning it off he spent a few minutes polishing each electrode. Sadegh turned down the air conditioner. The lower temperature made it more bearable and he wouldn’t have to continuously wipe away perspiration as he worked.

A clean tablecloth was taken from a drawer and put onto a small table in the kitchen area. This would enable him to relax and eat at his leisure. The Kurd would be only ten feet away giving Sadegh a chance to admire his handiwork and plan, how next to torture him into eventual madness. The more excruciating the pain, the more he writhed and moaned and begged for mercy, the better Sadegh’s food would taste. Checking the wines, he was satisfied there were sufficient bottles to last for about five or six days. It would be tedious if the Kurd kept fainting. To ensure that the man continued to scream and then talk, Sadegh would have to stop torturing him at regular intervals and allow him an hour or two to recover his strength. During these breaks, he usually ate and caught up with his reading. Mentally he reminded himself to buy newspapers and paperbacks at the supermarket.

Sadegh climbed a few stairs and emerged in the garden. A short walk from the top of the stairs was a shed. Pushing open the door just far enough, he found a spade standing where it had been put the previous year. Holding it in one hand he measured off the distance from the tool shed counting each step. It was a waste of time digging a shallow grave when the Kurd died, only to find another skeleton in the same spot. The spade was left lying on the grass as a marker where he should dig. Muted sounds of the night with an occasional flutter of wings as birds called to one another, moving from one tree to another, made him realize how much he’d miss this place. The first stars were out the moon had yet to rise above the trees surrounding his yard. Looking at his watch, he anticipated returning in about four hours with the Kurd.