Thomas Harris: Black Sunday

“He asked you your name?” Kabakov asked.

“Yes.”

“And where you are from?”

“Right.”

Instinctively, Kabakov liked Jackson. He looked like a man with good nerves. It would take good nerves to do Jackson’s job. He also looked as though he could be very tough when he needed to be.

“You were a Marine pilot?” Kabakov asked.

“Right.”

“Vietnam?”

“Thirty-eight missions. Then I got shot up a little and I was ‘ree-tired’ until the end of the hitch.”

“Mr. Jackson, we need your help.”

“To catch this guy?”

“Yes,” Kabakov said. “We want to follow him when he leaves here after his next visit. He’ll just come and bring his fake brother and look around. He mustn’t be alarmed while he’s here. We have to follow him for a little while before we take him. So we need your cooperation.”

“Um-hum. Well, it so happens I need your help too. Let me see your credentials, Mr. FBI.” He was looking at Kabakov, but Corley handed over his identification. The pilot picked up the telephone.

“The number is—”

“I’ll get the number, Mr. Corley.”

“You can ask for—”

“I can ask for the head dick in charge,” Jackson said.

The New Orleans office of the FBI confirmed Corley’s identity.

“Now,” Jackson said, hanging up the telephone, “you wanted to know if Crazy Person asked me where I’m from. That means him locating my family if I’m not mistaken. Like to coerce me.”

“It would occur to him, yes. If it was necessary,” Kabakov said.

“Well, I’ll tell you. You want me to help you by playing it straight when the man shows up again?”

“You’ll be covered all the time. We just want to follow him when he leaves,” Corley said.

“How do you know his next call won’t be time for the shit to go down?”

“Because he’ll bring his pilot to look at the chopper in advance. We know the day he plans to strike.”

“Um-hum. I’ll do that. But in five minutes I’m going to call my wife in Orlando. I want her to tell me there is a government car parked out front containing the baddest four dudes she has ever seen. Do you follow me?”

“Let me use your telephone,” Corley said.

The round-the-clock stakeout at the helipad stretched on for days. Corley, Kabakov, and Moshevsky were there during working hours. A three-man team of FBI agents took over when the helicopter was secured for the night. Fasil did not come.

Each day Jackson arrived cheerful and ready to go, though he complained about the pair of federal agents that stayed with him during off-duty hours. He said they cramped his style.

Once in the evening he had a drink with Kabakov and Rachel at the Royal Orleans, his two bodyguards sitting at the next table dry and glum. Jackson had been a lot of places and had seen a lot of things, and Kabakov liked him better than most of the Americans he had met.

Maginty was another matter. Kabakov wished they had avoided bringing Maginty into it. The strain was telling on the loadmaster. He was jumpy and irritable.

On the morning of January 4 rain delayed the lifting, and Jackson came into the construction shack for coffee.

“What is that piece you’ve got back there?” he asked Moshevsky.

“A Galil.” Moshevsky had ordered the new type of automatic assault rifle from Israel at Kabakov’s indulgence. He removed the clip and the round from the chamber and passed it to Jackson. Moshevsky pointed out the bottle opener built into the bipod, a feature he found of particular interest.

“We used to carry an AK-47 in the chopper in Nam,” Jackson said. “Somebody took it off a Cong. I liked it better than an M-16.”

Maginty came into the shack, saw the weapon, and backed out again. Kabakov decided to tell Moshevsky to keep the rifle out of sight. There was no point in spooking Maginty any further.

“But to tell you the truth, I don’t like any of these things,” Jackson was saying. “You know a lot of guys jerk off with guns—I don’t mean you, that’s your business—but you show me a man that just loves a piece and I‘ll—”

Corley’s radio interrupted Jackson. “Jay Seven, Jay Seven.”

“Jay Seven, go ahead.”

“New York advises subject Mayfly cleared JFK customs at 0940 Eastern Standard. Has reservation on Delta 704 to New Orleans, arriving twelve thirty Central Standard.” Mayfly was the code name assigned Abdel Awad.

“Roger, Jay Seven out. Son of a bitch, Kabakov, he’s coming! He’ll lead us to Fasil and the plastic and the woman.”

Kabakov gave a sigh of relief. It was the first hard evidence that he was on the right track, that the Super Bowl was the target. “I hope we can separate them from the plastic before we take them. Otherwise there will be a very loud noise.”

“So today’s the day,” Jackson said. There was no alarm in his voice. He was steady.

“I don’t know,” Kabakov said. “Maybe today, maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow is Sunday. He’ll want to see you working on Sunday. We’ll see.”

Three hours and forty-five minutes later Abdel Awad got off a Delta jet at New Orleans International Airport. He was carrying a small suitcase. In the line of passengers behind him was a large, middle-aged man in a gray business suit. For an instant the eyes of the man in gray met those of Corley, who was waiting across the corridor. The big man looked briefly at Awad’s back, then looked away.

Corley, carrying a suitcase, trailed the debarking passengers toward the lobby. He was not watching Awad, he was looking at the crowd waiting to greet the new arrivals. He was looking for Fasil, looking for the woman.

But Awad clearly was not looking for anyone. He went down the escalator and walked outside, where he hesitated near the line of passengers waiting for limousines.

Corley slid into the car with Kabakov and Moshevsky. Kabakov appeared to be reading a newspaper. It had been agreed that he would lie low in the event that Awad had seen his picture in a briefing.

“That’s Howard, the big guy,” Corley said. “Howard will stay with him if he takes the limo. If he takes a cab, Howard will finger it for the guys in the radio cars.”

Awad took a taxi. Howard walked behind it and stopped to blow his nose.

It was a pleasure to watch the trailing operation. Three cars and a pickup truck were used, none staying immediately behind the taxi for more than a few minutes on the long drive into the city. When it was clear that the taxi was stopping at the Marriott Hotel, one of the chase cars shot around to the side entrance and an agent was near the registration desk before Awad came to claim his reservation.

The agent by the desk walked quickly to the elevator bank. “Six-eleven,” he said as he passed the man standing under the potted palm. The agent under the tree entered the elevator. He was on the sixth floor when Awad followed the bellhop to his room.

In half an hour the FBI had the room next door and an agent at the switchboard. Awad received no calls, and he did not come down. At eight p.m. he ordered a steak sent to his room. An agent delivered it and received a quarter tip, which he held by the edges all the way back downstairs where the coin was fingerprinted. The vigil went on all night.

Sunday morning, January 5, was chill and overcast. Moshevsky poured strong Cajun coffee and passed a cup to Kabakov, a cup to Corley. Through the thin walls of the construction shack they could hear the rotor blades of the big helicopter blatting the air as it made another lift.

It had been against Kabakov’s instincts to leave the hotel where Awad was staying, but common sense told him this was the place to wait. He could not perform close surveillance without running the risk of being seen by Awad, or by Fasil when he showed up. The surveillance at the hotel, under the direct control of the New Orleans Agent in Charge, was as good as Kabakov had ever seen. There was no question in Kabakov’s mind that they would come here to the helicopter before they went to the bomb. Awad could change the load to fit the chopper, but he could not change the chopper to fit the load—he had to see the helicopter first.