Thomas Harris - Black Sunday

This was the place of greatest peril. The Arabs would be on foot in this vast tangle of building supplies and they would be dealing with civilians, two of whom knew they were dangerous. At least Maginty wasn’t here and that was a boon, Kabakov thought. In the six days of the stakeout, Maginty had called in sick twice and had been late on two other days.

Corley’s radio growled. He fiddled with the squelch knob.

“Unit One, Unit Four.” That was the team on the sixth floor of the Marriott, calling the Agent in Charge.

“Go ahead, Four.”

“Mayfly left his room, heading for the elevators.”

“Roger Four. Five, you got that?”

“Five standing by.” A minute passed.

“Unit One, Unit Five. He’s passing through the lobby now.” The voice on the radio was muffled, and Kabakov guessed the agent in the lobby was speaking into a buttonhole microphone.

Kabakov stared at the radio, a muscle in his jaw twitching. If Awad headed for another part of the city, he could join the hunt in minutes. Faintly on the radio he heard the swoosh of the revolving door, then street noises as the agent followed Awad outside the Marriott.

“One, this is Five. He’s walking west on Decatur.” A long pause. “One, he’s going into the Bienville House.”

“Three, cover the back.”

“Roger.”

An hour passed and Awad did not emerge. Kabakov thought about all the rooms in which he had waited. He had forgotten how sick and tired a man gets of a stakeout room. There was no conversation. Kabakov stared out the window. Corley looked at the radio. Moshevsky examined something he had removed from his ear.

“Unit One, Unit Five. He’s coming out. Roach is with him.” Kabakov took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Roach” was Muhammad Fasil.

Five was still talking. “They’re taking a taxi. Cab number four seven five eight. Louisiana commercial license four seven eight Juliett Lima. Mobile Twelve has—” A second message broke in.

“Unit Twelve, we’ve got him. He’s turning west on Magazine.”

“Roger Twelve.”

Kabakov went to the window. He could see the ground crew adjusting a harness on the next load, one of them acting as loadmaster.

“One, Unit Twelve, he’s turning north on Poydras. Looks like he’s coming to you, Jay Seven.”

“This is Jay Seven, Roger Twelve.”

Corley remained in the construction shack while Kabakov and Moshevsky took up positions outside, Kabakov in the back of a truck, concealed by a canvas curtain, Moshevsky in a Port-O-San portable toilet with a peephole in the door. The three of them formed a triangle around the helicopter pad.

“Jay Seven, Jay Seven, Unit Twelve. Subjects are at Poydras and Rampart, proceeding north.”

Corley waited until Jackson in the helicopter was clear of the roof, settling toward the ground, then spoke to him on the aircraft frequency. “You’re going to have company. Take a break in about five minutes.”

“Roger.” Jackson’s voice was calm.

“Jay Seven, this is Mobile Twelve. They’re across the street from you, getting out of the taxi.”

“Roger.”

Kabakov had never seen Fasil before, and now he watched him through a crack in the curtain as though he were some exotic form of wildlife. The monster of Munich. Six thousand miles was a long chase.

The camera case, he thought. That’s where you have the gun. I should have gotten you in Beirut.

Fasil and Awad stood beside a stack of crates at the side of the pad, watching the helicopter. They were closest to Moshevsky, but out of his line of vision. They were talking. Awad said something and Fasil nodded his head. Awad turned and tried the door of Moshevsky’s hideout. It was hooked. He went into the next Port-O-San in the line and after a moment returned to Fasil.

The helicopter settled to the ground, and they turned their faces away from the dust. Jackson swung down from the cockpit and walked toward the ground crew’s water cooler.

Kabakov was glad to see that he moved slowly and naturally. He drew a cup of water and then appeared to notice Fasil for the first time, acknowledging his presence with a casual wave.

That’s good, Kabakov thought, that’s good.

Fasil and Awad walked over to Jackson. Fasil was introducing Awad. They shook hands. Jackson was nodding his head. They walked toward the helicopter, talking animatedly, Awad making the hand gestures that mark all pilots’ shop talk. Awad leaned into the fuselage door and looked around. He asked a question. Jackson appeared to hesitate. He looked around as though checking on the whereabouts of the boss, then nodded. Awad scrambled into the cockpit.

Kabakov was not worried about Awad trying to take the helicopter—he knew Jackson had a fuse from the ignition in his pocket. Jackson joined Awad in the cockpit. Fasil looked around the pad, alert but calm. Two minutes passed. Jackson and Awad climbed down again. Jackson was shaking his head and pointing to his watch.

It was going well, Kabakov thought. As expected, Awad had asked to go up on a lift. Jackson had told him he couldn’t take him up during working hours for insurance reasons, but that later in the week, before the boss showed up for work in the morning, perhaps he could arrange it.

They were all shaking hands again. Now they would go to the plastic.

Maginty came around the corner of the construction shack, rummaging in his lunch pail. He was in the center of the pad when he saw Fasil and froze in his tracks.

Kabakov’s lips moved soundlessly as he swore. Oh, no. Get out of there, you son of a bitch.

Maginty’s face was pale, and his mouth hung open. Fasil was looking at him now. Jackson smiled broadly. Jackson will save it. He’ll save it, Kabakov thought.

Jackson’s voice was louder. Moshevsky could hear him. “Excuse me a minute, fellas. Hey, Maginty, you decided to show up, baby. It’s about time.”

Maginty seemed paralyzed.

“Drinking that bug juice and laying out all night, you look awful, man.” Jackson was turning him around to walk him to the construction shack when Maginty said quite clearly, “Where are the police?”

Fasil barked at Awad and sprinted for the edge of the pad, his hand in the camera case.

Corley was screaming into his radio. “Bust ‘em. Bust ’em, Goddamn it, bust ‘em.”

Kabakov snatched back the curtain. “Freeze, Fasil.”

Fasil fired at him, the magnum knocking a fist-sized hole in the truck bed. Fasil was running hard, dodging between piles of building materials, Kabakov twenty yards behind him.

Awad started after Fasil, but Moshevsky, bursting out of his hiding place, caught him and without breaking stride slammed him to the ground with a blow at the base of his skull, then ran hard after Kabakov and Fasil. Awad tried to rise, but Jackson and Corley were on him.

Fasil ran toward the Superdome. Twice he stopped to fire at Kabakov. Kabakov felt the wind of the second one on his face as he dived for cover.

Fasil sprinted across the clear space between the stacks of materials and the yawning door of the Superdome, Kabakov laying a burst from his submachine gun in the dirt ahead of him. “Halt! Andek!”

Fasil did not hesitate as the grit kicked up by the bullets stung his legs. He disappeared into the Superdome.

Kabakov heard a challenge and a shot as he ran to the entrance. FBI agents were coming from the other way, through the dome. He hoped they had not killed Fasil.

Kabakov dived through the entrance and dropped behind a pallet stacked with window frames. The upper levels of the vast, shadowy chamber glowed with the lights of the construction crews. Kabakov could see the yellow helmets as the men peered down at the floor. Three pistol shots echoed through the dome. Then he heard the heavier blast of Fasil’s magnum. He crawled around the end of the pallet.