Haggai Harmon - The Chameleon Conspiracy

Son of a bitch. I had no gun, no backup, and no idea how many shooters there were. I saw one, but there could have been more. I couldn’t risk exiting through the door because it’d put me directly in the line of fire.

I dialed Hodson’s office from my mobile phone. After two rings I heard Hodson’s secretary announce, “Mr. Hodson’s office.”

As I responded, “Julie, this is Dan Gordon,” she said, “Hold on,” and put me on hold. I anxiously looked at the battery bars on my phone. I was left with only a few more minutes of power. I couldn’t take the risk. I disconnected and dialed 911. The operator came on.

“What is your emergency?”

“Shots fired at me by a sniper,” I said, but realized I was talking to myself. The phone was dead. Battery empty. I crawled toward the desk and tried to reach the telephone. Another shot shattered the mirrored display cabinet next to the desk, covering me and the floor around me with broken glass. I pulled down the telephone cord and grabbed the receiver. There was no dial tone.

“McHanna,” I said. “Do I need to dial 9 or something to get an outside line?”

“No, just press any button on the right.”

I pulled the phone to the carpet and tried them all, but the phone was dead. I checked the cord. It was still hooked to the wall, but the phone was still dead.

“We should leave immediately,” I said. “Is there another exit?”

“You mean from my office?”

“Yes.”

“Only the door you came in through.”

“How about your office suite? Does it have a back door?”

“Just the one front door.”

I crawled back toward the windows, groping for the curtain cords. I managed to close the heavy curtains on two of the three windows. Another bullet went through one of the curtains and into the opposite wall.

Damn. The shooter had time and ammunition, just the things I was hoping he’d be short of. If I identified correctly based on my military training, the sniper was using a U.S.-made USMC-series gun, which has a magazine capacity of five rounds and an effective range of one thousand yards. We were only fifty to seventy-five yards away. He had already used four rounds. I tried to push the heavy desk toward the window to block some of the shooter’s view, but even with McHanna pushing from underneath, we couldn’t move it. The desk was too heavy.

Rays of sunlight emerged through the one window with open curtains. That gave me an idea. I crawled to the wall on the shattered glass, cutting my arm and knee, and found a largish piece of a mirror, which had fallen from the wall unit. I pushed a guest chair around to face the window and quickly mounted the mirror on its cushion, leaning it against the chair’s back. The mirror captured the sun’s rays and reflected them in the general direction of the shooter. As I heard the next shot breaking the mirror I jumped to my feet and ran through the door. I tried the phone on the receptionist’s desk. It was dead as well.

I needed something to protect myself if I encountered any opposition face-to-face, but the only thing I could find was a metal letter opener on her desk. I cautiously checked the outside door. The hallway was empty. I ran to the emergency exit next to the elevator door and down the stairs to the floor below McHanna’s office.

The first office was a dentist’s clinic, and the receptionist and two waiting patients were startled as I barged in. I was breathing hard and bleeding from my hand, and my pants had blood stains in the knee area.

“I need to use the phone,” I said, and when I saw their hesitation-a small wonder given my bloody and messed-up appearance- I added, “I’m a federal agent.”

“Let me take care of that,” said a man in a white doctor’s gown who emerged from an inside room hearing the commotion. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m OK, thanks, but I really need the phone,” I said. Looking uneasy, the receptionist handed me the receiver. Moments later I heard sirens and the building was flooded by SWAT, the Special Weapons Assault Team, wearing black protective gear and carrying high-power guns. A neighbor must have called the police after hearing the shots. One SWAT member entered the dentist’s office and approached me.

I flashed my DOJ ID. “There’s a shooter on the roof of the next building. There could be more than one.”

“Were you the target?” he asked.

“I may have been, but more likely they wanted to get Timothy McHanna. He’s on the twelfth floor, in McHanna Associates. Don’t let him out of your sight. He’s the subject of a federal investigation.”

He radioed to his team, and we ran to the twelfth floor. McHanna was still cowering under his desk. But police were already everywhere, and no one was shooting. The officer answered his radio. “Got you.”

“OK,” he said. “There was just one shooter, and he got away, leaving empty shells behind him.”

“I’m getting the hell out of here,” said McHanna as he emerged from under the desk.

“I think we need to talk first,” I said.

“I have nothing to tell you,” he said dismissively.

“Who wanted to kill you? He may try again.”

“How do you know I was the target? Could have been for you. From what I hear, you’ve got your own enemies.”

He had a point, but I wasn’t about to concede it.

“I’ll look into the list of people who want me dead. But I suggest you do the same. I suspect the bullets were meant for you.”

“Why?” he asked faintly, although I suspected he knew the answer already.

“Because nobody knew I was coming to see you.”

“Not even in your own office?”

“No. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d pay a visit to an old friend. Just a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

“Mr. Gordon, I hardly think this is funny. My life is in danger.”

Now he was admitting it. That’s some progress, I thought. “Were any threats made against you?”

“No.”

“Tell me, who wants you dead?”

“I really don’t know.”

“Obviously the shooter knows, but he’s currently unavailable. I don’t have his e-mail or phone number, so I can’t ask him. That leaves only you to answer my question. Who wants you dead?”

“I said I don’t know.”

“Why are your phones dead?”

“Dead? All of them?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know. Maybe a power failure.”

“Where is your staff? I didn’t see anyone when I came in.” “I told them not to come in for now. We can’t operate our business when all our files and computers are gone.”

“Do you have any new employees?”

“No, they’ve all been with me for quite some time.”

“So nobody came in today?”

“Just the receptionist. She came in this morning as usual, but I sent her home.”

“Did she leave immediately?”

“I don’t really know.”

“Did she say anything about the mess in the office?”

“No. She was here yesterday during the search.”

“What’s her name?”

“Saida Rhaman.”

“What’s her address and phone number?”

“I only have a number. She told me she recently moved to a new apartment, and I don’t have the address.” He removed an address book from his inside jacket pocket. “Her number is 718-555-9878.”

I told the SWAT agent quietly, “Don’t let him out of your sight.”

I went outside and called Hodson from a pay phone. “I think the attempted hit is directly connected to our search yesterday,” I told him. “Somebody is trying to silence McHanna. It’s also possible that the sniper was just sending him a warning. A shooter with a sniper’s rifle with a scope doesn’t miss from such a short distance unless he’s totally clumsy.”

“That means that, whoever they are, they don’t trust McHanna to keep quiet voluntarily,” said Hodson. “Maybe it’s time. I’ll send agents to pick him up for questioning.”