at the AV console.
“Right,” Brognola said. “Let’s get this party started.”
The big Fed cleared his throat and waited for the first slide to appear onscreen behind him.
Half-turned to face the screen, Brognola saw a full-face mug shot of a swarthy man, black hair combed back from an aristocratic forehead, eyes nearly as dark pointed like twin gun barrels toward the camera. The face, though full, tapered to a decisive chin. Its mouth seemed nearly lipless, like a razor slash. The nose had once been broken, then reset with fairly decent skill. Less care had been applied to mend an older wound beside the left eye, pale scar tissue trailing onto the cheek.
“Antonio Romano,” Brognola announced, “described by certain tabloid writers in New York as ‘the last Don.’”
“I wish,” Bolan replied.
“Romano heads what used to be the Marinello Family. You remember Augie, I suppose?” Brognola asked the Executioner.
Bolan nodded. “I had to kill him twice.”
“Romano’s not that durable, but he’s been lucky,” Brognola continued. “Until two months ago, that is. A federal grand jury in Manhattan slapped him with a couple dozen racketeering charges, this and that, then hit him with the clincher—two counts of conspiracy to aid a terrorist attack on the U.S., collaborating with the Sword of Allah.”
“That’s a new one,” Bolan said.
“Damned right. If he goes down for that, he’s gone for good. Maybe the needle, if the prosecution proves his link with a September bombing near the UN building.”
“How’s it look?” Bolan asked.
“It was looking great,” the big Fed said, “until last Thursday night.”
“What happened?”
“Basically, the roof fell in.”
Brognola nodded for another slide. Romano’s frowning visage was replaced with two faces side by side. The face on the left had a weasely look, long and lean, while the other was softer, more cultured. The weasel had long, greasy hair. His companion was going bald and wore a pair of gold-rimmed trifocals.
“These are—or were—the prosecution’s two key witnesses. The rodent on the left is Emmanuel Agostino, aka ‘Manny The Ferret.’ Go figure. He was a capo in Romano’s Family, working the waterfront. DEA caught him moving a heroin shipment from Turkey without Don Romano’s approval or knowledge. That puts him underneath the doghouse, whether he’s convicted or acquitted. Stealing from the Family and risking a conspiracy indictment on the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, Manny was smart enough to know he had no future if he didn’t cut a very special deal.”
“Which was?” Bolan asked.
“Manny’s waterfront connections were diverse,” Brognola said. “One of them was a Saudi sporting diplomatic papers—and immunity—who acted as liaison with a Sword of Allah sleeper cell in Brooklyn. They were buying stolen weapons, ammunition and explosives from Romano’s people, getting ready for a killer party set to go on New Year’s Eve.”
“This wasn’t on the tube,” Bolan observed.
“It got the silent treatment,” Brognola explained. “Homeland Security assumed correctly that they’d only clipped a weed but hadn’t found the roots. Meanwhile, Manny was talking up a storm. He finally directed G-men to the fellow on your right.”
“Who is…?”
“Dr. David Tabor, born Dawud Tabari in San Diego, with a Syrian father and an Irish-American mother. Tabari changed his name legally to Tabor at age nineteen, after his parents went down in a murder-suicide. According to police reports, Dad talked himself into believing Mom was stepping out and satisfied his ‘honor,’ then remorse kicked in. One instant orphan in his freshman year at Stanford premed. Dad’s insurance wouldn’t pay off for a suicide, but Mom’s had a double-indemnity clause for accidental death.”
“Murder’s an accident?” Barbara Price asked.
“It is, in life-insurance-speak,” Brognola said, “unless the beneficiary took out a contract on the dear departed. As it was, the father wouldn’t have received a dime, but since he shot himself, Tabor banked a tax-free million bucks that carried him through med school and beyond.”
“I’m not seeing the terrorist connection,” Bolan said.
“Something the kid picked up from Daddy,” Brognola replied. “Namely, hatred of Israel, Jews and anyone associated with them—which includes the U.S. government. He kept a low profile during med school, his internship and residency, then he put out feelers to the dark side and hit pay dirt. For the past five years, at least, he’s been performing services for members of the Sword, Hamas and other radical Islamic groups here in the States.”
“What kind of services?” Bolan asked.
“Medical. He’s like one of the old mob doctors from the thirties, but he’s not a quack and never lost his license. Any terrorist who’s injured in the line of duty, Tabor is on call to patch them up without reporting it to the authorities. And did I mention he’s a plastic surgeon?”
“Ah.”
“You see the possibilities,” Brognola said.
A nod from Bolan, no response required.
“Long story short, Manny The Ferret got a line on Tabor somehow, dealing with the other side, and when he rolled he took the sawbones with him. Gave him up first thing, and then the doctor rolled.” Brognola shrugged. “I guess they don’t make zealots like they used to.”
“Seriously,” Price said.
“Between the two of them, they linked Romano to the Sword of Allah, and Romano was indicted on a list of charges that were meant to keep him out of circulation till the next millennium, whether or not he made it to death row. His trial is scheduled to begin three weeks from Tuesday. That’s tomorrow, by the way.”
“About that falling roof,” Bolan reminded him.
“I’m getting there. Manny and Dr. Tabor both went into WITSEC, pending their appearance at the trial. The Bureau had them separated, Manny on an island off Florida’s gulf coast, the doctor out in small-town Arizona. Thursday night, a couple hit teams dropped them both, with all their guards. We lost the witnesses and eight G-men. Guess I don’t need to tell you the attorney general’s pissed.”
“I hear you,” Bolan said. “But what can I do?”
“Well,” Brognola said, “as luck would have it, there’s still one more witness who could make the case.”
Bolan could see where the man from Janice was headed. “Who is it?” he asked.
Brognola nodded, Kurtzman keyed another slide, and Bolan watched a new face surface as the dead men faded. This man was clearly accustomed to the soft life, with an oily shine to his wavy hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. The eyes were gray-green, curious. Beneath the cookie duster, pink lips formed a careless smile.
“That’s
