Veil of Civility

Chapter Three

The brakes of the decaying Crown Victoria ground against the rotors as the taxi cab pulled to a stop at the corner of Ralls Avenue and Van Deman Street in an industrial area just southwest of the city of Dundalk, one of the first suburbs inside what was known as the inner ring of Baltimore. Anzor Kasparov knew he was taking a great risk coming in broad daylight. Dressed in an open flannel shirt over a faded blue tee, and jeans with a hole in one knee, he hoped he looked the part of someone who belonged in and around the manufacturing district at this hour of the morning.

"You want me to wait?" the cabbie asked as he turned to look over his shoulder. "The cost is twenty dollars."

"No," Kasparov said pulling a Baltimore Orioles cap further down over his brow in hopes of keeping the man from getting too good a look at him.

"Okay. The fare is fifty-five."

Kasparov tossed three crumpled twenty dollar bills into the front passenger seat as he opened the door and exited. His hands in his pockets, he walked south on Ralls Avenue for twenty yards, as the cab drove away and disappeared from view, then he turned and headed back to the corner, this time going north onto Van Deman Street. He walked for two blocks until he reached a building with a rusted sign above the door reading Broughman's Welding Service. He surveyed the vicinity and looked over the odd collection of junk beside the building as he took his wallet out and removed a key.

Opening the blue metal door, he walked into what had once been the front office of someone's business. Now mildewed boxes sat collecting dust and the air smelled of rotting cardboard. He closed the door behind him and locked it. He could hear the sound of a power tool running in the larger part of the building behind the office and walked that way.

Inside what he imagined had once been some type of machine room a lone man lay on his back underneath a tattered panel van. The van had been driven onto a pair of mobile ramps for easier access and two red toolboxes sat open on either side of the mechanic. Undoubtedly the van was how their mysterious benefactor planned for them to get around without attracting attention. From such a humble veil, the surveillance, the collection of intelligence, and finally the selection of a target could be accomplished, and there was little chance that anyone would notice. After the target was selected their benefactor would make sure any necessary documents were supplied without hesitation. Blueprints, fire escape routes, mechanical, electrical and plumbing maps, whatever was needed. The plan was brilliant and Kasparov thanked Allah as he approached the mechanic.

As if the man could sense someone's presence, in one fluid motion he pushed himself out from underneath the car, removed the welding mask that had shielded his face and reached into the coat he was wearing as if he were going to pull a gun.

Kasparov removed the baseball cap and stared down into the face of Ruslan Baktayev. The frail, skeletal appearance of the man nearly brought tears to his eyes. What had the Russians done to him? Where there had once been dark hair and a thick beard, there was now only pallid flesh with the beginnings of dark stubble. Where there had once been muscles chiseled by the Caucasian winters, there was now a malnourished prisoner. He looked deep into Baktayev's eyes and gloried at the defiant look that stared back at him. Despite even the cruelest treatment the enemy could muster, his friend, his brother in arms, had lost none of his fire. Kasparov opened his arms wide as Baktayev came to his feet, the Chechen's full height of six feet bearing down over the smaller and more robust Armenian.

"Abu, Abu," Kasparov said, using Baktayev's chosen Islamic name, Abu Tabak, as the two embraced and each clapped their hands loudly against the other's back. "It has been too long. Tell me it's true? Tell me it is all true and we will finally deliver the sword of Allah deep into the hearts of the infidels?" A look of sheer elation spread across Kasparov's face as the two drew apart after their embrace.

"It is all true, Anzor, it is all true."

"Glory be to Allah, Allahu-akbar!" Kasparov shouted throwing his arms in the air triumphantly. "I have prayed so diligently for this time to come. Ten years, Abu, ten years it's been since we set out on this journey, but Allah has finally delivered us!"

"That he has, little brother," Baktayev breathed, "and soon he will deliver up the head of my enemy and I will wash myself in his blood." Baktayev clenched his fists as if he could barely contain the hatred within him. As his knuckles turned white, he continued; "Soon the killer of my brothers, the hated Jewish pig, Abaddon Kafni, will be dead and Allah's vengeance will be mine."

Kasparov nodded his approval. "He can do it, this Sheikh Kahraman, he has arranged it all? He has arranged for the killers of Vadim and Deni to be brought to you?"

"Only Kafni, he was the father of the operations against my brothers. His agents may have been the ones doing the shooting, but Kafni made it happen."

Kasparov continued to nod. "Then glory be to Allah, we shall taste his blood."

The shrill sound of a ringing phone echoed through the hollow chamber of the garage and interrupted the reunion. Baktayev moved towards a workbench littered with tools and watched as a greasy telephone receiver vibrated against its base with each ring. After three rings the phone lay dormant. Seconds later the shrill sound came again and after two rings, Baktayev picked it up and said, "Broughman's."

A disembodied voice on the other end responded, "Is this the big blue welding service?"

"No," Baktayev responded sharply. "It is the big red welding service."

"Very well then," the electronic voice responded. With their code words spoken correctly, Levent Kahraman continued. "Everything is set. You are to deliver your products to the president's home tonight. Simon and Peter will be waiting for you."

"Very good, I appreciate your business," Baktayev responded. He hung up the telephone with a satisfied smile knowing that the term “president's home” was code for a mansion near the former retreat of U.S. President Thomas Jefferson and that Simon and Peter were code for Kafni and his chief of security, Levi Levitt. He turned back to Kasparov who looked at him with a question in his eyes.

"Let everyone else know. Abaddon Kafni dies tonight."

Kasparov nodded, replaced the Orioles cap on his head, and turned to exit the building.