Extreme Justice

“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 not a mug shot,” Bolan said.

“He’s never been arrested,” Brognola replied, “but it was close. The name may be familiar. Gilbert Favor?”

“What, the Wall Street guy?”

“None other,” Brognola confirmed. “They called him Vesco Junior when he split, going on eighteen months ago. The SEC brought charges on a string of junk-bond scams that made Favor a billionaire. And yes, that’s with a b. Clearly, he wasn’t stupid. Someone he’d been paying for insurance tipped him off the night before his charges were announced, and Favor caught the red-eye down to Mexico, then on from there to Costa Rica, where we haven’t got an extradition treaty. He can live a sultan’s life down there until he’s older than Methuselah, and we can’t touch him.”

“Legally,” Bolan amended.

“Right.”

“What ties him to Romano?” Bolan asked.

“Junk bonds weren’t Favor’s only pastime,” Brognola responded. “He’s a money mover, good with numbers in the Rain Man kind of way. What it looks like now, he laundered cash for half the East Coast Mobs before he hit a little snag on Wall Street and got burned. One of his clients—based on testimony from the late, unlamented Ferret—was Antonio Romano. Favor did some banking for the former Marinello Family, saw where the money came from, where it went. The whole nine yards, in short.”

“And he can tie Romano to the Sword of Allah?”

“Manny says—said—that he can. The problem, as you see, is twofold.”

“How to bring him back, and how to make him talk,” Bolan said.

“We’ll take care of Part B,” Brognola assured him. “All you need to do is drop in, have a chat with Favor and convince him to perform his civic duty.”

“Just like that.”

“I may have understated its complexity,” Brognola granted.

“Uh-huh.”

“But seriously,” Brognola pressed, “we think it’s doable. We’ve got someone on the ground to help you out. Translator, guide, chief cook and bottle washer.”

“It’s Costa Rica,” Bolan said. “We have to take for granted that he’s greased the law and politicians.”

Brognola nodded. “Oh, big-time, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“No reason I can think of why he ought to come back voluntarily.”