Retribution by Anderson Harp

Moncrief finally turned toward Parker.
    â€œI need your help.”
    Moncrief stopped, laid the roller on top of the screen on the bucket of paint, wiped the paint off his hands, pulled back the Yankees hat, checked it again to make sure that not a drop of paint was on it, put it back with a tilt on his head, pulled out a wrapped, short stub of a Gloria Cubana cigar, unwrapped it, stuck it in the corner of his smiling mouth, and said, “Let’s get out of this overpriced dollhouse.”
    The lake was still recuperating from the nearly decade-long drought. The bleached rocks and raw, exposed shoreline showed the drought’s success. But really, two thieves were involved in the crime. Mother Nature took what water it could, and the growing city of Atlanta used the rest. At last, in recent months, the rains had returned.
    â€œThey’re hoping that by the time they move in, it will still be a lake house.” Moncrief smiled as he spoke and pointed out over the lake, making reference to the receding waterline. They pulled up two chairs. “How’s the shoulder?”
    â€œFine. Do you still have a contact in DIA?” Parker asked. The Defense Intelligence Agency had been a good source for Moncrief for years.
    â€œYes, I actually do.”
    Parker nodded. It wouldn’t have surprised him to learn that Kevin Moncrief took a break from painting every so often to help out his friends from the past.
    â€œI need to find out everything I can on Operation Intekam.”
    â€œI’ve heard of that.” Moncrief pulled out his cigar and absentmindedly smelled it as he spoke. He looked up and for a moment stared at Parker. “It was the Iranian operation after the Vincennes shot down the Iranian passenger jet. Some thought it was linked to the Pan Am flight.”
    â€œExactly. Intekam is Farsi for ‘an equal and just revenge.’ They lost two hundred and ninety innocent people, and they were determined to get an eye for an eye.” Parker knew that the USS Vincennes had given Iran Air Flight 655 no chance, misreading the commercial aircraft as an inbound fighter. The SM-2MR surface-to-air missile tore through the Airbus 300, ripping the wings from the airplane. At that altitude, death was instantaneous.
    â€œI need to know if a man named Yousef al-Qadi is connected to Intekam and, more importantly, whether Intekam is connected to Lockerbie.”
    Moncrief smiled and took out a pad of paper and pen to write the name. “Do I smell a mission coming on?”
    â€œPerhaps.”
    â€œI’m in.” The gunny looked like a kid on Christmas Eve.
    â€œThere is something else I need to know,” Parker said. “What was the CIA’s connection to all of this?”
    Moncrief raised his eyebrows. “You think the big boys were in on that?”
    â€œI’m not sure. Something doesn’t feel right. How quickly can you find out about this?”
    â€œHow much time do we have?”
    â€œA matter of days, maybe less.”
    â€œI always work well under pressure.” Moncrief took out his cigar and smiled his best broad, toothy smile. “We’ll use our backdoor e-mail.”
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    No sooner had Parker landed back at the lodge than his computer showed an e-mail from Moncrief. They had a special scramble program that Moncrief had lifted from his friends in the IDF. He’d modified the program to use words from the Apache language as keys. It could be broken, like all crypto programs, but it would take some very big computers working on it for several days and by then the operation would be over.
    When will you be available? The e-mail came from “Quo-Qui,” a name that Moncrief used often.
    Anytime , Parker shot back. Did you find out anything?
    Mossad has someone in western Europe who confirms that the Semtex used on 103 was a part of a shipment bought with monies raised by a certain financial whiz kid trained at Harvard.
    Parker