“Do you know his full name?” Buster asked.
“Farouk Mahmood. Sound familiar?”
“Holy shit,” said Buster. “He’s senior management with ISIS. I didn’t know he was in the States.”
“I just learned the guy’s full identity. He’s been in the States for about two months,” Mike said. “He’s a regular at my mosque. I was about to call you to give you an update when you called me.”
“Mike, this is unbelievably great information,” Buster said.
“Do you recall hearing the name George Livingston, aka Ali Mujahedeen?” Bellamy asked.
“Yes, he’s the guy that Mahmood was speaking to. I think he’s Mahmood’s chief aide. I didn’t know that he was also known as George Livingston, but I have heard that name mentioned,” Mike said. “I recall Mahmood saying that Mujahedeen had done a wonderful job. I remember you saying that he’s in Yemen, but obviously he’s back in the States.”
“Now we have to figure out how to nail these guys without blowing Imam Mike’s cover.” Buster said, softly.
“Do you guys think I’m an amateur? Here are their home addresses. One in Brooklyn and one in Queens. Just don’t tell them I sent you.”
“Sister, as usual you’ve been great,” Buster said. “Can I buy you another beer?”
Chapter Forty Four
“I’m going to the office early, Jen. You stay here and relax for a while. You didn’t seem to sleep well last night.”
“Have I told you how much I love you recently?” Jen said.
“You can never say it too much, and neither can I. I love you, babe.”
***
Being married to Mike Bateman is never boring. He’s a never-ending stream of fascinating ideas. I love that I decided to leave the university and work full time at Robot Depot. It’s more fun, and I get to see a lot more of Mike. Sounds strange coming from a woman who’s been married to the same guy for over 10 years, but it’s true. I love being near him, and I thinks he’s happy to have me around, even with my occasionally foul mouth. Tomorrow we’re taking off early and going to our lake house in the Adirondacks. But there’s something about the solitude of being on the lake that calms us down, and after all of the shit that’s been happening, we need to be calmed down.
After we kissed goodbye I went upstairs, took a shower and got dressed. I went back to the kitchen to pour myself another cup of coffee. As I glanced out the window I saw that Carly was still parked there. Where the hell is Mike? I wondered. I poured my coffee and walked outside. The humidity was starting to percolate, with the temperature already 85 degrees at 8 a.m. I immediately noticed that Mike wasn’t in the driver’s seat, where he usually sits even though Carly does the driving. I walked up to the passenger door and dropped my coffee mug to the pavement. Mike, partially decapitated, was slumped across the seat. His head was twisted toward the window, as if he wanted to speak to me. His eyes were wide open, staring at nothing. The interior front of the car was drenched in his blood.
***
That instant, that morning, that entire fucking day—I’ve tried to rinse all of it out of my mind. I didn’t want to remember what I saw. It was as if my life was reduced to that one scene of Mike’s slaughtered body. Bennie Weinberg, a great guy, told me constantly in the months after Mike died, that I shouldn’t try to force the scene out of my mind, that I should let it in and time itself would take care of the pain. But it wasn’t happening. Mike, my Mike, was dead—and whoever killed him was alive.
The board of directors unanimously chose me as the new CEO of Robot Depot. I took the job, not only as a way to keep busy and to occupy my still-grieving mind, but I felt that it would keep me closer to Mike’s memory. Also, because revenues were way down as a result of the exploding robots and drones, the treasury of Robot Depot wasn’t in a position to entice a hotshot chief executive with a multi-million dollar deal. They offered me $1.5 million a year, nowhere near as much as Mike used to make, but I’m not Mike. I accepted the offer.
I didn’t put our house on the market, even though it’s far too big for just one person. We rebuilt it after the fire, and it looks as it always did. Something about the place soothes me. I think it’s my memories of Mike. Every room reminded me of him, and somehow I found that strangely comforting. I did get rid of Carly. No fucking way in hell could I ever sit in that car after seeing Mike’s dead body and blood all over the seats.
I sat in on a meeting with Rick Bellamy, Bennie Weinberg, and that guy from the CIA they call Buster. I can’t imagine a sharper bunch of guys. They welcomed me into their circle as they had done with Mike. They knew that I didn’t have much more information to give them. What they didn’t know is that I wanted information from them. I wanted names, which I knew they had, addresses, and places of work. I knew the name of Farouk Mahmood, the man whose family Mike shot in Afghanistan. They told Mike that Mahmood now resided in the States, and Mike told me. They also said that the treasonous scumbag Livingston had returned to the States from his home in Yemen. I learned that his other name was Ali Mujahedeen. We kept little from each other over the years. But Mike’s dead—and Mahmood and Livingston are alive. From my study of Islamic culture and the “Religion of Peace,” I surmised that Mahmood himself butchered Mike, my Mike.
So Farouk Mahmood and George Livingston are not only alive, but they live in the United States.
Chapter Forty Five
Besides keeping busy running Robot Depot, I spent at least three evenings a week at a local shooting range. I was already a good shot, as I learned in the Marines, but I wanted to keep up my weapons proficiency, including the use of an AR-15. I learned how to handle a knife at a local martial arts studio. I also kept up my proficiency in karate, in which I held a brown belt. Can’t be too careful.
Mike’s been gone for two months, but the passage of time isn’t working its magic the way it’s supposed to. One of the rituals of our marriage was morning coffee. Mike, always an early riser, would be in the kitchen making coffee before I came down to join him for our first cup.
“Good morning, honey,” I would invariably say. Yes, it was a ritual, one of those repetitive things you do or say because it feels so natural.
Today I would preside over my first board meeting at Robot Depot. I woke up early, showered, walked into the kitchen, and said, “Good morning, honey.” I said that. This morning. Two months after Mike was killed.
“Good morning to you too, hon,” my sister Meghan said. Meg had just gone through a nasty divorce from a violent, drunk son-of-a-bitch. Although Meg pulled in a large salary as a chemist with a big chemical manufacturing company, her asshole of a spouse managed to gamble away their entire investment account and left them deeply in debt. Because she had foolishly cosigned a bunch of the loans, Meg was on the hook for the debts. Meg and I always got along great, although during her five years of marriage to the drunk prick we didn’t see each other much. She’s a year younger than me, and recently turned 35. After Mike’s death, Meg was at my side during the worst period of my life. Meg and Blanche, who had become my second sister, were my support group. They both asked why I had chosen to stay in the house after Mike was killed. The place is huge, with two entirely separate wings in addition to the master wing. After the fire we restored it to its original layout. Mike and I put the space to use when entertaining guests from out of town. I convinced Meg to move in and I insisted that she not pay rent. I wanted to help her get back on her financial legs after her divorce. Fortunately they didn’t have any kids, and, thanks to Mike, I’m loaded with money.
Meg took off early to drive to her job in Mineola, about 30 miles away. “Roady,” my replacement robotic car after I got rid of Carly, pulled up to the front of the house under the porte-cochere, a design element that Mike insisted on, replicating the one on the home office that I recommended. It was pouring rain, making me happy we agreed on the porte-cochere. But it made me think of Mike, which started me crying again. Two months, two fucking months without the love
of my life. Suck it up, I said to myself. You’ve got a board meeting to run. Besides CEO, Mike was also chairman of the 20-member board of directors of Robot Depot. The board members were impressed with my Yale MBA and my activities at the company so they offered me the board chairmanship as well. They were also impressed with the fact that I was the company’s largest shareholder. As I learned in business school, “Don’t fuck with the majority owner.”
One of the members of the board was a minister, and he asked us to bow our heads in memory of Mike. I thought that was a nice gesture. I also pondered that there’s another group of people who are going to need prayers, and soon.
We then heard the treasurer’s report from Scotty Trumball, the board treasurer. It wasn’t good news. Our sales had started to drop months before Mike’s death because of the countless exploding robot stories, stories that were true. Sales of aerial drones had once been our largest source of revenue, but drone sales died to a trickle after Yankee Stadium and the regatta attack, and then the government announced a moratorium on the sale of aerial drones.
“Jenny, I’m really worried about our drone sales, not to mention our floor cleaning robots,” said board member Susan Tampini, a local bank president with a sharp eye for reading financial statements. “Whoever these terrorists are, we don’t seem to be able to resist their attacks. Hell, they even killed your wonderful husband. Do you have any information from the FBI that you’re able to share with us?”
“Susan, and everybody,” I said, “that’s a critical question. I can tell you this. From my meetings with the FBI as well as the CIA, I have full confidence that the terrorist problem is going to improve, if not go away. The government investigators impress the hell out of me, and soon we’re going to see people going to jail. (Those who aren’t killed, of course.) This is the end of September. I predict that our terror problems will be over before the New Year.”
The meeting ended. Each board member walked up to me and shook my hand, congratulating me on the first meeting, and thanking me for the encouraging news about the terrorists.
Yes, I thought. Our terrorist problem will soon go away.
Chapter Forty Six
Meg and I met for dinner at Mario’s in Hauppauge, a place that Mike and I frequented. I’ve been seeing Bennie Weinberg, the detective shrink, for informal psychotherapy. He kept emphasizing that I shouldn’t try to push my thoughts about Mike out of my head. Don’t bury your memories, he would say. Face them and don’t try to force them out of your mind. Those savages may have killed my husband, but they’re not going to control me.
I talked to Meg about chemistry, telling her that Robot Depot was thinking of developing a new robotic farming machine, one that can lay down pesticides. Meg does a lot of her work in pesticides. Agribusiness is among the many areas I’m thinking about expanding into.
“Suffolk County is the number one agricultural county in New York State,” I said. “I’m thinking about some heavy duty pesticides, Meg. What’s the nastiest one on the market?”
“There’s a new chemical on the market with the brand name ‘Cropinsure,’ ” Meg said. “Used properly with safety procedures and protective clothing, it’s great stuff. But it’s dangerous as hell. It’s odorless and tasteless, which means if you spill some in your coffee, you won’t realize it until you’re dead. A tiny amount of it, if ingested, will kill a human being in a couple of minutes.”
“Oh my God. Is it painful—the death I mean?”
“Yes,” Meg said, “the death is agonizing. We know this from two accidents in our trials of the product.”
“Agonizing death?” I mumbled. “How terrible.”
“Could you bring some of the stuff home with you tomorrow? I’d like our quality control people to test it on an empty lot behind headquarters.”
“Sure,” Meg said, “but promise me you’ll follow the safety precautions on the package.”
“A user doesn’t have to wear a gas mask or something, does he?” I asked.
“No, nothing as heavy duty as a gas mask. A simple surgical mask will do as it says on the package.”
“A surgical mask? Something that could be worn underneath something like, I don’t know, a burqa or something.”
“Do some of your quality control people wear burqas?” Meg asked, a look of amusement on her face.
“Suffolk County farmers come in all sizes and types,” I said.
“I’ll bring a pound-sized carton with me tomorrow,” Meg said. “It comes in two forms, powder and pills. The pills are meant to be placed around weeded areas in the early spring.”
“And it’s tasteless, I believe you said?”
“Yes, and that adds to its danger. I’ll bring a box of powder and a box of pills. Again, make sure your people read the instructions.”
Chapter Forty Seven
I’m just one of the guys, the thought occurred to me as I sat at the conference table at the FBI New York Headquarters at 26 Federal Plaza in Manhattan. I was there for yet another status meeting on the terror attacks using my company’s robots. The usual people were at the meeting, including Rick Bellamy from the FBI, Buster from the CIA, Dr. Bennie Weinberg, detective and shrink, and me. They had gotten used to having Mike in their meetings, and my being there didn’t cause any concern. They treated me just like a fellow government investigator.
I wasn’t, of course.
“There’s going to be a high level ISIS meeting next Tuesday,” Buster said.
“Where?” Rick Bellamy asked.
“That ISIS safe house in Tenafly, New Jersey. I’ve got one of my inside guys planting bugs all over the place. We’re not going to raid the place, of course, because we don’t have any grounds for arrests, but it will be a great source of intelligence. Soon they’re going to find out that the safe house isn’t safe.”
“What’s the address in Tenafly?” Rick asked.
“It’s 711 Sycamore Street,” Buster said.
“I’ve been in that neighborhood before,” I said. “Nice area. That’s 711 Sycamore Street, yes?” I said as I jotted down the address. “Will that guy Mahmood be there?” I asked out of curiosity.
“We don’t know,” Bellamy said. “We hope he will be because we have some inside information that he may be the kingpin behind their whole exploding robot operation.”
***
On my way home, I told Roady to pull into the parking lot of the local dry cleaners so I could pick up my clothes.
“Hi, Jenny. Had a religious conversion recently?” Stacy, the store owner asked, chuckling.
“What are you talking about?”
“There’s a black burqa in your stuff. I wanted to ask you if it’s yours.”
“Oh, yeah,” I mumbled. “Costume party for a friend this Saturday. Don’t you think I’ll look pretty?”
“Beats the hell out of me how a woman could wear something like this,” Stacy said. “You can’t even tell who’s wearing it, whether it’s a man or a woman.”
A wonderfully functional garment, I thought. And it promotes modesty.
Chapter Forty Eight
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, I’m Shepard Smith for Fox News. There continues to be startling developments in the world of terror, or should I say the management of the world of terror. Last night 12 ISIS members were killed at what the FBI describes as an ISIS safe house in Tenafly, New Jersey. The men died a grisly death, having been poisoned with a powerful pesticide. A person wearing a burqa was seen running from the house. I have with us on the phone, Agent Richard Bellamy of the FBI. Please tell us, Agent Bellamy, do these deaths have anything in common?
“We think the deaths may be the result of internal disputes,” Bellamy lied. “The people killed were all high level ISIS operatives, many of whom we’ve been tracking for years.”
“Agent Bellamy, the deaths were caused by a poison that inflicts horrible suffering before the victim dies. Does that tell you anything about the perpetrator or perpetrators?”
; “Shepard,” Bellamy said, “whoever did this was angry—very angry.”
Chapter Forty Nine
“Rick, I think you should turn on the TV,” Bellamy’s assistant, Barbara, said.
“Good morning, ladies and gentleman, Wolf Blitzer here for CNN. I don’t know if this is a follow-up report or a new story. Yesterday we reported on a gruesome killing of 12 Middle Eastern men, who authorities suspected of being radical Islamists. They were all poisoned by an odorless and tasteless pesticide that was mixed in their food at dinner. Just minutes ago we received anonymous tip that four men were gunned down as they entered a mosque in lower Manhattan. According to a police officer at the scene, the bullet casings indicate that the weapon used was an AR-15, a semi-automatic assault rifle similar to an AK-47. I’ve just been told that the four men were on the watch list of the Department of Homeland Security. We have no details as to motive and no suspects have been arrested.”
CIA agent Buster and Dr. Ben Weinberg walked into Bellamy’s office for a scheduled meeting.
“Wolf Blitzer is just wrapping up a report about four Middle Eastern guys who were shot with an AR-15 as they walked into a mosque,” Rick said. “This is getting interesting, guys.”
“Hey, check it out,” Buster said, pointing to the TV. “Blitzer’s got more.”
“These developing stories are getting more and more curious by the minute,” Blitzer said. “We’ve just received news of three more Arab-looking men being killed, this time by a machete- wielding assailant. The men were entering their car at a parking garage in Queens when they were attacked. One eyewitness said they saw a woman wearing the traditional Islamic robe called a burqa, which completely obscures a woman’s face. To be accurate, we don’t know if the assailant was a woman, because men have been known to wear a burqa as camouflage. The fact that one assailant killed three grown men adds to the idea that the assailant may have been male, or an extremely athletic female.”
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