As if he even knew what it was, he asked, “The Rossino Otto, huh?”
I stepped out from the closet. “That’s all you need to say.”
“Do you normally wear other people’s clothes?”
Grabbing his arm, I pulled him toward the door, and the two of us headed down the stairs to the main level where LAPD officers were talking with Laney.
An officer saw us coming. “Mr. Nicholson, are you okay?”
Nicholson stared in shock at the destruction. “Never better.”
“I chose to enter the house and engage.” Laney pointed to the shattered glass. “Shooter went out the opening and disappeared on the beach. I was more concerned with Mr. Nicholson’s well being, so I didn’t pursue.”
The officer asked me, “Who are you?”
“Chase Hardeman,” I replied.
“He is a special consultant for the Bureau,” Laney interjected. “We were seeking Mr. Nicholson’s help in an ongoing investigation. Chase and Marcus are associates.”
“I was upstairs working when the house alarm went off,” Nicholson played along. “Some dude dressed in black broke in through a side door, so I hightailed it to the safe room.” He nodded toward us. “A few minutes later they arrived. I watched the exterior security camera feed and well… she explained the rest.”
“We’ll need to get your statement and file a report,” the officer said. “Crime scene team will need to search for any fingerprints, slugs, or DNA.”
“Whatever you need,” Nicholson answered. “Let’s catch the bastard.”
While Nicholson wove his tale to the LAPD, we slipped out of the house and walked along the beach.
“Did you tell Vaughn we were coming here?” I asked.
Laney shook her head. “He’s not our mole. You?”
“I told Dax.” My stomach turned. “There’s no way…”
“Chase, we don’t know if Fatima was after us. He was already inside.”
“So he was after Marcus? Why?”
“I don’t have an answer,” Laney admitted. “The sooner you get what you need from him the quicker we can head to Scottsdale.” Laney reached down, picked up my gun, and handed it to me. “I should’ve believed you sooner.”
“When Dax told me, I thought he was delusional too.” I brushed the sand from the Sig Sauer, then slipped it behind my back, leaving Fatima’s weapon where it was. “Hopefully, Sarina gives us the answers we need to find Fatima before it’s too late.”
Laney picked up the second gun, checked the clip to make sure it was empty, then slipped it into a ziplock bag. We headed back to Nicholson’s house — a moment of peace between two jilted lovers. Her betrayal still stung, but seeing her lying on the floor with two slugs in her Kevlar eased the anger slightly.
“We fell in love.” Laney stared straight ahead. “I see now that was a mistake.”
FORTY-SIX
BLACK SITE
“Everyone, listen up.”
Vaughn commanded the room where agents and analysts worked the Tanets investigation and tracked possible leads to who else might be connected to Akram Kasim’s sleeper cell. All eyes were on Vaughn as Dax stood in the back taking it all in.
“Within the last hour, Agent Kelley confirmed a visual sighting of Abu Haji Fatima in the Malibu area. Most of you will recognize Fatima as the mastermind behind bombings in New York, Mumbai, London, St. Petersburg, Barcelona, Tel Aviv, and Frankfurt. Per the Agency, Fatima was killed two years ago during an operation in Mosul. In light of this new development, we need to move forward under the assumption that intelligence is wrong.”
Vaughn swiped across his tablet, purposefully leaving out a glaring fact the President announced to the world Fatima was dead, while placing what he knew would be controversial news to the world squarely on the shoulders of the Agency. Intelligence photos appeared on the large screens overhead, including Agency surveillance of Fatima’s militia. He weighed Laney’s recounting of her private meeting with Collinsworth and called an audible.
“We have identified our suspects from Tanets.” Vaughn pointed down the line of photos. “Abdul Bashar. Sami Abboud. Omar Hadid. Fareed Khalid. Better known as the four horsemen. Fatima’s closest follower is Akram Kasim, who we have in custody. All of these men were generals in Fatima’s militia. With confirmation of his presence in Los Angeles, there is a high probability of another attack. Finding him is our top priority. Yasmin will send you more detailed intel. Work your sources and follow every possible lead.”
Vaughn stepped away as the black site roared back to life. It was clear to him that finding Fatima wasn’t only in the interest of national security, but in protecting the integrity of the Oval Office. Imagine, Bin Laden being brought back to life. It would be a permanent stain inked in history on an administration and government security agencies who found themselves losing the trust and confidence of the American people on a daily basis.
“Looks like your story checks out,” he said to Dax, still coming to terms with the sudden shift in the investigation. “As of now, we’re working off the theory that Fatima was behind the shooting at the garage, and possibly the bombing in San Diego.”
“Good to know I won’t need a straight jacket,” Dax answered. “Mario and Wilkins deserve justice. What can I do to help?”
Vaughn motioned for Yasmin to join them. “Dexter Thompson meet Yasmin Avakian. She’s one of our best analysts, highly knowledgeable about terrorist groups throughout the Middle East.”
Yasmin shook Dax’s hand. “I hear you brought us a hard drive?”
“Intelligence gathered in Mosul and Baghdad.”
“Show Yasmin the most pertinent files,” Vaughn suggested. “We need to know how wide Fatima’s network is beyond the Middle East. He’s been off the grid for two years, then slipped into the country without being flagged. Someone is helping him.” Vaughn turned toward Dax. “I also need you to tell us everything you know about Fatima’s wife, Sarina.”
“That’ll be… complicated,” Dax replied.
“It’ll fit in with the rest of this hornets’ nest.”
“Follow me,” Yasmin said. “We’ll get you set up at a station.”
Vaughn stepped away from the hub and took the stairwell to the detention level. He left his sidearm with security before they buzzed him in through both doors. His footsteps echoed off the concrete walls. Outside of Kasim’s cell, he punched in a code on the screen that temporarily disabled the video feed. A security officer unlocked the door and waited outside while Vaughn entered alone.
Akram Kasim sat on the edge of a cot. After days locked up without a shower, pungent body odor wafted in the air as the heat hovered around ninety-eight degrees. Sweating through his orange jump suit, Kasim slowly glanced toward Vaughn, not showing an inkling of surprise at the unarmed man standing in front of him.
“Fatima is alive,” Vaughn said. “Tell me where he is and you’ll live.”
“Tozz Feek,” he replied. Screw you. “Many more will die.”
“You speak English. Good.” Vaughn stepped forward, kicked Kasim hard in the chest slamming him against the wall, then loomed over the cot. For a second, he wanted to lose control, but that tactic hadn’t worked so far. Vaughn leaned in close. “Understand this, you start talking or I’ll hunt down and kill everyone you care about. Tick, tock, Akram.”
Vaughn left the cell, turned the video feed back on, grabbed his firearm, then took the stairs to the hub. Heading for his office, he heard his name.
“Russell,” Yasmin summoned. “A minute, please.”
“What’s up?”
She nodded toward Dax, who was settled in behind a computer. “Are you sure it’s a good idea exposing him to classified information?”
“Yasmin, nothing about any of this is ideal. We’re operating way outside of protocol on this one, so if you feel like you need to step away I’ll understand.”
“Just don’t want us left scrambling if we end up testifying to the DOJ.”
; “Noted.” Vaughn checked his cell. “Anything else?”
“Were you aware Chase Hardeman disappeared for a week in Baghdad as part of the vetting process from Fatima?”
Vaughn shook his head. “That’s news to me.”
FORTY-SEVEN
Across from Broad Beach Road, inside a ranch-styled Starbucks with its weathered wooden exterior, I hovered over Nicholson’s shoulder while his fingers fired across the keys. On the screen was a series of numbers, characters, and symbols communicating a foreign language only the most seasoned programmers would understand.
We had left the beach house in the hands of the LAPD crime scene unit and embedded ourselves inside the coffee chain nearby. Laney flashed her badge and commandeered the place, allowing only one employee to stay behind to lock up when we were done.
I was clear with Nicholson — no questions or comments about the content of the video. He was smart enough to listen. For the last hour, the genius techie was lost in another world like a medieval knight facing a flame-throwing dragon on the dark web.
The barista made me another latte — my third — and a roasted Pike with a splash of soy. Watching Laney pace outside on her cell, I thought about our brief conversation on the beach. We fell in love. I see now that was a mistake. After her betrayal, I should’ve been the one to say those words. She entered the warmth and I handed her the Pike coffee.
“Russell decided to release the names of Fatima’s generals,” she said.
“I thought Uncle Randy said to keep it confidential.”
“Without those names my team would be handicapped.” Laney sipped the steaming brew and warmed her hands around the recycled paper and plastic cup. “You’ll be glad to know that Dax is cleared as a suspect in Mario Robles’ death.”
“Exactly like I told you.”
“Looks like you and he are the only eyewitnesses to connect Fatima to Robles’ death, and the break-in at Nicholson’s house.”
“Still don’t know why he was there.”
“We’ll run ballistics on the gun and see if it matches the slugs from Robles. With any luck we might find a DNA match from the gun with evidence recovered from Wilkins’ truck too.” She glanced at Nicholson, who was oblivious to us. “How much longer?”
“As long as it takes.” I grabbed a seat a few tables over. “Vihkrovs cleared?”
“Right now, our focus is on Fatima — which leaves the Vihkrovs for another day.” She sat across from me as her gaze locked in. Better not to push back on her suspicions, or her disapproval. For the moment, she was on my side and I needed to keep it that way. “We believe your dad was going to pass Abu Haji Fatima’s name along to Russell. It’s possible he believed there was someone inside the government who was watching, so giving Russell the name in person was the only way.”
I texted Elena: READY? She texted back: YES.
“As soon as we’re done here, I’ve got the Vihkrovs jet on standby.”
“Chase, we’re not flying on their jet.”
“Dad trusted them — and so do I. No government transportation. Think of it as us not adding another dollar to the deficit.”
Nicholson looked up from behind his laptop. “Video was uploaded using some serious advanced blocking routed through dozens of countries.”
“In plain English,” I said.
“Each frame of the video was uploaded from a different location, switching every second, making it nearly impossible to track. It’s government-level encryption for sure.”
I got up from my chair, Laney right behind. “Origination?”
“Not that lucky, yet.” Nicholson turned his laptop so we could see. “The final block was uploaded eleven days ago at exactly 11:47 AM through Thailand. But the link wasn’t live until…”
Laney peered over his shoulder at the date. “Same day as the attack on Tanets.”
“Tanets was the original plan,” I said to Laney, realizing the video was online for days before the second attempt in London. I turned to Nicholson, who was all business. “How long before you track down who was behind the upload?”
“Finding the original source is a near impossibility,” he admitted. “I’ll need a few more days.”
“Call me as soon as you know for sure.”
“Mr. Nicholson, we appreciate your help,” Laney said. “You’re doing a great service for your country.”
“Chase, our deal stands — the Rossino Otto.”
“You have my word.” I glanced at Laney, then back to Nicholson. “There is one more thing — what do you know about Level 10 malware?”
Nicholson responded, a bit more worried. “Am I going to prison?”
Laney asked, “Why would you think that?”
“Off the record?” We both nodded. “I’m the one who created it.”
Neither of us was ready for that response. A few seconds passed, each of us processing — Nicholson concerned he was about to lose his empire.
“What do you mean, exactly?” Laney asked.
“A few years back when Urban Chain was an idea on a napkin, I needed funding to make it a reality. At the time I was sleeping on my buddy’s couch, eating at Taco Bell, and totally depressed. I was desperate, so I posted an offer on the dark web — five million to code a program of your choosing. You could say I was Judas, willing to sell my soul for a bag of gold.”
“Who paid you the money?” I asked.
“Everything on the dark web is anonymous.” Nicholson leaned back in his chair, then exhaled deep. “A year ago, I found a backdoor to the bitcoin transaction which led to a royal family in the Emirates.”
Laney asked, “Did you write a fail-safe into the program?”
“I’d need to be at the source — whatever it’s plugged into — to kill it.” Nicholson’s eyes darted between us. “Is that why the ninja dude was in my house?”
“Laney, we should leave.” My meeting with Prince Azim had taken on a new level of urgency. “Marcus, thanks for your help… and sorry about your house.”
“I’ll call when I’ve found the source. But what…”
“Mr. Nicholson,” Laney said, “your secret is safe with us.”
FORTY-EIGHT
Fatima stood beneath a single bulb surrounded by darkness as cuts on his face stung from the shattered helmet shield. Gingerly he removed his shirt and pants. Wounds and scars covered his body, a roadmap of a battle-tested warrior. He was a hero to those who believed his ideology, but a terrorist to the West who were too spiritually barren to realize corruption and deceit infiltrated their land. He slipped on a kandora over his sirwal — a traditional white robe worn by his tribe.
On a bed was a tray with falafel, hummus, tabouli, and pita bread. He dug into the meal like a ravenous dog. Without hearing a sound, he sensed someone was watching.
“You swore he was dead,” Fatima seethed.
A voice replied from blackness, “You have been given another chance to rain down holy fire on all who fight against your jihad. Haven’t I delivered Michael Hardeman and Commander Wilkins into your hands? You will have your revenge on the others.”
Fatima set the tray down, stepped forward, and placed his palms on two-inch-thick bulletproof glass. “I am a prisoner to your bidding… not mine.”
“Vengeance bonds enemies,” the voice retorted. “We fight alongside to protect our kingdoms.”
Fatima pressed hard against the glass, as if he were pushing the voice away. “I am a king, not a pawn.”
“You’re a terrorist who will do what must be done to survive,” the voice answered. “However, since you failed to neutralize a lynchpin, we must move up the timeline.” Inside the glass cell, a camera lowered from the ceiling and stopped at eye-level. A newspaper was attached to it. “The time has come for you to send a message to the President.”
Fatima stepped back from the glass and positioned himself in front of the camera. He lowered his jaw, allowing his eyes to stare menacingly into the lens.
A red light blinked.
> “Mr. President, you have lied to your people. You said to the world Abu Haji Fatima was dead at the hands of your executioners, yet I am very much alive.” Fatima held the newspaper up to the camera showing the day’s date. “My demands are simple. Confess the sins of America. Tell your people how you kill Arabs who fight for freedom. Return two billion dollars stolen during America’s invasion of Baghdad. Admit to your war crimes against Muslims. If you refuse my demands I will inhale the stench of your sins and exhale a great war upon your soil.”
The red light stopped blinking and the camera retracted.
“Well done,” the voice said. “I will arrange delivery.”
Fatima walked toward the glass wall and held up his arm. A titanium band wrapped around his wrist. “You believe you control me.”
“One press of the button and your heart stops beating.”
“Tell me, Prodigal, was it Akram who betrayed me?”
“Akram Kasim is your most loyal servant, willing to die in your name.”
“If not him, then who?”
Fatima slammed his fists against the glass and cursed in Arabic. A green flashing light on his wrist turned solid yellow. Electricity shocked his muscles, sending him to his knees. Veins popped from his neck as the pain pulsated from his chest. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he struggled to breathe. Losing control of his muscles, his body slumped to the floor before the attack was over.
He gasped for air. “Why will you not tell me?”
There was no answer.
Fatima crawled on his knees across the floor. From the shock, his body shivered uncontrollably. Pulling himself onto a bed, he curled up fighting against the pain. A few minutes passed before his heart stopped racing and his body relaxed. With his back to the glass wall, he reached underneath the mattress and removed a small piece of fiberglass from the shattered helmet. Carefully, he worked the fiberglass beneath the titanium tracker until his wrists bled.
The Auctioneer Page 19