“Just five years? Something else was going on there—”
“Yes. He provided a wealth of information on bigger fish—especially Al-Masri. James Ujaama was released almost immediately after sentencing on the basis of time served.”
“Where is he now?”
“We don’t know. He violated his parole conditions in late 2017 and hasn’t been located since.”
“These brothers sound like our first real suspects. Thanks for the heads-up, Abby. I’m going to pass this information to Chief Gilhooley right now.”
Cassie rushed back into the chief’s office. He was just hanging up the phone and had a stunned expression on his face.
“You heard about the Ujaamas?” Cassie asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you know them?”
“Not personally, but I certainly know of them. Hold on a minute.” Gilhooley picked up the phone and said, “Get me the files on the Ujaama brothers, James and Mustafa. Double time.”
A young woman knocked on Gilhooley’s door moments later. “Here you go, Chief,” she said, handing over two thick manila folders.
“Thanks, Amy.”
Gilhooley placed the folders side by side on his desk and flipped them open before turning them around and pushing them across to Cassie. “I know that paper files are old school. We’re working on digitization. But here, have a look.”
Cassie was initially taken aback. “He looks familiar . . .”
Gilhooley agreed. “Yes. Mustafa Ujaama bears a striking resemblance to the actor Forest Whitaker, although Ujaama is probably twenty pounds lighter at six-foot-two, 220 pounds. Mustafa has the facial hair of a devout Muslim. James is taller, at six-foot-four, but slimmer. He grew his hair and beard long while in prison. Of course, they may have altered their appearance since these photos were taken.”
“Do you think they’re involved?”
The chief leaned back in his chair. “As I said, I don’t like to make guesses. But there appears to be at least some compelling circumstantial evidence. They have motive, they have means. Maybe they had the opportunity too.”
Chapter 24
After returning home, Dom went for a long, slow run to think through his situation. Why did Michael have that map? Was he just looking for some good mountain biking trails? Was there another reasonable explanation that Dom was missing? Could the doc really be involved in contaminating Seattle’s water supply? What was that odd phrase Michael had used during their recent conversation? Ethical terrorism. Dom wrestled with whether he should call this in. He didn’t have much evidence, but his gut told him that Michael’s obvious post-traumatic stress and frustration at the failure of his plans for the Blue Drop Foundation might have driven him to do something crazy. He didn’t want to accuse his best friend, but if Michael had actually done this, he needed serious counseling and treatment. Dom got on his road bike and pedaled around until he spotted a rare pay phone. He looked up the number on his cellphone, fed coins into the slot, and punched the buttons. He held the filthy receiver a safe distance from his mouth.
“Good morning, EPA, Northwest Regional Office.”
“Hi there. I need to speak to Cassie Harden-Hernandez. It’s urgent.”
“She’s based in Washington, D.C.”
“I know that. But my understanding is that she’s currently in Seattle. Can you put my call through to her or give me her cellphone number?”
“Can I say who’s calling?”
“No. But you can tell them I have information about the poisoning of Seattle’s water.”
“Oh! There’s a 1-800 number—”
“I know. But I have evidence that might reveal the identity of the—”
“I can’t put you through to Ms. Harden-Hernandez. That’s not the proper procedure. You need to call the 1-800 number to report your information.”
“Listen up.” Dom struggled not to shout, as he gripped the receiver. “You’ll be in a shitstorm of trouble if you don’t put me through. You’ll be responsible for stalling the investigation into a terrorist attack and possibly allowing the bad guys to escape.” He laid it on a bit thick, but it worked.
“Okay, okay. I’m putting you through to Abdullah Ali. He is Ms. Harden-Hernandez’s executive assistant.”
“Hello, Mr. Ali?” Dom thought about trying to disguise his voice but decided it might make him seem like a flake.
“Yes, Abdullah Ali here. Ms. Harden-Hernandez is out in the field. If you’ve got information, tell it to me, and I’ll pass it on to her directly.”
“Mr. Ali, I can give you the identity of one of the people involved in poisoning Seattle’s water, as well as physical evidence connecting him to the crime.”
“So tell me.”
“Well, as I’m sure you can understand, I’m not comfortable doing that on the phone. And I want some assurances as well.”
“Assurances?”
“That I won’t be arrested, that my identity will remain confidential, and that you’ll protect the safety and well-being of the person I identify.”
“So you know this person? Wait. Were you involved? Why would you be arrested?” Abdullah was speaking quickly.
“Yes, I know him, and no, I was not involved. Not in any way, shape, or form.”
“All right. Assuming your information is accurate, your requests should be doable. You’ll have to talk to Cassie. But for now, give me something so that we know you’re for real.”
“I found a topographic map of the area around Chester Morse Reservoir in the pannier of a bicycle that could have been used to access the reservoir. And I have information regarding this individual’s motive.”
“All right. That’s good. We need the details of your information ASAP. Where are you calling from?”
“Seattle. And let me be perfectly clear. I talk to Cassie Harden-Hernandez or I don’t talk. We talk alone or we don’t talk.”
“That’s fine. You can meet her at the regional EPA office. I’ll book a conference room and ensure that you can meet in private.”
“Sorry, but I’m not willing to enter the lion’s den. There’s a Starbucks down the street from your regional office—”
“This is Seattle. There are probably five Starbucks in a three-block radius.”
“The one at 2nd and Seneca. One o’clock. I know what Ms. Harden-Hernandez looks like.”
“Fine. But let me make one thing perfectly clear. We’re in the middle of one of the most important criminal investigations in EPA history, so if it turns out that you’re feeding us crap, you’ll be arrested for obstruction of justice and there’ll be no Starbucks where you end up spending the next few years.”
“It’ll be worth it. I promise.”
Dom hung up and grimaced. He could feel the stirrings of a massive headache, right behind his eyes. Turning in his friend wasn’t going to be easy, even if it was the right thing to do.
* * *
Abby called Cassie immediately.
“Abby, I’m at the reservoir—what’s up?”
“Another break!” Abby relayed the details of his conversation with the anonymous caller, trying not to let his excitement overwhelm him. After all, the 1-800 tip line had received hundreds of calls. A handful of publicity-seeking wackos had even confessed.
“He sounds legitimate,” Cassie responded. “I’ll get a lift back to the office right away. Great job, Abby.” The only solid information they’d received from the tip line was from the two old fishermen who’d seen a cyclist at the reservoir. Their description matched this anonymous caller’s story. But if the informant was a creep, or if he was involved in the poisoning, Cassie didn’t want to meet him alone. She called Mitch Friedland, the EPA’s regional head for the Pacific Northwest.
“Friedland here. What’s up?”
“Can you go to the Starbucks at 2nd and Seneca for me?”
“You need caffeine so badly that you’re asking me to be your coffeewallah? You should join Narcotics Anonymous.”
“Shut up, Mitch. We might have caught a big break. Abby just talked to a guy claiming to know at least one of the perps and the location of some key physical evidence.”
“Such as?”
“Topographical map, a mountain bike, and a motive. He wants to meet me at that Starbucks at one. I need you to go there now and hang out, backing me up in case things go off the rails.”
“I’m your backup? I’m wearing penny loafers, have string bean arms, and only run to catch the bus. You want any uniforms? Suits? Men with guns? Muscle?”
“No. He wants to meet me alone, and I don’t want to take the risk of scaring him off.”
“Then I’m perfect.”
“I’m sending Abby ahead of me as well.”
“Great. A schleppy Jew and a Somalian refugee. Quite an intimidating posse you’ve got.”
“Abby survived the anarchy on the streets of Mogadishu while he was growing up. Should be able to keep a source in a Seattle coffee shop under control if things turn ugly.”
Friedland grunted his grudging agreement.
“Text me if you see anything suspicious,” Cassie said. “I’ll be there soon. And don’t let on that you know me. I’m supposed to be alone.”
Chapter 25
Cassie took her travel mug back from the barista and looked around. It was uncrowded. Mitch was at the counter by the door flipping through the sports section of USA Today. Abby was sprawled in an armchair near a faux fireplace, looking as though he owned the place. Both men were in good spots for watching people come and go.
There were two big armchairs empty near the back, on either side of a small coffee table, en route to the washrooms. Cassie sat down in one and pulled out her phone. Her inbox had seventy-two new messages. She clicked on the first message, from Stryder, but was interrupted before it could load.
“Cassie Harden-Hernandez?”
She looked up and then stood up. There was a handsome guy standing in front of her with wavy dark brown hair, a dimple in his square chin, and a bicycle helmet under his arm.
“Let me just turn this nuisance off.” She appeared to fumble with her phone so she could turn on a voice-recording app to capture their conversation. She set it down on the table beside her coffee. “And you are?”
“A good citizen.” Dom smiled nervously, revealing bright, beautiful teeth, then launched into the story about going to borrow a friend’s bike and finding the topographical map.
“Is the evidence in your possession now?”
“No. I left it there. But I’ll give you a name, an address, and a precise location at that address. Before I spill my guts, tell me how you’ll protect my identity and ensure that the person I’m about to tell you about will get the help he needs.”
“The success of the Rewards for Justice Program depends on our ability to maintain the strict confidentiality of our informants. If your information proves to be accurate and leads to the arrest and conviction of the people responsible then you’ll be eligible for the $50-million reward we’re offering. You can definitely remain anonymous if you choose.”
“It’s not about the money. I know this person. He’s a good friend, but I think he’s suffering from PTSD.”
“Did he serve in the military?”
“No. But the media is saying that whoever did this is a terrorist, and I know how our government treats terrorists. This guy is a good person who needs help. I would really, really hate to see him killed or tortured, especially if I’m the one who turned him in.”
“I’ll do what I can. Everything I can. You have my word on that.”
Dom sat back in his chair. Last chance to bail. He could withhold Michael’s name, turn his back on Cassie, and walk out the door. Except now he’d probably be arrested for obstruction of justice. His best friend was a wanted man, a potential terrorist, and clearly ill. There was no alternative.
“His name is Michael MacDougall. He’s a doctor.”
“That doesn’t sound Arabic,” Cassie said, sotto voce.
“Pardon me?” Dom couldn’t quite make out what Cassie had said.
“M-a-c or M-c?”
“M-a-c.”
“M.D. or Ph.D.?”
“M.D.”
“From Seattle?”
“Yeah.”
“He did this himself?”
“I don’t know. He sure as hell never mentioned it to me. I doubt he told Maria either.”
“Maria?”
“His wife. Maria Morales. She’s a law prof at the University of Washington.”
It didn’t sound like this guy fit either of the FBI’s profiles. “Can you give me his address?”
Dom rattled off Michael’s street and house number. “The bike is in the garage, and the map is in one of the panniers. But—”
“But what?”
“The doc’s in Africa right now—”
“Africa?”
“Yes, working for the International Medical Assistance Foundation.”
That rules him out if he did it alone, she thought, unless . . . “Where is he and how long has he been there?”
“He left on Saturday afternoon. He’s in Goma, in the Congo.”
“Do you know if his flight went through London?”
“I don’t know.”
This doctor fit the timeline, if not the profile. Some pieces of the puzzle were fitting together. Others were still missing. “Why would he be involved in something like this? Links to terrorist organizations? Anything like that?”
“God, no. Not the Michael I know. But he was a different person when he came back from his first stint in Africa. It was terribly stressful, and he was sent home early because of one of his colleagues was killed and another sexually assaulted. Michael felt that these awful events were somehow his fault. He hasn’t been himself since.”
“Okay. I need your name and contact information. It would be smart for you to stick around town for a couple of days, see how this pans out. We may need you to answer a few more questions.”
Dom put his head in his hands. He felt like a rat, but he knew that if Michael really did this, then he needed help, and needed it now, before he did anything else that was even more dangerous.
Chapter 26
Cassie gave a surreptitious thumbs up to both Mitch and Abby as she left the coffee house to run back to the EPA office. Abby arrived a minute later. “Abby, get the president and everyone else on the task force on a videoconference. Right now. It’s urgent and can’t wait for this evening’s call.”
Cassie was abuzz. She was about to break the case. In the nick of time. It would be beautiful to watch everyone’s reactions. ISIS, my ass.
Five minutes later Abby poked his head in the door of the borrowed office. “Cassie. The videoconference is up and running. The White House is standing by. Some of the other directors will join the meeting on an ‘as available’ basis.”
Their loss, Cassie thought as she logged on to the encrypted program on her laptop.
“Good day, Mr. President.”
“Hello, Cassie. Give me some good news.”
“I’m not sure if you’d call it good news, sir, but we’ve identified a prime suspect in the Seattle case.”
“I thought we already had two jihadis in our sights. Have we caught those bastards yet?”
“Yes, sir,” Tierney answered. “The Ujaama brothers are both in custody. Unfortunately, they both have airtight alibis for the Seattle attack and are no longer considered suspects. They were subjected to intensive interrogations and yielded no useful information related to our current investigation.”
“Damn it! Cassie?”
“Mr. President, it appears that the person responsible for poisoning
the Chester Morse Reservoir is a physician from Seattle by the name of Michael MacDougall.”
There was a brief stunned silence, then everyone spoke simultaneously. Cassie watched with pleasure as Stryder’s face turned purple. A heart attack did not appear to be out of the question.
“Shut up, all of you,” the president stormed. “Is this doctor an American citizen? Is he in custody?”
“Yes, sir, he is American and no, he has not yet been apprehended. We just ascertained his identity minutes ago. We believe that there is physical evidence connecting this doctor to the Seattle attack. That evidence is apparently located in the garage behind his residence. We received a reliable tip from a confidential informant. I have lawyers on their way to the district court right now to get a search warrant approved so we can take a look at his house, get the evidence from the garage, and seize his computer. But the suspect—”
“Oh no,” the president groaned.
“Let me guess. He got away?” It was Tierney’s turn to sneer. “Why didn’t you let the FBI handle the arrest?”
“The suspect apparently left the United States on Saturday en route to Africa.”
“See? He is working with the jihadis!” Stryder wouldn’t give up on his theory. “ISIS has strongholds in Nigeria, Mali, Somalia, and half a dozen other African countries.”
“The suspect is working with a renowned aid organization in a city called Goma in the eastern region of the Democratic Republic of Congo.”
“Good Lord. This is starting to sound like a wild goose chase,” Tierney scoffed. “We should—”
“Shut up, Randall,” the president interrupted. “Two things. First, forget about a search warrant. I want law enforcement officers at the suspect’s residence within the next five minutes. Second, we need to pick him up right away. Who do we have in Africa?”
“Let me check my files, sir.” Stryder’s voice had lost its bluster. “There are legats at the American embassies in Cairo, Lagos, Nairobi, Dakar, and Pretoria.”
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