The Librarian Her Daughter and the Man Who Lost His Head

by Sam Lee Jackson

  “Yes.”

  “So four other men had a one in three chance of knowing where the money was placed on Diaz’s truck?”

  Garza didn’t answer, but I could see him thinking.

  “Was Diaz late? Did he have time to stop and find the money, then put everything back?”

  “There is a window of time,” Garza said. “If a driver is detained, like there is a road closure or mechanical trouble, or any reason at all they will be late, they are to call immediately. Their life depends on it.”

  “And Diaz didn’t call.”

  He shook his head.

  “So Diaz was within acceptable limits?”

  Garza nodded.

  “So, how long would it take Rojo, here, to find the money on the truck?”

  “Rojo worked on Diaz’s truck.”

  I looked at Rojo. He stared back.

  “So another truck. How long for him to find the money on another truck?”

  “He wouldn’t.”

  “Never? Let’s say he has all the time in the world. He could empty the truck and take everything on it apart, piece by piece. Then start on the truck itself.”

  “Unless he was fuckin’ lucky, it could be hours.”

  “Did Rojo place the money on Diaz’s truck?”

  “No.”

  “What about the guy that placed the money. How trustworthy is he? Has he disappeared?”

  For the first time, he smiled.

  “The only guy in the whole world I completely trust.”

  “Really? Who is that?”

  “Me,” he said.

  I leaned back and studied him. Emil stood and went to the bar and poured some more into his glass; he offered me some. I shook my head. He didn’t offer any to the other two. He returned to his chair and sipped his drink. They didn’t look as if they expected to be offered any.

  “How long were you in the joint?” I asked Garza.

  He studied me. “Which time? I’ve enjoyed several vacations.”

  That made me smile. “A friend of mine once told me that if you go inside and if you don’t have a religion, you get a religion; if you don’t belong to a gang, you get a gang.”

  “Your friend has been inside.”

  “He said that some men became Muslim. He said they were different. If you were Muslim, it depended on which kind of Muslim you were as to which gang you joined.”

  “Yeah, it ain’t like the blacks or the skinheads. There were two groups of Muslims. Muslims would turn on each other.”

  “There is a man I am interested in. It has nothing to do with Diaz. It is a different matter. He passes for a Mexican but he is a Jordanian. While he was inside he was recruited by the Muslims. Recruited to be a terrorist. If you were looking for this particular man. A Muslim that had been inside, but was out now. If you were looking for such a man, where would you look?”

  He looked at Emil. “This guy a cop?”

  Emil smiled and shook his head.

  “Why should I help you?” Garza said.

  “That is a legitimate question,” I said, taking another small sip from my glass. I set it carefully on the coaster. “Maybe the day will come that I can do you a favor.”

  He studied me, glanced at Emil, then studied me some more.

  “This man did his Excellency a very large favor that he didn’t have to do,” Emil said, indicating me. “His Excellency was very grateful.”

  “The answer is easy,” Garza finally said.

  “Easy?” I said.

  “Sure. A guy like that, out in the world, won’t stay away from a mosque or some kinda mosque for very long. Not if he is truly into it. Their religion is tough, no booze, no women, of course which is bullshit. They break those rules all the time. But they stick together. More than other guys. He’ll find his own kind. They were the most fucking paranoid men I ever saw.”

  “So he will show up in the Muslim community?”

  “Some time or another.”

  “These two different kinds of Muslim. Could you tell them apart in the joint? One group dresses differently or something. How do you tell one kind of Muslim from another?”

  “Fucked if I know.”

  I looked at Rojo. “What was loaded on Diaz’s truck?”

  Rojo looked at Garza. Garza looked at Emil.

  “Oranges,” Garza finally said.

  28

  Father Correa ran a downtown shelter for homeless, battered and troubled women. I found a parking spot a block and a half away. The weather was typical sunny Phoenix weather. It promised to be hot later. The building was a nondescript brick structure of undetermined age. It had no windows facing the street which made me believe that at one time, it had been a warehouse. It still had the small Safehouse sign by the front door. The door was unlocked. It was always unlocked.

  The good Father was in his office, which had not changed at all since I had been there. He sat behind a metal industrial desk on a secretary’s chair. The coffeepot was still the old stained one, still half-full and still on the dented file cabinet. I couldn’t look at Father Correa without thinking he was a cross between Sancho Panza and Friar Tuck. If anything, he was a little rounder, his gray hair a little whiter, since the last time I saw him.

  He looked up and broke into a broad smile. He came around the desk and grabbed me in a bear hug.

  “Jackson! It is so good to see you again.” He waved at a folding chair. “Sit, can I get you some coffee?”

  “No thanks, Father,” I said. “I’ve already had a pot.”

  He moved back around the desk and sat. He was beaming at me. I think he spent most of his day beaming. It was a little disconcerting to know someone who was so damned happy all the time. Especially when he was surrounded by other people’s misery.

  “So you have finally come around to accept my undying gratitude?”

  I smiled. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Of course not. An anonymous donor to the end.”

  His Excellency, the Consul General of Columbia had been very grateful and very generous when Blackhawk and I had returned his granddaughter. To Blackhawk’s credit, he had said not one word when we came to Safehouse, and left a satchel of money on Father Correa’s desk. It’s a long story.

  “Is this a social call?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye.

  “Afraid not. You have heard of the bombings in Sedona?”

  The twinkle went away. I can find a way to ruin a happy mood. “Yes. Terrible things. I was doing laundry when I noticed all the girls gathered around our new television set. A nice flat screen, I might add. Courtesy of our anonymous donor. They were showing videos of the bombing.”

  “I’m looking for a man. A converted, radicalized Muslim, who is involved. I believe he’s in the Phoenix area and will probably be associating with others like him. I’m wondering if you know anyone of the Muslim persuasion connected here that might help me find him?”

  He thought about it. He clasped his meaty hands and leaned forward on the desk, “I belong to the All Faith Ecumenical Council of Arizona,” he said. “I have worked with Mullah Ghazi on various committees. He is a good man and works and believes in peace between all peoples. This man you seek, tell me more about him.”

  “Not much is known. His name is Ali Ibrahim Atef. He is the son of a Jordanian diplomat and spent a lot of his childhood in South America where the father was stationed.”

  I thumbed my phone out and brought Atef’s picture up. I showed it to him.

  “He speaks fluent Spanish and has passed himself off as a Hispanic and called himself Ramirez. He has spent time in prison and while there he was radicalized, and joined a group calling itself Khorasan America. It’s an offshoot of ISIL.”

  “Terrible people,” he said.

  “Not sure they are people. He has been trained in Iraq and Syria and has fought with militias in both places. He’s the guy that set off the bombs here. Him and his buddies. I think he is the guy that took off one man’s head and anoth
er man’s hand up in Cottonwood.”

  “I read about that. I didn’t put the two together.”

  “I’m pretty sure they are connected.”

  “If you know this, then I would guess that the authorities know it. Why are you involved in this?”

  I told him about Eddie and Billy.

  He leaned back and rubbed his chin. “It’s a long way from Syria and Iraq to Cottonwood.”

  “Here’s what scares me: I think he and his buddies are practicing for something.”

  “Practicing for what?”

  “I was at the Sedona bombing right after it happened. It could have been much worse. Much, much worse. It was like they weren’t trying for maximum murder. They videotaped it. You don’t usually see that. Usually any video of a bombing is made by surveillance cameras, or a lucky tourist. This was like a dry run. They wanted to study their handiwork.”

  “That’s a very frightening thought.”

  “Yes, it is. And I don’t think for a moment that Billy Bragg took Mr. Mooney’s head off. My primary goal has been to find who murdered Mooney and now that’s led me to Atef. I have been told that Sunni Muslims stick with Sunni Muslims and Shias stick with Shias. If your friend can shed some light on where Atef might show up, maybe we can stop this.”

  “Why do you think your man is in Phoenix instead of still up north?”

  “Did I ever introduce you to Nacho?”

  “The Indian gentleman?”

  I laughed, “No, that’s Blackhawk. I don’t think you met Nacho. Nacho works for Blackhawk. Nacho is an ex-con. He did the crime and did the time. He doesn’t want to go back. Did you also see the video released by the assholes claiming credit for the bombing? Excuse my language.”

  He smiled, “No, assholes is about right. Yes, I saw that also.”

  “Back in Nacho’s bad times he dealt drugs at Margaret Hance Park. He IDed the park as where the video was shot. It proved to be right. These guys are in Phoenix.”

  “Do the police know this?”

  “Of course. They are keeping it low. Don’t want to spread panic.”

  He rubbed his chin. “Yes, I can see that.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “Jackson, you may be the most unusual man I’ve ever met. Why are you involved in this?”

  “Eddie is a friend of mine.”

  He smiled and nodded. “Yes, with you that would be enough.”

  He was silent a moment.

  He said, “Mullah Ghazi is a Sunni. I believe most Muslims are. Do you know which side of the aisle Mr. Atef sits on?”

  “No. That might be good to know.”

  “Probably. There has been a rift between the two sides since six hundred something AD when the Prophet Mohammed died. I will introduce you to the good mullah.” He stood. “Can I show you around? Show you how some of the money our anonymous donor left has improved the lives of our girls? If you have time?”

  “Always,” I said.

  29

  Father Correa wrote a letter of introduction to Mullah Ghazi and I drove away from Safehouse feeling better than I had felt in a while. He had proudly displayed his new stainless steel kitchen with its oversized refrigerator and the large freezer which helped the donated food last much longer. There was new exercise equipment in the community room, and all the pieces were being used. There were also new changing tables throughout. He had been able to put in a new shower room. He also had a new, oversized washer and dryer. Both were running while I was there. I suspect they ran 24/7.

  Mullah Ghazi’s mosque was north and I grabbed the Black Canyon and sped toward the 101. It took a half hour. I saw the mosque while I was still some distance away. The building itself was white alabaster with a copper-gold dome. Actually, there were two buildings but that wasn’t apparent until I pulled into the parking lot. From a distance, they looked like one large, blindingly white, building.

  The parking lot only held a few cars. There was a small sign at the end of the parking lot with the word Office and an arrow pointing toward the corner of the building. Since I had been meticulously trained in connecting even obscure dots, I headed that direction. Sure enough, around the corner was a double door with the word Office next to it. So smart and ever-aware.

  I went through the doors and stepped to the counter that ran the length of the room. The girl behind the counter was dressed like any American girl anywhere except she was wearing a hijab. Not sure what I was expecting.

  The girl looked up from her computer screen with a bright smile and a freckled nose and I noticed the small gap between her two front teeth. I’d bet she’s a good spitter. I call her a girl because she looked to be thirteen. She had a wedding ring. The older I get, the worse I get at guessing ages.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “I’m here to see Mullah Ghazi,” I said with my winning smile. Maybe it would work better here than it had worked on Rain. It should; I didn’t have Blackhawk as a distraction. The girl managed to withstand it without a change in expression. Stoic.

  “He’s at prayer right now,” she said. “Do you have an appointment?”

  I held up the envelope with the letter of introduction and smiled as if it explained everything. She glanced at it and then turned to look at a clock on the wall.

  “He should be available in a few minutes. Would you care to wait?”

  “Certainly,” I said.

  “May I tell him your name please?”

  “Jackson,” I said.

  “Oh, yes. He’s expecting you.”

  “Father Correa called?”

  “I have no idea, sir. He just said to expect you. If you’ll have a seat, Mr. Jackson.”

  Okay, older than thirteen.

  There were chairs against one wall. I turned and sat down. I stretched my legs out and emptied my mind. I was good at waiting.

  It didn’t take long. Without, seemingly, anything happening, the girl suddenly stood and looked at me over the counter.

  “The mullah is ready for you now.”

  She directed me through the interior door. This led to a hallway. His office was the first one on the left. He was standing as I entered.

  He was a tall, angular man with olive-colored skin, a strong nose and piercing dark eyes. Each eye had its own matching, bushy, dark eyebrow hovering above it. The eyebrows matched his dark and bushy beard. He was dressed in white linen; the shirt was collarless and was covered with a sleeveless vest that was open and hung below his waist. He wore a white skull cap. His feet were bare.

  The room was bright and casual. There were chairs and a small table with a laptop on it. There was no desk or any other office furniture. The floor was covered by a thick, rich looking rug with a pleasant pattern. It looked to be just an easy room to sit and read in. He held his hand out to me. I took it.

  “Mr. Jackson. My friend, Father Correa, called to say to expect you.”

  I held up the letter as we released each other’s hand. “He gave me a letter of introduction.”

  “I’ll read it if you wish,” he said with a smile. “But he had enough good things to say about you, I don’t really need to.”

  “I think I’ll blush now,” I said.

  “No need, the good Father is not given to false praise,” he said waving me to a chair. We both sat.

  “How can I be of assistance?”

  “I won’t take a lot of your time.” I stopped. “I’m not sure how to address you.”

  “My parents called me Hassan. That will do.”

  “Thank you. I’m looking for a man. A Muslim. He was involved in the bombings in Sedona. I’m sure you are aware of them.”

  “Yes, Mr. Jackson. Quite aware. Unfortunate. Unfortunate for those in Sedona and unfortunate for the whole Muslim community. When these things occur, it seems we believers are all painted with the same brush.”

  I pulled out the thumb drive Blackhawk had made.

  “Can I plug this into your laptop? I’d like to show you the men I’m looking for.”

>   “By all means,” Hassan said.

  He turned the laptop so I could access it. He tapped the center pad and it came awake. I plugged the thumb drive in.

  “You are more familiar with this one, maybe you could access the drive?” I said.

  “Certainly,” he said and began moving the mouse. He accessed the external drive and moved the cursor to it. A couple of clicks and the video started.

  “Do you need the sound?” he asked.

  “Not really. I’d like for you to look at this man in front.”

  “Is this the man, Ali Ibrahim Atef, Father Correa told me about?”

  “We think so.”

  He leaned forward and studied the screen intently. When the video finished, he replayed it. When he looked up, he was shaking his head.

  “I’m sorry. I have seen this before on the television, but I don’t recognize any of these men.”

  I pulled the phone and brought Atef’s picture up. I showed it to the mullah. He looked at it intently, then leaned back, shaking his head.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “Worth a try,” I said. “Too much to hope. There are a lot of Muslims in the area.”

  “And I know most of them,” he said. “If they were Shia, then I might not know them. Most likely they are just radicalized outsiders.”

  “If you were looking, where would you look?”

  He leaned back, stroking his beard.

  “I have been told of a small group on the west side. I’ve been told that they adhere to a more radical point of view than we do. But I’ve never heard of any violence from them.”

  “Where on the west side?”

  “Somewhere on Avondale Boulevard in a strip mall, I believe. I can’t be certain. I’ve never had a reason to be in contact with them. The ones I’m familiar with are just regular people.”

  He stood. The meeting was over. I stood and extended my hand. He took it.

  “Thank you very much for your cooperation,” I said.

  “Anything for a friend of Father Correa’s.”

  As I stepped through the door and into the office, there was a man leaning against the counter. He had his wallet out and was showing his credentials to the young woman with the freckles. He looked at me with surprise. It was the sandy-haired agent I had met in Mendoza’s office.