by Thomas Waite
I’m sure the intelligence services are putting enormous resources into trying to figure out just what was going on down Louisiana way. Let them try-try-try. I’ve researched those men completely. Other than ISIS’s Fahad Kassab, they are a blank slate, the tabula rasa of terrorism. But Tahir Hijazi is not. Even if I knew nothing of him, his nephew’s and Emma Elkins’s many texts would tell me much about his role in their Romeo and Juliet playlet. The pair are fast and loose with their communications, as you’d expect from a couple of teens. That gives me ample insight not only into their movements and plans but also, by extension, into those of their caregivers, including Tahir. It’s another dimension of a most curious man.
Interesting, isn’t it, that he landed in Bethesda, Maryland? Doesn’t anybody wonder why an immigrant of severely modest means from a war-torn nation eventually ends up in a pricy suburb that’s home to so many spies and other government officials, including Lana Elkins? And that his nephew then starts seeing her daughter? Apparently not. He’s certainly active online, though even by my strict standards he has sophisticated encryption.
If I were Lana, I’d be wary of what he could put under my car, like a bomb or electronic locator. But I’m not her. I’m better at this game. And I’ve been playing it as long as she has. We have what you might call common roots. Which is to say that if I were her, I’d suspect there’s more at play here than Tahir’s objections to Sufyan’s love interest. In fact, wouldn’t the smart money—and Lana would certainly know about that—say the conflict over the teens could be nothing but a means for Tahir to draw attention from his real goals? Not that Tahir, a bona fide Muslim fundamentalist, doesn’t truly loathe the young white woman. But hate is rarely exclusive, and I rather like my confluences of interest with him. He certainly has some with Vinko in their genuine distaste, to put it mildly, for Lana Elkins.
My stomach tightens as I now walk up to my second defense against wildfires. It’s an emergency water tank sunk into the earth—eight feet across, fifteen feet deep, and lined with heavy black plastic. The nearest fire district ends twelve miles from here, so I’m glad I have the means of holding a lot of water, along with an engine to pump it through a hundred feet of thick fire hose.
Lately, the tank has also been holding a lot of dead rats. And … it’s no different today as I lift the heavy wooden cover.
The odor is abominable. The heat must be drying up every source of water for miles. My tank has become the Golden Gate Bridge for rats because once they take the plunge, they’re dead.
I’ve taken to keeping a long-handled fishing net nearby to pull out their rotting bodies. I count as I net them and throw them far from the tank. There, the seventeenth and last one—for today.
My task complete, I lower the cover and walk around it. I still can’t see how the rats can get inside this thing.
Too bad Vinko’s subscribers don’t avail themselves of drowning. It would be good to see his mindless millions similarly bloated. They’ve been chatting up a storm about his call-to-arms, along with vows to murder Lana Elkins, her daughter, and Tahir’s nephew. In yet another intriguing twist, I found Tahir himself mouthing off in chat rooms devoted to Steel Fist, doing a credible job of impersonating a white racist. He was actively joining the calls for violence against Lana and Emma, though even in his guise he said nothing of Sufyan. He certainly had the vernacular down, saying it was time to “take names and kick ass.” Does that sound like a Sudanese immigrant to you?
Tahir is intriguing. Not so much to me, but I would think Elkins would be playing catch-up as fast as she can. That he appears to be operating without any concentrated attention by Vinko or her speaks of blinkered obsession as much as anything else. But when a project consumes you, it’s easy to get blindsided. Both Lana and Vinko, from what I can see, are preoccupied with terrorists slipping across the country’s borders.
I have my own interests to consider. Some, as I said, could be served by Tahir, some only by Vinko. I find myself moving back and forth between those two political climates, much as I move between two real climates when I hike the acreage I call my own. On the western flank, fir trees common to coastal forests grow, while Ponderosa pines flourish in the warmer drier reaches to the east. But both political climates are moist with hate, arid of feeling.
Just the way I like them.
LANA STARED AT “THE Today Show” in the corner of the kitchen. “Do you believe this?” she asked Don and Emma, who were eating the blueberry waffles she’d cooked from scratch.
A shaggy-headed young guy in a Hawaiian shirt, khaki chinos, and flip-flops was walking onto the set.
“Gimme a hug,” he said in a southern drawl as he hauled Matt Lauer out of his seat.
“Well, you know who this is, don’t you?” Lauer said to the camera, breaking the clinch with an awkward smile. “Jimmy McMasters, the brave young man who fought ISIS, and our show’s new terrorism expert.”
“Reality is getting so bizarre that I don’t see how satire can survive anymore,” Lana said, shaking her head.
“How can they say he’s a terrorism expert?” Emma asked, wolfing the last of her waffle. “He looks total surf punk to me.”
“Maybe that’s what we need nowadays, if we’re going to get serious about terrorism,” Don said.
Lana threw him a startled look but Don was already giving in to laughter.
She’d fixed breakfast with him especially in mind, solicitous of Don since FBI Agent Robin Maray had rekindled old emotions yesterday. Penance for the guilt she was feeling.
“He reminds me of someone,” Don said, studying McMasters.
The TV tête-à-tête was well underway: “So what do you make of those bad sunburns the terrorists got?” asked Lauer. “You’d think they would have been prepared for that. One of them’s in the infirmary at Camp Blanding with what’s being reported as sunstroke.”
“That’s some bad stuff,” said McMasters. “I guess the sun’s our first line of defense down on the bayou. And out on the Gulf, man, it’s brutal.”
“From what you saw, did those terrorists have any shade?”
“Nope, not much. Their boat was super crowded.”
Don’s right, Lana thought. McMasters reminded her of some fifteen-minutes-of-fame guy. Who? It was starting to drive her crazy. The tip-of-the-tongue that won’t let go. Then it did:
“Kato Kaelin,” she blurted. “He’s the Kato Kaelin of this case.”
“Exactly,” Don said.
“Who’s Kato whatever?” Emma asked.
“You don’t want to know,” Don answered.
“A footnote to a nightmare,” Lana added. “So you’re going to head out with Dad?”
She and Don had urged her to go with him to look over the dogs they were considering, though Emma appeared to have voted for school with her attire: short skirt, sleeveless summery top, heels.
“I can’t,” Em said, rinsing her plate and sticking it in the dishwasher. “I’ve got three AP classes.” Advanced Placement. College credit, if she did well. “The only reason you’re pushing me to go is Dad can’t stalk me today so you want me with him.”
“First, you’re right, we want you covered,” Don replied. “Second, you’re a smart kid. You can miss a day. And third, I really would like your company.”
“If you’re not stalking me on the way to school, who’s going to protect Sufyan?”
“His uncle. Trust me, he’s got Sufyan’s back,” Don said. “Don’t you think?”
Emma had to agree. “Okay, but I better go change.”
Lana grinned at their back-and-forth, relieved they got on so well. Don was lucky to have reentered his daughter’s life when he did. Another year or two and he might have missed the boat entirely.
Missed the boat? She wondered whether he did miss his forty-four-foot sloop on which he’d plied the Caribbean. She was deeply grateful to have him back—and felt just the opposite about the undeniably disturbing presence of Robin Maray.
She didn’t
even think about the agent again until she backed her Prius out of the garage and saw him parked in front of a neighbor’s house in the Charger.
With a quick wave she acknowledged him as she drove down the sunlight-dappled street, making an effort to put aside any intrusive memories. She had far too much on her mind with the workday looming ahead.
Lana pulled into her spot in CyberFortress’s underground parking garage and hurried to the elevator. An armed security guard stepped in behind her and pushed the button for the lobby.
“Good morning,” Robin said, slipping in as the doors began to close.
Lana replied in kind with an effortless smile, then remembered her guilt.
For what? she challenged herself. It’s not going to happen again.
But the fling two years ago felt as near as yesterday when Robin had walked into Holmes’s office.
Robin let her exit the elevator first. She felt peered at from behind and acutely aware of her body. She’d dressed modestly, as she always did for work, but after brushing out her shiny black hair she’d dabbed on Byredo’s Seven Veils, a scent she adored. She hadn’t even thought much about it till now. She’d just done it. Like a few other things that you’re now regretting.
“Ask Maureen Henley to come to my office,” Lana said to Ester Hall, her new executive assistant, an amateur tennis champion at fifty who smiled when Robin came into view.
Lana closed her door to him. He understood that he would not have access to her office or the war room, while young Maureen Henley was escorted in moments later by Ester.
“Have a seat,” Lana told the MIT grad whose senior thesis on the economics of scale in the development of macro cybersurveillance systems had landed her a prestigious position at CyberFortress.
Maureen settled and shifted her silky red hair off her long graceful neck.
“This is a first,” Maureen said.
“A first what?” Lana replied with her eyes on her inbox.
“The first time I’ve been in your office for a one-on-one since you interviewed me for the job.”
“I think I’m about to disappoint you. What I need will call less on your cyberskills than your analytical ones. I want you to systematically review the posts of Steel Fist’s followers. Hack where you need to, but you should start with the public sites because they’ll be the most heavily trafficked. I’m guessing they’ll also be on private sites, on social media, in chat rooms, all that stuff. I’m not interested in the threats against my family and me or Sufyan Hijazi, unless they depart from the usual fare. I want to know what’s the story here, and, more importantly, I want to know when the story changes.”
Maureen read at more than one thousand words a minute, even faster than Lana who clocked in at about eight hundred. So while the assignment was daunting, given Steel Fist’s ten million subscribers, Maureen could race through the cyberclutter faster than anyone else in the war room.
“The first idea that strikes me,” Maureen said, “is to construct a filter to screen out the typical neo-Nazi stuff. The n-word, Jews, kill, murder, gas, that kind of stuff.”
“That might work. I’m not going to micromanage you. I just know we can’t overlook the most easily accessed info.”
“I’m on it.”
Before Lana turned to Steel Fist’s website, she knew she had to look as closely as possible at Tahir. She was back to triaging terror again.
And hack where you need to, she thought, echoing the advice she’d just given Maureen.
• • •
Don and Emma headed north in the old pickup. She busied herself texting Sufyan until school started, then bemoaned her boyfriend’s unwillingness to stay in touch during class time. “He’s so serious!” she complained, putting aside her phone.
“You are, too, taking all those AP classes. Does he take any?”
“All of them, including AP physics.”
“No kidding.”
“He’s really smart, Dad.”
“I guess. That’s all college-level stuff, right?”
She nodded. “And I’m guessing you weren’t like Mom in school.”
“If you mean 4.0 and all that, you’re right.” He shook his head. “I’m a terrible role model.”
“Not so bad now.”
“Thanks, Em. That’s generous. My biggest regret was missing so much of you growing up.”
“Better late than never.”
She put her earbuds in and propped herself against the passenger door.
Don looked over to make sure it was locked, then glanced at the road ahead before checking the side- and rear-view mirrors. He’d been keeping a discreet eye on them while he and Emma talked, though he expected no problems today; by heading north to meet the dogs they were breaking all the driving patterns Steel Fist had put up on his website. And Don’s pickup hadn’t gained any notice yet. Nevertheless, he had the compact Glock in the door pocket next to him. It was far less cumbersome for travel than the shotgun.
Once they escaped the grip of morning traffic, the trip took less than two hours. The kennel was about seven miles southeast of Hagerstown, Maryland, not far from the Pennsylvania border, marked only by three numbers on an eight-foot steel gate. It closed off a formidable stone wall that might have hailed from colonial times.
Don had to call the kennel to announce their arrival. Then Emma and he waited a few more minutes before a dusty SUV pulled up and the gate opened.
A portly middle-aged man in a Baltimore Orioles cap checked Don’s driver’s license.
“I was kind of surprised there were no guard dogs to greet us,” Don said.
“They’re too valuable. I had one killed in a drive-by shooting about five years ago, and that was the end of that.” The man stuck out his hand.
“Ed Holmes.”
Don introduced himself and Emma.
“You can follow me in,” Ed said.
The kennel grounds spread out over more than a hundred acres. As Don drove they heard gunshots. Emma tensed.
“They’re training dogs, Em. Dogs for the military and police work are exposed to gunshot sounds from a pretty young age. You don’t want them freaking out over live ammo.”
“How do you know that?” she asked.
“Google.”
Ed led them to an open, large white barn with cyclone fence kennels along both sides. Don could see that each kennel extended indoors via a dog door.
The breeder and trainer walked up to the pickup as Don and Emma climbed out. “How much experience do you have with dogs? You grow up with them?”
“I did,” Don said. He glanced at Em, who shook her head.
“Security dogs?” Ed asked.
“No. Just an old mutt,” Don replied.
“Time for a primer then. Our home security dogs are very different from the ones we train for the military or police. They’ve been socialized a lot. My wife has personally taken Jojo into Hagerstown from the time he was six weeks old. We wanted to make sure he was comfortable around people, unusual sounds, alarms, all that city stuff. So he’s good that way. But he’s still very much a guard dog and we’re going to show you just what that means.”
“I thought you had three dogs for us to check out today, including Jojo,” Don said.
“Not after my dad briefed me about who you are and what’s going on with you folks. I was sorry to hear all that, but I knew Jojo was the right one for you. He’s the brightest, the biggest, and, I gotta say, the baddest.”
Ed smiled. Emma laughed.
As the trainer led them along the kennels on the right side of the barn, a Malinois with white whiskers and graying facial fur joined them. The close resemblance to a German shepherd was clear at a glance.
“Who’s he?” Emma asked. “He looks old.”
“Oh, he’s old,” Ed said. “He’s got the run of the place. He’s retired now.”
“From what?” Em asked.
Ed paused and looked at her. “The navy.”
“They have them on boats?�
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Ed shook his head. “No, not boats. This guy was really famous once, but not too many people know his name.”
“That sounds like a riddle,” Emma said. “How could he be famous if not many people knew his name?”
“You could be known to most folks as ‘the dog’ on a secret mission that became international news.”
“Was he Cairo, the Malinois that went on the bin Laden raid?” Don asked.
“I could never say that,” Ed replied.
“Could never or would never?” Don asked.
“Could never,” Ed said. “But a right-thinking man or young woman might be okay coming to that conclusion.”
“Really?” Emma said. “My father was telling me about that dog just last night.” She looked closely at the old hound, sounding awed when she spoke again: “So he’s that hero dog?”
“He’s the real deal. I would not mislead you.”
“Is he safe here?” Emma asked.
“You bet. Nobody knows where he’s living out his life in peace. And look at him. He’s not the spry young guy he once was. But you guys don’t strike me as suicide bombers or paparazzi. And your mom knows how to keep secrets,” he said to Emma. “So I’m guessing you can, too. Promise?”
“Yes. Can I shake his hand?”
“Sure. The President did. So did the First Lady.”
Emma reached out, but the old dog lifted his paw and pushed it toward her for a high-five.
“He prefers that,” Ed said.
Emma high-fived him.
A beautiful young black and tan Malinois stood just inside the gate peering at Ed with a look of eager anticipation.
His master opened the gate and ordered Jojo to heel. He minded immediately, coming to Ed’s left side, keeping his eyes on him. The older dog wandered off.