"At ease Colonel Bojangles," Rivera said.
"Yes sir, Colonel Rivera!” Bojangles replied. “I am at ease."
Rivera responded with, “Okay. New rule. Call me Rivera."
"Okay, Rivera. Why are you calling me?" Bojangles asked.
Before Rivera could answer, Stoker covered the phone and whispered, "Answer his questions as succinctly as possible. Let him know you're working on an investigation that needs perfection or near perfection."
Rivera understood. His next statement proved it. "Because of your one hundred percent success rate at helping me find information with satellites."
Stoker gave him a nod of approval and covered the phone again. "Now tell him how vital he is in your quest for perfection in this endeavor."
Rivera continued talking. "I need a bullseye. Why do you think I'm calling you?"
"I'm listening," replied Mr. Bojangles.
"I'm here with Dr. Troy Stoker."
"I know of Doctor Stoker. Hello Dr. Stoker."
"Hi Colonel,” Stoker said. “So how do you know me?"
"Please tell Rivera I know many people. And, can we get on with our business here? How can I be of service?"
"It's a pleasure, Colonel." Stoker did not know his real name, so he decided to let some time pass before using his strange nickname.
Rivera steered the conversation back. "We need to analyze any historical images our satellites captured at a hospital in Chihuahua, Mexico over the last couple of weeks."
"I can do that," Bojangles responded.
Rivera gave Mr. Bojangles more precise dates and times. He also explained how the CDC had sent a team down.
A few short minutes later, Stoker and Rivera were staring at giant screens in the Chicago FBI field office. They were reviewing satellite images Bojangles accessed in Massachusetts and shared via a telepresence platform. On the screen, Stoker and Rivera viewed overhead images of the hospital in Chihuahua.
"Here's when you arrive at the hospital." Bojangles showed them an image of Stoker's ambulance bringing him in for snakebite treatment. "Here's when you left." There was an image of Stoker and Rivera, about thirty feet from the main entrance to the hospital, walking away from the building."
Stoker looked over at Rivera and quietly said, "How does he get these images so quickly?"
"It's the Bojangles effect. I don't know how he does it. And, don't ask."
The men continued to watch image sequences. "We're looking for an exodus of patients, probably twelve or thirteen days ago, who would need to leave in ambulances," Stoker said. "They were all very sick, most on ventilators."
After a few minutes of indexing and searching, Bojangles found the images they were looking for. "This was thirteen days ago." They observed six patients leaving in ambulances. Three were in body bags. The other three were severe Guillain-Barre syndrome patients, close to death. Images showed these three patients being wheeled out to the ambulance bay on stretchers. The nurses were bagging them to help them breathe as they transferred the patients' care to EMTs.
"Wait," Stoker said. "Let's take a closer look at this image. Check out that person in the lower-right quadrant. I think it's someone pushing a wheelchair away from the hospital."
Bojangles zoomed in, and it took a moment for the image to render. But, when the picture sharpened, Rivera recognized one of the people immediately. "Good eye, Troy. That's the Iranian lab tech, the one you treated with your fist to correct his TMJ problem. And, he's pushing a female patient in that wheelchair. It looks like he's transporting her somewhere. Can you use the satellite image history to follow those two, Bojangles?"
"Watch this," he responded from Boston.
Stoker and Rivera watched different frames, each about ten seconds apart. The images captured the lab tech pushing the patient to an industrial building three blocks away from the hospital. "That building's a factory," Bojangles said. "According to my data, they manufacture windshields there."
In the next frame, the lab tech wheeled the patient through a roll-up garage door. The next frame showed the lab tech walking away with an empty wheelchair.
"There's your cover-up," Stoker said. "Now we know why the CDC investigators didn't find any Guillain-Barre syndrome patients. That image just showed how the Iranian lab tech simply delivered her to that building."
"He probably had a few patients to unload," Rivera said.
For the next twenty minutes, they watched more satellite-captured views. The days-old images showed a history of the lab technician taking more than a dozen patients to the windshield factory. "I hate to imagine what happened to those innocents in there," Stoker said. "I think that was the end of the road for those patients. We're watching images of a terrorist at work. Instead of the stereotypical madman who runs around with guns and bombs yelling 'Allahu Akbar,' he's quiet, cold, and calculating. He wears scrubs and brandishes silent weapons. Getting rid of those patients—the evidence—was his only aim. There are no survivors."
Bojangles started speaking as if Stoker had not said anything. His logic-driven personality was not sensitive to the empathy Stoker felt for the victims in Mexico. "After this point in time, our satellites rarely saw anybody leave that building on foot. Anyone who left seemed to be a factory worker." He pointed at the map and outlined a few adjoining buildings. "All of these buildings are connected. There were a few automobiles that came and went from this location, mostly delivery vehicles like box trucks and vans. The patients were probably removed from the windshield factory in one of those trucks."
Rivera nodded his head in agreement as he listened. Then he asked, "Do you have any other footage that provides clues?"
"Yes," Mr. Bojangles said. "Watch this. Here's more evidence of the cover-up."
Stoker and Rivera paid attention to the screen in front of them. They watched the lab tech working on the hospital loading dock. He was filling a panel truck with ventilators. Then the satellite images followed the truck to a large shipping distribution warehouse on the outskirts of Chihuahua. "He drops the ventilators off," Bojangles explained. "They enter this big building, and we can't track the ventilators any further. We can be pretty certain they were loaded up into a big eighteen-wheeler, but we don't know which one."
"The large distribution center has dozens of trucks loading or unloading at any given moment," Stoker pointed out.
"It would be hard to find out what happened with the ventilators," Bojangles said.
"Let's leave it to the FBI to decide if they would like to pursue this lead any further," Rivera said.
"Yes. It’s time to assess our situation," Stoker said. "We've gotta fast forward to the here and now. What's the big picture? Thanks to Mr. Bojangles, we have a pretty good idea of what happened in Mexico. From now on, we need to concentrate on the Homeland, putting together the pieces of this horrific puzzle, and finding the right people to kneecap." Stoker paused for a moment. "Hey Bojangles, do you have a problem with that?"
"Absolutely not!"
• • •
Z checked into Hotel Esatto first. Ahmadi did the same about an hour later. The two met in the lobby and chose a secluded place to sit down and fire up their laptops. "It sounds like you fancy yourself a hacker?" Sarah Ahmadi asked Z. It was more of a statement than a question.
"I am an aficionado of everything tech. I love it all. Hardware, code, cables, Wi-Fi signals, automation. I love what it can do. And, if I need to occasionally use some code to get information critical to the nation's defense, I guess I'm an occasional hacker."
"Good," Ahmadi said. "Can you hack into their cameras here at Hotel Esatto so we can keep an eye on the place?"
"We could. But why hack, when you can create your own network of cameras?" Z asked. We can place tiny cameras outside the exits of the hotel and monitor who comes and goes."
"Good point. I guess do-it-yourself solutions are often best," Ahmadi said.
"Right. It's just not very fun."
"And it may not require a search warr
ant to sit here and do reconnaissance in the hotel," Ahmadi pointed out. “We've got probable cause with Nazem and that other woman leading us here."
"Let's meet back here in an hour," Z said. "I've got some hardware to install."
Z walked through the hotel's main doors to a busy Chicago street. Scanning down the sidewalk in front of Hotel Esatto, he identified his first target. A curbside United States Postal Service collection box would soon become the home base for a small device. As he walked past it, Z casually swiped the mailbox with his hand, adhering a button-sized camera with adhesive gel on the side. He walked thirty more feet down the sidewalk, fished his phone out of his pocket, and pretended he was getting a call. He stepped toward the post of a No Parking sign, leaned against it, and pretended to engage in the call. When he ostensibly finished, Z put his phone back in his pocket and used his hand to push off the signpost. As he pushed away, he deposited another small camera onto the post—this one at about chest height. Z repeated this process at two additional locations, adhering the small cameras so they could see people on foot entering and exiting the hotel's main doors. He also took notice of a planter out in front of the hotel, where he would place an infrared camera later that night under the canopy of darkness.
As Z was placing cameras, Sarah Ahmadi was walking around and checking out Hotel Esatto. She was dressed in a smart business suit. In case an employee or guest were to ask, she was ready to pose as an IT security consultant from San Francisco. Ahmadi used glasses and some make-up alterations to transform her appearance. Because Roya had seen Ahmadi once, it was essential for her to remodel her look. The changes were sufficient to make it hard for an acquaintance to recognize her, but not so drastic she could've fooled family.
After Ahmadi had explored most of the hotel's public areas, she took her cell phone and laptop back to the main lobby. She ordered a sandwich, salad, and tangerine juice. She then took her food and sat down on a couch in a high traffic area of the hotel lobby. Ahmadi spread her food, phone, and computer on the coffee table before her. There she pretended to be engrossed in work on her computer screen. But, appearing fascinated was difficult, because the work on her display was not engaging. Her computer was networked into the cameras Z had set up. Sarah was watching people walk by on four different quadrants of her screen, and it was monotonous. Surveillance always was. Nevertheless, she was thrilled to be surveilling from the comfortable couch of a nice hotel. In her line of work, stakeout work often meant spending long hours in a car or van.
She also paid attention to all the people who walked by her on the inside of the hotel. For the next few hours, she pretended to be an overachiever. It came very natural. There Ahmadi camped out in the lobby of Hotel Esatto, ostensibly analyzing data, preparing a report, or doing whatever relentless business executives did to guarantee victory on the vast playing field of the corporate world.
By 10:30 p.m. Z had placed six more cameras outside. At 10:45 he redirected the camera feed to two computer monitors set up in Jessica's room—in a lower caliber hotel than Hotel Esatto. She would take the night shift. Z sent Ahmadi a text encouraging her to get some sleep.
The suggestion of sleep thundered through Ahmadi's mind. She realized she had not slept in a comfortable bed for a few days. She had not had eight hours of continuous sleep in over a week. She was ready for deep, refreshing slumber. At 11:20 p.m., Sarah Ahmadi was slumbering.
• • •
When Stoker told Allie he was staying in Chicago that night, his wife was thrilled. He did not often hear his stoic wife express so much enthusiasm. Later that night he met her in the lobby of her hotel. "Nice place," Stoker said feeling a little out of place in combat boots and black tactical pants.
Allie embraced him and kissed him warmly. "Let's get room service," she said. "I'm thrilled you're here. But, I'm not feeling so great."
"Really, Allie? What's wrong?" Troy took Allie by the hand. "I'm only concerned because, well. Let's just say that anything that makes Allie Stoker sick would land the average person in the hospital. It must be serious."
Allie smiled and issued a three-syllable chuckle. "I feel unusually fatigued. During my workout yesterday, I ran the path along Lakeshore Drive. My legs were just not themselves. They felt weak. Now I am feeling more exhausted than I have in a long time. I wonder if I'm coming down with a cold or one of those other pesky viruses."
"Any other symptoms?"
"No. I don't have a headache. I'm not nauseous. And, I really want to sleep."
"I'm drained, too. Let's hit the rack."
Forty-five minutes later Allie Stoker was asleep in the quiet comfort of a hotel room just four blocks from Hotel Esatto. But, Troy Stoker was awake and uneasy. The love of his life was showing early symptoms—the same symptoms he’d seen in Mexico.
• • •
An all too familiar discomfort awoke Sarah Ahmadi. She let out a huff of dismay, as she leaned up on an elbow and turned on the bedside lamp. Pulling back her covers, she looked down at her panties. She saw an unmistakable drop of menses blood. "Really?" She complained out loud. "The first night I've had any reasonable chance at sleep, and I get my period." Ahmadi went into the bathroom and cleaned up a little. She didn't have any other pajamas, so she just draped on the robe bearing Hotel Esatto’s logo. She picked up her phone, noted it was two fifteen a.m., and exited her room.
An elevator ride and a few more paces took her into the gift shop. There she bought a box of tampons. Not my brand, but they'll do in a pinch, she thought. She paid for the tampons and left the gift shop still in a bit of a sleepy fog. As she approached the lobby, the door to the women's bathroom opened. A woman exited the bathroom. The face she saw triggered the FBI veteran's fight or flight response. Adrenaline poured into her bloodstream. Her training helped her sublimate this adrenaline response into controlled thought and action. She made mental notes of the person with all the details she could capture. Her hijab, facial features, and name tag inscribed with “Roya” were all recorded in Ahmadi's memory. The FBI agent issued a subtle smile to this Roya woman, apparently a housekeeper at Hotel Esatto, and made brief eye contact. The woman they had been looking for just walked right past her. Roya issued the automated, polite nod and the rehearsed smile virtually all workers in high-end hotels knew how to render.
Ahmadi kept walking. Despite her desire to follow this mystery woman, she realized doing so, at two thirty in the morning, would raise Roya's suspicions immediately. At least Ahmadi had confirmed where this woman worked, and where she was likely to find her again soon. Ahmadi subdued the effects of her adrenaline by breathing profoundly and walking calmly back to her room. Once inside her hotel room, she let the adrenaline propel her. She picked up her cell phone and called Z.
"Why are you bugging me at two forty-five in the morning?" Z said in a groggy and accusatory tone.
"I found her!"
"The mystery woman?"
"Yes! Her name is Roya," Ahmadi said. "She's an employee of the hotel. She works here."
"How do you know?"
"Because I saw her coming out of a bathroom wearing her hotel uniform and name tag—just less than five minutes ago."
Z yawned as he asked. "What were you doing wandering the hotel at this early hour?"
"I started my period while I was sleeping, and I needed some accessories."
"And you thought you were finally going to get a good night's sleep."
"So much for that."
"But, we have a problem," Z said.
"What's that?"
"Do you think our mystery woman committed your face to memory?"
"If she did," Ahmadi said, "she'll never see that face again. I had on no make-up, and my hair was all over the place. My other face, the public face she saw a few hours ago, was enhanced with base, eye shadow, blush, eyeliner, and mascara."
"No lipstick?" Z asked?
"Oh yes. Add that to the list. A nice subtle mauve shade. That will be a nice enhancement to my new disguise."
"At least one who's as good as me and can arrest people. Not likely."
"Should I get up and see if I can go find this Roya woman?"
"No. I think she'll be back to work a shift in the next day or two. How about we get some sleep. In the morning we'll put a plan together for tailing her the next time she shows up for work."
"Deal," Z said. "How about you go to human resources tomorrow, disguised as a job seeker, and see what you can find out about housekeeping in this hotel. Then I'll spend the morning by walking around the hotel observing what I can from the housekeepers as they work."
Ahmadi yawned before she could reply. "Sounds good. With my body fighting this little monthly battle, I could really use some sleep. See you in the morning."
Ahmadi hung up the phone. Within fifteen minutes she was asleep. Z was wide awake. He was on his computer ordering some essential surveillance equipment that would arrive by the afternoon.
CHAPTER 21
Chicago, Illinois
Troy Stoker awoke at 5:20 a.m. The summertime sun was minutes away from rising over Lake Michigan. Allie was still asleep, so Troy quietly put on some workout clothes and slipped out of the hotel room. Stoker was on his way to Hotel Esatto. He figured he could observe the hotel during a workout and breakfast there. Stoker walked a few blocks, accessed Hotel Esatto through the main lobby, went downstairs, and walked into Hotel Esatto's well-appointed gym. As he looked around the gym, he was amazed at the size of the facility. And, it was jam-packed. He found a stationary bike and rode with persistent vigor for thirty minutes. This workout was very refreshing because most of his fitness routine during his Espada Rápida training had consisted of running. Then, for the next forty-five minutes, Stoker attacked the weight room. At the end of his session, his muscles quivered. Troy Stoker felt the deep, satisfying invigoration that comes from a long, fierce workout. His body was screaming for calories and protein. He knew lactic acid was building up due to the anaerobic punishment he doled out upon his muscles.
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