by Steven James
I didn’t bring up my conversation with Blake at the motel. It was going to be hard, if not impossible, keeping that to myself until I heard back from him about Fayed’s location.
“Alright, then,” DeYoung said. “Let’s get things rolling here. In my office I have our OPA Director, Darlene Licata. Since this threat deals with Islamic extremists, I’ve asked her to join us.”
“First of all.” Darlene cleared her throat authoritatively. “Let’s avoid that term, ‘Islamic extremists,’ and go with ‘militants’ or ‘violent extremists.’” Her face was all angles and bones, and so was the tight, shrill clamor of her voice.
“Oh, this is BS.” Ralph cut in. “If we’re gonna tackle this situation, let’s at least have the balls to call it what it is. These people are not just violent and extreme, they belong to a certain religion. Their actions are the direct result of their beliefs. They’re not just ‘militants.’ What do you think, they’re Amish militants? Or maybe we have some Buddhist militants out there trying to chant us to death? Or atheist militants trying to debate us into submission? Look as hard as you want, you’re not gonna find Shinto militants or Presbyterian militants or Jehovah’s Witness militants, or Mormon militants who’re trying to start a potluck Caliphate in the church basement or run us over with their bikes. No. Like it or not, they’re Muslims. You can be as politically correct as you want as long as you still tell the truth, but when people’s lives are at stake, it’s time to stop singing ‘Kumbaya’ around the campfire and start solving problems. ‘Militants’ is a term that’s reserved for one religion. It’s code for Muslims. So let’s just say Muslims.”
“Are you done, Agent Hawkins?” Darlene asked stiffly.
“No, I can go on if you want.”
She narrowed her eyes. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Lose the scowl, Darlene. It’s about as intimidating as the siren of a French police car. We’ve been through this before. Let’s respect whatever religion people are, but let’s not play games with words.”
“Alright.” DeYoung cut in. “We all know where we’re coming from here. We’ll just say ‘terrorists.’ And I’ll work with Darlene to figure out the exact wording of any press releases we send out. Let’s move forward. We’re not in a war against Islam, but, yes, the people we’re talking about here do consider themselves to be Muslims. Whether or not they’re true Muslims, or are actually living out what that religion teaches, they believe they’re on a mission from God, and they’re not afraid to die for their cause.”
But that wasn’t good enough for Darlene. “Muslims have a public perception problem, and I do not want us to have any part in fueling the flame against them.”
“I wonder why that is?” Lieutenant Sproul interjected, apparently taking Ralph’s side in the discussion, but with an even sharper tone than Ralph had used. “This public perception problem of theirs.”
“I do not appreciate sarcasm,” Darlene said.
“Google ‘honor killings in Pakistan,’ or ‘capital offenses in Iran,’ or ‘Islamic guidelines on how to beat your wife.’ Or maybe ‘acid attacks in the Middle East.’ Or even worse, try, ‘Die in your rage,’ and watch the videos that come up—if you can stomach ’em. If you really care to watch people get beheaded and drowned and burned alive and run over with a steamroller in the name of God, go ahead.”
“That was completely uncalled for!” Darlene exclaimed.
But Sproul wasn’t done. “One percent of the U.S. population is Muslim, right?”
“Yes.” She did not sound happy to be agreeing with him. “Approximately.”
“But they’re responsible for more than ninety percent of the deaths caused by terrorism on American soil since 9/11. You do the math.”
“More people are killed in school shootings than—”
“Alright, alright. That’s enough.” DeYoung signaled for everyone to be quiet but let out a heavy sigh himself. “Let’s just figure out the next step here. Ralph, tell us what you know about Blake and his connection to what’s going on.”
“He passed through the border crossing at Windsor yesterday. His brother, Dylan, is very likely the one responsible for these murders here over the past few months. And then, of course, we have the video of Maria’s death and her association with Blake. A video that, even though no one is admitting it, might’ve been sent with the intention that we would intercept it but yet believe that the sender and receiver didn’t know we had it.”
“True,” Kennedy acknowledged. “Can we confirm that Blake is in the area?”
“He is,” I said.
Once again, I struggled with whether to share anything about the encounter I’d had with him at the motel earlier. If Blake really did have Dylan, he might be our best bet to finding Fayed, but he wouldn’t help us at all if I mentioned our meeting and he found out about it. And I had the feeling that he had enough connections that even in this room, even on this call, he could do that.
“You sound pretty certain of that, Agent Bowers,” Sproul said. “How do you know he’s here?”
“Based on all of our current intel, it’s the most logical hypothesis to work from.”
“Pat also has a confidential informant,” Ralph explained. “We’ll let him work his sources and give us the information as he gets it. Oh, one more thing—Blake has connections to someone named Fayed Raabi’ah Bashir.”
“What do we know about him?” Kennedy asked.
“He’s the real deal. CIA and military intelligence have been looking for this asshole for three years. From what they can tell, he’s behind numerous suicide attacks in Yemen and Nigeria and a bombing last year in Brussels. Homeland suspects that he’s involved in helping plan, fund, or carry out at least eight other attacks, but his group is too good to leave their signature in too many places. Releasing the smallpox virus here in the States? Yeah. That’s right up his alley. And they usually don’t do just one attack. They like the pile-on approach.”
Blake had mentioned that he could get me the information I would need to find Fayed. If that was true, it was even more important than I’d realized that we stop him.
DeYoung said, “We’ll be sending out everything we have on Fayed, although it’s not much. We don’t have any clear photos of him. At least three different people have all claimed to be him in the last year, but we don’t know which of them, if any, is really him.”
“The Dread Pirate Roberts,” Kennedy muttered. “Like in The Princess Bride.”
“What do you mean?”
“Same role, different men. Live off the reputation of the one who came before you.”
Darlene, who’d been taking notes as we spoke, said, “I’ll work on a press release. Is there anything that absolutely cannot be released to the public?”
DeYoung listed a few of the details of the case, then gave out assignments for everyone to work on and was wrapping up the meeting when Sproul said, “Look, we have the most concentrated population of Muslims in the country living just down the street in Dearborn. The most likely people to have any information about a potential terrorist attack by this group would be those who attend a mosque. I propose we get undercover officers in all the mosques and Islamic educational centers in the area so we can see what kind of information is floating around out there.”
“Absolutely not,” Darlene said. “If word gets out that we’re profiling Muslims—”
“It’s not profiling, it’s logic and—”
“I’ll take it under consideration,” DeYoung said, cutting them off.
Then, point by point, we began to analyze everything that we knew about the situation and what kind of response might be called for if there really was a terrorist attack here in Detroit.
73
Ali arrived at the restaurant and checked the time. They had told him not to be early, but to go in at exactly eleven thirty. That gave him almost half
an hour.
He didn’t want to draw any attention to himself, so he wondered if he should drive around the surface streets rather than stay here, but there was uncertainty if he left, so instead, he simply parked at the back of a nearby lot and locked his doors to wait there for the meeting.
++++
Dylan was getting frustrated by his lack of progress. He tossed the drain repeatedly, as low as he could to avoid it making too much noise, and though sometimes it landed on the other side of the crowbar, he was having trouble dragging it any closer.
However, in time, little by little, it began to slide toward him. Sometimes it twisted to the side, but even if it came only an inch or two closer, it gave him hope that this actually might work.
A few more throws, a few more slides and turns, and finally it was almost within reach. He drew it closer with the drain, and managed to press down on it with his toe and drag it the rest of the way in.
Quickly, he put his clothes on again and got started trying to pry the pipe loose from the wall.
++++
Blake and Mannie were outside the warehouse where Dylan was being kept. When Blake’s phone rang, he expected that it would be Fayed, but another voice came on when he answered.
“Mr. Neeson, I understand that you are looking for the location of a meeting.”
“What meeting is that?”
“It involves an old friend of yours named Fayed and a young man who just arrived in the States.”
Blake was about to ask him where he’d gotten his name or number, but for the moment the fact that he had the information mattered more than the means through which he had obtained it. “Go on.”
“Be at Aisha’s Halal Restaurant at eleven thirty. You’ll find what you’re looking for there.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because we share a common interest.”
“And that is?”
“Dissemination.”
“Of?”
Blake waited, but the man didn’t reply.
After he’d hung up, Mannie asked him, “Who was that?”
“I’m not sure. He gave me a time and a place to find Fayed. But something else is up here. I don’t trust him.”
“What do we do with the information?”
“We pass it along. If it’s a trap, we won’t be the ones caught in it. Stay here. I’m leaving to keep tabs on how things play out at the restaurant.”
++++
I got the text from Christie that she’d arrived at the federal building. The meeting was almost finished, so I told her I’d be out in five minutes.
We wrapped things up at the briefing. I took the elevator to the ground floor, found my way through the mazelike halls to the public entrance, and saw her waiting for me on the sidewalk outside the front doors.
“Hey there,” I said, as lightly as I could.
She took a deep breath. “Listen, Pat, I trust you that nothing happened between you and Sharyn, but if we’re going to have a relationship, you’ll need to trust me as well.”
“I understand. What do you want to know? I’ll tell you everything, whatever it is. I don’t want to lose you over a misunderstanding.”
“Maybe it’s not a misunderstanding, Pat. It may be that the timing isn’t right for us. Did you ever see the movie Final Rendezvous?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Well, I get that. It’s a chick flick. Anyway, there’s this one scene where the woman says, ‘If you say you love me but yet keep your distance, keep your heart back where it’s safe, you’re not in love with me at all. You’re just playing games with my heart. You can only claim to be my lover when you give away enough of yourself to feel, deep inside of you, the sting of my wounds and the throb of my own aching heart.’”
I was about to tell her how impressed I was that she’d memorized those lines, but I had the sense that if I did, she might infer that I hadn’t really been taking to heart what she was trying to tell me.
But she seemed to read my mind, and smiled furtively. “I know. Let’s just say I’ve seen the movie more than once.”
“The last thing I want to do is play games with your heart.”
“Then don’t make me compete with a fantasy. And you can’t be infatuated with what you used to have. If you want to be with me, be with me and don’t hold back. If you pit a real person against a fantasy, the fantasy will always win. If you think of Sharyn as your plan B if your plan A doesn’t work out, I don’t want to be your plan A. There can’t be another woman in the picture, in the background. But if you’re hoping to make your plan A work no matter what it means or how much it costs, then I can’t think of anything I’d want more than to be your plan A.”
“I’m not going to pit anyone against you. No plan B. I won’t let the past intrude on what we have. I promise.”
Tell her you’re sorry. Tell her that you love her. Just like you promised Ralph you would do.
But before I could say a word, she leaned in and gave me a kiss. As I was replying in kind, my phone rang. It was from an unidentified caller, but I knew that Blake had been intending to contact me.
I excused myself from the kiss before I wanted to and told Christie, “I need to take this. I really do.”
“I know.”
I tapped the Accept icon. “Yes?”
“Eleven thirty.” It was Blake. “Aisha’s Halal Restaurant. Use your team however you need to, just make sure Fayed doesn’t get away. Once you have him and have obtained the information that you need, we’ll make the trade.”
End call.
An entire SWAT team could be too obtrusive. Additionally, earlier, Kennedy had warned me about who to trust, but we couldn’t take any chances that Fayed would get away, so even though I wasn’t completely sold on the idea, I called Sproul, told him what was happening, and said, “We’ll need SWAT.”
“You’ll have it,” he replied.
Alright, priority number one: bring Fayed in. Priority number two: get him alone so that we could find out everything about the smallpox virus, and then three: figure out the logistics of making an exchange—or break my promise to Blake.
I wasn’t sure yet which way I was going to go with that.
I texted Ralph: I need your help with something.
After checking on the location of the restaurant, I realized that getting there in time was going to be tight. Very tight.
I sent him a second text: We need to leave right away.
I said good-bye to Christie and told her I’d contact her later. “Are you still flying out today?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “But not because of you. Because of Tessa. I haven’t been up front with her and I need to clear the air.”
++++
No matter how hard Dylan wrenched against the pipe with the crowbar, it didn’t budge. He tried cranking open one of the links in the chain, but that didn’t work either.
He stared at his hand. The problem of pulling it through the shackle was the bone in his thumb. If his thumb weren’t there, or if the bone were dislocated or broken, he could probably get his hand through.
He looked at the beveled end of the crowbar.
Yes, it appeared to be sharp enough. With enough force, it would do the trick.
He bit down on his belt so he wouldn’t cry out. Then he laid his hand flat on the concrete, positioned the crowbar at the place where the bones of his thumb attached to his wrist, closed his eyes, and with all of his strength, thrust the crowbar down.
74
The pain in his hand was bad, but it didn’t compare to some of the beatings he’d endured in prison. If there’s one thing being behind bars teaches you, it’s how to deal with pain.
Manageable.
Barely so, but manageable.
It took a lot of effort to dislocate and then pry the bones
loose from the base of his thumb, and when he was done, he needed to yank the thumb forward to pull it completely out of its socket. He considered using the crowbar to remove his thumb altogether, but the bleeding would have been inconvenient and would’ve left too much of a blood trail.
Holding his left forearm in his right hand, he stretched the chain to its end, leaned backward, and yanked his hand through the shackle.
Although his left thumb was now useless and there was some blood because the metal shaved off the skin on the back of his hand and because of what he’d done with the crowbar, he was able to tie a sock around his hand to quiet the bleeding and, carrying the crowbar, he left the room to make his way out of the building.
++++
Christie felt disappointed with herself about the way she’d treated Tessa.
All this time while she’d been trying to get Pat to trust her, she hadn’t been trusting her daughter. For all these years it’d been just the two of them. They hadn’t always gotten along perfectly, but they had always trusted each other, and right now, Christie felt like she’d been holding back too much from her.
She decided that she would call her and tell her that she’d come here to Detroit to see Pat.
When her daughter didn’t pick up, she sent a text for her to give her a call. Since Tessa never listened to her voicemail anyway, it wouldn’t have done any good to leave a voice message. But she was a prompt text replier, so Christie expected a call back soon.
++++
Blake wasn’t in sight, but Mannie was standing near the only exit door that Dylan could see.
Mannie looked only momentarily surprised when he saw Dylan, but then worked his shoulders back and forth and popped his knuckles, ready for a fight.
“Set that crowbar down,” Mannie said.
“Take it from me.”
The big guy had surprised him the other night at the morgue, but now Dylan was ready and he was armed. When he was a kid, his brother had taught him martial arts and he’d continued practicing his form during all those years in prison.