“So the only part of this situation you find weird is that she didn’t get in touch with you to arrange a rendezvous?” Ian snorted. “Figures. But tell me, why the hell would she go to San Diego? Damn it, she’s a translator, a linguist. She works at a desk in an office. A nice, safe office.”
“You’re wrong. Marissa was trained as a field agent. And she’s a damn good one. I should know. I worked with her in the field before she transferred to Counterterrorism. The Bureau really pressured her to make the move because they’re so short of Arabic speakers and translators. But she hasn’t been happy in her recent assignment as a desk jockey with headphones permanently attached to her ears. Most agents like the adrenaline rush of a dangerous field op. Marissa’s no exception.”
“Well, I won’t put up with it. I’ve tolerated her FBI bullshit for as long as I can. This is the last straw. Once I know she’s okay, I’m out of here.”
Ben’s jaw clenched. “You know, Ian, I don’t give a damn. That’s between you and—”
“Why the hell are you calling her in the middle of the night anyway?” Ian interrupted as if the thought had just occurred to him.
Ben tamped down his anger and explained simply, “I had a…a dream about her.”
“Don’t tell me you get those damn things too,” Ian said, his tone incredulous.
“No, I don’t,” he snapped. He knew “those damn things” referred to Marissa’s premonitions, or more precisely, warnings. He had always attributed her involuntary sixth sense to her Czech gypsy genes for lack of a better explanation. Whatever the source though, her premonitions were eerily accurate.
Anxiety swelled inside him when he recalled the violent details of the nightmare. Why had he dreamed it? What did it mean? Marissa’s expressive eyes had peered directly at him when she’d screamed the nicknames only she used: Benja, her personal abbreviation of Benjamin, and Miláčku, the Czech word for “Darling.”
“You’re still with the San Diego FBI office, right? Can’t you find out what’s going on?” Ian pleaded, his anger disappearing.
“Probably not. Marissa’s in Counterterrorism. If—and that’s a damn big if—she’s active in a covert op involving al-Qaeda, I probably can’t get any info on something that highly classified.”
“Aren’t you worried about her? Isn’t that why you called?”
He shut his eyes and saw her terror-stricken face. “Shit. Okay, I’ll do what I can. But even if I find out something, I won’t be able to tell you.”
“Hell, I’m used to being kept in the dark. Just tell me she’s safe. That’s all I need to know. Then I can leave with a clear conscience.” Ian hung up abruptly.
Ben slouched on the bed, staring at his phone before dialing Marissa’s cell. Dread and uneasiness tightened his chest as he listened to her familiar voicemail greeting.
“Marissa, call me immediately. It’s important…very important.”
He hesitated before disconnecting the call as if breaking that connection might also break another. When he laid the phone back on the nightstand, his gaze flicked to Amber, but he said nothing.
She didn’t ask any questions, but he saw the concern reflected in her dark chocolate eyes. She disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a warm washcloth. Tenderly, she wiped the sheen of sweat from his face and massaged the tension out of his neck and shoulders.
Under her fingertips, his muscles relaxed, but his mind didn’t. Even though Amber knew about his relationship—past and present—with Marissa, he realized she could never fully comprehend the bond they had once shared. Marissa had helped him mature into the man he was now. For that, he would always be grateful. And although they were definitely no longer lovers, he still cared about Marissa in a way he didn’t dare try to explain to his current girlfriend because he wasn’t sure he understood it himself. But Amber Jollett was wonderful in her own right, and he loved her. However, he and Marissa still shared a strange bond, an inexplicable connection that defied definition or labeling.
“Are you okay?” Amber whispered as they slid back under the covers, and she snuggled her naked body against his.
“Yeah,” he lied.
Chapter 4
Marissa awoke to darkness. Without moving, she strained to hear any telltale sounds. Only night noises and someone’s even breathing invaded the stillness. Silently pushing herself up onto her elbows, she scanned the tiny bedroom and spotted Ameen sleeping on the floor against the closed door, his gun clutched in his hand. Muslim customs would condemn his presence, alone with her. He’d probably gone to bed on the couch, but then snuck into the bedroom without Khaleel or Safiya’s knowledge.
Marissa tensed. She was only guessing. What do I really know about Ameen Ali? Does he think he’s protecting his friends or me? Am I a guest or a prisoner? If not Ameen, does Khaleel pose a risk?
The questions brought escape to mind. But how? Getting out the window would be easy, but after that, she had nothing to work with. Her purse with Baheera Abbas’s passport sat in the terrorists’ hideout, miles away in the awful Tijuana slum. The Bureau’s GPS cell phone and her small Glock were also in that purse, carefully hidden in the concealed compartment. If she left this house, she would have no identification: no passport, FBI badge, driver’s license, or credit cards. And she had no money. Nothing.
Of course, once safely away from Ameen and Khaleel, she could reveal her true identity to the first person she encountered with a phone and call “home.” The process to bring her in from the covert op would instantly be set in motion. She’d be safe, but her mission would be a failure.
Thoughts of escape faded away.
Marissa sighed and rubbed a hand across her face. By dawn, she needed a plan. But before she could plot a strategy, she needed to figure out what had happened, what had gone so terribly wrong. She shuddered at the thought of reliving the horror but decided to review the entire night, looking for clues in the events leading up to her near beheading. She forced fear from her mind, slid back down, and played the mental video of the previous evening.
After dinner, Samir had driven her and Omar from the cell’s San Diego apartment to their Tijuana hideout. She couldn’t recall anything unusual about the drive other than their stop to purchase the knife.
As with every other trip, a new box from the Abdul-Jaleel Electronics factory had magically appeared in the back room. Apparently, terrorist elves delivered the boxes, sorted the bomb components from the other electronic pieces, and transferred the precious bomb parts to the locked cabinet in the bedroom closet. Marissa hoped the mysterious delivery elves also had the engineering knowledge to assemble the bomb. She prayed it wasn’t Baheera’s role in the planned attack, for Marissa had minimal bomb training. And, of course, her training had focused on dismantling or defusing a bomb, not building one.
Each visit, Samir’s first task was to check for notes from the elves, but he always pocketed the notes before anyone else could see them. She couldn’t remember Samir reading a note last night, but then she’d been so damn hot she could hardly breathe. Marissa frowned in concentration. Samir had also never gone to the bedroom to confirm the proper storage of the day’s delivery because he’d been so distracted by his new deadly toy.
From Samir’s reaction when the sat phone rang, she believed he hadn’t been expecting a call from anyone. What had prompted the call? Was Husaam Abbas getting nervous about the cell’s progress or something else? Neither Husaam, nor any of Samir’s other bosses, had ever spoken to her or the other cell members on the phone before. Had Husaam called this time specifically to speak to Baheera?
The disastrous phone conversation with Husaam had been the pivotal point. At the beginning of the conversation, he seemed to believe he was talking to his wife. Of course, he had no reason to suspect otherwise. The satellite transmission must have disguised Marissa’s voice enough to keep him from noticing it wasn’t his wife’s voice. But as a linguist, Marissa was also a trained listener, and she had recognized Husaam’s voic
e immediately. His true identity and his relationship to Baheera had shocked her though. She wondered if Samir and the others had known the identity of their boss all along. Recalling Samir’s expression when he handed her the phone, she figured Husaam had just revealed his marital connection to Baheera. But did that matter now? Damn, I don’t know.
Husaam had surprised Marissa with the question about the doctor. Was Baheera’s husband asking about a personal health issue or was there a connection to the terrorists’ plot? Neither a doctor nor a medical condition had been mentioned in the briefing information on Baheera or the cell. Thinking back, she wanted to believe she’d adequately faked her way through that part of the conversation, but she couldn’t be sure.
How could she be sure of anything about Baheera Abbas? The US intelligence community knew virtually nothing about the Middle Eastern woman they’d intercepted at the airport. She’d flown from Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, but her path to Riyadh had been untraceable. Baheera could easily have traveled from Syria or anywhere else under another passport, real or fake. Terrorist chatter, heard through the NSA’s wiretaps, had originally alerted Homeland Security to her trip. Fortunately, they’d listened in on Husaam’s call to Samir informing him of Baheera’s addition to the cell. Marissa thought it curious Husaam hadn’t told Samir that Baheera was his wife until last night. Why?
When she arrived in San Diego two weeks ago, she’d discovered all the men in the cell were shocked that an unknown female terrorist had been sent to participate in the bomb plot. And even more amazing, they also seemed ignorant of Baheera’s specific role.
Marissa rubbed her tired eyes. So many questions; so few answers. But she knew the answer to her immediate problem was somewhere in her phone conversation with Husaam.
He seemed a little suspicious when she couldn’t respond to what she now guessed was his pet name for her. He had definitely waited for a specific response—possibly his nickname—which she failed to give.
Was there also a problem with his comments about their children? Marissa’s eyes narrowed. Had Husaam tricked her? Did the leader of al-Qaeda in Syria have children? She shook her head in frustration. That fact was buried somewhere in her memory. But since most married Muslim men had children, the statistics were in her favor.
Finally, Husaam had asked if she wanted to send their children a message. What had she said? She loved them, missed them, and would be home soon. That’s when Husaam shut down completely. That’s when he knew he wasn’t speaking to his wife.
Marissa focused, frowned. Suddenly, her eyes widened, and she couldn’t breathe.
Oh, my God. Baheera isn’t going home. She’s the suicide bomber. She’s supposed to die.
Marissa splayed her hand over her racing heart. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to take slow, deep breaths and returned to her analysis. If her hypothesis was correct, what were the consequences?
Husaam had undoubtedly exposed her. He’d warned Samir and ordered him to kill the imposter. But did Samir or Omar contact the rest of the cell at the San Diego apartment before tracking her down? The point was a game-changer. She had to determine the probability that the entire cell now knew she wasn’t the real Baheera.
Her hand touched the sat phone under the covers. Husaam’s call and instructions to Samir would’ve taken only a few minutes. Afterward, Samir probably hollered for Omar to come back inside. Then the two would have waited outside the empty bathroom she’d used as a decoy. Their religious prudishness had likely delayed them for a couple more minutes before they stormed the bathroom, discovered her ruse, and burst out of the house. Considering Husaam’s specific orders to kill her, they probably saw no reason to take the time to call and alert the others, if the idea even occurred to them. In their bloodthirsty state, their terrorist brains had probably been working even less rationally than usual.
No, she concluded with a relieved sigh, Samir and Omar had not warned the rest of the cell. She’d bet her life on it. Literally.
How long would it take for Samir and Omar’s bodies to be discovered? In that part of Tijuana, it would take a long time for someone to find them inside the abandoned building. However, the putrid odor of rotting flesh could possibly convince the reluctant residents of the slum to notify the untrustworthy police. The Mexican cops were far more likely to blame the drug gangs for the killings than to suspect any connection with US intelligence agencies…or the mysterious Ameen Ali.
How would the cell react when Samir, Omar, and Baheera failed to return tonight? Would they contact the US and Mexican authorities about the disappearance of their comrades or would their fear of discovery silence them? If they learned of their terrorist brothers’ deaths, whom could they tell?
Marissa’s fingers curled around the sat phone. Thank God, she had severed the remaining terrorists’ only link to their bosses abroad. The local cell was now isolated and without leadership. But for how long?
Realistically, the loss of three cell members might not be enough to stop the attack. Would Husaam abandon the plans for the bombing or would he send a replacement leader with a new phone? There were too many unknowns to determine if the plot would continue.
And what of Baheera? Should she just disappear? Should she come in out of the cold?
Marissa could sneak out the bedroom window and find the nearest policeman or police station. She’d have to do some fast-talking, in Spanish of course, but she figured she could convince someone to take her to the US border station. With one phone call, the Bureau would be there to pick her up. Her mission would be aborted, the entire covert operation possibly crippled, but she would be safe.
Did knowing Baheera was the suicide bomber change the situation? Increase the stakes? If Baheera disappeared, wouldn’t the cell simply select someone else? Or would Husaam send another one of his wives to be sacrificed for the jihad? Both scenarios were possible.
Before Samir had scooted into the front room for privacy, she overheard him report to Husaam that almost all the mechanical components and explosives had been received via the camouflaged shipments to Abdul-Jaleel Electronics. He did not mention the radioactive material. She suspected Samir didn’t know its location or how it would arrive. No one, including Homeland Security, seemed to know.
Where the hell was it? When would it arrive?
In her heart, Marissa knew the fanatics wouldn’t give up. Her body tensed as determination swelled inside her. The greatest danger, the radioactive material, was still out there. Her job wasn’t finished.
Sighing, she knew she wouldn’t take the easy way out. She couldn’t concede defeat. Too many lives were at risk. Despite all her unanswered questions, only one option remained.
Baheera couldn’t disappear. She had to go back.
Forcing the vast whirlwind of questions to subside, Marissa closed her eyes and stretched out in the bed. She really needed to sleep because her plan would require every bit of her energy.
When Marissa’s eyes fluttered open again later that morning, the window framed a lightening sky through the thin curtains. She heard no sounds of activity from beyond the bedroom. Silently, she rolled over. Ameen still slept on the floor by the door with his gun beside him. She had to implement her plan before he woke up.
After quietly crawling out of bed, she pulled the knife, wallets, and phone from under the covers. She laid everything beside her veil on a small table by the window.
Dawn revealed an unfenced yard and alley behind the house. Escape would be easy. Finding the way back to the hideout would be harder. Sighing with resignation, she flexed her hands and pushed the windowpane up.
“You greet the morning early,” Ameen said in Arabic.
She spun around to face him, her hand instinctively reaching for the knife, and her gaze darting to his gun. He followed her movements. When his eyes returned to hers, they were troubled.
“In the darkness, you trusted me. Has daylight changed your mind?” he asked, propping himself up on an elbow but making no move to stop her.
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Still tensed, ready to act, she tightened her grip on the knife. “Do I have a choice?”
“Yes, Baheera, you do. You may also leave when you wish—even through the front door.” He grinned, his gaze never wavering from her face. “I will gladly drive you wherever you want to go…so early and in such a hurry.”
She assessed his calm reaction. Perhaps she could use him, if not trust him…completely. “I need to leave now and return to the neighborhood where you found me.”
“Specifically to the house with the satellite phone antenna?”
Marissa didn’t respond. Crap, he knows about the hideout. What else does he know? Until she got some intel on this man, she didn’t dare reveal any more than necessary. She pressed her lips together defiantly.
Again, their dark eyes locked, engaging in a tug-of-war. She was used to drawing people in with her eyes. She was not used to being on the other end of that sensation. She exhaled slowly, not liking the competition. “I would appreciate a ride.”
“Let’s go,” he said, hoisting his tall, lean body from the floor.
Marissa arranged the niqab on her head before gathering the items from the table and hugging them to her chest. Then she and Ameen tiptoed through the living room and out the front door. What would Khaleel’s and Safiya’s reactions be when they discovered their friend and his strange companion had slipped away without a thank you or farewell?
As Ameen drove the winding route through Tijuana, Marissa admitted she would never have found the way on her own. A pang of guilt made her question why she was unwilling to fully trust this man who had saved her life. “How well do you know that couple and what did you tell them about me?” she asked, taking off the veil.
“Safiya and Khaleel are my friends. They used to live in San Diego and attended my uncle’s mosque before they moved to Tijuana so Khaleel could take an engineering job at an electronics company. As for you, I just told them you needed a place to spend the night.”
Targeted (FBI Heat) Page 3