Scanning the reports, he found several brief mentions of Ameen Ali. However, none of them listed him as one of the known cell members or as having any ties to terrorism. A report by Special Agent Wahid Jabbar indicated he’d met Ameen at the mosque and was impressed by the man.
A lot of surveillance and research had been done on San Diego’s mosques because of the connections to 9/11 and Anwar al-Awlaki. These reports focused more on Ameen’s uncle, Abdullah, than on the younger man. The comments also included some general information on the Ali family, noting they’d immigrated to the US together from Saudi Arabia more than twenty years ago. The family had all become naturalized citizens. Apparently, Abdullah had lived in New Jersey before moving to San Diego after the 9/11 attacks. All indications were that neither man had any terrorist ties.
A little more digging outside the operation files revealed Ameen was thirty-five years old, never married. His parents and only sibling were deceased. He’d graduated from NYU in 2001 with a degree in political science. His employment record indicated a three-month job at the United Nations before he’d enlisted in the US Navy in September of that year.
Ben perused Ameen’s exemplary military record. His respect skyrocketed when he learned Ameen had served as a member of the elite Navy SEALs. Details about his missions were non-existent, obviously classified, but from what Ben could tell, the man had faced plenty of action. Ameen had left the Navy a few months ago and didn’t seem to be currently employed other than assisting his uncle at the mosque.
The intel was interesting, but none of it explained why Marissa wanted information about Ameen Ali. Ben scowled and threaded his fingers through his hair. No way this guy has anything to do with the terrorists.
He wrote his report and posted it. Part of him longed to communicate the information directly to Marissa, but that option was out of the question. She would hear it from her handler.
Ben grimaced when he remembered he’d forgotten to take care of another chore. Since he had good news to share, he wasn’t sure why he was reluctant to make the call. He dialed Marissa’s condo, hoping Ian wouldn’t be home so he could simply leave a message. No such luck.
“Hey, Ian, it’s Ben Alfren. Just wanted to let you know Marissa is safe.”
“Great, but why didn’t she call me herself?” Ian asked indignantly.
“She can’t…until…her current assignment is finished. Standard MO.”
“Fuck the MO. I’m sick of all this cloak-and-dagger shit.”
“Listen, it’s nothing personal,” Ben said soothingly, although he wanted to reach through the phone and strangle the sneaky little shit.
“No, you listen. This is personal. It screwed up my relationship with Marissa. Obviously, her work is more important to her than I am. Now I know she’s safe, I can move out with a clear conscience. But since I’m not allowed to talk to her, you can tell her good-bye for me. And fuck all of you,” Ian spat and hung up.
Should he call her ex-boyfriend back and try to smooth things over? Eventually, he muttered, “Fuck you too, asshole. I understand why Marissa already figured out she was better off without you.”
He exhaled. Ian made a convenient target for his anger and frustration even though the man wasn’t really the source.
He glanced at his watch: 5:30 p.m. Probably too late to start his surveillance of Ameen Ali, but he could drive over to the mosque and check it out before heading home. He sent Rex a quick e-mail telling him that he’d gotten an assignment in the Counterterrorism operation and wouldn’t be in the office first thing in the morning. He included a brief status report on his current cases. Leaning back in his chair, Ben considered what he could tell Rex about the dirty bomb situation. Nothing. Rex would understand.
Thirty minutes later, when he drove by the mosque, only a few men stood chatting outside. No sign of Ameen Ali. Ben had found a diagram and pictures of the property in the files, but he was still surprised at how small and unimposing the structure was. No huge dome or towering minarets adorned the simple, white stucco building. If not for the crescent-moon-and-star symbol, the purpose of the site would’ve been indeterminable.
Unfortunately, the property’s location in a residential neighborhood would complicate the observation of the former Navy SEAL. Too many curious eyes.
On a side street, Ben spotted the regular surveillance team and gave them a nod. After driving around a few more blocks, he headed home for dinner and Amber.
* * *
Marissa awoke to the obnoxious sound of the television blaring in the living room, but the pleasant aroma of dinner tempered her annoyance and roused her hunger. Small wonder when she couldn’t remember eating anything all day. She stretched her arms and legs, enjoying the freedom of her nearly naked body.
She glanced at the two sleeping mats piled against the wall. Without Samir and Omar guarding the bedroom doorway every night, her life would be a little easier. Her eyes zeroed in on the chest Samir used. He had always been so protective of it that she figured it must contain something other than his clothing. Tonight, when everyone else was asleep, the chest and its contents would be hers and would hopefully yield a wealth of information.
After rolling out of bed, she gathered her Muslim clothing and threw the items into a corner. As she dragged her suitcase from under the bed, it felt oddly light, considering Samir had not allowed her to even unpack the clothes she was forbidden to wear. When she unzipped the suitcase and flipped it open, she swore. All her clothes were gone. Damn that man.
The real Baheera Abbas, a Muslim fanatic for God’s sake, had arrived from Saudi Arabia wearing and carrying a suitcase full of American-style clothes. Husaam had obviously realized the necessity for his wife to blend in, not stand out. He would have been genuinely angry to learn of Samir’s insistence that Baheera wear Muslim clothing. How ironic.
Marissa yanked open the bottom drawer of the nightstand and breathed a sigh of relief. The clothes she’d arrived in lay crumpled inside where she had stuffed them after Samir’s belligerent orders. Refusing to wear the Muslim clothing again even in the apartment, she pulled on her wrinkled pants and blouse. She didn’t care how she looked; she relished their familiarity and comfort, as well as the defiance they represented.
Now she faced another obstacle: finding where Samir had hidden her clothes. Hopefully, he hadn’t kept their location a secret from the other members as he had so many things.
The front door of the apartment slammed, and several voices began talking at once in Arabic. Fateen and Masoud had returned from Tijuana with the car and Samir’s truck. Their round trip had taken hours, and they cursed the American immigration officials who had stopped and searched them at the border. Marissa grinned at how successful the errand had been at keeping them away from her.
After running a brush through her hair, she emerged from the bedroom. All talking ceased. Four pairs of eyes turned and stared. She smiled inwardly, feeling empowered in her normal clothes and with her face uncovered. “You must remember to speak English at all times, even to each other,” she said sternly, then focused her attention on the returning terrorists. “Fateen, Masoud, did you accomplish the tasks I gave you?”
“Yes,” Masoud said sullenly. “Saleem and Rashad are not happy they must stay in Tijuana.”
“Too bad. After what happened last night, I am taking no chances that we could be robbed.” She looked from one to the other and waited. When neither moved, she extended her hand. They glanced away and fidgeted. “The key,” she demanded.
After a tense moment, Masoud relinquished the key to Samir’s truck.
Marissa stuck it in her pants pocket. “The truck is now mine.”
Uneasy glances passed among the four men.
During dinner, there was little conversation as the reality of Samir and Omar’s disappearance and probable deaths hung over the group. Other than an occasional peek at Baheera, gazes stayed glued to their plates. The terrorists’ anxious expressions revealed they were filled with uncer
tainty. These were weak men, sheep without a shepherd, fearful and helpless after the loss of their leader. Exactly the kind of young men easily swayed and brainwashed by al-Qaeda’s propaganda of hate.
Marissa knew the power of hate. She hated the Islamic extremists who didn’t hesitate to spill the blood of innocent victims, all in the name of jihad. Their actions severely damaged the perception of Islam by the rest of the world. Instead of benefitting fellow Muslims, they hurt them. Fellow Muslims, like Ameen Ali. His words drifted into her thoughts. …Those men do not represent true Muslims…It is shameful that I feel I must say this. I am not a terrorist. Her throat tightened. If the cell’s dirty bomb plot succeeded, the world would have even more grounds for distrusting and suspecting all Muslims. Yet another reason she couldn’t fail.
Marissa tamped down her simmering rage and viewed the men seated at the table with disdain. How can I manipulate these malleable minions and insure none grows a backbone?
After dinner, she decided another trip to Tijuana tonight was unnecessary, but she wanted to keep tabs on Rashad, Saleem, and the Abdul-Jaleel elves. While the others cleaned up after the meal, she selected one of a dozen burner cell phones from a kitchen drawer. The handy little prepaid things were purchased with cash at local stores and provided instant, anonymous communication. All the cell members carried one, and each phone had been programmed with everyone else’s numbers. But Samir had refused to allow Baheera to have a phone.
When Marissa walked back into the living room, she held out the phone to Tareef. “This is my phone. Put all the numbers on it and add my number to the other phones.”
All eyes turned to her, except Tareef’s, whose gaze darted to Fateen.
She shoved the phone in front of Tareef’s face. “Do it. Now.”
Grudgingly, he took the phone and plopped onto the couch. She sat beside him, watching him closely as he transferred the numbers from his own phone’s list to insure he did not intentionally sabotage her phone with bogus numbers.
“Thank you,” she said politely when he handed the phone back to her. Good, now I have them all on a leash. She stood and announced, “I’m going to call Rashad, Saleem, and our Abdul-Jaleel friends. Do not disturb me.”
She suppressed a snicker when they watched her leave, each wearing a very disturbed expression. After locking the bedroom door, she made the call.
“Allahu Akbar. Who is this?” Saleem answered in Arabic, his tone suspicious at the unfamiliar number on his phone’s screen.
“This is Baheera. Speak English, Saleem.”
He grunted in response. “I do not like this, Baheera. We are stuck here. Samir did not make us do this,” Saleem complained, his indignation at taking orders from a woman resonating in his voice.
“Do not speak of what Samir did or didn’t do. If he had been smarter and used some of us to guard the house, the Mexicans might not have been robbing us last night, and then he and Omar would still be alive. Husaam was very disappointed in Samir’s management.”
“I do not think we are safe.”
Ah, fear. The real reason for his discontent. Coward. “You have the two guns I took from the cabinet. You do know how to use them, don’t you, Saleem?”
“Of course. But what if the drug gang comes back tonight?”
“If I was able to survive the night…alone…surely you and Rashad can handle it,” she taunted him. Then her tone softened. “I will be rotating the guard duty. You won’t be stuck there every night.”
She listened to him exhale with relief but also heard a commotion in the background.
“What’s happening?” she asked.
“The two men from Abdul-Jaleel Electronics have arrived.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I do not like that they hide their faces and their true names from us. Are we not equals in our fight against the infidels?”
Dissention among the troops? Marissa jumped at the chance to fuel it.
“You are smart, Saleem. Their behavior raises my suspicions also. They may have fooled Samir, but you and I know they are not to be trusted.” She could hear Khaleel and Nadeem talking in the background. They spoke Spanish, obviously to keep the other terrorists from understanding their conversation. Marissa strained to listen. “How dare they not speak English or Arabic so we can understand? You must watch them closely and tell me of their actions.”
“I will, Baheera.”
Ah, obedience and cooperation. Successful manipulation. “Saleem, your help pleases me. Tomorrow you can come home,” she said soothingly. “Now, let me speak to…Khaleel.”
“Which one is he?”
“The tall one.”
Saleem called to the engineer. Khaleel cursed and called her a stupid bitch in Spanish. She grinned. Being fluent in five languages could be so much fun.
Khaleel came on the phone and spoke to her in Arabic. “Allahu Akbar. Good evening, Baheera. Have you recovered from last night’s ordeal?” he asked, unctuously.
“Thanks be to Allah, I have. Was that Spanish you were speaking?”
“Yes. Living in Tijuana, I had to learn it to survive.”
“It is a blessing then. But you and Nadeem must speak English when you are with the rest of us.” Khaleel didn’t respond. “How long will you and Nadeem work tonight?”
“Only a couple hours. We brought the instructions and will verify all the parts again. Praise Allah, the thieves did not break into the cabinet.”
She listened closely to his voice. “Yes, praise Allah. Come earlier tomorrow night and start the assembly.”
“We will come right after work.”
Marissa pressed her lips together and squeezed her eyes shut. She was absolutely sure now about Khaleel, the friend.
Chapter 11
Slouched in his truck, Ameen watched until the last light went out in the cell’s apartment. He’d checked his phone at least a hundred times, willing it to ring with a call or text from Baheera. Over the past several hours, he’d created and discarded numerous plans for helping her. He wanted her out of there, away from those evil men. He couldn’t do anything more for her tonight but accepting it was hard as hell.
Ameen rubbed his tired eyes before starting the truck. His hours of research had yielded nothing. Nothing on Baheera. Nothing but the corporate spiel on Abdul-Jaleel Electronics. Nothing on the jihadist websites that seemed like a message for the San Diego cell.
When he circled the block, he spotted two occupants in an unmarked car parked on the street. For the past few months, someone besides him had been keeping an eye on Samir and the boys. He’d spotted them at the apartment, mosque, and hideout. FBI? CIA? Homeland Security?
A frightening thought struck. What if the Feds moved to take down the cell and didn’t realize Baheera wasn’t one of the terrorists? She could be injured or even killed. The possibility sent such a shock wave through him that he angled the truck to the curb. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Should I warn them? Would they believe me?
He shook his head dejectedly. No, it would never work. They would paint him with the same brush as the cell. The only solution was for him to rescue Baheera before she got hurt by the bad guys or the good guys.
Ameen drove home on autopilot, his mind preoccupied with protecting the beautiful, intriguing woman. Exhausted, he headed straight to bed. But sleep didn’t come easily.
He lay staring at the ceiling, still tense with worry, as he tried to convince himself Baheera was not working alone. Besides being brave, she was smart, multilingual, and familiar with weapons. She’d exhibited a keen ability to evaluate and plan. He smiled faintly when he acknowledged they shared many similarities.
If she was a Fed, she was different from the US intelligence operatives he’d dealt with as a SEAL. Instead of a cold, calculating objectivity, she exuded a passion, an intensity, similar to his own.
Was that why he felt strangely connected to the mysterious Baheera?
* * *
Kevin Rawlings paced in the dimly lit r
oom, reading and re-reading the stack of translations in his hands. The massive video screen on the wall was dark. The technicians sat at their consoles, lost to the worlds inside their headphones. Although normal noise could not filter through the headphones to distract the listening techs, the atmosphere in the room always prompted people to move and speak quietly.
Bob Miller, head of the National Joint Terrorism Task Force, entered the room and waited in the shadows. When Rawlings came closer, he fell into step beside him.
“I just got a call from Winslow at the White House,” Miller whispered. “They want an update. Where do we stand?”
Rawlings didn’t even try to hide his annoyance. “I spend so much goddamn time keeping everyone updated that I hardly have any time left to monitor the operation, much less plan forward progress.” He slapped the papers against his palm. “Have you read these yet?”
“Yes. Interesting but not very informative.”
Rawlings snorted.
They stopped pacing and dropped into two of the theatre-style seats facing the blank screen.
“I agree, although Husaam sounds rattled. It’s hard to believe the son of a bitch didn’t have a backup means of communication or another cell ready to take over if something disrupted the San Diego one.”
“I think it’s another sign that, with bin Laden dead, al-Zawahiri in hiding, and Khalid Shaikh Mohammed in custody, al-Qaeda is splintered and struggling. With so many jihadists joining ISIS, Husaam may be having trouble getting resources. All that saber rattling about reprisal attacks after we got bin Laden has turned out to be more hot air than anything,” Miller said.
“Not if they pull off this dirty bomb attack. And I’d call the Herat bomb a significant resource,” Rawlings countered.
“True. But maybe Husaam had it all along. We never knew where it disappeared to.”
Rawlings nodded. Tapping the translations lying in his lap, he asked, “What else did you get out of these?”
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