by Brad Thor
Traffic was heavy and it took him more than an hour to reach Wazir’s neighborhood. It was typical of many of the poor, immigrant neighborhoods Cheng had seen across the United States—run-down four-story apartment buildings cheek-by-jowl with small, dilapidated houses. Yards were untended and filthy children ran back and forth unsupervised. The only thing residents seemed to care for were their cars and trucks, almost all of which had glittering rims, lift kits, and paint jobs you could see yourself in. Cheng shook his head.
He did a slow pass by Ibrahim’s house. There were no signs of life from inside. He found a spot and parked halfway down the next block. Picking up his briefcase, he exited the SUV and walked back the way he had come.
Though he couldn’t see them, he could feel eyes watching him. Old women behind curtains, cautious neighbors peering out to see who the stranger was.
Being Chinese made operating in the United States quite easy. Not many people saw him as dangerous, or even potentially dangerous. Being Asian seemed to automatically disqualify him as a threat. It was a prejudice that he played thoroughly to his advantage.
Arriving at Wazir’s address, he walked up the cracked walkway to a set of uneven stairs to the front porch. He removed a business card from his pocket, pressed the doorbell, and waited. No one came. He leaned over and peered through the front window. Nothing. He leaned back and rang the bell again.
When no one answered, he opened the frayed screen door and knocked. He waited again, but still no one came. He moved back to the window and was about to use his car key to rap on the glass when he heard a voice nearby say, “She’s not home.”
Cheng turned to his right and saw a Hispanic man in his late twenties who had stepped out onto the porch of the house next door. “Pardon me?” Cheng replied in perfect English.
“Mrs. Ibrahim,” the man said. “She’s not home. She went down to her sister’s in Shelbyville. That’s who you’re looking for, right?”
Cheng smiled and walked to the edge of the Ibrahims’ porch to better chat with the neighbor. “Actually, I’m looking for Mr. Ibrahim,” he said. “Wazir.”
“You’re not here from Social Services?”
“No, I’m not.”
Suddenly, the neighbor appeared more reserved. “Are you a lawyer?”
Cheng smiled even more broadly. “No. Insurance. Mr. Ibrahim filed a claim at work. We have an appointment to go over it.”
“What kind of claim?”
“I’m sorry, but that’s confidential.”
“Are you really an insurance agent?”
Cheng handed him his card.
“Well, you may have to reschedule your appointment,” the man said.
“Why is that?”
“Wazir’s in jail.”
That wasn’t good news. In fact, it was very bad news. “Jail? Why would Mr. Ibrahim be in jail?”
The man jerked his head, indicating Cheng should leave the Ibrahims’ porch and join him on his. When he did, the man said, “Mrs. Ibrahim had him arrested for domestic violence.”
Cheng acted shocked. “Really?”
The neighbor nodded. “He beat her pretty good.”
“When did this happen?”
“It’s been going on for a while. Someone at the Community Center finally convinced her to file charges.”
“No,” said Cheng. “I mean, when did he get arrested?”
“A day or two ago, I think,” said the neighbor. “I just got back and heard about it. No one is surprised. Wazir’s a pendejo. A total dick.”
Cheng let all of this sink in. “The Nashville police have him?”
The young man nodded. “He can’t afford to bond out, so he’s fucked until his trial.”
The idea of Wazir Ibrahim sitting in jail and possibly coming to the conclusion that he should make a deal by giving up a plot much bigger than a wife-beating charge was very troubling. It was good Cheng had come. He just hoped he wasn’t too late.
Thanking the neighbor, he left and returned to his SUV. He had to figure out a way to get to Wazir.
Going in as a visitor and warning him to keep his mouth shut would be dangerous. The same could be said for paying another inmate to deliver the message. It would take too long to set something like that up. That didn’t leave him with a lot of options.
Cheng had slipped into two jails and a prison before, but all three of those had been in third world countries, not a heavily guarded, high-tech facility in a major American city. There was only one way he was going to be able to get to Wazir Ibrahim and that was to assist him in getting out. The sooner, the better. But he was going to need help.
He drove around until he found a business hotel with free Wi-Fi. Sitting outside in his vehicle, he opened his anonymous browser, took a deep breath, and ran everything through his mind. Cobbling together operations on the fly was a necessary part of fieldwork. Clear thinking was imperative. If you moved too quickly, many things could go wrong. The same could be said for moving too slowly. The key was striking the right balance.
Confident that he had come up with an exceptional plan, he opened his eyes. There were two things he needed. The first was a bail bonds operation.
He looked at several websites. Once he had found the one he wanted, he turned on one of the sterile cell phones and dialed Lumpy’s Bail Bonds. He identified himself as Mushir Ali Mohammed of the Somali Friends Association of Nashville and explained that they had taken up a collection at their mosque in hopes of bailing one of their members out of jail. Cheng asked if the bail bonds agent could help. The man took Wazir Ibrahim’s information and then asked him to hold for a moment while he checked the county court computer system.
When the agent returned to the line, he listed the charges against Wazir Ibrahim, as well as the bail amount. Cheng was relieved on both counts. The fact that Wazir was even eligible for bail meant that he hadn’t yet tried to cut a deal. If he had, the FBI would be involved and there was no way they would let him walk—unless they were trying to set a trap.
Suddenly, that seemed all too plausible to Cheng. It was very much like the FBI to try such a sting. They could allow Wazir Ibrahim to bond out and then follow him to see what he did, where he went, and whom he talked to. Cheng would have to take extra precautions.
The bail would burn through most of his cash, but he had no choice. If he didn’t pay the cost of the bond in full, plus the bond agent’s fee, then collateral and residents with ties to the community would be required to act as cosigners. The fewer people involved the better.
After the bond agent finished explaining the process, Cheng asked how quickly Wazir Ibrahim could be released. “As soon as I walk across the street and sign the paperwork.”
This was good news. Cheng thanked him and, after hanging up, removed the battery and disassembled the phone.
The only other thing he needed at this point was a middleman, someone he could use as a cutout to shield his involvement and add to the authenticity of his plan. If the Somali community in Nashville was big enough, that wasn’t going to be a problem at all.
Cheng searched the Web again and, finding what he was looking for, pulled up the directions online. It was downtown, on Murfreesboro Pike.
Traffic was light and it took less than twenty minutes to get there. When Cheng arrived, his eyes exactly what he had hoped to see—taxicabs. And as it was a Somali restaurant, he had no doubt about the ethnicity of the drivers.
He parked out of sight and came back to the restaurant on foot. It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for. The young Somali man was a flashy dresser. He wore pressed jeans, expensive basketball shoes, and a designer shirt. In his hand was a brand-new iPhone. He was louder than his colleagues, with a big smile and a bounce to his step. He thought highly of himself and liked to show off. This was exactly the kind of man Cheng needed.
As the Somali reached his cab, Cheng approached him and asked if he was free. The man nodded and Cheng climbed in back.
“Where to?
” the driver asked.
Cheng asked to be taken to Music Row. He wanted enough time to make small talk and feel the man out. Nodding, the driver started his cab, turned on the meter, and pulled away from the curb.
As they drove, Cheng learned everything he needed to know about the driver. He would be perfect.
When they arrived at Music Row, Cheng paid his fare and gave the Somali a hundred-dollar tip. The man was extremely grateful.
“If you need a taxi again,” he said, scribbling down his cell phone number and handing it to his passenger, “call me.”
Cheng took the number and smiled. “Actually, I have two important errands to run tonight. How would you like to make a thousand dollars?”
CHAPTER 29
* * *
* * *
The taxi driver had balked at only one thing, having his signature on the bail paperwork. When Cheng offered him an additional thousand dollars, the young man’s reservations magically disappeared. Cheng had definitely chosen the right man for the job.
Cheng turned on the second cell phone and gave the driver the number in order to keep in touch. Once the bail agent had been taken care of, the taxi driver parked across the street from the jail and waited. He had only two questions. Where was he supposed to take Wazir Ibrahim and whom should he say was behind getting him out of jail?
Cheng knew Wazir Ibrahim was going to have a lot more questions than that. He kept his answers for the driver short. He told him to bring Wazir Ibrahim home. There was a restraining order in place to keep Wazir away from his wife, so Cheng made sure that the driver knew to tell Wazir that his wife had gone to her sister’s. As far as who had gotten him out of jail and had sent a cab to pick him up, Cheng simply told the young Somali to describe him to Wazir. That would be all that was necessary. He doubted Wazir Ibrahim would ask any more questions after that.
The Snow Dragon operation consisted of six cells. Each cell paired one of the engineering students with a battle-tested Somali who would act as muscle. The cell members reported to a handler who went by the name Henry Lee. Lee’s real name was Ren Ho and he was a deep cover operative the Second Department had placed inside the United States more than thirty years ago. It was Lee who had informed Beijing when Wazir Ibrahim went missing. When the taxi driver described his benefactor, Cheng had no doubt Wazir Ibrahim would assume it was his handler, Henry Lee, who had bailed him out of jail.
Per their agreement, the taxi driver hailed Wazir Ibrahim when he walked out of the jail and then drove him on a long, circuitous route, while Cheng ascertained whether the FBI was following.
When he was satisfied that no one was tailing them, he returned to the Ibrahims’ neighborhood, parked his car two blocks away, and broke into the house from the alley. He drew all the blinds and then texted the taxi driver that it was safe to bring Wazir home.
As the cab pulled up in front, Cheng sent his final text explaining where the driver could find the envelope containing the balance of his tip. Cheng then removed the phone’s battery, sat down at Ibrahim’s dining table, and waited.
There was a thin layer of dust on everything, and he wondered if Ibrahim’s marital woes revolved around housekeeping.
He looked up as he heard Wazir’s key open the front door. Stepping inside, the Somali man reached for the light.
“Leave it off,” Cheng ordered.
Wazir obeyed the instruction. Closing the door, he removed his shoes as he peered into the semidarkness. “Is that you?” he asked.
Cheng reached over and gently nudged a small dimmer switch behind him. A light over the table began to glow and softly illuminated the dining room.
Wazir Ibrahim stopped halfway there. “You’re not Henry. Who are you?”
“I’m Henry’s boss. Come here and sit down,” said Cheng.
He looked nervously from side to side. “Why isn’t Henry here?”
“You disappeared, Wazir. No one knew what happened to you. We were worried.”
“But why are you here and not Henry?”
“Because Henry is a manager. He doesn’t do search and rescue. I do.”
“You’re the one who got me out of jail?” Wazir asked.
Cheng nodded. “I need to know what happened and what you told them. All of it.”
“It’s time for prayers. May I pray first?”
“You can pray in a moment. Right now, I need you to explain everything that happened. I need to know exactly what the police know.”
Wazir took a deep breath and began to recount his tale. “Because we are refugees and receive government assistance, we are required to meet with a social worker. Our social worker convinced my wife to file charges against me.”
“For beating her.”
The Somali was not remorseful in the least. “Yes. If my wife does not obey me, I am entitled to beat her.”
“Did you admit that to the police?”
“No.”
“Good. What else happened while you were in custody?”
Wazir lowered his head.
Cheng tensed. It was obvious Wazir had done something he was ashamed of. “What else happened while you were in custody?”
“Some men I know brought girls to Nashville.”
“What men?” asked Cheng.
“Somali men, from Minneapolis.”
“What kind of girls did they bring?”
“Young girls, pretty girls.”
Cheng’s feelings of unease continued to grow. “How old were these girls?”
Wazir refused to look at him. “I don’t know,” he said.
“Look at me, Wazir. And don’t lie to me. How old were these girls?”
The Somali man slowly looked up and met the man’s gaze. “They were very young.”
“Too young?”
Wazir turned his eyes back down to the ground. “Yes,” he replied.
“And the police know this?”
“They asked me a lot of questions about it.”
Cheng kept his demeanor cool. “What did you tell them?”
“Nothing. I assumed that if they had evidence, they would have presented it.”
It was a good point. If they had anything related to charge him with, they would have. As it stood, he had been charged only with spousal abuse.
“Did you say anything at all to the police about Henry Lee or what you have been working on?”
“No.”
“Nothing that could even possibly make them suspicious about anything else?”
“No,” he repeated.
Despite his protestations, Cheng made Wazir take him through every moment of his ordeal—from his arrest until he walked back into his home. He wanted to know every question the police had asked him, every response he had given, if he had been held in a communal cell, what other prisoners he had talked to, all of it. It went on for over two hours.
Sometimes he gave the same answer, other times his answers changed. Sometimes it was three underage girls he had communed with, sometimes it was “just” two. At first he was held in a solitary cell, then he said there were only four people, and then he said he was in a cell with at least ten other men. Wazir Ibrahim had a hard time keeping his facts straight. This troubled Cheng considerably. The Somali’s word was unreliable at best.
“If you’re worried that I said anything to the police about Henry Lee or what has been planned, I didn’t,” Wazir assured him. “Even though I could have.”
“And what exactly could you have told them?” Cheng asked. Wazir Ibrahim knew very little about the attack. After the NASA internship ended, Henry Lee had brought all of the cell members together to train for one week near his ranch in Idaho. They had only gone over the mechanics of what was expected of them. The canisters they had used were dummies. None of the cell members knew what would be inside them.
“I need money for a lawyer,” Wazir responded. “A good one.”
Now he wants money for a lawyer? Though Cheng wanted to reach out and strike him, he restrained himsel
f. “First, Wazir, let’s talk about what you think you know.”
“I know about the canisters,” the Somali said.
Cheng smiled. “Of course you do. You trained with them.”
“But I know what’s going to be in them.”
“Really? And what’s that?”
With his finger, Wazir drew a word on the tabletop in the dust between them.
Cheng was stunned. How the hell had this stupid Somali pieced it together? Maintaining his steady mask, he laughed and said, “My goodness. That’s something. It’s not correct. In fact, it’s quite fantastic. Why would you think something like that?”
If it had been a guess, it was a well-informed guess. “Because I know.”
“How do you know?”
“The engineering student I trained with said something.”
“Said something when?” Cheng pressed.
“After the training, as we were all leaving. He said he had been thinking about it, and that’s what he believed was going to be in the canisters.”
“Did he share this hypothesis with the others?” He drew out the word ‘hypothesis’ to feign how absurd he found the idea.
Wazir Ibrahim shrugged. “What are we going to do about getting a lawyer for me?”
Cheng used his sleeve to erase the word that had been written in the dust. “Everything will be okay,” he said.
“So you will get me a lawyer?”
“We may even be able to get the case dismissed.”
“Really?” Wazir said hopefully. “How?”
“Don’t worry about it. You are important to us. We need you. We’ll make this go away.”
“I have your word?”
Cheng nodded. “You have my word.”
Wazir smiled. He looked as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. “May I pray now?”
“Of course, just don’t turn on any of the lights.”
The Somali thanked him and excused himself from the table. After washing his hands and feet, he returned to the living room, where he rolled out a small rug and began his prayers.