by Mark Terry
Mukhtar nodded. “Very well. I received a phone call from a business acquaintance, Faiz Hasan Chughtai. He told me that a friend of his, this Abdul Mohammad, would need an introduction to someone who could get particularly hard to acquire items. I agreed.”
“Did he say what particularly hard to acquire items he was looking for?”
“No.”
Derek stepped back. On the floor the guard he had taken the Uzi from coughed. Popovitch said, “How do we get in touch with Chughtai?”
Mukhtar said, “So you can attack him?”
“Not if he cooperates,” Derek said.
“And what is this worth …?” Mukhtar trailed off at the look on Derek’s face. “Yes, of course. I have already seen the type of currency you—”
A noise behind them caught their attention. Derek spun, Uzi to his shoulder. Bulus and another guard were rushing through the door, machine guns raised. Derek dropped to the ground, firing as he rolled. He cut down Bulus in a swath of scarlet.
One of the guards on the ground rolled toward Derek, batting the Uzi from his hands. His big hands went around Derek’s throat. Derek heard the pop, pop, pop above him of returning gunfire. The world grew dark.
Stiffening his hand, Derek drove his fingers into the man’s throat. The grip on his neck loosened momentarily, and he tried to roll away, but the man tightened his hands again. Spots formed in front of Derek’s eyes.
There was a louder pop and Derek felt something warm and wet splash over him. The man collapsed on top of him. He rolled out from under the guard to see Popovitch standing back, surveying the skylounge. The smuggler’s arm was soaked in blood. Looking down at himself, Derek realized he was drenched in blood and gore as well.
Popovitch looked at him. “That got kind of ugly.”
The four bodyguards were all dead. So was Mukhtar. Derek said, “This kind of went to hell, didn’t it?”
“It’s what you’re good at, Derek. Let’s go see if we can find this Chughtai before the cops show up.”
Derek rubbed his neck, looking around at the carnage. “I want my gun and stuff back.”
Popovitch pointed at Bulus. “He’s got the guns. The asshole over there’s probably got your phone and knife. Wipe down anything you touched and let’s get the hell out of here.”
Derek nodded, used a silk tablecloth to wipe off anything he may have touched, retrieved his belongings, and ran off the yacht after Popovitch. He dug a spare set of clothes from one of his Go Packs and handed Popovitch a first-aid kit. Popovitch sat in the bucar and studied the wound to his bicep. “Hurts like hell, but it’s not very deep.”
Derek stripped, changed clothes, and bundled the bloody clothing to be discarded at a distant location. Not for the first time he wondered if he really was one of the good guys. Sometimes it was hard to tell. He said, “Thanks for saving my life.”
Popovitch cleaned and bandaged his wound. “I hate to say this, Derek, but this is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”
CHAPTER 16
Cassandra O’Reilly pulled up in front of the Federal Building where Shelly Pimpuntikar stood waiting. She noticed that Shelly had added something to her wardrobe—the full head scarf worn by Muslim women called the hijab.
Shelly climbed in, dropping her briefcase by her feet. O’Reilly said, “Why the hijab?”
Shelly adjusted it. It was black and she wore it loosely over her hair. “If we’re going to talk to an imam, trust me, we’ll have better luck if we cover our hair. I have one for you. It’ll help.”
O’Reilly bristled. “Unlikely.” She pulled away from the curb. “Did you get an address for this imam?”
“Yes. Both of the mosque and his home address. I suggest we try his home first.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s almost one thirty in the morning. And I think you should wear the head covering anyway, as a sign of respect. He’s likely to have a conservative attitude about women and by at least showing this small amount—”
“I’m not Muslim.”
Shelly sighed. “I’m from Pakistan, where the hijab is not generally as important to Muslim women. And I do not, as a rule, wear it.” She held out a black scarf to O’Reilly. “But it will help.”
O’Reilly took it and dropped it on the armrest between them. She pointed to the bucar’s GPS. “Plug the address in.”
“The mosque is in Los Angeles, but his home is in Pasadena. I suggest we go to Pasadena.”
They traveled in silence for several miles. Shelly finally said, “Have you heard from Derek?”
“Yes.”
“I expected to be working with him. That was our—”
“Things changed.”
“The explosion in Dallas. Does that seem unusual to you?”
O’Reilly glared at her.
Shelly backpedaled. “I mean, it was premature. There was nobody there. The latest report is there may have been one person on the scene.”
“Maybe some part of the sleeper cell accidentally set it off and got himself killed in the process.”
“Okay. Yes, I can see that as a possibility.”
“Good. Did you and, what’s-her-name, Birch? Did you and Agent Birch get anything useful out of all that data gathering?”
“Not yet. Although Pasadena would be one of the areas with high concentrations of Muslim groups, and it cross-references well with other factors like hawaladars and Western Union offices.”
O’Reilly clenched her jaw and concentrated on her driving. She wished Pimpuntikar would shut up. She recognized the truth of what the woman was saying, just as she recognized the truth of what Derek had said about bringing a man or Shelly along to talk to the imam. It didn’t help. She couldn’t get her mind off Dallas.
Shelly, after a moment of silence, asked, “What about the rest of the team? Have you heard from them?”
“Everybody’s pursuing their own angles. Look, what shouldn’t I say or do in talking to this imam?”
“Well, it depends. I asked for a file on him after you called, but it’s pretty thin. They had heard of him, but the file wasn’t all that extensive. He appears to be a Sunni imam, which has a different connotation than a Shi’a imam. If he’s really Sunni, then he’s basically a leader of prayers versus the person who gives the sermons at the mosque, who in the Sunni tradition is the sheikh. Of course, the name is Ibrahim Sheik Muhammad, so I think it’s safe to consider him a spiritual and religious and cultural leader out of this particular mosque. But since there’s a connection to al-Qaeda, which is traditionally—”
O’Reilly scowled at her. “This is a long ways from answering my question.”
Shelly colored and looked down at her hands. “Perhaps you should just be yourself.”
“Fine.”
They drove in uncomfortable silence until they found the house they were looking for. Even by Pasadena standards, it looked fairly luxurious, a three- or four-acre estate surrounded by a solid stone fence, gated, the property hidden by full-growth willow, palm, eucalyptus, and evergreens. The house itself was Mediterranean in style with white adobe walls and a red clay roof.
An iron gate blocked the drive. O’Reilly reached out to the keypad and pushed the call button, holding it a second or two longer than completely necessary.
They waited. O’Reilly punched the button again and held it down even longer this time.
A third time got a reaction. O’Reilly gazed up at the video camera built into the console. A thick voice said, “Who is it? Do you know what time it is?”
“Yes sir,” O’Reilly said. She held her identification toward the camera lens. “I’m Agent Cassandra O’Reilly with the Office of the Director of National Intelligence. I’m accompanied by Agent Shelly Pimpuntikar with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We need to speak with you.”
A burst of static was followed by the same voice, sounding significantly more awake now and considerably edgier. “I’m sure this can wait until morning. Feel free to contact my attorney and we can set something up—�
�
“Mister Muhammad—”
Shelly made a throat-clearing sound, but O’Reilly ignored her and continued. “Did we just wake you up?”
“It’s almost two in the morning. Of course you woke me up!”
“Then I suggest you take a moment to turn on your TV set, go to Fox or CNN and watch for a moment or two, then get back with us. We’ll be waiting here.”
“What is all this about? What are you talking about?”
“Please, just go and turn on your TV, sir.”
“Oh, very well.”
Shelly said, “I suggest you address him as Imam.”
O’Reilly gave Shelly a hard little smile. “I will address him as I would any other individual in the United States. As mister, miss, misses, sir or ma’am. As Doctor or any other title, including Reverend or Father. But first he’s going to have to introduce himself to me as Imam Muhammad, which is one way for us to begin a dialogue.”
The intercom squawked. “I know nothing of the events in Dallas.”
O’Reilly leaned forward. “Sir, we still need to speak with you. You’re not under arrest. But we believe you may be able to help us.”
Silence. Finally, “Very well.”
With a loud clank the gate whirred open. O’Reilly drove ahead, following the curving path of the paved drive, stopping in front of a four-car garage. She maneuvered the bucar so she could pull directly out toward the gate. Leading Shelly, they went to the front of the home and were met by a tall, heavyset man, sleep still in his eyes, right hand tugging at his long gray beard.
“Your identification, please.”
They supplied it. He gazed at Shelly for a long moment, lips pursed in disapproval. Without comment he returned their credentials and stepped aside. “Come inside, please. May I get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
Shelly shook her head as well.
The imam led them through the lavishly appointed home into an office overlooking a carefully cultivated rose garden. Spotlights lit up the crimson flowers even in the middle of the night. The walls were lined with books. The desk was made of cherry and appeared handcrafted. The imam sat down behind it, gesturing to two chairs.
“Please, be seated. As I said before, I know nothing about the events in Dallas.” He pulled his robes around him as if he were cold.
O’Reilly asked, “Do you know somebody who goes by the name Kalakar?” She watched him closely for any reaction.
The imam stared off into space. “No, should I?”
“He’s an al-Qaeda operative from Pakistan, who may be in the Los Angeles area planning a terrorist attack in the next two days.”
“Perhaps he was in Dallas instead.”
“And maybe he’s heading here. If he were, would he get in touch with you?”
Imam Muhammad looked exasperated. “I am a Muslim cleric in the Los Angeles area. It’s always possible. Am I aiding and abetting terrorists? Of course not! What is this all about?”
“We understand you are sympathetic to al-Qaeda.”
The imam shook his head, closing his eyes. Opening them, he focused on Shelly. “Are you a Muslim?”
Shelly nodded.
“And are you sympathetic to al-Qaeda?”
“I do not condone their behavior.”
Imam Muhammad perked up. “That is not what I asked. Are you sympathetic to al-Qaeda?”
“They wish for a version of Islam that never existed and never will. They declare a war that does not exist—”
“It does exist,” Imam Muhammad said, waving a finger at her. “It does exist. There is a war of values between East and West, between the crusaders and Islam—”
Shelly’s voice was sharp. “We are not crusaders and this is not a Crusade. You cannot equate the United States’ response to nine eleven and the murder of three thousand innocent citizens with a war of values. The Prophet would not have condoned attacks on innocents. That is not Islam!”
“Do not presume to know the mind of the Prophet, woman!” The imam raised his voice and in a tone that indicated he was quoting from the Qur’an, said, “’Permission to fight is granted to those who are being persecuted, since injustice has befallen them, and Allah is certainly able to support them.’”
Shelly, voice angry, said, “’If they resort to peace, so shall you, and put your trust in Allah. He is the Hearer, the Omniscient.’”
O’Reilly made a “T” with her two hands. “All right. Time out. I’m not here to referee a theological argument. Imam Muhammad, please, we need your help. Will you help us?”
The imam squinted at her, turning away from Shelly. He nodded thoughtfully, his expression as fake as a $29.95 Rolex. “Of course. I am always willing to assist the authorities.”
I bet, thought O’Reilly. “Do you know of someone named Kalakar?”
“I do not.”
“If someone were to come to this area and needed a place to stay, where would they go?”
“Perhaps a Holiday Inn,” said the imam.
“If they wanted to stay with someone supporting them, providing a place to sleep, transportation, food, who comes to mind?”
Imam Muhammad tapped his fingertips together, pondering his hands in his lap. “No, I’m sorry, I can’t—”
Shelly leaped to her feet and slapped her hands down on the imam’s desk. “You are obstructing an FBI investigation. You are being purposefully unhelpful. Many thousands of lives are at stake and you sit there like some sort of pig and—”
The imam leapt to his feet, roaring. “You are calling me a pig? Get out! Get out of my house! How dare you! Get out of this house this instant, you infidel! You are no Muslim! You are unclean. You defile my home! Get out! Now!”
“We’re not done with you!” Shelly shouted, slapping the desk again. “We’ll come back with warrants and we’ll tear your house apart. We’ll investigate every corner of your life—”
O’Reilly tugged at Shelly’s arm. “Time to go.”
The imam rushed around his desk and pushed them. “Get out! How dare you! If you want to talk to me, you will have to go through my attorney! Get out! Get out now!”
The two women allowed the imam to herd them out the door. O’Reilly could barely contain her anger, but wasn’t sure whether to direct it at the imam or at Shelly. The FBI agent had blown their entire interview.
Walking to the bucar, O’Reilly said, “Nice going. We got exactly squat out of that.”
Shelly said nothing, slipping into the passenger seat.
O’Reilly drove down the drive. Once they were off the imam’s property, Shelly reached into her briefcase. She drew out what looked like a radio receiver. “Just drive down the block and pull over.”
“What? Are you out of your—”
Shelly held up the device. “I planted a couple bugs in his office. That’s why I did all the desk pounding. I wanted to get one under the edge of the desk.”
O’Reilly’s breath caught in her chest. “You—”
“I really thought you’d go after this guy. That seemed more your style. I wanted him all riled up, that’s why I went head-to-head with him. I didn’t expect you to be so civil.”
Feeling her face burn red, O’Reilly pulled the bucar to a halt beneath a eucalyptus tree and turned off the engine. Shelly turned up the gain on the radio receiver. There were the sounds of rustling and muttering. Finally there was the click of a telephone being picked up and numbers being punched in.
“Ali, the FBI and someone else, I think it was the Office of the Director of National Intelligence—Yes, they were just here, questioning me about Kalakar. What happened in Dallas?”
O’Reilly and Shelly listened to silence. O’Reilly really wished she knew what “Ali” was saying on the other end of the line. After a moment, the imam said, “They’re pretty hot on him, then. Can you warn him?”
More silence. Finally, “Yes. Good. All right. Allah is wise.”
There was the sound of the phone being set
down, followed by the sounds of the imam leaving the room.
“That’s a little helpful,” O’Reilly said, “but we don’t know who he—”
Shelly had her hand up, telling her to wait. She dialed a number on her cell phone. “Helen, he just got off the phone—okay, yes. Just a second.”
Taking a notepad from a pocket, she said, “Go ahead.” Shelly scribbled information on the notepad. “Thanks. You’re terrific.”