by Mark Terry
She clicked off and put away the phone.
O’Reilly raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“Before we left, I asked Helen to get some taps on the imam’s phones. I knew we wouldn’t have much time and it might be impossible to get actual recordings, but with the attacks in Dallas, we should have been able to at least put taps on his phones to record who he was calling and who he was receiving calls from.”
“And—”
Shelly checked the notepad. “He called somebody named Ali Tafir, who has a home address in Century City.”
O’Reilly fired up the engine. She shook her head. “You know, I like your style.”
CHAPTER 17
Derek pulled the bucar into the drive of a beach house in Malibu. He said, “I hope this is worth it, Greg. It’s a hell of a ways out of our way.”
Popovitch climbed out. “You need to clean off the blood. I need some caffeine. And frankly, you’re the asshole that shot out the window of the car. Let’s switch to something that at least has windows.”
He walked toward the front door. Derek followed. Once inside, Popovitch addressed a keyboard, tapping numbers into it.
“You have a ten-digit PIN?” Derek asked.
“I have a few enemies.” The screen above the keyboard glowed green:
DEACTIVATED.
“Hard to believe, a law-abiding citizen such as yourself.”
Derek started past Popovitch, but the gunrunner caught his arm. “Hang on.”
He pulled open a closet door to their left, pushed aside some jackets to reveal a small metal door. Popovitch pulled it open to reveal a flat screen and another keyboard. Popovitch tapped a few numbers and pressed his right hand flat against the screen, which glowed white for a few seconds before going dark. Across the screen it said:
WELCOME, MR. POPOVITCH.
“You have a palm scanner.”
Popovitch nodded.
“Anything else?”
“Sort of.” Popovitch led him into the house, which had a wide-open floor plan. The brown leather sectionals, plasma TV, and glass-topped end tables were completely dwarfed by a wall of glass facing the Pacific Ocean. Derek was sure that during the day it would provide a stunning vista of blue on blue.
Popovitch turned to the kitchen, where another plasma TV was attached to the wall. Pulling out a drawer to reveal a keyboard, he tapped keys and the plasma TV lit up with a computer desktop. Tapping more keys, he brought up digital surveillance feeds. Scanning the readouts, he said, “Good. Nothing unusual.”
“A little paranoid?”
“It’s not paranoia, Derek. It’s my lovely reality. I’ll get some coffee going. The bathroom’s down there on the left. Help yourself.”
Not 100 percent sure he could trust Greg, but convinced he had no choice, Derek headed for the bathroom, locking himself in. He kept his gun close, balanced on the toilet seat, and took a fast, hot shower. When he got out, feeling a little more alert, he found himself a mug of black coffee in the kitchen and hunted down Popovitch in a back room that had been converted to a sort of office/den. A laptop sat on a big oak desk. Behind Popovitch stood a bookshelf dominated by books on foreign policy and guides to weapons. Written, Derek noticed, in half a dozen languages.
Popovitch held a cell phone to his ear, bare feet up on the desk. Derek thought it was interesting that the room had no windows. He suspected Greg actually did do some of his business from this room—and probably had it swept for bugs on a regular basis.
“Hey, Len, I’ve got something going. What’s the word on a guy, Faiz Hasan Chughtai?”
Derek noticed a couple framed photographs on the desk, facing Greg. He reached out and turned them around. One showed Greg and a dark-haired woman with an olive complexion, her eyes large and almond-shaped, quite beautiful. Greg, still talking, reached over and twisted the photograph around and out of Derek’s hands, expression annoyed.
“You’ve heard what about Mukhtar? Really? Well, the man did play things fast and loose, didn’t he? Yeah, no shit. Now, what about Chughtai?”
Derek turned around another photograph. It was of a group of men in military uniforms standing in front of an Abrams tank, M-15s in their arms, cigarettes in their mouths. A cocky group of soldiers, off to play war. He knew that Greg, like himself, had been in the first Gulf War, Desert Storm. Replacing it, he looked at the last photograph, which was of a young Greg Popovitch in a suit receiving a diploma from a man in another suit. They were both smiling at the camera, a typical grip-and-grin. The man looked vaguely familiar, but Derek couldn’t quite place him.
Popovitch clicked off and took the photograph out of Derek’s hand. “Graduation day. Recognize him?”
“Yes, but I don’t know who he is.”
Popovitch seemed amused by that. “Robert Michael Gates. Director of the CIA from, oh, let’s see, ninety-one to sometime in ninety-three, I think. You know they actually give you diplomas and have a little sort of commencement ceremony when you graduate from spy school? Weird fuckin’ world, isn’t it?”
Popovitch leaned back, pulled a pack of cigarettes out of a desk drawer, and lit up with a cheap red Bic. He blew out a plume of smoke.
“Who’s the woman?” Derek asked.
Popovitch fiddled with the Bic for a moment, not looking at Derek. Finally he said, “That beautiful woman was my wife. Lily Popovitch. Her maiden name was Lily Rabine and I met her when I was doing some work in Israel. I would have given it all up for her, Derek. I almost did. Then some Palestinian fuck decided to take a bus ride while wearing a suicide vest.”
His expression was flat and angry. He reached over and took a gulp of steaming coffee. “I was all ready to go back to D.C. and try for a normal life. I was considering State, or maybe stay at Langley in some analytical position. I sure as hell knew the Middle East.” He shrugged, clicking a flame on the Bic, letting it go out, clicking it to life again. “Life takes funny turns.”
“I’m sorry, Greg. I never knew.”
Popovitch shrugged. “I’ll tell you what, she’d be pleased I’m helping you.” He picked up the phone again. “Couple more calls. By the way, word is out that somebody hit Mukhtar.”
He hit another button on the phone and said, “Bruce? It’s Greg—yeah, yeah, I heard. Hey, I’m looking for a guy—”
Derek leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, only half listening to Popovitch. This odd business of theirs had a way of screwing up personal lives. For a time he had been married to an Army physician, Simona Ebbotts, but his travel and hers had kept them apart so much, they had divorced more or less amicably. There had been women since, but nobody like Simona.
“Just—Bruce. Someone I need to touch base with. Someone I can’t talk about.”
Derek drifted off.
In the dream he was ten years old. He and his brother and his parents had been living in Sierra Leone. Derek’s parents had been doctors for a Methodist missionary group, traveling around the world. The political situation had gone totally to hell in SL and they had been choppered out as rebels overran the mission.
In the dream Derek ran toward one of the big helicopters, the rotors roaring overhead like thunder, those big soldiers with their huge guns waving them on, leading them out.
The dream shifted, as dreams do, to Irina Khournikova, standing at the airport at St. Bart’s, kissing him goodbye. When he looked back at her, he saw Simona.
He woke up abruptly, Greg saying his name. “I think we’ve got a lead on this guy. He’s got a place in Venice.”
CHAPTER 18
FBI agent Dale Hutchins leaned back in the chair in the Pakistan National Police Bureau interrogation room. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was tired. His shoulder ached, his ass hurt, and his head pounded. His injuries were proving to be more difficult to bounce back from than he’d anticipated.
Getting old, he thought with some irony. He was thirty-eight, but at the moment felt about sixty.
He thought of the explosion in Dallas. The
news was all over Islamabad, although CNN and the BBC didn’t have much detail. A call to Sam at the office had indicated they were on high alert in the States, and it seemed to confirm some of the data found on the laptops. The only thing really clear was that nobody had a handle on things yet.
The door opened and two Pakistani uniformed guards brought in the prisoner. Firdos followed them in. The prisoner wore a drab gray jumpsuit and sandals, hands manacled with a waist-chain, ankles secured with shackles. Head down, he shuffled to the table. The guards pushed him down and secured his wrists and legs to the chair.
Firdos nodded and spoke in rapid Urdu to the guards, who left the three of them alone in the room.
Firdos sat in a chair opposite the prisoner, the small wooden table between them. He said, “Agent Hutchins, this is Abdul Fareed. Abdul Fareed, this is Special Agent Hutchins with the American Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Fareed looked up, but said nothing. His beard was tangled and his dark eyes blazed with rage.
“Do you speak English?” Hutchins asked.
Fareed said nothing.
Firdos nodded. “He does.”
Hutchins said, “How are they treating you? Getting enough to eat? Are your religious dietary needs being met?”
Fareed glanced over at Firdos and back to Hutchins, still not responding.
Firdos had warned him that Fareed had been uncommunicative. Hutchins wasn’t terribly surprised. He was trying to build rapport, but didn’t know if he was going to have the time. He said, “A dirty bomb went off in Dallas just a couple hours ago. Have you heard that?”
Firdos shot him a startled look. It was standard operating procedure to not provide prisoners with information concerning the outside world relevant to their investigations.
Fareed’s eyes widened. “A couple hours ago?” His voice sounded rusty as if from lack of use.
Hutchins nodded. “Yes, around ten o’clock in the evening in Dallas.”
A complicated mix of emotions flashed across Fareed’s face. “Good. I hope it killed many infidels.”
“Actually,” Hutchins said, “we don’t think it killed anybody. Well, that’s not true. There appears to be one body. Hasn’t been identified yet. It could be Kalakar.”
Fareed twitched. “He’s not in—” He trailed off, scowling, staring at the floor.
“He’s not in Dallas?” Hutchins asked. “Where is Kalakar, then? Is he in Washington, D.C.?”
Fareed refused to speak, continuing to stare at the tabletop in front of him.
Firdos spoke. “If you cooperate with us, we might be able to get you some exercise time. Or perhaps better food rations. But you’ll have to cooperate with us.”
Still the terrorist refused to speak.
Hutchins watched Fareed closely. “If he’s not in Dallas, is he in Chicago?”
Still nothing.
“Los Angeles?”
Was that a flicker of the eye? He wasn’t sure.
“How about New York?”
Nothing.
Hutchins leaned forward. He gestured at his arm in the sling. “Know how I got this? I was there in the apartment. One of my men picked up a laptop computer and it exploded. I was standing next to him. I got lucky. I was injured, but I’ll be fine.”
“You should have died. Right along with your infidel partner.”
Calmly, Hutchins said, “Allah did not wish for me to die. Allah kept me alive so I could question you. Allah kept me alive so I can stop Kalakar from murdering innocent people. My being alive is Allah’s will. My stopping your plan is Allah’s will.”
“You are an infidel. An agent of the Great Satan.” Fareed stared at him, mouth twisted in a sneer. “Don’t speak to me of Allah. You know nothing of Allah’s will.”
“I know Allah let me live for a reason.”
“To bear witness to the destruction of the infidels. Allah is great. Allah is wise.”
“Allah seems to have a different plan than you do. The bomb in Dallas wasn’t supposed to go off this soon, was it?”
Was there a flicker of doubt on Fareed’s face? Hutchins thought so. He continued. “Allah set that bomb off early. Allah is actively working against your plan. It is Allah’s will—” Hutchins edged forward, voice suddenly soft, but forceful. “It is Allah’s will that you cooperate with us to stop this plan. Help us. Please help us.”
Fareed looked away.
The silence stretched out like a road leading into the desert. Hutchins wanted Fareed to think about things. Carrot and stick. He personally didn’t believe the stick worked with al-Qaeda zealots. Then again, neither did the carrot. But after a stick, sometimes a carrot can work with anybody.
Firdos interrupted the silence. “Who is Kalakar? Does he have a name?”
No response.
Firdos looked at Hutchins, shrugging. Hutchins said, “I’m a little confused about something. Maybe you can clear things up.”
Fareed didn’t respond. Hutchins said to Firdos, “Could you please translate that for me. I want to make sure he understands what I’m saying.”
Firdos rattled off the question in Urdu. Fareed kept his gaze on the table in front of him.
With Firdos translating, Hutchins continued. “Just before our raid, Kalakar received a telephone call. Correct?”
No response.
“We know he did. Kalakar must have told everybody that he had to go out. From what we can tell, he slipped out the back door of the apartment complex and went through a couple loose boards of that fence by the shopping center.”
Hutchins waited for Firdos’s translation to catch up.
“We guess he had a vehicle there. Now, we’re pretty sure that someone called, alerting Kalakar that we were going to raid the apartment. Yet he sacrificed all of you there. He left you to be arrested. He left you to be killed. Why in the world would you protect him when he betrayed you?”
Fareed blinked. Looking up at Hutchins, Fareed said, “We willingly sacrifice ourselves for the jihad. We will be honored by Allah.”
Their eyes locked. Fareed did not look away. Hutchins, slowly, carefully, asked, “Did you and your brothers plan to die in that apartment?”
Fareed blinked again and looked down at his hands.
“Was part of the plan for you and your friends to die in the apartment so we would think the raid was a success?”
A twitch of one eye.
“Did you die so Kalakar could go free? Or did he sacrifice you? Was that part of the plan he didn’t share with you?”
No response.
Hutchins asked a few more questions, then Firdos tried talking to him, but he refused to speak. Hutchins, tired, finally said, “Well, that’s it. Let’s go. Tell them Fareed wasn’t helpful. Again.”
Fareed looked up momentarily and for the first time Hutchins thought he saw fear in the man’s eyes. “What will they do to you, Fareed? How do they treat prisoners who don’t cooperate?”
Nothing.
Firdos said, “I will talk to the guards and see what punishments they give prisoners who do not cooperate. I know it can be pretty bad in there. But then—”
Hutchins waited.
Firdos let it go. He got to his feet and knocked on the door. The guards came in. Firdos spoke to them for a moment. Dale got to his feet to leave.
Fareed, voice desperate, said, “I … please … if … I can tell you …”
They waited.
Hutchins shrugged. “Guess it’s time to go.”
Fareed’s voice cracked. “His name. I can give you his real name.”
Firdos gestured for the guards to leave the room again. He and Hutchins sat back down. Hutchins wondered if Fareed’s pump was primed. Was he ready to spill everything?
For everybody’s sake, he hoped so.
CHAPTER 19
Derek and Popovitch tooled south on the PCH heading roughly in the direction of Venice. There was the slightest hint in the east that the sun would be rising soon. They had abandoned the bucar i
n favor of Popovitch’s black Range Rover.
“I’ve always wanted to ask you,” Popovitch was saying, “what the hell you were thinking back in Iraq when you attacked those Iraqi guards and broke into that drug manufacturing facility. I mean, you didn’t really think they were going to just let you in, did you?”
Derek smiled, despite himself. The UNSCOM inspection team had been playing hide-the-weapons-of-mass-destruction with the Iraqis for months. There were procedures involved, requests for information, site applications—it was bureaucratic bullshit, but that was the way of the U.N. The Iraqis always complained that members of the UNSCOM team were CIA agents or even spies for other countries, which was basically not true.