by Mark Terry
But the inspections teams were in communication with representatives of the CIA and other intelligence agencies, which is where Derek had come in contact with Popovitch. The UNSCOM team didn’t report findings to the CIA or anybody but the U.N., but they would go to their contacts and say, “Any idea where you think we should look next?” Which is when Popovitch had suggested they check the State Drug Agency in Samarra.
Derek and his team had put in the official request, but the Iraqis, as usual, started giving them the Iraqi Shuffle. In truth, Derek didn’t have the patience and diplomatic tendencies required for that kind of work. He had taken his team, walked to the SDA’s front door with his Colt in his hand, stuck it in the face of one of the guards, kicked another guard in the balls, and pushed into the facility.
He had been thrown out at gunpoint and berated by the head of the Iraqi UNSCOM operation. Overall, it had been totally counterproductive.
Derek said, “I may have been considering a change in career at that point.”
“I gotta tell you, though, we all pretty much stood up and cheered when we heard about it.”
“Bought me a few drinks, too, as I recall.”
“Yeah. Well, UNSCOM was being a little too civil. Iraq lost the fuckin’ war, after all.”
“Our approach to the Middle East, Iraq included, has been screwed up for—”
Derek’s phone buzzed, interrupting his foreign policy diatribe before he could really get going on it. “Stillwater.”
“Derek, it’s Jim. Any progress?”
Secretary Johnston. Derek said, “Some leads. Nothing solid yet.”
“The reason I called, actually, is we just got information from Pakistan. The FBI contingent there got a name for Kalakar. We’ve put together a thin profile, and it’s being e-mailed to you now. They’ll keep digging and update you as we get more. We’re also sending his photograph to all law enforcement agencies in the country. We’re debating whether to take it directly to the media.”
“Tipping your hand.”
“The stakes are too high. His name is Miraj Khan. And he was once an art history professor at Quaid-i-Azam University in Islamabad.”
“That explains the Kalakar nickname.”
“At least partly. All right, Derek. How are things going with O’Reilly?”
“We’re not exactly working together at the moment.”
Johnston’s sigh came over the phone loud and clear. “Derek, we set these START teams—”
“You either trust me or you don’t, Jim.”
More silence. “All right. Watch your back.”
Derek clicked off the phone, reached into the backseat, and pulled his tablet computer out of one of his Go Packs. Popovitch said, “What’re you doing?”
“Checking my e-mail.”
“In the car?”
Derek smiled. “We’ve got the latest in satellite technology, Greg.”
The computer came up and he retrieved his e-mail. He held up the computer so Popovitch could see the image of Kalakar. In the photograph Kalakar was probably in his mid-thirties, but it had been taken almost ten years earlier. He wore a thick black beard, had a thin, narrow face, and a dark complexion.
Derek read through the file, and as Secretary Johnston had said, it was thin. Miraj Khan earned his Ph.D. in art history at Oxford and returned to Islamabad to teach. His specialty was the history of Muslim art. He had been fired from the university five years ago for unspecified reasons. No friends or relatives had been located yet.
It was really thin.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“Closing in on Venice.”
After a couple more minutes of driving, Popovitch pulled off onto what appeared to be a residential street. Mostly houses, an occasional apartment building. It lacked the funky character of the heart of Venice.
Derek said, “This is still Venice?”
Popovitch nodded. “Pretty close to Mar Vista, at this stage of the game.” He said, “Yeah, I think this is it.”
He pulled into the driveway of a pink stucco bungalow. It was the middle of the night, the neighborhood was dark, only illuminated by the occasional porch light and a distant street light. Derek could see just well enough to know that the lawn had seen better days, but the house itself looked to be in good shape.
Derek checked his gun and climbed out. “I’ll follow your lead.”
Popovitch nodded. “Of course you will.” He seemed to be looking at something behind Derek.
Instincts flashing, Derek spun to see Popovitch’s two thugs sprinting from the shadows, guns drawn. The big guy, Jeb, came right up to Derek, pushing the gun right toward him. “Hands on your head, asshole.”
Derek shot Popovitch a look. “You son of a—”
Jeb smashed his gun against the side of Derek’s head. Pain exploded in his jaw. He bounced back, leaping for Jeb, but Larry pressed his gun against the back of Derek’s neck. “Easy.”
Popovitch stepped forward and lifted Derek’s gun out of his pocket, quickly patted him down and took the knife, too. “This treasure hunt is all well and good, Derek, but you interrupted an important business deal and I’m going to complete it.” To Larry he said, “Valentin agree to the new location?”
“Yep.”
Popovitch checked his watch. “Good. Right on schedule. Let’s go inside, Derek.”
“I’m not going—”
Larry kicked him in the back of the leg, and Derek fell to his knees on the scraggly grass. Larry kicked him in the kidney. “Get up.”
Popovitch said, “Derek, take it easy. Larry, if you keep kicking him he won’t be able to get up at all.”
“I saved your ass, you know,” Derek said, grimacing in pain. He thought he’d be pissing blood for a week if he lived through the next fifteen minutes. “The LAPD had you staked out. In fact, do you trust these two guys? Either one of them could be undercover cops.”
Popovitch clucked his tongue. “Nice try, Derek. Come on. Get to your feet. Let’s go inside.”
Derek awkwardly stood up and followed Greg into the pink stucco bungalow. It was sparsely furnished. Popovitch pointed him to an oak captain’s chair in the kitchen. “Sit.”
Popovitch turned to Larry and said, “There’s two bags in the Rover. Go get them for me.”
Larry left. Popovitch said, “Here’s the truth, Derek. I don’t know anything about a nuke here in L.A. My gut says there isn’t one. But my gut has been wrong before. And now that I know there might be one, I’m not going to play the fucking hero and wait around for it to go off. I’m going to complete this deal, which will bring me about eight mill in profit, and catch the first flight out of ground zero. Good luck.”
“You’re a chickenshit.”
Popovitch glanced at Jeb and gave him a nod. Popovitch backhanded Derek with the Colt. Derek had a sense it was coming, but was half a beat too slow. Pain exploded in his jaw. He and the captain’s chair crashed to the floor. Derek rolled with the fall and was on his feet, but Jeb had his gun out and ready.
“I owed you that one, Derek.”
“So we’re even.” He spit out bloody saliva. Good, he thought. Could be worse. “Just run away.”
Popovitch shrugged. “I always look out for my ass first, Derek. Oh, I think Jeb has something for you.”
Jeb spun Derek around, swinging hard. Derek trapped Jeb’s fist with his forearms and quickly shuffled forward, elbows pistoning into the big man’s ribs. He followed up with a hard knee to the groin and a fist to the nose. Jeb went down like a house of cards.
Derek turned. Popovitch had two guns aimed at him. “Pick up the fucking chair and sit down.” He rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Jeb. What do I keep you around for?”
“He got the—”
Popovitch shot the big man in the head. Derek held perfectly still.
Popovitch sighed. “See what you made me do, Derek? Good help is so hard to find. Not that he was all that good.”
Derek said nothing. He was afraid that any
thing he said might set Popovitch off.
“Sit down on the fucking chair.”
Derek picked up the captain’s chair and sat in it. He tried to avoid the image of the big man’s blood, bone, and brains spattered on the blue vinyl tile floor.
Popovitch said, “Hands behind the chair.”
Derek complied. Popovitch walked behind him and secured his wrists to the oak slats of the captain’s chair with what felt like plastic ties, what the cops called plasti-cuffs.
Larry walked in a moment later with Derek’s Go Packs. His gaze fixed on Jeb’s lifeless body. “What the fuck?”
“Shut up.”
Popovitch dropped Derek’s gun, knife, and sat phone on the kitchen island. “Don’t try to pin this bullshit on me, Derek. If you’ve got any blow-back in mind, I’ll tell the cops all about Mukhtar and your involvement with that.”
Larry’s eyes grew wide. “You’re going to leave him alive? What are you, crazy?”
Popovitch squinted at Larry. “We’re doing this my way. Go out and wait in the—”
Larry pulled his own gun and shot Popovitch in the gut. Popovitch dropped to the floor, arms pressed against his stomach. He gasped, a high-pitched moan of rage and pain.
“You fuck!” Larry shrieked. “You goddamned fuck! You couldn’t leave well enough alone. You had to go along with this asshole.” He fired twice more and Popovitch lay still. He was beyond pain now.
Sweat beaded up on Derek’s forehead. Tied to the chair, he said, “You need to get out now, Larry. Just walk out the door, grab the Rover and go.”
“You! You’re the reason for all this!” Larry raised his gun and aimed it right at Derek’s head. “You’re dead!”
“I’m a federal agent, Larry.” Derek tried to keep his voice level and calm, to convince Larry he was on the level, to try and infuse his voice with the idea that Larry should stay calm and think. I’m in this for you, buddy. I’m only thinking of you.
“If you kill me, every government agency in the country will come after you. The LAPD knows you were with Greg and Jeb. They know who you are. They’ll come right after you and hunt you down and I guarantee you, you’ll never make it to prison.”
“You fuck! You fucking bastard!” Larry paced around the room, hands tangling in his reddish-brown hair, blue eyes wild. “What am I going to do? I should just kill you!”
“You don’t want to do that. It’s too risky for you. You didn’t kill Jeb. And Greg was going to kill you. It was self-defense. But if you kill me, that’s murder. So just leave. Complete the deal with Valentin. Take the money and run. Go now.”
“Jesus. Valentin.” He stared at his watch. “Dammit. I can’t just—Jesus.”
His eyes seemed to light up. Derek thought, Uh-oh. His heart pounded in his chest. This can’t be good.
Larry jogged out of the kitchen. Derek heard a door slam, then Larry appeared a moment later, a red plastic six-gallon container in his hand. He popped the top and Derek smelled the acrid stench of gasoline.
Larry poured the gasoline over Greg and Jeb, then over the carpeted floor, the couch, and La-Z-boy in the living room. Derek prayed to whatever gods might listen, not on me, please, not on me.
Larry upturned the container over Derek’s head, but only a little gasoline dribbled out. He cursed in impotent rage and flung it away. He backhanded Derek, twice, screaming, “You’re going to die! Motherfucker, you are dead!”
Larry dug into his pocket, pulled out a lighter, clicked it alight and tossed it onto the sofa. Flames roared instantly to life. “So long, motherfucker.”
Larry walked out the door.
CHAPTER 20
Agent Dale Hutchins and Firdos Khan Moin stepped into the office of Dr. Mizafa Rizvi, Chairman of the History Department at Quaid-i-Azam University. Rizvi was a short, broad-shouldered man with neat dark hair parted on the left. He dressed casually in a light blue dress shirt and khaki slacks. Hutchins thought he looked like a clerk at Blockbuster.
Firdos said, “Thank you for seeing us, Doctor. This must, of course, remain confidential.”
Rizvi ducked his head in assent. “Whatever I can do. This is about—”
Firdos held up a photograph. “A former faculty member in this department, Dr. Miraj Khan.”
Leaning back in his chair, Rizvi folded his hands over his lap. Almost to himself he murmured, “So, it finally happened.”
“What finally happened?” Hutchins said.
Rizvi focused on him. “Miraj got in trouble. I always thought it was going to happen.”
“Why is that?”
Shrugging, Rizvi said, “The world over, there are academics who are radicals. But the world over, radical academics tend to spew their rhetoric to college students, but do not actually put their beliefs into action.”
“And which was Miraj Khan?” Firdos asked.
Rizvi hesitated. “May I inquire what this is about?”
Hutchins interjected, “Based on your knowledge of Miraj Khan, what do you think it would be about?”
Cocking his head, Rizvi said, “You were introduced to me as being with the FBI. The American Federal Bureau of Investigation is primarily in Pakistan—for better or worse—to investigate terrorists. So you must believe that Dr. Khan is a terrorist. Is he?”
“Perhaps you can tell me,” Hutchins said.
Rizvi seemed amused by the way the conversation was going. Hutchins wasn’t. He didn’t think Firdos was either, based on the impassive expression on his face. Rizvi said, “Miraj was a specialist in Islamic art—the history of Islamic art. Our history program here focuses on Pakistani and Asian history. We do not have an art program, per se, but we do have a focus on Islamic history, especially as it pertains to Asia, and that was Miraj’s area of expertise.”
The history professor glanced at a wall of bookshelves. Hutchins followed his gaze, but didn’t think Rizvi was actually looking at any book in particular. He thought Rizvi was gathering his thoughts. He noticed photographs of Rizvi on the Great Wall of China, in front of The Forbidden City, on a junk off what was probably Hong Kong.
Rizvi continued. “Miraj had impeccable credentials. I believe he earned his master’s degree here, went to Iraq for his doctorate, and read at Oxford for a year afterward. I believe that is the case. I would have to look at his records to confirm that. Nonetheless, he made many friends in Iraq who were later killed in the first Gulf War.” He turned to Hutchins. “I believe it was called Desert Storm, correct?”
Hutchins nodded.
“He was not a supporter of Saddam Hussein, but he was a supporter of Osama bin Laden. Of that I am certain. He may have even met the sheikh during his college years in the Middle East. He traveled extensively for his doctorate, looking at many of the art treasures in Saudi and Iraq and Afghanistan.”
“Why was he fired?” Firdos asked.
Rizvi clucked his tongue and shook his head. “He was not fired, exactly. He was laid off. The university went through one of its economic cycles, as they always seem to do. Our program had been expanding, but we were forced to prioritize, and art history was one of the areas we—” He looked slightly embarrassed, then shrugged. “Very well. Art history was one of the areas I did not feel was relevant to our program, given the economic contraction. So Miraj was let go, as were two other professors.”
“How did he take that?” Hutchins asked.
“Poorly. He was quite threatening. He took it very personally.”
“Did anything come of it?”
“No.”
Firdos said, “What happened to him? Do you know where he went?”
“I heard that he went to Afghanistan to work at the Kabul Museum, such as it was after the Taliban had their way with things. Then, after that, I heard nothing.”
With a personal history like that, Hutchins thought, it shouldn’t be a surprise that Miraj Khan became radicalized. Al-Qaeda had many people who were educated and middle to upper class who became leaders in the organization. Unemployment a
nd poverty were breeding grounds, but misplaced idealism was the fertilizer.
“Would it surprise you to find that Miraj Khan was a member of al-Qaeda?” Firdos asked.
Rizvi shook his head. “Not at all. He was quite a powerful personality, brilliant in his way, highly educated. His religious—tendencies—were conservative and not very tolerant. And—”