by Mark Terry
“I understand, but we’re going to have to reschedule everything. We’ve still got freight coming in here and we’re still shipping freight out unless they lock that down, too. If they don’t, we’ll have empty warehouses by tomorrow morning.”
He looked up at Derek and held up one finger. The office manager hovered at his shoulder. Derek waited patiently. He wouldn’t wait forever, though. Finally Tafir hung up and the woman said, “He barged right in here—”
“It’s okay. I’ll talk to him. Thanks.”
She left, leaving an aura of annoyance and irritation in her wake. Tafir took his feet off his desk and gestured at a chair in front of him. “You’re from Homeland, but I didn’t catch your name.”
“Dr. Derek Stillwater.”
He proffered a hand and introduced himself. Derek held up his bandaged hands with an apologetic look.
Tafiar frowned. “So?” His hands splayed out in a “what now?” gesture.
“Quite a mess,” Derek said.
Tafir cocked his head. “You’re here for small talk? Yeah, Doctor. It’s quite a mess. I don’t know any details. Someone tried to blow up a cruise ship. So why come to me? That’s miles from here and now that they’re shutting the port down for at least twenty-four hours, I’ve got to totally reschedule for days and weeks. So I’m kind of busy. What do you want?”
“I want to know what your involvement with the explosion was.” He supposed he could have put that more gracefully, but he wanted to see Tafir’s reaction.
Tafir blinked. He flung a hand toward the window. “That explosion? What’re you talking about? I’m not involved at all.”
“Tell me about your relationship with Ibrahim Sheik Muhammad.”
Tafir’s expression went black. “What? I don’t have a relationship with him. Why? What does he have to do with me and—” He trailed off and Derek noted that his expression went from angry to worried.
“Mr. Tafir?”
Tafir’s voice was soft. “What’s going on here? Why do you think I had something to do with—” He waved toward the smoke on the horizon.
“Do you?”
“No!”
“Do you have a relationship with Sheik Muhammad?”
“Like I said, I don’t.”
“But you know him.”
“Do I? Not directly. I think Ibrahim Sheik Muhammad is a pain in the ass. A dangerous pain in the ass. Look, I’m a Muslim, sure, and I understand that you Homeland guys and the FBI all are suspicious of a Muslim working in import/export, but I’m an American citizen, okay? I don’t support al-Qaeda or any of that crap.”
“You said you don’t have anything to do directly with Ibrahim Sheik Muhammad. You have an indirect relationship?”
Tafir sighed and his expression now was one of profound frustration. “I know him. I disapprove. My—” Again, his voice trailed off and his eyebrows knitted together in worry. “Why are you asking about this?”
“Mr. Tafir, you received a telephone call from Ibrahim Sheik Muhammad around two o’clock this morning.”
“I most certainly did not.”
Derek raised an eyebrow. To his reluctant dismay, he wished O’Reilly and Shelly were with him right now. He leaned back in his chair, letting the silence build. Finally he said, “We know that Ibrahim Sheik Muhammad did in fact call your home in Century City around two o’clock and spoke to Ali—”
“I wasn’t at home. I’ve been here most of the night.”
Derek paused. “You can verify that?”
“Of course. I’ll call—”
Derek waved him off. Later. He said, “Why would the boss work midnights?”
“Because this business runs twenty-four seven and sometimes I like to be here at night to make sure I know who in hell works for me.”
“Sheik Muhammad did call your number this morning and he did talk to someone named Ali. You’re saying—”
Suddenly, alarm on his face, Tafir pulled out a cell phone and punched a button. After a moment he said, “Rana, let me talk to Aleem. What do you mean he’s not there? Where is he?”
Derek had no difficulty reading the current expression on Tafir’s face. Alarm had given away to fear, maybe even panic. He’d also switched into a language Derek guessed was Urdu. Tafir clicked off the phone and punched another number. He stared at the phone, pushed more buttons, pressed it to his ear. He ran a hand through his hair. Sweat broke out on his face, a light sheen on his forehead.
“Mr. Tafir? What’s wrong?”
When Tafir clicked off the phone a final time, his hands were trembling. Slowly he swiveled to face the window. He stood up and walked to the glass, hands pressed against it, looking toward the cruise ship and the smoke still billowing from the explosion.
“Mr. Tafir?”
Tafir turned and ran out of the office. Derek took off after him.
CHAPTER 29
In the parking lot, Tafir jumped into a silver Mercedes and roared off. Derek glanced around frantically and saw Shelly and O’Reilly running toward him. O’Reilly shouted, “What did you do?” Her tone was accusatory, but Derek ignored it.
“Let’s go. I think he’s going home.”
They jumped into the bucar and tore off after Tafir. It soon became obvious that home was exactly where Tafir was headed. Derek explained the phone call that had set Tafir off. “I think it’s a family member. A son, maybe.”
Shelly was immediately on the phone to Helen Birch back at FBI headquarters. “What do we have on Tafir’s family?”
She listened and asked a few more questions, then hung up. “Two children. A nineteen-year-old son named Aleem and a fifteen-year-old daughter named Bibi. His wife’s name is Rana. He wasn’t lying to you, either. He’s an American citizen. All of them are. The children were born here in the U.S.”
“I wonder if the son, Aleem, has a relationship with Ibrahim Sheik Mohammad,” O’Reilly said, staying close behind Tafir’s Mercedes.
“I would bet on it,” Shelly said.
Tafir drove his car into his building’s underground garage. Shelly and Derek jumped out and ran to the building to intercept him while O’Reilly found a place to park.
The security guard at the lobby was no more willing to let them pass than the one in the middle of the night had been. Derek scowled and paced while Shelly said, “We’re here about Mr. Tafir. Can you confirm when Mr. Tafir left the building last night?”
The guard, a moon-faced African-American in a black uniform complete with badge, shook his head. “I came on shift at eight this morning.”
“Do you have the phone number for the guard who was here at night?”
“Billy? Nuh-uh. Can’t give that out. What’s this all about?”
Rolling his eyes and shaking his head, Derek walked past him toward the elevator doors. The guard reached out for Derek. “Sir, you can’t go up unless—”
Derek brushed past him and jabbed the button. The guard came round the desk. “Sir, you need—”
With one quick and fluid motion, Derek snatched the guard’s gun from his holster. The guard looked more than startled. Fear spread across his face like a visible stain. His hands came up to his sides, almost in surrender, but not quite. “Sir—”
Derek held up his Homeland Security ID. “I’m going up. You’re welcome to accompany me. When Mr. Tafir sees me, he’ll let me in. But this is a matter of national security and you can do this easy or hard, but either way, I’m going up.”
“Sir, I don’t want to lose my job.”
The elevator bonged and the doors opened. Derek stepped in. “Are you coming?”
The guard hesitated. The elevator doors began to close. Derek set the gun down outside the elevator just as the doors shut.
He rode to the penthouse. Apparently there was a lot of money in import/exports. The elevator, one of two, opened onto a small lobby with four penthouse doors. He was debating which door belonged to Tafir when the second elevator opened behind him and Tafir burst into the hallway. The
man barely noticed Derek. He rushed past him and flung open the far door on the right. Derek was quick enough to slip in behind him.
“Rana! Rana! Where are you?”
A beautiful, dark-haired woman in a white silk blouse and charcoal slacks appeared. She was tall and slender and could have been a model. Derek was slightly startled at the woman’s looks, which were elegant and exotic. Her gaze shifted uneasily between Tafir and Derek. “What’s wrong? I heard about the explosion at the docks. Are you all right?”
Tafir caught her by the elbows. “Where is Aleem?”
“I don’t know. He wasn’t here when I got up this morning. Did you try calling him?”
“His cell turned over to voice mail. Where’s he supposed to be today?”
She looked bewildered. “School, as usual.” She looked at Derek. “Hello. I’m Rana Tafir.”
“Derek Stillwater, ma’am.”
Tafir gritted his teeth. “He’s with Homeland Security. They think this whole explosion mess has something to do with Ibrahim Sheik Muhammad.”
Rana paled. “And you think Aleem had something to do with it?”
“I don’t know,” Tafir said. “Aleem thought the Sheik was wonderful. I forbid him to have anything more to do with him, but—”
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Tafir spun and answered it. Shelly, O’Reilly, and the security guard stood in the hallway.
The security guard said, “Mr. Tafir, I’m very sorry—”
Tafir waved him off. “Go back downstairs, Nick. It’s okay.”
To the women Rana said, “And who are you?”
Shelly and O’Reilly introduced themselves. Rana held her left hand to her chest, as if feeling for a heartbeat. She seemed slightly breathless. Derek said, “Mrs. Tafir, perhaps it would be best if we all sat down. Where is your daughter?”
“How do you know about my daughter?” Tafir demanded.
Derek met his gaze. “You’ve got to be kidding?”
Tafir’s fists clenched. “I don’t like that. I don’t like it at all.”
“It’s simple, Mr. Tafir. You ended up in our headlights so we checked you out. And before this is through, I’m sure the Bureau, Homeland Security, and everybody else involved will find out significantly more about you and your family than even you know. Hopefully it’s all a misunderstanding.” But Derek didn’t think it was.
Rana interrupted. “Please, have a seat in the living room. Can I get everyone coffee?”
“That would be excellent, ma’am,” Derek said. “Thank you very much.” To Ali Tafir he said, “Do you have a photograph of your son? His name is Aleem, right?”
Tafir stared at him. “Why? Why do you want a photograph of him?”
Rana listened intently. She had not left for the kitchen yet.
O’Reilly said, “Please, Mr. Tafir, let’s sit down.”
Rana walked toward the kitchen and Tafir reluctantly led them into a sunken area facing a wall of windows overlooking Century City. It was a dazzling skyline, with the early afternoon sun flickering off glass high-rises.
Shelly said, “Tell us about your son, Mr. Tafir. Where does he go to school?”
Tafir glared at her. “He’s a freshman at UCLA. Business major.” He glanced toward the kitchen. His wife was visible, fussing with the coffeemaker, clearly listening.
“What does he have to do with Ibrahim Sheik Muhammad?” Shelly asked.
“That bastard is all over the universities trying to recruit Muslims to his madrasah. As far as I’m concerned, he’s an al-Qaeda recruiter. He pours hatred into these kids’ heads.”
From the kitchen came the clatter of cups and saucers and the gurgle of the coffeemaker. A moment later, Rana Tafir appeared carrying a silver tray with five coffee mugs, cream and sugar. She set it on the long, rectangular smoked-glass coffee table and passed out the mugs before sitting beside her husband.
Derek took a sip of his coffee and decided it was excellent and that he desperately needed it. He still felt lousy and his face and hands ached. He wondered if it was too early to take more Tylenol, figured what the hell, and swallowed a couple tablets.
Shelly continued her questioning. “What did Aleem find compelling about the Sheik’s message?”
Tafir’s hands shook, but Derek thought from rage, not fear. “Aleem thinks this—” He waved his hands around at the opulent surroundings. “—is a waste, a sin, something that Allah would frown upon. He thinks we should live like paupers. He doesn’t understand that all this that I earned from hard work and luck—Allah’s blessings—support thirty-five families at the company, pays for their health insurance and their retirement, that I give money to charities and to my mosque, that I have relatives back in Pakistan that I provide for. All he thinks is that we live too comfortably, that no Muslim should live well until they can all live well.”
Rana said, “Aleem is an idealist. He is very sensitive, and when non-Muslims show hatred for Muslims, he takes it very personally. He was devastated by the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. He takes it very personally, as if they’re attacking him.”
“Don’t defend him. He’s wrong and I’ve told him so.”
Derek thought: good to know that Muslim families are just as fucked up as everybody else’s.
He briefly thought of his missionary parents’ reactions when he joined the Army. It had taken him years to look back on that with any sense of humor.
He focused back on the Tafirs.
Shelly said, “Does Aleem have a job or an allowance?”
Derek turned to look at her, puzzled as to where she was going with that question. O’Reilly seemed curious as well.
“He worked for me at Compass if I could get him down there. Plus he’s got money. I guess you’d call it an allowance. Why?”
“What did he do with the money?” Shelly asked.
Tafir shrugged. “How would I know? Whatever college kids spend their money on. Music and girls and—”
Rana said, “He donated most of it to Sheik Muhammad’s madrasah.”
Tafir turned to her. “He what! How do you know that?”
“I asked him.”
Derek said, “I’d like to look at his bedroom.”
Tafir said, “You got a warrant?”
“No.”
“Ali, please. Let him look.”
Tafir’s mouth was a harsh flat line. His arms folded across his chest. “What are you looking for?”
Derek shrugged. “Why don’t you and I go in the bedroom and see what there is to see. Agents O’Reilly and Pimpuntikar can talk to your wife.”
Man to man, woman to woman, Derek thought. But he didn’t think Rana Tafir was the problem. Ali Tafir was, and he thought fear was putting the man’s back up as much as anything else. Tafir, he thought, would benefit from doing something, anything, just as long as he was in motion.
“Fine.” Tafir jumped to his feet and strode off down the hallway. Derek nipped along at his heels.
Aleem’s bedroom was spacious, with a big-screen plasma TV, an MP3 speaker system, a king-sized bed, and several shelves built of oak holding a dozen books and hundreds of DVDs, both movies and music. Rolled out on the floor next to the opulent bed was an embroidered prayer rug. A door led to a full bath.
Tafir said, “See? What did you expect? The materials for a bomb?”
What caught Derek’s attention was a sealed padded envelope lying on the top of the computer desk. It was labeled: MOTHER.
Quietly Derek said, “I think he left something for your wife.”
Tafir blinked, lunged toward the desk, and picked up the envelope, tearing it open. It was a CD in a jewel case.
He glanced around, then said, “Come on. I’ve got a computer in my office.”
Tafir pivoted on his heels and cut across the hallway into a smaller room that was set up as a home office. It was almost a cliché’d “man’s man” kind of room, Derek thought. Leather-bound furniture, dark wood, the ever-present plasma-screen TV.
Tafir booted up the computer, tapping a foot nervously on the thick plush carpeting.
It occurred to Derek that the package should probably have been opened by Rana Tafir, not Ali. However, because he wanted to see what was on the disk, he kept his mouth shut.
Once the computer was up and running, Tafir dropped the disk into the drive and clicked the mouse to get it running.
Derek came around the desk so he could watch the screen. After a moment a headshot appeared of a handsome young man who looked more like his mother than his father. So handsome he was almost pretty, with thick black hair, large brown eyes, and long eyelashes.