The Enemy Inside

by William Christie

  “You’re right,” said Karen, staring down at the floor and nodding solemnly. “We should be totally ashamed of ourselves.”

  “Definitely,” said Beth.

  Then they both burst into laughter.

  “You know what would be fun?” said Karen. “Trying to guess which model Barbie she looks like.”

  “Yes, it would,” said Beth. “God help us.”

  They were parked at the back of the market.

  “Okay, we’re not going in,” said Sondra Dewberry. “Are we waiting for him to come out?”

  “Ordinarily, I’d say yes,” Beth replied. “But we’ve got two carloads full of impatient testosterone waiting to execute the search warrant and rip his office apart. So, rather than argue with them ...”

  She took out her phone and consulted her notebook for a number. “May I speak to Roshan Malik, please? Mr. Malik? Sir, this is Providence St. Joseph Medical Center calling. Yes, sir. Your son Umar has had an accident. He just sprained his ankle, sir, no other injuries. He’s being treated as we speak. Yes, he’s fine. Your wife is here but she’s quite upset and asked us to call you. Yes, sir, in Burbank. I’ll tell her.”

  Beth tucked her phone away. “He’ll be out in a minute.”

  “That’s against policy,” said Dewberry.

  “So is getting yourself or the suspect hurt while making an arrest,” said Beth. “Or at least it ought to be.” She started the car and moved it across the lot, parking right next to his.

  Four minutes later Roshan Malik came rushing out the back door. He was quite tall and his body seemed too thin for his head and hands, which seemed too large for his neck and wrists. He was clean shaven and dressed in a suit. But a cheap haircut and a department store suit. The car was a Honda Accord. Four-cylinder. He didn’t spend money on himself, but the kids were in private school.

  Dewberry exited out the passenger door right in front of him. “Are you Roshan Malik?”

  She’d startled him. “Yes ... I’m sorry, I don’t have time right now.” His English had a faint British accent to it.

  Sondra flashed her credentials at him. “Sir, I’m Special Agent Dewberry, FBI. You’re under arrest.”

  Anxiety turned to agitation turned to panic. “What? What is this about?”

  Dewberry swept her jacket back and placed her hand on her holstered pistol. “Put your hands behind your back.”

  Everyone has instincts. All different, but they all tell a story. He obeyed her.

  Beth had come around the back of the car, behind him. She grabbed his wrist and snapped one handcuff on. Then the other. She frisked him quickly, then turned him around to face her.

  “My son,” Malik said.

  “Your son’s all right,” said Beth. “He’s at school, not the hospital. We just didn’t want to arrest you in your place of business.” Grasping the handcuff chain, she herded him to their sedan and opened the back door. “Watch your head.” She pushed him into the backseat, locked the door, then went around to the other side. She plucked the walkie-talkie from her belt and spoke into it. “We’ve got him; go ahead.”

  The other agents moved into the market to execute the search warrant.

  “Roshan Malik,” said Beth. “You’re under arrest for violation of Title 18, Section 2315 of the U.S. Code: sale or receipt of stolen goods. You have the right to remain silent.” She read him the rest of the Miranda warning, finishing with, “Do you understand these rights as I’ve explained them to you?”

  “Arrest ... stolen goods?”

  Beth hit it a little more sharply. “Do you understand your rights?”

  “Yes, I understand.” And then more vehemently, “I have received no stolen goods!”

  “Really?” said Beth. “Well, look at it this way. If we didn’t think so, we wouldn’t have arrested you.”

  They didn’t discuss the matter further until they reached the Federal Building. And not even then. Beth had Malik kept in a holding cell for two hours. Then had two male agents bring him to an interrogation room and handcuff him to the bar on the table.

  In the room was a television set ready for video playback. And a video camera on a tripod. The FBI had an unwritten rule that it did not record interrogations in anyway other than agents taking notes. The belief was that an agent’s word in court was more than good enough. But Beth had seen that raise a few doubts in juries’ minds, so she made a point of recording all of hers. She’d never had a confession thrown out or lost a case on appeal, so Timmins let her get away with it. You’d think defense lawyers would love it, but they didn’t. Juries loved it, because they loved cop shows and didn’t mind seeing a defendant get tricked. And video left no reasonable doubts.

  Beth, Dewberr y, and Timmins were watching through the one-way mirror next door.

  “Okay, he’s been simmering nicely,” said Beth. “Now it’s time to start cooking.”

  Dewberry started to follow her out the door, but Beth raised a hand. “This needs to be one-on-one.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “No. You can watch from here.”

  She left the room, and Dewberry was furious. “Ben, I should be in there with my partner.”

  “Did Beth want you in there?” Timmins asked. But he didn’t wait for an answer. “Then stay here and watch. I’ve never seen anyone better than her in the room.”

  “I know how to handle myself in an interrogation room.”

  “I don’t doubt it. And as soon as Beth doesn’t, you’ll be in the room. When you see how she works, you’ll understand.” Timmins knew Beth was showing some attitude. But he also knew that one piece of wrong body language, without a word spoken, could blow an entire interrogation. Especially up on the high wire where Beth worked.

  Beth walked into the interrogation room and turned on the video camera, checking to make sure the viewfinder was covering everything. Then she unlocked Malik’s handcuffs.

  This was the time when the real al-Qaeda would start screaming about being tortured, especially with a camera present. Malik just rubbed his wrists and glowered at her.

  “My name is Special Agent Elizabeth Royale of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You are Roshan Malik, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  She was matter-of-fact, but not official or hostile. He was wounded and resentful, the innocent man hounded by the State.

  “You have been advised of your constitutional rights and understand them fully, is that correct?”

  “Yes. I am innocent ...”

  Beth could sense when someone was about to lawyer up, so she decided to try a new move she’d been thinking about. “You know what you should do? You should remain silent. I’m not going to ask you any questions. You just listen carefully, and I’ll tell you what’s going on.

  “What’s going on is, your brother-in-law Shakir is in the room next door, telling my colleagues that you were the one receiving the stolen goods and reselling them in the markets. I was just in there listening. He gave his brother-in-law Roshan a job out of the goodness of his heart. You ran the business for him, you were in charge of all the inventory. He didn’t know anything about it.”

  When a person is angry their face turns red. When they’re under great stress the body calls all that blood back to the core to protect itself. Roshan’s face was chalk white.

  “From our point of view,” said Beth, “we really can’t argue with that. After all, you do run the stores. But don’t worry, we don’t think Shakir is innocent.”

  She turned on the TV and showed Malik the warehouse tape. “So you see, no one’s denials are going to work.”

  It burst out of him. “I know nothing of this!”

  “Ssshhh. Just listen. Because you know what? I believe you. And that isn’t some kind of trick. I’ve been watching you for quite some time. I’ve been watching your family. Your wife is a fine woman, and you have beautiful children. I think you’re a good guy. You care about your family, and you take good care of them. And I think Shakir’
s the criminal here.”

  It came sputtering out. “Then ...”

  “But it doesn’t matter what I think,” Beth said regretfully. “Because all my superiors, and the U.S. Attorney, they all think you’re in it with Shakir. They won’t listen to me, and you’re not going to convince them. And the sad part is, you’re not going to convince a jury either. They’re going to look at all those videotapes, and believe me we have a lot more. And they’re going to ask why, if you’re innocent, why didn’t all that baby food get delivered by your regular distributors? And it didn’t. It got delivered by your brother-in-law’s cronies in a rental truck. And you didn’t notice? So of course you had to have been involved.”

  Roshan opened his mouth to speak.

  “You don’t have to say anything. I think Shakir duped you, told you he’d gotten some special deal somewhere. Something like that. But you know what? You can’t prove it, and no one else is going to believe it without proof. It’s going to seem like a weak attempt at an alibi instead of the truth. And you’re going to prison. And the government’s not only going to seize the markets, but also your home in Studio City. And your family is going back to Pakistan.”

  Beth spread some photos out on the desk. Shakir speaking furtively with various Middle Easterners in various settings. “And why is your family going back to Pakistan? Because of Shakir’s associates here. He ran with a very suspicious crowd, people we’ve had our eye on. Because of all the money he sent back to Pakistan. He sent back a lot of money, and it didn’t end up with your family. Like I said, I think you’re a good guy, but your brother-in-law wrecked your life.”

  Roshan Malik covered his face with his hands and began to cry.

  Beth got up and left the room.

  “He’s going to smash the TV and video camera,” Dewberry said to Timmins.

  “No, he won’t,” said Timmins.

  Beth came in.

  “You peeled him like an onion, Beth,” Timmins said. “What’s next?”

  “I’ll let him have a good cry and visualize the end of his life as he’s known it. Then I’ll go back in and save him. Anyone want a soda?”

  “Ah, no thanks,” said Timmins.

  “No, thank you,” said Dewberry.

  “Okay.” Beth left them staring through the window.

  She returned to the interrogation room a half hour later with a Diet Coke and a box of tissues. Roshan was haggard, in the depths of personal depression. Beth was all maternal sympathy. She urged the soda and tissues on him. Had him take a drink and blow his nose, just like a little boy. Then he was ready.

  “I’ve been talking to my bosses,” Beth told him. “It was tough. They say they’ve got enough to put you behind bars, so why should they bother?”

  “Look at that,” Timmins said in the other room. “Now she’s the coconspirator with him, against us.”

  “But look,” Beth went on. “You know they’re interested in the radical community. They don’t care about Shakir anymore, he’s as good as in jail right now. But if you agreed to give them information on Shakir’s friends, that would interest them. If you did that, I think I can keep you out of prison, and your family in their home.”

  If you stare into the pit long enough and someone drops you a ladder, you don’t stop and read the warranty on the ladder. You start climbing out of sheer relief.

  “You have to decide,” said Beth. “They won’t wait long—they’ll put you into the system.” She slid a printed form and a pen across the table. “If you waive your right to a lawyer, and your right to silence, I think I can get them to make a deal.”

  Malik looked at the form, and hesitated.

  “No, no,” Timmins whispered urgently, as if he were watching a ball game. “Sign it, you asshole.”

  “But listen to me,” Beth said confidingly. “Don’t tell them anything until they agree to the deal.”

  Roshan signed the form.

  “Got him!” Timmins exclaimed from behind the mirror.

  Beth picked up the form. “Try and relax, and drink your soda. I’m going to go put this together.”

  “Thank you,” said Roshan Malik.

  Beth gave him a brilliant smile.

  When she came into the room, Timmins said, “I told you once that your session with the Michigan al-Qaeda ought to be a training tape at the Academy. Well, this one tops that. You not only got him to waive before you asked a single question, you put him on the payroll as a human source before you asked him a single question. Any defense lawyer who saw that tape would go outside and blow his brains out.”

  “Except no one’s seeing the tape,” said Beth.

  “It’s now classified Top Secret and going in the safe,” Timmins assured her. “Beth, you’ve done some great work in the room before, but this is the very best.”

  “Thanks, Ben. Like my dad always said: if you have what people want, the only question is the price. Now I need you to come in and be the hard-ass.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Just come in with the attitude that it’s all bullshit. You say: I understand you want to help us. But like you think it’s bullshit. Dig your heels in any chance you get. I’ll play with my earring if I think we’re going down the wrong track. That happens, you say you want to see me outside. And we’ll regroup.”

  “Okay.”

  An anxious-looking Beth held the door open, and a scowling Timmins entered the interrogation room.

  Beth told Roshan, “This is my boss, Supervisory Special Agent Timmins.”

  “I understand you’re prepared to offer us some information?” Timmins snapped.

  Roshan looked at Beth, and she nodded encouragingly.

  “Yes, sir,” said Roshan. “My brother-in-law Shakir ...”

  “I don’t care about his brother-in-law,” said Timmins, ignoring Malik and speaking directly to Beth. “This man doesn’t know anything. He’s just trying to stay out of jail.”

  The naked hope on Roshan’s face was now crumbling into despair.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Timmins,” said Beth. “I think if you’d just give this man a chance, he could provide some important information on his brother-in-law’s radical Islamic associates.”

  “Well?” Timmins demanded.

  Beth nodded to Roshan again, with a pleading look, as if imploring him to make it good.

  “My brother-in-law Shakir is friendly with a group of men who belong to a mosque in Lodi,” Roshan said haltingly. “They are very hard line. Four of them have had military training in Pakistan.”

  “What, you mean they were in the Pakistani army?” said Timmins. “There are a lot of ex-soldiers running around. I’m one myself.”

  “No, sir,” said Roshan. “They did not receive training from the Pakistani army. They received training at a terrorist camp in Pakistan.”

  “You mean Afghanistan, don’t you?” Timmins said sharply. “A lot of people passed through the Afghan camps before 9/11.”

  “No, sir,” said Roshan. “In this camp they learned weapons. They learned to make bombs. They learned to be terrorists. They went to Pakistan for this. From Rawalpindi to a camp in Mansehra. Last year.” He looked to Beth for approval, and she nodded encouragingly.

  “We might be interested in that,” said Timmins, still ignoring Roshan and speaking directly to Beth. “We could probably get some time taken off his sentence.”

  “Mr. Timmins, please,” said Beth. “This sounds like first-class information. And I’m sure he has more.” She looked over at Roshan and he nodded enthusiastically. “Couldn’t we find some way to get him immunity?”

  “Drop the charges?” said Timmins. “You must be joking. We’ve got him dead to rights.”

  Roshan’s face fell again.

  “Mr. Timmins,” Beth implored. “Think about this. He’s Shakir’s brother-in-law, after all. What if he got in touch with those people? Joined their circle, so to speak. And then let us know what they’re doing.” She looked over at Roshan again, and he nodd
ed eagerly. “Maybe he could even be the intermediary between them and Shakir?”

  “You think he can do it?” Timmins asked skeptically.

  “I’m sure he can,” said Beth. She looked over, and the hope had returned to Roshan’s face.

  “I don’t know,” said Timmins. “If we do this, I’m making it your responsibility.”

  “That would be fine, sir,” said Beth. “I know he won’t let us down.” She tugged on her earring.

  “Let me speak to you outside,” said Timmins.

  When he turned to leave, Beth gave Roshan an “everything’s fine” hand signal.

  On the other side of the door, she said, “That was great, Ben. Everything we needed.

  Timmins had actually been afraid she was going to jump on his ass about something. He kind of knew how Roshan felt. “He’s hooked like a mackerel. What’s next?”

  “I work fast with him, because I’m sure Shakir’s lawyer is going to show up pretty soon. Then I’ll talk to the Assistant U.S. Attorney. When he’s arraigned, we’ll accept minimal bail. If he doesn’t have the cash to make it, we’ll put it up.”

  “I don’t think I’d like to have that getting around,” said Timmins. “Bailing out our own arrest.”

  “Bailing out our own informant,” Beth replied. “And before they come up for arraignment we’ll have to arrange for both him and Shakir to be put in isolation. I don’t care about Shakir, but I don’t want Roshan to get shanked. Or gangbanged. It might affect his enthusiasm for working for us.”

  “I don’t see any problem with that. Let me know if you run into any. By the way, Beth, since I had to clear this all the way up to the Director, the Director will probably want to see that tape.”

  Beth shrugged. “What the Director wants, the Director gets.”

  “It’ll be a feather in your cap.”

  “With all the feathers sticking out of my head, how about a new partner?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, then I’ll just be happy with the Director’s approval. The last time that happened I got that big-ass thousand-dollar bonus. I paid off a credit card and bought five pairs of shoes.”