“To sum it up, we’ve taken a highly trained Iranian sniper off the board. Good work by the troopers, and a bit of good luck for the home team,” the agent said, wrapping up his slide show. He seemed pleased. The ATTF was hungry for success, particularly for one that might even be made public in a sanitized version.
Swanson and Summers glanced at each other, and Hunt caught the look. After the initial round of greetings, the two Marines had remained silent as ATTF specialists had spoken in turn, covering the case from a counterterrorism standpoint. Hunt addressed them. “Colonel Summers, Gunny Swanson, I asked both of you to this briefing because your unexpected presence at the original crime scene helped break this case. What are your opinions at this point?”
Sybelle placed her hands flat on the polished table, and every eye was on her. “You are giving this guy way too much credit. He was never any superman. Just look at his picture. He’s a slovenly mess.”
“Excuse me, Colonel Summers, but his mission in Maryland demonstrated a high degree of competence. Becoming such a good sniper required serious military training, obviously in Iran.” The speaker, a serious young woman from the CIA, lowered her half-glasses to the tip of her nose.
“Bullshit,” Kyle exclaimed abruptly and leaned forward on his elbows. “Since I’m the only scout-sniper here today, let me tell you that this guy is not a real sniper. His so-called training is just a bunch of jackassery. The Iranian military found a guy who could shoot straight, gave him some basic principles of marksmanship, and told him he’s a sniper. Their physical training is just an obstacle course where they swing on monkey bars and jump into holes. It’s nothing. A Girl Scout could do it.”
“Easy, Kyle,” said Hunt. “You were the one who figured out what happened in Maryland. Now it sounds like you’re changing your tune.”
Swanson pointed to the big flat-screen television hanging on the wall. A list of objects found in the car and trailer was still shown on it. “No, Dave, we’re just readjusting our thinking, based upon what came from the arrest. I agree with Colonel Summers.”
The woman CIA agent glared. “He had the murder weapon — a sniper rifle — in his possession, Gunnery Sergeant. A Russian-made Dragunov rifle like that is accurate to about nine hundred fifty meters. He was a dangerous guy.”
“What he had, ma’am, was a broke-ass old Russky hand-me-down. No matter what you may have read in Jane’s Infantry Weapons, the Dragunov may work up to six hundred and fifty meters, max, on its best day.”
Hunt took over as the CIA woman settled back in her chair, seething. “Kyle, I don’t understand why you are belittling this guy. We consider this a direct attack on American soil. It might even be considered an act of war.”
Sybelle answered. “Ladies and gentlemen, the gunny and I are just trying to bring a military viewpoint for your consideration. If Iran was staging a direct attack on the United States, don’t you think they would use the best people available, and do something more than grease an accountant? This guy Mobili looks like he has never passed up a Happy Meal and is a stranger to soap and shampoo. He may have been planted here as a mole, but he went native once he got a taste of the U.S. Your PowerPoint says that the trailer contained not only the weapons but also a PlayStation, an iPod, an upscale computer rig, and a bunch of porn videos. Once Mobili tasted what it was like to live free, he decided to enjoy the opportunity, and he wasn’t going to leave his toys behind when he ran.”
The CIA woman came back, a bit quieter now after parsing the logic. “What is your read on the second shooter?”
“My guess is that he will be much the same. Snipers need to train hard all the time, burn a lot of ammo, and keep sharp. That takes open space, dedication, time, and money. I don’t see Mobili and his partner being able to do that. A couple of Middle Eastern men with beards and big guns would certainly draw the attention of any hunters or gun enthusiasts who might stumble across them while they practiced in some North Carolina forest or the Utah canyons.”
Kyle nodded. “What has Mobili told you so far? Has he identified his buddy, admitted the shooting?”
Dave Hunt shook his head. “He lawyered up right away and hasn’t said a word other than he wanted a Koran for company. Apparently he has decided the time has come for him to forsake the pleasures of the infidels and resume being a faithful jihadi.”
“He’ll talk. Sooner or later,” the CIA woman said with solemn confidence.
Swanson agreed. “Look. For us, this began with a tip about the accountant who uncovered some financial crap in an Egyptian business that is an Iranian front. We’re going back to our original source and see if we can find out more, which we will turn over to everybody here. But before we do that, Colonel Summers and I would like to have some time alone with the prisoner. Let me talk to him, sniper to sniper, unofficially. Maybe I can pick up something. I promise not to hurt him.”
Dave Hunt stifled a chuckle that was heard as no more than a cough. There were definite limits to interrogation techniques, but he knew that Swanson and Summers seldom paid much attention to limits. He glanced around the table and saw no objections. “Let’s work something out after the meeting,” he said. “We can lay on a plane to Alabama after lunch.”
* * *
A pair of united States Marshals arrived a few hours later at the FBI field office in Birmingham, Alabama, for prisoner transport. Pejman Mobili had been taken from his holding cell and was ready to go, shackled, handcuffed, and wearing an orange prison jumpsuit with a dirty white jacket thrown around his shoulders. He held tightly to his religious book. The transfer of custody was a brief formality of paperwork and signatures.
“Y’all have a nice ride, now,” drawled the special agent holding the clipboard.
“Piece of cake,” said one of the marshals as they hustled the prisoner to a waiting dark SUV with a metal cage enclosing the backseat. “We drive straight through and deliver him in Washington like he was a pizza. Should we expect any problems?”
“No,” replied the FBI man. “Only thing is he may drive you nuts spouting verses from the Koran.”
The marshal shrugged. “We’ve had worse. The man’s entitled to his beliefs, right? We’ll just turn up the radio.”
Mobili was put into the backseat and strapped into a seat belt, and the hand and leg cuffs were locked to a chain attached to a steel ring welded on the floor. There was nothing he could do. The doors closed, locks clicked, and the SUV blended into the morning traffic and was gone.
The prisoner settled against the seat and studied his two new guards. Both wore dark blue windbreakers with US MARSHAL stamped on their backs in bright yellow. One was a man no bigger than himself, and a woman was driving. Just a couple of stupid American cops moving him to a new jail where somebody else would try to ask questions. His lawyer had emphasized that he should not answer anything; the less he said, the harder it would be for law enforcement to compile evidence.
The man in the front turned to face him with a startling mirthless smile and eyes that seemed to glitter with anticipation. “Make yourself at home back there, Mr. Mobili. Read your prayers. We won’t be long.” Kyle Swanson looked at his big wristwatch. “Let us know if you need anything.”
The prisoner ignored the guard’s clumsy attempt to establish some relationship. He said nothing and opened his Koran. His lips moved silently with the familiar beloved words, and he began rocking back and forth as their power gripped him. He shut his eyes and recited a sura, letting his thoughts wander. How had he ever drifted so far from the teachings? He had been a faithful servant until a year after coming to America, when the temptations of the flesh and the senses had gradually eaten away at the truth of his life, and he gave in. It was all the plan of Allah, wasn’t it? He had been instructed to adopt the dreadful ways of the West and live as one of them until he was needed. Once called, he had carried out the assignment, then was caught by a traffic cop. Surely that had been his fate? Would it end there? No, Allah had kept him alive for a bigger purpo
se, something as yet unknown. Being killed by the American police had never worried him, for to die as a martyr was a fitting, noble end. Mobili had finally turned away from the infidels. Between now and whatever his destiny might be, he would immerse himself in the teachings of the Book. He hoped Major Shakuri would pay the lawyers.
ALABAMA
They had been moving steadily on Interstate 59 to the northeast from Birmingham for about an hour when the woman driver slowed, went up a ramp, and turned left at the overpass where a combination gas station and restaurant was the only structure. Big trucks were parked side by side, some with their engines running and exhaust fumes blooming white from their pipes. She stayed on the smaller state road that ran as straight as an engineer could draw it for about five miles, and the intersection and the passing vehicles on the busy highway gave way to a rural setting of flat fields and files of hardy trees along the meandering creeks. “There’s the truck, Kyle,” she said, “and the Lincolns are right beside it.” She coasted the SUV to a stop.
When Kyle Swanson opened the door, the overwhelming stench of pigs swept into the vehicle.
The smell jarred the prisoner. “What is this place? Why are we here?” The pig was a filthy animal, and the blood and flesh of the swine were an abomination in Islam.
“Shut up,” Sybelle said, and she also left the SUV to join the small group.
Mobili stared. The two black men wearing filthy blue denim bib overalls were solemn. Not police. One slapped his palm hard against the ventilated trailer of the eighteen-wheel rig and laughed when the cargo of pigs squealed in fright.
Swanson turned away from the group and returned to the SUV, threw open the door, and unlocked the chains. He hauled Mobili out.
The odor almost made the prisoner gag. “What are you doing?” Mobili shouted. “Police cannot inflict cruel and unusual punishment in this country.”
Kyle grabbed him by the shirtfront and threw him hard onto the ground. The surprised prisoner rolled over but came back with a sneer. “I know my rights!”
“Things have changed, and the sooner you understand that, the better. You are nothing but a terrorist asshole from Iran who infiltrated into my country and murdered an American citizen in his own home. That means you have fallen into a black hole, because you have now been declared an enemy combatant. You no longer have a lawyer, no constitutional protections of any sort, and you will never see the inside of a public civilian court.” Swanson jerked him to his feet and forced him toward the trailer. “Also, I’m not a cop, and I can do to you whatever the fuck I want. From now on, you belong to me.”
Mobili struggled to keep his balance. “I refuse to answer any of your questions.”
“I haven’t asked you anything.” He ripped the Koran from the prisoner’s grip and shoved him toward the pair of men, who caught him with steel-strong arms. “These gentlemen are Buster and Jim Lincoln, who work a pig farm near here. Buster used to play football for Alabama and Jim for Auburn.”
“Roll Tide,” said Buster.
“War Eagle,” snapped Jim.
Kyle resumed. “Buster was a Marine.”
“Semper fi!”
“Jim was an Army Ranger.”
“Hoo-ah.”
“They had a sister, Beatrice, who was an attorney working in the North Tower of the World Trade Center in New York on 9/11. Not a shred of her body was ever recovered after your jihadi buddies smashed a big plane into her office. So, Mr. Mobili, you’re going for a ride with the brothers Lincoln and their pigs. There are some things they would like to discuss with you. Maybe you will live through the next few hours or maybe you will become a smelly pile of digested pig shit, and I really don’t give a damn one way or another.”
5
CAIRO, EGYPT
“Were the Admirals satisfactory, sir?” Major Shakuri asked Colonel Naqdi when he came into the office for the evening briefing, dreading it, for he brought some bad news.
“Moving slowly, as usual,” the colonel replied. “They are afraid of putting their expensive toys in harm’s way, and I have to remind them firmly that those ships were built or bought to do exactly that. What do you have for me?”
Mansoor handed over a single sheet of paper containing a summary of the Egyptian Tourism Authority’s dismal monthly report. The industry that was the nation’s primary source of jobs and revenue was drifting toward total collapse. Almost fifteen million tourists had visited Egypt in 2010, more than ever before; then, immediately after the fall of the dictator Mubarak, that number went off the cliff. Tourism was now down 80 percent.
The illusion of personal security had been crushed, and foreigners were taking their MasterCards to safer destinations instead of coming to Egypt to drift down the Nile and visit the Pyramids and the Sphinx. Millions of dollars were being lost every month, thousands of Egyptians were cast out of work, and the coalition governments that came and went with regularity were blamed.
“This is excellent,” said the colonel. “Keep the pressure on. Come up with some incidents where other tourists with camera phones capture the action for television. Maybe a German riding a camel, or a Canadian woman shopping for a rug, or some American hikers who believe they are exempt from the world’s woes.”
“Yes, sir.” Major Mansoor sucked in a sharp breath. Better to get this next part over with. “There has been an unwelcome development concerning the death of the American accountant. The sniper who was supposed to fly to Texas decided to drive instead and has been arrested on a traffic violation in the state of Alabama.”
The colonel closed his eyes tightly, fighting his temper. There was no need to argue about this, because Allah had willed it so. He remained quiet for a moment, letting his thoughts churn through the problem. “We must assume that the U.S. government has assumed custody of this fool by now. Can he hurt us?”
Mansoor felt almost giddy with relief that he was not being blamed. “No, sir. He knows nothing. If he remembers any of his training, and is faithful, he will not say a word to them, even under torture, particularly if we maintain his legal representation.”
“Why did he drive instead of fly?” That made no sense. The man should have been safe in Texas instead of in a jail cell.
“I have no idea, sir. His instructions were explicit, to get on the first plane available.”
The colonel pushed away from the desk a bit and crossed his legs, straightening the creases in his pants as he did so. The black shoes still gleamed in the overhead light. “You gave those instructions to him personally?”
“Yes, sir, in the usual way, sir, through encoded e-mails on a pornography site. The links were taken down after each use. He knew only enough to carry out the assigned task.”
The colonel cocked his head to one side. “So there’s really nothing we can do.” It was a statement, not a question. “The man made a serious error and it came back to bite him.”
“He cannot hurt us, sir. I’m certain of that, but it is unforgivable that he disobeyed orders.”
“Instruct our people in Tehran to kill the fool’s mother, and have that news passed along when Washington allows him to communicate with a lawyer. That will encourage him to remain quiet.”
Major Mansoor smoothly moved to the next subject. “We have had a positive result, sir, on your idea to follow the accountant’s route home to determine if he met with anyone. Aside from the travel and hotel people, his only private meeting was in London, with an industrialist named Sir Geoffrey Cornwell.” He slid a typed biography and a photograph across the desk.
The colonel studied it. “I know of this man. Retired colonel in the British SAS, a wealthy industrialist and an expert in weapons development.” He shut his eyes once again in thought, wondering what Cornwell might have done with the information from the accountant. “Major, I want you to dig deeper on Cornwell. Examine his schedule for the next few weeks to see if there is an opening through which we can get to him.”
Mansoor made a note on his pad. “Yes, sir.”
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The colonel was studying the biography again. “And one other thing. Take a look at his wife, this Lady Patricia Cornwell, too. Perhaps we might reach her with less trouble. If we take her, Sir Geoffrey will be much more willing to have a conversation with us.”
ALABAMA
Jim Lincoln held their unwilling guest in a steel-tight grip as Buster Lincoln opened a rear door of the enclosed truck trailer. When Pejman Mobili struggled, Jim said, “Be still, boy. I’m looking for a reason to hurt you.”
“Where are the police?” shouted Mobili.
“Don’t know.”
“What about that man and woman? Give me back to them.”
“You really don’t want that,” Jim answered. “Pair of badasses, the both of them. Kill you without a thought. You better off ridin’ along with us for a while.”
“Hey, Jim?” Buster’s deep voice came from inside the ventilated trailer. “We already got a dead piggy back here. Damn.”
“Can’t sell a dead pig,” Jim explained to the prisoner. “We do our best to get them all to market alive, but they are fragile little things. Even these two-hundred-pounders.”
“I demand that you give me back to the police! My lawyer!”
“We don’t use electric prods or slap ’em around. Grow up on our farm and they get treated pretty good. We even work close around them so they get used to being near humans. They’re afraid of their own shadows, and getting them to market is a chore in itself, ain’t it, Buster?”
Mobili heard the other man rattling things around inside the truck. Pigs were squealing and snorting. “Sure is. Can’t be too hot, not too cold, not too wet, not too dry. Just the right kind of bedding. Partitions to keep the groups separate so they don’t fight and bite tails or kill each other. OK, hand him up here, brother. We can put him in with the dead one.”
Mobili squirmed, but Jim Lincoln easily lifted him up, and Buster caught him under the arms and hauled him in the rest of the way. “No! Please!”
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