Targets Down

by Bob Hamer

  "The kind that doesn't like uninvited guests walking in when certain items in the warehouse are not available to the general public. What do you think I'm running here, Sam's Club? I've got great deals, but my membership is more restrictive. What do you want?"

  "We need to talk."

  "Show me your membership card, and I'll let you in," said Matt with a smile.

  Boris raised his hand in jest as if about to give Matt a backhanded slap, pushing past Matt toward the office.

  "Want something to drink?" asked Matt as he opened the refrigerator door. It was stocked with soft drinks and beer. Boris reached for a Diet Pepsi.

  Boris threw the wedding picture on Matt's desk. It was wrinkled as if J. D. folded it up and stuffed it in his shirt after taking it from Caitlin's desk.

  "Did you hear about J. D.?" asked Boris.

  "You said he brought this to your office."

  "No, some woman walking her dog found him in a vacant lot up near the 118 Freeway."

  Matt couldn't tell if Boris was purposely being vague trying to catch Matt disclosing too many details of the death. Focus.

  "What was he doing, sleeping one off?"

  "No, he was dead."

  "Dead? When? How?"

  "Yesterday. The police are calling it a suicide," said Boris taking a sip but appearing oblivious to Matt's reaction.

  "You don't believe it?"

  "No, I believe it," said the Russian shrugging his shoulders and throwing open his free hand.

  "How did he do it?"

  "He blew his brains out."

  "You said he was crazy. He must have been more screwed up than any of us thought. Did he give any clue as to why he would eat his gun?"

  "No, but he's of no interest to me, and he's not the reason I'm here."

  Matt was more than willing to change the subject. If Boris didn't care, Matt certainly didn't want to dwell on the death. "So what can I do for you?"

  "I need access to a warehouse."

  "How much room do you need?"

  "I need to store a truck for a few days, and I'll need to work on it to make some modifications to it. You got room?"

  "Yeah, I got room. I'm empty right now so I got room for a truck. When do you need it?" Matt leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head.

  "I'm not sure yet. I'm just trying to get everything lined up."

  "If you're talking tonight, I got room. If you're talking tomorrow, ask tomorrow. I may get containers in tonight if somebody gets lucky at a truck stop."

  Boris pulled an envelope from inside his shirt. He threw it on the desk. "I am invoking what you call the six four three zero zero rule."

  Matt smiled, recognizing the reference, trusting out of fear or allegiance anything anyone of Boris's size said.

  "You can count it if you wish. It is five thousand dollars. I need your warehouse for a week, and I'm not interested in sharing it with anyone else. Will this cover the rent for a week?"

  "You, my friend, just rented my warehouse for a week."

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  Matt debated the issue with Dwayne and Steve. Both strongly suggested he not attend, but neither made it an order. Caitlin insisted she was going so Matt knew he would be there, more for protection than support. Since this undercover assignment began, his schedule was chaotic, the hours irregular, and everything seemed to be coming at once with little time to prepare or process. Most assignments lasted months, with downtime, periods of inactivity, almost boredom. To date that was not the case. Each day brought something different. Boris and his crew were worthy targets and needed to be brought down. Matt would make the time to ensure their convictions, but today was personal even though he was on the clock.

  They pulled into the near-empty parking lot of the small church. At first Caitlin suggested they had the wrong day or location. Then she saw a familiar face from school, Ramon Sanchez, the principal. He came for the funeral of Michael Hughes's, stepfather, J. D. Pinney.

  Matt didn't say anything, but he knew they were at the right spot. He saw the surveillance van on the street covering the entrance to the church. Their primary purpose was to protect Matt if the issue arose, but a secondary responsibility was to photograph those in attendance.

  The tiny church sat maybe seventy-five, but there was no rush for seats. With minutes before the scheduled start, only ten people were seated. Michael and his mother were on the front pew, and the others were scattered throughout the room. Michael turned to see Caitlin and gave her a genuine smile, maybe a smile of relief. An organ played as mourners quietly sat waiting for the service to begin. A closed casket was centered in the front of the church, and the only flowers were those sent by Matt and Caitlin.

  Matt worried Boris and his crew would attend, thus drawing more attention to his wife, but in a phone conversation, Boris made clear he did not celebrate the death of anyone so weak he'd take his own life. Boris must have put out the word. Apparently, no one else from the Veil chose to honor the deceased either. Had they known the real reason behind the death, the church would have been full, and those in attendance would be gunning for the undercover agent.

  Matt could reflect later on the fact he killed a man and his family would suffer the indignity of a small service honoring the deceased. Each action has a consequence, and Matt's actions impacted far beyond his wingspan.

  The minister walked out on schedule and began the brief ceremony designed more to comfort Alicia and her son than to praise a dead man.

  Within fifteen minutes the service was over with little fanfare. Matt and Caitlin met with the family in the narthex. The twice-widowed Alicia gave Caitlin a long, heartfelt embrace yet shed no tears.

  Michael was sitting on a bench by himself, and Caitlin made her way to him. She bent down and gave her pupil a hug offering condolences. They spoke for several minutes. When she rose, tears were streaming down her face.

  Matt and Caitlin walked to the parking lot in silence, Caitlin trying to gain control of her emotions. Matt was bathed in guilt believing he was the cause of his wife's tears. He held the door and kissed her as she entered the car.

  As he started the engine, he asked, "Are you okay?"

  When the tears dried, she whispered, "Michael just told me J. D. had been beating his mother since before the marriage, but he was too afraid to tell anyone. He said he's glad his stepfather is dead."

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  The next morning Matt returned from his daily race through the streets of Thousand Oaks. He finished the five-mile course in less than thirty-five minutes, his self-imposed goal for each run. As he entered the kitchen, still dripping sweat, Caitlin looked up.

  "You aren't going to be happy," she said.

  "Why?"

  "The Times has an article on the al-Dirani sentencing and the case."

  Matt gave a quick read of the article and was livid. "What an idiot!"

  "Who?" Knowing the answer.

  "The Queen Mother." He let out an expletive and headed to the bedroom, ripping off his running clothes as he walked down the hallway.

  Matt showered quickly. As he was toweling off, Caitlin walked into the bedroom.

  "You okay?"

  "Yeah, I'm fine. She has no concept of what it's like to work the streets. That crap she told the Times was for one reason only, to further her career. It served no other purpose."

  "Maybe she thought it would put the FBI in a better light. You guys need all the positive publicity you can get. After all, you did stop a terrorist attack. The Times is quick to jump on the mistakes. She just took the opportunity to sing the Bureau's praises for a change."

  "You mean sing her praises, don't you?"

  "Are you jealous she didn't mention your name?" Then a smiling Caitlin said playfully, "Mommy, look
at me. I got my name in the paper."

  Matt offered a weak smile as he threw on a pair of jeans and a faded Polo shirt.

  "But how will my mom ever be able to brag to her friends at church how her little boy kept the world safe for democracy if no one knows it was me?"

  "I'll tell Mommy you really are a hero."

  "Thanks, but you know why I'm mad."

  "Yes, I do and I'm sorry. She is an idiot."

  Matt kissed Caitlin and started to leave. She grabbed him and pulled him toward her. The two embraced for an extended moment and kissed passionately.

  Caitlin said, "Hurry home tonight."

  "Can we consummate the marriage?"

  She winked, "If you get home before I fall asleep."

  "Just wear something sexy to bed. I'll handle the rest. Besides, you can sleep through it if you want."

  She feigned disgust, "It's all about you, huh, Cowboy."

  "You got it babe."

  MATT ARRIVED AT JERRY'S Famous Deli on Ventura Boulevard in Woodland Hills. Dwayne was waiting on the patio, coffee in hand.

  Before either could exchange anything close to a greeting, Matt was waving the folded Los Angeles Times and said, "She's an idiot. At least in her case we know the lobotomy worked, but why put her in a position of responsibility? Can she not keep her mouth shut when the press starts sniffing around? Why not just release our ops orders? Save the reporters from doing all that digging."

  Dwayne shook his head. There really wasn't too much to say. Matt was saying it all.

  Ibrahim Saleh Mohammad al-Dirani, AKA Dr. Ibrahim or Ismad, a Muslim extremist from Egypt, was snagged in an FBI undercover operation last year. A medical doctor, al-Dirani infiltrated World Angel Ministry, a Christian charity treating children injured in war-torn countries. Matt spent months undercover at the charity. Al-Dirani and his American-born, home-grown terrorist girlfriend were the statistical successes of that operation. Al-Dirani's original target was the Israeli consulate when the vice president was scheduled to visit. A series of mistakes resulted in the terrorist changing his plans at the last minute. Matt prevented the detonation of a dirty bomb at the Century City Renaissance Hotel on the evening of the planned attack. A lot of lives were saved and a terrorist act prevented. The U.S. Attorney for the Central District of California never sought the approval of the Attorney General to file the matter as a capital case. The powers in Washington refused to give the Egyptian doctor and his supporters the satisfaction of martyrdom status. Yesterday al-Dirani was sentenced to life without the possibility of parole. He will spend the rest of his life at the United States Penitentiary, Administrative Maximum in Florence, Colorado. Known as Supermax, al-Dirani joins Zacarias Moussaoui, dubbed the twentieth hijacker, and Richard Reid, the shoe bomber, in the nation's most secure federal prison. The U.S. Attorney's Office, the FBI, and every agency represented on the Joint Terrorism Task Force were present for a press conference following the sentencing, all praising the other for a job well done. All taking the glory for what could have been another devastating attack on U.S. soil.

  The Times article covered the sentencing and press conference, but then it went further. Pamela Clinton gave an exclusive interview to the Times reporter. She detailed the undercover operation conducted by the JTTF, discussing Matt's assignment. She reported for the first time the potency of caesium-137, the ingredient making the explosive device Matt disabled, a dirty bomb. In fact, the solution was extremely weak. Although strong enough to cause panic, it would not have been fatal had the bomb been detonated. The dirty bomb just wasn't all that dirty. But even more troubling than releasing that information, she said, "The FBI, the lead agency at the Joint Terrorism Task Force, avails itself of all investigative techniques, including undercover operations, which are ongoing as we speak in an effort to protect the citizens of Los Angeles." She then confirmed the Bureau uses wiretaps, phone traps, national security letters, as well as undercover agents to stop terrorist attacks before they happen. "The agent who thwarted this attack is busy currently assisting our Joint Terrorism Task Force in another undercover investigation. We are fortunate to have such dedicated employees willing to risk their lives for our nation."

  In other words, she told the world the FBI had an ongoing undercover operation with the same operative.

  "At least she didn't release your name as the UC in the current operation," said Dwayne.

  "Oh, that's a big relief. I can just see this reporter doing all he can to identify me and, when he does, expecting to be imbedded otherwise, he splashes my name, picture, and operation across the front page of tomorrow's paper."

  "Matt, she was wrong."

  "Of course she was wrong. I hope Barnes hangs her butt out to dry. She deserves to be fired. Can't we do something?"

  "I'll talk to the ADIC. Do you want to pull out?"

  "Get real. I'm not quitting. I might frag the Queen Mother the next time we cross paths, but I'm not quitting."

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  The back door to the Russian Veil was open, but the bar was closed. Boris was airing out the stale smell of alcohol. He and an electrician were rewiring the sound system to the stage where his Eastern European beauties nightly satisfied the basest cravings of American men. Boris heard a car pull into the parking lot. He wasn't expecting anyone so he stopped and walked toward the door, waiting for his uninvited visitor to enter. He heard a car door slam and quick-paced footsteps pounding the blacktop.

  Dr. Ubadiah Adel al-Banna, a jihadist doctor practicing in the United States, walked in with a folded paper in his hand. "Did you see this article in the Times?"

  "Not here. We go into my office to discuss business."

  They walked to Boris's office, the doctor still waving the paper. Boris closed the door and Dr. U shouted, "Did you see this?"

  "Not even a good morning from my terrorist friend," said Boris, unwilling to take the doctor or his cause seriously.

  "Knock off your idea of communist humor. Did you see the article?"

  "Yes, I saw it."

  "So what is your answer?"

  "My answer is, yes, I saw it."

  "No, this article says the caesium-137 was so diluted it would have never killed anyone even if the bomb was detonated. I want some answers. We paid you good money, and you obviously took advantage of us."

  "Dr. U, please come here," said Boris in a smooth, calming tone.

  The Syrian-born physician walked toward Boris waving the newspaper, his eyes piercing and his hands shaking in anger. When Dr. U got within arm's length of the Russian, Boris grabbed him by the arm and spun him around and threw him into the wall. Dr. U hollered a series of Arabic obscenities, but the screaming did little to deter the Russian. Boris braced the doctor with one arm and with the other began groping at his clothes, frisking him for a wire. Boris reached into the doctor's pockets, emptying them of keys and coins. He threw the wallet on the floor and removed an iPhone from its holster. Boris carefully examined the device until he was satisfied it was as advertised. He then slammed it to the floor where it burst open.

  "What are you doing?" screamed the doctor, this time in English.

  Boris continued the search until he was satisfied. He then grabbed the doctor by the shoulders, lifted him off the ground, and spun him around. The 5'8" doctor was dwarfed by Boris's 6'4" frame.

  "You don't come into my home and accuse me of doing anything illegal. Do you understand me?"

  "Do you think I am wearing a wire? Do you think I would work for the infidels? Surely you know me better than that!

  "Like, I'm going to trust you? Listen, I read the article. I had no idea how potent the solution was." Boris was a professional liar, a skill he perfected working as an intelligence officer for Mother Russia, as he called his homeland. With all the seriousness the moment required, he said, "I bought the product
from my people. They assured me it would do the job. How can you trust the American press? Maybe they wrote the story to prevent a panic. Maybe the FBI or the CIA lied to the reporters. Do you expect this administration to tell the American public how they almost allowed a city to be destroyed by a weapon of mass destruction? I stand by my people, and if you want to continue to do business with me, you will stand by me."

  Boris was a salesman. With complete spontaneity he sold the Arab on his sincerity. Integrity never entered the calculus.

  "Maybe you are right."

  "Maybe?"

  "No, you make sense, my friend. I should have believed you before I believed the Crusaders and their stooges, the Zionist American press."

  Dr. U offered his hand in a conciliatory gesture. Boris grabbed it and pulled the doctor toward him, giving him a Soviet bear hug.

  "Are we still on for Friday?" asked Boris.

  "When I read the paper this morning, I wasn't certain. But you have reassured me. Thank you for your explanation. We are still on for Friday."

  "Good, I have already made many arrangements. I will be ready."

  "Excellent, so will we." said Dr. U.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  Boris stood at the open door and directed the driver as he backed the truck into the undercover warehouse.

  Matt was surprised. He wasn't sure what type of truck he was expecting to store, but this was a Marine MTVR, a medium tactical vehicle replacement. The all-terrain truck with six-drive wheels had a seven-ton off-road capacity, thus its common name in the Marine Corps, a seven-ton.

  "Where'd you get that?" asked Matt.

  "I have my connections," said Boris.

  "It's a Marine Corps seven-ton."

  "How would you know?"

  "I watch the History Channel, and I can read the small print on the side of the truck. Just because I got a D in high school chemistry doesn't make me stupid."