by Bob Hamer
Just as Karim picked up the receiver and punched in the numbers, his associate, Mustafa al-Hamza, walked in from the kitchen carrying a brown leather briefcase.
Mustafa was shorter than Hogan and less developed, but the thirty-four-year-old Saudi was in shape. Although not a citizen, it was apparent he had been seduced by American culture.
Karim gave Mustafa a puzzled look. “How did you get in?”
“Get in what?” said Mustafa with only a slight accent.
“The kitchen . . . my office . . . this restaurant. I thought you’d come through the alley.”
“I came in through the front door.”
“The front door? Don’t you think that is a little obvious?”
“It’s better than sneaking around dark alleys. The more obvious you are, the less obvious you appear. Tonight is business as usual.”
“Not sure how many of your customers carry briefcases to dinner on a Saturday night,” interjected Hogan, sizing up Mustafa.
“Mustafa, this is our buyer. He got the sample the other night and liked our product. Tonight he brings us my favorite color . . . green.”
Mustafa locked his attention on Hogan, and the momentary silence was deafening.
Watch his eyes, thought Hogan. A man doesn’t kill with his eyes, but they are a window to intentions. They signal courage, contempt, or fear. But Hogan had to guard his eyes as well. Death was only one mistake away.
“Come on,” demanded Hogan.
Mustafa, still being cautious, asked, “What’s your hurry?”
“What’s my hurry? This was supposed to go down this afternoon, Abdul. Pop it or I’m leaving.”
“Who you callin’ Abdul?”
Hogan’s impatience grew as he glared at Mustafa. “Just open the briefcase. Karim, put a fire under this guy, or I’m outta here.”
Mustafa held his ground. “Somebody better teach this piece of trailer trash a little bit about Middle Eastern culture.”
“Hey, open it or I’m gone.”
Hogan started for the door.
Karim intervened. “Gentlemen, stop it! Mustafa, open it up. We’re here to do business, so quit playing your games.”
Mustafa slowly aligned the numbers on the briefcase’s two combination latch locks. Staring at Hogan with contempt, he released the zinc-plated latches and with all deliberateness opened the briefcase. Turning it, he allowed Hogan to survey its contents.
It was what Hogan had been awaiting since Karim first produced the sample three days ago—a kilogram of heroin wrapped in white plastic and duct tape. When broken into street-level dosages, this package, no larger than a hardback novel, would bring more than three million dollars. Hogan’s cost was a mere $200,000.
Karim beamed. “It’s fresh off the plane, my friend, just like I promised.”
Hogan reached into the back pocket of his worn jeans and with the speed of a seasoned street fighter flashed the eight-inch blade of a spring-loaded knife. His skilled maneuvering startled even the stoic Mustafa, who instinctively grasped at his belt. Hogan noted the move and realized the Saudi was armed.
“Relax, Abdul. If I wanted to kill you, I would have dropped you before you opened the briefcase.”
Mustafa just glared.
Hogan pulled a small Marquis Reagent heroin test kit, not much larger than a cigarette lighter, from his pocket.
“What’s that?” demanded Mustafa.
“It’s a test kit.”
“A test kit? What are you, some kinda cop?”
Hogan didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah right, and you’re Osama Bin Laden. What? You think this is TV and I pull out a beaker and cook it over an open flame? Get real. I don’t shoot this crap. You wanna stick it in your arm?”
He looked at both Karim and Mustafa. They said nothing. The meek Iraqi restaurant owner stared at the floor. Mustafa, however, maintained eye contact, never wavering.
Hogan then cut a tiny hole through the duct tape and using the tip of the knife blade took a sample of the packaged product. Hogan examined what appeared to be fine textured sand. He moved the knife blade close to his nose and smelled the sample. Then he placed the substance into the clear plastic test kit and sealed it. He methodically broke the three glass vials within the kit and shook the mixture. Holding the kit up to the light, Hogan noted the speed and intensity with which the heroin sample changed color. “Looks good, gentlemen.”
Mustafa tensed. “Let’s see the money.”
“It’s at the bike. Let’s move our business out there.”
Karim stepped in. “No way, my friend. You bring your package here. Our package goes nowhere until we see American currency.”
Hogan casually shrugged his shoulders. “If that’s your play, I’ll be back.”
Chapter Two
Hogan stepped out the back door and headed into the alley toward his motorcycle. The bike was parked about fifteen yards from the restaurant, obscured in darkness. As Hogan walked away from the restaurant, he could feel the stares of Karim and Mustafa watching his every move from the rear window.
Hogan appeared to be talking to himself. “It’s a ‘go,’ gentlemen. Karim is in the back office with his supplier. I saw the product and tested it. It is pure dynamite. It’s in a brown leather briefcase. The supplier’s armed. Be safe. Oh, and you can thank me later for loosening up the back door.”
With that, an arrest team of FBI agents, all wearing raid jackets and ballistic vests, armed with MP-5s, Sigs, and Glocks, began to slowly converge on the back door.
From a safe distance in the darkness, Matt Hogan stood by his bike, taking it all in. The agents moved with precision, carefully sliding down the sidewalls of the adjacent buildings to avoid early detection. Matt watched Karim and Mustafa at the window. They were oblivious to what was about to happen.
As the agents moved in, a Mexican busboy, whose immigration status was less than perfect, stepped outside the restaurant and lit up a cigarette. He froze momentarily when he saw the agents then shouted, “La Migra!” and ran down the alley in an effort to avoid capture.
The agents let him run. It wasn’t the first time they had been mistaken for immigration officials, and it wouldn’t be the last.
The fleeing busboy alerted Mustafa to the activity just outside the window. Craning his neck to see down the side of the building, Mustafa spied the approaching agents. “It’s a rip!” shouted Mustafa.
The small office exploded with confusion. Mustafa slammed the briefcase shut as both men raced out of the room through the kitchen and into the main dining area.
The agents gave chase, easily entering through the broken security door.
Chaos erupted in the dining room. Mustafa knocked down an elderly lady hustling toward the restroom and pushed a busboy into a table of diners.
Two agents entering through the front door grabbed Karim, who struggled, but only briefly, before being thrown to the floor and cuffed, his face ground into the dark plush carpeting.
Patrons began streaming out of the restaurant.
Mustafa spotted more agents rushing through the front entrance and from the kitchen. He changed course, heading toward the stairs to the roof. He took the steps three at a time as agents gave chase.
Startled rooftop smokers, clustered around hookah water pipes, watched as Mustafa ran past the tables.
In a futile gesture a pursuing agent screamed, “Halt! FBI!”
Mustafa had no intention of stopping for anyone, especially the FBI. He turned with his weapon drawn in the direction of the lead agent, who ducked behind the open doorway. Mustafa pulled the trigger, but the hammer landed on an empty chamber. Not having the combat sense to pull back the slide and chamber another round, he threw the impotent weapon toward the pursuing agents, momentarily halting their forward progress. In an instant the r
ules of engagement changed. Now Mustafa was unarmed. The L.A. Times would love to headline Sunday’s paper FBI Kills Unarmed Arab.
Mustafa then flung the briefcase in the same direction. The brief interlude gave him enough time to jump from The Enchantment’s roof to a neighboring boutique and slide down a drainpipe to the ground.
He ran out into the street, south on Rodeo where his black Infinity Q45 was parked.
Chapter Three
Matt saw Mustafa race through the kitchen as agents gave chase. Rather than join in the foot pursuit, he mounted the Harley and drove through the alley and out onto Rodeo. From this vantage point he spotted Mustafa enter the Infinity.
Tires squealed as Mustafa sped off. Matt pursued on his motorcycle, and the roar of the bike deafened the screams of frightened tourists.
Mustafa went north on Rodeo and ran a red light, forcing a dark blue Lexus to run up onto the sidewalk, barely missing several pedestrians. He then turned left on Brighton and right on Camden Drive, blasting through another red light at Santa Monica Boulevard.
A Jaguar clipped the rear of Mustafa’s Infinity as it sped through the intersection, and the smell of burning rubber filled the air.
Matt was focused in the pursuit but keenly aware of his Beverly Hills surroundings. They passed 810 Linden Drive, the home of mobster Bugsy Siegel, killed in 1947 when a shotgun blast through the front window ended his life.
Matt had been in high-speed chases before, and this one had that same surreal feeling. Even though the car and the motorcycle were traveling at speeds in excess of sixty miles per hour on residential streets, perception reduced to slow motion.
Matt remained relaxed and confident during the chase. He was actually enjoying this latest thrill ride. Ride it like you stole it!
Mustafa took a right on Sunset, then a quick left on Roxbury past the former homes of Jimmy Stewart, Lucille Ball, and Peter Falk. Was this a pursuit or a celebrity bus tour?
Mustafa, unfamiliar with the side streets, was driving with no other goal than to evade the pursuing motorcycle. He continued speeding, circling back toward Sunset Boulevard, but lost control in front of the legendary Beverly Hills Hotel.
Mustafa’s Infinity smashed into a street lamp, snapping it off at the base. A chili-red Mini Cooper, now more closely resembling a crushed soda can, received the brunt of the blow from the light pole.
Matt was following close behind—too close. When Mustafa hit the light pole, Matt had no choice but to lay down his bike to avoid crashing into the car. The motorcycle skidded forward into Mustafa’s vehicle. Matt managed a tuck and roll as he hit the ground and was prone on the pavement as the bike plowed into the Infinity. Both the motorcycle and the car burst into flames.
Jumping to his feet, Matt limped toward the inferno. Leaking gasoline flowed toward the Mini Cooper, and a small flame followed the stream.
Matt helped the driver of the crushed Cooper as they both stumbled to safety. Once the driver was out of harm’s way, Matt turned his attention to Mustafa and the Infinity.
The driver-side window was up, the doors locked, and Mustafa lay dazed in the front seat. Matt tried to open the door, but the heat from the fire transferred to the metal car frame and singed Matt’s hand. He ripped off his shirt, wrapped it around his hand and made another futile effort at opening the locked door.
Looking around, he spotted a large rock from a curb-side flower bed. Matt hobbled over to the curb, grabbed the rock, and returned to the burning vehicle. Using the rock, he smashed the driver-side window of the Infinity. Glass splay throughout the interior of the car as he reached in and unlocked the door. Unsnapping the seat belt, he then pulled a bloody Mustafa from the burning vehicle and dragged him safely from the flames.
Mustafa was alive but barely. With partially opened and uncomprehending eyes, he looked up at a smiling Matt Hogan on his knees straddling him.
In a slow, methodical cadence reserved for foreign tourists on Hollywood Boulevard, Matt said, “How do you like America?” Before Mustafa could answer, he lapsed into unconsciousness. Matt flipped him over and pinned his arms behind his back as Supervisor Dwayne Washington ran up on the scene. Washington was new to Los Angeles and had only met Matt earlier in the week when both began work on a newly formed terrorism squad. Washington had a commanding presence compelling respect; a few inches taller and he could be Michael Jordan’s twin brother.
“You got cuffs?” asked Matt.
Washington towered over Hogan and his captive. He handed a pair of handcuffs to Matt, who quickly shackled the injured Saudi heroin trafficker.
A quick pat down of Mustafa produced a cell phone that Matt tossed to Dwayne.
“Might be interesting to see who our friend’s been calling.”
Matt slowly stood up and took a quick inventory of his own injuries. His clothes were ripped, parts shredded, but no bones seemed broken. The lacerations and abrasions appeared minor, and a trip to the emergency room was unnecessary . . . this time.
Washington pretended to be disgusted by Matt but could barely contain a smile. “Good job.” He paused then said, “I think. What part of the briefing didn’t you understand? Undercovers do not—I repeat, do not—make arrests, let alone engage in high-speed chases through residential streets.”
Matt’s adrenaline was flowing beyond legal limits, and he grinned. “It’s all in how you write the paper. These guys’ll plead. They’re bought and paid for.”
L.A.’s newest supervisor, fresh from headquarters, shook his head and laughed. “I’m more concerned with the civil lawsuits arising from the victims you left in the wake of this joyride.”
Chapter Four
A crowd began to gather at the crash site. Paramedic units and patrol officers from the Beverly Hills PD joined the FBI agents as firefighters quickly extinguished the flaming wreckage.
The driver of the Mini Cooper avoided any major injuries but was taken to the hospital in a precautionary move.
A second paramedic unit treated Mustafa, applying a cervical collar, immobilizing him on a long board, and loading him into the ambulance where they began an IV. The prognosis was not good. Two agents crowded into the back of the ambulance and accompanied the Saudi narcotics trafficker to the hospital.
In the back of the crowd, Rashid Khan, in his late thirties, wearing a worn gray sweatshirt with a distinctive green paint stain on his right sleeve, walked toward some heavy shrubbery. At five feet seven inches, the Afghan national was hidden by the mature oleander. He flipped open his cell phone and made a call.
In a heavy accent he said, “Wadi, it was a trap. The FBI arrested Karim at the restaurant. Mustafa tried to escape in his car and crashed on Sunset. The FBI just took him to the hospital in an ambulance. I am sure we lost the kilo.”
Wadi Mohammed al-Habishi responded, “Karim does not know we were behind this. Mustafa must never talk. We will be more careful in the future. And Rashid, it is Saturday; destroy the SIM card.”
The Afghan replaced the portable memory chip in his cell phone, tossing the old one in the sewer.
SEVERAL MILES FROM THIS evening’s action, Ismad, who had been in the city less than a month, was driving southbound on the crowded 405 Freeway. As he inched his way through the Mulholland Pass, he thought about his hatred of Los Angeles, “the entertainment capital of the world,” and all that it stood for—moral decadence, pornography, and the celebration of drugs and alcohol.
At the top of the hill, he spied the huge Skirball Cultural Center, a stunning symbol of Jewish life, culture, and to him, infestation. The brilliant white walls stood in contrast to the brown hills above the 405. The forty-million-dollar edifice was an icon of what he hated most about the United States. He sneered and swore as he passed it, “May Allah destroy the infidels and the fools who are their allies!”
Ismad pounded the steering wheel. “How dare you deify
your democracy over Allah. Crusaders and Zionists!” He spit the words out the open window.
When traffic picked up momentarily, a black Hummer with shiny chrome dubs and huge tires cut in front of him. He pounded the brakes to avoid crashing.
“Death to the Infidels!”
The words of his imam echoed in his mind. He told Ismad before he left for the United States, “You are part of a noble cause, a personal jihad as well as a corporate movement, a movement that seeks not simply to reduce Israeli influence in the Middle East but to eliminate it! As long as infidels inhabit that which belongs to Allah, it is an abomination.”
“L.A. is an abomination,” Ismad muttered.
Ismad would punish the West during this trip and help bring about its destruction. The war would not be won in a single day or with a single battle. It was a multifaceted attack, from within and without. But if the cause was anything, it was patient. The first attack on the World Trade Center occurred in 1993, the second on September 11, 2001. The ultimate goal was clear. Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad said it so succinctly: “The U.S., Britain, and Israel will eventually disappear from the world like the pharaohs. It’s a divine promise.” Ismad was proud to be part of the effort to fulfill Allah’s promise and eliminate the Jews and their allies.
Chapter Five
It was well past midnight. As Matt drove home in his Bureau car, he could feel his muscles begin to stiffen. He was in great shape and exercised daily, but no workout could prepare him for the spill he had taken this evening.
He smiled as he thought about dumping the bike—at least, it wasn’t his. The motorcycle was seized from a methamphetamine dealer last spring. The federal forfeiture statutes allowed for the seizure of any item used to “facilitate” a narcotics transaction. In April it was a Harley. Tonight the Mediterranean Enchantment became the FBI’s latest prize in the forfeiture sweepstakes.