by Bob Hamer
Matt pulled up to the security gate and pressed the remote, opening the main entrance to the suburban Thousand Oaks condominium complex. The fact he and Caitlin could only afford a nine-hundred-square-foot condo grated on his sense of justice. A few years ago when Los Angeles real estate prices made the dream of a larger home just that, a dream, Matt and Caitlin purchased the condo with a creative finance package. Now with a downturn in the housing market, they were upside down on their mortgage, but at least they were upside down in Southern California. Matt still remembered Indiana’s cold, dark winters and humid, bug-infested summers. The weather and the casework made L.A. ideal for an aggressive agent with an adrenaline addiction.
He was home—his sanctuary—the one place he felt insulated from the evils of the world. As she did every night Matt worked late, Caitlin left the light on over the stove. He made his way to the kitchen and grabbed a Coke from the refrigerator. Returning to the living room, he gingerly sat in the wooden rocker she bought him when he turned thirty. The rocker had the FBI logo on the front and the words “Special Agent Matthew M. Hogan” laser-engraved on the back.
He rocked, reflecting not only on the evening but on life. He tempted fate again and survived. Was he really this good, or did destiny play a part? The rush he experienced with each undercover assignment seemed to make the risks worthwhile, but it was also the penance he needed to pay. He owed Scott. To some extent the guilt had subsided over the years, but the memories lingered of a lost brother and the warriors who heeded the call and returned to the Corps. The passion Matt brought to the job was more an obsession. Like those he arrested who flipped and became informants, he too was working off a beef, trying to balance an obligation still owed. Matt chose Caitlin, and now he had to pay his debt to the real heroes, those who didn’t survive and left grieving wives and children. He needed to make sense of all the blood and terror and the pain and waste.
After he finished his soda, he slowly and stiffly rose from the rocker and headed toward the bedroom where Caitlin slept. He didn’t want to wake her, but he needed a shower in the worst way. He last shaved and showered four days ago. Since that day, he had been taking what he jokingly referred to as “French showers.” No water, no soap, just watered-down cheap aftershave sprayed on his clothes. Caitlin found little humor in his hygiene practices.
Tonight’s cleanup efforts might really be painful because it took a 99-percent solution of alcohol to remove the temporary tattoos he applied to his neck, hands, and fingers. A make-up artist Matt met several years ago showed him the secrets of the movie studio tattoo. He became skillful at applying the Tinsley transfers. Spray the area with a 70-percent solution of alcohol, apply the transfer, dust with baby powder, spray a thin layer of Green Marble SeLr to seal the theatrical makeup and voilà, you can look Beverly Hills chic or biker filthy. Tonight was biker filthy.
The left side of Matt’s face and neck were badly scraped. Several layers of his skin remained on portions of the Beverly Hills pavement, but there was no way Caitlin would allow the swastika to remain. He would just have to bite the bullet and begin the removal process of rubbing the neck clean. Besides, what’s a 99-percent solution of alcohol on an open wound to a former Marine and a macho undercover FBI agent?
He quietly walked into the room and spied a sleeping Caitlin. She looked beautiful in the moonlight-allowed passage through the open plantation shutters. They had been married for nine years, and he continued to be amazed at why she found anything in him worth loving.
He showered slowly, allowing the hot water to pelt his aching back. The heat felt good. He was able to remove all the tattoos, although the removal process was accompanied by spurts of severe alcohol-induced pain. After shaving and washing his hair, he was a new man.
As he walked out of the shower, Caitlin was waiting. The scrapes and the darkening bruises were not easy to miss even in the shadows of the bedroom.
“You okay?” she asked.
“I’ll be okay. Nothing a little tender loving care can’t repair.”
Caitlin laughed. “I’m not that easy, Cowboy. Do I even dare ask how it went?”
“Not bad. Good guys two. Bad guys nothing. Of course, 7-Eleven is down a couple of night managers, but what the heck.”
Matt loved to get a rise out of Caitlin, and anything hinting at prejudice produced the intended result.
“Someday your mouth is gonna get you into trouble.”
“It’s my lying mouth that keeps me out of trouble.” Then he winked. “Don’t you forget, baby, I’m better at lovin’ than I am at lyin’, and I’m a great liar.”
“You’re a bad country song.” Caitlin reached over to touch the abrasion on his left cheek. “What did you do?”
Matt responded with pride, “I wrecked the bike.”
Caitlin had been through this before. Married to an FBI agent can be stressful enough, but married to an agent who thinks he’s Serpico means stress beyond a mere mortal wife’s imagination.
“Oh, no! Were you in policy? Please, tell me you were in policy. We’re still paying off the Mercedes you wrecked three years ago when OPR said you were, how did they say it, ‘outside the parameters of normal work standards.’”
OPR, the Office of Professional Responsibility, was the FBI’s answer to internal affairs. Some agents went an entire career without having to deal with the headquarters-based unit. Matt was on their speed dial. He interacted with them on more than one occasion. Several times he won, but on the Mercedes issue, he lost.
“Yeah, it was something like that. I’m not worried this time. This new supervisor seems okay, a street agent’s kind of boss, unlike most of the ‘blue-flamers’ more interested in covering their collective backsides. I think I may like this one.”
Caitlin knew Matt’s history with supervisors. “Yeah, until he wises up and trades you for some rookie out of Quantico.”
“Hey, we got two tonight, and we’ll seize a restaurant. That’ll cover the cost of the bike and then some. Who knows, maybe I’ll get a cash incentive award?”
Caitlin feigned shock. “That bump on the head may have caused you to hallucinate, Cowboy. An incentive award? The only incentive they ever give you comes in the form of a paycheck every two weeks. I’m not holding my breath for an incentive award. Just try not to get fired.”
Matt and Caitlin both laughed. He threw his arms around her and they kissed. When Caitlin gave him an extra squeeze, he winced and backed away. Almost simultaneously, they said, “I love you.”
Caitlin added. “I just don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”
“Neither does the Bureau. Let’s go to bed.”
Chapter Six
Wadi Mohammed al-Habishi leafed through a telephone directory and found the number he wanted. He called from a graffiti-marked pay phone outside an all-night Sunset Boulevard coffee shop. Only two customers were inside. Wadi was checking area hospitals. Fearing the hospitals might have caller ID, he chose the pay phone over his cell phone. He was unsuccessful with the first two calls. The third call was more promising.
“Mount Sinai Medical Center,” answered the operator.
“Admissions,” said Wadi.
He was quickly connected.
“Admissions, may I help you?”
“Yes, I received a call that my brother was in an accident and was taken to the hospital earlier this evening. Could you tell me if he was admitted?”
“Sir, what is your brother’s name?”
“It is Mustafa al-Hamza.”
The admissions counselor checked through her computer records. “Sir, I’m not seeing anything under al-Hamza. Let me try Hamza. Do you know approximately what time the accident occurred?”
“It was before midnight . . .”
Before he could finish his sentence, she interrupted, “Sir, I see it. Yes, he was admitted. Th
ere is a notation on his file. Let me pull that up.” She paused a few seconds, then came back to the phone. “Sir, are you aware your brother is in FBI custody? He is here, but he’s not allowed visitors. The notation says all inquiries should be referred to the FBI. Sir, if I could have your name and number, I will have someone from the FBI contact you.”
Wadi had the information he needed. He had confirmed the location of Mustafa so he abruptly hung up the phone. He stepped away from the pay phone and walked out to the middle of the coffee-shop parking lot. No one was in the area to hear his call, but he wanted to take the extra precaution. He opened his cell phone and punched in a familiar number.
“Dr. U, I found him. He’s at Mount Sinai. Do we have anyone there?”
Dr. Ubadiah Adel al-Banna, a well-respected physician in Los Angeles, sat up in bed. He was alone in the room but was whispering on the cell phone he kept for just such limited communications. “That is very good. We have several there willing to serve Allah and our cause. How ironic that what the Americans call a terrorist was taken to a Jewish hospital for treatment. I will handle the rest.”
Wadi replaced the SIM card in his cell phone and headed for his car.
Chapter Seven
Caitlin finished her shower and was getting ready for church. Matt was a light sleeper, and she assumed the noise from the shower would have awakened him.
Wrapped in only a towel, she walked to the bed and leaned over to give him a kiss. The water from her recently washed hair dropped onto his face. He flinched but not much. She kissed him on the cheek and he smiled.
“So you are awake. I knew you couldn’t sleep through the whine of that noisy shower. Get up and get ready for church.”
Matt moaned. “Come on, baby, I’m really hurting. This may be the big one we’ve been looking for to get that tax-free medical retirement.”
Caitlin wasn’t buying any of his complaints. “Get that big o’ lazy body out of bed and get ready for church.”
“Honey, I kept the world safe for democracy last night. God will forgive me if I don’t make it this Sunday.”
Caitlin pulled back the covers. “God may forgive you, but I’m not sure I will. You promised you’d go with me this week.”
With a hint of irritation in his voice, Matt said, “Caitlin, come on. It was a late night. I’m hurting. I don’t want to sit through some long sermon. I’ll owe you one.”
“God protected you again last night. You owe him, not me.”
“Please, don’t start on me now. I’ll go next week, I promise. Besides, I’ve got a ton of paperwork from last night. I need to get to the office.”
Matt slowly lifted his bruised and battered body from the bed. He grabbed Caitlin’s towel as she walked away, quickly twisted it, and snapped her now bare bottom, a skill he’d perfected in junior high.
Caitlin would have thought the antic a lot funnier had Matt agreed to go to church. He occasionally accompanied her but more out of obligation than desire. His faith was shattered on Christmas Day 2005, and he had struggled with God ever since. Any excuse was a good excuse, and last night’s adventure provided all the reason he needed to back off Sunday services.
HER HUSBAND HELD HIS hand over the mouthpiece and hollered from the living room. “Elissa, it’s for you.”
“I’ll take it in the bedroom.”
Elissa picked up the phone, “Hello.”
The caller waited for the distinctive sound of the extension phone being hung up before he spoke. “Elissa al-Omari?”
“Yes,” she responded.
“I believe you spoke to a friend of mine last week about your parents in Saudi Arabia. You understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Good. Tomorrow, at precisely 3:30 p.m., a man will enter your bank. He will be wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt. He will come to your teller window and hand you a note. You will give him everything you have except the bait money. Do you understand?”
She hesitated and then stuttered with her response. “Yes, yes, I understand.”
“You will not activate any alarms or any cameras until he is about to exit the building.”
“Yes, those were my instructions.”
“If you do exactly as you have been instructed, there will be no problems. If you fail to follow these instructions, if you tell anyone, if we are not successful tomorrow, your parents will die,” said the voice.
“I understand. Please do not hurt them.”
“No one will be hurt if we are successful. Allah Issalmak.”
The caller hung up without waiting for a response.
MOUNT SINAI MEDICAL CENTER in West Los Angeles is consistently rated one of the finest hospitals in the nation, the first choice of those living on the coveted Westside. However, unlike County General, it does not have a jail ward.
Mustafa was in the custody of the FBI but was being housed in a single-bed ICU hospital room for the foreseeable future. As a result of the accident, he suffered serious internal injuries requiring four hours of surgery. Then Sunday morning, while still in the recovery room, Mustafa began to bleed internally and was rushed back to surgery. After another hour under the knife, the hemorrhaging subsided and his condition stabilized.
Dr. Daniel Combs performed the surgery. A former Navy surgeon with a combat tour under his belt, Dr. Combs said Mustafa’s internal injuries rivaled what he saw from Iraqi IEDs. He gave Mustafa less than a 20-percent chance of survival and said he would need to remain in the ICU for several days at a minimum. If and when Mustafa showed progress, he could be moved to the federal prison hospital ward at Terminal Island in San Pedro. He had tubes going in and coming out of every body orifice, and machines monitoring every bodily function. In what seemed like a futile gesture, Mustafa’s right wrist was handcuffed to the bed, but he was going nowhere, at least not under his own power.
There were more exciting jobs in the Bureau than babysitting a bedridden criminal, especially on the ten-to-six shift, the dreaded “night watch,” but even in the FBI, rookies paid their dues. Both agents who were “knighted” for this plum assignment were on probation.
One agent sat outside the door. The second sat inside the room with Mustafa. The agents alternated the seating arrangements every few hours. The name and time of everyone who entered the room was noted; and throughout the night, doctors, nurses, and medical technicians paraded in and out. The traffic became commonplace. The agents had no medical training and could only assume the medical personnel knew what they were doing. The agents were there to prevent Mustafa from escaping. They were successful in that assignment. They failed, however, in protecting him.
At midnight the night-shift nurses prepared to assume the care of those in the ICU ward. The nurses were alerted to the status of the patient and the reasons for armed guards both in and outside the room. Law enforcement personnel inside the ICU were nothing novel, so the nurses went about their business as necessary.
Hasana Akram, a critical-care nurse from the recovery room, entered ICU. She was about to end her shift and, as was her custom, took one last pass through the ICU. She slowly walked through the rooms of those patients recovering from surgery performed during her shift.
She smiled at the agent sitting outside the room, signed the visitor’s sheet, and walked into Mustafa’s room. The second agent looked up from the Vince Flynn novel he was reading. She smiled at him and walked over to the patient. She checked one of the IV units, something several other nurses had done throughout the night. She pulled out a hypodermic needle from a pocket of her white nurse’s smock, then, calmly, professionally, and in full view of the agent, injected Ultalente into the IV line. The synthetic insulin would immediately enter Mustafa’s system but take hours for the desired effect.
Hasana pulled the medical chart from the edge of the bed, made an innocuous notation, and walked out of the room as the ag
ent returned to his novel.
Chapter Eight
Monday morning meant the beginning of a new day and a new workweek. Matt reached over and silenced the 5:00 a.m. alarm. Except on days when he had an undercover assignment or was scheduled to work nights, Matt’s routine was predictable.
The morning ritual at home consisted merely of shaving and brushing his teeth. He put on his workout gear and, with a change of clothes in hand, headed toward the Federal Building in Westwood. The condo was exactly forty-six miles from the office. If he were out the door by 5:15 or 5:20, he could put the “Bu car” on cruise control, set it for seventy-five, and drive unobstructed to work, well before most commuters were on the road.
The FBI garage had a weight room and shower facilities, allowing Matt to get in a five-mile run every morning, pump a little iron, and be at his desk before many agents arrived at the office.
Once or twice a week, in the afternoon or early evening, he would stop at the Gallo Boxing Gym in the Valley. Matt would jump into the ring with his amateur Golden Glove skills and go a few rounds with someone training for an upcoming professional fight. Legally Matt couldn’t be a sparring partner because he was not licensed by the state of California, but since he received no compensation for getting his head beaten in by those with world-class skills, the point was moot. To Caitlin’s dismay, on more than one occasion, he arrived home with a bruised face and a bloodied nose.
This morning Matt was still stiff from Saturday night’s crash but not as bad as he would have guessed. Following the run, he showered quickly and hustled up to the office to continue the paperwork he started on Sunday.
Saturday night’s buy-bust meant Matt needed to complete the FD-302 of the actual heroin purchase and arrest of Karim and Mustafa, download the device he wore recording the entire transaction that evening, book that recording into evidence and complete the FD-504 chain of custody for the recording, fill out the “overhear” sheet, complete the duplication request form, complete the FD-504 for the heroin, prepare the letter to the DEA lab for drug analysis and a separate letter for the FBI lab for fingerprint analysis, and arrange to have the drug evidence and packaging shipped to the respective labs.