by Bob Hamer
Dwayne’s office was on the north side of the Federal Building. He had a beautiful view of the mountains and the Los Angeles National Cemetery where more than 85,000 veterans, including fourteen Medal of Honor recipients, were buried.
Matt stood at the window and looked out. Directly below he could hear car horns blasting and the sounds of protestors chanting an indistinguishable rage against the war. Daily protests at the Westwood Federal Building were the norm. The rants did little but tie up traffic; after all, the war continues under both administrations. Anger fueled Matt’s thoughts. Those marble headstones aren’t some glorification of war. They’re monuments to the sacrifice of men who gave you the right to spew your daily discontent. Why not think about paying back sometime?
Matt could see a protestor run into the street waving a sign in front of motorists. Somewhere a village is missing an idiot. Maybe he’ll be roadkill before the light changes. No such luck. The light changed, but civility prevailed, and the drivers let him race back to the curb.
Dwayne walked in. “We have a very short window on this.”
“Why? The ADIC’s on board.”
“He is. The Queen Mother isn’t.”
“She overrides the ADIC?”
“No, but she fears undercover operations. Too many things can go wrong, and she’s unwilling to risk her career on, as she describes it, your ‘cowboy antics.’ She is going to keep both of us on a short leash. The first time it seems to be going south, she will do everything in her power to pull the plug.”
Matt had seen administrators like this before, and it was one reason for his deep-seated animosity toward headquarters—always quick to take the credit, quicker to place the blame.
“A proactive terrorism squad scares her. You scare her. She was weaned on Bureau-approved intelligence-gathering protocols. Anything outside the counterintel manual can only railroad her ascension to highest levels of management.”
Matt shook his head in disgust. “God forbid we stifle her career. I would never want the security of this nation to interfere with her personal ambitions.”
“I’ll handle her. I need you on the street.”
“I’m ready to start today.”
“Let’s do our homework first. Do an Internet search on World Angel and check indices. Then, if you’re ready, we can start as soon as we get the approvals in place.”
“I figure we just cold-call ’em. I’ll walk in and volunteer. Seems pretty simple—if they bite, we’re in. If they don’t, the Queen Mother can go overt,” suggested Matt.
“I’ll set up a fixed surveillance post on the building. We can at least start tracking who’s coming and going for the next couple of days. Might give you somewhat of an edge before you go in.”
Matt knew certain protocol had to be followed before any undercover operation was initiated. Waiting for the approval process can be frustrating. He was eager to get started. Besides thwarting terrorism, he had the added incentive of proving Pamela Clinton wrong.
Chapter Ten
A decal on the window of the Santa Monica branch of the Wells Fargo Bank announced the bank was insured by the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation (FDIC), meaning the FBI had jurisdiction to investigate robberies occurring there.
The decal meant nothing to Rashid as he walked into the branch at precisely 3:30 p.m. The bank resembled many in the area. Most seemed interchangeable. With the recent mergers, takeovers, bailouts, and buyouts, the branches lost their individuality. Today’s bank might be tomorrow’s savings and loan. There was little incentive to make the branches distinctive.
The high ceilings and well-lit lobby area made for a customer-friendly atmosphere designed to encourage a personal banking touch so many banks lacked. Unlike banks in high-crime areas, the tellers were not separated from the customer by thick bulletproof glass requiring a louder than normal voice to communicate with the employee. Most of the customers were regulars, and the tellers knew them by name.
Besides helping Wadi and Babur with the telephone solicitations, Rashid was Wadi’s point man in a series of successful, almost risk-free bank robberies garnering additional funds for the cause.
Three customers stood in line waiting for the next available teller.
Two of the tellers were male—one black, one Asian. The female teller, Middle Eastern, was short with dark, smooth skin. Elissa al-Omari was a graduate student at UCLA and worked part-time at the bank. Her jet-black hair and dark brown eyes made her a favorite of many of the Middle Eastern elderly men who frequented the branch. The men often waited in line, allowing others to pass, until Elissa’s window opened. Her personality was well suited for interacting with the public.
Rashid stood patiently in line. It was chilly outside so wearing a tattered gray sweatshirt with the hood pulled up did not seem out of place. The back of the right sleeve of the sweatshirt had a recent large green paint stain covering about six inches between the elbow and the shoulder. The blue jeans were old but clean, and his nondescript tennis shoes were hardly alarming. Even if he did not fit the regular customer profile, the branch had not been robbed in three years, so there was no reason for the staff to be on alert.
Rashid’s nerves were steady, his demeanor calm, as he waited his turn. Glancing over at Elissa, he made eye contact with her.
The customers ahead of the robber moved forward and were serviced by the available tellers.
A young mother in her early twenties with a child in a stroller was at Elissa’s window longer than normal, cashing several checks. The seven-month-old infant began to fuss, forcing the mother to push the stroller back and forth. Attempts to placate the child failed as he screamed, drawing attention to Elissa’s window. As the customer in front of Rashid moved to the open window of the Asian male teller, Elissa completed the young mother’s transaction. The movement of the stroller toward the door seemed to comfort the child, silencing the explosive cries.
Rashid walked to the available window. He kept his left hand inside the sweatshirt pocket and with his right handed her a note and brown paper bag. Elissa looked at the note and reached into the cash drawer, quickly putting money in the paper sack. She then emptied the bottom drawer of neatly stacked bundles of currency.
Rashid took the bag, turned, and briskly walked toward the door. He kept his head down and the hood pulled high over his head. Just as he approached the door, Elissa activated the silent alarm notifying the police and FBI. Surveillance cameras, trained on the exit doors, were automatically activated. The photos, however, were of no use. They merely showed the top of the hood as Rashid exited the bank. He quickly disappeared onto the crowded sidewalk and down the street.
THE TINY CHINESE RESTAURANT seated twenty people. The majority of its business, and that wasn’t much, was take-out. Wadi suspected the family used the restaurant as a tax shelter to hide the illegal money flowing through the back door.
Whatever money the restaurant earned went only for minimal maintenance, enough to keep the health inspectors at bay. The drab walls and dim lighting were far from inviting.
As the sun was setting, Wadi entered the near-empty restaurant. There was no clamoring for seats, and reservations were never required. Three people, all Asian, were seated at the round table in the middle of the “dining room.” They stared at the young Saudi terrorist as he walked in and took a seat in the booth closest to the kitchen. Wadi was not particularly fond of Chinese food, and apparently neither were residents of the neighborhood. But this was the only place Sammy Chu would do business. Sammy’s brother owned the restaurant, and it provided a safe meeting location.
Wadi had been here numerous times and ordered the usual—a bowl of white rice, one egg roll, and a Pepsi.
Just as his brother, Jimmy, threw the order on the table, Sammy walked in.
“Ah, Wadi, my Middle Eastern friend, so good to see you.”
Wadi ret
urned the greeting and feigned sincerity as much as Sammy did.
Sammy laughed and said, “I see you are having today’s special, white rice, my favorite.”
Sammy was short, rotund, and nearing fifty. He was a criminal entrepreneur in every sense of the word. Whatever you needed, he could get and at the right price.
Recently he had been specializing in counterfeit cigarettes, but if you wanted jeans, watches, designer shirts, just ask. As Sammy always said, “If you don’t see what you want, give me a sample, we’ll make it.” His costs were minimal because Chinese slave labor came at an inexpensive price.
Everything Sammy sold came from China, and everything Wadi bought was fake. Sammy knew it and so did Wadi. Italian designer jeans selling for two hundred dollars in the finest Beverly Hills boutiques cost Wadi less than eight dollars, and the price included a “genuine certificate of authenticity,” also counterfeit; famous-maker Swiss watches going for five thousand dollars in elite jewelry stores, a mere three hundred dollars. The faceplate may say one thing, but Sammy and Wadi knew it was made in China. The product du jour was cigarettes.
For the past several years Sammy had been using his Chinese connections to manufacture, package, and import “American made” cigarettes complete with state tax stamps and warning labels.
In California, cigarettes sold for five or six dollars a pack. Wadi could purchase an entire carton for the same price. He parlayed several successful heroin deals into enough capital to finance a second purchase of an entire shipping container of counterfeit cigarettes. A quarter of a million-dollar investment stood to earn the cause nearly a half million-dollar profit, with minimal law enforcement risk.
“Your container arrives on Wednesday. We will arrange for delivery to your storage location on Thursday. I’ll need the cash that day,” said Sammy.
“We are ready. I have rented three storage lockers at a facility in Hollywood. The place is easily accessible for your semi and hidden from the view of inquiring minds.”
“Oh, you read the Enquirer, too. You have become Americanized since coming here.”
Sammy was a naturalized citizen but enjoyed helping young immigrants get started in a life of crime. He appreciated the free-enterprise opportunities America offered, even if every one of his opportunities violated some federal or state statute. Sammy had no idea he was funding terrorist activities and would probably object to Wadi’s use of the profits, but as long as he received his compensation, Sammy wouldn’t object too loudly.
Sammy leaned over the table and with a pair of chopsticks grabbed a bite of rice. “I will be there on Thursday. We will break the container seal together. I want to prove to you we have not tampered with your product since its arrival in the United States. We are honorable men. You will do well to continue a business relationship.”
Wadi had no plans of severing business ties, at least not in the foreseeable future. He finished his meal and promised to see Sammy on Thursday.
Chapter Eleven
Matt was again in the office early, well before the other agents. He completed an FBI computer records search, known as “indices,” a term surviving the advent of computers. “Indices” were a throwback to a time when all the key names in a report were listed on index cards and kept in massive file cabinets. The computer check revealed two references to World Angel Ministry, but neither was helpful. A check of the Internet provided numerous references to the organization and gave Matt the appropriate background on the group, but no news article contained a smoking gun. There was no hint of a link to terrorism.
He was still finishing paperwork on the “accident” and wanted to get that behind him so he could devote full time to the undercover operation he hoped to begin later in the day.
Somehow the Hollywood moguls who produced blockbuster cop flicks never quite captured the burdensome paperwork requirements. Matt enjoyed the Lethal Weapon series with Mel Gibson and Danny Glover but couldn’t imagine the administrative ramifications of just one of their adventures. The reports from each of Matt’s shootings were thicker than the substantive criminal reports of the cases he was investigating at the time of each incident.
He was making headway on the accident investigation pounding away on the computer keyboard. He organized the photos, the witness interviews, the legal addendum, and the three estimates for each vehicle damaged. Now he merely had to complete the investigative summary, the cover sheet, and the table of contents. Upon completion, Matt would give the report to Steve Barnett, the agent actually assigned the investigation, for Steve’s signature, another ghostwritten report completed.
Matt was engrossed in his writing when Dwayne stepped out of his office and walked up behind Matt. “What are you trying to do, impress your new supervisor by being the first agent in the bullpen two mornings this week?”
Matt jumped. “I thought I was the only one here.”
“Didn’t mean to scare you. You bucking for a job in management?”
Matt returned to the keyboard as he continued talking to Dwayne.
“Hardly, just trying to finish up the accident report so I can get back to the real work of the Bureau. I think you’ll be pleased with Steve’s creative writing style. As a matter of fact, Special Agent Barnett found the pursuit to be completely in policy.”
Dwayne revealed a slight grin. “I heard great things about Barnett’s investigative skills, and I had no doubt you’d be in policy.”
Dwayne gently smacked Matt in the back of his head with a folded report from headquarters. “Let’s get serious. I spoke with legal and just got off the phone with headquarters. It’s a go with the UC op. You ready?”
Matt tried to hide the disdain he was feeling when he heard “legal and headquarters” in the same sentence. “Yeah, I think so. There was a recent article in the Times about the organization so I’ll play up that angle. It seems pretty cut and dry. I’m well backstopped with my cover. I thought I’d take a run at them after lunch.”
“Sounds good to me. If they bite, you better stay out of the office until the operation is over.”
Matt gave Dwayne an ear-to-ear smile. “That’s all the incentive I need.”
“THE AMIGO,” A SMALL taco stand a block from the ocean near the Santa Monica Pier, was always crowded with those from the beach scene seeking a quick Mexican food fix. The red and green wooden building needed a fresh coat of paint, but that did nothing to discourage customers.
Wadi was sitting at one of the picnic tables on the patio, eating an overstuffed burrito, when Ismad arrived.
“Allahu Akbar,” said Wadi.
“Allahu,” responded Ismad.
They gave each other a traditional hug, and Wadi welcomed his newest soldier to the United States. Ismad noticed salsa on Wadi’s shirt and handed him a napkin. Wadi laughed off the etiquette gaff and wiped the tomato mess from the front of his Neiman-Marcus sweatshirt.
“I am here to assist you in your mission,” said Wadi. “There are only two in the United States who know of your plans, me and the doctor. Others are here to support you indirectly but will never meet you or know your name.”
“Did Mustafa know of my mission?” asked Ismad.
“Mustafa is no longer a problem.”
“I am aware of that. Mustafa’s name had been given to me by others overseas. He knew I was in this country but did not know the nature of my mission, unless you told him.”
Wadi straightened at the less-than-subtle accusation. “I have told no one of your mission.”
“Were you behind his involvement in the heroin transaction Saturday night?” asked Ismad.
“That is not for you to know.”
“It was sloppy to have someone so weak involved in anything that dangerous, so close to my mission.”
“Maybe you do not understand how the organization works. I answer to only one person, and that person is not you. T
he cause must raise money in many ways; otherwise, you, and others like you, will never succeed.”
“I am aware of how the organization works. I have been given a very singular task, and it is most important I am successful. The window of success is indeed narrow. I ask for little, just limited support and a chance to accomplish the goal.”
“That you will have.”
“I will not succeed if I am discovered because of foolishness like Saturday night.”
“There will be no more mistakes,” said Wadi. “We can provide all of your needs—money, documentation, transportation, housing, food, and, of course, those items needed for that day.”
“I will need nothing but those special items for the day of my mission. My cover is adequate to sustain my daily needs, as you should know.”
“We have a strong organization in Los Angeles supporting the cause, and we are available to you,” said Wadi. “We have done well in our fund-raising attempts and have contributed much to the overall effort.”
“My only concern is fulfilling my assigned duty,” said Ismad.
“I have many other concerns but understand the importance of your assignment. We should meet periodically in preparation for that day.”
As Wadi was finishing his burrito, Ismad departed without saying another word.
Chapter Twelve