Enemies Among Us

by Bob Hamer

  Omar watched carefully as Matt showed kindness, then Omar spoke. “She lost not only her leg but her family when the land mine exploded. She was brought to my clinic in Kandahar. We began treatment there, and now we are going to complete it in your country.”

  “That explains why she’s so sad. Maybe she can find hope here. It must be frightening for her.”

  “It is frightening for me to leave my country and come here as well.”

  Matt sat down next to the table where Shahla was being treated. “But I would think the United States has a lot more to offer than what is available in your country.”

  Omar continued manipulating Shahla’s leg. “That may be true now. The Taliban brought stability, but the invasion by the United States changed all that.”

  “You prefer the Taliban to democracy?”

  “The Taliban’s dream was to make a pure Islamic state where the Koran was the only rule.”

  “Did it work?” said Matt.

  “The Koran has many good rules the Western world does not understand. We had little crime under the Taliban.”

  “Isn’t that because the consequences were so severe?”

  “You talk of deterrent in your legal system, yet murderers go free because your police did not follow the rules. Is that justice? We had no such problems in my country. Those who violated the sharia were punished. You were taught the rules and knew the consequences if you chose not to follow the Islamic law.”

  “I think it was difficult for the outside world to see that the Taliban was accomplishing good for your people.”

  Omar continued speaking softly, as he educated Matt. “According to the Western world, the most important accomplishment of the Taliban was banning the growing of the poppy, a source of heroin the rest of the world craves. As a reward for reducing the production of opium, your President Bush gave millions of dollars to my country in May of 2001. Only Mullah Omar could not control the Northern Alliance, your ally, who continued to grow the poppy. So you see the Taliban was not all bad.”

  “The protection of Osama bin Laden and his terrorist training camps in your country is what caused the greatest opposition for the Taliban by the rest of the world.”

  For the first time Omar made eye contact. “I know my history. Your country wanted to get back at the Soviet Union for their support of the North Vietnamese. When the Soviets invaded my country, America encouraged the recruitment of Muslims from throughout the world to fight the Soviets. You supported training camps in Pakistan and my country. You supplied us. Not directly, that might cause embarrassment if caught, but you supported us through the Pakistan military intelligence. You supported Osama bin Laden when he was fighting the Soviets, but once the Soviets left, the United States cared little about what happened in Afghanistan.”

  Just then David entered the room. Omar abruptly stopped his discussion. David inquired about the progress of Shahla, and the discussion became medical in nature. Matt excused himself but knew he and Omar would one day continue their discussion.

  Chapter Twenty

  The sun had already set and Matt was driving home. Because the newest World Angel clinic was located within a few miles of the ocean, he had two choices for the route home. He could take the ever-crowded 405 Freeway north to the 101 and suffer through eight lanes of traffic his entire commute or take the Pacific Coast Highway to Malibu Canyon and over to the 101 Freeway. Tonight Matt chose the latter. Traffic was moving slowly, but at least he could look at the ocean rather than disgruntled commuters as they inched their way home in all directions.

  Matt had the window down, the music up, and a Big Gulp from 7-Eleven to tide him over until he arrived at the condo. It had been a long day, and at least a drive in his “new” Mercedes ML 500 made the commute more tolerable. The Mercedes was a “gift” from a drug dealer, seized by the Bureau the previous year following a sting operation in Las Vegas. Matt could keep the vehicle for the duration of the case, and he wanted to enjoy all the accoutrements while he had the opportunity. The sound system was second to none, thanks to the meth dealer’s expensive tastes.

  He attended a training session at the World Angel building in the morning and spent the rest of the day at the clinic. He cut the grass, trimmed the bushes, and moved boxes of supplies from one end of the clinic to the other. He laughed as he was performing the manual labor. This was precisely why he went to college—to avoid heavy lifting.

  Although Matt did not have the experience of a twenty-year veteran, this UC assignment was unique and the type most agents never encounter. Typical undercover assignments involve spending an hour or two with the target in an effort to engage him in a criminal act—a drug buy, a fraudulent transaction, or negotiations for a contract killing. Even if the criminal act required numerous meetings, those individual meetings seldom lasted more than a lunch, a dinner, or a few drinks. This assignment, however, required Matt to remain in his role for eight to ten hours a day, with target and nontarget alike. It was difficult staying in character that long. Too many times a topic of conversation might arise, and Matt wanted to contribute with a humorous anecdote from the FBI, only to catch himself before the words escaped his mouth.

  Today one of the nurses returned late from lunch. She walked into a bank, a few blocks from the clinic, just as a robber was racing out the door. The robber shoved her aside, pushed open the door, and escaped into the street. The nurse was able to point to the exact spot where the robber touched the door. FBI agents “dusted” the door and lifted a set of latent fingerprints from the glass surface.

  She enjoyed playing junior G-man if only for a few minutes. The Agent in Charge of the investigation let her examine the prints before they were lifted by tape and placed on a plain white card. She could see every loop and whirl left behind by the touch of the fingers and understood what a valuable piece of evidence she had identified.

  Matt wanted to tell her a story he often told at dinner parties. In his first year in the Bureau, he bagged a transvestite bank robber who, while exiting the bank, ran directly into a plate glass window, thinking it was a door. The well-attired male robber in a dress and fishnet stockings, wearing “Sunset Orange” lipstick left a clear set of lip prints on the window. Matt was able to lift the lipstick and the prints from the glass. The FBI lab identified the Sunset Orange, and the latent prints boys were able to discern some unique characteristics of the lips. Once Matt identified the robber, with the help of an informant, Matt got his conviction. The most damaging pieces of evidence at court were lip prints that matched and the three tubes of Sunset Orange lipstick found when searching the robber’s residence. Matt was proud of that victory, but today was not the time to brag about investigative successes.

  A cool ocean breeze was blowing through the open driver’s side window. It felt good. As Matt slowly moved through the traffic, he could see the waves breaking against the shore. I wish Caitlin and I were walking along that shore. As he finished the thought, his cell phone rang.

  “Hello.”

  He could hear crying on the other end and a weak “Matt.”

  “Caitlin, is that you?”

  “Matt, I’m sorry to bother you, but I just had to call.”

  “Honey, what’s the matter?”

  “I just got a call from Mrs. Anwari, Jaana’s mom. Matt, Jaana has cancer.”

  “Oh, Caitlin, I’m so sorry.”

  “I need to go to the hospital tonight.”

  “Honey, I’ll be home in about an hour. Wait and I’ll go with you.”

  MATT FOUGHT HIS WAY through traffic and arrived home in forty-five minutes. Caitlin was waiting, her eyes red and swollen. The news of Jaana’s cancer hit hard.

  Caitlin loved all her children, but there was a special place in her heart for Jaana. Notwithstanding the troubling incident at the family convenience store, Caitlin knew how hard the family struggled to make ends me
et.

  Despite sixteen-hour workdays Jaana’s mother attended almost every class function.

  Caitlin engaged in nervous chatter the entire drive to the hospital. “Thanks for coming with me. I love this little girl so much, but her father frightens me. I hope he’s not there, but maybe if you meet him, you’ll understand.”

  “Let me worry about him. I’m here to support you,” said Matt.

  “Have you learned any more about the father?”

  “I’m still waiting to hear back. I’ve got one of our analysts running a complete profile on the family. I should hear something in the next day or two.”

  Almost as if she did not hear him, Caitlin changed the subject. “Once she brought me a box of macaroni and cheese.”

  “I guess that’s an immigrant store owner’s equivalent of an apple.”

  Although Matt had heard it before, he let Caitlin continue. “Jaana is my hardest worker and my top student.”

  “I know.”

  “She’s at least a grade level ahead of all my other students, and she’s a voracious reader. She’s reading at a fourth-grade level.”

  Matt said nothing.

  “She stays after school almost every day and helps around the classroom, cleaning up, emptying trash, putting away books, projects, and supplies. The last day she was at school she told me when she grew up she wanted to be a teacher, just like me, and go back to Afghanistan and teach little girls all the things she was learning in America.”

  The words choked and could no longer come. Tears rolled down Caitlin’s cheek.

  Matt reached over and grabbed her hand. They finished the trip in silence.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  As Caitlin and Matt were about to enter the hospital room, Caitlin stopped. She grabbed both of Matt’s hands, bowed her head, and said quietly, “God, give me the power to be strong for you and brave for Jaana.”

  When Caitlin and Matt entered the warmly lit single-bed room, a giant smile came over Jaana’s face. She was delighted to see her teacher. Caitlin ran over to the bed and gave her star pupil a long hug. Caitlin worked hard to fight back the tears that came so easily just minutes before.

  “I’ve missed you in school and didn’t know until this afternoon you were in the hospital. I’m so glad your mother called me.”

  “I’m sorry I missed school.”

  “Oh honey, that’s okay. You just get better real soon and hurry back. Our room is a mess, and you’re my best helper. I can’t make it nearly as neat as you can. Besides, who’s going to help Stephen with his reading? You’re the best teacher he has.”

  Stephen McCormick was a second-grader who had little interest in schoolwork or reading. He did, however, have an interest in Jaana. Every couple of days, Caitlin let Jaana and Stephen read together in the corner. Stephen always did better then, more concerned with impressing Jaana than Mrs. Hogan.

  After a few more minutes of conversation about classmates, Caitlin and Matt excused themselves to the hallway to discuss Jaana’s condition with her mother. The bright, crowded hallway contrasted with the soft lighting of Jaana’s room. She could only live in the shadows of her room a little longer. The hallway was reality, where the light exposed all that was wrong with the world Jaana knew.

  “My husband must work many extra hours at the market. We have so little money. I do not know how we will ever pay the doctors,” said Nahid.

  “Let’s just concentrate on getting her better,” said Caitlin.

  “It is difficult for me to explain about my daughter. Let me get the nurse.”

  Nahid excused herself to the nurse’s station and returned a minute later with Jennifer Horner, a tall blonde with a caring smile.

  After the introductions, Nahid said, “Could you explain to them what is wrong with my Jaana?”

  The prognosis was not good. A little girl, whose family fled a war-torn country where dying from the enemy’s attack was commonplace, was now confronting death from within.

  Jennifer’s demeanor turned serious and professional. “There is no way to soften the news. A pediatric hematologist and an oncologist saw Jaana this morning. Over the past several days she has had X-rays, bone scans, blood tests, and a biopsy. I’m afraid the testing confirmed our worst fears. She has Ewing’s sarcoma, a fast-spreading cancer.”

  Caitlin let out an audible gasp.

  Jennifer lowered her voice and almost whispered. “At the very least she may lose her leg, but Ewing’s can be fatal if it has metastasized.”

  “Why did it take so long to discover? She’s been complaining for weeks about a sore leg,” asked Caitlin.

  Jennifer paused before answering, “Ewing’s is difficult to diagnose. It’s often confused with less serious ailments. We just hope it hasn’t spread.”

  Caitlin could only shake her head in disbelief at the devastating news. A wave of emotions swept over her, and it took her several minutes to compose herself.

  Matt, Caitlin, and Nahid returned to the room.

  “Jaana, Matt and I have to go, but I’ll be back to visit often.”

  “Tell my friends I said hi.”

  “Oh honey, I’ll certainly tell them.”

  Caitlin paused. Matt thought she was going to cry; instead she spoke. Looking at Jaana’s mother, she said, “Is it okay if I pray for your daughter?”

  Nahid did not immediately respond to the request. Just as Caitlin began to say something, Nahid responded, “It is okay.”

  Caitlin walked over to the bed and held Jaana’s tender, young hand.

  “Dear God, there are so many difficult questions at a time like this. The main question is why. Why is this happening? I don’t know the answer, but you do. We know everything happens for a reason. Help us to understand. Help us to find your will in our lives. God, I commit this little girl to you. Touch her heart, her soul, and her body. Bring healing and understanding. Bring hope, dear Lord. She is one of your precious children. You know how much I love her. Let her know my love for her is so small compared to the love you have for her and her family. Jesus, thank you in advance for the blessings you are going to give my precious little friend and her family. It’s in your name we ask these things. Amen.”

  Caitlin leaned over and kissed Jaana on the forehead, then hugged Nahid. No words were exchanged. No words were necessary.

  A dull ache formed in Matt’s throat. He grabbed Caitlin’s hand as they walked in silence down the hall toward the elevator.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The air was still but the action heavy on Ventura Boulevard, the most traveled road in Los Angeles’s San Fernando Valley. Almost any night the traffic up and down the east-west boulevard was nonstop, and tonight was no exception.

  The Russian Veil was a popular bar nestled among the Valley’s upscale restaurants. It was one of the few on the boulevard targeting a lower middle-class clientele. In polite company it was referred to as a gentlemen’s club. In reality, it was just a strip joint where female immigrants from the former Soviet states catered to bikers and blue-collar workers. Most recently, the girls were from the Ukraine and escaped a life of poverty by agreeing to take off their clothes in front of drunken Americans.

  The empty garage in the rear of the bar was ideal for tonight’s cargo—counterfeit cigarettes. Wadi was delivering five hundred master cases to the owner. Boris Gregorian was a former Russian military intelligence officer who could now be better described as a gangster capitalist. He came to the United States soon after the breakup of the Soviet Union in 1991. He parlayed his military and intelligence contacts into a lucrative criminal enterprise spanning the greater Los Angeles area.

  Gregorian was a huge man. At six feet four inches and well over three hundred pounds, he was built like a bear and had a matching disposition. There was nothing cuddly about Boris, whose conte
mpt for the United States was almost as great as the Islamic radicals with whom he did business. Boris blamed the West for every perceived wrong in the world and welcomed any opportunity to help destroy the very fabric of the capitalistic society he now called home. In fact, Boris believed every criminal act he committed was an act of patriotism for Mother Russia. His introduction to Wadi provided one more chance to profit from the vices of an overindulgent America. He welcomed the delivery of the five hundred cases of cigarettes, especially since the product came at no cost to him. Wadi’s bosses bartered the cigarettes in exchange for a service the big Russian would soon provide. Every future cigarette sale Boris made was pure profit.

  Wadi quietly objected to whatever business arrangement Boris made with Wadi’s superiors, but as the consummate soldier, he did as ordered. Tonight those orders meant the delivery of the master cases to the vacant Ventura Boulevard garage.

  Even though Boris paid nothing for the counterfeit merchandise and had some undisclosed relationship with the Islamofascist leadership, Wadi was not about to reveal any more than he had to about the business. Wadi viewed the Russian as just a little too slick and did not trust him. Only a select few were allowed at Wadi’s Hollywood storage facility. For the others, and that included Boris, each sale followed a precise protocol. The buyer rented a box truck and left the vehicle at a predetermined location with the keys hidden under the floor mat. A trusted cell member picked up the truck and drove it to the storage facility where it was loaded and driven to the buyer’s designated locale. Wadi always remained a safe distance from the delivery location and watched the completed transaction.