by Bob Hamer
Dwayne did not directly respond to Omar’s questions but continued to press for answers about Rashid’s associates. Omar could provide few answers. Dwayne was cautious but wanted to believe in Omar’s sincerity.
Again Dwayne looked him in the eye. “Omar, I came here to tell you something. I have some bad news. Tonight we found your brother dead. He had been shot. We’re not sure if he committed suicide or was murdered.”
Shock overcame Omar. He lowered his head and placed his face in his hands. He and his brother survived the Soviet invasion. They survived the civil war by which the Taliban assumed control. They survived the United States efforts to destroy the Taliban. Now his brother was dead.
Dwayne attempted to ask a few more questions, but Omar said nothing.
Finally Omar raised his head and looked Dwayne in the eye. With anger he asked, “Why did you wait to tell me about his death until after you asked many questions?”
Tension hung in the air. The deputies readied themselves for action, if need be.
Dwayne leaned forward and in a calm voice said, “When I came here tonight, I thought you and your brother were involved together in the bank robberies, and I wasn’t sure whether you knew about his death. I don’t believe that now. I am sorry for your loss, and I am sorry for the deception. I now know I was wrong.”
As soon as he completed the last sentence, Dwayne questioned its wisdom. An apology might be perceived as weakness. Dwayne still maintained the upper hand in this interview and didn’t want to lose the momentum. Had he been interviewing someone from the West, the apology would have been good strategy. Now it was questionable.
Dwayne continued the questioning. The responses were somewhat more hostile, but nonetheless Omar responded.
As Dwayne was about to complete the interview, he had a final request. “I would like your permission to take your brother’s personal belongings, papers, notebooks, phone directories, checkbooks, any documents that might identify the killer, if, in fact, it was murder.”
“In my country you would not even ask. I guess I have no choice. You may take what you wish.”
“In this country you do have a choice, but if you deny us, I’ll ask a judge for permission to search the entire room and take those items.”
Omar nodded his head, acquiescing to Dwayne’s request.
Dwayne and the deputies quickly gathered the items. Dwayne left a detailed inventory and promised to return them in a few days. He also provided information about how to claim the body and offered help in notifying relatives overseas. He left his business card and told Omar to call him if he had any questions. Dwayne hoped he had appeased Omar and neutralized the anger, but an air of distrust remained when he and the deputies left.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Matt awoke at 5:30 a.m., threw on a pair of gym shorts, and went for a run. He was meeting Dwayne for coffee and had already told David he would have to miss the morning training session because of a prior commitment. He promised to be at the clinic by noon.
It had been three days since Rashid’s body had been found, and Matt had yet to sit down with Dwayne and learn the details of the death or the specifics of the interview with Omar.
At Monday’s staff meeting David announced Omar’s brother’s death. He said Omar was taking the next several days off to get his brother’s affairs in order and then would return to his duties at the clinic.
Although Matt stopped by the motel and left a note, he had yet to speak with Omar. Ordinarily he hated taking advantage of someone during such a time, but the mission was far more important than Omar’s grieving. Besides, Matt wasn’t too concerned with the Afghan’s feelings. There were so many questions about the murder needing to be resolved, and if it related to terrorist activity, this might be the best time for the FBI to gain an advantage.
The morning skies were dark. The previous two days had been overcast, and the only light available was projected by a streetlamp or the headlights of an occasional car. Matt liked this quiet time. He thought more clearly during a run than while fighting traffic on the L.A. freeway system.
For Matt one of the most difficult things about working undercover was blocking the case from his mind. He awoke with thoughts of the case and went to bed with similar thoughts. His mind was constantly working as he attempted to design a scenario by which he could learn the truth of Omar’s involvement. Was he a terrorist? If so, what were his plans? Rashid’s death certainly added fuel to the fire of speculation. How and why would Omar ever confide in a stranger? Matt was at a loss. He was certain cultural differences would prevent Omar from quickly confiding his darkest secrets. Maybe by befriending him and spending hours in his company, Matt could discern some fact that might fit in the larger puzzle. It was a long shot. Matt needed to take advantage of Omar’s loss. At this point there seemed to be no other course of action.
Matt continued his run through the city streets of Thousand Oaks. It was mostly flat, but a few rolling hills made the run challenging. When he reached the high school, he ran over to the track. Several joggers were there, running around the all-weather surface. Matt hit the track with a gallop and turned it into high gear. He ran a lap at a near full sprint, completing the quarter-mile in impressive time, at least impressive for a thirty-five-year-old ex-jock. He slowed his pace and headed home, completing five miles in a respectable time.
He slipped in the back door and walked into the kitchen, soaked in sweat from the run. Caitlin was sitting at the tiny dining room table reading her Bible while she ate breakfast. With outstretched arms he said, “Good morning, the love of my life. How about a hug for your hero?”
“Not before a shower, Cowboy,” she said with a slight grin as she rose from her chair and headed for the kitchen counter.
“Well, then how about a kiss?”
“A kiss you can have. Just don’t drip sweat on me.”
Matt leaned over and kissed her.
“Here, I squeezed you a glass of orange juice,” said Caitlin, handing him a large glass.
“I like my orange juice and women the same way . . . fresh.” He swatted her on her behind and went back to the bedroom to get ready for his meeting with Dwayne.
DR. UBADIAH AL-BANNA’S HUGE smile confirmed his pleasure with Wadi’s success in obtaining the Israeli consulate blueprints.
The two sat in a vinyl-covered booth inside a rundown West Hollywood coffee shop. Magazine photos of movie queens from the fifties covered the walls, and dust covered the photos. The restaurant was convenient but hardly comfortable or clean.
As al-Banna reviewed the blueprints, he said, “It is too bad about Rashid.”
“I do not weep for him. He was sloppy. He had been warned yet continued his clumsy ways. It was only a matter of time before his incompetence exposed the cause.”
Al-Banna returned the photos of the blueprints to the manila envelope. “I will see these are delivered to the appropriate people. This was an amazing victory. When the time is right, these will be most important. I must leave. I have many patients to see this morning. Thank you again for all you do for the cause.”
“Our cause is just. It is an honor to serve.”
THE JOINT TERRORISM TASK Force consisted of four squads of FBI agents supplemented with the finest agents and officers from various federal, state, and local agencies. The concept worked well. Institutional egos were set aside, and a great deal of unheralded success could be attributed to the work of the task force. By working together, dots that might not have been connected were. Convictions were obtained, but more importantly, terrorist acts had been prevented. Sometimes those acts received little or no attention because of the sensitive way in which the intelligence was developed. People with a “need to know” knew the valuable and sometimes thankless work of the JTTF.
For the past three years Pete Garcia, a veteran LAPD detective, had been assigned to
the task force. Pete took his job seriously and was checking computerized crime reports filed by the various divisions throughout the city. One report was of particular interest this morning. He printed it and sought out Dwayne, who was sitting in his office.
“Got a minute?”
“Sure, Pete, what you got?”
Pete handed the report to Dwayne. “Ran across this report filed by Wilshire patrol. Possible break-in at the building that houses the Israeli Consulate. Thought you might find the description of one of the suspects interesting.”
Dwayne reviewed the report, his eyes stopping at the clothing and suspect description provided by the retired patrolman. “Green paint stain on right sleeve of sweatshirt.”
Pete continued, “Look at the time and date. It happened shortly before the sheriff’s deputy found the body in Plummer Park.”
Dwayne grinned. “Detective Garcia, on any given night how many sweatshirts in the greater Los Angeles area have a green paint stain on the right sleeve?”
Pete returned the grin. “Supervisory Special Agent Washington, my expert professional opinion is one.”
“I will second that opinion. Let’s take a closer look. Great work, Pete.”
MATT WAS A FEW minutes early for his meeting with Dwayne. He sat inside the Brentwood café. The heavy morning fog lingered, preventing the sun and its radiant heat from breaking through. It was too chilly to sit on the patio, but the noise of the cappuccino machine was annoying. Matt debated moving the meeting to another location once Dwayne arrived, but he knew Dwayne had another meeting at eleven. Matt figured he would just tolerate the consistent racket of what the gentry thought was the quaint sound of their favorite latte being prepared. Matt picked a table near the window. As he was perusing the paper, his cell phone rang. It was Dwayne.
“So, are you standing me up again? My ego can’t take this constant inattention.”
“Something’s come up. Can you meet Pete and me at the Israeli Consulate parking lot?”
“Sure, what’s up?”
“I think we had an attempted break-in at the building that houses the consulate. Rashid may have been part of it.”
“You’re kidding. That’s big time if Rashid’s involved.”
“I’m not kidding. I’ll explain when you get here. I checked with immigration. It will come as no shock that Rashid overstayed his visa.”
Matt let out a mock gasp. “How dare he fail to comply with our laws and penetrate our borders!”
“Did Omar ever discuss Rashid’s status?”
“I never asked. Not sure I could bring it up without arousing suspicion,” said Matt. “That night at the motel, did you ask about it?”
“No, didn’t even think about it at the time. We didn’t exactly leave on the best of terms, but I should go back to clear up a few questions. Meet us as soon as you can outside the consulate.”
“I’m on my way.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Matt drove into the parking lot of the Wilshire Boulevard office building and pulled alongside Dwayne. Pete Garcia was in the passenger seat.
“Thanks for the call,” said Matt.
“You’re the undercover. Your stake in this is greater than ours. Wasn’t sure it was wise for you to show up, but you’re a big boy. Thought I’d leave it up to you.”
“I don’t think I’ll run into too many Islamic terrorists at the Israeli consulate, at least at this hour. I’ll be okay.”
The three exited their cars and headed toward the alley entrance of the building.
“By the way,” said Dwayne, “I had one of the translators look at that brochure you found on Omar’s desk. It’s almost like a religious tract justifying a call to arms against Israel and the West. It seems rather careless he would leave it on top of his desk or even have it for that matter. A confirmed terrorist shouldn’t need daily reminders of why he’s fighting the Great Satan. It’s an interesting piece of intel.”
“Maybe our boy’s strictly minor leagues and needs more practice before he gets called up to the bigs,” said Matt.
“Could be; we still have a lot to learn about terrorists. It’s probably naïve to expect them all to fit into the same neat little box.”
As they continued walking, Pete handed Matt a copy of the crime report. He gave it a quick read.
“This doesn’t tell us much; pretty generic,” said Matt.
“I know. I called the guard this morning and spoke with him in more detail. Don’t be too hard on the patrol unit. The Schoolyard Crips did a drive-by over in Eighteenth Street hood, and all available units were called. This just looked like a botched burglary. A drive-by 187 beats that any day.”
“I understand. At least they filed the report. Some guys wouldn’t have bothered with the paper. I don’t suppose the crime lab responded?” asked Matt.
“No,” said Pete. “There was really no need. The patrol unit spent less than fifteen minutes on this thing. The security guard had no reason to believe anything was stolen or they got farther than the basement. The only alarm activated was a door to one of the utility rooms, and that door was never opened. No one made entry otherwise; the motion detector inside the room would have been activated. The guard thinks he spooked ’em before they got down to business.”
“But there’s an exterior alarm?” asked Matt.
Pete nodded.
“So how’d they get in the building if it was alarmed?” asked Matt.
“According to the guard, the exterior alarm was set when he checked it earlier in the evening. The only plausible explanation is they bypassed the exterior system.”
Matt ran his fingers through his hair and looked at Dwayne. “If they bypassed one alarm, they could have easily bypassed others. They may have been in there much longer than the guard calculated and just accidentally brushed up against the door. They may have already gotten down to business and were on their way out.”
The three approached the exterior alley door. The metal door was worn, dented, and scratched from a variety of boxes and items moved in and out of the entrance over the years. Many of the scratches were rusted so they could easily be dismissed as being too old. Matt carefully examined the area around the perimeter sensor alarm. The sunlight reflected off the exposed metal of several tiny scratches. Matt pointed out the tiny marks to Dwayne and Pete.
“This is fresh. No discoloration. No rust. No sign of aging. My guess is they bypassed the alarm.”
Dwayne turned the doorknob. Since it was a regular workday, the building was accessible from the alley, and the door was unlocked. All three entered. They walked down the well-lit hallway. Pete counted down the doors until they came to the one identified by the security guard.
“This is it.”
Stenciled on the door were the words “Restricted Access.” Pete opened the door to the room housing a massive electrical panel.
“This could have been their target. You could do a lot of damage from this panel under the right circumstances,” said Pete.
Matt looked over the panel. “I’m not so sure. It seems to me they could inconvenience or embarrass the consulate during a political function, but turning the lights off in the middle of a heavy workday seems more like a college prank than terrorism.”
Dwayne’s attention was drawn elsewhere.
“Check this out,” said Dwayne. “The building administrator’s office is directly across the hall. Maybe one of our friends leaned up against the door as his buddies were going in or coming out of this office.”
Matt carefully examined the door frame to the administrator’s office. The interior door sensor had several fresh scratch marks. “Dwayne, I think you’re right. It looks like they got a little sloppy. Whoever their alarm man is, was rushing to get everybody inside before they were detected. I bet he bypassed this, and they were in
the office.”
As Matt was examining the wiring at the base of the door frame, the door opened. Lisa Hughes, one of the building managers, walked out with a box of papers and almost tripped over Matt. Dwayne caught her before she fell.
“I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” asked Dwayne.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” said Lisa, a little annoyed and embarrassed. “Can I help you?”
Dwayne pulled out his credentials and introduced Matt and Peter. “We’re investigating the break-in.”
“Not sure there’s much to investigate. I certainly didn’t think it warranted the FBI showing up,” said Lisa.
“Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”
“Not at all, but let me deliver these boxes to one of the tenants upstairs. Make yourself at home in my office. You can actually walk in, no need to crawl.” Lisa was referring to Matt, who was still on his hands and knees, sheepishly looking up at the building manager.
Before she returned, Matt and Pete gave the office a “quick toss.” They were both wearing surgical gloves. They spotted the file cabinets and carefully opened the drawers.
Matt pointed out the file containing the information on the consulate. It was difficult to tell if anything had been disturbed. Pete suggested they should call his crime lab and dust the place for prints. Matt agreed. Just as Pete was picking up the phone to make the call, Lisa returned.
“Now, how can I help you? I’ve been here about a year. You’re my first FBI agents, but we get Secret Service and Israeli Intelligence fairly often, especially when governmental big shots are planning to visit the consulate.”
Lisa was aware of the break-in but found nothing disturbed in her office and accepted the belief of the guard that he interrupted the intruders before they were able to accomplish their goal, “whatever that might be.” No one in the building reported any problems, and it was highly unlikely the intruders made it above the lobby because the guard had been on duty for more than three hours before the alarm was activated. She cooperated fully with the investigation and allowed the men to remain in the office until the technician from the LAPD crime lab arrived.