Enemies Among Us

by Bob Hamer

  PETE COULD HEAR THE technician as she lugged her case down the hallway toward the office. Pete turned to Matt and Dwayne. “She’s not going to be happy. She’s going to lift a lot of latents. Make her feel important. Oh well, nobody said police work was easy.”

  Allison Block had been an evidence technician with the police department for three years. She had a bachelor’s degree with a dual major in criminology and chemistry and was working part-time on her master’s in chemistry. She enjoyed the forensic side of the house and hoped to move into the lab full-time in a year or two. She was gaining valuable experience as an evidence technician, but dusting for prints did not rank at the pinnacle of law enforcement excitement.

  She extended her hand. “Pete, good to see you again. It’s been awhile.”

  “Yeah, several months. Let me introduce you to a couple of FBI agents I work with on the task force. Allison Block, this is Supervisory Special Agent Dwayne Washington and Special Agent Matt Hogan.”

  They exchanged pleasantries and Dwayne explained the situation. Despite Pete’s warning, Allison was enthusiastic about an opportunity to work a terrorism case and immediately began dusting the exterior door frame and the two interior doors in question. Once she completed that task, she began examining the administrative office area, a Herculean effort.

  Matt pulled Dwayne aside.

  “Let’s narrow this down. If Rashid and his buddies made it into this room, the only thing of importance would be documents pertaining to the consulate. Do we really care if they ransacked the drawers or checked out the water cooler?” Matt pointed to the file cabinet on the left. “Lisa said that’s the only place containing any information about the consulate. Let’s concentrate our efforts on the second drawer where the file is located.”

  Dwayne thought for a second before he answered. “I understand what you’re saying, but I doubt all four of the intruders spent their whole time surrounding the file cabinet. If they weren’t wearing gloves, they may have touched the water cooler or the drawers and left a latent. If you need to get going, go. Pete and I can stay. I’d rather be thorough than expedient. It only takes one good latent to get a conviction.”

  Matt thanked Allison for her assistance and headed back to the clinic. The others remained behind, completing a game of evidence hide-and-seek.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Matt returned to the clinic and spent most of the afternoon doing the menial chores he learned to hate—restocking supplies, rolling bandages, and his all-time favorite, painting. The outdoor storage shed, located in the far corner behind the large Jacaranda tree, needed several coats of an all-weather paint to withstand the salt air. Matt took his time completing the painting, knowing Omar was at a seminar at UCLA and Ibrahim was having dinner with friends. Matt wanted to use the early evening hours, when minimal staff walked the floors, to search Ibrahim’s office. Although Matt tried several times, someone always managed to interrupt his plans before he was able to execute his surreptitious, if not illegal, examination of the contents of Ibrahim’s personal belongings. Tonight he hoped to bend the Constitution again . . . just a little.

  Matt finished the painting as the sun was setting. He took his time in cleaning the rollers and brushes. He then showered and put on clean clothes. His belabored actions provided enough time for the day staff and volunteers to head home for the evening. Only two nurses would be on duty for the night shift, and both would spend most of their time at the nurses’ station located near the front of the clinic.

  Matt kept the noise to a minimum. He didn’t want to appear to be hiding if caught, but, in fact, that’s exactly what he was doing.

  After almost forty-five minutes, he completed the clean-up efforts. He needed to return the cleaning supplies to the large walk-in closet. Just as he was about to exit the supply closet, he heard David at the end of the hallway talking to a man with a strong Middle Eastern accent. Matt quickly ducked back into the storage room, leaving the door cracked enough to hear the conversation.

  “I am very nervous about taking this much cash,” said David.

  “But it is for a good cause,” said the man, irritated he had to force the money upon David. “I want to help you, help her, and the others.”

  “I understand that and I appreciate your gifts, but it is a problem to take cash.”

  “It is more of a problem for me to pay in any other way. Please take my cash,” said the man.

  Matt sensed David relented when he heard, “This is very kind. I can assure you, just as before, the money will be used for a good cause.”

  “Thank you for your help with the children and being receptive to our gifts. I must go now. My car is parked out back. I will leave by the side door.” The man turned and headed down the hallway. As he passed the cracked door of the supply closet, Matt saw Yasir Mehsud, Humpty Dumpty as Caitlin called him, waddling toward the door leading to the alley.

  David continued walking toward the front of the building and failed to see what Matt saw: Yasir slipping into the restroom.

  Matt waited quietly, peering through the small opening. Yasir remained in the restroom for almost five minutes before finally exiting. But even then, his actions were deliberate and suspicious. He popped his head around the corner of the door frame, almost the sneak-and-peek technique Matt employed on numerous arrests. When it was obvious Yasir determined he was alone, he walked back toward the individual hospital rooms, rather than toward the alley exit. Matt watched Yasir enter Shahla’s darkened room.

  Hoping to prevent the storage room door from squeaking, Matt slowly opened it, grabbing a pillow, sheets, and a blanket as he exited the closet. Matt then padded toward Shahla’s room, hoping the linens would provide sufficient cover and a reason for entering the room.

  Matt knew weapons drawn and guns blazing would endanger Shahla and spell the end of the undercover operation. At the same time Yasir’s suspicious actions required Shahla be protected.

  Matt walked into the room, carrying the pillow and blanket on his weak side, readying his right hand to draw his weapon, concealed under his shirt on his strong side.

  Yasir jumped when Matt entered the room.

  “Can I help you?” whispered Matt.

  Yasir turned and headed toward the door without uttering a word. Matt didn’t want to confront him in Shahla’s room and so let him leave. Matt’s immediate concern was the girl. He raced to Shahla to determine whether she had been hurt. He heard the door leading to the alley close. Shahla stirred and looked up at Matt. When she smiled, Matt knew she was okay. He returned the smile, patted her head, and mouthed, “Go back to sleep,” even though she didn’t understand the words. She rolled over and fell back asleep. Matt rushed out of the room and headed toward the door.

  Once outside Matt looked in both directions of the darkened alley. He saw nothing, but then the headlights of a car coming eastbound illuminated Yasir as he stood flat against the wall in an unsuccessful attempt to conceal himself. His corpulent stomach protruded beyond the shadows. The car passed, turning left at the street. Matt walked deliberately toward Yasir’s position. As Matt closed, Yasir stepped from the wall and wheeled toward Matt. Even in the faint light, Matt saw the reflection of a gun in the man’s right hand.

  The loud noises of the traffic on Wilshire Boulevard drowned out the sound of the single gunshot fired from Yasir’s weapon, but the muzzle flash momentarily lit up the alley. The bullet missed. Matt’s training proved more valuable. He reacted with lightning speed— double-tap—two shots center mass. The rounds entered midchest, striking the heart. The first round was probably the fatal blow, but the second insured Yasir’s expeditious trip to whatever afterlife terrorists enjoyed. Yasir dropped immediately.

  FBI agents believed in General Patton’s creed; battles fought decisively with brute force save lives, maybe this time Matt’s.

  Matt rushed to the site w
here the rotund corpse lay in a puddle of his own blood. Matt grabbed the 9mm mini-Glock that fell from Yasir’s grip. Holstering his own weapon, Matt cleared the Glock and stuck it inside his belt before placing his middle and index fingers over Yasir’s carotid artery. There was no pulse. He was dead, and no amount of medical attention would bring back the life of this obese terrorist.

  Matt looked around. The dark alley was empty. The incident brought no curious onlookers. Matt squatted next to the body trying to gather his senses, now upset he reacted the way he was trained. Yasir’s actions and Matt’s reactions not only cost Yasir his life but placed the entire undercover operation in jeopardy. Matt thought for a few seconds before grabbing his cell phone and punching in Dwayne’s number.

  AS EXPECTED DWAYNE WAS livid when he heard the news. Matt had to hold his cell phone away from his ear as Dwayne spewed his anger.

  “What’d you want me to do, let him keep firing? He wheeled on me, Dwayne. He had a gun,” said Matt, remaining calm.

  “Where are you now?”

  “I got out of Dodge. I cleared out of the alley before anyone came. I’m down the street.”

  “Where’s the body?”

  “Still in the alley, I guess. He’s not going anywhere under his own power.”

  “Did you call 911?”

  “I called you. This just happened.”

  “The Queen Mother’s gonna shut us down. This thing is over,” said Dwayne.

  “Don’t panic just yet. Let’s call the Boss. Tell him what happened. Figure out who this guy is. I’m telling you, Dwayne, he’s a player. He’s tied to terrorism in some way. He was at the market. Zerak knows him. He sells counterfeit cigarettes. He has some type of relationship with Shahla, and he’s paying this charity in cash for some unknown reason. He’s no good, and before we close up shop, we need to make sure we have him fully identified. As of right now my cover is still intact. Let’s play this thing out.”

  “Maybe you make sense.”

  “Dwayne, please trust my instincts. Call Pete Garcia. Have him work with the Santa Monica PD. It was a righteous shoot. We’ll cooperate fully. We just don’t need all the facts to come out now. This will give you a reason to interview David and find out what the relationship is with Humpty Dumpty and the clinic.”

  “Okay, I’ll make the calls. Then I might just go get drunk. Maybe the Queen Mother was right to fear your cowboy antics. You do make a supervisor question why he ever went the administrative route.”

  For the first time in several hours, Matt smiled.

  Chapter Forty

  The church bells from the chapel rang out at 8:00 a.m., just as they did every morning. The tiny Catholic chapel, located off Santa Monica Boulevard about three miles from the ocean, was open to the public from 6:00 a.m. until 10:00 p.m.

  Although the parish priest welcomed everyone, he occasionally had to police the sanctuary to prevent the homeless from taking adverse possession of the pews. It was not unusual to see an empty grocery cart parked on the walkway just outside the door with its homeless owner inside the chapel stretched out asleep on one of the wooden pews, trash bags of empty cans, bottles, and newspapers at his feet.

  This morning the chapel was empty. The sunlight reflected through the stained-glass windows, depicting the Stations of the Cross surrounding the chapel. A large wooden crucifix hung from the ceiling just above the altar. Somehow, no matter where you sat in the chapel, Christ appeared to be looking directly at you. At twilight it was both awesome and eerie.

  Wadi walked in, crossed himself, and took a seat in a pew toward the back. The cover was perfect. Muslim terrorists are not known to frequent Catholic churches. Wadi made one mistake, the same mistake he made every day he entered the chapel.

  Today, as was usual, he went in unobserved. Wadi learned the technique of crossing himself watching American TV. He watched Karl Malden one too many times in On the Waterfront. Wadi practiced crossing himself in the mirror, and now every time he entered the chapel, he crossed himself backward. It certainly was a habit no Muslim would notice but would quickly catch the attention of anyone familiar with the religious practice.

  Wadi sat there quietly for a few minutes and enjoyed the serenity. He liked the little chapel for its beauty and its peace. He was familiar with Jesus, as were all Muslims. Jesus is one of more than twenty prophets discussed in the Koran and is believed to be one of the most significant along with Adam, Noah, Abraham, Moses, and, of course, Mohammed, the last prophet.

  Wadi studied each window, and every time he looked at the cross, he felt the eyes of Jesus peering at him.

  Ismad walked into the chapel and shook his head in disgust. He saw Wadi and walked toward him. Before Ismad could say anything, Wadi instructed him in a whisper to sit down and look straight ahead toward the cross. This time Wadi was determined to take control.

  “I must leave soon for a meeting,” said Ismad.

  “This will not take long.”

  “I understand the cause lost another soldier last night,” said Ismad.

  “It does not affect your assignment.”

  “Everything has the potential to impact my mission.”

  “Yasir is my problem. I will handle it.”

  “Let us hope you handle it better than I have seen you manage the other incidents since my arrival in this country.”

  Wadi ignored the criticism. “Do you have the date and the place?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you worked with this material before?” asked Wadi.

  “Of course, I trained at Khalden and Mes Aynak. Where did you take your training? The Sudan with the al-amal?”

  Wadi laughed out loud. It was a cold, deadly laugh. Then he said brusquely, “When it is time, contact the name on this business card.”

  Ismad looked at the card. It read, “Ubadiah Adel al-Banna, MD.”

  Wadi continued to look straight ahead as he said, “Use a pay phone when you call. Set up an appointment under this name.”

  Wadi handed Ismad a driver’s license and insurance card. Ismad took the items, read the name, and placed the identification papers in his pocket.

  Wadi continued, “No one in his office knows he is with the cause. He is a dedicated longtime member of the movement. I objected to his direct involvement in this action, but he insisted. He is proud to serve the cause and looks forward to meeting you. At the meeting he will give you further instructions and will assist you in completing your assignment. We can bring America to its knees.”

  Wadi leaned closer to Ismad and whispered, “Allah will be pleased.”

  Ismad prepared to leave and rose from his seat. With contempt he said, “Do you worship here?” He walked away, not waiting for a response.

  DAVID OPENED THE STAFF meeting with prayer.

  “Dear Heavenly Father, we thank you for another day, a day to worship you and to serve you. Soften the hearts of those we touch. Allow us to be your light in a world so filled with darkness. Amen.”

  Matt loved David’s prayers; they were always short, and they seemed sincere, but how sincere was a man who played host to terrorists and took their money? Before Matt’s undercover assignment could even answer the most elementary questions, more questions arose. Was David, a Christian, imbedded with radical Muslim terrorists? Was World Angel, in fact, a front for Islamic fascism?

  Last night’s shooting was not Matt’s first, and it was not the first time he killed a man. That did not make this incident any easier, but he learned to deal with the psychological trauma of discharging a weapon in the heat of combat. The Bureau had a well-planned protocol for dealing with such matters, but the nature of the undercover operation required him to remain in character. He had little time for the counseling typically required. He and Caitlin spent the early morning hours discussing the situation, easing much of the anxiety. She was his
rock and his tether, a role he cherished and appreciated even more each time he faced the turmoil the world threw at him.

  Matt looked around the conference room table and marveled at the dedication of those at the session. All were educated and skilled. They could be successful in the world, at least from a financial standpoint, but chose instead to serve God, often for less than minimum wage. He was thankful he had a great job that paid reasonably well and could still bring the personal satisfaction of knowing he was making the world a better and safer place in which to live. He was not, however, ready to make the financial sacrifice those around the table were making.

  Matt sat across from Omar, who was drinking his usual early morning Coke. If he had a vice, and Matt saw none, it was Coca Cola. Omar went through at least a six-pack every day. After weeks of working with him on a daily basis, at least for an hour or so each day, Matt saw nothing identifying him as a terrorist or anything clearing him of being one either. They shared lunches and Cokes. They talked at length about life in Afghanistan. Matt engaged him in some political discussions, but Omar never said anything sounding a warning bell. Sure he was opinionated, but so was Ibrahim. So was Caitlin for that matter. “Opinionated” doesn’t make you the target of an FBI investigation.

  Matt’s mind wandered, and he realized he missed the announcements for the day. David said something about a fund-raising banquet. Matt made a mental note to check on the particulars. Matt also realized Ibrahim was absent. Good, at least he can’t close us with prayer. But just as he began to question why Ibrahim was missing, the door to the conference room opened, and Ibrahim quietly slipped in the back of the room. Nuts, please don’t ask him to pray. Kim, the receptionist, followed closely behind with a fresh pot of coffee and a smile on her face. Matt and Ibrahim acknowledged each other with a nod.