Enemies Among Us

by Bob Hamer

  Caitlin gave her a beautiful multicolored scarf to cover her head, and Jaana wore the gift proudly.

  The sun was shining, and Jaana sang most of the way to the clinic. Nahid went with them, while Zerak, hoping to make up for all the business lost during the hospitalization, remained at the store.

  Timing was of critical importance this morning. Ibrahim and Omar were at the morning training session and would return to the clinic in a couple of hours. Caitlin told Jaana about the clinic and that she met several children who lost limbs because of the wars going on all over the world. Caitlin described Shahla and said she was also from Afghanistan. Jaana made Caitlin promise to introduce her once she was allowed to go out. Today Caitlin was fulfilling that promise.

  They arrived at the clinic around ten. Caitlin hoped to leave late enough from Jaana’s apartment to allow the morning commute to subside, but an overturned pickup truck on the Sunset off-ramp of the 405 backed up traffic to the Valley. It was a slow crawl, and Caitlin was already on the freeway before she learned of the accident. In any event, Jaana’s excitement at being able to meet someone from Afghanistan made up for the near-jog pace of the traffic.

  When they finally arrived, Matt greeted them in the parking lot. He took the wheelchair from the trunk, opened it, and locked the brakes. Matt carefully lifted Jaana from the car and placed her in the chair. Her mom put a light pink blanket over her legs, covering the stump. This would be Jaana’s first time in public since the surgery, and Nahid was uncertain as to whether she would be self-conscious about her leg and her hair.

  Matt wheeled her up the walk through the front doors. Several of the nurses Matt had been assisting were walking out as they were entering. Both Gina and Sherri greeted Jaana and made her feel welcome at the clinic. They chatted briefly, and Jaana was not the least bit shy in telling them about her cancer and the operation. The nurses immediately fell in love with Jaana, as did everyone who met her.

  Matt took them on the nickel tour of the clinic before heading for Shahla’s room. When they arrived, Shahla was in her bed, staring out the window at a bird perched on her windowsill. Matt lightly tapped on the open door, and Shahla turned.

  “Hi, Shahla. I hope you don’t mind, but I brought a friend. I thought you might like to meet another little girl from Afghanistan. This is Jaana.”

  Shahla’s English was still very limited, and she had no idea what Matt was saying. Matt rolled Jaana closer to the bed. Jaana looked at Shahla’s amputated leg and threw off her blanket.

  With a huge smile, Jaana said in Pashto, “Hey, I’ve only got one too, just like you. We could be twins.”

  For the first time Matt saw Shahla smile. Jaana began to chatter as if they had been friends for years. Matt, Caitlin, and Nahid walked out into the hallway and let the two young victims of evil, seen and unseen, be little girls.

  Nahid and Caitlin stayed outside the room while Matt left, promising to return in fifteen minutes. When he did, he was carrying hamburgers, fries, and milk shakes for five. He entered the room and announced he had a special surprise for lunch. Both little girls squealed for joy. They may have been Afghan by birth, but they quickly assumed the makings of all-American girls.

  Far too quickly the morning was up, and Caitlin announced it was time to go, causing both girls to groan. Caitlin told Shahla and Jaana they could visit again. Jaana made Nahid promise to bring her back on the weekend, and Nahid acceded. It was difficult, if not impossible, to deny such a small wish to two who had faced so much recently. Each said good-bye with promises to see each other soon.

  As Matt was wheeling Jaana down the hallway, Caitlin asked her if she had a good time.

  “It was wonderful,” she replied. “I told her about Jesus.”

  Caitlin smiled and Matt could only marvel at the courage this little immigrant child showed. She truly was special.

  IT WAS A PARKLIKE setting behind the clinic. The grounds were well maintained. California oaks surrounded the eight-foot high stucco walls blocking out the noises of the world. Three orange trees in the northwest corner provided a quick snack for anyone willing to pick the ripened fruit. Pink and white oleander sporadically lined the edge of the yard, and the two men sat in a large wooden gazebo.

  Matt handed Omar a Coke.

  Omar looked at the Coke, then looked at Matt. “In 1987, to bring attention to the Palestinian cause, bin Laden called for the boycott of American goods. He repeated the call after the United States imposed sanctions on my country. It was difficult to get your Coke.”

  There was pain in his voice. Omar’s Coke comment was merely meant to momentarily take his mind off death. They both popped the tops of the cans at the same time. Matt leaned back in his chair and said nothing. He waited for Omar to continue the conversation.

  As if talking to no one in particular, Omar finally began, “He didn’t do it.”

  Matt waited to respond then said, “Do what?”

  “I have told no one. I do not know why I am telling you. There is something different about you. I think I can trust you. I trust very few. That is how I survived in my country. Please tell no one.”

  Matt started to promise he would maintain a confidence, but Omar went on without waiting for assurances.

  “I was questioned by your FBI. They think my brother robbed banks and used the money to support the terrorists. They are not sure if he was murdered or committed suicide. . . . He didn’t commit suicide.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “My brother was part of a cause and was willing to die for that cause because he believed it to be just. The Koran says he who leaves his dwelling to fight for God and his apostle and is then overtaken by death shall be rewarded by God. Rashid believed that. The cause has assigned martyrdom the highest priority. We call it shuhada, martyrs in the name of Allah. Rashid would make that sacrifice.”

  Omar took a long drink from the can and waited several seconds before continuing. “But the Koran teaches suicide is wrong, just as in your religion. Jannah, what you call Paradise, does not await one who takes his own life. Israel calls the terrorist attacks ‘suicide missions’ as a way to discredit those willing to make the ultimate sacrifice. The Jews hoped the word suicide would discourage the actions of those dedicated to jihad. But it is wrong to describe as suicide the act of one who willingly gives his life out of dedication for the victory of Islam. That is what we call a martyr.”

  “Would your brother martyr himself?”

  “Of course, that is what I am saying.”

  “So you believe he was murdered?”

  “I know he was murdered.” Omar put his head down and lowered his voice. “I loved my brother, but we did not believe the same. We both saw decades of horror in our country, but it brought us to different views. I saw death, and it made me want to save lives. He saw death and wanted to eradicate those responsible for the destruction he witnessed.”

  “Who did he blame?” asked Matt.

  “My brother was a warrior in what many Muslims believe is a true jihad. Even as a child he fought the Soviets who invaded our country. Your government supported that fight. I read that your President Carter would not support the Olympics in Moscow, and then my country got help, your help. Even though Osama bin Laden took your money, he hated you because of your presence in our world. The Prophet Mohammed said, ‘Let there be no two religions in Arabia.’ My brother believed now you, rather than the Russians, are the infidels and will remain our enemy as long as you stay on the Arabian Peninsula . . . and as long as you support the Israeli occupation of Palestine.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “It is not important what I believe. My brother believed it. He used to give me booklets explaining why the cause was just. Why the sixth pillar, jihad, meant armed conflict. I now know from the FBI that jihad for him also included robbing banks. I knew he was doing something wrong,
but I did not know what. He would come home at night with money, sometimes stacks of money, but he never would spend it.

  “Once at the motel I received a strange call telling me about a bank and the name of a teller. I said nothing to my brother. It meant nothing to me. It did not seem important. But Rashid got very angry with me for not telling him. He said he was supposed to meet the teller and didn’t because I didn’t give him the message. The next day I saw on the news the bank was robbed. I said something to Rashid. He got upset and said never to discuss it again.”

  “What happened on the night he died?”

  Omar looked off into the distance before answering. “I knew that night he was doing something for the cause. I don’t know what. He complained once that everything he earned he gave to others. He kept nothing for himself. But others used the money he earned for themselves. I believe they killed him. My brother was very brave. He fought for many years. Whoever he answered to here was young. My brother feared him but did not respect him. His superior did not experience life as my brother knew it.”

  Matt watched Omar carefully, trying to discern insincerity. He saw none. Because Omar was opening up, Matt was comfortable probing deeper. It was a fine line between interested comrade and inquisitor. Matt wanted to be cautious.

  “Did you know your brother’s associates?”

  “No, my brother was protective of me. It may sound strange to you, but even though we did not agree on the cause, my brother was proud of me. He knew I worked for a Christian organization, but he knew I was helping children maimed by the war. He supported me in that work. He did not want me involved in his world. I never met others.”

  “Did he train at a terrorist camp?”

  Omar looked at Matt. There was no anger in Omar’s eyes, but the look suggested Matt was about to get a lecture. “Americans use the word terrorist very freely. If you want to invade our land, kill our people, or tell us how to govern ourselves, it is in the name of freedom. If you support the occupation of Palestine or support Israeli troops that kill women and children, that is justice. If someone of the Islamic faith engages in such activities, it is terrorism. The Palestinian child who throws rocks is a terrorist. The American soldier who comes to our country and kills our citizens, is what, a patriot? Were not your revolutionaries who fought against British rule terrorists? Some might say, it is the United States who is the terrorist. But to answer your question, my brother was trained at a camp in Khost, a camp your tax dollars indirectly supported. Does that make it a terrorist training camp?”

  Matt thought it best to back away. Omar opened up far more than he would have ever suspected. The door was left open for further discussion.

  Omar stood up. Matt also rose.

  “Was your brother left-handed?”

  Omar answered without hesitation. “Yes, it caused him many problems. In the Muslim faith the left hand is for bodily functions and is considered unclean. During the Russian invasion of my country, Rashid was shot in the finger on his right hand, and it did not heal properly.” Omar held up his index finger, the trigger finger, bent at a slight angle. “He was unable to bend it any further than that. So for many things like writing, he learned to use his left hand.” Omar looked at Matt with obvious confusion. “Why is that important?”

  Matt never answered the question but with all sincerity said, “Omar, I am sorry about your brother. I understand your hurt. Let’s go honor him by treating the children.”

  Although it was uncharacteristic of Matt, he gave Omar a hug.

  MATT STOOD OUT FRONT of the clinic and punched the speed dial to Dwayne’s cold phone.

  “Dwayne, it’s Matt.”

  “I’m a trained investigator. I recognize the voice. Besides, you’re the only one with this number,” said Dwayne. “What’s going on?”

  “He was left-handed.”

  “Who?”

  “Rashid. This wasn’t a suicide. Has the coroner’s office issued a ruling?”

  “I haven’t seen a thing. I can call over to homicide, if you want, and see where they stand.”

  “Would you please? Check out the right index finger. See if the report mentions any deformity or malfunction. According to Omar the finger couldn’t pull a trigger. It couldn’t bend. Also check for fingerprints on the magazine and the individual rounds.”

  “Yeah, I can check on that,” said Dwayne.

  “This was an inside job; it wasn’t suicide. Omar says Rashid didn’t always play well with others and had problems with management.”

  “Sounds familiar. No wonder you’re taking an interest. I’ll check on it and get back to you.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Matt sat on the patio and waited for Dwayne, who was late. To date, the investigation had yielded more questions than answers. Matt’s frustration grew.

  Dwayne arrived and apologized for being late.

  “Don’t worry about it. Even if you were early, I’m not sure we’d be any closer to solving this thing. If there’s a thing to solve,” said Matt. “I can’t find anything tangible that links Omar, Ibrahim, or anyone for that matter to a specific terrorist plot.”

  “I understand your frustration. In some respects this is a fishing expedition.”

  “Well, the fish aren’t biting.”

  “Are you familiar with Echelon?” asked Dwayne.

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s one of those chatter-gathering tools we use. It’s a global electronic communications surveillance system that can intercept millions of communications every day. Phone calls, e-mails, Internet downloads, satellite transmissions—”

  “Does the ACLU know about this?” interrupted Matt.

  Dwayne smirked. “Yeah, they know. NSA now believes this may be a dirty bomb and is convinced something is going down in L.A. within the next two weeks.”

  “A dirty bomb? How’d they come up with that?”

  “I don’t know, but we have some true believers at headquarters.”

  “But what and who are we looking for?”

  “We just don’t know. No one believes this is some sort of campaign of disinformation. Al-Qaeda certainly isn’t above that tactic. After all, how many times have we heightened security only to see another day pass without incident? But analysts from several different intelligence organizations believe this to be real. The fuse is lit. We just aren’t sure how fast it’s burning. Stick with Omar. He’s our best lead so far.”

  Matt shrugged his shoulders with resignation. “He’s not our only lead. Did you ever go back to David and interview him about Yasir?”

  “Yeah, but he stonewalled me. Denied meeting Yasir or even knowing him. When I said a witness in the alley thought he saw Yasir coming out the back of the clinic, David was very convincing the witness must have been mistaken.”

  “We know that’s a lie.”

  “But what can I do? I can’t say we’ve got someone on the inside who knows differently.”

  Matt ran his fingers through his hair, pausing long enough to think. “Let me see what I can do. I have an idea that might work. Did you interview anyone else at the clinic?”

  “I spoke with the two nurses on duty that night, but they didn’t see anything.”

  “Good, that’s my cover.”

  “Do I want to know?”

  “No, plausible deniability. If it doesn’t work, you can’t be blamed; and if it does, headquarters will take credit anyway. Give me your business card.”

  “What, now you plan on impersonating a supervisor?”

  “I’m a great liar, but I don’t think I could pose as Bureau management and keep a straight face.”

  Dwayne handed Matt a business card.

  “Oh, by the way, that fingerprint lead panned out. The sheriff’s crime lab checked the magazine. They lifted several prints off t
he individual rounds in the magazine. None matched Rashid.”

  “He didn’t load the weapon?”

  “Nope,” said Dwayne.

  “Well, I guess that’s something. Could they match the latents?”

  “Yeah, but it’s no one on our radar. They came back to a Nabil al-Sherif.”

  “Look, I have to get going,” said Matt.

  “Hang in there. You’re doing a great job.”

  “Glad you think so. It sure doesn’t feel so great, and now you’re telling me this needle in the haystack just became a radioactive needle. Thanks for ratcheting it up another notch.”

  IT WAS ALMOST 6:00 when Matt pulled in front of the World Angel headquarters. The lights were still on in David’s office so Matt decided on plan B.

  His initial plan was to break into the offices and rifle through David’s desk to determine what the connection was with Yasir, the dead terrorist in the alley. Now rather than committing another felony, he would try an indirect confrontation.

  Just as he walked into the reception area, David, Ibrahim, and Kim were exiting David’s office. Ibrahim and Kim towered over David. All were formally dressed, David in a tuxedo with a bright cummerbund.

  “Wow! You guys must have big plans for this evening. Birthday? Anniversary? Celebrate winning the lottery?”

  “Hi, Matt. No, we’re going to a premiere in Westwood,” said David. “My wife is picking us up in a few minutes.”

  Kim was all smiles. She and Ibrahim continued walking as David stopped briefly to talk.

  “A premiere? You guys run in some elite circles.”

  “James Goldstone.”

  “The producer?”

  “That’s the one. He has a new movie coming out called Red Glare.”