Enemies Among Us

by Bob Hamer

  “Oh, yeah, I saw the trailers on that. It’s about an embassy bombing in Africa, isn’t it?” said Matt.

  Matt could hear Kim and Ibrahim descend the wooden stairs.

  “That’s it. It’s based on a true story. He takes on the controversial topics but has been commercially successful so the industry sticks with him. I’m anxious to see his latest. He’s a strong supporter of ours, and I want to support him. Besides, the premieres are always exciting.”

  “Sounds like fun, rubbing elbows with the Hollywood elite.”

  “You can meet him next week,” said David.

  “Next week?”

  David nodded, “He’s being honored at the Children First banquet next Friday.”

  “Children First banquet?”

  “You’re going, aren’t you?”

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve announced it at several of the staff meetings.”

  This caught Matt completely off guard.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t listen to my meditations either?” asked David with an impish grin. “Children First is a multiagency fund-raising event in which we participate each year. This year James Goldstone is our featured speaker, and I expect you to be there.”

  “Absolutely. I don’t know how I missed the announcement. I’ll definitely be there. I can’t afford to be fired.”

  “Did you need something? We need to run. My wife could be waiting.”

  Matt’s tone changed abruptly. “Something came up today, and I need to speak with you briefly.”

  “Certainly, as long as it is brief.”

  “Alone.”

  David hollered down the stairs. “This will just take a second. Please wait for me outside. If my wife arrives, tell her I will be there shortly.”

  David looked toward Matt.

  “The FBI stopped by my house this morning.” Matt pulled Dwayne’s wrinkled up card from his pants pocket and handed it to David. “Some agent left a card in my door. May not be anything, but I’m assuming it has to do with the shooting in the alley.”

  The concern on David’s face could not be masked. “Did you call the agent back?”

  “No, not yet. I heard someone mention the guy came to the clinic and met with you. I don’t want to lie to the FBI, but before I said anything, I thought maybe I should check with you.”

  “Thanks for coming to me.”

  David was visibly shaken. “Please, sit down.”

  Matt and David sat on the brown leather couch in the waiting room. David paused as he gathered his thoughts. “This is very difficult for me to say. I saw that man the day he was killed. I met with him once before. His name was Yasir Mehsud, and he was Shahla’s uncle. He made two very large donations to the clinic, all in cash. I know I was wrong to accept the money in that way, but we needed it to help get the clinic ready. He wanted to ensure Shahla would be brought to the United States for the best possible treatment. I believed then, as I do now, she was deserving of the finest care we could provide. The night Yasir died, he asked me to bring in other children. He was willing to pay. But I was unwilling to commit until I knew the extent of the injuries the children suffered. He was upset when he left and must have taken out his anger on someone in the alley. I did not know he was a terrorist until the FBI announced it following his death. The FBI did question me and I lied. I know it was wrong, but I was so afraid if people knew I accepted money from terrorists, we would lose all our funding or, worse yet, be shut down by the government.”

  “So you had no idea he was a terrorist when you were meeting with him?” asked Matt.

  “Of course not. Many people donate in cash because they are paid in cash, but never in the amounts Yasir provided. It was probably a violation of the law since I didn’t report his contribution, but I answer to God, not the United States government.”

  “I’m not sure the IRS is going to look at it that way.”

  “Please, Matt, I beg of you, don’t say anything to the FBI.”

  Matt paused, more for dramatic effect, as if thinking through his response. He looked David in the eye and then with a reluctant smile nodded, agreeing to David’s request.

  David rose from the couch and Matt followed. David offered his hand and shook Matt’s with conviction. They headed down the stairs.

  “So what’s up with Kim and the doctor?”

  “They are just friends. He is much too old for her. I had two extra tickets to tonight’s event. Not too many men pay attention to her. When I suggested she join us, she mentioned Ibrahim might like the excitement of the premiere. I asked the doctor, and he agreed to accompany us.”

  At the bottom of the staircase, David set the alarm, turned off the lights, and locked the door. As they walked outside, Matt whispered, “I didn’t see the man at the clinic, and that’s what I’ll tell the FBI.”

  “Thanks, Matt, for understanding.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Matt knocked on the partially opened door and walked into Ibrahim’s small office. Kim was sitting on the edge of the desk and quickly stood up, blushing at the intrusion. She stumbled through an awkward cover-up and, marching past Matt, said, “Doctor, I’ll get those travel vouchers to you by the end of the day.”

  “How was the premiere?”

  “It was pretty exciting,” said Kim as she left the office.

  Ibrahim turned in his chair and began stuffing a few papers in a briefcase.

  “You have time for lunch?” asked Matt.

  “Not today. I have a one o’clock appointment and need to get on the road. I still am not used to the traffic in Southern California. I never seem to leave myself enough time.”

  Matt grinned. “I’m not sure anyone gets used to it.”

  ISMAD ARRIVED EARLY AT his appointment. The small gray stucco medical building near Farmer’s Market was easier to find than he anticipated. As instructed, he turned right into the driveway and drove around to the rear where he parked.

  The warmth from the sun directly overhead felt good. He grew up in the desert so he enjoyed the dry climate. Since being in the United States, he had not been exposed to the kind of heat he craved. The main heat he experienced was the uncomfortable feeling that maybe the FBI detected his presence.

  Ismad was careful wherever he went. He regularly checked his mirrors, changed lanes frequently when driving the freeways, and would occasionally make a U-turn on the surface streets just to determine if he was being followed. To his knowledge he was successful at eluding any surveillance team.

  But caution was the key. He practiced it every day. Important calls were made from pay phones, never the same phone twice. Phone cards supplied by Wadi were used for every long-distance call. He paid cash whenever possible. He used different names when making reservations at any place not requiring identification and avoided socializing except when necessary. His task would be complete in a few days. His success was guaranteed if Allah so willed.

  He walked up the steps to the second floor, looking for room 238. It was just past the water fountain. On the door were the names of four doctors, all part of a family practice. One name was familiar: Ubadiah Adel al-Banna, MD.

  Ismad opened the door and walked into a waiting room crowded with several mothers and their children. A man who appeared to be by himself was also seated and reading a magazine. Ismad signed in at the desk, filled out the necessary paperwork, and waited. One by one the patients were called. It seemed as though as one patient was called another entered by the front door. The practice was thriving.

  After ten minutes the nurse opened the door and called for Ismad under the name he was told to use, Arif Rahman. He put the magazine back on the coffee table and followed the nurse to an examination room. As instructed he told the nurse he was experiencing dizziness. She took his temperature and blood pressure and said the d
octor would be in shortly. He waited a few more minutes.

  Al-Banna entered with his chart and, while closing the door, said, “Mr. Rahman, I am Dr. al-Banna.”

  Ismad smiled and the two embraced.

  “Allahu Akbar,” they said simultaneously.

  Al-Banna began, “It is an honor to meet you. You are truly a holy warrior to take on the assignment you have been given.”

  The two exchanged pleasantries and chatted briefly. They were both aware this meeting was to be brief and singular in purpose. This was no time to establish a friendship, but trust had already been built.

  Al-Banna was in place. He had been in the United States for years. He blended in to both the medical community and society in general. He had wealth and therefore could plausibly attend extravagant affairs. With his medical practice he could meet with anyone from any walk of life. His door was open to all in need.

  He was part of the support team helping with fund-raising and procurement. He used his medical background to obtain medical supplies for overseas operations. He convinced medical manufacturers in the United States of the genuine needs of his people overseas. Those same manufacturers, who supported the war on terrorism with their tax dollars, unwittingly healed the terrorists who were inflicting damage to the cause of freedom.

  Through his good credit he also financed the purchase of safe houses. Al-Banna owned several apartment complexes in the greater Los Angeles area. Each was corporately owned under a different name. In each of these multiunit complexes, one unit was devoted to the cause. Occupants came and went without the need for credit checks or identification. As with many apartment buildings, the turnover in renters was frequent. No one questioned residents who only stayed a month or two at a time. The units were always on the ground floor to allow easy escape in case of detection. Each unit provided a secure area where contraband of any type could be concealed. Behind hidden walls were lockers for weapons, explosives, false identification, and cash. Al-Banna owned these properties, but those availing themselves of his largess did not know his name or his connection to the cause. Intermediaries set up the services he provided.

  On this day he had exposed himself to Ismad. Other than Wadi, no one else in the United States knew of his importance. Al-Banna trusted Wadi with his life. Now he trusted Ismad.

  Al-Banna handed Ismad a key. “This is to a locker at the Hollywood bus terminal. The number is on the key. Inside the locker you will find directions to a storage facility that will have all you will need for that day. And what a glorious day it will be when the infidels learn no one is safe if Allah so wills.”

  “Thank you for your service to the cause,” said Ismad.

  “Until we serve together again,” said al-Banna.

  “If not in our homeland, then in Paradise.”

  “Allah Issalmak.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Omar practically floated into the room.

  Matt laughed, “What are you grinnin’ at?”

  “I’ve been selected to be a bone marrow donor.”

  “That’s terrific. When do you go in for the procedure?”

  “I am to report on Monday. It will only take a short time, but I may miss a few days of work. Do you think Dr. David will allow me?”

  “Absolutely, you’re gonna save a life. No one can be upset with that. I’ll cover as best I can for you. Just let me know if there is anything I can do to help. Will you need a ride to the hospital? Anything, just ask.”

  “Thanks, Matt. I will. I better go tell Dr. David now.”

  Omar left the room, and Matt immediately called Dwayne.

  “I can’t talk long. Omar just told me he was selected to be a bone marrow donor. What kind of terrorist donates bone marrow? He’s going to have the procedure on Monday.”

  “SOG followed him to a doctor’s office. That may explain the visit. They were unable to determine which doctor he visited. Maybe it’s true. Or maybe it’s part of the ruse to keep us guessing.”

  “It just doesn’t make sense. I better go. Here come a couple of nurses.” Matt ended the call more confused than ever.

  THE SUN SET, AND Ismad sat by himself at a quiet restaurant along the ocean. The waves crashed along the rocks below, and the white foam glistened from the illumination given off by the restaurant’s outdoor lights. The sounds of the surf could be heard even through the heavy plateglass windows. The scene was intoxicating.

  Ismad knew the time for his mission was near. After he completed dinner, he would drive to the storage facility and pick up the explosive device. In less than forty-eight hours, the mission would be complete. Success would come with Allah’s help.

  More than thirty years ago a missile reduced his home to rubble, killing both his parents. Ismad returned home from school that afternoon to find the death of all he knew and loved.

  Both his parents could be defined as moderate Shiite Muslims. The family worshipped Allah, prayed five times a day, and gave 2.5 percent of everything they earned. Every few years they even traveled to Mecca. But his parents were not political. They did not hate. In fact, his father had many business dealings with “people of the book,” as Muslims refer to Christians and Jews. His parents entertained them in their home when the infidels, his father’s business associates, traveled to his country.

  Unlike Ismad’s neighbors, his father taught tolerance and wanted his son and daughter to understand both sides of the Palestinian issue. Although Ismad’s father opposed the creation of the state of Israel, he knew history. He knew the Israelites once occupied the land of Canaan, and the Jews, without a homeland, suffered atrocities at the hands of Hitler. Yet the United Nations created an independent state of Israel in an area occupied by Arabs for more than a thousand years.

  The day of his parents’ death marked the beginning of Ismad’s personal jihad. Like others in the cause, he believed the destruction of Israel, the little Satan, was a religious obligation, an obligation he gladly assumed.

  He contemplated all he witnessed during this most recent trip to the United States and was disturbed by Wadi’s leadership. Money raised for the cause supported Wadi’s Western lifestyle—an expensive car, designer clothes, lavish gifts for American women. Wadi excused his actions by saying he was blending in with the culture, but Ismad knew better. Wadi compromised his beliefs in the name of expediency. The passion was gone. He ran the cell like a business, seeking to profit from the success. Allah could not be pleased.

  As Ismad looked out into the ocean, his cell phone rang.

  “Yes,” said Ismad.

  “Allahu Akbar,” was Wadi’s response.

  “Allahu.”

  “You need to be at my apartment tomorrow morning to discuss any last-minute details. I also have another set of identification in case you need it to make your escape.”

  With contempt Ismad responded, “I do not believe that is necessary. I know my instructions.”

  “Report tomorrow,” said Wadi as he hung up the phone, not waiting for a response.

  MATT’S CELL PHONE RANG just as he and Caitlin began dinner. Matt was about to let the call go to voice mail when he looked at the caller ID. Dwayne was on the other end so he took the call.

  “Hey, Dwayne.”

  “Hi, Matt. Got a minute?”

  “Yeah, I guess. Caitlin and I just sat down for dinner.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you guys ate like rich people around eight o’clock.”

  “No, I only play a rich person on TV. In my real life I work for a government agency where some of its employees qualify for food stamps and federal subsidies. What’s up?”

  “I’m looking over transcripts of Zerak’s calls,” said Dwayne, referring to Jaana’s father. “I’ve married up a few of the solicitations to a number in West Hollywood. I’ll call the phone company tomorrow and get subscriber information.
According to the transcripts, one call was from a Palestinian relief organization, and a second call from the same number was for an Afghan orphan fund. Both callers were male. So these guys may be posing as separate organizations, soliciting funds for the cause de jour.”

  “That’s interesting. Maybe it’s a legitimate fund-raising organization contracted out to raise funds for various charities.”

  “Yeah, and you got a shot at being the next Director. I’ll let you get back to your dinner. I’ll call you with the subscriber information in the morning.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Ismad knocked on the door. He could hear loud music coming from inside the apartment. The sounds disgusted him.

  Wadi answered the door and greeted Ismad as if all were well. Wadi was not oblivious to Ismad’s contempt; he just chose to ignore it. He returned to the dining room table and continued eating breakfast.

  Before Ismad sat down, he walked past the stereo and turned off the music.

  “This music is wrong,” said Ismad. “Don’t you understand the significance?”

  “I know what it is and what it means. I don’t need another lecture from you. You still don’t understand my role. I am in America. I must be an American. I must think like an American. I must blend into this society so no one suspects my loyalties are elsewhere. I’m sorry you can’t understand that. We all must do what is necessary to bring about the liberation of Jerusalem and the destruction of the West. You criticize me, but do you pray? Do you give?”

  “I do when I can. When I am alone with my God, I can pray. When I must be among the infidels, I cannot. At least I am making the effort. You are not even trying to please Allah.” Ismad threw a newspaper at the fifty-inch flat-screen TV. “You used money for the cause to buy this. And that sound system, playing music that defiles Allah. Was that bought with his funds also, like your car and your clothes?”