"Please, sir, I have come to deliver a package."
Roger was examining the small package, but didn't open it, of course, in case it contained a little bomb. "What's in here?" Roger demanded.
"I do not know, sir."
Roger said to everyone, "There's no return address on this." He added, "I'll put this out back and call for a bomb disposal truck," and off he went, which made everyone a little happier.
Juan entered the living room, and by this time Azim Rahman was probably wondering why all these guys with FBI windbreakers were hanging around Mr. Wiggins' house. But maybe he knew why.
I looked at Tom's face and saw that he was worried. Knocking around a citizen, native-born or naturalized, was not good for the old career, not to mention the FBI image. Even knocking around an illegal alien could get you into hot water these days. I mean, we're all citizens of the world. Right?
On that thought, Tom asked Mr. Rahman, "You a citizen?"
"Yes, sir. I have taken the oath."
"Good for you," said Tom.
Tom asked Rahman a bunch of questions about his neighborhood in West Hollywood, which Rahman seemed able to answer, then he asked him a lot of other questions, sort of Civics 101 stuff, which Rahman answered not too badly. He even knew who the Governor of California was, which made me suspicious that he was a spy. But then he didn't know who his Congressman was, and I concluded he was a citizen.
Again, I looked at Kate, and she shook her head. I was feeling pretty low at that moment, and so was everyone else. Why don't things go as planned? Whose side was God on, anyway?
Edie had dialed the home phone number that Mr. Rahman had given her, and she confirmed that an answering machine answered "Rahman residence," and the voice sounded like the guy on the floor, despite the man's present emotional state.
Edie did say, however, that the phone number on the Rapid Delivery Service van was a non-working number. I suggested that the paint on the van looked new. Everyone stared at Azim Rahman.
He knew he was on the spot again, and explained, "I just start this business. It is new to me, maybe four weeks . . ."
Edie said, "So you painted a number on your van and hoped that the phone company would give you that number? Do we look stupid to you?"
I couldn't imagine how we looked to Mr. Rahman from his perspective on the floor. Position determines perspective, and when you're on the floor in cuffs with armed people standing over you, your perspective is different from that of the people standing around with the guns. Be that as it may, Mr. Rahman stuck to his story, most of which seemed plausible, except the business phone number bullshit.
So, by most appearances, what we had here was an honest immigrant pursuing the American Dream, and we had the poor bastard on the floor with a red bump on his forehead, for no other reason than the fact that he was of Mideastern descent. Shame, shame.
Mr. Rahman was getting himself under control and he said, "Please, I would like to call my lawyer."
Uh-oh. The magic words. It's axiomatic that if a suspect doesn't talk within the first five or ten minutes, when he's in shock, so to speak, he may never talk. My colleagues didn't pull it off in time.
I said, "Everyone here except me is a lawyer. Talk to these people."
"I wish to call my own lawyer."
I ignored him and asked, "Where you from?"
"West Hollywood."
I smiled and advised him, "Don't fuck with me, Azim. Where you from?"
He cleared his throat and said, "Libya."
No one said anything, but we glanced at one another, and Azim noticed our renewed interest in him.
I asked him, "Where did you pick up the package you were delivering?"
He exercised his right to remain silent.
Juan had gone out to the van, and he was back now and announced, "Those packages look like bullshit. All wrapped in the same brown paper, same tape, even the same fucking handwriting." He looked at Azim Rahman and said, "What kind of shit are you trying to pull?"
"Sir?"
Everyone started to browbeat poor Mr. Rahman again, threatening him with life in prison, followed by deportation, and Juan even offered him a kick in the nuts, which he refused.
At this point, with Mr. Rahman giving conflicting answers, we probably had enough to make a formal arrest, and I could see that Tom was leaning in that direction. Arrest meant the reading of rights, lawyers, and so forth, and the time had come to do the legal thing—it had actually passed a few minutes ago.
John Corey, however, being not quite so concerned with Federal guidelines or career, could take a few liberties. The bottom line was that if this guy was connected to Asad Khalil, it would be really good if we knew about it. Now.
So, having heard enough of Mr. Rahman's bullshit, I assisted him from the sitting to the supine position and sat astride him to be sure I had his attention. He turned his face away from mine, and I said, "Look at me. Look at me.
He turned his face back to me, and our eyes met.
I asked him, "Who sent you here?"
He didn't reply.
"If you tell us who sent you here, and where he is now, you will go free. If you don't tell us quickly, I will pour gasoline all over you and set you on fire." This, of course, was not a physical threat, but only an idiomatic expression that shouldn't be taken literally. "Who sent you here?"
Mr. Rahman remained silent.
I re-phrased my question in the form of a suggestion to Mr. Rahman and said, "I think you should tell me who sent you, and where he is." I should mention that I had my Glock out now and, for some reason, Mr. Rahman had put the muzzle in his mouth.
Mr. Rahman was properly terrified.
By this time, the Federal agents in the room, including Kate, had stepped away and were actually looking the other way, literally.
I informed Mr. Rahman, "I'm going to blow your fucking brains out, unless you answer my questions."
Mr. Rahman's eyes got very wide, and he was starting to comprehend that there was a difference between me and the others. He wasn't sure what the difference was, but to help him toward a complete understanding, I gave him a knee in the nuts.
He let out a groan.
The thing is, when you start this course of action, you better be real sure that the guy whose rights you may be infringing upon knows the answers to the questions he's being asked, and that he will give you those answers. Otherwise, contract agent or not, my ass was hanging out.
But nothing succeeds like success, so I kneed him again to encourage him to share his knowledge with me.
A few of my colleagues left the room, leaving only Edie, Tom, and Kate to witness that Mr. Rahman was a voluntary witness whose cooperation was not coerced, and so forth.
I said to Mr. Rahman, "Look, asshole, you can go to jail for the rest of your fucking life, or maybe get the gas chamber as an accessory to murder. You understand that?"
He wasn't sucking on my automatic any longer, but still he refused to say anything.
I hate to leave marks, so I shoved my handkerchief down Mr. Rahman's throat and pinched his nostrils shut. He didn't seem able to breathe through his ears, and he began thrashing around, trying to get my two hundred pounds off his chest.
I heard Tom clear his throat.
I let Mr. Rahman turn a little blue, then took my fingers off his nose. He caught his breath in time to get another knee in his nuts.
I really wished that Gabe were there to instruct me on what worked, but he wasn't, and I didn't have much more time to mess around with this guy, so I held his nostrils again.
Without going into details, Mr. Azim Rahman saw the advantage of cooperating and indicated his willingness to do so. I pulled the handkerchief out of his mouth, and jerked him up into a sitting position. I asked him again, "Who sent you here?"
He sobbed a little, and I could see that he was very conflicted about all of this. I reminded him, "We can help you. We can save your life. Talk to me, or I'll put you back in that fucking van, and
you can go meet your friend and explain things to him. You want to do that? You want to go? I'll let you go."
He didn't seem to want to go, so I asked him again, "Who sent you?" I added, "I'm tired of asking you the same fucking question. Answer me!"
He sobbed a little more, caught his breath, cleared his throat, and replied in a barely audible voice, "I do not know his name . . . he . . . I only knew him as Mr. Perleman, but—"
"Perleman? Like in Jewish?"
"Yes . . . but he was not Jewish . . . he spoke my language . . ."
Kate already had a photo in her hand, and she shoved it in his face.
Mr. Rahman stared at the photo a long time, then nodded.
Voild! I wasn't going to jail.
I asked, "Does he look like this now?"
He shook his head. "He has now glasses . . . a mustache . . . his hair is now gray . . ."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know. I don't know . . ."
"Okay, Azim, when was the last time you saw him, and where?"
"I . . . I met him at the airport—"
"Which airport?"
"The airport in Santa Monica."
"He flew in?"
"I don't know . . ."
"What time did you meet him?"
"Early . . . six in the morning . . ."
By now, with the rough stuff out of the way, and the witness cooperating, all six FBI folks were back in the living room, standing behind Mr. Rahman so as not to make him too nervous. I, having secured the witness's cooperation and trust, was the person who would ask most of the questions now. I asked Mr. Rahman, "Where did you take this man?"
"I . . . took him . . . he wanted to drive . . . so we drove . . ."
"Where?"
"We drive up the coast road . . ."
"Why?"
"I do not know—"
"How long did you drive? Where did you go?"
"We drove to nowhere . . . we drive . . . perhaps an hour, or more, then we return here, and we find a shopping mall that was now open—"
"A shopping mall? What shopping mall?"
Mr. Rahman said he didn't know the mall because he was not from around here. But Kim, who was from the Ventura office, knew it by Rahman's description, and she quickly left the room to call the troops. But I had no doubt that Asad Khalil had not stuck around the mall all day.
I backtracked to the airport and asked Rahman, "You met him with your van?"
"Yes."
"At the main terminal?"
"No . . . at the other side. In a coffee shop . . ."
Further questioning revealed that Mr. Rahman met Mr. Khalil at the General Aviation side of Santa Monica Airport, leading me to believe that Khalil had arrived by private plane. Made sense.
Then, with time to kill until dark, the two Libyan gents took a nice scenic drive up the coast, then got back to Ventura where Mr. Khalil expressed a desire to do a little shopping, maybe get a bite to eat, and maybe buy a few souvenirs. I asked Rahman, "What was he wearing?" "A suit and a tie." "Color?"
"A gray . . . a dark gray suit."
"And what was he carrying? Luggage?"
"Only a bag, sir, which he disposed of as we drove. I drove him into a canyon."
I looked around. "What's a canyon?"
Tom explained. Sounded silly to me.
Back to Azim Rahman. I asked him, "Could you find this canyon again?"
"I . . . I don't know . . . perhaps . . . in the daytime . . . I will try . . ."
"You bet you will." I then asked him, "Did you give him anything? Did you have a package for him?"
"Yes, sir. Two packages. But I do not know what they contained."
Well, everyone there probably took the same course I did in something called Crateology, so I asked Mr. Rahman, "Describe the packages, the weight, size, all of that."
Mr. Rahman described a generic box, about the size of a microwave oven, except it was light, leading us all to believe it may have contained a change of clothes, and perhaps some documents. Crateology.
The second package was more interesting and scary. It was long. It was narrow. It was heavy. It did not contain a tie.
We all looked at one another. Even Azim Rahman knew what was in that package.
I turned my attention back to our star witness and asked him, "Did he also dispose of the packages, or does he still have them?"
"He has the packages." „
I thought a moment and concluded that Asad Khalil was now decked out in new duds, had new identity papers, and had a sniper rifle broken down in some sort of innocuous-looking bag, like a backpack.
I inquired of Mr. Rahman, "This man sent you here to see if Mr. Wiggins was home?"
"Yes."
"You understand that this man is Asad Khalil, who killed everyone on board that aircraft that landed in New York."
Mr. Rahman claimed that he didn't make the connection, so I made it for him, and explained, "If you are helping this man, you will be shot, or hanged, or fried in the electric chair, or put to death by lethal injection, or put into the gas chamber. Or maybe we'll chop your head off. You understand?"
I thought he was going to faint.
I continued, "But if you help us capture Asad Khalil, you get a million-dollar reward." Not likely. "You saw that on television, didn't you?"
He nodded enthusiastically, giving away the fact that he knew who his passenger had been.
"So, Mr. Rahman, stop dragging your ass. I want your full cooperation."
"I am doing that, sir."
"Good. Who hired you to meet this man at the airport?"
He cleared his throat again and replied, "I do not know . . . truly, I do not know . . ." He then went into a convoluted explanation of a mysterious man who accosted him one day, about two weeks ago, at the gas station in Hollywood where Mr. Rahman actually worked. The man asked his assistance in aiding a compatriot and offered him ten thousand dollars, ten percent then, ninety percent later, and so forth. Classic recruiting by an intelligence agent—maybe twice removed—of some poor schmuck who needed cash and had relatives in the old country. Dead end, since Mr. Rahman was not going to ever see this guy again to collect his nine Gs. I said to Rahman, "These people would kill you before they would pay you. You know too much. You understand?"
He understood.
"They picked you out of the Libyan community because you look like Asad Khalil, and you were sent here to see if there was a trap waiting for him. Not just to see if Wiggins was here. You understand?"
He nodded.
"And look at you now. Are you sure these people are your friends?"
He shook his head. The poor guy looked miserable, and I was feeling badly about kneeing him in the balls and almost suffocating him. But he'd brought it on himself.
I said, "Okay, here's the big question, and your life depends on the answer. When, where, and how are you supposed to contact Asad Khalil?"
He took a long, deep breath and replied, "I am to call him."
"Okay. Let's call him. What's the number?"
Azim Rahman recited a telephone number, and Tom said, "That's a cell phone number."
Mr. Rahman agreed and said, "Yes, I gave this man a cell phone. I was instructed to buy two cell phones . . . the other is in my vehicle."
Kate had that cell phone, which had a Caller ID on it, and I assumed Asad Khalil's cell phone also had a Caller ID. I asked Mr. Rahman, "What is the telephone company for these cell phones?"
He thought a moment, then replied, "Nextel."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. I was instructed to use Nextel."
I looked at Tom, who shook his head, meaning they couldn't trace a Nextel call. In reality, it was difficult to trace any cell phone, though back at 26 Federal Plaza and One Police Plaza, we had these devices called Trigger Fish and Swamp Box that could at least tell you the general location of an AT T or Bell Atlantic call. Mr. Rahman's friends had apparently ignored the enticements and bullying of the big carriers and taken
advantage of an unadvertised feature of a smaller carrier, a feature known in the trade as the Fuck the Feds Feature. These people were not as stupid as some of their compatriots. Bad break for us, but there had been a lot of them, and this wasn't the last.
It was time to make Mr. Rahman more comfortable, so Tom uncuffed him. Rahman rubbed his wrists, and we helped him to his feet.
He seemed to have difficulty standing straight and complained about a pain in an unspecified area.
We sat Mr. Rahman down in a nice easy chair, and Kim went into the kitchen to get him a cup of coffee.
Everyone was a little more optimistic, though the chances of Azim Rahman bullshitting Asad Khalil into thinking everything was fine at the Wiggins house were pretty slim. But you never know. Even a smart guy like Khalil could be conned if he was obsessed with a goal, like murdering someone.
Kim returned with a black coffee, which Mr. Rahman sipped. Okay, coffee break is over. I said to our government witness, "Look at me, Azim. Is there a code word you're supposed to use for danger?"
He looked at me like I'd discovered the secret of the universe. He said, "Yes. This is so. If I am . . . as I am now . . . then I am to say the word 'Ventura' in my talk to him." He gave us a nice example, by using the word in a sentence like I had to do in school, and said, "Mr. Perleman, I have delivered the package to Ventura."
"Okay, make sure you don't say the word 'Ventura,' or I'll have to kill you."
He nodded vigorously.
So, Edie went into the kitchen to take the house phone off the hook, everyone shut off their cell phones, and if there had been a dog in the house, he would have gotten a nice walk.
I looked at my watch and saw that Mr. Rahman had been here about twenty minutes, which was not long enough to make Khalil nervous. I asked Azim, "Was there a specific time you were supposed to call?"
"Yes, sir. I was to deliver my package at nine P.M., then to drive ten minutes and make the telephone call from my van."
"Okay, tell him you got lost for a few minutes. Take a deep breath, relax, and think nice thoughts."
Mr. Rahman went into a deep-breathing meditation mode.
I asked him, "You watch the X-Files?"
I thought I heard Kate groan.
Nelson Demille - [John Corey 2] Page 60