by Glenn Rogers
The Durrani house was an elegant two story, red brick Tudor style home on several beautifully landscaped acres. As we drove up we could see that there was a three-car garage, a pool, and a tennis court. There was a large circular drive that provided not only access to the front of the house, but guest parking as well. I pulled into the drive and parked in one of the guest spots.
Alex knocked on the door. A large man in a black suit opened it.
“Can I help you?” he croaked, with a raspy voice that allowed not much more than a ragged whisper. His nose had been broken recently.
Alex held up his badge and said, “We'd like to speak with Mr. or Mrs. Durrani, please.”
The man looked more closely at Alex’s ID.
“FBI,” Alex said.
The man was clearly not happy, but croaked, “One moment, please.”
He closed the door. In a minute and a half—I timed it—the door opened. A short but stout and serious looking woman with a grim expression on her face said, “How may I be of assistance to the Federal Bureau of Investigation?”
Alex decided to jump right in. “Mrs. Durrani?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I'm Special Agent Watson and this is my colleague, Jake Badger. We were hoping we could speak to you and your husband for a few minutes.”
I was watching her very closely when Alex said my name. There was no sign of recognition. When Alex said my name, her eyes met mine. She gave a small smile, accompanied by a small nod and then pulled her eyes back to Alex.
“Speak to us about what?” she asked.
We hadn't really discussed how to answer that question, so Alex was winging it.
“About your son's activities in Afghanistan,” Alex said.
Mrs. Durrani stiffened. “My son was killed seven years ago,” she said. “We have nothing to say about his activities.”
“The American government has questions, Mrs. Durrani,” Alex said. “And we're going to ask them. We'd like the experience to be as pleasant as possible. But pleasant or not, we're going to ask and you're going to answer. Now, we would like to come in and talk with you and your husband.”
“My husband is very ill. He has only weeks to live.”
“I'm very sorry to hear that. All the more reason to talk with him sooner rather than later.”
If her eyes had been daggers, we'd have bled to death right there on the front porch. But she breathed in a deep breath of resignation and said, “Very well. Come in.”
She stepped aside and we stepped into what was one of the most elegant homes I had ever seen.
“Follow me,” Mrs. Durrani said, and led us through the entryway into a large room that served as a hub, providing access to other rooms. At one end of it was an expansive family room; on one end, a wide, curved staircase that led to the second story. Mrs. Durrani led us up the stairs. At the top, we turned right and walked probably thirty feet, where we entered a master suite that was bigger than my entire apartment. In a king-sized four-poster bed sat a shriveled little man whose facial expression said he was not a man to be trifled with, even in the face of imminent death.
“What is the meaning of this?” Mr. Durrani asked, grumpily, with all the force he could muster ... which wasn't much.
“This is Agent Watson,” Mrs. Durrani said, “with the FBI. He and his associate, Mr. Jake Badger, have some questions to ask regarding Elias' activities in Afghanistan.”
He studied Alex and me for a moment and then turned his gaze to his wife. “You may leave us,” he said to her.
She nodded and turned and left the room.
“I do not wish to speak of my son,” Mr. Durrani said. “But since you represent our government, I will answer your questions.”
It was an effort for him to talk.
“But,” he said, “I will begin by telling you this: I am ashamed of what my son did. He became a traitor to his country because he believed a twisted interpretation of the Prophet’s sacred words. He got what he deserved for his stupidity and traitorous actions. So ask your questions. If I can answer, I will … But first, allow me to offer you some tea or coffee.”
“That would be nice,” Alex said.
I felt sorry for him. His son had obviously broken his heart. He picked up a walkie-talkie and spoke.
“Ullah.”
“Yes, Sir,” came the raspy response.
“Bring tea for three, please.”
“Right away, Sir.”
After he had put the walkie-talkie down, Alex said, “Mr. Durrani, when did you realize that your son was working with the Taliban?”
He was fighting back tears. “Not until the end,” he said. “He would write us and tell us he was doing humanitarian work, helping set up medical clinics in outlying villages. We did not know the truth of his activities until we were notified of his death. A Taliban liaison notified us of his brave and valued contribution in the holy jihad against the American infidels. Sickening.”
Silent tears overflowed from his eyes.
“Mr. Durrani,” I said. “Does Mrs. Durrani share your disappointment in your son?”
He studied me for a moment, using the time to regain control of his emotions. “She is a mother. A mother's eyes see only the little boy. Her heart feels only love for the life she carried inside her.”
“The money you gave your son after he graduated,” Alex said, “did you have any idea it would be use in support of the Taliban?”
He frowned at Alex. “Of course not. I despise the Taliban and all they stand for. They are ignorant fools, frightened of everything they do not understand, including education, democracy, and equality. They believe that God is a warmonger who values only their culture and their point of view. Stupid fools.”
“Mr. Durrani,” I said, “does the name Monica Nolan mean anything to you?”
He thought for a moment before he said, “No.”
“Have you ever heard my name before?” I asked.
“Jake Badger?”
I nodded.
Again he thought. “No.”
“You're sure?”
“I have only weeks to live,” Mr. Badger. “My body is shutting down. The only part of it that still works well is my memory. I have never heard your name before, or the name, Monica Nolan.”
“Thank you, Sir,” I said. “I'm sorry we had to disturbed you.”
The tea had still not arrived.
“I apologize for the slowness of the service,” Mr. Durrani said. “We lost one of our servants a week ago in an accident. The remaining staff has not yet learned to manage in his absence.”
“What kind of an accident?” I asked.
“An automobile accident.”
“That how your other man broke his nose?”
He nodded and said, “Yes.”
He voice was getting softer. He was getting tired.
Just then, there was a knock at the door.
“Come,” Durrani said.
The man with the broken nose and the damaged voice brought in a tray of tea. Since it had arrived, we had to stay and partake so as not to insult Mr. Durrani.
As Ullah poured the tea, I said, “You have a magnificent home, Mr. Durrani.”
“You are very kind,” he said to me, as Ullah handed me a cup of tea.
“Did you design it yourself?” Alex asked, as Ullah handed him a cup of tea.
“Why do you ask? Mr. Durrani asked, pleasure and pride dancing in his eyes.
“It has some unique features that one does not usually find in a home like this.”
A smile brightened the old man's face.
“Yes, I did design it. I had a local architect in Beverly Hills draw up the plans based on my sketches.”
Ullah handed Mr. Durrani his cup of tea. He took a sip.
“Well,” Alex said, “it's a design you can be proud of, Sir.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Durrani said.
We sipped our tea, and Mr. Durrani began explaining some of the unique features of his home:
a temperature controlled wine cellar, a home theater with surround sound, computer controlled lighting and music through the house, a state of the art security system, a safe room, strategically placed skylights to allow for a maximum of natural light, solar panels that provide seventy-five percent of the energy used to run the household. As he spoke, Mrs. Durrani came into the room.
She nodded to her husband, then to us said, “My husband is tired. He has answered enough of your questions.”
“Bahara,” Mr. Durrani chided with all the displeasure he could muster.
“My husband,” she said, deferentially, “it is time for your medicine. And the doctor has said you are not to exhaust yourself.”
“It is time for us to go,” Alex said to Mr. Durrani. You have been not only a gracious host, but have been very helpful. We thank you.”
To Mrs. Durrani, I said, “We appreciate your hospitality.”
She nodded to me graciously, but her eyes could not hide her contempt.
“Please,” she said, “allow me to show you out. Ullah, please attend to Mr. Durrani.”
He nodded and she turned to lead us out.
Chapter 36
Monday Morning and Afternoon
As I pulled out of the Durrani driveway, Alex said, “So, what was your take on that?”
“I'm not sure yet,” I said. “I need to think about it a while. On the surface, I believe Mr. Durrani. But the wife... she bothers me. Lot of anger bottled up in her.”
“Yeah, I noticed that, too,” Alex said.
“What was your take on the old man?” I asked.
“Same as yours. I think he was straight with us. But they’re rich and their household help seem a little out of place. That guy who answered the door and served the tea, he looked like he would be more at home as a bouncer in a club.”
“Yeah, that occurred to me as well.”
We had plenty of time to get downtown to Homeboys. We parked and went in. It wasn't hard to spot Emal Wardak. He was a small man with a scraggly beard, a very large nose, and bushy eyebrows that met in the middle. He was the only one in the place wearing traditional Afghani clothing.
He was alone at a table for four. It was off to the side and no one else was sitting nearby. We went over and sat, and it was obvious that Alex's presence was unsettling for Emal.
“I'm Jake Badger. This is FBI Special Agent in Charge, Alex Watson.”
“I expected only you,” Emal said to me, his eyes darting furtively to Alex and then quickly back to me.
“Alex is a trusted friend, loyal to me.”
Emal didn't respond, so Alex said, “If my presence is going to inhibit the process here, I can go wait in the car.”
“That won't be necessary,” I said, looking at Emal. “Like I said, Alex is a trusted and loyal friend. He is helping me in this investigation.”
Emal considered each of us for another moment and then nodded. “Sure. Okay.” He took a bite of his tuna sandwich. It looked good.
After he swallowed, he said, “So, our mutual friend, Thomas, says someone has disappeared and you are concerned that the Taliban may be involved.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I used to be a marine sniper. In Afghanistan, working with Thomas, I took out three high value targets. The people who took her sent a note suggesting that her disappearance is related to my time in Afghanistan. I'm wondering if the Taliban is attempting to get some payback for the three targets I took out.”
Emal nodded. “Your reasoning is logical,” he said. “And under different circumstances, what you have suggested might be possible. But at the present time the Taliban cannot afford the luxury of revenge for acts of war many years ago.”
“So you're saying the Taliban isn't seeking revenge against me?”
“As far as I know, no.”
“As far as you know,” I said.
His eyes held mine for a moment and he smiled. “Yes, as far as I know. But I know a great many things. I have the confidence of a number of important Taliban leaders in this country. They seek my advice on matters where they need to understand how Americans are likely to react to what they do.”
“So you know what they're involved in,” I said.
“I do ... except for one radical splinter group. They are secretive and unpredictable.”
He took a bite of his sandwich.
“The Taliban has a radical element within its ranks?”
He smiled as he chewed. “Ironic. Is it not? Radical radicals.”
“Yeah,” I said, “Ironic. So does this group of radicals within the Taliban have a name?”
“They call themselves the Hammer of Righteousness.”
“And how long has this group been around?”
“Five years,” Emal said.
“My missions were seven years ago. Would they involve themselves in a vendetta that predates their existence?”
“They might. That's what makes them difficult to read. You don't know what they will do.”
“Do they have the kind of intelligence resources that would allow them to watch me closely enough to know whether or not I'm looking for my friend in the right places?”
He thought about that for a moment. “This I cannot say for sure. But if I had to guess, I would say, if they are determined to retaliate against you, they could do whatever was necessary. To underestimate any part of the Taliban would be a mistake.”
“How can we find out?” I asked. “I can't just sit and wait. I have to find out who took my friend.”
Emal nodded. “I will make some inquiries and get back to you.”
I thanked Emal and he left. Since it was lunchtime and since the food at Homeboys is good, Alex and I ordered sandwiches: I had the roasted turkey; Alex had tuna.
After we'd each had a couple of bites, Alex said, “I don't think it's the Taliban. At least not any kind of a formal organizational response.”
I thought for a moment and nodded. “I agree. I would think they'd have bigger fish to fry.”
“But an individual,” Alex said. “An angry relative, maybe. An eye for an eye kind of thing.”
He was right. That made more sense than an official Taliban response. But that complicated things even more. Figuring out which angry relative of which target was seeking revenge against me would be next to impossible.
Alex said, “You said there were three CIA targets. The third one worth considering?”
“It's a long shot,” I said. I explained about the two drug organizations, one in New York and one in Boston.
“Think Jessie might have some insights?”
“Could be. I'll give him a call.”
Chapter 37
Monday Afternoon
It was two by the time we got back to my office. A storm was blowing in off the Pacific and the sky was darkening. It would be raining in a while. Rare for Southern California in the month of August.
Wilson greeted us enthusiastically, as he always does. Alex gave him a cookie from the stash behind Mildred's desk.
“Anything going on that I need to know about?” I asked Mildred, as she walked to my side of the office to get a cup of coffee.
“A black SUV has driven by a couple of times,” she said.
I looked from her to Alex and then back to her. “Could you see who was driving?”
“No. Just a big black SUV.”
“You still got people on Esposito?” I asked Alex.
“Yes,” he said, as he took out his phone. He called his agent.
“I need an update on Esposito,” Alex said into his phone. “Anyone leave earlier in the day? ... What color? ... Get the plates? ... Okay, I want someone on Esposito all the time. And I want two other agents on site to follow his people when they leave ... Yes. Let me know when you've got your people in place.”
He clicked off and said, “Esposito's been home all day. But three guys driving a black Tahoe with tinted windows showed up about nine this morning and left ten minutes later
.”
“Was the SUV you saw a Tahoe?” I asked Mildred.
“It could have been Tahoe,” she said. “They all look alike to me.”
“Did it have tinted windows?”
She closed her eyes, picturing what she had seen.
“Yes.”
“That stupid little man,” I said, more to myself than to anyone else.
“Some men can't live with the humiliation of defeat,” Alex said.
“And death is a better alternative?” I asked.
“For some it is,” Mildred said.
We both looked at her.
She shrugged. “I was married to a cop for thirty years, and most of those years he was a homicide detective.”
I walked to my window and looked out. Esposito wasn’t going to let it go. He was going to kill me or I was going to kill him. So be it. Esposito would die.
I turned back to Mildred. “You look a little tired,” I said. “You need a few days off. Why don't you take one of those senior's cruises down to Acapulco?”
“Why on earth would I want to be trapped on a boat with a bunch of old people?” she said, as if she smelled something nasty. “If you're going to shut the office down while you go take care of Esposito, I'm going to Vegas.”
“Fine,” I said. “Go to Vegas. Two or three days. Call me before you come back.”
She looked at me for a long moment, reached up and put her hand gently on my cheek. She said, “Be careful, Jake.” Then she turned and went back to her side of the office, gathered her things and left.
“You should call Jessie,” Alex said. “Can't let Esposito distract us anymore than necessary.”
I nodded. “You're right.”
Jessie Garcia is a DEA agent, working out of San Diego, keeping an eye on the Mexican cartels. He's a former Navy SEAL. He and I worked together a couple of times when the DEA and FBI managed to put together a joint task force to bring down a powerful drug ring.