Patriot

by M. A. Rothman

  “Memory is a tricky thing.”

  “How about you?” Aliyah asked. “Do you remember your parents?”

  “Just a little, like you,” Connor said, trying to decide how much he wanted to stretch the truth. “They died in a roadside bomb. It had been intended for a Canadian convoy transporting food and medical supplies across Pakistan. They were simply at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. It was a long time ago. I choose to remember them as they lived, not as they died.” He took another sip of tea, and couldn’t stop himself from grimacing.

  “I told you, you don’t have to drink it.”

  Connor ran his tongue over his teeth. “I’m trying not to be rude.”

  “Well, stop it.” She shook her head. “Next time we will have coffee.”

  “Next time? I qualify for a second date?”

  “I didn’t know this was a date.”

  Connor chuckled. “Whatever it is, I’d like to do it again.”

  Aliyah smiled. “We’ll see,” she said, finishing her tea.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Connor pushed the mop and bucket off the elevator onto the mosque’s second floor. He was pulling a wheeled trash can behind him, which tended to roll in whatever direction it wanted regardless of which way Connor pulled or pushed it. It was after ten o’clock, and most of the staff had left for the day, but just down the hall, the guards were still standing outside Khan’s door. One of them said something in Farsi that Connor didn’t catch, and they all laughed.

  Connor walked toward them, fighting the trash can the whole way, and the men paused in their conversation, all humor leaving them.

  One of the men crossed his arms and frowned. “What are you doing?” He wore a black knit cap, pulled back high on his head, partially covering his thick dreadlocks. The hairstyle wasn’t typical, but over the last couple of days, Connor had come to realize that there really wasn’t anything typical about Khan. It was almost like he was moonlighting as a Muslim, simply to get the following.

  “I wasn’t able to get the cleaning done earlier today,” Connor said. “I thought it might be easier to get it done now that everyone has left for the day. I just have these two offices left.”

  “You aren’t getting in this one,” Knit Cap said.

  “I just need to get the trash and sweep up a little. Hamid gave me the task; I’m just trying to make sure I get everything done correctly.”

  “Hamid told you?”

  “That’s right,” Connor said, shrugging. “And I want to do it correctly. It is my first week and everything.”

  The men exchanged a glance, and Knit Cap shrugged. “Fine. You may go in, but make it quick.”

  “Thank you,” Connor said.

  Knit Cap pushed open the door and stepped inside, motioning for Connor to follow. “You won’t need that.” He pointed to the mop.

  Connor frowned, but left the bucket in the hallway and pulled only the trash can in with him.

  With Knit Cap watching his every move, Connor glanced around the entire office, taking mental notes of everything. An old-fashioned desk was topped with loose papers and a single computer and monitor. Two chairs faced the desk, and an oriental rug covered the majority of the hardwood floor. Bookshelves lined one wall, and behind the desk was a single window.

  The computer monitor was turned off, but as Connor stepped around the desk, he saw that the computer itself was on. As he took a dust cloth from his waistband, he slipped a hand into his pocket and retrieved a tiny USB device. While he wiped the dust from the monitor, he surreptitiously pressed the USB device into one of the computer’s empty slots. A red LED flashed once and went silent, as expected.

  Connor then pulled out the trash bag from the trash can, tied it off, and dumped it into his rolling bin. As he bent to put a fresh bag in Khan’s trash can, he also placed a quarter-sized transmitter underneath the desk.

  “I can sweep,” he said as he stood, motioning to the rest of the room.

  “Do what you need and get out.”

  Connor made a show of running the broom across the floor, collecting the dust bunnies. When the USB device flickered with a green LED, indicating it had finished installing the virus, he did a quick final dusting of the desk and used the opportunity to retrieve the device.

  He nodded at Knit Cap as he headed for the door. “Thank you.”

  Knit Cap grunted and closed the door behind him.

  Connor moved on to the imam’s office, where he repeated the process of sweeping, dusting, and replacing the trash. He didn’t install a virus on the imam’s computer, but he did leave another transmitter on the underside of the desk.

  “Thank you again,” Connor said, waving at the guards as he went back toward the elevator.

  Knit Cap gave him a dismissive wave, and the men returned to their conversations.

  Not the best security in the world, Connor thought. Not that he was complaining.

  As soon as the elevator doors had closed behind him, he pulled out his cell phone and typed “IN PLACE.” He sent the message and slid the phone back into his pocket.

  He had dumped the trash and was halfway back to his apartment when his phone vibrated with a call. According to the caller ID, it was from “Dad.”

  “Yeah?” he answered.

  “Nice work,” Thompson said.

  “You’re already pulling in data?” Connor asked, surprised.

  “Yup. The virus turned dialed into one of our portals and is pushing content to us now. Brice is sorting through the data and leaving behind all sorts of keystroke trackers. And I’m looking through Khan’s e-mails as we speak.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Not yet—there’s lots to go through. So far I just have lots of stuff about meetings and recruiting efforts. Not much about bombing famous religious centers.”

  “What, did you think you were going to find a roadmap of terror on his drive? A neon sign saying ‘Hi, I’m a crazy terrorist bomber, look at me’?”

  “Is that too much to ask for?”

  Connor chuckled. “I guess it would be nice.”

  There was a pause, then Thompson said, “Hang on. Looks like there’s been wire transfers between the mosque and some Islamic centers in Pakistan. They’re probably fronts. We’ll have to investigate them further. This is definitely a good start.”

  “Any luck on our friend?” Connor asked.

  “Hakimi?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No. We lost him outside Seattle and he hasn’t resurfaced yet.”

  “We’re running out of time. If he’s planning an East Coast attack, which seems likely because he’s had plenty of time to do something out west and he hasn’t, then we only have a couple more days.”

  “We know, and we’re working on it. You just do your best to get close to Khan.”

  Connor laughed. “I’m not going to be able to work my way into his inner circle in the next two days.”

  “You’re already making nice with his daughter,” Thompson said.

  “I don’t think she has anything to do with his terror operation.”

  Richards came on the line. “Oh come on, you’re not really buying her whole innocent routine, are you?”

  “I don’t think it’s a routine,” Connor said. “She comes off as extremely genuine.”

  “Well, I’m not convinced. On paper, she’s almost too clean,” Richards said.

  “Hey, if we find evidence to the contrary, then I’ll believe it,” Connor said. “But for now, I don’t think she has any part of whatever her father’s doing. And I can’t even say for sure if Khan’s the contact that Hakimi has here. So far, he just seems to be a corrupted drug dealer playing pious. A scumbag, but not necessarily a terrorist. I’m hoping you guys get something off his computer, because unless you do, I don’t think I’ll be much good here for anything else. These guys aren’t the trusting type, and they certainly aren’t going to warm up
to me anytime soon.”

  “Hey, if you’ve got another Abdullah in mind, how about you do us a favor and let us know,” Thompson said. “But I’ll trust you on your on the ground assessment. We’ll sort through whatever intel we can and if we’re lucky, we’ll get something actionable, but in we’ve got an asset we want you to meet. She’s been shadowing an Eastern European by the name of Frederick Wagner since he entered the country a few days ago, and we think your two cases may be connected. She’s coming to the city tomorrow morning. I’ll send you the address and time.”

  “How will I know who she is?”

  “Don’t worry,” Richards said. “She’ll find you. They call her the Black Widow.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The diner outside Fort Meade was a dive. Its décor was a throwback to the fifties, and the waitresses wore frilly skirts and aprons. Connor spotted a dark-skinned woman sitting alone in the back of the restaurant, her back to the wall. Her motorcycle helmet sat on the table, and she was busy reading the menu. She didn’t make any sign that she’d seen him, or that she was looking for him, but he had a feeling she was the one he was looking for.

  Connor slipped past a customer waiting to pay and walked straight to the back of the restaurant.

  Without looking up from the menu, the woman said, “They’ve got fantastic pie.”

  “That’s a baseline for any good diner,” Connor said. He studied the enigmatic figure in the booth. She had just about the darkest skin he’d ever seen, a pretty face, and high cheekbones. She seemed very relaxed, yet it was also clear that she was paying careful attention to her surroundings. “You’re the one I’m supposed to meet, I take it?”

  Without looking up from the menu, she held out a silver coin and Connor recognized the pyramid with the eye on it. The Outfit’s ID.

  He grasped the edge of her coin and almost immediately the eye began glowing.

  With a slight nod, she put her coin away, finally looked up at him, one eyebrow raised. “Oh my, you’re delicious-looking, aren’t you?” She gave him a grin that was almost predatory. “I’ve never had milk chocolate in my coffee.”

  Connor slipped into the booth. The woman’s eyes followed his every motion. “Are you flirting with me?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Maybe. I have a nasty habit of saying what I’m thinking. You’re cuter than I’d expected. You can call me Annie.”

  Connor noticed that one of Annie’s hands remained under the table—and he had a pretty good idea why. It made him uneasy. He didn’t know this woman and didn’t have any reason to trust her, and Thompson and Richards hadn’t told him much. He was suddenly very conscious that his back was to the diner’s entrance, so he slid to the wall and twisted slightly in the seat, giving him at least a peripheral view of the rest of the diner.

  “Annie,” he said, “are you going to keep that pistol pointed at me the whole time?”

  A smile grew on Annie’s dark features, and she nodded with approval. “Maybe.”

  A waitress appeared. “Can I get either of you something to drink? Water or coffee?”

  “Whole milk, please,” Annie said.

  “I’ll have water,” Connor added.

  “And are we going to be eating tonight?”

  “I’m thinking the coconut cream pie will do me fine,” said Annie.

  “Good, and for you?” The waitress looked to Connor.

  “Nothing for me, thanks.”

  “All right, I’ll be right back with your drinks and pie.”

  Annie folded the menu and slid it behind the rack of condiments. “I’m telling you, you’re missing out if you don’t have some pie. That’s part of the reason I picked this place.”

  “Having a gun pointed at me tends to negatively affect my appetite.”

  “It’s not pointing at you anymore.”

  He hadn’t seen her move, but Connor took her at her word. Not that it mattered. She’d still have the advantage over him, since his weapon was still secured in the holster at the small of his back. “Do you meet many strangers here for pie?” he asked.

  “More than you’d think.” She eyed him, pursing her lips as if in thought. He noticed that her helmet had left impressions in her close-cropped black hair, and lines from the face pads had left tiny indentions across her cheeks.

  “Long ride?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Not too bad.”

  The waitress returned with their drinks and Annie’s pie. “Here you are.” She turned to Connor. “You sure I can’t get you something, dear?”

  Connor waved a hand. “No thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “Enjoy.”

  Annie unwrapped her silverware and dug into the pie. She spoke through a mouth of fluffy white cream. “Oh my god, you have no idea what you’re missing.”

  “Not really a pie guy,” Connor said. “I’ll take your word for it, though.”

  She swallowed, then hesitated before taking the next bite. “It’s been a while since they’ve brought on a new guy. Much less put him in the field right out of the gate.”

  “I guess you’ve been given a briefing on me. You been with the Outfit long?”

  Annie shrugged. “About six years. Most of the time without a partner.”

  Connor didn’t fail to note her tone of disdain. “Is that what this meeting is about?” he asked. “Are we partnering up? You don’t sound keen on the idea. You can talk to Thompson and—”

  “Oh, I know who I need to talk to.”

  Connor motioned between them with a finger. “Is this going to be a problem?”

  “Not for me it isn’t. I like eye candy.” She took another bite of pie. “Just don’t think of me as some sort of damsel in distress and we won’t have any issues.”

  “Hey, that’s fine by me. I’m just trying to take everything in stride. I did ten years in—”

  “Thompson gave me the broad strokes,” Annie said, waving dismissively. “Special Forces, recon, yadda yadda yadda.”

  “You have me at a disadvantage. They didn’t even tell me your real name.”

  “There aren’t a lot of people who know that. I like it that way.” Her gaze flicked to the window, and she lifted her chin. “See that?”

  Connor followed her gaze to a semi turning off a side street onto the main drag to the interstate. The stencil on the side of the cab read “Decklin Bros.” The trailer featured a picture of cooking supplies.

  “You looking to get into cooking?” he asked.

  Annie snorted and brought her hand up to cover her mouth as she swallowed. She wiped her mouth with her napkin. “It’s a local company. They’re one of the biggest wholesale olive oil suppliers in New England. They ship all the way to Maine and down to Virginia. They’re owned by a German parent company out of Berlin—they purchased it three years ago as part of a corporate buyout of several smaller companies, including several automotive companies.”

  “Okay. And how is this relevant to us?”

  “Declan Brothers is also where my friend Frederick Wagner has been hanging out for the last forty-eight hours.”

  This illuminated nothing. “And Frederick is…?”

  “He’s connected to the EDF, the European Defense Front, a group that’s been exceptionally open about their hatred for America. They blame us for the European Union’s financial troubles. Frederick arrived in country a few days ago. He was a member of German Intelligence, an operator with a specialty in bomb-making. He’s since left government work behind and has been freelancing his services. I’ve been on him since he got here, and what he’s been doing is… strange. The first phone call he made was to a number in New York City, to an Italian restaurant, to set up distribution of olive oil.”

  “Maybe he’s just a misunderstood ex-operator who wants to sell some olive oil,” Connor said.

  Annie lowered her chin. “This isn’t my first rodeo, Connor. If this guy is a sales rep for olive oil, I’m Mickey Mouse.”

  “Don’t you mean Minnie?”

&nb
sp; “What the hell are you trying to say?” Annie cocked her head to the side. “Are you assuming my gender?”

  Connor hesitated, unsure whether he’d actually struck a nerve with the young woman, or if she was just yanking his chain. He wondered what kind of harassment policy the Outfit had. It seemed like the kind of place where that kind of policy wouldn’t exist.

  She smiled, revealing brilliant white teeth, a stark contrast to her ebony skin. “I’m just messing with you.” She laughed. “Anyway, Marty snagged a message from a woman named Ericka—”

  “Ericka?”

  “From what we can figure, she’s Frederick’s handler. It’s a long story, but she seems to be calling the shots for some of this stuff. Here, read it for yourself.” Annie pulled a cell phone from inside her jacket pocket, swiped and presented it to him. “That’s the transcript of the conversation Marty picked up yesterday.”

  Connor craned his neck to look at the screen when Annie grabbed his hand and placed the phone in his palm. “It doesn’t have cooties, for Christ’s sake.”

  * * *

  Mr. Hakimi,

  * * *

  Mr. Müller asked me to reach out and tell you that the shipments are proceeding as planned. Decoys are in place, and your way should be clear. This will be our last conversation. May Allah guide you to your destiny.

  * * *

  Connor frowned at the message and handed the phone back. “I still don’t get it. Who is this Müller guy, and are you saying the shipments involved are olive oil? And what decoys?”

  Annie nodded. “This lady Ericka, we’ve got voice prints of her directing Frederick around. Best we can figure is that she’s Müller’s right-hand girl. Anyway, Frederick is all over this oil being shipped to different places, and if we connect the dots, they’re related in some way. I just don’t think we have all the answers yet.

  “But about Frederick. I’ve seen him personally check out three trucks just before they departed with shipments bound for a single New York restaurant. And I highly doubt some little hole-in-the-wall Italian joint is going to need three full semi trucks’ worth of olive oil.”