“Why not?”
“You told me Rosie and Jimmy were hiding from someone. You suggested I should try to find out who they were hiding from. That’s what I’m working on. It wouldn’t be appropriate to reveal all we know at this time, would it?”
“No, it wouldn’t. You’re on the right track, Tony. You might want to interview Priscilla again. She’s keeping secrets.”
Tony sighed into the phone.
“What’s the point? We already know she didn’t do it.”
“Do you have any suspects?”
“Of course we have suspects.”
“Do you have enough evidence to make an arrest?”
“No, we can’t tie the gun to anyone, there were no witnesses, and the crime scene had too much accumulated debris and DNA to provide any useful data. It’s a case of too much information. ”
“That’s why you need to interview Priscilla again. You need to know what she knows.”
“Right, I hear you. She’s keeping secrets— a dead girl’s secrets.”
“It goes to motive, Tony”
“Do you think she’ll tell the police what she knows?”
It was my turn to sigh.
“OK, let’s do it together. I’m pretty sure she’ll talk to me. I’ll set it up.”
14
DHS agent Jack McCarthy met me on the top level of the parking garage at Olympic Plaza. I arrived before he did. He wasn’t late; I just like to be the first person on the scene, rather than the last.
The top level was reserved for staff, but there was no one checking. After he parked next to me, Jack climbed into the passenger seat of my truck which I’d running with the AC blowing.
“How can you stand living in this heat?” He asked.
“It’s not the heat. It’s the heat and the humidity.”
“Whatever. It’s got me looking forward to winter. Speaking of looking forward, I brought you the pertinent data we have on the people we suspect may be planning an attack.” He dropped a file folder on my console. “All of these guys are American citizens and none of them have committed a crime, yet. We’ve been expecting trouble from them, but now that Muktallah is here, we think it could be much worse than anticipated. Our analysis suggests the probability of a devastating, mass casualty terrorist incident.”
I decided not to ask how he arrived at a conclusion about what I might think was pertinent.
“I thought the word “terrorist” was unpopular these days. Aren’t you government types supposed to say “act of violence” or something like that?”
“We don’t have time for your cynicism, John.”
“Do you know if any of them were in contact with Muktallah?”
“No, we don’t think they ever had any direct contact with him. We suspect he was sent by someone without any of the locals knowing he was coming.”
“How did you get onto these guys?”
“We gathered most of our intelligence from electronic surveillance and confirmed it through various other channels. We learned a lot about them from the internet sites they were visiting on the dark web. We knew one of them was in touch with an Imam in Yemen who is also a low level Al Qaeda footman. Another guy made a similar connection on a trip to Pakistan, and one traveled to Syria and he’s stayed in contact with ISIS fighters since then. That’s probably the connection to Muktallah. It’s all there in the file.”
“I don’t understand how this could happen here. The local Muslims have never been a problem, Jack. The little area mosque has always reached out to the community and many of the people are well respected here. They are charitable people who are committed to the five pillars of Islam. How in the world did they get involved in all this radical jihadist madness?”
“We’re not talking about all of the local Muslims. It has nothing to do with the mosque. We’re talking about a very few people who are mostly self-radicalized. These are people who would be radical if they belonged to the girl scouts or an association of librarians. They’re just wired that way.”
“Wired to bring jihad to the streets of America?”
“I’m afraid so. For millions of people it’s possible to be a Muslim but not a serious Islamist. They’re culturally Muslim, practicing the primary tenants and traditions of the religion, without any political agenda. But the person who is truly committed to Islam is committed to the entire Islamic agenda. Islam is both a religion and a political system. A radical Islamist cannot stand to see the interference of infidels in the politics of the Islamic countries. They can’t stand to see the nation of Israel occupying any part of the Middle East. They hate Americans because we’ve made war on Islamic people in Islamic countries, and we support Israel. They intend to punish us for these things. That’s the rational for jihad. They will never stop.
One day they hope to see the whole earth under the thumb of Islam. It’s been the goal since the time of Muhammad. It’s part of the reason for the continual upheaval throughout the Middle East. What started as strife between tribes and factions within the region has gone global. Today, the radicals are ascendant. Have you got any leads on where Muktallah might be?”
“You’ve been watching these guys. He’s probably with one of them. Where do they live? Who visits them? Who do they visit? You know the drill, Jack. You should have found him yourself by now.”
“Well, we haven’t. He’s a ghost. Sure, we’re watching the men in that file. We’ve followed each of them everywhere they go. Do you have any idea how many man hours I’m talking about? A couple of them are in a band. They get together and practice. They have jobs, go to school, one of them owns a machine shop. They lead fairly boring lives. I’ve got a lot on my plate. What have you got?”
“I know you aren’t telling me everything. How long have you been watching them?”
“I told you, we picked up some signals that suggested they were becoming radical. This was about three months ago. We started our surveillance, trying to gather any useful intel we could. They’re just smart enough not to talk to strangers, so the agent we sent to try to lure them out in the open got a cold shoulder. Our analysts are certain they’re a threat, but we can’t prove it. Now they’re being trained by a pro. So, what are you and your little friend doing to help us?”
I ignored his condescending attitude.
“Hafsah is going to return to her Islamic roots and try to make herself part of the local Muslim community. I’m helping with some introductions. Now that we have this list, she’ll be able to focus her attentions on these people. We’re also working another angle. It’s just going to take time, and I don’t think we have much of it.”
“No, I’m afraid we don’t have the luxury of a cushion of time. The clock is ticking and about to chime. What is this other angle you mentioned?”
“It turns out Muktallah actually is a musician. He’s a jazz and blues man. He wants to make a record. It must be funny to him that he can come here illegally and plan to do violence against innocent people and record American music at the same time.”
“You’re kidding? We never heard anything about any of that. Are you sure?”
“Yeah, strange isn’t it?”
“These are strange times, John.”
15
Hafsah and I sat in my office and looked through the file Jack had given me.
She’d donned traditional Muslim clothing. Today she wore an ankle length dress with long sleeves and a high bodice. It was lavender, with a subtle floral print. A white hijab of opaque silk was now draped around her shoulders. Before going out in public she would pull it up over her head and pin it under her chin. To me she looked like any of the other Muslim women I’d seen on the streets in many parts of the western world. Like them, but much more beautiful.
“How did you come to have this dossier?” She asked.
I’d been expecting this question.
“I got it from a friend in the Department of Homeland Security. I asked him to do some research for me. These are local people who�
�ve drawn the attention of our government as being potential trouble makers.”
“Did your friend not question you about your interest in these people?”
“He did. I told him someone who might be a Muslim had made some threats against one of my clients, and I just wanted to know if there was a reason to be concerned.”
“How is it that he was so willing to give you this information?”
“As I said, he’s a friend. He knows I won’t use the information inappropriately. I just thought it might be helpful. Maybe someone in this group has some connection with your cousin. What do you think?”
“I think your enquiry will draw the attention of your government. You may have alerted the FBI.”
“OK, I can handle that. Again, do you think someone in this group might be in contact with your cousin?”
I could see she wanted to have a look at the file.
“Yes, it is possible. If Hakim knows someone here, it would probably be in the Muslim community. Are any of these people involved with the music industry?”
“I have no idea, besides — do you really think Hakim came here to make a record of his music? He could make a record anywhere in the world.”
Hafsah met my eyes.
“No, John, we both know he did not sneak into your country just to make music. He is here to make war on your people, in the name of Allah. He is here to kill and terrorize your people.” She paused, looking away. “There it is. I followed him here to find him and kill him before he commits one more atrocity.”
Leaning forward, I took her hands in mine.
”I’ve known it from the first time I met you. Is it so easy for you to speak of killing someone?”
She shook her head, but didn’t pull her hands away.
“You must try to understand. He is not just some random person. He is a killer, an assassin who has come here to kill many of your people. I must stop him. I am prepared to do whatever is necessary to accomplish this. If he realizes I am his enemy, he will kill me without hesitation. I cannot hesitate either. If I hesitate, I will die, and he will be free to go on killing many more people. This is not a contest or a prize fight. It is not even a… how do you say, bar fight? This is a fight to the death and only one of us will survive. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I do, but if we can capture him, will you do that, instead?”
“I do not think you understand this man. I do not think you can imagine a man so evil. It is the weakness of you Americans. You always try to see the best in people and you put so much pride in your criminal justice system.
Some people are evil. Hakim is not an ordinary criminal. He is a terrorist. He is dedicated to Jihad, the holy war. For him, killing the enemies of Islam is his personal calling. He believes he is following the example of the Prophet. Any country or any citizen of a country that has opposed any aspect of Islam is to be cut off. He is the enemy of every man, woman and child in your homeland. He is here to kill innocent civilians, striking at the heart of your American values.
If he learns you are hunting him, he will kill you, John. He will not hesitate or even give it more than a passing thought. He intends to kill as many people as he can before he falls. You would be just one more…”
I put my hand up, stopping her.
“I do understand, Hofsah. Don’t be afraid for me. I have more experience in these things than you can imagine. Like you, I know the best weapon we have is our mind. If we are mentally prepared to stop our enemy by any means necessary, before he harms us, only then can we win. If we allow an enemy to put us on the defensive, we only have a fifty-fifty chance of survival. I‘ve never liked those odds.
Listen to me. If the only way we can stop him is by killing him, I’ll do it myself. I won’t hesitate either. That being said, if God is willing, we will take him alive.”
“Why alive? Do you intend to turn him over to your authorities?”
“Yes, but that isn’t the only reason.”
She scowled, trying to work out another reason. This was outside her experience and understanding.
“It’s not too late for him, Hafsah. He can be redeemed.”
Hafsah huffed, expressing her disdain for the notion.
“Redeemed? No, he deserves death. He is beyond redemption.”
“We all deserve death, but God is rich in mercy. If we can take him alive, will you help me do that?
“Inch’ Allah.” She shrugged.
“Does he know you are coming for him, Hafsah?”
“He must know he is being hunted. That is why he cannot travel openly. There is nowhere he can go where someone will not be hunting him. He knows he has little time left. It is why he has this crazy idea about making a recording of his music. I do not think he knows anything about me. He probably would not remember me even if we met face to face. We have not seen each other since we were children. He does not know I am Mossad.”
It was good news to me. It meant even if they met by chance somewhere in the area, he would not suspect her of being anything other than a local Muslim woman.
“OK, I think the first person we need to find is this guy, Jahander Khalid. He’s a student at the university. The fall semester is just starting. I’ll do some research and get his class schedule. You can bump into him on campus, saying you’re there visiting a friend you met in France and you’re considering taking a teaching assignment. Christine can pose as the friend if we need her to.”
“Does he have a sister or a girlfriend? It would be better to meet her first. Perhaps I should not be so forward introducing myself to him. It might seem odd and provoke his suspicion.”
“Uh, I don’t know. There is nothing about it in this file. I’ll have to look into it.”
“Is there another person who might be contacted more easily?” She asked.
I handed her another photograph. “We could try this guy. He works at a convenience store in Jacksonville, a town about fifteen miles south of here.”
“Yes? I will go there and buy petrol. Perhaps he will ask me where I come from.”
“Do you happen to speak any Pashtu?”
“I do, yes. Why do you ask?”
“This guy’s family comes from the tribal region on the Afghan border. He visited there last year. He probably learned to speak Pashtu.”
“What is his name?”
“It says here he goes by Aaron Parviz. He’s lived in the U.S. since he was four years old. Hello… this is interesting. He plays the drums in a band called the Honky Tonk Broncs.”
“What does this mean “honky tonk Bronx”? I know the Bronx, and the other four boroughs of the city. They are Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, and…”
I stopped her, shaking my head.
“… No, it’s not about… the point is he’s a musician. He’s the sort of person Hakim would want to know.”
“Have I told you I am a musician as well?” She asked.
It had never crossed my mind.
“No, what do you play?”
“… Strings. I play violin, cello and piano, primarily.”
“Wow. I’d no idea. Are you any good?”
She slapped me on the shoulder.
“It is a matter of opinion. Some people think I am capable.”
“Oh, of course, I mean… I’m sorry. I didn’t phrase the question correctly.”
She grinned at me.
“I have performed with professional musicians on two continents.”
“Really? That is impressive.”
“Do you play?”
“I have a huge playlist. I play a wicked stereo, even on my car audio system.”
She blinked and tilted her head to one side, perplexed.
“No, I have no musical talent, whatsoever.” I clarified.
She smiled and said, “Perhaps, someday I will play for you…”
“Please, God?” I breathed a silent prayer.
16
“I have news.” Christine informed me, as I came in the front door of our offi
ce, that afternoon. “Two days ago, Ace Pawn and Jewelry sold a classic Fender Stratocaster and an amplifier for cash, nearly two thousand dollars in cash, to a guy named Nat Baha. He was looking for a very specific guitar, and they had one.”
“Bingo! Did they get an address?”
“No, he paid in cash, but he was looking to buy some additional equipment, Ace didn’t have. He left a phone number in case something he wanted came in.”
She handed me a piece of paper with the number on it.
“Probably a throw away phone,” I speculated.
“Well, thank you so much for that word of encouragement,” she said.
I grinned.
“Sorry Christine. You did great, faster and better than I could have imagined. Thank you.”
“I guess you don’t have much imagination, do you?”
“Why do you say that?”
“What if Nat Baha got a call from the pawn shop, saying they had something he was looking for?”
“And what if we were in a position to follow him from the pawn shop?”
“Why do you want to follow him? I thought you just wanted to find him.”
“Right, I did. Just a slight change of plans, don’t give it another thought.”
“Hmm,” Christine replied, narrowing her eyes.
“Keep on the recording angle, too. OK?”
“Yes, boss.”
“Thank you.”
“Uh huh. What about the equipment?” She asked.
“What equipment?”
“I told you, Nat Baha is looking for some sort of special distortion thingy, a foot pedal thingy and some other stuff.”
“Did you write it down, too?”
“Here you go,” she said, handing me another piece of paper.
I scanned the list. It was all strange to me.
“What is a ‘Vox Wah’? Did I even say that right?”
“You did. It’s an old school reverb kind of thingy. It distorts the sound as you step on the foot pedal. I have someone locating one now. We can provide it to the pawn shop, and ‘voila’ along comes Nat Baha to pick it up.”
The Ticking Clock Page 6