by Jay Deb
A few seconds later, Faizan checked the car clock – 10:20 p.m. He said to the driver, “I just want to get some sleep. I will sleep better here.”
The driver backed out the Impala and pulled out of the parking lot. “Yes, get some sleep, amigo. We will be driving the whole night today and the whole day tomorrow. And hopefully tomorrow night sometime we should reach Augusta.”
Augusta, Georgia, was where the professor lived and where Faizan was headed. The plan was that Faizan would stay there for two or three days and then start the last leg of his journey, culminating in the big event that would teach the Great Satan America a lesson and terrorize its citizens.
Faizan inserted his hand inside the bag and touched the barrel of his gun. He closed his eyes and could visualize the bullets coming out of the barrel and entering bodies of bystanders. When the moment comes, he thought, the barrel will be pointed at women and children first.
The soft targets first, Halim had told him so.
DOERR TALKED TO Mark Louder, the high-ranking official at the Counter Terrorism Department of the FBI, and gave him all the details he had about Faizan, which were not many. Louder agreed to contact the Cairo consulate and get more information about Faizan from his visa application. A day later, Doerr received a call from Louder. It was ten minutes past midnight in Dubai and 4:10 p.m. in Washington. Doerr had just fallen asleep after a hectic day but snapped awake and picked up the phone on the second ring. He’d had an idea that Louder would be calling soon with some good news.
“Hello,” Doerr said into his phone.
“There are five Faizans whose visas were rejected at Cairo in the last three months.” Louder was a fast-acting and straight-talking man. “Three students and two tourists.”
“APBs have been issued on all of them?” Doerr asked.
“No. We can’t issue APBs without knowing which Faizan we’re looking for.”
“Just issue APBs for all five of them!”
“And you expect results from that?” Louder’s tone turned unfriendly. “First, none of them have done anything yet. Second, don’t you think if we issue APBs just like that, they will become ineffective? We are just working based on some theory here, aren’t we?”
“We have received information from multiple sources. This Faizan guy is trying to get into the US or may have gotten in already. He is about to do something really big.” Doerr could not keep his composure anymore and was screaming into his phone. “And you are telling me you can’t issue those APBs?”
“If you have multiple sources, then why can’t one of them give you a photo or a sketch of Faizan? That will surely help. We are contacting the Egyptian authorities for help, and we are running the names by all our Canadian consulates. People always try to come through Canada once their visas are rejected in their own country.”
“For now, issue the APBs for all five.” Doerr’s voice was calmer now. “We will try to get a sketch of Faizan. Then you can zero in on one person.”
“Yeah, you do that. We will be waiting for the picture.”
“So you are not going to issue any APBs?”
“I will see what I can do. I’ll have to talk to my boss first. Okay?”
DOERR GOT UP at six in the morning, and he took a cab straight to Kassem’s office. The morning Dubai traffic rush was yet to start.
When he reached Kassem’s office, it was open, but there was no receptionist. Doerr knew Kassem usually started work early, so he proceeded to the chief’s office.
Doerr saw Kassem rummaging through some papers, looking for something. Doerr stood at the door and cleared his throat.
“Welcome back, Doerr,” Kassem said. “What brings you here again?”
“I need to go to Ahmad’s house and take him to a sketch artist. Can you lend me some of your people? So I can pick him up.”
“Sure.” Kassem stood up. “Actually, I’m going to come along. I want to put an end to this whole darn thing.”
Kassem made a few calls, and after twenty minutes, Doerr was riding in an Emirate police car. Kassem and three other policemen accompanied him. The car raced down the highway that bisected the downtown area. Palm trees were standing tall on either side. A black BMW coupe was ahead of them. The car moved to the right, clearing the path for the police car.
Soon, the police vehicle left the highway and took a narrow road. Traffic became congested, and the road was riddled with potholes. People walked by on both sides of the road, and the hawkers advertised their goods, fruits, and some cotton products, with loud voices.
After a long, bumpy ride, the police car stopped in front of a three-story building. The wall was white, and the roof was built in Cape Cod style. No one could be seen outside the building. All the men, including Doerr, got out of the car.
“That Ahmad fucker lives in unit number twenty-seven, on the second floor,” Kassem said, pointing to the building. “Let’s go.”
Doerr climbed up the stairs, accompanied by the others. They took a right after coming out of the stairwell and walked through the veranda-style hallway. A man came out of one of the flats. As soon as he saw the policemen, he disappeared swiftly back inside his flat. Doerr knew that in this part of the world, people were more afraid of cops than they were of criminals.
Doerr and the others were soon at the door of flat number twenty-seven.
Doerr knocked. No response.
Kassem moved forward, knocked on the door hard, and then he kicked it. The door shook, but it did not break.
Doerr kicked the door, and it cracked open.
It was a two-bedroom flat with a modest living room that had a couple of chairs and a TV. The lights were off. Doerr and Kassem checked the bedrooms – nobody there.
Kassem knocked on the next few doors and talked to the occupants in their native tongue. Doerr did not understand what was being said, but he could figure out that the news was not good.
“It appears Ahmad and his family left their flat yesterday, without telling anything to anyone.” Kassem turned to Doerr after he finished talking to the neighbors. “It was very unlike them, the man says. This guy was Ahmad’s buddy, it seems. Ahmad always told him what was going on in his family. This time – nothing. He says Ahmad is not coming back.”
“What makes this buddy so sure that Ahmad will not return?” Doerr asked.
“He left with five large suitcases and took all of his family with him. And they didn’t tell anything to anyone.”
“But why did he leave?” Doerr asked Kassem. “Is Ahmad scared of our agency or you guys?”
“I don’t think Ahmad left because he was afraid of the CIA or me or my guys.” Kassem folded his arms over his chest, and the three Emirate policemen gathered behind him. “He left because he was scared of Halim.”
“What do you mean?” Doerr asked.
“I mean Ahmad ran because he knew what Halim would do to him once he figured out that he had given you secrets. Halim would kill him.” Kassem paused. “How did you make Ahmad talk to you, anyway?”
“That’s not important,” Doerr said. “What is important is to find him…can you find him?”
“We will try. But I’m afraid the bastard might have left the country.”
FAIZAN WAS DROPPED at the professor’s house in Augusta, Georgia, at around eight in the evening. He got out of the car with his duffel bag in one hand and the black briefcase in the other. The wind was chilly, and he was dog-tired. He trudged along the walkway, made with slabs of stones, to the main door of the professor’s house.
Faizan approached the door, and a light outside went on. He rang the bell and waited.
The door opened, and a burly man appeared in white pajamas.
“Are you Faizan?” the man asked.
Faizan nodded, and the man extended his hand for a shake. “We have been expecting you, Faizan. I am Hassan. Please, come in.”
“Are you the professor?” Faizan asked, just making sure he came to the right place. Hassan was clean shaven, and Faizan est
imated him to be about forty-five years old. He had a healthy figure, except for a bulge around his middle.
“Yes, young man. Come in, please.”
Faizan stepped in and stood in the middle of the living room. An expensive-looking leather sofa and a loveseat sat opposite the TV. There was a large bookshelf next to the TV.
“Let me show you your room,” Hassan said and walked toward the carpet-covered stairs. “Give me that big bag. I will carry it for you.”
“It’s okay.” Faizan pulled his duffel bag closer to him, as if Hassan were going to snatch it. “I can manage it.”
Hassan turned and walked up the stairs; Faizan followed. Hassan led him to a room on the second floor and opened the door.
“This is where you can stay for a few days.” Hassan pointed inside the room. “I know you are tired, but I want you to meet my family. So, please freshen up and join us for dinner.”
“Okay.” Faizan was tired and yearned for a long nap. He had spent the last forty-eight hours in vehicles. The last leg of his journey had been smoother than the first two, but it was very taxing. He certainly did not want to make small talk at a dinner table with people he never met before, did not care about, and surely would not meet again – he would be dead in just a few days and would be with his seventy-five virgins, if the mullahs were to be believed.
But, due to the circumstances, Faizan decided to oblige his host.
Five minutes later, Faizan dragged himself downstairs and sat at the dinner table, across from Hassan. On the shiny surface of the deep brown varnished wood, Faizan could see the reflection of the six light bulbs hanging from the crystal chandelier above.
Faizan thought the man in front of him was stupid. Servant of America.
He looked at Hassan, and their eyes met. Faizan looked away, unable to withstand the frosty gaze of the other man.
Soon the man’s wife and his seventeen-year-old daughter joined them at the table. Hassan introduced them to Faizan.
“Hello,” Faizan said politely to Hassan’s wife and picked up his glass, drinking a few sips of water.
“Faizan was accepted at Georgetown University,” Hassan said with a smile. He turned to his daughter. “See, Zarin, Faizan graduated with honors in Computer Science.”
Zarin giggled and said, “I’m studying computers too…at my school.” She wore glasses with a thick plastic frame and a silver necklace half hidden by her T-shirt. Her hair was reddish, obviously dyed.
Hassan shook his head. “It’s not the same. It is as if you are learning the ABCs, whereas Faizan is an expert.” Turning to Faizan, he said, “Tell her what your project was on.”
The man’s wife, short and fat, so far busy bringing the food from the oven to the table, said, “Ahh, don’t talk about serious matters now. Let us enjoy dinner. I made goat curry.” She turned to Faizan. “I hope you like it.”
Faizan nodded.
“Faizan, sit with her later.” Hassan jerked his head toward his daughter. “Teach her a few things before you leave.”
“I will, don’t worry,” said Faizan and focused on the food. He looked at the professor’s daughter. First he felt an attraction, but then the feeling turned to disdain. She certainly needs some lessons. To Faizan, her dress of white shorts and a pink T-shirt was inappropriate. She had no respect for the elders. She was eating in front of seniors and giggling at the same time. She has to be taught a few things, here. No, she needs to be taken to Mecca and trained properly.
Faizan took the white rice and some goat curry from the bowl and placed them on his white porcelain plate. As he started mixing them with his bare hands, the dirty look from the young girl did not evade his notice.
“Faizan will be here for four more days,” Hassan said.
“Three,” Faizan corrected Hassan.
Turning to his daughter, Hassan said, “Show him around the town if you have some time.”
“Okay,” she said and turned her attention to the smartphone in her hand, smiling after reading whatever she was looking at.
After dinner was finished, Faizan went back upstairs to his room, sat on the bed, and took his shirt off.
He opened the red duffel bag, where all the parts of his two AK-74 rifles were stored; everything was still there. He opened the black briefcase – the cash, his passport, and the handguns were intact. Halim’s instruction was to throw away the passport after entering the US, so that if he was caught somehow, they wouldn’t be able to identify him.
Keep the passport for now, he told himself and locked the briefcase. He sealed the duffel with a small lock and key, put the key in his shorts pocket, and then jumped into the bed.
The next morning he woke up to the soft sunlight that came in through the white window drapes. He rubbed his eyes and wondered where exactly he was. Within seconds, he recollected everything that had happened during the last few days. The flight to Mexico City, the long ride to Nuevo Laredo, the chicken tacos at the restaurant on the way, the dark night ride across the river on the makeshift boat and finally the car ride to the professor’s house.
It had been a long and laborious trip so far but successful. The next phase would be long too and even more strenuous – he would have to drive and do other fatiguing work and then make the ultimate sacrifice.
He closed his eyes, hoping to catch some more much-needed sleep.
Chapter 20
Doerr called Louder for updates; there was good and bad news. Egyptian authorities located two of the men named Faizan, whose visas had been rejected recently in Egypt. But the bad news was that Louder still refused to issue the APBs for the remaining three Faizans.
Louder needed definitive proof. “I have been burned before by issuing too many too soon, Doerr. I’m not doing it this time.” Louder’s voice was firm, and it had a tone of finality to it.
Doerr knew he would not be able to change Louder’s mind, so he hung up and thought for a while. He liked to do things himself, but this was an exceptional situation. He hated it, but he had no choice and had to call Lazarus to get some help from the top.
Doerr made the call, and Lazarus picked up after three rings. “I heard you made some good progress. Good job, Max.”
“Yes. I got a name. His name is Faizan. We know who he is. The only problem is there are a couple of guys with that name, but we have their photos.”
“Yes, I know. I read your report. What do you need me to do?”
“Well,” Doerr said. “The FBI guy, Louder, is refusing to issue the APBs, and I need some help on that.”
“FBI, huh?” Lazarus said sarcastically. “When do they listen to us?”
“We need to spread the info and be on the lookout for this man. In this case, it will be all three guys.”
“Okay. I will sort it out. If needed, I will get Director Stonewall involved. Anything else?”
“Yes. If and when Faizan is located in America, I want Rosania and me to be flown in immediately, and he should be handed to us.”
“That might be a problem. As you know, any domestic terrorism matter will be handled by the FBI.”
“But this case originated abroad,” Doerr said with desperation. “So it belongs to the CIA.”
“Max, let’s not jump the gun too soon. I will see what I can do if and when this Faizan guy is caught.”
FAIZAN SLEPT THROUGH most of the first two days of his stay at the professor’s house.
Jet lag, he thought. Until that point, other than entering the country illegally, Faizan knew he had not done anything illegal. But on the third day, that would change.
He woke up early. He slid out of the bed. Before doing anything else, he put his knees on the floor and prayed for twenty minutes. Let the fruit of all hard work ripen, and I be able to deliver the message to the Great Satan. Faizan prayed. For the rest of the world, let me be known as the disciple who carried out the Almighty’s wish.
Shortly after, Faizan lazily descended the stairs and stood in the living room. He could sense that the profe
ssor had already left for work. The professor’s wife was doing something in the kitchen in a hurried manner. She wore a pair of black pants and a blue shirt. Faizan knew she was about to head out for work.
“This is what we have today.” The wife placed a white plate on the dinner table. It had four pieces of toast on it, and then she heated up a cup of coffee in the microwave, placing it next to the white plate.
“That’s more the than enough,” said Faizan and threw her a big smile.
“If you need anything, ask Zarin, please,” she said, jerking her head upward, indicating that Zarin was in her room upstairs, and then she exited through the door.
Faizan smiled to himself and sat down to enjoy the meal, which he decided would be his last one in the house. The coffee was stale, and he cursed the professor’s wife silently. She did not have the courtesy to attend to a guest’s comfort. She is no Muslim.
He lifted the second piece of toast to his mouth and heard soft footsteps – Zarin.
“Morning,” she said and headed for the kitchen. She opened the fridge, looking for something for breakfast.
“Morning,” he replied and looked at her rear end. If she were a bit more religious, then she would be a good wife for me, Faizan thought. But immediately, he chided himself for thinking about the worldly things.
“I will take you to the museum today,” she said as she put her coffee cup in the microwave.
“Don’t bother. I’m not in the mood. Feeling tired today. I will go back to bed after this.” He pointed to his plate.
“Okay.” She took the coffee and headed upstairs.
Faizan finished his toast and took a last sip from his coffee cup, and then he walked out of the house and stood at the front door and took a deep breath.
It was a beautiful place; there was no denying that. The street was lined by huge houses, and each house was endowed with large front and back yards. The asphalt on the road was deep black. Faizan knew that a house in this sort of place in Cairo would cost a fortune. He sighed and returned back inside the house and started up the stairs that led to his bedroom.