Fredo's Dream: SEAL Brotherhood: Fredo

by Sharon Hamilton

  A door opened in the paneled wall and an older gentleman stepped out wearing a suit and tie, but obviously also packing a gun at his waist. He did not wear a badge or nametag as did the uniformed personnel behind the window glass.

  He waddled over to Malmoud, his shoes squeaking. And he did something extraordinary. He extended his hand.

  “I’m Detective Clark Riverton of the Special Investigations unit.”

  “I am Malmoud Suleimani, cleric of the Free People’s Center.” He used the name they most often used when speaking with journalists and the public.

  His hands were callused, but the handshake was firm and not afraid. “Let me take that from you, or have you filled it out?” Riverton extended his hand and Malmoud deposited the clipboard into his palm.

  “No. She asked me to fill this out until she learned the crime has not been committed as of yet.”

  “I see. So you have a few minutes to talk in private, then?” he asked.

  “Yes, please. This is why I came.”

  “Now I have to ask you, do you have a weapon?”

  “No, sir.”

  “A knife or anything like needles or anything harmful?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You’ll be walked through a metal detector. Are you okay with that?”

  “Yes. I’m fine with that.”

  “And when we get inside, you’ll have to agree to a search and a pat down. I assure you, this is only a precaution.”

  “Yes, taken for people of my kind, I understand, Detective Riverton.”

  Riverton shrugged. “Would you stand, please?” He placed the clipboard on a chair nearby.

  Malmoud did so. Riverton’s deft hands worked down his front, both legs, slightly and carefully to his crotch and down the middle of his back as his arms extended to the sides as instructed. The woman and little boy watched with rapt attention.

  “Come with me.” Riverton picked up the clipboard, nodded and spoke to the woman on his way to the doorway inside, “Morning, ma’am.”

  She didn’t have the words to answer him.

  He banged twice on the paneled door and a buzzing sound signaled the door unlocking. The detective pulled it open and motioned by using the clipboard for Malmoud to walk through first.

  Inside, two uniformed men, their hands on their sidearms, greeted him. He was searched again, just as the detective had done, and then sent through a large machine after he deposited his satchel to travel through the conveyor ahead of him.

  “You will follow these gentlemen to the interview room, Mr.—you said your name was Malmoud Suleimani?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  As he followed one of the officers, the other walked behind him. Before they turned the corner to the right, Riverton shouted out, “You want something? A soda or coffee?”

  “A water would be good,” Malmoud answered.

  “Coming right up. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes. You just sit tight.”

  The room was small, containing a Formica table and three chairs. Both sides of the room were covered in a mirror-like one-way glass. Above and in two of the four corners, cameras with red blinking lights stood stoically, waiting.

  He was ushered to the single chair across from two other chairs and was left alone. He examined his hands, knowing he was being watched by others on the opposite side of the glass. The room was very quiet, and sounds from outside were muted, blending voices. His heart pounded.

  He thought about the conversation he’d had with Sayid and regretted not being given the opportunity to explain to him what life was like when he was a child, before everything got crazy and the whole region erupted. All the foreign intervention had done little to quell the violence, and the thugs who ran things were not the true believers they said they were. It was all a shame so many people had lost their property, their livelihood, and their lives, not to mention their country, now embroiled in something that would take hundreds of years to resolve. The zealots had even destroyed their history and evidence of a two-thousand-year-old culture. More of their civilization was found in museums all over the world than could be seen where it belonged, at the birthplace of civilization.

  Unless calmer voices were heard, unless people could sit down and talk to one another with the desire to come to a common ground and agree to some measure of peace, it would continue to deteriorate until it was all gone.

  He didn’t know what this Detective had going for him, but he said a little prayer the man was strong and of good character. Otherwise, he’d just delivered himself and possibly his congregation into the belly of the lion.

  It was so quiet, all he could hear was the buzzing of the overhead lights and the movement of the clock on the wall. He felt like he was back in school, back when the days seemed charmed and he felt safe.

  The door abruptly opened, and it startled him. The heavyset detective walked inside, leaned over and handed him a refrigerated water bottle.

  “Thank you.”

  “No problem. Now, before we get started, do you need to use the restroom?”

  “No. I’m fine. Perhaps after I finish this?” He held the bottle up to his lips and drank the delicious cool elixir of pure water. Was there anything more wonderful in all the world than pure water in a clean bottle?

  The Detective brought out a lined pad and a pen. He set that aside and then took out a small spiral notebook with a tiny pen attached to it. He pointed to the tablet. “In case you need to write something down, draw something or want to give me a statement. Let me know if you need to take notes, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “So tell me first how to spell your proper name.”

  Malmoud did so, and Riverton printed the letters in his spiral book.

  “What brought you into the station this morning?”

  “I spoke to one of my students yesterday, and that conversation bothered me. As I thought about it, I decided I needed to tell someone.” He examined the puffy face of the man sitting across the table from him. He trusted him and hoped this feeling was reciprocated.

  “Okay, good.”

  “First I want to tell you I consider myself a believer. I believe strongly in our religion, and for my people, it is a path, a blueprint to lead a better life. I also want to say I’ve been here over forty years, ministering to peoples from all over the Middle East. There’s been a marked change in the population. Most have been very grateful to be able to come to America. Many have found it difficult to blend into your society. I am an American citizen, but I have to tell you I don’t yet feel like an American. But I’m working on it.”

  “I understand. I think,” Riverton said. He wasn’t taking notes. They were just talking man-to-man.

  “I have lost members of my family, both to radicalism and to the scourge of war. I am not here to judge what others have decided or what path they chose, but let’s just say I have lost family on multiple sides of this conflict. Because, in case you were not aware, there are more than two sides.”

  “How many sides are there?”

  “I’m guessing about a dozen.”

  The detective blinked and let his eyebrows raise in surprise.

  Malmoud continued. “A discussion for another day, perhaps. Nothing is as simple as it seems, and yet, there are some very simple things that can be done to perhaps pour water on the flames of fear and hatred.”

  “On that we agree.”

  “So I’m here not only as a believer, but as an American citizen,”

  “Who doesn’t feel American yet.”

  “You are quite right. Who doesn’t yet feel the embrace of my host country the way I should perhaps, the way I will one day perhaps. But in spite of the horrible things I’m aware of, I’m an optimist.”

  Riverton looked down at his notebook and idle hands. “I’m ready to listen. You’ve made your introduction. Now I’m sure you had something more to say than just explaining how you feel about living here. It’s interesting and all, but my job is different than yo
ur job. You see, I don’t minister to a flock of believers or teach people things. I try to wrest control from some very bad elements who prey on our society, particularly the innocent and defenseless. I try to be a shield. I don’t have the luxury of thinking about it. So unless you have something specific to tell me about a crime that has been committed or is going to be committed, I’m afraid I am very busy.”

  “Yes. I understand.” Malmoud chose his words carefully. “I have a student who has been radicalized by some elements overseas. I’m not sure where he went exactly, but I know he’s been out of the country within the past year.”

  “Like a training camp?”

  “Yes. He’s been to one here in the US, in Oregon. But he’s also been to one, I believe, in Syria. But that’s just a guess. He has started to talk about things that concern me.”

  “What things?”

  “Well, he has been associating with people I know to be Wanted men.”

  “Wanted where? Here?”

  “Yes, Detective.”

  “Who?”

  “One name is Amid Khan.”

  The detective didn’t flinch. “What do you know about him?”

  “Word has passed through my congregation that he has been hiding in the US from authorities. I believe if you check, you will find this to be true, but I have no first-hand knowledge of the man, only rumors.”

  Riverton was writing the name down. Malmoud realized that this was a new name for him and was a little surprised.

  “And what does this have to do with your student?” the detective asked.

  “He has informed me this teacher, Khan, is coming here to San Diego to visit him.”

  “When?”

  “I assume soon. He wanted to ask if I knew a suitable girl to cook for him while the holy man is here. My student is single, you see.”

  “Will you allow me to check this out? Can you wait?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you want anything else?”

  “Another cool bottle of water would be very nice. And a visit to your facilities.”

  “I’ll have one sent in, and I’ll send someone to escort you to the men’s room.”

  “Thank you.”

  A very tall, dark-skinned officer escorted him to the men’s lavatory, and pointed to one of three stalls.

  “I’m gonna wait right here, but I’ll be inside the door, making sure no one else comes in. Please,” he pointed again to one of the stalls.

  Suleimani did his business and washed his hands. He noticed how tired and very gray he had become. He looked older today. His joints ached. With his wife dead now three years, he kept to his stretching every morning and before sleeping at night, but didn’t have any of the other usual exertions they’d had through sexual intercourse which used to calm him. But he wasn’t complaining.

  When he walked past the guard and into the hallway, a team of four men stood with Riverton. This meant they believed him. Good.

  Riverton made some introductions, and they all returned to the little room. The men stood behind Riverton. The questioning was direct and an air of urgency had developed.

  “How well do you know this student of yours, Sayid? Oh, and what’s his last name?”

  “Qabbani. I’ve only known him a little over a year. He moved here from Northern California to attend college, and I do not know anything about the family, except to know that my fellowship was recommended. I know he works while going to school.”

  One of the men standing beside Riverton asked, “Where does he work?”

  “I don’t know, but I believe it is in the landscaping business of some kind. That is his interest, in landscaping, growing and tending plants.”

  “So we’ve looked up your Mr. Khan. When have you met him?”

  “I’ve never met him, only heard about him.”

  “And what have you heard? Please tell these men here what you began to tell me.”

  Malmoud finished the first water and opened and sipped from the second water bottle. The water was still as divine as before. All the men in the room watched him closely.

  “He told me that the holy man was coming to see him. He wanted proper food to entertain him, so he asked me if I knew of a suitable girl to help him with the food preparation. That means the gentleman adheres to some sort of strict dietary regimen. From what I’ve heard, he is a bit of a fanatic.”

  They waited until he sipped more water.

  “I told Sayid that I wasn’t pleased he was coming under the influence of this teacher. I tried to explain it was perhaps dangerous to associate with him and that it showed a lack of respect for the peoples and country who took him and his family in as refugees.” Malmoud swallowed. “He was unmoved. In fact, I’m thinking I may not hear from him again for some time.”

  “Do you know where this student of yours lives?” a man in black asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think you could show us?”

  “I’m certain I could.”

  “You say he called you. Can you please give me his phone number?”

  Malmoud lit the screen on his cell phone and passed it over to Riverton to copy the number down.

  “And this is his address?” the detective asked, pointing to the details of the contact record.

  “Yes.”

  Riverton wrote it down and then passed his note to the man beside him. The crowd left the room, but Riverton stayed behind, remaining seated in front of him.

  “Okay. I’m going to tell you what’s going to happen next. First of all, I want to thank you for coming in here today. That was a very brave and courageous thing to do.”

  “My concern is for the innocent loss of life.” He slowly stared into the detective’s grey-blue eyes. “I think you would do the same.”

  “Every day. I do it every day. Or try to.”

  “On behalf of those who do not thank you enough, I thank you.”

  “Okay then.” Riverton brushed off the compliment as if it was something hot he didn’t want to deal with. Malmoud wondered if compliments caused him pain.

  “They’re getting a team together and we’re going to go over to your student’s house. Hopefully, we’ll find this guy.” Riverton glanced up, assessing his reaction. “You have any indication he’ll have weapons? Explosives? Accomplices?”

  “I have no such knowledge. I am fairly certain my student doesn’t own any weapons. It would surprise me. But the presence of this new teacher is worrisome to me.”

  “I understand. Have you overheard anything about their conversation? Or run across anyone who gave you a run down of what they might be planning?”

  “No, I have not.”

  The door opened and an officer in a swat uniform nodded to Riverton.

  “Well, my friend. If you would come with me.”

  Chapter 24

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  FREDO TRIED MIA again on her cell when their jets landed at the Avjet hangar in Morocco and still got no answer. They were waiting for the transport to arrive, and it was due at any minute.

  “Maybe it’s time we get someone to go check on her,” said Coop.

  Kyle and Armando were standing beside them both. Fredo looked up into his brother-in-law’s face.

  “Armani, you think any of her old gang, one of those guys could be messing with her? It’s just not like her to not answer. And she didn’t tell me she was going on a trip.”

  “I’m gonna call Mom. She must have seen her,” said Armando.

  Fredo had tried to put it out of his mind when he couldn’t reach her just before they took off from the Canaries. He was sure he’d catch her or at least have a message from her when they landed three hours later. But now the angst was growing, and he had to do something.

  “You want I get Christy to go check?” asked Kyle.

  Fredo shook his head. “Let’s listen to Armando.”

  “Hey, Gus,” Armando started. “Say, you guys see Mia the last twenty-four hours or so?”

  Fredo held his br
eath.

  “Oh, she’s not? When did she go over there?” Armando and Fredo made eye contact, and Fredo’s spine began to tingle. He hated being so nervous, but this was a pattern he’d not seen with Mia. With Caesar getting out of prison after the holidays, his antennae was on full alert.

  “Ask him to go check on them, then,” Fredo whispered.

  “When do you expect her home?”

  Fredo waited for an answer.

  “Well, Fredo’s not been able to reach her, either. That’s why we’re calling because we’re a little worried. Now, maybe he’s missed her call or there’s a simple explanation, but we’re headed home, and he wanted her to know. We’ve been in some spotty places—no, sir, I can’t tell you—but we’ll be home tomorrow. Taking a red eye out of here. When we’re on US soil, we’ll text you guys.”

  Armando was listening to Gus Mayfield’s conversation, while focusing on his shoe, drawing imaginary patterns on the dusty concrete floor of the private jet hangar.

  “When did she last talk to Mia then?”

  Armando nodded his head and spoke to Fredo. “He thinks he should go over there. Felicia was going to drop by some baby clothes she bought at a garage sale this morning. He hasn’t heard from either of them, and it’s been a couple of hours.”

  “Tell him to get hold of Collins. That’s not right, Armani,” said Kyle. “I’m gonna try and reach Christy.” He walked to the side to call his wife.

  “Gus, you have our liaison’s phone number, Collins?” Fredo handed his phone over with the contact number already recalled. “Here it is, Gus.” Armando read the number to his step-dad. “Tell him something isn’t right, and you’re alerting him to the fact that Mom’s late and Fredo can’t get hold of Mia. We gotta catch a plane, and we sure as heck don’t want too much time to go by while we’re in the air—just in case something’s wrong.” After another pause, Armando signed off with, “Thanks, man. Keep us in the loop, and leave a message or update if we don’t pick up.”

  “Shit, Fredo. I’m truly sorry. I accused you of being an old biddy who worried too much. I should go call Libby.” Coop was as contrite as he could be.

  “Christy’s on her way over after she gets a sitter,” said Kyle.