“You didn’t hear the explosion?” another MP asked. “Around 11 p.m.?”
“Oh! Is that what it was? I heard something, but the air conditioning is very loud in my classroom. You know, I’ve complained about it to…”
The MP shined his long black flashlight through the rear window, checked out the back seat, completely ignoring him. Satisfied, he then asked, “Do you mind opening your trunk for me, Sir?”
“No problem, officer,” Shaw answered as he popped the latch. It only took a second or two for the MP to look inside and determine the trunk was empty, so he slammed it shut and returned to the driver-side window.
“That’s all we need, Mr. Shaw. You can go,” the MP told him as he handed him his IDs. “We may be contacting you later if we need any further information.”
Shaw put the car in gear and drove slowly away down Knox to Gruber and then to the Expressway heading south. The MPs had set up another roadblock at that corner, and on the exit lanes opposite the entry gate. They were stopping all cars and he had to show his IDs again and open the trunk again, but by this time it was becoming both routine and amusing. Like puppies running around in circles chasing their tails, the MPs didn’t have a clue.
This process wasted another ten minutes, and it was almost midnight before he drove into the parking lot of the McDonald’s restaurant five miles further south on the backside of Cross Creek Mall on the Route 401 bypass. The parking lot was half empty, but Shaw had no idea what model of car the Yemeni chemist drove. He should have asked, he thought as he circled the lot once and did not see him. Still, al-Karman was cagey and Shaw knew he must be watching as Shaw drove around the parking lot for a second time because he finally saw al-Karman get out of a small beige compact and wave to him. Shaw parked next to him, got out, and joined al-Karman as he stood between the two cars. It was a cheap, five- or six-year-old Honda Civic two-door sedan, with too many dents, dings, and rust spots to count.
“Sameer, I hope you didn’t send pictures of this piece of trash back to your family in Yemen. They’ll think you’re an embarrassing failure and disown you.”
“Oh, quite the contrary, Professor. They will know that I must be a poor, dutiful son and husband who is living hand to mouth in America and sending them every dollar I can possibly afford to send them each month. If my wife’s uncles saw a photograph of me and a nice car, they would bleed me white… And it is very nice to see you again, Sir.”
Sameer was a tall, thin, dark-skinned Yemeni immigrant, dressed in a pale green polo shirt, chinos, and leather sandals. He stood with his back against his car and his arms folded across his chest. Shaw could tell he was observing and evaluating Shaw every bit as much as Shaw was observing and evaluating him. “So, your family is all back in Yemen?”
“Yes, my wife, three children, and far too many in-laws. Perhaps that is a uniquely Yemeni problem, but I think not. It creates heavy responsibilities in my people, which is why I have no time for your games if it is not worth my time.”
“I assure you they aren’t games, Sameer,” Shaw told him. “That’s why I have joined the fight. You should draw upon your faith and join with us.”
Al-Karman shook his head and smiled. “Professor Shaw, I mean you no disrespect. I have seen you at prayers in the mosque. But what could a blond, blue-eyed American convert college professor possibly know about the Arab American experience? Or what my people are going through back home.” He stared at Shaw for a long, strained moment, and then cocked his head and looked north toward Fort Bragg. “It appears you have been busy tonight, haven’t you?”
Shaw gave him a noncommittal shrug. “Let’s say I put some stolen C-4 to good use.”
“I have no objections to what you are doing, or to the statement you think you are trying to make, but we are a small community here in town, at the College, and on the Army post. Your antics will inevitably make life a bit more inhospitable for us.”
“You must learn to trust me, and trust the Caliph.”
“The Caliph?” He laughed. “Professor, that poor fellow is trapped in a shrinking desert oasis on the Euphrates River in Syria, being pounded daily by the Russians and the Americans. Frankly, there is very little of him or the Caliphate left to trust.”
Shaw smiled. “Would you believe me if I told you I was there, in Raqqah, talking with al-Zaeim only ten days ago? I got in and got back out again, and the situation is not nearly as hopeless as the infidels want you to believe. New fighters arrive to join the fight every day.”
“Whatever you say. I am but a poor amateur chemist; what do I know?”
Shaw looked at him and could only wonder. “All right. Do you have the C-4?”
“It is in the trunk of my car,” Sameer said. “You have my money?”
“Of course,” Shaw answered as he looked back at his car.
“As I told you before, I do not relish being caught with ten pounds of C-4. The CID has no sense of humor right now when it comes to dark-skinned people with awkward, hyphenated names who get caught with explosives.”
“May I see it?” Shaw asked. Sameer went around back and opened his trunk with a key. “The old-fashioned way, I see,” Shaw laughed as the trunk popped open. He looked inside but all he saw was two cardboard boxes labeled Castrol motor oil.
Sameer raised the cardboard flap on one of the boxes, revealing six one-quart plastic bottles inside. “If you look closely, you will note that one of the bottles in each box has a small scratch on the cap. It contains nothing but motor oil. If someone is looking suspiciously at the box, make sure you pull that one out if they want to check inside. The other five bottles in each box have a pound of C-4 at the bottom, and motor oil on top, but I don’t recommend you pouring it in your Peugeot. It would give new meaning to ‘turbo-charged’!” Al-Karman laughed. “When you want to use it, pour out the excess oil — it has no effect whatsoever on the explosive — cut away the plastic bottle, insert your detonator, and you are ready to go.”
Shaw nodded. “Very clever.”
“I thought so. Now, my money, if you please. And no games! I have a friend lying in a van across the street with an M-16 pointed at you through the rear taillight opening. If this is a trap, or you have other people waiting out there, be advised that he is an excellent marksman and you are his target. So do not test me.”
“Very clever indeed.” Shaw smiled and turned around and reached inside his Peugeot. He opened his briefcase, put his hand inside, and came back out holding a thick manila envelope, which he handed to al-Karman. “I appreciate your caution and professionalism, and a man who understands planning, my friend. Join us. Millions will be praising your name by next week.”
“And I appreciate your offer, Professor, but I prefer to pass for now and remain alive.” Sameer looked inside the envelope and fanned the bills, making sure they weren’t blank paper or filler, and then stuffed the envelope inside his jacket pocket. He and Shaw then transferred the two cardboard boxes to the Peugeot’s trunk.
“This is an exceedingly dangerous game you are playing here, Professor. What do they call it? Terrorism, sedition, treason?” Sameer asked. “I had my fill of killing and hatred growing up in Yemen with all of its warlords and militias. Now I am but a simple chemistry student with many mouths to feed and many uncles looking over my shoulder. Tomorrow, and the tomorrow after that, Insha Allah, God willing, I can be found at my usual table in the Student Union, surrounded by my books, my laptop computer, and a good cup of tea. Where will you be?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sherwood Forest
Bob was in a deep REM sleep when he heard his cell phone ring. It was lying on the end table next to the house phone and the clock radio. For a second, Bob wasn’t sure which of the three was ringing. Reluctantly, he opened one eye and saw the time on the clock was 3:15 a.m. It had to be the cell phone. Only a friend called him on that number to begin with, and only a very good friend would dare call him at this hour now that he was a civilian.
“
Burke,” he mumbled.
“Bobby, wake up. Time to go to work!” General Arnold Stansky said on the other end. As usual, the old man wasn’t one for small talk. He continued with no introduction, barely taking a breath, and said, “A bomb went off outside FORSCOM around 2300, a goddamned big one. The crime Techs think it was a full block of C-4 this time.”
Whether it was some obscure family trait, too many firefights at the crack of dawn, or some rare, self-preservation gene that went back to cavemen and sabretooth tigers, Bob had the ability to snap wide awake in a heartbeat. Then again, when your cell phone ringtone is the West Point Fight Song and it begins with a chorus of “On, brave old Army team! On to the fray,” it wasn’t that hard to wake him up, or Linda, and that was never a good thing.
After a few sharply mumbled complaints, she jammed her head under her pillow. “Next time, I’m taking an ax to that thing and I might not stop there… BE ADVISED!”
He swung his legs out of bed before she could try and quickly carried the cell phone into the bathroom. “Any casualties, Sir?” Bob asked as he closed the door.
“One MP on guard is DOA and one wounded, but they caught the bastard. He tried to shoot it out with them and he’s still in the OR, but they think he’ll live.”
“Who is he?”
“A black supply sergeant from Mississippi who’s serving in one of the maintenance support companies. He’s a big guy, short and badly overweight. You were right about one thing, though, he’s not Special Ops. If he tried jumping out of a C-130, he’d probably tear the ’chute and go Splat! Name’s Jefferson Leroy Jackson, or that’s what it was when he enlisted six years ago. He converted to Islam and changed his name to Farrakhan Muhammad, or Muhammad Farrakhan, or some such crap. Seems like he’s been in and out of trouble ever since. Eight months ago, he was busted two grades from sergeant to E-3 for going AWOL, insubordination, and getting in a fight with his Platoon Sergeant.”
“Never a good idea,” Bob interjected.
“You got that right. They’re just starting to dig into the guy, but his First Sergeant told the CID he started going to a mosque and changed his name about a month before the fight. Since then, he’s taken some continuing ed classes in Middle East stuff and got caught handing out radical literature to some of the other troops. Anyway, as part of the construction on the new FORSCOM building, they installed mini surveillance cameras around the perimeter and on light poles, so it’s been under 24-7 video surveillance since it opened. We have him on video parking his ratty-ass old Kia in front of the building, getting out, and walking up the sidewalk with a paper bag in his hand. Thank God, he only got halfway there when the MPs stopped him. That’s when the shooting started and the bomb went off.”
“Interesting,” Bob said. “Good thing they got him off the street.”
“Not so much ‘they’ as I’d have liked. It was the bomb got his fat ass off the street. I’d say it blew him about five feet in the air, and it got a certain major general off your butt in the process. But this time, it looks like we got our man.”
“Is there anything you want me to do?”
“Nothing for now. We’ll know more when that dumbass comes around and they can question him; but as I understand it, the manufacturers who make C-4 add a chemical marker, or taggant, into the mix. It’s like a chemical fingerprint, so they can trace it back to the source, and even the batch. The lab’s still working on it, but residue from the C-4 at FORSCOM appears to match the C-4 from the three previous bomb sites, plus the one that didn’t go off. All that stuff came from the batch that disappeared from the 20th Engineers. Plus, he was carrying an old Colt .45 that looks like a ballistics match to the bullets that killed those two officers at the golf club the other night.”
“You’d think they’d know the C-4 and the bullets can be traced, wouldn’t you?”
“Only if they get caught, and they never expect that to happen. The CID’s all over that C-4, by the way. Thank God, the Engineers keep it under lock and key in the arms room, and they’ve been interrogating three guys who work there, one of whom probably sold it to Muhammad. We should know pretty soon, but it sounds like you can go back to sleep.”
“I couldn’t be happier… but you still don’t want me to do anything?”
“No, no, the CID should be able to wrap it up.”
“Assuming Muhammad was working alone, of course.”
Stansky paused for a moment. “You like ruining my mornings, don’t you, Ghost?”
“Not on purpose, Sir, but were you able to get the files of the bomb sites?”
“Yeah, I broke loose a copy of the CID files and Muhammad’s 201 file. I guess that means you still want to see them, don’t you?”
“It might be a good idea to look before they stamp it ‘Case Closed,’ don’t you think? In case there are more snakes under that rock? If someone planted that bug up his ass, maybe we should check out the mosque and the courses he took at that college and find out who.”
“Okay, okay, but tread softly. I don’t want to end up on CNN getting grilled by that bastard Wolf Blitzer. You never care who you piss off; but on rare occasions, I do.”
“Who? Me? I’m the Ghost, remember? Never seen, never heard.”
“Trust me; you’re neither. But I guess you are on the outside, which gives you the freedom of movement I don’t have; and you are damned effective. So if you do start tinkering around, be damned careful. The Pentagon’s more politically correct than Hollywood these days, and I can only throw my stars around but so many times before they toss me out with the bathwater.”
“Yes Sir. I think you told me the CID Agent in Charge is a woman named Sharmayne Phillips?”
“I just got off the phone with her. They’ve been working their butts off all night at the FORSCOM site and the 20th Engineers, and pretty much around the clock for three days now. I’ll give them that much. She’s smart and aggressive, and probably as worn out and short-tempered as a polecat about now, so she isn’t going to be very happy to see you. But I know you. When you get an itch, you gotta scratch it. So, I’ll send Pat over to your house with the files. Look them over; and if you decide to take a field trip to the crime scenes in the hospital, stay on O’Connor’s hip. No one would dare stop that crotchety bastard.”
“Roger that. And I’ll make nice. Promise.”
“No, you’re right, dammit. Get to the bottom of it!”
“And if I do bump into Agent Phillips? Should I call you if we get arrested for interfering in an official investigation and obstruction of justice?”
“No. I’ll call her and tell her the two of you might be stopping by. She won’t be happy about it, but it isn’t a fight she wants at this point, any more than I do.”
Stansky rang off and Bob stood there staring at the phone. “She won’t be happy?” he thought as he shook his head and laughed.
Thirty minutes later he heard a heavy car coming down the driveway followed by a firm knock on the front door. That would be Pat O’Connor in General Stansky’s sedan, Bob guessed. He was already up and dressed in chinos, a gray sweatshirt, and his Army desert boots. He had made a big pot of coffee, and took two steaming mugs to the front door. When he opened it, as expected he found Pat holding a half-dozen thick file folders in his arms. No doubt he was wearing the same dress greens he wore the day before, but he looked freshly shaved. Pat had left his jacket with all the ribbons and badges and his beret in the sedan and was down to a long-sleeve, beige shirt, slacks that somehow still held a crisp crease because they wouldn’t dare not to, and spit-shined shoes. His collar was unbuttoned and his tie was pulled down at the neck, but somehow the man remained the definition of a warrior. You’d never know he’d been up for over twenty-four hours, if you didn’t look in his eyes.
“Pat, something tells me you didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“You got that right! And ‘Keeping a Sergeant Major Up All Night’ should be one of the exceptions to a Capital Murder Charge under Article 118 of t
he UCMJ.”
“Sounds perfectly reasonable to me,” Bob quickly answered as he looked out at the empty Army sedan parked in the turnaround. “The second cup was for your driver.”
“I drove. The general let the poor kid go at 0300. We were afraid he’d fall asleep at the wheel and get us all killed. But don’t worry, I’ll drink them both if you don’t,” Pat answered as he took both cups and they headed back to the breakfast nook, where he dropped the files on the table and took one of the two chairs that looked out at the dark farm beyond. “Looks like another gorgeous morning in God’s country, doesn’t it?” O’Connor sighed.
“All that’s missing is a cold MRE, bad coffee, and the crack of rifle fire.”
“You’re such a romantic, Ghost.”
“Tell that to Linda,” he answered as he sat down and grabbed the top file off the stack. With multiple MP reports, Muhammad’s 201 file, and all the photographs of the multiple crime scenes, it would be slow going. Every thirty minutes, the two men exchanged files and began all over again.
When he finally finished, Bob sat back and said, “All right, let’s recap.”
“Recap? Is that how you business executives really talk?” O’Connor asked. “We have this clown Farrakhan detonating a bomb in front of FORSCOM. Do you think he’s a terrorist or just some dumb troop with a gripe against the Army?”
“Whatever, he didn’t think this up all by himself. Someone put him up to it.”
“The files show he took Arab Studies classes at Mickey Mouse State down the road, converted to Islam, and changed his name. Are those red flags or red herrings?”
“You know,” Bob shrugged, “I have no problem with his name change. Muhammad Ali changed his name, so if this clown wants to call himself Farrakhan or ‘Son of Sam,’ I couldn’t care less. What I do have a problem with is someone trying to take down the Big Green Machine from the inside. The Army’s trained to deal with external threats to the country and organized warfare against nation states, but not something like this.”
Burke's Revenge: Bob Burke Suspense Thriller #3 (Bob Burke Action Adventure Novels) Page 23