Enemies Among Us Page 14

  Wadi slowly nodded in agreement. “With Allah’s help it will be done.”

  “The names of the infidels I meet in this country are listed in the Sijjin. They are destined for hell just as the scroll records,” said Ismad.

  They continued with inconsequential small talk for several minutes before Wadi asked, “Why did you wish to meet today?”

  Ismad said, “I am waiting for you to tell me of your latest failure.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course, you do. I am well aware of what happened at the storage facility last night.”

  “That is not your problem.”

  “Oh, but it is. Every mistake you make potentially impacts my mission. I have only one opportunity to succeed,” said Ismad.

  “This is the purpose of our meeting, so you can hurl more accusations?”

  “You deny you failed?”

  “Failure is a strong word, implying my mission has failed. Last night was a small setback. Throughout my stay in this country, we have seen small setbacks, but we will continue, and we will succeed.”

  “Your work is more a tragedy of errors.”

  “At the Yaumud-Deen, I will be rewarded.”

  Ismad turned to Wadi and looking him in the eye said, “The day of judgment may come sooner than you expect, if you continue to lead as a fool.”

  Ismad rose from the bench and walked back toward the parking lot.

  “IT’S MY FAULT,” SAID Matt.

  “Listen, I don’t wanna hear any of that!” Dwayne’s response was almost angry. “The only people to blame for Liz’s accident are the people responsible for setting the devices. You did your absolute best under the circumstances. I was on the scene. I have the experience. If anyone in the Bureau takes a fall, it will be me. But this was unforeseeable. It’s the first time they have used such devices in the United States. We all have to learn from this.”

  Matt sat there for a few moments, then said, “I stopped by the hospital this morning to see her.”

  “I know. I was just there, and she said you stopped by. The flowers you brought her were very nice. I bet you wouldn’t have done that for me.”

  “You’re right. You’re more a cold six-pack and nachos type of guy.”

  “The doctor was there when I arrived,” said Dwayne. “The damage wasn’t nearly as bad as they first feared. He’s confident they saved the hand. There will be lots of scarring on the hand and arm, but skin grafts may cosmetically cover the worst of the problem areas.”

  “Will she be able to come back to the job?”

  “Too early to tell, but based upon what Liz was saying, she’s not too confident the hand will ever be fully functional, at least, not in terms of law enforcement. She’s not sure she wants to come back, even if there is a complete recovery. She’s serious about a guy, and he was never too thrilled dating someone who carries a Glock. I think she may pack it in.”

  Matt slammed his fist on the table.

  Dwayne let him vent and then said, “It could have been a lot worse. You saved her life.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t feel like much of a hero.”

  The two sat in silence as the waitress filled both of their iced-tea glasses. Matt and Dwayne were the only two on the outdoor patio, and the mid-afternoon sun provided warmth on an otherwise chilly day.

  Dwayne handed Matt an al-Qaeda intelligence briefing. “Thought you might like to look this over. It’s a pretty good overview of the organization.”

  Matt began to peruse the report.

  “You don’t have to read it here. Just keep it from falling into the wrong hands.”

  “I’ll shred it when I’m done. I just have trouble remembering all these names. It really is confusing,” said Matt.

  “I know it is. Even our people can’t keep the names straight. Heck, we spelled Osama bin Laden with a ‘U’ until after 9/11.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that on the wanted posters.”

  “There are no vowels in Arabic so spelling can be a problem. Mohammad when translated into English sometimes appears as Muhamad, other times it is Mohammad, other times Mohammed. It just goes on and on. One time we figured out a terrorist by the name of Mohammad al-Ghamdi could actually have fifty-six different spelling possibilities,” said Dwayne.

  “And I thought my spelling was bad.”

  “Also wanted to let you know, we’ve had a series of bank robberies on the Westside. Some of the witnesses have described the robber as Middle Eastern.”

  “So.”

  “One took place just after SOG lost Rashid while they were watching Omar.”

  “You suspect Rashid and Omar?” asked Matt.

  “I suspect everybody, but look for something indicating their possible involvement.”

  “You mean, like if Omar comes in with purple all over his face from an exploding dye pack?”

  “Yeah, something like that,” said Dwayne. “Did Omar come to work this week wearing mouse ears?”

  Matt gave him a confused look.

  “Omar and Rashid went to Disneyland last weekend. Rashid took a ton of pictures.”

  “Dwayne, it’s the happiest place on earth. You can’t really indict them for visiting an amusement park.”

  “No, but I’d feel better if they limited their weekend treks to the mosque and back.” Dwayne looked at his watch. “Listen, I have to run. I’ve got a meeting with the Queen Mother. Don’t worry about Liz. She’s gonna be fine.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Jaana’s hospital room was beginning to take on the character of a second-grader. The walls were covered with get-well cards made by her classmates. A large bouquet of handmade paper flowers sat on top of the television. For a place that knew only suffering, a ray of hope emanated from each thoughtful gesture represented by the flowers and cards. This morning a life-changing decision had been made.

  Three doctors and Jaana’s parents arrived at the same conclusion. These five adults now crowded into the room to announce the decision that would change a seven-year-old girl’s life forever.

  A weary little girl greeted them with a warm smile as they entered the room. “This is the most visitors I have ever had. Hi, Dr. Paul.”

  “Hi, Jaana. I think you remember these other two doctors. They have had a chance to meet you and talk to you about your sickness.”

  “Yes, I remember.” Her smile turned downward, the corners of her mouth extending below the lips. It was not quite a frown, but it certainly portended the information she was about to receive. Even at seven, she knew this many doctors along with her parents were not harbingers of good news.

  Dr. Paul Conway, the pediatric oncologist, had drawn the short straw. He would be the one to tell Jaana about the operation. Dr. Conway was a tall man whose colorful smock and consistently rumpled hair betrayed the fact he was one of the nation’s finest pediatric physicians. The other doctors stood somber faced as Dr. Conway pulled up a chair next to Jaana. Her parents stood on the other side of the bed, and both reached down to touch their daughter’s hand.

  “Jaana, we have spent many hours studying your sickness, and we have looked at all the tests. Your body is sick.”

  “I have cancer.”

  “Yes, Jaana, you have cancer. Right now the cancer is in your leg, but it may spread throughout your body. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, “I think so.”

  Dr. Conway continued, “We need to remove the bad cancer in your leg, or you will never get better. Honey, the only way to remove the cancer in your leg is to remove your leg. We need to get all that cancer out of you. We need to take off your leg to do that.”

  Jaana remained surprisingly calm as Dr. Conway delivered the news. “When will you do that?”

  “The sooner the better. We would like to do
it tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” said Jaana. She hesitated and looked at her parents who were stunned by their daughter’s reaction. “After you take out the cancer, when will you put my leg back on?”

  The doctors looked at each other and then at her parents.

  Dr. Conway reached down and ever so gently touched her arm. “Honey, we won’t be able to put your leg back on. We’ll be able to give you a new leg, but it won’t be a real leg like you have. It will be what we call an artificial leg, and if you work real hard, it will be almost like a real leg.”

  Jaana looked at the doctor and then at her parents. Tears began to flood her cheeks. “You mean you are going to take off my leg, and I will never get it back?”

  Zerak leaned over and wiped away the tears. “Jaana, your leg is very sick. It will never work again. The doctors have to take it away, or you may never get to come home.”

  The doctors slowly walked from the room. Hope seemed to be caught in the draft.

  Jaana cried softly for hours until no tears remained. Her parents sat by her side through the afternoon. At one point Nahid slipped out of the room to call Caitlin.

  MATT FINISHED EARLY AT the clinic and was looking forward to a workout at Gallo’s. It had been several weeks since his last trip to the gym, and he needed to exact his frustrations on something or someone.

  Rock Gallo, the seventy-nine-year-old owner, was great about letting Matt drop in anytime. The gym wasn’t open to the public, and it wasn’t some “chrome and mirrored foo foo gym” as Rock referred to those membership clubs flooding the TV with advertisements right after the New Year.

  Gallo’s was no aerobic workout, punching imaginary foes or heavy bags that never hit back. Gallo’s was real boxing with real boxers who were trying to escape the poverty of the streets by seeking fame in the ring, fame that never came easy.

  Matt met Rock seven years before while covering a lead for the Las Vegas office on an alleged fixed fight at Caesars Palace. Rock loved the fact an FBI agent knew a peanut bag wasn’t just something kids bought at a circus. The two became fast friends. Rock was the only one at the gym who knew what Matt did for a living, and Rock jealously guarded the secret.

  To date the undercover assignment was unsuccessful. His relationships with Omar and Ibrahim were progressing slowly, but he was no closer to identifying either as a terrorist than he was the day he walked into World Angel headquarters. It was frustrating. It had never taken him this long to size up a target. Typically, this far into an investigation, he had at least confirmed the target was a drug trafficker, child pornographer, or an organized crime figure worthy of further investigation. More often than not, with this amount of time invested, he had already engaged the target in criminal conversations, if not criminal acts. But so far, he “could neither confirm nor deny” Omar or Ibrahim had ulterior motives for visiting the United States. Like his CIA counterparts overseas, Matt seemed to be chasing shadows.

  He was meeting regularly with Dwayne, reporting his observations and opinions. Dwayne was sharing with Matt everything coming across the wire, but that, too, was of little consequence. The CIA, NSA, DIA, and every other alphabet organization of the federal government could only verify that “chatter” reported the planning of an unspecified terrorist act in Los Angeles. The who, what, when, and where remained a mystery.

  Matt parked his car on the street, carefully noting the “no parking” restrictions. He certainly didn’t need his undercover car towed. That happened to him once before, and he learned the hard way the Bureau did not reimburse towing charges.

  He grabbed his gear and walked down the alley to the entrance. There was no sign marking the location, nothing to direct outsiders to Matt’s secret haven.

  He climbed the wooden stairs creaking with almost every stride. The dark stairwell added to the mystique of the secluded gym, known only to a select few. A young fighter who had recently turned pro was making his way down the stairs. He greeted Matt with a semi-toothless smile. “Ain’t seen you in a while.”

  “Hey, Big Thad! How you been? When’s your next fight?”

  “Got one scheduled for next month in Bakersfield. Just waitin’ for the phone to jingle, know what I’m sayin’? There’s a card down in Dago in two weeks, and Rock says he heard one of the fighters busted his hand the other day. Hopin’ to fill in. I’m ready.”

  “I know you’re ready. Let me know, I’ll buy a couple tickets.”

  “Thanks, Matt. I’ll see you.”

  Matt was a fight fan and knew it wasn’t easy for a young fighter to make it on the purses area promoters paid. Local fighters were called because they had a following, and their body in the ring meant fannies in the seats. The fighters were often given tickets to sell and could keep a percentage of everything sold. It was a way of encouraging young fighters to promote the fight game and themselves. Few fighters received the fat paydays reported in the media. Promoters offering million-dollar purses were as plentiful as cheering liberals at a pro-life rally.

  Matt walked through the double doors and knew he was where he wanted to be. There was no mistaking the sights and smells of Gallo’s. “Eau de dirty socks and jocks.” Stale sweat permeated the air, and the showers had fungi that could compete with any junior high science project. But it was Matt’s second home.

  Rock greeted Matt and then hollered at him to get ready. With an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth, Rock barked out commands like a gravely voiced Parris Island drill instructor. He had to, if he expected to be heard over the resounding patter of the speed bags and the whine of the half-dozen boxers skipping rope. Even though he was a septuagenarian, Rock wasn’t above climbing into the ring and pounding skills into his young protégées. His bald head glistened from sweat, frustrated he wasn’t able to convince his student to protect the body.

  “Hey, Fernando, I got somebody who can go to the body with the best of ’em. Matt, get ready! Quit standing around. Champions aren’t made in the locker room; they’re made in the ring.”

  That was pure Rock. He could have been a contender. He was undefeated in the ring, but when the Korean War heated up, he enlisted in the Marines. He was part of the landing at Inchon and the drive to the Yalu River. He returned to the States twenty-two months later. The injuries he received earning a Silver Star and two Purple Hearts did not heal sufficiently to make a comeback. The “sweet science,” as the old-timers called boxing, was his love and his education. He knew little else. Starting with almost nothing, he opened a gym that gained popularity quickly. In a short time he built a stable of excellent boxers keeping him busy for five decades.

  Rock was a man’s man, and Matt was proud to call him a friend. He could be coarse and crude, and the night Matt reluctantly introduced him to Caitlin, Matt held his breath. But Rock was pure gentleman. He spoke of classical music and quoted Scripture. Matt was speechless that evening. Caitlin fell in love with this crusty old Marine whose family had long since died. Rock was a fixture ever since at every holiday gathering.

  Matt entered the ring and viewed his opponent in the far corner.

  Fernando Perez had a dozen professional fights under his belt and a scheduled eight rounder next month in Bakersfield. The light heavyweight was undefeated, and the boxing establishment was beginning to take notice.

  Matt had watched Fernando work, and the young Panamanian had lightning quick hands and the stamina to last well into the night. Matt was not interested in a pummeling. He wanted to be the “pummeler,” not the “pummelee.”

  Rock climbed into the ring. “Matt, Fernando needs work defending the body. I want you to go hard. Go everywhere but work the body. Fernando, keep him honest but you need work protecting the ribs. I want you slipping punches to the head and body. You both understand?”

  Matt and Fernando put in their mouthpieces, touched gloves, and Rock made the sound of an imaginary bell. At three-minute i
ntervals for the next fifteen minutes, Matt was focused and alive. Any frustrations he had were being meted out on Fernando’s body. It was an exhilarating workout and worth every ounce of sweat he expended.

  Matt loved to work the body. He had been trained as a boxer to headhunt. The hands were held at shoulder level, and the shortest distance between two points was a straight line. It made sense to learn to jab and cross effectively.

  But the ring differed in one major aspect from the street. In the ring you wore gloves. On the street you did not. The hands were unprotected. The bones of the skull were almost always stronger and denser than those of the hands. In a street fight, a shot to the face might mean a knockout, but it could just as easily result in a broken hand.

  Matt learned the hard way. Several years ago on an arrest, the suspect struggled and took a swing. Matt instinctively responded with a left jab and a right cross. Both punches landed solidly to the chin. The suspect was unconscious, but Matt broke the knuckle of his right pinkie finger. Called a “boxer’s knuckle,” it’s common around the gym. It is lower than the other knuckles and is almost invisible even when making a fist. Every time Matt wrapped his hands before entering the ring, the “missing knuckle” on his right hand reminded him to work the body.

  “Time!” shouted Rock as he climbed into the ring to towel off Fernando. He put his arms around both fighters. “That’s it. Great workout, kid! Thanks, Matt. That’s just what he needed.”

  “It’s what I needed, Rock. Thanks.”

  Matt wiped the sweat from his face and climbed out of the ring. His shirt was soaked. He removed the gloves and headgear, put his mouthpiece back in the plastic protective case, and began to unwrap the two-inch wide strips of cloth protecting his hands. He walked over to his gym bag and glanced down at his cell phone. Caitlin had left a message. She needed Matt for a “mission” and wanted Matt to call her right away. Jaana was scheduled for surgery in the morning.