Enemies Among Us Page 16

  Westwood Village is one of the finest college communities in the country. Just outside the UCLA campus, the village contains everything a student thinks he needs—food, fun, and fast times. You can buy pizza by the slice or enjoy the finest cuisine at sky-high prices.

  It is also home to the Fox Westwood Village Theater where many movies premiere. The red carpet is rolled out for Hollywood’s stars and starlets. On those special nights the corner of Broxton and Weyburn is closed to all but pedestrian traffic, and roving spotlights brighten the night skies. Even a nonpremiere Saturday night is a crowded affair with university students celebrating another weekend of freedom from the confines of parental-imposed curfews.

  The Nocturnal Bruin is a popular college hangout for UCLA students. The walls are decorated with museum-quality oversized photos of UCLA’s athletic heroes in action. Autographed photos of such Hall of Famers as then Lew Alcindor, now Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Olympic decathlon champion Rafer Johnson, basketball coach John Wooden, Dallas Cowboy QB Troy Aikman, as well as others cover the two-story walls from floor to ceiling. Behind the bar is a replica of Gary Beban’s Heisman Trophy and autographed basketballs of all eleven NCAA men’s basketball championship teams.

  Tonight, as most nights, the music was pulsating and deafening, making it difficult to carry on a conversation.

  Wadi had several drinks under his belt when Ismad walked in the front door and elbowed his way past college students waiting for a table. He spotted Wadi at the end of the bar.

  Ismad walked directly to him. He kept his eyes straight ahead, locked on his target. He felt out of place, and he was. He was old enough to have fathered many of the patrons and was uncomfortable being around the alcohol, the loud music, and the suggestive dancing. He wore a cheap, black-flannel, long-sleeve shirt and black pants. His black shoes were practical if you were walking the yard at San Quentin, but they hardly measured up to the quality and style being worn by the college-age partiers.

  Wadi was the complete opposite in his multicolored Tommy Bahama shirt and Italian designer jeans.

  Most of the coeds who frequented the bar were absolutely beautiful—thin, tan bodies, and engaging smiles. A plunging neckline and a bared midriff were requisites for the uniform of the day.

  Wadi noticed, as did every other testosterone-driven man in the bar.

  Wadi greeted Ismad with a hug and handed him a beer. Ismad set the glass in front of him but didn’t take a drink. When the bartender walked over to them, Ismad ordered soda water.

  Although Wadi was younger by more than a decade, he was Ismad’s unofficial superior. Wadi’s most recent assignment from his overseas administrator was to support Ismad in his singular mission. Only three people in the United States knew what that mission was. Two of them were present at the Nocturnal Bruin.

  Ismad, still uncomfortable with the meeting place, looked Wadi in the eye. With anger he asked, “Why are we meeting here? I see young women who appear to be Muslim yet are in public, unaccompanied by their male relatives. They make no effort to cover their faces. In fact, they make no effort to cover their bodies. Allah cannot be pleased with such lewdness, and you are a part of it all.”

  “Relax, my friend. It is important we blend into the American society. Can you think of a better place to blend?”

  Ismad looked at him with incredulity. “I can think of hundreds of places better than this in which to conduct our business. I do not need to see this debauchery in order to carry out my mission. I do not need to learn about American society from you or your friends. I know what I am to do, and I will do it. You supply my needs, and I will be successful. I ask nothing more of you.”

  A well-endowed blonde beauty reached between them to grab a beer from the bartender. Wadi gave her an enormous smile. As she walked away, Wadi said, “In America, they say those are store-bought.”

  Even Ismad caught the reference, “You are a vile man who deserves no reward.”

  Wadi was oblivious to Ismad’s tirade. Just as Ismad finished his sentence, a young, dark-haired Lebanese coed ran up to Wadi from behind, grabbed him around the neck, and kissed his cheek. “Wadi, you did come! Let’s dance!”

  She led Wadi to the dance floor. The two engaged in conduct Ismad deemed unacceptable in the eyes of Allah.

  Ismad turned his back to the dance floor but saw the “decadence” in the reflection of the mirror covering the wall behind the bar. Ismad’s anger deepened with each passing minute as Wadi spent what seemed like hours on the dance floor with his Americanized female friend. In reality it was only two songs. When Wadi returned to the bar, he quickly ordered another beer.

  With disgust Ismad shouted above the undulating music, “You have my number. Call me when you want to discuss our business. I will not discuss it now.”

  As Ismad stepped from the bar stool and started toward the door, Wadi grabbed him by the shoulder. Wadi smiled a wicked smile and said, “This is L.A. Lose the flannel.”

  Ismad twisted quickly and headed for the door.

  ON THE WAY BACK to his West Hollywood apartment, Wadi raced through Bel Air along the winding Sunset Boulevard. He slammed through the Porsche’s six-speed manual transmission, taking the curves with precision. Wadi had consumed several drinks, and although not legally intoxicated, he was “drunk angry.”

  It wasn’t the first time he had been confronted by older soldiers who questioned his ways and his loyalty to the movement. Wadi considered himself just as dedicated to the cause as anyone. Who was this Ismad to display such contempt?

  It was Wadi’s mission to coordinate cell activities throughout Southern California, and in order to be successful he had to blend into American society, just as the 9/11 hijackers did. They drank. They smoked. They went to strip bars and avoided mosques. Yet no one questioned their dedication. Even loyal Americans had to admit the hijackers willingly gave their lives for a cause in which they believed. How many Americans were willing to do that? How dare this Ismad, who are only here for one mission, question the tactics that have brought success for the Southern California cells.

  Wadi joined the cause while still a teenager when he came under the influence of a charismatic Muslim cleric who espoused a militant line. What he said made sense, and Wadi pledged to embark on a holy jihad, as the cleric defined it.

  Not every terrorist belongs to al-Qaeda, but all militants, including Wadi, share a common link: the respect and admiration for the organization’s poster child, Osama bin Laden, the one they call the Emir. They view him as an inspiration, a symbol of resistance to Israel and its Western supporters.

  Bin Laden met members of the Muslim Brotherhood while a student at the King Abdul-Aziz University. There he was introduced to the concept of “offensive jihad.” In 1979, during his college days, the Soviets invaded Afghanistan. Bin Laden was twenty-two at the time and immediately began raising support for the Afghan guerrillas. That support continued through the war.

  He is credited with recruiting almost fifteen thousand Muslims from throughout the world to fight the Soviets. A different caliber of Muslim recruit chose to follow bin Laden. They were doctors, engineers, and businessmen rather than clerics or impoverished Palestinians.

  When the Soviets departed in defeat, bin Laden’s followers returned to their homelands with a new fire and a new cause, the establishment of the Caliphate, a pure Islamic state. Many believed the Taliban in Afghanistan would be that hope, a model for the Muslim world.

  Bin Laden’s father served as the minister of public works and became a billionaire contractor who assisted in the renovations of the mosques in Mecca, Medina, and the al-Aqsa mosque in Jerusalem.

  When Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait in 1990, the Saudi government, fearing their country might be next, sought the help of the United States, rejecting the offer of bin Laden and his followers. Ironically, the bin Laden construction company built the military base
in Saudi Arabia that housed more than four thousand U.S. servicemen. It is this continuing U.S. presence bin Laden and his followers, including Wadi, vehemently oppose.

  The Prophet Muhammad from his deathbed said, “Let there be no two religions in Arabia.” Islamic militants view any presence of non-Muslims in the Middle East as being in opposition to the Prophet’s declaration.

  Wadi attended the al-Badr terrorist training camp in Afghanistan during the Taliban rule. Those in attendance represented more than fifteen nations. Most returned to their own countries, bringing with them the terrorism taught at the camp. Wadi learned military as well as organizational skills during that training. He did well and impressed those in leadership. He was selected to go to the United States and coordinate the activities of support teams and strike teams.

  A master’s degree program served as a perfect cover. As a part-time student he could socialize with other Muslim students and recruit them for the cause. He could use his new business and organizational skills to successfully coordinate the cells’ activities.

  It was a responsibility he took seriously. Had he applied these skills in the private sector, he would be wealthy. Was it wrong to purchase goods that maintained his cover and allowed him to move freely in a consumer-oriented American society? Overseas leaders praised his efforts and expressed no concerns.

  The support cells reporting to Wadi raised hundreds of thousands of dollars for the cause. His cells in the United States were self-supporting, and each month money and supplies were sent to the Middle East for distribution to other cells throughout the world. Wadi alone developed the Chinese counterfeit cigarette connection. The cause profited directly from the sale of these cigarettes. In addition, many of the wholesale buyers who owned small mom-and-pop-type convenience stores independently supported organizations overseas, such as Hizbullah or Hamas, with the profits from their cigarette sales—a “trickle-down” profit for terrorism.

  Wadi also coordinated the sales of Afghan heroin and ran a “boiler room” soliciting funds for the cause. He provided support for people like Ismad who came to the United States for a specific mission, yet Ismad dared to criticize Wadi’s “decadent” behavior!

  Wadi rolled down the window of his Porsche and let the cool night breeze blow on his face. The bright lights of Sunset Boulevard lit up the skies. The women were beautiful and so obtainable. “Only through prayer can I block out the temptation of America’s seduction,” said Wadi out loud, to be heard only by Allah. Then Wadi smiled. He yielded to America’s temptation many times since coming to the United States, those memories fresh in his mind.

  He still believed in the cause, but the longer he stayed in America, the more reluctant he was to return to his country. Freedom brought excesses and abuse, but it also brought a level of happiness he never experienced in his country. Israel was wrong; it stole the Palestinian homeland. But encountering again someone like Ismad made him question the true value of supporting those with such a critical spirit.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Matt parked his car down the street and entered the clinic through a side door. The weekend staff was never at full strength, but if he could slip in and out of the clinic without being noticed, it would be better. There was no need to advertise he was there.

  He walked down the hallway and unlocked the door to the physical therapy room. He grabbed a clipboard and set it near the cabinet where the supplies were stored. For the past week he had been taking supplies from the cabinet and storing them in a closet in the storage room. His only purpose for doing this was to provide an excuse for conducting this Saturday morning inventory.

  In reality he wanted to break into Omar’s desk and see if there was any evidence pointing to a terrorist mission. During the week Omar, the other therapist, and other employees were in and out of the room, never providing enough time to accomplish the task.

  Matt sat at the gray steel desk with his lock-picking equipment. The desk was vintage government surplus. He imagined at one time an agent like himself probably “bagged” this desk because it belonged to a Bureau administrator and the agent needed to know just what incriminating items were secreted in the drawers. Matt perfected his skills with similar missions. Supervisors’ desks always housed valuable tidbits of personnel intelligence. Then, like now, it was illegal.

  The lock was easy, and Matt had it picked in a matter of seconds. He began to rummage through the top two drawers. Mostly he found equipment brochures and medical training manuals. Buried beneath the manuals were several articles from the Internet on terrorism in the United States and a lengthy article from Playboy on al-Qaeda. Matt smiled as he looked at the article. Matt read the article when it circulated around the office shortly after it appeared on the newsstands. Matt distinctly remembered the cartoons on the same pages as the article. Someone, apparently Omar, cut out the cartoons. A modest terrorist!

  Matt read several handwritten letters and memos, but they were innocuous. He was hoping to find a diary, phone book, operations orders, the address of bin Laden’s hideout, he could use the twenty-five million-dollar reward, anything that spelled terrorism. A few articles did not constitute a smoking gun. Matt’s illegal activity raised more questions than it answered. Why would someone who trained at a terrorist camp, if Omar did, need informational articles on the subject?

  He attempted to open the bottom drawer, but it was stuck. Matt pulled on it several times before finally dislodging it. He found more magazines, some in English and some in a foreign language. Matt assumed the language was either an Afghan dialect or Arabic. In any event, they didn’t seem to be terrorist primers.

  One item, however, was shocking in appearance. It was a cheap pamphlet that looked like an Arab religious tract. The cover featured a grainy photo of a Middle Eastern man holding an automatic weapon over his head. Unable to read its contents, Matt stuffed the document in his shirt, closed the drawer, and locked the desk just as he spotted Omar walking down the corridor. Several seconds later and Matt would have been caught. Matt quickly picked up the phone and punched in his home number. Omar entered the room as Matt began his conversation.

  “I’ll be home soon. . . . No, I couldn’t sleep and thought I’d finish the inventory so we could go to lunch at that seaside restaurant in Malibu. Glad you got to sleep in. I love you.”

  No one was on the other end. Caitlin was at an all-day teacher’s conference, and Matt hoped Omar bought the idea he was sitting at the desk merely to use the phone.

  “Didn’t expect to see you here this morning,” said Matt.

  “I could say the same thing.”

  “I noticed we were short on some supplies and wanted to take an inventory. I may not be here on Monday and didn’t want you to run out.”

  Omar glared but said nothing.

  “What brings you here? I thought you had weekends off,” asked Matt.

  “I do. I was just checking on the children and needed to use the phone.”

  Matt got up from the desk. “It’s all yours.”

  Omar said nothing.

  Matt was doing a poor job of selling his presence in the room.

  THE AUTUMN SUN SET as Rashid drove east on Wilshire Boulevard, winding his way through Westwood. He turned left on Santa Monica, continuing through Beverly Hills into West Hollywood. Traffic was heavy but flowing. The gray hooded sweatshirt fended off the chill of the night air. The multimillion-dollar condos on Wilshire and the homes in Beverly Hills were unlike anything he saw in his country, but America’s opulence was far from enticing.

  Once he got into the West Hollywood business district, he saw all that America had and his country did not—bars, nightclubs, restaurants, and strip joints. Decadence may have been a better word. At Havenhurst, he slowly turned the corner. Wadi was waiting.

  Wadi cautiously looked around and waited for several cars to pass, ensuring they were not part of any survei
llance effort, before entering the Explorer. He jumped in the passenger side and ordered Rashid to continue driving south on Havenhurst. When they reached Fountain, Wadi barked out orders. “Turn left. When we get to Fairfax, turn right. We will pick up two more at the Farmer’s Market.”

  “It’s a little late to be robbing banks, isn’t it?” asked Rashid.

  “Tonight our work is different. We will discuss it later.”

  Rashid asked no more questions.

  As they neared the CBS studios and Farmer’s Market, Wadi said, “Slow down.”

  The Explorer was crawling along Fairfax when Wadi spied the two associates. “There on the bench.”

  Rashid pulled to the curb.

  Two men, both dressed casually, were sitting on the bench. Wadi got out of the car and spoke to them outside Rashid’s hearing. One of the men had a black gym bag.

  The two men hopped into the back of the car as Wadi climbed into the passenger seat. He ordered Rashid to continue driving south on Fairfax to Wilshire. The two in the backseat said nothing—no introductions, no pleasantries.

  Although the Explorer was old and needed some body work, it still had plenty of pep. Rashid gunned the accelerator as he pulled from the curb into traffic. The driver of a black Mercedes slammed on his brakes, sounded his horn, and quickly changed lanes to avoid hitting the Explorer. Rashid continued driving as if nothing happened. Wadi looked at him but said nothing.

  Rashid raced to the intersection where traffic was stopped waiting for the light to change. The Mercedes was waiting. Rashid looked over. The driver of the Mercedes returned the look, saying something; but since the windows were up, his words could not be heard. Rashid continued to glare. The driver of the Mercedes was older and alone, unable or unwilling to take on four men. When the light changed, Rashid again gunned the accelerator leaving the Mercedes behind.