Enemies Among Us Read online

  Sometimes the paperwork was almost overwhelming, especially in a fast-moving case, when each stage of the investigation had Bureau-imposed deadlines that had to be met.

  Another agent would be handling the filing of the arrest affidavit and complaint Matt wrote on Sunday. That same agent would make Karim’s initial magistrate appearance scheduled for the afternoon in federal court.

  Thanks to his Evel Knievel driving prowess, Matt also had a detailed accident report to complete. The last agent on the squad to have an accident would be assigned the accident investigation, but Matt would do most of the paperwork, more out of courtesy than obligation. Technically, an “impartial” agent should do the accident investigation, but since Matt was responsible for the problem, he would prepare the paperwork for the other agent’s signature. It was one of those unwritten rules street agents observed and supervisors blindly approved. The accident report might take a little creative writing, so Matt welcomed the opportunity to limit his potential liability.

  Matt was at his desk in the squad bay working at the computer when Dwayne approached.

  “That was a throwaway you seized Saturday night,” said Dwayne.

  “Doesn’t surprise me. Gangbangers have been using prepaid SIM cards for years. You have to figure terrorist drug dealers are locked into the wireless generation as well.”

  “We checked the call history.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  Just as Dwayne started to answer, his cell phone rang. “Dwayne Washington. . . . Yeah, right away.”

  Dwayne hung up and looked at Matt. “Boss, needs to see us now.”

  There was no sense in postponing the inevitable. “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride gonna cost me days on the bricks?” asked Matt.

  Matt could not afford a lengthy suspension. He and Caitlin might be able to sustain a few days without pay, but they were almost in a paycheck-to-paycheck status as it was.

  Dwayne was not encouraging. “That’s up to him and how you write the paper. But I’m not sure Tom Clancy could fictionalize Saturday night’s escapade in such a way to save you from a government-imposed vacation.”

  They walked down the hall toward the office of the Assistant Director in Charge—even the title sounded ominous.

  “The Queen Mother may be joining us,” said Dwayne.

  Matt looked at Dwayne, as if to make sure he really heard what he thought he had, then he laughed.

  Within the first hours after Pamela Clinton, Dwayne’s immediate boss, reported to Los Angeles as the Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the terrorism squads, she was dubbed the Queen Mother. She had an aura of English royalty, walking erect, almost with her nose in the air, but she was merely in a figurehead position. She suffered from delusions of adequacy. As far as the street agents were concerned, the gates were down, the lights were flashing, but there was no train on the tracks. After a two-year probationary period in her first-office assignment in Kansas City, she raised her hand and was assigned some obscure supervisory position at HQ no one else wanted. She’d been an administrator ever since, parlaying her “by the book” resolve from one administrative post to another. Her reputation was that of an obstructionist who was more interested in penetrating a perceived FBI glass ceiling than solving crime. She knew the “Bureau paper” and could cite chapter and verse of the regulations but had little, if any, clue what was happening on the street. The fact Dwayne picked up the nickname so quickly meant he was well aware of what was being said in the bullpen. Impressive!

  IT HAD BEEN THIRTY-SIX hours since the fiery crash on Sunset. Mustafa al-Hamza remained on life support and still had not regained consciousness. A new set of agents performed the security duties, but Mustafa was going nowhere.

  The steady whine of one of the monitors was irritating, and the perpetual beep of another machine made it almost impossible for the young agent to concentrate on the novel he was reading.

  All of that changed in an instant. Without warning, the heart monitor alarm sounded. Simultaneously, warning bells rang at the nurses’ station. The young agent sprang to his feet as Mustafa began to convulse, his body jumping uncontrollably. The agent opened the door and hollered for help, but his cry was unnecessary. An announcement on the overhead paging system was already alerting the staff to the emergency.

  Medical personnel poured into the room. The convulsing stopped and so did the heart. Mustafa flatlined.

  A third-year resident grabbed the defibrillator paddles from the crash cart and a well-choreographed medical emergency ritual began. The nurse rubbed the clear defib gel on the outstretched devices. As the doctor placed both paddles on the terrorist’s chest, he yelled, “Clear,” and the medical personnel retreated in unison. Mustafa’s lifeless prone body violently jumped as the electrical charge attempted to jump-start the heart. The doctor repeated the process several times before he stopped the futile efforts. Without much fanfare, he said, “I’m calling it, time of death 9:36 a.m.”

  The injection Hasana Akram administered almost ten hours earlier had the desired effect. Mustafa was dead, and the cause of death would read “accidental, due to automobile collision.” Mustafa’s story, had he been willing to tell it, died with him.

  THREE MEN WERE MEETING in a small, one-bedroom furnished apartment on Havenhurst Drive just south of Sunset Boulevard. The West Hollywood apartment, sparsely furnished in Salvation Army chic, was dark and uninviting. Most of the furniture was as old as the three Middle Eastern males sitting around the dining room table.

  Boxes of clothes and canned food items were scattered through the apartment. A modern computer and three telephones sat atop the unfinished dining room table marred by cigarette burns. Arab-language telephone directories from cities throughout the United States were stacked in one corner of the kitchen.

  The one exception to the sparse furnishings was the TV and sound system. Against the far wall was a fifty-inch high-definition, flat-screen TV with surround sound. The unit retailed for more than $6,000. A stack of recently released Blu-ray discs in English and Arabic sat beneath the system.

  The TV was tuned to Al-Jazeera, the standard viewing of many Arabs in the United States.

  The three men were assessing the damage from Saturday night.

  Wadi Mohammed al-Habishi was enrolled at UCLA in Westwood, just a mile from the Federal Building. Rashid Kahn, who witnessed the aftermath of the Saturday night pursuit, was in the U.S. on a student visa but quit attending classes three years ago. Babur Ali illegally crossed into the United States through Sasabe, Sonora, Mexico, a small town sixty-five miles southwest of Tucson, last year. Each was hoping to one day find an American woman to marry in order to gain U.S. citizenship, a valued prize for any terrorist.

  Wadi looked younger than twenty-nine, but maybe the frequent facials and $150 Beverly Hills haircuts betrayed his true age. Even though he was the youngest of the three, he was the leader of the Los Angeles-based support cell. He answered to a superior, a superior the other two had never met nor whose name they knew. Wadi was getting his masters in business administration at UCLA, and although successfully managing a terrorist support cell is not something that completes a résumé, he was brilliantly supporting the cause.

  From the small West Hollywood apartment, the men solicited financial contributions, food, and clothing from Middle Eastern businessmen living in the United States. They spent hours every week on the phones, seeking donations and arranging for the distribution of those items to other terrorist cells operating throughout the world. It was an assignment the three took very seriously.

  Mustafa al-Hamza’s mission on Saturday night was to sell high-grade heroin to a motorcycle gang member Karim Ali Abboud brought to him. A completed sale would have resulted in a sizable financial profit for the cause.

  On more than one occasion, Wadi and Mustafa had been successful at planning and consummating just such a transaction.
Saturday night’s mission failed, and Wadi made the decision how best to handle that failure.

  “I stand by my decision,” said Wadi.

  “We are not questioning what you had to do,” said Rashid, the smaller of the two associates and the oldest of the three.

  Wadi explained, “Mustafa served our cause well thanks to his connections on the street. But he was weak. I have always feared that should he be caught, he would talk. I do not believe he could survive the American prisons. His usefulness was over. With his capture, it was necessary to terminate the only link between Saturday night’s transaction and the cause.”

  “Everyone is expendable when the cause is just,” said Rashid with conviction. “We are the righteous warriors seeking to overthrow the infidels who mock Allah’s words.”

  Wadi laughed. “Spoken like a sound bite on CNN.”

  Babur also laughed, but Rashid could only manage an awkward smile.

  Chapter Nine

  The Assistant Director in Charge, or ADIC in FBI parlance, was the top agent in Los Angeles. He reported to the Director in Washington. Most field offices had a Special Agent in Charge or SAC, but L.A. was so large it commanded an ADIC and four SACs. The ADIC’s office was impressive. The outer office featured a deep green leather couch and matching leather chairs. Turn-of-the-century lithographs of Los Angeles adorned the wood-paneled walls.

  Kathryn Wilson sat at her desk near the door to Jason Barnes’s office. She was the gatekeeper to the Assistant Director in Charge and had been with the Bureau longer than anyone in L.A. She knew where the bodies were buried and was the last person you wanted to anger. Her matronly appearance belied her authority. Many a visitor mistook the glasses hanging from a chain around her neck as a sign of pre-Alzheimer forgetfulness; Kathryn forgot nothing.

  Matt and Dwayne approached.

  “He’s on the STU-phone with the Director. Have a seat.”

  The use of the “secure telephone unit” meant the call with the Director was encrypted, something not occurring with most communications between L.A. and headquarters.

  Must be important. Hope it’s not about me. It was just a motorcycle!

  Kathryn added, “Pamela Clinton will be joining you.”

  The words were not music to Matt’s ears.

  “I am getting brick time,” bemoaned Matt.

  Kathryn loved to see agents squirm. She peered over the top of the computer monitor. “Understand they took the training wheels off the other night, and you lost your balance.”

  Matt could only manage a slight smile. “Something like that.”

  Knowing the real purpose of the meeting, Kathryn turned up the heat. “Clinton’s looking for another notch on her belt.”

  “If that means she moves on to headquarters and out of this division, I’ll be the sacrificial lamb.”

  Dwayne intervened as he heard footsteps, whispering, “You need all the help you can get right now. Making the ASAC mad isn’t the smart move.”

  Pamela Clinton was an Assistant Special Agent in Charge, but due to the transfer of the SAC, she was now the Acting Special Agent in Charge of the Terrorism Division. Agents loved to gossip; after all, crime was solved by gathering intelligence, so why not refine the technique whenever possible. The latest rumor spreading through the bullpen had Clinton moving into the SAC slot. She was moving up, not out. If it were up to the street agents, she’d be voted off the island, but no one thought that a possibility.

  The Queen Mother made her entrance, but her royal subjects failed to bow. They barely acknowledged her presence.

  Even before the obligatory pleasantries could be exchanged, Kathryn said, “You can go in. He’s off the phone.”

  Matt stood, grabbed the handle, and opened the door to the ADIC’s office. Clinton entered first. As she walked past, she whispered in Matt’s ear, “Don’t think that semper fi crap is going to save your butt this time.”

  Matt held his tongue and squeezed the door handle until his knuckles turned white, wishing it were the Queen Mother’s neck. Dwayne followed mouthing the words, “Stay calm.”

  Matt looked at Kathryn as he closed the door. She gave him a wink and an impish smile. “By the way, is that a black eye, or is your mascara running?”

  Matt failed to respond with a snappy comeback but read the wink to mean he might get out of this meeting with a full paycheck.

  Jason Barnes rose and welcomed all to his office. Barnes, a former Marine, knew how to command. He proved himself at Granada when as a first lieutenant he earned the Bronze Star directing his platoon at Pearls Airport. During a helicopter insertion, members of Echo Company were immediately greeted with small arms fire from the People’s Revolutionary Army. For several hours in the heat of combat, Barnes guided his men until the enemy threat was neutralized.

  “I just got off the phone with the Director. He sends his congratulations for a job well done Saturday night.”

  Dwayne replied for both of them. “That’s very much appreciated.”

  Clinton had a different agenda. “That’s no excuse for an out-of-policy joyride through Beverly Hills.”

  Matt exploded. “Joyride! That joyride resulted in two towels in custody, and we get a restaurant!”

  “There’s no call for language like that, and maybe, just maybe the seized restaurant will partially offset the property damage you inflicted on the city of Beverly Hills,” barked Clinton.

  Barnes intervened. “Both of you relax.”

  Dwayne took this as an opportunity to divert the controversy. “Matt seized a cell phone from al-Hamza. His call history had three calls to a clinic in Santa Monica, two on Friday and one on Saturday morning.”

  Barnes was interested. “That may tie into the Director’s call. NSA has intercepted overseas chatter that your arrest was linked to a charitable group in L.A.”

  “Any idea which group?” asked Dwayne.

  “Not based on the overhears. Will this Mustafa al-Hamza talk?” said Barnes.

  “He’s still in ICU. I’ve got agents on the room.” Almost as if on cue, Dwayne’s cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID. “Let me take this; it’s the agent at the hospital. Dwayne Washington.” He listened for a few moments then responded, “Okay, thanks.”

  Dwayne glanced up at the ADIC. “Mustafa’s not talking. He’s dead.”

  Pamela Clinton’s look said, It’s your fault because you were out of policy. Matt knew her eyes were fixed on him, but he refused to acknowledge her piercing glare.

  Barnes wasn’t interested in fighting the last evil. There was little sense dwelling on the death or attempting to affix blame. He quickly aborted any discussion by asking, “What do we know about this clinic?”

  “It’s World Angel Ministry,” replied Dwayne.

  “We can send some agents over this morning. See if we can marry up a connection,” said the ASAC.

  She was the only one in the room who thought it was a good idea.

  Using diplomacy in front of subordinates, Barnes said, “Pamela, that may be appropriate down the road, but I’m not sure it’s the right course of action now.”

  Dwayne asked, “What are you thinking, boss?”

  Jason Barnes thought for a few seconds, looking out the window toward the Santa Monica Mountains. Each knew not to interrupt his thinking. He then looked at Matt, “You ready to play humanitarian?”

  “That’ll be a stretch,” said Dwayne.

  Matt knew he had little choice, especially in light of Saturday night. “What do you have in mind?”

  “You’re a Bureau-certified paramedic.”

  Matt was cautious in his response. “So are a half-dozen other guys in this office.”

  Barnes was quick with a reply. “Good, then we can spare you. You’ve also got the undercover chops I’m looking for. How about using
both those skills in a clinic setting? I’m sure a charity is always looking for volunteers.”

  Clinton could not let the issue die. “I’m not certain this is appropriate under the circumstances. We still have Saturday night to answer for.”

  If Matt wanted to escape the destroyed motorcycle incident without a suspension, he needed to act decisively. “I already have the proper backstopping. It shouldn’t be a problem. I know I can pull it off.”

  Jason Barnes, a man of action, wanted to implement his idea as soon as practical. “Then it’s settled. Get started with the approval process. I’ll push it through headquarters. Dwayne, you report directly to Pamela. I want daily updates because I’ll need to brief the Director.”

  The three got up and started to leave.

  Dwayne turned to Matt. “Meet me in my office. The ASAC and I need to go over some administrative items before we get started on this project. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Matt thought he had dodged a bullet, but Jason Barnes wasn’t that easy. Before Matt could exit the door, the ADIC said, “I haven’t forgotten about the motorcycle. Pull this one off and maybe I will.”

  Matt turned to the ADIC and saw an uncharacteristic smile. Semper fi.

  DWAYNE’S OFFICE HAD AN air of professionalism. Diplomas from Georgetown, a bachelor’s degree in political science and a master’s degree in international relations, hung on the west wall. On the east wall were plaques surrounding his autographed photo with the Director. The plaques documented his stays in Pittsburgh, Detroit, and headquarters, as well as a plaque from the CIA thanking Dwayne for his service over a two-year period. Despite what the press stated after 9/11, Matt knew for years FBI agents had been detailed to CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia, at their Counterterrorist Center, just as CIA employees were detailed to the FBI’s Counterterrorism Division and to the various task forces throughout the country. Dwayne was one of the selected few for the coveted assignment at Langley.