Enemies Among Us Read online

  Omar was staying in a small, nondescript residential motel on Lincoln Boulevard in Venice. His brother, Rashid, rented the room and both were driving Rashid’s car, an older, green Ford Explorer in need of a paint job and new left fender. The right taillight was broken, which made surveillance at night simple. In the crowded L.A. traffic, the white light, beaming through the damaged red plastic shield, hollered, “Here I am; follow me.”

  After several days of surveillance, nothing unusual had been observed. The teams concentrated on Omar. He shopped at the local Ralph’s supermarket, ate once at a Bangladesh restaurant on Sixth Street and twice at a Chicken Kabob, a fast-food take-out place on Santa Monica Boulevard. Rashid went twice to a mosque near the airport, but Omar never accompanied him.

  Today started uneventfully. The “forties” were assigned to the 7:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. shift, and in less than an hour the “fifties” would assume the surveillance responsibilities. Each member of the “forties” team had a number designation. They transmitted on a private, secure channel so typical radio protocol was unnecessary. The radio silence was broken with a question.

  “Who was the goddess of peace?”

  “Roman or Greek?”

  “How should I know?”

  “You asked the question.”

  A deep base voice responded, “Pax.”

  “Doesn’t fit,” was the response. “Six letters.”

  “Forty-one, you’ve got the point?” asked Forty, the team leader.

  “Yeah. No problem. The brother is parked in front of the clinic, appears to be waiting for Omar. He’s wearing a faded orange long-sleeve T-shirt, in case anyone cares. Wait. Here comes Omar now. Saddle up, boys.”

  OMAR EXITED THE CLINIC to the waiting car. Without even a greeting, Rashid, the older brother yet several inches shorter, began to question Omar as he opened the passenger door.

  “Did I get a phone call last night?” asked Rashid.

  “No.”

  “You mean nobody called last night?”

  Omar thought for a second. “No . . . well, there was one call. It was very strange, something about a bank, but the caller did not ask for you. He then abruptly hung up.”

  Rashid’s face reddened. “That call was for me! You should have said something.”

  “How was I to know? He never said your name. I didn’t understand the call.”

  “You are my guest. No one knows you are staying with me. When you answered the phone, that person thought you were me. People are very upset. From now on do not answer the phone! Do you understand?”

  Omar hung his head.

  FORTY-ONE RELAYED HIS OBSERVATIONS to the others. “Rashid seems agitated about something. They’re just sitting there. Rashid is pretty animated. . . . Okay, we’re moving. We’re eastbound on Wilshire. Right on 20th. . . . Red balled at Santa Monica. I’m two back.”

  The cars were stopped at a red light. The unit designated “forty-one” was two cars back, using those cars to shield him from Rashid’s rearview mirror.

  “We’re moving. He’s left on Santa Monica, eastbound. Thanks for the signal, jerk. This idiot ahead of me is parked, and I’m trapped. I need some help.”

  The team leader interceded. “Anyone got ’em?”

  Forty-three jumped in. “I’ve got it. We’re eastbound and red balled at 26th. Rashid is still in Omar’s face. He’s upset about something. . . . We’re moving.”

  “Forty-three, we’re right behind you. Give me a unit to parallel on Arizona,” said the team leader.

  “This is forty-two. I’m on Arizona.”

  “Forty-four is about two blocks ahead.”

  Forty-three had the point. “We’re moving pretty well. He’s catching all the greens. I’m three back in the number two lane, he’s in the number one lane. Red balled at Bundy. . . . We’re moving and Rashid is still talking. I don’t think Omar has said a thing. He’s just sitting there with his head down. Still eastbound Santa Monica. . . . Wait, he made a U. I can’t get over.”

  Rashid made a U-turn in the middle of the block, almost causing an accident. Horns blared, and several drivers hollered obscenities at Rashid, who seemed oblivious to their tirades. Rashid suddenly stopped at the corner.

  Omar exited the car in a hurry and walked over to the bus stop where he sat and waited.

  Rashid drove off quickly westbound on Santa Monica Boulevard. He caught every green and ran several yellows. Within seconds he was gone, lost in traffic.

  “This guy’s gotta be no-good. Innocent people don’t drive like that,” said forty-three.

  “You’ve never ridden with my wife,” came a response.

  The team turned when they could, but by the time they were able to get westbound on Santa Monica, the green Explorer was out of sight. The forties had been instructed to conduct a loose surveillance and not get burned. U-turns by the trailing agents in the middle of Santa Monica Boulevard would have been obvious.

  The team leader radioed everyone to return to the bus stop. With a strong hint of sarcasm he said, “Nice try guys, but you don’t get off that easily. The day’s not over yet. Our focus is on Omar. Now we get to follow a bus. That’s gonna be a little tougher to lose.”

  The deep bass voice said, “Eirene.”

  “What?” asked Forty.

  “Eirene, six letters, E-i-r-e-n-e, the Greek goddess of peace,” said the deep voice.

  Someone responded, “And people think you’re wasting an Ivy League education on the surveillance squad.”

  Omar boarded the westbound bus. It crawled along the road, stopping every other block for passengers. Just as the team leader was about to make a comment, the radio dispatcher came on the air.

  “Attention all units. We have a good two-eleven at the Bank of America, 1430 Wilshire Boulevard, Santa Monica. The subject is described as a male, possibly Middle Eastern, five-six to five-eight, 130–150, wearing dark pants, gray hooded sweatshirt. Subject used a note. He was observed running eastbound on Wilshire. No further description. Santa Monica PD responding.”

  Several FBI bank robbery units radioed the dispatcher and responded they were en route.

  “Forty, you think that was our boy?”

  “I hope not. He’s Middle Eastern, but there was no mention of the orange T-shirt. That seems pretty distinctive.”

  “He could have thrown on a hooded sweatshirt,” interrupted forty-three.

  “Don’t think I wasn’t thinking that. I’ll let the bank robbery guys know. Forty-one and forty-two stick with the bus. Everyone else return to the motel. Let’s go sit on that for awhile.”

  A LONE GUNMAN ROBBED the Bank of America. Witnesses said he had dark skin and an accent, possibly Middle Eastern. The clothing the robber wore did not match what Rashid was wearing while under surveillance. Witnesses described the sweatshirt as old with a green paint stain on the back of the right arm. The male teller, Abu al-Doori, was unable to activate the surveillance cameras until the robber had almost exited the bank. The agents would have to wait to determine if the surveillance photos could help in identifying the suspect.

  AT 2:43 P.M. RASHID returned alone to the motel. He was wearing the same clothes he wore when observed earlier in the day. He was not wearing the sweatshirt described by witnesses but was carrying what could have been a wadded up sweatshirt in his right hand when he exited the car.

  Omar returned twelve minutes later. He got off a Santa Monica bus three blocks from the motel and stopped at a local mini-mart. When he exited a few minutes later, he was carrying a bag of groceries and a six-pack of Coke.

  Chapter Fifteen

  In the first-floor conference room, David greeted the medical personnel and volunteers attending the weekly staff meeting. A large oil painting of Jesus holding a small child covered the wall at the far end of the room. More photos of clinics, pa
tients, and missionaries adorned the other walls.

  Matt sat at the oblong conference table facing the windows looking out onto Wilshire Boulevard. Shoppers walking to and from Santa Monica’s Third Street Promenade, an outdoor shopping mall three blocks from the ocean, continually passed in front of the windows. The homeless, pushing shopping carts filled with collections of papers and aluminum cans, also passed.

  David opened with prayer. His strong English accent somehow made the prayer seem more spiritual. The meeting lasted several hours, mostly involving administrative matters concerning reimbursement of travel expenses for visiting medical personnel, travel restrictions, visa matters, and suggestions for fund-raising events.

  Matt’s enthusiasm for being an undercover humanitarian was waning. Whether working covert or overt, administrative matters were not his strong suit.

  Finally David turned to Ibrahim and asked him to close the session with prayer. Ibrahim smiled, bowed his head, then went on and on and on. Some Hollywood marriages didn’t last this long. The “amen” could not come quickly enough for Matt.

  Kim, the receptionist, wheeled in a cart with snacks, coffee, and soft drinks, a reward for sitting through the staff meeting and Ibrahim’s prayer.

  Kim and Ibrahim were talking as Matt approached. Ibrahim, as Matt had learned, was a serious man of few words, except evidently when praying. He was uncharacteristically smiling as he spoke with Kim, who was pouring him a cup of coffee, a service she provided no other guest that morning. Ibrahim grabbed the cup and walked away.

  Matt took a Dr. Pepper from the cart. “So I guess you two know each other?”

  “Yeah, we met at one of the clinics last summer,” said Kim.

  Matt spoke briefly to several of those in attendance as he made his way toward Omar, trying not to be conspicuous in his efforts.

  Omar seemed uncomfortable in the social setting and was attempting to exit when Matt reached him. Matt threw out his right hand, but Omar failed to return the gesture. Matt asked several polite questions in an effort to engage him in conversation, but Omar responded with one- or two-word answers and quickly excused himself.

  THE LOUD AND ANNOYING warning blared as the tractor and semitrailer backed into the Hollywood public storage facility. Wadi had arranged for the rental of three storage units to house the counterfeit cigarettes for the next week or so. By that time the cigarettes should be sold or at least spread to the next level in the distribution chain.

  Wadi hired six Hispanic men who stood daily in front of The Home Depot on Sunset looking for day work. They were the perfect employees. They worked hard, spoke little English and no Arabic. The men were promised twenty-five dollars a piece for a two-hour job. Time was money to the men, and the sooner they completed this task, the sooner they could get back and pick up more work in the afternoon. They were told the container consisted of backpacks made in China, but the men had little cause or desire to question the contents.

  The sealed container was scheduled to arrive about 10:00 a.m., but it was now almost eleven. A backup at the port caused a delay in the driver’s getting clearance with his cargo. Traffic at the storage facility was still minimal at this hour, so few people would observe the master cases of counterfeit cigarettes being off-loaded into the storage unit.

  As promised, Sammy arrived at the storage facility with the container. He showed Wadi the fraudulent bill of lading created by the export company in China. The contents were described as “backpacks” and “camping equipment,” reducing the chance of U.S. Customs officials inquiring further. Wadi and Sammy compared the serial number on the metal tamper-proof seal to the one on the paperwork. The numbers matched, and Wadi was satisfied the container had not been opened since leaving China.

  Sammy cut the seal with a pair of heavy duty wire cutters and opened the cumbersome blue steel doors of the forty-foot container. It was packed—one thousand fifty master cases, each case containing fifty cartons, each carton containing ten packs, twenty cigarettes to a pack. Wadi had successfully imported 10,500,000 counterfeit cigarettes, avoided federal and state taxes, and because of American vices, was generating a half-million-dollar profit for the cause.

  Wholesalers, retailers, and consumers, some knowingly, many unknowingly, would support terrorism in the name of “saving a buck.”

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON MATT met with Dwayne at the Coffee Express on Ventura Boulevard in Studio City. There was a slight chill in the air, and the abandoned outdoor patio tables provided privacy. Both ordered the no-frills coffee, high octane, black.

  Several wannabe starlets paraded in front of the café headed for an audition at the casting office next door.

  Matt blew on his drink, the steam still rising. “Things seem to be going well, I guess.”

  “Great. What’s your story?” asked Dwayne.

  “I’m a former licensed paramedic from Indiana who was injured on a call several years ago. I received a medical retirement from the department and between some wise real estate investments I continue to manage and a small trust fund from my grandfather, I have time to volunteer.”

  Dwayne sipped his coffee. “Can you backstop that?”

  “Yeah, I’ve used it before. HQ has phonied up my credit report to reflect the retirement and the trust fund. I’m pretty nebulous when it comes to the location of the real estate. I think I own a few porno shops in San Francisco and a cross-dressing bar in New Orleans. I’ll be fine.”

  “The Queen Mother’s going to love that. You really are trying to get me fired, aren’t you?”

  Matt laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m only teasing about the cross-dressing bar. This cover gives me plenty of free time to work at the clinic. You got any news?”

  Dwayne looked around to make sure no one had walked onto the patio. They were still alone. “The Agency is picking up chatter of some type of terrorist act planned for the West Coast soon but nothing more definitive.”

  “Someday you’ll have to tell me what ‘chatter’ is.”

  Dwayne gave an anemic smile. “When I find out, I’ll let you know. I worked there two years and still don’t know exactly what they mean. Just keep your ears open and your head down. Having a UC whacked is not career enhancing.”

  “Thanks for your heartfelt concern.”

  Matt took a drink. “Even if we limit the scope of the warning to Southern California, the targets are unlimited. It’s a needle in the proverbial haystack.”

  “I can’t argue with you. As we’ve seen in Israel and throughout the Middle East, indiscriminate attacks are just as effective as the destruction of a high-value target. Until we can narrow it down, be alert for anything that spells terrorism.”

  “You’re not making this assignment any easier.”

  “We knew that going in.”

  As they were both finishing their coffee, Dwayne said, “Terrorist organizations don’t quit; they have to be destroyed. Any group who believes it’s sanctioned by God also believes it is freed from moral constraints.” Dwayne gave Matt a moment to reflect on that; then he asked, “Any idea what we have at the clinic?”

  “Not yet. We’ve identified the only two Middle Eastern employees, Omar and Dr. Ibrahim. I’ve got issues with Omar, but Ibrahim prayed this morning, and I expected a gospel choir to break out in ‘Amazing Grace.’”

  “Takin’ it home, huh?”

  “You’d have thought we were at a Billy Graham crusade. I think the only country he didn’t pray for was Lithuania. My guess is World Angel was not created as a front for terrorism.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t. Terrorists typically wouldn’t start an organization like this. They would infiltrate and exploit an existing charity.”

  “From what I’ve seen, it’s hardly a sanctuary for the mujahideen.”

  “I’m not convinced the organization is our target. Our focus should be on an individual vulner
able to radicalization.”

  Matt laughed out loud. “Spoken like a true administrator fresh from a Behavioral Science Unit in-service. Any idea which individual is vulnerable to radicalization?”

  “Of course not. That’s why you’re undercover,” said Dwayne with a wide grin. “Focus on Omar and Ibrahim but eliminate no one until we can get a handle on this. Jihadists have been patient in pursuing terrorism, but we may not have the luxury of time. Do what you can, as fast as you can.”

  “You make it sound so simple,” said Matt as both got up from the table.

  “They teach us that at administrator’s school. . . . Can’t you find someplace a little closer to the office?”

  “Sure, but this is closer to my house and gives me a head start on the commute home,” said Matt, smiling as he walked away.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Matt went straight home from his meeting with Dwayne. Caitlin was already there and was preparing dinner. He slipped in quietly and approached her from behind as she was tossing a salad. He kissed her on the back of the neck.

  “Oh, you know I love that, but please, my husband will be home any minute now. You better go.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Oh, is that you? I didn’t hear you come in.” She put down the wooden salad forks and turned to give Matt a kiss. “I love you.”

  Matt feigned indignation. “Who were you expecting?”

  “Only you, Cowboy. I’m a one-man woman.”

  Caitlin spent the next several minutes in silence as she finished preparing dinner. Matt busied himself setting the table.

  “You seem pretty quiet. Everything okay?” asked Matt.

  Caitlin put down the cooking utensils and turned to him. “I worry about you. I’m not real thrilled with this new assignment. Terrorism just sounds so much more dangerous.”