Reprisal (24 page)

With all the pressure, her mind seemed to slow down until Joan could feel her thoughts struggling to organize themselves, to make some sense of it all, to decide how to proceed. What should she do next? Joan glanced at her watch.

She had to pull a piece of paper across her desk and pick up a pen to try to calculate the timing.
Let’s see
… she thought.
On Friday … the boy said
.

Fear crept up from behind her, causing her to lose her concentration.

Joan sat back and shook her hands out, leaned forward, and started calculating again. She pulled her jacket closer around her shoulders. Joan ran the numbers three times. Finally convinced, she knew what had to be done.

Should she email them?

Too slow. That’s why he’d given her his cell phone number.

Joan picked up her cell and tried to dial the number, but her fingers couldn’t hit the small keys. She started again. This time, it worked.

The phone rang, kept ringing. Finally, someone said, “Yes?”

“It’s Agent Joan Cortez from ICE.”

“Yes … ?” The voice sounded hollow, almost bored.

She swallowed. “I have a message. Is this Dr. Samson?”

“What do you have, agent?”

“I think … tell him that it’s already here.”

Twenty-Nine

Carolyn Bechter couldn’t believe her good luck. The old mojo was back. While covering the murder trial of the terrorist, she’d casually asked Zehra Hassan for an on-camera interview. To Carolyn’s surprise, she agreed.

Carolyn would film a killer interview that, combined with what facts she was already gathering, would kick ass all over the country.

She took a deep breath. It was almost too good to be true. Only an old pro like her could handle the whole story. She thought of Schmidt. She’d kick his ass but good.

They met in the late afternoon in the common room of Hassan’s condo building.

Luckily, Carolyn had been able to snag Ray for the camera work. The interview started well, although nothing new was coming up. Hassan was dressed casually and had beautiful eyes. She was photogenic, smart, and Carolyn could sense a toughness underneath. A passionate young woman. Carolyn was confident Ray could pick that all up on film.

She also sensed fear underneath Hassan’s facade. Years of interviewing people

gave Carolyn the skill to read people perfectly.

As for herself, Carolyn was in Oscar-like form. She fluffed her blonde hair more than usual, wore an off-white linen jacket with a teal blouse opened down the front as far as she could without causing Reggie to pull the piece.

She was particularly good at pausing mid-sentence to keep the audience’s attention until the end of the question.

As they worked, Carolyn knew parts of the interview would have to be cut. The long statements Hassan made about how most Muslims weren’t terrorists and were totally opposed to people like the defendant and all the violence they used. That shit wouldn’t sell to Channel Six’s audience. Ray got some nice close-ups of Hassan’s face when she was most passionate about those beliefs. Instead, they’d splice those shots with her words about the rights of all accused people to have a fair trial.
This is fucking America after all
, Carolyn thought. A little of the flag waving would sell better.

Because of her own suspicions, Carolyn pushed Hassan hard about what else was really going on behind this murder. Hassan acted like she didn’t know.

In twenty minutes, the interview was over. Hassan said she’d forgotten her car in the public lot so she walked out with everyone else. They all moved into the parking lot. Hassan told them she was driving to her office. Carolyn watched her get into the car. Ray started to pack the camera and tripods into the van. Hassan tried to start the old car. The engine just clicked.

Ray noticed too, set the camera down, and went over to help her. He opened the hood and ducked his head down. Poked around and came back up without an answer. Then, he stretched out on the ground to slither underneath the car.
Come on Ray
, Carolyn thought.
Reggie’ll have my ass with all the time and money we’re wasting.

Ray shot out from under the car. His black skin was bleached white with fear. “Bomb!” he had yelled over and over.

They all turned to run when the clicking sound got louder and louder until a flat whump behind them and a blast of scalding wind knocked them all to the ground. Carolyn sprawled across grass, pissed that it probably stained her linen jacket. As she twisted around, she saw the front end of the car explode into an orange ball with black edges of smoke. Her head felt like it was squeezed by a pair of large, hot hands.

Ray, always the professional, was rolling toward his camera, still on the ground. He shot some footage of the flames from several angles as dead leaves fluttered down around all of them.

Black, stinky smoke billowed up into the sky.

Carolyn’s ears rang, and she couldn’t hear much. Suddenly, people started to gather, gawking. She struggled to stand up. Checked her jacket and smoothed the front, knowing she’d have to go back on camera soon. She steadied Ray and pointed to the shots she wanted. Great stuff. Shocked people. Scared. Now there were sirens wailing. Perfect.

Carolyn remembered to get Hassan’s face also. Ray swung the camera on his shoulder to find her. The confident, controlled woman of ten minutes before was gone. She stood, leaning against the company van, motionless, her face blank with shock. She started to shake.

“The eyes, Ray,” she screamed at Ray over the noise around them. “Get the eyes.” Carolyn pushed Ray in for a closer shot. Yes … the perfect expression for the ten o’clock news.

Thirty

Paul drove to the Arden Hills campus of Health Technologies. He’d googled the company and found they were one of the largest bio-tech companies in the country, with offices all over the world.

He parked in the spacious lot surrounded by manicured bushes, bright green grass, and a fountain that shot a jet of water high into the air. He thought of calling Conway again. Then, he remembered his boss’ order to stop any new investigation. The news from the boy at school would probably change that, but Paul didn’t want to take any chances yet. He’d just do a little investigation. If it produced legitimate information, he’d call Conway with the results.

He worried. What if he couldn’t find the mysterious Dr. A in time? Should he contact headquarters? No. For now, he’d run this alone.

The main lobby of the company soared three stories into a clear-glassed area above him. Sun danced off the steel supports and cascaded into the lobby so that no lights were required. It faced south to minimize energy use. Expensive plants fanned out from the front door like open arms.

Paul’s’ heels clicked over the polished granite as he walked toward a low, modern desk in the middle. A beautiful woman with dark-brown hair pulled back in a loose bun, looked up at him, smiling as brightly as the sun above.

He pulled out his FBI identification and told her what he was looking for.

“Oh. You should talk to the head of security, Mr. Crenshaw. Please take a seat, Agent Schmidt. Would you like coffee, tea, mineral water, a Coke?”

After she handed him a chilled bottle of water, he waited in a soft chair, so low he was worried it’d be hard to get back out.

In two minutes, Crenshaw appeared in the lobby. He was short, thick, and had an unusual hair style. Must be a rug, Paul thought to himself. He followed Crenshaw down a long, quiet hallway. His feet sank into the gray carpeting until he came to the office. They sat in seats at a small conference table.

“We’ve never had the FBI here before. Usually, we just deal with petty thefts and collisions in the employee’s parking lot,” he said, patting the back of his head as if the rug had slipped. “I hope we haven’t done anything wrong.” He grinned, but it quickly disappeared.

“No, of course not. I’d like to talk with someone I think is employed here. Do your people get briefcases with their initials and your company name on them?”

“Some do, yes. Who do you want to talk with?”

“I think he’s a scientist, Middle Eastern probably, with the initials, M.A.”

Crenshaw’s eyes flicked over his face, then left to look around the room. “Our employee information is usually confidential and …”

“Listen, Ms. Crenshaw, I’ll cut the bullshit.”

He sat up and stopped patting his hair.

“This is a matter of homeland security. After we talk, I want you to call for your own security people. I’ll need to talk with them before we approach the suspect.”

“The suspect? What’s going on?” His face flushed.

“We don’t know all the answers, but I’m convinced this man could be very dangerous.”

“He works here?”

Paul nodded. “Any ideas who M.A. could be?”

He didn’t move, and Paul could tell his brain was whirling. He rose and moved behind a desk. “We have scientists from all over the world working here.” He tapped on a computer for a few minutes. Frowned. “Here … here he is, I think. We have several employees in the science department. Malcom Alpers, Michael Ammar, Vicky Aniston, and of course, lots of Andersons. We are in Minnesota, you know.” Crenshaw looked up from the screen with a grin from his own joke.

“This guy is Middle Eastern. What about the name Ammar?”

“Uh … worked here about three years. In our micro-biology labs.” Crenshaw gave him a brief bio of the suspect.

“Tell me where he works and the physical lay-out.”

Crenshaw frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Are there lots of people around him, or is he alone in an office?”

“He has his own office and shares a secretary. Should I call to see if he’s in?”

“No,” Paul shouted. “Call the secretary, but tell her not to say anything else.”

Crenshaw called and found out that Ammar was out on vacation for two weeks.

Paul slapped his knee and swore. “Of course, he is. He wants the students back to school in the next few days …”

“There’s something odd,” he said, “His secretary said he’ was scheduled to go to Cairo for a business conference. Normally, we don’t allow people to take vacation immediately before a business trip.”

“Cairo?” A hollow tension expanded in Paul’s chest. “What’s his home address?”

Crenshaw hesitated, “We’re not supposed to give out that…”

Paul jumped from his seat and leaned over the desk, spinning the computer screen out of the way. “Look, what don’t you get about national security? Do you want to be the one who stopped the FBI from catching a terrorist? Let’s talk to your boss right now!”

Crenshaw gulped, it looked like his rug moved, and he turned the screen back again, and started to key. “Here … here it is.” He printed it for Paul.

He tore it from Crenshaw’s hand and raced out to his car. He called Conway and luckily, got a hold of him.

“Paul, goddamn it! I told you …”

“Bill, the teacher who called us five years ago called me. I just took the call and made a routine follow-up investigation at the school. Don’t you see that we’ve got to move on this—yesterday!”

“What’s your point?”

Paul heard a small
plup
as Conway talked, having taken a puff from a cigarette. Smoking was prohibited in his entire office. “Something’s going to happen at a mosque in a day or two. I don’t know what, but we’ve got to intercept this guy before anything goes down.”

Conway was silent awhile. Then said, “You’re sure about this?” he sighed. “These damn Somali cases … it just won’t end. Okay, where are you now?”

“I’m just about to case the house. I need back-up.”

“Right. I’ll get the emergency response team scrambled to meet you there. Cruise the neighborhood to see the layout but don’t stop for anything,” Conway ordered. “Wait for us.” He paused. “And if you screw-up this one …”

“Yes, sir.”

Ammar lived in Southwest Minneapolis in a quiet neighborhood of single family homes. Minnehaha Creek twisted through the neighborhood, on its way to the Mississippi. Walking and biking trails hugged the small creek.

Large elms and ash trees stretched over the streets, creating a canopy of shadow in the front yards. He found Ammar’s house, a tight bungalow made of stucco with brown wood trim on the edges. Green ivy snaked from the side and threatened to engulf the front door. The front lawn, speckled with yellow dandelions, needed mowing.

Paul slowed as he reached the house and tried to see in. Shades hid the interior. A rusted air conditioner stuck out of a window on the south side. There were no cars parked in the front on the street.

He turned at the end of the block and drove to the alley that separated the two rows of houses. Driving down the alley, each house had a garage. Many leaned to one side and needed paint. Trash cans guarded the sides of most garages, with their lids clamped on tightly.