Reprisal (25 page)

When he reached the end of the alley and turned back onto the street, something bothered him. There weren’t any trash cans behind Ammar’s house.

Paul parked around the corner at an angle where he could watch the front of the house and waited for the FBI team. The hollow feeling returned to his chest, and he felt as if he had to piss badly.

At his ankle, he carried the little Glock 29, the subcompact. Under his arm, in the shoulder holster, he cradled the Glock 21, with the .45 caliber slugs in it.

He took a sip of water from the bottle he’d received at Health Technologies. It helped moisten his dry mouth. He sipped again—not too much or he’d really have to piss.

His Blackberry buzzed.

The assault team was near and asked for intelligence about the house. Paul told them everything including the details about the neighboring houses.

In five minutes, a dark van pulled up behind Paul’s car. He looked in his rear-view mirror and then got out. Five agents, dressed in dark-blue jackets and pants, jumped from the van and huddled next to it on the sidewalk side. Large, yellow letters said FBI on their backs. Paul knew they were armed for any problem and vested also. One agent carried the “bunker buster,” a light but protective shield carried before him when he burst through a door.

The leader, First Deputy Tony Valentini, came up to Paul. Without shaking, he said, “What’s the intel, agent?”

Paul nodded. “The subject’s around the corner up there,” he pointed. “There’s also the alley.”

“We’ll take both,” Valentini said. “I’ll take two agents with me, and I’d like two to ride with you up the alley. We’ll be responsible for primary contact. You’ll cover the escape route, if necessary. Description?”

“Middle Eastern, tall, thin. About thirty years old.”

“Anyone else with him?”

“Probably not. He’s not married and doesn’t have a family.”

“From what you say, he could have a bomb in there. Once we’re in position, we’ve got to move.” Valentini emphasized the word “move.” He thought for a moment, and then said, “Conway wants us to wait for him, but he’ll just get in the way.” He grinned for a moment. “We can’t let the suspect escape, can we?” They all agreed, so Valentini said, “Let’s move out, men.”

The agents separated into the two vehicles. Paul backed up and turned into the alley. He waited for the van to round the corner into the street and gave it a little time to reach the front of the house. He rolled up the alley and peered through the houses to keep pace with the van.

When he reached the house, he parked his car diagonally across the back to block the garage and the yard. The two agents fanned out to each side of the door and pulled out their weapons. One had a pistol and the other a shotgun.

Paul, who didn’t have a vest, screened himself with his car by standing behind it. He leveled his Glock 21 over the roof, holding it with both hands. He pointed it directly at the back door and waited.

He forced himself to breathe slowly, to keep calm. The two agents, although experienced, fidgeted while in position. Paul strained to see into the dark windows for any hint of trouble. To be prepared. No matter how many takedowns a person went through, they were always tense. Anything could happen.

Five minutes later, Paul heard a crash from the front of the house. Probably the door breaking. Men shouted. His impulses told him to storm the back door, but they’d been trained to wait for a possible escape. No one appeared in the back until Valentini shouted to them before opening the door himself.

Paul shouted back and everyone holstered their weapons. “We’re coming in,” Paul yelled. Valentini agreed.

Inside, they all walked through the small home. It was obvious no one had lived there for many years. The refrigerator was clean and off, the toilet paper roller empty, the cupboards bare, and dust settled on every surface. Paul sniffed at the stale, closed-up smell that reminded him of his elderly grandmother who never got out.

“You got bad intel,” Valentini said. “Nice work, agent,” he scowled at Paul.

Paul raised his shoulders. “Hey … how did I know? This is the official address he gave his employer.”

“What the hell’s going on?” A hoarse voice from the front door shouted inside. Conway stepped into the living room. He huffed and looked around. “What’d we get?”

Conway looked from one agent to the other until he came to Paul. No one had to speak. Bill took a deep breath. “Can you explain this?”

“Of course not, Bill. You agreed to the grab.”

“After you talked me into it.”

“Chief,” Valentini raised his hand between the two men. “Let’s look around. Maybe we’ll find something.”

Everyone separated, and Paul walked to the front door. It stood with the frame splintered in two places. Sun flooded the area, making it uncomfortably warm. Paul noticed the mailbox and opened it. A bundle of mail tumbled out. He picked it up and scanned the addresses. “Hey,” he shouted. “I’ve got something.”

Conway and Valentini hurried to the front. Paul held out the letters and junk mail. All of them were addressed to Michael Ammar.

“Drop house,” Valentini said. “Probably never spent one night here. I’m startin’ to like this smell—we’re definitely on to something now. Any idea where our man could be?” he asked Paul.

“I don’t know.”

Conway nodded. “Well … I guess you’re right. This guy stinks, and I want him brought in,” he ordered. He spun toward Paul and scowled. “As for you, I think I’m gonna fire you. Right now.”

Too upset to go back to the office, Paul headed for home. He didn’t want to face Conway. Besides being embarrassed, Paul worried that Conway really meant he was fired. At least Paul had proved one thing. Michael Ammar was somehow tied in with the Somali boys and could be dangerous.

At his home, Paul booted up his computer to check email. While waiting, he remembered to google USRAMID, one of the agencies that called Conway. When he keyed it in, the program didn’t find any matches. He rearranged the letters and got a hit. What he found stopped his breath.

USAMRIID was an acronym for the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases, located at Ft. Detrick, Maryland.

Thirty-One

Outside of Minnesota, Michael could become Mustafa again. He looked out the window of the Egypt Air flight as it cruised over the vast city of Cairo. Even from this altitude, it stretched for as far as he could see in all directions. The plane circled the airport and landed at Terminal 3, the newest and largest one.

He carried only the company briefcase for his laptop and a small suitcase. He’d substitute the new laptop for his old one on the return flight.

Although the airport was only ten miles from central Cairo, it took a long time to reach his hotel, the Ramsses Hilton. A new freeway promised a quick entry into the city but, as most things in Cairo, corruption, crowding, and millions of people slowed progress. Piles of garbage stood everywhere. Mustafa didn’t mind. He had plenty of time and from inside the air-conditioned cab, he could watch the unfolding of humanity on the streets in all its forms.

He’d forgotten the noise and the smell.

Car horns, scooters whining beside the cab, the bawling of donkeys, shouts of vendors, the crush of people everywhere, crying children, the dry wind from the western desert that whistled through the arches in the markets, the calling to the faithful to prayer by
muezzins
, and the tinkling of bells all assaulted Mustafa’s ears.

Even in the spring, the sun beat down on everything, retarding time as if it were in slow motion. Sometimes, if you were out in it too long, your head could begin to ring until the cacophony of noise around you started to feel painful.

Finally, the cab pulled in front of the huge, dusky Ramsses Hilton. It rose all by itself above the east bank of the Nile. A modern square pyramid with flat sides and protruding corners. From its rooms, Mustafa could see up and down the length of the Nile, the city, and the ancient pyramids to the west. He liked that the sun, settling into the deserts beyond, infused an orange glow into the rooms in the early evening.

He also liked that the hotel staff kept beggars away from the front door, and he liked the feel of the clean, dust-free cold air that hit him as he walked through the automatic doors into the lobby. It refreshed him.

As he walked in, he saw a man plodding across the street, hunched under an immense stack of cardboard, bound in twine and perched on his curved back. With his pants legs rolled up, the man placed one sandaled foot in front of the other, careful to avoid the potholes in the street.

“What is that?” Mustafa asked the doorman.

“Zabaleen. Christians who’ve collected all the garbage in Cairo for hundreds of years. They used to have herds of goats to eat the organic things and the Zabaleen removed everything else on their backs to sell.”

“What do you mean they ‘used to have goats’?”

“Not one anymore. Since the government killed all the goats here to avoid the flu, no one collects the organic garbage. Stupidest decision ever, but it’s usual for the government. Can’t you smell it?” The doorman lifted his nose to the breeze.

Mustafa could detect the odor. He hurried into the hotel.

After leaving his bag and briefcase in the room, he retreated to the Terrace Café, which overlooked the Nile. Shaded with awnings from the afternoon sun, the breeze felt good. He ordered a Diet Coke and felt guilty. Try as hard as he could, some items of Western decadence still remained with him.

Cairo was hemmed in by deserts to the east and west, so the city crawled along the banks of the Nile to the north and south. He could see this easily from the terrace. Across the Nile, Gizera Island sat in the middle of the dirty waters. Beyond that, squatting at the exact edge of the city, were the pyramids. From the backyards of the homes, a child could almost throw a piece of camel dung and hit the monuments.

He planned to meet the shipment and the courier at one of the Cities of the Dead, the northern one, for the transfer.

In the meantime, the conference would only take one day. He must get back to the United States quickly.

Attended by scientists from all over the world, it would be mildly interesting. Presenting his paper provided a wonderful cover. The company paid for everything, and Mustafa had an excuse to return to the world of Islam for a short time.

Tomorrow, he would meet the courier and take possession of the briefcase. Because of his corporate credentials, he had special privileges to carry research items through customs. He’d practiced with other, non-threatening parcels on several occasions without ever having a problem. The test camps in Somalia had been a success. All his efforts in the United States to recruit the young men would pay off. Once he had the material back there, he’d have the young men meet for the launch.

He planned to buy a gift for Zehra to win her trust. Although she was corrupted like most Muslims born in America, Mustafa found her somewhat attractive. He would avoid any real personal relationship with her for the sake of the mission, but he couldn’t deny how pretty she was.

He’d find a gift at the
souk
, or bazaar, at Khan el-Khalili, one of the oldest and largest in Cairo. Although it would be crowded with tourists, it was still a good place to find gifts, and he needed a good knife in case of trouble later on.

Mustafa smiled to himself and the thought of its history. In the late 1300s, the ruling family of Egypt had a stranglehold on Europe. All spices from the east came through this
souk
on their way to Europe. The family had a monopoly and made the kafirs pay and pay—much like the stranglehold on oil that the Islamic Middle East held around the throats of the world today.

He’d go in the coolness this evening, when the city came to life at a normal pace. The last time he’d been here, he’d noticed a beautiful jewelry box in the bazaar. It was handmade with the pieces of mother-of-pearl set into tight, traditional patterns, then polished to a high gloss. Inside the box, he would put a silk scarf for Zehra. In a tactful but forceful way, he could remind her she should wear
hijab
, the traditional head covering Muslim women were supposed to wear.

Mustafa worried about her. She didn’t seem to accept him without question as most other American women did. He was convinced he could win her trust with these simple kinds of trinkets. It had worked before.

The next morning, the loudspeakers woke him with the call to prayer. Today, theses Islamic cities were much too large for human
muezzins
to call and be heard. Public-address systems with recorded calls amplified the message to reach everyone above the ceaseless noise of the city.

Mustafa rose, washed, stood facing east, and crossed his arms before his chest. He went through the normal chants to call to Allah and thank Him for the blessings. He knelt, bent forward, and touched the seven parts of his body—the forehead, palms, knees, and both big toes—to the carpeting in the room. It felt rough and reminded him to be humble before Allah. He rose again, continued the prayers, knelt and touched his forehead to the carpet once again.