Infidel

by Steve Gannon

  “Damn, Kane,” said Taylor, staring at the cellphones. “I . . . I need to report this.”

  “Right,” I agreed. “It’s time to call in the cavalry. You might suggest they keep their response low-key, however. If the killers aren’t aware that we’ve found their dump site, they might try to use it again.”

  Looking both apprehensive and excited, Taylor withdrew her cellphone. She hesitated, again glancing at the phones and stained clothing, which we’d piled on the hood of my Suburban.

  “Like I said, if there’s any fallout for not reporting this immediately, you can blame it on me,” I offered.

  Taylor began punching numbers into her phone. “I don’t need your help, Kane,” she said. “We sure as hell didn’t follow protocol, but there were extenuating circumstances. If Gibbs or Vaughn want to write me up on this, I’ll take the heat.”

  Chapter 16

  Jacob had long been troubled by the source of the voices. It had only been over the course of the past year, as he had gradually come to realize that it was the voice of God speaking to him, that things had started to make sense.

  And God had spoken to him again.

  From his rocky outcrop high above the compound, Jacob felt a surge of regret. It was unfortunate that more innocents would have to die. Nevertheless, in the words of Mr. Spock, a Star Trek character portrayed by Leonard Nimoy, the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few. And although they were the words of an imaginary character in a science-fiction series, they were true nevertheless. Jacob sighed, steeling himself for what was to come.

  For God had spoken to him once more, and God had given him a message.

  It was time to do it again.

  And the more horrendous the killings . . . the more effective would they be.

  Chapter 17

  The next morning, as I sat in the Bureau conference room waiting for the FBI briefing to begin, I sensed that the cautious mood of the previous day had been replaced by a guarded feeling of optimism. Without it being said, everyone there was thinking the same thing.

  The killers had made mistakes.

  And those mistakes might just give investigators an opening.

  After our discovery of the Welches’ cellphones, Taylor’s call to FBI headquarters had summoned the full force of the Bureau’s Evidence Response Team. Ignoring my suggestion that they keep their investigation low-key, the Bureau’s ERT unit, assisted by an army of agents including ASAC Vaughn, Agent Duffy, and others, had cordoned off an entire block on Second Avenue before taking custody of the cellphones and bloodstained clothing. The ERT unit had then painstakingly recovered, recorded, and taken into evidence every other item in the dumpster—paper trash, spoiled food, even the smashed wicker chair.

  While awaiting the FBI’s arrival, I had made a call to Chief Ingram’s office, relaying an update on the dumpster development. Upon hearing the news, the chief himself had come on the line to give me an enthusiastic “attaboy.”

  ASAC Vaughn’s reaction upon arriving, however, had been the opposite. With a disapproving scowl, Vaughn had reminded me, not so patiently on this occasion, that I was present on the Bureau task force as a liaison, not as an investigator. I didn’t respond, figuring I would let the facts speak for themselves. Irritated by my silence, Vaughn proceeded to giving Taylor a thorough chewing-out as well.

  Taylor, I’ll concede, did a respectable job of standing her ground—pointing out that were it not for our immediate action, the Welches’ cellphones would now be buried beneath tons of garbage in a landfill somewhere. Although Vaughn had no response for that, I knew from experience how office politics worked, and I that Taylor’s attitude hadn’t done her career much good.

  On the upside, at the meeting that morning there seemed to be a shift in the way other agents were regarding Taylor. I think I might have even gained a little “dumpster credibility” myself. But again, my priority wasn’t earning Bureau approval. The clock was ticking, and as far as I was concerned, the FBI’s investigation, with its dependence on critical asset partners, multiagency task forces, and intelligence networks with acronyms like TITAN or JTTF, wasn’t getting the job done. They needed investigators hitting the streets doing solid, methodical police work, and I didn’t see that happening. Unfortunately, considering that Snead was running the LAPD’s side of things, I suspected that progress wasn’t being made over there, either.

  “Everyone quiet down,” Vaughn ordered at precisely 8:00 a.m. Then, referring to an index card, “There are several new developments. First, the Welches’ cellphones turned up yesterday in a Santa Monica dumpster, along with bloodstained towels and several articles of clothing. No prints other than those of Mr. and Mrs. Welch were found on the phones. We’ve determined that the blood types present on the towels and clothing are consistent with those of the murdered victims.”

  Vaughn referred to his notes and continued. “The recovered clothing appears similar to that seen worn by the terrorists in the murder video. DNA analysis is underway on materials recovered from both the clothing and the towels. When available, we’ll run those results through the system, as well as comparing the blood analysis to the unknown DNA found in the Welches’ bathroom.”

  “Did anyone see the killers dumping the phones and clothing?” someone asked.

  Vaughn glanced in my direction. “LAPD has been canvassing the neighborhood for witnesses. Any results on that, Kane?”

  “None,” I answered. “Not yet, anyway. Because the dumpster is located in a business area, the feeling on the task force is that if the phones and clothes were discarded at night, it’s unlikely anyone was around.”

  “Keep us apprised,” Vaughn ordered.

  “Right. Speaking of which, you might think about putting some surveillance on the dumpster, in case they do it again,” I suggested. “A hidden webcam or whatever, like you’re doing at Starbucks. Maybe put some coverage on other nearby dumpsters as well. The killers might not realize we found the phones and clothes, and they might use the site again. Although considering the parade of agents you had down there yesterday, that’s probably a long shot.”

  Vaughn glanced at Gibbs, who nodded. Without commenting on my suggestion, Vaughn scribbled something in his notebook and continued. “On another front, we received the Welches’ telephone records from Verizon. Some of you will be detailed to run down their contacts, checking for a possible connection with their murderers. Also, you’ll note that the call log on Mrs. Welch’s phone shows a nine-second 911 outgoing call followed by another four-second 911 call having been attempted around the time we estimate the terrorist attack began. Her calls were never completed, so they aren’t listed on the Verizon records. Kane, your LAPD task force is checking into that, correct?”

  I nodded. “All 911 calls originating in Los Angeles arrive at one of two central Public Safety Answering Points—Valley Dispatch Center and Metropolitan Dispatch Center,” I explained. “There are over 500 Police Service Responder operators on staff, but the number on duty at any given time is less, maybe a quarter to a third of that. LAPD is contacting all PSR operators who were working that night. So far no one has any record of receiving a call made from Mrs. Welch’s cellphone.”

  “Keep us updated.”

  “Yes, sir.” I thought a moment. “It’s my understanding that Mrs. Welch’s cellphone showed a “cancelled call” status on her 911 attempts. Maybe the killers used a tactical jammer? You know, like our SWAT teams use to block cellphone reception at an active crime scene?”

  “That’s getting us a little far afield,” said Vaughn. “It’s more reasonable to think that Mrs. Welch simply panicked and hung up before a phone connection was made.”

  “That may be, but the LAPD task force is still canvassing the Welches’ neighborhood,” I persisted. “While they’re at it, how about if we ask them to check for anyone who might have lost cellphone reception that evening?”

  “Fine,” said Vaughn with a dismissive nod. Again he paused to check his index card.
“Okay, two final items before you pick up your assignments. First, summary sheets with copies of the Welches’ phone records, a listing of clothing and other items recovered from the dumpster, and updates on current and ongoing lab tests will be available after the briefing. Second, Dr. Jonathan Schwartz, who consults with the Bureau on Islamic affairs, has flown in from Quantico to give us his impressions on the case. Listen up, as anything he has to say might be helpful.” Turning to a short, bearded man standing behind him, “Dr. Schwartz?”

  “Thank you, Agent Vaughn,” said Dr. Schwartz, stepping to the front. “I’m not certain I can help, but you never know, so I’ll try. First I want to briefly go over some background on militant Islam that might help put your case in perspective. Following that, I’ll talk about the beheading issue.”

  At the mention of beheading, a number of agents leaned forward in their seats.

  “To start, first let me make the point that we’re not engaged in a ‘war on terror,’ as has been reported in the press,” Dr. Schwartz began. “Terrorism is a tactic, not an enemy. Simply put, our enemy is radical Islam, and to give you an idea of the scope of the problem, consider this: There are over a billion Muslims globally, of which it’s estimated that ten to fifteen percent fall into the ‘militant’ category. That’s 100 to 150 million militant Muslims worldwide. Radical Islam has already established strongholds in Egypt, Somalia, Syria, Algeria, Saudi Arabia, the Palestinian territories, Jordan, Lebanon, Pakistan, Malaysia, the Philippines, Nigeria, and a host of other countries. And America is on their radar.”

  Schwartz paused for emphasis, then continued. “In the United States, no one knows exactly how many Muslims there are, but their number is clearly in the millions. As far as a demographic breakdown, our Muslim population consists of immigrants and converts, with immigrants from South Asia, Iran, and Arabic-speaking countries outnumbering a primarily African-American convert population by two- or three-to-one. The ratio of militant to moderate Muslims is approximately the same as it is worldwide—ten to fifteen percent—meaning that by conservative estimate there are several hundred thousand militant Muslims now within our borders.”

  At that statement, I sensed an uncomfortable shifting in the room as ten to fifteen percent or not, the scope of the problem became apparent.

  “Integrationist or moderate Muslims, who constitute the majority of Muslims residing in our country, believe that our American values are compatible with Islamic beliefs,” Dr. Schwartz continued. “They accept that the United States is not and never will be a Muslim country. Rather than seeking to promote shariah law, they give their allegiance to our non-Muslim government and work to integrate themselves into our culture, accepting our framework of constitutional principles.

  “On the other hand, there are Muslims in our country who expound the Islamist view that our American way of life is godless and profane, and that it should be replaced by a new paradigm modeled on strict, Islamic lines. They consider our culture anathema and will never integrate into our society, never accept the American order—believing it to be against the ordainments of Allah. As such, they promote Islam as the solution to our moral and social ills. More important, they believe that over time the United States will become a Muslim country ruled by shariah law.

  “The main debate within this latter group centers not on the desirability of transforming the U.S. into a Muslim nation, but on how to achieve that goal, however outlandish it may seem to us. One faction believes in a gradual, peaceful transformation through conversion to Islam. Another believes in the swifter route of violence. Granted, members of this final contingent constitute a much smaller faction, but events have shown that this faction cannot be ignored. Clearly, it is members of this last group with whom you are dealing.”

  “These guys think that beheading people is going to make us change our government?” someone asked. “Seems to me it would have the opposite effect.”

  From the looks of many in the room, a majority of agents appeared to agree.

  “It’s not quite that simple,” said Schwartz. “You have to understand some history here. Beheading is not new in the Muslim community. Although psychological warfare is an essential element in radical Islam’s current strategy, beheading as a means of inspiring terror dates back to the days of the Prophet. The earliest biographer of Muhammad, for example, reported that the Prophet ordered the beheading of 700 men of the Jewish Banu Qurayza tribe for allegedly plotting against him. More recently, the Ottoman Empire used decapitation to execute hundreds of British soldiers captured in Egypt. In more modern times, our friends the Saudis, acting under the authority of shariah law, executed 345 prisoners over a three-year period, all by public beheading. And lately there have been the numerous cases of journalists, construction contractors, and Western businessmen being decapitated by ISIS. Examples are countless, but the point is that beheading has always played an important role in the Muslim religion.”

  “If that’s so, why are we seeing more of it now?” asked Agent Young.

  “It’s simple if you think about it,” said Schwartz. “The purpose of terrorism is to strike fear in the hearts of your enemies, right? In the seventies and eighties, terrorists grabbed headlines by hijacking airliners. In the eighties and nineties car bombs took center stage, followed by suicide bombings and the like. But the Western world grew calloused, and what once garnered headlines eventually only received a paragraph on page two. Terrorists crave attention, and in order to maintain the shock value of their acts, they have revisited earlier methods. In an odd return to the past, decapitation has now become the latest fashion. That said, I want to stress that beheading has a long history in Islamic theology, as I mentioned earlier,” Schwartz concluded. “Speaking of which, although I haven’t seen the murder video, I understand that the Arabic word kafir was written on the victims’ wall?”

  “They wrote something,” muttered someone at the back of the room. “Looked like chicken scratching to me.”

  “That’s correct, Dr. Schwartz,” said Gibbs, ignoring the comment from the rear. “I was told the word means ‘one who does not believe in Allah,’ or ‘infidel.’”

  “Close enough,” said Schwartz. “According to the interpretation of most militant Muslims, the meaning of kafir has been extended to include anyone who doesn’t believe in the Qur’an, or in the prophetic status of Muhammad. Whatever the case, many Muslims also believe that a famous passage of the Qur’an at Sura 47:4, ‘When you meet the unbelievers, smite at their necks,’ should be interpreted literally.”

  “They believe the Qur’an gives them the right to behead anyone who isn’t a Muslim?” someone else spoke up. “That can’t be right.”

  “It is. And it involves more than that,” said Schwartz. “Many militants believe their holy book not only gives them the right to kill infidels, but that it also conveys an obligation to do so. They believe the beheading of a harbi kafir, or non-Muslim infidel, is a blessed act for which they will be rewarded in paradise. To peaceful Muslims worldwide, beheadings in the name of Allah are a defilement of their religion. But to a fanatical Islamic minority intent on jihad, beheadings are exactly what Allah ordered.”

  No one said anything for several moments. “So our killers think they’re doing the will of Allah,” noted Gibbs, breaking the silence. “Does that mean they’ll do it again?”

  Schwartz paused, looking thoughtful. “The killers seem to be taking great care not to be caught, so I don’t think these attacks are motivated by the prospect of martyrdom.”

  “Meaning?’

  “Meaning I hope I’m wrong,” said Schwartz. “But unless something changes, I think they’re going to keep killing until they’re caught.”

  Chapter 18

  Mmm, this is delicious,” said Taylor, digging into a steaming bowl of shrimp pho, a Vietnamese noodle soup garnished with jalapeño, onion, bean sprouts, lime, and cilantro.

  Following an unproductive morning accompanying Taylor on several Bureau assignments—int
erviewing a truculent mullah and talking with FBI informants at an Islamic community center—we had decided to grab lunch at a popular, hole-in-the-wall restaurant on North Broadway.

  “How did you ever find this place?” Taylor asked, taking a sip of the white wine she had ordered with her meal. Noticing something in my expression, she shrugged. “It’s just one glass, Kane. No big deal.”

  “Whatever you say, Taylor.”

  “So how’d you find this place?” she asked again.

  “Been eating here for years, coming in whenever I had to be downtown for court appearances,” I answered. “Great food, and the price is right,” I added, starting in on my order of bun thit nuong cho gio—grilled pork atop a bed of rice vermicelli, accompanied by veggies, fresh herbs, and spring rolls with dipping sauce.

  “Well, this place definitely gets my vote,” Taylor declared, taking another sip of wine. Then, glancing at the wedding ring on my left hand, “So what’s your story, Kane? Married, huh?”

  “Used to be.”

  “Divorced? No surprise there. Why are you still wearing the ring?”

  “Habit,” I answered, deciding to let Taylor’s divorce assumption slide.

  “Kids?”

  “Three.” I didn’t feel like mentioning Tommy, either.

  “Boys or girls?”

  “Two boys, one girl.”

  “Jeez, Kane. This is like pulling teeth. Your kids live with you or your wife?”

  “My oldest son Travis is doing graduate work at Juilliard,” I answered, again sidestepping the issue of Catheryn’s death. “My youngest son Nate is living with me and doing everything he can to give me ulcers. My daughter Allison is married and works as a newscaster for Channel 2, so more ulcers there. All three of them adore me.”