Bluegrass and Crimson

by Jeff Siebold

  “That’s right, most want to dance and party after a few drinks. So this is out of character and possibly related to Roger Turner’s death,” said Zeke. “I’m working on confirming some of that. But I’d suggest that we move forward with the assumption that these two items are related.”

  “I agree,” said Clive.

  Zeke paused. “The suitcase in Mr. Hansen’s room…”

  “Yes?” asked Clive.

  “We need to have it processed for prints and fibers and all. It’d be great if the Miami FBI agreed to help with that. Would you call them and have them pick it up from the cruise ship terminal’s ‘Lost and Found’? They’re holding it for us.”

  “I will. Come on back to DC, then, and we’ll figure out what’s next,” said Clive.

  “I think I’ll stop in Charlottesville on my way back,” said Zeke. “To follow up on another of Roger’s suspects.”

  “Right, good,” said Clive. “Let me know what you find.”

  Chapter 17

  “The Faculty Advisor for the Arabic Student Group at Virginia is a Mr. Fareed,” said Sally. “Faheem Fareed. He’s an International Studies professor and has been at the university for seven years. Originally from Turkey, the Ankara area. He taught at Hacettepe University before he moved to Charlottesville.”

  “His name means ‘perceptive’ or ‘intelligent’,” said Zeke, thinking out loud. “And Hacettepe has an excellent academic performance record, so I guess he is.”

  Sally was Zeke’s connection to The Agency’s resources. She was competent and intelligent, but often adopted Marilyn Monroe’s demure personality and wispy voice. She’s doing that now, Zeke thought.

  “Here’s Fareed’s address,” said Sally, and she read off the address of an academic building on the UVA campus. “He keeps office hours there each afternoon. You’ve got an appointment with him tomorrow at 2:30 PM. Your flight into Richmond will put you there in plenty of time. I arranged a rental car to get you to the university. It’s just under an hour and a half by car.”

  “Good, I’ll do that,” said Zeke. “Any messages? Does Eric know where I’ll be tomorrow?”

  “No, and then yes.” Sally smiled into her phone. “But stay in touch.”

  “Good plan,” said Zeke. “Goodbye, Marilyn,” he teased. It was Monday morning.

  * * *

  “So you’re calling this a layover?” asked Tracy. She was lying on the couch with her head in Zeke’s lap and a glass of Merlot on the coffee table within easy reach.

  “I am,” said Zeke. “It’s an extended connection. I’ll catch my flight to Richmond tomorrow.”

  “What if you weren’t flying Delta?” she teased.

  “I always fly Delta, now,” said Zeke. “More opportunity to layover in Atlanta…”

  Zeke had met Tracy Johnson in midtown Atlanta on an earlier assignment involving a counterfeiter and a Mexican cartel.

  “What was it you called me when I visited you in Florida?” Tracy asked.

  “I said you were ondine,” said Zeke.

  “Sexy and a bit of trouble.” Tracy remembered the definition.

  “Well, alternatively I was really thinking ‘Elegant and always up for fun,’” Zeke smiled. He was playing with her hair.

  Tracy had thick, dark hair and an attractive face, which she tended to de-emphasize with makeup when she was working. Zeke noticed her makeup tonight was emphasizing her best features, her lips and neck and her deep, brown eyes. “What time do you fly out?” she asked.

  “Scheduled for a 10:30 flight tomorrow morning,” he said. “You’ll be at work by then. It’ll get in to Richmond at noon.”

  “I could call in sick,” said Tracy, lazily, enjoying the moment.

  “You could,” said Zeke. She sat up and sipped some wine. Zeke leaned toward her and kissed her lightly. “Delicious,” he said.

  “That one has a hint of a plum flavor, very subtle,” Tracy said.

  Her hair was down in a loose ponytail, and she was wearing a red shell under a black long sleeved sweater and comfortable jeans. The jeans looked like they were a size too large for her slender build, and she had them tied at the waist with a canvas belt. Tracy was barefoot and Zeke noticed that her toenail color matched the shell she was wearing.

  “Kiss me again,” said Tracy, taking another sip. “I want you to get the full flavor of the wine.”

  Zeke leaned toward her again and brushed her lips with his. He paused and then kissed her more deeply. Tracy kissed him back.

  “Mmm,” she said. “Are you getting the full effect?”

  “I’m starting to,” Zeke said smiling. They were listening to Hope Sandoval singing, “Fade into You.”

  “That is one of the sexiest songs of all time,” said Zeke.

  “I know,” said Tracy. “I’m enjoying it.”

  “Maybe we should enjoy it from the bedroom,” said Zeke.

  “No, not yet,” said Tracy. “Kiss me again.”

  He did, lightly for several seconds. She relaxed into him and he felt her excitement, her eagerness build.

  Feels so right, Zeke thought. Nice.

  “OK, now,” said Tracy, and jumped up from the couch and started toward the bedroom, leaving her wine glass on the table.

  “Now?” Zeke asked, still sitting on the couch.

  Tracy stopped in the doorway, loosening her canvas belt. “Don’t make me start without you,” she said as she disappeared into the bedroom.

  Chapter 18

  The eggs and bacon were excellent, as always, and Henri lingered for a few moments, enjoying his coffee. The restaurant was actually more of a truck stop, and it was busy that time of the morning. Many drivers heading both north and south along the interstate stopped to breakfast at the Country Store, a restaurant with a reputation across the eastern United States. The facility also sold gasoline and diesel fuel, convenience store items, and had showers, sleeping areas and a private area for truckers only. And there was plenty of on-site parking for big rigs and smaller vehicles alike.

  Back to it, he thought. How many more states to go? He remembered Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, skirting by the east side of Philadelphia—but not touching Pennsylvania—into Maryland and Virginia. Oh, and a very short trek through Delaware, he thought. Seven hours to go. Most of it on Interstate 95, at least until he got to DC, then he’d jump off at Falls Church and head west.

  As he drove, the sun rose on his left, illuminating the crisp blue sky and lighting his way. Soon, drivers were turning off their headlights and Henri turned on some music and settled in for the long haul.

  * * *

  The town was pretty small. Maybe 15,000 people, thought Henri. And very American, very Etats Unis. All in English. In Montreal, on the other hand, over one in four residents were of French descent, as was Henri. The French language was common, even prevalent on the streets of Montreal. He had read that 56% of the people in Montreal speak French at home. Montreal had always felt like home to Henri.

  This town, however, Culpeper, Virginia, looked mostly rural. He had passed farms and stables on his way into town. He was about seventy miles west of Washington, DC, but the difference in the two places was astounding.

  The delivery truck was on the last leg of it’s journey, having driven southwest along Interstate 66 and exited to take county roads the rest of the way in. The trip had been uneventful and quiet. Henri took the James Madison Highway, the bypass, coming into town from the northeast, then turning right on Green’s Corner Road. Less than one hundred yards up the road Henri turned left into a fenced area of warehouses. He stopped and backed the delivery truck up to a single story, metal warehouse with several enclosed, street-height loading bays.

  A young fellow stepped out from the overhang and walked over to the driver’s side door. Henri opened the door, leaned out and said, “Allo.”

  The young man said, “Did you have any trouble?” His French was delivered with a slight Middle Eastern accent.

  “Non,” said
Henri. “All was smooth.”

  “OK, come on inside,” the young man said and turned back to the warehouse. Henri followed. When they got to the entrance door the man stopped and said, “Apres vous,” and held the door open. Henri walked through and said, “Merci.”

  Inside, the warehouse was fairly empty with a folding table and several chairs set up in one corner. There were two other men sitting at the table. They had dark skin, brown hair and brown beards. They wore blue jeans and flannel shirts, and one wore a cap with bills on it, like baseball players wear. Like Les Expos de Montreal wear, thought Henri. When they saw Henri the two men stood and walked toward the nearest overhead door.

  The first man stepped to the overhead door and pulled a chain on a pulley that lifted the door. Behind the door was the rear of Henri’s truck. Henri stepped over and unlocked the rear doors with a key and opened them. Then he stepped aside while the three men carried the boxes, one at a time, from the back of the truck. When they were done, sixteen wooden boxes, each marked in German “Daimler-Benz- Front Bumper” along with bar codes and numbers, were stacked on the concrete floor in the middle of the warehouse.

  The first man nodded at Henri, who said, “That takes care of our agreement. I’ll be leaving now.”

  “Yes, of course,” said the first man.

  Henri closed and locked the rear doors of the truck and exited the warehouse by the same door he had used to enter. He unlocked the driver’s side door of the delivery truck, hopped up into the cab and began his long journey home.

  * * *

  “You will take half of these boxes with you,” said the man with the baseball hat. His two companions around the table nodded.

  “And you must go back to Charlottesville tonight.”

  Chapter 19

  “We will be ready soon, Ismael,” said Asad. “Be patient.”

  “I know, but it is so hard to wait. What if our opportunity never comes? What if we are not able to take action?” asked Ismael.

  The eight men were in Asad’s rented duplex, “The Secret,” less than a mile from the university campus. They had said their noon prayers at their masjid (mosque) a block away and had then walked back together carrying their backpacks. The mosque had been full of their Islamic brothers, all intent on their prayers. Now the eight were sitting in the living room, some on the old couch and some on the floor by the window. Asad sat on a straight back wooden kitchen chair, facing the room.

  The drapes over the large sliding glass doors in the kitchen were embroidered with the Arabic character for the word Bismillah, which translates to “In the name of Allah,” the first word in the Qu’ran. The drapes were closed, and so the character was complete in gold and was contained within an attractive circular pattern. The floor was carpeted with a worn indoor-outdoor carpet, and the room was sparsely furnished with a sofa, a low table and some chairs. The men were filled with nervous energy, talking with each other and giddy with anticipation. They knew something important was nearing, but most didn’t know exactly what. They talked about it among themselves constantly. They stood and sat, prowled and perched, most of them moving frequently.

  Asad went over his checklist mentally. We must first protect the group, he thought. It won’t be much longer, and we have come such a long way in the service of Allah. Surely this is our proper destiny, our righteous path. There had been the FBI threat, the investigators getting closer, the FBI asking questions of their classmates and others in the Arabic Student Group. Their friends had told them of the inquiries, and they had discovered the source of the investigation, the man Roger Taylor. And now he had been eliminated. That had slowed their investigation down.

  And second on the list, Asad thought, is the underground railroad. This was their way of helping supporters of Allah to find their way to the fight. A university is a place full of fertile minds, minds looking for a cause, something to believe in, to give one’s life significance and purpose and to change the world. A university is a place of ideas and ideals, and many young minds are looking for a direction, a purpose that they can embrace.

  Like the underground railroad that existed to move refugees from Syria to Germany, the cargo being transported was people who were looking for truth and a more meaningful life. And there had been many who heard the call and responded. The link, from here to Turkey, and then into Syria for the honor of Allah, was secure and the contacts along the way were strong and in place. He hoped that some of those he had sent to the front had made a difference. Asad was sure they had.

  The men in the room were talking with each other in hushed, excited voices. Their opportunity was within sight, as close as it had ever been. Even Ismael was engaged in a discussion with a fellow Muslim warrior.

  And third on his list, thought Asad, the coup de gras, the “death blow of mercy,” was shaping up nicely. The impact would be worldwide, attacks in Washington, DC and at the symbolic equine facility on the night of Lailat al Mi’raj, the night that the prophet Muhammad had ridden his steed, Buraq, to the farthest mosque where he led the other prophets in prayer. Muhammad himself had then ascended to heaven and received Allah’s instructions about the details of prayer.

  Such a blow on that holy day will be a shot heard around the world, Asad thought, smiling to himself. Only a few of the true believers knew the extent of the plan. He was feeding it to his companions a little bit at a time, as the time grew near. They were young and impulsive, and in their excitement they might jeopardize the attack. Better, he thought, to go slowly.

  A few of the believers had already gone north to prepare. The Eabqaria, in Arabic “the Genius,” was not among them. She had stayed behind at the university but would join them later at the proper time. Some of the faithful were in that small town now, at the warehouse with half of the automatic guns. In a few days, he, Asad, would join them.

  * * *

  “Do you have the medicine?” asked Asad, speaking quietly into the smartphone. He was in the campus bookstore, looking at a display of backpacks and book bags, hanging from one wall. He spoke in quiet Arabic.

  “I’m concerned that some of our faithful may not have the conviction that you and I share,” he continued. “I’m sure we’ll need to provide them with the captagon.”

  Captagon pills had been first produced in Syria and smuggled out by Islamic State faithful dressed as refugees in the huge exodus. They were given freely to IS fighters and the rebels, who had been fighting the Syrian government, and now they were going to be given to the Syrian freedom fighters in the United States. It wasn’t long before Jari, a chemistry student at the university, began manufacturing the pills for the group.

  Asad paused, listening.

  “Very well, we will arrange to pick up the medicine and start our soldiers on it before the attack,” he said. “Thank you, Eabqaria. Salam.”

  Chapter 20

  “Professor Fareed, hello,” said Zeke. He was standing in the doorway of Fareed’s office, looking at a short, portly man with dark brown skin and shiny black hair, which had been chopped off in a random design. Fareed had a slick, black mustache and was wearing a Fez with a black tassel. Below his neck, he was entirely covered by a flowing cotton cloth that extended to within a couple of inches of his open toe leather sandals.

  “Kayf Haaluk?” said Fareed.

  “Bi-khair,” said Zeke. I’m Fine.

  Zeke spoke Arabic, as well as English and Spanish, a combination he had chosen in school because it gave him communications skills that could be applied in most of the countries in the world. In fact, over 50% of the world’s countries used one of those as their primary language. And Arabic had been useful during Zeke’s counterintelligence days.

  “Come in and sit,” said Fareed. Zeke looked around the room, but saw nowhere to sit. Instead, he took a chair from the hall outside of Fareed’s door and set it in the center of the small room, facing the desk. He closed the door. Fareed stepped behind the desk and sat in the red leather rolling chair situated there. The chair
cushion sighed in protest as he lowered his considerable bulk.

  “Professor Fareed, I’m following up on some FBI research. I understand that you’re the Faculty Advisor for the Arabic Student Group.”

  “Yes, I am,” said Fareed. “I have been for several years.”

  “The FBI has found some communications activity to and from some people within that organization that could be attributed to terrorists,” Zeke continued. “I’m here to look into that.”

  “Yes,” said Fareed, stiffly. “Are you planning to cause trouble for these students?”

  “I’m on a fact-finding visit,” said Zeke. “Are you an honest man, Professor?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Fareed.

  “Tell me, how many members does your organization have?”

  “Well, you need to understand, we’re an open organization. We have members, but we also have many who come and go as it suits them. We welcome any student with origins in, or ties to, the Middle East. And our definition of that geography is fairly loose.”

  “Do you have organized meetings?” asked Zeke.

  “Occasionally, maybe quarterly. Mostly, we are here to help the new students assimilate into the university and to answer questions. We give them information and maps and we help them learn their way around,” said Fareed. “We also offer a ‘Big Brother/Little Brother’ mentor program, for those who wish to have a contact point to help them acclimate to the university. Many of these students are from very wealthy families, and we want to make their experiences here as good as possible.”

  “Of course,” said Zeke. “So how many are on your attendance rolls?”

  “There are actually nine Middle Eastern organizations on our campus,” he continued. “We all sponsor social and cultural activities. I would guess that there are three hundred students involved in those organizations. Plus those that come and go.”