by Jeff Siebold
“Any radical fringe types?” asked Zeke.
“No, no,” said Fareed. “We are all gentle, peace-loving people, as are Middle Easterners everywhere.” He thought a moment. “Sometimes some of the ‘Students for Peace and Justice in Palestine’ can get excited, but it is mostly rhetoric…adolescent noise. We watch closely, I assure you.”
“Do you have a list of the officers and the members of the Arabic Student Group?” asked Zeke.
“Yes, certainly,” said Fareed. “But remember, this is the core of the organization. Many others come and go. There are 21,000 students enrolled here at the university.” He handed Zeke a stapled list of names and phone numbers several pages thick. “I prepared this knowing that you were coming here. This is our membership roll.”
“Thank you,” said Zeke, taking the list. “I assume this is a public list.”
“It is. You must know this, though,” said Fareed, “the University of Virginia is one of the most tolerant colleges in the nation, particularly friendly toward Middle Eastern students, and it offers both an Arabic Student Group and a Middle Eastern Mentoring Program for undergraduate students. The Arabic Student Group has been active in helping new Middle Eastern students integrate in the school, providing social support and, through faculty advisors, organizing various group and solo activities. These are not terrorists.” Fareed was leaning forward in his chair with both elbows on his desk.
While Fareed spoke, Zeke looked over the membership list that Professor Fareed had given him, mentally comparing the phone numbers and e-mail addresses on the list to those isolated by Roger Taylor’s software programs. There were several matches that he saw immediately.
“Can you think of anything that has happened recently that is unusual or troublesome?” asked Zeke. “As it pertains to Middle Eastern students or the Arabic Student Group?” Zeke was fairly certain that Fareed’s feet didn’t reach the floor behind the desk. He smiled to himself.
“Just the missing girl,” said Fareed. “I actually thought you were coming to see me about that, until your secretary told me differently.”
“Pardon?” said Zeke. “Missing girl?”
“Yes, sir, indeed that is a mystery,” said Fareed.
Chapter 21
“The campus is on alert and the campus police conducted a room by room search of the on-campus buildings,” Fareed explained. “It is highly unusual that she disappeared. She was always reliable and dependable in meeting her commitments. She was known as a good student looking at a bright career in medicine.”
Fareed’s sing-song voice belied his age and weight. “She had told some of her closest friends that she intended to go to work for Doctors Without Borders, once she’d completed her degree.”
The girl, a white American from the Washington, DC area had disappeared from campus four days before. She was a sophomore in a pre-med program and had left her last class of the day Friday at three o’clock in the afternoon and had not been seen or heard from since.
“Her name was Catherine Cook. She was a tall blonde girl with blue eyes and a serious disposition. Very serious,” he said.
How long had she been associated with the Arabic Student Group?” asked Zeke.
“She’s been involved in the group for some time, more than a year,” said Fareed. “She was a regular, she attended several functions that the ASG sponsored, including the mixer held last week, before she disappeared.”
“Did she live on campus?” asked Zeke.
“Yes, in McDermott Hall, a co-ed dorm,” Fareed continued. “She generally kept to herself though.”
“Her absence might not have been noticed,” continued Professor Fareed, “had her parents not contacted the school Monday morning to report the girl missing. After a hasty search of her apartment, the campus police interviewed her friends and found that no one had seen Catherine since Friday afternoon.
As Fareed explained, Zeke looked at the membership list and noted that Catherine Cook’s phone number matched one of Roger Taylor’s suspected terrorist connections. “Who’s heading up the investigation?” asked Zeke.
“That would be our campus police, with the help of the Charlottesville police, I’m sure,” said Fareed. “Captain Crusoe is the head of our campus police.”
“Where can I find him?” asked Zeke.
* * *
“How can I help you?” asked Captain Crusoe, a tall, thin man with very long arms and legs that gave him the look of a scarecrow. He was dressed like a cop, and he wore shiny black cop shoes. His attitude was both aloof and cautious at the same time.
“I was checking on the progress in the search for the missing girl, Catherine Cook,” said Zeke, after he had introduced himself as an FBI consultant.
“That’s no longer in our jurisdiction,” said Crusoe. His brown hair was cut boot camp short, and a pair of white Oakley reflective sunglasses hung from a cord around his neck. He’s being dismissive and protective, Zeke thought.
“Who’s investigating, then?” asked Zeke.
“Town Police, Charlottesville,” said Crusoe. “Once we finished the search yesterday, the case went to the townies. The girl’s not on campus.”
“Did you find anything of interest?” asked Zeke.
“Not really,” said Crusoe, standing from behind his desk and looking to the door. “If you don’t mind, I have a couple matters that need my attention, though. Sorry.”
Zeke sat a couple of beats longer. “Who’s in charge in Charlottesville?” he asked.
“That would be Lieutenant Mann,” said the Captain. “Police headquarters is downtown, between Market Street and Main.”
* * *
Zeke stopped by his hotel room on his way to town. Like most things, he looked at a hotel room in terms of its functionality and usefulness. His selection criteria included interior hallways for limited and monitored access, a king bed (which usually provided a desk and chair arrangement or a sitting area in the room), a split system air conditioner for better temperature control, and a national franchise name for anonymity. Wifi and all-day coffee service in the lobby were also a must.
This time, he’d settled on a mid-priced hotel located just south of the bypass and surrounded by a few decent restaurants. The hotel was convenient to the campus as well as the Charlottesville police headquarters. Once in his room, Zeke checked the Arabic Student Group membership list again, and compared it against the data he had copied from Roger Taylor’s Charlottesville files. Zeke confirmed the several matches, and noted the names and numbers.
Interestingly, Zeke thought, the girl, Catherine Cook, had been communicating with the suspected terrorist via cell phone, and her calls were within the grouping that Roger’s algorithm had identified as likely terror cell communications. She had also sent and received communications, mostly e-mails, from one of the IP addresses that Roger had tracked. Her phone records showed that up until the time of her disappearance Friday afternoon she had been in regular but infrequent contact with an Asad Hassan. Her phone communication with Asad had heated up for two hours, but then all communication had stopped.
Zeke dialed the number shown for Catherine Cook and was immediately transferred to voice mail. He hung up. Most likely, her phone has been turned off, thought Zeke. Or the battery died.
It was approaching 5:15 when Zeke took his car to the police headquarters.
“I’m looking for Lieutenant Mann,” he said to the Sergeant at the front desk. “Is he still here?”
“Sure is,” said the Sergeant, who’s name badge indicated that his last name was Bailey. “Who should I tell him is calling?”
“I’m an FBI consultant, and I’d like to chat with him about the Cook girl,” Zeke said.
“FBI, huh? Well, he’s pretty busy, but I’ll see if he’ll see you.” Bailey made the call, and a few minutes later, a very average looking man stepped into the lobby. He said, “Traynor?”
“Yep,” Zeke said.
“Are you here officially, with the FBI, I mean?�
�
“Yes, joint FBI and ATF. I’m a consultant, and actually, we’re working on a different matter that may have intersected in some way with your situation,” said Zeke. “I just want to talk for a few minutes.”
“Follow me,” said Mann. He looked like a science teacher, sort of plum shaped and husky, with his hair and fingernails a bit too long. He wore tortoise shell glasses—the cheap looking kind—and his suit was definitely off the rack. His blue oxford shirt matched his eyes, and his jacket was missing. On his right hip he was carrying a Glock 17 Gen 4 semiautomatic pistol. Zeke recognized it as a 4th generation Glock by the rough texture on the body of the gun.
“What different matter?” asked Mann over his shoulder as he walked. He walked with a weariness that belied his apparent age.
“Automatic weapons,” said Zeke, “being sold to terrorists.”
Mann stopped and turned around and looked at Zeke. “How does that tie to the girl who went missing? She’s not Muslim,” said Mann.
“She may have been close to the terrorist group,” said Zeke. “We’re not sure; we’re still looking into it.”
“Can I see your ID again, please?” said Mann when they reached his office. Zeke showed him and mentioned a couple of names from the Richmond FBI office. Mann dialed the number of the regional office from memory, and spoke with the Special Agent in Charge. He confirmed Zeke’s involvement.
“So how can we help?” Mann asked.
* * *
“4273,” said the female voice. Zeke could hear the smile behind the words. Sally had answered on the second ring, as he knew she would.
The number Zeke had dialed did not, in fact, end with 4273. Sally had intentionally reversed the last two digits. A random caller would likely think they had dialed wrong, and the second call to the number would always go unanswered.
Sally, Zeke’s contact point for The Agency, was everything Marilyn Monroe. Her blonde hair was cut short and sassy like the diva’s, and she took great pains to dress and act like Marilyn. Her clothing was carefully picked to accentuate the look, and over time she had taken on Marilyn’s personality and many of her characteristics, most of which belied Sally’s very high I.Q. Her voice was sometimes wispy, and she loved to act ethereal, vague and sexy.
“Hello, Theresa,” said Zeke. It was Tuesday evening. Calls to the agency were screened closely, and Zeke used a simple word code to confirm his identity. He called Sally by a first name that started with the first letter of the current day.
“Tell Eric that I’ve come across a situation that appears to be complimentary to our current efforts,” said Zeke. Eric was their code name for Clive when they were speaking on an open phone line. “Not sure how it ties in, Theresa, but there’s a definite connection.”
“Will do,” said Sally.
Zeke was standing outside the Charlottesville Police Headquarters enjoying the spring dusk. He watched as a pair of yellow cloudless sulphers fluttered by.
“I’ll be staying here overnight to give me time to look around. In the meantime, get together everything you can about a pre-med student at UVA by the name of Catherine Cook, and send it on. There should be something in the local newspaper…she went missing last Friday, and the Charlottesville police are handling her disappearance. A Lieutenant Mann.”
“Check your e-mail in an hour, after you eat,” said Sally. “What else?”
“That’s it for now,” said Zeke with a smile. “Thanks, Theresa.”
Chapter 22
There are about two hundred thousand leaves on just one of these silver maple trees, Zeke mused. He was back on the University of Virginia campus in Charlottesville on Wednesday morning. Zeke had parked the rental car and was walking across campus to Catherine Cook’s dorm, the last place she had been seen before she disappeared five days earlier. There have to be forty-five trees within sight, he thought, looking around. That’s nine million leaves, plus or minus, he thought idly.
The majority of the buildings on the Charlottesville campus of UVA were brick with white trim, and, not surprising, they followed a traditional colonial design. It was an unseasonably warm winter, and students on foot and bike riders were everywhere. There were bicycles parked all along the brick sidewalks, most chained to bike racks standing near the decorative fencing.
McDermott Hall was an on-campus, brick and white two-story structure that looked less like a dorm and more like a 1980s apartment complex. Doubtless named for some long-forgotten alumni donor, the building had small windows and a large, grassy area in front that led to a small parking lot and an office. Zeke entered the office.
“Hello?” he called. There was no immediate answer.
From the direction of the open door to the room behind the office, Zeke heard some shuffling, and then a female voice said, “Just a sec.” Zeke waited.
A few moments later, a twenty-something girl wearing jeans, riding boots, and a knit sweater perhaps two sizes too large stepped through the open door and into the office. She looked at Zeke and frowned for a second. Then she set the files she was holding on the desk, leaned across and extended her hand. “I’m Dottie,” she said. “I’m the RA. The Resident Assistant.”
Dottie’s make-up was apparently applied heavily and hastily, and her black hair was arranged in a haphazard bun on top of her head. She had a slightly doughy face, and she wore black-rimmed glasses. There was a tattoo of a small, red heart on the side of her neck.
“Hi, Dottie,” said Zeke. “I think Lieutenant Mann called to tell you I would be stopping by?”
“Oh, yes, you’re here to see Catherine’s apartment, right?” she asked.
“Yes, her parents are concerned about her, since they haven’t heard from her for five days,” said Zeke.
“I know,” said Dottie. “She hasn’t been around here at all. I spoke to her mom a couple days ago about it, too. I promised to let them know if we see her, or if she comes back.”
“Good,” said Zeke. “I just came by to take a look at her room, and to talk with her friends. Who was she close with, Dottie?”
“Catherine? No one really,” said Dottie. “She was a senior, so she knew people, but she didn’t hang out with anyone in particular. Mostly studied.”
“Any roommate or close girl friend?” asked Zeke.
“Not really. I think she was a member of a couple of clubs…you know, student groups, maybe theater or something,” Dottie said. “But, she was pretty much a loner.”
“How do you know she was in clubs?” asked Zeke.
“Well, it was more of an impression. She went out in the evenings a lot, took her bike. There aren’t many classes that meet after dinner. That’s usually social time.”
“How long did she live here?” asked Zeke.
“Oh, not long. She moved in just before the winter semester, after Christmas break.”
“Several months ago, then?” asked Zeke.
“About three months,” Dottie said, preoccupied with another thought. “You know, I figured that she was in a Theater Club or something like that because she always seemed to have part of a costume on when she left…or a bag with a costume in it. She’d wear long skirts, long sleeve shirts or sweaters, like that. I know it’s winter, but it seemed pretty extreme. It’s been a mild winter.”
“And she took her bike?” asked Zeke, to keep her talking.
“Almost everywhere,” said Dottie.
“Did she have a boyfriend?” asked Zeke.
“Haven’t seen one recently,” said Dottie. “That’s part of my responsibility as an RA, to keep an eye on the boy-girl things in the building. Never had any occasion to be concerned about Catherine. She was very conservative, in her dress, I mean.”
“Can we take a look at her room?” asked Zeke.
“Sure, let me grab the key and lock the office up,” said Dottie.
“OK, I’ll be outside. I have a quick call to make,” said Zeke.
* * *
“4273,” said Sally on the second ring of the
phone.
“Hello, Wynona,” said Zeke. “Checking in.” He used the word code to confirm his identity.
“Hi, hold on a second,” said Sally.
“OK, I’m back.” She added, “Eric says it would be good to see you at eleven-thirty tomorrow. You two can grab some lunch first.”
“OK, good. Where?”
“He mentioned the Elephant and Castle, near the office,” said Sally. “Apparently, it’s a British pub…”
“No doubt it is,” said Zeke.
“I Street and 19th Street northwest,” she continued, with a smile in her voice.
“Will do,” said Zeke. “Any change in the situation?”
“Nope, status is the same. Check back early and often,” said Sally, and she hung up.
“Thanks, Wynona,” said Zeke. One benefit of an eidetic memory, thought Zeke, is that I save a lot on notepaper.
“Ready?” asked Dottie, stepping out of the office and locking the door behind her with a key.
“Let’s go,” said Zeke.
* * *
By the looks of her room, Catherine Cook was a neat freak. There was nothing out of place, no clothing on the bed or the floor or the furniture. The bed was made with military precision. There wasn’t much on the small desk, but what there was was arranged and positioned neatly, and equidistant from the edges. The walls were painted a dark green with white trim, standard colors for these units, according to Dottie, and the furniture included the bed, a dresser, the desk and chair, a wingback reading chair with a cheap floor lamp positioned behind it, and a small table next to the chair. There was a single book on the table.
Dottie confirmed that the apartment came furnished, and that this was the landlord’s furniture. There was a small bathroom with a single sink and a shower attached to the bedroom, and there was a wall closet across from the foot of the bed. The room had one medium sized window.
