by Jeff Siebold
“It’s Kusa Mahshi,” he said. “Zucchini stuffed with ground beef, rice and nuts.” He opened a second container.
“Yalanji,” said Zeke. “Leaves stuffed with rice and vegetables…and the spice mix is unique. It’s Bharat. It contains heavy amounts of allspice, black pepper and cinnamon, as well as small amounts of nutmeg, cloves and cardamom. Very distinctive. Here, smell.” He held the open container out to Clive.
“Overpowering,” said Clive. “Cardamom?”
“Mysore cardamom, actually. The second most expensive spice behind Saffron. It has a distinctive and memorable smell,” said Zeke. He looked at the containers again. “These are both Syrian dishes.”
* * *
“That seems like a lot of coincidence all at once,” said Clive. He and Zeke were sitting around a tall pub table in the back of a Washington restaurant named The Alibi. There was a large Union Jack framed on the wall behind them. They had just come from the second girl, Andrea Cook’s, house in Georgetown. “Let’s think about this while it’s still fresh.”
The small restaurant was located about six blocks east of The Agency’s DC offices, closer to the U.S. Capitol and Union Station. The menu offered a variety of British fare, and the draught beer was served at room temperature. Clive had ordered a Cottage Pie and some Sausage Rolls, and was drinking a Guinness Extra Stout. Zeke had ordered a Vegan spinach salad and a black and tan.
“What we’ve got is strange at least,” said Zeke. “Two sisters, both seemingly on track with their lives—one with college and one with a new position as a nurse—who both disappear on the same day.”
“But stranger,” said Clive, “is that there is no sign of struggle or foul play. We don’t have what you’d normally expect in a situation like this if even one girl had gone missing.”
“Have you re-checked for bodies?” asked Zeke.
“Yes. Nothing in either jurisdiction as of ten minutes ago, according to Sally,” said Clive, looking at his phone.
“The common denominator appears to be a Middle Eastern connection of some sort,” said Zeke. “The younger girl with the Qur’an, and the older sister with left-over Yalanji in the fridge. That’s too much of a coincidence.”
The waitress, a young red-haired girl, dressed in costume with red shorts and a peasant blouse, set their food on the table.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.
“Just need some eating irons,” said Clive. The waitress nodded and brought two sets of silverware, wrapped in napkins. Zeke smiled at the phrase.
“Here you go,” she said to Clive.
“OK,” said Clive. “There’s definitely a Middle Eastern connection that flows through all of this. Don’t forget about Catherine’s cell phone number showing up on Roger’s list of terrorist cells. I’ll circle back and chat with the parents again to see if they have any idea what that’s all about. You might want to see to the Arabic Student Group at the University. See how strong the connection is between them and Catherine.”
“I agree,” said Zeke. “I’ll head back down to Charlottesville tomorrow.”
Chapter 25
Charlottesville was ten degrees warmer than DC, and the Elm and Black Walnut trees were showing an early spring bloom. Zeke drove carefully through the quiet streets of the city, past the police department building again and west toward the Virginia campus. It was about four o’clock Friday afternoon, and the three-hour drive had been uneventful.
Roger Taylor’s file notes had specified that there were some differences in the communication patterns that he had isolated in this location. For one, the monitored communication links and patterns appeared to be more sophisticated and included Skype and International Long Distance calls in the mix. The primary IP address was a broadband transmission with a Nighthawk R7000 router, much faster and more sophisticated than typically used. And the encryption used in this IP location, a rental duplex located off campus near the University of Virginia, was also very sophisticated.
The FBI Stingray devices had uncovered frequent calls to Yemen, Syria, Iraq and Jordan originating from this location. By themselves, the calls were enough to raise suspicion and warrant a second look.
A short while later, Zeke checked into an off-campus hotel, a few blocks north of the rental duplex. He planned to get a firsthand look at the house tonight and then develop a plan to get close to its occupants.
Zeke changed to dark jeans and a navy blue wool turtleneck sweater. He wore black crepe soled shoes. He parked his car near the campus and strolled south along the empty streets. Being a weeknight, the area around the campus was quiet. An occasional car drove by.
Zeke had seen from the aerial photo that the house was a two-story, beige vinyl-sided duplex in an older neighborhood, part of a development with mature trees and foliage. It was located on a two-lane street with a dense wooded area behind it. There was a satellite dish on the roof, which looked a lot like a DirecTV antenna.
After dark, Zeke entered Forest Hills Park, a neighborhood park that ran parallel with the street the duplex faced. He walked along a jogging trail and approached the duplex from the rear through a dense stand of trees. This house, like many in the neighborhood, had a fenced back yard, in this case a six-foot wooden privacy fence that needed a coat of paint. Peeking between the warped boards, Zeke was able to see the back of the house. The sliding glass door that opened onto the small concrete pad in the rear of the house was blocked by what looked like gold drapery, and the two upstairs bedroom windows had drapes and shades pulled closed.
He waited for a moment, quietly, and then made some small sounds, small, but loud enough for a dog to hear. There was no response. Good, he thought.
Staying outside the fencing, Zeke circled the house. The side of the house that was unattached in this side-by-side duplex had one small window located in about the center of the wall. The roof was sloped with asphalt shingles. The house was quiet.
From the front corner of the structure, Zeke noticed that there was one car in the driveway. It was a red Honda Civic. He listened carefully for the sound of a cooling engine, but there was no noise. He stepped to the driveway and touched the hood and felt the cool. The car hadn’t been driven for a while. Zeke moved down the block, out of sight of the house, and crossed the street. He circled behind the duplexes on the south side of the street and found a dark area to wait, set back in the trees and away from the streetlights.
An hour and five minutes later, at eleven forty-three, the front door of the beige duplex opened and three men walked out. They were all dark haired, two with beards. They looked to be between eighteen and twenty-five, Zeke judged, and they wore loose fitting jeans and t-shirts, with nylon or denim jackets covering them. The first man out the door wore a black baseball cap, the second man no cap, and the third wore a crochet taqiyah, a knit cap.
The three men looked around quickly and then got into the Honda. The driver, the one with the baseball cap, started the car, backed it out of the driveway and drove down the street. Zeke noted the number on the Virginia license plate.
After they left, Zeke used his silenced handgun to shoot the bulb from the streetlight nearest the house. Then he walked back to his car.
* * *
The next day, Zeke joined the Arabic Student Group in their scheduled, on-campus meeting.
“Ahlen,” said the man who greeted him before the meeting started, “I am Asad.”
“Marhabaan,” said Zeke. “My name is Ibrahim.”
“Where are you from, Ibrahim?”
“I’ve transferred in to UVA from Texas,” Zeke said. “Professor Fareed suggested that I might join you for this meeting.” They were standing together in the front of a large room with a dozen or so students standing and talking in small groups of two or three. Asad had stood and introduced himself when Zeke entered.
“Certainly,” said Asad. “We’ll be starting soon. This meeting is primarily for those students who would like some help with their curriculum or scheduling
. We have a couple of grad students who are assisting in getting the right classes lined up for various majors.”
“I can see where that would be helpful,” said Zeke. “I’m actually a grad student, working on my Ph.D. in cultural studies. In the Department of English,” he added.
“Where are you from?” asked Asad. Just then, three younger students approached them.
“From Jordan,” said Zeke. He smiled easily. “Amman. My mother is from the states, but my father was born in Amman.”
The three students who had approached Asad and Zeke waited respectfully to be recognized. “These are three of our members,” said Asad. “This is Hasif.” He pointed to a man with dark hair and a beard who looked older than a typical student. He was holding a Qur’an at his side. Hasif nodded to Zeke. “And this is Fakhir.” Asad held his hand out toward the second man, who was wearing the crochet taqiyah, the cap that Zeke had seen the night before. Both men had been in the group that left the duplex in the red Honda.
“And this is Gabby,” said Asad. He introduced a dark haired, dark-eyed girl.
“Marhabaan,” said Zeke to the three, with a slight bow. “My name is Ibrahim.”
“Asad, we should start the meeting,” said Hasif.
“Yes, you’re right,” said Asad. To Zeke he said, “It’s good to meet you. We’re glad to help you any way we can.”
“Perhaps, if I stay around after the meeting, you’d introduce me to some of the members of this group?”
“It will be my pleasure,” said Asad. “Now, please, excuse me.” He stepped away to the front table.
“There will be a recruiting party tonight at eight,” said Hasif. “I hope you can make it.”
“Where will it be held?” asked Zeke.
“In a meeting room in the Student Union,” said Hasif. “This building, but across the hall.”
“You’re recruiting for the Arabic Student Group?” asked Zeke.
“We do this several times every semester,” said Hasif. “Our group is very inclusive, and we encourage anyone who might be interested to check it out.”
“Perhaps I will,” said Zeke. “I appreciate the invitation. Will everyone be there?”
“Yes, it’s a big event. All of us will be there.”
Chapter 26
Zeke planned to attend the recruiting party. But first, he thought, I have some work to do.
At 7:35 PM, dressed in dark colors and with clear, light plastic latex gloves covering his hands, Zeke walked back to the park and followed the jogging path behind the duplex he had visited the night before. There was still some light as he eased himself along the side of the building and saw that the driveway was empty. No cars, and no sign of anyone nearby. They’re at the party, he thought. He returned to the rear of the duplex and quietly scaled the wooden privacy fence.
Once in the small back yard of the duplex, Zeke tested the lock on the sliding glass door. It was of inferior quality, contractor’s grade, and there was no security bar in the empty track. So he forced it open and walked through the kitchen into the small living area of the home.
Zeke stood silently for two minutes, listening and sensing for another person. He walked to the thermostat and shut off the air conditioning. In a moment, the air was very still and he heard no other sounds, thus sensing that the house was empty. To be certain, though, he drew his Sig Sauer. It was the smaller 224 model for ease of concealment, and he proceeded to check each room for any sign of life. There was none.
Relaxing somewhat, Zeke holstered the weapon and began a search of the duplex. He was still wearing the gloves, which gave him the ability to conduct a fast search. What slowed him down was the mess.
The dining room table was covered with dirty dishes and pizza boxes, and there were wet teacups and half empty soda bottles leaving rings on the polished wood. Zeke moved these around, but found nothing of interest there. In the living room, the low coffee table was strewn with a variety of what looked like trash, papers and envelopes stacked randomly, maps of various locations in the United States, receipts and plane tickets. There were four U.S. Passports on the table. Possibly forgeries, he thought. The Islamic State has the technology to print US passports. He mentally noted the names and pertinent information on each one.
A cell phone was sitting on top of a stack of mail. The mail included some utility bills, advertisements, correspondence from UVA addressed to one of the students and an envelope with a return address in Lexington, Kentucky. The envelope was addressed to Asad Hassan, but at a different address, what looked like a Charlottesville apartment, and it appeared to contain some sort of glossy brochure. Zeke slid the brochure part way out of the envelope. A charity event in Kentucky. That’s odd, he thought.
Zeke was looking for evidence. Something that would point to the group’s affiliation with terrorists, or something in support of the suspected underground railroad, taking students into Syria to help with the IS fight. He found what he needed in the kitchen on the counter beneath several empty boxes of Ramen noodles and an empty box of macaroni and cheese. It was a set of two ticket stub receipts for plane tickets. Each was for a one-way trip between Washington, DC and Ankara, Turkey, dated the prior Saturday, seven days ago. They were in the names of Catherine and Andrea Cook. Zeke stepped into the dining area of the small duplex and saw the eight boxes of H&K automatic rifles on the floor against the wall. That’s enough to authorize a raid, he thought.
* * *
At nine fifteen, Zeke joined the ASG party. The Arabic Student Group recruiting party was actually a fairly tame affair. It was being held in a large meeting room of the Student Union building, and on the far wall, non-alcoholic beverages and snacks were laid out on tables covered in yellow plastic tablecloths. Students were gathered into small groups of three or four each and were talking quietly. On the near wall, a display showed color pictures and proffered brochures about the organization, with several group photos of students standing together and looking at the camera in front of various school buildings.
“Hello, Ibrahim,” called a voice from behind him. Zeke recognized Hasif’s voice and turned to meet the young man. Hasif was stepping away from two other young men, who were watching him depart. He walked to Zeke and gave a slight bow. Zeke bowed back.
“You were held up?” asked Hasif.
“Just running late,” said Zeke.
“I’m glad you’re here, Ibrahim,” said Hasif. “Let me introduce you to some of our members.”
Over the next hour, Zeke met and talked with a variety of young men and women who were members of the ASG. The underlying theme seemed to be that of empathy toward the Syrian rebels, and distrust for the Syrian government and President Bashar al-Assad.
The students were generally idealistic and incensed at the unfairness of the situation in Syria, and the failure of the United States and other countries to take enough action to set things right.
“It’s not only al-Assad,” said the young man Fakhir. “It is also his British-born wife, Asthma al-Assad. They’re both out of touch with the reality of the civil war.” This discourse was a common theme at the party.
Zeke, however, was thinking about the duplex.
As soon as it was reasonable, Zeke extracted himself from the ASG gathering and made his excuses to head home. He’d called The Agency before arriving at the party and shared the information he uncovered in the duplex raid. He’d sent Sally a photo of the two ticket stub receipts he’d found, and of the gun cases, and she was arranging for a search warrant for the duplex.
* * *
“I’m tired of waiting around here,” said Ismael. “We need to keep moving forward. We need to take action!”
To Asad it seemed that the boy was working himself into a frenzy.
“I, for one, am ready to strike them. They can’t resist the might of Allah. They will be crushed.” Ismael walked around the inside of the duplex, pacing, ranting to the others. There were ten of the faithful there, besides Asad, and all were calm, som
e even trying to sleep in preparation for what was to come.
Asad said, “Yes, Ismael. The strong arm of Allah will conquer. But we must stay with the plan, the time frame.”
“I say we strike now,” said the young man. “They cannot survive our strength.”
“Ismael,” said Asad, “show me your medicine. Your pills.”
Ismael stopped in front of Asad. “I cannot,” he said. “I took the medicine, and now I can see clearly. We will be victors! We cannot be defeated! We must move quickly!”
Asad shivered. Ismael had taken the captagon tablets and was feeling invincible. It was way too early. The planned strike was weeks away, but the boy had once again jumped the gun, and now his action was a threat to their security. It would be impossible to control him with the medicine in his system.
The captagon had been made by Jari, a member and a student of advanced chemistry at UVA. It was simple, a combination of two drugs, theophylline and amphetamine. The drug produced a feeling of pleasure and increased alertness in the men, and it reduced their need for sleep and for food. With it, they felt invincible.
Asad looked around at the others. Besides Ismael, the youngest of the group, he saw Amed, a tall, lanky young man, Jari the chemist, and several others. Asha’ath and Sa’ood were outside, keeping watch for anything that might alarm them.
In the kitchen of the apartment, in the shadows preparing a small meal for the men sat the girl known to them as Gabby. In the next room, on the floor against the wall, was a neatly stacked pile of eight boxes, each containing a fully automatic Heckler & Koch G36 and the accompanying ammunition.
Asad rose and stepped into the hallway of the apartment and glanced into one of the bedrooms. He saw the folding tables with the vests neatly placed on top of them. As an important recruiter for the cause and as spiritual leader, he knew that he would be gone well before the strike occurred. After the strike, he was planning to return to the university, to keep the railroad going, and to recruit others to fight.
