by Jeff Siebold
The file went on to say that when he returned to the States, Ahmed was educated at NYU and, based on his passport records, had spent several semesters studying abroad in the Middle East. Multiple visas from Iraq, Syria, Jordan, and Saudi Arabia had been stamped in his passport, and he seemed to move between countries with ease.
According to the FBI records he had never been arrested, but he had been in the “general vicinity” when several significant events had taken place. He was on the FBI watch list, primarily based on his travel history and their “racial profiling.” The FBI records marked him as “proficient with weapons, particularly knives.”
Knives, thought Zeke. It takes a certain kind of person to slash and stab someone. The feel of the resistance as you force the knife through the muscle and fascia, the sudden stops as the blade hits bone, the drag on the blade as it slices across skin and muscle. Not for the faint of heart. In fact, you have to be both callous and experienced to do it right. The first time cutting someone is surprisingly gristly and sickening. For some, it’s always that way.
Zeke had known a man, an ex-Green Beret, who favored the knife. The soldier was very good and had been an instructor in blade combat for the Berets and the Army Rangers. When he had worked for Military Intelligence, Zeke trained for awhile under the Green Beret Gunny Sergeant, George Vurger. George was from Indianapolis and had grown up on a small cattle farm. He told Zeke that he’d learned to wield a blade at the slaughterhouse, where he’d worked as a teen fighting dead slabs of beef during the night shift. There was something dead in his eyes, Zeke thought, something missing. He’d told Zeke that it wasn’t long before he had been assigned to the kill floor of the slaughterhouse on a full-time basis.
Zeke was knife-proficient with both the normal grip and the reverse grip, though he preferred the normal grip. His deployment was automatic and instantaneous. He had been taught to immediately step into a knife attack, to intimidate and show no fear. He had learned the slashing and stabbing techniques from the soldier, and had practiced for days to master the skills. He was knowledgeable. A knife fight should last for a minimum amount of time, as every extra second increased the risk of a cut or slash.
“Put him down quickly,” George had preached. “Go get him and put him down.”
Zeke had learned well. But still, he preferred the martial arts, his Judo, as a first line of defense.
The rest of the file was sketchy. There were records of Ahmed’s whereabouts from time to time, and an occasional transcript of a phone conversation, usually in Arabic. But nothing terribly incriminating, and nothing the District Attorney would consider to be evidence. So the FBI had been watching from afar.
Well, thought Zeke, this guy has the skill and the personality for it. He could have drugged and tased Roger Taylor and then asphyxiated him without thinking twice. But what’s the motivation? A random encounter? Not likely, particularly aboard a cruise ship. And what kind of killer takes cruises?
* * *
“4273,” said the voice, Sally, as she answered the phone.
“Susan,” said Zeke, “how are you?”
“I’m well,” said Sally. Her voice almost purred. “And you?”
“Can we dig up anything more on the next one, on Isaac?” Zeke asked. “This feels like it may be something, but I need a link. Maybe phone records or a bank account?”
“We’re still checking,” said Sally. “But we found an account with a single large deposit in a Charlottesville bank account that was opened ninety days ago. It was opened with his mother’s name and address. It showed up on her credit report.”
“How substantial a deposit?” asked Zeke.
“It was five figures, an even $90,000,” said Sally.
That sounds about right for killing an FBI agent, thought Zeke.
“It’s the only deposit in that account. It was moved out via wire transfer to Grand Cayman the day it cleared. We’re checking for other accounts, also, and I’ll send what we find.” She paused. “And I’ll get back with you.”
“That will be nice,” said Zeke with a smile.
* * *
“I don’t know a Tony Rossi,” said the woman. “You’ve got the wrong house.”
Zeke was standing on the wooden porch of a suburban house in western Philadelphia. The woman, about five foot five and plump, looked like a Midwesterner. She was standing inside the screen door, holding it closed as she spoke with Zeke.
“How about Ahmed Isaac. Do you know him, Mrs. Isaac?”
The woman looked confused for a moment, and then she moved to close the door. “I’ll be back with a warrant and FBI agents to search this house,” said Zeke. “This afternoon.”
She paused. “Oh, you said Ahmed, didn’t you… Look, I haven’t seen him for a couple of years. He’s been different since he came back from Syria. He hasn’t wanted to come around. We barely hear from him.”
“This address was used on a bank account application three months ago. The account was opened in his name and yours. Was he living here then?” asked Zeke.
“No, like I said, a couple of years,” said Ahmed’s mother.
“And you have no idea where he may be living?” asked Zeke. “I need to chat with him.”
“No, none,” said the woman.
“Let him know that I stopped by,” said Zeke. “I mean, if he calls you.” He slid a business card between the door and the doorframe. It indicated he was with the FBI, a white lie.
“OK, but you’re not coming back to search my house again, right? Last time that happened, it took me a month to clean everything up. And there were some things missing, some valuable things.” She sneered at him, her voice rising toward shrill as she spoke, getting braver as he moved farther away.
“We’ll see,” said Zeke, and he smiled.
* * *
The two FBI agents sitting in the black Acura parked in the street across and down from Mrs. Isaac’s home turned on the surveillance equipment. Having worked on Roger Taylor’s project, they each had a personal interest in identifying Roger’s killer. Although they were technically software engineers, they had agreed enthusiastically when Zeke and Clive had requested their help. The whole FBI team was anxious to find Roger’s assassin.
Will McCathaty was a large Irishman with reddish blonde hair and pale skin. He looked more like a young truck driver than a software engineer, but he had graduated from MIT six years earlier with an advanced degree in computer science. “Let’s get this bloke,” said Will, as he flipped on a device set to monitor activity on the Isaac’s IP address and fiddled with a cell phone interceptor. The latter was basically a portable stingray device. Technically, both devices were borderline illegal, but the Patriot Act laws cut a wide berth for law enforcement in tracking and apprehending terrorists.
“His mom’s hiding something,” said the second agent, Alice Chan, who had been monitoring the live recording from Zeke’s top shirt button, a small high-powered camera and microphone, and she was now activating a prearranged link to the phone and cable company, enabling monitoring of communications from those sources inside the house. Alice was of Japanese-American descent, and had attended Stanford. After working with Yahoo for several years, Roger Taylor had recruited her for the FBI team he’d created.
“She knows something,” said Zeke quietly, stepping off the porch, and walking to a second vehicle, a Jeep Cherokee, parked at the curb. He was certain that Mrs. Isaac was watching him leave.
“Sure she does,” agreed Will, his voice deep and rich in Zeke’s small earpiece. “Let’s see what you shake free.”
Zeke got into the Jeep, started it, put it in gear and drove away. Nothing happened at the house.
“Hold on, I’ve got something…we’ve got the rat bastard!” said McCathaty, for Zeke’s benefit. “A cell call.” He noted the cell phone ID that was dialing, as well as the phone number dialed. Several tracking and recording processes were instantly and automatically initiated and the results were being fed to Quantico and DC via a cryptic sat
ellite link.
The call was answered, lasted five seconds, and no words were exchanged.
Chapter 32
“It was a cell phone. They were able to track it to Richmond, Virginia,” said Clive. He and Zeke and Kimmy were sitting in his office around the low coffee table, looking at the technical printouts of the tracking and recording from Philadelphia.
“Richmond is close to Charlottesville and the University of Virginia,” said Zeke. “It would have been easy for Ahmed to coordinate with the Arabic Student Group there.”
“Right,” said Clive. “The tracking was to a flat on the north side of the James River, downtown Richmond. It’s in an historic building, originally built for the tobacco trade, and converted to rental flats a few years ago. Our people think he’s been hiding out there, in plain sight, for several years. Research is ongoing.”
“The signal from ‘Mom’ was a non-signal, then,” said Kimmy. Kimmy had gone to work with Clive recently and seemed to be enjoying the diverse assignments. Kimmy’s ethereal side was a distinct contrast to her abilities and training. She was a short dark-haired girl who was constantly in motion. Her efficient motion contributed to an overall impression of competence and beauty. Today, she wore a pair of white twill slacks with a slight bellbottom, and a yellow silk cargo pocket shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow and affixed there with buttoned straps. Her thick, black hair was pulled back into a bun held in a simple sterling silver holder, and she wore matching silver jewelry on her wrists and fingers.
“She dialed, and he knew that she was being questioned, that someone was looking for him,” said Kimmy.
“Will he run?” asked Clive.
“I’d say maybe, but not yet,” said Zeke. “He’s been hiding for several years, staying low. Now he feels that he has a place where he’s somewhat safe, so until he gets another signal that someone’s looking for him, he’ll probably be more concerned about blending in and staying out of sight until it blows over. Not likely to pack and go based on a single, random inquiry in another city, I’d guess.”
“Sounds right,” said Clive. “Oh, and I think you heard that our research team put Ahmed in Miami the day of the cruise.”
“I did hear that,” said Zeke.
“More recently, the FBI looked through the luggage that Tim Hansen left in his cabin on the cruise ship when he disappeared. One large suitcase but with no fingerprints on it. Inside, they found a small taser. It had been wiped, too, but they found one of his fingerprints, a partial, on the device. They’re pretty certain that he was Roger’s killer.”
“It’s gotta be Ahmed. Guess I’ll visit with him before he gets another clue that we’ve found him,” said Zeke. “Can I take Kimmy along?”
“Can’t see why not,” said Clive. “Do you want me to alert the local authorities? Provide you some local backup?”
“No, I have some questions I’ll need to ask him privately, first. But you could ask them to stand by, to be ready to cleanup any mess.”
“All right, then,” said Clive. “And I have some supplies you may want to take with you.”
* * *
In the end, they drove the 100 miles south from DC to Richmond, primarily along Interstate 95. It was Monday, traffic was reasonable, and Kimmy checked the electronic maps as Zeke drove his rental car. The weather was cool but the sun was bright, sharing that clear light that gives everything a crisp, clean look, particularly in contrast with the bright blue sky.
“I love this light,” said Zeke.
Throughout the drive Kimmy hummed to herself, folded and unfolded her legs under her, stretched, and fiddled with the luggage bags in the back seat. She talked on her phone, dug for her glasses, and read reports. Zeke watched her rock back and forth in time to her personal, silent music and then he watched her move her seat into several unconventional positions, restless.
They arrived in Richmond without incident and ate a light lunch. Then they headed for Ahmed’s flat. Since the initial connection of cell phones between the Philadelphia house and the Richmond flat, the FBI had been monitoring both the Richmond phone and the IP of Ahmed Isaac’s Internet connection using some of Roger Taylor’s software. Zeke and Kimmy arrived at the flat with a high level of confidence that Ahmad was inside. They drove around the building once, and Zeke noted the excellent linkages from this location…Interstate 95 north or south was an easy two blocks away, and the Downtown Expressway heading west to the bypass was right across the street. Eastbound Interstate 64 was less than two miles up I-95 north. They were all good escape routes. Ahmad distancing himself from the flat would be a simple matter.
They chose a downtown boutique hotel, the Berkeley, located within an easy walk of Ahmed’s loft apartments. They checked into two rooms, agreed to nap, and then meet again for dinner.
* * *
After dinner, at nine o’clock in the evening, Zeke and Kimmy returned to their rooms and changed for the evening. A few minutes later, Kimmy knocked on Zeke’s door. He opened it.
“Ready?” she asked as she bounced into the room.
“You bet,” said Zeke. He handed her the car keys. He was dressed in black jeans and wore crepe-soled shoes, also black. They left the hotel and Zeke walked toward Ahmed’s loft while Kimmy got the car from the parking garage and met him there. She parked on the street.
Kimmy was always a bundle of energy It’s part of her personality, Zeke thought as he watched her. All that energy seems to make her glow, somehow. Despite her odd appearance and, at times odder habits, Kimmy was surprisingly competent.
They left the room, and Zeke felt the Glock 17 in a holster at the small of his back, fully loaded with a round in the chamber. It was a reliable weapon that was both light and comfortable, while deadly enough. The magazine was filled with 9mm hollow point rounds, designed for maximum impact at close range. Taking a gun to a knife fight, he thought to himself.
His backup weapon was an AK-47 Field Knife, which he kept sheathed and clipped to the bottom of his right side pocket opening, the blade and sheath in his pocket for easy access. He also wore a light Kevlar vest with three-quarter length sleeves under his loose, midnight blue v-neck sweater. According to the manufacturer, Kevlar, a plastic, was five times stronger than steel on an equal weight basis. It stops bullets and, more importantly tonight, Zeke thought, it stops knife blades.
Kimmy was dressed in black, an unusual color for her, and was sitting in Zeke’s car on the opposite curb, lights out, engine silent. Her black hair was pulled back with a black band into a ponytail and she wore no jewelry. She was holding a polymer version of the Jerico 941 handgun. The Jerico was developed by IWI, Israeli Weapon Industries, and uses a 9mm load. Not surprisingly, Kimmy’s Jerico was also loaded with hollow-point bullets. Kimmy had served with the men and women of Kidon, the “Tip of the Spear,” while in Israel’s Mossad, and she was no stranger to a fight.
They settled in to wait, something they were both good at.
* * *
Around eleven o’clock Monday evening, Zeke and Kimmy watched as Ahmed left his apartment building and strolled down South 12th Street toward East Canal. She followed him in the car and Zeke followed on foot. Ahmed had walked east on Canal and then a block or so before he’d turned and stepped into the Ibiza Underground. As the door opened, Zeke heard loud dance music escaping from inside the establishment. Traffic had been brisk at that time, and Zeke had gotten a good look at Ahmed. Unlike the picture on file with the FBI, Ahmed was now clean shaven and wore his hair cut short in what looked like a $200 haircut. He wore a light jacket over an orange cotton shirt, and jeans slightly torn at the knees. Distressed and stylish, thought Zeke. Ahmed’s shoes had stylish canvas tops and crepe soles.
Two hours later, Kimmy spotted Ahmed leaving the nightclub with a tall, athletic-looking blonde girl. She wore black tights, Michael Kors riding boots and a long green wool sweater under a black leather jacket. Her long blonde hair was pulled into a loose braid, and she was laughing at something Ahmed had sa
id as she followed him out the door to the street. They continued to talk as they walked together toward his flat.
With Zeke on foot and Kimmy driving, they followed Ahmed and the girl back to the flat from a distance. It was obvious that the two were heading in that direction, and their leisurely pace allowed for easy surveillance. They were holding hands and talking as they walked. Then they entered the apartment building through the main door with Ahmed’s magnetic card key. Kimmy pulled to the curb and Zeke returned to the car.
“Might be a long wait,” said Zeke. “I think they’re in for a while.”
* * *
Sally had provided them an apartment number and an IP address, which Kimmy was presently monitoring on a small monitoring device. There had been no activity on the Internet or the cell phone for the past ninety minutes. Kimmy felt fairly sure that Ahmed was sleeping or otherwise distracted.
Zeke had closed his eyes and listened hard in the night. The downtown area of Richmond appeared to be making a comeback, with nightlife and restaurants and rental housing. He smelled the river and the exhaust from trucks on the nearby freeways; he heard the heavy sounds of diesel engines shifting gears as they passed by; and he felt the cool night air on his face. “If I’m right, we should be clear for action in a couple hours,” Zeke said to Kimmy.
“Works for me,” said Kimmy. She started the QX80 and pulled around the corner into a parking space shaded from the streetlights.
Chapter 33
Very early on Tuesday morning, Zeke stepped out of the vehicle and stretched in the darkness.
With a light tune in his head—“Desperado” by The Eagles, the 1973 original—Zeke moved to the side of the building and into a doorway. It was well into the night, now, and the street was empty. The downtown bars had closed for business two and a half hours ago. The last of the drunks had left the area a while back. Zeke knew because he’d watched them from the shadows.
