by Chris Culver
Chapter 22
With a helicopter in the air and my car beside Nassir’s Cadillac at the clubhouse, escape wasn’t an option. I pulled out my cell phone and called Kevin Havelock at the Bureau. His phone rang four times before going to voicemail.
“Havelock, it’s Ash Rashid. I’m at Nassir’s camp right now, and I think I’m going to be arrested. If these are your guys, let them know I’m here. If they’re not, I’d appreciate it if you called Homeland Security to let them know I work for you.”
I hung up immediately and began dialing my wife’s number. Trails of dust followed the convoy of vehicles as they sped across the gravel road. The helicopter I had heard earlier streaked overhead and hovered in the center of the property a couple hundred feet from the ground. Hopefully Nassir and his friends would know to give up without a fight. They didn’t need to get hurt. Hannah’s cell rang twice before someone picked up.
“Hello?”
It was my daughter’s soft voice.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I said, trying to make my voice sound calm. “Can you put Ummi on the phone, please?”
“She’s in the shower.”
I forced myself to smile and hoped it came through my voice. “Okay. Open the bathroom door and give her the phone.”
Megan hesitated. “I’m not allowed. She’ll put me in timeout.”
“She won’t put you in timeout, honey,” I said. “This is an emergency. Open the bathroom door and give her the phone.”
Almost the moment I finished speaking, the nose of the helicopter dipped as it began creeping toward me. In movies, my connection probably would have begun crackling or breaking in and out. That didn’t happen. Instead, the connection simply dropped before my daughter could even say anything. The helicopter must have had some kind of cell-jamming device. We used them, too, when we attempted to arrest suspects who we thought might use their phones to call additional support.
I slipped my cell into my pocket and stepped out from beneath the canopy of trees. Already, one black SUV peeled away from the group near the clubhouse to close in on my position. The helicopter stayed overhead long enough for the SUV to skid to a stop near me. Four men jumped out. All four carried tactical rifles, and all four trained them on my chest. None of the men wore insignia for any law enforcement agency.
I got on my knees without them having to ask.
“I’m an armed police officer, and I’m on the job,” I said.
Two of the men hurried behind me, while the other two stayed in front.
“Lie on the ground, and lace your fingers behind your head,” said one of the men in front of me.
“I have a firearm and a badge on my belt,” I said, complying with the order and slowly lying down. “I’m cooperating. Please don’t shoot me.”
“Face in the dirt. Lie on the ground.”
The voice was close behind me. Before I could brace myself, pain exploded in my shoulder as a heavy boot kicked me. My teeth sliced into my tongue, drawing blood. I turned my head so that my ear was on the grass. I spit into the dirt beside me.
“I’m cooperating, assholes!” I said, shouting now. “Kick me again, and I’ll file excessive-force complaints against all of you.”
This time, they didn’t kick me. Instead, a knee hit me in the lower back, nearly knocking my breath out.
“Keep your hands on top of your head.”
I gritted my teeth before speaking.
“I’m not moving.”
The guy with his knee on my back pulled my weapon out of its holster and then began running his hands up my torso. He pulled out my cell phone and keys and then tossed them to somebody behind him before reaching to my wrist and wrenching my hand behind my back.
Early on in my career, I had been shot in the shoulder while serving an arrest warrant on a murder suspect. Now, pain lanced through that same joint and into my neck and back. I tried to hold it in, but I gasped.
“That hurt?” asked the man, twisting my wrist to wrench my shoulder again. The ball of my shoulder nearly popped out of its socket. I had gone through a lot of rehab after being shot, and it always hurt. Never like this, though. I gasped again, and he chuckled under his breath as he tightened one side of a zip cuff on my wrist. Then he reached my for my other wrist and secured both behind my back. Finally, he let go and stood. I blinked away tears of pain.
“On your feet,” said one of the men, reaching to my elbow and gently tugging. Thankfully, this guy seemed to recognize that I was subdued and didn’t need more encouragement to follow directions. As I got to my feet, I rolled my shoulders and felt a deep, throbbing ache pass through me. I’d be sore for a long while, but I was alive. Hopefully Nassir and the others at the clubhouse were cooperating.
“Walk toward the vehicle and stop outside,” said the guy to my right. “Bear in mind that you still have three men with rifles pointed at your back. If you cooperate, you won’t be hurt.”
I started walking to the car, but then a hand pulled my shoulder back. I started to turn around, but before I could, somebody behind me pulled a black sack over my head. The fabric was thin enough to allow light to pass through, but I couldn’t see anything except blurred shapes in front of me. It smelled musty, like it had been used before.
“Is this really necessary?” I asked.
“Watch your head as you get inside the vehicle. Please sit in the center seat.”
I guessed that was a yes. I got in the car. Immediately, somebody pulled a seatbelt over my shoulder and then climbed onto the seat to my left. Then somebody climbed onto my right.
“Am I under arrest?” I asked. They ignored me, so I drew in a breath. “What are you charging me with?”
Finally, the guy in the front passenger seat spoke.
“You’re being held as a material witness in the murder of a hundred and eighty-seven people in New Hampshire. Now shut up or we will pull over and gag you.”
I swore under my breath and felt my shoulders slump. Essentially, the federal material witness statute allowed them to hold me without trial for as long as they wanted. It was the same legal justification the government used to hold men at Guantanamo Bay. Since I wasn’t officially under arrest, they weren’t even legally required to give me access to an attorney. This could be bad.
We drove for quite a while. We spent a big part of that drive on the interstate, but eventually we pulled onto smaller surface roads. Given our starting destination and the time in the car, we were probably in Indianapolis. We could have reached Louisville or Cincinnati, but something about the turns we were making felt familiar. I couldn’t see much through the cloth over my eyes, but I knew this place.
“Can we stop by Hardee’s before we get to your office?” I asked. “It’s just off Allisonville Road. I’m kind of hungry, and I haven’t had lunch yet.”
The agent to my left laughed. “Sorry, buddy, but we just passed it. Should have asked earlier.”
I nodded to myself. “So we are in Indianapolis, and you guys are FBI agents. Good to know.”
The agent in the front passenger seat sighed. “Both of you shut up.”
Evidently, he was in charge. We drove for another few minutes before slowing, I presumed, at the security gate outside the FBI’s compound. Our driver spoke to the guard in hushed tones before going inside. A few moments after that, we drove into an underground parking garage, where we finally stopped. It was cold, and the air smelled like exhaust.
One of the agents ripped the bag from my head, and I looked around. No cars occupied this level of the garage. Even if I wanted to make a run for it, I wouldn’t have anywhere to go. They led me inside, and then we took some stairs down to a very bright corridor before they pulled open the door of a cell similar to those in a supermax prison. The bed, toilet, and sink were bolted to the wall. There were no windows save an opaque piece of plexiglass in the door that, presumably, was used for observation of prisoners.
“I’m a police officer. You can’t hold me here indefinitely,” I sa
id. “This isn’t right, and you know it.”
My captors left the room without responding, locking the door behind them. The room was silent save the constant hiss of a vent near the ceiling. I halfheartedly pushed on the door, but it didn’t even budge. I wasn’t getting out of here until they let me.
For the first few minutes, I paced back and forth, hoping someone would come in and explain what was going on. When that didn’t happen, I unfurled the thin mattress on the bed and lay down. It was cold, so I crossed my arms. My wife was a well-known author, and I was a well-known police officer. I had the money and position to fight an arrest. It was just a matter of time before I got out, but they never should have arrested me in the first place.
I didn’t know how long I waited in that cell, but eventually my door opened again. Special Agent Kevin Havelock stood outside, motioning me out of the room. I slowly sat up and swung my legs off the bed but didn’t stand.
“You want to tell me what the hell’s going on?”
“I’m getting you out of here,” he said, looking to his left before looking at me once more. “Let’s move.”
I put my hands beside me but didn’t otherwise move.
“Where’s my brother-in-law?”
“Right next door,” said Havelock. “He’s safe. Nassir and his friends surrendered peacefully, so no one was hurt. I’m going to do what I can to make sure their attorneys have access to them, but we need to move.”
I leaned forward and slowly stood up. “For future reference, I’d prefer if you told your agents I was working for you before you sent them to raid a compound I was visiting. It might help us avoid these awkward encounters in a prison cell.”
Havelock nodded and then put a hand on my elbow to hustle me through the door. He shot his eyes up and down the hallway before leading me to the stairwell.
“My men didn’t arrest you,” he said. “You were picked up by the counterterrorism division. The attack on Westbrook Elementary was filmed by a drone. Agents found that drone yesterday and traced the serial number this morning. It was purchased on the website of a camera store in New Jersey and delivered to the warehouse you took us to last night.”
I closed my eyes.
“Shit.”
“Yeah. If we could connect the warehouse directly to your brother-in-law or any other person at his camp, you’d all be on a plane to Guantanamo Bay right now. Officially, the warehouse is owned by a holdings company in Hong Kong. We’re still trying to unravel the ownership structure and see who might have actually been in control of the building.”
“So you’re saying my tip is the only thing connecting Nassir to the warehouse,” I said, nodding to myself. “If I hadn’t called you last night, I wouldn’t be here now.”
“Life is full of irony, isn’t it?”
I shook my head and kept walking. “Thank you for coming to your senses and letting me go.”
Havelock tilted his head to the side. “The FBI isn’t letting you go.”
“Hold up,” I said, stopping on the concrete landing between floors. “Do the agents who arrested me know what you’re doing right now?”
“There’s a car upstairs waiting for you,” said Havelock. “We need to move.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” I said, lowering my chin. “Is this a prison break, Agent Havelock?”
He shook his head and spoke with a sharp tone. “No. It’s a prison transfer. I may not get to have a say in the activities of the counterterrorism division, but I have operational authority over my own facility. In my professional judgment, I’ve decided it would be best if you were transported to a federal correctional institute in Sheridan, Oregon.”
“So you’re taking me to Oregon?”
Havelock sighed and closed his eyes. Then he looked down and clucked his tongue a few times before looking at me again.
“When you were in Jacob Ganim’s house, did you find anything that linked him to the attack on Westbrook Elementary?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “All I found were surveillance pictures in the basement.”
Havelock’s eyes went distant for a moment as he thought.
“Did you find something that linked him to the attack?” I asked.
Havelock nodded. “Yeah. We found pictures of Westbrook Elementary, the surrounding area, and explosive devices in the home. They’re similar to the ones published by the Washington Exponent, but we think they were taken by a different camera.”
I drew in a breath, unsure how to react.
“What about the pictures of the women at the mosque?”
He shook his head. “There were no pictures of women, but we did find surveillance equipment. It’s high-end gear, but the serial numbers didn’t match anything in the FBI’s inventory.”
“You sure it’s not from your counterterrorism division?”
Havelock hesitated and then looked down.
“It’s not the same gear we use. My guess is that we’ve got more federal agencies working on this case than we know about.”
I covered my mouth with my hand, thinking for a moment. “I visited Jacob Ganim’s wife, and right afterwards, my boss got a call from an Army colonel who told me to stay away from her. Would someone from the Army have access to the kind of surveillance equipment you found?”
Havelock blinked and then crossed his arms. “Maybe, but why would they be watching a dead FBI agent’s house?”
“That’s a very good question,” I said. “We should probably try to answer it.”
Havelock looked over my shoulder, his eyes distant as he thought. A moment later, he focused on me again as if he had made a decision.
“Officially, two of my agents are going to drive you to FCI Sheridan, a medium-security federal prison southwest of Portland. Unofficially, I’m breaking you out. Nobody in my office leaked the story about the attack on President Crane’s family, but clearly somebody wants the world to think we did. I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but I think Jacob Ganim did. Somebody killed him to stop him from telling us. You’ve got about forty-eight hours before you’re expected in Oregon. I’d advise you to use that time well.”
Chapter 23
Havelock opened the door to the parking garage, where a black SUV awaited me. Before stepping out, I hesitated in the doorway and looked toward the older FBI agent. He had dark spots beneath his eyes, and his hair had gone to gray. I didn’t notice that before. I had known Agent Havelock for a few years, and he had never struck me as the sort of guy who ever got tired. Now, he looked as if he could sleep for days.
“You remember the first time I met you?” I asked. “I was working a human-trafficking case. You were hoping to be reassigned to DC.”
Havelock nodded and closed his eyes before speaking. “That was a long time ago.”
“You let me go, you’re never going to get that assignment. They might even fire you.”
“I considered that,” he said.
I looked around for a moment. “I could make some calls and get an attorney. It may take me a while, but I’m pretty sure I can get out of here if my lawyer makes a big enough stink.”
Havelock blinked and seemed to think for a moment. Then he nodded, almost to himself.
“Some things are more important than my ambition. I’d rather be fired for doing the right thing than retire as a deputy director who let innocent people go to prison.”
I held out my hand. He shook it.
“Good luck, Lieutenant. Now get out of here before the wrong person sees you.”
“Thank you,” I said, before turning and climbing into the backseat of the SUV. There was a woman in the driver’s seat. She wore a navy blazer. A tie held her hair in a ponytail behind her head. Her partner sat in the passenger seat. Like her, he wore a dark suit, and he didn’t look at me. Even though the windows were tinted, I slouched low in the chair as we began driving. The guy in the passenger seat turned his head for a moment, but he didn’t look at me.
“There’s an
envelope on the seat beside you with your things in it,” he said. “A forensic team is going through your car right now for evidence, so we don’t have access to that. Agent Havelock authorized the use of a vehicle we impounded, so unless you want to go elsewhere, we’re going to pick that up.”
I nodded and then reached to the legal-sized manila envelope beside me. It was heavier than it looked.
“That sounds good. Thank you,” I said, opening the envelope and reaching in. They had my firearm, keys, wallet, badge, and burner cell phone. I felt a little better having everything back.
We left the parking garage within moments. The sky was overcast and foreboding. Occasional droplets of water hit the windshield, and the leaves of nearby trees swayed. I had expected there to be news trucks around the property, but the streets were empty. As we approached the guardhouse on the outskirts of the compound, the car slowed, and I started to slouch even lower in my seat.
“You can sit upright, Lieutenant,” said the driver, finally looking at me. She had a long, angular face and high cheekbones. “We have clearance from the boss to take you out.”
I didn’t know whether that made me feel better, but I nodded anyway and straightened my shoulders. In the end, the guard waved us through without saying anything, and I finally took a deep, relaxed breath.
“I kind of thought there’d be reporters here,” I said.
The driver glanced in the rearview mirror before looking at the road in front of her again.
“News of your arrest has been kept quiet,” she said. “The real action is at Islamic centers around town.”
I grunted. That figured. Hopefully there wouldn’t be rioting.
“You guys mind if I make a few calls?” I asked.
The guy in the passenger seat turned his head. “Go right ahead.”
