by Chris Holm
Rafiq set his jaw. “And if I do not?”
“Then you’re going to find out what’s in that bag.”
“I see. Then by all means, please begin,” Rafiq said, his quiet confidence in the face of Yancey’s attempts to intimidate a subtle act of rebellion.
Yancey pulled up an image on his phone. It was a black-and-white ID photo of a thin young man with dark hair and deep-set eyes, his face clean-shaven, his expression neutral. He showed it to the imam. “Do you recognize this man?”
Rafiq said nothing.
“I asked you a fucking question. Do you recognize this man?”
Still nothing.
Yancey thumbed to the next image. A different photo. A different young man. “What about this one? Or this one?” he said, swiping again.
Rafiq looked Yancey in the eye. And remained silent.
“These men are terrorists,” Yancey said. “Known members of the organization that claimed credit for the bombing. And these photos were taken from the visas they used to enter the country. Why, I wonder, would you elect to help them by refusing to answer my questions?”
“Perhaps it has something to do with the manner in which those questions are being asked. I am curious: What, besides my religion and the color of my skin, makes you think I know anything of these men?”
“Cry profiling all you want—it ain’t gonna fly. We have a witness that puts them in this mosque.” It wasn’t technically a lie. But it also wasn’t the whole truth.
“This is a place of worship,” Rafiq said. “Many people come and go.”
“Even terrorists?”
“If in fact these men were here, as you claim, they were not yet terrorists.”
“So you do remember them.”
“I did not say that. I simply inferred it, based on the fact that they were issued visas. It is my understanding that the U.S. government is not in the business of abetting the travel plans of known extremists.”
“That’s a funny argument to make, Rafiq. Kinda makes it sound like they were radicalized here.”
“Impossible. As I have said, I neither preach nor condone violence. And if you must know, I truly have no memory of these men, which means if they passed through here, it was but briefly.”
Yancey got down on his haunches so that he and Rafiq were eye to eye, and smiled. “Okay,” he said. “Now we’re getting somewhere. And you know what? I believe you. So let me make things easy on you. You want out of those restraints? You want me and my boys to leave you be? All you need to do is give me a list of congregants or whatever the fuck you people call ’em who might be sympathetic to these men’s cause. The sorts of people who might, say, give them a boat or someplace to hole up when the cops come looking.”
Rafiq shook his head. “As I said, I do not know these men. If I did—if I knew anything that could prevent further bloodshed—I would be happy to tell the proper authorities.” The stress he put on the proper authorities made it clear he didn’t think Yancey qualified. “I have no loyalty to this so-called True Islamic Caliphate. Their beliefs insult those who, like me, truly wish to follow the teachings of the prophet Muhammad. But while I would gladly aid in their apprehension, what I will not do is assist you in conducting a…witch-hunt is, I believe, the term, against the law-abiding men and women who worship here.”
Yancey stood. Shook his head. Walked over to the convenience-store bag. “You know much about waterboarding, Rafiq?”
Rafiq’s face tightened with worry. He shook his head.
“Well, I do,” Yancey said. “See, the way it works is, you strap a guy down at a slight incline—ten, fifteen degrees will do—so that his lungs are higher than his head. Most folks picture a special table with straps and shit, but the fact is, you can use whatever you have on hand. That chair back you’re fastened to would work just fine. Then you put a rag over his face, so his mouth and nose are covered.”
Yancey reached down and removed from the bag a five-pack of small white terry towels, the type used to buff cars. “These’d do the trick,” he said. “Once the rag’s in place, you pour water over it real slow so that it fills his nasal passages, his sinuses, his throat. The idea is, the guy—or gal, there’s no need to discriminate—won’t drown, because his lungs are uphill from where the water pools, but honestly, most folks aspirate it anyway, or puke and fill their lungs with vomit. I’ve seen both, and it ain’t pleasant. And of course, even though the manuals say water, really, any liquid will do. I like using something carbonated because the bubbles burn like a motherfucker and have a way of loosening the tongue.”
Yancey reached into the bag again, and removed two forties of Colt 45. Rafiq began to struggle atop his chair, though the zip-ties held him in place.
“Oh, right,” Yancey said. “You people are forbidden to consume alcohol, aren’t you? Well, then, you’d better start working on that list I asked for, or hope your God ain’t watching.” He nodded to his men, who moved silently to either side of Rafiq, grabbed the chair, and tilted it backward, Rafiq screaming, until he lay with his head on the ground and his bare feet up in the air.
Yancey’s phone chimed—a text. He read it. Smiled. Typed a brief reply.
“Sorry, Rafiq,” he said. “It looks like I’m not going to get to stay for the festivities. I’ve got other business to attend to. But don’t you worry—I’m sure my boys will take good care of you.”
27.
WHAT’S THE word, kid?”
“The word is ninja,” Cameron replied, excitement raising the pitch of her voice. “As in, I am one.”
“Come again?”
“We got a hit.”
Adrenaline surged through Hendricks’s system like a drug, spreading warm and tingly through his limbs. He felt lighter, suddenly, more present, his aches, pains, and exhaustion chemically erased. “Your, uh, programs decoded a call or whatever?”
“Aw. It’s cute when you pretend you have the faintest idea what you’re talking about. But yeah, they found something, and it’s way better than a phone call, it’s a text. Well, two, to be exact.”
“How’s that better?”
“Because the first one included a pic. I’m sending you the details now.”
His phone vibrated. He clicked the notification, and his text app opened. No names, just phone numbers. The first message read: POI acquired. Awaiting instructions. The attached photo was of the old man from the video, bound and bloodied on a couch. There was a woman beside him, bound as well. Men in body armor stood guard on either side of them, their heads cropped from the shot. The second message said: On my way. Time stamps indicated the second message had been sent less than two minutes ago.
“You get ’em?” Cameron asked.
“Yeah, kid. I got ’em. You did good—this is amazing work.”
“Thanks,” she said. She tried to toss it off all casual-like, but Hendricks could practically hear her blushing. “What’s a POI?”
“Person of interest,” he said. “Hey, what can you tell me about these guys besides their phone numbers?”
“Nothing,” she said, “and not for lack of trying. Those phones are encrypted six ways from Sunday.”
“Can you find out the point of origin for the text?”
“No—at least, not digitally. Since the phone’s encryption prevents me from accessing its GPS, the best that I could tell you is the cell tower it went through, and we already know which tower it went through, or we never would’ve intercepted it.”
“I sense a but. We don’t have time for dramatic pauses, kid. If you’ve got something, just say so.”
“I’m not trying to be dramatic. I’m multitasking.”
“Meaning what?”
“Take a good look at that picture. Tell me what you see. Besides the guys, I mean.”
“I dunno. A couch?”
“Sure, a couch. Also a fireplace, hardwood floors, distinctive molding, and what looks like a covered farmer’s porch outside the window.”
“Okay—but
what good does that do us?”
“None of the houses on the Presidio are privately owned. They’re all rented from the Presidio Trust. I’m on their website now. They’ve got pics of all their housing broken down by style and neighborhood.”
“Good thought,” he said, “but the Presidio is an old army base. There must be dozens of houses that match that description. I walked through neighborhood after neighborhood of identical homes on my way here.”
“You’d think, but as it turns out, your boy Segreti has refined taste. Because I’m pretty sure I just found the place where they caught up with him, and there’s only four like it on the whole base.”
“You got any idea which one he’s in?”
“No, but it looks like they’re all clumped together, two on either side of Presidio Boulevard where it intersects with Funston.”
Hendricks opened Google Maps. “That’s almost a mile from my position. I need to get moving. And we’re gonna have to disconnect, so you’ll be on your own a little while.”
“Why?”
“Because these guys don’t look like mob goons; they look like law enforcement. And I need to make a phone call to see if I can find out who sent them.”
“Law enforcement? That, uh, jibes with something I heard earlier,” Cameron said.
“Which is?”
“The girl from the video—Hannah Reston—told me a Fed came by her brother’s room super-early this morning and talked to her dad. Said the guy was gross. Winked at her and everything. Anyway, he asked a bunch of questions about our guy and leaned on her dad hard for answers. Sounds to me like the dad was pretty rattled by the whole experience. I had Hannah push a little, see what else she could find out, but her dad got pissed and snapped at her, told her to leave it be. She said it’s not like him to yell.”
“Wait—you talked to the Restons? What the hell were you thinking? I told you not to go anywhere near them!”
“Relax. I talked to Hannah in the hospital’s restroom, girl to girl. Made up some story about the guy being my granddad. Said my family’s trying to find him but we need to keep it on the down-low because he’s technically an illegal. Met my grandma when he came over from Italy for college and stayed but never filed the proper paperwork. She bought it, hook, line, and sinker. Thinks she’s digging in the name of love. Her parents don’t even know I’m here.”
“Wait, what do you mean, they don’t even know? You’re not still in the building, are you?”
“Yeah, why? I don’t see the big deal. The hospital cafeteria’s got everything I need. Great Wi-Fi signal. Loads of computers on the network for me to hijack. Tons of people hanging out and killing time, so I’ve got plenty of cover, and everyone from the docs to the patients’ loved ones are so distracted, no one’s even given me a second glance.”
“You said you were in a coffee shop,” he said, his voice an angry, gravelly monotone.
“Yeah, well, I lied.”
“Listen to me. You’re not safe there. You need to get out of the building immediately, preferably through a staff exit.”
“Why a staff exit?”
“Because if someone’s watching the place, they’ll be monitoring the doors civilians come and go through. But—and this is important—you need to stay within sight of two people and two routes of egress at all times. Don’t allow yourself to be alone with anyone. Don’t let yourself get cornered.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“Good. You should be scared. Listen to your fear. It’ll keep you safe. One more thing: Did Hannah tell you what this Fed looked like?”
“Uh…older guy. Really tan. Like, from the sun, not spray. Said he was wearing cowboy boots and a turquoise pinkie ring. That help?”
“Too soon to tell,” he said. “Now go. Run. Don’t stop until you’re sure no one is following. I’ll call back as soon as I can.”
“But what if—”
Hendricks disconnected the call. Felt a pang of guilt for leaving her in the cold. Prayed his paranoia was unnecessary.
Then he pulled up his burner’s keypad and punched in a number from memory.
28.
THE HOOVER BUILDING was a nest disturbed. Stuffed beyond capacity. Brimming with activity. Every phone, printer, and photocopier clamoring at once. The HVAC system couldn’t keep up. The whole building smelled like overloaded electronics and unwashed bodies. With the threat of future attacks looming, none of them were willing to abandon their posts for long enough to shower or change their clothes, much less get some sleep.
O’Brien had moved her best agents from their offices to a conference room, the table buried beneath a foot-high layer of paper. “This represents every ounce of intel we have on Khalid Waheeb, Ahmed Muhammad Bakr, and Fazul Abdullah al-Nasr,” she’d said. “Most of it is out of date. Some of it is doubtless inaccurate. But we’re going to sift through every page anyway, because that’s what NSB’s asked us to do. So grab a stack and get to work.”
They all knew it was a shit detail, that if there were anything worth finding in these documents, NSB would be combing through them instead of handing them off. But they buckled down and dug in anyway. Like it or not, that was the job.
They’d been at it for hours when Thompson’s phone rang. It took a moment for her to locate her cell in the mess. It was wedged between a pile of phone records and some credit card receipts that in turn were hidden from view by the open lid of a pizza box.
Caller ID was no help. It was an unfamiliar number, no name attached.
“Thompson here.”
“Tell me you sent them.”
“Who is this?” she asked sharply enough that O’Brien cocked an eyebrow at Thompson over her laptop.
“You know damn well who this is.”
Jesus. It was Hendricks. She got up from the table. Turned her back to O’Brien. Dropped her voice to just above a whisper. Ducked out of the conference room and headed down the hall. “How the hell did you get this number?”
“What are you talking about? You gave it to me.”
“And you refused to take it.”
“No. I took your number. All I left behind was the card you wrote it on.” He sounded out of breath, Thompson realized, like he was on the move. “Now—did you send them?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Five minutes ago, a team of men in body armor stormed a house in the Presidio and captured Frank Segreti. I need to know if they’re law.”
Thompson opened the door to the stairwell. It banged shut behind her once she stepped through. “Someone captured Frank Segreti?” She winced at how loud her voice sounded, amplified by the stairway’s bare concrete.
“I’ll take that as a no, then.”
“No,” she whispered. “I didn’t send anyone. I wish to hell I had the clout to. The fact is, you were my last hope, and, as I recall, you turned me down. What changed your mind?”
“Nothing changed my mind,” he said. “I gave you deniability, and gave myself some room to breathe. But now that someone’s got Segreti, I can’t afford to keep you out of the loop.”
“What else can you tell me about these guys?”
“Not much,” Hendricks said. “Although it’s possible they’re taking orders from a man claiming to be law enforcement.”
“This guy got a name?”
“Probably.”
“How about a description?”
“I haven’t seen him personally, but I’m told he’s older. Deeply tanned. Fondness for cowboy boots and turquoise jewelry.”
“My God. That sounds like Chet Yancey.”
“Who’s Chet Yancey?”
“The good ol’ boy I worked under when I graduated from Quantico.”
“Wait. You’re saying he was—”
“—special agent in charge of the Albuquerque field office when Segreti walked in.”
“Motherfucker,” Hendricks said. “I think we just found your mole.”
“Sounds like. He left the Bur
eau shortly after the safe house was compromised. I hear he’s some kind of bigwig at Bellum Industries now.”
“That explains the men in body armor. He’s got a goddamn private army at his disposal.”
“Is Yancey with Segreti?”
“Not yet, but he’s on his way. Which means Segreti’s running out of time.”
“Listen, Michael, I’m really glad you—”
But Thompson didn’t bother finishing her thought because Hendricks had already disconnected.
When she left the stairwell to head back to the conference room, O’Brien was waiting for her in the hallway. “What the hell was that about?”
“What do you mean?”
“When your phone rang, you leaped out of your seat like you’d been zapped with a cattle prod. You onto something?”
“No, I…” Thompson began, color rising in her cheeks. “It was Jess.”
“I thought Jess was backpacking through Costa Rica with her new boyfriend.”
“She was. She is. But she got sick of camping, so they shacked up someplace with a TV for the night. When she saw the news, she called.”
O’Brien was skeptical. “That warranted your leaving the room?”
“Oh, you know Jess. High drama. High volume. I figured I’d spare everybody the distraction.”
O’Brien fell silent for a moment, her face set in a frown. “Charlie, this is me you’re talking to. I know you. There’s something you’re not telling me.”
Thompson took O’Brien’s hands in hers. Looked her in the eye. “There’s not.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
O’Brien seemed mollified. “Listen, I just got word from the director. Apparently, Bellum Industries is taking over the investigation. We’ve been instructed to coordinate with them from here on out.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“I wish I were. Anyway, I’m told Chet Yancey’s their top guy on the ground. We’re tracking down his number now. You mind sitting in on the call?”
“Me? Why?”
“You know the guy. I don’t. But if it’s a problem—”
