Targeted (FBI Heat)

by Marissa Garner

  By the time Gardner called back exactly ten minutes later, Ben’s head was spinning with a combination of new knowledge and growing dread.

  “Agent Alfren, are you alone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The same ten people you saw on the videoconference call earlier are on this call. The information we are about to disclose is highly classified. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right. I’m turning the call over to Kevin Rawlings from Homeland Security.”

  Ben swallowed hard.

  “Thank you, Special Agent Alfren, for your cooperation,” Rawlings began. “First, I want to reassure you that SA Panuska is not alone in this operation. The San Diego Joint Terrorism Task Force of more than two dozen highly qualified personnel from various agencies, including Special Agent Wahid Jabbar, whom you may know, was activated long before she joined the covert op.”

  “Why did you pick Marissa?” Ben said with a hint of defiance. And not Jamila, he thought but didn’t say.

  “She volunteered. Her fluency in Arabic and Spanish, along with her passable Arab appearance, made her the perfect candidate for the job. Her record also indicates she’s a damn good agent.”

  Ben didn’t respond but clenched his jaw as the words he’d said to Ian came back to bite him in the butt.

  “Now, to answer your earlier question and to anticipate others. We don’t know if she’s safe. Unfortunately, we don’t even know where she is at the moment. We’re currently monitoring the location of her GPS cell phone. We’re concerned there’s been no contact from her in several days. The MO was for her to make contact—just a single phone ring sometimes—at least once a day. Early in the mission, she warned us she was having difficulty doing even that since the terrorists never let her out of their sight. She was observed last night being driven by two known al-Qaeda cell members to their location in Tijuana. Her normal tail was present and listening, hidden in an alley. Up to that point, there was nothing unusual about the visit to the hideout. After a phone call with their ringleader in the Middle East, our agents heard yelling, apparently some kind of altercation, but they had no visual. The shouting seemed to travel away from the house. The surveillance team concluded Panuska might be in trouble and left their vehicle to investigate.”

  Rawlings hesitated and cleared his throat. “Just as they were getting approval from me to intervene, they heard two gunshots. Not in the hideout, but close by. They did a quick check of the premises. There was no sign of the two men or Panuska, but her purse, gun, and GPS phone were intact. Then our guys swept the neighborhood for hours and found the two terrorists shot to death but found absolutely no trace of her. They searched until early this morning and then came home.”

  Last night! The nightmare flashed before Ben’s eyes. But it didn’t fit. Gunshots? No monster knife? Ben gulped, then found his voice. “Drug gang?”

  “Possibly. But nothing seemed to have been stolen from the hideout. We’re trying to get help quietly through the Tijuana police, but that could take a while. After being stationary the rest of the night, Panuska’s phone is on the move this morning. We hope she’s with it. A team is already in position at the cell’s San Diego apartment and another is on its way back to Tijuana.”

  “Her mission—what is it?”

  The question was met with silence. Ben pictured Rawlings exchanging glances with the other nine men. He prayed they nodded approval.

  “Okay, Alfren, this is the real deal. Three months ago, we started picking up a bunch of chatter about an al-Qaeda attack in San Diego. That’s when the San Diego JTTF went on alert. Because of her Arabic fluency, SA Panuska became the main FBI liaison with the NSA wiretap facility. The plot turned out to be the detonation of a dirty bomb. We don’t know the target or the timing. The mastermind of the plan is a bastard named Husaam Abbas, the head of al-Qaeda in Syria. We didn’t know his true identity or position until his conversation with Panuska last night.”

  “Holy shit!”

  “To say the least. There’s an al-Qaeda cell of eight, now six, men operating out of a mosque in San Diego. We’ve tracked concealed bomb components shipped via Saudi Arabia to the Abdul-Jaleel Electronics maquiladora in Tijuana. About two weeks ago, we intercepted a communication about an unknown female terrorist, Baheera Abbas, passing through Dulles from Riyadh on her way to San Diego. We don’t know what her role is in all of this. Our research turned up nothing on the name or even if it was her true identity. We also determined that the local cell didn’t know the woman, so the decision was made to detain her and substitute an agent.”

  “Risky.”

  “Yes, highly risky. And we knew it. That’s when Panuska volunteered. When the real Baheera flew into Dulles, we nabbed her. Panuska became the fake Baheera Abbas on the flight to San Diego. With me so far?”

  “Yes, sir.” Ben swallowed hard. “Abbas? Any connection between Baheera and Husaam?”

  “Yes, but we also just discovered that on the call we tapped last night. She’s…his wife. One of several, but it doesn’t matter.”

  “His wife. Can Marissa pull it off?”

  Rawlings hesitated as if he was contemplating how much to reveal. Ben’s nerves strained with the anticipation of more bad news.

  “We believe so. Our Baheera encountered no opposition from the cell, so our premise about her identity must’ve been correct. She was able to confirm the plot that we’d tentatively put together from the wiretap puzzle pieces. The terrorists had taken her to the old house in Tijuana several times, and she had seen the bomb components, but no one she’d met so far seemed capable of assembling the damn thing. The cell leader, Samir, had a satellite phone that he kept with him day and night. He’s the only one who ever talked on it. From what we’ve intercepted, most of the calls were with Husaam, but also with several others. Since Panuska left, we’ve been able to isolate calls originating from various locations in Syria, Afghanistan, and Pakistan. We suspect Husaam Abbas had been taking orders directly from Osama bin Laden until we got the son of a bitch.”

  “Damn. That confirms Husaam is really high level. How do you know it’s a dirty bomb?”

  “Good question. Fortunately for us, the terrorists have made no secret of it. In fact, their goddamn bragging really pisses me off. Think about this. If they were going to use a regular bomb, why bother with shipping pieces all the way from the Middle East? Why not build it with local parts? Maybe you remember the cache of information found in Herat, Afghanistan, during January 2003.”

  Ben frowned. “Not really.”

  “Short version: British intelligence concluded from detailed diagrams and documents uncovered in Herat that al-Qaeda had successfully built a small dirty bomb. They suspect the Taliban provided the radioactive material, possibly cobalt, from medical devices. That fits, because in Kabul in April 2002, the IAEA had to secure several unguarded radiation sources from medical and research applications. An al-Qaeda lieutenant, who we have in custody, confessed to interrogators that the device existed. The bad news is the device has never been found.”

  “And you think that’s what’s being shipped to Tijuana.”

  “Right. We think it was disassembled so it could be shipped undetected. But then they need someone capable of reassembling the damn thing. Probably an engineer. If that’s Baheera’s job, we’re in big trouble. When she was communicating, Panuska told us that Samir treated her almost like a prisoner. Made her wear Muslim instead of American clothing and always had someone with her. He may have known her role but never spoke of it.”

  “How are they going to get it across the border?”

  Rawlings snorted. “That’s probably the easiest part of the whole operation. The California border is a sieve.”

  “Agreed, but would they trust it to a coyote?”

  “Doubt it. They’d provide the carrier. Could be Baheera.”

  “No way. They wouldn’t use a woman.”

  “Don’t be so sure. The Palestinians have used f
emale suicide bombers for years.”

  Ben stiffened. A tense silence followed.

  Rawlings cleared his throat. “Relax, Alfren. None of our intel indicates that’s her role.”

  He breathed again. “What’s next?”

  “Two agents are headed to Tijuana as we speak. We have agents watching the mosque and the cell’s apartment. Four terrorists already left the apartment this morning, heading to Tijuana to look for their missing members.”

  “What can I do?”

  “You’re not Counterterrorism.”

  “True, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be useful,” Ben retorted.

  “I know. At this point, we’re hoping you can provide some personal insight into how Panuska might handle an aborted or compromised mission. Not FBI training stuff; you know, personality stuff.”

  Ben almost chuckled. “Besides being a damn good agent as you pointed out, Marissa has a strong, take-charge personality. She has more balls than most men. She’s intelligent, resourceful, clever, creative. She’s passionate about everything she does and doesn’t give up easily, sometimes even when she should. Marissa won’t quit on you, Rawlings. She’s more likely to get herself killed refusing to come in when she should.”

  “Good to know.” Rawlings seemed relieved.

  “If a drug gang has her, they’re going to be damn sorry they ever laid a hand on her. I bet she’s already figuring out how to use the death of those two terrorists to her advantage.” Ben prayed he was right because his gut didn’t feel as confident as his words sounded.

  “Anything else?”

  “I’m not going away.”

  “Didn’t think you would.”

  Ben decided he could work with this Rawlings guy. “What’s our next move?”

  Rawlings didn’t overreact to the question. “We’re watching the movement of her phone and hoping she’s the one carrying it. Right now, it’s waiting with the masses to come into the US at the San Ysidro border crossing. Customs and Border Protection are on alert as part of the operation. If they spot Panuska, they’ll let us know. Let’s hope she shows up.”

  “And if she doesn’t?”

  “We’re working on that.”

  “I want to be contacted as soon as you know anything, good or bad. And I want an assignment.”

  “We have all your phone numbers. We’ll be in touch.” Rawlings paused. “We’ll get her back, Alfren.” The line went dead.

  Ben glared at the phone. “Damn right, I will.”

  * * *

  Exhaust fumes choked him. His sweaty shirt clung to his body while his parched throat and burning eyes tortured him. Simply crossing the border had become an endurance battle. And yet, Ameen swore he’d continue to follow the terrorists to their Tijuana hideout and back for as long as necessary.

  With relief, he watched Fateen drive the car to the front of the line next to the Customs and Border Protection officer. The female officer ignored the passports in his hand, bent down, and peered inside at the occupants. Straightening, she motioned for him to pull over to the area designated for additional vehicle inspection.

  Happened every time.

  Ameen would be next. Painted with the same brush.

  He glanced at the elderly white couple in the car next to him. They looked nervous. Perhaps this was their first time coming back across the Mexican border since the tougher security measures had been implemented. But regardless of how nervous they looked, he was a far more likely smuggler of drugs, contraband, or terrorism. He understood profiling and accepted it as a necessary evil.

  Besides, he was not without guilt. Technically, he was breaking the law by bringing his guns into the US without declaring them. Chances were the CBP officers would never find the guns, Samir’s knife, the sat phone, or the wallets. They had never discovered his custom-made, concealed compartment before, and hopefully, his luck would hold today. For the guns, he carried the necessary paperwork to bring them across the border. He just didn’t usually have the time to deal with the hassle. Of course, the Mexican officials wouldn’t be happy if they discovered he’d brought the guns into their country in the first place.

  Ameen smiled at the CBP officer who directed him to the inspection area and cooperated politely with the ones who performed the inspection. It helped, of course, that he was a US citizen with a valid US passport. And for extra credibility, he still carried his expired military ID, partly because of the positive impression it made and partly for sentimental reasons. Usually, the process didn’t take long once the officer got a good look at his documents. But after Osama bin Laden had been killed, security had tightened due to an ongoing expectation of reprisal attacks. All security checks took longer now. Ameen understood, but couldn’t help but feel a touch of resentment after having served his country to fight the enemy he was suspected of being. Ironic, really.

  Once he was cleared to cross into the US, he kept a smile pasted on his face as he drove away slowly, checking in his rearview mirror for Baheera and the gang. One officer was still questioning them in the inspection area while a second was searching the trunk. They’d probably be tied up for another thirty minutes at least. He shook his head in frustration. How many times had he wished the terrorists would be arrested at the border? It would make his life a lot easier. But obviously, the cell had been trained not to break any immigration laws to avoid endangering their main mission. Whatever the hell that is.

  As Ameen sped north on Interstate 5, he remembered the paperwork awaiting his signature at the mosque this morning. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since dinner the previous evening. He’d have just enough time to swing by the mosque to take care of business and then grab some fast food.

  He knew the terrorists and Baheera would head straight to their San Diego apartment.

  And he’d be waiting.

  An hour later, Ameen rushed into the small, cramped cluster of offices in the mosque and greeted the fiftyish secretary warmly in Arabic. “Those documents you need me to sign—”

  “Are on your desk,” she replied efficiently and smiled. “You didn’t beat me in this morning. Late night? Hot date, I hope.”

  “Late, but no date.” He shook his head with amusement. “A devout Muslim woman like you shouldn’t be thinking of such things. And would you quit trying to marry me off?”

  “Well, you need someone to give you a gentle push, like a mother—” She stopped, reddened. “Sorry, Ameen.”

  He shrugged. “No problem.” Her gaffe didn’t bother him. Rage had long ago replaced grief.

  He disappeared into the tiny office that was barely large enough to accommodate a man of his size. Opening the window to enjoy the breeze after his pressure-cooker morning, he squeezed behind the desk and pulled the papers in front of him.

  He had just finished reading and signing the documents when a black Suburban blaring Spanish music drew his attention outside. The vehicle parked at the curb in front of the mosque. A young Hispanic man wearing gang-style clothing emerged, surveyed the area, and then leaned against the side of the SUV. He lit a cigarette, fidgeted, and checked his watch three times within a couple minutes. His eyes were in constant motion, darting from place to place.

  Ameen’s instincts rocketed to high alert. He didn’t want the man loitering near the mosque. The last thing his uncle needed was gangs dealing drugs to young Muslims.

  On his way outside, Ameen stopped to hand the signed documents to the secretary. Leaning down, he directed her attention out the window to the man. “I’m going to take care of the punk. If things get out of hand, call the police.”

  Her eyes widened. “Out of hand? What does that mean?”

  He grinned. “You’ll know it if you see it.”

  Ameen scanned the area for any other signs of trouble before he sauntered down the sidewalk toward the SUV. Nothing else looked unusual. He approached the man confidently, but cautiously. No reason to ask for trouble.

  “May I help you?” Ameen said calmly in E
nglish.

  “You Samir?” the younger man asked.

  Ameen tensed. “No, but…I know him…well.”

  “Where the fuck is he? He was supposed to meet me here ten minutes ago.”

  “I haven’t seen Samir today, but he comes often for prayers. Can I give him a message for you?”

  “He better not be screwing with me. Tell the motherfucker I’ll give him one more chance. Tomorrow morning at ten. If the asshole doesn’t show, the deal’s off.”

  The guy threw his smoldering cigarette on the sidewalk near Ameen’s feet, swaggered around the Suburban, and climbed inside. Ameen’s hands clenched into fists, but his training restrained him. He stood rigidly until the vehicle disappeared down the street.

  Another piece of the puzzle. Where does it fit?

  Forty minutes later, Ameen finished eating in his truck as Fateen pulled the car into the apartment complex’s parking lot. He stashed the trash into the fast-food bag and grabbed the binoculars from the glove compartment.

  As the three people emerged from the small car, he focused on Baheera. He smiled. Still not wearing the veil. Good girl. But she looked exhausted, drained. Lifting her long hair off her neck, she nonchalantly surveyed the surrounding area. Did she know there were two men in a black SUV parked on the next street? Once again, he wondered if she was part of a larger operation. If so, why hadn’t they helped her last night?