“Only the barest.”
“Yeah, well, Rawlings was royally pissed at Alfren about the unauthorized contact. But Ameen is clean. Use him at will, but carefully. The guy’s smart. Curious thing, he’s ex-Navy.”
“Navy? Our Navy?”
“Yep. A SEAL with lots of medals and everything.”
“Hmmm. Interesting. That’s all I’ve got. I can’t wait to come in.”
“We know. You’re doing a great job. Let’s finish it. See the doctor and pick the time for the big party. We’ll be there.”
She sighed. “Yes. The big party.”
She laid the phone in her lap. So much news to assimilate. But there was light at the end of the tunnel. She smiled faintly and then closed her tired eyes and rubbed her temples.
“It was the US Navy, if your handler didn’t know.” Ameen’s voice came from behind her, and she jumped.
“He knew.”
“He should. I’m glad your people checked me out.”
“You shouldn’t have been listening, Ameen.”
Chapter 15
Shit! You’re sure Panuska said Petco Park?” Rawlings asked in a voice gravelly from overuse and lack of sleep.
“Yes, sir.”
“At a game this week?” He prowled his spartan office, assimilating the explosive news.
“Yes, sir. With Samir gone, Panuska has established leadership. It makes sense that she would be the one to choose which game. She wants to do it soon,” her handler explained.
“I’m sure she does. Why do these bastards love civilian targets?” The handler wisely didn’t try to respond to his rhetorical question. “Frankly, I was hoping it would be one of the many military facilities in San Diego County. It’s so much easier to work with the military than with a bunch of civilians. The military understands us, thinks like us, acts like us.”
Rawlings was talking more to himself than to the agent. “Shit. Those fucking cowards. Petco Park. Potentially over 40,000 innocent, unsuspecting fans. And now I’ll be stuck working with goddamn civilians. Civilians!” He spat it like a curse word.
The handler waited until Rawlings finished his rant. “It sucks, sir. It all sucks. Instructions?”
“Tell Panuska it’s her call. Pick whichever game works best for her. And if we can pull it off before getting to the ballpark, that’s even better. But we’ll be ready whenever she needs us. Just give us as much notice as possible. And watch her back. We still don’t have a clue about the real doctor. He could blow this operation wide open if he contacts the cell. This thing is going down, and it has ‘snafu’ written all over it. We need to be prepared when the shit hits the fan.”
Rawlings hung up and groaned as he dropped into his chair. Just once, I’d like to catch a fucking break. He pressed the intercom button for his secretary. “Get me the names of the San Diego Mayor and their Chief of Police. Then set up a conference call immediately with them and the head of the San Diego JTTF. Let’s hope civilian leaders understand the terms ‘mass hysteria’ and ‘public panic.’”
* * *
Silent and strong, Ameen sat at his kitchen table, staring out the window. Marissa leaned against the doorjamb, watching him for several minutes. He had used the word “connected” earlier when he spoke of his feelings for her. How odd that he would choose the word she used to describe relationships.
She also felt strong connections to Ameen. But now was not the time to define or explore them. A former Navy SEAL, a fighter of terrorists, a protector of strange women, a complex man. His depth aroused intense feelings she could not yet explain. “Ameen,” she said quietly.
He turned toward her but didn’t speak. The conflict in his eyes clawed at her heart.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“I don’t know what to say or do,” he said.
“Nothing. You should do nothing.” She yawned and rolled her head from side to side, lessening the muscle tightness. “I made my phone calls. I should get back. There is much to do.” She avoided his eyes.
But Ameen came to her. “What you need to do is sleep. You’re exhausted.”
“It shows?”
He chuckled. “Yes.”
“Unacceptable.” Her mouth opened in a long, jaw-locking yawn. “Damn. I can’t stop.”
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and she let him lead her to the bedroom. He yanked back the covers and smoothed the sheets before motioning her to lie down.
Marissa gazed at the inviting bed and yawned again. “I really shouldn’t.”
“You really should.” Without warning, he lifted her and laid her on the bed.
She laughed.
“That is the first time I have heard you laugh. Someday, I want to hear it a lot more. Now sleep, Baheera.”
He reached the bedroom door before she spoke. “Please stay,” she said to his back.
Ameen stiffened. “That would not be wise.”
“I promise to be good.”
He angled his head, peering at her over his shoulder. “I’m sure you are.”
Their eyes connected.
She won.
He returned to the bed, slid off his shoes, and sat down. Resting his elbows on his knees, he held his head with both hands. His body language spoke of an inner struggle.
Marissa waited patiently.
After a few minutes, he straightened and shook his head. “I can’t do it. I made a vow to Allah.”
Her hand cupped his face and turned it gently toward her. She smiled knowingly.
“Can’t do what, Ameen? I only want you here so I feel safe enough to take a nap. You can’t do that?” When he didn’t smile, hers faded. “Honestly, I’m not trying to seduce you. You wouldn’t have a chance, if I was.”
Now he grinned. “That I believe.”
She scooted over and patted the sheet. He stretched out beside her, stiff, tense, staring at the ceiling. She waited for his breathing to slow before snuggling against him and laying her head on his chest.
Tentatively at first, he stroked the hair fanned across her back. Finally, he lifted her face and kissed her lips.
For the next hour, they kissed and caressed. For the next hour, tenderness replaced tension, passion replaced prayers. For the next hour, there were no terrorists, dirty bombs, or tunnels. There was only a man and a woman…connecting.
At last, Marissa surrendered to exhaustion and fell asleep in his arms.
* * *
“Who, where, and when?” Rawlings bellowed into the phone.
“The wiretap and online chatter calls him Liban, no last name. Leaving from Damascus, mode of travel unknown. Departure today, arrival date unknown. And we don’t know the US point of entry either,” the CIA officer informed him.
“Goddamnit! That’s a bunch of crap. Get me some real intel.”
“We tried, sir. We checked with Interpol. They have a file on an assassin named Liban Hussein, but he has so many aliases and disguises, they can’t authenticate his real name or appearance. As soon as they add a documented identity to their list, he creates a new one.”
“A chameleon.”
“Yeah. He’s wanted for murder in several countries, but no one’s laid a hand on him.”
“Okay, we’ll start with the basics. Let’s assume he is not walking to San Diego from Damascus.”
“Safe assumption.”
“He’s in a hurry so he’s probably flying. Since the Syrian civil war began, flights out of Damascus are less reliable. He’d have to connect somewhere, but there must be dozens of places in Europe and the Middle East for him to pass through, some friendlier to us than others. Contact the major airlines that fly internationally. Be sure all his known aliases are on the No-Fly lists. Set up a computer matrix of all possible connecting flights into San Diego from Damascus, starting at midnight last night and going forward for forty-eight hours. I’ll get CIA posted at all the connecting European and Middle Eastern airports you identify with your analysis.”
“Do you have any idea how many fl
ights—”
“Do you have any idea how dead Panuska will be if we don’t stop this guy?”
“Sorry, sir. What about LA?”
Rawlings thought frantically. “Shit! That’ll be a nightmare, but we have to cover it. Hell, it’s only about a three-hour drive down from LAX.”
“We’ll chart those flights also.”
“Good. You reviewed the tapes of all of Samir’s calls?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What did the boys back home in Syria know about the San Diego location?”
“Very little. The bastards were careful not to reveal much on the calls. No last names, no apartment or hideout addresses, no landlords, bank accounts, jobs. You know, the info we would need to find and stop them.” The man laughed. “Ironic that now they don’t have the info to find their own cell, either.”
“Okay, so that’s what Husaam and the other off-shore terrorists didn’t know. What did they know?” Rawlings snapped.
“The name of the mosque.”
“Damn. How close did the cell get to the other men at the mosque?”
“Well, they did a good job of preaching death-to-America, but they tended to stay detached from any other social contact. There’s no record of anyone ever visiting their apartment, and no evidence they made any terrorism converts. They may have given the mosque office their address and phone number. Panuska could have Ameen Ali check it out.”
“Good idea. Liban might be able to convince someone in the office to give him the apartment address even though it would normally be confidential. He could pretend to be a relative of Samir’s trying to deliver news of a death in the family, for instance. Or he could ask around during prayers until he finds one of the terrorists. Husaam would’ve given him the names the terrorists are using, real or fake. But did he have pictures of the assholes? Would Liban recognize them if he saw them?”
“Don’t know, sir, but Liban could simply ask around for Samir. Eventually, he’d find someone who could point out Samir’s companions. The terrorists are damn good about going to prayers. Maybe Panuska could keep the men busy enough that they don’t have time to go to the mosque.”
“Exactly how many balls do you expect Panuska to keep in the air at one time?”
“I think we’re pushing the envelope already, sir. I keep trying to think of a way we can take some of this off her shoulders, but I can’t. This is almost a one-man show.”
“One-woman show,” Rawlings corrected him.
“Yeah.”
Rawlings paused. “Bottom line: Can Liban find her?”
There was a long, foreboding silence.
“Probably.”
* * *
Special Agent Wahid Jabbar circled the area three times to be sure he wasn’t being followed before he drove up to the security kiosk outside the San Diego FBI building. After months of working undercover and taking orders from Washington, he felt like he was coming home. The guard quickly waved him through, and he parked in the garage.
When he saw “Jamila” on his cell phone screen, Wahid answered immediately. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself. I’ve got good news,” she said. “I’m coming home tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah, Rawlings told me to get out of town so I’m not wasting any time. I’ll be in about eight. Can you pick me up?”
“Shit, I can’t, babe. I’ll be playing doctor tonight.”
“Oh, right.” Then Jamila gasped. “You aren’t really…I mean, Marissa’s not going to be…naked, is she?”
“Hmmm. That would make it a lot more realistic,” he said, chuckling.
“Wahid.”
“Just kidding, sweetheart. This is serious make-believe. There won’t be any messing around. I can’t believe you’d think I would anyway. I love you, Jamila.”
“I love you too.” Jamila hesitated. “Speaking of doctors, Wahid, we need to talk.”
“Are you still feeling bad? You should make an appointment. It’s been, what, about two weeks since you arrived in Washington, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re sure it’s not just the stress of the Baheera Abbas interrogations?” he asked.
“I don’t think so, but Rawlings told me to take a few days off just in case. Maybe I’ll try to see a doctor tomorrow.”
“Good idea. Sorry, babe, but I gotta meet with Carter in a few minutes to pick up my doctor props.”
“Go. I understand.”
“Call me as soon as you get in. If I don’t answer, it means Dr. Jabbar is operating. I’ll call you back when I can.”
Wahid stared at the phone after disconnecting the call. Jamila didn’t sound like herself. This assignment had been tough on her, especially watching the female terrorist die in such agony. Time off would probably revive her psychologically, but he sure didn’t want to discourage her from seeing a doctor. Just in case there was something physically wrong.
Shoving the phone into his pocket, he hurried into the building. His former boss met him in the lab.
“Good to see you, Wahid.”
“You too, sir.”
“Everything’s ready that you asked for. Let’s check it out.”
The two men stood at a table covered with medical paraphernalia, a small tube, and a rectangular lead-lined case. Wahid pulled a list from his pocket and checked off each item.
“How do you think it’s going?” Alan asked. The agent looked up and hesitated. “It’s okay to talk to me. Rawlings gave me clearance and told me everything when they contacted us for this assistance,” Alan assured him.
“Sorry, sir, they didn’t remember to tell me.”
“They’ve got a few other things on their minds.”
“Agreed.” He exhaled. “We’re finally beginning to close the net, but we have to be careful none of the fish get away.” He shook his head. “But it’s not a day too soon, in my opinion.”
“I understand the delay related to finding the radioactive material. I’m aghast at how al-Qaeda got the damn stuff in,” Alan said.
“We all are.”
“How’s Panuska holding up?”
“She’s a little unorthodox, but tough as damn nails. I only see her from a distance, but she’s doing an amazing job. Especially after having her cover blown by Husaam.” He glanced around nervously at the other people in the lab.
Alan frowned. “What’s bothering you?”
He made another anxious check to be sure no one was within earshot. “I hate to say this, but I think the gods in Washington have decided Panuska is…um…expendable.”
Alan’s jaw dropped. “What the hell makes you think that?”
Wahid shook his head in frustration. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m just pissed off I can’t do anything about it.”
“Hey, I’m not one of the Washington gods. I respect your opinion. What’s going on?”
Wahid lowered his voice to a whisper. “First of all, Panuska has been flying solo far longer than planned because of the fucking radioactive material. Second, they didn’t pull her in when her cover was blown. And now that we have the pig, they aren’t yanking the net closed immediately and grabbing who and what we have. They’re making her go through the whole exercise of bringing the bomb across the border.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, Boss, and I’m not in a position to question the decisions out of Washington. I know they want to capture the entire Herat bomb and all copies of the instructions. They hope it’s been assembled at the Tijuana hideout. I know they’re also worried that the explosive is C-4, and they want to get their hands on it. I think it’s at the Abdul-Jaleel plant or the home of one of the engineers. So why don’t we grab some Mexican Federales and just go after it?”
“I thought the identities of the engineers were unknown.”
“One still is. The one Panuska nicknamed Khaleel. He’s been really careful. The other one, Nadeem, we identified last night when he made the mistake of driving direc
tly home from the hideout. With a little…motivation, I’m sure he’d talk.” Wahid’s gut tightened. He planted his hands on the table. “The worst news is that some guy called Liban—a professional assassin, not an al-Qaeda minion—is heading here from Syria to kill our Baheera. We’re running out of time. If we don’t bring her in before he gets here…” His voice trailed off. “Apparently, this Liban is a total ghost. I don’t know how the hell we’re supposed to stop him.”
“Shit. God, I hope Rawlings knows what he’s doing.”
Wahid cringed. “So do I, sir. So do I.”
* * *
Ben slouched in his car at the curb, scrutinizing Ameen’s condo with binoculars. There had been no signs of anyone since he arrived. All the blinds and drapes were closed. No voices or sounds emanated from the residence.
A little voice told him Marissa was inside, and she was there voluntarily. Whatever had possessed her to slip away from her protection detail, he could respect. She had incredible instincts.
A very personal little voice taunted him about what she might be doing with Ameen, but Ben didn’t want to listen. He was in a serious, committed relationship with Amber, and obviously, he and Marissa were no longer lovers. He had no claim to her, although she was still an extraordinary friend whom he would protect with his life.
But he doubted she needed protection from Ameen. Probably, the other way around.
He laid the binoculars on the passenger seat and massaged the tight muscles in his neck. Damn, he wasn’t pleased with how this operation was being run by Washington. He’d gotten the call that they’d found the pig and had expected the order to immediately round up the terrorists. But the order hadn’t come.
The net needed to be closed ASAP. He couldn’t understand the delay. Especially now, with the assassin on his way to San Diego, Rawlings should be yanking the net shut, not farting around with…whatever.
Maybe Marissa didn’t like how things were going either, and that’s why she’d decided to ditch her tail. Her fiery personality certainly made insubordination a possibility. He wouldn’t be surprised if she ignored Rawlings’s instructions and finished the op in her own way. Ben just wished he knew what her way was.
Targeted (FBI Heat) Page 15
