“I don’t know how long this takes in real life, but I’m sure they don’t either,” Wahid said, jerking his head toward the other room. “But the timetable you and Rawlings set for today requires us to proceed now. Which means, you’re on.” He turned the radio volume down slightly.
Ben sat on the bed holding her hand. “Make it a good show,” he whispered.
Marissa started with low moans and then increased the intensity. Gradually, she punctuated the groaning with cries of “No” and “I can’t.” Hysterical crying blended into the mix. The charade continued for over an hour. Finally, with Ben’s help, she wet her hair and dripped water on her face and chest. She tossed her hair until it was a disheveled mess. He fastened the blood pressure cuff around her arm. Together, they smeared a pouch of fake blood on the bed, the gown, her legs, and the white coat.
With a nod to Ben and Marissa, Wahid opened the bedroom door a crack. The “doctor” glared at the four terrorists. Holding the door ajar with his bloody, gloved hands, he warned, “It is time. Pray for Baheera. Are you ready to take Allah’s blessed gift to our brothers in Tijuana?”
Wahid mimicked their nods when they couldn’t speak. Then he relocked the door.
Ben retrieved the faux pig from the suitcase and laid the ominous prop at the end of the bed. He kissed Marissa’s cheek and closed himself in the closet, his gun in his hand.
“Ready?” Wahid asked.
“Yes.” She muffled a scream with the pillow, whimpered briefly, and went silent.
After smearing blood on the forceps and tube while Marissa wiped some on her hands and face, he opened the bedroom door. Dr. Jabbar held the bloody cylinder aloft like a hard-won trophy. “Bad news, brothers. Baheera has fainted. But you are to follow her earlier instructions exactly.” He stopped and glanced back at the bed. “Come here,” he demanded sternly, motioning them to the doorway.
Marissa surmised that no one responded because Wahid erupted. “You cowards!” he jeered. He did not wipe the blood from the tube before placing it gently into the lead-lined case and closing it. “Is anyone brave enough to carry this?” he asked, holding the case at arm’s length.
Marissa could barely see them from beneath her almost closed eyelids, but the men kept their gazes glued to their shoes. Finally, Rashad rose awkwardly from the chair. The others watched and then followed. Rashad cautiously accepted the case and peeked into the bedroom. The other three passed by as quickly as possible.
Still scowling, the “doctor” made a show of wiping his gloves on the already disgusting white coat. “I will give Baheera a shot for the pain and one to put her to sleep for several hours, but I’ll stay with her. She’ll meet you at the Tijuana hideout as soon as she can. Now go, deliver Allah’s gift.”
The four terrorists couldn’t escape out the suite door fast enough.
* * *
Wahid disappeared to confirm the “Do Not Disturb” sign still hung on the outside door handle, to relock the deadbolt and chain, and probably to give her a little privacy. They couldn’t start cleaning up the props until there was no chance of the men returning.
Marissa pulled her Glock and the Bureau phone from her purse. She avoided Ben’s eyes while she called her handler.
“Rawlings wants to talk to you,” he said.
“Rawlings? Really?”
Marissa caught Ben’s eye. He shrugged and shook his head.
“Yeah. Hold on. I’ll connect you.”
Fifteen seconds later, Rawlings was on the phone. “All done?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sure they believed every bit of it. What’s up? The op’s a go, right?”
“We’ll discuss that in a minute.” Rawlings hesitated, cleared his throat. “First, I want to warn you that we haven’t located Liban, the assassin. Enough time has passed that he’s probably in the US by now. Possibly even in California. I’m concerned about the time we’ll need to play this out. The trip through the tunnel to get everyone into the US is risky in many ways. I think we should close the net in Tijuana. Your thoughts?”
Marissa gulped. The idea was tempting. Easier. Faster. Safer. But not the best. “I think the idea of finishing this in Tijuana is crap. It won’t work, and I’ll tell you why. Precisely because it is Tijuana. We’re not even supposed to be there. It’ll be a nightmare getting the bomb and the terrorists back under our jurisdiction.” She exhaled. “Besides, how’s this Liban going to find me anyway?”
“If we knew that, we could catch him. After 9/11, our people infiltrated every mosque in San Diego County, and right now, all of them are onsite with eyes and ears on the lookout for him. It’d help, though, if we knew what the hell he looked like. I even stationed two extra agents at the cell’s mosque. But the probability of identifying Liban is slim. Very slim.”
The faceless man in her premonition came to mind. Is he Liban? She gulped again. “This will be over by this evening, sir. I want to finish it. I want to take these bastards down.”
Ben had been listening and watching closely. Now he stomped out of the bedroom.
Marissa gripped the phone tighter, heart pounding, waiting.
“Are you sure, Panuska?”
“Yes, sir.”
A long silence passed before Rawlings spoke again. “All right, but if the slightest thing goes wrong, the cavalry is riding in, and you’re to get the hell out of there. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. Let’s go through this. Two agents are standing guard, invisibly, outside the hotel. They’ve already reported that the four terrorists have left the premises. Once you vacate, they’ll sanitize the suite. You’ll make a quick stop at the apartment. Two agents will be waiting there also. After you leave, they’ll take responsibility for the evidence onsite. Two other agents will follow you to Tijuana. There are four at the hideout already. Small change of plans here: I want you to leave three of the terrorists at the house. I think we could have too big a crowd in that damn tunnel. Something could happen to incite a confrontation between the drug-gang escorts and the terrorists. You could get…caught in the resulting mayhem. We’ll just have to accept the additional hassle of extraditing those three. Let me worry about dealing with the Mexican authorities.”
“Understood. I had to create a reason for all of them to accompany me anyway, but I’m sure I can undo it. Maybe I’ll tell them to pack up the guns and electronics for the engineers to take home because I want them out of there sooner than later.”
“Sounds real to me. Of course, we’ll have them in custody before they pack a damn thing. Moving on. Six agents will be positioned at the Tijuana end of the tunnel. At the US end, I’ve assigned a dozen.”
“That’s a lot more personnel than I requested.”
“Yes, it is. Sorry to overrule you, but this is my call. Coming out of the tunnel, I want you to hang way back. We’ll take out the drug goons guarding the Otay Mesa end well before your entourage arrives. I’d like to get everyone else out of the building and into the open before we pounce. I want you to stay inside the empty warehouse with the bomb. Remember, you may only have your Glock for protection, and you won’t be wearing Kevlar.”
The premonition passed before her eyes again, and she shuddered.
“Panuska, did you hear me?”
“Yes, sir. Stay inside and protect the bomb.”
“Right. You may or may not be able to control whether the terrorists carry weapons. We’ll assume they’ll be armed. I doubt if more than two drug goons escort you, but they’ll be packing for sure. Try to put them out front, as far from you and the bomb as possible. Shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes, max, to bring down all the bastards. Then we’ll treat you to a fancy dinner.”
The premonition reappeared. She couldn’t keep the damn thing out of her mind. Her mouth went dry, and she didn’t respond.
“Marissa, are you okay?”
Rawlings never called her by her first name.
“Yes. Yes, I’m…fine.” Was she trying to convince
him or herself?
Rawlings went silent, contemplating, calculating. “Alfren and Jabbar need to head out soon to their next locations, but I want you to lay low in the suite until it’s time for you to move. You’re safer at the hotel than back at the apartment, just in case Liban manages to find the address and shows up. Let’s see, it’s about nine there now. You set the start time from the hideout at three. You’ll need to leave the hotel by one thirty. That means you have time for a nice, long nap.”
“You’re kidding. There’s more adrenaline than blood in my veins right now, Rawlings.”
“I understand. But sleeping is the best preparation you could do at this point. I’m not pampering you, Panuska. Anyone would be exhausted after what you’ve been through. Besides, you just gave birth to radioactive waste.” He chuckled, trying to ease the tension.
“Okay, Boss, I’ll try to sleep.”
“Thank you. I need to update a few hundred people now, so I may not talk to you again until this is over. Check in with your handler as often as you can. We may have news for you.” Rawlings swallowed hard. “Go get ’em, Marissa.”
“Yes, sir.” She listened to the dead phone for a long time after he disconnected.
Looking grim, Ben and Wahid strolled in from the other room.
“I don’t think the bastards will be coming back. They were too thrilled to get the hell out of here. Why don’t you take a shower while Ben and I clean up?” Wahid suggested.
“Sounds like a good idea. Rawlings wants me to take a nap.” She rolled her eyes.
Ben pulled the suitcase and box from the closet and didn’t join the conversation. Marissa tried to catch his eye, but he seemed intent on keeping his attention elsewhere. She gave up and dashed into the bathroom.
She emerged twenty minutes later, clean and wearing only a towel. The bed had been remade with the hotel linens and looked very inviting. There were no signs of the medical instruments, bloody props, or Dr. Jabbar.
In the other room, Ben slouched on the small couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He glanced up when she came through the doorway, his face tense.
“Would I be wasting my breath to ask you again not to finish this?” he said sullenly.
“Yes, you would.”
He shook his head and lowered his eyes. “Anything else I can do for you before I leave?”
A vise squeezed Marissa’s chest. Since morning, she’d debated whether to tell Ben about the premonition. He knew, he understood, the trauma of trying to interpret and comprehend the meaning of the warnings. They had shared the burden of many during their relationship in Washington. But she knew that if she told him of this one, he would never let her finish the op. Besides, the premonition didn’t require interpretation; the meaning was crystal clear.
She sighed with resignation. This burden was hers to bear alone.
“I’m fine, Benja. You should go.”
Chapter 20
Khaleel and Nadeem had called in sick to the electronics plant. Khaleel didn’t consider it a lie because both had complained about the escalating urge to vomit when they’d spoken by phone from their homes earlier in the morning before leaving for the hideout. The magnitude of what they were about to do produced nauseating exhilaration. But no guilt. Remorse and regret were not the source of their anxiety. No. Instead, their burden was the overwhelming responsibility of ensuring that the bomb exploded effectively—killing, destroying, maiming, hurting, and contaminating as much as possible. They had corrupted their engineering expertise to accomplish this fabulous feat. Allah would reward them richly.
Disappointment agitated Khaleel as he wound his way through Tijuana to the slum. He should be feeling peaceful self-righteousness, not a tsunami of anxiety. But several issues nagged his thoughts, stretched his nerves, and wrenched his gut.
The odd circumstances of Samir’s and Omar’s deaths had never made sense to him. Samir was stupid but not a fool. And only a fool would have run after thieves who’d stolen nothing and left the cell’s principal asset unguarded. Something important had convinced Samir to leave the safety of the hideout and race into the night. Someone other than a drug gang had forced him out and killed him. Last night, when two other vehicles left the neighborhood immediately after Baheera’s, the timing had further raised his suspicions.
Baheera. He didn’t trust the bitch. Something about her… Something about the mysterious woman who’d come with Ameen to his house… The same…? But how could it be true?
He resented Baheera assuming leadership after Samir’s death. A good Muslim woman wouldn’t want the role, even if she was Husaam’s wife, even if she was the suicide bomber. Khaleel knew in his heart that Allah was not pleased the cell had a woman at the helm. A woman he distrusted more with each breath.
With Samir gone, Allah would have wanted Khaleel to take control, to lead the cell, to insure the mission was carried out in all its glory. That epiphany had inspired him to devise a backup plan.
He arrived at the hideout at the same time as Nadeem. They parked both cars in front of the house. Khaleel pushed thoughts of Baheera aside, and his basic anxiety returned. Nadeem’s eyes reflected the same weight of responsibility.
Their strained nerves made the familiar environment—the oppressive heat, the desolate neighborhood, the dilapidated house—completely unnerving. They burst from their cars and rushed inside.
* * *
Ameen yanked open the outside door to the hotel stairwell and raced up the stairs two at a time. Just short of the fourth-floor landing, he ran into the business end of a Glock.
“Freeze!” a male voice ordered.
He obeyed, except for his fingers, which stretched deep into his pocket until they grasped his gun.
“Don’t even think about it, Ameen,” the man said. “What’re you doing here?”
Ameen’s gaze traveled north of the gun until it found a face: the man in the blue BMW who’d followed Baheera, the man he’d spoken to at the mosque. Obviously, more than just a friend; an agent of some kind.
“You are with Baheera?” Ameen stated more than asked.
The agent ignored the question. “I asked what you’re doing here.”
“I’m on your side, you know. The doctor? Is Baheera all right?”
“Answer my fucking question!” The gun moved in front of Ameen’s eyes again.
“I need to warn her.”
“About what?”
“Is she all right?” Ameen persisted.
“She’s fine. Now what the hell do you need to warn her about?”
“Take the gun out of my face, and I’ll tell you.”
“Shit. Get up here.” The agent motioned to the landing with the gun. “Now talk. Fast.”
“A man named Dawud called the mosque this morning looking for Samir. He said he was Samir’s brother from LA. I’m convinced there is no brother. He—”
“Dawud? He must be…”
The stricken look on the man’s face confirmed Ameen’s fears. “He’s after Baheera. Right?”
“Yes. Fuck! We can’t let him find her.”
“I know that. He’s coming to our mosque about the time for midday prayers. I don’t know if Dawud can recognize any of the men from the cell, but there can be no contact between them.”
“They won’t be there.”
“Are you sure?” Ameen asked. The other man stared at him, expressionless. “Okay. Good. I can take care of Dawud.” He paused. “But I can’t take care of Baheera.”
“No. You can’t take care of either one. You need to stay out of this.”
“No. Baheera must stop. She—all of you underestimate the power of hate. If they even suspect her, they will kill her. You know what Samir and Omar tried to do. You must stop her.”
The agent lowered his gun. Anguish, frustration, and something else clouded his face. “I can’t stop her. I’ve tried. God knows, I’ve tried.”
Ameen studied the man’s dark blue eyes, then cocked his head. “You are Baheera
’s lover,” he said, surprised because he remembered her denial.
“What?”
“Her lover. It is in your eyes.”
The agent shook his head. “We were lovers…a long time ago. Now we’re friends…good friends.” He stared back with an intense, probing gaze.
Ameen let him read what was in his own eyes about his feelings for Baheera.
The man’s lips twitched at the ends. “Maybe you can convince her to let us finish this without her.”
“You will let me talk to her?”
“Yeah, but only if you promise not to interfere.”
“I understand.”
“Okay. I’ll let the agents guarding the suite know you’re cleared to go inside.”
“Thanks.”
The agent jammed his gun into the shoulder holster under his jacket and offered his hand. “I’m Ben, by the way. Thanks, Ameen, for…everything.”
The handshake said more than words.
* * *
Wearing only a towel, Marissa stood in front of the bathroom mirror. She was drying her hair with the hotel hairdryer and trying to relax in hopes of sleeping. The loud knock on the suite door startled her.
She recalled locking the deadbolt and also latching the chain after Ben left. The “Do Not Disturb” sign still hung on the outside handle. The noise from the hairdryer had probably drowned out the familiar call of “Housekeeping.” The maid would soon realize her mistake and leave. Unconcerned, Marissa went back to drying her hair.
The second knock did concern her. Had Ben returned to plead his case again? Had the terrorists grown suspicious and come back? Where were the two agents Rawlings had assigned to guard the suite?
Marissa slipped out of the bathroom and snatched her gun from the nightstand. She tiptoed to the side of the door.
A third knock. Louder. No words. She took a deep breath and pressed her eye quickly on the peephole. Ameen.
She spun back against the wall. How had he found her? Damn. Not only had he eavesdropped on her phone calls at his condo, he had also remembered what he heard. Well, she would wait him out; he couldn’t be positive she was inside.
Targeted (FBI Heat) Page 20
