The Valley of Shadows

by Mark Terry

  There was a single evaluation written by someone named Gerald Koughman, saying Abdul’s work performance was “adequate” and noting frequent absences. A note suggested that Abdul Mohammed’s strong suit was his willingness to do whatever was asked of him, hinting that Abdul was more of a gofer than anything else. He apparently worked in the mailroom, ran errands, did a little bit of light chauffeuring when needed, and otherwise was an unspectacular employee.

  O’Reilly had photocopied a photograph that had been included in the file. It showed a swarthy man with a round face, close-cropped black hair, and dark, sunken eyes. There was something not quite right about his expression, a blankness or dullness, but Derek couldn’t decide if that was the bad reproduction or something inherent in the man.

  He finished reading and watched O’Reilly frowning at the computer. Standing, he began studying the photographs on the wall. Lawrence Perzada had been around the world for his job, apparently. He stood with an actor that seemed familiar to Derek from The Mummy movies, the Egyptian pyramids in the background. Another photograph shaking hands with someone who looked like Brad Pitt, but it was a fuzzy photograph. Someplace in Mexico, maybe?

  He moved on and suddenly froze. The air felt icy in his chest.

  The photograph before him was different than most of the others. It was of six men in olive-colored military uniforms. They stood in a row, rifles in their arms. Studying the photograph, Derek identified Perzada, much younger, second from the right. On his right, big arm draped over Perzada’s shoulder, was Abdul Muhammed. Studying Muhammed’s face, Derek noted the big grin but also the odd vapid expression. He wondered if Muhammed had been learning disabled or had some other disability.

  But it was the man on the far left that had caught his attention.

  Kalakar, otherwise known as Miraj Mohammad Khan.

  Derek carefully took the photograph off the wall. “O’Reilly, you got a digital camera?”

  She glanced up from the computer. “On my phone. Why?”

  He walked over, removing the photograph from the frame. He laid it on the desk. She gaped at it.

  “We need a really clear photograph here. We need to send this to our people in Pakistan and get IDs on these people ASAP.”

  CHAPTER 48

  FBI Agent Dale Hutchins sat at his kitchen table watching the news on TV and drinking coffee. His wife, Teh, was still showering, getting ready for work at the U.S. Embassy. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep. His mind was very much on the various attacks ongoing in the United States. The attacks in the U.S. were at the top of the TV news cycle, but not a lot of hard information was offered. From what he understood, there had been four, with a fifth still being anticipated in New York City.

  It made him feel like their raid on the cell’s apartment and the subsequent death of the new guy, Jason Barnes, had been a waste.

  He also hadn’t slept well because his body ached, and because he had received what seemed like one of the most bizarre telephone calls of his entire career. It had woken him up from his restless sleep at four in the morning. It had been the officious sounding voice of a woman with a Brooklyn accent saying, “Agent Dale Hutchins? Please wait for a direct phone call from U.S. Secretary of Homeland Security James Johnston.”

  He jerked upright in bed, confused and a little alarmed. He had struggled to pull his shit together, but felt like he wasn’t doing a very good job of it. His ass ached, his vision was blurry, and his mouth tasted like the cat had used it as a litter box. After a moment the rough voice of Secretary Johnston came on the line. “Agent Hutchins, Sam Sherwood tells me you’re the man to talk to regarding the raid on the apartment a few weeks ago.”

  “Uh, yes sir.”

  “I’m sorry for this call. It’s what, about four in the morning there?”

  Peering at the digital alarm clock, Hutchins nodded. He was sitting on the edge of his bed in his boxer shorts. Teh muttered in her sleep and rolled over. She was used to phone calls at odd hours, and was able to sleep through them. “Yes sir. What can I do for you, sir?”

  “I’ve got one of my troubleshooters working with a START team in Los Angeles. He’s got an idea that this attack in the port earlier is some sort of ruse or something, and he wants to speak with you personally about the raid.”

  “Sir?” Hutchins was confused, and it wasn’t just because it was four a.m.

  Johnston’s sigh sailed over the phone line. “The troubleshooter’s name is Dr. Derek Stillwater. He’ll call you. Maybe. He’s got your cell number, too. Derek’s a bit of a maverick, but he’s got excellent instincts and Homeland Security would greatly appreciate your cooperation on this. Agent Sherwood assures me you’re the man. And in case you were wondering, Agent Hutchins, I have discussed this with the director.”

  “Okay, sir. Do you know when, uh, Agent Stillwater will call?”

  Johnston snorted or laughed or something, Hutchins wasn’t sure which. “I wish I did, Agent Hutchins. Derek’s rather unpredictable. I don’t know exactly what his concerns are, but like I said, I trust him, so thank you for your cooperation.”

  “I’ll do everything I can, sir.”

  “I know you will, and again thank you.”

  Secretary Johnston had hung up and Hutchins had sat there blinking at the phone like an owl, wondering what kind of juice this Derek Stillwater had to get the secretary himself on the phone to an agent in Pakistan?

  And now, three hours later, still no word from Dr. Derek Stillwater. The name had been vaguely familiar to Hutchins. He logged onto the FBI database and quickly realized why. Stillwater had a mixed relationship with the bureau. He had been under investigation for collusion with a terrorist group, and for the alleged murder of a Russian national. Later, he had been involved with a high-level cover-up. Congressional hearings had been called behind closed doors, but he had done something heroic and impossible at the G8 Summit debacle where terrorists had infiltrated the summit and kidnapped twenty world leaders, so apparently Stillwater had been cleared of whatever charges had been leveled at him.

  Tehreema appeared, and like he always did when he saw her, Dale thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. She brushed her long black hair away from her face and said, “You look tired. Bad night?”

  His cell phone chirped. Holding up a hand to his wife, he answered it, identifying himself. The voice was strong, American, a little ironic, and seemed excited. “Hutchins, this is Derek Stillwater, with Homeland Security. I—”

  “Secretary Johnston called to tell me you might be calling—” Hutchins couldn’t help himself. He added, “—over three hours ago.”

  “Yeah. Sorry. Some things came up. Look, you have an e-mail address?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m going to e-mail you a photograph right now. Tell me when you get it.”

  Hutchins, puzzled, rattled off his e-mail address. Tehreema shot him a quizzical look and he shrugged.

  Stillwater: “Okay, we’ve sent it now. Hopefully it’ll get there in a couple minutes. It’s a photograph of six guys in the Pakistan Army. One of them is Kalakar. One of them is an entertainment attorney out here in L.A. One of them is a guy named Abdul Mohammed. He’s dead, murdered. He was working in the lawyer’s office, but he came to our attention and the LAPD’s attention because he was wandering around trying to convince somebody to acquire a suitcase nuke for him.”

  “What!”

  “As far as we can tell, he never even came close to getting one. There’s something—I get the impression Abdul Mohammed was a little slow. Retarded or something, or learning disabled. Something. Just an impression. He was sort of a gofer for this attorney, whose name is Perzada. Anyway, we need you to see if you can identify the three other men in the photograph. Find out who they are, where they are, what they’re doing now. Find family members, anybody who might be in the U.S.”

  “Okay.” Hutchins headed for the spare bedroom where they kept a computer. He clicked it on, impatiently waiting for the sy
stem to boot. When the system came up, he accessed the Internet and checked his e-mail. The file hadn’t arrived yet.

  “Stillwater,” he said. “I need contact information for you.”

  Stillwater rattled it off.

  “I understand there’s already been an L.A. attack.”

  “Yeah, but Kalakar’s still running around. He shot an FBI agent just a couple hours ago.”

  “You’re sure it was him?”

  “Positive. And this is weird, but he had a little girl, maybe ten years old, with him. When I saw them she was crying.”

  “You saw them?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Weird.”

  “Yeah. You’ve apparently found out more about Kalakar than anybody else. Does he have a daughter?”

  “Not as far as I know. We’ll dig a little deeper on that. But you think he’d be dragging his daughter around on something like this?”

  “You wouldn’t think so, but al-Qaeda isn’t that predictable. They’ve done some strange shit.”

  “Yeah, I hear that.” Hutchins checked the e-mail again. This time the file had appeared. He clicked on the attachment and studied the photograph. He recognized Kalakar. He didn’t recognize the two men tagged as Perzada and Muhammed. There was something oddly familiar about one of the other men, but he didn’t know why.

  “I got the photograph. Any idea when it was taken?”

  “None. Except you’ve got the dates Kalakar was in the service, right?”

  “Right. That’ll narrow it down. Hey, Stillwater.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been working with a local cop on this, Firdos Moin. He was just saying yesterday that there was some sort of military connection here. I’ll show this to him. We’ll get right on it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And Stillwater, watch your ass, all right?”

  “Thanks.” He clicked off.

  Tehreema stood over Hutchin’s shoulder, looking at the photograph. “Who are those men?”

  Dale pointed at Kalakar and explained who he was. Tehreema pointed at another man. “He looks familiar.”

  “To me, too.”

  She tapped the computer screen. “And this guy, that’s Faiz Chughtai. He’s Vice Consul in Los Angeles. A lot younger than he is now, but I recognize him. I met him at an embassy party several years ago.”

  “One down, two to go, then. Thanks honey.” He burned the image to a disk, dumped it to a flash drive just in case, kissed Tehreema goodbye, and headed into the office. On the way, he called Frito to tell him he needed him at the office ASAP.

  CHAPTER 49

  The Brotman Medical Center in Culver City was surrounded by satellite news vans. Derek and O’Reilly shot each other worried looks. The media had to be there because of Shelly. Finding a parking space, they slipped into the emergency room, and were instantly caught by their former START partner, Jon Welch. Welch’s face looked gray. He was leaning against a wall, looking down a hallway as the bureau SAC, Black, held a press conference.

  He blinked at the two of them. “Thought you guys were decommissioned and sent home.”

  Derek shrugged.

  Welch’s mouth twitched in response, not quite a smile. “Yeah, I figured. Dog with a fucking bone. You hear about Shelly?”

  “I was the one who called the EMTs,” Derek said.

  Welch met his gaze. After a moment he shook his head. “She died on the table, man. I’m sorry.”

  O’Reilly made a little sound, a grunt, a gasp, a cry, something. Derek felt his stomach roll. A wave of black rage swept through him. And guilt. He had promised to take care of her and it hadn’t happened. If only—

  “Ah, shit.”

  Derek reached out and put his arm over O’Reilly’s shoulder. For a moment she leaned into him. He murmured, “Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Dammit.”

  Welch said, “Shit bad luck, Sandy. I know you’re taking heat for this op, but far as I can tell, there isn’t a START in the bunch that’s done any good. Givenchy and I fucked up good. We were only a couple hours behind those pricks at the port.”

  O’Reilly stood up straight, moving away from Derek’s embrace. “I know, Jon. You guys did your best under the circumstances. Damn. Shelly—”

  Welch nodded. “She’s Bureau. She’s family. We’re on it now. Everybody’s looking for Kalakar.” He focused on Derek. “Ford F150. Color?”

  “Red.”

  “Year?”

  Derek shrugged. “Recent. Had a cap on the back. They find anything in the storage unit?”

  “Wooden crate, empty.”

  “How big?”

  Welch shrugged. “About six feet long, foot or two square. Could’ve been damned near anything in it. Label on the box connects it to a movie production company that’s nothing more than a UPS Store mailbox. We’ve got people on it. Lab guys are all over it. No signs of radiation whatsoever, much to everyone’s relief, but we still don’t know what was in it.” His gaze shifted down the hallway. “Looks like Black’s press moment’s over. You guys might want to get out of here before he sees you, if I understand the politics right.”

  Derek held out his hand. “Thanks, Jon.”

  Welch shook it. “Good luck.”

  Derek, behind the wheel of the rented Pathfinder, said, “This sucks.”

  O’Reilly nodded. “I liked Shelly. She surprised me. She was all over—” She trailed off, lost in thought.

  Derek cocked his head. “What? She was all over what?”

  “Who. Not what.”

  With a sigh, Derek splayed his hands. “Hello? Remember me? What are you talking about?”

  Slowly O’Reilly said, “She was all over Ibrahim Sheik Muhammad. You know, Derek, he’s someone we might want to talk to again. That or try and talk to Lawrence Perzada. Everything’s intersected with the two of them.”

  “Any idea where Perzada lives?”

  She shook her head. She pulled out her laptop and tried to find a home address for the attorney, but not surprisingly it wasn’t listed. Derek just drove, pulling through the window of a fast-food chain selling quasi-Mexican food. They ordered some burritos and Cokes. He headed vaguely in the direction of Pasadena, but at the moment they had no real destination.

  O’Reilly shut the laptop. “No luck on the net. There are ways to dig up that information through official channels, but since we already know where Ibrahim Sheik Muhammad lives, let’s go talk to him again.”

  Derek nodded and asked for directions.

  CHAPTER 50

  It didn’t take Kalakar long to decide that kidnapping the little girl had been a bad idea. A very bad idea.

  From the simplest point of view, he wasn’t very accustomed to children. He had an older brother, but they had not spoken in years. His brother was married and had three children, whom he had never met. His brother Sayid, a successful chef in Islamabad, was not a supporter of al-Qaeda. Sayid was, in Kalakar’s eyes, an infidel, a Muslim who had given up his religion; who had turned his back on Allah.

  Kalakar had been in love really only once in his entire life, with a woman in Afghanistan, but she had died during a skirmish between the Taliban and U.S. troops. Before her death Kalakar almost considered marrying her and returning to Pakistan to pursue the quiet life of an art history professor. His future had balanced on a knife’s blade before fragments from a mortar had killed his beloved Farishta. Kalakar had fallen, or been pushed, into this life, this hatred of the Americans, into his belief in the glory of the jihad.

  But sometimes he thought of Farishta and the life that he might have had, of the children he and Farishta would have raised in the light of Islam.

  The first problem with Malika was she wouldn’t be quiet. She had cried and screamed as they left the storage facility. He would not admit it to her—didn’t want to admit it to himself—but when he had struck her and she had collapsed, he thought he had killed her. And he had felt relief. He had thought: now I won’t have to deal with the little brat any more.


  He had hated himself for that. He was not a child killer. He was a soldier of Islam, a jihadist.

  Once she stopped crying and screaming, Malika had shifted into a sullen pout, which unfortunately only lasted a few minutes as Kalakar drove around Los Angeles considering his options. Once she had adjusted to the new reality, she had started badgering him with questions about the woman he had shot, about the box in the back of the truck, about why he was keeping her from her parents, about why he had lied to her.