The Valley of Shadows

by Mark Terry

  He had finally glared at her and said, “Shut up or I’ll hit you again.”

  She stuck out her lip, crossed her arms over her thin chest, and said nothing, tears leaking from her eyes. But at least she had shut up.

  For a while.

  “I have to pee.”

  He jerked his head. “What?”

  “I have to pee. I have to go to the bathroom.”

  Kalakar ground his teeth. What was he going to do with her? He didn’t even want to think about the risk of checking into a motel for the night. He would have to tie and gag her and someone would see them go into the hotel. It was a huge risk.

  The operation had not made room for this kind of improvisation.

  “Hold it,” he said.

  “I have to go now.”

  He sighed and started looking for a gas station. When he finally found one he thought would be suitable, he pulled up as close to the rest rooms as he possibly could. He took her arm and squeezed, enough to hurt her a little, to make sure she was paying attention. Making his voice hard and threatening, he said, “If you scream, if you bring any attention to yourself, I will kill you. Do you understand me? I will take the gun and shoot you in the head. If you cooperate with me, you’ll be back with your parents by lunchtime tomorrow. But if you become a problem, I will kill you.”

  She began to cry. He shook her gently, but hard enough to get her attention. “You must calm down. Get control of yourself.”

  She cried harder, clutching her school backpack.

  Kalakar blinked. He wanted to hit her. He wanted to shake her hard and bash her head against the window. Why was she making this so difficult?

  Softening his voice, he said, “Malika, you need to be strong. Do you understand? We are on a mission from Allah and you are part of Allah’s plan. You must be strong.”

  She hiccupped, clearly puzzled, but stopped crying, or at least stopped the edgy hysterics.

  Kalakar stepped out of the truck and came around to her side. He opened her door and escorted her to the restroom. Opening the door, he looked inside at the filthy space and scowled. Disgusting. There was no outside window, only a vent fan.

  “Go,” he said.

  She bit her lip. “I’m not going with you in here.”

  He glared at her. “If you have to go, you’ll go.”

  She crossed her hands over her chest. “Pervert. I’m going to scream and the police will come and lock you up. I’ll scream that you’re not my daddy and that you’ve kidnapped me and are trying to rape me.”

  Dear Allah, please help me! Kalakar begged.

  “If you lock the door I will kick it in,” he said. He closed the door and stood waiting outside. What was he going to do?

  Flipping open his cell phone, he paused, trying to decide if this was a major mistake. But what choice did he have?

  “It’s Kalakar,” he said when the phone was picked up. “I have a problem. I need a place to stay for the night that’s safe and secure and I need a new vehicle. We need to meet.”

  “How about—”

  “Don’t say it. The same location we met before. At eighty thirty.”

  The voice on the phone hesitated. “Okay. Yes, that will work. Eight thirty.”

  “Good.”

  Kalakar hung up. He knocked on the bathroom door. “Hurry up in there.”

  Malika’s voice said, “I’m going as fast as I can.”

  It made Kalakar smile, despite himself.

  CHAPTER 51

  Jon Welch, back at Brotman Medical Center, carried a box of Shelly Pimpuntikar’s belongings out to his car. He had volunteered to catalog her personal belongings and to make sure they were delivered to her parents. SAC Black was going to call her parents—and he wouldn’t be surprised if the director made a call as well—but Welch had collected her gun, her briefcase, her cell phone, her car keys, and purse and was going to make sure they got to her parents. They deserved that at the very least.

  Sitting in his car in the parking lot of the medical center, he carefully checked everything. Placing Shelly’s briefcase on the seat next to him, he flipped it open. He took in its contents: tons of paper, yellow legal pads, pens, a pocket calculator, file folders, maps, extra ammunition for her handgun, a PDA, and what looked like a small radio. He picked it up, curious, not completely sure what it was. It didn’t look like a cell phone or a BlackBerry. Welch clicked the switch to on.

  Static burst from the tiny speaker, followed by voices. They weren’t speaking in English. He wasn’t sure if it was Urdu or Arabic or Farsi. What the hell?

  After a moment, he was able to separate out two distinct voices, both men. Suddenly a phone rang.

  One voice, deeper, accented, clicked a button. “Hello?”

  Apparently they had put the phone on speaker. A heavily accented voice said, “It’s Kalakar. I have a problem. I need a place to stay for the night that’s safe and secure and I need a new vehicle. We need to meet.”

  Welch’s heart beat in his chest. What was this?

  The first man’s voice said: “How about—”

  Kalakar cut him off. “Don’t say it. The same location we met before. At eight thirty.”

  There was a pause in the conversation during which Welch heard rustling sounds, as if the two men in the room were moving around. Finally the first man said: “Okay. Yes, that will work. Eight thirty.”

  Kalakar: “Good.”

  Welch heard a clack as the phone was disconnected. Silence for a moment, then the two men began to speak to each other in whatever language they had been speaking in and Welch felt like smashing the radio receiver beneath his heel.

  Ears straining, he heard the conversation come to an end and what sounded like the two men leaving the room.

  Welch checked his Timex. It was 7:21. He reached for his phone.

  CHAPTER 52

  Derek was driving when O’Reilly’s phone rang. He heard her listen for a moment then say, “Jesus. That’s a bug she put in the office of Ibrahim Sheik Muhammad in Pasadena.”

  Derek raised an eyebrow.

  After a longer moment during which O’Reilly listened to the caller: “No, Jon, it’s not fucking legal. But the person who placed it there’s dead. That’s a gray area—Really? Eight thirty?”

  She pulled out a notebook and rattled off an address. “Yes. Meet us there.”

  She clicked off and told Derek, “The imam’s meeting Kalakar somewhere at eighty thirty.” Reaching over to the Pathfinder’s GPS, she typed in the address.

  “Shelly bugged this guy’s office? Illegally?”

  O’Reilly related the story. Derek laughed. “Everybody’s on my case for the way I bend the rules—”

  “—more like disregard them.”

  “—and you’re a damned accessory to a major breach in privacy that was conducted by an FBI agent.” He shook his head, amused, but only a little.

  She described the phone call Jon Welch had overheard. Derek nodded. “He knows somebody saw the truck. He’s ditching it. But—”

  His eyes on the GPS unit, Derek took a turn. “What?” O’Reilly asked.

  “Kalakar’s improvising.”

  She thought about it. Finally, she said, “Maybe just because he didn’t expect to run into Shelly.”

  “Maybe. Maybe something else. Like the little girl.”

  “You think he’s hauling a daughter around with him? Or what?”

  “I have no clue.”

  It was the first time Derek had seen the imam’s home. Even by Pasadena standards—or maybe especially by Pasadena standards—he was impressed.

  As they drove by the front gate, the gate ground open, and a black Mercedes SUV pulled out of the drive. O’Reilly turned her head away.

  “That’s them,” she said. “The guy in the passenger seat is the imam.”

  “Got it.” Derek kept driving, watching the Mercedes in the rearview mirror. His heart sank. What the hell?

  As Imam Ibrahim Sheik Muhammad and Sayid Zaheer Abb
as approached the gate, the imam saw a Nissan Pathfinder with two people in the front seat pass slowly by. On any given day the imam was paranoid; even if he weren’t a supporter of al-Qaeda he believed the Americans kept an eye on him because he was Pakistani and because he was an imam. So he paid attention to his surroundings—even more so in the last twenty-four hours, especially after the port attack and after his middle-of-the-night visit from the FBI and the ODNI.

  And he was absolutely certain that the ODNI bitch, the blonde, was in the passenger seat of the Pathfinder. He reached out and caught Sayid’s elbow. “Stop. Stop. Stop the car.”

  Sayid hit the brakes hard. Both men jerked against their shoulder harnesses.

  “What is it?”

  “Did you see that Pathfinder? The black one?”

  Sayid shrugged.

  Sheik Muhammad stroked his beard, thinking. “You have your cell phone on you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Stay right here. Right here.” He slipped out of the Mercedes and ran—ran! How long had it been since he had actually run? His heart beat hard in his chest and his knees protested and he felt awkward and old. He let himself into his garage and climbed into his other vehicle, a white Cadillac, and headed down toward the gate. On his phone he clicked Sayid’s number. “That Pathfinder has federal agents in it. They will follow one of us. We have to lose them. Stay in touch.”

  “Yes.”

  “Go.”

  They weren’t coming out, Derek thought. What the hell was going on? He slid the Pathfinder to the curb, eyes fixed on the rearview mirror.

  O’Reilly turned to watch out the rear window. “You think they saw us?”

  Derek shrugged. He didn’t know what to think. There was no reason to believe the imam knew him, but he’d probably remember the blonde female federal agent who woke him up in the middle of the night.

  “Huh,” he said, eyes wide in surprise.

  The Mercedes nosed out of the driveway and rolled in their direction. Derek waited, ready to follow.

  “What the hell?” O’Reilly sounded a little bit freaked out.

  The white Cadillac pulled out after the black Mercedes and turned in the opposite direction.

  The Mercedes passed them and O’Reilly said, “That’s the driver. Go after the Cadillac! Go! Shit! Go!”

  Derek spun the wheel and goosed the gas, did a U-turn and chased after the white Cadillac.

  CHAPTER 53

  Dale Hutchins sat back in his chair at the FBI office in Islamabad and sipped black coffee out of a blue FBI mug. It was hot and strong. One of the other agents had brought in some specialty coffee, not one of those froufrou flavors like mocha-vanilla-caramel-bean, but a rich premium roast of some sort, and he was hooked. He shifted in his chair, then stood up to pace. His butt hurt this morning—probably from extended car travel and desk duty the day before.

  He had uploaded the image into his work computer and was staring at it, trying to scratch the itch in his brain that told him he should know who one of those men was.

  Firdos strode in, a smile on his face. Firdos wore khaki slacks and a white dress shirt, no tie. His dark skin contrasted sharply with the starched, crisp whiteness of the shirt. “Hang on,” he said, gesturing to the mug in his hand. “Is that Bernie’s coffee?”

  With a grin, Hutchins nodded.

  With a rueful shake of his head, Firdos said, “I’m addicted,” and aimed for the break room and the Braun coffee maker.

  Two minutes later Firdos was back. “You’re not sitting down.”

  “A little sore today. This job is literally a pain in the ass.”

  Firdos laughed. “Indeed. What’s all the fuss?”

  Hutchins brought up the image on the computer. He tapped the computer screen, pointing at each image as he introduced them. “Kalakar. An entertainment lawyer now in L.A. named Perzada. A now-dead guy named Abdul Mohammed who was asking around about a suitcase nuke before someone slashed his throat. Now this guy looks sort of familiar but—”

  Firdos, face twisted in concern, glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, then reached out and snapped off the monitor. “Who’s seen this?”

  Hutchins, coffee mug halfway to his mouth, said, “Frito, you’re scaring me.”

  “Delete this off your office computer. Now. Do you have backup?”

  “Yes. What the—”

  Firdos gestured at the computer. “Do it. Quickly.”

  More than a little confused, Dale sat down with a wince and turned the monitor back on, deleted the image from his office computer and pulled the flash drive from the UBS port. Turning, he said, “Frito, what’s—”

  Firdos snatched the flash drive from his hand and turned on his heel. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. We have to talk somewhere private.”

  Hutchins and Firdos walked between giant beds of roses at the Rose and Jasmine Garden. Bumblebees floated by. Hutchins spotted hummingbirds flitting among the flowers. The air was heavy with the mixed scent of roses and jasmine. Three years ago he had proposed to Tehreema here.

  The setting was pleasant, but he was puzzled and getting a little angry. Firdos hadn’t said a word. He’d led him to his car and driven in a haphazard route through the city, doubling back, constantly checking his rearview mirror. Hutchins was no fool. Firdos was either trying to lose a tail or make sure they weren’t under surveillance.

  But from whom? Every time he’d asked a question, Firdos had shushed him.

  Finally Firdos stopped by a particularly beautiful bed of yellow roses. “Where did you get that photograph?”

  Hutchins told him. Firdos nodded, but his gaze flicked past him. Watchful. Paranoid?

  “Firdos! What’s going on?”

  “The man you recognize is a young General Bilal Sharif.”

  It all came together. Hutchins cursed. “Oh, man.”

  Firdos nodded. President Tarkani might very well run the country and the military, but his primary adversary, both politically and in the military, was General Bilal Sharif. Sharif was a conservative Muslim who did not support Tarkani’s cooperation with the U.S. after 9/11. But Sharif was too popular within the country for Tarkani to do anything overt about Sharif.

  Glancing around again, Firdos said, “You know that we believe Sharif has been behind some of the assassination attacks on Tarkani. Indirectly.”

  “Yes.” It was a given within the bureau that the attempts on Tarkani’s life had been linked to political opposition within the government, not just by terrorists actively working within Pakistan.

  Firdos raised his fist. It contained the flash drive. “Bilal Sharif was in the 16SP Artillery Regiment. I will try to identify the last man, but I must do it very, very carefully. You understand?”

  Hutchins understood all too well. Pakistan could be a volatile country, particularly when you became mired in the quicksand that was internal politics within the military. Firdos’s paranoia was justified.

  Firdos clapped him on the shoulder. He began to walk back to his car. “I’ll drop you off at your office. Please, don’t start making inquiries about this. Word would get back to Sharif. If he is somehow connected to Kalakar, it would be very dangerous for both of us.”

  “You be careful, too.”

  Firdos nodded. He looked sad. He shook his head. “Bad business, my friend. Let’s hope it’s just a coincidence.”

  But he didn’t look like he believed it.

  CHAPTER 54

  The smell was strong and familiar: rotting bodies. Derek gripped the steering wheel of the Nissan, knuckles going white. “Shit.”

  O’Reilly flashed him a sharp look. “What?”

  He shook his head. Derek had lived with panic attacks for a long time, since the 1990s. Their triggers were unpredictable—he could go through periods of intense stress and not have any incident, and then have an attack while kayaking on Chesapeake Bay or working out at the gym. Although the triggers were inconsistent, the attacks weren’t. They typically began wi
th a sensory flashback, usually the odor of rotting bodies.

  He had a large supply of images in his memory to support the smell: Kurds gassed to death by Saddam Hussein’s soldiers in northern Iraq; digging up graves under cover of night in Pakistan; battlefield dead in Iraq; mass killings in Baltimore and Detroit and Colorado.