by Mark Terry
He took a deep breath and slipped his hands beneath his butt, beneath his thighs to behind his knees.
Now was the tricky part.
Staying relaxed, he leaned forward and slipped the handcuff chains beneath his left foot.
So far, so good. He was all tangled up like a bent hanger, but he was halfway there.
Deep breath, letting it out, he completed the task.
Now his hands were cuffed in front of him. He could check the time. It was 11:15. Later than he had thought.
Connelly pushed the door open and stared at him. “That was sort of impressive for a guy your size. Yoga?”
“Once upon a time. Mostly just martial arts.”
“Kung fu, huh.”
“Mixed. Plus, I’m getting older. I get a little creaky if I don’t stay limber.”
“I hear that. The mileage adds up.”
Derek held up his wrists. “I’m not going anywhere, Connelly. Unlock me.”
Connelly fished the key out of his pocket and unclasped the cuffs, pocketing them. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
“Sugar? Cream? Or what passes for it?”
“Black.”
Connelly disappeared and returned a few minutes later with two Styrofoam cups. Handing one to Derek, he seated himself on the opposite side of the Formica table, which wobbled alarmingly.
Derek took a sip. “How’s O’Reilly?”
“No word. She took a shot to the upper shoulder. Might require anything from stitches to minor surgery. Frankly, from what I saw of that scene, you two are the luckiest sons of bitches on the planet.”
Derek shook his head. “If Welch hadn’t run over the shooter—what’s his name, Abbas?—I’d be playing a harp right now.”
“Or wielding a pitchfork, from what I can see. So, you feel guilty for being such a fuck-up then? You been getting people killed all day. You get Popovitch killed the same way?”
Derek took a gulp of the steaming, nasty-tasting coffee, felt the caffeine surge through his veins. After a moment he said, “Nice segue. Guess the foreplay’s over and we’re on to the questioning, huh?”
Connelly leaned forward and dropped a manila folder in front of Derek. “You might say that.”
Derek cautiously flipped open the folder. In it were a dozen glossy photographs apparently lifted from a security camera. He recognized the Culver City storage facility. The first photograph showed a little girl in jeans, a T-shirt, and a headscarf, running. Her mouth was open and she looked terrified. Her eyes were wide, her expression panicked. Derek tried to remain cool, but he could feel the fear coming off her in waves.
The next photograph showed her closer to the camera. In this one she was looking over her shoulder. Behind her the front of a pickup truck was visible.
In the next photograph the truck was right behind her and a man was climbing from the driver’s side. Derek studied the image. It was Kalakar. No doubt about it. No hat. Short-cropped dark hair. Dark features, mustache. He wore a long-sleeved denim shirt, jeans, and boots. There was a stain of some sort on the shirt—probably blood. He looked determined.
The little girl had spun to face him, but was blurry in the image, as if she was continuing to spin. Her fear was palpable.
Derek turned to the final photograph. In it, Kalakar had caught the little girl. He had just completed what looked like a backhand to her face. Her head was turned to the side, her expression one of shock and fear and pain. It was obvious from the way her body was tilting that the blow had knocked her off her feet. The photograph had caught her before she hit the ground.
Derek slid the photographs back in the folder and shot Connelly a questioning look. The detective leaned forward. “You could try saying thank you.”
“Thank you. Where’d you get these?”
“A friend. The FBI’s being stingy with what they distribute. Nobody’s sure what to make of this little girl. Is she a relative of Kalakar? Was she with Agent Pimpuntikar? Was she in the wrong place at the wrong time? We don’t fuckin’ know.”
“She wasn’t with Agent Pimpuntikar,” Derek said. “I talked to Shelly before she got there and she was alone. I’m sure of it.”
“You think she’s Kalakar’s daughter? Or he’s a pedophile or something?”
Derek shook his head. “I don’t think so. And he’s supposed to be al-Qaeda. Bringing along a daughter, especially one that young, would be very atypical.”
“So wrong place at the wrong time.”
Derek reopened the folder and studied the photograph. His brain was spinning like a tornado. “Or,” he said slowly, “she’s a hostage.”
Connelly craned his neck, thinking about it. “A kidnapping. This Kalakar’s got a lot on his plate. Why would he kidnap some kid? He a pervert?”
Derek shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Get off the pedophilia thing. If that were it, he probably would have run her over right there. He’s in a storage facility getting whatever the hell he’s getting—”
“—yeah, about that—”
“—and he’s surprised by an FBI agent, there’s a shootout, the agent dies, Kalakar maybe gets wounded, the girl runs from him. He chases her down, which makes sense, but why hit her and throw her back in the truck? I saw them just moment’s later. The girl was alive, conscious, and crying. Something else is going on.”
Connelly shrugged his shoulders, as if trying to loosen up. Finally, he said, “Kidnapping. Why take a hostage? Money?”
Leaning back in his cheap molded-plastic chair, Derek thought for a moment. “Not money, I don’t think. Information? Maybe he’s holding her to apply pressure to someone.”
“For what?”
“I wish I knew.”
Connelly nodded and jumped to his feet. “Hang tight. I’ve got somebody I want you to meet.”
It was thirty minutes before the door opened again and Connelly walked through. Accompanying him was a heavyset woman with long, curly red hair, a fleshy face, and bifocals. Her age was hard to figure. The long hair made it tricky, but Derek guessed she was in her late forties. She was one of those heavy women with a big bust that appealed to a certain type of man; she wasn’t unattractive, but she looked like she’d seen a bit more of the real world than was healthy. She was in a khaki suit and looked tired and more than a little annoyed.
“Derek Stillwater, Homeland Security, this is Betty Andine, Juvenile Crimes.”
Derek shook hands with the woman. She had the manila folder. She dropped it in front of him on the table and flipped it open. There was an additional photograph. It was a close-up of the little girl. She pointed to it. “How good a likeness is this?”
Derek shrugged. “Good, I guess. The expression makes it hard to tell.”
“This Kalakar, he’s Pakistani, right?”
“Yes.”
“And the girl probably is, too.”
Derek studied the photograph again and shrugged. “I can’t tell. Why do you think so?”
“The headscarf. She’s Muslim, but she’s otherwise dressed modern. There’s a lot of variation and it’s not a given, but Pakistani Muslim girls and women aren’t quite as rigid as the Arabs and some Persians about following the dress code. Otherwise it’s a guess.”
Derek nodded. “Okay.”
“How old?”
“I’m not the best judge, but I figured ten, maybe nine or eleven.”
“You’re a good judge. That’s my guess, too.” Betty Andine stood up straight. “I think I might be able to identify this little girl if she goes to school in a twenty-five mile radius of that storage facility.”
“Really?”
“Really. But I got a couple questions for you.”
Derek splayed his hands. “Go ahead.”
“Why’s the bureau keeping quiet about this? Why don’t they have her face on TV? The guy, he’s the terrorist behind the boat bombing at the port, right? Why aren’t they all over her? They’re showing his photograph on TV, but not hers.”
D
erek considered that piece of information. “Because,” he said slowly, “someone might think that if they identify the girl, Kalakar will think she’s a liability and kill her. So they don’t want to tip him to that. There’s something about the girl—”
Betty Andine waited. Derek shook his head, the thoughts slow to coalesce. “The bureau’s afraid he’ll kill her if he knows they’re looking for her.”
“Go on. You said there’s something about the girl.”
“This is a guess.”
“I’m open-minded.”
“I don’t know if the bureau thinks this or not, but my gut says there’s something about this girl that’s key to Kalakar’s final plan. Otherwise he wouldn’t keep her alive and he wouldn’t have taken her with him. And, although I think we’d better find out fast what that is, I suspect Kalakar definitely doesn’t want us to know.”
Betty Andine glanced at Connelly, who shrugged. She said, “I’ll be in touch. We’ll be subtle, but I think we’ll figure something out.”
“Thanks.”
She nodded as if she was annoyed with him, and left the interrogation room. Connelly sat back down at the table.
Derek said, “Thanks, but I don’t get your role in this.”
Connelly’s face creased in a grin. “I wouldn’t mind being involved in collaring Kalakar, let me tell you. And I’m not a big fan of the bureau. They don’t want LAPD involved in this, so they’re stonewalling. I got the photos from a friend at the bureau. I’m working this with you.”
Derek digested that. Connelly wanted to make a big headline bust. A career move. “Okay.”
Connelly leaned forward. “But first, let’s talk about Greg Popovitch. Tell me exactly what went down in that house in Venice.”
CHAPTER 56
Kalakar’s truck was parked in a gravel turnout off one of the roads that meandered through Griffith Park. He and the little girl, Malika, stood quietly behind the trunk and boughs of a huge fir tree, the air redolent of sap and pine needles. His side hurt from where he had taken a bullet from the FBI agent. As far as he could tell it had gone through and hadn’t hit anything vital. He had bandaged it, but it was still seeping blood. He found it a little bit hard to breathe and he was struggling to move and stay limber, but he was still functioning.
The girl stood next to him, shoulders slumped, quiet. She hadn’t said much in the last thirty minutes. His threats were apparently effective.
Somewhere behind him, in the foothills, he heard the scurry of small animals. Squirrels, he supposed. Some coyotes, maybe. Occasionally he heard the hoot of an owl.
He was almost prepared to abandon this site when headlights glowed on the road and a white Cadillac appeared, rolling to a stop next to the Ford pickup. The engine shut down, the lights went off. After a moment, the interior lights flashed on and Kalakar verified that it was indeed Ibrahim Sheik Muhammad.
The little girl didn’t move or make a sound.
Kalakar waited until the imam was out of the car. He gave Sheik Muhammad a moment, in case he was being followed, then, tugging on the girl’s hand, stepped out of the woods.
The imam spun. “That you?”
“Who else?”
The imam seemed agitated. Even in the dim light, Kalakar thought the man looked pale, upset.
“Why didn’t you complete your mission yesterday?”
Kalakar ignored the question. He said, “I said I needed a vehicle and a place to stay.”
“Yes, I know. I have a house in Baldwin Park. It has a two-car garage. You can hide the truck in there. There’s a Jeep Cherokee in the garage.” Sheik Muhammad fished in his pocket and pulled out a set of keys and a card with an address written on it.
“Can they trace this to you?”
“Eventually, if they had reason to. But it’s owned by one of my companies, and that company is protected by several shells. You’ll be fine for twenty-four hours, probably much longer.”
Kalakar nodded.
For the first time, the imam focused on the child. “Who is this?”
“None of your business.”
Sheik Muhammad reached out and touched Kalakar’s elbow, drawing him away from the little girl. Kalakar allowed himself to be pulled away. The imam said, “Everyone is looking for you. You know that, right? My house was being watched. I was followed, but Sayid took care of them.”
Kalakar’s heart thudded in his chest. “You’re absolutely certain you have not been followed?”
Sheik Muhammad swallowed. Voice soft, he said, “I think Sayid is dead. He had a gunfight with your pursuers. He was a good soldier. A true jihadist. May Allah bless him.”
“Allah is great,” Kalakar responded.
The imam again studied the little girl. “She is part of your plan?”
“The less you know, the better.”
“I don’t understand how she could be part of your plan. Is she—” Sheik Muhammad hesitated. “For your needs?”
Kalakar felt disgust rise up in him. “I am a Muslim, imam. A jihadist. A soldier. I’m not a pervert. She is a necessary part of the plan.”
He turned to the girl. “Come. We’re leaving now.”
“And tomorrow this will be over?” Sheik Muhammad asked. Kalakar thought there was fear in the imam’s voice.
Kalakar nodded. The girl shuffled over toward him. Without warning, Kalakar pulled out his gun and fired it into Sheik Muhammad’s face.
The imam went down like an imploding building. A small cloud of cordite faded in the breeze. All the background chatter of the woods, the scurry of animals, the click of crickets, and the flutter of birds, died.
The little girl’s only reaction was a sharp intake of breath.
Kalakar reached for her hand. “Let’s go.”
That was when the little girl bolted for the trees.
When Malika Seddiqi had used the restroom at the gas station, she had decided it would be better to try and escape than to wait for whatever the bad man had planned. Kalakar kept telling her she must behave or he would hurt or kill her, and she believed him. But she also believed that when he had done whatever it was that he planned to do, she would be lucky to still be alive.
Malika was only ten, but she watched a lot of TV, especially with her friend Dominica. They even watched Oprah, and she remembered an episode of Oprah where they talked about what you should do if someone tried to kidnap you. Like: if they have a gun, it’s better to run, because it’s really hard to hit someone running at a distance with a gun. And: never let them get you in their vehicle, fight them on-site.
Malika guessed she’d screwed up on that one. She had been a little suspicious when Kalakar picked her up at school. He was her daddy’s friend, sort of, but she knew her mother didn’t like him at all.
So she had waited for the right moment. She wondered what Kim Possible would do. Kim Possible was a character in her favorite cartoon. Kim was a redheaded cheerleader and great student who was also a superhero. She could do anything. She refused to let anyone stop her.
Malika knew that Kim Possible was just a cartoon character, that the things she did with her friend Ron Stoppable were just made up. But still, she knew that Kim had an attitude: I can do anything.
Her mother had even watched the show with her. Her mother seemed to like Kim a lot.
So Malika knew that there would come a moment when Kalakar would be distracted, when there might be a policeman nearby, or there might be a chance to run, that there might be a hiding place nearby, and she needed to be ready.
She had wanted to warn the old man. She knew that Kalakar didn’t trust him. She didn’t know why she knew, but she could tell that Kalakar was growing impatient, that things weren’t going well for him, that his plans weren’t working the way he wanted them to.
But she was ready.
When Kalakar shot the old man, she had jumped, a little scream coming from her mouth, but in a way, she wasn’t all that surprised. Her stomach hurt, though, and she felt sick. She wanted to cry,
to throw up.
Can’t, she thought. You have to be ready.
It would have been a good time to run, and she was angry at herself for not running right then. But as soon as Kalakar reached for her, she knew this was it. She was out of the truck, he didn’t have a hold on her, it was dark, and the woods were right there.
So she ran, heading for the trees like a deer, light on her feet, bounding into the cover of darkness.
