by Judith Price
Tom was dressed in the same casuals as Jill, with one difference. He chose to always wear his badge on a beaded silver lanyard complete with the silver circle star, announcing his importance at a glance.
His slight, commanding wave annoyed her. Tom attempted to shout past the sound of the engines. “The FBI, CIA, and NSA are involved in apprehending the suspects—and you know how important those folks think they are.”
“Almost as important as you think you are,” Jill ruminated without voicing her thoughts.
Much to Jill’s relief, the engines drowned out Tom’s squeaky voice as they approached the awaiting Lear-jet. Every breath he took emitted a slight whistling sound, which pricked like a pin under her fingernails.
Walking toward the plane, Jill stopped abruptly. She turned to her right, then around, as if someone had tapped her on the shoulder. The air smelled of jet fuel, and a lone strand of her black hair wisped past her view in the slight breeze. She couldn’t see anything suspicious. But she felt it. Something sinister that she couldn’t put her finger on. Jill often had these feelings when something was wrong, or something didn’t fit, as she raced through the intuition tunnels of her mind. But today, now, she wasn’t in her tunnels; she wasn’t trying to do anything but end this case. So why the unsettled feeling? Was it David? Had his non-communication put her off-kilter, or was it Jeff’s call? Or was it … no, it couldn’t be Matthew McGregor. Jill didn’t know and she didn’t have time right now to be jumpy or relive her paranoia about McGregor. It couldn’t be him – he was tucked away in a cell in the worst prison in California...
***
Torture was against both international and U.S. law, but McGregor didn’t care about that. After all, he had planned to kill her anyway. He had had particularly enjoyed bludgeoning his other victims to death with an ice pick to the face – thus earning him the media moniker The Ice Man. If only she had waited for her backup when confirming the location after the viewing. If only that accident had not happened—the one that blocked the road. But as any FBI agent knew, there was no negotiating with Father Time. Jill’s tongue wiped her new teeth—the three replacements she’d gotten after McGregor got through with her original ones.
It had been over three years now since Eric Wallace and the team rescued her, and she’d rarely had a nightmare since she married David. But she sometimes wondered if she would ever be truly rescued.
Her nightmares would normally start with the sketches—the ideograms that were drawn in that fateful RV session. It was a normal RV session that had started with the group attempting to find a target. In this case it was the Ice Man. Three women had disappeared, were tortured, then murdered. The FBI’s violent crime unit was getting nowhere, so they had called upon the FBI RV group to assist them.
In stage one of an RV session, the target was assigned a random number. “Optimum trajectory,” the remote viewer guru had called it in Jill’s training. “OT is the best place for your mind to be before we begin.” To get there, the viewers were given target numbers. “To achieve optimum trajectory, they began by placing their pens on the last digit—which was always the digit one. Lose yourself in them; numb your thoughts.” The process was sort of like a radio station signal drawing the viewer toward the target. All living things are made of energy, and it’s been speculated that if a viewer can connect to the target on an energy level, the viewer can then see the target and its surroundings. In this stage, the viewer normally sits with a pen and paper to record the viewing. The viewer needs to be hyper-attentive and to zero in on sights and sensations. In the FBI RV department, this was usually achieved through group meditation.
Once the viewer feels connected to the energy, they enter stage two and begin to write. First they record the sounds and smells. Then the tastes, textures, and feelings. Does the viewer feel afraid, mad, or sad? Everything is recorded in writing. When they begin to see colors and textures, and the viewing becomes more vivid, the viewer enters stage three – that’s when she or he sketches an ideogram. There’s no thinking involved; just recordings of what each individual in the group has viewed.
But Jill didn’t have time to think about McGregor or viewing right now. She needed to go forward into the future; she needed to stay out of her past.
As she shook off the thoughts and continued toward Tom, dark shadows stretched past the hangar, sending chills up her spine.
Chapter Two
The Learjet was headed toward Virginia. Jill took out her Bose headset to block out the chatter from the galley between Tom and that annoying flight attendant, Heather, a youngish woman with dyed blond hair hoisted up into a neat, tight bun. Heather’s leathered skin spoke of too much smoking and sun beds, which pushed her age forward a decade. Jill knew most of Heather’s life story, for during her breaks on the flights she would often navigate towards Jill like a cat in heat, plunk herself down, and endlessly chatter about her life. Maybe it’s a good thing she’s tied up with Tom, she thought to herself.
Concentrate. That was what Jill needed to do. As the plane bumped over clouds, she leaned back into her seat. White noise. Bliss. Nirvana. She closed her eyes. Not to sleep, but to concentrate. She could still feel the thrum of the Rolls-Royce engines, and a bracing whiff of coffee floated by.
It was Jill’s job to reduce the risk of a terrorist attack on U.S. soil through profiling. She needed to get the profiles finalized for the meeting today. Connecting the dots would bring some sort of order to the move next week. The special ops team was to escort the nuclear missiles from Minot Air Force Base in North Dakota to Barksdale Air Force Base in Louisiana.
Yemen, said a voice in her head. She opened her eyes and pulled out the file marked YEMEN CONNECTION. She thumbed through the files on the three terrorists who were on the FBI wanted list.
The pictures of three men stared up from her lap, trying to communicate something from the dark pages. She felt her blood temperature rise slightly, knowing how easy it was for these vile people to inflict suffering on innocent others. A terrorist for Al Qaeda—or for any group, for that matter—didn’t need much motivation to become an integral part of any scheme or attack.
Jill remembered reviewing a brief on Al Qaeda recruitment prerequisites. In the world of radical Islam, dominated by the Islamic jihad, the requirements to join included good listening skills, manners, obedience, being vetted by someone in the group, and of course the recitations of the pledge. Easy!
She sifted through the pile of papers sitting on the leather seat next to her. Where is that pledge? A quick search unearthed.
“The pledge of God and His covenant is upon me to listen and obey the superiors that are doing this work in energy, early-rising, difficulty, and easiness and for His superiority upon us so that the word of God will be the highest and His religion victorious.”
Considering the recent testimony of Ahmed Bin Abudullah—one of Matta’s flunky expendable front men brought in front of the U.S. court system this past year—exposing the network of Al Qaeda recruitment centers in over eighteen American states made Jill and the team’s jobs critical. These centers were disguised as run-down social clubs or dingy bookstores and were often unnoticeable in Islamic communities. Because of the First Amendment which gave anyone freedom to exercise any religion, and the bureaucracy of the government, these groups could easily move fast and were hard to track.
Jill internally recited a mission statement that she had memorized from an interview that she had watched with Bin Laden before he was executed. It had become part of a ritual etched in her brain; she never forgot to turn over every stone to ensure she reported every detail. People relied on her relentlessness to achieve results.
“We have the right to kill four million Americans, half of them children. Punish and you will be punished.” Bin Laden justified this as an eye for an eye based on the number of Muslims killed worldwide in conflicts.
In many ways, Jill was sympathetic to the Islamic religion. Her first roommate in the dorm at college had bee
n Muslim. Salma was a sweet girl and they had become great friends. Jill respected her and her choice of religion.
But Jill couldn’t stomach anyone who condoned terrorism, that was going too far.
She was in a foul mood now. She picked up the rap sheets and reviewed them again. But it wasn’t long before she once again lost concentration and found herself gazing out the window.
David.
Why hadn’t she heard from him in five days? A picture flashed into Jill’s head. It was of a pointed steel needle surrounded by fluff. As her vision became clearer, she recognized it. Yes, it was a picture of a building that pierced through cloud cover. It looked like the Empire State Building spire, but different. A building that pierced through cloud had to be a tall building. Understanding her visions was vital and, in most of her cases, it gave her profile the edge over others. This vision wasn’t about the case; it was about David. She had never had visions about David before.
“We are about one and a half hours out, are you finished? We need the info ASAP,” Tom barked, walking toward her from the galley. She gave him ‘the hand.’ He knew her well enough not to speak to her when he saw the hand. Jill’s colleagues called it the F-off hand, and she liked the name. It fit.
She needed to stop drifting back to David’s mood before he left on assignment five days earlier. And true to pattern, her mind pushed past her heart. Her eyes struggled back to her lap, back to the faces of evil.
Her visions gave her an edge in her job, but solid science was also an important part in profiling. Behavior evidence analysis (BEA) was often overlooked, but it was where Jill shone. She was a BEA expert.
BEA was the first step to understanding and developing a sense of a criminal’s profile. Equivocal forensic analysis (EFA) was the next step, and after reviewing mountains of photos, intel research, and investigative reports, she would form a clearer perception of who she was dealing with. Jill tied together different incidents to uncover some commonality that would reveal more about the perpetrator.
An INFOSEC—information security—briefing was her first review:
ALI SAED BIN MOHAMMED—WANTED FOR MURDERS OF US NATIONALS OUTSIDE THE UNITED STATES; CONSPIRACY TO MURDER US NATIONALS OUTSIDE THE UNITED STATES; ATTACK ON A FEDERAL FACILITY RESULTING IN DEATH.
ASHRAF REFEST NABIH—WANTED IN CONNECTION WITH THE AUGUST 7, 1998, BOMBINGS OF THE UNITED STATES EMBASSIES IN DAR ES SALAAM, TANZANIA, AND NAIROBI, KENYA. THESE ATTACKS KILLED OVER 200 PEOPLE. IN ADDITION, NABIH IS A SUSPECT IN OTHER TERRORIST ATTACKS THROUGHOUT THE WORLD.
NADAR KEAH LALANI – WANTED FOR INTERROGATION. ESCAPED WHILE BEING QUESTIONED ON THE ABOVE ASSAILANTS.
First, reports on the 2008 bombing spoke of activity similar to this latest underground scheme. Prior to that bombing, movements of key Al Qaeda henchmen had also taken place. But the significance of the shifts was realized only in hindsight. Similarly, the relocation next week could be a potential target for a terrorist attack. The operation was extremely hazardous, as it brought the nuclear devices close to highly populated areas in the U.S.
If these men were apprehended, the potential for disrupting pending move of the nuclear missiles next week would be reduced. Still, with the current state of affairs in the U.S., Al Qaeda recruitment flourished, and they could not afford to take any chances.
Jill slowly closed the file on her lap, and dipped into the well of her intuition. Gazing over the horizon of clouds, she whispered, “What am I missing?”
Jill went into her tunnels. Doing so was like riding a speeding bobsled through all the notes and reports on the three men—too fast for recognition as she tried to discover what she was missing. Normally, if she noticed something that clicked, the racing bobsled in her intuitive tunnels would stop short and a clear image would appear in her mind. But so far no luck today.
Jill realized her leg was tapping; the hollow sound of her boot hitting the metal footrest brought her back to the task at hand.
Then without notice, Jill saw a picture in her mind’s eye of a brief she had read. The name Rashid jumped out at her. Then a sharp insight hit her hard and fast. She snatched the folder from the seat and snapped it open to a brief on LaLani. The speed of her movement caught Tom’s attention and he approached her.
“It’s Ali Bin Amr Rashid,” Jill said, handing him the thick folder. “I think we have our man. He is the one piece that connects these three men to Yemen, but he is not Nadar Keah LaLani. “Take a look at page three.”
Tom reviewed the document. “See the picture of Rashid? Now go back to the first page. See the picture of Lalani? It’s the same person, Tom. LaLani is not who he says he is.”
Chapter Three
05:02 Zulu Time—LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
The sky was a bright blue. Puffy cumulus clouds swirled around the morning sun as she disembarked from the plane. The captain had PA’d the time at 9:02 a.m. Once on the ground, Jill had the same uneasy feeling she’d had when she boarded the plane in Tucson. She glanced around and scanned the area.
Three o’clock. A man in a blue jumpsuit bent over, outlining the front and back wheels of the jet with black chalk blocks. His head was bent, and he wore orange sound mufflers clamped tightly on his ears.
Nine o’clock. A black 4x4, standard FBI edition, with someone behind the wheel. From his angle the driver could not see her.
What is it that feels so … wrong? Jill wondered. Menacing…
“Is everything alright, Jill?” Concern emanated from Eric Wallace as he walked toward her from the black SUV. Eric had been her boss before she had left the FBI over three years ago. His department was now part of the arm that worked with NSU and the CIA on matters of homeland security. Jill still enjoyed working with Eric; after all, their mission was the same.
The rising sun behind him made Jill squint, but not enough to stop her from taking in his appearance. The fact that he wore a suit signaled the importance of the imminent meeting. The furrow etched in his forehead had aged him since they last met, and he had more gray hair than brown now, but he was still handsome in a distinguished sort of way. His amber eyes were kind as he reached over to touch her shoulder, squeezing it ever so slightly. Jill recognized the look in his eyes. She had seen it before—a mix of concern and pity. It was the same look he’d had when he and the team had finally rescued her from McGregor.
He knew her well. They had developed a bond during his wife’s illness and eventual death. Eric had loved his wife intensely—the kind of love for which Jill had always yearned, but had not had until she met David.
Jill smiled slightly. “I’m good, Eric, but I’ll be even better when we close this friggin’ case. It’s dragging on way too long.” Jill’s right eye began to twitch, a sure signal that things were about to get more stressful. It was her body’s red flag, and it almost never failed her.
Tom was already making his way toward the SUV, but Eric asked, “Jill, come on now. I know when something is bothering you. What is it?”
She stood silent for a mere second. That was all the time she needed to be reminded of their friendship, his trustworthiness. She told him about the phone call from David’s editor. When she finished, she pulled her windbreaker down past her waist, straightening herself out before she asked Eric hesitantly, “What do you think?”
They began to walk in Tom's direction and before Eric answered, Jill added, “David’s got a mind of his own. I don’t think anything serious has happened to him. Do you?”
“You know, Jill, I’ve only met David once, at your wedding, but from what I know about your life, he seems pretty together. He’s an extensive traveler and has been ‘round the bend a few times.” Eric paused. “Has he been out of touch with you for long periods of time before?” He looked at her solemnly.
Jill shivered. She frowned, trying to recall. “Never this long.”
They met up with Tom, who was standing by the open door of the SUV.
“How far along are we at determining that these guys you’ve profiled
are the ones we are looking for?” Eric questioned.
Before Jill could answer, Tom piped in, “We think one of the men you have in custody is in fact Ali Bin Amr Rashid. If his true identity is exposed today, then we can go forward with the move.” There was that serpentine whistle again as he spoke and thrust the file into Eric’s hand. “It’s all outlined in here. Rashid has always been part of the group that goes after the broken arrows, sir.”
Glaring at Tom, Jill wrested back control. “Eric, Rashid is known as Dr. E. He’s of Pakistani descent and is the brain behind Al Qaeda’s uranium enrichment and weapons maintenance. There’s one other thing—I think there is a Brazilian connection.”
Eric knew, as did Jill, that Bin Laden’s brother had resided there with his Brazilian wife when 9/11 happened. He was allowed to go back to Saudi Arabia as part of the President’s attempt to show concern about all religions. But by the time they found out that he had helped set up and develop of a large Al Qaeda cell deep in the Brazilian jungle, he was safe and sound back in Saudi Arabia.
Eric leafed through the file.
“LaLani had in his possession a fake passport with a Brazilian visa in it. He’s been there twice in the last month,” Jill continued. “But in the intel—” Jill leaned in, “see here—” the pages flapped in the slight breeze as she pulled them apart, “see in this brief from the Brazilian Intelligence Agency, this is a picture of Rashid in Foz do Iguacu, Brazil. This picture is the same; it’s LaLani.”
Eric muffled a grumble too unclear to make out except for the words “redneck” and “third world,” then said, “Looks like we have all we need here for now. Great work. Let’s head to HQ; we have about an hour to prepare.”
