The Seventh Message

by William Johnstone

  "What's the flight range for your aircraft?"

  "About 300 miles, if the wind is right," answered Cisco.

  "Weight limits?'

  "With passengers eight hundred pounds, give or take."

  "Flight time to Albuquerque?"

  "Couple of hours."

  "Hourly rate?"

  "Three fifty an hour."

  "Get real, Cisco. Two-hundred plus gas is top dollar. That's all I'm authorized to pay. What do you say?"

  Cisco checked Agent Kohen. She didn't blink. "Deal," he said.

  “Where’s the closest source of ice?

  “Ice?”

  "We are going to keep our little passenger cool for the same reason you put steaks in the refrigerator–preservation."

  “That would be the Roswell Industrial Airport. We can get gas, too."

  Joe Halverson agreed to drive Sergeant Gallaher back to Lovington, then take Kabunsky home and leave the white Suburban at the FBI's satellite office in Roswell. With the body bag zipped and loaded on board, Agent Kohen took her place next to Cisco who reviewed his checklist, started the engine, and headed for the nearest supply of bagged ice.

  Once airborne Ashley watched the late afternoon sun stretch long shadows across the land. Many questions raced through her mind–all without answers.

  THIRTEEN

  ABDULLAH AL-JAMAL TRAVELED east from his house in rural Maljamar to Artesia, New Mexico, the nearest town with access to the Internet. As his source he selected Starbucks, with its Wi-Fi connection and international coffee.

  After buying a latte and settling in a secluded corner, he reviewed his recent accomplishments. Could it be eight weeks since he entered the United States? It felt more like eight days.

  Abdullah opened his computer and inserted the thumb drive Bashir, his American handler, had given him the day he crossed over from Mexico into America. He loaded the encryption software he would use to communicate with his contact in Rome. Bashir had explained the procedures necessary to operate the program, and made Abdullah repeat the instructions aloud until he had memorized them.

  Bashir had cautioned him to write nothing down, and to guard the thumb drive with his life. “This portable drive contains a unique code that changes in a randomly prescribed routine matched only by your contact in Rome,” he said. “The use of this drive is your only safe means of communication. Allow this program to fall into the hands of the American authorities, and you will die, I will see to it.” The threat was unnecessary. The thumb drive would never leave Abdullah's protection. If cornered by the enemy he would destroy it before his martyrdom.

  Abdullah sipped his coffee as he consulted his Islamic calendar, and entered the date followed by the Gregorian equivalent which launched the coded program. This would be his first report to his primary handler in Rome whose identity he did not know. His contact would forward Abdullah’s report to Caliph Abd al-Ghayb, a descendant of the Prophet Muhammad, and a well-known leader within their secret society.

  In this report he wanted to boast of his cleverly planned arrival in America. Using a forged passport Abdullah had flown from Riyadh to Mexico City, and then taken a bus to Juarez. In a public rest room he changed into a Hard Rock Café T-shirt, shorts and sandals. Then he walked to the nearby Lincoln Dental Clinic one block south of the Mexican border with the United States. The clinic attracted U. S. citizens by offering dental care at a fraction of the U. S. cost. As often as six times a day the clinic hauled van loads of Americans back across the bridge that spanned the Rio Grande River. Abdullah secured safe passage to America by blending into one load of departing clients.

  At the border, American immigration agents conducted a cursory inspection of the routine trips back and forth. The vans entered El Paso, dropped off customers at parking garages, motels and hotels and then returned to Mexico.

  At a predetermined time and place in downtown El Paso Abdullah met Bashir who gave him $12,000 in cash, and two sets of clothes, followed by a crash course on being in the land of the western crusaders. Abdullah didn't need Bashir's lecture having studied aeronautical engineering as a graduate student at Oklahoma University three years earlier while on a student visa. So as not to offend Bashir, his only link to sponsors at home, he had listened attentively.

  Abdullah composed his report in great detail. He included all the glorious achievements. Testing his discipline as a warrior of Islam he reluctantly shortened the number of words with each of five revisions. Finally satisfied with the last rewrite, he reviewed his account of the past two months.

  Gracious and Dear Brother in the Jihad,

  The thought of Allah the Almighty shields me while I am amid the crusaders who spread the seeds of Satan. I serve Allah in this epic battle between Islam, the Judeo-Christian infidels and all unbelievers.

  On my entrance into the United States, I secured the use of an American truck provided to me by my appointed contact. Posing as a legal immigrant from Mexico, I secured a driver’s license in a place called Alamogordo, where the American crusader armies train to kill Allah's lambs around the world. I then traveled to a remote village in an arid region of southeastern New Mexico called Maljamar. I became a tenant of a house far from the hard roads.

  My research of records made public in several jurisdictions allowed me to identify organizations catering to beggars, orphans, sexual deviants, and homeless infidels. (The Americans have no shame and proudly display detailed records of their misfits and criminals.) Access to these records led me to many potential martyrs.

  Posing as a journalist, a profession believed worthy here, I interviewed many candidates and discovered a perfect subject–an orphaned homosexual too worthless to gather friends. Although insignificant, his loss will honor Allah the Great God of Islam and all his prophets.

  By assuming his identity. I am now believed to be a native born American with all the civil rights and privileges allowed by their government’s constitution. I have applied for a passport, am registered as a voter in Lea County and have joined a Methodist Church of Christians who sing much and pray little. Next year I will pay money to the government in the form of taxation on the earnings of Russell Smith, my new identity.

  I await your instructions as to the transfer of funds to expand my undertakings. I prefer a contact within our Hauula network of money dealers. Many exist to support the illegal migrants of the region.

  Since my first contact in El Paso, I have communicated with no one. It is my plan to work independent of all others. As a vanguard of the jihad, my files steadily grow with photographs, maps and descriptions of civilian and military populations ripe for destruction. I await your call to action.

  In the name of Allah the Exalted, I remain your loyal soldier for the cause. Praise be to God, and blessings upon the Messenger, his family, his companions, and all those Believers who follow Him.

  The Sword

  After a final review, Abdullah transferred the report into the coded program and hit “send.” Within seconds it would be available to his primary handler in Rome. By matching the lunar and solar dates on his report, Rome’s source code would recognize a multilayered encryption. In the unlikely event a cryptologist at the National Security Agency would convert the code, he would be confronted with a second encryption.

  Abdullah closed his laptop, confident in his ability to function unobserved while surrounded by secular dogs–Jews, their pawns the Christians, and all nonbelievers. Had he not been commanded by the Mullah of the Holy Mosque in Makkah, the holiest city of Islam? Did he not hear the words, “Go forth and take the fight to the enemy, and he shall quake in fear of you.” Yes, they must quake in fear–a worthy goal.

  FOURTEEN

  ASSOCIATE PROFESSOR RASHID al Youris, entered his private second story office overlooking the central campus of McClellan University in Virginia. A blinking light on his answering machine, barely visible amid a stack of term papers on each end of his desk, attracted his attention. He hung his worn tweed jacket with less than fash
ionable leather elbow pads on an ancient swivel chair that matched the desk.

  The caller ID displayed the name Johansson Plumbing, but Rashid knew the caller’s plumbing experience didn’t exceed flushing a toilet. He wondered why Mike Johansson, nicknamed the Big Swede, wanted to invade his comfortable work space in the Office of Middle Eastern Studies. The identity of the caller aroused both suspicion and curiosity.

  Even five years after Rashid’s retirement from the FBI the bright eyed, rounded face, and white haired image of Mike remained vivid in his memory. During the early days of Rashid’s Federal career he served as an interpreter for Mike when they worked for the International Response Cadre coordinating with INTERPOL. As partners, they bounced around the “Stans” on undercover duty assignments for six years. Each assignment made them adapt to new conditions and confront different enemies. No sooner had they mastered the challenges in Kazakhstan, they were thrust into a new and more dangerous environment in neighboring Uzbekistan. Later, as operatives in Pakistan, their professional relationship resulted in a close friendship. While their cultural and educational backgrounds were different, the dangers they faced united them.

  Six years of conducting stressful assignments brought them both to the edge of burn-out. When two openings in the Office of Domestic Counterterrorism (ODC) came out on the FBI bid sheet, they agreed the time had come to move on. Each applied for a position, resulting in their selection and subsequent appointments.

  Rashid leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head, bronze tinted hands colored by heritage, not by the sun. He remembered that after their assignments in the Middle East, they worked stateside on many projects for almost twenty years. Unlike now, in those early days counterterrorism was a backburner operation, low on the list of agency priorities.

  Professor Youris reached for the play button on the answering machine, and wondered why this sudden interest in an old comrade in arms? Mike was not the type to call and share war stories. Nothing good could come of this.

  He moved his finger over to the erase button.

  If he’s going to ask me to do a job, even a little one, I’m not interested. I have a comfortable retirement from Federal service and am working toward tenure at McClellan.

  His finger hovered.

  Rashid remembered Mike had recommended him to head-up the Bureau’s Division of Analytical Standards and probably pulled a few strings to make it happen.

  The finger strayed back to the play button.

  As if to rationalize his decision, he figured he would listen to whatever Mike had to say, but would show no interest in any proposition proposed. Rashid tapped the play button and the room filled with the robust recorded voice of the Big Swede.

  “Hey, Rashid. Sorry I missed you. I need a little of your time. Everything is different in the Bureau now. I’m leaving for London and will be back tomorrow afternoon. How about a late dinner at Calwoods–my treat. They’ve moved to K Street. Maggie’s got a reservation for us and will send you directions. See you then. You know the number.”

  Calwoods–baked trout almandine came to mind. Rashid felt manipulated. Mike knew his love of their baked trout. There is something fishy about this. He smiled at the unintended pun. So he wants a little of my time, does he? Well, a little of my time is all he’s going to get. Anything more and I’m not interested. Definitely not interested.

  FIFTEEN

  DOROTHY HOGAN SAT at her desk outside Walter Kent's office, her left shoulder hunched holding a phone against her ear. Her right hand scribbled notes on a sheet of paper. "Yes. Thank you, I have it. Ten this morning? I'm not sure, at least three. Yes, if they are available. I’ll confirm. Goodbye." Dorothy scanned her notes, and added a few words to clarify their meaning.

  As soon as the weekly Narcotics Task Force briefing ended, she planned to tell Mr. Kent about the call. She knew that would be soon because of Kent's open-door policy. When the Narc Team left, she entered. "Mr. Kent, I received a call from the State Office of the Medical Investigator–the OMI. They are ready with a report on John Doe 136."

  “John Doe 136?”

  "You remember, Agent Kohen's case.”

  "Oh, yes. When do we go over?"

  "Doctor Zumbeck's assistant says he has taken a special interest in this case and will brief us today at ten o'clock, if that's convenient."

  "The MI will head the briefing? Interesting. Get Agents Ramirez and Kohen and ask them to come to my office, and Dorothy, please come along and take notes. I know they will send a written report, but that takes days."

  "Yes sir, right away."

  Because she knew how important this briefing would be to Ashley, Dorothy called her first. "Agent Kohen, the OMI has prepared a briefing on your guy in about ninety minutes. Walter wants you and Ramirez in his office."

  "Oh my God, finally. They have me doing security clearance interviews. Marching around trying to find dirt on people who seldom have more than a parking ticket."

  "Part of the job. Everything can't be as exciting as the office annual picnic, you know," Dorothy laughed and heard a smile in Ashley's voice as she asked, "What about the OMI, are they any good?"

  "Oh yes. They're nationally known for their forensic pathology skills. We’re lucky to have them."

  "That's good to know. I'm on my way."

  THE FIELD OFFICE team of Kent, Ramirez, Kohen and Hogan entered the MI's office building early and followed a receptionist to a conference room on the second floor. The room, lined with windows on one side, was bright with polished furniture neatly arranged.

  Dr. Bob Zumbeck, managing forensic pathologist, and one assistant, were waiting. Dorothy marveled at the doctor’s impeccable neatness: sharply creased white pants, starched white shirt, red bow tie and a carefully groomed mustache and goatee.

  "Good morning, Agent Kent. I see you've brought your team of bodyguards with you," Zumbeck said with a chuckle. "Get comfortable. This shouldn't take long."

  Dorothy and the others took seats on one side of the oval table. The OMI people sat on the opposite side. Zumbeck began. "I would like to go through our findings in the death investigation of John Doe 136, and answer your questions. There will be an official report including a description of the Reconciliation of Exhibits: histology, toxicology and serology in your office in three days or fewer. At least that's the plan.” He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. “We are waiting on a few items, namely DNA analysis of the victim and some organ tissue studies. I can tell you no proximal diseases were found based on the tissue sample analysis completed."

  Dorothy Hogan begin taking notes. She saw Ashley sitting upright at rapt attention.

  "Before I begin, I would like to compliment Agent Kohen. We usually don't receive bodies in such good shape. Icing down John Doe 136 made our job a bit easier and not so, shall I say, fragrant." Zumbeck winked at Ashley.

  "Okay. Let's begin. Subject Description: a male Caucasian, age twenty to twenty-four year, weight 110 pounds, height five-foot three inches. Time of Death: estimated at 36 hours before admittance in the OMI June, 15th at twenty hundred hours. Cause of Death: penetration wound inflicted by sharp object–a stabbing. Manner of Death: homicide, caused by the penetration of an object into the back of the body below the left shoulder blade. The object pierced the heart causing massive internal bleeding and shock," Zumbeck paused. "We have made a wound-casing of the object that shows it in a three-dimensional view; a six-inch double-edged knife blade with at least a two inch hilt. We have photographs." He laid his report on the table. "Okay, that covers the preliminaries. Any questions before I cover the forensic items?"

  Ashley asked, "How do you know the knife had a two inch hilt?"

  "The external examination, brought this to my attention. Pushing and holding the knife in the body needed great force. The hilt left bruised marks."

  Walter Kent. "When you say homicide, what do you mean?"

  "Manner of death is limited to five circumstances: natural death, homicide, suicide, ther
apeutic implications and unknown causes. Toxicology results show no medical conditions or treatments that could cause death. That rules out therapeutic implications. The stab wound rules out natural and unknown causes. It is unlikely anyone would fall on a knife that penetrated at this angle and depth and stay in that position. That rules out suicide and suggests homicide as the manner of death. Any other questions?"

  Dorothy Hogan noted there were no further questions.

  "Now for the forensic study. I have taken a particular interest in this case because of the unusual circumstances we encountered. I feel this homicide was premeditated. Zumbeck stopped long enough to check his notes, "I say premeditated because someone took extraordinary pains to prevent identification of John Doe 136. First, the fingerprints were burned off with acid. Second, the teeth were removed preventing orthodontic identification. Finally, the cleaning of the body with household bleach from head to toe removed any foreign hair or fiber evidence."

  Silent until now, Agent Ramirez commented. "Definitely premeditated murder."

  "Was there an odor of lilac flowers?" Ashley asked.

  "Yes. The white shroud that wrapped the body held that odor. Toxicology confirmed it. Speaking of the shroud, it was made of a linen weave of a cotton and flax fiber: a tablecloth sold by Wal-Mart Stores–a common brand. Our investigation revealed bite marks around the mouth of the deceased. A reconstruction of the bite pattern is underway. Since no one can bite themselves on the face, the bite pattern may prove useful in identifying the killer, as soon as you folks catch him or her. Due to the body cleaning, we could not recover DNA for testing."