The Seventh Message

by William Johnstone

  "Mark requested the assignment. He will be your mentor."

  AFTER THE MEETING, Ramirez asked Ashley to follow him. As Assistant Special Agent in Charge (ASAC) he had an office on the same floor as Walter Kent, smaller, but private. His supervisory position made him one of Ashley’s many bosses. "Have a seat, Agent Kohen. We need to talk." She wondered where he planned to go with this meeting. They hadn't agreed on much. Based on comments around the office, most people didn't like him.

  He started. "I asked Walter to assign me as your partner on this case. He agreed for several reasons. First, our staff is swamped with work. No one is available right now. I can take some time for fieldwork, if I have to. Also, the Mummy Case is a dead end, in my view, and won't take much of my time." Ashley’s expression hardened. "I don't mean to denigrate your efforts here. I know you are sincere, but that's my opinion. If the case does develop, I'm 100 percent behind it. Okay?”

  "Sure. Whatever you say."

  "Another reason is mentoring. I know you bring knowledge and experience to this agency, but you are new to the FBI. Trust me, you have a lot to learn. All of our new agents in this field office go through orientation and mentoring, even seasoned personnel who are reassigned.”

  Ashley agreed. "Yes. I understand. If I seem a little pushy, it's because I want to do a good job." She figured being the new kid on the block always had a downside. She would live through the 'mentoring' period and survive it.

  "Ambition is good, but it has to be channeled to get the greatest benefit. I think you have potential. My job is to help you realize that potential."

  Ashley shifted in her chair and consciously forced her limbs to relax.

  "Yes, great potential," he repeated. The conversation paused for a moment. "Now about our being partners. You know the routine. We protect our partner's back, and work as a team. Each of us will respect the efforts of the other. When in the field we are two agents doing our job. We become united, so to speak." Ramirez paused, peered at Ashley and grinned in a lustful way. "Understand what I'm saying?"

  Ashley had faced this situation many times before. At age twelve she learned that men liked to consider her in a funny way. Her mother cautioned her about inappropriate touching and body language. "You're a pretty girl Ashley, and that's just fine, but you have to be careful. Some people may try to take advantage of you."

  "Yes, Agent Ramirez, I understand perfectly. I want you to know I have learned how to take care of myself on and off the job. You can ask any of my former partners." She tilted her head to the side, flicked a restrained smile at him while thinking–let the games begin.

  EIGHTEEN

  VIEWING HIS LAPTOP, Abdullah read the reply from his handler in Rome with both elation and astonishment. Elation because the encryption had performed as designed, and resulted in a quick response. Astonished because his mission, not yet defined, would soon be known to him in a face-to-face meeting in Rome. The details of the meeting were specific: Albani Hotel, 45 Via Adda, Rome, Italy in five days, at 10 a.m.

  He faced a problem. His application to the U. S. State Department for a passport in Russel Smith’s name had not been processed. Abdullah had hired an online passport service provider to speed the paperwork with no success to date.

  How strange that his handler made no mention of a passport or of transport arrangements, only that Abdullah must appear as directed. He considered this an oversight, then determined it was not an oversight. It was a test of his resourcefulness. If he could not deal with a simple matter of transport, how could he be trusted to carry out more complicated and worthy assignments?

  Abdullah devised a plan. He would reverse the procedure he followed to enter America by using the forged passport that allowed him to pass through the border with ease. Bashir, his contact in El Paso, would be a starting point. He would call him and set a meeting at their prearranged location. He made the call, and packed a suitcase.

  ABDULLAH PARKED his pickup next to the Motel 6 on Gateway Boulevard in downtown El Paso, where he had reservations for the night. This motel was unpretentious, and would draw no attention to their meeting. He and Bashir had agreed to meet at five o'clock. Abdullah arrived early and waited in his truck with the air-conditioner running.

  Twenty minutes later he entered his ground floor room with Bashir in tow, shut the door and turned the security lock. Facing each other, both men bowed their heads, then extended a hand in friendship.

  Abdullah spoke first. "Have a seat, brother. I have good news. Rome has summoned me to define my mission." Bashir nodded his approval, and sat on one of the queen beds across from him. "So soon. Are you ready?"

  Abdullah shrugged his shoulders. "I am always ready to serve the jihad and the will of Allah, the Mighty." Both observed a moment of silence. "I will meet with my superior in five days. I must arrange a flight to Rome. My American passport has not arrived. I will use my original passport. It is my hope that you will assist me in this matter."

  Bashir didn’t hesitate. "I have a contact in Mexico. He is trustworthy. For a price he will arrange everything, including transport from the border to Benito Juarez International Airport outside Mexico City. Security is less strict there. A direct flight to Rome is no problem. Prepare to travel, my brother."

  Abdullah raised both hands high over his head and gazed upward. "I am a servant of the Great One. Let His will be my command."

  TRAVEL TO MEXICO CITY took three long, hot days. The means of transportation varied from a series of taxies to a rickety bus and at one point a two-mile hike to reach the airport because of monumental traffic congestion.

  Over 450 passengers crowded the Boeing 747's flight to Rome. Abdullah found the seating cramped and the food unappetizing. The cabin temperature varied between sweaty hot and a damp cold. During a miserable eighteen hour transit, with one stopover in Miami for fuel, Abdullah slept, walked the aisles, urinated, and repeated the cycle many times. Now, as his plane entered the approach pattern for landing at Fiumicino Airport near Rome, he calculated the time change and estimated the hours before his meeting. He anticipated the Albani Hotel, a hot shower, and a few hours to settle his mind and prepare himself for what may prove to be the most important meeting of his life.

  REFRESHED FROM HIS difficult flight, and calmed by an hour of prayer and deep meditation, he dressed in his black suit, white shirt, and bright red tie. At exactly 10 a.m. Abdullah responded to a loud rap on the door of his hotel room. He whispered a brief prayer to Allah, the Exalted, and reached for the doorknob.

  A large man stood in the hall scrutinizing him with dark eyes set in a bearded face. He stepped into the room and closed the door. "Confirm your identity. What is your code name?"

  "I am the Sword."

  "Good morning, my son of Islam. I am Sheikh Hadid Ghamadi, your contact here in Rome." From a solemn expression, his face brightened, showing perfect teeth. He lifted his hand in a traditional salute as did Abdullah. "Follow me. We will meet in private quarters, a place of safety. A short walk from here."

  Abdullah followed the big man out of the hotel onto the street. They crossed the corner intersection, walked a block, and entered an apartment building that appeared shabby on the outside, but inside radiated elegance. They took an elevator to the top floor. It opened onto a windowless lobby with one door.

  Sheikh Ghamadi entered a code on an electronic keypad, then opened the door and waved Abdullah into a large room decorated with ornately carved Middle Eastern furnishings, polished wooden panels and a glittering chandelier. A stately conference table centered the room. Glass doors that opened onto a balcony formed a background for two desks, one large and one small.

  A man in western clothes, wearing a flowing red and white patterned keffiyeh held in place with a braided black egal circling his head, rose from the large desk. He came to greet them with a cordial expression half hidden by a well-manicured gray beard and mustache. Ghamadi bowed before the man, then looked at Abdullah. "This is Caliph Abd al-Ghayb, descendant of the Proph
et Muhammad, and Supreme Head of the Society of Rule by Sharia Law."

  Abdullah, stunned, stood in place a second and then fell to his knees bowing his head to the floor. "Allah the Majestic is great," he said. "And to Him I give praise." He rocked back and forth several times. Ghamadi, smiled at Caliph al-Ghayb, offered a hand to Abdullah, helped him to stand and lead him to the conference table. Clearly unprepared to meet with the Supreme leader, he stood by the table unsure of his next move.

  Caliph Abd al-Ghayb spoke. "Be seated, my son; soldier of the jihad, I have heard much about your training in the camps and your skill dealing with the invader enemy.” The Caliph sat across from Abdullah. “You have been recruited for this assignment not only for your ability as an effective agent, but for your devotion to the cause." Abdullah sat at attention. "I am told of your success in the place called New Mexico, your clever acquisition of a local identity and your devotion as an Islamic warrior. I feel you are ideally situated."

  Ghamadi left the room briefly, then returned followed by a servant woman carrying a silver tray with spiced tea and cheese.

  Abdullah tried to relax, unable to fully comprehend his presence before the Caliph, a true descendant of Muhammad.

  Abd al-Ghayb continued. "As you may know, the Society of Rule by Sharia Law is a keystone in the hierarchy of the global jihad that is carried out by our many affiliates–Hamas, The Muslim Brotherhood, Hezbollah, Al-Qaeda, the most famous and least disciplined, and many others. Our ideology of extreme purity, that supports the spread of Islam throughout the world, relies on many strategies, one of which is violence."

  The Caliph reached for the spiced tea and filled his cup. "The use of violence is a calculated tool, most effective in a world of nonbelievers. It sows the seeds of chaos, a well-established theory, one that has served us often. Without the chaos of violence, nothing changes. With it, societies react and transformations occur over time. Our enemies regard the jihad as carried out by crazy men, bent on mindless destruction. They are blind to the progress underway." Abd al-Ghayb paused, sipped tea from his cup, tasted the cheese, then dabbed his lips with a linen napkin.

  "Our struggle is fought on many fronts. The most troubling interference with our movement is western intervention in the affairs of Islam led by the United States and its allies. Their fanatical belief in democracy and fear of losing control of capital markets cause them to meddle in the affairs of others, particularly the Muslim world. Their paranoia will be their undoing. I look forward to an Islamic America under Sharia law, but that will take time."

  His eyes narrowed as he appeared to take stock of Abdullah’s reaction to his words. A nod of his head showed approval. "The New York incident–the twin towers–is a perfect example. It cost a little over one million U. S. dollars to take down the World Trade Center buildings. Most of that, $600,000, compensated the families of the brave martyrs who died for the greater good of Allah the Exalted. The balance, about half a million, were operational expenses. A small sum when you tally the results. America, has spent tens of trillions of dollars, disrupted their way of life, and continue to destabilize their economies because of our actions. If analyzed from a cost-benefit standpoint, it was a success beyond imagination. It proves we can drain the blood and treasure of the American government until it crashes to the ground like a water starved camel." Again, he tipped the teacup, drained its contents and refilled it.

  Abdullah, fascinated by the words of the Caliph, remained alert and attentive.

  Warming to the subject, he continued. "America has the greatest military might in the history of the world. It is protected by two oceans, and surrounded by friendly nations. Direct action is inconceivable, and has rarely been successful in the history of civilization. No, the great powers of the past and the present fail not by military aggression, but by internal decay brought on by their reaction to chaos." His eyes sparkled with excitement.

  Sheikh Ghamadi interjected a comment. “These words speak the truth and support the true purpose of this meeting. He reached across the table and touched Abdullah’s hand. "We have a plan to advance our cause and stunt American influence."

  "Our plan," Abd al-Ghayb continued, "has been in the making since that September day in 2001. If you consider the effect of that attack, you will understand why this current undertaking will dwarf that former success.

  "Yes," Ghamadi said, "What we plan will make the September attack pale in comparison."

  Abdullah listened while his mind raced to understand the implications of these words. The scope of this thinking–these words excited him, and lit a fiery passion in him.

  Abd al-Ghayb, his eyes glistening with enthusiasm leaned forward, clasped his hands tightly on the table, and lowered his voice, "What I am about to tell you is known only by me, Sheikh Ghamadi and a select number of the members of my Majis al Shura Constative Council." Ghamadi placed a copy of the Quran on the table in front of Abdullah. The Caliph stroked his beard, took the hand of the young warrior of Islam, and placed it on the holy book. "You must swear to me on your life, the life of your mother, and the life of your father, Prince Abeer Jamal that you will tell no one what I am about to tell you. That if captured, you will end your life, by whatever means possible, so that this secret dies with you."

  Tears of emotion welled up in Abdullah’s eyes as he spoke. "As one who surrenders to Allah the Great, to the Society of Rule by Sharia Law, the global jihad for which we fight, and to you Caliph Abd al-Ghayb descendant of the Prophet Mohammed, I swear."

  Caliph al-Ghayb studied Abdullah's face, and observed Sheikh Ghamadi who nodded approval. He then sat erect in his chair and waited for the tension in the room to subside. In a whispered voice, he said, "We have secured a small, but powerful nuclear weapon."

  NINETEEN

  ON THEIR FIRST DAY as partners Agent Kohen drove south on Highway 285 while Ramirez read through the list of tattoo businesses Ashley had compiled the night before. He noted their location on a map of southeastern New Mexico. "I can't believe some of these names, Ink Bomb Tattoos, Creepy Crawler House of Art, and Fat Zombie Body Etchings. I wonder what they were smoking when they dreamed those up."

  Ashley glanced at Ramirez as she approached the city limits of Roswell where their concentric circle search pattern would begin. "Some of the names are strange," Ashley slowed to the posted speed limit. "It's a competitive business. A catchy name helps." She passed Wal-Mart and continued down Main Street. “What's the first name on our list?"

  "The Vivid Dragon Tattoo. It's on West Second Street," Ramirez pulled the photograph of the rose tattoo out of his shirt pocket. "What do you say–I show the picture and you ask the questions. Okay?"

  That proposal didn’t surprise Ashley. Gallantry still lingered in a culture that said a woman should be shielded from embarrassing moments, even by the likes of Ramirez. On some level she appreciated the gesture. "No way Jose," she said. "A potential witness is more likely to talk if knocked out of their comfort zone. A good start is a woman showing them a picture of a guy's genitals in one hand, and an FBI badge in the other."

  Displaying a wide grin, Agent Ramirez shook his head. "Okay, I'll remain the strong silent type."

  The Vivid Dragon Tattoo shop shared walls with a thrift shop and an auto parts store on the west edge of town. The wood frame building with faded orange trim needed repair. A weathered painting of a giant green dragon breathing fire covered the front window. When Agents Kohen and Ramirez opened the front door, the jingle of a tiny bell announced their arrival. From behind a beat-up wood and glass display case that served as a counter, a man wearing black leather pants, a vest and no shirt raised his head. He offered a grin displaying several missing teeth. His face turned sour when Ashley flipped open her ID.

  "Good morning, I'm Agent Kohen and this is Agent Ramirez with the FBI. We're investigating a missing person and have a few questions." She noticed a barbed wire tattoo around the man's wrist and assorted red, green and blue designs decorating each muscular arms. "What
's your name, please?"

  "Sam. Samuel Jones. I don't know nothing about no missing person."

  Ashley remained positive. "I'm told you are the best tattoo artist in town, and we thought you might be able to help us. Have you been in operation long?"

  "Sure. Well, for a while. I have a state license." He pointed to a crooked frame hanging on the wall. "I been in body art for years. I run a clean business. No complaints from nobody."

  Ramirez leaned on the glass display case. "As Agent Kohen says, we're seeking a missing person. We need your cooperation." He made direct eye contact with Sam.

  Sam nodded. "Okay. Is it a guy or a gal?"

  Ashley slipped the photograph out of her pocket. "Will this help you identify this person?" She placed the photo on the counter.

  Sam squinted at the picture, his eyebrows pinched together. “I don't do private parts. That's sick and a piss-poor job, too. I'm professional."

  "I'm sure you're are," Ashley said. "This is a unique tattoo in an uncommon location. We are searching for the identity of its owner." She pulled the photo back and started to pocket it.

  "Wait a minute. Let's see that again." Sam took a magnifying glass from under-the-counter and studied the picture. "That's done freehand. Nobody does that any more. It's all done with electric tattoo machines that are fast, safe and clean."

  Hoping to shorten their list of interviews, Ashley asked, "Who does this work by hand?"

  "Nobody in Roswell, that's for damn sure."

  "Are you saying someone without a license did this work?'"

  Frowning, Sam paused and tilted his head from side to side. "I know all the artists around here, and none of them would touch this job or those people, if you know what I mean." The corners of his mouth turned down. "I don't mean no disrespect to you all, but this is a queer job."