The Seventh Message

by William Johnstone

After exiting I-10 she programmed the Estrella Street address into her GPS which led her to an old residential part of town. The dwellings were small and close together. When she reached her destination, she found a narrow unpretentious house on a corner that intersected with East San Antonio Avenue. Several houses on the block had For Rent signs in the yard. She parked one street over, and mentally, rehearsed her impending performance. She didn't know who currently lived at that address, but she would pretend the occupant at 3689 was Allen Lee and see what happened.

  Ashley adjusted her blond wig and checked her makeup in the rearview mirror. She decided not to take her newly purchased ankle holster and Ruger handgun.

  The house was freshly painted an unfortunate shade of purple with white trim, and stood on pilings two feet off the ground. Three wooden steps led to the front door. There was no doorbell, so she knocked. A dog barked. She knocked again.

  The door opened and a man peered out. In an accent Ashley didn’t place, he asked, "What do you want?”

  "Good afternoon. I'm with Tri-State Life Insurance. I'm investigating a claim. Do you have a minute?" She extended a business card with a bright smile. "I'm not selling anything. This involves an insurance claim."

  The man opened the door further, and took the card. He read, Julie Pinzola, Claims Investigator, Tri-State Life and Casualty Insurance Company, Phoenix, Arizona. "What does this have to do with me?" he asked.

  "It concerns a hit-and-run accident involving one of our insured clients." Behind her a diesel truck rumbled by. "It's noisy out here. I wonder if we might talk inside. It will only take a moment, please?" Another bright smile.

  The man pulled back, hesitated, and then opened the door. "You may come in." He wore a denim shirt and pants and displayed a full beard that matched his black hair. Around his neck hung a gold amulet. His slopping shoulders suggested a muscular build. "We will talk briefly. I have work to do." He walked to the center of the room, turned and remained standing. A large dog sat by his side wearing a spiked choke collar. Ashley recognized the breed–a Doberman Pincher. Its tail did not wag.

  She stepped into a living room of well-worn furnishings. The walls were bare of decorations accept for a photograph of a man standing in front of a twin engine aircraft dressed in a dark suit with gold braid. A colored rug lay partially unrolled in the corner, and a computer monitor flashed screen-savers every few seconds.

  "Thank you. This involves an injury claim made by our client. She is a victim of a hit-and-run accident involving a 1979 Ford pickup truck that fled the scene. She suffered serious injuries. A witness wrote down the plate number of the truck. Records show it is owned by a Russell Smith. We have been unable to find Mr. Smith. The Bill of Sale on file at the New Mexico DMV lists you as the seller of this truck to Russell Smith a little over two month ago. I wonder if..."

  He interrupted her. "I sold no truck."

  "But Mr. Lee, the records are clear you..."

  "Who?"

  She stopped short, acting confused by the question. "Alan Lee. You sold the truck that is involved in this claim. I thought you might be able to help us find..."

  "I know no one by the name of Alan Lee."

  "You're not Alan Lee?"

  "No, my name is Bashir Hashim. You may leave now."

  "I'm sorry Mr. Hashy, but…"

  "That's Hashim," he said, irritated.

  She spelled the name. "H-A-S-H-I-M?"

  "Yes. Go now."

  "Motor Vehicle records show an Alan Lee, at this address, sold the Ford pickup truck to Russell Smith two months ago."

  The man fidgeted with his amulet and frowned. He drew back and spoke quickly. "There has been a mistake. I have lived here only one month. It must have been someone else."

  "Oh, I'm sorry. You're a new tenant?"

  Shifting his weight from one foot to the other he answered, "I know nothing of which you speak. You must leave now." He advanced on Ashley in a manner less than friendly, thrusting her business card back into her hand. The dog stood, poised.

  She stepped back. "You're right, this must be a mistake. So sorry to bother you," Staying conversational, she added. "If you should come across Mr. Lee, I would appreciate a call." She moved to the door. "This claim is for a large sum of money. I'm sure we could arrange a reward for any information you might have." She stepped outside and turned back to face Bashir. He slammed the door shut.

  Freaky son-of-a-bitch, thought Ashley as she walked to her car. She placed the bent business card in a plastic bag in her purse for Bill Johnson to check for fingerprints. Slipping behind the steering wheel, she closed her eyes and reviewed the facts. Fact one, the Bill of Sale gave the seller's name and address. With the seller living in Texas, the New Mexico DMV would have checked that against the title to verify it. Fact two, the address is a real place, not made up. She pulled out a notepad and listed three possible scenarios.

  1. Hashim acquired the truck by some means and forged the title and bill of sale using the name of Allen Lee.

  2. Allen Lee lived with Hashim when he sold the truck.

  3. Allen Lee sold the truck and moved from the house over a month ago, as Hashim claims.

  Forgery of the title is possible, but remote. The New Mexico DMV researches out-of-state titles to guard against fraud and odometer misrepresentation. Again, it's an old truck hardly worth the risk of forgery, which is a felony. She drew a line through number one.

  In the second scenario two men named Lee and Hashim makes for an odd couple. Mr. Hashim is obviously a practicing Muslim. The amulet he clutched had two Arabic letters etched on both sides. The screen-savers flashed views of Middle Eastern religious shrines, and the small rug, partly unrolled in the corner, depicted a mihrab–an arched doorway to the Great Mosque in Mecca. Allen Lee and Bashir Hashim would be an unlikely pairing.

  The third possibility that Hashim moved into the house on South Estrella last month suggests the previous occupant was Allen Lee. This claim may be true. But if his story was false, Hashim was lying. Liars are usually hiding something. She knew how to check the truth about how long Mr. Hashim had lived at that address.

  First she called the El Paso Field Office and identified herself, confident her resignation had no yet been processed. She asked if they would run a Texas ownership profile on the 1979 truck. They agreed, and told her to call back in an hour.

  In urban areas the County Tax Assessor keeps the public tax records. Ashley tapped her phone and quickly found the address of the Civic Center Plaza. She drove there, parked, and took the elevator to the second floor, where she found the door to the Assessor's office.

  A young woman greeted her at the office counter. Ashley handed over her Insurance Company card. "I'm researching an insurance claim and need to know the name of the property owner at this address." She wrote it down. "I hope this won't be too much trouble?"

  The young woman gawked at the address. “Gosh this is a street address. To match an address to ownership we have to use the computer. I'll ask my boss Ms. Holmberg about this. She does all that." The young woman turned and went to the back of the office. Ms. Holmberg made a face and looked at Ashley standing behind the counter. She then slapped the address down on her desk and began typing. A minute later a printer chugged out a single sheet of paper. She stepped over to the printer and wrote something on the bottom. The young woman snapped it up and ran back to the counter. "Ms. Holmberg says the property is owned by Mid-Town Rental and Leasing Management. She added the name of the CEO so you can contact him.”

  When Ashley got back to her car, she reviewed the information and found the name Pedro Rodriguez scrolled across the bottom with a telephone number. She selected a second identity out of her purse, and phoned Mr. Rodriguez.

  The receptionist inquired, “May I say who's calling?”

  "This is Carmen Pantano with the New Texas Employment Service." She waited.

  A deep buttery male voice with a Spanish accent spoke. "Good afternoon. This is Pedro Rodriguez speaking. How
may I help you Ms. Pantano."

  "Thank you for taking my call this late in the afternoon."

  "It is my pleasure."

  "A Mr. Bashir Hashim is seeking employment through our agency. His resume states he lives at 3689 South Estrella Street and rents from you. I am verifying his information and credit status, you understand?"

  "Of course. How may I assist you?"

  "How long has Mr. Hashim lived at this address and does he rent or lease from your company?"

  "You must excuse me, Ms. Pantano, but I own many properties and cannot recall this gentleman's name. If you will hold the line I will have someone assist you."

  Ashley felt the tightness in her shoulders relax. This ploy was working. "You are most kind, Mr. Rodriguez. Thank you." She held the line and in a few seconds a female voice offered to find the information. Minutes later the woman came back on the line. "Ms. Pantano, the current occupant has rented from us the past twelve months. He always pays on time."

  “Thank you for your cooperation. Have a good day.” Ashley gave herself a thumbs up gesture. That confirmed Bashir Hashim was lying.

  She called the El Paso Field Office to find out if the ownership profile of the truck resulted in anything of value. She experienced only a little surprise when she learned Allen Lee had purchased the truck, for one dollar, from Bashir Hashim who had bought it from Happy Harry's Used Cars.

  Ashley’s stomach growled, her body felt ragged and her head ached. Considering the going-home traffic in El Paso, she faced a four-hour drive back to Roswell. Apart from feeling miserable, she had a greater problem: she wanted to stakeout both the Hashim house and Smith Trading, but she could not be in two places at once.

  She checked her watch: 4:45 p.m. Dorothy Hogan would be tidying up her desk in preparation to go home. Ashley tapped in Dorothy's number. Hogan picked up.

  "It's me, Dorothy."

  "Oh, Ashley." She softened her voice. “Where are you?"

  "I'm in El Paso."

  "El Paso? My, you do get around. You sound tired. What's up?"

  "I don't want to do this, but I'm in a spot."

  "Are you in danger?"

  "No. Nothing like that. I need help."

  "What can I do?"

  Ashley's words came quick. "A couple of days ago I found this shipping container behind Smith Trading in Roswell."

  "Yes, Bill Johnson already checked that out for you."

  "So soon? What did he find out?"

  "Bill said the container shipped fewer than four weeks ago from the Port of Dubai in the United Arab Emirates. Marked for General Delivery to Roswell. It was loaded on an oil tanker instead of a cargo ship."

  "Why do you suppose that?"

  "He says tankers are faster. Like a direct flight. It was received about four-days ago in Houston, and picked up by a trucking outfit out of Dallas. They delivered it to Roswell two nights back."

  "Sounds like an expedited shipment. Did Bill find out what's in the shipping container?"

  "Honey."

  "Honey?"

  "Yes. It's full of honey. Sixty barrels."

  Ashley didn't speak for a few seconds. "That's bizarre. Who knows about this?"

  "Bill, me, and now you, what are you thinking?"

  "I'm thinking the shit is on the way to the fan."

  "Okay. What do we do? Move the fan? Turn the fan off? How far do you want to go with this analogy?" Dorothy heard Ashley giggle.

  "Thanks. I needed that. Here's the deal. I have to be in Roswell to stakeout Smith Trading. It's my chance to connect with our killer–the man who blew up his motor home and blew town the same night. I also have to be in El Paso. I need to watch a man who sold a pickup truck to whoever posed as Russell Smith. His name is Bashir Hashim and he’s part of this whole mess." She took a deep breath. "Dorothy, I can't be in both places at the same time."

  "Look, babe, you're way ahead of me on this, but I can tell you need help.” A few seconds passed. “Ashley I know what I’m about to say will be hard for you to hear, but I think it's time you had a talk with Walter."

  Ashley's voice sounded strained. "I can't do that, Dorothy. I don't belong there anymore. As far as the Bureau is concerned, I'm nobody."

  Dorothy's rubbed the back of her neck. “This is difficult for me to say, but I didn't know any other way. Are you an American?"

  "What?"

  "Are you an American?"

  "You bet."

  "Do you love your country?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "Then it's time you swallowed your pride and came in out of the cold."

  Ashley said nothing. Her mind searched for other options. Finally, she responded. "It's not pride, Dorothy. I don't fit in there anymore."

  "Trust me. You are not the best judge of that. Tell me, when you want me set up a meeting with Kent." She waited for a reply. When it came, the tone was firm and deliberate.

  "Okay. I'll meet with him, but it has to be on neutral ground."

  "Where is this neutral ground?"

  "This meeting needs to happen fast. I'm four, maybe five hours away from Albuquerque. I can be there tonight at 10 o'clock. You know the Best Western off 1-25 at Southern?"

  "Sure. Why?"

  "Book a room in my name. I'll check at the desk when I get there."

  "So you want to meet the boss at a motel tonight?" She asked with a playful sound in her voice.

  "Cut the crap, Dorothy. This isn't easy for me."

  "Sorry, I couldn't help myself. I'll set it up, and I'll get Kent there if I have to pull him by the ears." A couple of seconds passed. "Ashley, I'm not going to get into this right now, but you will want to hear what Walter has to say to you. Good night, honey. You drive safe, you hear?"

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  SMITH TRADING FACED WEST on Union Avenue, and received the afternoon sun. The reflective material Abdullah installed in the front window helped shield him from the heat. Still the temperature reached an uncomfortable 103 degrees inside the office he now used as living quarters. He planned to buy an indoor air-conditioner and vent it into the back half of the building.

  Abdullah thought of his deluxe motor home and the event that brought him back to Smith Trading and this degraded existence. He had enjoyed the luxury of living in a magnificent RV with a woman to satisfy his needs. Then, within a few hours, he faced the likelihood of discovery and capture. He’d gathered his essential items, the bag of money, the Master Plan of Action, and his computer. He then assembled the cell phone bomb and attached it to the fuel tank. After walking a mile, he had detonated the bomb and viewed the orange glow of the explosion in the night sky. Two hours later at the Westside Plaza, using his duffel bag full of money as a pillow, he lay on the cold office floor, asleep by midnight.

  The next morning he found a pay phone, and called Bashir in El Paso. The Russell Smith identity was compromised. He needed new credentials. Using Abdullah's photograph from the original Allen Lee forgery, Bashir got a new Social Security number and New Mexico driver’s license from his longtime source in El Paso. The next day he sent them to Abdullah at the Smith Trading address in an overnight pouch.

  Armed with a fresh ID, he walked to a pawnshop, and bought a bicycle. He rode it to a U-Haul outlet and rented a truck. After buying the air-conditioner, some used furniture and a mattress, he waited for the ice cream and the vacuum repair shops to close before he unloaded his furnishings into his unit, using the back door. Abdullah then returned the truck and retrieved his bike. He paid cash for everything.

  When the shipping container arrived on the evening of day four, he signed for it and discovered heavy-duty locks on the doors. He tested the locks and found them resistant to any hacksaw he might have to cut them off. He entered the back door of Smith Trading, stored his tools. That's when he heard a banging sound out back. He hurried to the rear of the building and peered out of a small cobweb covered window. He watched a woman pounding on the sides of the container. She circled it and stared at the identification plate
riveted to the door. She did not look like a homeless person. His first inclination was to go outside and confront her, but decided that would expose him to someone he did not know or trust. She soon walked away and didn't return.

  In preparation for his need to hide that one important item from the cargo container, he bought a beat-up old panel truck from a private party he found on Craigslist. He did not intend to register the truck for the short time he would need it.

  The next morning he again called his contact in El Paso and learned Bashir had received a key to the shipping container from Dubai with instruction to foreword it to Abdullah. It would arrive the next day by express mail. Bashir also told him of the strange woman who inquired about the old Ford truck he had bought from him. The one Abdullah later transferred to the Russell Smith identity. "She seemed legitimate, but when I searched on line for the insurance company name, I didn’t find it listed anywhere."

  Abdullah's asked what she looked like and Bashir described her. She didn’t sound like anyone he knew.

  Now he waited for delivery of the key on this, the fifth day. Late tonight he would open the shipping container and remove an item that would arm him with a powerful weapon. This meant that soon he would receive encrypted instructions from Rome. Finally, his need to serve Allah the All Powerful, and become a revered figure of Islamic history would be realized.

  THIRTY-NINE

  EL PASO AND ALBUQUERQUE are connected by two Interstate highways. Considering Ashley's fourteen hour and 500 mile day, she needed the safety offered by a controlled access roadway. When she arrived in Albuquerque after dark, she pulled into the Best Western motel, parked under the portico and went inside.

  The night clerk raised his head. "Evening Miss, do you have a reservation?"

  She started to dig out a credit card. "Yes, in the name of Ashley Kohen."

  The clerk checked his file. "Don't have one with that name."

  "Check again, please. Maybe it's under Dorothy Hogan."