"Yes, sir. I have," Mike said.
"Do you have identity papers ready for Youris?"
"They will be ready within the hour."
"...and the letter of introduction?”
"Done. I've included a phone number for them to verify Rashid's assumed identity. One of my people will man it 24 / 7."
"What about the meeting location in El Paso?"
"I conferred with Walter Kent in Albuquerque this morning. Their Lead Investigator, Agent Ashley Kohen, tracked down a man named Bashir Hashim a couple of days ago in El Paso. He is the link through which our enemies will enter the country. He is under surveillance as we speak."
"Then we know where they’ll meet?"
Mike paused, "We know where they will assemble. I think the meeting will be elsewhere. Albuquerque and El Paso Field Offices are standing by."
Delong asked, "What about Doctor Youris, is he ready?"
"He talked to his wife, Hessa. He says she is frightened for him, but will support his decision."
Adornetto rubbed his chin again. "If you say Operation Full Moon is ready to go, you have my approval. Delong nodded concurrence. "Have you forgotten anything?"
"I hope to God I haven't."
Mike searched each man's face while his mind reviewed every detail of the plan. There was much at stake, not only his friend's life, and national security, but his reputation, too. He had never lied to a superior in his entire career, until today.
FORTY-THREE
EACH HONEY BARREL WEIGHED 110 pounds. At forty-nine kilograms they were easy for Abdullah to pick up, but he had to lift each barrel twice: once out of the cargo container onto a two-wheel dolly, and again inside the building. After hoisting the first twenty, he stopped to rest. Since his rigorous training on the Afghanistan border with Pakistan, two years earlier, he had done little strenuous work. His sporadic weight training helped keep him fit, but not in top condition. He continued offloading the honey, with occasional breaks, until all were moved inside. Abdullah secured the two wheeled dolly in the container, closed the doors, and latched them making it ready for pick up early the next morning.
Now to find that one extraordinary barrel.
He went to his toolbox, picked out an ultraviolet flashlight and began shinning it on the top of each barrel. He moved between the barrels searching for one painted with fluorescent dye, visible only to someone with a black light. Within minutes he found a barrel marked with the shape of the old Soviet Union's hammer and sickle. His next step was to load the barrel into the trunk of the old car he’d bought.
Bashir's story about the insurance woman with a company not listed online, and his experience with another woman pounding on the side of the shipping container with a rock, concerned him. These incidences may be unrelated, but why take a chance? He had unlimited money and must avoid making any error this late in the game, no matter how remote the possibility. He must find a hiding place for the barrel.
He solved that problem by renting a storage unit on the south side of town. The storage facility had hundreds of identical units distinguishable only by the number painted on each door. He paid in advance and stored the barrel in unit 169.
Smith Trading had served its purpose. Abdullah would leave it locked, and never return. He didn't need it anymore. He decided to take a motel room tonight, and secure more permeant quarters tomorrow.
The next morning Abdullah searched for an obscure and inconspicuous place to stay. He found it in a second story one-room apartment over the Up Your Alley Bar and Grill. A place that attracted some of its clientele from the Center City Bowling Lanes next door. The room, accessed by a flight of wooden stairs at the back of the building, smelled of stale cigarette smoke, beer, and cooking oil that wafted from below. The bartender, who owned the building and rented the place to him, warned the nights might be a bit rowdy with all the laughing, fighting and loud music from down below. In a more positive note, he pointed out the Wi-Fi signal from the bowling alley next door could be accessed without a password. No extra charge.
In his little apartment, he opened his laptop and checked his email as he did every morning. Since he only corresponded with Rome, he usually found his inbox empty, but this morning he discovered an encrypted message. Allah be Praised, finally a message from his handlers in Italy. Abdullah quickly unbuckled his pants and withdrew a small leather pouch he wore around his waist. From the pouch he extracted the thumb drive containing the decryption code and inserted it into his computer. He flicked a roach off the keyboard and with a few key strokes watched as his message from Rome spilled out on the screen. He read the message quickly, then went back and studied each word.
Many thoughts crowded through his mind. So they will meet in El Paso–Bashir's place, of course. These names–Alexander Kostoff, Kassar Suri and Danish Maloof–meant nothing to him. No matter, they are the experts that will make his mission a success. The team would be here at full moon. Abdullah checked his calendar. What? Only two days? Not much time to prepare. They want me to find a meeting place. Yes, yes, someplace safe, and remote.
Abdullah found his hands trembling. He needed to calm himself, and stay alert. Prayer would help him. He went to the black duffel bag where he kept his prayer rug, his money, and a handgun he had bought. Unrolling the rug on the cracked linoleum floor, be began his morning ritual. Thinking only of Allah, he felt the tension in his body dissipate.
The rest of the day Abdullah concentrated on work. He decided the meeting place would be at his house in Maljamar. Leased for the year, it was the perfect location. Blind to all who would harm you, as the seventh message directed.
He called Bashir to tell him of the new orders and to warn him of the arriving team members at his house on Thursday. "Bring them to Maljamar. You know the way. I will be at the house waiting to receive our guests. Speak to no one. Guard them. They will be with us for a day and one night."
Bashir acknowledged the plan and added some suggestions. "I will buy food for five people and prepare the meals, freeing you for more important matters. The menu must please their unique tastes, including the Russian. I must, also, rent a larger car. Mine is too small and unreliable. Do you know when these men will arrive?
Abdullah explained they were from 'many nations' and that they may arrive any time during the full moon, "When they have assembled, call me," he ordered, and Bashir agreed.
The house in Maljamar would have to serve the team of three, plus Bashir and him. He would need bedding, disposable tableware, and many other items. Wal-Mart, on the north end of town, would have most of what he must buy. Of course, he’d take the barrel to the meeting. This entire enterprise centered on the contents of the barrel.
He reviewed the actions he must take from now until the meeting ended. Every detail must be carried out with precision. The image of his motor home lighting the night sky with an orange glow reminded him he must prepare for every contingency and expect the unexpected. He added more items to his list of purchases, closed his laptop and opened his duffle bag. He counted out the money he needed, and left his dingy apartment to go shopping.
AS THE BARTENDER warned, that night the floor beneath his feet vibrated with loud music mixed with the hubbub of party goers down below. Enough of this, I must get my mind on something else. If it's not too late, maybe I will watch this game of bowling. He left his room and descended the rickety stairs behind the building. He stepped into the dark shadowy parking lot and started to weave through the cars on his way to the bowling lanes next door. That's when he heard voices. A man shouting and a child crying. Abdullah couldn't see in the dim light, but he followed the sounds. Lit only by a distant neon sign, he saw a man slapping a child–a boy child. The man's words were slurred, but the young boy's words were clear. "No, Papa. Don't hit me, Papa." Staggering forward the man continued slapping the boy, again and again.
Stunned by the act of beating a boy about the age of his little brother, Abdullah, seized with a sudden rage, reached for the man. With one
hand he grabbed his neck and pulled him back, slamming him against a parked car. Then, holding his shirtfront with his left hand, he slapped him hard across the face with his right. He raised his arm and struck him again. The man, numb with drink, went limp. Abdullah raised his hand once more, then felt a tug on his pants leg. He glanced down. The boy, his face tilted up, cried, "Please don't hit my Papa again. Please don't."
Abdullah dropped his arm and let go of the man, who slid down the side of the car and fell on the ground. His anger subsiding, he turned and considered the boy, who was not more than six years old. He picked the child up. Blood trickled down the boy’s upper lip. "You're bleeding."
"It don't matter. It goes away."
Abdullah felt the boy's small body in his arms and remembered when he was young and frail. "A man should not beat a boy child. It dishonors his name and his family's name."
The boy wiped away the blood with his arm. "He gets like this some nights. I'm glad you didn't hit Papa again." He put his arms around Abdullah's neck as if to thank him. On the ground the man uttered meaningless sounds and tried to crawl away. Abdullah, feeling uncomfortable with his role as savior, put the boy down and turned to leave.
"Will you take us home? It's not far."
"Home?"
The boy pointed down the faintly lit street that ran next to the Bar and Grill. "It's that way. I can’t do it, please? Please?"
Abdullah studied the boy’s pleading face. What if this young man-to-be was his brother? Would he want him left like this? Even though the boy lived in America, he was of the age of innocence–too young to understand the ways of the world. Abdullah knew leaving him in the darkness alone with a drunken father would shame him in the eyes of Allah the Merciful.
He lifted the drunk to his feet. Holding him upright, he put the man's arm around his neck and held him tight around the waist. The putrid smelled of alcohol assaulted his nostrils. The boy, holding on to Abdullah's pants pocket, pulled them toward the street. In less than a block they stopped near a streetlight. The boy said, "He needs to go to bed, please?" He pointed at an old house.
Getting the drunk up the steps of the broken-down house took some effort, but finally Abdullah got him laid out on a worn sofa in a living room cluttered with empty whiskey bottles and trash. He knelt down, faced the boy, and held him by the shoulders. "Where's your mother?"
"I got no Mama. Just Papa."
Abdullah reached into his pocket and gave the boy money. "This is for you. Hide it. Buy some clothes, some food. Go to a doctor." He stood and patted the boy on the head. He knew if the man found the money he would take it and buy whiskey, but he could not allow himself to become more involved. He feared he might have already let his discipline slip.
Abdullah walked back to his roach-infested apartment. As he walked, he cursed America. The richest country in the world. A country whose streets are not paved with gold, but filled with greed. A country so bent on power and control that it allows boys to live in squalor and poverty. A culture of depravity. With new resolve, his mission took on greater importance.
FORTY-FOUR
IRRITATED ABOUT BEING IN the right place at the wrong time, Ashley mulled over yesterday’s fiasco in Roswell. A chance to reconnect with her suspect had turned into a humiliating failure. If she had arrived a day or even a few hours earlier, she might have linked up with him. Clenching her teeth, she wondered how much had to go wrong before something good happened. Yes, she discovered one barrel missing out of a total of sixty. A positive discovery, at last, but why such an elaborate delivery system? What's so important about one small barrel or more to the point– what’s in the damn barrel? She didn't know, but she knew it wasn't honey.
She carried the toolbox she appropriated from Smith Trading upstairs to Bill Johnson. It held tools that most likely had fingerprints on them. If prints were lifted from the tools in this box, she might finally experience that 'something good' she needed. When Ashley entered Bill's office, she found him with his feet on the desk, head back and eyes closed. Ashley dropped the heavy plastic toolbox in the center of his cluttered desk with a loud thump. Bill opened one eye.
"You know," Ashley said, "one of the few things you can get fired for in Federal service is sleeping on-the-job." She plopped down in a chair next to his desk.
"I'm not sleeping." He opened the other eye. "I'm thinking. That's what they pay me for. I'm too old to do real work."
"Real work? Like what?"
He let his feet fall to the floor and sat up. "Like putting the cuffs on some asshole who needs to learn respect for the law."
"Your cuffs are in the drawer, but you still make it possible for other agents to use their cuffs, often."
Bill removed his glasses and adjusted his hearing aids. "I hate people who pity old folks." He winked at Ashley and replaced his glasses. "So what the hell is this?' He pointed at the toolbox. "You taking up carpentry in your spare time?"
Ashley leaned forward, "Based on the warrant you sent me yesterday, I found this box and it got me excited. I’m sure our suspect has handled these tools. I have to admit my expectations are aroused."
A twinkle flashed in Bill’s eyes. "I love it when you talk dirty." He then yanked a drawer open and pulled out a pair of thin rubber gloves. "I'll bag these items and have the print-guys go over them.” He pulled his glasses halfway down his nose, and tilted his head. "Did you get the word about the videoconference downstairs? It has to do with your case."
Still enjoying Bill's ‘talking dirty’ joke, Ashley nodded her head.
Bill shoved his glasses back up his nose. "Old Ed Delong will run it. The director himself. I understand it has to do with an intelligence break-through."
Ashley stuck her thumb up. "Maybe things are coming together?"
THE PRESIDENT appointed Ed Delong to serve as the Director of the FBI because his background and experience proved his ability to manage a complex agency with evenhanded discipline, and little or no tolerance for failure. While politically loyal, when it came to law enforcement he was a lawman one hundred percent.
"Are we ready?" Delong asked.
The video technician answered, "Yes, sir. Albuquerque will come on line any second now."
Delong placed his unlit cigar on the table and regarded the assembled participants who sat in a semi-circle facing the wall-sized video screen. "Okay people, so I can move along, and not waste time here's my agenda for this morning. I'll start with introductions followed by a brief summary of our plan, then open the meeting for discussion. Any questions?"
Admiral Smithy asked, "How much do your people in Albuquerque know about this case?"
"They originated the case and made significant discoveries locally before we knew the true scope of this threat. Based on your work at the NSA, Admiral, this is no longer a murder investigation in the deserts of New Mexico. But to answer your question, they don't know about the seventh message or the infiltration plan. I held that back for security purposes.”
Smithy nodded his approval.
At that moment, the video screen brightened showing four faces, well-tanned by the New Mexico sun. Delong straightened his tie. "Good morning, Mr. Kent. I'll introduce our panel, then brief you on our plan of action followed by a Q and A. To my left is Admiral Henry Smithy, head of NSA and Leo Adornetto, Director of National Intelligence. On my right is Mike Johansson and Rashid al Youris, who you know." Delong moved his notes to see them better. "Three days ago Admiral Smithy and his NSA team, with the help of Doctor Youris, received and decoded the last of a series of seven messages. As we speak I'm sending number seven to you on a secure line. Based on this new information we know three conspirators will meet in El Paso tomorrow, Thursday. The purpose of the meeting is to train your suspect to perform an act of terror. The nature of the act is unknown."
Delong eyed the Albuquerque crew. Except for Bill Johnson, they looked about as comfortable as a cat on a raft in white water. "We’ve identified these conspirators as technical experts. It’s
essential that we learn the nature of their mission. To do that, we have devised a plan to infiltrate this Team of Deliverance, as they call themselves. Johansson here," he pointed at Mike," calls our plan Operation Full Moon. You'll understand why when you read message seven...and, oh yes, Mike named your un-sub the Lone Wolf, for obvious reasons."
Walter Kent squirmed in his seat. Ashley's tried to appear calm, but failed. Dorothy Hogan adjusted her audio recorder, and Bill Johnson sanded his fingernails with a plastic file.
"What I'm about to tell you is confidential. Lives are at stake." He shoved his notes aside and looked at them through the camera lens. "Doctor Youris speaks several languages and is Muslim. He has volunteered to assume the identity of one of their team members. The details are in my report to you. This group of co-conspirators will gather in El Paso tomorrow, but the actual meeting will take place Friday somewhere else." Delong picked up his cigar, inspected it, then put it in his mouth. "Any questions?"
Finally free to speak, Walter Kent began. "First, I would like to thank you for the work you have done in support of this case. We knew we were dealing with a serious situation, but we didn't know the depth of this threat." Ashley started to speak, but Kent squeezed her hand under-the-table and gave her a quick shake of the head. "I understand a Joint Terrorism Task Force will be formed. What is the JTTF status?"
Johansson in DC spoke up. "I can answer that." He turned and addressed Kent. "Excellent question. I have formed a task force and will deploy it when needed. I'll keep you informed."
"Thank you, Mr. Johansson. Meanwhile I'll strengthen our team in Albuquerque.”
Bill Johnson gazed at the DC panel. "Ed, a couple of weeks back I sent a human hair sample to DC for a DNA analysis. Today I'm sending you some fingerprints I believe belong to Mr. Wolf. Considering the importance of this case, could you speed the lab work for the DNA and the data search for matching prints?"
The Seventh Message Page 20
