Ashley, not offended by the compliment, relaxed her tense expression. "You're right. What I think doesn't matter anymore."
"I didn't say that."
Her eyebrows came together. "What do you mean?"
"I mean we can't do anything about the Strike Force or Washington's inept meddling, but we don't have to stop doing our job."
"Doing our job?"
"Did anyone tell you that you don't work for the FBI anymore?"
"No."
"Did anyone tell you that you aren't the lead investigator anymore?"
"No, not straight out."
Bill dropped his feet, cocked his head to one side, "Well then, it's time you got off your well-formed ass, and get to work." He tossed the paper airplane. It glided in a smooth arc over Ashley's head.
She watched the four second flight. "Nice, but your landing failed to impress me. How many hours have you logged?"
"Thousands–all in experimental planes."
Ashley gave him a sideward glance. "I have more than three thousand hours in certified aircraft. Imagine what we could do if we became a team."
"A team?"
"You and I can accomplish more in a couple of hours than that bunch of Keystone Cops can in a couple of weeks or months."
"I suspect you’re not talking about flying anymore."
Ashley stood and began to pace back and forth. "The President's involvement isn't all bad. Evidence that took weeks or months to process is fast-tracked now. It's available in hours. Findings are pouring in as we speak." She stopped in front of his desk. "I need your help to sort through all this stuff. What do you say?"
Johnson leaned back, put his elbow on the arm of the chair and supported his chin with a balled fist. "I thought you'd never ask."
THEY SET UP IN Johnson's office because it had a door. Only managers had doors, but Bill knew how to work the system. He dropped a printout from IAFIS on his desk. "I got this report on those fingerprints I sent in."
"The prints on the tools I found at Smith Trading Post in Roswell?"
"Yes. They belonged to an exchange student registered with the State Department and the U.S. Immigration Service. Abdullah al Jamal received a one-year student visa to attend graduate school at the University of Oklahoma four years ago. The genealogical database matched DNA samples from the coastal region of Saudi Arabia."
Ashley's eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. "That confirms the DNA report on the lock of black hair found in the shroud that wrapped Bitty Smith's body."
"That's right.”
"Is there a photograph of our man?"
Bill flipped open the report. "Ever see the likes of him?"
Ashley studied the picture. "I only saw him at a distance, but it looks like the man in the trailer park. Does Oliver West know about this?"
"He will, if he ever stops pounding that damn gavel. I sent it to him."
"Do you think he'll go to the media with it?"
Bill made a face. "Do sharks like blood?"
Ashley shook her head and thumbed through her personal notes on the case. "So we know the identity of our subject and we know he met with an arms dealer and a bomb expert Friday night." She stopped and became calm. "But we don't know..." She paused again and worked out the question. "We don't know if he survived the explosion."
Bill ran his hand through his white hair. "Everyone assumes the Lone Wolf–I mean Abdullah al Jamar–set the explosion and is roaming around with a nuclear bomb under his arm."
"I'm not so sure. Have you studied the inventory report Walter Kent sent from Maljamar?"
"Sure. It's preliminary, but loaded with findings. Why?"
Ashley asked, "How many people died in that house?"
"They found parts of four bodies and the skull of a dog with a bullet hole in its head. They found Rashid al Yours’s wedding ring, and passports belonging to Alexander Karloff and Kisser Suri. There's only two persons whose identity is unaccounted for. DNA studies will clear that up."
"How long will that take, under these circumstances?"
Bill raised his eyebrows. "Don't know. Hours, days, maybe a week. There are more than twenty body parts to examine. Our studies will go to the top of the list, but they take time."
"We have Abdullah's DNA. If they match it, he's dead and Bashir is our man. If they don't, Abdullah set the explosion and escaped."
Bill stroked his chin. "I get the feeling you don’t think Abdullah escaped."
"Jerry Cebeck witnessed the explosion. He said it originated, not in the house, but in or on top of the Suburban that Bashir used to drive from El Paso. He controlled the Suburban, not Abdullah. That’s a significant fact."
Bill Johnson fell silent as he thought over Ashley's claim. "Your hunch is reasonable, but based on thin evidence. Only DNA results will prove you right or wrong."
"Yes, but by then we may see a nuclear catastrophe in our country that will dwarf the Twin Towers.”
Bill Johnson removed his eyeglasses and began cleaning them with a microfiber cloth. "What do you know about this Bashir Hashim fellow?"
“Based on his fingerprints lifted from my fake business card, and run through our system he's clean.” Ashley thought of her visit to El Paso. "I met him one time. Grim little man. Had a Doberman Pinscher that probably has a hole in its head now. I know Bashir's a practicing Muslim and is here on a work visa. He bought and sold a truck to a man now identified as Abdullah. His role in the Team of Deliverance makes him an important link in this conspiracy."
"Anything else?"
Ashley thought about their meeting. She tried to remember details about the purple house, and the living room. "I can't remember, but I took notes. I'll find them."
Bill mounted his clean glasses over his ears. “Do you think Bashir destroyed the house and escaped with the bomb?”
Ashley nervously fingered the stainless steel Star of David she wore around her neck. "Everyone will be searching for Abdullah.” Her voice dropped an octave. “I think I'll go shopping for a Bashir."
SIXTY
AFTER HER TALK WITH Bill Johnson, Ashley reflected on the past forty-eight hours. She had lost touch with her mission, let recent events sidetrack her drive, and smother that inner voice that urged her to protect her country and its people. Bill, with his whimsical manner, had pulled her back to reality and set her on course again.
That course started back in her drab little cubicle with a review of her notes on the Bashir Hashim meeting fewer than two weeks ago. She remembered his threatening manner, the cluttered living room, the dog, the ugly purple house, and that she had caught him in a lie about the sale of the 1979 pickup truck. She knew she had to go back to El Paso, and had one more favor to ask of Bill. She phoned him.
"What took you so long?" he asked with a smile in his voice.
"I’m going to El Paso, Bill. If Bashir's our man, I must pick up his trail. His house is my starting point. I need a covert entry search warrant for the Estrella property, and a flight to El Paso today. Can you help me out?"
Bill didn't hesitate. "If I can bypass Oliver West, and I think I can, the answer to your question is yes. I'll get back to you."
Confident Bill would come through with both requests, Ashley grabbed the black duffle, issued to her the first day on the job, and loaded it with everything she might need. What have I forgotten? Walter Kent came to mind. He would be in Maljamar finishing the site investigation. She called him.
He answered on the first ring. "Kent here."
"Walter, do you know about Oliver West?"
"Yes, Ramirez briefed me. Odd turn of events."
"More than odd. I'm afraid they're making a mistake and chasing the wrong guy. Walter, I want you to trust me on this. I think our man is Bashir Hashim and I'm going after him."
"Are you playing a hunch?"
"Yes, I believe it's a plausible hunch. If I'm wrong, it won't interfere with the work of the Strike Force, but if I'm right then it's a whole different ball game."
"I don't
like you going off on your own."
"I'll be all right. Bill is backing me up, and there's the El Paso Field Office if I need them. I'll be fine. Don't worry."
He lowered his voice. "Of course I'll worry. You're important to me and I don't mean as a member of my staff. I want you to check with me often–hourly if possible. You hear? Every hour. That's an order."
A warm feeling flooded though her. "Yes, as often as I can. I promise."
"That's my girl. Every hour, okay? Got a go now. Be careful."
Walter's words, 'that's my girl', brought a flash of emotion she savored for a moment, then pushed back to enjoy another day. The phone, still in her hand, sounded off.
Bill spoke. "Drop by my desk and get your search warrant, and then take a company car to the Albuquerque airport, and leave it there. I'll get it later. Major Roger Henderson is standing by
"Thanks Bill. You're a jewel."
After a quick flight to El Paso, the plane landed at two o'clock. At the airport Ashley signed out a government car provided by the local field office, in accordance with Bill's arrangements. She headed for the Estrella Street address. Ashley reminded herself that Bashir Hashim was a proven co-conspirator in a terrorist plot, and that she had probable cause to arrest him on sight. First, she had to find him.
Viewed from the outside, the purple house appeared deserted. She circled the block twice and parked in front. Dressed in street clothes and holding the search warrant, she approached the front door and knocked. No answer. She knocked again, and then tried the door and found it unlocked. Ashley stuffed the warrant in her back pocket. She drew her weapon and entered the house.
Ashley held the Glock straight out in front of her gripped with both hands as she quickly moved from room to room. The place was empty. She holstered the gun and went back to the living room. The same worn-out furniture remained in place, but she found no personal items; the computer and prayer rug were gone.
She searched the house again. This time she exercised greater care while examining the content of each room. As she walked through the house it looked like burglars had ransacked the place. She found trash in two wastebaskets, an opened book left face down, bedroom drawers pulled out partway with garments on the floor and thrown across the bed. In the kitchen she checked the garbage can and discovered a nearly full bag of dog food and a dog dish with the word 'Slayer' scrawled across the side. That discovery made sense. Why keep food for a dog you plan to kill? Dirty dishes lay everywhere, and a slightly warm half eaten frozen dinner sat on the counter. Clearly someone had left in a hurry not long ago. She checked the backyard and found it empty.
She needed something to connect her with Bashir. Ashley searched each room a third time without finding any clues. She ended back in the living room. Standing in the center of the room, she closed her eyes and thought of the day she bluffed her way into this house. She replayed in her mind all the words spoken and everything she saw: the religious screen savers flashing on the computer, the prayer rug rolled in the corner, the picture on the wall. The picture on the wall? She turned and found a photograph of Bashir standing in front of an airplane dressed in a dark suit with gold epaulets and a cap with a gold braided visor. She stared at the image a moment then screamed, "Oh my God, the son-of-a-bitch is a pilot!"
Ashley took down the framed picture, left Bashir's house and drove to the nearest commercial district. She hunted for a Starbucks or any place that offered Wi-Fi for her laptop. Spotting a Denny's Restaurant, she parked near the door and asked for a booth. Once seated, she opened her computer and went online. When the server arrived, Ashley ordered a cup of black coffee. She entered the URL address for the Federal Aviation Administration. Once on the FAA's web page she clicked on N-Number Inquiry, and then Aircraft Registry. In the request box she typed the N number painted on the side of the twin engine aircraft pictured in the photograph. Instantly the FAA's Registry file flashed on the screen. The plane, a McDonald Douglas DC 3 built in 1944, listed Keserwan Flight Services, Inc. as owner–found at 3887 South Estrella Street, El Paso, Texas. The physical location of the aircraft was listed as El Paso International Airport, Allen Aviation Limited. It only took seconds to learn the address of Allen Aviation. The privately owned aircraft would be stored in the general aviation section of the airport.
She picked up the picture of Bashir and tore off the backing, removed the photograph and left the frame on the table. When her coffee came, she gulped it down and realized she hadn't eaten all-day. On her way out she paid for the coffee and two giant chocolate chip cookies wrapped in clear plastic. Not health food, but another sacrifice for God and country.
She drove to the airport and turned south on Airport Road. When she saw small planes tied down in rows she knew she was getting close. At Pilot's Drive she noticed a sign pointing the way to the General Aviation Terminal. She parked near the main entrance. The digital clock on the dashboard read 3:45. She twisted the rearview mirror and looked at herself. "I hope to hell you're not too late, my dear."
SIXTY-ONE
BASHIR AWOKE SUNDAY MORNING to find the metal case containing the bomb almost covered with a blanket next to him. As sleep faded, he stared at it and realized this object would soon be his pathway to paradise, the garden of eternity. Then his body stiffened with thoughts of yesterday, and how he had failed to keep to his schedule. He tossed the covers back, rolled out of bed, and stood piecing together his next moves.
In the bathroom he washed his face, ran his hands through his black hair, and studied his day-old beard in the mirror. He had deprived himself of facial hair since coming to America. Now it didn't matter.
Bashir found his dirty clothes scattered on the floor and his shoes under the bed. He dressed and snatched money out of the duffle. Bashir remembered seeing a small department store across the street and headed for it after putting a Do Not Disturb sign on his door.
In the store no one approached him. Bashir grabbed what he needed and attracted little attention when he paid cash for the clothing. Back in his room he changed clothes, and prepared himself to travel.
He scanned the hotel phonebook for a car rental outlet and found they were all at the Cavern City Air Terminal five miles southwest of downtown Carlsbad. He continued searching for car dealerships and found a used car lot only two blocks from his room. After shoving everything under the bed, he pulled bundles of hundred dollar bills from the duffle bag and headed for Economy Pre-Owned Cars of Carlsbad.
At the car lot, a chubby-faced salesperson, wearing a white shirt with a striped bow tie, greeted him and offered help. "I'm interested in a reliable car." Bashir swept his hand in a wide arc. "My car was stolen and I need a new one. I'll buy a car from you for cash, if it's quick. Any problem with that?" The salesman's eyes widened as he agreed. Within ten minutes Bashir picked out a car, an older model Subaru Forester, and paid the full asking price without hesitation.
Counting the money, the salesman held each bill to the light to check the watermark. "You'll have to sign a bill of sale, and pay the tax and title costs of about three hundred bucks."
Bashir signed the paper and laid four one hundred dollar bills on the desk. "Mail the paperwork to my address." He stood and demanded the keys.
At the hotel he loaded the bomb, the bag of detonators and the duffel in the backseat. The drive to El Paso took about three hours. Bashir arrived at his house shortly after noon. He filled a suitcase with the prayer rug he had used since childhood, his computer, dark glasses and everything he imagined he might need after rummaging through his house. Satisfied with his selections, he carried the suitcase to the Subaru parked in the alley. In the glove compartment he stored a handgun.
Bashir found his last frozen meal and heated it in the microwave. It tasted nasty–some American mixture he bought by mistake. He made a final check of the house that ended in the living room. Standing by the front window he noticed his photograph on the wall, and started to take it down, but stopped. He thought the world should know who had c
hanged history and imagined his picture would someday be on televisions everywhere.
Bashir glanced out the window for the last time. That's when he saw a white car stop in front of his house and park close to a fire hydrant, something he knew would earn a traffic citation. A woman got out of the car, holding a paper in her hand, and started walking toward his house. She looked familiar. A handsome women with a good figure like that insurance woman he daydreamed about at night. She hesitated at the steps and tilted her head up. A sudden coldness hit him. It was the same woman. A few seconds later she knocked on his door.
Bashir turned and slipped out of the backdoor closing it carefully. Then he dashed to the Subaru, got inside and backed down the alley out of view of the house. While trying to collect his thoughts, he drove around the block slowing down as he approached the woman's car on the corner. It had a white license plate with the words U. S. Government printed on it. A chill rippled down his back. Bashir parked a half block away and waited until the woman came out. She held his framed picture in her hand.
His mind filled with questions. Who is this person? What does she want? Where did she come from? Why did she steal my picture? Questions, but no answers. He did know she worked for the American government. That made her a dangerous person. One he must deal with.
Bashir opened the glove compartment, pulled out his handgun holding a fresh clip of twelve rounds, and dropped it on the passenger seat. When the woman eased away from the curb, he followed her. She drove five blocks and parked in a shopping center in front of a Denny's and went inside carrying the framed picture and a black bag. He parked where he could see the restaurant entrance. Within ten minutes the woman left Denny's in a hurry without the framed picture, and drove off faster than before. Bashir found it difficult to keep up. She turned onto Montana Avenue and continued east. He followed this same path every day. When she turned onto Airport Road he gasped for breath. No, he thought, this can't be. It's not possible. But when the white car headed down Pilot's Drive he knew it was possible and that his life and mission would soon be at risk.
The Seventh Message Page 27
