Enemies Among Us

by Bob Hamer

  World Angel Ministry was located on Wilshire Boulevard in Santa Monica just a few blocks from the ocean. At lunchtime the staffers could walk to the bluffs overlooking the ocean and eat at the picnic tables. The view was absolutely beautiful if you didn’t mind rubbing elbows with the homeless, who staked claim to many of the tables.

  The structure housing the offices of the ministry was a two-story beige stucco building with a Spanish red tile roof. Sections of Santa Monica were heavily damaged during the Northridge earthquake in 1994. Almost every tile from the roof of the World Angel building smashed to the sidewalk, and much of the stucco was destroyed. Even though the building was built in 1928, the exterior renovations following the earthquake made it look much newer.

  Matt parked on the street. After feeding the parking meter with quarters, he approached the World Angel building. A homeless man, dressed in rags and sitting near the entrance to World Angel, held out a cup seeking donations. Matt shook his head and then under his breath said, “Get a job.” I don’t start playing humanitarian for another several hundred feet.

  The administrative offices were located on the second floor. Although the exterior was refurbished, the ornate, wood-paneled interior was reminiscent of a 1940s Humphrey Bogart movie. Matt made his way up the extra-wide staircase, trying to soften his footsteps on the hardwood floor. At the top of the stairs, he spied the door leading into the main office. Through the frosted glass he could see the reflection of the receptionist and walked in without knocking.

  Matt was promptly greeted by a broad-shouldered brunette in her early twenties. Her pretty face was full, with dark, deep-set eyes, and she offered just a hint of a smile.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’ve been reading about your organization and am looking for a volunteer activity so I thought I’d check it out personally,” said Matt.

  “We can always use more volunteers, but I’m not sure Dr. Mulumbo is available right now.”

  “No, I understand. I was in the neighborhood and thought maybe I could pick up some literature.”

  “I can get you that, but let me check with Dr. Mulumbo.”

  Spying the nameplate on her desk, Matt said, “Thanks, Kim.”

  Matt noted a softball team photo on the credenza behind her desk as she stood up.

  “You play ball?”

  “I played in junior college. Caught for two years, but that was before a couple of knee operations.”

  “I understand completely. My back put me out of work.”

  Kim excused herself and walked into Dr. Mulumbo’s office. She returned in less than a minute. “He said if you could wait a few minutes, he would be glad to speak with you.”

  “Great.”

  The room was bright and comfortable, not ostentatious by any means but nicely decorated. Based upon what little Matt knew about the ministry, he assumed some professional, probably a doctor, donated the furniture when he modernized his own office.

  Matt was drawn to the many pictures on the walls. The photos featured the various facilities overseas and the children who had been treated at the clinics.

  One picture in particular caught Matt’s eye. It was an eight-by-ten, black-and-white photo of an African boy, probably around nine or ten, with a huge grin, his face and arms badly scarred from burns and only one leg. He was standing with the aid of a wooden stick as a crutch. The left leg was amputated above the knee, and the youngster was clutching a Bible in his right hand. Matt swallowed trying to neutralize the lump forming in his throat.

  “How long have you been with World Angel?” Matt asked Kim.

  “Just a few months. I was going to start at UCLA this fall but can’t decide on a major so I put it off at least a semester. I tell my parents I’m still trying to find myself. I don’t want to waste time on classes I’ll never use.”

  “Sounds reasonable to me.”

  “Maybe I should have you talk to my parents. The past two summers I went on some short-term mission projects sponsored by World Angel. When the job of administrative assistant opened up in August, I jumped on it.”

  Matt smiled and his eyes quickly scanned Kim’s desk.

  “Trying to cover all the bases?” asked Matt noting a Bible and the Koran.

  “Huh?”

  “The Bible and the Koran?”

  “Yeah, I like studying world religions. I guess you could say I’m a seeker.”

  Matt paused. Lowering his voice a little, he said, “So was I.”

  Just then Dr. Mulumbo walked out of his office. His unassuming stature concealed his immense importance. He had very dark skin, close-cropped hair, and was maybe five feet four inches, if that. He was in his forties and had an undefined quality about him, an almost regal air exuding confidence.

  Matt was ushered into the office. The furniture matched the furnishings in the reception area. When Matt complimented him on his choice of interior decorators, David Mulumbo laughed and said a doctor, who had supported the ministry for many years, donated the furnishings.

  The pictures adorning the walls featured Dr. Mulumbo with a “who’s who” of religion, politics, and Hollywood—Billy Graham, Presidents Bush, senior and George W., President Obama, former Secretary of State Madeline Albright, and assorted Tinseltown stars. Matt was a little embarrassed. Until an Internet search yesterday, he’d never heard of the organization. Matt spotted a medical degree from UCLA and numerous certifications in various fields of medicine.

  Letters of appreciation cluttered the walls, some on presidential letterhead and some in crayon.

  Matt began, “Doctor, it is a pleasure to meet you. I am so impressed by your ministry.”

  “Please, call me David,” he said in a heavy English accent. “And thank you. So you are familiar with our ministry?”

  “Oh yeah, of course, even long before I read the article in the Times several weeks ago. I pass by often and have been meaning to stop in but just haven’t made the time to check it out personally.”

  “In a nutshell we are a nonprofit Christian relief organization providing medical assistance to children throughout Africa and the Eastern Mediterranean.”

  “The success of your organization is impressive,” said Matt.

  “What began in 1988 as a single trip with medical supplies to Kenya, my homeland, has evolved into twelve medical clinics. Since its inception, we have treated in excess of twenty-four thousand children.”

  “How do you finance all this?”

  “God has provided us with generous corporate donors and dedicated medical personnel who work for salaries far below what they could earn elsewhere. We also have available to us doctors who volunteer hundreds of hours of their most valuable time.”

  Matt was captivated by the English accent.

  “Our latest project is the clinic here in Santa Monica, just up the street. We are so excited about what God is allowing us to do. We have been able to purchase a nursing home that became available thanks to a corporate merger. We have remodeled the home into a sixteen-bed rehabilitation hospital. Now we will be able to bring some of our most severely injured children to the United States for the finest medical treatment in the world.”

  Nothing Dr. Mulumbo said or did demonstrated in any way he was connected with Saturday night’s terrorist activity. If the doctor wasn’t sincere, he possessed the skills of an Academy Award-winning actor.

  “Where are most of the kids from?”

  “Actually from all over. It really just depends on the most current political hot spot.”

  “I guess that means Afghanistan?”

  David leaned closer, “We have both permanent and mobile facilities. Right now almost half of the children we treat are from Afghanistan and Iraq. But all of our clinics are full. We must turn away many children. I pray for forgiveness every day for the help we are not a
ble to render to God’s precious little ones.”

  “Are all of them Christian?”

  David let out a hardy laugh. “Oh, heavens no. We treat the child regardless of religious affiliation. It would not be much of a ministry if we turned a child away because of religion.”

  “When will the new clinic open?”

  “We hope to be fully operational in a few weeks. I need to get over there now and meet with a contractor. Would you like to join me?”

  “Sure, I have time, and I’d love to see the facility.”

  MATT FOLLOWED IN HIS car as Dr. Mulumbo drove to the new clinic.

  The clinic was a few miles east of the World Angel headquarters. The converted nursing home looked modern from the outside. A fresh coat of stucco, a newly landscaped front lawn, and a beautiful stone structure in front of the half-circle driveway announced, “World Angel Medical Clinic.”

  Matt was immediately impressed.

  They parked in front of the complex and entered through the electronic sliding glass doors. David escorted Matt around the freshly painted complex. Although the facility was a hospital, the interior was designed to make it nonthreatening to children unfamiliar with the United States, the English language, and, in many cases, modern medical treatment.

  Each room consisted of a state-of-the-art hospital bed and modern medical apparatus for ensuring the proper treatment of the most seriously injured child. Volunteers painted each room with cartoon Bible characters and carried that theme throughout the facility.

  There was no surgical room. All of the surgeries were to be performed at Children’s Hospital Los Angeles or the Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center, but a large room was created for physical therapy. David received donations from some of the nation’s largest producers of PT equipment, and the clinic’s department rivaled the finest facilities in Southern California. Many of the children treated would be amputation victims, and the PT room would be in near constant use. Two full-time physical therapists were on staff.

  Omar was in the PT room, getting the equipment organized and preparing the room for the patients who would be arriving soon.

  Matt and David walked over. “Matt, I’d like you to meet Omar Azia Khan.”

  Omar put down the clipboard he was using to inventory the equipment and shook Matt’s extended hand. He matched Matt in height and weight.

  “Matt lives in Los Angeles and will be doing some volunteer work here at the clinic,” said David.

  Matt began, “Nice to meet you. Welcome to America. Dr. Mulumbo tells me you recently arrived.”

  Omar hesitated and responded with a curt, “Yes.”

  Matt paused and hoped for more of an exchange, but Omar seemed intent on limiting the conversation.

  “The doctor also said you plan on taking classes at UCLA during your stay.”

  Omar looked at Mulumbo as if to say, “Minimize your discussion of my business with outsiders.”

  David sensed the awkwardness of the conversation. “Omar is a physical therapist who will be working with our amputees. He does excellent work. You will see how much the children love him.”

  Matt reached into his pocket and pulled out a package of Life Savers. He handed the package to Omar, who shook his head, refusing the offer. Matt then gestured toward David, who took the top candy in the roll. David smiled as he popped the cherry Life Saver into his mouth.

  “Well, I’m sure I’ll be seeing a lot of you. I plan on spending quite a bit of time here,” said Matt.

  Omar returned to his inventory duties without responding.

  As Matt and David entered the hallway, walking toward the cafeteria, Matt asked David, “How was he selected?”

  “He’s been working at our clinic in Kandahar for the past several years. He has been most helpful. He was raised Muslim but never really practiced the religion and seems open to Christianity. He is a very skilled therapist. We thought this was a wonderful opportunity for his work and our witness.”

  As they continued the tour, David introduced Matt to several volunteers who were putting the finishing touches on some painting projects. All were Americans and failed to fit Matt’s idea of the “terrorist” criteria.

  David then knocked on the partially open door of a small office. A man in his early forties with a full beard and swarthy complexion was seated behind a desk reviewing medical records. He looked up as David and Matt entered.

  “Matt, I’d like you to meet Dr. Ibrahim Saleh Mohammed al-Dirani.” The words rolled off David’s tongue in quick succession as if one elongated name. “We call him Dr. Ibrahim.”

  Ibrahim stood and shook Matt’s hand.

  Matt laughed. “I can understand why. I would have been in junior high before I could have spelled my name.”

  David smiled but Ibrahim remained stoic. The doctor was taller than Matt but much thinner.

  “Matt is a volunteer paramedic who will be working with us at the clinic several afternoons a week,” said David.

  “That is good,” said Ibrahim.

  “Dr. Ibrahim is a gifted surgeon who worked with many of our patients throughout the Middle East,” explained David.

  “I’ve read a lot about the work of World Angel. You must be proud,” said Matt.

  “I don’t do it for the pride,” responded Ibrahim.

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Ibrahim said nothing.

  Once again David interceded during the awkward exchange. “Dr. Ibrahim is on rotation to help us set up the clinic. We are grateful for his services.”

  “I look forward to working with you,” said Matt.

  “Thank you.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  For the foreseeable future Matt would avoid the FBI offices. He and Dwayne would speak regularly by phone and planned to meet personally every couple of days. At the conclusion of the first day, Matt called Dwayne on a “cold phone” in Dwayne’s office.

  “It went well, and it looks like I’m in. I met David and took the fifty-cent tour of the facility. He bought my act. I met several of the medical personnel and some of the volunteers.”

  Dwayne put Matt on hold and then came back to the phone. “Sorry, I wanted to shut my door. I guess I trust everybody but—”

  Matt interrupted, “Trust no man ’til you have to.”

  “I like that. Can I use it?”

  “Sure, it’s not original. I think I read it in a fortune cookie I got from the paranoid owner of a Chinese restaurant.”

  Dwayne gave a slight chuckle. “We’ve already run background checks on some of the employees and volunteers. Did you meet an Omar?”

  “Yeah, Omar, I think Khan was the last name. I also met a Dr. Ibrahim with about four other names attached. Neither gets my nomination for Mr. Congeniality. Both a little cold—actually, make that frozen.”

  “Good segue. I got a call from ICE. Omar is legal. It looks like he’s got a brother, Rashid, who may have overstayed his visa. They’re trying to find the file. They live together in Venice. We’re trying to put together a package on everyone at the clinic.”

  “Anything on Dr. Ibrahim?” asked Matt.

  “He’s got a visa.”

  “So at least Omar and Ibrahim are here legally,” said Matt.

  “That doesn’t mean their ambitions are legal.”

  “I understand. Do we have surveillance yet?”

  “Yeah, I spoke with SOG. We’ll get a couple of teams working later this evening. Thought I’d start with Omar and Rashid since the brother’s status is questionable.”

  “If personality is a factor, don’t forget the good doctor.”

  “You mean Mulumbo?” asked Dwayne.

  “No, I mean Ibrahim.”

  “What’s your take on Mulumbo?”

  “He almost seems
too good to be true. Besides, he’s Christian.”

  “Don’t eliminate anybody just yet,” said Dwayne.

  “Maybe he’s a great actor, but he sold me on his sincerity. I wouldn’t waste much time on him until we develop a reason.”

  “I’ll keep you updated. And before you make any snap judgments, remember almost every 9/11 hijacker was described as polite, nothing suspicious or out of the ordinary.”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Matt.

  “Good job today. Call me if anything comes up.”

  “Or goes down.”

  “Huh? Oh yeah. Up or down, call me, wise guy,” said Dwayne.

  EVERYTHING ABOUT THE MOTEL room cried out 1970s—dark wood veneer cabinets; worn green shag carpeting; variegated brown, striped foil wallpaper. The lone sixty-watt lightbulb in the ceiling fixture made the room depressingly dark. The hour was late.

  Omar had the TV on but paid no attention to the syndicated game show being aired. He was relaxing in bed, fighting to keep his eyes open. When the phone rang, he jumped, startled out of a near sleep. He picked up the phone. Before he could even speak, the caller said, “Allah Issalmak.”

  Even though he spoke Pashto, Omar responded without thinking to the Arabic greeting, “God keep you safe.”

  The caller then said, “Tomorrow morning, precisely at eleven. Bank of America, 1430 Wilshire Boulevard, Santa Monica, male teller, Abu. He is prepared.”

  The caller abruptly hung up without waiting for a response.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Special Operations Group or SOG, as it is known inside the Bureau, consists of specialized surveillance teams. Each team has six agents. All are specially trained, experienced, and highly dedicated. They dress and look the part, whatever that part might be for a particular assignment. They are not your Hoover-type, coat-and-tie agents, and they know L.A. better than the city planner. They are familiar with virtually every cul-de-sac and shortcut in the city, a task not easy in a town the size of Los Angeles. Even with the use of a plane overhead, the crowded skies and the crowded streets of the city make surveillance one of the most difficult assignments in the L.A. office.