by Bob Hamer
Wadi wasn’t pleased with tonight’s operation. The box truck Boris rented ran with the speed of a gentle laxative. Twice the vehicle stalled as it attempted to make it over the Hollywood Hills.
Once the vehicle arrived at the warehouse, Boris stopped traffic, allowing the truck to back into the Ventura Boulevard facility. As the driver, Rashid Kahn, attempted to back the truck in, the vehicle stalled, blocking both lanes of eastbound traffic. It took only a few minutes for traffic to back up several blocks, and impatient motorists honked long and loud, as if that would make the truck start.
Wadi sat in his car and watched in vain. The organization was covered. Rashid had an invoice identifying the contents of the boxes as backpacks made in China. Should a problem arise, Rashid had an alibi, but any blip on the distribution radar screen could mean potential problems.
Boris was in the middle of the street with the hood of the truck raised, desperately seeking to identify the problem. Rashid continued to grind the starter to no avail.
The officer hit the “yelp” toggle switch once, and the loud noise signaled their arrival. The red lights on top of the black-and-white patrol unit flashed brightly, and the two-man patrol team westbound on the boulevard stopped. The LAPD officers exited the car.
“What seems to be the problem?” asked the lead officer.
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be sitting in the middle of Ventura Boulevard,” said the defiant Russian with a thick accent.
The probationary police officer, accompanying the lead officer, removed the nightstick from his utility belt in anticipation of a problem.
“You’re tying up traffic. I need this vehicle moved now, or I’m going to have to cite you,” said the lead officer.
“Unless you plan on helping me push this up the driveway, it’s not going anywhere,” said Boris, who remained cool when confronted by the police.
Rashid continued to grind the starter in an effort to start the engine. Just as the lead officer pulled out his citation book, the engine started. Boris slammed the hood of the truck down.
Rashid quickly threw the truck into reverse and backed into the driveway. The officer closed the book, and the unit left without citing anyone and without further inquiry.
All concerned breathed a collective sigh of relief. Any law enforcement action at any level was problematic. Counterfeit cigarettes were a productive enterprise for the cause, and everyone connected with the operation wanted to maintain the free-flowing profits.
THEY BEGAN THE RIDE home in silence. The freeway traffic was steady. The evening rush hour was over. Matt was used to having noise, any kind of noise blasting from the car radio. It could be a ball game, a book on tape, or his favorite country and western CD, but to drive in silence was an anomaly.
The night was clear and unseasonably warm. He rested his elbow on the open window. The steady whine of tires racing along the paved freeways created a white noise that almost seemed soothing.
Matt kept his eyes on the car ahead, but his mind was elsewhere. He was sorting out what he just witnessed. A seven-year-old was facing death, and he had no satisfactory explanation. Somehow a senseless war made sense. An act of terrorism was easy to understand. Any violation of the Ten Commandments could be explained. All were acts of evil, hatred, or greed. All were conscious decisions by those choosing to violate the laws of order and common decency. But this was different. How do you combat cancer? What evil do you attack? What undercover operation will successfully eradicate the iniquity of malignant cells spreading throughout a child’s body? Matt had questions but no answers.
Matt met Caitlin ten years earlier while he was still a Marine. For Matt it was love at first sight. For Caitlin it took a little longer but not much. Will Hoffman was Matt’s executive officer when the two were stationed at Camp Pendleton. Will and his wife attended a Bible study with Caitlin’s parents. After graduating from college, Caitlin returned home and attended the study one evening. The next day Will raved about this beautiful, unattached, and employed female. What was not to like? Will and Caitlin’s parents arranged for a barbecue the next weekend, inviting Matt and Caitlin. The relationship grew out of that Saturday afternoon encounter. Matt was drawn not only to her beauty and strength but ironically to her faith. Matt was a seeker. She never preached or pushed, but she listened as no one he had ever met. He thought he was finding answers, but then Christmas Day 2005 shattered what little faith he had. Still Caitlin was his tether to a world in constant chaos.
They drove several miles before Caitlin spoke. She reached over and put her hand on Matt’s thigh. She looked at him, and he gave her a quick glance. “Thanks for going with me.”
Matt hesitated with a response. “Why?”
“Why, what?”
“Why does God allow such things? After all that girl and her family have been through, why would a loving God do this?”
Caitlin paused before answering. “Matt, that’s a tough question, and I’m not sure I have an answer. I don’t know that it’s my place to question God. Why this would happen to Jaana is something I can’t answer either. Someday when we are face-to-face, I’ll ask him. I do know I want to use this opportunity to show her and her family the love of Jesus Christ. I don’t know what tomorrow holds, but I know who holds it. That’s my faith and that sustains me.”
Matt started to say something but didn’t. He was attempting to formulate his thoughts. About a mile down the freeway he responded. “Caitlin, I watched you in that room this evening. I wish I had your faith.”
“Matt, I believe and I trust. That’s my faith.”
Matt shook his head. “That’s just it . . . trust. What does that mean? Does that mean I don’t prepare, I don’t study, I don’t practice? As an undercover agent, I’ve gone toe-to-toe with some of the worst society has to offer. Every group I have ever infiltrated has a history of violence. If ever one of those groups discovered I was an agent, death would be almost certain. One slip of the tongue, one casual friend who spots me at the wrong time, or corruption within the Bureau could mean disaster. But I prepare for that. I practice those scenarios. That’s why I have trouble sleeping the night before an undercover meeting. I try to plan for every contingency. I know the enemy, and I think I know what it takes to defeat him. I don’t dwell on death because I trust in my preparation.”
Caitlin said, “And I trust in your preparation as well. Of course you prepare. God has given you certain skills and talents, and he wants you to use them for his kingdom. But beyond your preparation, I’m on my knees every day asking God to protect you. Your successes aren’t just coincidental blessings. You, me, Jaana—we’re part of God’s plan.”
Matt continued to question, “But I still don’t understand why this little girl must have her life cut short? Why she may never be able to enjoy all life has to offer? It’s the same questions I had when Scott died.”
“Matt, God can heal her, and maybe that is in his plans. But remember, every person Jesus healed eventually died. The most life has to offer is the promise of eternity with God. I want her to know that promise, and I pray God will give me the opening and courage to present her with that hope. If she has that, does it matter whether she lives on this earth for a day or for a hundred years? If Scott had that faith, would another thirty or forty years matter? Eternity is forever. I want to do everything I can to make Jaana’s life on this earth as joyous and hopeful as I can. I want her to know this cancer will not destroy God’s love for her. It will not conquer our friendship or take the promise of eternal life from her and her family. I will be there for her. But I would not be loving her if I did not share the hope of Jesus Christ.”
Matt smiled and took her hand. “You’re a strong lady, Caitlin Hogan. I’m glad you are on my side.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
It took several days, but FBI analyst Abby Briones worked up an intelligence profile on t
he Anwari family. There was little specific adverse information about any of the three family members, and there were no apparent relatives in the United States. They were legally in this country, had consistently filed their taxes, and had no criminal records. Their income, modest as it was, placed them just above the poverty line. Zerak had several moving traffic violations; however, poor driving habits were not indicators of terrorism. If that were so, Caitlin would be one of the Task Force’s major targets.
Abby ordered toll records for the residence and the market telephones and prepared an analysis of the incoming and outgoing calls. The tolls showed a great deal of activity on the market phone but little, if any, on the home phone. There was, however, some cause for concern. Not all the subscribers had been identified, but most of the outgoing calls were to phones registered in Middle Eastern names. At least two of the subscribers were on the FAA No-Fly Watch List. Due to the confusion and controversy as to how those names were obtained and placed on the list, it was uncertain if the subscribers were, in fact, the same people listed. Three overseas numbers in Afghanistan were identified by the CIA as having strong connections to known Taliban supporters. Although the probable cause was weak, the information Abby obtained provided sufficient facts to warrant a wiretap on the market phone.
Known in the Bureau as a FISUR, the authority for the court-ordered telephone surveillance was issued under the auspices of the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act of 1978. Through headquarters, the Los Angeles FBI would seek an order from the seven-member FISA Court to commence electronic surveillance. The purpose of the wiretap is solely to gather intelligence, and the requirements for obtaining such an order are less restrictive than the criminal wiretaps issued under Title III authority. Since the court only meets twice a month, coverage of the phones would not begin for several weeks. Once in place, Matt and Dwayne would be privy to the conversations taking place over the market phone.
THE QUIET OUTDOOF CAFÉ in Brentwood provided a perfect cover for Matt’s meetings with Dwayne. The café was only a mile from the Federal Building so it was convenient for Dwayne to slip away from his deskbound supervisory duties for a few minutes and return almost without being missed. L.A. traffic made it impossible to judge the driving time for any trip, so a meeting spot beyond a one-mile radius could interfere with Dwayne’s administrative responsibilities.
Matt discovered the café several years before when he was watching a then mob-run restaurant across the street. Once Matt sized up the activity at the restaurant, he began to frequent the place at lunchtime. Eventually he purchased a kilo of cocaine from the owner of Mama Lucci’s Trattoria. The feds seized the restaurant and sold it at public auction. It was now a barbecue joint complete with country and western music and sawdust on the floors. It seemed out of place in trendy, upscale Brentwood, but the eatery was getting rave reviews by local restaurant critics. Matt was only too happy to improve the cuisine and the music in the neighborhood.
There was no morning crowd at the café. A retired couple sat at one of the outdoor tables and two elderly ladies at another. They were the only patrons when Matt arrived. He sat beneath a large eucalyptus tree and awaited Dwayne’s arrival.
Stuck on a conference call with headquarters, New York, and Detroit on an unrelated matter, Dwayne arrived fifteen minutes late with apologies.
When Matt worked organized crime and gangs, everyone talked among themselves about their cases, sharing intelligence and ideas. On more than one occasion something someone said in one of those informal “chats” proved useful in a case. Terrorism, however, was a need-to-know basis. The supervisor served as a filter, dispersing intelligence as he deemed appropriate. Matt knew it would serve no purpose even to ask what the “unrelated matter” was.
The waitress walked over and refilled Matt’s coffee cup. Dwayne ordered a Diet Pepsi.
“Diet Pepsi? At 10:15 in the morning?” asked Matt.
“I’ve been in the office since 5:30 so it’s practically afternoon for me. Besides, I’ve already had three cups of coffee.”
After some small talk and a brief discussion of a new administrative directive, Dwayne said, “Abby did a great workup on the market. We’ve applied for a FISA order and should be up within a few weeks.”
“Great,” said Matt. “From everything Caitlin’s said, the family is very close, but they just got blindsided. The daughter has cancer so I’m not sure how dedicated the father might be to the cause.”
“That’s horrible. How old is she?”
“Seven.”
Dwayne shook his head in disbelief. “We’ll be on the phones soon so maybe we can determine his involvement with any cause, be it his daughter’s health or terrorism.”
“I’m not sure I’m making any headway at the clinic,” said Matt. “I’ve spent some time with Omar and Ibrahim, but so far I have nothing concrete. I guess part of my problem is not knowing what to look for and what to expect.”
“It is a completely different culture, and it’s important you understand how it differs from the life you knew growing up in the Midwest.”
“Anderson, Indiana, wasn’t exactly a hotbed of Muslim activity.”
“Well, this is not a crusade against Islam.”
“Yeah, right, and the 9/11 hijackers were Baptists,” said Matt sarcastically.
“Matt, this is a war against terrorism, a terrorism created by a radical religious element. It is no more part of mainstream Islam than the Aryan Nation is to Christianity.”
“Those crowds I see protesting in the Middle East on FOX News every night look a lot larger than some Montana militia group.”
“They are, but it’s a clash of cultures not religions. And realize it is not limited to the Middle East. There is a small segment of the radical Muslim community living right here in the United States. Our prisons have become breeding grounds for extremists. We have radical mosques, even in L.A., all financed by Saudi petrodollars. They would celebrate another 9/11. They’re angry and are out to destroy Israel and its principal supporter, the United States. But peaceful Muslims who are accepting of our democratic society are not the enemy.”
The waitress brought Dwayne’s Diet Pepsi, and he waited for her to leave before he continued.
“So how am I supposed to identify the radical element?” asked Matt.
“There’s no easy answer. They come from all economic strata. Many cell members in the United States are college educated or are attending our universities. Some have infiltrated legitimate charities and are diverting funds for terrorist purposes. Some have taken leadership roles in certain mosques and from there are radicalizing the youth. They may have even been born here. We have our own homegrown terrorists: Jose Padilla, John Walker Lindh, and probably hundreds if not thousands of others. Three of the four London bombers in 2005 were born in England. By all accounts they were normal young men, described as polite and helpful. One was a special ed teacher. They played cricket, for crying out loud. You can’t get much more normal than that in England. They were on no one’s radar.”
“You’re not much help trying to pick the terrorist behind door number three.”
Dwayne shrugged his shoulders and threw open his hands. “We haven’t created the perfect profile. Continue to get close, as close as you can to everyone at the clinic. Probe and listen. How do they feel about the United States? What’s their opinion of our foreign policy? Jihad? How religious are they? Talk about beliefs. Be a citizen of the world. And certainly do not support Israel. In fact, you might even express some favorable Palestinian views and suggest they deserve an independent nation status.”
“I was hoping you could be a little more specific, you know, the mark of the beast tattooed on the forehead,” said Matt.
“If only it were that easy. Let’s move on to something else. It’s important you understand the difference between being a guilt-based society and a shame-base
d society.”
Matt wrinkled his brow. “I don’t understand.”
Dwayne sipped his Diet Pepsi and explained, “In the West, our Judeo-Christian beliefs cause us to feel guilty about our sins. We emphasize individual responsibility and accountability. Your success in interrogations is based on the fact a person feels the need to confess, to cleanse his soul, so to speak. The Middle Eastern culture is shame based. The family is of prime importance. Above all else, bring no shame upon the family. An admission of guilt acknowledges fault and shames the family. Many will never admit guilt. To do so dishonors the individual and his family. Lying can even be viewed as a virtue.”
Matt smiled. “It’s certainly a virtue when working undercover or dealing with OPR.”
Dwayne returned the smile. “We’ll talk about your virtues another time.”
The waitress returned and refilled Matt’s cup.
“You’re not making this any easier,” said Matt.
“If it were easy, anyone could do it,” replied Dwayne.
“That sounds as if it comes straight out of the supervisor’s handbook.”
Dwayne smiled. “It does. You better get to the clinic. Can’t fight crime sitting around drinking coffee. Oh, by the way, Omar and Rashid went to the Clippers game the other night. Omar say anything about that?”
“No, but it’s not exactly like he’s my BFF. What’s unusual about going to Staples Center?”
“Rashid went to almost every restroom in the place.”
“My guess: an enlarged prostate.”
“Gee, you are so intuitive. I’ll add that to my report to the Director.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The children of Mrs. Hogan’s second-grade class worked hard to prepare their surprises for Jaana. Each child brought a canned good or other food item for the family. Several of the girls helped their mothers bake muffins or cookies. Caitlin had a large wicker basket she decorated, and the children filled the basket with gifts for Jaana and her family.
