by Bob Hamer
Matt looked at the bomb. Three wires, electrical leads, connected the timing device to the detonator. Matt had no idea how much time remained. He wasn’t even sure Ibrahim activated the timer. This wasn’t Hollywood with a digital clock on the device counting backward. He had no idea whether he could save the lives of hundreds of guests upstairs. Not only that, he needed to save the life of Omar if the young patient awaiting his bone marrow on Monday were to live. Omar lacked the strength to supply sufficient pressure to stop the bleeding.
“Omar, stay with me. Dead men don’t make good bone marrow donors.”
Omar managed a half smile.
Ibrahim started to stir and attempted to rise on his elbow, reaching toward Matt’s weapon still on the floor. Matt jumped over Omar and, with the most powerful left he ever landed, hit Ibrahim in the face. Ibrahim’s head snapped with a loud crunch, and he collapsed to the floor.
Out of nowhere Kim jumped toward the remote device and grabbed it. “I am a seeker! Allahu Akbar!” she screamed, limping toward the stairs, carrying the remote in her right hand.
Matt reached for his weapon a few feet away on the concrete. He grabbed it with his left hand. His right hand was useless. “Stop! Kim, stop!”
She continued to run. She left Matt little choice.
He fired once. The shot struck her in the back. She fell to the floor, her body convulsing. Matt saw the red light on the remote device flash.
Matt turned toward the drum. A green LED light on the timing device atop the container was now flashing. At any moment an electric current would curse down the wire to the detonator secreted within the container.
In a weakened voice Omar said, “Save yourself. Leave me. Go warn the others.”
“I think we’re joined at the hip on this one, partner. We’re out of options. Only God’s grace is pulling our fannies out of this fire.”
Matt looked at the wires. He had one chance. He had to cut the wire connecting the timing device to the detonator. He had no clue which wire. He had taken a four-hour class several years before on bombs and bomb making when members of an L.A. street gang decided to get ambitious. The case ended when the two shot-callers blew themselves up in a gang member’s garage.
Matt’s knowledge was so rudimentary it was of little use. He remembered from the course one wire was a ground wire, one connected the detonator, and one would by-pass the detonator, so if the other wire were cut, the device would automatically explode.
He hollered at the top of his lungs, hoping by now Dwayne had arrived. No response.
Omar agonized in pain but was conscious.
Matt looked at him. “You got a favorite color.”
Omar gave a weak laugh.
Matt looked toward heaven. “God, I guess I’m ready. Give me the courage to trust. I’ve made a lot of mistakes. Thanks for a wife who tried to make you real in my life. But right now we could use a miracle.” He looked at Omar. “Let’s go with red.”
He closed his eyes and pulled the wire. Nothing. No explosion. He opened his eyes and gave Omar an ear-to-ear smile. “We did it!”
Matt looked at the bomb. His ears were ringing from the gunshots, but when he placed his hands on the timing device, he could feel the vibration; the green light still flashing. Matt had no choice and no time to debate. He pulled the blue wire.
The vibration stopped. The bomb was deactivated.
From outside the door Matt could hear Dwayne’s screams.
Matt hollered, “Dwayne, down here!”
Epilogue
It was Christmas Eve at Grace Community Church. The sanctuary was bathed in the fragrance of evergreen boughs and the warm glow of candlelight. It was a time of worship, praise, and reflection. The choir completed a number of traditional Christmas carols, and the spirit of the season permeated the church. The curtain closed as the lights to the sanctuary dimmed. You could hear the bustling of small children and a few giggles as the actors took their places on stage.
When the curtain opened, the scene was set. A five-year-old Joseph, dressed in a long burlap robe, stood next to Mary, kneeling at the manger. Mary, dressed in a blue shawl and a tattered dress, was also a member of the kindergarten class. The wise men flanked Joseph on the left and the shepherds stood on the right toward the back. Angels surrounded the manger.
The two most beautiful angels were wheelchair bound. Jaana and Shahla were both dressed in white and had wings springing from the back of their chairs.
Matt choked back tears as he watched his two newest heroes on stage. He was glad the lights were lowered. FBI agents don’t cry.
This was one Christmas season he would never forget. He looked down the row of seats. Omar was sitting on the other side of Caitlin, David Mulumbo next to him. Rock Gallo, Matt’s boxing guru, was seated next to Jaana’s parents, who were sitting at the far end of the row next to Dwayne. Everyone important in Matt’s life the past several months joined him tonight.
Caitlin gingerly grabbed Matt’s left arm and squeezed it as the stage lights brightened. Matt’s right arm, both bones shattered from Kim’s blow, was in a cast. He also broke his left index finger with the powerful left hook to Ibrahim’s jaw. Would he ever learn to stay away from the face? He had surgery the day following the arrest, and doctors put in two pins just above the right wrist. Most of the pain subsided, but it was difficult even then to complain, knowing the pain and agony his two little angels recently encountered. He watched their cherub faces on stage, hope beaming, with smiles larger than life.
Jaana was going to get her wish, a big sister. Always the optimist, Jaana, in arguing for the addition of Shahla to the family, said they would only have to buy one pair of shoes for the both of them. Jaana said she would wear the right shoe and Shahla could wear the left. The Anwaris were in the process of obtaining custody of Shahla. Matt was working through a contact at ICE to expedite the immigration process, allowing Shahla to stay in the United States beyond the period of her visa and obtain permanent resident status. Jaana told everyone about seeing Jesus that day in the operating room, and a seven-year-old child led her parents and her “new big sister” to a relationship with Christ.
David forgave Matt the deception, just as Matt successfully argued charges of impeding an investigation not be brought against David. Matt reasoned since David told him the truth regarding Yasir Mehsud, David had in fact corrected the lie to Dwayne. Maybe it was the Christmas spirit, but the U.S. Attorney’s office declined prosecution of David Mulumbo. Yasir’s donations to the clinic never were made public. The publicity from the arrest actually provided an opportunity to publicize all the positive work of World Angel, and contributions increased since the incident went public. The national spotlight gave David a forum to reflect his love for the innocent children ravaged by war and brutality.
Following the arrest, the attorney general personally called Dwayne and congratulated him on a job well done. Matt learned from Bureau sources a headquarters administrator who oversaw the case from Washington was miffed when the Director invited Dwayne to testify behind closed doors before a select congressional intelligence committee on the investigation. Matt would have traded any incentive award for the opportunity to hear the headquarters higher-up complain about his lack of recognition.
Kim recovered from her gunshot wound and was awaiting trial. The federal magistrate refused to set bond. Her attorney was attempting to work a deal. Kim realized she had been used. With cooperation she might see daylight in a decade or two.
Ibrahim was in the hospital ward of Terminal Island Federal Correctional Facility. His mission was a failure. A federal grand jury returned a twenty-one-page indictment. The evidence was solid. After the feds finished with their trial, the district attorney’s office also wanted to exact revenge. The DA filed a one-count murder charge for Wadi’s death and attempted murder charges naming each one in attendance at the ba
nquet as a separate count. Ibrahim would never see freedom again. He even failed at being a martyr. Neither the feds nor the locals were seeking the death penalty. Ibrahim would spend the rest of his life in jail and in shame. The dirty bomb proved to be little more than a weak solution of caesium-137. The impact beyond the initial explosion would have been minimal. If the terrorists paid good money for the nuclear waste, they were cheated, but Judge Judy probably wouldn’t find for the plaintiffs. Ibrahim’s immediate future was also less than rosy. During the arrest Matt broke Ibrahim’s jaw and fractured the C2 vertebrae in his neck. He was wearing a medical halo and drinking prison fare through a straw. Matt doubted Ibrahim would ever qualify for a heavenly halo.
Rashid’s murder was solved. Wadi’s prints matched those on the magazine and expended shell casing. Omar had that satisfaction.
What for the longest time appeared to be an unsuccessful assignment turned into the most exciting investigation of Matt’s career.
There was still work to do. Covert cells would continue to operate within U.S. borders. Ibrahim refused to cooperate or speak with the agents. Although the FBI prevented a tragedy, they were still seeking cell members who assisted Ibrahim. Follow-up investigation of Ibrahim’s phone records and bank records yielded little solid evidence linking any of his contacts to terrorism. The Havenhurst apartment provided no links to other terrorists. But as Pamela Clinton told the press, “The investigation is ongoing.”
However, tonight was not the time to dwell on death. As a result of this investigation, lives were spared and souls were saved. Tonight was a night to celebrate hope, the hope that exists because of the birth of a child more than two thousand years ago.
Maybe this Christmas Matt could find peace. Two weeks before in the basement beneath a banquet hall, he had been willing to trust Jesus with his death. Would he now be willing to trust him with his life?
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Brad Waggoner, president and publisher of B&H Publishing Group, Oliver North, my “Commanding Editor,” and Gary Terashita, my executive editor, for taking a chance on a first-time novelist. Thanks to Kim Stanford, Julie Gwinn, Jean Eckenrode, Jeff Godby, and all the great people at Fidelis Books for making this project a reality. I am truly honored to be part of the team.
To Bucky Rosenbaum, my agent and friend.
To Cara Highsmith, Lori Vanden Bosch, Becky Towle, Monika Baker, Kim Nunez, and Abeer O. Mansur for your input, feedback, encouragement, and support.
To Lawana Jones at the FBI Prepublication Unit for ushering the manuscript through the process.
But most of all, thanks to a gracious God, who blessed me with parents who served as role models and a wife who stood by me these past three-plus decades. Thanks, God, for the two greatest children a father could ever want, who married wisely and provided grandchildren who have this former macho FBI agent wrapped around their collective fingers.
