by Irene Hannon
Luke unfolded his long frame too, and stretched. Wedged into a cramped seat in the back of the crammed-with-equipment vehicle had not been a fun way to spend his Tuesday.
“It’s not a wrap for all of us.” The agent at the console shot them both a wry grin.
“Sorry. We need to keep eyes on this in case someone decides to go out of pattern and pay an off-hours visit to retrieve the last two candles.” Stooping, Nick headed toward the back of the van.
“It’s not like this is the end of our day, either, you know.” Luke rotated the kinks out of his neck. If he was clocking out, he’d swing by Kristin’s condo, share a cup of coffee, and commend her on her excellent acting job. “We’ll be burning the midnight oil at the office.”
“I assumed as much. At least I get to hand this off in an hour.” The agent at the console went back to watching the screen.
Nick cracked the back door . . . surveyed the area . . . then opened it all the way. “Clear.”
Not surprising.
The white utility van was nondescript, and they were in a parking lot a block away from Kristin’s shop. In addition, their casual attire of jeans and T-shirts were more workmanlike than law enforcement. Why would anyone pay attention to them?
“You getting hungry?” Luke followed him out.
“Yeah. Let’s grab some grub on the way back.” Nick took the lead toward his car at the other end of the lot. “What’ll it be—burgers or burritos?”
“Burgers.”
“You got it.”
Half an hour later, after chowing down their fast-food dinner and barreling east on I-64, they were back in the FBI conference room they’d claimed as an operations center for the duration.
Mark Sanders, who’d taken on the role of their office point person, slipped in moments after they entered. “You guys ready for an update?”
“Yes.” Nick sat on a corner of the table.
Luke remained standing. If he didn’t sit again for a week it would be too soon. The inactivity of surveillance gigs was the worst part of the job.
Next to paperwork.
“We managed to follow the subject who retrieved the candles, but she led our people on a very circuitous route, with two stops along the way.”
“Did she spot them?” Luke asked.
“They don’t think so.”
“Then why the meandering course?”
“It’s possible all couriers have been told to dry clean themselves.”
True. The guy running this operation was smart. Instructing his minions to take precautionary measures in case they were under surveillance would fit his MO.
Mark moved to a laptop, woke it up, and keyed in a few strokes. “Here’s where she left the items.” A photo of a community rec center appeared on the screen. “And here’s a shot of her stashing the items in the locker area of the fitness center inside. One of our people followed her in.”
Another image appeared on the screen, but hard as Luke peered at it, he couldn’t make out much detail. Best he could tell, the woman was holding a box of energy bars. “How do you know the items are in that?”
“She didn’t drop anything off at any of her other stops—and even though she visited this gym, she wasn’t interested in exercise. All she did was leave the box.”
“Unless the box was a decoy, and she still has the items.”
“True—and possible. That’s why we’re still watching her . . . and will continue surveillance until this case wraps.”
“You told us earlier the plates on the car were muddied.” Nick claimed one of the bottles of water sitting on the table. “I assume that slowed down the intel work.”
“A little. After we followed her home, we did some research on the address. Once we identified the occupants, we were able to dig deeper. She’s from Iran and is married to a Syrian native. Neither is on a terrorism watch list.”
“They are now.” Nick took a swig of the water.
“Anyone retrieve the items from the rec center?” Luke asked.
“Not yet.” Mark folded his arms. “It’s possible there’s only one drop spot, and whoever retrieves the rest of the candles will put their items in the same place. Assuming, as you noted, that this woman actually left the items.”
Nick rotated the water bottle in his fingers. “Do we have any leads on the PO boxes where past buyers have sent payments?”
“No. All of them have been closed. All were registered to different names. All the names were bogus. We tried to run background on the first dozen. There wasn’t any.”
“Naturally.” Luke propped a hip on the table.
“What did your research on the buyers produce?” Mark snagged a water too.
When Nick deferred to him, Luke responded. “They’re all over the country, like the PO boxes. The ones on Bishara’s personal list seem aboveboard and appear to be taking his word the items are legit. The ones on the list provided by Amir, not so much. None of them have been charged with illegal dealings, but most are on local law enforcement’s radar.”
“Bishara doesn’t have the PO boxes yet for this drop, does he?” Mark twisted the cap off his water.
“No.” Nick jumped back in. “It should be coming any day, now that the candles are being retrieved. What’s the latest on Bishara’s son?”
Mark tapped the computer keys again, and the screen shifted to a photo of a dilapidated walled stone structure. “He’s being held here—not far from the town where he lived. There are never more than one or two armed guards on-site. It shouldn’t be difficult to pull him out, and the special forces guys can be in position on short notice. They’re already—”
“Hold on a sec.” Nick scanned the screen of the cell he’d just pulled off his belt. “This is a Washington area code.” He put the phone to his ear. “Bradley . . . No problem. I’m in the office. I can call you back on a secure landline. Stand by.” He returned the cell to his belt. “Adam Lange from the CIA. One of their operatives visited the abbot at the monastery today, and he wants to brief us.”
“It appears we’re not the only ones putting in long hours tonight.” Luke claimed a chair.
“Goes with the job—as I always remind my wife on nights like this.” Nick flashed him a grin, picked up a phone on the credenza, and punched in a number. “Adam? I’m going to put you on speaker so two of my colleagues can listen in.” He pushed a button and set the receiver down. “I have Special Agent Mark Sanders and St. Louis County Detective Luke Carter with me.”
“Good evening, gentlemen. I won’t keep you long, but I wanted to bring you up to speed on our visit to the monastery. One of our operations officers visited Abbot Gagnan today. The man was shocked by the story and very cooperative.”
“Does he have any idea who the plant might be?” Luke asked.
“No—but he supplied our officer with the names of everyone who has worked on the candle operation in recent years. Most are monks, but a few others have assisted. Two men have been helping for an extended period, living on-site. They’re the most likely candidates for the middle-of-the-night assumed murder. One of the men is a local townsperson who lost his entire family in a jihadist attack, the other a refugee who came for aid and ended up staying.”
“What are their names?” Nick pulled a blank pad of paper toward him from the center of the table.
The man rattled them off.
Nick arched an eyebrow. “Could you spell those, please?”
The CIA officer complied, and Nick jotted down the letters as Lange continued. “We’ve already done some preliminary investigation, since we have boots on the ground there. The first man is well-known in the town, his family has lived there for generations, and he hates the jihadists.”
“He sounds clean.”
“Agreed. The second man, Khalil, is much more suspect. He appeared out of nowhere, and our people haven’t yet found any background on him. We’ve got some of our foreign agents making discreet inquiries, but my money’s on him.”
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�We’ll do some research from our end too, but I’m guessing you’re on the right track. Thanks for your help.”
“Happy to assist. If we find anything else of interest, I’ll let you know.”
As Nick ended the call, Luke leaned back in his chair. “Let’s hope nothing the CIA did—or is doing—tips off the guy at the monastery.”
“They’re decent at being discreet.” Nick doodled a box on the paper in front of him, brow creasing. “Even if this Khalil is our guy, though, there may not be much we can do other than alert the monks after we wrap the case up here and hope local law enforcement will arrest him.”
Silence fell in the room, and Luke figured his FBI counterparts had come to the same discouraging conclusion he had.
With everything else the local authorities were dealing with in Syria, a scheme to send a few artifacts overseas wouldn’t get much attention—and without exhuming Brother Michael’s body and doing an autopsy, it would be impossible to prove a murder had been committed.
The chances of the latter happening were about as miniscule as a peaceful resolution to terrorism in the Middle East.
“I don’t suppose extradition is a realistic option.” Luke wished he was wrong—but was pretty certain he wasn’t.
“No.” Mark finished his bottle of water in several long gulps. “It’s a federal crime when US citizens are killed abroad in terrorism-related incidents—and the victim was from Florida. The FBI could open an investigation, but we’d need the approval of the Syrian government . . . such as it is . . . as well as their willingness to transfer the suspect to the US to stand trial. Not going to happen in this case. And our government won’t authorize a grab for a guy who’s committed one murder when dozens of people are often killed in a single incident.”
That was the longest speech Mark had made since Luke had met him—and the ring of authority in his voice was unmistakable.
He might be the leader of the St. Louis FBI SWAT team now, but his expert assessment of an international issue suggested the man had much broader experience.
Nick confirmed that—and then some—with his next comment. “Sounds like your HRT experience speaking.”
HRT?
As in Hostage Rescue Team?
Whoa!
If Mark had been a member of the nation’s primary civilian counterterrorism asset, he’d seen some serious action.
No wonder Nick had tapped him to be part of this case. With his experience in that elite FBI unit, he had way more to offer than SWAT expertise.
“I learned a few things on the team that come in handy on occasion.” Mark set his empty bottle on the table. “I wish we could bring the inside guy to justice . . . but that’s out of our control. On the plus side, his monastery gig will be over after we give the monks the high sign to alert local authorities. For now, we need to concentrate on the US-based operation. Let’s talk about next steps.”
And that was what they did for the next four hours.
Yet as they parted in the parking lot at eleven, Luke knew the two FBI agents shared his frustration.
As far as they could see, based on current information, there was no direct link to the man known as Amir.
The PO boxes in other cities had been rented by different individuals who’d used bogus IDs. Even if the FBI was able to locate those folks, it was unlikely they knew Amir’s real identity . . . or his location.
None of the buyers of the items had direct contact with Amir.
The couriers who picked up the candles at WorldCraft could and would be kept under surveillance . . . but again, they might have nothing more than phone contact with the man.
Bishara did talk to Amir . . . and the museum curator’s phone was set up to trap the expected call . . . but he had no clue about the man’s identity, either. The best they would be able to determine from the trap was the general location of the cell. They’d get agents to the area as fast as possible—but Amir wasn’t going to hang around waiting for them.
Surveillance would continue on the locker room at the rec center, and they’d follow the person who retrieved the packages . . . follow Bishara to his next pickup . . . and follow the man who dropped off the items for the museum curator to peddle.
Yet there was a very real possibility no one in the organization knew who Amir was or how to find him.
Bottom line?
They needed to smoke the man out.
But how?
Luke dashed through the rain toward his car, flinching as a slash of lightning strobed across the black sky, a crack of thunder booming on its heels.
The weather continued to be as unsettled as this case.
While they needed a plan to draw Amir into the open, after wrestling unsuccessfully with that challenge for hours, sleeping on it had seemed the best option.
Luke smothered the yawn that snuck up on him as he hit the auto lock on his car. After putting in sixteen straight hours, his brain was turning to mush.
About all he could muster up energy for tonight was dialing Kristin’s number.
But it was too late for that. Given the situation in Boston, she didn’t need the kind of adrenaline-spiking, late-night call that often signaled an emergency.
He’d have to wait until tomorrow to talk with her—preferably after the last two candles were retrieved and she was no longer in the line of fire.
That couldn’t come soon enough for him.
Even better would be the day they marked this case closed.
And as he drove home through the pummeling downpour, he prayed that someone working this case would have a brainstorm overnight that would help them nail the kingpin and end the flow of money to terrorist cells bent on creating chaos on American soil.
The second candle retriever was a surprise.
At first, Kristin didn’t pay much attention to the blonde, blue-eyed woman who came in half an hour after the shop opened on Wednesday. But when the new customer wandered over to the monastery display, picked up two candles, and carried them and a batik scarf to the checkout counter, Kristin’s antennas went up.
“Did you find everything you needed?” As she rang up the purchase, she smiled at the woman who appeared to be in her early twenties.
“Yes. You have some cool stuff.” She opened her purse. “I’ll be paying cash today.”
The alert beeping in Kristin’s mind intensified.
This woman might not look like a stereotypical Middle Eastern terrorist, but she was following the same pattern as yesterday’s retriever.
Unless . . .
Could she be an innocent customer who was simply buying some candles, as Elaine had, soon after they were put on display? Maybe these two weren’t marked.
Time to find out.
While the woman counted out her money, Kristin pulled some bubble wrap off the roll. Turned one of the candles on its side, bottom facing her as she encased it in the protective material.
It was marked.
She repeated the procedure with the other candle.
Also marked.
Her pulse picked up.
This was bizarre.
Why would a woman who didn’t appear to have any Middle Eastern ancestry aid terrorists intent on destroying the West?
“Isn’t that the right amount?”
Kristin blinked. Refocused. “Yes.” She took the bills and change, put them in the cash drawer, and slid the purchases into a small bag. “Thank you for supporting the work of the monks.”
The woman gave her a confused look.
“The candles.” Kristin motioned toward the bag. “All proceeds benefit their humanitarian work in Syria.”
“Oh. Yeah. Glad to help.” She reached for the bag.
“I admire their courage for persevering under such dangerous conditions, don’t you?”
“Uh-huh. Thanks.” She edged away, pivoted, and hurried toward the exit.
Kristin waited until she disappeared from view outside the window, then eased onto the stool behind the counter.
It didn’t compute.
The phone in her pocket began to vibrate, and after glancing at the screen, she smiled and put it to her ear. “Hi, Luke.”
“Hi. Sorry I haven’t been in touch more. We’ve been putting in some long hours.”
“I bet. Did you watch what just happened in here?”
“Yes. Nick’s people are on her.”
“She wasn’t what I expected.”
“We were surprised too. I’ll be curious to see how she’s connected. Great job for the past two days, by the way.”
“Thanks. All I can say is I’ll be glad to leave clandestine work to the experts in the future. Are you close by?”
“Yes . . . but busy.” His voice dropped . . . and deepened. “I’m hoping that will end soon, and we can move on to the other activities we’ve discussed.”
“The social ones?”
“Yes.”
“I like that idea.” She leaned her head back against the wall as the sound of muffled conversation came over the line. “I take it there are people nearby listening in?”
“Correct. It’s a bit crowded in here.”
“Too bad. It would be a welcome change to converse about a topic that doesn’t relate to terrorism.”
“We’ll get there. How’s your mom?”
“Continuing to wake up. I spoke to Dad last night. She’s not talking yet, but her eyes are open and he says she’s beginning to show signs of awareness. She even squeezed his hand when he asked her to.”
“Glad to hear it. Let me know if there are any more positive developments.”
“I will. Good luck.”
“We’ll take as much of that as we can get. Talk to you soon.”
The line went dead.
After a moment, Kristin pressed the off button and let out a long, slow breath. Luke and the FBI might still be neck-deep in this investigation, but her part was officially over.
Which meant that for the first time in weeks, she could go to bed tonight secure in the knowledge that no more pulse-pounding, thriller-novel episodes were lurking in the shadows, waiting to disrupt her life.
