Special Agent

by Daniel Roland Banks

  Tony’s face got red.

  “Here’s the thing, Jack. By now, there are at least a dozen people who know what really happened last night. Today, from here to Washington D.C., there are people watching and analyzing all the evidence I’ve provided them. Within hours, this will all go public. If anything happens to me, or anyone I know, it will come back on you. You might want to get busy figuring out how to save yourself.”

  Tony looked at me.

  “Nice speech, J.W. Do you really think he’s listening to any of it?

  “I don’t know for sure, Tony, but he does like to do that sort of thing. I’ll tell you something else.”

  “Yeah, what is it?”

  “That was all the warning he’s going to get.”

  A little more than an hour later, FBI Special Agent in Charge, Doug Booker, still dressed in his black fatigues, arrived at my office. Tony had gone back into the reception area to watch the ongoing TV news coverage with the Christine. Doug walked in to my office without any interference from either Tony or Christine. He carefully closed the door behind him.

  “Hello Doug, have a seat. Evidently someone gave you the news.”

  He sat down and took a deep breath.

  “So, you were there. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Look, I’m sorry about Gary. One of my men saw a man on the ground, reaching for a handgun and he panicked. There was a lot of shooting going on, the building had just exploded and he panicked. He shot Gary before I could stop him.”

  “Doug, did you come by here to try to lie your way out of this thing?”

  The muscles of Doug’s prominent jaw bunched up.

  “Are you calling me a liar?” He growled.

  “You may recall you promised me you would personally do everything in your power to keep Gary safe. For all I know, you shot Gary yourself. So, yes, Doug, in my opinion you’re a liar, a bigot, and a coward.”

  “Stand up, you son of a bitch.” Doug spat, rising to his feet.

  “What, you want to fight me? Nothing good would come of that. Sit down, Doug. You came here presumably to talk, let’s talk.”

  Doug continued to stand. He pointed his finger at me.

  “You’re trying to ruin me. You’ve been out to get me from the moment we met.”

  I studied him for a moment.

  “No, Doug. You’ve probably ruined yourself, but I had nothing to do with it.”

  “You religious hypocrite, you’ve taken it upon yourself to punish me.” He said.

  “No, Doug. If I had taken it upon myself to punish you, you would already be dead.” I said, looking him in the eye.

  Agent Booker stiffened and blinked several times.

  I sighed.

  “Believe me, Doug. I mean you no harm. It’s not my place to punish you. There is a judge you will answer to, but it isn’t me. On the contrary, I forgive you, Doug. I’m a guy who has screwed up and deserves nothing more than hell and horror, myself. I’m just thankful that God, who is rich in mercy, has forgiven me my sin, and He will do the same for you.”

  “Sin, what sin? I’ve only done what needed to be done. Everything I do serves the best interests of my country.” Doug said, indignantly, with a wave of his hand.

  I studied him some more.

  “Doug, you’re lying to yourself. You organized an execution. You denied justice to those men because of your own hatred towards them.”

  He shook his head.

  “I provided a service to my country in the routine course of my duty.”

  “I don’t think the country will see it that way, once the evidence is made public.”

  Doug crossed his arms and looked down at me where I was seated.

  “I don’t know what you’ve got, but it won’t be enough. I’m not alone. I have friends in high places. Whatever you have, or think you have, you can’t touch me.”

  “I’m not even going to try, Doug. I’m sorry, so very sorry. I wish you could see the light. I’ll pray for you.”

  Doug moved toward the door. “Pray for yourself. You’re one of the lunatics who believe in that shit. One of these days, the shoe will be on the other foot. Something about you doesn’t fit. We’re looking into that. If you ever see me again, it will be when I come to get you.”

  As Doug stormed out through the reception area, Tony and Christine watched him go.

  On the television the news anchor was announcing they had just received word there was some question as to the actual events which had occurred at the farmhouse in East Texas. It had been reported there was going to be an announcement from the Justice Department. The rumor was that several witnesses and some video footage had come forward, casting the raid in a completely different light.

  My mission is all about the light.

  Epilogue

  Most people lead lives of solitary anxiety, solitary, because they don’t talk about their fears with anyone. They don’t even want to admit they have them.

  They don’t know who they are, or why they are on the earth.

  Introspection only brings more doubts and fears, so they seek solace from science.

  Science tells them they are just biological organisms, evolved from muck, eking out a brief existence, at the expense of a doomed planet. Science tells them life is random, meaningless and pointless. Take another pill, and try not to think about it.

  The clock is ticking.

  Many wander through life, aimlessly waiting for the clock to run out. Some are seeking to find something that makes them feel as if their life matters in some way. They mostly want to “do the right thing,” but violently disagree on what “right” is, because, “Every way of a man is right, in his own eyes.”

  The clock is ticking.

  People know that from the moment of birth, they are doomed. They know life is short and uncertain. It may end at any time. The best of them ask “why”?

  Why do we exist? Why are we the way we are? Why do bad things happen? Why is there suffering and death? What happens after we die, do we just cease to exist? When we die, will it be as if we had never existed at all?

  The world offers many different and conflicting answers. Most of them are lies.

  So, most people everywhere, in every walk of life, are as lost as sheep without a shepherd, stumbling blindly through however many days that remain to them, silently screaming in desperation.

  The clock is ticking.

  I know why I get up in the morning. I know what I’m supposed to do and how I should do it. I live to serve, but I don’t serve the planet earth, the government, or myself.

  I serve the holy God; the creator of all things. I am appointed as one of His ambassadors in this place.

  I serve The Good Shepherd.

  He alone is perfect.

  His sheep are imperfect, but His sheep know His voice when they hear it.

  Other sheep wander around lost, following whatever voice sounds most pleasant to them at the moment, even the voices that lead them to slaughter.

  Sheep without a shepherd are helpless against the predators.

  I am appointed as a Shepherd of His sheep, to seek the lost sheep, and to stand against the wolves.

  We who serve as Shepherds are also imperfect, but we are empowered and equipped for service.

  I have the sword of Truth, the message of glorious hope.

  I have work to do.

  I wish I were a better Shepherd.

  The clock is ticking.

  An excerpt from

  THE TICKING CLOCK

  ANGELS & IMPERFECTIONS

  Book Three

  By Daniel Roland Banks

  When I arrived at the third floor office of what I liked to call “the international headquarters” of Tucker Investigations that morning, my associate Christine Valikova, was wearing a black suit with a knee length skirt and what might have been a man’s open neck, white dress shirt. The black and white made her sparkling red hair seem even more stunning than usual. She wore a simple gold cross on a thin gold chain- her
jewelry of choice. She had a surprise for me.

  “John, there’s a lady coming here to discuss a family matter we might be able to help her with. I didn’t know if you would be here, so I told her I would meet with her. If you would rather do it yourself…” Christine offered.

  “Who is she?”

  “Her name is Hafsah Mohammad, sounds like a Muslim name.”

  “Egyptian, I believe. Her name means “married to the prophet”. I wonder if she’s related to Izzy?” I speculated.

  “Who is Izzy?” Christine asked.

  “Issa Mohammad. He goes by Izzy. He’s Egyptian by birth. He has a pretty successful investment and insurance business here in Tyler.”

  “It seems likely doesn’t it? How many people named “Mohammad,” would be living here in little ol’ Tyler, Texas?”

  “I have no idea, probably only a handful. The name is pretty popular and considered to be a great honor in the Muslim world. In this country, the name is popular with people who convert to Islam, often prison inmates, and also with proponents of the Nation of Islam.”

  “What is the Nation of Islam? Is that another name for ISIS or the Islamic State?”

  “No, it’s an organization of black Americans that espouses quasi Muslim ideals. Is Ms. Mohammad a local?”

  “I don’t think so. She has a barely discernible accent; it sounds more refined than East Texas, maybe even more British than American.”

  “Hmmm, did she say what she wanted to talk about?”

  “No, just that it’s a private family matter.”

  “I think it might be best for you to meet with her. If she observes the cultural restraints of some of the Islamic countries, as a woman, she would probably be more comfortable talking to you.”

  “OK, she‘ll be here in about ten minutes.” Christine informed me.

  On my monitor, a few minutes later, I watched Ms. Mohammad come into our outer office, where she was greeted by Christine. The lady was a knockout, and not at all what I had been expecting.

  That was odd. What had I been expecting?

  A moment later my office door opened and Christine came in, closing the door behind her.

  “John, she wants to confer with you.”

  “I assume by ‘she’ you mean Ms. Mohammad?”

  “Right, I offered to discuss the matter with her but she insisted on meeting with you.”

  “And this is a problem because…?”

  “She seemed to know you were here. When she called to set up the appointment I told her I didn’t know whether you would be in the office at all today.”

  I smiled at that.

  “Does something seem funny to you?” Christine asked.

  “Unh huh, it’s funny odd, not funny laughable. Does she want to meet with the both of us, or just me?”

  “With just you, apparently I’m not to be included.”

  “Interesting…”

  “Shall I send her in?”

  “No, please bring her in and introduce us.”

  Christine smiled again.

  “Gotcha! You saw her on the monitor, didn’t you?”

  A moment later, she led Ms. Mohammad into my office. I stood up to greet them as they came in.

  “John, this is Hafsah Mohammad. Ms. Mohammad, may I present John Wesley Tucker?”

  Ms. Mohammad was about five feet nine inches tall in her high heels, slim and very well dressed. Her sleeveless dress was closely tailored and appeared to be some sort of textured silk, in a color I could only call “peacock blue”. She had dark hair falling in cascading swirls to her shoulders. Her complexion was certainly shades darker than Christine’s, what we would call olive, I suppose. But she was only a slightly darker tan than most high school cheerleaders. Her makeup was flawless and it was difficult to determine her age. She had dark, almond shaped eyes that locked onto mine. When they did, I felt something strangely visceral, so unexpected it was almost like a physical blow.

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Tucker,” she said, as she extended her hand across the desk.” I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.”

  “My pleasure, Ms. Mohammad, please have a seat. May I offer you coffee or tea?”

  “No thank you, and please call me Hafsah. May I call you John?” She asked as she took a seat.

  “John, if you’ll excuse me, I have to make a call,” Christine announced.

  “OK, say hello to Tony for me.” I replied, sitting down myself.

  Tony Escalante is Christine’s boyfriend. He’s also a Detective Lieutenant in the Tyler P.D.

  As Christine left the room, she made a face at me.

  I studied Ms. Mohammad for a moment.

  “Forgive my asking Ms. Mohammad, where are you from?”

  “I take it you have observed I am not from here, John. Please call me Hafsah. Where do you think I might be from?”

  “Your clothing is expensive and rather European, designer?”

  She smiled. “The dress and shoes are Soporo of Paris. You really are perceptive.”

  “Maybe, but you are not from France.” I speculated.

  “Pourquoi dites-vous cela?”

  “I’d say you were born in the Middle East, and learned to speak both French and English there. Your French is excellent, almost Parisian.”

  “Full marks, John.”

  “You’re Lebanese, I think, although your name is Egyptian.”

  She shrugged. “My mother was Lebanese. I am a woman of the world.”

  “Should we talk about your father?” I asked.

  “I did not come here for that.”

  I studied her some more. I liked everything I saw, her appearance, her poise, the way she smiled, even the sound of her voice.

  “How can we be of assistance?”

  “I am searching for a relative. I have reason to believe he has come here, to Tyler. Perhaps you can help me to locate him?”

  “A relative…?”

  “Yes, he is my cousin, actually. His name is Nat.”

  “Nathaniel Mohammad?”

  She shook her head. “His name is really Nazim Bahadur, but here in America he is known as Nat Baha. He is here on business. We haven’t heard from him since his arrival, so, as you will understand, we have some concern for his… well-being.”

  I studied her body language and decided she was guarded. She was only telling me part of the story.

  “Yes, I’m sure you have concerns. When did he arrive?”

  “Perhaps within the last week, give or take a few days.”

  “…Perhaps? You don’t know when he arrived? How did he get here? If he had arrived by plane you would know his itinerary.”

  “That is why I am seeking your help, John. My cousin Nat is a musician and sort of a…how do you say, free spirit? He likes to test boundaries. He hatched this silly plan to pass himself off as a Mexican immigrant. He has the appropriate physical appearance, and recently he spent some time in Spain, where he learned to speak passable Spanish. He flew into Mexico a few weeks ago and recently crossed the border with a hired guide.”

  “Coyote,” I said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “They are called coyotes. The hired guide you referred to.”

  “Ah yes, so they are. As I indicated, my cousin is probably calling himself Nat Baha. It is a stage name, the name he performs under as a musician.”

  “Let me see if I understand what you just told me. You say your cousin, a man named Nazim Bahadur, has come into the US, by sneaking across the border from Mexico. He is pretending to be someone named Nat Baha. He presumably came to Tyler, but you don’t know exactly when he got here, or where he is now. Is that correct?”

  “To sum it up, yes, those are the pertinent details. Do you think you can help me to find him?”

  “Maybe you should go to the police.” I suggested.

  “Not in this instance. You do understand, he is here in your country illegally? Given the concerns about certain people from the Middle East sneaking
into the United States by crossing the border with Mexico, I can hardly go to the authorities.” She looked deeply into my eyes.

  I was lost for a moment. The connection was staggering. Something like an electric current swept through me. In her eyes, I found a soul mate. My past and future whirled around and seemed to re-align. The experience was foreign and yet strangely, it seemed as inevitable as the ticking of the clock.

  “How is it you haven’t heard from him for so long?” I managed.

  “As I said, he is a free spirit. He can be rather…unpredictable, at times. This is all a lark to him.”

  “You say he is here on business. Does he have business contacts here?”

  “I believe so. He is supposed to be visiting someone in the music business. Someone who can help him get a recording made, but there is a family matter that requires his immediate attention. So, I must find him as quickly as possible.”

  “What sort of family matter?” I asked.

  “A death in the family, John” She said, rather coolly. “I’m sure you understand.”

  I nodded. “Yes, Hafsah, I think I’m beginning to.”

  That evening, shortly after dark, I was sitting in my living room watching a discussion on CNN. The program was called “Back and Forth.” Tonight’s discussion was about America in the 21st century. There were four people on the panel, each a well-known commentator on politics and social issues.

  In an attempt at political correctness, the well groomed moderator and host began by telling the viewers; “America is just the term we ‘Americans’ use when we talk about our homeland. We are referring to the United States of America, just one of the countries on the North American continent. We all understand it’s a common error even our overseas friends tend to make, saying ‘American’, as though we were the only ones living on this continent, or the USA was the only country in the Americas.”

  He went on to introduce the panel of commentators.

  The first commentator, a middle aged man who had enjoyed a spotty political career, started by outlining what he thought America used to be.

  “This was once a great nation, founded on great ideas. We were a beacon of hope, freedom and opportunity. We were an uncommon people in an uncommon land sharing a common heritage, drawn together from all over the world, seeking freedom from oppression and tyranny. We had common beliefs and values. We believed all people were endowed by our Creator with certain unalienable rights and that this truth was self-evident.