Mystery: The Sam Prichard Series - Books 1-4

by David Archer

  Sam said, “Sit down and put your face on the floor,” Sam said roughly, “while I make a phone call. If you move, I'll kill you, remember that!” He watched as Mahmoud did as he was told, then walked backward until he was out in the alley. A quick glance around showed him that no one new had come around, and when he looked up at the apartment, he saw the red blobs that meant the women were sitting where he'd told them to stay. He looked back at Mahmoud, then took out his phone and called Harry.

  “Sam? You're on speaker, boy, what have you got?”

  “Mahmoud is a coward,” Sam said. “All I had to do was imply that is friends don't trust him, and he started singing like a bird. He says that there's something he calls 'the core' at Teller and Twentieth in Edgewater, and somebody there named Dawid must be pretty important; according to Mahmoud, Dawid is who brought him into the cell. Got two other names, too, Noori and Mohsin. Any of those mean anything?”

  Jeff's voice came through the line. “Dawid Fareesh is one we keep an eye on, but we've never had anything on him. He lives out there, big colonial style house. Mohsin could be Mohsin Ayyud Al Mayim, he's got some connection to Dawid. Not sure about a Noori, though.”

  Sam grunted. “Then I've given you something to work with. Harry, what do you want me to do with Mahmoud?”

  “I've got a police squad car on standby, not far from where you're at, and we've got you on the GPS map now. If you want to keep him around, I can have them come and get him, lock him up till I can get someone from up top interested, or you can put him down if you think he's outlived his usefulness.”

  Sam looked at the phone. “I don't think I've got a reason for that. Send me the squad and we'll put him on ice for now. What about the bomb, are we ready to snatch it up out of there?”

  “Not just yet. We're leaving all of them but your first one in place until we get some more intel on who's behind this, which is why I wanted you to put someone you trust on it. Let's get Mahmoud locked away, then we'll decide on the next move.”

  “Sounds good,” Sam said, and hung up. He walked back in by Mahmoud and looked down at him. “Seems today is your lucky day,” he said. “You don't have to die, and you get free room and board for the rest of your life.”

  “You are not one of us,” Mahmoud said, without even raising his head. “You used tricks to make me tell you what you wanted to know, and now you will ruin it all.”

  Sam nodded at him. “I sure as hell plan to ruin as much of it as I can, Mahmoud. One thing you never want to do is piss off an American Private Eye!”

  Mahmoud rocked his head from side to side, his nose still on the dirty concrete floor. “It does not matter. Allah will see all of you destroyed, sooner or later. I only wanted to be part of the glory of bringing your deaths upon as many of you as I could, but I am not important. Allah will not be stopped.”

  Sam heard tires crunching through the gravel in the alley, and stepped back far enough to see the squad car coming toward him. The officer saw him and accelerated, then stopped outside the garage and got out.

  “You Prichard?” he asked, and Sam nodded. “I was told you have a prisoner for me?”

  “I do. This is Imran Mahmoud, and he will be a guest of Homeland Security for a while.” He flashed his ID at the cop, whose eyebrows went up.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, and then withdrew handcuffs from his belt. He cuffed Mahmoud, and Sam helped him get the fat man on his feet and into the back seat of his car. When they had driven away, Sam took out his phone and called Jamal.

  “Hello?” the boy answered.

  “Jamal, this is your friend from the alley, remember?”

  “Yes,” Jamal said excitedly. “Oh, yes, sir! I am still here, I have not moved, just as you said!”

  Sam smiled. “Well, I just wanted to let you know that your uncle is going to be gone for a long, long time, and your mother and sisters are safe. They're waiting for you to come home and tell them what's going on.”

  The boy sounded like he was weeping again. “Oh, sir, I cannot thank you enough! I am your man, sir, I am your man forever!”

  “Yeah, well, we'll worry about all that another time. Just thought you'd want to know.”

  He listened to another round of thanks, and then ended the call. As he walked back to his truck, he called Harry again.

  10

  Dan Jacobs sat in his car and wondered what on earth he'd gotten dragged into. Sam, his old partner who had recently become a private eye, was somehow working with Homeland Security, and that was mind-boggling enough in itself, but the case they had him on involved terrorists and nuclear bombs, and that was way past mind-boggling into downright crazy!

  When Sam had called, Dan had thought it was just to make sure he was okay, what with the bomb threats and all, and he'd been shocked to find out Sam was back in town. He hadn't hesitated when Sam said he needed help, of course, because it didn't matter that Sam was no longer on the force; they were partners, and you come when your partner calls. His new partner, a guy named de Silva, hadn't gotten that through his head yet, but Dan was patient, and would break him in eventually. Until then, no one but Sam would be his partner— not in his mind.

  So, now, here I sit, watching a nuclear bomb that could blow up any second, while Sam is out tracking down the real problem, the terrorists behind it. Hard to believe that a plot like this could get cooked up right here in our back yard, but if Sam says it did, I believe him.

  Dan leaned back in his seat and got a little more comfortable. He'd done enough stakeouts to know that you couldn't let yourself get cramped up, but you had to stay awake and alert, too, and he'd learned to be comfy and still keep his mind active. For him, that meant going through old cases in his memory, especially the ones he hadn't solved. Reviewing them had, on a couple of occasions, resulted in insights that actually solved an old case, so it was a mental exercise he found stimulating and exciting.

  * * * * *

  Jamal hung up from Sam's call, and a smile spread over his face. At last, his uncle was gone, removed from his place of tyranny over the lives of his family. Jamal couldn't let anyone know that he had arranged it, that it was he who had given the American the information that got rid of the old bastard, but he knew that it all fit into Allah's will.

  Weeks before, Jamal had come to the conclusion that his uncle and the group he worked with were fools. Their plan to disrupt America with their dirty little bombs was so simple, so stupid, that even he could see the flaws in it, and even if they managed to pull it off, what would they gain? A few weeks of terror and rhetoric, and then the bombing of every place where true Islam was practiced would begin anew. Such a plan would only result in even greater atrocities in Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria and other countries where Jihad was supported, whether openly or in secret. The Americans would be screaming for revenge, and the military forces of this large country would be determined to get it.

  No, this was not the way to bring glory to Allah, and Jamal was still amazed when he recalled how the epiphany had come to him, that it was he whom Allah had actually called to make His greatest strike against the United States of America, that great friend of Israel and enemy of Islam. His plan had come to Jamal through a series of visions while he was doing his schoolwork, and he had spent countless hours since then in prayer and meditation, desperately seeking confirmations of what he believed Allah was telling him to do.

  Jamal didn't know how he was supposed to do these things, but his faith in Allah was strong, and had been for years. He was a devout student of the Q'uran, and loved the teachings about how to deal with infidels. As young as he was, Jamal had already dispensed justice to some of them, and knowing that Allah had selected him for such great glory as this was enough to send him into rapturous delight.

  Allah had told him to use the knowledge he had been given through his recent work in school to strike a blow that would not only bring terror of Islam to the American hearts, but would also cripple the nation, making it impossible for this infidel government
to do anything but lick its wounds and try to cope with the devastation that he, Jamal, would wreak on it. The only question in Jamal's mind was how he was to accomplish this wondrous work when there were so many obstacles in the way.

  The first obstacle was how he was to obtain the device he would need, when he was constantly watched by his uncle. That part of Allah's plan began to come together almost a week earlier, when he had pleased Ibrahim by telling him that his friend Marty worked at the parking garage downtown, closest to the capitol building, and said he could hide something in the little storage room of the gate shack there. Since Marty was the day guard, he had the only key to that room, and when Jamal convinced him that what he needed to hide was only a big gift for his mother (“I got her the special sewing machine she has always wanted, the one that can do all the fancy things!”), he had agreed. Marty liked Jamal; he brought young girls over sometimes, and Marty was always ready to party. Doing him a favor would only result in more of those parties.

  Ibrahim had understood, and helped Jamal carry the box with the bomb in and conceal it in the storeroom. Marty had been grinning the entire time, and Ibrahim hid is disgust with the man and his appetites behind a grin of his own, pretending to be Jamal's older cousin to explain why he was helping. When Marty invited him to come along the next time Jamal brought girls, he had almost blown it and beaten the man senseless, but he'd caught himself and merely smiled as he promised to try to come along.

  As a reward for finding such a location for the bomb, Ibrahim had taken him to see the bombs being armed, and the top man in their local cell had liked the boy. “Little Zealot,” he had called him, and Jamal had shown such interest in the bombs themselves that he told the men who were arming them to let him watch, teach him a bit about the mysteries of nuclear science. Jamal had been overjoyed when they had actually shown him the codes for arming and disarming the bomb, and how they set the timer for each one. They'd been so delighted with his laughter and excitement that they'd actually allowed him to arm one of them.

  What a thrill that had been, to know that if he only entered one number different, he could make the bomb explode right then and there. He was not afraid of death, but he wanted to kill as many of Allah's enemies as he could while he died. That was why he was so pleased with the glory Allah was offering him; he would be the greatest hero Islam had ever known, for he would kill so many millions of Americans that it would take the country many years to recover enough to even think about retaliation, and by then, Islam would rule the world!

  Jamal would kill more than anyone else in history. Not even Hitler could come close, even if you allowed that he had killed millions of Jews as some claimed he had done. He had killed no more than six million; if things went the way he knew they would, Jamal would kill more than fifty million before his actions were fully felt, and the number could conceivably climb far higher than that.

  Once he knew this part of his holy mission, he began to pray about other aspects, such as how he would be freed from his uncle, and how the bomb would fall into his possession. He had known it would happen, but he was worried when it came down to the last hours and he still had the old fool and his friends hovering over his shoulder. He had finally been assigned to simply sit here and watch, and so he was planning to take the bomb while he was on guard duty and go, praying that they would not catch him at it.

  Then Allah had sent him the most unexpected aid he could imagine, in the form of the American. He had known instantly that this man was his salvation, and when he used his wits to play the man, he was certain. By the time Ibrahim had been there and gone, Jamal had the American eating out of his hand, and it was easy to feed him the information that would take Uncle and his fellows out of the picture.

  They were fools, after all; it was Allah's will that they be caught and punished for their failure, and the American would see to that. At the same time, it would leave Jamal free to do what he must do. The American had gone and taken his uncle, and called to tell him that his mother and sisters were now safe. That call had meant he was free of the fools, and was Allah's final sign that it was time to accept glory and be the hand of Allah in this final blow against His enemies in the west.

  Jamal was excited, so excited that he wanted to call someone and tell them! He called his friend in Chicago, the man he'd met through his uncle, the one who sold him the drugs he peddled to Marty and others, but the woman who answered said Zikouri was in jail. He'd been caught selling his drugs, and would be locked up for at least a few days.

  Jamal hung up, and then called his mother. She knew she was not to answer the phone given to her unless it was a call from Jamal, his uncle or one of a few others she had been told might call it.

  “Mother, it's me,” he said. “Are you all right?”

  “A man came,” she said curtly. “He took Imran, and left.”

  Jamal laughed. “Uncle will not be back, I think. I am going to be coming by the house, and I need your phone. After I get it, you and the girls may need to find a new way to live. I will be doing Allah's will, and will not return, either.”

  His mother said nothing, and he knew that she was probably saying a prayer of thanks. Jamal was more of a tyrant to her and his sisters than Uncle Imran ever had been. He hung up, and a moment later he made one more call.

  “This is Zayan Jamal, nephew of Imran Mahmoud. I have received a word from Allah, and I am now in possession of one of the devices.”

  The man on the other end of the line had been sleeping, but he was suddenly wide awake. “Are you now?” he asked. “And what do you wish to do, sell it? I could perhaps be a...”

  “No, you old fool!” Jamal spat. “I have been given word from Allah on how to use it to cripple this country, and I will do as Allah has instructed me, but I felt you should be warned. You and your people should leave California as soon as possible. It will not be safe there by the day after tomorrow.”

  The call lasted quite a while, as he gave the man only minor details of his plans, and at the end, the man on the other end of the line gave him another number. “Call this number if you need anything, and we will do all we can help you.”

  He hung up from the call, and got out of the car quietly. He knew that the American had told another man to wait inside the garage and watch the bomb, and that man was the last obstacle, but Jamal knew that Allah would deliver the man into his hands. He walked confidently into the garage and toward the car, which was parked where the driver could watch the exit.

  As he approached, he saw that the man had his head leaned back on the headrest, and he walked as quietly as he could to the car. His shoes, the ones he wore for school, had soft soles that made no sound on the smooth concrete of the floor, and the man gave no indication that he was aware of Jamal's presence, even when he was standing right beside the driver's door. Jamal watched for a moment, and saw that the man's lips were moving, as if he were whispering to himself about something.

  Jamal felt the thrill, and reached behind his back slowly for the gun. When he brought it around, he aimed it at the man's head, but before he pulled the trigger, he tapped lightly on the glass with the barrel. The man opened his eyes, startled, and then turned his head to see the big gun pointed at him, and his mouth came open as his hand started to reach for his own gun.

  It was the last thing he ever saw, and the last thought he ever had. Jamal listened with a feeling of satisfaction to the rolling echo of the gun’s report as it bounced off of the many tons of concrete that surrounded him, and then he walked calmly back to his car and drove it into the building. He parked it beside the exit gate and used the keys he'd made a few days earlier, when he'd stolen them from the old pervert as he played the fool with the girls who would do anything for liquor and drugs, to open the door and enter, then unlock the storeroom.

  The box was very heavy, but Allah gave him strength, and after a struggle, he managed to get it into the back seat of his car. He knew that the American would remember his car, so he would have to find
another one, but that should be no trouble. There would be plenty of people trying to get to their families to the west, and some of them would stop for gas. He had already been shown by Allah where he should wait, and he drove straight there.

  11

  “Okay, Mahmoud is en route to jail,” he said. “What do you want to do about Dawid Whatsisname? Should I go out there and look around?”

  Harry didn't answer for a moment. “Sam, you've done more already than anyone could expect of you,” he said finally. “If you go to Fareesh's home—if he's actually running the cell and you get caught, his people will kill you without any warning. They shoot first and don't bother with questions.”

  “Yeah, Harry, I get it, if I go out there, I'm on my own. On the other hand, as soon as they realize Mahmoud is missing, they're likely to go to ground in a hurry. If I can get enough to confirm they're in the cell, it'd be worth the risk.”

  Harry sighed. “Turn on the watch when you get there, so we can hear what happens. You can speak softly and give us a running account.”

  “Good,” Sam said. “Then, if they do kill me, at least you'll have whatever I got up to that point, and enough to go after them for murder, anyway. I'll turn it on when I go in, so be listening.” He hung up and got into the truck, then headed for Edgewater.

  He glanced at the clock on the stereo and saw that it was almost eleven thirty. He called Indie, who was awake and answered on the first ring.

  “Sam!” she said. “I've been worried! What's going on, babe?”

  “I've identified four cell members, and may have the leader,” he answered. “I'm on the way to check him out right now. Just wanted to hear your voice,” he added with a smile.

  “I love you, Sam Prichard,” Indie whispered. “Don't be too big a hero tonight, okay?”