by Peter Telep
“You won’t. This is just what we needed. You tell Billy I owe him big time, and you thank him for keeping this thing low-profile. What can I say, Pat?”
“Hey, once a Marine. You keep me posted on all this. And stay low.”
“Roger that.” Johnny hung up and regarded his friends.
“So why is Shammas a real estate broker?” asked Corey.
“I read about this,” Josh began. “He’s doing it because it’s the first step in nation-building. He’s doing for Muslims what some white supremacists are doing in small towns out west. I think he and his buddies are buying up cheap property, setting up Muslim enclaves, and populating them with enough registered voters to neutralize any local town councils. It’s Sharia Law by democratic process.”
Corey shook his head. “Well how do you like that?”
Johnny snorted. “I don’t. Now saddle up. We’re going to J-ville.”
Chapter Twenty
“What we found in that real estate office was a game changer. Johnny had already opened Pandora’s Box so to speak, but this took us to a whole new level.”
—Willie Parente (FBI interview, 23 December)
Rounds buzzed over Johnny’s head, a few splitting open the trunks behind him. He picked up the pace and kept on because he had steel in his back and a brother he needed to find. An AK-47 set to full automatic rattled from the adjacent field. In a matter of seconds, Johnny was at the perimeter, crouched down and counting six men converging on an irrigation ditch on the opposite end of the field. They weren’t fleeing... they were chasing...
“Hey, Bro, wake up.”
Johnny’s eyes snapped open. “What’s going on?” This wasn’t Fallujah. He was seated in his pickup, the seat lowered all the way back, the heat humming softly, the engine idling.
“It’s zero eight forty,” said Willie.
Johnny raised his seat, then knuckled sleep grit from his eyes. He blinked and looked around.
The Carolina Reality office was in a strip mall called Westbrooke Village, just south of the Lowes and Best Buy on Western Boulevard. Saigon Nails, Game Stop, Wells Fargo, and a jewelry store were among the other tenants advertised on the colonial-style sign near the curb. Johnny and Josh had taken their pickup trucks, with Willie and Corey riding shotgun, respectively. They reached their target about fifty-five minutes later, after which they split up. Johnny and Willie parked at the Hardees across the street, while Josh and Corey got in closer, near a Staples office supply so they could observe the strip mall’s rear exits. They took turns catching some shut-eye, although Johnny drifted off for no more than a few minutes at a time. The only significant report came from Willie, who, after spying the realty office through his binoculars, noted that a status light on an alarm panel on the wall glowed green, indicating that the alarm had not been activated, a curious fact to be sure.
“Saw some Vietnamese ladies going into the nail salon,” said Willie.
Johnny yawned and said, “Text Josh. Tell him we’re moving in. And just follow my lead.” He threw the truck in gear, drove across the street, and parked in a spot near the bank. They climbed out, and Johnny walked right up to the reality office and tried the door. The window was a tic-tac-toe board of information and photos of local homes. Inside, several desks were cluttered with papers, files and brochures, with more cubicles arranged in the back. A conference table with six chairs and big screen television mounted on the wall nearby reminded Johnny of the Triton 6 office.
“Looks like they’re still in business,” he told Willie. “Come on.”
They headed several doors down to the nail salon, where Johnny entered and met the gaze of the Vietnamese girl at the front desk. If she was twenty, that was being generous. Her shirt featured some weird cartoon cat, and her earrings resembled pieces of circuitry rather than jewelry. She reminded Johnny of his nights rolling around on Court Street back in the 1980’s. Court Street was the home of the “buy-me-drinkie” bars in Jacksonville. Leisure ladies from all over the world would draw jarheads and sailors into the clubs, give them a little bit of affection, and allow them to buy drinks; it was like the Wild, Wild West and a great place to find trouble of all kinds.
The girl smiled, then raised an index finger with an impossibly long silver nail. “Manicure? Pedicure? Deluxe or regular?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Johnny said, blushing. “I’m not here for that.” He glanced at Willie. “You want a pedicure?”
Willie returned a fifty-caliber stare.
Johnny snorted and regarded the girl. “Anyway, we had an appointment with Mr. Ben-Youssef from the real estate company. You guys don’t know him or know where he is, do you? He’s never missed an appointment before.”
A slightly hunch-backed woman with lightning-white streaks at her temples left one of the nail stations and raised her chin at Johnny. “Oh, you talking about Mr. Ben. Very nice man. He’s not here. He had someone die in the family.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. You know when he left?”
“He’s gone for two weeks.”
“Hey, Johnny,” Willie said, pointing to a TV suspended from the ceiling. The local news was showing images of LaPorte’s pickup truck being towed out of the embankment. The caption read: local man and suspected criminal found dead in crash.
Johnny held back his reaction and smiled at the woman. “Thank you very much.”
She took one of his hands and examined his nails. “You come back. You need manicure. I give you discount.”
“Okay, we will,” Johnny lied. “Thanks.”
As they left the shop, he called Josh and told him to meet out back. The alarm was off, and they would breach that door. While this would not be a standard breaching operation in typical Marine Corps fashion, , they would bypass that door one way or another.
On a lark, Johnny tried the door knob. He glanced over his shoulder at the guys. “Are you kidding me?” The door swung open, and they rushed inside.
A tangy odor hinting of lemon wafted through the narrow break room. There was a small table and chairs, coffee pot and microwave, and a countertop littered with fast food bags and a nearby garbage bin piled high with frozen food boxes and plastic containers.
Corey raised his hand, gaining their attention. He pointed to a Styrofoam cup with a teabag’s string dangling over the side. Steam rose as Corey grasped the cup and mouthed the words still hot. He shifted to the microwave, put his hand on the back, and nodded.
They drew their pistols. While Josh and Willie headed out into the main office, Johnny aimed for the bathroom door, with Corey at his shoulder. Taking a deep breath, Johnny wrenched open the door. They sighed.
“Clear out there,” said Josh, returning with Willie in tow. “But behind that last cubicle there’s a cot and some blankets and pillows.”
Johnny cursed. “Somebody was just here. Maybe it was him.”
Corey felt the back of the 36” flat screen on the wall, then crossed to the table and thumbed the remote. The screen warmed to life, tuned to the local news. “Guy was having tea and watching this.”
“Maybe he saw LaPorte’s truck and took off,” said Willie.
“That lady said he’s been gone for two weeks,” Johnny said.
Josh stepped out of the bathroom. “Well, someone’s been living here. There’s a bag in there with a toothbrush, toothpaste, the whole nine. If it was Shammas, maybe he would sneak around after hours.”
‘”How the hell did we miss him?” Corey asked.
Johnny bit back another curse. “While you were driving over.”
“You’re telling me we were that close?” asked Josh.
Johnny snickered. “That’s our luck. He probably had some rental car parked down the street by Lowes or something. Oh, well, let’s tear this place up. Just keep away from the windows.”
They split up and began a methodical search of the office, going through every desk drawer, file, and sifting through stacks of papers, from contracts to hardcopy printouts of listings. The
re were no desktop computers, only power stations for plugging in laptops, which assumedly were with their owners. Johnny sifted through the papers on the desk nearest the cot.
He stopped for a moment and lowered his head. Every time they thought they had something, the trail went cold. Every damned time. His stomach twisted. He sprang to his feet and, in a sudden rage, swiped at the papers, sending a tornado across the room.
A sandwich wrapper from Subway hit the floor, along with something else.
Something that caught Johnny’s eye.
It was a card identical to the one found in Kyle’s backpack. He rushed over and grabbed it. The card had the same Arabic greeting and border on the front—but there was a notation on the back.
“Got something?” Willie asked.
Johnny handed him the card. Nothing ever surprised Willie.
This did.
Chapter Twenty-One
“It was the same in Iraq. The bad guys could be anybody—the mechanic, the shopkeeper, the woman walking down the street with two kids. You had to use your instincts. And you couldn’t rule out anyone—not even the brother of a Marine.”
—Josh Eriksson (FBI interview, 23 December)
The students who took advantage of office hours were the overachievers who already knew how to communicate respectfully with their professors and were simply verifying their understanding of the material. Those who truly needed one-on-one instruction told Nazari that it was impossible to see him because, in their words, “it was insane to get up that early.” Instead, they would email him their verbose and grammatically challenged queries and expect article-length replies replete with external links for further reading and study. These were the students who thought they were entitled to a painless and convenient education because they were paying a fortune in tuition. They had no idea that they should be earning their degrees. They were utterly unaware that their professors were trying to facilitate their growth—not take their money and hand them diplomas like receipts for Big Macs. This is what American society had wrought upon its youth. This was one of a thousand wrongs that would be righted.
Nazari leaned back in his office chair and finished reading yet another email from a young lady who had failed his course and who now, during winter break, thought her groveling for sympathy and makeup assignments would wear him down. He deleted the email and glanced over at the welcome letter from the University of Northern Iowa’s Department of Technology. He had dug through his files and found this document, rereading it this morning, the melancholy swelling in his chest. He secretly longed for another life, one in which he could remain a professor at this great institution because America had already been saved from the infidels. However, that was not Allah’s will, and his days here were numbered. In his heart of hearts, he was not a warrior but a scholar. For now, though, he must be both.
He sighed, partly in resignation, partly over a restless night’s sleep. It was 10:47 a.m. He opened up his graphics program and returned to work on the courier cards. The liaison and suppliers assumed there would be only six targets. Nazari closed his eyes for a moment and allowed the enormity of his undertaking to flow through him and lift his spirits. His breathing slowed, and for a moment, he glimpsed the rising dunes and oases of Paradise—until his office phone shattered the image. Was this the call he had been expecting?
He braced himself and answered. “Hello, this is Dr. Nazari.”
“Hi, professor, this is Paul Lindquist. I’m a detective with the Holly Ridge Police Department here in North Carolina. I’m wondering if you can answer a few questions. This won’t take long.”
“Uh, yes, sure, I guess so. What’s this about? Am I in trouble?”
“No, sir, we’re just following up on investigation into a student at UNC Wilmington. His name was Randall LaPorte. He was doing an independent study with a colleague of yours, Dr. Ramzi Shammas. We understand you were friends.”
“Professional colleagues,” Nazari corrected. “We wrote several papers together, and I recall a presentation we did a few years ago.”
“You wrote him a recommendation letter to get hired at UNC.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
“I haven’t spoken to him in a while. We were emailing about I-E-D-E-C a few months ago. I believe that’s the last time we spoke.”
“What was that you mentioned?”
“Oh, that’s the Interdisciplinary Engineering Design Education Conference. It’s out in California.”
“That’s a mouthful.”
“Which is why we use the acronym. May I ask what’s going on?”
“Sure, I’m sorry. We had a robbery down here. Randall LaPorte might’ve been responsible, but he was killed last night when his truck ran off the road. We’re following up with everyone who might have had contact with him.”
“I see.”
“Strangely enough, it’s as though Dr. Shammas has dropped off the map. I even contacted his old school in Saudi Arabia, and they don’t know where he is.”
“That’s not unusual. He likes to travel a lot, the Middle East, South America. It’s winter break. I’m sure he’s flown off to some exotic location. The students call it dropping off the grid, right? He was always a bit of an adventurer.”
“Does he have any regular destinations? Does he frequent the same hotels? What else can you tell me about his traveling?”
“I’m really not sure. Like I said, we’re just professional colleagues. I’m well aware of his research and teaching qualifications, but we’ve never socialized. I do know he’s been a guest presenter at universities in maybe a dozen countries.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me that might help us find him?”
“I’m afraid not. I assume you’ve sent him emails. He might take a while, but I’m sure he’ll get back. I can take your number, and if something comes to me, I’ll return the call.”
The detective was pleased with this response, and Nazari diligently scribbled down the number then offered a polite good-bye.
When he glanced up, Rasul was standing in his office. The younger man closed the door and lowered his voice. They spoke in Arabic. “Was it the detective?”
“Lindquist. The informants in Wilmington were correct. And this man sounds... committed.”
“That’s not good.”
“No, it’s not. Dr. Shammas has done some incredible work for us with the east coast network and the dive teams, but his poor judgment now... what can I say? He’s created a terrible breach that continues to widen.”
“He recruited LaPorte. We kept the operation small. What could have gone wrong?” asked Rasul.
“Everything, it seems.”
“Were is he now?”
Nazari rubbed the bridge of his nose. “On the road.”
Rasul’s tone grew ominous. “I can do whatever you need.”
Nazari relaxed his shoulders. He would not act rashly. “Let him take his meeting. But I want you to meet him there. You get him to the safe house.”
“Trust me, I will.”
“Good. Now I have a feeling you’ll get fired from UPS for taking off so much time.”
“I’ll call in sick again. If they give me a hard time, I’ll threaten them with a discrimination lawsuit.” Rasul smiled darkly.
“Now you sound like an infidel.”
Rasul hoisted his brows. “Know your enemy.”
“All right, then. Safe travels. Contact me when you have Shammas.”
“I will. May Allah bestow his blessings on you.”
“And on you.”
Once Rasul had left, Nazari returned to his computer screen.
According to Islamic tradition, Muhammad invoked Allah by a number of characteristic names. Some of Nazari’s preferences included Al-Muntaqim (the avenger), Al-Ḥasīb (the bringer of judgment), and Al-Mumīt (the bringer of death). The names were known as Asmaa al-Husna (the most beautiful names), and while some Muslims believed there were ninety
-nine in all, the published lists were inconsistent, with names randomly appearing and dropping off without explanation. There was no single agreed upon list, and many scholars argued that no such list was ever provided by the Prophet Muhammad.
Controversy notwithstanding, Nazari had found a list he preferred, and, accordingly, he would design at least ninety-nine courier cards, each one containing one of the names for Allah and designating a specific target. Allah, in all of his names and in all of his greatness, would be there alongside the fighters. Once Nazari was finished creating the cards, he would travel up to “the hub,” where they would be printed and distributed to his network of couriers.
A knock came at his door. “Dr. Nazari?”
He glanced up at a young woman with a green pixie cut and bloodshot eyes. She resembled one of those characters from a Japanese comic book. “Yes?”
“I took your class last semester? I emailed you yesterday about trying to fix my grade?”
“Oh, yes, Ms. Sumner. You’re not from Iowa, are you?”
“What?”
“You’re an out-of-state student.”
“Uh, yeah, my parents live in Virginia.”
“Near Richmond?”
“Yeah, pretty close.”
“How far from the nuclear power station?”
“You mean North Anna? Maybe a few miles.”
Nazari’s lips curled in a grin. “I have some friends who work there. Are you going home to see your folks?”
“I plan on it.”
“Excellent. I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you. Now what’s this about fixing your grade?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“In the grand scheme of things it is ironic. We formed Triton 6 with pennies in our pockets, but we had big dreams. The idea was to become so successful that a firm like D&S Equities would buy us out. After that, we’d be sipping margaritas on our private yachts. Be careful what you wish for, I guess.”
