by Peter Telep
“My brother was no jihadi!” Johnny shouted.
Rasul pushed up against Johnny’s grip, but then he coughed and went limp, his eyes rolling back in his head. Johnny released him and stared wide-eyed at the puddle of blood around his leg. He checked the kid’s carotid artery for a pulse.
“I’m sorry, Johnny.”
The apology came from Willie, who had been standing there with a pained look on his face. “It’s all right,” Johnny told him. “Thanks.”
“Hey, guys, it’s Corey,” came a shout from behind them. “I’m coming up. We need to exfil now. They’re in the woods!”
Shouts in Arabic echoed Corey’s warning, and for a second, Johnny was back on the blood-soaked shores of the Euphrates, grimacing over the smell of burning cars instead of a smoldering trailer.
Willie rushed to examine Rasul’s leg, reporting an entry and exit wound. Willie’s spent brass casing had tumbled away, falling deep into the rocks, and he felt pretty sure that it, along with the bullet, would never be found.
At the same time, Johnny called Josh and told him to recall the drone and rally on the other side of the mountain. He stole a final glance at Rasul, a bloodless brown skeleton draped across the earth. Johnny shuddered with anger, and then he signaled everyone to leave.
For thirty more minutes he trekked unconsciously across the rock gardens and down to the valley, remembering only bits and pieces of how they reached the SUV. It was impossible to focus on anything but the glower on Rasul’s face and the accusations that had poured from his chapped lips: He was a martyr for the cause. He loved Allah more than me.
Those were lies. Weren’t they?
Chapter Thirty
“When Josh told me what those Islamic cards really were, it all made sense. The jihadis were forced to go old school, but we had no idea how literally they’d take that.”
—Corey McKay (FBI interview, 23 December)
They parked the SUVs in a garbage-strewn alley behind a BP gas station in nearby Beckley. A warehouse-sized furniture store abutted the lot, with a Rent-A-Center’s blue neon sign beckoning the have-nots from across the street. Josh was at the wheel of the SUV, and Corey and Willie had joined them in the backseat. The rain and cold had seeped into their skin, rendering them crimson-faced and shivering. Johnny said they should lay low for a while and avoid the highways, where their out of state plates might draw the attention of law enforcement. Corey found a website that provided a live stream of the Raleigh County Police, Bradley Fire, and West Virginia State Police radio communications. Wearing his earbuds, he listened intently for any mention of a shooting or fire at the compound. None so far.
The events of the past day turned end over end in Johnny’s mind, as though they were trapped within fragments of broken glass, each one flipping enough so that he could glimpse it for just a second imagery from the drone, the storm coming in, the fence rattling, the lightning, the visit from Daniel, and then... the fire.
Chills accompanied the images, and the guilt came in jolts every few seconds as though he were wired to a car battery and being tortured by jihadis. He would glance around at his friends, then jerk again.
He raised his hand to see if it were still trembling, then cursed and glanced back to Willie. “I owe you.”
“No, I owed you. From Fallujah. I bet you thought I wouldn’t pay you back, but I had to, because you still carry around that old piece of shit 1911, and you probably would’ve had a malfunction before you could shoot the guy.”
With barely the energy to smile, Johnny managed one. Willie was a good man, trying to make him feel better, even as he appeared sick himself, as though he might vomit over the ramifications of his actions.
Johnny steeled himself and said, “Now that we have a minute to calm down, let’s go over it again, for Josh’s sake.”
“You told me the kid’s name was Rasul. You didn’t get a last name?” asked Josh.
“He wasn’t exactly cooperative,” said Willie. “And we barely had time to breathe, let alone interrogate him.”
Johnny held up a palm, and Willie nodded and pursed his lips. “Josh, the kid knew me. He even knew I say ‘easy day, no drama.’ They were that close.”
“You didn’t tell me that,” said Josh.
“Well they were.”
Corey lifted his voice: “I think Rasul was lying about your brother, Johnny. He just said that to piss you off. I bet he was the one who killed Daniel. That’s why he looked so familiar. We don’t know why, but he was the guy who did it.”
“I agree,” said Willie. “Now it’s too bad we can’t ask him. Unfortunately, I murdered him, which is why I’ve been calling you guys out on all this—because I knew once you cut me loose, someone would die. Now here we are. And guess who’s going to jail? Me.”
“Nobody’s going to jail,” said Johnny.
“Are you sweating forensics?” Josh asked Willie. “You need a cadaver for forensics. Do you think they’ll leave Rasul’s body out there to be found? That’s probable cause for the Feds to come in and take over their enclave. Won’t happen.”
Willie hardened his voice. “I hope you’re right. We need to ditch the upper receiver of my rifle. We’ll find a lake or something.”
“Roger that,” said Johnny.
“So what’s the plan?” Corey asked. “I mean what else do we have? That guy Rasul, he was it, right? We can’t go back up there.”
“Maybe we should go to Blue Door and trail that sales guy, Sameh Ismail?” asked Josh.
“Look here, we...” Johnny could barely get the words out. “We can’t do this anymore. We’re done. It’s way too hot for us. We need to... I don’t know. Tell you what? Let me call Mark. See what he thinks.”
“It’s zero five,” said Willie, checking his watch. “You calling him now?”
Johnny had already dialed the number, and Gatterton answered on the second ring. Johnny put him on speaker. “Hey, Johnny.”
“I wake you?”
“Hell, no, I couldn’t sleep, thinking about you guys down there. You all right?”
“We’re okay. Well, to be honest, we’re not exactly okay. Our witness, the guy whose name turned out to be Rasul, he, uh, he didn’t make it.”
“Aw, shit. You clean up?”
“As best we could.”
“We never talked about this.”
“No, we did not.”
“Okay, listen to me. You need to stop now.”
“I agree.”
Gatterton hesitated. “You do?”
“That’s why I called. Somebody needs to follow up on this. I want to hand over everything, but I’m afraid we’ll get arrested.”
“Do me a favor. Get over to the Richmond field office. I’ve got a friend there, a WM who’s the Special Agent in Charge. She was an intel analyst with II MEF.”
MEF stood for Marine Expeditionary Force, meaning Gatterton’s contact in Richmond was a WM, a Woman Marine.
He continued, “She did a tour then decided to pull chalks and become one of us. I’ll get you in there to see her.”
“That sounds good, Mark. But you can’t make any promises. If we talk to her, we could still wind up in jail.”
“You need to be careful what you say. You give them what they need—but not enough to incriminate you.”
“That won’t be easy.”
“I know, but don’t be a fool, either. I’ll prep the zone with her and call you after. Do not roll in there until we talk.”
“Roger that, solid copy.”
“Thank you, Mark.”
“Don’t thank me, Johnny. I’m used to this, just like the good old days. You’re shaking trees, and I’m raking leaves.”
“You’ve done that better than anyone, and the boys appreciate it.”
* * *
Nicholas Dresden had chosen a grey, single-breasted wool suit to reflect his mood. He climbed into the limousine and sat beside Senecal, who wriggled his brows once, then returned to his Starbucks skinny vanilla l
atte. Dresden had already consumed two cups of coffee, but despite that and the anticipation of confronting Beb Ahmose, his sleepless night made his overcoat feel more like a straightjacket. Within five minutes, he fought to keep his eyes open and his head upright.
“You seem very relaxed for a man who’s about to confront his family’s past.”
The comment jarred him to consciousness. “It was a long night,” he confessed.
“For me as well. My boy came to me in my dreams, and you know what he said?”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“He said, avenge me, Daddy. Avenge me.”
Dresden shook his head. “Eddie, where are we going?”
“Take a look.”
He realized they were already on Fifth Avenue, and the limousine had pulled up outside The Plaza, arguably one of the most lavish hotels in the entire city, a landmark for over one hundred years in all of its Beaux Arts magnificence. To this day, its 152 pied-à-terres were booked by business leaders, politicians, celebrities of every ilk, and socialites from around the globe. The building rose nineteen-stories, which at the turn of the twentieth century was considered a skyscraper.
In truth, this was not the meeting place Dresden had in mind. He had envisioned an abandoned warehouse, with the old man gagged and bound to a chair, his nose bleeding, his eyes blackened while Senecal’s henchman hovered like vultures nearby, waiting for him to expire. Whether he had been watching too many films or had simply deemed Beb Ahmose an aging thug who deserved interrogation and torture Dresden could not be sure, but The Plaza... The Plaza... took him aback.
Somehow he exited the limousine and reached the carpeted stairs, clutching the gold railing as he ascended. They entered the lobby of soaring ceilings and ornate chandeliers, and Senecal led him to an elevator. Once inside, his partner pressed for the fourth floor, then glanced up and said, “Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“Really? You look pale, my old friend.”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
Senecal shrugged. “What do you feel right now?”
“Is this an interview?”
“No, I’m not that slut you’re sleeping with.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry. That was out of line.”
“You’re watching me now? Having me followed?”
“I’m sorry, Nick. These are delicate times. We can’t afford any mistakes.”
“What if you’ve made a mistake? What if this isn’t Beb Ahmose?”
Senecal smiled crookedly in disgust. “You’ve read the documents we collected from Cairo. You’ve looked over the corroborating evidence, the witness accounts, the journal entries, the nearly one thousand files my team collected on this subject—and you still don’t believe?”
Dresden’s breath floated away and was unwilling to return. He swallowed, clutched the wall, then steadied himself and finally inhaled deeply.
“Easy there, old man.” Senecal seized his elbow. “You’ll make it.”
Dresden yanked free of the man’s grip, brought his shoulders to full height, then brushed off his jacket as the bell chimed and the doors parted. Fourth floor. A sign pointed them toward the meeting rooms. As they turned into the corridor, the walls closed in and white caps rose from the carpeting.
* * *
Johnny and the others headed East on 64 from Beckley. En route, they exited near the town of Low Moor and tossed the upper receiver of Willie’s rifle into a water retention canal running parallel to the highway. After a laborious four-hour drive, they neared the Richmond exit, and Johnny signaled that he wanted to stop, fill up the tanks, and grab some coffee. They found an Exxon on West Broad Street, and while Johnny stood at the pump, he eyed an old Cadillac parked on the other side. The windows were down, and in the passenger’s seat sat a hoary old Yankees fan with a bushy moustache and fading ball cap. He held a paperback book up high, toward the dash, and read it with a large magnifying glass.
A magnifying glass. That image struck deep in the back of Johnny’s mind, triggering a number of memories from childhood... and something else... something that gnawed at him.
When he finished filling the tank, he reached into his inner coat pocket where he kept the three Islamic cards they had gathered: LaPorte’s, Shammas’s, and Easy Money’s. He lifted Shammas’s closer to his eyes, but the card went out of focus. He glanced back at the old man with the magnifying glass, then stepped around the pump.
“Hey, Chief.”
The old man scowled at Johnny for the interruption. “What do you want?”
“Can I borrow your magnifying glass for a second?”
“You going to steal it?”
“Here,” Johnny said, pulling ten bucks out of his wallet. “Rental fee.”
The old man drew his head back, then snatched up the cash with a veinous hand. “You only got a few seconds till my daughter comes back.”
“Roger.” Johnny turned and put his back to the sun. He squinted at Shammas’s card, now glowing and fully magnified. He shifted the glass to the bottom—
And he saw it.
Josh ambled over with the coffee and was about to hand off one to Johnny. “What’re you doing?”
Johnny lost his breath and could barely answer. “Look!”
* * *
The conference room was as richly appointed as the rest of the hotel, with seating for ten around the black ash burl table beneath a crystal chandelier. Seated at the head was a gaunt-faced old man, his eyes all but gone under Neanderthal brows. He seemed hollow-chested and barely filled his suit. A veil of thinning hair spanned the sides of his freckled pate, and his porcelain-white beard showed signs of being freshly trimmed. Two other men stood behind him, the first about Dresden’s age, perhaps a few years older, wearing a tailored suit and polished loafers. Only his long, gray beard suggested he might be a Muslim. The other man was much younger, in his thirties, and assumedly Middle-Eastern with a black beard and broad nose.
Senecal introduced the younger man as Max, saying he would translate for them. He introduced the other man as Omar, and for some reason he failed to provide a surname.
“Nicholas Dresden, I’d like you to meet a man your family has been searching for since the end of World War II. This, sir, is Mr. Beb Ahmose.”
The younger man translated Senecal’s introduction into Arabic, while Dresden, still feeling light-headed, proffered his hand.
Ahmose widened his eyes and squinted up toward Dresden. He looked at the hand, and then finally, as though the effort caused him considerable pain, he raised his arm and offered a surprisingly firm grip.
“If you’ll speak slowly, and not for too long at any one time, I’ll translate everything you say,” instructed the young man. “He’s still very lucid, so you can ask anything you want.”
“Have a seat,” Senecal said, pulling out a chair.
Dresden nodded, and with a racing pulse, lowered himself down and said, “Ask him if he remembers being helped by a doctor while he was in Berlin. A doctor who saved his son’s life.”
The translator spoke softly.
Ahmose nodded slowly.
“Does he know who I am?”
“He doesn’t,” Senecal said before the interpreter could answer. “All he knows is that he was brought here for a meeting of great historical importance. And yes, he’s come willingly—all expenses paid, of course.”
Dresden leaned forward in his chair and said, “Tell him the doctor who saved his son’s life was my great grandfather.”
After hearing the translation, Ahmose’s wide-eyed curiosity retreated back into the recesses of his weathered face.
Omar leaned down and whispered something in the old man’s ear. Shielding his mouth from Dresden’s view, Ahmose muttered a reply. Omar straightened and said, “My father is very fatigued, and he would like to leave now.”
“Your father?” Dresden said, losing his breath. “You’re the boy. You’re the boy my great grandfather saved.”
“Then both of you, please listen to me. My father and grandfather were obsessed with finding you and making you pay for the murder of Franz Dresden. I understand what happened. I know about your wife. I know that my great grandfather was going to turn you in as a spy and courier for the Nazis. I know why you killed him. And I’m here, not because I expect some kind of apology, but because I want to let it go. There’s nothing we can do to change the past. We can only accept it. And that’s all I want now. Let’s make peace with the past.”
As the translator took a deep breath and began, Ahmose lifted a spiny finger and rasped in perfect English, “Quiet. I understood him. And now, Mr. Dresden, you will listen to me.”
* * *
Johnny raised the card and magnifying glass so that Josh could glimpse his discovery. Within the inner line of the card’s tri-border frame were a series of dots and dashes running along the bottom—a series only visible under this higher magnification. To the naked eye they blended almost perfectly into the background.
The dots and dashes were Morse code.
“These are courier cards, and this is how they’re passing information,” said Josh. “Even the couriers don’t know what’s on them. Only the people who know what to look for.”
“Exactly. Give these to Corey. Get him to translate.”
“Roger, but damn, Johnny, how’d you figure this out?”
“It’s weird. The cards were bothering me, just sitting in the back of my head.”
“So it just came to you?”
“No, I’ve been thinking a lot about Daniel, the stuff we did as kids, like the way he disguised the Playboy magazines and how we’d send secret messages. I kept thinking how the cards might be something more, but it wasn’t until I saw the old man with the magnifying glass that I thought, hey, maybe we’re not looking closely enough.”
Josh stared in awe. “Wow, now you’re like a fat kid with a magnifying glass!”
“Hell, yeah, and we’re setting ants on fire.”
While Josh left to hand off the cards, Johnny crossed back to the Cadillac and lifted his chin. “I need to buy your magnifying glass. How much you want for it?”
