by Peter Telep
The old man snickered. “Christ, I’m in the middle of my book.”
“How much you want?”
“Hundred bucks.”
“I’ll give you twenty.”
The old man smiled. “Just give me another ten.”
Johnny withdrew the bill. “You could’ve had twenty.”
“Why you want it so badly?”
“If I told you, you’d never believe me.”
* * *
Despite his fragility, Beb Ahmose had spoken in a commanding tone, his accent a slight but peculiar blend of Canadian and Middle-Eastern. His cheeks had ripened, and his finger was brought to bear on Dresden. He took a long moment before he spoke again, and right there, before Dresden’s eyes, he transformed into an ancient Egyptian, a pharaoh with cobras rearing from his head and a red armband with swastika fitted over his suit. His ocher-colored teeth surfaced from beneath his beard, and finally his words, framed in fiery whispers, escaped from the back of his throat:
“Our people have been at war with each other for over a thousand years. Let me be clear. We hate Christianity and every other religion that does not worship Allah. That will never change. We will never change. Your government has declared us terrorists, and your own pentagon admits that your war against us will never end.” Ahmose lowered his finger and nodded. “I must agree, Mr. Dresden. The war will never end. And please, let me be blunt. I hate you. I hate your western values and everything you stand for. Your soldiers murdered my wife and laughed about it. I’ve lived with that for over seventy years. You thought I would forget? And now, you come here, and you sit down, and you ask a ninety-five-year old man to make peace with the past?” Ahmose leaned forward, his gaze even more poisonous. “No, Mr. Dresden. You ask the impossible. This is a war. There is no reconciliation. Ever. Do you understand?”
Dresden felt too stunned to answer. His gaze drifted up to find Senecal, now at his shoulder and reveling in the moment, as though he knew exactly what Ahmose would say, as though he had interviewed the man prior to the meeting, as though he were using this entire event to stoke Dresden’s hatred and win him back into the fold.
Unable to bear any more, Dresden stormed out of the conference room, and, out in the hall, Senecal chased him down and said, “I’m sorry, Nick.”
“Another lie.”
“All right, but listen. What would you like me to do with them?”
“What’re you talking about?”
“You heard the old man. This is a war, and as far as I’m concerned, they’re POWs.”
Dresden gritted his teeth and dug nails into his palms. All round him, the wallpaper and wainscoting turned black as though under flames. “I guess you’re right, Eddie. You’ve been right all along.”
“That doesn’t matter. Now let me end this for you.”
Dresden could almost taste the blood. “Do it.”
Senecal nodded. “I know it’s been difficult, but you’ve finally accepted the truth, and I’m proud of you.”
“What truth? That they hate us?”
“No, that’s a given. The truth is... you and I are exactly the same now. No more hedging your bets... and always daring to do mighty things.” Senecal squeezed his shoulder. “Welcome home, Nick.”
Chapter Thirty-One
“It was the phone call from Pat Rugg while we were up in Detroit that changed everything. He was the wild card the jihadis never expected.”
—Johnny Johansen (FBI interview, 23 December)
After leaving the Exxon Station, Johnny found a SmartStop Self Storage on West Williamsburg Road. He secured a 5’ x 5’ air conditioned storage space and paid cash. There, they stored most of their gear, their rifles, and the drones. The card Corey had collected from Easy Money, along with the knife Johnny had taken from Rasul, were tucked into the side pocket of an old range bag and hidden with everything else.
Gatterton had cautioned them about giving the Feds enough evidence without incriminating themselves. They believed they were ready to do so. Next stop? The FBI.
The Richmond field office included more than just Richmond Headquarters City. The Bureau had agencies across the state in Bristol, Charlottesville, Fredericksburg, Lynchburg, Roanoke, and Winchester, with over two hundred agents and support staff. The office was a nondescript, three-story standalone building with a gated perimeter.
Before heading across the parking lot, Johnny motioned for Josh to pull over. “Look, guys, no matter what happens in there, I want you to know, well, I just want to say thanks again. For everything.”
“It’s been one hell of a ride,” Willie said curtly.
Josh sighed. “And it’s cool, Johnny. We’ll be okay.”
“Let’s do this,” said Corey.
Johnny nodded, then gave Josh the high sign. They drove up to the booth, where Johnny told the guard they had an appointment with Special Agent in Charge (SAC) Donna Lindhower. The guard called the receptionist, who confirmed. They were taken through a security protocol that included a thorough search of their persons and the vehicle. They showed the guards their concealed carry permits and turned over their weapons. They were allowed to park and venture inside, where they endured yet another security check by the guards before being greeted by the receptionist.
After a thirty second wait, a tall, athletic woman in a black, two-piece pants suit strode into the lobby, her low heels clicking across the tile. She was in her forties, with shoulder length hair whose shades ranged from diamond to caramel. She exuded an air of confidence and conservatism, and when she opened her mouth, the precision of her speech betrayed her military background. “Hello, gentlemen, I’m Donna Lindhower. Mark brought your situation to my attention. We agreed that, moving forward, we're going to keep any input from him as well as his identity out of these discussions. As far as we’re concerned, you gentlemen came in off the street. Now please, follow me.”
Johnny glanced at the boys; they appeared as uneasy as he felt.
Lindhower ushered them into one of the secure interview rooms on the first floor. They took seats around a table. She stood near a digital recorder no larger than a smartphone. Johnny studied her expression, searching for a line, a crease, or curve suggesting some sympathy for them and their plight, but she eyed them with the indifference of a government employee who had already decided that they were just another case, and this was just another day on the job, despite her connection to Gatterton.
She cleared her throat. “All right, so here’s what’s going to happen. I’m required to record this interview. There’s a camera up there near the ceiling, and I have another recorder right here. I’ll start by stating the date. What is today, anyway?”
“December 17th,” said Willie, consulting his watch.
“Thank you. So we’ll record the date, the time, followed by the names of everyone present, including Agent Fred Seibert seated back there by the door. Once we have your initial statements, we’ll take a short break and reconvene in separate rooms, where agents from our Joint Terrorism Task Force will interview you individually.”
“We understand,” said Johnny. “I just want you to know that I put these boys up to everything. It all falls on me.”
“They’re Marines,” she said. “And I don’t believe that.”
“No really, I forced them to do it,” Johnny said, wincing under her scrutiny.
“Relax, Johnny. You’re not under oath. However, there’s a particular section and title of the United States Code that prohibits knowingly and willfully making false or fraudulent statements, or concealing information, in any matter within the jurisdiction of the Federal Government of the United States—even by mere denial.”
Johnny pursed his lips and glanced at the others. Their expressions remained stolid. One FBI special agent had nothing on some of the Marine Corps officers they had faced, men with deranged eyes who drooled over the slightest misstep in a report.
Satisfied that his friends understood the risks, Johnny faced Lindhower and said, “Eas
y day, Ma’am. No drama. We’re on the same side.”
“I know. Mark’s a good friend. He told me you were all that and a bag of chips.”
Johnny’s cheeks warmed. “He said that about you.”
She grinned for the first time then continued. “We’re here to help. And maybe the intel you have can get us rolling on this.”
“Speaking of which...” Johnny dug into his jacket and produced the two Islamic cards and the magnifying glass.
“What are they?” asked Lindhower.
“We think the jihadis use them to pass messages. We found them on two different individuals. If you magnify sections of the border, you’ll see Morse code embedded in the dark line.”
“Are you serious?”
“Have a look yourself.”
She did. “Well, there it is.”
“We translated the code, and they turn out to be phone numbers. We think one is for a prepaid. The other one with the handwriting on the back has the number to a McDonald’s in Cedar Falls, Iowa.”
“Interesting. So we’ll need to hear in minute detail how you came in possession of these cards. Now, let me start the recording, and we’ll go back to the beginning, as in, why you decided to launch your own murder investigation.”
* * *
Nazari had parked his Ford Fusion in one of three lots at Waterloo Regional Airport, just a few miles from his home in Cedar Falls. He had received an unprecedented communication from his associates in West Virginia, and the news could not have been more grim.
Dr. Ramzi Shammas’s security leak had become a runaway reactor, poisoning couriers and threatening to expose the entire network. Rasul had murdered him, and then, someone had attacked the enclave and shot the poor boy, leaving his body on the mountainside. Nazari’s associates had sworn they had secured and sanitized the area and that no law enforcement entities had been notified or had visited the enclave. There were at least two masked attackers, and they had set a trailer on fire before chasing Rasul into the woods and shooting him.
As a result, Nazari decided that the time table must be stepped up, that the longer they waited, the greater the risk for another catastrophic leak—because whoever had attacked the enclave was still out there. In turn, the suppliers needed to deliver the rest of the materials as soon as possible. Rasul had been the primary contact with the liaison, but now Nazari would assume his place and ensure an unobstructed line of communications. He had made the call, and the liaison had instructed him to say nothing and meet him in the airport parking lot at exactly 4:40 p.m. local time.
A compact rental car rolled up beside his, facing in the opposite direction. The driver’s side window lowered to reveal a woolen coat. A black baseball cap. A pair of sunglasses on a cloudy day.
“Where’s Rasul?”
“Dead. One of my cells was compromised,” Nazari began.
“Where?”
“North Carolina. Then up at the enclave in West Virginia.”
The liaison glanced away, muttering something to himself. Abruptly, he lifted his voice and asked, “What are you doing about it?”
“Everything I can.”
“What do you need?”
“Tell the suppliers I need the rest of the shipments—as soon as possible. We’re moving up by forty-eight hours. My people will be ready. Will they?”
“I’ll make sure of it. And don’t call again—unless absolutely necessary.”
“I understand.”
The window scrolled up, and the rental car lurched away.
With nerves fraying like wires, Nazari left the airport and drove to the Islamic center, where he met with Ahmed Mohammed Al-Nasser, his core group’s money and documentation expert. Al-Nasser had requested a meeting, though he had been careful to exclude the details from his call.
“A problem in New London,” he began in Arabic. “A lost wallet. An operative speaking to the police, trying to explain why he was left tied up in his car.”
Nazari spoke through his teeth. “We can’t afford any more of this.”
“I understand. I’ll resolve this issue—permanently.”
“Get the truth out of him before you do.”
“I will.”
“Who will be the new contact with the fishermen?”
Al-Nasser sighed deeply. “For now, me.”
“Very well. Have you heard from El-Najjar?”
Al-Nasser’s expression softened. “I have. And finally a victory there. He’s already on the road, and the cache is secure.”
“Excellent. I’ve heard back from Younes. His vests and trucks will be ready.”
“Now, if I understand you correctly, the suppliers believe we’re striking only six targets. Once they discover it’s many more, at least ninety-nine, what then?”
“Then they experience Allah’s fiery will across this horrible and godless land.”
“And where will we be?”
“I’m working on that. I’ll be driving up to the hub this evening. It seems our friends in Colombia and Peru have presented an interesting idea. It involves the Port of Houston, and a Panamax container ship. Her schedule is opportune for our purposes.”
* * *
After spending most of the day at the field office, with only a short break for lunch, Johnny and the others were sent back to their first interview room.
“They’ve got that camera on us right now,” said Corey. “They want to see if we’ll confide in each other.”
Willie rolled his eyes. “I don’t care. I’m so tired of talking. Never talked so much in my life. Explain it again. Are you sure? Can you be more specific? Why do you say that? Are you sure that was the name you heard?”
“I know, right?” Corey asked.
“You boys act like you’ve never been around an interrogation,” said Josh. “You know how we grilled them back in Iraq? How does it feel to be on the other end?”
The door swung open, and Donna Lindhower shuffled inside. For the first time all day her expression bore something new, something unwelcome. Fear. “We’re in the process of verifying your story. In the meantime, the E-A-D for National Security wants to meet with all of you tomorrow morning, zero eight sharp.”
“E-A-D?” asked Johnny.
“The Executive Assistant Director for National Security.”
Johnny recoiled. “Whoa.”
Willie raised his hand. “Ma’am? Are we in trouble?”
“If you bail on me, you will be. Book yourselves some hotel rooms. We can do this two ways: with or without the babysitter. You promise to be good and come back tomorrow?”
“We’ll be here,” said Johnny. “Can I ask why this had to go so far up the chain of command?”
“I’m sorry, Johnny, but this isn’t something I can contain, nor would I want to. We need as many eyes on this as possible.”
“We’re just trying to do the right thing,” Josh insisted.
Lindhower’s expression softened a notch. “You came in here on your own, without attorneys. You didn’t ask for anything. You’re willing to help. I’m sure my boss will take all of that into consideration.”
They rose, and Johnny thanked Lindhower for her help.
“I’m very sorry about your brother and sister-in-law,” she said.
The ache rushed into Johnny’s eyes. “I appreciate that. I really do. We’ll see you in the morning.”
* * *
They checked into an Embassy Suites on the west end, then headed down to the hotel’s restaurant, The Atrium Grill, where they sat at the bar and splurged on locally brewed craft beer instead of the usual Michelob Ultra. The waitress boasted about the menu featuring European and Asian cuisines, but all Johnny wanted was the biggest cheeseburger the chef could make, as in “give me a pound of beef,” he told the waitress. She tried to convince him to go fancy with Swiss or provolone cheese.
“American,” he said firmly.
“Make that four,” Willie said. “And fries, too.”
Johnny stared absently at the
battalion of bottles standing in formation behind the bar while the others watched the local news on a flat screen. Here they were again, hurry up and wait, just like being back in the Corps. Victims of bureaucratic BS. Johnny left the counter and found a private spot near the back of the restaurant. He dialed Elina.
She answered breathlessly. “Johnny? Johnny?”
“Are you okay? Oh, wait. Hello, Elina. It’s Johnny. Your husband. How are you doing this fine evening?”
“Oh, shut up. Tell me what’s going on.”
“We’re in Richmond. I should be home soon. I think it’s over. Unless we get arrested.”
“What?”
“Relax, we don’t know anything yet. I think we’re about to cut a deal with the FBI.”
“You’re scaring me again. I can’t do this for much longer. Did you... I mean the guy who...”
“Yes. I think that’s behind us now.”
“Thank God.”
“How did the girls like their range time?”
“I wish you were there. I think they shoot better than you.”
“Damn, I bet they do.”
“I wish I was with you right now.”
“Me too. But I’ll be back soon.”
“How’re the guys?”
“They’ve been burning the midnight oil. I think they’re about ready to call it a day.”
“So just call me, then. And we’ll meet back there, okay?”
“Okay. But if something does happen... I don’t know... if we get charged with something... I want you to know that everything we’ve done so far was just to get at the truth. That’s all.”
“You don’t have to convince me, Johnny. Sounds like you need to convince yourself.”
“I put everyone out on this. But hey, I need to go. Mark Gatterton’s calling me.”
“I love you, Johnny. Just tell us when to come back.”
“I will.”
Johnny fumbled with his phone, finally accepting Gatterton’s incoming call. “Mark...”
“Hey, Johnny, I just got off the phone with Donna. She told me Plesner’s flying down to see you.”
