Morris and Chastain Investigations: Play With Fire & Midnight at the Oasis

by Justin Gustainis

  Colleen leaned forward a little. “But there’s a third option, and frankly my money’s on this one – that he’s travelling with somebody, most likely his controller, and the hotel registration is in the other guy’s name.”

  “Fuck,” Fenton said softly.

  Libby looked from Colleen to Fenton, and back again. “All this spy stuff is new to me, guys – so spell it out, will you? Why is this cause for concern, assuming it’s even true?”

  “A suspected terrorist is suddenly on the move, and he’s not alone,” Colleen said.

  “Means he’s going operational,” Fenton added.

  “You mean,” Libby said, “he’s getting ready to turn the afreet loose.”

  Both of the FBI agents nodded.

  “Well, fuck.” Libby said it like she meant it – because she did.

  Forty-Four

  QUINCEY MORRIS WAS so tired, he didn’t even know what day it was anymore. Libby had given him the use of her condo while she was off making magic in Ohio, and he had tried to make good use of the time until she returned.

  It seemed to him that the key to this whole plot – if there was a plot – was “midnight at the oasis,” the phrase that U.S. intelligence kept finding in jihadist chatter. If you assumed it had nothing to do with a ’70s pop song, maybe the best way to approach the problem was to break it into its component parts – “midnight” and “oasis.”

  He started with “midnight,” wondering whether the word had any consistent usage in terrorist-speak. His quest led him to newspaper stories, scholarly journal articles on jihadism, and web sites (some of which had been set up by people who possessed many more opinions than they did facts) and discussion boards dealing with such diverse topics as Islamic fundamentalism, the work of the National Security Agency, psycholinguistics, and Arab culture.

  He spent almost thirteen hours on it, stopping only for a couple of meals microwaved out of Libby’s freezer, bathroom breaks, and a few brief walks around the condo just to stretch his legs. Morris had made a lot of notes on a legal pad as he worked, but most of what he’d written down seemed of dubious value now. But he had found three different sources that said terrorist code often operated on a mirror system when it came to time. If somebody said 9:00 a.m., it often meant 9:00 p.m. Three in the morning could well refer to three in the afternoon.

  Apply that logic to “midnight,” and you get “noon.”

  But what if the terrorist wannabees going on about “midnight at the oasis” didn’t follow common practice? Perhaps they were smart enough to realize that western eavesdroppers might well be on to the “twelve-hour difference” formula, and had gone with something less predictable.

  Well, he had a small fragment of something as a result of all his work – whether it would prove to be a gold nugget or a fly-covered piece of shit remained to be seen.

  He checked his watch and saw that it was just past 2:00 a.m. Where had the damn day gone – and with only this to show for it?

  All right then – what about “oasis?” He knew what the word meant, of course – anybody who’d ever seen Lawrence of Arabia could tell you what an oasis was. But did America even have any real estate that could be reasonably labeled an oasis? Why would a bunch of terrorists attack America in the middle of the Mojave Desert, or some such? And what if the term wasn’t meant literally, anyway? Morris cleared his search history and began again.

  He actually found a couple of interesting items, and scrawled notes about them on his pad. But the urgency of the matter was dubious, Morris had already put in a long day, and the high-back leather chair that Libby used at her computer was extremely comfortable. He had found that it tilted back about forty-five degrees if you shifted your weight just a little in that direction.

  Eventually, Quincey Morris fell asleep. His dreams were not peaceful.

  Forty-Five

  “WHAT WE NEED to do is keep those guys in Lewisberg under surveillance when they leave that damn hotel,” Fenton said. “Otherwise, everything we’ve done up to now is worth shit.”

  “Where’s the closest FBI field office?” Libby asked. “Would they handle it for you?”

  “Based on what we’ve got right now?” Colleen said. “Not a chance. The Special Agent in Charge of Harrisburg is going to want something better than ‘a friendly witch told us’ if a couple of Bureau agents he’s never heard of call up and ask him for help.”

  Fenton sat slumped in his chair, his face covered by one big hand. Then he dropped the hand, sat up straighter and said to Libby, “Hand me that phone book over there, will you?”

  “Got an idea?” Colleen asked.

  “Maybe, maybe not. I need to think this through and maybe make a couple of phone calls.” He stood up, took the phone book from Libby, and turned toward the door. “I’ll let you know if it pans out. Meantime, either of you comes up with something half-decent, give me a shout. I’ll be in my room.” He went out the door of Libby’s room and let it swing shut behind him.

  Libby turned to Colleen. “What was that about?”

  “I guess if it works, he’ll tell us. If not, it doesn’t much matter.”

  The two women tried to come up with solutions of their own, but they kept running into the barriers posed by time, distance, and the inability to seek help from the rest of the FBI.

  About fifteen minutes later, there was a knock on the door, and Fenton’s voice said, “It’s me.”

  When Libby let him in, he said, “Good thing I’ve got plenty of slack on my Visa card, because this is gonna cost a lot of coin, which I may or may not get reimbursed for.”

  He turned to Colleen. “Better pack, and quick. We’re on a charter flight to Harrisburg that leaves out of Detroit, as soon as we can get to the hangar.”

  Colleen stood and walked to the door connecting Libby’s room with hers. “I’m on it,” she said. At the door she paused and said to Fenton, “Good work, by the way.”

  Fenton showed no signs of leaving, so Libby said, “Aren’t you going to pack?”

  “Already have. I didn’t really unpack yet, so it didn’t take too long.”

  “So you’ve chartered a plane to Harrisburg,” she said. “Then what?”

  “We rent a car and drive north to Lewisburg. Just over sixty miles. Even if Zakkout and his friend – or friends – are early risers, we should be there before they leave the hotel.”

  “And then you’ll follow them in your car.”

  “The technical term is ‘tail,’” he said. “But, yeah.”

  Libby nodded slowly. “Not bad,” she said. “But how will you know Zakkout and company when you get there?”

  “I plan to wave my badge at whoever’s behind the front desk,” he said, “and explain how it is an urgent matter of national security for me to find out if any Middle Eastern gentlemen checked in the day before. If the answer’s ‘Yes,’ my next questions will be about the make, model, and license number of their vehicle.”

  “And what if the answer’s ‘No?’”

  “Then I am gonna feel really, really stupid.”

  “I notice that you didn’t invite me along on this jaunt,” Libby said. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”

  “Apart from the hellish expense for the charter, there’s no real need for a third person on a tail job, Libby. Colleen and I can switch off driving.”

  “What would you like me to do instead?”

  “Go home, fill Morris in, and get your pit-throwing weapons ready. Once Zakkout and his pals light somewhere, I’ll call and let you know.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then you and Morris can come on over and kill us an afreet.”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Libby said.

  Forty-Six

  MUJAB RAHIM, WHO was known in some parts of Dearborn, Michigan as Sofian Zakkout, arose at 5:00 for the fajr, the pre-dawn prayer – the first of five occasions for prayer that a devout Muslim observes every day. He had brought his own small alarm clock with him, since he did
not trust the infidels working in this hotel to wake him on time. Most of these Americans knew little of the True Faith and cared even less, more shame to them.

  Rahim unrolled his sajjada, making sure that it faced toward Mecca – a direction that Dr. Nasiri had helped him determine before retiring last night. Then he walked to the bathroom, to perform his morning ablutions before prostrating himself on the mat to pray.

  He had been invited, along with Uthman and Tamwar, to break his fast with Dr. Nasiri at 6:00, the earliest that room service could be induced to deliver food, or so he had been told. Rahim wondered if the hotel’s infidel guests would receive their breakfasts earlier than that, had they wished to.

  As he dressed, Rahim automatically reached for his janbia, normally carried in its sheath within his right side pocket – he would have preferred to wear it on his belt, as was proper, but had been told it was unwise in this country.

  Then he remembered – the janbia had been lost, sometime during their last expedition to butcher a lion, to feed its heart to their greedy afreet. Rahim was uncertain exactly when he and his knife had become separated, but suspected he had left it in the pen in Ohio where they had cut open the old lion, once Uthman’s magic had rendered the creature unconscious.

  The realization had, at first, caused him some anxiety. But he soon realized that there was no way the infidel policemen could tie the knife to him, even if they had found it. Rahim knew about fingerprints, but he was also aware that he had never allowed his own prints to be copied, by anyone. There was no way the knife could be used to identify him. He had not endangered Dr. Nasiri’s great act of jihad, in which he would be privileged to participate very soon now.

  In Dr. Nasiri’s room, which was twice as large as his own, Rahim and the others breakfasted on toast, cereal, hard-boiled eggs, the variety of strained yogurt that the Americans labeled Greek, and strong coffee. Dr. Nasiri had even purchased some of the chocolate-hazelnut spread, known in this country as Nutella, for their toast. But the vacuum-sealed jar had resisted his efforts to open it. Rather than asking one of the others to try turning the lid, he said to Rahim, “Lend me your knife for a moment, brother. If I can get a little air past this misbegotten seal, the problem will be solved.”

  Rahim cleared his throat. “I regret, brother, that I was forced to discard it. The handle had cracked, and it no longer held the blade securely.”

  Nasiri looked at him. “You did not leave it behind in your apartment, did you?”

  Rahim forced a smile that he hoped looked convincing. “Of course not, brother. I dropped it in a public waste can several blocks away, at night when none could see me.”

  Nasiri held the searching look for a moment longer, then found a fork on the room service tray which worked well enough in breaking the jar’s vacuum seal. The matter was forgotten – almost.

  A few moments later, Rahim caught Tamwar looking at him, a slight smirk on the man’s pockmarked face. Clearly he found it amusing that Rahim, who so loved to use the knife, was now without one of his own. Rahim had been ashamed to admit that he had lost his janbia, but he decided to replace it at the first opportunity. Perhaps one day soon he and the new knife would teach Tamwar how unwise it was to mock him, even silently.

  Forty minutes later, they were done eating, checked out of the hotel, and on the road heading east, toward their destiny. Rahim had once asked Dr. Nasiri why they did not enter the City of Lies a day or more in advance of their attack. He had explained, “Their police and intelligence agencies are very vigilant, especially in that city. The less time we spend near the target, the more we reduce our chances of discovery.”

  It was some thirty minutes later that Nasiri, who was driving the big car, glanced in his mirror toward the back seat and said to Uthman, “Is something troubling you, brother? Did you find your breakfast disagreeable?”

  “No, brother, the breakfast was excellent,” the wizard said. “But for several minutes now I have had a feeling of... unease.”

  “What is causing your concern?” Nasiri asked.

  “I do not know. But I sense the presence of a rival magician, someone whose purpose is inimical to my own.”

  “A magician? In this vehicle?”

  “No, brother, it is not so close as that.” Uthman shrugged. “Perhaps it was some enemy living in a house we have passed close to on our drive. If such was the case, my troubled feeling will pass soon enough.”

  Nasiri pursed his lips. “Inform me later if it has not passed. Then we shall seek its cause.”

  “Of course, brother, I will. But it is probably of no consequence.”

  “That has yet to be determined,” Nasiri said.

  Forty-Seven

  AT 7:30 THAT morning, Libby Chastain found herself at Detroit Metro airport – sitting in the passengers’ lounge adjoining Gate 34, and waiting for the Delta clerk to call boarding on her flight to New York. She wondered if it was too early to call Morris, then remembered that he was usually an early riser. Her big purse was on the empty seat next to her. She pulled it toward her and began digging for her phone.

  In Libby’s New York City condo, Morris’s phone began playing its ringtone – a banjo and guitar version of “The Yellow Rose of Texas” recorded years ago by Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs. The telephone, volume set to 2, was in a pocket of Morris’s suit jacket, hanging in a closet near the condo’s door. Meanwhile, in Libby’s comfortable office chair fifty-some feet away, Morris slept on.

  “Howdy. You have reached Quincey Morris Investigation. If you’ve got this number, then you know what I do. If you want me to do it for you, wait for the beep and leave a detailed message. I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Y’all take care, now.”

  Libby frowned. Even if Morris hadn’t gotten up yet, he usually kept his phone near the bed – in this case, Libby’s bed. Well, maybe he was in the shower.

  “Hi, Tex, it’s me. I’m in Detroit – it’s kind of a long story. Anyway, my flight home is due to leave in twenty minutes, which is supposed to put me at JFK around nine. Give me a call, when you get the chance. Bye.”

  Forty-Eight

  IN THE DENNY’S restaurant half a mile from Toledo Express Airport, Mal Peters put down his cup of surprisingly good coffee and said, “I bet Libby is just about going to fall over when you hand this to her.”

  He patted the briefcase on the bench seat next to him. Inside, carefully wrapped in a towel that the Sheraton was probably going to bill him for, was a piece of very old iron about half the size of a dinner plate. To Peters it was just an interesting artifact from the distant past, but Ashley said she could feel the power coming off it, like heat from a furnace. She had assured him that this was the fragment of Solomon’s Seal that the Knights Templar had been hoarding since the Middle Ages. Where they had obtained it was anybody’s guess, but there was a good chance that someone in their Order had looted it from Jerusalem during one of the Crusades.

  “Yes, I think she’ll be pleased,” Ashley said with a satisfied-looking smile. They both kept their voices down, out of long habit.

  Some farmer living within sight of the Knights Templar complex must have heard the Hellfire missiles (a name that amused Ashley no end) exploding, gotten up to see the distant flames, and called 911. Fire trucks had arrived about twenty minutes later, and three State Police cars had shown up shortly thereafter. One of them must have summoned the ambulances, which had begun arriving at the compound just as dawn’s first light revealed the full extent of the carnage. The removal of the dead and wounded had gone on all morning and into the afternoon.

  Peters and Ashley had observed this activity through binoculars from their high vantage point a mile away. They had passed the time by using Peters’s iPhone to locate a place in Bowling Green that rented construction equipment, and to ensure that the John Deere backhoe loader they wanted was available and would be ready for them to pick up later that day.

  The last of the ambulances had departed by 1:00 in the afternoon. The State
Police crime lab people had finished their preliminary investigation and left by 3:15. The last State Police officers to depart had put up a bunch of yellow “Crime Scene – Do Not Cross” tape across both the front gate of the Templar complex and the entrance to the turn-off on Route 25. They were gone by 3:40. Ashley and Peters were excavating the rubble by 4:30.

  Since Ashley had determined during her covert visit to the compound exactly where the fragment of Solomon’s Seal had been kept, she and Peters had not wasted time in fruitless searching. They had found the Seal, and were exchanging triumphant high-fives, by a little after 6:00 in the evening.

  And now it was 8:15 the next morning, after a night of celebratory sex in their hotel room, and the two of them were eating Denny’s scrambled eggs prior to catching the 9:30 plane back to New York.

  “It’s been an interesting trip,” Peters said, “but I’m still not a hundred percent clear why we went to the trouble. I mean, you said Libby had already started fucking you again, right?”

  Ashley gave him one raised eyebrow. “What’s the matter, Peters, jealous? Or are you just pissed because Libby won’t let you join us? I already asked her, I told you that – it’s not my fault she doesn’t do three-ways.”

  “I’m not jealous or pissed,” Peters said. “I’m just wondering about your motives. This isn’t altruism, is it? Not from Ashur Badaktu, Demon of the Fourth Rank, straight from the pits of Hell.”

  Ashley stirred cream into her second cup of coffee. “Libby’s pretty cool, as well as being a great fuck,” she said. “I like her. I like Morris, too.” She sipped coffee and put the cup down. “Hell, I even like you, Peters, when you’re not pissing me off with annoying questions.”