“No, thank you, and please call me Hafsah. May I call you John?” She asked, as she selected a chair.
“John, if you’ll excuse me, I have a matter requiring my immediate attention,” Christine said.
“OK, say hello to Tony for me.” I replied, sitting down myself. I figured Christine was going to call her boyfriend, Tony Escalante. Tony is also my best friend and the detective Lieutenant in the Robbery Homicide Division of the Tyler PD.
As Christine left the room, she glanced over to Ms. Mohammad and made a face at me. I wasn’t sure how to interpret her expression.
Women. Go figure.
I studied Ms. Mohammad for a moment. I liked everything I saw. Her appearance, her poise and even the sound of her voice were appealing. That was all well and good, but there was something about her which I found disquieting. Something she’d awakened in me. What was it about her that had such a strong, nearly staggering effect on me?
“Forgive my asking, Ms. Mohammad, where are you from?”
“I take it you have observed I am not from here, John. Please call me, Hafsah. Where do you think I might be from?”
“Your clothing is expensive and rather European, designer?”
She smiled. “The dress and shoes are Soporo of Paris. You really are perceptive.”
“Maybe, but you are not from France.”
“Pourquoi dites-vous cela?”
“I’d say you were born in the Middle East, and learned to speak both French and English there.”
She raised her delicate eyebrows.
“Full marks, John.”
“You’re Lebanese, I think, although your name is Egyptian.”
She shrugged. “My mother was Lebanese. I am a woman of the world.”
“Should we talk about your father?”
She scowled at me.
“No. I did not come here for that.”
I studied her some more. I found the process…enjoyable. She became aware of my gaze and, perhaps made uncomfortable by it, shifted in the upholstered armchair. My embarrassment brought me back to my senses.
“How can we be of assistance?”
“I am looking for a relative. I have reason to believe he has come here, to Tyler. Perhaps you can help me find him?”
“A relative…?”
“Yes, he is my cousin, actually. His name is Nazim.”
“Nazim Mohammad?”
She shook her head.
“His name is Nazim Bahadur. He is here on business. We have not heard from him since his arrival. As you will understand, we have some concern for his… well-being.”
I observed her body language and decided she was guarded. She was only telling me part of the story.
“When did he arrive?”
“Perhaps within the last week, give or take a few days.”
“…Perhaps? You don’t know when he arrived? How did he get here? If he traveled by plane I’d think you’d know his itinerary.”
“This is why I am seeking your assistance, John. My cousin Nazim is a musician and something of a free spirit. He hatched this silly plan to pass himself off as a Mexican immigrant. His physical appearance supports the ruse, and recently he spent some time in Spain where he learned to speak acceptable Spanish. A few weeks ago, he flew into Mexico and we believe, shortly later he crossed the border with a hired guide.”
“Coyote,” I said.
“Pardon me?”
“They’re called coyotes. The hired guide you referred to.”
“Ah yes, so they are. My cousin is probably calling himself, Nat Baha. It is a stage name, the name he performs under as a musician.”
“Let me see if I understand what you just told me. You say your cousin, a man named Nazim Bahadur, came into the US by sneaking across the border from Mexico. He’s pretending to be someone named Nat Baha. He presumably came to Tyler, but you don’t know exactly when he got here, or where he is now. Is that about right?”
“To sum it up, yes, those are the pertinent details. Do you think you can help me ascertain his whereabouts?”
Talk about a tall tale! This nearly took the cake. Why in the world would someone go to such elaborate risks just to come to Texas?
“Maybe you should go to the police.” I suggested.
“That would seem logical, but it would not be my first choice. You do understand he is here in your country illegally? Given the concerns about certain people from the Middle East sneaking into America by crossing the border with Mexico, I can hardly go to the authorities.” She looked deeply into my eyes.
I was lost for a moment. The connection really was staggering. Something like an electric current swept through me. My past and future whirled around and seemed to re-align. This had never happened before. There was something at work here beyond my understanding. I’ve learned to guard my heart. My normal modus operandi is to remain aloof, maintaining professional distance. In her eyes I found something that shook the foundation of my self-built isolation.
“How is it you haven’t heard from him for so long?” I managed.
She closed her eyes and broke the connection. Pausing for a moment, she blinked and swallowed, as though somewhat shaken herself. She recovered quickly, clearing her throat.
“As I said, he is a free spirit. At times, he can be rather… unpredictable. This is all a lark to him.”
“You say he’s here on business. Does he have business contacts here?”
“I believe so. He is supposed to be visiting someone in the music business. Someone who can help him get a recording made, but there is a family matter requiring his immediate attention. So, I must find him as quickly as possible.”
“What sort of family matter?” I asked.
She stiffened a bit, as though offended by the question, “A death in the family, John, I’m sure you understand.”
Alarm bells were ringing in my head. Had she just told me more than she intended? No, I was pretty sure she’d phrased her response with precision. If I understood her implied intentions, why had she been sent to me?
Nodding slowly, I said, “Yes, Hafsah, I think I’m beginning to.”
After I escorted her out to handle the business arrangements with Christine, I returned to my office and considered the implications of what she’d told me.
Something about her story didn’t pass the sniff test. More disturbing was the effect she’d on me. In her presence I’d become somehow vulnerable to feelings and sensations I’d long since learned to ignore. How had she slipped past my defenses? The phenomenon had hit me like a bolt of lightning. Did she know what she was doing? Could it be some form of deliberate ploy, or a just a weird physical reaction, like an allergy? No matter how I looked at it, one thing was very clear.
This case would be interesting on several levels.
3
Waiting for the elevator, Hafsah turned and looked back up the hallway to the office she’d just exited. As directed, she’d set out to hire a local private investigator to help her make connections in the small Muslim community in this East Texas town. The interview hadn’t gone as expected. Although she was thoroughly familiar with the colorful, if somewhat strange facts, outlined in the dossier provided. Even after being generally briefed about the man. For all her information and preparation, she’d still been caught completely off guard.
Hafsah Bashir thought of herself as a professional business woman. She managed companies staffed with executives she herself hired. Dealing with capable and strong men in high profile positions was a routine part of both her business and personal life. She was used to establishing agendas and achieving objectives. She was adept at maintaining professional distance and reading the men with whom she did business. Hafsah knew when to be assertive and when to be coy. Her skill set included the full complement of feminine charms, coupled with a laser like focus on achieving a specific outcome. Hiring a small-town PI should’ve been virtually beneath her. What had just happened?
From the moment she met John Wesley Tu
cker, she’d been swimming in deep waters. She’d intended to inform the man of her requirements, determine the schedule of services provided, and settle the fee structure. At first glance the man appeared athletic, but otherwise ordinary. She worked with men like him all the time. But, when she made eye contact with him, the connection had been nearly overwhelming. It was as if he was looking into her soul, seeing her, the whole her—completely open and unprotected, and for her part—she welcomed it!
In his eyes she saw a depth and intelligence beyond any she’d ever seen. More than that, there was so much kindness, acceptance and compassion mixed with some sort of sorrow in his gaze, she found herself almost irresistibly drawn to him. It took all her professional training and commitment to the mission to keep herself on course. Even so, she’d lost control of the conversation. The next thing she knew, she was standing out here in the hallway!
The ding of the arriving elevator was like the sound of the bell at the start of another round in a boxing match. It cleared her head and got her back in the fight.
Maybe she was just hormonal. Whatever, she’d things to do. She’d to find her recalcitrant quarry and she’d to find him fast. For the last three months she’d been searching, picking up his trail only to find he’d already moved on. She nearly caught up with him in Spain, but he slipped away. Now she was two weeks behind him. It was time to stop following him and get out ahead of him.
John Wesley Tucker was just another tool in her toolbox. Either he would help her achieve her goal, or be discarded in favor of someone more capable.
It was strange. As she left the building, she experienced the oddest sensation. It was almost as though she wanted to turn around and go back up to the man’s office. It was as if she felt diminished or somehow less herself, the farther she moved away from him.
What was happening to her?
4
When Priscilla Davidson came out of the daycare building, a little after five that evening, she found me leaning on her car door.
She slowed as she recognized me, stopping several feet away.
I flashed what I hoped was my least threatening and most charming smile.
“Hi, Priscilla, I’m John Wesley Tucker. You remember me, right?”
“Sure, you’re the private eye. What do you want?”
“I was wondering if you’ve talked to Rosie, maybe today.”
“Maybe.”
“Un uh. Try again. Did you talk to Rosie today?”
“Yeah, so?”
“So, that’s a good thing. It seems you’re the only person she communicates with. We need you to keep us in the loop.”
“Us, who?”
“Her mother and me, of course.”
“Have her mother call me. I need to get going.” She started toward me like she meant to push me out of the way.
“Is Rosie safe?”
That stopped her. Her mouth firmed into a thin line, her eyes flashing cold fire.
“Safer than at home.”
I nodded and uncrossed my arms, still leaning on her driver’s side door.
“I was afraid it might be something like that.”
“Like what? You don’t know anything.”
“Enlighten me.”
It was Priscilla’s turn to cross her arms, wrapping them around her purse. Her body language telling me she was insecure and defensive.
“Let’s just say there’s a reason she ran away with Jimmy.”
“OK, let’s just say there is. Go ahead and tell me why.”
“Can’t”?
“Can’t or won’t?”
She shrugged.
“Whatever. Are you going to let me go?”
I nodded and stood up.
“Yes, but I want you to know I’m only trying to help. Your secret is safe with me.”
“That’s what I told Rosie.”
“You’ve been a good friend. If there’s anything I can do to help Rosie and Jimmy, or you, I will.” I handed her one of my cards, the real one with my business name on it. “Give them my number and tell them to call me at any time, if they feel like they’re in danger or just need to talk to someone.”
Priscilla looked at my card then back up at me.
“How do I know you won’t go telling Mr. Ferguson where they are?”
I winked at her.
“Because I don’t know where they are. You and I both know that won’t last much longer. I’ll tell Mrs. Ferguson they’re both safe, for now. Goodbye, Priscilla.”
I started to walk away.
“What about Mr. Ferguson?”
I looked back over my shoulder. “What about him?”
Priscilla just shook her head as she unlocked her car door and ducked inside.
As she drove away, I wondered if I should’ve stood my ground and dug a little deeper. When I gave her my card and told her to give it to Rosie and Jimmy, she forgot she was supposed to tell me she didn’t know where they were. I now knew, sure as shooting, she would be paying them a visit.
5
I was sitting in my living room watching a discussion on CNN. The program was about America in the 21st century. There were four people on the panel, each a well-known commentator on politics and social issues.
There was a knock on my door, so I turned the TV off. I didn’t need to hear the four commentator’s opinions. There is no end of opinions. Americans tend to be myopic. In the context of the light revealed in ancient scriptures, where do human beings on this planet see the condition of the world at this point in their limited understanding of time? Now that would be a discussion worth watching, but we’ll never see it on a major news network. The subject would probably be treated as amusing entertainment on the History Channel, Discovery or even the Comedy Channel.
I found Department of Homeland Security agent Jack McCarthy waiting on the landing outside my door. This wasn’t a surprise visit, I’d been expecting him. I wasn’t expecting him to come in disguise.
“Is it clean?” He asked.
I knew he wasn’t referring to my standard of domestic sanitation. He wanted to know if my apartment was free of electronic listening devices or hidden cameras.
Jack is paranoid like that.
I nodded, but turned the TV back on, anyway. The noise would prevent anyone from being able to monitor our conversation from outside the apartment.
“That’s some get-up,” I said. “It’s not Halloween yet. Are you trick or treating?”
Jack now sported a bushy mustache and he’d gained about forty five pounds since I’d seen him earlier in the day. I knew the glasses he wore were not prescription. He was carrying a stuffed paper grocery bag from a Brookshire’s supermarket.
Jack shrugged and said, “Better safe than sorry.”
“Is all this cloak and dagger stuff really necessary?”
“I don’t know who might be watching your apartment.”
“Oh come on, really?”
He made a face. “Wait till you hear what I have to tell you.”
“Well then, let’s get to it.”
We both took seats on the antique sofa, still upholstered in the original speckled cowhide from when I’d first acquired it. Jack pulled photos and documents out of the grocery bag, spreading them out on the old steamer trunk I used as a coffee table. He got straight to the point.
“You were right. Her name isn’t ‘Hafsah Mohammad’. It’s Hafsah Bashir.”
We were looking at a still photo taken from the video my office security cameras had recorded earlier in the day. There were several other pictures.
“Her mother was Lebanese and her father Egyptian. Long story short, we’re pretty sure she’s an Israeli intelligence asset. We believe she works for Mossad.”
“Yeah, I figured it was something like that.”
“We knew she was here in the U.S. She flew into L. A. six days ago. Then she disappeared.”
“Mighty easy for people to disappear, even with you Homeland Security types watching, isn’t it?”
<
br /> “She’s a pro, John. She has contacts and resources all over the world. DHS has to watch a lot of people.”
“I understand. I’m just rattling your cage.”
“This guy,” Jack said, tapping another photo, “is Nazim Bahadur, a/k/a Hakim Muktallah. This is the most recent photo we have, and it’s a couple of years old. Born Saudi, but he has several passports and claims Islam as his only nationality. He’s a bad, bad boy who dropped off the radar about six weeks ago. He was on the active radar because he’s probably responsible for a number of killings of Israelis and others, in various locations around the world. Muktallah is the prime suspect in that murder in Barcelona where several people, including the French Ambassador’s wife and child, were machine gunned to death. It wasn’t called ‘terrorism’ at the time, because it was thought he was just one man acting alone. A couple of days later, the Caliphate claimed responsibility for it. By then, he’d already disappeared from Europe. He’s like a damned magician, the way he vanishes. However he got into Mexico we missed him. He must’ve been using a new alias. I don’t have to tell you what all this means.”
“Hafsah said he uses the name Nat Baha. Probably has a passport in that name.”
“Could be, it would explain why he was able to escape Europe and why we missed him in Mexico. We’ll add that name to the list.”
“Where was this Mr. Baha trained?” I asked.
“His past is sketchy. We believe when he was still just a teenager, he left Saudi Arabia to fight with the Taliban in Afghanistan and Pakistan. Since then, he’s been in Lebanon, Syria, Iraq, Yemen, even Sudan. He’s trained ISIL fighters and members of Hezbollah. Over the last two years or so, he’s traveled the world killing enemies of Islam. He’s been everywhere.”
“How is he funded?”
“His family is wealthy, but our sources say they’ve cut their ties with him. He’s probably burned through whatever money he’d. We believe the Islamic State is funding his missions”
“Do you think he’s really here, now?”
“What do you think?”
“I think there wouldn’t be any reason for Mossad to send an agent into East Texas, without alerting our intelligence people, if he weren’t here.”
The Ticking Clock Page 2
