I shrugged.
“I understand. It seems to be an opinion that’s growing in popularity. I hear someone saying the exact same thing, nearly every day, lately.”
“I’m sorry. I do not mean to offend you, John. Your beliefs are your own business. I would simply appreciate it if you would not impose them on me.”
“If we’re going to work together, it’s important we understand each other.”
“Yes, it is.” She agreed, once again meeting my eyes.
When she did that, looked into my eyes, it was as if we’d always known each other. It was as if we always would. When she was looking into my eyes nothing else mattered.
“Where do you live?” I asked.
“I have a small villa in Italy, a pension in the Swiss Alps, an apartment in L.A., another in New York City, another in Paris and there is my family home in Alexandria. As I said, I am a woman of the world.” She broke our eye contact.
“So you work for Mossad, but you don’t live in Israel?”
“I seldom even visit in Israel. Because I am a business woman; I have activities that take me all over the world. Most of the time, I am traveling. So, I don’t actually live anywhere. When Mossad has something I can help with, I do. Otherwise, my time is my own. The work I do for Mossad is clandestine. You are one of a very small number of people who have this knowledge. You will have to tell me exactly who told you about my involvement with them.”
“In a way, you did.”
“You may have gotten some idea, but someone has told you specifically. My work with Mossad is a well-kept secret. Who has told you this?”
“I can’t say.”
“Then why should I trust you?” She was angry, once again looking into my eyes.
I sensed there was more to the question than her words indicated.
“You know why.”
She looked away again. “I suppose I have no choice.”
“Trust is always a choice.” I said.
She considered my comment for a moment, then changing the subject, she asked, “How do you see this search getting started?”
“I have some ideas. Tell me about this business of calling himself Nat Baha. Is he really a musician?”
11
Nat Baha watched the six men crawling through the tall grass and weeds of the abandoned hay meadow. Each carried an assault rifle cradled in his arms. They crawled across the field, nearly pressed against the earth by the weight of the packs each man carried on his back.
These men only knew him by the name Nat Baha. Others knew him as Hakim Muktallah. He’d used various names, but in every operation he always assumed the persona of the man he was expected to be. Here, he was Nat Baha.
Today he trained his band of fighters in guerilla warfare techniques. Tonight he and four of them would practice together as a band of skilled musicians. Each was important to Nat Baha and he would accept nothing less than the best effort from each man under his command. His plan required it.
He’d chosen this part of the field because he knew it would be the most difficult to traverse. It was full of the plants the locals called sand burrs, sticker burrs or grass burrs. Whatever they were called, the dark brown seed pod was not much bigger than a BB, but there were at least a dozen per plant and each was covered with wickedly sharp and hardened barbs.
Also dotted here and there throughout the field one could see the dirt mounds raised by the burrowing fire ants. He himself had made the mistake of standing too close to one of those mounds when he was being smuggled in from Mexico. The fire ants had swarmed up his legs and bitten him in scores of places. Each bite caused a stinging-burning pain that left him marked with tiny pustules at each location.
He’d had to drop his pants and quickly brush the ants off his legs, stomping them as he loosened them from his socks and shoes. He’d killed hundreds of the ants that day, stomping on them with his pants around his ankles, as the Coyote laughed at the spectacle.
It was the Mexican’s last laugh.
“Enough! Assemble here.” He called. It would do no good to exhaust the men or risk an injury that would interfere with their playing. It was approaching the time for the fourth prayers of the day.
The men climbed to their feet. They took a moment to pull the fabric of their pant legs away from where they were pinned to their knees, in the same way the sleeves of their jackets were pinned to their arms by the barbs of the grass burrs so prolific in this field. One by one they began to walk back over to where he stood in the shade of the giant sweet gum tree at the edge of the hay meadow. As they walked, each man was gingerly removing the burrs embedded into the flesh of their hands. The searing pain wasn’t permanent, but it was intense. Their clothes were covered with the blackish burrs, each of which must likewise be picked off by hand. The grass burrs couldn’t be removed without the men being stabbed in their fingertips in the process. The men winced and cursed as they walked toward him.
These men were all American citizens and Texans, either by birth or naturalization. All of them were familiar with the burrs and the fire ants. The point of the exercise was to toughen them and drive home the importance of continued forward movement, while ignoring the pain.
Nat Baha considered Americans soft.
From the time he was a teenager he’d lived in camps and caves. He’d fought beside men hardened by life in hostile environments. His chosen life required that he endure great deprivation and hardship.
None of these Americans had suffered what he’d. Yet, in all but one of them, he found a sincere dedication to the call of jihad. Other than the one exception, these men were not posers or sycophants. They were ready to fight and die for the cause of Allah.
Their hatred for the corrupt and depraved culture around them was hidden to their friends and neighbors, but resolute within them. They were committed to punish the American infidels for the injustice they had allowed their government to perpetrate against Muslim countries and people around the world.
He nodded at the men now standing in line before him.
“You are almost ready. This is good because the time is at hand. Very soon now we will strike. Allahu Akbar!”
“Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!” The men shouted in unison.
“Now my brothers it is time to prepare for Salat.” Nat Baha said.
*******
At the core of Islamic life is adherence to the five pillars of Islam as taught and demonstrated in the life of the Prophet Muhammad– may his name be honored forever. These five pillars begin with the Shahada, the essential declaration that there is only one god and Muhammad is his prophet. The second pillar is the ritual prayers spoken five times a day, called Salat. The third pillar is Zakat, the giving of one’s income to the poor and needy. The practice of fasting and self-control during the holy month of Ramadan is called Sawm. The fifth pillar, the Hajj, is making a pilgrimage to Mecca at least once in your life, if at all possible.
Because Salat must always be preceded by ritually washing the face, hands, and feet, Nat Baha dismissed the men to get cleaned up.
The old hay meadow was on the edge of the training camp. The camp consisted of a two bedroom bunkhouse with a living area, kitchen and bathroom. Outside, a steel cargo container could be sealed against the weather or any kind of varmint. This was where the supplies and weapons were stored. There was also an old hay barn which was little more than a rusty steel frame with a corrugated metal roof. Because this had been a hunting camp there were three bunk beds in each of the bedrooms. Nat Baha lived here with one of the other men. The other trainees came and went to and from their homes and jobs. The barn was now used as an outdoor assembly hall, classroom and place of common prayer.
As the men rolled out their prayer mats, Nat Baha sang out the call to prayer, in Arabic.
“Allah is most great! I bear witness there is no god but Allah. I bear witness Muhammad is the prophet of Allah. Come to prayer. Come to wellbeing. Prayer is better than sleep. Allah is most gre
at. There is no god but Allah!”
The Salat also involves bowing toward Mecca while reciting memorized prayers and sections of the Quran, spoken in Arabic. As the standing men got down on their still tender hands and knees, Nat Baha observed both their discomfort and their devotion. Before the next full moon, their true devotion would be put to the test.
12
I was down on my hands and knees, waiving one of my sensors over an electrical outlet in the wall near her desk, when Christine came into the office.
“John, are you looking for a bug?”
I scowled at her and held my finger to my lips, indicating she should be quiet.
She rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“You’ve got to be kidding.” She said.
When I’d completed my sweep, concluding there were no listening devices in our offices that were not our own, I went back to the outer office to talk to her.
“Christine, I have something I need to tell you. This is so confidential; at first I was afraid to even tell you, at all. That’s why I was sweeping the office. I’m still tempted to have this conversation somewhere else…”
“Then, let’s do that,” she said.
“Excuse me? I just swept the place. It should be OK.”
“Should be, isn’t good enough. Let’s go get some coffee at Starbuck’s or somewhere like that.”
I pulled my head back.
“… Really?”
“Really, really, if there’s something that important to talk about, let’s not take any chances.”
“I swear, you’re becoming as paranoid as I am.”
“Thank you, I’ll take that as a compliment. Shall we?”
“Sure, why not.”
We decided to drive over to the mall which was less than five minutes away. Once inside, we found a bench in the central courtyard. We could smell the odd mix of Chinese food, pizza, cookie dough and soft pretzels wafting from the nearby food court. With the fountain splashing behind us, we could sit close to each other and talk privately while dozens of people were moving all around, chattering to each other and paying no attention to us. It was as though our ordinary appearance wrapped us in a cloak of invisibility.
“This was a good idea.” I admitted, quietly.
“Duh, I have those now and then you know. Besides, when you were sweeping the office I’ll bet you didn’t check the most obvious weak point.”
“And that is?”
“The security cameras are linked to our computers. They were watching us and recording everything we were saying. Did you get up into the ceiling to see if there was any kind of signal booster, or look for some kind of hack in thingy?” She asked.
“Hack in thingy?”
“You would know more about that than I do. It’s possible isn’t it?”
I slowly nodded in agreement.
“Yeah, it sure is, and so obvious, I can’t believe I didn’t even consider it.”
“Well, that’s sort of the whole point of hidden electronic surveillance, isn’t it?”
I chuckled and grinned at her. “Pretty much, yeah, or so I’ve heard.”
Christine smiled back.
“So what is this big secret?”
“That’s just it. It is a secret. You might even say its top secret.”
Concern was now evident in her eyes. “Does this have something to do with the CIA or the federal government?”
“No, not exactly, and… well, sort of.”
”Then, I don’t want to know anything about it.” She held up a hand to stop me from speaking further.
“Christine, this is important and I don’t want to hide anything from you.”
“That’s good enough for me. The less I know the better.”
I thought about her statement for a moment. This was contrary to the way we did business. We always talked about every aspect of every case. I was stunned by her reluctance to be read in on the details of this one.
“Why? We don’t keep secrets from each other. What’s bothering you?”
“What’s bothering me? Do I need to remind you of what happened the last time we were involved with a government agency? That was just the FBI. I don’t want to have anything to do with spooks and spies. Nothing! Are we clear on that?”
“You’ll understand if I behave strangely, or disappear for periods of time…”
“You do what you have to do, and I’ll cover for you at the office.”
“Christine, I…”
She held up her hand again.
“I trust you, John. Are you sure this is something you should be involved in?”
I looked at the floor for a moment. The loss of Gary was partially due to me trusting the wrong man. I’d believed the FBI Special Agent would honor his promise to keep Gary safe. Now I was getting involved with another federal agency with close ties to the FBI. I understood her feelings. But this was a different case, and the lives of countless unknown people hung in the balance.
I nodded my head. “Yes, it is. I have to do this.”
“Then do it to the glory of God.” She said.
“OK, Thanks. I hear you.”
“I mean it, John, I’ll do whatever you need me to do, but I neither need nor want to know the details, OK?”
“That’s more than I could’ve asked of you.”
“Enough said. What can I do for you?”
“As you know, I’m trying to help Hafsa find her cousin. His name is Nat Baha, and he’s a musician. He arrived here without his instrument, so he’ll be looking for a guitar…”
“… Electric or acoustic?” she asked.
“He performs with an electric guitar, but he also plays acoustic. He’s a jazz and blues man, thinks he’s the next Stevie Ray Vaughn. Can you imagine, a middle eastern blues man?”
“So you want me to research the local pawnshops and musical instrument stores, to see if he’s shopping for a guitar?”
I nodded. “Exactly, and he may try to hook up with a recording studio or someone who can get him into a recording studio.”
“Well, Tyler isn’t Nashville or even Austin, but there are some places I can investigate. Willie Nelson and ZZ Top did some recording here.”
“Really?”
“That’s the rumor. Miranda Lambert is from Lindale, and there are several other professional musicians living in the area.”
“I’d no idea.”
“That’s because you don’t get out much. You might want to consider taking Hafsah somewhere fun.”
“We’re not dating, she’s just a client.”
Christine looked me in the eye.
“That lady isn’t ‘just’ anything, and I’ve seen the way you look at her.”
“Christine…”
She held up her hand. “Ok, I’m just saying…”
When we stood up to leave, I saw the crowd around us with new eyes. These were colorful people shopping and socializing, acting out, checking each other out, and just getting on with their lives. Young and old, rich and poor, a multicultural mix of people, I sensed their vulnerability. Somewhere in the shadows, a predator lurked. Somewhere nearby a wolf was plotting the slaughter of these sheep, and the clock was ticking.
13
I called Tony for an update on the mess I’d left him with.
“Hey, Tony, I have to ask, did you make a positive identification of the shooting victims we found.”
“Yes, we did. I’m sorry, J.W. It’s bad news.”
“Have you notified the girl’s parents?”
“Yes. It was my unfortunate duty to tell them their daughter and her supposed abductor, were both deceased.”
“I wonder why they didn’t call me? Wait a minute. You said ‘supposed abductor’. You know Jimmy Duncan didn’t take Rosie against her will. Was it a murder suicide?”
“Officially, this department is conducting an investigation into the cause of death. Off the record, J.W., I’m investigating it as a double homicide.”
“So, it wasn’
t a murder-suicide?”
“No, but it was staged to look that way. The girl was shot where we found her on the mattress. The man was shot where we found him, but he didn’t do the shooting.”
“How do you know that?”
“We found Jimmy Duncan’s prints on the revolver we recovered at the scene, but only on the grip and trigger. The rest of the gun’s exposed surface didn’t have print one, not even a smudge.”
“Somebody wiped it and put it in his hand.”
“Five’ll get you ten. Then there’s the fact there was no powder residue on Dunklin’s hands or sleeves. We found residue on his upper chest. He was killed with a single gunshot—point blank under his chin, up through the top of his head. There’s powder burn under his chin. The residue on his chest is consistent with where the gun would’ve been when it was fired, but he didn’t fire it.”
“The evidence would suggest that, but you can’t be certain.”
“Well, there’s more. The lab found finger print smudges on the cylinder where it didn’t get wiped down and there are prints and partials on the cartridges. Those prints don’t match the victim.”
“That’s good work, Tony.”
“Thanks, we do what we can. All that tells us is someone else did the shooting. It doesn’t tell us who.”
“Are you going to question Priscilla Davidson?”
“Already did. She was grief stricken at the news. The coroner put the time of death at about 24 hours before we arrived on the scene. Priscilla was on stage in a school play at that time. Prior to that, she was at her after school job, before that, school. Her alibi is rock solid. So, she’s in the clear, J.W.”
“Hang on a second. You said you only told Rosie’s parents that you’d found the bodies. Did you tell them the circumstances? Do they know where it happened? Did they ask you if it was a murder-suicide?”
“”Huh, can’t think of any questions, can you? No, they haven’t been informed of any of the specifics, including the location of the shooting. As for asking if it was a murder-suicide, Mr. Ferguson as much as told me it was. Maybe they assumed it. I didn’t correct their assumption.”
The Ticking Clock Page 5
