Black Ops #1

by William W. Johnstone

  “Something like that,” Nighthorse agreed.

  “Is there something significant about two ‘people of interest’ booking a flight to Los Angeles?”

  “Yes. First of all, we have reason to suspect these two of having something to do with the explosion on board Bert Mossenberg’s private jet.”

  “The FBI hasn’t arrested them?”

  “We have no evidence of any kind, just a strong suspicion,” Nighthorse said. “But we have been bugging their telephone calls, and that’s how we learned that they are planning to fly to Los Angeles.”

  “Do we have any idea why they would be going to Los Angeles?”

  “No. But here is the interesting thing about their booking a flight to Los Angeles. They could have saved two hundred dollars by leaving an hour earlier, and three hundred dollars by going two hours later. That was pointed out to them by the travel agent, but they insisted on leaving at two-fourteen.”

  “Does anyone have any idea why they insisted on leaving at two-fourteen?”

  “Not really,” Nighthorse replied. “But monitored calls have suggested that something ‘big’ is going to happen in Nashville.”

  “Why Nashville?”

  “Why not? It is the center of country music, and country music performers and fans are the very core of support for the war on terror. I’m sure that the terrorists believe that striking a blow there would have as big an impact as nine-eleven did. And, after nine-eleven, we don’t intend to let the slightest clue get by us.”

  “All right,” Art said, getting out of the cart to go to his ball. “I’ll leave this afternoon.” He hit the ball up onto the green, then was rewarded with a long roll toward the cup. The ball dropped in.

  “How about that? An eagle!” Art called out jubilantly, turning toward the golf cart.

  Nighthorse was gone, but there was an envelope on the seat.

  “Damn, Nighthorse,” Art said with a chuckle. “I think you are really beginning to enjoy this spook business.”

  When he opened the envelope, Art found photos of Hohsen bin Hassan, and Soofah Aziz Labib, along with a brief bio of each of them. He also found a photo and bio of Sheikh Muhammad Kamal Mustafa, who was identified as the imam of the Shabihul Mosque in Nashville.

  Although he was born in Qambari Arabia, Mustafa became a nationalized citizen ten years ago. We have no evidence that he has ever, personally, committed a criminal act against the U.S., but he remains a person of interest because of his contacts. He has met, frequently, with Hassan and Labib, and, immediately prior to the bomb that destroyed Mossenberg’s airplane, the meetings were intensified.

  Art examined Mustafa’s photograph. The picture reminded Art somewhat of the Ayatollah Khomeini.

  Looking back in the envelope, he found electronic airline tickets for a flight leaving Ronald Reagan International Airport at seven o’clock this evening.

  “Thoughtful of you, Temple, to give me time to finish my game,” he said, as he started driving toward the fifth hole.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The Shabihul Mosque in Nashville, Tennessee

  Sheikh Muhammad Kamal Mustafa took the telephone call in his office. The caller was Prince Azeer Lal Qambar.

  “I hope I am not disturbing you,” Azeer said.

  “Disturbing me? No, not at all. I am honored that you would call.”

  “Your American citizenship, coupled with your deep faith and commitment to convert all to Islam, makes you a valuable asset to anyone who seeks only to serve Allah.”

  “I am pleased that you would think so,” Mustafa said.

  “How are you coming along with the big operation?”

  “Excuse me, Al Sayyid, but do you think it is wise to discuss such a thing over the telephone?”

  Azeer chuckled. “You need not worry. The Americans would not dare to bug a telephone in a consulate office.”

  “Perhaps so,” Mustafa agreed. “But, rather than go into details, I will just tell you that the plan has been put into operation, and there are two warriors for Allah who are ready to carry them out.”

  “That is good, that is good,” Azeer said. “And it is also good that you are being careful. Especially now.”

  “Why especially now?”

  “I believe there is a rogue element within the American government, and it might cause us trouble. Go online to the site of the New York Chronicle. You will find an article about the star-chamber.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The star-chamber,” Azeer repeated. “It is a term that refers to vigilante justice. Read it, consider all the possibilities, and then get back to me.”

  “Do you believe it will require a cancelation of our plans?” Mustafa asked.

  “Not a cancelation,” Azeer said. “But it may well require a change. I will let you decide that.”

  From the New York Chronicle

  THE STAR-CHAMBER IS BACK

  Ever since Congress passed the U.S.A. Patriot Act, Americans have remained confused and troubled by just what laxity the law allows.

  A recent poll suggests that most Americans back the idea behind the Patriot Act, which gives federal agents more latitude to spy on U.S. citizens and noncitizens while hunting terrorists. But does it go too far? Does it take away some of the freedoms it purports to defend?

  The Patriot Act significantly expanded the power of the federal government by allowing the FBI and CIA to share evidence and by giving terrorism investigators access to evidence-gathering tools that agents in criminal probes have used for years. But for many people, the Patriot Act has expanded into areas never intended by the framers of the legislation. For example, does the Pentagon have the authority to seek out, identify, and then pass summary judgment on people it considers “undesirable”?

  Although this is not spelled out in the Patriot Act, there is some suspicion that the Pentagon is doing just that. Senator Harriet Clayton is investigating allegations that the current administration, along with the Pentagon and Homeland Security, has resurrected the star-chamber, made infamous by the Stuart kings in the seventeenth century for arbitrary, secret proceedings with no right of appeal.

  A movie, filmed in 1983, used the principle of the star-chamber to develop its plot. In the movie, a judge, disgusted with criminals escaping the judicial system via technicalities, instituted alternative methods for punishing the guilty.

  That was fine as far a movie was concerned. But now there is a growing body of evidence to suggest that a star-chamber is being used to combat terrorists, or, more frighteningly, suspected terrorists. For the victims of this crusade have not had their day in court, and thus have not been able to deny their involvement. Mere accusation seems to be enough, as three suspects in recent terrorist events have turned up dead.

  The body of Abdulla Balama Shamat, a rug dealer in Dallas, Texas, was discovered by one of his employees. Shamat was found nude and spread-eagled on top of a stack of rugs. His underwear was stuffed into his mouth, and a playing card, the ace of spades, was found lying on his forehead.

  Last year, the young daughter of an American colonel who was serving in Qambari Arabia on the U.S. embassy staff, was raped, murdered, and found in a similar condition. It is significant that Shamat had been accused by the United States of committing the murder. However, the Qambari government insisted, after a thorough investigation, that Shamat was innocent.

  The other two victims, Balli Daftar Taleb, and Azoon Jabri Shadloo, had also been accused by the U.S. government of murdering American citizens. Taleb was said to be the man who beheaded Bernie Gelb. Chillingly, Talib’s decapitated body was found in his tobacco shop in Springfield, Missouri, again, in duplication of his alleged victim.

  Shadloo was said to have been responsible for the bombing death of seven American children, students in the American Dependent School in Redha, Qambari Arabia. Again, in a bizarre duplication of the crime for which he was charged, Shadloo was killed in a bus bomb explosion in Alabama. In the case of Taleb and Shadl
oo, as was with Shamat, a playing card, the ace of spades, was found, indicating that the same person, acting as a vigilante, had killed all three.

  Is the vigilante working alone, a misguided super-patriot who has it in mind to seek revenge for these crimes? Or, is he working in conjunction with the U.S. government? There are some who insist that he must be, for no single individual would have the investigative re-sourses to be able to locate the three men.

  Some may say “good riddance” with regard to the men who were killed, despite the fact that, without trial and due process, they were found guilty and executed. But the Qambari government insists that it had investigated Shamat, Taleb, and Shadloo and found no evidence to support the charge that any of them were responsible for the deaths with which they were charged. And there are those who say that the Qambaris with their unique perspective on their own society, as well as a more liberal interrogation policy, are better able to conduct an investigation than any that could be conducted by the U.S.

  Mustafa exited the Web site, then sat there for a moment drumming his fingers on the desk alongside the computer as he contemplated the article he had just read. He was convinced that the vigilante, whoever he was, was not working alone. There was no way one man could do all that, without the aid of some government agency, and if that was the case, they might well be aware of the operation he had planned.

  With a sigh of resignation, Mustafa called Hassan and Labib and asked them to come see him.

  “I believe we are going to have to change our plans,” he said when the two men arrived.

  “Why?”

  Mustafa showed them the “star-chamber” article.

  “Do you think this vigilante knows that we are the ones who killed Mossenberg?” Hassan asked.

  “I don’t know,” Mustafa admitted. “But if he does know, then there is a possibility he will also know about our plans to hijack an airliner and crash it into the stadium during a football game.”

  “So what if he does know?” Talib asked. “How is he going to stop us?”

  Mustaffa shook his head. “I don’t know, but he has proven to be pretty resourceful. That is why I think we should change our plans.”

  “But where else can we do something that will have the same impact?”

  “Don’t worry about that. I have an idea,” Mustafa said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Nashville International Airport, Nashville, Tennessee

  Armed with a Homeland Security pass that allowed him access to every concourse and boarding gate, Art wandered around the airport. He had just bought an ice-cream cone and was eating it when his cell phone rang.

  “Jensen,” he said.

  “It’s Temple,” Nighthorse said. “Are you on station?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you might want to give this a listen, we just picked it up.”

  “All right.”

  There were a couple of clicks, and then Art heard a voice.

  “This is Azeer.”

  “Begin your prayers for our martyrs at twelve noon, your time. That is the moment we will separate the infidels from the true believers.”

  “For the glory of Allah,” Azeer said.

  There was another click, and then Nighthorse came back on.

  “Did you hear that?” he asked.

  “Yes. Who was the person talking to Azeer?”

  “That was Mustafa.”

  “I’m confused by the reference to twelve noon,” Art said. “I thought Hassan and Labib had booked a flight for two-fourteen.”

  “They have. But that may have been to throw us off the path.”

  “That is a possibility,” Art agreed. “Or, they may have changed their plans for some reason.”

  “Changed them, but not canceled them,” Nighthorse said. “Don’t forget, there is still that reference to twelve noon, and separating the infidels from the true believers.”

  “Twelve noon, eastern,” Art said. “That’s eleven o’clock here.”

  “Yes, well, what is happening there at eleven?”

  “Nothing,” Art said. “It’s Sunday morning. About the only thing going on is . . .” He paused in midsentence for a moment, then said, “Church. I’ll be damned. When he is talking about separating the infidels from the true believers, he has to be referring to Christians or Jews. And since today is Sunday, he’s talking about Christians. They are going to bomb a church.”

  “What would that accomplish for them?” Nighthorse asked. “I mean, how big of an impact could that possibly have? Unless you’ve got a church with a couple thousand people.”

  “Don’t forget, you are talking Nashville, Tennessee,” Art said.

  “You are saying there is a church that big in Nashville?”

  “Oh yeah,” Art replied. “The problem now is to determine which one is the biggest.”

  “Yes,” Nighthorse answered. “And you better find out by twelve.”

  “By eleven, here,” Art corrected. “I’d better get going.” He punched off the phone before Nighthorse could even respond.

  Finding a telephone bank, Art started searching through the yellow pages for churches. He groaned when he saw that there were 460 Baptist churches alone.

  Deciding that he needed help, he went to the office of the airport manager. The manager wasn’t in, but his assistant was. Art showed him his Homeland Security identification.

  “You don’t mind if I verify that, do you, sir?” the assistant asked.

  “Verify it?” Art had never had any of his special passes questioned before. “Uh, no, go ahead.”

  Art began thinking up excuses he could use when the pass turned out to be a fake. But, to his surprise, after tapping a few keys on his computer, the assistant looked up at him with a smile.

  “It checks out fine. Mr. Jensen, my name is Travis DuPree. How may I help you?”

  Art breathed a sigh of relief, and made a personal reminder to himself to thank Nighthorse for his thoroughness, next time he saw him.

  “Are you a churchgoing man, Mr. Dupree?”

  “What?” Dupree asked, surprised by the question.

  “Church,” Art repeated. “Are you a churchgoing man?”

  “Well, uh, no,” he said. “That is, not as often as I should. May I ask what this is all about? What does it matter whether or not I attend church?”

  “That part doesn’t matter,” Art said. “But what does matter is whether or not you know which church is the biggest one in town.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m not sure,” Dupree started, then stopped. “Wait, I think I know who can tell us though. I have a friend who is very active in his church.”

  Picking up the phone on his desk, Dupree made a telephone call.

  “Stan, oh, good, you haven’t left for church yet. Listen, what is the largest church in Nashville?” There was a pause, and then Dupree nodded. “Thanks, I thought it might be, that’s why I called you. What? No, no particular reason. I’m just talking to a fellow here about churches, that’s all. Thanks.”

  Hanging up the phone, Dupree looked up at Art. “The biggest church in Nashville is Christ Holiness Church of Nashville, a huge, full gospel, nondenominational Christian church. You’ll find it on Church Street, fittingly enough.”

  “Do you know the specific address?” Art said.

  “I can look it up for you,” Dupree said, opening a telephone book. He looked through it for a moment, then wrote the address on a piece of paper and gave it to Art. “Do you need directions?”

  “No, I’ll just put this into the GPS.”

  “Good enough. Oh, and uh, if you don’t mind my asking, why do you need to locate the largest church in Nashville?”

  “No, I don’t mind your asking at all,” Art replied. “Thanks for you help,” he added.

  Dupree looked on in surprise as Art left without answering his question.

  At the car rental agency, Art rented a car that had a GPS, then, getting the car, punched in the address and left the airport. Acco
rding to the GPS, he had only 8.3 miles to go, and most of it would be on I-40.

  Art accelerated to ninety miles per hour once he was on I-40, moving in and out of the flow of traffic, thankful that it was a Sunday and not a normal day. He almost missed exit 210-C, skidding past it, and having to back up on the shoulder. Several cars honked at him as they passed by, the horns expressing the anger of the drivers.

  Art roared down the exit onto Second Avenue. This was downtown so he had to slow down considerably. Nevertheless, he covered the last mile in just over a minute, then turned onto Church Street, where he saw the church in front of him.

  Christ Holiness Church was a huge church, and the traffic that had been relatively light on the interstate, and on Second Avenue, was so heavy with arriving cars that police were in front, directing traffic. Art parked in a no-parking fire zone, just across the street from the church.

  One of the policemen, seeing where Art parked, blew his whistle and waved for him to move.

  Art remained in place.

  The policeman blew his whistle again, and waved, more urgently this time.

  Art still didn’t move.

  The policeman came toward him, the expression on his face reflecting his anger.

  “What’s the matter with you, mister? Are you blind?” the officer asked. “You can’t park here.”

  Art showed the officer his FBI ID card, confident that it, like his Homeland Security ID card, was the real thing.

  The policeman looked at it, and some of his anger dissipated.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, handing the card back.

  “We have word that one of our most-wanted may show up at this church today,” Art said. “I don’t want to disturb all these good folks at their worship, but I’m going to have to go in there and have a look around, and when I come back, I may need to get to the car right away.”

  “I don’t know,” the policeman said. “This is a fire safety zone.”

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ll leave a key with you. If there is a fire and you have to move the car, go ahead and do it.”