Abducted: A Jake Badger Mystery Thriller (17 page)

Chapter 34

Sunday Evening, Monday Morning

“That part bothers me a lot,”
I said.

“They're using ... What's her
name?”

“Monica.”

“They're using Monica as
bait. And if you take the bait, you'll be walking into a trap.”

“I know.”

He sipped some of his Absolut
and thought for a moment. Finally, he said, “You're good, Jake. Are you good
enough?”

“We'll see, won't we?”

“You need help?”

“You offering?”

“Yes.”

I studied him a moment. “I
appreciate that, Thomas... Or whatever your real name is.”

He smiled.

“I really do. But I think
I've got that part covered.”

He nodded.

“We haven't talked about the
third mission, yet,” I said.

“Ah,” he said. “The third
mission. That was an important one. Ahmad
Marwat
.
A double agent.
He was supposed to be giving information
about the Taliban to us. Turns out he was giving information about us to them.
Not good.”

“If you were in my place and trying
to figure out if they were the ones who did this, who would you ask about it?”

He thought for a moment,
accessing the huge database in his head. After a moment, he said, “There's an
Afghani imam in L.A.
An informant for us.
Something of a double agent.
Goes by the name
Emal
Wardak
. He knows what the
Taliban in the US is doing.”

He gave me the address of the
mosque where
Wardak
led prayers.

“I'll get in touch with him
and let him know he needs to meet with you. He'll call you and set it up. Give
me your cell.”

I gave him one of my cards.

He looked at it and said, “Give
me another. One for him, one for me.”

Cornford
sampled some more of his Absolut.

“So if this is somehow
related to taking out one of their double agents,” I said, “they're putting
ideology aside and engaging in good old fashion revenge.”

“Religious zealots,” he said,
“are subject to human weakness just like the rest of us.”

“And again, instead of going
after the CIA, they're coming after me.”

“Like I said, the agency is
an amorphous entity. You're a tangible.”

“I should have listened to my
father and become a lawyer.”

He laughed a hardy laugh and
said, “Navy pinstripe suit and a briefcase? No. Can't see it. You're a warrior,
Jake. Be who you are. Go get her.”

He took a card from his pocket,
wrote a number on the back of it, shoved it over to me and said, “You need
help, call me.”

He offered his hand. I shook
it. He walked out of the bar.

It was a quarter to ten when
I left the hotel. I thought about getting a room and spending the night but
decided against it. I drove to the airport and found a red eye flight back to L.A.
that had some open seats. I got home a little after two.

I had left Wilson with Heidi,
so I woke her to collect him. I apologized for the late hour. She said not to
worry about it and assured me that I could wake her up whenever I wanted. Heidi
would forever be offering and I would forever be ignoring her, tiny little
nighty and all.

A few hours later, Wilson and
I were up for our run. After breakfast we went to the office, arriving just
before eight. I put on coffee for Mildred and tea for me. Alex called at eight
fifteen and said he was on his way.

Before Alex arrived, I got an
email from
Cornford
. He said he spoke with
Emal
Wardak
and explained the
urgency. The imam would be calling this morning to schedule a meeting. I sent a
thank you reply to
Cornford
, and a couple of minutes
later my cell phone rang.

“Jake Badger,” I answered.

“Mr. Badger.
Emal
Wardak
. Do you know Homeboy
Diner in L.A. at the courthouse?”

“Yes.”

“Twelve fifteen. I will be
wearing traditional Afghani dress. If there are other Afghanis dressed in
traditional garb, I will be the one eating a tuna sandwich.”

“Twelve fifteen,” I said. “Homeboy
Diner.”

He clicked off, and a minute
later Alex arrived. Wilson went to the front door to greet him. Alex gave him a
cookie and then came through the open French doors to my side of the office, put
a box of Krispy Kreme donuts on my desk, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He
helped himself to a donut and sat down in one of my guest chairs. I took a
donut for myself as Alex took a bite of his and sipped his coffee.

“
Cornford
give you anything helpful?” he asked, around the bite of donut.

“He did. We need to go to
Bel
Air this morning and be at Homeboy Diner in L.A. by
noon. Twelve fifteen, actually.”

“Who we going to see in
Bel
Air?”

I explained about Malik and
Bahara
Durrani
and their son
Elias
as I looked up their address online. They lived on
Stone Canyon Road.

“So you want to pay them a
visit and introduce yourself and see how they react.”

“Something
like
that.”

We each had another donut and
by the time we finished, Mildred arrived. I happened to be looking at my bank
of security monitors and saw her approaching the front door. Watching her made
me smile. She was sixty-seven but still moved like a much younger woman. She
was decisive, intentional. After she put her things down, she came into my side
of the office and poured herself a cup of coffee and took a donut.

“I think Krispy Kreme donuts
should be part of our regular morning ritual,” Mildred said.

Wilson woofed. When I looked
at him, he looked at the donuts. So I gave him one.

“See,” Mildred said, “Wilson
agrees with me.”

I told her we'd try to be
back before she left at thee. She said she'd hold down the fort and call me if
anything important came up. It was nine ten when we left. We took my Jeep.

Chapter 35

Monday Morning

The drive to
Bel
Air took about thirty minutes. Alex and I talked part
of the time, but even while we were talking, I was thinking that this was
Monday. Monica had been missing a whole week. Seven days. Seven days of what? Was
she safe? Was she too warm or too cold? Was she hungry? Thirsty? Did she have a
restroom available? Had she been hurt during the capture? Did she need medical
attention? Was she angry with me for not having found her yet? Had she given up
hope?

Every thought I had about her
assumed that she was alive. I couldn't contemplate anything else. She had to be
alive, and I had to find her. I would find her. And I'd find her alive. I knew
that, because whoever took her wanted me to find her. They wanted me and were
using her to get me. That was the reason for the notes. Once they had me, they
planned on killing us both. But they wouldn't kill her until they had me. I was
sure of it. But to find her and then to rescue her without getting either of us
killed, I had to stay focused, to remained detached, logical. I needed to do my
job.

The
Durrani
house was an elegant two story, red brick Tudor style home on several beautifully
landscaped acres. As we drove up we could see that there was a three-car
garage, a pool, and a tennis court. There was a large circular drive that
provided not only access to the front of the house, but guest parking as well.
I pulled into the drive and parked in one of the guest spots.

Alex knocked on the door. A
large man in a black suit opened it.

“Can I help you?” he croaked,
with a raspy voice that allowed not much more than a ragged whisper. His nose
had been broken recently.

Alex held up his badge and said,
“We'd like to speak with Mr. or Mrs.
Durrani
, please.”

The man looked more closely
at Alex’s ID.

“FBI,” Alex said.

The man was clearly not
happy, but croaked, “One moment, please.”

He closed the door. In a
minute and a half—I timed it—the door opened. A short but stout and
serious looking woman with a grim expression on her face said, “How may I be of
assistance to the Federal Bureau of Investigation?”

Alex decided to jump right
in. “Mrs.
Durrani
?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I'm Special Agent Watson and
this is my colleague, Jake Badger. We were hoping we could speak to you and
your husband for a few minutes.”

I was watching her very
closely when Alex said my name. There was no sign of recognition. When Alex
said my name, her eyes met mine. She gave a small smile, accompanied by a small
nod and then pulled her eyes back to Alex.

“Speak to us about what?” she
asked.

We hadn't really discussed
how to answer that question, so Alex was winging it.

“About your son's activities
in Afghanistan,” Alex said.

Mrs.
Durrani
stiffened. “My son was killed seven years ago,” she said. “We have nothing to
say about his activities.”

“The American government has
questions, Mrs.
Durrani
,” Alex said. “And we're going
to ask them. We'd like the experience to be as pleasant as possible. But
pleasant or not, we're going to ask and you're going to answer. Now, we would
like to come in and talk with you and your husband.”

“My husband is very ill. He
has only weeks to live.”

“I'm very sorry to hear that.
All the more reason to talk with him sooner rather than later.”

If her eyes had been daggers,
we'd have bled to death right there on the front porch. But she breathed in a
deep breath of resignation and said, “Very well. Come in.”

She stepped aside and we
stepped into what was one of the most elegant homes I had ever seen.

“Follow me,” Mrs.
Durrani
said, and led us through the entryway into a large
room that served as a hub, providing access to other rooms. At one end of it
was an expansive family room; on one end, a wide, curved staircase that led to
the second story. Mrs.
Durrani
led us up the stairs.
At the top, we turned right and walked probably thirty feet, where we entered a
master suite that was bigger than my entire apartment. In a king-sized
four-poster bed sat a shriveled little man whose facial expression said he was
not a man to be trifled with, even in the face of imminent death.

“What is the meaning of this?”
Mr.
Durrani
asked, grumpily, with all the force he
could muster ... which wasn't much.

“This is Agent Watson,” Mrs.
Durrani
said, “with the FBI. He and his associate, Mr. Jake
Badger, have some questions to ask regarding Elias' activities in Afghanistan.”

He studied Alex and me for a
moment and then turned his gaze to his wife. “You may leave us,” he said to
her.

She nodded and turned and
left the room.

“I do not wish to speak of my
son,” Mr.
Durrani
said. “But since you represent our
government, I will answer your questions.”

It was an effort for him to
talk.

“But,” he said, “I will begin
by telling you this: I am ashamed of what my son did. He became a traitor to
his country because he believed a twisted interpretation of the Prophet’s
sacred words. He got what he deserved for his stupidity and traitorous actions.
So ask your questions. If I can answer, I will …
But
first, allow me to offer you some tea or coffee.”

“That would be nice,” Alex
said.

I felt sorry for him. His son
had obviously broken his heart. He picked up a walkie-talkie and spoke.

“
Ullah
.”

“Yes, Sir,” came the raspy response.

“Bring tea for three, please.”

“Right away, Sir.”

After he had put the walkie-talkie
down, Alex said, “Mr.
Durrani
, when did you realize
that your son was working with the Taliban?”

He was fighting back tears. “Not
until the end,” he said. “He would write us and tell us he was doing humanitarian
work, helping set up medical clinics in outlying villages. We did not know the
truth of his activities until we were notified of his death. A Taliban liaison
notified us of his brave and valued contribution in the holy jihad against the
American infidels. Sickening.”

Silent tears overflowed from
his eyes.

“Mr.
Durrani
,”
I said. “Does Mrs.
Durrani
share your disappointment
in your son?”

He studied me for a moment,
using the time to regain control of his emotions. “She is a mother. A mother's
eyes see only the little boy. Her heart feels only love for the life she
carried inside her.”

“The money you gave your son
after he graduated,” Alex said, “did you have any idea it would be use in
support of the Taliban?”

He frowned at Alex. “Of
course not. I despise the Taliban and all they stand for. They are ignorant
fools,
frightened of everything they do not understand,
including education, democracy, and equality. They believe that God is a
warmonger who values only their culture and their point of view. Stupid fools.”

“Mr.
Durrani
,”
I said, “does the name Monica Nolan mean anything to you?”

He thought for a moment
before he said, “No.”

“Have you ever heard my name
before?” I asked.

“Jake Badger?”

I nodded.

Again he thought. “No.”

“You're sure?”

“I have only weeks to live,”
Mr. Badger. “My body is shutting down. The only part of it that still works
well is my memory. I have never heard your name before, or the name, Monica
Nolan.”

“Thank you, Sir,” I said. “I'm
sorry we had to disturbed you.”

The tea had still not
arrived.

“I apologize for the slowness
of the service,” Mr.
Durrani
said. “We lost one of
our servants a week ago in an accident. The remaining staff has not yet learned
to manage in his absence.”

“What kind of an accident?” I
asked.

“An automobile accident.”

“That how your other man
broke his nose?”

He nodded and said, “Yes.”

He voice was getting softer.
He was getting tired.

Just then, there was a knock
at the door.

“Come,”
Durrani
said.

The man with the broken nose
and the damaged voice brought in a tray of tea. Since it had arrived, we had to
stay and partake so as not to insult Mr.
Durrani
.

As
Ullah
poured the tea, I said, “You have a magnificent home, Mr.
Durrani
.”

“You are very kind,” he said
to me, as
Ullah
handed me a cup of tea.

“Did you design it yourself?”
Alex asked, as
Ullah
handed him a cup of tea.

“Why do you ask?
Mr.
Durrani
asked, pleasure and pride
dancing in his eyes.

“It has some unique features
that one does not usually find in a home like this.”

A smile brightened the old
man's face.

“Yes, I did design it. I had
a local architect in Beverly Hills draw up the plans based on my sketches.”

Ullah
handed Mr.
Durrani
his cup of tea. He took a sip.

“Well,” Alex said, “it's a
design you can be proud of, Sir.”

“Thank you,” Mr.
Durrani
said.

We sipped our tea, and Mr.
Durrani
began explaining some of the unique features of his
home: a temperature controlled wine cellar, a home theater with surround sound,
computer controlled lighting and music through the house, a state of the art
security system, a safe room, strategically placed skylights to allow for a
maximum of natural light, solar panels that provide seventy-five percent of the
energy used to run the household. As he spoke, Mrs.
Durrani
came into the room.

She nodded to her husband,
then to us said, “My husband is tired. He has answered enough of your
questions.”

“
Bahara
,”
Mr.
Durrani
chided with all the displeasure he could
muster.

“My husband,” she said,
deferentially, “it is time for your medicine. And the doctor has said you are
not to exhaust yourself.”

“It is time for us to go,”
Alex said to Mr.
Durrani
. You have been not only a
gracious host, but have been very helpful. We thank you.”

To Mrs.
Durrani
,
I said, “We appreciate your hospitality.”

She nodded to me graciously,
but her eyes could not hide her contempt.

“Please,” she said, “allow me
to show you out.
Ullah
, please attend to Mr.
Durrani
.”

He nodded and she
turned to lead us out
.