Pursuit Of Honor (29 page)

HAKIM reached down and adjusted the seat a touch more, leaning it farther back. It seemed as if he was feeling better with each passing mile. He’d almost fainted twice during his escape. The first time was going down the steps of the house and the second was when he had to lower himself into the seat of the car. Each time the pain of his broken ribs tearing into the soft tissue of his lungs was almost too much to take. Looking back on it now he was sure that Allah had given him a helping hand. Nothing else could explain his not blacking out from the pain. As he turned onto Highway 65 and headed south a coughing attack almost became a horrific reality, but he forced himself to take slow, shallow breaths.

Now, nearly two hours later, he was feeling pretty good. The big sedan was comfortable and the owner had fortunately left him a full tank of gas. The wind was howling out of the north and he was headed south so he figured he could get in at least three hundred miles before he had to fill up on gas. He was nearing the outskirts of Little Rock, so everything was back to a two-lane divided highway. He’d already blown through several small towns on the journey south. The speed limit went from 65mph to 30mph and he hadn’t even noticed it until some guy standing on the corner motioned for him to slow down. After that mistake he tried to pay more attention. He set the cruise at 68mph and found an AM news station with a strong signal and settled in for the drive. He’d already listened to two local news updates and one national, and there still wasn’t a single mention about anything to do with what had happened in Iowa.

There was one big problem that he needed to deal with and one small one that could become a big one. He needed to go to the bathroom, and under any normal circumstances he’d have found the nearest gas station and made it happen, but he was in such bad shape that he didn’t dare try to get out of the vehicle. Just the thought of the pain that ripped through his body when he’d gotten into the vehicle brought on a wave of nausea. Hakim thought he had a solution, and he began scanning the billboards on the side of the road for the right place.

Sure enough, within a few miles there was a sign for a McDonald’s. Hakim got in line with all the other cars. He checked himself out in the mirror while he waited. He’d found a pair of large sunglasses in the center console, the kind that you saw older people wear over their regular glasses. They were so big they effectively covered most of the bruising around his eyes and also helped age him. He ordered a vanilla shake, large coffee, two bottles of water, a couple of cheeseburgers, some fries, and some extra napkins. He wasn’t hungry, but he thought it would be good to have some food in the car just in case. He filled the cup holders with the shake and the coffee and tossed everything else in the passenger seat. As he was leaving the parking lot he saw two signs that told him Allah truly was looking out for him. The first was a drive-through pharmacy and the second was a full-service gas station. If he filled up now he would have no problem getting across the state line without stopping again.

Hakim pulled up to the line of pumps farthest from the building and waited for a man to come out. It turned out to be a young kid, which was all the better. While the kid topped off the Cadillac’s big tank, Hakim slowly began sipping his vanilla shake. The total came to $38.50. Hakim gave him two twenty-dollar bills and told him to keep the change. As he crossed the busy street and pulled into the drive-through lane at the pharmacy he began thinking about his decision. Hakim had been up and down the Gulf Coast. From the Florida Keys all the way up and around to Brownsville, Texas. He had contacts in a half-dozen cities, none of them Muslims and most of them involved in the illegal trade of drugs. His most trusted contacts, and the ones who owed him the most, were down in Miami, but that was a long drive. Brownsville was as well. In his condition he could never make it to either city without stopping, and that would complicate things. He would have to dump the car because eventually someone would find the murdered couple and report the car stolen.

No, he decided, it would be better to drive to New Orleans. He could make it there in ten hours, arriving well before midnight. He would have to ditch the car and call his contact. There was one other option, and he was tempted to go with it, but he would have to see how things played out first. He picked up some heavy duty aspirin and antibiotic cream at the pharmacy and was back on the highway a few minutes later. Hakim figured when he was done with the shake he’d pee in the cup and then dump it out the window. With his decision to go to New Orleans, though, he needed to make a call. He fished the cell phone out of his pocket and decided to turn it on for the first time.

Hakim set the cruise at sixty-eight miles an hour and held the phone on the steering wheel while he waited for all the various signals to light up. It took about twenty seconds with the phone making some funny noises as it ran through its setup, and then it made a weird chirping noise and the screen told him he had one new message. For a split second, Hakim’s heart sank, and then he realized it was probably one of those messages left by the wireless company. He held the message button down for a few seconds and then heard the phone dialing.

He pressed the speaker button and listened as the computerized voice told him what he already knew-that he had one message. A few seconds later a voice from his not-so-distant past sent a chill up his spine.

“You dare call me a coward. What are you? You sneak out of here like some frightened woman while I am in the shower and leave me to fight for myself. Stuck in the middle of America. You will pay!” Karim sounded so angry Hakim wondered if Ahmed had received a beating for not stopping him. “Allah will make you pay. I will tell everyone that you are a traitor. Nothing more than a woman with a man’s genitalia. And that I’m not even sure about. When I am done with my mission I will find you. I will hunt you like a dog and I will make you endure unimaginable suffering and humiliation. And trust me, I will not fail. I will find you.”

Hakim listened to it again. This time the surprise was gone and with it his fear of Karim. He looked down the highway for a moment and decided to throw caution to the wind. He pressed the callback button on the phone and left it on speaker. It was picked up on the sixth ring.

“I can’t believe you are calling me!” Karim’s angry voice came over the speaker.

“I can’t believe you have your phone turned on. Are you slipping? Are you letting your emotions get the best of all your self-proclaimed military discipline?”

There was an angry laugh and then, “You are running away… just like in Afghanistan. You are a coward.”

Hakim knew he was trying to bait him with lies. “And you are a psychotic killer of innocent people as well as a delusional liar.”

“I speak the truth, as Allah is my witness.”

“You are so arrogant. Allah does not condone what you do. You are not important enough for him to care about you.”

“And you have lost the way. You spent too many days in the West and have been weakened. You are soft. That is why I beat you so easily.”

“We will see who beats who in the end.”

“I am not running. Like Jonah, I am heading into the belly of the beast while you run off to your drug-dealing friends.”

“You mean you are going to kill more innocent people… or will you have Ahmed do it for you like you did the others?” Hakim paused and then answered his own question. “I think you will have Ahmed do it. You love yourself too much to risk being killed.”

“Why don’t you meet me in Washington and find out.”

“I think not. It is my duty to tell the world the true story of the Lion of al Qaeda.”

There was a long pause and then Karim asked, “And what would that be?”

“Why do you not like women?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I think I will tell everyone that the Lion of al Qaeda likes little boys and is afraid to kill real men with guns. He must kill old men and women in the middle of the night like a common criminal.”

There was a long silence. Hakim could hear his friend breathing heavily on the other end. He knew he had him near his breaking point. Hakim smiled to himself and laughed at the phone. “I will tell them how you send other men to their death while you take all the credit and then shoot unarmed boys. I will tell the world that you are an evil little man.”

In a voice seething with anger, Karim said, “I will kill you if it is the last thing I ever do.”

“You will have to find me first, and since you are not very smart that will prove impossible.”

“Maybe I will tell the police about the car you are in. Report it stolen.”

Hakim laughed out loud this time. “Have you ever heard the phrase, it is better to keep your mouth closed and have people wonder if you are stupid than open it and remove all doubt? If you report the car I am driving stolen, and I am arrested, I will simply tell them everything I know about you. I even have a nice photo I could give them.”

Hakim laughed again and then, knowing it would drive Karim insane, he rushed to get in the last word. “I have to catch a plane. Maybe I will call you later. Try not to kill any more innocent people. Good-bye.”

Hakim hadn’t felt this good in weeks. He flipped over the phone and pulled out the battery. Several hundred miles to the north, he imagined Karim breaking more things and throwing another fit. After a moment he thought of Ahmed and hoped his petulant friend did not take out his anger on the Moroccan. Hakim looked down the long, smooth highway and said, “I am free. Free from the torment and stupidity of a man who never should have been my friend.”

AFTER they had managed to collect themselves and stop laughing at their friend’s misery, Harris asked Rapp, “Did you get the photos?”

Rapp had forgotten all about them. He pulled out his BlackBerry and found the email Harris had sent him several hours earlier. He waited for the photos to come up on the screen and then scrolled down. The first man he didn’t recognize, but the second one looked an awful lot like a certain Moroccan he’d seen in a photograph provided by Catherine Cheval. Rapp scrolled back up to the first photo and wondered if it was possible. Could this be the Lion of al Qaeda? He felt as if he were holding the winning lottery ticket.

Harris saw the change in Rapp’s expression and asked, “What is it?”

Rapp lowered his BlackBerry and tried to figure out how much he could reveal. There was no way he could sit on this information. Iowa, he thought to himself. The bastards had gone to the middle of the country to hide out.

“What do you know?” Harris asked impatiently.

“Let me check with a few of my sources.”

Harris studied him with the eyes of a career lawman. “You’re holding back.”

Rapp hesitated. That he was holding back was obvious. Here they were at the tangled and mangled intersection of politics, law enforcement, and international espionage. He could trust Harris, but the FBI did everything with one eye on a possible prosecution and court date and right behind them were all the lawyers over at Justice. They would be obsessed with following the trail of evidence, knowing that any defense attorney would do the same in an attempt to punch holes in the government’s case.

This was exactly what the president and Dickerson were afraid of. He was screwed both ways. If he brought them in and told them everything, it would eventually blow up in the face of the French and further damage their cooperation. Rapp would lie through his teeth before he’d let that happen. But he needed the FBI’s help. He simply didn’t have the manpower to do what needed to be done. At some point they were going to need a lucky break, or they would have to go public with these photos. Rapp suddenly thought of something else and it turned his mood foul. If it came out after the fact that he had sat on this information, even if it was just for a day or two, he and the CIA would be crucified.

Rapp eyed Harris and thought of the FBI’s rapid deployment teams. He couldn’t remember how many they had, but he thought there were at least six. “You still have that rapid deployment team in Chicago on standby?”

“Yeah.”

Rapp wavered for a minute. “I think you should deploy them.”

“I need a reason to deploy them,” Harris said, pushing for information.

“Twenty-plus years of experience. You’re not a janitor. Tell everyone to snap to and make it happen.”

Harris resisted. “New development since we last talked. The director sent out an edict this morning. We’ve been getting false leads for a week, Mitch. These teams have been flying all over the country. They’re at their breaking point. The director told us no more chasing ghosts. Keep the teams home until we have some hard evidence.”

“I’d say two dead bodies, a bunch of military-grade C-4, and two sets of fake IDs with photos of two men of possible Middle Eastern persuasion is a decent start.”

“What aren’t you telling me, Mitch?” Harris asked.

“Art, you know how this works. I can’t tell you what I know right now, because you guys are going to make me sit down in front of a bunch of lawyers and put me under oath and ask me how I know what I know.” Rapp shook his head. “That can’t happen.”

“But, Mitch…”

“But nothing. Leave me out of this. Get your team there, put these photos up on the wire, and list them as possible suspects in a double homicide and let your guys piece it all together.”

“Are you trying to tell me you think these are two of the three terrorists we’re looking for?”

“I’m not telling you anything, Art.” Rapp winked. “The only thing I’m saying is that my brain tells me these two guys are Middle Eastern, not Mexican as their names would suggest.” Rapp looked at his BlackBerry and said, “My gut tells me there’s a chance these might be two of the three guys we’re looking for and your gut should be telling you the same thing.”

“That’s all you’re going to give me… your gut?”

“For now… yes. I gotta run, Art. Deploy the team and see what they dig up.” Rapp turned to look for Kennedy.

“Where are you going?” Harris asked.

Rapp ignored him and threaded his way through the crowd toward Kennedy. She was surrounded by too many people Rapp didn’t want to talk to, so he maneuvered into a position where he could catch her eye. It took a few seconds, but Kennedy eventually saw him.

He pointed his finger straight up and mouthed the word Now.

Rapp left the room and pulled up Marcus Dumond’s phone number. He listened to it ring in the hallway across from the gift shop while he waited for Kennedy. The computer genius answered on the fourth ring.

“What’s up?”

“Are you in the building?” Rapp asked. “Which building?”

“Old HQ.”

“Yeah. I’m down in the basement working on-”

Rapp cut him off. “Drop whatever it is and get your butt up to Irene’s office on the pronto.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“Only if you’re late.” Rapp ended the call and put the phone back in his pocket, just as Kennedy joined him in the hall. Two of her bodyguards hovered nearby.

“What’s wrong?”

Rapp started walking. “I’ll save the good stuff for your office.”

They moved quickly down the wide hallway, while Rapp filled her in on the developments in Iowa. They turned a few times until they got to a door that led to Kennedy’s private elevator. No one spoke on the ride up to the seventh floor. When the door opened the two bodyguards stepped aside and Rapp followed Kennedy to the left and into her office.

“I asked Marcus to join us,” Rapp said. “He should be here any second.”

Kennedy leaned against the front of her desk, placed her hands on the edge, and crossed her legs at the ankles. She was dressed to the nines for the cameras. Dark blue skirt and jacket with black nylons, black pumps, and an ivory blouse. “I’m not sure I understand why you’re so concerned.”

“Yesterday, when you sent me on that little hop to go meet with Catherine and George?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I told you last night they gave me some pretty good intel.”

Kennedy could tell by his sour expression that there was a catch. “And?”

“Let’s just say your friends up on the Hill wouldn’t approve of their methods.”

Kennedy noticed how he referred to them as her friends. “So you’re nervous about sharing the intel with the FBI?”

“Yes… and I promised George up front that I would be really careful with the stuff he gave me. Between the two of us, I’m about 99 percent sure it came from his top source inside the Cuban government.”

Kennedy nodded and considered how nervous she would be if she had to share one of her top sources. “Understandable.”

“I told you they IDed two of the three, and they have a line on the third.”

“I remember.”

“Well… you’re not going to believe this.” Rapp pulled out his phone and showed her the photos. “Art just sent me these. This is why I asked you to come up here. They found these fake IDs at the crime scene in Iowa. One of these-” Rapp checked the small screen. “This one right here, I’m almost certain, is a Moroccan named Ahmed Abdel Lah, who Catherine tells me is one of the three men we are looking for.”

“And just how does she know that?”

“Unofficially, and I mean really unofficially, someone Catherine trusts picked up Ahmed’s brother and had a long talk with him. I don’t know all the details, but it sounded pretty solid to me.”

“And?”

“You know Catherine as well as I do. She wouldn’t dump something like this on me if it was bullshit.”

“What about the other photo?”

“I don’t know. When Marcus gets up here I’ll have him send it to George and Catherine. I don’t want it to come directly from either of us. Better to make it look like it was part of an information dump.”

Kennedy thought about it for a second and said, “So Ahmed’s brother was more than likely tortured.”

Rapp shrugged as if to say of course he was.

“And if we share this information with the FBI, they will want to know where we got it?”

“Exactly.”

“And then at some point in the not-so-distant future they’ll send a couple dozen agents and attorneys over there to question Ahmed’s brother and Catherine’s man.”

“And we can’t let that happen,” Rapp said.

“No, we can’t.” Kennedy stared out the window.

“What I need you to do is come up with a plausible explanation for why we think this double homicide is linked to the attacks of last week, and do it in a way that doesn’t compromise George and Catherine or their people.”

“We could alter those photos and dump them into the database.”

“Not a bad idea, but Art already ran them through TIDE and came up with nothing. This has to come from overseas.” Rapp looked toward the door, hoping to see Dumond. “As soon as Marcus gets up here he’ll know how to handle it without leaving any fingerprints. I also have him looking into an issue in New York.”

“New York?”

Rapp was getting ahead of himself. “The farm in Iowa was purchased through an LLC… I don’t know… six… eight months back. The lawyer who handled it was out of New York. I wanted to get a look at his files before all the Dudley Do-Rights show up on Monday.”

“Follow the money?”

“You got it. I’m half tempted to fly up there myself and slap the guy around a little bit. Make sure I get the whole story out of him.”

Kennedy shook her head. “I don’t like that idea.”

Rapp knew she wouldn’t, but asked anyway. “Why?”

“If this adds up like you say, the FBI will most certainly be all over this attorney on Monday. I know you can be persuasive, but there is no guarantee the attorney won’t file a complaint… in fact, once he’s surrounded by a bunch of federal agents I can almost guarantee he’ll file charges, and then I’ll have to explain to a lot of upset people what one of my top operatives was doing beating an American citizen and subject in a major criminal investigation.”

Before Rapp could answer, there was a knock on the door. Dumond entered the office and ambled over. He was wearing khaki flat-front pants, a short-sleeved blue button-down shirt, and an old black knit, square-bottom tie. With his afro he looked like a reject from the seventies. “What’s up?”

“We need your expertise,” Rapp said. He showed Dumond the two photos. “I need you to pull these off here and send them over to Charles and Catherine. Can you make it look like an information dump? Send it to them first and then send the photos to all our allies asking for help in identifying them.”

“No problem.”

“How’s it going with the lawyer in New York?”

“James Gordan,” Dumond said.

Rapp could tell by his tone that he wasn’t impressed. “Did you find the money trail?”

“The start of it. Chase Manhattan provided the funds for closing here in the States.”

“Where’d the money come from before it got to Chase?”

“Nassau, and that’s going to take a little longer to crack.”

“Why?”

“Royal Bank of Nassau… very good security. I’ll crack it eventually, but it’s going to take the better part of a day if not the weekend.”

“Shit.” All this international banking secrecy drove Rapp nuts.

“Give me a few hours. I’ll see what I can dig up.”

“Good. Get to it. I’ll be down to grab the phone in a few.” Rapp looked back at Kennedy and said, “I think you should call George and Catherine. Try to explain our predicament.”

Kennedy looked at the clocks on the wall behind her desk and then hit the intercom button and asked her assistant to get Butler and Cheval on the phone. “Tell them it’s urgent, please.”

“Any ideas?” Rapp asked.

“A few. Nothing great, though.”

“I think I might be able to thread the needle.”

Thirty seconds later Butler and Cheval were on the line. “I’ve got Mitch here with me,” Kennedy said into the speakerphone as Rapp joined her at the edge of the desk.

“Hello, Mitch,” Cheval said, “you were going to send me those DNA samples from the six terrorists.”

“Sorry, Catherine, but I might have something better.” Rapp filled them in on the double homicide in Iowa, the explosives, and the fake IDs. “One of these guys looks vaguely familiar to me. I could swear I’ve seen a photo of him recently.” Rapp shared a look with Kennedy and added, “He looks Moroccan.”

There was a prolonged silence and then Cheval asked, “Why don’t you send me the photo?”

“On its way shortly. When you get it… maybe you could run it by your people in North Africa and see if they get a hit. Maybe it matches a passport on file.”

“I will do that.”

Butler cleared his throat and asked, “What about the other photo?”

“He looks Saudi to me,” Rapp replied.

“I see,” Butler said. “What exactly are you looking for, Irene?”

“Just trying to be careful, George. You know how this works. If we put these guys on our watch list and tip off the FBI, they’re going to want to know how we figured out who they were. So far, Mitch is running with the idea that they don’t look Hispanic like their names would suggest.”

“Yeah,” Rapp said, “I’m thinking Moroccan and Saudi.”

“I just received the photos,” Cheval said. “The one man is definitely Moroccan. I think I can get independent confirmation for you within the hour.”

“By independent, do you mean something the FBI could use in court?”

“Yes. I would be careful with this other photo, though. I’m not sure the Saudis will be much help. They might even begin to destroy evidence.”

“I’m not sure we need confirmation on both photos at the moment,” Kennedy said. “The Moroccan should be good enough to pass the entire thing off to the FBI nice and clean.”

“Anything from my end?” Butler asked.

Rapp leaned in. “If you could show the second photo to the right people, George, that would be great.”