Targeted (FBI Heat) (10 page)

“No.”

“Any news on the carrier or route?”

“No.”

“The target?”

“No.”

“Timing?”

“No.”

“Damn! Work with me here.”

“The online and wiretap chatter have dried up. The interrogation in Washington isn’t getting anything out of the real Baheera. They’re taking a break because she’s getting sick.”

“Sick? Damn it, I was almost
beheaded
last night. I don’t care if the woman’s on her deathbed. Get me some decent intel to work with.” A sharp rap on the bedroom door made her jump. Instantly, she disconnected the call and stashed the phone in its hidden compartment. “What?” she called irritably.

“Baheera, are you all right?” Yasir asked from the other side of the door.

She swore silently. The men had been trying to eavesdrop.

“Leave me to my prayers. I am praying for success in our mission. You should do the same.”

Her heart pounding, Marissa stood and stared at the doorknob. Would they have the courage to break open the locked door?

“Sorry, Baheera.”

Two sets of footsteps moved down the hall.

She rubbed a hand across her tired eyes. She still felt like a prisoner. That had to change and soon.

Marissa stretched out on the bed but couldn’t get comfortable. She got up and removed the hot, cumbersome
abaya
and the plain Muslim clothing beneath it. The thought of Tareef and Yasir barging in and finding her in her underwear brought a wicked grin to her lips.

Feeling freer at last, she sprawled across the bed. While she hoped for sleep, she didn’t expect it. Hearing the voice of her handler gave her some relief, but he hadn’t provided any help.

She was still very much alone.

W
hile he pulled his iPad from the glove compartment, Ameen prepared a mental list of research to do. He grimaced as he brought up the Internet browser screen. He’d convinced himself that the cost of having mobile Internet access always available wasn’t a luxury but a necessity, since he spent so many hours away from home and the mosque spying on the cell. However, the need didn’t make it affordable. Although his uncle paid him a reasonable salary for the work he did, he certainly didn’t have any money to waste.

Pushing his concern about the cost aside, he set to work. Googling “Baheera” provided useless information: Muslim baby names websites, a Baheera Afghan hounds website, and a few Twitter and Facebook listings. Not that he’d expected much. He didn’t have her last name, and even “Baheera” was probably an alias.

Next, he located the website for Abdul-Jaleel Electronics. Now that he knew the source of the mysterious boxes, he needed to know more about the company. Could it be the front for a terrorist organization? And why would the terrorists want toaster, stereo, or any other variety of electrical components? Asking Khaleel seemed a more direct route, but he had to agree with Baheera. The fewer people who knew what was going on, the better. Besides, he would hate to endanger his friends. He grinned at the coincidence, because both Khaleel and Safiya actually meant “friend” in Arabic.

After he finished researching Abdul-Jaleel, he would perform his daily check of the multitude of Islamic jihadist websites, looking for some clue, some communication, to solve the puzzle of what the cell was plotting. Although the cell used burner phones to communicate among themselves, Ameen suspected Samir’s sat phone was their primary line of communication with their boss, wherever in the world he was. Could it possibly be their sole line? Obviously, Baheera had confiscated the phone to disrupt or stop the communication between the leader and the local terrorists. If that worked, the head of the snake would have to find another way to give orders. And if he did it on the Web, Ameen would find it.

Another puzzle nibbled at the edge of his mind. What did the Hispanic man want with Samir? What kind of deal would an Islamic extremist make with a Mexican drug goon? And how the hell was Ameen supposed to figure it out?

Sighing at the prospect of many long hours of surveillance ahead, he lifted a bottle of water to his lips and stared at the windows of the cell’s apartment. He pictured the beautiful woman inside, wondering what she was doing and whether she was safe.

With a jolt, Ameen realized his mission had changed. Yes, he still wanted to stop whatever evil the cell was plotting, but more importantly, he needed to protect Baheera. She wasn’t one of them. Although she was intelligent, she didn’t fully comprehend the evil she was up against. Could he find a way to persuade her to work with him, to be his partner against the terrorists?

They could do more good
together
than alone.

At 1:00 p.m., Rawlings called. “I’ve got good news, Alfren. Panuska’s safe. She’s back in the San Diego apartment with only two of the remaining terrorists.”

“If you can call that safe. How’d you find her?”

“First, CBP alerted us that she’d crossed the border with two of the cell members. Once she was back at the apartment, she was able to call her handler with an update. She didn’t explain where she’d been, but she did confirm our belief that Husaam had blown her cover.”

“Confirmed what?” Ben practically shouted.

Rawlings cleared his throat. “On the call last night, Husaam Abbas figured out he wasn’t talking to his wife.”

“You knew that and didn’t tell me this morning? How can Marissa be safe if they know she’s an imposter?” His tone bordered on insubordination. Again.

“Look, Alfren, I don’t
have
to tell you shit. And I sure as hell don’t need your attitude. You’re not even part of the task force, so stop whining or you’re off my radar.”

Several tense seconds ticked by before Ben could respond civilly. “Understood,
sir
.”

Rawlings huffed. “To answer your question, the two terrorists in Tijuana didn’t have time to alert the others before they were killed. That means the remaining members don’t know she’s an imposter. She seems to have eliminated the only communications link between Husaam and the cell, but he’ll be scrambling to fix that problem. We recognize it’s a risky situation so her handler asked if she wanted to come in. She said no.”

“Of course she did. Didn’t I tell you that about her? You’re going to have to bring her in over her objections.”

“Says who?”

Ben swallowed hard.
Play nice or he’ll kick me out of the sandbox
. “Just a suggestion, sir.”

“FYI, I considered that option right after her handler told us she’d almost been beheaded.”

Suddenly, there was no air in Ben’s lungs.
My nightmare.
“Jesus Christ. She’s got to be too traumatized to continue the operation. Get her out of—”

“Alfren.” Rawlings’s tone made the one-word warning perfectly clear.

Ben drew a slow, deep breath. What had happened to his objectivity? “Is there anything I can do to help, sir?”

“Actually, there is. Panuska asked for information on a guy named Ameen Ali who works at the mosque where the terrorists pray. Dig up what you can on him and post it so her handler can pass it on. I’ve already authorized you to access all the operation files. And if you want to keep an eye on the guy, that’s fine, but no contact. Got it? Absolutely no contact.”

Rawlings was gone before Ben could ask why she wanted to know or accept the assignment. Of course, there’d been no question that he would.

Swallowing his frustration, he focused on his immense relief that Marissa was safe. As soon as Husaam regained contact, though, he’d warn the cell of her deception. Unfortunately, terrorists worldwide had access to lots of modern technology they could use to communicate. Thank God, she was alive, but she was definitely running on borrowed time.

The word “beheaded” had grabbed everyone’s attention. Especially Ben’s. A gnawing pain in his gut warned that his nightmare had been eerily accurate. He frowned. How in the hell had that happened? Marissa had her premonitions, but he’d never experienced anything like this before.

His nightmare had ended abruptly with Marissa screaming his nicknames while a man held a massive knife above her neck. Had she wrestled the knife away and…? Ben shook his head. Rawlings had previously said the two terrorists had been shot. But he’d also said Marissa’s gun was still at the hideout, so she hadn’t shot them before disappearing. He frowned. Who had killed them?

As Ben logged on to the operation files, his chest tightened. Had Marissa identified an additional threat in Ameen Ali? Was he a lone-wolf terrorist or associated with a different cell? Possible scenarios, all bad, raced through his brain.

Scanning the reports, he found several brief mentions of Ameen Ali. However, none of them listed him as one of the known cell members or as having any ties to terrorism. A report by Special Agent Wahid Jabbar indicated he’d met Ameen at the mosque and was impressed by the man.

A lot of surveillance and research had been done on San Diego’s mosques because of the connections to 9/11 and Anwar al-Awlaki. These reports focused more on Ameen’s uncle, Abdullah, than on the younger man. The comments also included some general information on the Ali family, noting they’d immigrated to the US together from Saudi Arabia more than twenty years ago. The family had all become naturalized citizens. Apparently, Abdullah had lived in New Jersey before moving to San Diego after the 9/11 attacks. All indications were that neither man had any terrorist ties.

A little more digging outside the operation files revealed Ameen was thirty-five years old, never married. His parents and only sibling were deceased. He’d graduated from NYU in 2001 with a degree in political science. His employment record indicated a three-month job at the United Nations before he’d enlisted in the US Navy in September of that year.

Ben perused Ameen’s exemplary military record. His respect skyrocketed when he learned Ameen had served as a member of the elite Navy SEALs. Details about his missions were non-existent, obviously classified, but from what Ben could tell, the man had faced plenty of action. Ameen had left the Navy a few months ago and didn’t seem to be currently employed other than assisting his uncle at the mosque.

The intel was interesting, but none of it explained why Marissa wanted information about Ameen Ali. Ben scowled and threaded his fingers through his hair.
No way this guy has anything to do with the terrorists.

He wrote his report and posted it. Part of him longed to communicate the information directly to Marissa, but that option was out of the question. She would hear it from her handler.

Ben grimaced when he remembered he’d forgotten to take care of another chore. Since he had good news to share, he wasn’t sure why he was reluctant to make the call. He dialed Marissa’s condo, hoping Ian wouldn’t be home so he could simply leave a message. No such luck.

“Hey, Ian, it’s Ben Alfren. Just wanted to let you know Marissa is safe.”

“Great, but why didn’t she call me herself?” Ian asked indignantly.

“She can’t…until…her current assignment is finished. Standard MO.”

“Fuck the MO. I’m sick of all this cloak-and-dagger shit.”

“Listen, it’s nothing personal,” Ben said soothingly, although he wanted to reach through the phone and strangle the sneaky little shit.

“No, you listen. This
is
personal. It screwed up my relationship with Marissa. Obviously, her work is more important to her than I am. Now I know she’s safe, I can move out with a clear conscience. But since I’m not allowed to talk to her, you can tell her good-bye for me. And fuck all of you,” Ian spat and hung up.

Should he call her ex-boyfriend back and try to smooth things over? Eventually, he muttered, “Fuck you too, asshole. I understand why Marissa already figured out she was better off without you.”

He exhaled. Ian made a convenient target for his anger and frustration even though the man wasn’t really the source.

He glanced at his watch: 5:30 p.m. Probably too late to start his surveillance of Ameen Ali, but he could drive over to the mosque and check it out before heading home. He sent Rex a quick e-mail telling him that he’d gotten an assignment in the Counterterrorism operation and wouldn’t be in the office first thing in the morning. He included a brief status report on his current cases. Leaning back in his chair, Ben considered what he could tell Rex about the dirty bomb situation.
Nothing.
Rex would understand.

Thirty minutes later, when he drove by the mosque, only a few men stood chatting outside. No sign of Ameen Ali. Ben had found a diagram and pictures of the property in the files, but he was still surprised at how small and unimposing the structure was. No huge dome or towering minarets adorned the simple, white stucco building. If not for the crescent-moon-and-star symbol, the purpose of the site would’ve been indeterminable.

Unfortunately, the property’s location in a residential neighborhood would complicate the observation of the former Navy SEAL. Too many curious eyes.

On a side street, Ben spotted the regular surveillance team and gave them a nod. After driving around a few more blocks, he headed home for dinner and Amber.

Marissa awoke to the obnoxious sound of the television blaring in the living room, but the pleasant aroma of dinner tempered her annoyance and roused her hunger. Small wonder when she couldn’t remember eating anything all day. She stretched her arms and legs, enjoying the freedom of her nearly naked body.

She glanced at the two sleeping mats piled against the wall. Without Samir and Omar guarding the bedroom doorway every night, her life would be a little easier. Her eyes zeroed in on the chest Samir used. He had always been so protective of it that she figured it must contain something other than his clothing. Tonight, when everyone else was asleep, the chest and its contents would be hers and would hopefully yield a wealth of information.

After rolling out of bed, she gathered her Muslim clothing and threw the items into a corner. As she dragged her suitcase from under the bed, it felt oddly light, considering Samir had not allowed her to even unpack the clothes she was forbidden to wear. When she unzipped the suitcase and flipped it open, she swore. All her clothes were gone.
Damn that man.

The real Baheera Abbas, a Muslim fanatic for God’s sake, had arrived from Saudi Arabia wearing and carrying a suitcase full of American-style clothes. Husaam had obviously realized the necessity for his wife to blend in, not stand out. He would have been genuinely angry to learn of Samir’s insistence that Baheera wear Muslim clothing.
How ironic
.

Marissa yanked open the bottom drawer of the nightstand and breathed a sigh of relief. The clothes she’d arrived in lay crumpled inside where she had stuffed them after Samir’s belligerent orders. Refusing to wear the Muslim clothing again even in the apartment, she pulled on her wrinkled pants and blouse. She didn’t care how she looked; she relished their familiarity and comfort, as well as the defiance they represented.

Now she faced another obstacle: finding where Samir had hidden her clothes. Hopefully, he hadn’t kept their location a secret from the other members as he had so many things.

The front door of the apartment slammed, and several voices began talking at once in Arabic. Fateen and Masoud had returned from Tijuana with the car and Samir’s truck. Their round trip had taken hours, and they cursed the American immigration officials who had stopped and searched them at the border. Marissa grinned at how successful the errand had been at keeping them away from her.

After running a brush through her hair, she emerged from the bedroom. All talking ceased. Four pairs of eyes turned and stared. She smiled inwardly, feeling empowered in her normal clothes and with her face uncovered. “You must remember to speak English at all times, even to each other,” she said sternly, then focused her attention on the returning terrorists. “Fateen, Masoud, did you accomplish the tasks I gave you?”