Pursuit Of Honor (26 page)

WHEN he awoke in the morning, the sun was filtering in through the sheer white shades. Hakim blinked several times before he could focus. There was a DVD player on a shelf under the TV. Four small blue numbers stared back at him. If the device was right, it was nine-forty-one in the morning. Hakim looked down and saw the blood on his shirt. He opened his mouth and felt the dry, caked blood on his lips. He remembered the coughing fit and the blood and the dead man on the porch and the woman in the bedroom and knew he hadn’t dreamed any of it. Not with Karim around. He was a living breathing Angel of Death.

Hakim didn’t have the strength to get up, so he grabbed the remote sitting on the end table and pressed the power button. A moment later two anchors from a twenty-four-hour news channel were on the screen. Ahmed must have heard the TV. He entered the living room with glass of water and a washcloth.

“How are you feeling?” he asked softly.

Hakim wasn’t sure. He was all beat up inside, but his breathing was better than it had been yesterday. “I’m alive.” He glanced over Ahmed’s shoulder and asked, “Where is Karim?”

A frown came over Ahmed’s face and he said, “He is outside.”

“Doing what?”

“He is very upset.”

“About?”

“You.” Ahmed shook his head. “He thinks you are causing us problems.”

Hakim told himself not to get angry. He wasn’t the one who had gotten them into this predicament. “What kind of problems?”

Ahmed shrugged his big shoulders and tried to remember the exact words. “He said you have become an operational liability.”

“Me?” Hakim asked with genuine surprise. In better times he would have laughed, but not now. “He thinks I am the problem. What do you think, Ahmed?”

“It is not my place to think. I am trained to follow orders.”

“Are you a monkey? If he orders you to shoot yourself will you do it?”

Ahmed took the washcloth and dabbed Hakim’s chin, “You look horrible.”

“And you did not answer my question.”

Ahmed worked on a crusted piece of blood. “There is enough arguing between the two of you. You don’t need me to join in.”

“Let me ask it a different way then. You were trained to think tactics. Did you think I had things handled back in Iowa… at the house? Did you feel he needed to step outside and shoot them?”

“What if they had been police?”

“If they had been police, we would be dead right now. Shooting them would have solved nothing. The best course was to wait and see. Besides, the police don’t use young boys. They were simply a father and son looking to do some hunting.”

“But we did not know that at the time,” Ahmed said.

“We?” Hakim asked. “You mean you and Karim did not know, and you did not know because you have spent no time in this country. You do not understand America the way I do. So you do not see what is obvious. You blindly follow him, and where does he keep leading you? To another house where he kills a husband and wife. Two people minding their own business, breaking no law, and doing nothing to offend Allah.”

Ahmed looked out the window for a moment and said, “These are strange times.”

“Tell me… why couldn’t he have tied them up?”

“I don’t know. He has his reasons.” Ahmed turned his attention to the TV and a moment later added, “It is not my place to question him.”

“You keep saying that, but if you ever want to see Paradise, you had better start thinking for yourself. Allah does not condone this. The people who lived here were not infidels. They had done nothing to provoke his wrath.”

“This is different. We are in the land of our enemy, thousands of miles from any support. We must do whatever it takes to survive.”

“Whatever?” Hakim questioned Ahmed’s choice of words. “Now you sound like him. You know what pleases Allah, and you know what displeases him. Tell me… do you think Allah will condone what was done here last night in his name?”

Before Ahmed could answer Karim entered the house through the front door. He stood in the foyer and looked suspiciously at the two men. “What have you been discussing?”

Ahmed quickly said, “I was telling him that the White House has announced a major press conference.”

“About what?”

“The media is saying their president is going to discuss what happened in Washington last week.”

“What is to discuss?” Kakim holstered his pistol and took off his jean jacket. “We won… they lost.”

Ahmed flashed Hakim a nervous look and then said, “They are speculating it is about the investigation.”

“Who?”

Ahmed was confused. “I do not understand.”

“Who is speculating?”

“The reporters. They are citing sources inside the administration.”

“Good,” Karim said, “we could use some information.” With that he moved down the hallway to the kitchen.

Ahmed gave Hakim a worried look and whispered, “Be respectful. Do not upset him.”

Hakim watched his Moroccan friend follow Karim into the kitchen. He turned his attention to the TV and wondered how much longer it would be before they had their final confrontation. A minute passed before Karim came back into the room. He was holding Hakim’s black backpack. He placed it on the coffee table and opened one of the side pockets.

Karim withdrew three mobile phones and said, “Why did you not tell me about these?”

Hakim looked at the three prepaid phones he had purchased months earlier. “I did.”

“You did not.”

Hakim eyed him cautiously. His friend was looking to provoke a fight. “I thought I told you while we were at the farmhouse… back in Iowa.”

“You did not.”

Hakim swallowed. “The day after we arrived I made sure they were charged. They were in the kitchen. On the counter.” Despite being beaten unconscious he remembered it clearly. Karim had questioned him about the phones.

“I never saw them,” Karim said.

He was lying and Hakim knew it. “I purchased them months ago. They are also radios. We can talk to each other by pressing the buttons on the side.”

“Where did you buy them and how?” Karim said while shaking the phones.

“In New Orleans and with cash.” This had all been covered the previous weekend.

“I do not remember giving you approval.”

“There is no way to trace them.”

“What about a surveillance tape at the store where you bought them?”

“It is possible, but extremely remote. I wore glasses and a baseball cap and used a British accent when I spoke to the clerk.”

Karim paused and considered all of this. He looked at the phones and said, “No more secrets.” He tossed one phone to Hakim and the second one to Ahmed, who was standing in the dining room. “Do not turn them on unless I tell you. Are the numbers for all three phones programmed?”

“Yes.” Hakim watched Karim stuff the last phone in his pocket and then leave the room without another word. Hakim looked down at the phone in his hands and briefly questioned his own sanity. Was everything that had happened in Iowa a dream? He was almost certain it wasn’t. The phones had been discussed. Hakim had specifically told him they had been purchased well in advance as a precaution. He told him they needed the phones in case they were separated. That meant Karim either had a terrible memory or was conveniently forgetting that it had all been discussed. Hakim knew the truth, and he was also beginning to understand the depths of Karim’s immaturity. This was all about him and nothing else. It wasn’t about Allah, or Muslim pride, or a battle against the colonial powers. It was about the need to feed the Lion of al Qaeda’s ego.

RAPP cruised up Massachusetts Avenue toward Rock Creek. His mind worked geographically. It connected dots like stick pins on a map with strings running between points of interest, linking one location or fact to another. He was listening to Special Agent Art Harris, the FBI’s senior guy at the NCTC. Art had just stuck a pin in Rapp’s map and it wasn’t making a lot of sense. He trusted Harris, though, so he let him work his way through the preamble rather than telling him to cut to the heart of it.

Harris and Rapp had a nice arrangement. Through unofficial channels Art passed along what the FBI knew on various cases that bumped up against things Rapp and his people were dealing with. And he made sure very little was put in writing. Over the last few years, his early warnings had allowed Rapp to get out in front of certain things and deal with them before all the badges and lawyers showed up.

Harris had just told Rapp about an investigation in Iowa. Two bodies had been found in the basement of a torched farmhouse. They were burned beyond recognition, but preliminary reports said they’d been shot. The local sheriff was all but sure they were two hunters who had gone missing the day before. He gave Rapp the back-story on what the sheriff thought had happened. While Rapp found it all about as interesting as a whodunit episode of Primetime he knew there had to be more to the story, or Harris wouldn’t have bothered to call.

“The sheriff called the JTTF gang over in Chicago,” Harris said.

JTTF stood for Joint Terrorism Task Force. They were formed after 9/11 to foster cooperation and preparedness between the myriad local and federal law enforcement agencies in communities across the country. “I’m listening.”

“The barn almost caught fire but survived the blaze. Inside, the sheriff found a bunch of supplies… the kind of crap the Armageddon types would have. A bunch of MREs, guns, ammunition, and some handy-dandy military grade C-4 plastic explosives complete with detonators. They also found a couple of backpacks that contained maps, cash, credit cards, IDs, and passports.”

“Photos?” Rapp asked, already knowing the names would be bullshit.

“Yeah.”

“Your boys run them through TIDE?” TIDE stood for Terrorist Information Datamart Environment and was an extensive database run by the NCTC.

“Doing it right now, but it doesn’t look promising. They prioritized it and have already blown through all the usual suspects. What’s left we wouldn’t be interested in. Unless you think one of these guys might be Filipino.”

“No…” Rapp said as he thought about it. Some weird crap went on in the rural areas across the heartland. It was amazing the type of hardware these militia groups could get their hands on. It was probably nothing, but just in case he said, “Do me a favor and send the photos to my BlackBerry.”

“I will, but there’s one other thing you might find interesting. The farm was purchased about six months ago by an LLC. It was handled by an attorney out of New York.”

“I’m sure people do that all the time.” Rapp had done it himself.

“I’m sure they do. The sheriff also said no one has ever seen anyone use the place. Kinda strange when you think of those Hitler-lovin’ groups. They tend to turn these places into full-blown communes. People coming and going all day and all night.”

“Yeah…” Rapp said, “I suppose you’re right.”

“Well, I just thought I’d pass it along. I wouldn’t be surprised if the wonder boys at Justice decided to send us knocking on that New York attorney’s door come Monday. If for no other reason than the C- 4.”

It was late Friday morning. Rapp considered the possibilities. “Did the sheriff by any chance give your boys a copy of the deed and all the title work?”

“Public record. I’m looking at a copy right now.”

“Good. Send it to me. And cc Marcus. Are your guys from Chicago on scene?” Rapp asked.

“They got there an hour ago and we have a Rapid Deployment Team on standby.”

“Good.” Rapp took a half loop around Sheridan Circle and continued one short block before taking a right onto Decatur Place. The place he was looking for was on S Street, but he wanted to drive past the back first to see if there was anything of interest. Up ahead on his left he got his answer. “Hey, Art, I gotta run. Thanks for the info and call me as soon as you hear anything else.”

Rapp hit the end button and then hit the speed-dial button for Marcus Dumond. A few seconds later the computer genius was on the line. “Marcus… you’re gonna get an email from Art in the next few minutes. It’s going to have a copy of a deed and title for a farm in Iowa. It was purchased a few months back by an LLC. An attorney out of New York handled it. Do you think you could get into his system and find out where the money came from?”

“To buy the property?”

“Yeah.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. Give me an hour or two.”

“Thanks. Call me as soon as you find anything.” Rapp slowed down and looked through his heavily tinted windows at the back entrance to the big property. A serious man with a dog was on the other side of the gate. At the end of the block Rapp hung a left on Twenty-second and then another left on S Street. A third of the way down he pulled over and dug out the business card. It was a local number, so he skipped the first three digits and punched in the next seven. A woman answered on the second ring.

“Mr. Sidorov’s private line, how may I help you?”

“Peter, please.”

“May I have your name?”

“No thanks. Just tell him it’s his friend from last night. He gave me his business card at the club,” Rapp said as he looked through his windshield at the recently purchased $8 million federal style home. “Trust me,” he said to the young woman, “he’ll take the call.”

Rapp didn’t have to wait too long. Sidorov’s familiar voice came on the line and said, “Mr. Rapp, good to hear from you so soon. Have you decided to come work for me?”

Rapp cringed at the thought that the FBI’s counterespionage boys might be listening in. He would have to play things really straight while they were on the phone. “I was actually thinking you could come to work for us.”

Sidorov had a good chuckle and then said, “I don’t think you can afford me.”

“Probably not, but I thought I’d play to your newfound love of freedom and democracy.”

“Yes, that would be your only chance. Now listen… I had friend in Russian intelligence fill me in on your exploits this morning. You are a very interesting man. A dangerous one as well, according to my source.”

“Only if you piss me off.”

“Well,” he said dramatically, “I hope I have not offended you.”

“Not yet.”

“You didn’t seem too pleased last night.”

“I was more upset with your new business associate than you.”

“He was only trying to make a little money. I can’t begin to imagine trying to live on one of those pensions they give you.”

“I don’t suppose you could, with your high-flying lifestyle, but that’s not really the point. He knew the rules and he broke them.”

“And me?” Sidorov said a bit tentatively.

“You didn’t break any law that I’m aware of.”

“Well.” He laughed. “You don’t know me yet.”

“I know enough. I made some calls as well.”

“And?”

Rapp didn’t answer for a beat. “I think we should sit down and discuss a few things.”

“I would love to. How does your evening look?”

“Not good,” Rapp said, looking at the house. “How about right now?”

Sidorov laughed. “I am barely awake, Mr. Rapp. I still haven’t adjusted to the time change and we stayed out very late last night.”

“That’s all right. I didn’t get much sleep either. Besides… you Russians can all handle your booze.” Rapp put the car in drive and pulled across the street into the flat U-shaped drive. “Listen, I’m parked in front of your house right now. Invite me in for a cup of coffee. I’m kind of on a tight schedule this morning.” Rapp turned off the engine and got out. He counted to ten and then Sidorov appeared in a second-story window. He was still in a robe.

“You are a resourceful man, Mr. Rapp. How do I know you are not here to kill me?”

Rapp looked up at him and wondered what assurance he could offer. “For starters… I don’t like to shit in my own yard.”

“Meaning?” Sidorov asked.

“This is Washington. I live here. I don’t need that kind of exposure. Besides, if I was going to do something like that I wouldn’t call you up and ask you to talk. I’d just do it. You’d never see me coming.”

Sidorov thought about it for a long moment. “I suppose you are right. I’ll tell my people to let you in. Give me a few minutes to get dressed.”