The Seventh Pillar (15 page)

"I don’t believe it. Bausari isn’t going to hang around or go near that mosque either. They need to get this guy to talk. The bad guys trusted him to bring Bausari here. Arrest him."

"What if he’s innocent?"

"What if he is? If he is, he gets an apology. If he isn’t, we need to know what he knows."

"Langley thinks so, too. The Bureau is about to get a reminder that Homeland Security means security now, not in the future. They won't like it, but they’ll pick him up. You and Selena are going out there. Don't expect a warm welcome."

"What about our assassins?"

"Langley is searching the area of Pakistan Selena identified for any sign of them. They've got a lot of surveillance in place anyway. Now that there's a different mission, their analysts are looking at everything from a new perspective. If they turn something up, we'll have a better idea of how to deal with it. Meanwhile Bausari takes priority."

That was how Selena and Nick found themselves on a flight to LAX that afternoon, connecting to San Diego.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Richard was nervous. He couldn’t say why. It felt like Afghanistan again, like he was being watched. It was how he’d felt until the day he'd proved himself with his knife.

His visits to the mosque restored him. Listening to the Imam rail against the Americans and the Jews, Richard felt he had come home at last. There'd been suspicion at first, just like in Afghanistan. But the others were quick to recognize his devoutness and his knowledge of the Holy Book. He was accepted.

He was on his houseboat. A frozen chicken dinner circled in the microwave. Heavy footsteps sounded on the deck outside, then sudden, loud banging on the door. It opened before he got to it.

"Richard Hemmings?" The man held up a credentials holder. It had a gold badge with an eagle on it. "Special Agent Bozeman, Federal Bureau of Investigation."

Richard’s heart jumped. He swallowed. "What do you want?"

"Are you Richard Hemmings?"

"Yes, but…"

"Richard Hemmings, I am detaining you under authority of the Patriot Act."

"On what charges?"

"You’re not being charged. You are suspected of aiding a terrorist conspiracy. Hook him up, Carl."

A second man pulled Richard’s arms behind him and handcuffed him. It hurt.

"Wait a minute, I’ve seen you. You were sitting in a car across from the mosque this afternoon. This is harassment, discrimination. I want a lawyer."

"I don’t think so." 

Richard didn’t like the way the agent looked at him.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

The interrogation room at the FBI field office in San Diego had a large, one way window taking up part of the wall. From inside the room it appeared to be a mirror. A man sat alone in the room, drumming his fingers on a metal table bolted to the floor. Two chairs were placed across from him. Microphones and a camera relayed everything that happened in the room to recording equipment and monitors outside.

Aside from the technician handling the recordings, there were three others present besides Nick and Selena. Agents Bozeman and Carlton were about to start the interrogation. The third person was a black man from the Agency, who introduced himself as Lucas Monroe.

Monroe was wiry, about five ten. He was dressed in a dark blue suit, black shirt and dark blue tie. He looked like he’d be right at home working security in a casino in a small foreign country with unrestricted rules of engagement.

They shook hands.

"What’s your brief on this?" Carter asked.

"Same as yours, I expect. Observe and advise. The Bureau is in charge of this one."

"You have no operational control?"

"Of course not. This is now a domestic issue."

Yeah, Nick thought, and world peace has just broken out.

"We’re ready," Bozeman said. "He’s been in there long enough." He turned to Nick and Selena.

"You two are here strictly as a courtesy. Stay out of the way."

The two agents entered the room and closed the door. They took seats across from Hemmings.

"It's a male thing," Carter said.

"What is?" Selena looked puzzled.

"Marking the territory."

Monroe laughed.

For the next half hour they watched Bozeman and Carlton. They were good. Carlton did most of the talking. Bozeman confined himself to occasional unfriendly comments. Carlton was the good guy. It was Carlton who sent out for coffee and sandwiches and gabbed about fishing. In general he appeared to think this was all an unfortunate mistake. Of course, there were a few questions that needed to be answered.

"Why did you convert to Islam?" Carlton asked.

"Now they’re getting to it." Monroe clasped his hands behind his back.

"I was guided to do so," Hemmings picked at a hangnail.

"Guided? Who guided you?"

"Allah. Only He can open our hearts to the truth."

"But you were brought up as a Christian, right?"

"Christ was a great prophet, but he was only a forerunner, like Moses."

"I guess I’m not asking the right question," Carlton said. "Maybe I should have asked what you were doing in Afghanistan seven years ago. Is that when you converted?"

"I was never in Afghanistan."

"I was," Carlton looked him in the eye. "And so were you, Abdul."

Hemmings tried to cover his shock. Carlton knew his name.

"See, we did some checking on you. You were in Pakistan on and off for two years, more or less, according to our friends in the ISI over there."

"Yes, I was in Pakistan. My mother had an import-export business in Islamabad. Is that a crime? But I was never in Afghanistan."

"You're part Pakistani?"

"No. My mother married again when my father died. A Pakistani who was not my father. I was born here. In America."

"Your mother died and you inherited the business."

"Yes. She was killed in a car accident."

"Then you sold the business and took up fishing."

"Yes. I like to fish and the charters pay well."

"But you were never in Afghanistan."

"No."

"Then who's this?" Carlton took out a grainy black and white photograph and placed it on the table where Hemmings could see it. The faces of a dozen men stared out at him. Men whose faces were vague and unreadable under beards and turbans. Only Hemmings' face was reasonably clear. Snow capped mountains were visible in the background. Everyone looked grim. They wore bandoleers and brandished AK-47s. Two in the front row held a printed banner.

الموت لأميركا

Carlton tapped the photo.

"What does that say, Richard?"

"I don't know. I don't read Arabic."

Bozeman snorted in disgust. "You're a liar. We have your computer. And the sign says 'Death to America', you fucking traitor."

Carlton pushed the photo across the table. "That’s you, this skinny one here with the beard. Seven years ago. Those mountains are in Afghanistan. You still say you weren’t there?"

"I’ve never seen that photo. I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Outside the interrogation room, Monroe turned to Nick. "He never has. We made it up this morning." He put on a pair of sunglasses and reached for the door.

"Sunglasses?"

"Have to look the part." Monroe went into the room. He stood across from Hemmings. He said nothing.

"Who are you?" Hemmings' foot began tapping and his knee bounced up and down.

Monroe said nothing.

"Turn off the recording," Carlton said.

"Recording off." The technician's voice echoed through the speakers in the interrogation room. Outside the room, the cameras and tapes continued to roll.

Carlton said, "He's here to escort you to a different interrogation center."

"Where?"

Carlton shook his head. "I gotta tell you, Richard, you really don’t want to know. You don't want to go there."

"I say we hand the little prick over. It’s what he deserves. They’ll make him talk."

"Come on, Special Agent Bozeman, give Richard a chance. He wants to cooperate." He turned back to Hemmings. "Don’t you, Richard?"

"Why should I? I haven’t done anything."

"We’re wasting time." Monroe spoke for the first time. His voice was quiet, menacing. Like black ice. Like a promise of pain. "Give him to me. The van’s waiting outside."

"Richard, Richard." Carlton shook his head and sighed. Carter thought it was a little theatrical. "Don’t you understand? Haven’t you heard of rendition? If you don’t play ball, you’re going to a place where the rules are different. You won’t like it. No one will know where you are. Who knows when we might get a chance to talk again? Maybe never."

Carter watched it sink in.

"I’ll ask you again," Carlton said, "only once. Will you cooperate?"

Hemmings looked at Monroe, who smiled at him. It wasn’t a nice smile.

"I’ll tell you what, Richard," Carlton said. "We'll leave you in here for a few minutes by yourself. Why don’t you think about it? Talk to us here, I’ll make sure there’s consideration for you when you’re sentenced."

"Sentenced?"

"Oh, yeah, you’re definitely going away. We’ve got everything we need. But you can make it a lot easier on yourself by helping us out now. A lot easier. Otherwise, we’ll give you to him."

He nodded at Monroe in his dark suit. Monroe looked at Hemmings with a cold stare that bored right through those shades.

"Then there isn’t any consideration."

Bozeman and Carlton stood and left the room with Monroe.

Outside, they watched Hemmings put his head in his hands.

"We've got him," Carlton said.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Hemmings'  recorded testimony convinced a judge to issue the warrants. The Bureau had a free hand to raid the mosque. Selena, Carter and Monroe were in a black Crown Vic. Bozeman and Carlton were up ahead, parked in a black Suburban.

In front of the Suburban was the FBI SWAT van. The van was rectangular, big, unmarked, painted black and reinforced with stainless steel. It looked like it had just come from a fresh tune up with steroids. The vehicles were out of sight of the mosque, but Carter knew someone in the neighborhood would have spotted them by now and made it to the mosque to warn them.

They were along as armed observers and once again told to stay out of the way. They wore armored vests, courtesy of Monroe. No one gave them a neat jacket with FBI printed on it, like you saw in the movies. The Feds hadn't wanted them there at all.

"The papers will love this," Carter said. "The ACLU and every Muslim in the country is going to scream persecution. Any bets tonight’s lead will be about heavy handed profiling by the government?"

"Maybe here in California." Monroe adjusted his vest. "It’ll play better in other parts of the country."

The SWAT commander was a large, black man named Johnson. On their headsets they heard him say, "Everyone ready? Okay, let’s get this done. My wife’s waiting dinner. You all know what to do. Keep your heads down." 

"Showtime." It was Monroe.

"I have a bad feeling about this," Selena said.

The van accelerated and tore around the corner, followed by Bozeman and Carlton, with Monroe close behind. The van braked hard in front of the mosque. The SWAT team boiled out of the back. They were dressed in black, helmeted, armored and armed to the teeth with MP-5s, stun grenades and a variety of other weapons. No one in their right mind would mess with them. They burst through the doors of the mosque and disappeared inside. Carter heard shouts.

Across the street pedestrians stopped and stared. Selena, Nick and Monroe waited. Then they heard the sound of automatic weapons. Two kinds. The fast, ripping sound of MP5s. The distinctive bark of AKs. Once you heard an AK, you never forgot what it sounded like.

"Shit," Monroe said.

The three of them got out of the car and ran into the mosque, pistols ready.

The bottom part of the building formed a large, open space. The floor was carpeted in a red and blue and yellow geometric pattern. Lamps of cut glass hung at measured intervals from a high ceiling supported by rows of wooden columns. A long green banner scrolled with Arabic letters in white hung behind a dais scattered with a few cushions.

The raid was timed between prayers. The large room was empty except for Carlton and Bozeman and a SWAT Team member lying face down on the floor. Blood pooled under his body. Two dead bodies in loose garments lay in contorted positions across the room.

Carter heard more shouting and shots from upstairs.

A man came from a hall on the left, firing an AK. There was no cover, only the tall columns. Carlton spun and fell. Carter pointed his H-K and pulled the trigger fast, three times. The shooter went down.

Another man appeared from the opposite side, AK held high against his cheek. A sledgehammer blow hit Nick and drove him into Selena and knocked them both to the floor. Monroe and Bozeman were shooting. The man with the AK flew backwards flat against the wall and slid down. His loose white shirt turned red with blood.

A booming explosion rocked the building. Smoke and dust billowed down the stairs. Part of the second floor came down in a cascade of plaster and wooden beams. A body in black hurtled through the air, thrown from above. For a moment there was silence. Then shouts and screaming.

The room was full of dust and smoke. Nick's shoulder hurt like hell. He couldn't lift his left arm. Selena got to her feet. Carlton lay crumpled on the floor, Bozeman sat up, shaking his head. Nick couldn't hear. Monroe and Selena were saying something. Nick shook his head, pointed to his ears. They helped him to his feet and walked him outside.

There was a wide splotch in his armor where the AK round had glanced off. A medic helped him out of the vest. His hearing was coming back.

"Carlton," he said.

Monroe shook his head.

Four hours later, Selena and Carter sat with Monroe at a dark table in a dark bar, drinking whiskey. Neat. Doubles. Johnson and two men with him were dead. Four others on his team were dead. Carlton was dead. Thirteen civilians were dead. The Imam’s head had landed in an alley across the street, still wearing his turban. Something had separated the head from the body and turned it into a high kick soccer ball. That told Nick what had happened.