Sudden Deception (A Jill Oliver Thriller) (2 page)

Jill’s tongue wiped her new teeth—the three replacements she’d gotten after McGregor got through with her original ones.

It had been over three years now since Eric Wallace and the team rescued her, and she’d rarely had a nightmare since she married David. But she sometimes wondered if she would ever be truly rescued.

Her nightmares would normally start with the sketches—the ideograms that were drawn in that fateful RV session. It was a normal RV session that had started with the group attempting to find a target. In this case it was the Ice Man. Three women had disappeared, were tortured, then murdered. The FBI’s violent crime unit was getting nowhere, so they had called upon the FBI RV group to assist them.

In stage one of an RV session, the target was assigned a random number. “Optimum trajectory,” the remote viewer guru had called it in Jill’s training. “OT is the best place for your mind to be before we begin.” To get there, the viewers were given a bag of random numbers. “To achieve optimum trajectory, begin by placing the numbers on the table. Lose yourself in them; numb your thoughts.” The process was sort of like a radio station signal drawing the viewer toward the target. All living things are made of energy, and it’s been speculated that if a viewer can connect to the target on an energy level, the viewer can then see the target and its surroundings. In this stage, the viewer normally sits with a pencil and paper to record the viewing. The viewer needs to be hyper-attentive and to zero in on sights and sensations. In the FBI RV department, this was usually achieved through group meditation.

Once the viewer feels connected to the energy, they enter stage two and begin to write. First they record the sounds and smells. Then the tastes, textures, and feelings. Does the viewer feel afraid, mad, or sad? Everything is recorded in writing. When they begin to see colors and textures, and the viewing becomes more vivid, the viewer enters stage three – that’s when she or he sketches an ideogram. There’s no thinking involved; just recordings of what each individual in the group has viewed.

But Jill didn’t have time to think about McGregor or viewing right now. She needed to go forward into the future; she needed to stay out of her past.

As she shook off the thoughts and continued toward Tom, dark shadows stretched past the hangar, sending chills up her spine.

The Learjet was headed toward Virginia. Jill took out her Bose headset to block out the chatter from the galley between Tom and that annoying flight attendant, Heather, a youngish woman with dyed blond hair hoisted up into a neat, tight bun. Heather’s leathered skin spoke of too much smoking and sunbeds, and pushed her age forward a decade. Jill knew most of Heather’s life story, for during her breaks on the flights she would often navigate towards Jill like a cat in heat, plunk herself down, and endlessly chatter about her life. Maybe it’s a good thing she’s tied up with Tom, she thought to herself.

Concentrate. That was what Jill needed to do. As the plane bumped over clouds, she leaned back into her seat. White noise. Bliss. Nirvana. She closed her eyes. Not to sleep, but to concentrate. She could still feel the thrum of the Rolls-Royce engines, and a bracing whiff of coffee floated by.

It was Jill’s job to reduce the risk of a terrorist attack on U.S. soil through profiling. She needed to get the profiles finalized for the meeting today. Connecting the dots would bring some sort of order to the move next week. The special ops team was to escort the nuclear missiles from Minot Air Force Base in North Dakota to Barksdale Air Force Base in Louisiana.

Yemen, said a voice in her head. She opened her eyes and pulled out the file marked YEMEN CONNECTION. She thumbed through the files on the three terrorists who were on the FBI wanted list.

The pictures of three men stared up from her lap, trying to communicate something from the dark pages. She felt her blood temperature rise slightly, knowing how easy it was for these vile people to inflict suffering on innocent others. A terrorist for Al Qaeda—or for any group, for that matter—didn’t need much motivation to become an integral part of any scheme or attack.

Jill remembered reviewing a brief on Al Qaeda recruitment prerequisites. In the world of radical Islam, dominated by the Islamic jihad, the requirements to join included good listening skills, manners, obedience, being vetted by someone in the group, and of course the recitations of the pledge. Easy!

She sifted through the pile of papers sitting on the leather seat next to her. Where is that pledge? A quick search unearthed.

“The pledge of God and His covenant is upon me to listen and obey the superiors that are doing this work in energy, early-rising, difficulty, and easiness and for His superiority upon us so that the word of God will be the highest and His religion victorious.”

Considering the recent testimony of Ahmed Bin Abudullah—one of Matta’s flunky expendable front men brought in front of the U.S. court system this past year—exposing the network of Al Qaeda recruitment centers in over eighteen American states made Jill and the team’s jobs critical. These centers were disguised as run-down social clubs or dingy bookstores and were often unnoticeable in Islamic communities. Because of the First Amendment which gave anyone freedom to exercise any religion, and the bureaucracy of the government, these groups could easily move fast and were hard to track.

Jill internally recited a mission statement that she had memorized from an interview that she had watched with Bin Laden before he was executed. It had become part of a ritual etched in her brain; she never forgot to turn over every stone to ensure she reported every detail. People relied on her relentlessness to achieve results.

“We have the right to kill four million Americans, half of them children. Punish and you will be punished.” Bin Laden justified this as an eye for an eye based on the number of Muslims killed worldwide in conflicts.

In many ways, Jill was sympathetic to the Islamic religion. Her first roommate in the dorm at college had been Muslim. Salma was a sweet girl and they had become great friends. Jill respected her and her choice of religion.

But Jill couldn’t stomach anyone who condoned terrorism, that was going too far.

She was in a foul mood now. She picked up the rap sheets and reviewed them again. But it wasn’t long before she once again lost concentration and found herself gazing out the window.

David.

Why hadn’t she heard from him in five days? A picture flashed into Jill’s head. It was of a pointed steel needle surrounded by fluff. As her vision became clearer, she recognized it. Yes, it was a picture of a building that pierced through cloud cover. It looked like the Empire State Building spire, but different. A building that pierced through cloud had to be a tall building. Understanding her visions was vital and, in most of her cases, it gave her profile the edge over others. This vision wasn’t about the case; it was about David. She had never had visions about David before.

“We are about one and a half hours out, are you finished? We need the info ASAP,” Tom barked, walking toward her from the galley. She gave him ‘the hand.’ He knew her well enough not to speak to her when he saw the hand. Jill’s colleagues called it the F-off hand, and she liked the name. It fit.

She needed to stop drifting back to David’s mood before he left on assignment five days earlier. And true to pattern, her mind pushed past her heart. Her eyes struggled back to her lap, back to the faces of evil.

Her visions gave her an edge in her job, but solid science was also an important part in profiling. Behavior evidence analysis (BEA) was often overlooked, but it was where Jill shone. She was a BEA expert.

BEA was the first step to understanding and developing a sense of a criminal’s profile. Equivocal forensic analysis (EFA) was the next step, and after reviewing mountains of photos, intel research, and investigative reports, she would form a clearer perception of who she was dealing with. Jill tied together different incidents to uncover some commonality that would reveal more about the perpetrator.

An INFOSEC—information security—briefing was her first review:

ALI SAED BIN MOHAMMED—WANTED FOR MURDERS OF US NATIONALS OUTSIDE THE UNITED STATES; CONSPIRACY TO MURDER US NATIONALS OUTSIDE THE UNITED STATES; ATTACK ON A FEDERAL FACILITY RESULTING IN DEATH.

ASHRAF REFEST NABIH—WANTED IN CONNECTION WITH THE AUGUST 7, 1998, BOMBINGS OF THE UNITED STATES EMBASSIES IN DAR ES SALAAM, TANZANIA, AND NAIROBI, KENYA. THESE ATTACKS KILLED OVER 200 PEOPLE. IN ADDITION, NABIH IS A SUSPECT IN OTHER TERRORIST ATTACKS THROUGHOUT THE WORLD.

NADAR KEAH LALANI – WANTED FOR INTERROGATION. ESCAPED WHILE BEING QUESTIONED ON THE ABOVE ASSAILANTS.

First, reports on the 2008 bombing spoke of activity similar to this latest underground scheme. Prior to that bombing, movements of key Al Qaeda henchmen had also taken place. But the significance of the shifts was realized only in hindsight. Similarly, the relocation next week could be a potential target for a terrorist attack. The operation was extremely hazardous, as it brought the nuclear devices close to highly populated areas in the U.S.

If these men were apprehended, the potential for disrupting pending move of the nuclear missiles next week would be reduced. Still, with the current state of affairs in the U.S., Al Qaeda recruitment flourished, and they could not afford to take any chances.

Jill slowly closed the file on her lap, and dipped into the well of her intuition. Gazing over the horizon of clouds, she whispered, “What am I missing?”

Jill went into her tunnels. Doing so was like riding a speeding bobsled through all the notes and reports on the three men—too fast for recognition as she tried to discover what she was missing. Normally, if she noticed something that clicked, the racing bobsled in her intuitive tunnels would stop short and a clear image would appear in her mind. But so far no luck today.

Jill realized her leg was tapping; the hollow sound of her boot hitting the metal footrest brought her back to the task at hand.

Then without notice, Jill saw a picture in her mind’s eye of a brief she had read. The name Rashid jumped out at her. Then a sharp insight hit her hard and fast. She snatched the folder from the seat and snapped it open to a brief on LaLani. The speed of her movement caught Tom’s attention and he approached her.

“It’s Ali Bin Amr Rashid,” Jill said, handing him the thick folder. “I think we have our man. He is the one piece that connects these three men to Yemen, but he is not Nadar Keah LaLani. “Take a look at page three.”

Tom reviewed the document. “See the picture of Rashid? Now go back to the first page. See the picture of Lalani? It’s the same person, Tom. LaLani is not who he says he is.”

05:02 Zulu Time—LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

The sky was a bright blue. Puffy cumulus clouds swirled around the morning sun as she disembarked from the plane. The captain had PA’d the time at 9:02 a.m. Once on the ground, Jill had the same uneasy feeling she’d had when she boarded the plane in Tucson. She glanced around and scanned the area.

Three o’clock. A man in a blue jumpsuit bent over, outlining the front and back wheels of the jet with black chalk blocks. His head was bent, and he wore orange sound mufflers clamped tightly on his ears.

Nine o’clock. A black 4x4, standard FBI edition, with someone behind the wheel. From his angle the driver could not see her.

What is it that feels so … wrong? Jill wondered. Menacing…

“Is everything alright, Jill?” Concern emanated from Eric Wallace as he walked toward her from the black SUV. Eric had been her boss before she had left the FBI over three years ago. His department was now part of the arm that worked with NSU and the CIA on matters of homeland security. Jill still enjoyed working with Eric; after all, their mission was the same.

The rising sun behind him made Jill squint, but not enough to stop her from taking in his appearance. The fact that he wore a suit signaled the importance of the imminent meeting. The furrow etched in his forehead had aged him since they last met, and he had more gray hair than brown now, but he was still handsome in a distinguished sort of way. His amber eyes were kind as he reached over to touch her shoulder, squeezing it ever so slightly. Jill recognized the look in his eyes. She had seen it before—a mix of concern and pity. It was the same look he’d had when he and the team had finally rescued her from McGregor.

He knew her well. They had developed a bond during his wife’s illness and eventual death. Eric had loved his wife intensely—the kind of love for which Jill had always yearned, but had not had until she met David.

Jill smiled slightly. “I’m good, Eric, but I’ll be even better when we close this friggin’ case. It’s dragging on way too long.” Jill’s right eye began to twitch, a sure signal that things were about to get more stressful. It was her body’s red flag, and it almost never failed her.

Tom was already making his way toward the SUV, but Eric asked, “Jill, come on now. I know when something is bothering you. What is it?”

She stood silent for a mere second. That was all the time she needed to be reminded of their friendship, his trustworthiness. She told him about the phone call from David’s editor. When she finished, she pulled her windbreaker down past her waist, straightening herself out before she asked Eric hesitantly, “What do you think?”

They began to walk in Tom's direction and before Eric answered, Jill added, “David’s got a mind of his own. I don’t think anything serious has happened to him. Do you?”

“You know, Jill, I’ve only met David once, at your wedding, but from what I know about your life, he seems pretty together. He’s an extensive traveler and has been ‘round the bend a few times.” Eric paused. “Has he been out of touch with you for long periods of time before?” He looked at her solemnly.

Jill shivered. She frowned, trying to recall. “Never this long.”

They met up with Tom, who was standing by the open door of the SUV.

“How far along are we at determining that these guys you’ve profiled are the ones we are looking for?” Eric questioned.

Before Jill could answer, Tom piped in, “We think one of the men you have in custody is in fact Ali Bin Amr Rashid. If his true identity is exposed today, then we can go forward with the move.” There was that serpentine whistle again as he spoke and thrust the file into Eric’s hand. “It’s all outlined in here. Rashid has always been part of the group that goes after the broken arrows, sir.”

Glaring at Tom, Jill wrested back control. “Eric, Rashid is known as Dr. E. He’s of Pakistani descent and is the brain behind Al Qaeda’s uranium enrichment and weapons maintenance. There’s one other thing—I think there is a Brazilian connection.”

Eric knew, as did Jill, that Bin Laden’s brother had resided there with his Brazilian wife when 9/11 happened. He was allowed to go back to Saudi Arabia as part of the President’s attempt to show concern about all religions. But by the time they found out that he had helped set up and develop of a large Al Qaeda cell deep in the Brazilian jungle, he was safe and sound back in Saudi Arabia.

Eric leafed through the file.

“LaLani had in his possession a fake passport with a Brazilian visa in it. He’s been there twice in the last month,” Jill continued. “But in the intel—” Jill leaned in, “see here—” the pages flapped in the slight breeze as she pulled them apart, “see in this brief from the Brazilian Intelligence Agency, this is a picture of Rashid in Foz do Iguacu, Brazil. This picture is the same; it’s LaLani.”

Eric muffled a grumble too unclear to make out except for the words “redneck” and “third world,” then said, “Looks like we have all we need here for now. Great work. Let’s head to HQ; we have about an hour to prepare.”

Sitting inside the SUV, Jill thought she saw a figure standing in the doorway of the hangar as they turned a fast circle. Before she could get a second look, they had turned the corner and the silhouette was gone.

Jill juggled her thoughts as they drove along the Potomac River to FBI headquarters. The midnight black tint on the SUV windows dulled the sunshine trying to work its way through the glass.

Was there someone watching me? If there was, why? Maybe I’m just tired… it was a feeble attempt to deny he intuition.

As they drove along the winding road, Eric continued explaining the details on the Al Qaeda capture, talking about how the departments worked together, and complaining about how the CIA was always treading on their toes. She’d heard it all before.

Keep it together Jill; keep it together. The mantra kept her sane on the short ride to headquarters, even as her thoughts drifted back once again to

David. Unprompted, she thought about what had happened five days ago ...

***

That morning she had awoken to no sign of David. They had been married for just over a year—still in the honeymoon stage, where David would often wake Jill up slowly by caressing her body. This day was different. She awoke alone except for the beam of sunshine reflecting off of the mirror beside her king-sized bed. Lying there in warmth, she pulled herself out of bed, lifted her red silk robe from its hook on the door, wrapped it around her olive-skinned taut body, and headed towards the kitchen. The smell of coffee told her David was home, but he wasn’t in the kitchen. She checked the solarium—empty. Habit guided her to his office.

With a deadline looming, he must have been putting the finishing touches to an article. Yet, as a correspondent for Time, his deadlines were always at midnight. To see David working this early was an anomaly.

Perhaps he had a special evening planned, Jill thought hopefully, and with a slight spring in her step she approached the office door. Walking softly, hoping to avoid disturbing him, she could hear him talking to someone in a low tone. She could sense the agitation in his voice and she got the feeling he was speaking to a female. Jill could often place tonality since she had studied this in her second year at the US Marshal Service.

When the conversation had ended, she peered in and offered a sweet, “Who was that, handsome?”

David abruptly pivoted around and tucked his mobile phone into his jacket pocket. Even in the early morning, David was striking. His rugged, strong Robert Redford-type face made her wonder why he became a journalist instead of an actor. She was happy with his choice, as an actor would be far too vain for a life-mate. But she couldn’t help but gush over his beauty. He was dressed for his regular squash game with his buddy Steve—a regular event when David was home. His long, tight black running shorts accentuated his tanned quads. Jill loved a man with nice legs and a delicious tight ass. The top half of his body was covered with a Nike black jacket, shielding him from Jill’s desire to walk over and straddle him into submission.

“It’s just my editor on my case to get this article to him,” he responded in a monotone.

As Jill looked at him quizzically, he added: “I have some bad news.” David hesitated, averting his eyes from Jill to a spot on the floor. “I have to go back into the field.”

“When?” She folded her arms slowly. Her jet-black hair slid off her shoulder as she cocked her head to one side.

“Tonight,” he said softly, getting up and walking toward her. He hadn’t shaved, and a dusting of hair darkened his chin, just the way she liked it. Her heart sank fast, hitting a newly formed lump in her stomach.

“I have to head back to Doha to follow up on the interviews on those U.S. soldiers back from Iraq. My editor feels there is enough information over there to get another story off the ground, and I guess I’m the only one available to do it. Sorry, my love,” he said, arching one of his blond eyebrows. For a second Jill thought she could see a twinkle in his blue eyes. He normally made her melt when he looked at her this way, but today she only felt unsettled.

“It’s fine,” she pouted. “I’m still knee-deep in my current assignment anyway. Coffee made?”

David pulled her into a tight hug. “You’re not mad, are you, babe?”

Jill didn’t answer; she just hugged him back. He knew and Jill knew. Nothing more needed to be said.

The day turned into evening and David was attentive for most of the day — yet somehow distracted. She asked him what was on his mind, but he didn’t respond with any sort of convincing answer. He kept insisting nothing was wrong, but Jill knew better. Walking into their bedroom, Jill saw that his suitcase, lying on the smooth wood floor, was already packed. Shirts were folded as if a professional launderer had done them. David routinely lined up his clothes on the bed, determining the best fit for each trip.

The sun was dipping behind the Catalinas outside the bathroom window. The sound of splattering water with steam puffing up drew her to the shower, but when she looked through the clear glass door she could not see him. Then behind her, a feather-light touch on her shoulder signaled her to relax. His lips caressed the back of her neck and the warmth in her belly melted her nervous lump. His fingers lifted her shirt up ever so slightly, adding more heat to the already steamy room. Jill began to feel the warmth of the tingle move lower. He gracefully slid his hands up her rib cage, taunting her, then cupped her firm breasts. His fingers pinched her hardened nipples and he whispered into her ear, “Wanna clean up with me?”

The place between her legs began to ache and pulse. He slowly turned her around, then kissed her hard, his tongue lashing at hers inside her warm mouth. The mist of the shower fogged in the bathroom as David lifted the cropped T-shirt over her head with practiced ease and gazed in admiration at her flesh. Then he cocked his head and turned and walked into the hot rain. Jill pushed her shorts to her ankles, kicked them into a heap on the floor and stepped in. Sliding wet skin on wet skin, they played in the shower until the water ran cold. Then, wrapped together in a towel, David lifted her up between the two sinks and plunged into her hard on the cool surface. The hot pleasure rushed through their bodies, and her head went light when she felt David’s release …

***

The sound of a horn blaring from an impatient driver brought Jill back to the present. Her heart won that debate over her mind as she tried to understand what he must be going through, to be out of touch for five days. She crossed her legs as they drove through the gate.

“Let’s get this finished,” Eric said as they walked into a gray building.

Inside, suited men and women rushed past, as if all in a hurry. The strong smell of Detrol dried her nose and she winced. “Oh God,” Jill whispered under her breath. Once again, Jill reminded herself she was right to leave the FBI when the posturing energy, thick as smoke, filled the halls. After being introduced to a series of faceless agents, Jill, Tom, Eric, and the suits were led to a large boardroom with a giant TV screen in front. Water and coffee jugs sat on a large table in the low-lit room.

Someone turned on the TV and everyone focused on a small room in which sat LaLani—or Rashid, as Jill believed. He sat there blindfolded with his hands tied behind his back. The camera did not show the interrogators, and the only indication of there being two of them were the tops of the papers from the angle of the filming. The speaker in the center of the table crackled as it began to record the event. The white coiled microphone that spoke directly in the interrogator’s ears was also hidden from view.

It was Jill’s job as a terrorist profiler to help flesh out the truth. The truth … there was never any real truth, she had concluded. Devising profiles of terrorists could be extremely tricky, as they often appeared to be normal people. Although serial killers and the like are sometimes said to be the “average guy next door,” there was always something amiss that would help a crime profiler. Mommy issues, childhood abuse, those kinds of things—and there was always narcissism. But studies of terrorists showed that other than extreme religious beliefs, most are sane folks. Males between the ages of twenty and twenty-five were typical ages for the field ops who acted as a martyr. Their goal was to blend in and appear normal. And this was where Jill thought LaLani was going overkill.

As they began the interrogation, Jill looked at Eric and gave him a clear signal—he leaned forward and pressed the mute button.

“Untie his hands and take off the blindfold,” she said firmly. There are three main goals when profiling an individual: a psychological assessment of the social behavior of the individual, an assessment of the possessions found on him, and the development of a series of questions for the interview. In this profile, Jill used investigative psychology, which was a different technique to that which an FBI profiler might use. The FBI tended to use tools such as “thinking like a criminal.” Instead, Jill compared links between background characteristics and the offender’s behavior assessment alongside previous threats and events. Such as the hind sight of 9/11.