Targeted (FBI Heat) (8 page)

This new confirmation of Marissa’s involvement hit him like a second punch in the gut. “Jesus Christ. And I’ve run into a dead end. No one’s talking.”

“No surprise there.” She hesitated. “Oh God, Ben, do you think Marissa is the missing agent they were talking about in the elevator?”

He pressed his eyes shut. “Yeah.”

“Crap. I-I’m sorry. How’d you get wind of this anyway?”

He rolled his head from side to side before opening his eyes. “Staci, I really appreciate your help, but the less you know, the safer you are. Like in plausible deniability. And you better keep your eavesdropping to yourself too.”

“No shit, Sherlock. Anything else I can do?”

“Just keep your eyes and ears open. And thanks.”

“Sure. You keep safe. I don’t like the sound of this.”

“Me neither.”

Ben set the cell phone down in slow motion.
Radioactive material. All those N’s. Domestic Nuclear Detection Office. National Nuclear Security Administration. Nuclear Emergency Support Team.
Dirty bomb? Damn!
His heart dropped to his gut.
Marissa, where the hell are you?

He sank into the chair and grabbed the computer mouse. A few clicks later, he typed “dirty bomb,” just as his desk phone rang. “Alfren.”

“Special Agent Alfren, be available for a conference call at this number in ten minutes,” John Gardner said tightly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. And be alone.” The line went dead.

Waves of heat shimmered above the roadway as hundreds of vehicles waited to cross the border into the US. The long delay forced Ameen to shut off the air-conditioning in the truck to avoid overheating the engine. He wiped the sweat from his forehead as another hot breeze blew exhaust fumes through the open window and did nothing to cool his body or his frustration. And his frustration with Baheera was as hot as his body.
She’s either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid to return to that nest of vipers.

His foul mood deepened as he surreptitiously surveilled the cell’s car from five vehicles back in the next lane. For the first time since she’d joined Samir’s group, Baheera sat in the front seat.
What does that mean?
Was she a prisoner being guarded by Masoud from the backseat? What explanation had she given for Samir and Omar’s disappearance? How had she explained her survival? Had the terrorists believed her or blamed her? How much danger was she in?

He didn’t know what had transpired inside the house after the men arrived so his imagination created horrible scenarios. The memory of Samir’s knife above Baheera’s neck fueled those images. If he hadn’t fired at that exact moment…

He shook his head to bury the idea and forced himself to think of something other than the dazzling woman with the heart of a lion.

His thoughts first moved to the boxes of electronic components. An amazing variety of them. When Khaleel had taken the engineering job at Abdul-Jaleel, he’d explained that the company not only designed new electronic equipment but that the
maquiladora
also provided cheap labor to American companies for assembling anything from toasters to stereos.

Ameen scratched his head. He couldn’t put a name to the parts he’d seen, but nothing looked like dismantled weapons. He was confident of that. And he’d learned enough about IEDs, improvised explosive devices, in Iraq and Afghanistan so that he could eliminate bomb components as well.

So what in the hell did a terrorist cell want with a bunch of miscellaneous electrical parts? Khaleel might have an idea—if only he could ask him. If only he could talk to someone about the whole situation. But he couldn’t. Not even his uncle, because the old man was already too upset about the hateful, inciting rhetoric Samir’s group spewed to the other young men at the mosque. If Uncle Abdullah knew Ameen suspected the group was a sleeper terrorist cell, he’d probably have a heart attack or stroke. And Ameen already had too many sins on his conscience to add his kin’s death to the list.

The line of vehicles shifted and inched forward a few feet. From the new angle, he had a better view of the back of Baheera’s head.
Why isn’t she wearing the veil?
He watched, mesmerized, as she lifted the weight of her wavy, ebony hair and massaged the back of her slender neck with her small hands. He pictured the obsidian eyes that had tugged at his, trying to pull him into their depths. Resistance had been difficult, but necessary, for him to maintain control. Incredibly, through the whole ordeal, those amazing eyes had never shed a tear.
Courage? Training?

Her full lips were as enticing as her eyes. Not staring at them when she spoke was a challenge. What had those lips screamed a second before he’d pulled the trigger? Definitely not Arabic or English words. His Spanish was minimal, but the words hadn’t sounded like that language either. What had she cried out? Or for whom?

He recalled the determination on her face when she’d retrieved Samir’s knife and stood ready to do battle with a stranger holding a gun. A knife against a gun—the odds hadn’t intimidated her.
I first felt a connection with this fearless woman at that moment.

What the hell had happened last night to make Samir and Omar try to kill her? For the two weeks she’d lived with the cell, she had appeared to be their compatriot. Closely watched, constantly escorted, but not a prisoner. He had despised the idea she might share their irrational hate, their ugly goals. Now, after the few hours he’d spent with her, he was convinced she didn’t and never had.

That was the good news.

The bad news was Baheera could be just another individual Muslim, like himself, trying to stop the cancer of terrorism from spreading within the Islamic community.
Allah help her if she is.

On the other hand, she might be part of a larger effort to chop off the vipers’ heads. For the past few months, someone besides him had been keeping an eye on the cell. He’d spotted them at the San Diego apartment, the Tijuana hideout, and the mosque.

FBI? CIA? Homeland Security?
Hopefully.
Was Baheera working with them?
Possibly.

If so, why had they failed to help her last night?

B
en stared at the phone.
What the hell?

Furiously, he clicked the computer mouse again and again, reading and cramming information about dirty bombs into his head. He needed to be prepared to ask intelligent questions that would gain him the most information. Assuming the asshole Gardner would answer them this time.

Dirty bombs, as he already knew, was the common term applied to Radiological Dispersal Devices, or RDDs. These nasty creations weren’t nuclear bombs. Instead, they combined radioactive material with conventional explosives. A small amount of radioactive material was generally encased in a lead-shielded container, often referred to as a “pig.” The initial degree of death and destruction depended on the amount and type of regular explosive used. The immediate effect of the radioactive material would be mass panic and terror. The potential longer-term effects included cancer and widespread contamination. Many variables determined the ultimate impact of the radioactive event, including type and quantity of the material, force and location of the blast, weather conditions, and human response. Because the aftermath of a dirty bomb explosion could be the most destructive period, the devices were sometimes considered Weapons of Mass Disruption, not Destruction. A terrified population fit perfectly with the goals of terrorists.

By the time Gardner called back exactly ten minutes later, Ben’s head was spinning with a combination of new knowledge and growing dread.

“Agent Alfren, are you alone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The same ten people you saw on the videoconference call earlier are on this call. The information we are about to disclose is highly classified. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. I’m turning the call over to Kevin Rawlings from Homeland Security.”

Ben swallowed hard.

“Thank you, Special Agent Alfren, for your cooperation,” Rawlings began. “First, I want to reassure you that SA Panuska is not alone in this operation. The San Diego Joint Terrorism Task Force of more than two dozen highly qualified personnel from various agencies, including Special Agent Wahid Jabbar, whom you may know, was activated long before she joined the covert op.”

“Why did you pick Marissa?” Ben said with a hint of defiance.
And not Jamila
, he thought but didn’t say.

“She volunteered. Her fluency in Arabic and Spanish, along with her passable Arab appearance, made her the perfect candidate for the job. Her record also indicates she’s a damn good agent.”

Ben didn’t respond but clenched his jaw as the words he’d said to Ian came back to bite him in the butt.

“Now, to answer your earlier question and to anticipate others. We don’t know if she’s safe. Unfortunately, we don’t even know where she is at the moment. We’re currently monitoring the location of her GPS cell phone. We’re concerned there’s been no contact from her in several days. The MO was for her to make contact—just a single phone ring sometimes—at least once a day. Early in the mission, she warned us she was having difficulty doing even that since the terrorists never let her out of their sight. She was observed last night being driven by two known al-Qaeda cell members to their location in Tijuana. Her normal tail was present and listening, hidden in an alley. Up to that point, there was nothing unusual about the visit to the hideout. After a phone call with their ringleader in the Middle East, our agents heard yelling, apparently some kind of altercation, but they had no visual. The shouting seemed to travel away from the house. The surveillance team concluded Panuska might be in trouble and left their vehicle to investigate.”

Rawlings hesitated and cleared his throat. “Just as they were getting approval from me to intervene, they heard two gunshots. Not in the hideout, but close by. They did a quick check of the premises. There was no sign of the two men or Panuska, but her purse, gun, and GPS phone were intact. Then our guys swept the neighborhood for hours and found the two terrorists shot to death but found absolutely no trace of her. They searched until early this morning and then came home.”

Last night!
The nightmare flashed before Ben’s eyes. But it didn’t fit. Gunshots? No monster knife? Ben gulped, then found his voice. “Drug gang?”

“Possibly. But nothing seemed to have been stolen from the hideout. We’re trying to get help quietly through the Tijuana police, but that could take a while. After being stationary the rest of the night, Panuska’s phone is on the move this morning. We hope she’s with it. A team is already in position at the cell’s San Diego apartment and another is on its way back to Tijuana.”

“Her mission—what is it?”

The question was met with silence. Ben pictured Rawlings exchanging glances with the other nine men. He prayed they nodded approval.

“Okay, Alfren, this is the real deal. Three months ago, we started picking up a bunch of chatter about an al-Qaeda attack in San Diego. That’s when the San Diego JTTF went on alert. Because of her Arabic fluency, SA Panuska became the main FBI liaison with the NSA wiretap facility. The plot turned out to be the detonation of a dirty bomb. We don’t know the target or the timing. The mastermind of the plan is a bastard named Husaam Abbas, the head of al-Qaeda in Syria. We didn’t know his true identity or position until his conversation with Panuska last night.”

“Holy shit!”

“To say the least. There’s an al-Qaeda cell of eight, now six, men operating out of a mosque in San Diego. We’ve tracked concealed bomb components shipped via Saudi Arabia to the Abdul-Jaleel Electronics
maquiladora
in Tijuana. About two weeks ago, we intercepted a communication about an unknown female terrorist, Baheera Abbas, passing through Dulles from Riyadh on her way to San Diego. We don’t know what her role is in all of this. Our research turned up nothing on the name or even if it was her true identity. We also determined that the local cell didn’t know the woman, so the decision was made to detain her and substitute an agent.”

“Risky.”

“Yes, highly risky. And we knew it. That’s when Panuska volunteered. When the real Baheera flew into Dulles, we nabbed her. Panuska became the fake Baheera Abbas on the flight to San Diego. With me so far?”

“Yes, sir.” Ben swallowed hard. “Abbas? Any connection between Baheera and Husaam?”

“Yes, but we also just discovered that on the call we tapped last night. She’s…his wife. One of several, but it doesn’t matter.”

“His wife. Can Marissa pull it off?”

Rawlings hesitated as if he was contemplating how much to reveal. Ben’s nerves strained with the anticipation of more bad news.

“We believe so. Our Baheera encountered no opposition from the cell, so our premise about her identity must’ve been correct. She was able to confirm the plot that we’d tentatively put together from the wiretap puzzle pieces. The terrorists had taken her to the old house in Tijuana several times, and she had seen the bomb components, but no one she’d met so far seemed capable of assembling the damn thing. The cell leader, Samir, had a satellite phone that he kept with him day and night. He’s the only one who ever talked on it. From what we’ve intercepted, most of the calls were with Husaam, but also with several others. Since Panuska left, we’ve been able to isolate calls originating from various locations in Syria, Afghanistan, and Pakistan. We suspect Husaam Abbas had been taking orders directly from Osama bin Laden until we got the son of a bitch.”

“Damn. That confirms Husaam is really high level. How do you know it’s a
dirty
bomb?”

“Good question. Fortunately for us, the terrorists have made no secret of it. In fact, their goddamn bragging really pisses me off. Think about this. If they were going to use a regular bomb, why bother with shipping pieces all the way from the Middle East? Why not build it with local parts? Maybe you remember the cache of information found in Herat, Afghanistan, during January 2003.”

Ben frowned. “Not really.”

“Short version: British intelligence concluded from detailed diagrams and documents uncovered in Herat that al-Qaeda had successfully built a small dirty bomb. They suspect the Taliban provided the radioactive material, possibly cobalt, from medical devices. That fits, because in Kabul in April 2002, the IAEA had to secure several unguarded radiation sources from medical and research applications. An al-Qaeda lieutenant, who we have in custody, confessed to interrogators that the device existed. The bad news is the device has never been found.”

“And you think that’s what’s being shipped to Tijuana.”

“Right. We think it was disassembled so it could be shipped undetected. But then they need someone capable of reassembling the damn thing. Probably an engineer. If that’s Baheera’s job, we’re in big trouble. When she was communicating, Panuska told us that Samir treated her almost like a prisoner. Made her wear Muslim instead of American clothing and always had someone with her. He may have known her role but never spoke of it.”

“How are they going to get it across the border?”

Rawlings snorted. “That’s probably the easiest part of the whole operation. The California border is a sieve.”

“Agreed, but would they trust it to a coyote?”

“Doubt it. They’d provide the carrier. Could be Baheera.”

“No way. They wouldn’t use a woman.”

“Don’t be so sure. The Palestinians have used female suicide bombers for years.”

Ben stiffened. A tense silence followed.

Rawlings cleared his throat. “Relax, Alfren. None of our intel indicates that’s her role.”

He breathed again. “What’s next?”

“Two agents are headed to Tijuana as we speak. We have agents watching the mosque and the cell’s apartment. Four terrorists already left the apartment this morning, heading to Tijuana to look for their missing members.”

“What can I do?”

“You’re not Counterterrorism.”

“True, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be useful,” Ben retorted.

“I know. At this point, we’re hoping you can provide some personal insight into how Panuska might handle an aborted or compromised mission. Not FBI training stuff; you know,
personality
stuff.”

Ben almost chuckled. “Besides being a damn good agent as you pointed out, Marissa has a strong, take-charge personality. She has more balls than most men. She’s intelligent, resourceful, clever, creative. She’s passionate about everything she does and doesn’t give up easily, sometimes even when she should. Marissa won’t quit on you, Rawlings. She’s more likely to get herself killed refusing to come in when she should.”

“Good to know.” Rawlings seemed relieved.

“If a drug gang has her, they’re going to be damn sorry they ever laid a hand on her. I bet she’s already figuring out how to use the death of those two terrorists to her advantage.” Ben prayed he was right because his gut didn’t feel as confident as his words sounded.

“Anything else?”

“I’m not going away.”

“Didn’t think you would.”

Ben decided he could work with this Rawlings guy. “What’s
our
next move?”

Rawlings didn’t overreact to the question. “We’re watching the movement of her phone and hoping she’s the one carrying it. Right now, it’s waiting with the masses to come into the US at the San Ysidro border crossing. Customs and Border Protection are on alert as part of the operation. If they spot Panuska, they’ll let us know. Let’s hope she shows up.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“We’re working on that.”

“I want to be contacted as soon as you know anything, good or bad. And I want an assignment.”

“We have all your phone numbers. We’ll be in touch.” Rawlings paused. “We’ll get her back, Alfren.” The line went dead.

Ben glared at the phone. “Damn right,
I
will.”

Exhaust fumes choked him. His sweaty shirt clung to his body while his parched throat and burning eyes tortured him. Simply crossing the border had become an endurance battle. And yet, Ameen swore he’d continue to follow the terrorists to their Tijuana hideout and back for as long as necessary.

With relief, he watched Fateen drive the car to the front of the line next to the Customs and Border Protection officer. The female officer ignored the passports in his hand, bent down, and peered inside at the occupants. Straightening, she motioned for him to pull over to the area designated for additional vehicle inspection.

Happened every time.

Ameen would be next. Painted with the same brush.

He glanced at the elderly white couple in the car next to him. They looked nervous. Perhaps this was their first time coming back across the Mexican border since the tougher security measures had been implemented. But regardless of how nervous
they
looked,
he
was a far more likely smuggler of drugs, contraband, or terrorism. He understood profiling and accepted it as a necessary evil.

Besides, he was not without guilt. Technically, he was breaking the law by bringing his guns into the US without declaring them. Chances were the CBP officers would never find the guns, Samir’s knife, the sat phone, or the wallets. They had never discovered his custom-made, concealed compartment before, and hopefully, his luck would hold today. For the guns, he carried the necessary paperwork to bring them across the border. He just didn’t usually have the time to deal with the hassle. Of course, the Mexican officials wouldn’t be happy if they discovered he’d brought the guns into their country in the first place.

Ameen smiled at the CBP officer who directed him to the inspection area and cooperated politely with the ones who performed the inspection. It helped, of course, that he was a US citizen with a valid US passport. And for extra credibility, he still carried his expired military ID, partly because of the positive impression it made and partly for sentimental reasons. Usually, the process didn’t take long once the officer got a good look at his documents. But after Osama bin Laden had been killed, security had tightened due to an ongoing expectation of reprisal attacks. All security checks took longer now. Ameen understood, but couldn’t help but feel a touch of resentment after having served his country to fight the enemy he was suspected of being.
Ironic, really
.