It was dusk when they reached the marina. Al-Bausari took Richard aside in the cabin. He spoke softly to him in Arabic.
"You have done well, Abdul." Bausari addressed him by the name he had been given in Afghanistan. "Allah is surely pleased. Watch for what will come."
"What do I look for, Teacher?" Richard’s Arabic was halting. Years since he’d had to speak it, but he’d practiced with his computer.
"You will know. You have been faithful with your prayers?"
"Yes, Teacher. Teacher, I long for the company of believers and the peace of the mosque."
Bausari nodded. "Then I give you permission. Allah is pleased. You have earned this reward. But be careful."
"Yes, Teacher. Thank you."
Bausari blessed him, then turned and climbed on deck. He stepped onto the dock. Onto American soil.
CHAPTER FORTY
FBI Special Agent Mike Bozeman was bored. He sat at a wooden table in a dingy apartment peering through a flyspecked window. Next to the table stood a video camera with a telescopic lens, mounted on a tripod. The camera pointed at a three story building across the street that had been converted into a mosque.
The mosque was in a run down part of San Diego tourists never saw, far from the luxury oceanfront homes and condos and sunny beaches. As far as Bozeman was concerned, the whole area could benefit from forceful remodeling with a lot of heavy equipment. Starting with the building across the street.
Mosques were places of peace and compassion, spiritual community and learning. The mosque across the way was a place to find anything but peace and compassion. The Imam there preached hatred of the Jews, America and the West in general.
Bozeman had nothing against Muslims or Islam, but he had a hell of a lot against the Jihadists and their insane version of religion. He didn’t think God wanted His followers to murder children, or mutilate teenage girls because they ran away from home.
The room was stifling. His partner, Andy Carlton, dug into the bottom of a bag for one last Cheeto, crunchy style. He drew it out and popped it in his mouth. His fingers were stained bright orange. Orange crumbs dribbled down onto his shirt, past the .40 Smith tucked away in a shoulder holster. Carlton looked into the empty bag, sighed, and began licking his fingers.
"Jesus, Andy, don’t you believe in napkins?"
"Got to get them wet before the color will come off."
Carlton crumpled the bag and tossed it at a wastebasket overflowing with wrappers, snack bags and cardboard coffee cups.
"Ten days looking at nothing. I wonder how long they’ll keep us at it?"
"It’s always the same bunch," Bozeman said. "I haven’t seen a new face since we’ve been here. Not even a pizza guy."
"They eat pizza?"
"Sure. No sausage, though."
"You profiling, Mike?"
"Not me. I don’t care what they eat."
"Hey," Andy said. "There’s a car we haven’t seen before. He's parking up the street."
Both men sat straighter in their chairs. Probably nothing, but so far the most exciting event of the day. Bozeman set the camera rolling. They watched a Caucasian male with a full beard get out of a brown Taurus. He looked up and down the street and paused, as if uncertain where he was going. After a moment, he walked toward the mosque. He reached the recessed doorway and ducked inside.
"He doesn’t look mid eastern to me," Carlton said.
"Now who’s profiling? That guy’s American, or at least European. Let’s run the plate."
Bozeman entered the license plate number of the Taurus into his laptop. The laptop linked through a headquarters mainframe directly into a national database with information on every American citizen. It took just a few seconds for the information to pop up on the screen.
"Richard Hemmings, age thirty-six. He lives on a houseboat parked in one of the marinas. Let’s see what else we can find." He tapped a key.
"He’s a charter fisherman. Works out of the same marina where his houseboat is. Owns his own boat, a nice one, not cheap. He’s clean, not even a parking ticket."
"What’s a fisherman doing over here?"
"Good question. Better one is why a guy like this shows up at a mosque that preaches holy war against people like him."
"Maybe he knows someone in there. From fishing."
"Maybe the Imam is really Ernest Hemingway. Run his financials."
A moment later Bozeman said, "Wells Fargo, same bank for the last six years. Around three thousand in credit card debt. Forty thousand due on the boat. Looks like two large deposits made the first month he opened the account, one for thirty thousand, another for seventy."
"A hundred grand? Where does he get that kind of money?’
"IRS says he declared it. Income from sale of a building left to him by his mother."
Mike worked the computer. "Hemmings financed his business with the money and bought his houseboat. Records on the building he sold…it was originally owned by an import-export company. Guess where? Pakistan."
The two agents looked at each other. "How does his mother end up with it?" Carl asked.
"Left to her by the husband. Title transfer to Hemmings dated six years ago. She died three months later."
"Convenient for our fisherman."
"Yeah. I wonder if we’ve got a sleeper here? Smells fishy." He grinned.
"Christ, Mike."
"We’d better phone it in."
When Richard Hemmings drove back to his houseboat after the evening prayer he never noticed the battered Ford three cars behind.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
"Bausari went to Mexico. We traced the ship to Tuxpan. From there he went to Mexico City and then to the Pacific coast."
"How did we get the information, Steph?" Selena brushed her hand across her forehead.
"Tuxpan is an entry port for illegal arms and dope. The Federales watch everything. Sometimes they turn a blind eye or someone's been bought off, but terrorism isn't like drugs. We get better cooperation. The Mexicans busted an al-Qaeda cell in Mexico City. Bausari wasn’t there, but he had been. Their anti-terrorist squad interrogated the cell members, with CIA observing. They talked."
Carter imagined how they had been interrogated.
Steph continued. "Bausari headed for the Pacific coast with two others. He had a foot locker with him."
"The nuke."
"Probably. After the coast we don’t know where he went. We think he was picked up by a boat near Ensenada."
"Near California," Selena said.
"My guess is he’s now in the States."
"That’s not good news." Selena rubbed the back of her head.
"No. But we might have a break. The FBI has been watching a mosque in San Diego where they preach radical Islam. They’ve identified a Caucasian American male who just happens to be a charter fishing boat captain. Maybe two and two will make four."
"Are they going to pick him up?" Carter asked.
"Well, that’s the question. They can if they want. The interagency thing has been spotty. The Feds are protective of their turf. They’re don't want to haul him in. They want to see if he leads them to anyone."
"But what about Bausari? If he’s got a nuke doesn’t that trump their turf concerns? Hell, they’ll take the credit if he’s captured."
"They think their suspect could lead them to Bausari."
"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?"