“Bullshit,” Kyle exclaimed abruptly and leaned forward on his elbows. “Since I’m the only scout-sniper here today, let me tell you that this guy is not a real sniper. His so-called training is just a bunch of jackassery. The Iranian military found a guy who could shoot straight, gave him some basic principles of marksmanship, and told him he’s a sniper. Their physical training is just an obstacle course where they swing on monkey bars and jump into holes. It’s nothing. A Girl Scout could do it.”
“Easy, Kyle,” said Hunt. “You were the one who figured out what happened in Maryland. Now it sounds like you’re changing your tune.”
Swanson pointed to the big flat-screen television hanging on the wall. A list of objects found in the car and trailer was still shown on it. “No, Dave, we’re just readjusting our thinking, based upon what came from the arrest. I agree with Colonel Summers.”
The woman CIA agent glared. “He had the murder weapon — a sniper rifle — in his possession, Gunnery Sergeant. A Russian-made Dragunov rifle like that is accurate to about nine hundred fifty meters. He was a dangerous guy.”
“What he had, ma’am, was a broke-ass old Russky hand-me-down. No matter what you may have read in Jane’s Infantry Weapons, the Dragunov may work up to six hundred and fifty meters, max, on its best day.”
Hunt took over as the CIA woman settled back in her chair, seething. “Kyle, I don’t understand why you are belittling this guy. We consider this a direct attack on American soil. It might even be considered an act of war.”
Sybelle answered. “Ladies and gentlemen, the gunny and I are just trying to bring a military viewpoint for your consideration. If Iran was staging a direct attack on the United States, don’t you think they would use the best people available, and do something more than grease an accountant? This guy Mobili looks like he has never passed up a Happy Meal and is a stranger to soap and shampoo. He may have been planted here as a mole, but he went native once he got a taste of the U.S. Your PowerPoint says that the trailer contained not only the weapons but also a PlayStation, an iPod, an upscale computer rig, and a bunch of porn videos. Once Mobili tasted what it was like to live free, he decided to enjoy the opportunity, and he wasn’t going to leave his toys behind when he ran.”
The CIA woman came back, a bit quieter now after parsing the logic. “What is your read on the second shooter?”
“My guess is that he will be much the same. Snipers need to train hard all the time, burn a lot of ammo, and keep sharp. That takes open space, dedication, time, and money. I don’t see Mobili and his partner being able to do that. A couple of Middle Eastern men with beards and big guns would certainly draw the attention of any hunters or gun enthusiasts who might stumble across them while they practiced in some North Carolina forest or the Utah canyons.”
Kyle nodded. “What has Mobili told you so far? Has he identified his buddy, admitted the shooting?”
Dave Hunt shook his head. “He lawyered up right away and hasn’t said a word other than he wanted a Koran for company. Apparently he has decided the time has come for him to forsake the pleasures of the infidels and resume being a faithful jihadi.”
“He’ll talk. Sooner or later,” the CIA woman said with solemn confidence.
Swanson agreed. “Look. For us, this began with a tip about the accountant who uncovered some financial crap in an Egyptian business that is an Iranian front. We’re going back to our original source and see if we can find out more, which we will turn over to everybody here. But before we do that, Colonel Summers and I would like to have some time alone with the prisoner. Let me talk to him, sniper to sniper, unofficially. Maybe I can pick up something. I promise not to hurt him.”
Dave Hunt stifled a chuckle that was heard as no more than a cough. There were definite limits to interrogation techniques, but he knew that Swanson and Summers seldom paid much attention to limits. He glanced around the table and saw no objections. “Let’s work something out after the meeting,” he said. “We can lay on a plane to Alabama after lunch.”
A pair of united States Marshals arrived a few hours later at the FBI field office in Birmingham, Alabama, for prisoner transport. Pejman Mobili had been taken from his holding cell and was ready to go, shackled, handcuffed, and wearing an orange prison jumpsuit with a dirty white jacket thrown around his shoulders. He held tightly to his religious book. The transfer of custody was a brief formality of paperwork and signatures.
“Y’all have a nice ride, now,” drawled the special agent holding the clipboard.
“Piece of cake,” said one of the marshals as they hustled the prisoner to a waiting dark SUV with a metal cage enclosing the backseat. “We drive straight through and deliver him in Washington like he was a pizza. Should we expect any problems?”
“No,” replied the FBI man. “Only thing is he may drive you nuts spouting verses from the Koran.”
The marshal shrugged. “We’ve had worse. The man’s entitled to his beliefs, right? We’ll just turn up the radio.”
Mobili was put into the backseat and strapped into a seat belt, and the hand and leg cuffs were locked to a chain attached to a steel ring welded on the floor. There was nothing he could do. The doors closed, locks clicked, and the SUV blended into the morning traffic and was gone.
The prisoner settled against the seat and studied his two new guards. Both wore dark blue windbreakers with US MARSHAL stamped on their backs in bright yellow. One was a man no bigger than himself, and a woman was driving. Just a couple of stupid American cops moving him to a new jail where somebody else would try to ask questions. His lawyer had emphasized that he should not answer anything; the less he said, the harder it would be for law enforcement to compile evidence.
The man in the front turned to face him with a startling mirthless smile and eyes that seemed to glitter with anticipation. “Make yourself at home back there, Mr. Mobili. Read your prayers. We won’t be long.” Kyle Swanson looked at his big wristwatch. “Let us know if you need anything.”
The prisoner ignored the guard’s clumsy attempt to establish some relationship. He said nothing and opened his Koran. His lips moved silently with the familiar beloved words, and he began rocking back and forth as their power gripped him. He shut his eyes and recited a sura, letting his thoughts wander. How had he ever drifted so far from the teachings? He had been a faithful servant until a year after coming to America, when the temptations of the flesh and the senses had gradually eaten away at the truth of his life, and he gave in. It was all the plan of Allah, wasn’t it? He had been instructed to adopt the dreadful ways of the West and live as one of them until he was needed. Once called, he had carried out the assignment, then was caught by a traffic cop. Surely that had been his fate? Would it end there? No, Allah had kept him alive for a bigger purpose, something as yet unknown. Being killed by the American police had never worried him, for to die as a martyr was a fitting, noble end. Mobili had finally turned away from the infidels. Between now and whatever his destiny might be, he would immerse himself in the teachings of the Book. He hoped Major Shakuri would pay the lawyers.
They had been moving steadily on Interstate 59 to the northeast from Birmingham for about an hour when the woman driver slowed, went up a ramp, and turned left at the overpass where a combination gas station and restaurant was the only structure. Big trucks were parked side by side, some with their engines running and exhaust fumes blooming white from their pipes. She stayed on the smaller state road that ran as straight as an engineer could draw it for about five miles, and the intersection and the passing vehicles on the busy highway gave way to a rural setting of flat fields and files of hardy trees along the meandering creeks. “There’s the truck, Kyle,” she said, “and the Lincolns are right beside it.” She coasted the SUV to a stop.