“Frankie, I know this isn’t going to be easy,” Turner said sincerely, “but we really need to know everything you know about Nick, no matter how insignificant.”
Frankie nodded again and took a seat. Turner introduced her to the six agents in the room, three from the FBI, two from CIA and one from DIA, a colleague of Nick’s that Frankie had previously met. She smiled at a friendly face who, like her, was shell-shocked at Nick’s betrayal.
Special Agent Sarah Reid kicked off proceedings. “Can you tell me what you know of Nick’s background and family?”
Frankie took a deep breath and a sip of water. “His parents were Jewish Americans having moved here from Tel Aviv just before Nick’s birth. Unfortunately, they both died when Nick was a teenager and he spent a few years in various foster homes before joining the forces as soon as he could.”
Agent Reid nodded her head as she ticked off the numerous points with the information she had before her.
“How did you meet Nick Geller?”
“Wait a minute,” said Flynn, the DIA agent who had been a colleague of Nick’s and whom Frankie had met previously. “As hard as this is for Frankie, I think it’s only fair that we bring her up to speed with what we know so far. It’s certainly helped me focus on catching him.”
“Like you needed an added incentive? He shot the President and blew up the White House!” said one of the CIA agents angrily. Interagency cooperation was alive and well.
“Don’t be an asshole, Barry, you know what I mean.”
“Okay guys, cut the bullshit,” intervened Turner, nodding for Special Agent Reid to continue.
“His parents weren’t Jewish. After a lot of digging, we discovered they were originally from Lebanon. It looks like they managed to escape the civil war and made their way into Israel and from there, came here to America. They were Shi’a Muslims.”
Frankie was shaking her head. “But he’s not Muslim, he talked about his Jewish heritage a lot.”
“All a sham,” Reid replied, producing some photos of a teenage Nick in a mosque with his parents. “We found these in a safety deposit box at his bank. When his parents died in an auto accident, he was cared for by three different foster families.”
Frankie nodded and another photo was set before her, a slightly older Nick with an Imam. Frankie recognized the Imam as a radical preacher that the US had spent years fighting to deport.
“His last foster parents were neighbors of the Imam,” said Reid.
“Jesus! They’ve been planning this all these years?” asked Frankie, trying to comprehend what it all meant.
“We don’t think so. We believe his parents began the pretense of being Jewish in order to gain entry more easily and once in the country, we can’t find anything to suggest that they were anything but hard working citizens. They attended and made donations to their local synagogue. They did secretly attend a mosque, but it has no history of radicalism. It was after their death that we think Nick may have turned to a more radical doctrine.”
Frankie sat with her mouth agape. If she had thought she couldn’t be any more surprised, she was wrong. Nick was the least religious guy she had ever met. As a Jew, he was terrible. His favorite sandwich was ham and cheese. She was constantly reminding him that he wasn’t supposed to eat pork. A radical Muslim? It just didn’t make sense, at least not on its own. But along with everything else that had taken place that day, it made perfect sense.
Chapter 20
Nick followed the street cleaners and refuse collectors through the almost deserted streets of Paris. When he neared the Seine Saint Denis Departement, a large suburb to the northeast of Paris, the number of street cleaners and refuse collectors began to dwindle. This was the forgotten corner of Paris. The high-rise apartment blocks had been quickly erected in the 1970s to house the ever-growing immigrant population and were now falling into disrepair. The blocks secured the gentrification of the jewel in the French crown, central Paris, but left the immigrant communities on the outskirts of society. Crime and violence flared, as did the radicalization of youth.
Nick stopped the car and parked outside a large block of flats that loomed over the skyline. Graffiti besieged the ground floor while the upper stories would have benefitted from the paint afforded by the vandals. He reached into the glove compartment and, despite the darkness, opted to alter his hair and to wear spectacles. He combed in white powder that speckled his dark and youthful hair into that of a mature man with graying temples. The glasses added another five years. It was the simplest disguise but more than enough for the casual passerby to consider Nick a man in his forties rather than early thirties.
Reaching under his seat, he retrieved a Berretta M9 pistol. A few more weapons were secured in a locked box in the trunk but Nick opted for the subtle approach. The Berretta could be easily hidden and would give him the chance to gain entry without too much alarm being raised. He stepped out of the car and stuffed the Berretta into the back of his belt under his shirt, grabbed the metal briefcase, and approached the apartment block as the first rays of sunlight began to creep through the dark sky.
The entrance door hung on its hinges and its glass portions were replaced by graphitized plywood. The entrance lobby stank of stale urine and the elevator door sat unwelcomingly open. Nick looked at it briefly and went for the staircase. He opened the door to the staircase and began his climb to the tenth floor.
When he reached the fifth floor, he rounded the corner into a welcoming party. Three young men blocked his way to the higher floors. Obviously roused from their beds in a rush, one had no shoes or shirt on, while another’s hair stood on end. The third was yawning.
“Bonjour,” said Nick jovially.
“This building is private, fuck off,” replied the tousled hair youth in French.
“Not for me,” remarked Nick in Arabic, catching them all by surprise.
“For everybody,” insisted the tousled hair youth again in French, though with a little more respect.
“I have business with Mohammed Farsi.”
The shoeless youth stepped forward. “He does not have business with you.” He was the largest of the three and it was obvious why his shirt was left off. His muscle definition was impressive.
Nick made a point of looking at the youth’s naked feet, before looking up into his eyes. “He does, he just doesn’t know it yet. Tell him I come with a message from the Caliph,” ordered Nick with a menace in his voice that had the youth stepping back, particularly given Nick’s inordinate interest in his feet.
The yawner watched Nick closely for a moment, then turned and retreated back up the stairs. The two others waited awkwardly, watching Nick lean casually against the wall. His demeanor was such that they had no illusion this was not a man they should be very wary of. The yawner returned and nodded to his colleagues.
“Next time, take the time to put your shoes on,” advised Nick, brushing past the shoeless man.
Nick was led up to the tenth floor and met at the door by Mohammed Farsi. The man was flanked by another two youths, although these two had guns drawn, ready to use. They tracked Nick as he walked towards them. Mohammed Farsi’s expression changed from confusion to bewilderment, once he realized who was walking towards him.
“I don’t know if I should hug you as a brother or shoot you as a traitor!” exclaimed Mohammed.
“A brother,” said Nick handing him a copy of the DVD he had shown the prince. “I will wait here while you watch it,” he said, then turned to Tousled Hair and tossed him his car keys and asking him a favor.
The hug that followed the watching of the DVD meant that all weapons were withdrawn and Nick was invited into the home of the most senior member of Al Qaeda’s French network. Nick had one goal over the next few days — securing the support of all the European fundamentalist groups.