Kareem was no longer smiling, focused now on his spiritual mentor.
“The Americans are fools. The ‘true believers’ number in the millions. Allah’s army actually outnumbers the American military. We have infiltrated their entire society. We live on their college campuses. We have supporters in their media, in their courts, even in their big businesses, who want to proclaim they are ‘inclusive.’ Like you, Kareem, we have sought out brothers in their prisons. Americans who remain neutral are on our side. Theirs is a nation of apathy, too consumed with depravity, self-indulgence, and decadence. They allow us not only to exist but to thrive.”
Without even raising his voice, Mohammed instilled fire and passion in Kareem, calling for his service to the Islamist cause and its enemies. For Kareem, the enemy was an American society that had held him in chains for a lifetime.
Shaking his head, Mohammed said, “Our allegiance is not to any flag, not to a political party, certainly not to the democracy they have deified. Our allegiance is to Allah alone and his will calls for a worldwide Islamic caliphate with a mandate of any means necessary. Not just one nation under God but an entire world in submission to Allah.”
Uncharacteristic warmth overcame Kareem as he flushed with pride, knowing he was playing a part in a movement designed to destroy the corporate and personal demons in his own life.
CHAPTER SEVEN
For Jake Kruse, it was another restless night. In the past, only the undercover assignments brought such restlessness, his mind never quieting from the potential clashes racing through his “overactive imagination,” as Katie used to joke. But for the past year, thoughts and images of her battled nightly with the issues of his job.
He always justified the job-related insomnia because it prepared him for the harsh reality of the street. The danger never really dies. But death didn’t scare him, it never had; embarrassment did. He could take a bullet. In some ways he might even welcome it. He just didn’t want a stupid mistake caught on a surveillance camera becoming a YouTube video in perpetuity. He knew the difference between humility and humiliation.
Jake was convinced he was a better undercover agent because he didn’t sleep. He lived many of the confrontations, at least in his mind, and rehearsed his answers and reactions. His manufactured lies were grounded in the truth, but a near decade of undercover work had taught him the more convincing the lies, the more deadly the consequences. He needed to be prepared; he needed to be ready. Katie constantly reminded him each undercover encounter was a gift, a learning experience not to be ignored. So this morning was one more gift, one more adventure. With Katie gone, he lived for little else.
Jake parked just below the pier on Appian Way, a surface street paralleling the Pacific Ocean. As he exited the vehicle he slipped the Glock into his waistband. The 9mm was more for show than protection. When a person is too weak to pull the trigger, he usually doesn’t pose an immediate threat to a professional killer.
Though the faded blue jeans and untucked denim shirt failed to make a Beverly Hills fashion statement, the Tony Lama ostrich-skin boots set him apart from the ordinary. Pretty didn’t necessarily sell on the street but image was everything when you lived on the edge, and that’s where Jake Kruse thrived.
Even his choice of weapons had purpose. Many federal law enforcement agencies issue .40-caliber pistols. Jake was comfortable with most handguns but his Glock 19 served him well. It was easily concealable and the 9mm might throw off a sophisticated criminal knowledgeable about a federal agent’s arsenal.
It’s impossible to categorize successful undercover agents. They come in all shapes and sizes, all types of personalities. Some UCs prefer working as part of a team. Others, like Jake, enjoy being on the high wire alone, without a net. Some are people persons, others loners. Jake liked playing lonely and independent. As Katie used to say, “It’s not just humanity. Jake is also lactose intolerant.” He was a team player only when the rules required. But he loved the adrenaline rush of each encounter and welcomed the unknown each assignment brought.
Today the biggest unknown was the subject’s overall knowledge of L.A.’s law enforcement community. In spite of its size, Los Angeles is a small town, especially its criminal underbelly. This morning wasn’t a “Kevin Bacon six degrees of separation” situation. In L.A.’s criminal underworld it was more like two or three degrees. Jake knew he had not personally encountered today’s target but assumed those he previously met while undercover had. The risks, however, were balanced by the adventure.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jake looked at his reflection in the car window, ran his fingers through his hair, pronounced himself fit for the role, and proceeded to the pier. With a few well-chosen admissions by H. Daniel Reid, Jake would be ridding the legal establishment of one more bottom-feeder.
The bright orange midmorning Los Angeles sun was beating on his back as he headed west on the Santa Monica Pier. His focus was on the moment. Reid might only be a lawyer but he could still be dangerous. He could panic and do something really stupid. Even one night in jail is more than most can take, and the thought of a perp walk on the six o’clock news can send the most genteel over the edge.
The waves were blasting ashore, breaking in rapid succession. The morning surfers rushed to the water, seeking the perfect ride. Joggers ran up and down the beach as the tides washed away any evidence of their physical efforts. Those not wealthy enough to run or surf for sheer enjoyment hugged the railing of the pier, fishing poles in hand, hoping to catch a meal for their hungry families. The Pacific Ocean offered something for everyone.
There was no way to lighten the footfalls as his boots clomped along the wooden planks of the pier. Jake fought hard to conceal a confident grin. The Duke and Gary Cooper would love the image: the lone lawman taking on society’s evils one at a time. The heavy pounding of each step added to his essence. Successfully fighting off a smile, he was in character and devouring this persona: the contract killer… maybe his favorite role.
About halfway down the pier he sidled over to the railing at the prearranged meeting spot, a concrete bench on the north side of the pier. Jake took in the smells and sounds: fresh air, gulls crying out, and the sea splashing against the concrete pilings.
It was a little past ten and he was preparing to meet an obnoxious criminal defense attorney, a frequent guest of the TV talk shows. Reid represented most of the bad boys of Hollywood and served as their PR mouthpiece every time the stars and starlets decided the criminal statutes were meant only for the unwashed masses. Reid didn’t need TV ads or billboards; his face was plastered across the screen often. If you didn’t know better you might think he co-hosted TMZ on TV or Access Hollywood. The height-deprived, Harvard-trained lawyer gave Napoleon complex a bad name. He was short, lumpy, and sported a spray-on tan, but his money and power trumped any physical inadequacies. With his slicked-back dark hair and baritone voice, he wooed juries and the media.
Reid suggested the pier and Jake didn’t balk. The experienced undercover agent knew he could get a better recording outside than in some crowded coffee shop.