Ray, always the professional, was rolling toward his camera, still on the ground. He shot some footage of the flames from several angles as dead leaves fluttered down around all of them.
Black, stinky smoke billowed up into the sky.
Carolyn’s ears rang, and she couldn’t hear much. Suddenly, people started to gather, gawking. She struggled to stand up. Checked her jacket and smoothed the front, knowing she’d have to go back on camera soon. She steadied Ray and pointed to the shots she wanted. Great stuff. Shocked people. Scared. Now there were sirens wailing. Perfect.
Carolyn remembered to get Hassan’s face also. Ray swung the camera on his shoulder to find her. The confident, controlled woman of ten minutes before was gone. She stood, leaning against the company van, motionless, her face blank with shock. She started to shake.
“The eyes, Ray,” she screamed at Ray over the noise around them. “Get the eyes.” Carolyn pushed Ray in for a closer shot. Yes … the perfect expression for the ten o’clock news.
Thirty
Paul drove to the Arden Hills campus of Health Technologies. He’d googled the company and found they were one of the largest bio-tech companies in the country, with offices all over the world.
He parked in the spacious lot surrounded by manicured bushes, bright green grass, and a fountain that shot a jet of water high into the air. He thought of calling Conway again. Then, he remembered his boss’ order to stop any new investigation. The news from the boy at school would probably change that, but Paul didn’t want to take any chances yet. He’d just do a little investigation. If it produced legitimate information, he’d call Conway with the results.
He worried. What if he couldn’t find the mysterious Dr. A in time? Should he contact headquarters? No. For now, he’d run this alone.
The main lobby of the company soared three stories into a clear-glassed area above him. Sun danced off the steel supports and cascaded into the lobby so that no lights were required. It faced south to minimize energy use. Expensive plants fanned out from the front door like open arms.
Paul’s’ heels clicked over the polished granite as he walked toward a low, modern desk in the middle. A beautiful woman with dark-brown hair pulled back in a loose bun, looked up at him, smiling as brightly as the sun above.
He pulled out his FBI identification and told her what he was looking for.
“Oh. You should talk to the head of security, Mr. Crenshaw. Please take a seat, Agent Schmidt. Would you like coffee, tea, mineral water, a Coke?”
After she handed him a chilled bottle of water, he waited in a soft chair, so low he was worried it’d be hard to get back out.
In two minutes, Crenshaw appeared in the lobby. He was short, thick, and had an unusual hair style. Must be a rug, Paul thought to himself. He followed Crenshaw down a long, quiet hallway. His feet sank into the gray carpeting until he came to the office. They sat in seats at a small conference table.
“We’ve never had the FBI here before. Usually, we just deal with petty thefts and collisions in the employee’s parking lot,” he said, patting the back of his head as if the rug had slipped. “I hope we haven’t done anything wrong.” He grinned, but it quickly disappeared.
“No, of course not. I’d like to talk with someone I think is employed here. Do your people get briefcases with their initials and your company name on them?”
“Some do, yes. Who do you want to talk with?”
“I think he’s a scientist, Middle Eastern probably, with the initials, M.A.”
Crenshaw’s eyes flicked over his face, then left to look around the room. “Our employee information is usually confidential and …”
“Listen, Ms. Crenshaw, I’ll cut the bullshit.”
He sat up and stopped patting his hair.
“This is a matter of homeland security. After we talk, I want you to call for your own security people. I’ll need to talk with them before we approach the suspect.”
“The suspect? What’s going on?” His face flushed.
“We don’t know all the answers, but I’m convinced this man could be very dangerous.”
“He works here?”
Paul nodded. “Any ideas who M.A. could be?”
He didn’t move, and Paul could tell his brain was whirling. He rose and moved behind a desk. “We have scientists from all over the world working here.” He tapped on a computer for a few minutes. Frowned. “Here … here he is, I think. We have several employees in the science department. Malcom Alpers, Michael Ammar, Vicky Aniston, and of course, lots of Andersons. We are in Minnesota, you know.” Crenshaw looked up from the screen with a grin from his own joke.
“This guy is Middle Eastern. What about the name Ammar?”
“Uh … worked here about three years. In our micro-biology labs.” Crenshaw gave him a brief bio of the suspect.
“Tell me where he works and the physical lay-out.”
Crenshaw frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Are there lots of people around him, or is he alone in an office?”
“He has his own office and shares a secretary. Should I call to see if he’s in?”
“No,” Paul shouted. “Call the secretary, but tell her not to say anything else.”
Crenshaw called and found out that Ammar was out on vacation for two weeks.
Paul slapped his knee and swore. “Of course, he is. He wants the students back to school in the next few days …”
“There’s something odd,” he said, “His secretary said he’ was scheduled to go to Cairo for a business conference. Normally, we don’t allow people to take vacation immediately before a business trip.”
“Cairo?” A hollow tension expanded in Paul’s chest. “What’s his home address?”
Crenshaw hesitated, “We’re not supposed to give out that…”
Paul jumped from his seat and leaned over the desk, spinning the computer screen out of the way. “Look, what don’t you get about national security? Do you want to be the one who stopped the FBI from catching a terrorist? Let’s talk to your boss right now!”
Crenshaw gulped, it looked like his rug moved, and he turned the screen back again, and started to key. “Here … here it is.” He printed it for Paul.
He tore it from Crenshaw’s hand and raced out to his car. He called Conway and luckily, got a hold of him.
“Paul, goddamn it! I told you …”
“Bill, the teacher who called us five years ago called me. I just took the call and made a routine follow-up investigation at the school. Don’t you see that we’ve got to move on this-yesterday!”
“What’s your point?”
Paul heard a small plup as Conway talked, having taken a puff from a cigarette. Smoking was prohibited in his entire office. “Something’s going to happen at a mosque in a day or two. I don’t know what, but we’ve got to intercept this guy before anything goes down.”
Conway was silent awhile. Then said, “You’re sure about this?” he sighed. “These damn Somali cases … it just won’t end. Okay, where are you now?”
“I’m just about to case the house. I need back-up.”
“Right. I’ll get the emergency response team scrambled to meet you there. Cruise the neighborhood to see the layout but don’t stop for anything,” Conway ordered. “Wait for us.” He paused. “And if you screw-up this one …”
“Yes, sir.”
Ammar lived in Southwest Minneapolis in a quiet neighborhood of single family homes. Minnehaha Creek twisted through the neighborhood, on its way to the Mississippi. Walking and biking trails hugged the small creek.
Large elms and ash trees stretched over the streets, creating a canopy of shadow in the front yards. He found Ammar’s house, a tight bungalow made of stucco with brown wood trim on the edges. Green ivy snaked from the side and threatened to engulf the front door. The front lawn, speckled with yellow dandelions, needed mowing.