Paul slowed as he reached the house and tried to see in. Shades hid the interior. A rusted air conditioner stuck out of a window on the south side. There were no cars parked in the front on the street.
He turned at the end of the block and drove to the alley that separated the two rows of houses. Driving down the alley, each house had a garage. Many leaned to one side and needed paint. Trash cans guarded the sides of most garages, with their lids clamped on tightly.
When he reached the end of the alley and turned back onto the street, something bothered him. There weren’t any trash cans behind Ammar’s house.
Paul parked around the corner at an angle where he could watch the front of the house and waited for the FBI team. The hollow feeling returned to his chest, and he felt as if he had to piss badly.
At his ankle, he carried the little Glock 29, the subcompact. Under his arm, in the shoulder holster, he cradled the Glock 21, with the.45 caliber slugs in it.
He took a sip of water from the bottle he’d received at Health Technologies. It helped moisten his dry mouth. He sipped again-not too much or he’d really have to piss.
His Blackberry buzzed.
The assault team was near and asked for intelligence about the house. Paul told them everything including the details about the neighboring houses.
In five minutes, a dark van pulled up behind Paul’s car. He looked in his rear-view mirror and then got out. Five agents, dressed in dark-blue jackets and pants, jumped from the van and huddled next to it on the sidewalk side. Large, yellow letters said FBI on their backs. Paul knew they were armed for any problem and vested also. One agent carried the “bunker buster,” a light but protective shield carried before him when he burst through a door.
The leader, First Deputy Tony Valentini, came up to Paul. Without shaking, he said, “What’s the intel, agent?”
Paul nodded. “The subject’s around the corner up there,” he pointed. “There’s also the alley.”
“We’ll take both,” Valentini said. “I’ll take two agents with me, and I’d like two to ride with you up the alley. We’ll be responsible for primary contact. You’ll cover the escape route, if necessary. Description?”
“Middle Eastern, tall, thin. About thirty years old.”
“Anyone else with him?”
“Probably not. He’s not married and doesn’t have a family.”
“From what you say, he could have a bomb in there. Once we’re in position, we’ve got to move.” Valentini emphasized the word “move.” He thought for a moment, and then said, “Conway wants us to wait for him, but he’ll just get in the way.” He grinned for a moment. “We can’t let the suspect escape, can we?” They all agreed, so Valentini said, “Let’s move out, men.”
The agents separated into the two vehicles. Paul backed up and turned into the alley. He waited for the van to round the corner into the street and gave it a little time to reach the front of the house. He rolled up the alley and peered through the houses to keep pace with the van.
When he reached the house, he parked his car diagonally across the back to block the garage and the yard. The two agents fanned out to each side of the door and pulled out their weapons. One had a pistol and the other a shotgun.
Paul, who didn’t have a vest, screened himself with his car by standing behind it. He leveled his Glock 21 over the roof, holding it with both hands. He pointed it directly at the back door and waited.
He forced himself to breathe slowly, to keep calm. The two agents, although experienced, fidgeted while in position. Paul strained to see into the dark windows for any hint of trouble. To be prepared. No matter how many takedowns a person went through, they were always tense. Anything could happen.
Five minutes later, Paul heard a crash from the front of the house. Probably the door breaking. Men shouted. His impulses told him to storm the back door, but they’d been trained to wait for a possible escape. No one appeared in the back until Valentini shouted to them before opening the door himself.
Paul shouted back and everyone holstered their weapons. “We’re coming in,” Paul yelled. Valentini agreed.
Inside, they all walked through the small home. It was obvious no one had lived there for many years. The refrigerator was clean and off, the toilet paper roller empty, the cupboards bare, and dust settled on every surface. Paul sniffed at the stale, closed-up smell that reminded him of his elderly grandmother who never got out.
“You got bad intel,” Valentini said. “Nice work, agent,” he scowled at Paul.
Paul raised his shoulders. “Hey … how did I know? This is the official address he gave his employer.”
“What the hell’s going on?” A hoarse voice from the front door shouted inside. Conway stepped into the living room. He huffed and looked around. “What’d we get?”
Conway looked from one agent to the other until he came to Paul. No one had to speak. Bill took a deep breath. “Can you explain this?”
“Of course not, Bill. You agreed to the grab.”
“After you talked me into it.”
“Chief,” Valentini raised his hand between the two men. “Let’s look around. Maybe we’ll find something.”
Everyone separated, and Paul walked to the front door. It stood with the frame splintered in two places. Sun flooded the area, making it uncomfortably warm. Paul noticed the mailbox and opened it. A bundle of mail tumbled out. He picked it up and scanned the addresses. “Hey,” he shouted. “I’ve got something.”
Conway and Valentini hurried to the front. Paul held out the letters and junk mail. All of them were addressed to Michael Ammar.
“Drop house,” Valentini said. “Probably never spent one night here. I’m startin’ to like this smell-we’re definitely on to something now. Any idea where our man could be?” he asked Paul.
“I don’t know.”
Conway nodded. “Well … I guess you’re right. This guy stinks, and I want him brought in,” he ordered. He spun toward Paul and scowled. “As for you, I think I’m gonna fire you. Right now.”
Too upset to go back to the office, Paul headed for home. He didn’t want to face Conway. Besides being embarrassed, Paul worried that Conway really meant he was fired. At least Paul had proved one thing. Michael Ammar was somehow tied in with the Somali boys and could be dangerous.
At his home, Paul booted up his computer to check email. While waiting, he remembered to google USRAMID, one of the agencies that called Conway. When he keyed it in, the program didn’t find any matches. He rearranged the letters and got a hit. What he found stopped his breath.
USAMRIID was an acronym for the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases, located at Ft. Detrick, Maryland.
Thirty-One
Outside of Minnesota, Michael could become Mustafa again. He looked out the window of the Egypt Air flight as it cruised over the vast city of Cairo. Even from this altitude, it stretched for as far as he could see in all directions. The plane circled the airport and landed at Terminal 3, the newest and largest one.
He carried only the company briefcase for his laptop and a small suitcase. He’d substitute the new laptop for his old one on the return flight.
Although the airport was only ten miles from central Cairo, it took a long time to reach his hotel, the Ramsses Hilton. A new freeway promised a quick entry into the city but, as most things in Cairo, corruption, crowding, and millions of people slowed progress. Piles of garbage stood everywhere. Mustafa didn’t mind. He had plenty of time and from inside the air-conditioned cab, he could watch the unfolding of humanity on the streets in all its forms.
He’d forgotten the noise and the smell.
Car horns, scooters whining beside the cab, the bawling of donkeys, shouts of vendors, the crush of people everywhere, crying children, the dry wind from the western desert that whistled through the arches in the markets, the calling to the faithful to prayer by muezzins, and the tinkling of bells all assaulted Mustafa’s ears.