Paul’s shirt felt steamy and damp. He wanted to take off his sport coat but was afraid to show his weapon and holster. As it was, the larger crowd bulged out from the south side of the lot to reach within twenty feet. He motioned Conway to use the other agents for crowd control.
As the agents moved toward the crowd, Paul could tell they were at the tipping point. The crowd could easily overwhelm the law enforcement and CDC, if they wanted to. He ran to find Rasmussen. “Where are the other police?”
“I got ’em coming, but it takes awhile to round ’em up.”
“Can’t you see it’s about to blow-up here?”
Rasmussen stopped and looked into Paul’s face. “Hey, we’re doing all we can. This is your show, pal.”
A surge of noise interrupted them. The crowd shouted and cheered. Paul looked over their heads to see a green van pull up with an antenna mounted on the roof. “Oh, shit!” he shouted as he ran toward it.
Large yellow letters on the side of the van said, “Channel 6 News.” Three people spilled out of the sides. Two had cameras on their shoulders, and a blonde woman dressed in a starched blouse and blue blazer over blue jeans, waded through the crowd. Carolyn Bechter smiled and waved at people.
Paul’s stomach tightened when he saw her. The short fling they’d had didn’t work out. He knew Carolyn blamed him for everything. She’d be tough to deal with.
Paul heard Conway, who stomped around so much he looked like he was dancing. “Who the hell called those assholes? Get ’em out of here!” he ordered.
At the edge of the crowd, the cameramen pointed toward the news woman who started talking to Pastor Heinz. Someone opened an umbrella over the two. Angry shouts carried around the crowd. Paul moved to the interview.
Then Bechter started her interview, “We received an anonymous tip about the break-out of a small pox epidemic, a deadly contagious disease. Can you comment on that, pastor?”
Paul’s breath stopped. How did they know about it already? When that news spread, could law enforcement control the crowd? For a while, he couldn’t move.
Paul could see the heads of people bobbing back and forth in unison in a mindless push of panic. A scuffle broke out. People shouted and clawed at each other to get away. He looked around for more police. Bechter looked behind herself. Paul could see fear shadow her face. She sheltered herself next to the burly cameraman.
A second news van pulled in behind the first.
As Carolyn backed up quickly, someone ripped the microphone out of her hand and started yelling into it. She kept backing while the cameraman to her side tried to film. The person with the mike jerked it backward, causing the camera to tumble off the black guy’s shoulder.
He and Carolyn looked at each other. Paul could see they were afraid.
Her head swiveled, searching around behind her, saw Paul, and worked her way through the crowd to reach him.
“Paul?”
“Carolyn,” he said. He felt like they were two cats, circling each other.
“We need help.”
He let his breath escape. “Here. Get inside that tent. I’ll go with you.” He looked her in the eyes. “Get into a corner and don’t you dare ask any questions. Those people working in there may be the only ones who can save us now.”
She nodded and sighed in resignation.
Paul’s phone buzzed again, and he reluctantly reached for it, flipped it open. There was a voice mail from FBI headquarters in Washington. He listened.
“Agent, we’ve developed more intel about your suspect, Michael Ammar. He’s got deep cover, so most data bases couldn’t find him at first. He’s Egyptian. Member of the Muslim Brotherhood, an extremist, violent group. And … his real name isn’t Michael. It’s Mustafa Ali Ammar.”
Paul dropped the phone.
Mustafa … Mustafa, where did he hear that name …?
Zehra!
He picked up phone, keyed in Zehra’s earlier message, and caught his breath. He punched the address into GPS, checked to make sure he had both his weapons, shouted at Conway that he was leaving. He heard the faint screams of his boss’ protests as he roared out of the lot, nearly hitting the civilians.
Forty-Three
Zehra felt dreamy. The crowds of people kept passing through forever, it seemed. Her mind wandered through the recent several days. Exhaustion tip-toed around her. She thought of the trial starting on Monday, her violent client that she would fight with, the threats and bombing, her mother’s desire for her and Mustafa to get together, her loneliness, and Mustafa himself.
Her fatigue made it hard to think objectively. Maybe she shouldn’t be objective about love. All her life, she’d been analytical, hard working, dedicated to her career, her mission in life. Look where it had gotten her. She longed to let go, to trust him.
“He’s lying …” BJ’s words echoed in her mind.
“But look at all the wonderful things he’s done,” she said back to the absent investigator. “His work in the mosques, his kindness, intelligence, worldly charm, and look at these kids.” She glanced at the group, their faces lit up by pride-both the parents and the students.
She sighed and focused on the people again. They hugged their children, laughed, and moved on. Zehra’s eyes fell on the curbed scalpel sitting on the table next to her.
The curved knife … Zehra’s mind snapped to electric attention.
What was it about the scalpel? She tried to remember some thought from the past, but it rolled over and disappeared from her mind. Then it struck her hard. Her chest tightened painfully. One of the boys looked back at her in concern. She waved him off. Rain drummed on the big windows and ran down in slow, torturous streams.
When BJ and Mustafa had been at her condo watching the video of the murder, Zehra had been unable to see the actual knife in the film. She knew from the evidence room that the knife found in El-Amin’s apartment, the murder weapon, was curved. She recalled holding it in her hands.
But no one, including Mustafa, could see the knife in the video. He’d said the “curved” knife slicing through the victim’s throat really upset him. How could he know it was curved?
Zehra started to shake.
Her hands quivered. She couldn’t breathe. She fought to gain control. Everything crashed down on her like a tsunami hitting a harbor. The thought of Mustafa killing the young man sickened her. He must be involved in the disappearing Somalis … but why? What was he up to? The bombing …?
The betrayal, the lies, and the gifts he’d given her. The long talks about progressive Islam-all of it staged and false. Tears filled her eyes, and she sniffed repeatedly. How could she have missed it? An intense pain slammed into her chest. Two of the boys turned to her and asked if she was okay.
She calmed herself. Took several deep breaths. She stood and walked to the window and looked outside. Balanced herself against the wall. Cool air streamed over her ankles from the vent on the floor.
Purple clouds hung low over the roofs across the street. Underneath dark bushes, shadows filled in, hiding the lawns and sidewalks. Where the warmed vegetation met the cooling rain, a fog rose from the grass to further obscure things.
What should she do?
She worried about the boys. What did Mustafa have planned?
Zehra thought to run but remembered he had given her a ride. Besides, she didn’t know what to do. Anger, furious anger, replaced her fear. Somehow, she had to escape as soon as possible. Was he still in the school? Would he insist on her coming with him? Could she fake him out? Pretend she didn’t know anything?
She hurried into the crowded hall and looked around for the FBI agent. She couldn’t find him.
Another large group surged out of the classroom. Zehra went back in. The boys stood up, stretched, and pushed at each other, young and carefree.