"What if he is? If he is, he gets an apology. If he isn’t, we need to know what he knows."
"Langley thinks so, too. The Bureau is about to get a reminder that Homeland Security means security now, not in the future. They won't like it, but they’ll pick him up. You and Selena are going out there. Don't expect a warm welcome."
"What about our assassins?"
"Langley is searching the area of Pakistan Selena identified for any sign of them. They've got a lot of surveillance in place anyway. Now that there's a different mission, their analysts are looking at everything from a new perspective. If they turn something up, we'll have a better idea of how to deal with it. Meanwhile Bausari takes priority."
That was how Selena and Nick found themselves on a flight to LAX that afternoon, connecting to San Diego.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Richard was nervous. He couldn’t say why. It felt like Afghanistan again, like he was being watched. It was how he’d felt until the day he'd proved himself with his knife.
His visits to the mosque restored him. Listening to the Imam rail against the Americans and the Jews, Richard felt he had come home at last. There'd been suspicion at first, just like in Afghanistan. But the others were quick to recognize his devoutness and his knowledge of the Holy Book. He was accepted.
He was on his houseboat. A frozen chicken dinner circled in the microwave. Heavy footsteps sounded on the deck outside, then sudden, loud banging on the door. It opened before he got to it.
"Richard Hemmings?" The man held up a credentials holder. It had a gold badge with an eagle on it. "Special Agent Bozeman, Federal Bureau of Investigation."
Richard’s heart jumped. He swallowed. "What do you want?"
"Are you Richard Hemmings?"
"Yes, but…"
"Richard Hemmings, I am detaining you under authority of the Patriot Act."
"On what charges?"
"You’re not being charged. You are suspected of aiding a terrorist conspiracy. Hook him up, Carl."
A second man pulled Richard’s arms behind him and handcuffed him. It hurt.
"Wait a minute, I’ve seen you. You were sitting in a car across from the mosque this afternoon. This is harassment, discrimination. I want a lawyer."
"I don’t think so."
Richard didn’t like the way the agent looked at him.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The interrogation room at the FBI field office in San Diego had a large, one way window taking up part of the wall. From inside the room it appeared to be a mirror. A man sat alone in the room, drumming his fingers on a metal table bolted to the floor. Two chairs were placed across from him. Microphones and a camera relayed everything that happened in the room to recording equipment and monitors outside.
Aside from the technician handling the recordings, there were three others present besides Nick and Selena. Agents Bozeman and Carlton were about to start the interrogation. The third person was a black man from the Agency, who introduced himself as Lucas Monroe.
Monroe was wiry, about five ten. He was dressed in a dark blue suit, black shirt and dark blue tie. He looked like he’d be right at home working security in a casino in a small foreign country with unrestricted rules of engagement.
They shook hands.
"What’s your brief on this?" Carter asked.
"Same as yours, I expect. Observe and advise. The Bureau is in charge of this one."
"You have no operational control?"
"Of course not. This is now a domestic issue."
Yeah, Nick thought, and world peace has just broken out.
"We’re ready," Bozeman said. "He’s been in there long enough." He turned to Nick and Selena.
"You two are here strictly as a courtesy. Stay out of the way."
The two agents entered the room and closed the door. They took seats across from Hemmings.
"It's a male thing," Carter said.
"What is?" Selena looked puzzled.
"Marking the territory."
Monroe laughed.
For the next half hour they watched Bozeman and Carlton. They were good. Carlton did most of the talking. Bozeman confined himself to occasional unfriendly comments. Carlton was the good guy. It was Carlton who sent out for coffee and sandwiches and gabbed about fishing. In general he appeared to think this was all an unfortunate mistake. Of course, there were a few questions that needed to be answered.
"Why did you convert to Islam?" Carlton asked.
"Now they’re getting to it." Monroe clasped his hands behind his back.
"I was guided to do so," Hemmings picked at a hangnail.
"Guided? Who guided you?"
"Allah. Only He can open our hearts to the truth."
"But you were brought up as a Christian, right?"
"Christ was a great prophet, but he was only a forerunner, like Moses."
"I guess I’m not asking the right question," Carlton said. "Maybe I should have asked what you were doing in Afghanistan seven years ago. Is that when you converted?"
"I was never in Afghanistan."
"I was," Carlton looked him in the eye. "And so were you, Abdul."
Hemmings tried to cover his shock. Carlton knew his name.
"See, we did some checking on you. You were in Pakistan on and off for two years, more or less, according to our friends in the ISI over there."
"Yes, I was in Pakistan. My mother had an import-export business in Islamabad. Is that a crime? But I was never in Afghanistan."
"You're part Pakistani?"
"No. My mother married again when my father died. A Pakistani who was not my father. I was born here. In America."
"Your mother died and you inherited the business."
"Yes. She was killed in a car accident."
"Then you sold the business and took up fishing."
"Yes. I like to fish and the charters pay well."
"But you were never in Afghanistan."
"No."
"Then who's this?" Carlton took out a grainy black and white photograph and placed it on the table where Hemmings could see it. The faces of a dozen men stared out at him. Men whose faces were vague and unreadable under beards and turbans. Only Hemmings' face was reasonably clear. Snow capped mountains were visible in the background. Everyone looked grim. They wore bandoleers and brandished AK-47s. Two in the front row held a printed banner.
الموت لأميركا
Carlton tapped the photo.
"What does that say, Richard?"
"I don't know. I don't read Arabic."
Bozeman snorted in disgust. "You're a liar. We have your computer. And the sign says 'Death to America', you fucking traitor."
Carlton pushed the photo across the table. "That’s you, this skinny one here with the beard. Seven years ago. Those mountains are in Afghanistan. You still say you weren’t there?"
"I’ve never seen that photo. I don’t know what you’re talking about."
Outside the interrogation room, Monroe turned to Nick. "He never has. We made it up this morning." He put on a pair of sunglasses and reached for the door.
"Sunglasses?"
"Have to look the part." Monroe went into the room. He stood across from Hemmings. He said nothing.
"Who are you?" Hemmings' foot began tapping and his knee bounced up and down.
Monroe said nothing.
"Turn off the recording," Carlton said.
"Recording off." The technician's voice echoed through the speakers in the interrogation room. Outside the room, the cameras and tapes continued to roll.
Carlton said, "He's here to escort you to a different interrogation center."
"Where?"
Carlton shook his head. "I gotta tell you, Richard, you really don’t want to know. You don't want to go there."
"I say we hand the little prick over. It’s what he deserves. They’ll make him talk."