I’m sure the intelligence services are putting enormous resources into trying to figure out just what was going on down Louisiana way. Let them try-try-try. I’ve researched those men completely. Other than ISIS’s Fahad Kassab, they are a blank slate, the tabula rasa of terrorism. But Tahir Hijazi is not. Even if I knew nothing of him, his nephew’s and Emma Elkins’s many texts would tell me much about his role in their Romeo and Juliet playlet. The pair are fast and loose with their communications, as you’d expect from a couple of teens. That gives me ample insight not only into their movements and plans but also, by extension, into those of their caregivers, including Tahir. It’s another dimension of a most curious man.
Interesting, isn’t it, that he landed in Bethesda, Maryland? Doesn’t anybody wonder why an immigrant of severely modest means from a war-torn nation eventually ends up in a pricy suburb that’s home to so many spies and other government officials, including Lana Elkins? And that his nephew then starts seeing her daughter? Apparently not. He’s certainly active online, though even by my strict standards he has sophisticated encryption.
If I were Lana, I’d be wary of what he could put under my car, like a bomb or electronic locator. But I’m not her. I’m better at this game. And I’ve been playing it as long as she has. We have what you might call common roots. Which is to say that if I were her, I’d suspect there’s more at play here than Tahir’s objections to Sufyan’s love interest. In fact, wouldn’t the smart money — and Lana would certainly know about that — say the conflict over the teens could be nothing but a means for Tahir to draw attention from his real goals? Not that Tahir, a bona fide Muslim fundamentalist, doesn’t truly loathe the young white woman. But hate is rarely exclusive, and I rather like my confluences of interest with him. He certainly has some with Vinko in their genuine distaste, to put it mildly, for Lana Elkins.
My stomach tightens as I now walk up to my second defense against wildfires. It’s an emergency water tank sunk into the earth — eight feet across, fifteen feet deep, and lined with heavy black plastic. The nearest fire district ends twelve miles from here, so I’m glad I have the means of holding a lot of water, along with an engine to pump it through a hundred feet of thick fire hose.
Lately, the tank has also been holding a lot of dead rats. And… it’s no different today as I lift the heavy wooden cover.
The odor is abominable. The heat must be drying up every source of water for miles. My tank has become the Golden Gate Bridge for rats because once they take the plunge, they’re dead.
I’ve taken to keeping a long-handled fishing net nearby to pull out their rotting bodies. I count as I net them and throw them far from the tank. There, the seventeenth and last one — for today.
My task complete, I lower the cover and walk around it. I still can’t see how the rats can get inside this thing.
Too bad Vinko’s subscribers don’t avail themselves of drowning. It would be good to see his mindless millions similarly bloated. They’ve been chatting up a storm about his call-to-arms, along with vows to murder Lana Elkins, her daughter, and Tahir’s nephew. In yet another intriguing twist, I found Tahir himself mouthing off in chat rooms devoted to Steel Fist, doing a credible job of impersonating a white racist. He was actively joining the calls for violence against Lana and Emma, though even in his guise he said nothing of Sufyan. He certainly had the vernacular down, saying it was time to “take names and kick ass.” Does that sound like a Sudanese immigrant to you?
Tahir is intriguing. Not so much to me, but I would think Elkins would be playing catch-up as fast as she can. That he appears to be operating without any concentrated attention by Vinko or her speaks of blinkered obsession as much as anything else. But when a project consumes you, it’s easy to get blindsided. Both Lana and Vinko, from what I can see, are preoccupied with terrorists slipping across the country’s borders.
I have my own interests to consider. Some, as I said, could be served by Tahir, some only by Vinko. I find myself moving back and forth between those two political climates, much as I move between two real climates when I hike the acreage I call my own. On the western flank, fir trees common to coastal forests grow, while Ponderosa pines flourish in the warmer drier reaches to the east. But both political climates are moist with hate, arid of feeling.
Just the way I like them.
Chapter 9
Lana stared at “The Today Show” in the corner of the kitchen. “Do you believe this?” she asked Don and Emma, who were eating the blueberry waffles she’d cooked from scratch.
A shaggy-headed young guy in a Hawaiian shirt, khaki chinos, and flip-flops was walking onto the set.
“Gimme a hug,” he said in a southern drawl as he hauled Matt Lauer out of his seat.
“Well, you know who this is, don’t you?” Lauer said to the camera, breaking the clinch with an awkward smile. “Jimmy McMasters, the brave young man who fought ISIS, and our show’s new terrorism expert.”
“Reality is getting so bizarre that I don’t see how satire can survive anymore,” Lana said, shaking her head.
“How can they say he’s a terrorism expert?” Emma asked, wolfing the last of her waffle. “He looks total surf punk to me.”
“Maybe that’s what we need nowadays, if we’re going to get serious about terrorism,” Don said.
Lana threw him a startled look but Don was already giving in to laughter.
She’d fixed breakfast with him especially in mind, solicitous of Don since FBI Agent Robin Maray had rekindled old emotions yesterday. Penance for the guilt she was feeling.
“He reminds me of someone,” Don said, studying McMasters.
The TV tête-à-tête was well underway: “So what do you make of those bad sunburns the terrorists got?” asked Lauer. “You’d think they would have been prepared for that. One of them’s in the infirmary at Camp Blanding with what’s being reported as sunstroke.”
“That’s some bad stuff,” said McMasters. “I guess the sun’s our first line of defense down on the bayou. And out on the Gulf, man, it’s brutal.”
“From what you saw, did those terrorists have any shade?”
“Nope, not much. Their boat was super crowded.”
Don’s right, Lana thought. McMasters reminded her of some fifteen-minutes-of-fame guy. Who? It was starting to drive her crazy. The tip-of-the-tongue that won’t let go. Then it did:
“Kato Kaelin,” she blurted. “He’s the Kato Kaelin of this case.”
“Exactly,” Don said.
“Who’s Kato whatever?” Emma asked.
“You don’t want to know,” Don answered.
“A footnote to a nightmare,” Lana added. “So you’re going to head out with Dad?”
She and Don had urged her to go with him to look over the dogs they were considering, though Emma appeared to have voted for school with her attire: short skirt, sleeveless summery top, heels.
“I can’t,” Em said, rinsing her plate and sticking it in the dishwasher. “I’ve got three AP classes.” Advanced Placement. College credit, if she did well. “The only reason you’re pushing me to go is Dad can’t stalk me today so you want me with him.”
“First, you’re right, we want you covered,” Don replied. “Second, you’re a smart kid. You can miss a day. And third, I really would like your company.”
“If you’re not stalking me on the way to school, who’s going to protect Sufyan?”
“His uncle. Trust me, he’s got Sufyan’s back,” Don said. “Don’t you think?”