A quick triage showed him that only one of the four suspects was still moving. It was the boy Samuels had been trying to extricate just a few seconds ago. His eyes were barely open, and his face was almost purple. Mahoney hooked his hands under the kid’s arms and started pulling him out.
In the bedroom, the heat was intense. He could feel his exposed skin prickling as he dragged the kid along, keeping as low as possible. It was painfully slow going.
Too slow. All at once, the boy coughed up some blood, and he spasmed hard, one last time. That was it. Before Mahoney reached the door, he knew he was dragging a dead body.
Book Four
NECESSARY
EVILS
“GET ON YOUR toes! that’s it. Shoulder front. Good. That’s perfect. Now pick up that can of Coke.”
Ava reached out and took the Coke off the shelf where I’d put it.
“Good. Now put it back,” I said.
She set the soda can down, but then dropped her arm in frustration. “I thought boxing was about punching,” she said.
“What do you think you’re learning to do?” I said. “Now go again. But keep your elbow in this time.” I showed her. “Keep it tight. Close to your side.”
“Gotta keep the box closed,” Ali said, mirroring the stance for her. He was loving this, being able to tell a thirteen-year-old what to do. Ava didn’t seem to mind. It was me she rolled her eyes at.
“How am I supposed to learn anything if you won’t let me wear gloves?”
“You’ll get the gloves when you’re ready,” I said. “Now pick up that can again.”
I honestly wasn’t sure if boxing was a great idea for Ava, or a terrible one. But she’d expressed an interest, and that was enough for me to give it a try.
“How do you like your new school?” I asked, motioning her and Ali into the center of the floor. They knew the drill and turned to face each other.
Ava kept her elbows in as she put her hands up, left foot in front. Ali did the same.
“It’s a’ight. I like Ms. Hopkins,” she said.
It probably doesn’t sound like much, but this was about a thousand percent more than Ava had been giving me so far. Kids off the street can go one of two ways. It’s either no boundaries at all, and they share way too much, too fast. Or they clam up tight. That was Ava. So far, we had our good days and our bad days.
There were still plenty of questions I wanted to ask. Like what happened to you out there on the streets? Did you know your mom was going to die? What makes you feel safe, Ava? Who are you?
The questions would come, eventually. For now, I stuck to small, tangible stuff like school, meals, movies — and boxing.
I ran the kids through some balance drills, did some more mirroring, and then let them play at dodging the heavy bag. That one was Ava’s favorite. She gave up a few rare smiles while she and Ali swung the bag, feinting and weaving on the balls of their feet. At least the two of them were bonding.
After a while, Jannie came down the basement stairs and poked her head under the banister.
“Hey, Daddy? Mr. Mahoney’s here to see you. And Nana says enough with the roughhousing. It’s time for bed.”
I looked over at the clock radio on the windowsill. It was quarter to ten and a school night. Oops.
What was Ned Mahoney doing here at the house this late?
“All right, guys, that’s it. Gym’s closed for the night,” I said.
Ava stood holding the bag with both hands. “Just a little more,” she said.
“Nope. It’s already past your bedtime. Ali’s too. Let’s go.”
A nasty scowl came onto her face. “I don’t need no goddamn bedtime,” she said. She swung the bag hard and caught Ali off guard. It knocked him right to the floor. While he burst into tears, Ava started stomping up the stairs.
That was, until I made her come back and apologize — first to Ali, and then to me.
“No more boxing this week,” I said. “You need a break. This isn’t the way it’s going to work in this house.”
“Whatever,” she said, in that really charming way adolescents can have. Then she turned to go.
Like I said, good days and bad days. Sometimes all at the same time.
AVA WAS STILL sulking when we got up stairs. She walked right by Mahoney, who was waiting in the front hall. Ned pointed at the kids as they went by, counting on his fingers. “Three?” he mouthed at me.
“Don’t ask,” I said. “Also known as Ava.”
“Good night, Also Known as Ava,” he called up the stairs.
“G’night,” Ava said without turning around. But at least she talked.
“Good night, Mr. Mahoney!”
“Good night, Jannie. Good night, John-Boy. Good night, everyone!”
Jannie and Ali liked Ned just as much as I did. Once they were gone, though, he dropped the “Uncle Ned” act and his face turned serious again. I hadn’t spoken with him since the raid at the motel, three nights earlier. I think this was the first time I ever saw him when he wasn’t clean shaven and raring to go.
“How are your guys doing?” I asked.
“They’ve been better. Totten’s already home, but Behrenberg’s going to be in the burn unit for at least two more weeks,” he told me, shaking his head.
“How about you?” I said. “You holding up?”
Ned shrugged. “I’ve been spending most of my forced time off at the hospital with Behr’s wife. But they’re putting me back on tomorrow,” he said.
“Is that a good thing?”
“Sure. Nothing worse than sitting on the sidelines. I need to be in on this, or I’m going to go crazy.”
I could have guessed Ned would feel responsible for what happened. I’d probably feel the same way, for better or worse.
“Listen, Ned, if you ever need to talk about —”
“Thanks,” he said, “but I’m already seeing one of the Bureau shrinks. She’s pretty good, actually. A lot better-looking than you, too.”
I was glad to see the trademark sense of humor wasn’t dead, anyway.
“Well, how about I pour you a drink, then? I’ve got some good Scotch I think even you could appreciate,” I said.
“Actually —” Ned took a step toward the door. His keys were still hooked on his finger, and he had that look in his eye. The one that said he’d never really left work behind.
“I was wondering if you wanted to go for a ride,” he said. “I’ve got something you might be interested in seeing. This is good. You want to see it.”
I nodded. “Of course I do.”
HALF AN HOUR later, Mahoney and I showed up at a four-story, red-brick building on the corner of Sixth and P streets, across from Masjid Al-Qasim mosque. We parked in the back and took the stairs to a third-floor. railroad apartment.
Inside, it was mostly empty. Just a few lawn chairs and long folding tables, loaded up with listening equipment. Two agents sat in the chairs, both of them with headphones on. Another was at the kitchen counter with two laptops in front of her.
I didn’t know any of these agents, but Mahoney’s kind of a rock star with the surveillance crews. He introduced me to Cheryl Kravetz in the kitchen, and pointed out Howard Green and Andrew Landry with the headphones.
“Thanks for calling,” Mahoney told Kravetz. “We’ll try to stay out of the way.”
“No problem.” Kravetz worked while they talked. She had half a dozen different camera views up on two screens and scrolled through them with an external keyboard hooked up to both computers.
Most of what I saw didn’t look like much — an empty hallway, a classroom of some kind, a dark alley.
“Isha prayers let out about an hour ago,” she told us. “I’m not sure what the holdup is.”
“And nobody’s going in after them?” Ned asked.
“When was the last time you took someone down in a mosque?” Kravetz said. “Or any church, for that matter. It’s too damn complicated. Besides, we’ve got this covered.”
I listened but didn’t say anything. This wasn’t my op. All Mahoney had told me in the car was that intel from the Bureau’s Al Ayla informant had been coming in fast and furious. Tonight was supposed to be some kind of takedown. As for who they were going after, he had no idea.
It was another hour before anything significant happened. Ned and I were talking quietly in the corner when one of the listening agents put up a hand and snapped his fingers several times.
“Here we go,” Kravetz said. We went over and stood behind her, where we could see. She had pulled up two full-screen views. It looked like the front and back entrances of the mosque.
A second later, one of the double front doors opened from the inside, and a woman in a hijab and long coat started backing out onto the front walk.
“What the hell —?”
It took a second to see the man in the wheelchair. Once they’d cleared the door, the woman did a 180 and started pushing him down toward the street.
“That’s them?” Mahoney said.
They looked to be in their sixties, both of them heavyset. The man had a thick, almost nonexistent neck and just a few wisps of hair. The woman walked with a slight limp. Actually, she hobbled more than walked.
Kravetz manipulated her controls to follow them on camera.
“Wait for it,” she said. “Wait for it …”
As soon as they turned onto the sidewalk, two unmarked cars were there! They pulled up to the curb, and half a dozen agents jumped out. One of them took control of the wheelchair. Another cuffed the woman immediately.
I could hear the man in the chair shouting now, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.
It all happened very fast. They’d barely gotten the woman into one of the cars when a handicap-accessible van pulled up. The Bureau was clearly ready for this. They loaded up their mystery man and everyone took off, leaving the corner just as quiet as it had been sixty seconds ago.
I looked over at Ned when it was done. He was still staring at the screen, but his eyes looked blank. If I had to guess, I’d say he was thinking about that terrible scene at the motel from the other night. Was this couple responsible? Were they the planners?
“Where are they taking those two?” I asked. “Any idea?”
Mahoney shrugged. “To hell, I hope.”
THE NAME OF the man in the wheelchair was Faizal Ahmad Angawi. According to the prevailing intel, he went simply by “Uncle” within the organization.
When they reached their destination, he was unloaded from the van, and his blindfold was removed.
“You maniacs! Where in God’s name have you taken me?” he screamed at the FBI agents. “You are breaking your laws.”
They’d arrived in a vast, unheated garage bay. Nothing too specific to clue him in to his exact whereabouts. There was a loading dock and a long row of empty steel shelving units along one wall. Several fluorescent light fixtures hung from the girdered ceiling, far overhead. Also, it was quite cold.
CIA interrogator Matt Sivitz stood in front of Angawi. His hands were clasped behind his back, while the seated man ranted on and on.
“I have my rights! You can’t do this. I demand to see my attorney immediately!”
“Absolutely,” Sivitz told him. “Just as soon as we’re back in the real world, you can see a lawyer, Mr. Angawi. Or should I call you Uncle?”
The man squinted up at him while the corners of his mouth turned down. “Uncle? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t be insulting. You know exactly what it means.”
Sivitz walked over and took a folding chair off the dock. When he set it across from the wheelchair and sat down, the two men were face-to-face.
“Here’s how I see it,” he went on. “I think you’re stuck in the middle of something here. You answer to your people back in Saudi. You pass orders to your operatives. But you don’t control anything. Not really. You’ve got all the knowledge but none of the power — and that’s what makes you vulnerable. Am I close?”
“Close to what?” Angawi shouted. “This is an outrage! I’m a law-abiding man. Look at me!” He reached for the wheels on his chair and found them locked.
Sivitz held up a finger, which was also clearly a warning. “Actually, we’ve been watching you for a while.”
He unfolded a slip of paper from his pocket and glanced down at it. “Does the number 20852409 mean anything to you?” he said. “No? Maybe you didn’t memorize the account numbers. How about Trinity Bank, in Washington? Saudi British Bank, in Riyadh?”
Angawi was having none of it. “You can’t intimidate me like this,” he said between clenched teeth. “All of my accounts are perfectly legal.”
Sivitz nodded. “All of Faizal Ahmad Angawi’s accounts are legal. That’s true. But not the ones you’ve created under Muhammed Al-Athel. Or Charity of Hope. Or Chesapeake Properties.” He watched the man while he spoke, gauging his expression. “That’s where Al Ayla’s money is coming in, isn’t it? Please correct me anytime here. Just in case I have any small details wrong.”
The detainee didn’t even show a glimmer of recognition. Just pure, seething hatred.
“I have a right to an attorney,” he said again. “I insist you take me back to the mosque this instant! Right now! Do you hear me? Are you recording this?”
Sivitz stood up fast. His chair slammed back onto the concrete floor.
“Listen to me,” he said. “Listen very carefully. If you ever want to see your wife again, you’re going to drop this pathetic act of yours and start talking to us. Who is your contact in Saudi Arabia?”
“Are you threatening my wife?” The man was shaking with rage now.
“No, Faizal. You are. What I’m saying is that you’re both going to spend the rest of your lives in separate American prisons at the rate you’re going. So tell me, who’s running your ops in the District?”
“This is illegal! Racist! Outrageous —”
“Where are Ethan and Zoe Coyle?”
Angawi reeled back then and spit in the agent’s face.
Sivitz saw red. He cocked a fist and came at him until Angawi was cowering with his hands up around his head. This meant he wasn’t immune to pain. Good to know.
It took another breath for Sivitz to pull himself back from the edge. He wasn’t going to hit this cripple. There would be no bruising. No physical proof of anything. Instead, he reached down and took Angawi’s chin in his hand.
“Look at me,” he said.
Slowly, the man’s eyes came up to meet his.
“You want to keep wasting your people the way you’ve been doing, you go right ahead. Put your wife on that list while you’re at it. Doesn’t make any difference to me. But just so you know — we’re not leaving this place until you give me something I can use. And — I will hurt you.” Sivitz stepped back and let go of his face. He looked visibly shaken now. “Names, Faizal. Places. Targets. You know what I want.”
Angawi took a deep breath. For the first time, it was hard to tell which direction he might go in. Maybe they were making some progress here, after all.
“I … demand … to … see … my … attorney,” Angawi said. It was so slow as to be mocking. Then he folded his hands on his lap and bowed his head, either at rest or in prayer. It was hard to tell which.
Sivitz watched for a minute, then turned away. He took out a pack of gum and unwrapped a piece as he headed for the door. “Goddamn, I miss cigarettes,” he growled to no one.
It was going to be a long night.
THE HALLWAY OFF the loading dock had been cleared of all personnel except for a lone armed agent at the far end. The guard pushed the elevator button for Sivitz as he approached.
“How’s it going in there?” he asked.
Sivitz ignored him and got onto the elevator without a word.
He rode to the sixth floor, where another agent was on post. Continuing down the hall, he passed a long row of dark offices until he came to the last one, with a light showing u
nder the door. The placard next to it had his name engraved in block letters beneath a small rendering of the CIA seal.
Sivitz knocked twice, then opened the door with his key.
Inside, Mrs. Angawi was sitting at the conference table with a female translator from Langley. Peter Lindley was there as well, and Evan Stroud from the Directorate of Intelligence, who had jobbed Sivitz in for this one. All four had Styrofoam containers of sandwiches and chips in front of them and bottles of water from the kitchen down the hall.
“How are we doing in here?” Sivitz asked. “Everybody nice and comfy?”
The translator quietly relayed the question to Mrs. Angawi, who came back in a torrent of Arabic.
“‘I want to leave this building, this city. It’s a cursed place,’” the translator said, speaking for the woman as she went. “‘I shouldn’t be here anymore. It’s not safe for me.’”
“Tell her she’ll be in a hotel tonight, perfectly secure. Once we have everything we need, other arrangements can be made,” Stroud answered.
Sivitz kept his thoughts to himself. The woman seemed a little simple to him. It was amazing that the Bureau had put this much stock in her. Although, by the same token, all of her intel had been good so far. Maybe her own people had underestimated her, too.
He also noticed that her hijab was down around her shoulders, even with these strange men in the room. That spoke volumes about her.
“‘I want a new life,’” she went on through her translator. “‘My husband is not the same man that I married. I can’t stand by and watch this happen anymore. I have friends here. American friends, do you understand?’”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got it,” Sivitz said.
Somewhere in there, she’d turned her attention on him. Maybe she felt like she wasn’t getting anywhere with Stroud and Lindley. But he was no baby-sitter. “Ask who her husband reports to in Saudi Arabia. We need to know who’s giving the orders here.”
“We’ve been trying, Matt. You do know that, right?” Stroud said.