He had looked deep into Beth’s eyes and said, “God told me that if the good Lord Jesus could save the criminal hanging on the cross next to him, then he could save me, too.”
He went on to tell Beth that that’s why he didn’t worry; because he had given his life to Christ that day. He said that now, through good times and bad, he knew that Jesus was going to pull him through.
“John…Hello? John!”
Beth was calling him on the other end of the cell. Knox snapped back to reality.
“Sorry, Beth. I got distracted there for a minute. You’re right – I need to be objective, too. We’ll figure it out. See you in about thirty-five minutes, at the Starbucks around the corner from the Field Office building,” John answered.
“There’s the optimist I know. Okay, I will be there in thirty; I have been ready for the past hour,” Agent White replied.
John disconnected the call and headed for the shower. He knew Beth had been right about the challenge of objectivity; he would just have to keep praying about it and leave it in bigger hands, and as usual, it would work out one way or the other.
12
Detroit, Michigan
Starbucks near FBI Field Office
They sized each other up the moment Agent John Knox walked through the swinging glass door at Starbucks. Malik and his slender, agile build and dark brown skin, looking relaxed yet confident as he leaned against a counter top; was already holding a coffee cup in one hand, with his elbow propped up on top of a newspaper spread out over the same counter. He and Knox locked eyes on each other as all 6 feet 3 inches, 240 pounds of the blond-headed FBI man walked directly towards Malik, followed closely behind by a much shorter, unexpected, attractive young woman with strawberry blond hair- wearing a sharply pressed gray suit.
They extended hands simultaneously as Agent Knox was the first to speak, “Agent Sharif…I’m Agent Knox, and this is my partner Agent Beth White.”
Malik stood taller as he straightened up to shake hands with both FBI agents, only standing an inch shorter than Knox. When they shook hands, it wasn’t a test of manhood or anything like that; just a firm, professional handshake that made all parties realize the confidence of one another.
Malik was the first to speak about the business at hand, “Agent Knox, I was told that you were lead investigator on this case. I was not aware you had a partner – you didn’t mention her on the phone. At any rate, Agent White… very nice to meet you.”
Knox responded, “Oh I didn’t mention her by name; I do remember telling you WE would see you here. I am just in the habit of people knowing that wherever I go, my partner White here is close behind.”
Agent White blushed slightly, but joined in, “So Agent Sharif – or do you prefer Inspector? What exactly happened in Egypt?”
Malik smiled and replied, “Please, just Malik. I am not very formal, and never will be. But I will be glad to call you by your last names if that is what you’re used to.”
Agent Knox answered abruptly, “Last names are good for now – we just met. But go on.”
Malik nodded but continued, “Anyway, I was assigned the case in Cairo from our office in Brussels. They initially sent me as a Counter-terrorism expert. So at first that is what I thought I was going to – a terrorist attack of some sort. What I discovered in Cairo was the body of a dead Imam, laying perpendicular to his prayer rug… holding a golden cross in his right hand.”
Malik took a manila envelope out from under the newspaper and handed it over to Agent Knox. Knox took out the first of several photographs, perused it with a heavy brow, and handed it over to his partner. She glanced at it and nodded, “That is exactly what our victim looked like; only a little bit younger.”
“So what is your first impression of the killer, Knox?” asked Malik as the FBI agent studied the other photographs in the packet.
Knox looked back at Malik after glancing over the photos a little longer while Agent White studied them with her eye for detail.
“Well, one thing is for sure – it is a person with a grudge against the religion of Islam. I am guessing someone with Christian influence judging by the intentional placement of a crucifix at both crime scenes. Other than the age of our victims, and perhaps the price of the surroundings at each location, I’d say the crime scenes are virtually identical,” he finished.
Malik nodded in agreement. “I personally think our killer is sending a message, or even a warning, to the Muslim world. It is seen in the deliberate placement of the bodies and crosses; the use of poison; the identity of the victims. Although I am not easily offended, I know that the use of a religious idol such as the cross is an ‘in your face’ mockery of Muslims if placed in the hands of a murdered leader of a mosque.”
Agent Knox jumped in, “Hold on – the cross is no more an idol than the crescent moon used on so many Muslim countries’ flags and at the top of mosques. It is a symbol of Christians’ belief in what Jesus did for them. I think there is a message here, but I don’t think it is an attack. I think the killer is trying to tell the Muslims where they’ve gone wrong.”
Malik leaned back against the counter again and gave a smile.
“So glad to know I get to work with someone who thinks like our killer,” Inspector Sharif said.
“If you’re referring to the fact that I am a Christian, you’re right. But that’s where the similarities stop. I aim to catch this guy just as much as you, for killing your Muslim comrades. I am assuming you are a Muslim,” Agent Knox rebutted.
Malik nodded, “I am, and so are both my parents. I can assure you, Agent Knox, that it will not hinder my working with you and Agent White. I think it will be quite helpful, because I agree that our assassin is at least familiar with Christianity. I admit I am not very familiar with Christian teachings and practices, but although I am not what you would call a devout Muslim, my mother and father have taught me much of the Koran since I was a child. Perhaps that knowledge can help you as well. Agent White – you’ve been quiet; busy studying those photographs quite closely I see.”
She looked up and said, “No – I’ve been thinking more than looking. The photos just triggered the thoughts. Whoever our killer is, it is a person who avoids confrontation. Forget the religious implications for a minute here, guys. Our guy, or even girl, is someone who not only avoids confrontation and fighting, but they have it down to an art. Now what kind of people are masters of stealth; so much so that they can become virtually invisible?”
Knox and Malik looked at each other.
Malik half joked, “A cat-burglar?”
Knox immediately added, “A special forces soldier?”
Agent White sat there for a moment, then piped in, “Perhaps somewhere in between.”
13
The Congo
Outside the city of Kinshasa
He had arrived by an old cargo plane arranged by his American government; he had boarded the older plane after taking a chartered flight into Tunisia under an alias – one of the many perks, and necessities, of his line of work. His unofficial job title, known only by the highest authorities in the military and CIA, was an activist. He unofficially worked for a very clandestine branch of the US government simply referred to as The Activity. There were two main positions in The Activity; one was either an activist, or an operative. The operatives were basically what the media and the world knew as Delta Force – highly trained elite soldiers who were sent in to perform the most dangerous secret military missions; knowing that if they were ever captured or killed, their government would neither confirm nor deny their knowledge of The Activity. The activists were different; although just as highly trained as the operatives, their job was not military in nature. Their training had a much narrower focus; they specialized in the most covert operations ever carried out. They were not to be combatants; they were to be invisible. Their jobs were to infiltrate enemy territory and learn, observe, and record anything and everything about the enemy. That is wha
t the assassin did for a living – the ultimate spy. Once completely into a mission, his job was to blend in with general populations, and then vanish.
This was his current mission in Africa. He was to find and track a known terrorist leader in Kinshasa, Mbeki Thimbosa, and follow him to a secret terrorist training camp deep in the Congo. Once inside the camp, he was to send the geographical coordinates through encrypted messages using his GPS on a new high tech satellite phone. Although the Democratic Republic of Congo was primarily a Christian nation, the terrain and isolation of much of the country would provide the perfect hiding place for Muslim terrorists to train and perfect their fighting and survival skills. Informants had already leaked information to The Activity that such a place existed within the Congo; it was up to the activist to pin down its exact location.
He was wearing several loose fitting robes and layers of clothes to hide the fact that he was a white American. The head dress and coverings were not all that unusual; the bright colors reflected much of the heat and sunlight, and prevented sunburn from the intense African sun. The humidity would be unbearable, but the activist only had to play the part of a chameleon among the crowds of people for so long. Once he was in the jungle, he could don the black outfit he was so accustomed to. To leave the airport, he boarded a crowded old bus that picked up locals outside the airport and took them to the nearest small town. It was this small town, Rumbi, that Thimbosa was said to have been staying. The activist carefully surveyed the village and the surroundings as his rickety ride came close to an end. He noticed several ebony-skinned men standing around the street corners holding AK-47s. He saw a similar bus, coming from a different direction, stop at the next street across from where his would stop. This would be his chance to get lost in the crowds.
The streets were already bustling with activity, but it would not be too difficult to pick the activist out of a few people, especially since he was a large man. He had to time his movements just right and make his way out into the town to find his quarry. When the bus came to a full stop and the air brakes made the loud whoosh one always hears when a large vehicle comes to a halt, the activist seemed to drift out with the wave of locals, and ride the wave of a crowd past armed men until he reached a small bench around the corner. He sat down next to a blind beggar who was seated on the ground next to the bench, holding his head down, with his hands held high, beckoning for some passerby to drop some coins or food in them. As the activist bent over while sitting on the bench, he flipped a gold coin into the beggar’s hands just before resting his elbows on his knees with his head bent down to hide his face. He couldn’t help but smile to himself as he saw the look of surprise and satisfaction on the face of the blind man as he realized what had fallen into his hands. Now the activist sat and waited. He was in surveillance mode, and the hard part of his mission had begun. First he would have to observe the movement of patrols through the street. He would watch who was talking to whom. He would take in every detail, and the image of Thimbosa was burned into his mind. He would only move when he was sure nobody would notice. He would become a walking piece of camouflage, using every skill he had honed in training. He sat, and he waited.
An hour passed, and the activist had been waiting patiently, but no sign of Thimbosa. The beggar that had been sitting close by had inched his way further down the wall of the building that was against their backs, but no one else had given him anymore money. The activist’s inner black outfit he wore under the robes was keeping him cool because of the high-tech Kevlar and fabric that made up the advanced clothing. To passersby he appeared to be a poor derelict wasting away in his very own bench, just lucky enough to scrounge robes together to protect him from the sun. He listened to conversations in several dialects that he could not understand; some between soldiers patrolling the streets, others between random street urchins and locals. But the activist was trained to be patient. After what seemed only minutes to him, a large, green military truck came barreling up to the street corner one block away - not too far from the activist.
He slowly lifted his head high enough to be able to see each of the occupants of the vehicle disembark from the old truck. First several soldiers took turns jumping out the back of the truck. Then the activist saw him; he had been sitting in the front passenger seat (which in this country apparently was on the left side like in England – the activist always found countries that did this quite odd) and walked around to join the men at the back. He spoke in an African-accented dialect of French – very rapidly, but assertive. He shouted out orders; what the activist knew in English could be interpreted as commands to round up the current soldiers on foot patrol and switch places. Following some organized chaos, the activist observed the soldiers getting off duty climb into the back of the truck. He couldn’t help but see that three of the soldiers each dragged boys of adolescent age behind them. As each of them pulled their young prisoners to the back of the truck, they gave them hard shoves towards the back bumper and practically threw them up into the passenger hold. He noticed Thimbosa shouting at the last stragglers to hurry up and climb up into the back of the truck. Then the dark-skinned imposing figure, carrying his AK-47, ran around to the passenger side and jumped into the cab of the truck. He pounded on the outside of the door, making two loud metallic thuds to give the driver the signal to drive, and the military truck that had probably been commandeered by the terrorists from another nearby town – roared its diesel engines back to life. As the truck idled for a few moments, probably letting the engine remember how to move the behemoth truck, the activist studied the undercarriage of the cargo/passenger hold. There were several inches of ground clearance, and there appeared to be several places or parts to hold onto if a skilled stunt man happened to hitch a ride from underneath the vehicle. The activist happened to know such a daring individual. He continued to watch as the truck performed a wide three point turn and head back in the other direction. He watched the truck rattle down the road until it faded from sight. He turned his head slowly in both directions, watching out for any patrols who could be observing his moves. Seeing no interference nearby, he casually got up off the bench and proceeded down the same path that the truck took. He walked into crowds, careful not to bump into any foot soldiers or draw attention to himself. Along the way, he looked for a convenient spot to possibly ‘hitch’ a ride on the military truck during the next shift change.
He perused the surrounding streets, and imagined what they would look like once late night darkness had set in. There were several dilapidated stop signs for intersections along the road, and the activist was looking for the perfect corner block that might keep him concealed in shadows, in order to sneak under the truck while it would pull to a stop. If he waited until it was dark, and kept out of the light given off from street lamps (he noticed there were very few of these), he might be able to catch his ride on the next truck. He knew there were not too many signs of civilization in the direction the truck headed because it was in the opposite direction of Kinshasa. He could only assume the soldiers were heading back to the terrorist training camp. Finally he came across a corner on the same side of the road that the truck would be going down when it left town again that had several large crates piled up in front of a market place. In the black of night, in his favorite black suit, the activist found where he would punch his ticket. Now all he had to do was stay invisible for a few more hours – and during the next shift change, he would hopefully take a little trip to his final destination; at least for this mission objective.
14
Detroit, Michigan
FBI Field Office
Special Agent in Charge (SAC), Jones McCoy, was sitting at the end of the conference table. The other two people in the room were Agent Knox, and Interpol Agent (or Inspector; he never had a preference) Malik Sharif. The two agents each had small stacks of manila envelopes and file folders – Agent Knox had rounded up as much information as he could on Imam Mustafa out of Dearborn, Michigan; Agent Sharif had brought files
on Imam Mahmud. Everyone in the room was waiting for Special Agent White; she had called McCoy and told him she was running a little late. Agent Knox was drumming his fingers on the table, and Malik was drawing the beginnings of some kind of chart or timeline on a dry erase marker board. The SAC was looking at his watch, when Beth stumbled in carrying stacks of pages and file folders. She let the pile of information smack hard on the table, then she took her seat next to Agent Knox.