Frustrated to the point he couldn’t sit still, Paul left the office for a long walk. He headed for a Caribou coffee shop on Washington Avenue, across the street from the MacPhail Center for Music. He liked to sit in the window and watch the variety of humanity outside.
He knew Conway’s threat was real. Paul didn’t want to give up. He was convinced something much larger lurked behind the murder. It could pose a danger unanticipated by the “experts” involved in the case.
Although the temperature had spiked unusually high throughout the month, this morning had opened crisp and cool. Paul walked the few blocks from his office to Caribou. He smelled the pungent aroma of damp air. It refreshed him. He ordered a dark roast and took a stool at the window.
Conway was a good man, but burned out. At the beginning of the crisis, when the young men started disappearing, Conway had worked his best—providing leadership and organization. He’d mastered the complexities in the political jungle of overlapping law enforcement people. Navigating the multiplicity of egos and ambitions took more time than actually solving the cases.
The disappearances had caused federal and local terrorism experts to rethink their assumptions about the vulnerability of the United States to Muslim immigrant terrorists. Even the director of the FBI had told the press the investigation might be the most significant since 9/11. That had unleashed all the pressure on Paul’s office to find the answers.
It had taken months, money, struggle, and even some lives. Once the experts announced the solution, everyone relaxed, glad to be done with the case. That relief rippled up the line to the director in Washington and fanned out to other concerned people in the country.
The murder case of the Ahmed boy had given Paul a second reason to bow out. Now it was a local police matter that would be pursued by the local prosecutors. Conway was happy to wash his hands of things. Luckily for Paul, Zehra had been appointed to represent the defendant, allowing Paul some access to the details of the case.
He thought back to the list of federal agencies tied into the cases, overlapping in their jurisdiction and not always cooperating with each other. Paul didn’t recognize the Army Medical Research agency. He decided to check on them. What the hell did they do?
He had a friend in ICE, the investigation arm of the Immigration and Customs Enforcement, named Joan Cortez. They had met while attending cross-training in Washington. He remembered Conway’s order prohibiting cooperation with ICE, but if Joan could help Paul trace the background of El-Amin, it might be worth the risk. Maybe it would help Zehra also. He waited for her return call.
He remembered her from the training—fun, attractive, tough, and extremely ambitious. She’d demand an even trade of information if she had any herself.
The soft whirr of coffee grinders and the rich aroma from them lulled Paul to relax. Outside, people walked by with renewed vigor. The return of spring in Minnesota always brought out crazy behavior. After so many months of frigid gloom and gray, the arrival of warm weather released the manic aspects of everyone.
Paul had worn a sport coat, which he took off as the day warmed. Outside the window, he watched a young man in a hooded maroon sweatshirt with gold letters that said “University of Minnesota” on the front. He wore a baggy pair of shorts and flip-flops.
If Conway discovered what Paul was doing, Paul would be fired.
All the years he’d worked to get into the Bureau, all the sacrifices he’d made, and the effort to make up for the case in Milwaukee where he’d screwed up, would be lost. Paul had to admit the memory of that drove him now. He wanted to redeem his reputation, besides the gnawing worry he felt about the new murder case.
The government always talked about “national security.” But to Paul, that was too large to comprehend. He had to think of it as the safety of his friends and family—that motivated him.
Reluctantly, he left the coffee shop and strolled back to the office. A spring breeze blew up between the office towers. Women, free of heavy coats, walked by in new short skirts and thin sweaters. In response to the warmer weather, trees had budded out earlier than usual in pale green dots that looked like Impressionist paintings.
Back at his office, he still didn’t have a resolution that satisfied him. Maybe he should drop his crazy ideas. The rest of his colleagues might be right. What if his secret investigation backfired and got him fired? For what?
Music came from his phone. “Paul Schmidt, special agent, FBI.”
“Sounds impressive.” Joan Cortez chuckled. “Special, huh?”
“Hey, doesn’t mean much. The government gives titles instead of more money.”
“And you fell for it?”
“My mother’s impressed.”
“Listen, I got some—well, you could call it good news.”
Paul sat up in his chair. “Yeah?”
“Good news for you; not so good for the local coppers.”
“About El-Amin?”
“Yes. We can’t find any criminal background on him in the US. Not even a parking ticket. But if we go international, you get a hell of a lot more gumballs for your money.”
“What?”
“He’s really dirty.” Joan cleared her throat. “He’s well-funded and linked into an international criminal net.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You must know about these organizations, networks, which operate in all kinds of shit that has one thing in common: it’s all illegal as hell. One day it’s drugs, the next financial thefts, a little terrorism, and weapons smuggling thrown in when some customer pays enough.”
“Sure. We’re constantly fighting them.”
“In addition to these disappearing young men, we—ICE—think there’s a lot more going on under the surface. We don’t know what, but the presence of a guy like El-Amin sure raises the odds it’s serious and dangerous.”
“Can I find out more?”
“Meet tomorrow in private?”
“Sure, but why can’t you tell me?”
Joan waited for a few minutes. “I’ve got to be careful. This is much bigger than my pay grade allows me to tell you. And the shit’ll hit the fan if anyone knows I’m cooperating with you.” She paused. “Not a leak, and if we work together, I need a guarantee of reciprocal help.”
“Joan, I’m thinking the same thing about this murder. It’s the tip of an iceberg. You know me to keep quiet.”
“Meet me at Mears Park in St. Paul tomorrow. One o’clock.”