Paul drove to the Arden Hills campus of Health Technologies. He’d Googled the company and found they were one of the largest bio-tech companies in the US, with offices all over the world.
He parked in the spacious lot surrounded by manicured bushes, acres of green grass, and a fountain that shot a jet of water high into the air. He thought of calling Conway again. The news from Abraham at school would probably change Conway’s attitude, but Paul didn’t want to take any chances yet. Just a little more investigation. If it produced legitimate information, he’d call Conway with the results.
Paul worried. What if he couldn’t find the mysterious Dr. A. in time? Should he call for backup? No. For now, he’d handle it alone.
The main lobby of the company soared three stories into a clear glass area above him. Sun danced off the steel supports and cascaded into the lobby so that no artificial lights were required. It faced south to minimize energy use, and expensive plants fanned out from the front door like open arms.
Paul’s shoes clapped over the polished granite as he walked toward a low, modern desk. A beautiful woman with dark brown hair pulled back in a firm bun looked up at him, smiling as brightly as the sun above.
He pulled out his FBI identification and told her who he was looking for.
“You should talk to the head of security, Mr. Crenshaw. Please take a seat, Agent Schmidt. Would you like coffee, tea, a latte, or water?”
After she handed him a chilled bottle of water, Paul sank into a soft leather chair that was so deep, he worried he wouldn’t be able to get out of it.
In two minutes, Crenshaw appeared in the lobby. He was short, thick, and had an unusual hairstyle. Must be a rug, Paul thought. He followed Crenshaw down a long, quiet hallway. Paul’s feet sank into the gray carpeting until they came to the office. They sat in seats around a conference table.
“We’ve never had the FBI here before. Our most serious crime is usually petty thefts and collisions in the parking lot,” Crenshaw said, patting the back of his head as if the hairpiece had slipped. “Always wanted to work for the Bureau myself.” He grinned, but it disappeared quickly.
“I’d like to talk with someone I think is employed here. Do your people get briefcases with their initials and your company name on them?”
“Some do, yes. Who do you want to talk with?”
“I think he’s a scientist. Middle Eastern, probably, with the initials M.A.”
Crenshaw’s eyes flicked around the room. “Our employees’ information is confidential, and even the FBI would need a warrant to—”
“Listen, Mr. Crenshaw, I’ll cut the bullshit.”
He sat up and stopped patting his hair.
“This is a matter of homeland security. After we talk, I want you to call for your own security people. I’ll need to talk with them before we approach the suspect.”
“The suspect?” Crenshaw’s voice squeaked. “What’s going on?”
“We don’t know all the answers, but I’m convinced this man could be very dangerous.”
“He works here?”
Paul nodded. “How could I find out who M.A. is?”
He didn’t move, and Paul could tell his brain was whirling. Crenshaw rose and moved behind a desk. “We have scientists from all over the world working here.” He tapped on a computer for a few minutes and frowned. “Here, here he is, I think. We have several employees in the science department. Malcolm Alpers, Michael Ammar, Vicky Aniston, and, of course, lots of Andersons. We’re in Minnesota, after all.” Crenshaw looked up from the screen with a grin.
“Wait.” Abraham had said the name Ammar. “What about Michael Ammar?”
“Lessee—he’s worked here about three years. In our microbiology labs.” Crenshaw gave Paul a brief bio of Ammar.
“Are there lots of people around him, or does he work alone in an office?”
“What do you mean?”
“We have to be careful how we approach him.”
“Should I call to see if he’s in?”
“No,” Paul shouted. “Call his secretary, but tell her not to say anything.”
Crenshaw called and found out Ammar was out on a two-week vacation.
Paul slapped his knee and swore. “Of course he is. He’s going to be busy with the students in a few days.”
“There’s something odd. His secretary said he’d just gotten back from a business trip to Cairo. Normally, we don’t allow someone to take vacation immediately following a trip.”
“Cairo?” A hollow feeling expanded in Paul’s chest. “What’s his home address?”
Crenshaw hesitated. “We’re not supposed to give that—”
Paul jumped from his seat and leaned over the desk, spinning the computer screen out of the way. “What the hell don’t you get about national security? Do you want to be the one who wouldn’t help the FBI stop a terrorist? Let’s go to your boss right now.”
He gulped, it looked like his rug shifted backward, and he turned the screen back to face him. He keyed the board. “Here, here it is.”
Paul took a photo and raced out to his car. He called Conway.
“God damn it, Paul. I told you—”
He quickly explained the events that had led to Paul’s search for Dr. Ammar. “Don’t you see we’ve got to move on it—yesterday?”
“So?”
Paul heard a small plup as Conway took a puff from his cigarette—even though it was a non-smoking building. Paul said, “Something’s going to happen at the school or the mosque in a few days. We’ve got to intercept this guy before anything goes down.”
Conway was silent for a minute. “These damn Somali cases—they just won’t go away. Okay. Where are you now?”
“Just about to case the suspect’s house.”
“I’ll get the emergency response team scrambled to meet you there,” Conway ordered. “Wait for me.” He paused. “And if you screw this up—”
Ammar lived in southwest Minneapolis in a quiet neighborhood of single family houses. Minnehaha Creek twisted through the neighborhood on its way to the Mississippi. Walking and biking trails hugged the banks of the creek.
Large elms and ash trees curved over the streets like umbrellas, creating a canopy of shadows in the front yards. Paul found Ammar’s house, a tight bungalow made of stucco with brown wood trim. Green ivy snaked from the side and threatened to engulf the front door. The lawn, speckled with yellow dandelions, needed mowing.
Paul slowed as he reached the house and tried to see in. Shades hid the interior. A rusted air conditioner stuck out of the side window. In the alley behind the house, garages stood with garbage cans stacked next to their sagging walls.
When he reached the end of the alley, he noticed something. There weren’t any cans behind Ammar’s house. Paul parked around the corner at an angle where he could watch the front of the house while he waited for the team. The hollow feeling returned to his chest, and he felt as if he had to piss badly.
At his ankle, he carried the little Glock 29, the subcompact. Under his arm, in the shoulder holster, he cradled the Glock 21 with the .45 caliber slugs in it.
His cell phone buzzed. The assault team was near and asked for intelligence about the house. In five minutes, a dark van pulled up behind Paul. Five agents dressed in dark blue jackets and pants jumped from the van and huddled next to it on the sidewalk. Large yellow letters on their backs read “FBI.” Paul knew they were armed for anything and vested. One agent carried a “bunker buster,” a light but protective shield carried before him when he burst through a door.
The leader, First Deputy Tony Valentini, came up to Paul. Without shaking, Valentini said, “What’s the intel, Agent?”
Paul detailed the area for them.
“I’ll take two agents with me for the front, and I want two others to ride with you up the alley, Schmidt. We’ll be responsible for primary contact. Cover the escape route if necessary. Description? Alone?”
Paul told them. “Probably alone. No family or wife.”
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br /> “From what you say, I’m thinking a bomb, possibly. Once we’re in position, we’ve got to move!” He thought for a moment. “Conway wants us to wait for him, but he’ll just get in the way.” He grinned. “We can’t let the suspect escape. We move out now, gentlemen.”
The agents separated into the two vehicles. Paul backed up and turned into the alley. He waited for the van to round the corner into the street and gave it a little time to reach the front of the house. Paul rolled up the alley and peered through the houses to keep pace with the van.
He parked his car to block the garage and alley. The two other agents fanned out to each side of the back door and pulled out their weapons. Since Paul wasn’t wearing a vest, he screened himself behind the car. He braced the Glock 21 on the roof of the car and pointed it at the back door.
He forced himself to keep calm. The two agents at the door fidgeted while in position. Paul strained to see into the dark windows for any hint of trouble. No matter how many takedowns a person went through, they were always tense. Anything could happen.
Five minutes later, Paul heard a crash from the front of the house. Probably the door breaking open. Men shouted. His impulse was to storm the back door, but they’d been trained to wait. No one appeared in the back until Valentini shouted to them before opening the back door himself.
Inside, they searched the small house. It was obvious no one had lived there for many months. The refrigerator was clean and turned off, the toilet paper roller empty, the cupboards bare, and dust settled on every surface. Paul smelled the stale air and was reminded of his grandparents’ house.
“You got bad intel,” Valentini said to Paul. “Nice work.” He scowled.
“Hey, we didn’t know. This is his official address at the company.”
“What the hell’s going on?” A hoarse voice carried in from the front door. Conway stepped into the living room. He huffed and looked around. “What’d you bag?”
He looked from one agent to the next until he came to Paul. No one had to explain. “What do you have to say?”
“Nothing. You agreed to the grab yourself.”
“Chief.” Valentini raised his hand between the two men. “Let’s look around.”
Everyone separated, and Paul walked to the front door. It stood open, the frame splintered in long strips of damaged wood. Sun flooded the area, making it uncomfortably warm. Paul noticed the mailbox and opened it. A bundle of mail tumbled out. “Hey, I’ve got something,” he shouted.
Conway and Valentini hurried to the front. Paul held out the letters and junk mail. All of them were addressed to Dr. Michael Ammar.
“Drop house,” Valentini said. “I’m startin’ to like the smell of this guy—we’re definitely on to something now. Any idea where our man could be?” he asked Paul.
Conway nodded. “I guess you’re right: this guy stinks. I want him brought in,” he ordered.
Paul said, “I know the mosque where he will go on Friday. Let’s cover that.”
Conway spun to face Paul. “We’ll talk later. I may still fire you.”
After they had all left, Paul sat in his car. He remembered that he’d intended to check the acronym on the stranger’s jacket that Father O’Brien had told Paul about. He Googled USRMID. He didn’t get any matches. Rearranging the letters, he keyed in USAMRIID. What he found stopped his breath.
USAMRIID was an acronym for the United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases, located at Ft. Detrick, Maryland.
Chapter Thirty-One