Love Thy Neighbor Page 10

  “There is nothing glamorous about the day-to-day operations of the Bureau. The busts are great, but there is a lot of legwork needed to get the bust. Unless you get lucky.”

  “How many times have you been lucky?”

  “A dozen, though to be fair I should probably subtract two from my lucky count. One for each of my ex-wives.”

  The young man looked at the clock on the wall. “Time is up.”

  Agent Rosson looked at his watch, an old clunker that went through batteries like a moth in a closet of wool sweaters. “If you have any follow-up questions on the Bureau, let me know.”

  “Thank you, I will. I have two more sessions today and need to put in for my preference by the end of the week.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. There is still a good chance the Bureau will ignore your preference.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Good luck to you,” Agent Rosson said standing. He threw his empty cup towards the trash can in the corner and it bounced off the rim onto the floor.

  “No, good luck to you,” the new hire said as he watched the cup find the floor.

  Chris Rosson, thirty-year FBI agent and three years from mandatory retirement, banged his computer mouse on his cluttered desk and tried to steer the cursor towards his email inbox.

  The first email in his inbox was a notification that his request for a new computer had finally been processed. It had only been nine months since the current dinosaur on his desk had frozen for the first time, a small snafu which forced him to spend two days with a geeky kid from technical support with questionable hygiene. Per the email, Agent Rosson was now on the computer waiting list, a mere two months from new hardware. In the meantime, he practiced hard love with his six-year-old Compaq.

  “Piece of shit,” he said loud enough for the occupants in neighboring cubes to hear.

  “The List” came via email every Monday. One hundred and eleven was the magic number for the week. One hundred and eleven calls and letters made to the CIA and passed forward to the FBI.

  Every Monday morning the Director of the Joint Terrorism Task Force, the JTTF, received the email and perused it with his morning coffee. This morning was no different. Between a call to his wife and a visit to the barber in the basement, the Director sent the email to his chief bureaucrat underling who divvied the leads and sent it on. All the leads from the CIA were handled locally by members of the FBI’s JTTF. The Director was adamant about the leads not going to field offices. He wanted the responsibility for that little list to remain in the building. After a career in the Federal Bureaucratic Institute, he knew it was hard to tear an agent a new ass long-distance. And if something on the list were overlooked or mishandled, there would be a long list of asses in jeopardy.

  Chris Rosson was on the rotation for “The List,” the only moniker for the CIA email that wasn’t too offensive to utter in public. For the last four months, Rosson had averaged fifteen leads a month. Not a large number, but still enough work to be an inconvenience when added to his usual duties.

  But the list was more than just leads. The FBI had thousands of leads of their own. Tens of thousands. And with the current number of Anti-Terrorist agents in flux between a hundred and a hundred and fifty, the ever-growing list of leads would always exceed manpower.

  Not that the Bureau wasn’t trying. It had hired hundreds of analysts since 9/11. They were packed into office buildings around the Beltway from Tysons to Clarendon to Pentagon City to Bethesda. Young men and women with no knowledge of the world but with college degrees and computer skills hired by defense contractors with innocuous names like Enteon, Pitre, MACI. Companies that produced nothing but paperwork.

  These college grads worked nine-to-five prioritizing leads according to a matrix that an old man with a security clearance and no intelligence background had created in a room full of equally under qualified nodding heads. Leads were initially filtered by concrete intelligence parameters such as suspicious name, suspicious location, backgrounds related to the Middle East. For a college grad from Indiana, everyone one except Larry Bird fit the bill. On more than one occasion, usually during happy hour, Agent Rosson had publicly claimed, “If the U.S. avoids another 9/11 in my lifetime, it will be just dumb luck.”

  So far the luck was holding out.

  Rosson clicked on the email and opened the attached Excel spreadsheet. He looked for his name and saw the four new leads he had this week. Two from New York, one from Boston, and one from Detroit. He printed out the three-page document and perused the rest of the list for kicks. All the information would have to be entered into the FBI tracking database, each with a case number and an assigned agent.

  On the third page he stopped on the last entry. The street name seemingly popped out from the page. He checked the name of the agent assigned to the lead and then looked over at the stack of files in the corner tall enough for a full-grown, armed-to-the-teeth terrorist to hide in. What the hell, he thought. He bound from his desk and followed the maze of blue and gray fabric walls to the far side of the floor to a row of cubes with a semi-obstructed view of Pennsylvania Ave.

  “Good morning, Agent Taylor,” Rosson said with a smile. The middle-aged agent with wire-framed glasses looked up.

  “Agent Rosson. What can I do for you?”

  “I saw you on the list from the Agency.”

  “The shit list stops for no man.”

  Rosson nodded. The headache he had woken with was finally subsiding. “I wanted to know if you’d be interested in swapping a lead with me.”

  Agent Taylor laughed from his seat in an impeccably organized cube. Pens and pencils were lined up next to perfectly stacked legal papers. “Swapping a lead? What, do you have something in Miami?”

  Agent Rosson smiled, his gray hair almost shining in the reflection from the light directly overhead. “No. I have the less desirable but still promising areas of Boston, Detroit, and New York.”

  “Christ, Rosson. It’s winter. If one of those leads pans out I might have to head north. We are in the middle of one of the coldest seasons in memory, in case you haven’t noticed.” Agent Taylor knew he had a fish on the line, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to catch it or not. “Which of my leads are you interested in?

  “The one in Virginia.”

  “Hell, no,” Taylor responded. “Hell, no. That lead is almost on my way home. Besides, the director plays by the book. He takes that list very seriously. You do the investigation for the leads assigned to you. I’m responsible for that lead and for entering it into the task force tracking system. That system generates a report that goes to the director.”

  “Well, actually, there is a provision that would allow me to request the lead from the director.”

  “The ‘special knowledge’ provision? Unless this lead has something to do with a terrorist robbing a bank, I doubt you would have a chance.”

  “I do have special knowledge that could assist with this lead.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The house on the list is on Dorchester Lane. I sort of know the neighborhood. I grew up a few blocks away.”

  Agent Taylor looked up at Rosson from his seat and peered intently through his glasses.

  “No swapping, but if you want it that badly, I’ll give it to you.”

  “OK.”

  “I’m not finished,” Agent Taylor said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “If I agree, you have to get permission and fill out the paperwork for both of us. Then you have to do the data entry. And I want to be copied on any related correspondence.”

  “Fine,” Agent Rosson said.

  “Besides, it’s probably nothing. Most of the leads from the Agency are good American citizens who have watched too many movies and think that the local cab driver they had that morning was planning an attack.”

  “Just the same, thanks.”

  “No, thank you.”

  Agent Rosson walked away dreading the exception report he would have to file just to
make one phone call to Maria Hayden.

  Chapter 13

  The smell from an open bag of Taco Bell chalupas hung in the air around the small table in the back of the store. Boxes of hiking boots, winter hats, and gloves lined the far side of the room, inventory that had arrived in time for the latest snowfall but which the crunchy granola generation staff had yet to put in order. A set of surveillance monitors rested on a shelf above the water fountain near the hall that led to the emergency door at the back of the massive outdoor adventure store.

  Rick Peterson, his long blonde hair pulled into a ponytail, looked up at the monitor that relayed an image of the retail floor near the camping equipment. Without taking his eyes off the monitor he guided his backside onto an empty metal chair. “You owe me three bucks,” he said to his coworker, Bruce, a college graduate with a peach fuzz goatee and no plans for the future other than to see the world. At minimum wage it would take him a decade.

  “You still owe me five from last week.”

  “Then I owe you two. Unless you want to pay me the three you owe me for today, and I can pay you back eight next time.”

  “I will take my chances with you owing me two.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “Should I?”

  “If you want to eat,” Rick said, pushing the bag of fast food towards him on the table.

  “Then I guess some trust is in order.”

  Rick pulled out a chalupa and slid it across the worn black table.

  “What do we have here?” Rick said, his ponytail draped on his shoulder.

  Bruce turned his head towards the surveillance camera. “She’s wearing a winter coat. You can’t even see her ass.”

  “Oh, I can see her ass. I have x-ray vision for asses and perky tits.”

  “What’s the wager?”

  “Ten bucks says I can get her to take off her jacket. Another ten says she has an ass you would grab, and tits you wouldn’t know what to do with.”

  Bruce took another bite of his chalupa, hot sauce squirting out onto the corner of his mouth. His eyes were fixated on the screen. “Looks like I won’t need to bet you. She’s taking off her jacket.”

  On the monitor, Ariana peeled back her winter coat. Her push-up bra settled half of the bet that wasn’t made.

  “Nice tits.”

  “Perfect.”

  Unaware of the surveillance camera, Ariana put her jacket in the crook of her arm and bent over to look at lanterns on the lower shelf.

  “And a great ass too.”

  “It’ll do.”

  “It’ll do? Dude, you’re not someone who can be too picky. You would do crusty Sarah in woman’s shoes, and she hasn’t gotten any since you were born.”

  “I don’t like women with dust on them.”

  “Fifty bucks says I can get this girl’s phone number.”

  “You can’t even pay for the dollar lunch menu at Taco Bell.”

  “Twenty.”

  “Done. But I want some collateral.”

  “I’ll show you collateral,” Rick said grabbing his crotch. He brushed crumbs from his shirt and took a long slug from the straw in his pink lemonade. He paused for a moment, gargled with the drink in his mouth, and left the back room to enter the floor of the store.

  He beelined it for the camping gear, zooming past a rack of NorthFace fleeces and Gortex outerwear guaranteed to keep you warm and dry in a blizzard at thirty below zero. Ariana was standing at the end of the aisle, a small stove in her hand.

  “Can I help you?” Rick asked, his eyes devouring the woman he saw as prey and a ticket to a quick twenty bucks.

  “No, thanks. I’m just looking,” Ariana said, glancing slightly down the aisle before turning her attention back to the display of stoves.

  “Going camping?” Rick asked, unfazed.

  “Maybe,” Ariana answered without looking over. “And I don’t need any help.”

  Rick heard the hint and chose to ignore it. “Well, choosing the right stove can be tricky, depending on what kind of camping you want to do. Some of these work better at a higher altitude. And of course weight has a lot to do with your decision. You don’t want to carry more weight than you have to.”

  “I see. Thank you for your time.”

  “Where are you going camping? I have been hiking all over the U.S. Been to Everest base camp. Climbed Machu Pichu last spring. If you take the original Inca trail it is a real test of endurance.”

  Ariana moved to the next stove.

  “You don’t want that one. It’s more expensive than the others, but the canisters hold less gas.”

  “Thank you.”

  In the back room, Bruce watched as his coworker tried desperately to make a connection with the woman on the screen. The twenty bucks would be a small subsidy for his weekend beer bill.

  On the floor, Ariana had reached the point where not answering the salesman’s questions could be seen as something to be remembered for.

  “Which do you recommend?” Ariana asked, thawing without getting too warm. “There are so many to choose from,” she added, still giving the store clerk as much of a profile view as she could.

  “Where’re you going?”

  “I’m going camping in Havasupai, Arizona.”

  “I love Havasupai. The waterfalls are just awesome. Have you been?”

  “No, I’ve never been. But I’ve always wanted to go to the Grand Canyon.”

  “Well Havasu is not really the Grand Canyon. I mean, it is better than the real Grand Canyon, but not the same Grand Canyon you see in travel brochures and in movies. Havasupai is on the west end of the Canyon. You have to hike ten miles and go through an Indian reservation. It is an oasis in the middle of the canyon really.”

  “I’ve seen pictures.”

  “Where are you from?” Rick asked.

  Ariana didn’t answer the question and smiled instead.

  “I noticed a very slight accent. Maybe Pakistani. I have always been good with languages and accents. One of those gifts that I am not sure what to do with.”

  Ariana turned the attention back to a stand-alone gas burner. “How about this one?”

  “That one is pretty good. Easy to use, easy to travel with. Replacement canisters are easy to find. It doesn’t have the largest flame base, but if you are looking for something light, that’s a solid choice.”

  Ariana ran through her mental checklist of things to buy while considering whether to break the salesman’s neck in the middle of the camping supply section. With a foot sweep and directed downward momentum, she could make it look like an accident. Except for the cameras. And her need for supplies.

  Rick plowed forward. “So you didn’t tell me. Was I right? Are you from Pakistan?”

  Are you kidding me with this guy? Ariana thought. She hadn’t had anyone comment on her accent in five years. Her fluency was native and she had studied long and hard not to have an accent. “Something like that,” Ariana said.

  “I knew it. We should have made a bet.”

  “What kind of bet?” Ariana said, now facing Rick. Her eyes twinkled with an energy that Rick felt in his Royal Robbin hiking pants.

  “Dinner.”

  “Then I guess you would have owed me dinner.”

  Rick was too keyed up on testosterone to realize he was facing a thousand potential ways to die, and none of them involved whips, chains, or bed sheets.

  Ariana pulled the packed Camry into the parking bay on the right next to the Piedmont delivery truck. The four men emerged from the sleeping quarters when the driver’s side door shut.

  “Help me unpack the car,” Ariana said, holding a paper bag full of spray paint and another bag with painting supplies. She was slightly irritated and the four men noted the change in her usual cool demeanor. Maybe it was the tight skirt and sweater. A change in appearance can alter one’s attitude.

  “What did we get?” Karim asked.

  “I bought cots to sleep on. Sleeping bags. Backpacks. Duffle bags. I bo
ught two camping stoves, some pots to cook in, some pack-and-go plates and silverware. I have enough food in the trunk to feed five people for a month. I got identical watches for everyone. We will have to synchronize the time on the watches down to the second. I also picked up some office supplies and two space heaters.”

  “And in the bags? Karim asked, motioning towards Ariana’s arms.

  “Spray paint for my car. Time to go from beige to blue. It doesn’t have to be pretty, just a different color. We also need to paint over the side of the delivery truck. White.”

  Abu went to the car to remove the food. Syed and Karim helped unload the backseat. James pulled the foldable cots off the floor of the backseat.

  “Put the food in the corner. That will be our kitchen, Ariana directed as she walked towards the office. “It’s near the bathroom and we won’t have to drag our dishes across the warehouse to wash them.”

  As the men took trips to unload the food and equipment into the designated areas, Karim approached the office door. “Did you run into trouble? You look perturbed.”

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle. But I need to limit my visits to the outside world. There’s too much potential for trouble.”

  “What else do we need?”

  “There are a few things that I need to have delivered, but I have to purchase them in person.”

  “Regulated items?”

  “You’ll know when they arrive.”

  Chapter 14

  Maria Hayden moved between the dining area and kitchen, her hands never empty. She was busy answering questions and, more importantly to her, playing the role of host for her only guest. The buzz of the alarm clock at five-thirty in the morning had done nothing to quell her enthusiasm. She saw the alarm as the starter’s pistol to a day in the kitchen, a race to prove her cooking prowess on an unfamiliar stomach. A mixer with rapidly drying dough remnants on its blades rested on the counter next to an old cookie jar with a cracked lid. A rolling pin covered in flour protruded from the single basin sink. A glass jar of sugar was open, its red cap pushed to the back of the stove. And if a half-dozen desserts weren’t enough to keep her occupied, she had started a batch of her top secret, garlic-laden spaghetti sauce.