“Oh!” Aguillar said. “You shaved your head. Bald suits you. Are you wearing contacts?”
Zapata nodded. “I have always envied the green eyes of others. And in public, I am Charles Ossipon. Remember that technology has made the dreams of the ancients come true.”
Aguillar nodded, though Zapata could see from his face that he did not understand. To Zapata, the comment was quite clear. Ancient shamans and wizards believed that names held power: to know the name of a thing gave one power over the thing itself. Modern technology turned the shaman’s fantasy into the police officer’s reality. A single name, entered into the right database, laid a man naked before the powers that be.
“Everything you asked for is ready,” Aguillar said.
“Good. We have a little time. Let’s get something to eat.”
But instead of walking, he stopped as he had done in the train station, and looked around. In his mind’s eye he saw this spot, then suddenly his vision pulled back from it, expanding to encompass this whole city, and then the state, and then the United States. Every point within the scope of his vision was connected like the stops on a train station map. All interconnected, all interdependent. Choose the right spot, identify the nexus at just the right place, well, then one bomb, even a small bomb, could affect the lives of millions. By this time tomorrow, he would have done just that.
He smiled happily.
4. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 11 P.M. AND 12 A.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
The building was large, constructed right on the main thoroughfare of Van Nuys Boulevard in the San Fernando Valley just north of Los Angeles, and because it was so obvious it was completely and utterly anonymous. A person might drive by that building five days a week for ten years and never notice it. Most of the building was owned by Barrington Suites, an executive rental company that specialized in leasing office space to small businesses, who could use a common receptionist, common conference rooms, copy rooms, and the like. According to the data Jamey Farrell and her people had gathered, there were more than thirty small businesses renting executive suites from Barrington in that building.
One of those small businesses was called Mataram Imports, owned by a Riduan Bashir, a naturalized citizen of Indonesian origin.
Tony Almeida reached Bashir’s office door a minute after eleven. He didn’t see the urgency in this investigation, but Chapelle had insisted. He had the license plates for two cars registered in Bashir’s name and one was in the parking lot, so he expected to find the man at work. The door itself was not welcoming — a solid wood door, locked, with a small sign reading MATARAM IMPORTS on the wall beside it, hung over a doorbell. Tony pushed the bell. He heard nothing, but a moment later the door clicked and buzzed.
Almeida pushed the door open. The office inside was humble — a small reception area that opened onto an equally small office strewn with papers. Through the opening, Tony saw a wall map and a large dry erase board with a hand-drawn calendar grid, covered in notations.
Riduan Bashir was getting up from his desk and walking toward Tony, his face open and unsuspecting, his manner unguarded.
“Yes, may I help you?” the man asked. His English was musical, though as he spoke further Tony found his speech gently clipped with the uninspirated “K,” “T,” and “P” of the Malay accent.
“Tony Almeida,” he said, handing over a card similar to the one Chris Henderson had used at UCLA. “I just have a few questions for you.”
The official seal on the business card put Bashir immediately on edge. Tony noted this, but reached no conclusions. He was the government, and the government always put people on edge.
“You work late, Mr. Bashir. I tried your home and they said you were here.”
“I am at the mercy of Indonesian time, sometimes. Am I in some sort of trouble?” Bashir asked. Like most Indonesians, he was dark-skinned, and Tony could not tell if he had blushed or lost color. But he was definitely nervous.
“No, sir,” Tony said, falling easily into a spiel meant to put the subject at ease. “This is fairly routine. I’m sure you know that we’re always following up on information we get from all kinds of sources. Most of the leads go nowhere, and most of the people we question are just innocent bystanders like you. But we have to be thorough because that’s what we’re paid for.”
The phrase “innocent bystanders like you” acted like a tonic, washing tension from Bashir’s body. “Well, of course. Would you like to sit down?” He indicated his office.
“Why not here?” Tony pointed to the small couch and visitor’s chair in the reception area. Bashir would feel less secure if he wasn’t sitting behind his desk.
They sat, and as soon as Bashir was settled, Tony said easily, “Are you familiar with Jemaah Islamiya?”
Bang. The question was like a cannon shot. It was a hurry-up version of a classic interrogation technique: make the suspect feel like he is not the suspect, then surprise him with a hard question.
This one certainly threw Bashir off-balance. “Jemaah.? Yes, well, of course. From the news.”
“Then you know Jemaah Islamiyah is a terrorist group operating in Indonesia, and that they were responsible for that bombing in Bali that killed 202 people and injured hundreds more? They also claimed responsibility for the truck bomb that blew up a Marriott.”
Bashir shook his head sadly. “I remember the newspaper. Not just the
Tony sifted through the papers he had brought with him. He only had one pertinent question, but he wanted Bashir to think he had reams of information. “Do you recall making a trip to Jakarta in May of 2002?”
Bashir leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, clearly anxious, but clearly trying to look helpful. “I travel home once a year, and sometimes twice. I don’t remember the dates exactly, but May sounds correct.”
“Business or pleasure?”
“Both, of course.”
“Sure. While you were there, you met with Khalid Ismahuddin, a member of Jemaah Islamiyah.”
Bashir uncrossed and recrossed his legs. “Is that a
question?”
“No.”
“Well, yes, I met with Ismahuddin. But not because of Jemaah Islamiyah. He runs a shipping business out of Jakarta and I was looking for lower prices for my own merchandise.”
“Hmm,” Tony said as though dissatisfied, but he was only fishing. Bashir’s statement jibed with the information he already had. Ismahuddin was on watch lists at CTU and the CIA, but he wasn’t considered a major player. He really did run a legitimate shipping business, and was only on CTU’s radar because he donated some of his profit to radical Islamists in the Indonesian archipelago.
Bashir shifted again, literally and figuratively. “Look, Mr. Almeida, I don’t know if I’m a suspect in any of this, but I assure you I have nothing to do with those people. I think everyone should consider Islam, even you, but I have no interest in blowing people up. I do not know how to make a bomb and I certainly would not drive an exploding van into a hotel. Ismahuddin offered me competitive prices for my business so I met with him. I would do business with him tomorrow if it gave me a chance to expand.” He waved his arm around the tiny office. “As you can see, I can use all the help I can get.”
Tony nodded, closed his folder, and stood up. “I understand, Mr. Bashir. We’re aware that Ismahuddin’s business is legitimate, even if his intentions aren’t always good. Like I said, we just have to be thorough.”
He offered his hand, which Bashir accepted with relief and genuine warmth.
“I appreciate your efforts to keep people safe,” Bashir said, opening the door and ushering him out.
As the door shut behind him, Tony’s smile fell away.
“Jamey Farrell.”
“Jamey, it’s Tony. Can you do a quick search for me?”
