conference. Normally, we don’t allow people to take vacation immediately before a business trip.”
“Cairo?” A hollow tension expanded in Paul’s chest. “What’s his home address?”
Crenshaw hesitated, “We’re not supposed to give out that…”
Paul jumped from his seat and leaned over the desk, spinning the computer screen out of the way. “Look, what don’t you get about national security? Do you want to be the one who stopped the FBI from catching a terrorist? Let’s talk to your boss right now!”
Crenshaw gulped, it looked like his rug moved, and he turned the screen back again, and started to key. “Here … here it is.” He printed it for Paul.
He tore it from Crenshaw’s hand and raced out to his car. He called Conway and luckily, got a hold of him.
“Paul, goddamn it! I told you …”
“Bill, the teacher who called us five years ago called me. I just took the call and made a routine follow-up investigation at the school. Don’t you see that we’ve got to move on this-yesterday!”
“What’s your point?”
Paul heard a small
Conway was silent awhile. Then said, “You’re sure about this?” he sighed. “These damn Somali cases … it just won’t end. Okay, where are you now?”
“I’m just about to case the house. I need back-up.”
“Right. I’ll get the emergency response team scrambled to meet you there. Cruise the neighborhood to see the layout but don’t stop for anything,” Conway ordered. “Wait for us.” He paused. “And if you screw-up this one …”
“Yes, sir.”
Ammar lived in Southwest Minneapolis in a quiet neighborhood of single family homes. Minnehaha Creek twisted through the neighborhood, on its way to the Mississippi. Walking and biking trails hugged the small creek.
Large elms and ash trees stretched over the streets, creating a canopy of shadow in the front yards. He found Ammar’s house, a tight bungalow made of stucco with brown wood trim on the edges. Green ivy snaked from the side and threatened to engulf the front door. The front 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 a window on the south side. There were no cars parked in the front on the street.
He turned at the end of the block and drove to the alley that separated the two rows of houses. Driving down the alley, each house had a garage. Many leaned to one side and needed paint. Trash cans guarded the sides of most garages, with their lids clamped on tightly.
When he reached the end of the alley and turned back onto the street, something bothered him. There weren’t any trash cans behind Ammar’s house.
Paul parked around the corner at an angle where he could watch the front of the house and waited for the FBI 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.
He took a sip of water from the bottle he’d received at Health Technologies. It helped moisten his dry mouth. He sipped again-not too much or he’d really have to piss.
His Blackberry buzzed.
The assault team was near and asked for intelligence about the house. Paul told them everything including the details about the neighboring houses.
In five minutes, a dark van pulled up behind Paul’s car. He looked in his rear-view mirror and then got out. Five agents, dressed in dark-blue jackets and pants, jumped from the van and huddled next to it on the sidewalk side. Large, yellow letters said FBI on their backs. Paul knew they were armed for any problem and vested also. One agent carried the “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, he said, “What’s the intel, agent?”
Paul nodded. “The subject’s around the corner up there,” he pointed. “There’s also the alley.”
“We’ll take both,” Valentini said. “I’ll take two agents with me, and I’d like two to ride with you up the alley. We’ll be responsible for primary contact. You’ll cover the escape route, if necessary. Description?”
“Middle Eastern, tall, thin. About thirty years old.”
“Anyone else with him?”
“Probably not. He’s not married and doesn’t have a family.”
“From what you say, he could have a bomb in there. Once we’re in position, we’ve got to move.” Valentini emphasized the word “move.” He thought for a moment, and then said, “Conway wants us to wait for him, but he’ll just get in the way.” He grinned for a moment. “We can’t let the suspect escape, can we?” They all agreed, so Valentini said, “Let’s move out, men.”
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. He rolled up the alley and peered through the houses to keep pace with the van.
When he reached the house, he parked his car diagonally across the back to block the garage and the yard. The two agents fanned out to each side of the door and pulled out their weapons. One had a pistol and the other a shotgun.
Paul, who didn’t have a vest, screened himself with his car by standing behind it. He leveled his Glock 21 over the roof, holding it with both hands. He pointed it directly at the back door and waited.
He forced himself to breathe slowly, to keep calm. The two agents, although experienced, fidgeted while in position. Paul strained to see into the dark windows for any hint of trouble. To be prepared. 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. Men shouted. His impulses told him to storm the back door, but they’d been trained to wait for a possible escape. No one appeared in the back until Valentini shouted to them before opening the door himself.
Paul shouted back and everyone holstered their weapons. “We’re coming in,” Paul yelled. Valentini agreed.
Inside, they all walked through the small home. It was obvious no one had lived there for many years. The refrigerator was clean and off, the toilet paper roller empty, the cupboards bare, and dust settled on every surface. Paul sniffed at the stale, closed-up smell that reminded him of his elderly grandmother who never got out.
“You got bad intel,” Valentini said. “Nice work, agent,” he scowled at Paul.
Paul raised his shoulders. “Hey … how did I know? This is the official address he gave his employer.”
“What the hell’s going on?” A hoarse voice from the front door shouted inside. Conway stepped into the living room. He huffed and looked around. “What’d we get?”
Conway looked from one agent to the other until he came to Paul. No one had to speak. Bill took a deep breath. “Can you explain this?”
“Of course not, Bill. You agreed to the grab.”
“After you talked me into it.”
“Chief,” Valentini raised his hand between the two men. “Let’s look around. Maybe we’ll find something.”
Everyone separated, and Paul walked to the front door. It stood with the frame splintered in two places. Sun flooded the area, making it uncomfortably warm. Paul noticed the mailbox and opened it. A bundle of mail tumbled out. He picked it up and scanned the addresses. “Hey,” he shouted. “I’ve got something.”
Conway and Valentini hurried to the front. Paul held out the letters and junk mail. All of them were addressed to Michael Ammar.
“Drop house,” Valentini said. “Probably never spent one night here. I’m startin’ to like this smell-we’re
