“If you think of anything else,” Jackson told him, “please call Agent Coombs.”
CHAPTER 114
An optimist might have pointed out that the Louisiana raid had not been a complete fiasco, given that it had broken up a major drug lab; indeed, it was very likely that the illegal drugs manufactured there had already ruined a hundred times more lives than terrorists ever could.
William Rubens had never been accused of being an optimist, and so he described the operation without making any note of a positive side. Neither did anyone else who was listening in on the late-night conference call with the president.
“This puts us back at square one,” said Bing. “Worse — we’ve lost twelve hours.”
“Maybe the attack died with him,” suggested the vice president.
No one wanted to state the obvious — they couldn’t count on that — and after a few moments of dead air, the head of Homeland Security gave a report on different preparations around the country, ending by recommending that the security status be raised from orange to red. Rubens had never liked the color codes and had little use for the system in general, but this was neither the time nor place to voice his objections. In the end, the president vetoed the change, noting that the guidelines called for such an alert to be given only if a “site specific” threat had been clearly identified.
“Well, hopefully we get that intelligence before it’s not too late,” said Bing, characteristically driving a knife into Rubens’ ribs as the phone conference ended.
Tired, Rubens rose from his desk and kicked off his shoes, beginning a Yoga routine to stretch his tight muscles. He leaned back, breathing from the pit of his stomach. The yogis who’d taught him as a boy had said that the exercise emptied the bad energy from his body, replacing it with fresh strength. Rubens had stopped believing most of the spiritual mumbo-jumbo that accompanied yoga when he was fourteen or fifteen, but he welcomed that particular idea now.
He remembered his promise to Irena Hadash. It was far too late to call her; he’d do so tomorrow, first thing.
Perhaps he should call now anyway.
No. It was too late. Better to let her sleep.
The Art Room phone rang as he started another stretch. Rubens exhaled slowly, then picked up the receiver.
“Rubens.”
“Mr. Rubens, Ambassador Jackson has something you ought to know about,” said Chris Farlekas, who had relieved Telach as Art Room supervisor for the night. “I have him on the line right here.”
“Let me speak to him.”
“I think Marid Dabir was in Detroit the night before Asad was murdered.” Jackson told him when he came on the line. “I have a video surveillance tape of him, or what might be him, in a convenience store near where the murder took place. It looks very much like the video from Istanbul.”
“How soon can you get the tape to us?”
“My flight leaves in two hours.”
“I will have Mr. Farlekas see if he can arrange a courier to take the tape,” Rubens told him. “I’d prefer you to stay and help the task force. Mr. Dean is investigating another lead.”
“I did have a commitment back home.”
“Meals On Wheels,” said Rubens, remembering Jackson’s weekly charity, delivering food to shut-ins. “We’ll arrange for someone to cover that for you. Don’t worry.”
“Thank you,” said Jackson. He sounded disappointed.
“If Dabir is in Detroit,” Rubens continued, “it’s possible he helped set up the mission. He met Asad bin Taysr in Istanbul and was involved in the German operation.”
“I seem to recall from the background paper that they didn’t get along. Even in the transcript of their meeting, they seemed restrained.”
“Yes.” Rubens knew from personal experience that it wasn’t necessary for people who worked together to get along. Besides, the information on the inner workings of the al-Qaeda leadership was so thin that any account of friction had to be regarded skeptically.
“The reason I brought it up,” continued Jackson, “is that maybe he was involved in the murder. Maybe he thinks Asad set him up in Germany, and he wanted revenge.”
A possibility, agreed Rubens, though it was more likely that Marid Dabir was some sort of accomplice.
“Whatever his motivations,” said Rubens, “finding him will be a priority, if this does turn out to be him.”
“Understood.”
“I was wondering, Mr. Ambassador,” added Rubens, “what you thought of Dr. Ramil’s performance in Detroit.”
“He was very good,” said Jackson. “I sensed he bristled at being forced to stay in the background, however. The other doctor was somewhat aggressive, and I believe they clashed. Doctors, in my experience, never like to play second fiddle, especially to other doctors.”
“Very well,” said Rubens. “I’m going to hand you over to Mr. Farlekas. Please stay on the line.”
CHAPTER 115
Kenan got to the Mexico City bus station with only ten minutes to spare. But that was enough — he already had a ticket and remembered the way to the boarding area quite clearly. He joined the queue and got a seat about halfway down the aisle.
Kenan still held the paperback he’d found at the St. Louis airport in his hand. He was convinced that the book was a sign that God was watching him.
Just as the bus driver started to close the door, another passenger ran up. The man boarded the bus; though there were plenty of empty seats, he sat next to Kenan.
For a moment, Kenan bristled. Then the man took a small Koran from his pocket.
With trembling fingers, Kenan took out his own and showed it to his guide.
CHAPTER 116
By the time Dean landed in Mexico City Sunday morning, the Art Room had found the alias Kenan Conkel had used during his September visit and connected it with a pair of stolen credit cards used for a cash advance and meal in Mexico City, as well as an airline ticket to Veracruz, a city on Mexico’s Gulf Coast.
“I doubt he was there on vacation,” said Telach sarcastically as she briefed Dean, “but we haven’t figured out what he was doing. If he was setting up a safe house or some sort of network, that may be why he’s there.”
The fact that it might be part of whatever attack Asad was planning was left unsaid. The Mexican police had been told that Kenan was wanted in connection with the murder in Detroit; Dean was to talk to them first thing Monday. He would also check in with the CIA, which had an extensive file on al-Qaeda dealings in Mexico.
“First, get some sleep,” Telach told him. “I know you haven’t had much the last week.”
Dean grunted. He took a cab to the hotel the Art Room had booked, then went out again to check the area where the cash advance had been made, a business district largely deserted on Sunday. The restaurant, by contrast, was in a bustling neighborhood, the street choked with locals and a smattering of tourists. Dean wandered through the nearby streets as if he were a jet-lagged, awestruck tourist, sizing up the area. After about five minutes he realized it was useless to look for Kenan here, but he kept walking anyway, hoping for a lucky break
