An excerpt from Jihadi Apprentice

Book 2 of The WMD Files

 

 

Chapter 1

 

 

Minneapolis, Minnesota

18 November 2016 – 2120 local

 

The headscarf itched. Hijab, Liz reminded herself.

She drew the indigo-blue material tighter against her neck as she weaved through the knots of people, food trucks, and craft tables outside the Cedar Cultural Center in downtown Minneapolis. The crowd attending the Muslim-American Arts Festival seemed on the youngish side—Liz guessed most were in their late teens and early twenties—and much more diverse than your average Minnesota crowd. She heard mostly English, peppered liberally with Somali and some Arabic. She even picked up a distant side conversation in her family’s native Farsi, but didn’t dare show any interest.

Liz caught sight of her mark entering the theater: Zacharia Ismail, Somali-American, twenty years old, and hopefully their path to capturing Hamza, one of the FBI’s most wanted al-Shabab operatives. Hamza had grown up in the Minneapolis Somali community. Eighteen months ago, without telling a soul, he boarded a flight for Mogadishu and joined al-Shabab. Hamza had stayed in touch with his friends in Minneapolis, using social media to recruit new members to his cause—six in the last twelve months.

According to their sources, Hamza was back, rumored to be in Minneapolis on a recruiting trip.

Not for the first time, Liz reflected on how normal Zacharia seemed. When they observed him, listened to his phone calls, read his email and texts, he seemed like a normal young American. Good-looking, too. With close-cropped hair, broad shoulders, and a ready smile, Zacharia Ismail looked more like a starting quarterback on the football team than a potential terrorist. But then again, those were the best kind of terrorists—the ones that hide in plain sight.

Don’t get ahead of yourself, girl. One step at a time.

She slipped her ticket out of her hip pocket. “Soo dhowow. Welcome.” The attendant scanned her ticket, then held onto it when she tried to take it back. “I like your hijab,” he said with a wide smile. “Very pretty.”

Liz tugged firmly on the ticket and it came free. “Thank you.” She did not return the smile.

The dark blue material woven with a silvery thread was beautiful, but Liz wondered if maybe she’d overdone it on style. At the pre-mission briefing, it had frustrated her to no end how much time the men—and they were nearly all men—devoted to whether or not FBI Special Agent Elizabeth Soroush was or was not going to cover her hair.

We’re trying to catch a freaking terrorist, she wanted to scream at them, and all you can talk about is what I’m going to wear.

“I’ll do it,” she finally said. “It’ll cover my earpiece, anyway. But I’m wearing Western clothes—and no more discussion on the matter.” Her outfit for the evening was dress jeans, her favorite pair of ankle-high boots, and a white silk blouse. Her short leather jacket concealed the shoulder holster containing her service weapon, a Sig Sauer P320.

She stepped into the theater, a cinder block–walled room about the size of a high school gymnasium. In fact, with its high ceilings and wooden floor, it looked exactly like a high school gymnasium. On the far wall, a small stage rose a few feet above the floor with an array of dimmed lights hanging above it.

Liz found a spot against the wall where she could observe Zacharia. “I’m in,” she whispered. “I have the target in sight.”

“Roger that, Liz.” The deep voice of Tom Trask sounded in her earpiece. “Any sign of our suspect?”

“Negative, but our guy’s head is on a swivel.” Zacharia had met up with a group of friends and greeted them with a combination of fist bumps and elaborate handshakes, but his eyes traveled across the room as if he were seeking someone in the crowd.

“This is Rambo. I concur. He’s looking for someone.” They’d had to go outside the Minneapolis field office to find “culturally appropriate” agents for this op. Martin Ramboni was of Ethiopian-Italian descent. As Trask had told her in an unguarded moment, Martin got his looks from his Ethiopian mother and his attitude from his Italian father. For God’s sake, the man insisted on being called “Rambo.”

“Heads up, people, we’ve got incoming,” said their third agent, Gus Vallens. Gus was from somewhere in Latin America, but had the kind of multicultural face that seemed to blend into any setting. A good agent, too. She’d take Gus over Rambo any day of the week.

Liz pushed herself off the wall, sidling closer to Zacharia and his friends. A pair of young women had approached the Somali boys. The shorter of the two harangued Zacharia while the other hung back and smiled at him shyly. Both of the girls wore long, loose robes and tight-fitting headscarves that draped over their shoulders and upper torsos. If this was a meet, the body language was all wrong. The girl talking acted too familiar with Zacharia, too open for this to be a clandestine connection. Liz angled her approach so she could get a glimpse of the shorter girl’s face.

“Relax, everyone, it’s the sister,” she said. Liz could not recall the sister’s name. She was a high school senior, average grades, with a round, unremarkable face. Her presence on social media was similarly bland. Nothing to worry about there.

The hall was more than three-quarters full now with plenty more people pouring in. Must be a pretty popular warm-up act. The overhead lights dimmed as Liz squinted at her ticket.

Imaan. The Arabic word for “faith.”

A lone female voice soared out of the darkness. It was a pure tone, without accompaniment, both soulful and hopeful at the same time, husky with promise. Liz caught her breath, turning toward the sound. It had been a long time since any music had affected her like that.

Zacharia and his mates, along with everyone else in the audience, moved closer to the stage. The silhouetted singer raised her arms, swaying with the music, as her band started to underpin her voice with a soft beat and a bass line that settled in Liz’s gut. The singer started into a melody and Liz caught the Somali words for “home” and “mother.” The people around her swayed and mouthed the lyrics.

In the dark and the crush of bodies around her, Liz lost sight of Zacharia. “I’ve lost visual contact,” she whispered. A girl next to her glared at her for making noise.

“Rambo and Gus, do you have him in sight?” Trask’s voice was tight with tension.

“Negative,” Rambo replied.

“No—wait,” Gus said. “I see Hamza! I’m moving in.”

Gus was stationed to her left. Liz shouldered her way into the crowd, heedless of the angry spectators who hissed at her along the way. The crowd thinned on the margins and Liz pushed herself to go faster.

As the ethereal music of Imaan floated through the theater, Liz broke into an open area. Hamza was there, wearing the same lopsided grin and shaggy Afro as in his high school yearbook picture they’d used to identify him. The al-Shabab fighter looked more like a kid out on a Friday night than a terrorist recruiter. He raised his hand to someone in the crowd, but the smile froze on his face.

“FBI—freeze!” Gus entered the space, badge hanging from his neck, weapon drawn.

A blur of shadow flashed in Liz’s peripheral vision and Zacharia tackled Gus. Gus’s weapon boomed, freezing the entire room. The beautiful music was buried under the screams of a panicked crowd. Hamza dove into the wall of milling people.

“He’s running!” Liz shouted. “Rambo, cover the front exit. I’ve got Hamza.” She whipped out her weapon and plunged after him.

They had all the external exits covered, but Hamza had somehow gotten in here undetected, so Liz was taking no chances. She caught a glimpse of him fighting his way through the crowd, but there was no way to get off a clean shot with all these people around.

He’s headed for the stage. He’s going to go out through the backstage.

Liz shouldered aside another man and she had a clear view of her target. “Freeze, Hamza! FBI!” He threw a look over his shoulder but didn’t slow down as he ducked behind the stage.

“No you don’t!” Liz ripped off the headscarf and sprinted after him down the narrow corridor. If he managed to reach the double doors and get backstage, who knew how many hiding places or hostages he’d have access to.

She was gaining on him. Liz dove, stretching out her fingers as far as she could reach. She snagged a loose shoelace and held on. The nylon cord ripped into her skin, but she managed to hold onto a shred of plastic encasing the end of the shoelace. Liz pulled as hard as she could.

Hamza lost his balance and sprawled out. His head slammed into the metal doorframe and he lay still. Liz scrambled to her feet, training her gun on the prone form. The young man’s dirty jeans and T-shirt hung loosely on his thin frame. Liz couldn’t see a weapon.

“Hands where I can see them, Hamza!” she yelled.

The terrorist didn’t reply.

“Do it now!” Liz advanced and kicked him in the leg.

No movement.

Liz stepped around him until she could see his face. His eyes were open, his neck at an odd angle.

“Shit.” Liz knelt next to him and placed two fingers on his carotid. No pulse. “Team leader, I’m at the backstage entrance. Suspect is down. I don’t want to move him. I think his neck is broken. Send an EMT team now.”

Liz stepped back and blew out a long breath as FBI agents and paramedics swarmed around her.

 

Liz watched the paramedics place Hamza’s corpse into a black body bag and lift it onto a gurney. After the EMTs pronounced him deceased, she’d been allowed to search his body. She’d found nothing, not even a burner phone, on his person. How did he get from Somalia back to Minneapolis? Who were his local contacts? Hamza went to his death with all that intel.

They were back at square one.

“It’s not your fault, Liz,” came Trask’s voice from behind her. He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “He ran. Sometimes bad things happen to bad people. Mr. Hamza’s number was up.”

Liz shook off his hand. “What about the kid who tackled Gus? Zacharia?”

“Rambo’s talking to him now. We’re taking him into custody, but he claims he never saw Gus’s badge, only the gun. He reacted to a threat, he says. Saving innocent lives—that’s his story.”

A Minneapolis cop broke in to ask Trask about questioning the rest of the audience. It was going to be a long night. Liz spun on her heel.

“Watch out for the sister,” Trask called. “Name’s Ayana. She’s a firecracker, that one.”

In Liz’s estimation, Zacharia’s sister was about thirty seconds away from being arrested for obstructing justice. The girl’s hijab was askew, probably from the way she was waving her arms as she screeched at Rambo.

“My brother has done nothing wrong! You cannot come into our community with your guns and your badges and arrest people. He was only trying to protect innocent people from getting hurt.”

Liz inserted herself between the girl and Rambo. “Can I help you, miss?”

The young woman shut up and took a step back as the FBI agent invaded her personal space. Liz studied her face. The eyes beneath the black hijab were large and brown, flared with anger. She had a squat nose and narrow mouth that turned down at the corners. Her round face was devoid of makeup.

One of the local officers handed Liz her blue and silver headscarf. The girl’s eyes widened and she looked as if she might spit at Liz.

“You! It was you! Where is my cousin? Hamza? What have you done with him?”

If she was upset before, the girl seemed positively thermonuclear now. Liz took a step back. This was about to get ugly.

“Perhaps I can help, officer?” The silky voice was like a bucket of cold water on the flames of the confrontation. The Somali girl pulled up short, her mouth agape.

“Imaan,” she whispered.

“Yes, my child, it’ll be alright.” The woman slipped her arm around the girl and faced Liz. Maybe it was the contrast with the dowdy young woman, or maybe the lighting, but Imaan was . . . mesmerizing was the only word that came to Liz’s mind.

Tall and willowy, she stood more than a head above her young charge. She wore a beautiful pink and blue headscarf over a Western hairstyle that allowed glossy dark hair to spill over her shoulders. A dark blue sheath dress clung to her curves, and she finished the outfit with a pair of black Manolo Blahniks that Liz knew cost at least a thousand dollars.

The singer extended her hand to Liz. “I’m Imaan, the singer whose concert you interrupted.” Her ringed fingers were cool to the touch and a jumble of golden bangles tumbled down her slender wrist. Liz found herself blushing.

“We’re—um, we’re sorry about that, ma’am—Imaan. We were after a fugitive—”

“What will happen to Ayana’s brother?” Imaan squeezed the girl’s shoulders in a gentle hug. Ayana seemed to have forgotten all about her brother. She stared intently up at the singer.

Liz hardened her tone. “We’ll be taking Zacharia in for questioning—”

“How long can you hold him, officer . . . ?”

“Agent, actually. FBI Special Agent Elizabeth Soroush. We can hold Zacharia for up to twenty-four hours unless—”

“Then we’ll expect to see him released tomorrow.”

Imaan steered the girl toward the exit.