Chapter 4
FBI Field Office, Brooklyn Park, Minnesota
28 November 2016 – 1030 local
If Liz had learned anything as a US Marine, it was that you faced trouble head-on. And while you were at it, make sure you look good.
As per department policy, she’d been placed on administrative leave following the death of Hamza Abdul. The internal review should have taken a full week, possibly two, but the week after the Hamza incident was shortened due to the Thanksgiving holiday. Liz was surprised when Trask sent her an email on the Friday after Thanksgiving.
Pls come see me on Monday at 1030 in my office.
Typically Trask in its bluntness, the single line gave her pause. It was unlikely that the FBI had managed to conduct the full review of Hamza’s death in just three workdays, so was there a problem? Liz put aside the piece of pumpkin pie she had been eating and studied the neatly laid-out papers that covered her dining room table. She’d managed to get a copy of every scrap of evidence from the Hamza takedown and done her own review of the situation. She was in the clear—unless there was something she didn’t know about.
She shook her head. Not possible. It was a clean bust. She’d been aggressive in the chase, but she hadn’t even fired her weapon.
Liz looked at the email again. Yet Trask wanted to see her at least a week ahead of schedule. Something was not right. She toyed with the idea of calling Trask, but dismissed it. He’d said what he wanted to say.
She took another bite of pie, then threw the rest in the trash.
Liz clutched the thick file in one hand and knocked on the doorjamb with the other. Special Agent in Charge Tom Trask, head of the FBI Field Office, looked up. He smiled.
“C’mon in, Liz.”
She held the file folder in front of her like a shield as she tried to read his expression.
Her eyes swept over the framed photos of Trask in various stages of his career: Naval Academy midshipman, Marine second lieutenant graduating from The Basic School in Quantico, wife and three kids, FBI induction, and finally the newest picture of her, Brendan, and Don Riley all grouped with him at the White House when she’d received the FBI Medal of Valor from the president last month. There had been no press coverage at that ceremony—the public never even knew about the rogue nuclear weapon outside the Vikings stadium—but that didn’t diminish the moment for her.
Brendan’s smiling face looked out at her from the photograph and Liz wished more than anything that he was here with her right now. She’d declined the invitation from his parents to spend Thanksgiving with them, preferring to work through the evidence in the Hamza investigation. She knew every detail backwards and forwards. Of that, she was confident. But this meeting . . . something was up.
In between reviewing the Hamza evidence, she’d gotten a haircut, bought a new suit, and had her nails done. If things went sideways for some reason, at least she’d look good.
“Everything okay, Liz?”
She realized she’d been staring at the photo of her and Brendan. Her eyes slid to his desk where a closed folder lay. Even from this distance she could read her name on the tab.
“Yes, sir. I’m fine.” She hefted her own folder a little higher on her chest.
“Sit, please.” He motioned to the chair in front of his desk, then sprang to his feet to shut the door to his office. “We’ve got a lot to talk about this morning, Liz.”
He took his time reseating himself at his desk and folding his hands in front of him. His lips curled into a noncommittal smile that told her nothing about why he’d asked her to this meeting.
“Let’s start with the elephant in the room, shall we?” he said finally. “You’ve been cleared of any responsibility in the death of Hamza Abdul.”
Liz did her best to keep a passive expression, but she felt her shoulders sag a bit as she processed the welcome feeling of relief. She lowered the file folder to her lap. “Thank you, sir.”
Trask laughed. “Don’t thank me. It was an open-and-shut case, a clean takedown. You never even discharged your weapon. Like I told you: when bad guys run, bad things happen. You knew that, right?”
“Sure, of course. Thanks all the same.” Liz did her best to sit up straight in her chair, but with all the tension gone she felt like a rag doll.
“That’s not why I asked to see you this morning.”
“Oh?” The tension crept back into her frame. “There’s something else?”
Trask was smiling again. “You could say that. Your work in this office has been exemplary by any standard, so I’m recommending you for an even bigger job. DC wants to get ahead of this Daesh recruiting problem that we have here in the Twin Cities. The incoming administration has asked me to form a new Joint Terrorism Task Force to focus on the situation. They were going to wait until after they took office in January, but this latest Hamza business has everyone in DC in a lather. They want to launch it now.”
Liz nodded. “And you want me to be on the new JTTF?”
“No, Liz, we want you to lead it.” Trask stood and extended his hand. “I’m here to tell you that you’ve been promoted to Supervisory Special Agent in Charge of the new JTTF on Homegrown Recruitment.”
Liz stood and took his hand. “Sir, I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but aren’t I a little junior for that job?” Leading a task force of this magnitude was a job for an agent with at least five more years’ experience than she—and there were three she knew of in the bull pen office right outside Trask’s door. And they were all men, too.
Trask must have seen the look on her face. “Sit down, Liz.”
She sank back into the comfort of the chair. This was happening way too fast for her to process. She’d come into Trask’s office prepared to fight for her job and ended up getting a promotion. Her head was still spinning.
“Look, Tom, I’m sorry—”
He held up his hand. “I’ve watched you since you came into this office, Liz. You’re a good agent—scratch that, you’re a great agent. I’ve seen you follow your instincts and stop a terrorist attack when no one else even believed the threat was real. You work harder, run faster, and shoot straighter than anybody in this office—and we’ve got some damn fine agents in this office.” He paused and laced his fingers together.
“We have intel that says these al-Shabab characters are aligning themselves with Daesh. And this business with Hamza shows that they know how to get back into the US. That’s trouble with a capital T from where I’m sitting. When DC calls me and says they want my best agent on this, I gave them your name without a moment’s hesitation. So, I have only one question for you, Special Agent Elizabeth Soroush. Your country needs you—are you in or not?”
Over Trask’s shoulder, Liz could see Brendan’s face in the photo.
“I’m in, sir.”
***
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