JERRY CEBECK ARRIVED BACK at the trailer at three o'clock and immediately made a dual discovery. The motor home door across the road hung open and Ashley was gone. He checked his watch. The movie would end in a few minutes and it took twenty minutes to drive back across town. Unless the un-sub left the movie early, he could not have opened that door. He grabbed the microphone.
"Unit One and Unit Two, do you copy?"
"Jerry, this is Joe - Unit One. Where the hell have you been? The subject is on the move. He's headed your way. Where's Ashley?"
"She's not here. Have you been in contract with her?"
"No, not for an hour. We thought she might be with you."
"Negative. Hold on."
Agent Cebeck glanced back at the motor home door. Wide open. It didn't get that way by itself. Under his breath he said, "Mother of God, she did it."
"What did you say?" Joe asked.
"Okay, guys, we have a problem." He searched his tracking screen. "Where are you exactly?'
"Fred and I are following the subject. He's headed straight down Main Street toward you. Should be there in about ten minutes. What's going on?"
Jerry shifted into emergency mode. "Here's the deal, guys. The un-sub will find out he's under surveillance as soon as he gets back here. Can't explain why right now. You be ready to follow him. I'm calling downtown for back up, and the field office for orders."
"Are we talking arrest?" asked Joe.
"I don't know, but if I were calling the shots the answer would be yes." Jerry dropped the mike and phoned downtown. "I need two backup cars with tracking devices, right now. Move it." He then called the field office. "I need to talk to the SAC pronto." The operator transferred him to Dorothy Hogan.
"Special Agent in..." Jerry cut her off. "Dorothy, this is Cebeck. Transfer me to Mr. Kent–ASAP." She did. Kent picked up. "Mr. Kent, Agent Cebeck here. Our Bitty Smith surveillance is compromised. Subject most likely will flee. Do we arrest him?"
"Calm down Cebeck. What's going on?"
"Agent Kohen has fucked the operation. The guy will know we are on to him."
"Has he detected your presence?"
“No, he hasn't, but he soon will."
"Why?"
"Because the woman is gone."
“Woman? What woman?”
“Kohen removed a woman the subject had mutilated and confined in his motor home.”
"Where is the woman now?"
“I don’t know.”
“Where is the subject?”
"He went to a movie and is on his way back. Be here in ten minutes."
"And you're sure he hasn't detected you?"
"Yes, I'm sure."
"There is no reason for him to link the missing woman with our surveillance. Since he doesn't know about us, he would assume someone discovered the woman and freed her. Maybe he'll think a bleeding heart saved the person or possibly a relative or someone in the RV Park heard something and checked it out."
Cebeck hadn’t thought of that and hoped Kent was right, but his instincts told him otherwise. "So what should we do?"
"Do not arrest. Continue the surveillance at a distance, but don't lose the subject if he runs."
"Okay. You're the boss."
"What about Ashley?"
"Gone."
"Where?"
"Don't know."
A moment passed. "Keep me informed."
"Yes, sir." Cebeck then ran across the road, checked to be certain the woman was gone, and shut the open door.
IN THE DARKENED theater Abdullah gripped the arms of his chair. The action of Crime Hunter flashed in front of him. Lost in the make-believe world of the cinema, his body made involuntary jerks from side to side as his mind dodged the blows delivered by the hero. The sound and flashing lights engulfed him. In the final scene of the film, the mob boss lay dying with blood dribbling out of his mouth. Without realizing it Abdullah had rooted for the wrong character. He exited the theater by the side door, disturbed by the ending. His eyes narrowed in the bright daylight.
The Lincoln, heated by the afternoon sun, greeted him with hot leather seats and a steering wheel too warm to touch. Holding the door open, he waited until some of the heat dissipated. He noticed a man sitting in a gray sedan in front of him–the motor running and the windows up.
He headed south on Main Street and wondered if he needed to stop and pick up anything on the way home. Nothing came to mind. Abdullah sneered as he passed several signs advertising beer and liquor in the windows of two restaurants and a tavern. These Americans take alcohol into their bodies and cloud their minds. What fools. Never would an Islamic warrior like himself drink the devil's poison and take the ominous drugs that prop up those too weak to face reality. Many die of this indulgence. It is Satan's revenge on an immoral culture.
The RV park sign marked his turn into the campgrounds. He approached his site, and then backed into his parking space so his car faced the loop road. He inserted the key into his motor home door and turned the lock, but when he pulled on the handle, it didn't move. He tried again, this time turning the key in the opposite direction. The door opened. Had he left the door unlocked that afternoon? He must be more careful.
Abdullah entered and looked about. No sound came from the bedroom. He remembered she hadn't made much noise the past week. It would soon be time to dispose of her. She no longer held interest for him. All the fight had left her, and his needs were no longer met by her meager offerings.
If only he heard from Rome.
He lifted the lid of his notebook and booted up. Maybe an encrypted message awaited his attention. He quickly opened his messages and scanned them. Nothing. "In the name of Muhammad, the Messenger from God," he shouted, "why must I endure this trial? Am I not a true disciple of Allah the Majestic?" He slammed the lid shut.
Distraught, he stood and paced the long center aisle of the motor home, while mumbling prayers. As he entered the bedroom and started to pivot, he stopped. Then it struck him. She is gone!
Impossible. She is weak, a mere woman. She could not break her bonds–not possible. He slammed his fist against the wall. Someone violated his privacy. Someone took his wench–cut her ties and carried her off. Abdullah rushed to the front windows and moved the curtains aside. No one in sight. Everything appeared normal. He sat behind the steering wheel and peered across the loop road.
Who knew she lay at his disposal? Almost a week and no report on TV or the newspapers of a missing girl. The American press would pounce on a story like that. They feed on the misery of others. It earns revenue. Abdullah continued to stare out of the massive windshield.
If a stranger had found her, a report would have been made. The authorities would be here. There would be police with guns. He would have seen their marked cars before he drove to the campsite.
His eyes settled on the large trailer that had turned up yesterday. He had enjoyed isolation until its arrival. No one left or entered the unit that he could see. But then their door faced away from his vision. The front window, covered by a metallic material like the kind he mounted on the window of Smith Trading, reflected sunlight bright enough to make his eyes squint. Could there be a connection?
It doesn't matter. The woman, still alive, will talk. I told her fragments of my plans–plans I believed she would never live to repeat, but now she has escaped. Have I violated my oath as a warrior of Islam? I must assume the worst possible threat to me and my mission. I need to survive.