Jihad

CHAPTER 90

“The car is registered to a seventy-year-old in Almont, Michigan,” Rockman told Dean. “It’s not reported stolen. Ambassador Jackson will send someone over there to see what they can find out.”

“What about Kenan?”

“The FBI people are trailing him,” said Rockman. “By the way, that must be some sort of fake name. Doesn’t exist in Detroit. We’re just finished another run of his face through an ID matching program for a Michigan license. No match.”

“He said he was a student at Upper Michigan,” Dean said.

“Yeah, we’re working on that. He doesn’t exist, and neither does the program he claimed to be in. We ran first names, last names, all sorts of variations. He draws a total blank so far.”

Rockman only meant that the name was probably an alias, but for Dean, the comment summed up his take on the kid: a blank looking for something to fill him up. What a waste.

“The FBI people will stay with him,” Rockman added. “You and Tommy remain in the background from here on out.”

“When are we pulling Asad in?”

“Not my department. All right. They’re leaving the clinic. Stay with them until they settle down, all right?”

Kenan drove Asad to a motel outside the city and got a room for the night. The one-story motel’s rooms opened onto a sidewalk in front of the parking lot; Dean had no trouble placing video bugs to cover the room and building front and back. When he was done, Rockman told him that the backup surveillance team was in place, and Dean went up the road to find a place to eat. His best choice seemed to be McDonald’s; he was halfway through a quarter-pounder when Karr came in a short time later.

“About time you found a good restaurant,” said Karr. He plopped down across from him. “Real high-class place our friend is staying in. I heard it got three stars in the Terrorist Guide.” Karr pointed at his french fries. “You eating all of those?”

“Help yourself.”

“How long before we bring him in?”

“Maybe pretty soon. The kid who’s with Asad was on the phone confirming a flight out at the airport tomorrow morning.” Karr finished Dean’s fries. “Going to New Orleans, then on to Phoenix. They’re tracking the credit card and that stuff now. No word on the other people at the meeting.”

“How’d Ramil look?”

“The doc?” Karr laughed. “Shaved and dyed his hair. Hardly recognized him.”

“He had a panic attack in Istanbul.”

“Really? Seemed pretty cool when I saw him. You want anything? Your fries got me hungry.”

“No, thanks.” Dean got up. “I’m going to go check on the surveillance team.”

“Suit yourself,” said Karr. “But those guys got to pay for their own food.”

The two FBI agents tasked to watch the motel were parked in an unmarked car that practically shouted POLICE; it had spotlights under the mirrors, big brake lights on the rear deck, and a set of aerials off the bumper so large they’d need red warning lights if the car drove within ten miles of an airport. They were in a lot diagonally across the street from the motel. While they weren’t visible from the small window at the front of the unit, it wouldn’t take much for someone to spot them.

Dean rapped on the side window twice before the occupants lowered it.

“Guys, your car is a little too obvious,” he told them. “We have to do something about it.”

“This is the car we got,” said the man in the passenger seat.

“Yeah, I can see that. So will our friends. One of you come with me. You can take one of our rentals, and I’ll get this out of here.”

“Charlie, your friend Kenan is moving,” said Rockman.

Dean, unsure exactly how much information about Desk Three’s technology the immigration people had been given, pulled his cell phone from his pocket and started talking to the runner. “Where’s he going?”

“He’s going shopping. He said he’d be back in an hour or two. One of the FBI teams is going to stay with him. We’ll have them stay pretty far back.”

“You need these guys here for a backup?”

“Other team should be able to handle it.”

“All right.” Dean leaned back into the car and told them that Kenan was coming out. “I’ll be down the street.”

“We can handle it,” snapped the man in the passenger seat, raising the window.

There was a deli nearby; Dean went in and got himself a coffee, then went back to his car. Flipping through the radio he heard an old Hank Williams song and settled back to listen.

Just then, a police cruiser came down the street. Dean sat up, watching as it pulled into the motel lot and stopped in front of Asad’s room.

“Damn,” yelled Dean, grabbing for the car door.