Act of War

CHAPTER 29

The taxi driver had balked at only one thing, having his signature on the bail paperwork. When Cheng offered him an additional thousand dollars, the young man’s reservations magically disappeared. Cheng had definitely chosen the right man for the job.

Cheng turned on the second cell phone and gave the driver the number in order to keep in touch. Once the bail agent had been taken care of, the taxi driver parked across the street from the jail and waited. He had only two questions. Where was he supposed to take Wazir Ibrahim and whom should he say was behind getting him out of jail?

Cheng knew Wazir Ibrahim was going to have a lot more questions than that. He kept his answers for the driver short. He told him to bring Wazir Ibrahim home. There was a restraining order in place to keep Wazir away from his wife, so Cheng made sure that the driver knew to tell Wazir that his wife had gone to her sister’s. As far as who had gotten him out of jail and had sent a cab to pick him up, Cheng simply told the young Somali to describe him to Wazir. That would be all that was necessary. He doubted Wazir Ibrahim would ask any more questions after that.

The Snow Dragon operation consisted of six cells. Each cell paired one of the engineering students with a battle-tested Somali who would act as muscle. The cell members reported to a handler who went by the name Henry Lee. Lee’s real name was Ren Ho and he was a deep cover operative the Second Department had placed inside the United States more than thirty years ago. It was Lee who had informed Beijing when Wazir Ibrahim went missing. When the taxi driver described his benefactor, Cheng had no doubt Wazir Ibrahim would assume it was his handler, Henry Lee, who had bailed him out of jail.

Per their agreement, the taxi driver hailed Wazir Ibrahim when he walked out of the jail and then drove him on a long, circuitous route, while Cheng ascertained whether the FBI was following.

When he was satisfied that no one was tailing them, he returned to the Ibrahims’ neighborhood, parked his car two blocks away, and broke into the house from the alley. He drew all the blinds and then texted the taxi driver that it was safe to bring Wazir home.

As the cab pulled up in front, Cheng sent his final text explaining where the driver could find the envelope containing the balance of his tip. Cheng then removed the phone’s battery, sat down at Ibrahim’s dining table, and waited.

There was a thin layer of dust on everything, and he wondered if Ibrahim’s marital woes revolved around housekeeping.

He looked up as he heard Wazir’s key open the front door. Stepping inside, the Somali man reached for the light.

“Leave it off,” Cheng ordered.

Wazir obeyed the instruction. Closing the door, he removed his shoes as he peered into the semidarkness. “Is that you?” he asked.

Cheng reached over and gently nudged a small dimmer switch behind him. A light over the table began to glow and softly illuminated the dining room.

Wazir Ibrahim stopped halfway there. “You’re not Henry. Who are you?”

“I’m Henry’s boss. Come here and sit down,” said Cheng.

He looked nervously from side to side. “Why isn’t Henry here?”

“You disappeared, Wazir. No one knew what happened to you. We were worried.”

“But why are you here and not Henry?”

“Because Henry is a manager. He doesn’t do search and rescue. I do.”

“You’re the one who got me out of jail?” Wazir asked.

Cheng nodded. “I need to know what happened and what you told them. All of it.”

“It’s time for prayers. May I pray first?”

“You can pray in a moment. Right now, I need you to explain everything that happened. I need to know exactly what the police know.”

Wazir took a deep breath and began to recount his tale. “Because we are refugees and receive government assistance, we are required to meet with a social worker. Our social worker convinced my wife to file charges against me.”

“For beating her.”

The Somali was not remorseful in the least. “Yes. If my wife does not obey me, I am entitled to beat her.”

“Did you admit that to the police?”

“No.”

“Good. What else happened while you were in custody?”

Wazir lowered his head.

Cheng tensed. It was obvious Wazir had done something he was ashamed of. “What else happened while you were in custody?”

“Some men I know brought girls to Nashville.”

“What men?” asked Cheng.

“Somali men, from Minneapolis.”

“What kind of girls did they bring?”

“Young girls, pretty girls.”

Cheng’s feelings of unease continued to grow. “How old were these girls?”

Wazir refused to look at him. “I don’t know,” he said.

“Look at me, Wazir. And don’t lie to me. How old were these girls?”

The Somali man slowly looked up and met the man’s gaze. “They were very young.”

“Too young?”

Wazir turned his eyes back down to the ground. “Yes,” he replied.

“And the police know this?”

“They asked me a lot of questions about it.”

Cheng kept his demeanor cool. “What did you tell them?”

“Nothing. I assumed that if they had evidence, they would have presented it.”

It was a good point. If they had anything related to charge him with, they would have. As it stood, he had been charged only with spousal abuse.

“Did you say anything at all to the police about Henry Lee or what you have been working on?”

“No.”

“Nothing that could even possibly make them suspicious about anything else?”

“No,” he repeated.

Despite his protestations, Cheng made Wazir take him through every moment of his ordeal — from his arrest until he walked back into his home. He wanted to know every question the police had asked him, every response he had given, if he had been held in a communal cell, what other prisoners he had talked to, all of it. It went on for over two hours.

Sometimes he gave the same answer, other times his answers changed. Sometimes it was three underage girls he had communed with, sometimes it was “just” two. At first he was held in a solitary cell, then he said there were only four people, and then he said he was in a cell with at least ten other men. Wazir Ibrahim had a hard time keeping his facts straight. This troubled Cheng considerably. The Somali’s word was unreliable at best.

“If you’re worried that I said anything to the police about Henry Lee or what has been planned, I didn’t,” Wazir assured him. “Even though I could have.”

“And what exactly could you have told them?” Cheng asked. Wazir Ibrahim knew very little about the attack. After the NASA internship ended, Henry Lee had brought all of the cell members together to train for one week near his ranch in Idaho. They had only gone over the mechanics of what was expected of them. The canisters they had used were dummies. None of the cell members knew what would be inside them.

“I need money for a lawyer,” Wazir responded. “A good one.”

Now he wants money for a lawyer? Though Cheng wanted to reach out and strike him, he restrained himself. “First, Wazir, let’s talk about what you think you know.”

“I know about the canisters,” the Somali said.

Cheng smiled. “Of course you do. You trained with them.”

“But I know what’s going to be in them.”

“Really? And what’s that?”

With his finger, Wazir drew a word on the tabletop in the dust between them.

Cheng was stunned. How the hell had this stupid Somali pieced it together? Maintaining his steady mask, he laughed and said, “My goodness. That’s something. It’s not correct. In fact, it’s quite fantastic. Why would you think something like that?”

If it had been a guess, it was a well-informed guess. “Because I know.”

“How do you know?”

“The engineering student I trained with said something.”

“Said something when?” Cheng pressed.

“After the training, as we were all leaving. He said he had been thinking about it, and that’s what he believed was going to be in the canisters.”

“Did he share this hypothesis with the others?” He drew out the word ‘hypothesis’ to feign how absurd he found the idea.

Wazir Ibrahim shrugged. “What are we going to do about getting a lawyer for me?”

Cheng used his sleeve to erase the word that had been written in the dust. “Everything will be okay,” he said.

“So you will get me a lawyer?”

“We may even be able to get the case dismissed.”

“Really?” Wazir said hopefully. “How?”

“Don’t worry about it. You are important to us. We need you. We’ll make this go away.”

“I have your word?”

Cheng nodded. “You have my word.”

Wazir smiled. He looked as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. “May I pray now?”

“Of course, just don’t turn on any of the lights.”

The Somali thanked him and excused himself from the table. After washing his hands and feet, he returned to the living room, where he rolled out a small rug and began his prayers.

Cheng watched. He was familiar with the routine. He had seen it many times. The last time was in China’s Uighur region when he had watched Ismail Kashgari perform it.

When Wazir Ibrahim knelt on the rug, Cheng quietly stood from the dining-room table and slipped into the living room. He counted how many times the Somali had bowed to Mecca. As Wazir rose for the third time, Cheng stepped behind him, wrapped the garrote around his neck, and pulled the wire tight.

It was like slicing butter with a piece of piano wire. There was a spray of blood and the Somali’s body flailed wildly for several seconds before collapsing. Wazir wasn’t as strong as Kashgari, but his desire to live had been just as powerful, and just as pointless.

Stepping away from the body, Cheng retraced his steps through the house, making sure he had not left any fingerprints anywhere.

An hour and a half later, via an encrypted email, Cheng provided Colonel Shi with both an update and a recommendation. It took less than twenty minutes for Shi to respond.

The colonel okayed Cheng’s next move, but required him to make one other stop before leaving Tennessee. Cheng didn’t like it, though he had little choice but to comply.