American Terrorist Trilogy Read online

  He raised his titanium specs and massaged the bridge of his nose. “I hope you have more than just supposition that appears to make all the puzzle pieces fit.” He looked at Palmer again. “I’m still not convinced, and I cannot take this to the president without hard evidence and a plan of action.”

  Palmer nodded. “Carl Johnson made a curious statement. He said he’d held security clearances so high that not even a hundred people on the planet were cleared for, not even the president and congress.”

  Klipser’s rough voice drifted from the management console speaker. “I heard that too. What does that mean?”

  Palmer addressed the monitor. “It means that Carl Johnson used insider lingo that people outside of an extremely limited circle in the intelligence community would not know. Pete, if you don’t know the lingo, there’s no way a foreign terrorist would.

  “Lisa, pull up the inventory of Johnson’s military documents on the center monitor.”

  McGrath nodded as he realized where his second in command was headed. Still, he was unwilling to fully sign onto her radical new theory.

  He stepped in front of the analyst stations and examined the inventory list. Like many former military members, Carl Johnson had stashed his important military documents for safe-keeping in a plastic baggie on the floor of the fridge under the vegetable drawers. In the event of a fire, the refrigerator would likely survive an inferno because those appliances were built to provide maximum insulation.

  He examined the image of the front of Johnson’s olive-green military identification card. The card stated that he was a member of the Air Force Reserve, though McGrath knew he would be a member of the Ready Reserve, not the Active Reserve, since he had taken the early-out when the military downsized after the first Gulf War. His ID card showed his rank as captain and his pay grade as O-3. His social security number was on the front also, and on the image of the back of the card was his date of birth and other descriptive information, as well as his blood type and his classification as Category III under the Geneva Convention.

  There was also Johnson’s all-important original DD-214 sheet—his statement of Honorable Discharge—and an additional copy of that document. His birth certificate had been in the baggie also, along with his military immunization records and his passport. There was also a copy of his annuity payment schedule, indicating he was due a payment every October for thirty-two years.

  Palmer stepped up next to him and said, “It wasn’t so much that he claimed to have high security clearances, Aaron. It was how he stated the fact.”

  McGrath nodded. “Pete, a normal citizen, foreign or domestic, might know about highly classified programs, but they would likely describe such a program in generic terms, like “Above Top Secret” or “Eyes Only.” Only a person who is or was in that high-clearance community would know that programs exist known only to a handful of people.”

  Palmer added, “An outsider certainly would not know that we have extremely sensitive programs requiring a higher clearance than the president and congress.”

  On the monitor, Klipser shook his head. “That’s pretty thin. You’re saying the only true difference between Johnson and Reyes is that Johnson knows intel lingo that Reyes probably would not know.” He paused. “Thin.”

  McGrath looked at Palmer, and she gave him a tented-eyebrow look as if to say that was the best she had. He wasn’t totally convinced, but he’d be a fool not to give her analysis full consideration.

  He said, “Not so thin when you consider he’s been on the table eleven days. If he had information to give us, he would have given it up by now. I think we can all agree on that point.”

  He looked at both his team members and they both nodded.

  Klipser said, “If he’s a double, then we have to stop asking him about a girl he knows nothing about. We need to ask him new questions. Despite his ambivalence, I can still break him.”

  Palmer rolled her head, and McGrath heard her neck cartilage crack.

  She said, “We’ve still found no actual relationship or financial connection between the two men.”

  From the monitor Klipser said, “So, we’re now officially operating under the assumption that the man in custody here is a double named Johnson?”

  McGrath said, “It seems that way.”

  Klipser shifted his focus so that his attention was on Jimmy, the analyst. He said, “You there with the big hair, transfer everything we have on Johnson so I can see it on my laptop.”

  Jimmy made the transfer.

  McGrath added, “And show us what Pete’s looking at on the right monitor.”

  A dozen small windows popped up on the monitor. Some came to the foreground and overlapped others as Klipser manipulated the material.

  McGrath felt a rare moment of self-doubt and muttered to Palmer. “Nancy, how did we miss this for eleven whole days?”

  “We thought we had Alfonso Reyes so we didn’t dig deep enough into Carl Johnson. There was no reason to.”

  “No,” Klipser said. “We didn’t think we had him. We knew. We went over the data a dozen times, and we all agreed with one hundred percent certainty that we had Alfonso Reyes.” He highlighted a particular window and expanded it to fill the entire monitor.

  “What do you see, Pete?” McGrath said.

  “Johnson has a thirty-year-old son named Mark.” Klipser peered from the monitor and said, “Let’s release Johnson and watch his son. Put out the word that Mark Johnson has agreed to testify to the FBI.”

  “You’re suggesting we use his son as bait?” Palmer looked at the monitor. “An innocent civilian?”

  Klipser said, “We don’t know that his son is innocent.”

  Nancy shook her head. “There’s zero evidence to even suggest his son is involved.” She looked at McGrath. “Aaron, if we’re wrong about this....”

  McGrath said, “I’m willing to take that risk, and I’ll answer for it if we’re wrong.”

  “He won’t sacrifice his son,” Klipser said. “I guarantee you that. No father would. He’ll give us Reyes.”

  Chapter 17

  Time: Unknown; Day: 12

  Location: Unknown

  Carl awoke to the sound of assault boots long before the guards opened the door of his cell. He’d slept lightly standing up, feet spread and knees locked, leaning forward just enough to keep his body from collapsing. Both guards entered with Tasers at the ready. They’d learned a lesson from their previous complacency. A black sack was placed over his head, and he heard plastic zip cuffs affixed to his wrists before he was unshackled from the cable holding him to the wall.

  So this is how it ends, with a bag over my head while they drag me naked out somewhere to kill me and dump my body.

  He wasn’t at all surprised when they led him to the left instead of to the right toward the torture room. They went a few steps, and then proceeded up the stairs. All he could think about was that the torture was over. He achieved his objective, though not the way he’d planned.

  They didn’t want him alive as a witness. He beat them, but now that he knew they were no longer going to torture him, he suddenly wanted to live. He wanted to see his son. He wanted to go back to his uncomplicated life.

  They stopped at the top of the stairs and he heard one of them open a door. The sound of it opening was very faint, like it hung on well-oiled hinges and maybe had rubber padding around the edges to keep it silent. It was just one more way a prisoner like himself was kept completely unaware of his surroundings.

  Now the guards paused in their upward march, and Carl’s rational brain told him that all three of them couldn’t fit through the doorway side-by-side. One of his guards went through first, pulling him by the left arm, while the other guard pushed on his right arm. Both men stayed physically connected to him, obviously prepared to counter any move he might make to attack or escape.

  They marched him through a room, and his bare feet felt rough indoor-outdoor style carpet under foot. Then they maneuvered him through
another door, where once again he felt concrete beneath his bare feet. This time he knew he was above ground and outside of the main structure because the concrete was ice cold. Maybe he was in a garage or a carport or something. The air was frigid also, and his muscles immediately tensed as he began to shiver. He smelled pine again. The air was heavy with the scent and felt thick and moist.

  The guards man-handled him into some kind of utility vehicle or cargo van. He sensed it was the rear door they forced him through, and they dumped him on the cold metal floor. The ribs of the floor dug into his side and the icy cold metal quickly numbed his skin.

  As he lay on his side, he felt the vehicle dip as each guard climbed in, and he heard the squeak of old springs as the weight of the guards caused the van to shift. Someone shut the rear door and someone else climbed into the front of the van and started the engine. No one spoke.

  Carl’s impression that the van was old was confirmed as it bounced and rattled along a rutted road on struts that were in serious need of replacement. The vehicle squeaked and groaned with every dip, and he had the impression that the rugged road was an unpaved trail winding its way through a forest.

  Finally, they bounced onto a paved road, and they drove for another half an hour. Carl listened to the high-pitch hum of worn tires on asphalt. He leveraged himself up to a sitting position, though it was difficult to stay balanced with his hands behind his back. So he spread his legs out in a V and leaned forward to stay upright against the van’s jerky movements.

  He didn’t know where they were taking him, nor did he care. He was certain they’d want to make killing him look like an accident. They couldn’t just shoot him or cut his throat because that would leave a murder trail that would lead to an investigation.

  Gradually, Carl became aware of other traffic sounds. They were in a city somewhere on a busy street. The muted sound of heavy traffic penetrated the interior of the vehicle. He heard car engines and bus engines and the hammer-heavy rattle of diesel truck engines and the blaring horns of impatient drivers. The van stopped and started several times, presumably at stop signs and traffic lights.

  He felt and heard one of the men beside him stand up. Then he heard the unexpected sound of one of the back doors opening even though the van was still moving. The vehicle made a sudden lurch to the left, and Carl rocked the opposite way with the momentum. Then the van decelerated sharply. Just before Carl was about to fall backward against the motion, he felt the rugged tread of a large assault boot against his back. Then the big boot shoved, literally launching him out of the slow-moving vehicle.

  He had no time to prepare for a tuck and roll, especially with his hands cuffed behind his back. He hit the asphalt hard on his butt, wrists, and left shoulder with a bone-jarring bounce, then tumbled ass over elbows.

  He could see nothing through the black sack, but he heard the screech of tires on the road right beside him as cars swerved to miss him. He heard the blaring horns of panicked drivers right next to him. He waited for the impact, waited for one of those squealing and sliding cars or trucks to roll right over him.

  Finally, his world went silent, and he rolled awkwardly onto his butt and just sat there. He smelled the asphalt and felt the heat of engines of cars that had panic-stopped within inches of him.

  A smoothly purring engine nearby went silent, and a car door opened and closed. He heard the ticking of a cooling engine right beside him, and he knew he could have reached out and touched the front bumper of the car if his hands weren’t restrained. Footsteps clinked on the pavement—a woman in heels.

  “Oh my god!” she said. “Are you alright?”

  Stupid question. You find a naked man, hooded and cuffed, skinned raw from road rash, and you ask him if he’s alright? Seriously?

  “Maybe you could take this sack off my head?”

  Another door opened and closed. It sounded like someone else was getting out of the same car, and he heard a young girl’s voice.

  “Don’t touch him, Mom! Maybe he’s a criminal or something.”

  Carl grunted through his hood. “Silly wabbit.”

  The sound of heavy footfalls approached.

  “I got this,” a man’s deep voice said. Strong, warm hands grabbed Carl’s shoulders and helped him to his feet. Then the man worked at untying the sack on his head.

  “Brah,” the deep voice said. “I done tol’ you about wearing seat belts. Now look at you, all skinned up and shit.”

  Carl had to chuckle at that. Finally, the black sack came off his head, and he blinked in the sudden brightness. The man who had helped him up was a lumberjack-looking guy in jeans and a red plaid shirt. He was tall, maybe six-five, with a flaming red beard and long unkempt hair bursting out from under his baseball cap. He had a barrel chest and an equally massive gut. Over the man’s right shoulder, Carl saw a big cement truck parked in the middle of the street. The driver door was wide open, and the engine was still running. The big mixer drum behind the cab spun slowly.

  Squinting, Carl studied his surroundings. He stood in the middle of an intersection. Three cars sat near him pointed in haphazard directions. Long black skid marks ended under the tires of two of the nearest cars. One was a very old sedan that probably didn’t have antilock brakes, hence the skid marks. The other was a new two-seater that had executed a nice sideways slide to avoid running him over. Either that, or the driver had panicked and lost control. Several other cars had swerved to avoid those cars.

  There were mid-sized buildings all around, all between five and ten stories high. Most were glass and steel, obviously the result of relatively new infill construction in a growing suburban city that could only expand upward. It was early morning, and Carl had disrupted rush-hour traffic. Cars and buses and taxis were stalled everywhere. The sidewalks were wide, and neatly trimmed young trees maybe eight feet high stood every few yards in circular cutouts in the concrete. There was no median in the center of the street.

  As Carl examined the faces of the drivers and pedestrians gawking at him, he noticed everyone was bundled up in overcoats. It was then he realized how cold he felt. He started to shiver again and his feet felt like he was standing on ice. Then he began to feel the first stabbings of pain on his elbows and butt, the parts of his body that had borne the brunt of the impact with the road.

  It occurred to him that he should feel embarrassed at his nakedness. Everyone kept their distance from him, like they were afraid of him. Maybe they all thought he was a criminal, like the teen girl from the BMW behind him. Why else would a man be trussed and tossed from a moving vehicle?

  He glanced back and saw the teen holding up her cell phone, like she was putting him on YouTube or Facebook. His first thought as he glared at the girl was that he’d better hurry up and call Mark before his son saw his naked butt on the Internet.

  He heard whispers from the gawkers, but no one except the trucker was bold enough to actually help him. He couldn’t blame them. Before his arrest, if a naked man had been dumped from a van in front of his car, he wouldn’t have stopped. He would have just called 9-1-1 and kept driving.

  At the very least, Carl figured he ought to be feeling anger or thinking vengeful thoughts. In reality, though, he was simply relieved to be alive. He’d been certain the government agents were taking him somewhere to kill him. Along with his relief, he was confused. Why had they let him go? The only answer that made sense was that they finally realized he wasn’t the man they thought he was and letting him go couldn’t hurt them.

  The trucker pulled a knife from his pocket and extended the blade. Then he stepped behind Carl and sliced open the plastic wrist cuffs. As Carl massaged his wrists, he noticed a building with a big white sign with a huge red plus symbol on it, accompanied by the word “EMERGENCY” in red letters. Closer to the street sat a similar sign with “Emergency Room” in red letters scribed inside a large white plus sign.

  Carl felt a belly laugh erupt from deep within. The fuckers had dumped him right in front of the entrance
to a hospital emergency room!

  Thoughtful bastards.

  He nodded at the trucker. “Thanks, friend.” Then he limped his naked butt up the long driveway toward the entrance of the emergency room.

  “Seat belts next time, brah,” the man said. “And maybe some clothes too!”

  Chapter 18

  0913 EST Wednesday

  Arlington Heights, VA

  Melissa had been missing for twelve days, Aaron McGrath thought. Eleven of those days had been wasted scrutinizing the background of the wrong man. They’d been duped. The drug lord, Alfonso Reyes, had handed him a classic misdirection, and he fell for it. How the hell had the drug lord found such a perfect look-alike who hadn’t been surgically altered? The odds against that were so astronomical as to not even get considered.

  Carl Johnson wasn’t a supremely conditioned operator. He was simply the wrong man, though it remained to be seen whether he was innocent or involved. The man had withstood eleven days of interrogation, eleven days of pure hell, but only because he didn’t have any information to give them. McGrath knew that now. How Carl Johnson could have kept hold of his sanity after what they’d put him through, McGrath was sure he’d never know.

  Aaron McGrath stood by the living room window looking out at the tidy grass lawn of the operations house. The neighborhood was well lit by the low morning sun that tried to burn through high, thin clouds. The street lamp near the curb in front of the house next door was still on.

  The operations house looked exactly like all the other houses on the cul-de-sac. He scanned the street left and right, more from habit than for any practical reason. Most everyone had already headed out to work. Houses with more than two cars, maybe with teenage kids who needed a car, had their extra vehicles parked on the street.