Born of War (6 page)

“W
ill it work?”

“Yes, I think so.”

The two technicians at the FBI lab were taking the small remaining chip from the cell phone found at the church bomb site and pulling the data from it. They had the records as well. The bomber was recognized within a day and his Verizon account had been pulled. It was clear whom he was talking with up until the moment of the explosion.

“How far away do you think he has gotten?”

“If I would have to guess, I would say maybe Detroit or Minneapolis. The Mexican border would be too much of a risk. His beard would stand out. Unless he cut it.”

Minneapolis was an area to watch. It had become a fertile recruiting ground for American jihadists.

“Not likely that he will stay in the U.S.” The chief agent looked at the telephone records as he spoke. “We've had him on our list for some time.”

Omar had been tracked ever since he'd shown up at the mosque near the University of South Alabama and had become more vocal about the needs of his faith. The FBI had followed him on several trips to Syria and watched as his comments went from following his father's faith to demanding more from America. His dissatisfaction had become more vocal. Somewhere along the way in his Internet comments he'd become more bent on violence as a cure for his hate of the American culture.

“A bad scenario.” The agent kept looking at the sheet. “He is an American, thinks like one, and is smart.”

“Correct.”

“Very dangerous.” The older agent looked up. “Perhaps another attack in the U.S.?”

“Not impossible.”

“Didn't he spend some winters in Toronto with the Somalis?”

“Yes, sir. I think he married one.”

“Let's let immigration know that the Canadian border is likely.”

“Airlines?”

“No, not to Canada. He isn't stupid.”

Smith thought a moment.

“The last message? Where was it placed to?”

“New Hampshire.”

“Hell, he's gone.”

It had been nearly two days since the blast.

“My guess is Africa.”

 

 

Omar loosened up his tie as he left the airport in Cairo. It was important to buy proper Islamic clothes.

Omar had progressively become more and more upset over the conflict of customs. With a Southern Catholic for a mother and a Muslim for a father, he was torn by faiths until he'd grown secure in his belief in Islam.
Islam is my anchor.
Omar thought of how the mosque had helped him grow in his faith, but to only a certain point.

“I could be here going to Madinah.” It was the university that he had aspired to attend. But an American was too suspect. He would not be admitted no matter what pleas he made.

At the airport in Cairo, Omar stopped for prayers, removing his shoes and washing before turning towards the East and Mecca. The Western clothes still caused him to receive odd glances. However, his vest and tie allowed him to only trim his beard before he passed through customs in Canada. Nevertheless, he was “randomly” picked at every gateway for an additional security check. They would ask him in Arabic where he was from. And Omar would act stupid, pretending not to understand what was being said.

“Excuse me, I don't understand,” he would say in English.

“Where are you from?” they asked in English on the second try.

“Toronto,” he replied. During the winter he'd acquired a passport that he had saved for this specific trip.

“Where are you going?”

“Meet my wife in Cairo. She's returned home to have our baby.” He was telling the truth. She was pregnant and they both agreed to return to North Africa for the birth of the child. His wife was to follow in two days. If she missed the window of opportunity, she would be placed in a jail for months, if not years. He warned her of the risks, but she refused to be so quick in leaving her family. She was young and stupid. She only knew the requirements of her faith and that was to obey her husband.

“You must go!” he had told her. He repeated it to her father; however, he was a stupid man as well.

But I followed the faith.
Omar had remained a virgin until he took his wife. He never shared a bed with another—especially not a Westerner.

I could have
, he thought as he left the prayer room and put his shoes back on.
I was popular.

There was a girl in eighth grade who thought he was cute. He was elected the class president in junior high school. And always got straight “A's” until his trip to Syria. It was as if a light had been turned on. Upon his return, he spoke out, and as he spoke out more, he was thought of as being odd.

Omar took the bus to the market, where he bought sandals and a change of clothes. He threw the Western dress into a trash pile near a bus stop. An old man looked at him and then went over to the pile and pulled everything out. Omar moved quickly, knowing that the old man would make a comment to another.

Cairo was safe to a point. Here he could find a neighborhood of friends, fellow Westerners, and possibly others from Somalia.

There have to be more who want to go to jihad and make Hijrah
, he said to himself as he looked for a telephone store with booths for calling. Once he found one, Omar gave the clerk some money and took the back phone booth near the wall. He knew the number to call. “Hello,” Omar said. He recognized Musa's voice on the other end.

“Yes.”

“I am beyond.” It meant that he was out of both the United States and Canada.

“Allah be praised.”

“Please tell all!”

“Call the other number when you get to the next spot.”

“Yes, I will.” Omar felt strangely comfortable in the Islamic clothes he was now wearing. It was as if he had returned to his true family.

 

 

Omar knew that Musa was walking towards Faud as they finished speaking. It would be on the Internet later that day that two American soldiers of Al Shabaab had planned the bombing in Mobile. One had become a martyr.

Much of the Middle Eastern world would be asking where Mobile was. It didn't matter as much as the reply.

“It is the United States!”

“
Allahu akbar!
” Came back the cry.

Omar was far from safe. His journey had several more dangerous legs but he was much closer to his new army of believers.

Omar knew that Faud would be pleased. The American, or
al-Amriiki
, as Omar was known, would be posted on the Internet bragging of his deeds and beliefs. It would raise money. And Faud was good at raising money for Al Shabaab. The word was that he had raised some monies recently from several dedicated followers in Saudi Arabia. The money was for a special project that would tilt the balance of power in the region. And it would scare Israel to death.

Omar would be the next step in achieving that goal.

“G
ot an ID?”

The police officer held the flashlight directly in William Parker's eyes. He had a big barrel neck and bulky shoulders that stretched the uniform as tight as a drum.

Parker held his hand up over his eyes. He could see more of the officer. The man was bigger than the frame of the window of Parker's truck. He looked like a bear standing on its paws.

“Yes.” William Parker reached for his wallet.

“Easy there.”

“Sure.” Parker held up his left hand so that the officer could see all of his slow movements. He pulled out a wallet that held nothing more than his license. The money was kept underneath the console.

The officer held up the license with one hand while shining the light on both Parker and the faded picture. It was a poor reproduction.

“Mr. Berks?”

“Yes, Officer.”

“Not a good place to be, especially at night.”

“I understand.”

“We have had a bad time here recently.”

“Yeah.”

“Get out of the truck.”

William looked surprised. He stepped out of the truck and turned to the hood. He heard the click of a holster and felt the Glock pushed into his ribs.

“Can I help?”

Even with the officer's size, Parker could have taken him down in a moment. But this wasn't the fight he was interested in now.

“You are under arrest.”

Parker looked forward as the officer held the pistol to his back while placing handcuffs on his wrists. He cooperated. Something else was going on with this particular officer.

“You are interfering with a criminal investigation.”

Parker couldn't help but give him a look that said the charge was lame.

“Get into the back.”

The policeman shoved Parker into the back of the cruiser. It was like stuffing a large man into a box. His knees were up to his chest as he turned to get an angle across the seat. The cage was slanted in towards backseat passengers, giving most of them a feeling of claustrophobia.

The policeman slammed the door shut, shoving the handle into Parker's side. Parker grimaced as he shifted himself again. His eyes followed the officer as he crossed in front of the cruiser's lights while talking on his radio. Parker couldn't hear what was being said. He could, however, get a better view of the man. He had a naturally large and bulky frame. His hair was cut short. In fact, it was down to the skin on the sides, like a drill instructor's high and tight. It was the haircut of a man who didn't care for conversation.

William scanned the front of the cruiser as the officer opened the door.

“Ten-four. I'm bringing him in now. We need that tow truck for his vehicle.”

Now, in the close space of the car, William detected the smell of Aqua Velva. He noticed the man's hands as well. The nails were closely trimmed but the hands were large. It would have taken an extra, extra large pair of gloves to fit over this man's hands.

Every meal a plate of food.
William envisioned a high school football lineman. He was the type who piled up a plate and then asked for seconds. Age would not be kind.

“If you let me make a call on your cell phone I can probably get this cleared up.” William hadn't been in the back of a patrol car since the bar fight at the Navy Yard as a young Force Recon lieutenant. A SEAL had jumped his captain and all hell had broken loose.

The cruiser had a cup holder on its front console, and in the cup holder was a dark, beaten-up cell phone.

The man looked through his rearview mirror, staring through the cage like a bear ready to attack. There was silence for a moment. He acted as if the question had never been asked.

They drove to the station in complete silence. Only the squad car's radio interrupted the quiet. At the station, the jailer searched Parker.

“Damn, look at this dude.”

The fellow jailer and the arresting officer stared at the scar on Parker's shoulder.

“Where did you get that?”

Parker didn't say anything. He didn't want to aggravate the situation further. As they finished, another officer came into the booking room.

“We got a winner!” He held up the wad of cash that Parker had kept in the console. They were like a bunch of teenagers in the locker room after a win on the football field.

“One call?” Parker asked.

“Sure, time to call your momma.” The jailer laughed. “That's your bondsman.”

“Thanks.”

They didn't understand who it was standing there. He dialed the number. Parker hoped he had the number right. Since he'd stopped carrying a cell phone, he hadn't called Gunny in awhile.

“Gunny.” Parker noticed the jailer raise his head when the word was mentioned. “I‘ve been arrested in Mobile.”

The conversation was brief.

“Okay, let's go to the holding cell.”

Parker felt the arresting officer stare at him the entire time. It was as if rage was being barely contained. The bear's eyes followed his every move.

 

 

“Open it up.” The watch officer pointed to the holding cell. He was just as displeased as the arresting officer but for a much different reason. His anger was not directed at Parker.

“I am sorry, sir.” The lieutenant held out his hand in an apology.

The two other jailers looked on in shock as they sat behind their desks while all of this was going on.

“We have had a very bad week,” the lieutenant said sheepishly.

“I understand,” said Parker.

“Where is all of his stuff?”

One of the jailers held up a brown paper bag.

“Is the money in there as well?”

“No, sir.”

“Get it.” The jailer went to a safe behind the desk, swung the door open, and pulled out a plastic bag marked with a red strip. “Evidence” was printed on the strip. The lieutenant ripped it open and handed the stack of fifties to Parker.

“You need to count it?”

“No.”

“Fellows, we need to delete this entire arrest.”

Just as he said that, the arresting officer came back in the room. He stood in the rear with his back leaning against the wall. He didn't say anything. He simply stared at Parker as Parker put everything back into his pockets.

“The arrest photo?” the senior jailer asked the question that the others in the room were thinking.

“Yes, everything. It all needs to be pulled. Nothing can remain in the computer.”

“Why, boss?”

“National security.”

They all knew now where the scars came from. The two jailers were embarrassed and meekly bowed their heads.

The room got silent.