trial.
“I ain’t got shit for you. He wouldn’t talk, and none of them other dudes would either. I can’t wait to tell Mao they wouldn’t even open the door for a black man.” His eyes drooped in defeat. “Sorry, I can’t help.”
Zehra took a deep breath. “We’ll keep working …”
BJ raised his eyes slowly to meet Zehra’s. She loved those warm looks. “I got more bad news,” he paused. “The DNA? I just heard the results from the testing of the saliva and blood on the mask. It matches our boy exactly.”
Seven
At the seven o’clock Monday morning meeting in the FBI office high in the Federal Building, Paul refused the pastries everyone else ate. The open boxes circled the conference table twice while people sheepishly took seconds. Paul watched them stretch their mouths open to cram in dripping purple Bismarcks. People ate in silence.
“Hey, Jimmy,” one of the agents called across the table. “Don’t forget that Wellness meeting this afternoon for weight control. If you go through it, you get a reduction in your co-pays in the health plan.”
Paul was anxious for his boss to speak.
After allowing for a round of tea-colored tepid government coffee, Paul’s boss, Bill Conway, cleared his throat. He had been the senior agent in charge of the Twin Cities for six years. “Folks, listen-up,” he started. “We’ve got a lot to cover. Sorry about the coffee. With the budget cuts, we had to stop the Starbucks.” He brushed crumbs off his yellow necktie and tried to smooth it over the protruding belly below.
Several of them pushed back from the table and crossed their legs to listen.
“I got off the phone with the director in Washington this morning.” Conway paused for the effect. “He called at five o’clock, his time. That’s damn early here. Now, I don’t like to get these calls ‘cause they usually mean the director’s unhappy.” His gaze bounced from one face to another. In spite of the sugar surge, most of them looked half awake.
“The director’s been getting calls from lots of big-shot politicos, including our own esteemed senators. They’re worried. And you all know how things work in government when the shit rolls downhill—in the end, we gotta shovel.”
Mavis Drews, the oldest female agent in Minneapolis, sat up. “I thought we got pleas out of three of these recruiters, Bill. What more do they want?”
Conway moved back to his edge of the table. He looked at his administrative assistant who scrambled through a pile of files. She pushed one toward him.
“Here … here we go. Yeah, we got convictions on these three.” He raised the files in the air to demonstrate. “What they’re saying, confirms our theory. These guys were recruiting for the freedom fighters in Somalia—the Shabaab, which we know has links to Al-Qaeda.” Conway had thick hair combed over his head, gray-green eyes, and a jowly face. It lent a level of seriousness to his statement.
“But they didn’t plead to that, did they, Bill?” Joe Fancher asked.
“We got one for lying to us during the investigation. But the other two pled to providing material support for terrorists. They admitted going to Yemen, then back to Somalia to handle the new recruits from the Twin Cities and then, turned them into terrorists there. They call ’em ‘born agains.’ Got eight years on this last defendant. Trouble is they’re not talking about anything else.” When he threw the files on the table, doughnut crumbs scattered. “That’s a problem. I admit we got a few loose ends.”
Drews said, “So, what does the Director want? We broke the case, arrested the suspects, and got convictions.” She looked around the long table and pumped her fist into the air tentatively. “What the hell else do those idiot politicians want?”
“No, no … he’s happy about that. Congratulated us. No, the calls are coming from Congress people and agencies about what happens now.”
Drews pressed on,
“I ain’t got shit for you. He wouldn’t talk, and none of them other dudes would either. I can’t wait to tell Mao they wouldn’t even open the door for a black man.” His eyes drooped in defeat. “Sorry, I can’t help.”
Zehra took a deep breath. “We’ll keep working …”
BJ raised his eyes slowly to meet Zehra’s. She loved those warm looks. “I got more bad news,” he paused. “The DNA? I just heard the results from the testing of the saliva and blood on the mask. It matches our boy exactly.”
Seven
At the seven o’clock Monday morning meeting in the FBI office high in the Federal Building, Paul refused the pastries everyone else ate. The open boxes circled the conference table twice while people sheepishly took seconds. Paul watched them stretch their mouths open to cram in dripping purple Bismarcks. People ate in silence.
“Hey, Jimmy,” one of the agents called across the table. “Don’t forget that Wellness meeting this afternoon for weight control. If you go through it, you get a reduction in your co-pays in the health plan.”
Paul was anxious for his boss to speak.
After allowing for a round of tea-colored tepid government coffee, Paul’s boss, Bill Conway, cleared his throat. He had been the senior agent in charge of the Twin Cities for six years. “Folks, listen-up,” he started. “We’ve got a lot to cover. Sorry about the coffee. With the budget cuts, we had to stop the Starbucks.” He brushed crumbs off his yellow necktie and tried to smooth it over the protruding belly below.
Several of them pushed back from the table and crossed their legs to listen.
“I got off the phone with the director in Washington this morning.” Conway paused for the effect. “He called at five o’clock, his time. That’s damn early here. Now, I don’t like to get these calls ‘cause they usually mean the director’s unhappy.” His gaze bounced from one face to another. In spite of the sugar surge, most of them looked half awake.
“The director’s been getting calls from lots of big-shot politicos, including our own esteemed senators. They’re worried. And you all know how things work in government when the shit rolls downhill—in the end, we gotta shovel.”
Mavis Drews, the oldest female agent in Minneapolis, sat up. “I thought we got pleas out of three of these recruiters, Bill. What more do they want?”
Conway moved back to his edge of the table. He looked at his administrative assistant who scrambled through a pile of files. She pushed one toward him.
“Here … here we go. Yeah, we got convictions on these three.” He raised the files in the air to demonstrate. “What they’re saying, confirms our theory. These guys were recruiting for the freedom fighters in Somalia—the Shabaab, which we know has links to Al-Qaeda.” Conway had thick hair combed over his head, gray-green eyes, and a jowly face. It lent a level of seriousness to his statement.
“But they didn’t plead to that, did they, Bill?” Joe Fancher asked.
“We got one for lying to us during the investigation. But the other two pled to providing material support for terrorists. They admitted going to Yemen, then back to Somalia to handle the new recruits from the Twin Cities and then, turned them into terrorists there. They call ’em ‘born agains.’ Got eight years on this last defendant. Trouble is they’re not talking about anything else.” When he threw the files on the table, doughnut crumbs scattered. “That’s a problem. I admit we got a few loose ends.”
Drews said, “So, what does the Director want? We broke the case, arrested the suspects, and got convictions.” She looked around the long table and pumped her fist into the air tentatively. “What the hell else do those idiot politicians want?”
“No, no … he’s happy about that. Congratulated us. No, the calls are coming from Congress people and agencies about what happens now.”
Drews pressed on,
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