Sudden Deception (A Jill Oliver Thriller) (3 page)

Eric repeated the request into a black box in the middle of the conference table.

Jill needed to identify a level of stress with offender profiling. Offender profiling is considered the third wave of investigative science—the first is the study of clues, and the second, the study of the crime itself. It's often used with psychological profiling, which includes identifying a person’s mental, emotional, and personality characteristics. Jill had already determined (per the brief) that the man behind the screen fit Rashid’s description and closely matched the photo. Jill wasn’t there to interrogate in a “Guantanamo Bay” kind of way. She’d leave that to the others. She was there to confirm they had the right men in custody. That was the only reason she was there. And she was convinced this man who called himself Lalani was indeed Ali Bin Amr Rashid, or D. E., the brain behind Al Qaeda's uranium enrichment and weapons maintenance.

The room fell silent and the lights dimmed even more. Penlights glowed on pads of paper as the suits took notes. Jill watched and listened intently. Then she noticed something. Rashid’s lip twitched on the right—a sign of disbelief or contempt. She saw it only once, but it was there. The interrogator continued in Arabic, reading off the list of questions Jill had provided.

They weren't leading questions or, at least Jill didn't think so. She was tired of this case, and her instincts had told her she was right about who LaLani really was—Rashid. He refused to answer any of the questions, but when the interrogator began to speak of Brazil, He shifted in his chair, and looked agitated. He knew what the bully boys had in store for him—how could he not? The interrogator slid a paper in front of him. Jill knew the drill, he was being told to admit he was Rashid, to sign something to say so. If he didn’t sign it, the man threatened in Arabic, he would be worse off once they got through with him here. It was Rashid, all right, Jill thought as he signed the paper.

“Do you need anything more, Jill?” Eric asked. The static on the speaker sounded liked white noise from a blank TV screen. Looking around, Jill realized that the interrogation had paused, and all eyes were on her. It took a moment for her to collect her thoughts. She straightened a bit and said crisply, “I have what I need.”

The room emptied fast. Eric motioned to Tom to leave him and Jill alone. The bright florescent lights hummed above them. There it was again. That look; pity. Eric walked to her, reached out and grasped her arms.

“Jill, I know you're worried about David, but today … you‘re just not yourself. I don’t think I need to tell you this, but I will. You need to stay focused. National security is at stake here, maybe even world security.”

For the first time in years, Jill felt her eyes begin to fill. Eric still had that kind, fatherly look as he said: “You need to figure out what is going on with David, Jill. Why not take some time off? I’m sure Sven will give you a break. Your job on this case is pretty much finished. Take some time, and come back in a couple of days we can wrap up any loose ends.”

He looked down his nose sternly, not waiting for her reaction before he ordered softly, “Take the jet back to Tucson, Jill. Tom can stay on and finish the brief. This is just the bureaucratic crap part anyway.” Gently he put his hand on her lower back, guiding her towards the exit. Slightly miffed Jill allowed herself be maneuvered out the door.

“But …” Jill started to protest.

“I’ll put a call into Sven, he'll give you the time off.”

“No,” she retorted. “I don’t need a babysitter, Eric.” Then Jill thought hard before saying, “I'm going to Doha?”

“I know you, Jill, and I know I can’t stop your stubborn ass,” Eric sighed. “But if go to Doha, be careful. We don’t have authority or jurisdiction in Doha, nor the budget to assist you when you get there. But I will put in a call to ops and ask them to give you any information they have, as well as the clearance you will need.”

Eric stopped and looked Jill in the eyes. “David is okay, Jill, you know that. He is out there somewhere. He’s just not able to reach you.”

Jill could tell he was feigning confidence. But before she could object, he slipped out the door with these parting words: “Don’t worry about the case. You’ve done a great job. I’ll e-mail you when we complete the report.”

11:42 Zulu Time—SOMEWHERE OVER THE MIDWEST

“You okay, Jill?” a woman asked inquisitively. “You don’t look that great; it's almost three p.m. Have you eat anything?”

The same flight attendant was on the Lear going back to Tucson and approached Jill. Heather knew Jill was married, but Jill hardly ever spoke about her personal life. Today was different.

“Have I ever told you about when I first met David, my husband?” Jill asked in an emotionless, almost robotic voice. Without waiting for an answer, Jill gazed through Heather rather than at her, and continued …

“It was on a rafting trip down the Colorado River, starting from Lee’s Ferry, Arizona, and going down to Phantom River.” Jill’s eyes moved from Heather to the small portal window where clouds dappled a blue expanse. “I went there to guide about four times a year on those enormous river rafting boats, whenever I could get away for a few days. That trip, that particular day, felt different. I guess you could say I was in the zone. Then I saw David. There was an immediate spark and when we began to talk I discovered his calm confidence and independence. He was just the kind of man I was looking for …” Jill's voice trailed off.

David.

Jill looked over at Heather. “I need some time alone, Heather, okay?” Heather rose from her seat with a shrug. Jill didn’t care if she was ticked off. She needed to think about what she was going to do next. She’d already put the call in to Sven—she hadn't volunteered the reason behind her request, and he had approved her time off without question. She said nothing about David because she had no intention of having her boss think: “Poor broken up Jill can't function because of a man.” He was an ass. No. She was ambitious and she had to be careful not to appear the sniveling lovesick puppy, even is she felt like one! That would clearly be a career-limiting move in the man's world of national security.

Once back on the ground, Jill felt it again, that odd something-is-not-quite-right-but-can't-put-my-on-exactly-what-is-wrong feeling. A shiver moved through her when she got into her car, but all she could do was shrug it off as nerves. Besides, she was too busy to concern herself with possible paranoia. She had to figure out where to start, what to do. The rumble of her car was comforting somehow as she drove towards their house on the hill.

Tucson was surrounded by mountains in every direction. The Santa Catalina Mountains to the north were close to the city, but not as close as the Tucson Mountains in the west. If they had bought a home to the east, it would have been in the Rincon Mountains Jill called home. It wasn’t as quaint as Page, Arizona where she grew up, but Jill didn’t mind as she shifted into low gear, and began her ascent into the foothills of the Catalinas. Home is what she needed now. With a glimmer of hope she pictured David there.

Jill glanced in the rear-view mirror. Tired eyes below a knitted brow looked back at her. Still on the main highway, and aware despite her fatigue, she noticed a black SUV in the far left lane traveling at a steady pace with her. When she stole a second look it was gone.

“Come on, Jill, keep it together,” she mumbled, annoyed with herself. Minutes later, she pulled into her garage and sighed heavily before going into the house.

Somberness surrounded her heart as she sat in the comfort of the glass house in the hills. The trip back was a blur. How she got there, Jill couldn’t quite remember. Sitting in her office, she found herself staring at nothing, ignoring the papers strewn across the cluttered desk. The words Eric spoke to her still pricked at her pride. “What's happening to me?” Jill spoke softly.

“Grams, Grams,” she whispered. It was at that moment a bird, a chickadee, perched itself on the windowsill.

Jill eyed the small, vulnerable bird. It chirped, then swiftly flew away as Jill reached past a dirty coffee mug on her desk and picked up the phone.

Crap—voice-mail. Thank God there was only one.

“Jill, this is Stan Brown. Can you please call me at this number on my satellite phone? It’s important.” The voice-mail clicked off.

“What the hell do you want, you piece of shit? Anything you have to say is never important,” Jill thought to herself. Stan was David’s father, but David had forbidden Jill to communicate with him, or any other members of his family for that matter, since their last falling out close to a year ago. It was a nasty fight, most of which Jill had the misfortune of witnessing, before exiting as gracefully as she could and thus missing the finale.

David had told Jill about many disturbing and sometimes shocking experiences while being raised by Stan, his bullish, narcissistic father and Carol, his trophy-wife mother. Whenever he spoke of them, sadness and anger filled his eyes. But David would never tell her what the final straw was on the fateful day of “the family feud.” Jill’s suspicion was that his family didn't like the fact that he had married a Native American. If that was the case, Jill didn’t care. She had become immune to various forms of racism and snobbery, having experienced them her whole life.

Funny how things change, she thought as she reflected on David's family and how they had rejected her. People now brag when they have Native American blood in them. But David’s family was stuck in backwoods Texas where the Klu Klux Klan still exists, even today. David hadn't told his family about their wedding until late last year—when it would be too late to voice their protests. And it was around that time that Jill first met them. But after the big bust-up, what ever was left of the frayed relationship was doomed.

A beep pulled her from her ruminations as the fax machine sputtered to life. It was a note from Jeff, David's editor. The fax screeched as the details of David’s assignment, itinerary, and other information came through.

Fly to Doha, Qatar

Meet PRO

Interview soldiers at command post for the Iraq war

Location in Doha

Special clearances

His assignment seemed simple enough. Next to his itinerary was a list of phone numbers. Jill called the first number on the list, the Le Meridian Hotel in Doha, Qatar.

She mentally went through what she knew of the destination … Doha, she knew, was the capital of Qatar, a small peninsula off Saudi Arabia in the Arabian Gulf. Doha meant “the big tree” in Arabic. Qatar generated most of its revenues from oil and natural gas, of which it had vast reserves, and some from tourism, as well as banking and commerce. Doha itself was a fairly moder city. Its tribal roots stretched back several hundred years though it had been virtually unknown in the West until the discovery of oil in the neighboring Gulf countries.

The hotel receptionist spoke broken English with a Southeast Asian accent. It took Jill longer than she would have liked to identify the woman's lilt but she guessed it was from the Philippines, and was surprised by her willingness to freely give private information. No privacy laws in third world countries, Jill thought, and made a mental note to take a refresher course on identifying accents.

“Yes, ma’am,” the Filipina said sweetly. She was able to tell her that David had checked in on schedule—but checked out the very next day, despite the fact that he had been expected to stay for four nights.

The phone almost missed the cradle as Jill scrolled the list of numbers, before coming back to the second number at the top—the US command post for the Iraqi war. David was to have met a Major Evens it seemed. As she dialed, she wondered how
Time
had acquired these numbers. “Special clearance” written after the number answered her thought.

After a series of transfers, she got to a staff sergeant who replied to her query: he sounded like a New Yorker, Jill thought, already exercising her ear on the accents once again.

“No, ma’am, we were expecting him ‘bout four days ago but he didn’t show up,” he explained. “Reporters do this from time to time; we’re not concerned, ma’am. I had lined up everyone he wanted to speak to. But they weren't bothered at the nos show—it gave them a little unexpected leave.”

She thanked him and hung up. A ball of dread was beginning to form in the pit of her stomach. Something was clearly wrong. David was very precise—almost anal—about keeping appointments.

She began to read the draft that David’s office had faxed to her of the story he was working on, “Lives of Soldiers Fighting in Iraq;” he had started writing it on his first trip to Doha. The content was fairly predictable: Don’t like fighting, doing it for my country, miss my family … God bless America. Yada yada yada. Nothing unusual jumped out at her.

As Jill’s anxiety grew, she became restless. She needed to move to think properly. She sprung out of her chair grabbed the draft of David's piece, and made her way through the house. The glow of the sunset danced on the painted walls, changing from a deep red to okra to a mellow green as she walked past the kitchen, into the living room, and headed towards the bar.

The bar was the centerpiece of the room, with a six-foot green gecko mosaic outlined by red tiles.

Talisker, a single malt whiskey from Scotland, was her current favorite brand—and on this day a good friend. Jill's hand shook slightly as she lifted Scotch-filled carafe from one of the shelves below the bar, and set it on the top. “This will take the edge off,” she said out loud.

The ice machine churned as cubes rattled into a highball glass, to which she then added a healthy measure of Talisker. She reached for the glass now filled with ice that had rattled out of the ice machine. She downed it like a cowboy in an old western film. Jill didn’t like to spoil the taste by adding mix. Tasting and drinking—scotch is an art form, and Jill had treated her palate to a fair number of premium single malt whiskeys. There were over thirty primary smells of good single malt. Talisker was sweet yet smoky when it's aroma met the nose. She recharged her glass, this time with about half a measure, raised it to her lips, and sipped the Scotch, allowing herself to fully enjoy its sweet and subtly salty taste.

Fortified, she traded the glass of the amber liquid David’s draft article, Almost at once her stance stiffened. In the comments section at the end of the article were the words “keep identity anonymous.” Then the name “Hamrain.”

It’s a unique name, at least in North America, she thought.

Then Jill recalled seeing it somewhere before, and it had been recently, she was sure of that. “But where?” she said to herself. Armed with what was left with her soothing Scotch, she walked briskly down the hall, and stepped into David's office. She stopped abruptly once over the threshold.

Jill was always impressed at how immaculate David kept his office—it was so unlike hers. Everything was in its place, no coffee cup stains from late-night edits, no slips of paper scattered Willy-nilly on his desk. A photograph on the wall, taken when they first met, displayed the grand colors of the Colorado River banks. The water was gin clear. It was framed in black and matched the over-sized southwestern-style desk David had built himself for his office.

The dustless desk offered no signs of Hamrain, or any other useful information, for that matter. To Jill this was odd. She distinctly remembered David having several files on his desk, he always did when he was working on a story. He liked to keep things organized and easy to reference. Where were all his files? He must have taken the folders with him, but why? That would be unusual. She needed to know what the hell was going on.

She glanced down at David’s desktop computer. He always kept everything on his laptop and he was very possessive over his Mac Book. But he had told Jill that he always backed it up onto his desktop. “Just in case,” he would say. She reached over and turned it on, thanking the powers that be that—David rarely changed his password. She logged on without a hitch. David was equally organized on his desktop computer, even though he loathed Windows. Needing structure was a little quirk of his. Well, more than a quirk—more like a compulsion. He enjoyed teasing Jill because her e-mail in-box was full of opened, undiscarded e-mail.

When she tried to access his most recently viewed documents, however, she got one error message after the other. It looked like they had all been deleted. Why would he delete his documents … his history? That was unlike him.

Jill moved the mouse to the recycle bin. Empty. “Well well.” The chair squeaked as she leaned back and stared at the screen. A couple more sips, and Jill continued her search. She started with the next logical command, and that was to show all his hidden files—something a person could easily do in the control panel. A few 'restores' in advanced settings led her to a backup of one folder. Strange. Inside, she discovered a file called Hamrain. As she read the more detailed electronic 'post it' notes, which included David’s comments to himself, she absently sipped the Scotch and felt its slight nutty, spicy finish before it traveled down to her stomach.

Most of the notes were straightforward references to the story, but one was rather cryptic. “Al Binood … Doha. LSA.,” it read. The last three letters, LSA, were bold and underlined.

What is Al Binood? Jill wondered. She knew the word Al meant “the” in Arabic, and Binood sounded like it might be part of a last name. LSA didn’t hold any meaning whatsoever for her, and yet it seemed vaguely familiar. Additional searching and reading uncovered little else of interest other than the names of soldiers from his interviews, and others to whom she might potentially speak. She hovered the mouse and clicked. Print.

Jill had to stand and lean over the immense pine desk that filled Davids office to reach the phone. She dialed Karine.

Jill had worked with Karine Lucas for more than three years. She was one of those rare people you meet that you just know instantly you will be lifelong friends no matter what “happened at the office.” After all, being Jill’s research assistant could be challenging at times. Karine was the one Jill turned to when she needed to substantiate a hunch or her intuition, a process that could take hours, even days, and often frustratingly lead to dead ends. If this bothered Karine, she never mentioned it. She always dressed quirky, kind of a 1970s bohemian type, with red curly hair that she tamed by tying back into a ponytail. Her breasts strained against her shirt most days, the cleavage often distracting admirers from the dried Navajo choker Jill had given her for her birthday, and which she adored.