Black Ops #1 Page 5

  Bobby Drake had gotten off the bus one stop before Amber, so he saw nothing, but one of the two who did see the van was able to give a very detailed report.

  “It was an old Ford van, and it had a big rusty spot above the left taillight. The license number was 37172,” Albert, the eleven-year-old son of one of the embassy staff, said.

  “How do you know all that?” the military policeman asked.

  “I wrote the number down in my notebook,” Albert replied. “Mom and Dad said I should always report anything that looked suspicious, and that old van looked suspicious to me.”

  But even as the embassy was providing the Qambari police with information on the van, as well as a description of the man who had taken her, the police found Amber.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Captain Hardesty, the military police captain in charge of the investigation, told Colonel Pease. “But we are going to need an official identification. You are going to have to look at the body.”

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, Colonel Pease nodded, indicating that he was ready. The MP took him into a room at the rear of the police morgue, then pulled back the cover. Pease looked at her, nodded, then turned away with tears streaming down his face.

  “How was she found?” he asked.

  “You don’t really want to know, sir,” Hardesty replied.

  “How was she found?” Colonel Pease asked again.

  “She was,” Captain Hardesty started, paused, took a deep breath, then continued. “She was found nude and spread-eagled, with her panties stuffed in her mouth.”

  Colonel Pease was quiet.

  “We’ll get the son of a bitch, sir,” Hardesty said. “We have two eyewitnesses. We have a make on the van and a license number. We’ve given the Qambari police good, solid leads. We’re going to get the bastard who did this.”

  “Thanks,” Colonel Pease replied.

  “Why haven’t you arrested him?” Captain Hardesty asked. The American military policeman was in the downtown office of Abdul Yusri, chief of the Redha Police Force. Abdul didn’t answer. Instead he held up a coffeepot. “Would you like some coffee, Captain Hardesty?”

  “No, thank you,” Hardesty replied.

  “You really should try our coffee. Our Quran forbids us to drink alcohol in any form, but it does allow coffee and we have made that into one of our most divine pleasures.”

  “I try to limit myself to no more than two cups per day,” Hardesty replied.

  Yusri poured a generous amount of cream into his coffee. He then added several teaspoons of sugar.

  “You Americans move much too quickly,” he said as he stirred the tan mixture. “You are in such a hurry to make an arrest.”

  “Chief Yusri, it has been my experience that in cases like this, the longer you delay, the colder the trail becomes. Now we have some very good eyewitness reports that put Abdulla Balama Shamat’s vehicle at the scene of the crime. We have traced the van down, and identified him as the owner.”

  “Ah, that is true, my friend,” Yusri said, holding up his finger. “You can put his van there. But can you put him there? Your eyewitnesses are who? Schoolchildren?”

  Hardesty sighed. “We have no eyewitnesses who can testify, directly, that Shamat was there.”

  “Well then, you can see our dilemma, can’t you?” Yursi asked as he took a drink of his coffee.

  “But it is a dilemma easily solved,” Hardesty said. “We have taken DNA samples from the young girl’s body. All it requires is a DNA matchup with Shamat.”

  “I see,” Yusri said. “And exactly what is this DNA sample?”

  “Semen,” Hardesty said.

  “Semen. By that, you mean a man’s, uh, sexual excretion?” “Believe me, Mr. Yusri, semen has proven to be a very reliable means of acquiring DNA.”

  “And how, exactly, do you propose that we would make use of this . . . unclean thing?”

  Hardesty looked puzzled for a moment. “Simple,” he said. “All that is necessary is to acquire a DNA sample from the suspect and compare it to the DNA from the semen.”

  “You do not understand,” Yusri said. “Semen is unclean. It is against the law of Qambari Arabia for anyone to touch semen.”

  Hardesty laughed. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that,” he said. “Our laboratory has already isolated the DNA. Your people will have nothing to touch.”

  “The DNA? It is extracted from the semen, yes?”

  “Well, yes, but . . .”

  Yusri held up his hand and shook his head. “It makes no difference. If it is extracted from the semen, it is a part of the semen. Our lab technicians cannot touch it.”

  “You don’t have to. We’ll provide you with the charted data. All you have to do is make the comparisons.”

  “That won’t work, either. You are asking that we convict one of our own, on evidence that is not provided by our government. We cannot do that. Especially since the evidence you would be supplying comes from a source that we cannot deal with in the first place.”

  “I don’t understand,” Hardesty said. “You are willing to let the monster who murdered Amber Pease go free, simply because your lab technicians are too squeamish to work with DNA?”

  “I would not expect you to understand,” Yusri said. He took another swallow of his coffee, then smiled over the rim of the cup. “But then, you are in our country, aren’t you? So, you have no choice but to comply by our laws.”

  Hardesty clenched and unclenched his hands several times to prevent getting any angrier over the situation. Finally he let out a long sigh.

  “Very well,” he said. “We’ll . . . uh . . . pursue other means.”

  “I think that would be best,” Yusri said.

  It took another week before the U.S. was able to get some DNA from Abdulla Balama Shamat. They got it by the simple expedient of paying someone to get a sample of Shamat’s blood. One of the Qambaris who worked for Colonel Pease, one who felt the horror and shame of having such a beautiful young girl slaughtered in his country, volunteered to undertake the mission. Under the observation of two American military police, Omar Sarid brushed against Shamat in an open-air shopping mart. He was carrying a serrated piece of metal, and he managed to get both skin and blood.

  “Watch where you are going!” Shamat said angrily after the encounter.

  “A thousand pardons, sir,” Omar replied. “I was not paying attention. I am shamed by my clumsiness.”

  Shamat glared at him, then walked on through the crowd, rubbing at his scratch irritably.

  Omar brought the sample back to the car where the two American Military Police had observed the entire incident.

  “It is very necessary, so we can establish a train of evidence,” Captain Hardesty explained to them when they brought the blood and skin tissue to him.

  “It’s a match,” the chief lab technician told Hardesty after the lab work was completed. “The DNA found on Amber Pease matches the DNA taken from Abdulla Balama Shamat.”

  The next day, Ambassador Paul Tobin went to see the sultan, Jmal Nagib Qambar.

  “Your Excellency, we have irrefutable evidence that one of your subjects, Abdulla Balama Shamat, raped and murdered young Amber Pease. And we ask that you arrest him and deal with him,” Tobin said.

  “I see,” Qambar said, fitting a cigarette into a long jade holder. “And just what is this evidence?” he asked, snapping a gold lighter under the tip of the cigarette.

  Tobin showed him the DNA reports.

  “Yes,” Qambar said, exhaling a long stream of tobacco smoke. “I was told of this. From semen, I believe?”

  “Yes,” Tobin said.

  Qambar took a few more puffs of tobacco and looked at the reports before he spoke again. Then he shook his head.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You have to understand that my people are a simple people, tied to ancient customs and strong beliefs. They would never stand for the conviction of someone, based upon DNA, which they cannot understand, taken from semen, which
they can understand. Allow my police to investigate in our own way. We have a long history of dealing with criminals. And remember, just as your sophisticated DNA is not available to us . . . we have ways and means of extracting information that is not available to you.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Kingdom of Qambari Arabia

  The Mercedes sports car raced through the streets of the capital city of Redha, sending pedestrians scattering and frightening a horse that was pulling a cart, laden with vegetables. The cart overturned and the farmer watched in dismay as his produce was scattered through the street, much of it ruined as it was run over by traffic.

  A policeman, seeing the speeding car, recognized the driver as Prince Azeer Lal Qambar, so he breathed a quick prayer that no one would be injured, and he did nothing. It was not healthy to run afoul of the family that ruled Qambari Arabia.

  Azeer Lal Qambar was forced to slow down, and then come to a stop. There was a wreck a few blocks ahead, and all traffic had come to a standstill.

  Azeer honked his horn a few times, more in anger and frustration than any real belief that the traffic would become unsnarled. When the traffic remained at a standstill, Azeer became impatient, and he left the road and began driving down the sidewalk.

  Some sidewalk merchants had spent several minutes earlier in the day, very carefully displaying their wares on colorful rugs. They watched in helpless and frustrated dismay as the royal prince drove over their merchandise, destroying much of their inventory.

  When Azeer reached the location of the wreck, he left the sidewalk and drove between the wrecked cars and the green crescent-marked ambulance that was there for the injured. Two EMTs were carrying an injured man on a stretcher, but when Azeer roared through they had to drop the stretcher in order to get out of the way. Azeer skirted just around the dropped stretcher as he honked his horn impatiently, then sped away, leaving the traffic congestion behind him.

  When Azeer reached the palace, he was greeted by his father, the sultan, Jmal Nagib Qambar.

  “Azeer, I see that you are back from your vacation. I trust it was enjoyable?”

  “Yes, Father, it was very enjoyable,” Azeer replied.

  “I am glad you are here,” the sultan said. “I want you to meet with the American ambassador. He is here to talk about your trip to America.”

  “Father, why do we not tell the Americans to leave Qambari Arabia?”

  “My dear son, without the Americans’ appetite for our oil, we would be nothing but another wandering tribe, trying to survive in the desert. We need the Americans, and they need us. It is like the lowly tickbird and the majestic camel. Neither likes the other, but neither can survive without the other.”

  “Which are we, Father? The tickbird, or the camel?” Azeer asked.

  Excusing himself, Azeer went into the office of foreign trade. He was the head of foreign trade, a position he occupied by appointment from his father. In truth, it was merely a position created for him. He knew nothing about foreign trade, didn’t understand such things as tariffs, or money exchange, or the balance of trade. He did know that, because of the oil, America bought a lot more from Qambari Arabia than the QA bought from the U.S.

  It was an attempt, on the part of the U.S. government, to narrow the gap in trade that was the purpose of this meeting. The American ambassador was here to extend the formal invitation from his government.

  “Prince Azeer, how delightful to see you,” Ambassador Tobin said, standing to greet Azeer as he entered. “You have been on vacation, I hear.”

  “Yes,” Azeer said without elaboration.

  “I trust you had a good time?”

  “I had a very good time.”

  “Good, good,” Ambassador Tobin said. He removed a folder from his briefcase. “Here is the official invitation from my government, for you to make a fact-finding visit with regard to trading agreements. There are letters of introduction to everyone you might need to see, as well as preclearance for customs and that sort of thing.”

  “You are most kind,” Azeer said.

  Ambassador Tobin grinned obsequiously. “In our fight against terror, we have had no better friend in the region than Qambari Arabia,” he said. “This is just a means of expressing our gratitude toward you and the royal family.”

  “You are too kind,” Azeer said.

  “Prince Azeer, I wonder if you have any news to report on the investigation into the rape and murder of young Amber Pease.”

  “Nothing to report yet,” Azeer said. “You of course have our deepest regrets that such a thing happened. Come, Ambassador, I will walk you to the door.”

  It was a dismissive comment and Ambassador Tobin picked up on it at once. He started toward the door. “Please feel free to contact me if you have any questions about anything.”

  “I will,” Azeer replied. “As you said, the friendship between our two countries must be nourished.”

  As Tobin started to leave, he saw a newspaper lying on the table by the door. Although the paper was printed in Arabic, the photo on the front page, above the fold, told the story. It showed the terrified face of a prisoner who was about to be beheaded. There were five hooded terrorists standing around him. Four were holding AK-47s, the fifth, behind him, was holding a knife.

  “That is a picture of Bernie Gelb,” Tobin said.

  “Yes.”

  “I haven’t seen this news release. Would you read the caption to me?”

  “Of course,” Azeer replied. Picking up the paper, he began reading. “Bernie Gelb of Miami, Florida, an employee of Energy Resources, was beheaded yesterday by the Jihad of Allah. In a statement released by Jihad of Allah, it was stated that ‘the Jew was executed for crimes against Islam, the heresy of Zionism, and violating the people of Iraq by aiding the American invaders.”

  “Invading? He was helping to restore electricity for the people of Iraq, for crying out loud,” the ambassador said.

  “Yes, but not all understand the benevolence of America,” Azeer replied, putting the paper back down.

  “A ghastly thing, to behead someone.”

  “Indeed,” Azeer replied. “Much evil has been done by both sides in this war.”

  “You will continue the investigation into the Amber Pease case?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know you cannot use the DNA, but we have turned up some other leads that you may find helpful. A witness who said he saw Amber getting into the van, and who was able to pick the driver out from photographs.”

  “Yes, we appreciate your help,” Azeer said. “But it will be necessary for our police to develop their case. I’m sure you know how it is.”

  “Yes,” Tobin replied, suppressing his frustration. “I know exactly how it is.”

  Ambassador Tobin left the meeting nearly boiling over with rage. There was no doubt in the mind of any reasonable person that Abdulla Balama Shamat had killed Amber. He knew it, and he knew that officials of the Qambari Arabian government knew it. But they had done nothing about it. And that was as far as he could go. He knew the relationship of the United States with Qambari Arabia was a delicate one. It was his understanding of just how delicate it was that had earned him this appointment.

  Redha, Qambari Arabia

  The markings on the side of the yellow bus read, in both English and Arabic: AMERICAN DEPENDENT SCHOOL.

  There were eleven students on the bus, ranging in age from six to sixteen. All were children of the American employees and servicemen attached to the embassy. Amber Pease had been a part of the group until six weeks ago, when she was kidnapped, raped, and murdered.

  Amber had not been taken from the bus, but as a precaution, a U.S. Marine now rode the bus with the students from the embassy quarters to their school in the morning, and from the school to their quarters in the late afternoon.

  It was late afternoon now, and the children were all returning from the school, laughing and teasing with each other, looking forward to the weekend that was coming up. An embassy
party was planned, not only for the adults, but also for the kids, and the party was the subject of speculation and conversation.

  “We’re supposed to have a surprise,” eleven-year-old Tamara Gooding said. Tamara’s father was an attaché to the embassy. “I wonder what it will be.”

  “I know,” Terry Goodpasture said. “It’s the new Harry Potter movie.”

  “No way! It hasn’t even come out yet!”

  “Way! We’re getting it early.”

  Two blocks away a man sat at a sidewalk café drinking a cup of coffee. When he saw the school bus approaching, he opened his cell phone, dialed a number, and pushed SEND. He had done this many times before, in order to be able to time when the signal would get through to the phone he was calling.

  He heard the other number ring, one short ring, just as the bus passed a kiosk. At that instant, a huge ball of fire erupted from the kiosk. The blast ripped into the side of the bus. By the time the sound of the blast reached him, and the others at the sidewalk café, the bus had overturned. Fire and oily smoke roiled up from the wreckage.

  Smiling, he closed the telephone and walked away.

  The three men rose as a sign of great respect when their host entered the room.

  “Al Sayyid,” they said, bowing.

  “Sit, sit.” He sighed. “You have been very careless. The Americans have identified all three of you.”

  “But the Americans have no jurisdiction over us,” one of the men said.

  “You. Your van was identified. You did not even bother to remove the license plate. And you left your DNA.”

  “I did not think that—”

  “That’s just it. You did not think. And you. When you cut off the head of the Jewish American, did you not know that one in your own camp would betray you?”