Scott Matthews - The Assassin's list

“Thanks for coming. I appreciate it,” he said, as he stood and pulled out a chair for her. “Get you something, or are you still on the clock?”

“A glass of wine, please. Yes, I’m on the clock. I still have quite a mess to clean up, thanks to you.”

“I didn’t invite them to pay me a visit, remember? What’s this about the imams raising hell? I thought you were going to put things on ice for a while.”

“We tried,” she said. “Someone with the FBI or the morgue must have tipped the press and the press contacted the imams for a comment or something. I don’t know. My relationship with the FBI isn’t as smooth as it could be. They think we’re poaching on their turf. Someone in the office may have leaked it, to make us look bad. Your sweet little Portland hasn’t helped the situation much either by ending their partnership with the FBI in the Joint Terrorism Task Force. Now the FBI is afraid to offend anyone in this city, especially Muslims,” Strobel said.

The waitress returned and asked for her order.

“Wine please, 2002 Chateau St. Jean Chardonnay Reserve, if you have it,” she said.

“You know your wine. You will have to try Oregon’s chardonnays. We have some excellent ones,” Drake offered.

“I grew up in California. Sonoma wines have always been my favorite. Didn’t mean to offend Oregon,” she said. “So tell me what you think you stumbled onto. I’d like to think there’s something that makes sense of all of this.”

“In a moment,” he said as the waitress set her glass of wine on the table. “First tell me what you found out about my three visitors.”

“The JTTF would like to meet with you tomorrow morning at 9:00 a.m. They’re going to tell you what they want you to know. I can tell you that your three visitors have criminal records and were Muslim men who apparently converted to Islam while in prison. That’s no surprise. We’re trying to find out what they were doing here in Portland, but the imams are making that difficult with the ruckus they’re raising. No one in the Muslim community is willing to talk to us. Now it’s your turn.”

It was about what Drake expected. Sam Newman had suspected a couple of the ISIS security guards were ex-cons. The men he’d killed had the scraggly facial hair of young Muslim men. He couldn’t connect the two directly, but he doubted it was a coincidence Kaamil was a Muslim. All Muslims weren’t criminals, of course, but it was a connection.

Drake took a drink of his ale and told Strobel what he’d seen in Hood River.

“You know about my suspicion that ISIS and its manager are somehow involved. I followed their head guy up to Hood River today. It’s about an hour or so up the Columbia River Gorge. When he got there, he drove to an old warehouse down by the river and picked up a man for lunch. Someone I know, because I prosecuted him for smuggling drugs. When they finished lunch, Kaamil headed back to Portland. I followed the other guy out to the ISIS Regional Training Facility. The drug smuggler drove right in, past the security guard at the gate. There’s no way in the world this guy should be anywhere near a legitimate security firm.”

Liz Strobel turned to look out the window toward Mount Hood.

“Who’s the guy you saw up there?” she asked, turning back.

“His name is Roberto Valencia. He’s supposed to have skipped on his parole and be in Mexico, with his dad. I could report him and have him arrested, but we might never know what he’s doing with Kaamil and ISIS.”

“And his dad, who’s he?”

“Armando Valencia, head of a powerful drug cartel in Mexico,” Drake explained.

“And you think this guy or his dad is somehow involved? That’s all I need right now. Drug cartels and terrorists trading drugs for weapons is one of our biggest headaches.”

“I don’t know much about his dad these days. That’s something you could check out.”

“I’m starting to wish I’d said no when you asked for this meeting. What do you know about this training facility ISIS has in Hood River?”

“Not enough. It’s located on a big ranch. They train their guys for executive protection work and even do some training for law enforcement. It’s got firing ranges, a track for evasive driving training, and an airstrip for small planes and executive jets. I had a friend check it out,” Drake answered. “It sounds like a big-time operation.”

“Anything else you think I should know before the meeting tomorrow? I don’t want any surprises, after the problems I created when I agreed to take those bodies off your hands. The FBI hates it when we step in, then leave them holding the bag when we leave town.”

“No, that’s all I know. If you learn anything about ISIS or the Valencias before the meeting, I’d appreciate a call.”

He watched her walk out before taking out his wallet to pay for their drinks. She reminded him of Kay in a lot of ways. She was tall, beautiful, and self-confident. Kay was passionate about teaching and Liz seemed passionate about her work with DHS. He hoped her passion was more about protecting the country than her career, though. If it was just about her career, she wouldn’t risk it to save his neck. He would know tomorrow, one way or the other.

Saturday morning started out to be a warm day. After a decent night’s sleep and a run with Lancer, Drake treated himself to a chorizo scramble breakfast with chorizo sausage, red potatoes, sweet onions, jack cheese and three eggs at the nearby Black Walnut Inn and Vineyard. The scramble was only on the menu during the winter months, but he knew the owner, who was also the Inn’s chef.

The Inn was designed to look like an old Tuscan villa, with ochre walls and a red-tiled roof. Set atop a south-facing ridge with a new vineyard planted below, it was one of the newest attractions in the area. Drake was able to enjoy it all without being a guest at the inn. To be neighborly, he had offered to cut his hourly rate in half if his legal services were ever needed. So far, he had the better end of the deal.

After fortifying himself for his meeting with the JTTF, he took his time driving into the city. Driving usually relaxed him. Today, his mind was wrapped around the puzzle of ISIS.

Thirty minutes after leaving the Black Walnut Inn, Drake pulled into the parking garage across the street from the Crown Plaza building and found a parking spot on the top floor. Shoppers were out early this Saturday morning, eager to work off their pent-up need to spend their week’s earnings.

Walking across the street brought him to the security guard station just inside the building that housed, for the most part, government offices. Drake signed the register for visitors, took off his watch, put his wallet and keys in the tray, and walked through the metal detector. On the other side, he collected his things and took the elevator to the fourth floor. The elevator opened onto a reception area for the Portland FBI office.

“Adam Drake,” he told the young receptionist behind a bulletproof glass enclosure, “I’m here to meet with Liz Strobel and the JTTF.”

“I’ll let her know you’re here,” she said, and punched an extension number into her console before saying, “Mr. Drake is here to see you, Ms. Strobel.”

Before he had time to sit, a metal door with a security pad opened and Liz Strobel motioned for him to follow. She looked every bit the executive assistant of the Director of DHS this morning. She wore a camelhair jacket over a dark brown blouse and striped slacks. Her tightly pressed lips didn’t allow a word of greeting to escape them.

Following her down a long hallway, Drake entertained the thought that her passion for her career had probably triumphed. Strobel walked ahead of him into a conference room where three men sat at a long mahogany conference table. There were only two pictures on the walls, a picture of the president and a picture of the twin towers before they collapsed. The American flag stood in the corner beside the two pictures. It was an appropriate place to meet with the terrorism task force.