Т Паркер - Swift Vengeance

Dieter Njar was a thirty-year-old German volunteer medical worker. In his dark-framed eyeglasses he looked scholarly. The short video showed him kicking a ball down a soccer field.

Nurse Ahmad Radhah was Syrian and twenty years old, his face plump and cheerful. He sat astride a scooter on a dusty city street, his helmet too small and riding high up on his head.

Nurse Ramy Salim was bearded, twenty-eight, Syrian.

Omar Soad was an Italian volunteer worker, mustachioed and handsome. The video showed him smiling, his arm around a young woman. No age given.

Syrian volunteer Nady Warim was eighteen and wore a light-colored hijab.

I printed each martyr’s page, read them carefully, then again. I logged off syrianshuhada.com and on to my IvarDuggans site, on which I spent the next hour searching the nine last names. I set the search parameters for people eighteen to sixty years of age, hoping to snag siblings and/or parents who might have come to the United States. Only four of the last names came up nationally: one hundred fifteen Alalys, two hundred forty-five Azmehs, eighty Radhahs, and three hundred eighty-seven Salims. I ran Gourmat also: seven hundred thirty-two across the nation.

Making a risky assumption, I narrowed the search to California residents. This cut the list by roughly two-thirds. When I cast an even smaller net — restricting the search to five years or less of residence in the state — my third was halved in a keystroke. Which left me two hundred thirty-four men and women living in California who may or may not have been related to one of the ten people who died in the Headhunter drone strike on IH-One on April 22, 2015.

More risky assumptions landed me one hundred seventy-one people in Southern California: thirty in greater Bakersfield and sixty-six in San Diego County.

Next I cross-referenced all ninety-six individuals through the “known associates” search. As I expected, many with the same last names were family. Google Maps allowed me to see their homes and neighborhoods. I found clusters in Northeast Bakersfield and in El Cajon, east of San Diego. I wondered how many were on the walls of Taucher’s JTTF office.

Choosing four of the San Diego names at random, I printed out home address histories, aliases, email addresses and phone numbers, vehicle ownership, fictitious business names, and evictions. And again, I found familial interconnections where I expected to. The information came forth quickly. IvarDuggans was worth its salt on the easy things.

But it took me another full hour to search the criminal records of the four lucky people I’d chosen. The IvarDuggans criminal and court records databases are notoriously slow. I longed for my former Sheriff’s Department access to the state and federal agencies, the best data often being the bones the FBI threw your way.

By then it was after two o’clock. I stood and stretched, knowing that IvarDuggans didn’t have the tools to do the hard labor of separating terrorists from innocents. But I knew who did.

“Up kind of late, aren’t you, Joan?” I asked.

“Ford? Has something happened?” By the time she’d finished asking the question, her voice had gone from dull to sharp.

“We need to run some names.”

“It’s two fifteen in the morning, you ape,” she said. “Learn some manners.”

“Listen.”

I told her about the Headhunters’ accidental catastrophe at IH-One in Aleppo. How that piece of bad luck had cost nine innocent lives. How Kenny Bryce’s conscience had clamped on and shook him like a bulldog for years. Lindsey’s, too. And probably Voss’s.

Taucher listened but said nothing.

So I took a leap of faith over miles and years, landing on the eerie sense of familiarity and blame that Caliphornia’s threats contained. What if Caliphornia had originally been forged in that misbegotten air strike? So much of what we knew about him pointed to Middle Eastern roots and culture. What if he was a relative or friend of someone the Headhunters had killed? A brother, even. A father?

In the presentation of my thesis I began to see its wobbly structure. What if what we thought we knew about Caliphornia was invented as distraction? Were we being played? As if to strengthen my premise, I told Taucher the search criteria I’d used. I sounded exhausted even to myself. Doubted that I was making sense. Doubled down with false bravado.

“I’ve got thirty names in Bakersfield that need to be checked,” I said. “Sixty-six here in San Diego. Run them for me, Joan. I need this. I cut the list from seven hundred.”

Silence from her, the slot machine whirring. “You were right this morning about risk and trust.”

Heading into a storm you know is there.

I still wasn’t sure what had brought those words out of me as the rain poured down on us. Part of it was seeing the Grand Hyatt, where I’d first laid eyes on Justine Timmerman in a similar, spectacular storm.

But the bigger part was a storm of a wholly different kind — Caliphornia and his bloody Thunder. I had felt him down on the waterfront in the rain. A force of will. Gathering himself right here in my state and my city. For an attack against my own.

“Okay, Roland. Email the names to me. I can search phonetically, but it helps when the names are spelled correctly and consistently. I spend too much time trying to account for the quirks of Arabic and Farsi.”

“I owe you.”

“I’ll never get back to sleep now,” she said.

“You can brew up some coffee and watch the sunrise.”

“I’ll be in my office hours before the sun comes up,” she said. “I usually am. Doing more important things than watching the sun do what it always does.”

I heard her quick wispy laugh, then the line went dead.

Taucher returned my wakeup call at five fifty, just as the sun was pushing the darkness from my bedroom. I’d fallen asleep on the bed with my clothes on.

“One of the victims of the drone attack on IH-One has relatives living in California,” she said, speaking fast. “Dr. Ibrahim Azmeh was survived by nine children. Three live in France, three in Syria, and three live in Los Angeles, where they were born. Two brothers and a sister. We’ll interview them tomorrow afternoon. The older brother filed a State Department complaint after his father’s death and got twelve thousand five hundred U.S. dollars in condolence pay. He’s not on our radar and don’t ask me why. Pick me up by the elevator on the third level of the Horton Plaza parking garage, tomorrow, noon sharp. You can drive. I hate the L.A. traffic.”

“Good morning, Joan.”

“There’s no such thing as good, Roland,” she said. “Rasha Samara was in Bakersfield the day Kenny Bryce died. He bought an Arabian horse for two hundred and forty thousand dollars.”

I hadn’t even formulated a reply by the time that Taucher, master of the short good-bye, was gone again.

I stood in the kitchen waiting for the coffee to percolate, two hands on the counter, looking out at the grainy light that was trying to buoy the day. I’d been up most of the night and maybe that’s all it was, but Taucher’s dire pronouncement had moved me. Moved me from doubt and melancholy to some rough hybrid of anger and frustration.

There’s no such thing as good.

Thirty-nine years on this planet. Why hadn’t someone told me?

My phone rang and Jason Bayless’s name and number came up.

“Okay, Ford,” he said. “I found her. As you no doubt heard from your little friend. I gave my client your home address and collected a nice bonus I’d worked into the deal. The reason I’m calling is to say that my client is not my client anymore. When I told him that Lindsey Rakes appeared to be residing on your property, he wanted to know the layout of the place, which room was hers, when she was most likely to be home. He tried to hire me to get inside and take photos or video, or maybe fly over a drone. I told him I don’t fly fucking drones. He made a joke about her not needing a place to live for that much longer. Actually laughed. Ford, I didn’t like this guy from the start and I like him less now. I don’t know what your Lindsey has gotten herself into, but this little fart is bad news. Just my guts talking.”