Don Pendleton - Choke Point

The concept proved doubly useful to Biinadaz’s plans since these men also worked as protection of Khalidi’s trafficking ring, code-named the Red Brood by certain officials within U.S. law enforcement. Biinadaz sneered at the very name. It sounded like a Communist group politicking liberal and progressive aims in Washington, D.C., and not like a trafficking ring. All it had done was draw attention to Khalidi’s operation, demonstrating once more that the newspaper mogul didn’t have the first clue how to build or train a proper fighting force.

Biinadaz arrived at his office nearly forty-five minutes late from lunch, although he had little to worry about. Acres was dead, which wasn’t something Biinadaz had really hoped to happen this soon, but there wasn’t much he could do about it now. The man’s demise meant Biinadaz would have to push his plans forward by about a week. It wasn’t an ideal situation but Biinadaz didn’t see any reason to worry about it. A commander had to be ready to alter a battle plan at a moment’s notice, something he’d learned well fighting the American military in his home of Afghanistan.

However, he had difficulty covering his surprise when he stopped at the desk of his receptionist and turned to see a muscular blond man in a suit waiting for him.

* * *

CARL LYONS SPOTTED Biinadaz as soon as the Afghan immigrant stepped off the elevator. He was tall—Lyons put him at about six feet—with dark eyes and close-shaven brown hair. Biinadaz had olive skin and eyes so dark they looked black. Even through the suit, Lyons could see the man moved with the ease of a practiced combatant, which came as no surprise given the history Kurtzman had sent Able Team on the man. Biinadaz was a refugee of the Afghan-U.S. war and, although he denied his involvement, Lyons knew much better. He knew a soldier with one look and while Biinadaz might have been comfortable in this role, he wasn’t going to fool an experienced vet like Carl Lyons.

“Mr. Irons, is it?” Biinadaz said.

Lyons dropped the magazine on a low circular table, got to his feet and met the guy halfway between the couch and reception desk. He reached in his coat and withdrew the forged FBI credentials. “Actually, it’s Special Agent Irons. FBI. I’d like to speak with you.”

“Do you have a warrant, sir?”

“No.” Lyons returned his credentials that Biinadaz had barely seemed to notice. “I wasn’t aware I needed one to talk to you. We are, after all, on federal property and I’m a federal law officer.”

“Quite. But you would at least need a letter of permission from Congressman Acres, which, of course, we both know will now be relatively impossible to attain.”

Lyons didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, sadly. My condolences.”

“Of course,” Biinadaz said. “I would suppose that’s why you’re here. Please...” He gestured toward the door to his office.

Biinadaz offered Lyons a drink after closing the door behind them but Lyons declined. Once they were comfortably seated, Biinadaz said, “I must ask you to forgive my forwardness, Agent Irons, but the congressman was very sensitive on such matters of legality and proper etiquette. I’m afraid maybe a little too much of that has rubbed off on me. I have, shall we say, attempted to be as fine a personal aide to Thomas Acres as possible.”

“I understand,” Lyons said. “But surely you’re not surprised by the fact I’m here, Mr. Biinadaz. We’re investigating the congressman’s death, yes, but we’re also very concerned about his son.”

“To be sure, to be sure,” Biinadaz said. “Do you believe he may yet be alive?”

“There’s always hope.”

“Of course. It’s just that, well...after the kidnappers killed him in cold blood like that I’m very concerned they will have no further use for his John Jay and, ah, dispose of him in some horrible way.”

“It’s too early to jump to conclusions,” Lyons said. “And as we pointed out to Mrs. Acres, with whom you’ve probably spoken by now, there’s a chance that John Jay is much more valuable to them alive as long as there’s a ransom that can be paid.”

“What makes you think that I’ve spoken to Mrs. Acres yet?”

“Just an assumption.”

“Aren’t you trained never to assume anything?”

Lyons remained impassive.

“So I take it from what you’ve told me that the kidnappers didn’t receive the money originally demanded.”

Lyons shook his head. “Agents managed to recover it before that could happen. And we’re now investigating a strong lead. We may even be on the doorstep of the perpetrators, which means there’s still a chance to bring the boy back alive.”

“Of course,” Biinadaz said. He sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “How can I assist you?”

“Can you think of anyone who might have had the resources to carry this out? Someone who had recently threatened your boss? Maybe even someone on the inside, which is one possibility we’ve considered.”

“And why have you considered that?”

“There was a security force hired to protect the congressman when he was in public, as well as his wife and son. I understand you were the one charged with securing these services.”

“You would need to ask them those questions.”

“Well, then, maybe you can tell me where this outfit was when it all went down? Why weren’t they protecting Acres when he went to deliver the ransom? Why weren’t they watching John Jay at school?”

“Again, I’m certain you would have to ask them.”

“I think I will,” Lyons said. “You got the name of this security firm?”

“You can obtain that information from my secretary,” Biinadaz said. “I do not immediately recall the exact name of the firm.”

“So is this a situation where you can’t tell me what happened...or you won’t?”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Agent Irons.”

“You don’t follow? Okay, follow this. It seems to me like a professional protection firm would be a bit more diligent in executing their duties. They’re supposedly on the job and yet they’ve let their primary get killed and nearly robbed of a half-million dollars, not to mention the man’s son is now in the hands of a dangerous trafficking ring.”

“Trafficking ring? You mean like...human trafficking?”

“Yeah, a child-slavery outfit nicknamed the Red Brood. You heard of them?”

Biinadaz shook his head. “No, and I am certainly glad I have not. These sound like very dangerous and evil people.”

Lyons narrowed his eyes a bit. When the hell was this miscreant going to come off the wide-eyed-horror routine? Biinadaz had been raised until his teen years in one of the most violent and unstable regions of the Middle East. Could he really be so egotistical to think that Lyons would believe that he was a cultured and refined moderate? This act only demonstrated Biinadaz was far more than he appeared. In addition to his radical views as an Islamic jihadist, Biinadaz had proved beyond any doubt his direct involvement in what had happened to Maser and Acres.

Lyons decided to play a hunch.

“Are you by any chance a Muslim, Mr. Biinadaz?”

“I am,” Biinadaz said. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.”

“If it weren’t for our present circumstances, sir, I might find that question rather offensive. Are you profiling me, Agent Irons? Do you have some reason to suspect me? If so, then perhaps we should terminate this interview and I will contact my attorney. As well as your deputy director. I do believe we have his number in our records.”

Lyons put up one hand and rose. “That’s okay, no offense. I think we’re done here. I was hoping you could provide me with some useful information but it’s apparent you’re as much in the dark as the rest of us.”