Jaleel said he’d stolen the grenades and explosive at the urging of a Bahraini named Shawki. Shawki worked on base, in the fuel facility. Why did Shawki want this stuff, she’d asked him. Childers said he didn’t know. He just wanted grenades and explosive and had asked him to help him get them. (This she didn’t believe, but as long as he was naming names, she wasn’t going to quiz him about his motivation.) He’d taken the pistols to make money on the side, there were always guys on base or the ships who’d pay for a Beretta. He gave her the names of those he’d sold the others to, and told her where to look, in a rented locker at the base swimming pool, for the one he’d kept himself.
She’d called over immediately to Base Security and the fuel pier to have Shawki held, but they reported back he wasn’t there. Shawki al-Dhoura had gone night shift the week before and was probably home in bed.
So she’d come right over and now, looking at the grenade, she told the chief, “I’ll need to tag this as evidence. You’re my witness. Is there anywhere else here he could have hidden things? Shawki?”
“This is the only locker that’s personally his. I guess he could’ve hidden stuff anyplace, though. Want us to look around?”
“Let’s hold off on that until I can make some calls. And another thing. Don’t tell anybody I was here, or what I found. There might be others here who are in on what’s going on. We’re going to try to pick him up before he realizes he’s under suspicion.”
“What
“I can’t tell you that. The investigation’s in progress. Later. First we’ve got to find this Shawki. I’m going to send over an explosives team and I want you to let them do a search.”
The chief said he would, but if there was a bomb, they had too damn much fuel around not to tell him about it. She agreed they’d keep him informed and looked at the box again. Remembering the grenade, how easily the man who left it there could have killed her.
She took a deep breath, and asked the chief where they could find Shawki on his off hours.
She pulled the Chevy over just past the National Museum, just before the causeway. Looking for Major Yousif. In the passenger seat, a semi-snockered Diehl was blowing lint out of the barrel of his .357. Unhol-stering your weapon was a violation of NCIS policy, but she wasn’t about to call an agent with twenty-two years of service on it. Garfield was in the backseat, also armed. She and Pete were wearing the new issue Kevlar vests. Diehl couldn’t get into his; it was still in the trunk.
“There he is,” Garfield said.
Yousif asked them to leave the Chevy, and climb into the back of an anonymous-looking light green panel truck. The address the chief had given them for Shawki al-Dhoura was in Muharraq, the island the airport was built on.
It had taken a couple of hours to pull this together. She couldn’t just drive out and slap the cuffs on al-Dhoura. The Bahrainis had to make the arrest. No American held any police powers off base. She wasn’t clear on the mechanics of a search warrant here, or if they needed one under Bahraini law. But Yousif had pulled it together pretty quickly. What was important now was getting their hands on this Shawki before he got wind his friend had dropped the dime on him.
“I’d like to go in first, alone,” she told Yousif. Who elevated his eyebrows, looking back at the squad of armed assault cops on the benches in the back of the truck.
“You?”
“Me.”
“Alone?”
“They don’t know me. They won’t suspect a woman. And I’ll be armed. Block the back, like you planned. In case he bails out. I’ll leave my cell phone on, under my coat. You can hear everything and be ready to come in.”
“Bob?” Yousif inclined his head to the senior agent. “You like that?”
Diehl looked sour, and she was glad she hadn’t said anything about him taking out his gun in the car. Because what she was proposing was out of line, too. But they had to find those explosives.
“She broke the case. It’s hers, far’s I’m concerned.”
The Bahraini smiled. “All right,” he said.
A short woman in a housedress answered the door, the corner of a scarf drawn across her face. She peeped through the crack as Aisha asked, in Arabic, if Mr. al-Dhouri was home.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“I work on the base. I have some papers we need to have him sign, for his benefits.”
“What kind of papers?” But the door opened a little more.
“Insurance papers. In case he’s hurt. Are you his wife?”
“Oh. Yes. May I see them?” The door opened a little more, then all the way. Aisha stepped into a small front room.
“I’m sorry, these are for him. Is he here?”
“No, he’s not here. He’s probably out at the boathouse.”
“The boathouse,” Aisha repeated. “What boathouse? You mean, back on the base?”
“No — I don’t know. I don’t know where it is. That’s all he calls it. He’s doing some work there, after his regular job.”
“All right.” She felt like fishing. “Is Mohammed with him?”
“Who? I don’t know. The only one of those people I know is Salman.”
