Elizabeth clicked open the e-mail attachment, and the image appeared on the screen.
“Fatima Rasheed,” she said. “She’s seven years younger than her brother Omar, which makes her twenty-four.”
Gordon’s brow furrowed as he studied the photograph, which showed eight members of the Rasheed family standing inside an upscale shopping mall in Dubai.
“How old is she there?” Torres asked.
“Ten.” Elizabeth glanced up at the picture. “So she’s not fully veiled, only the head scarf.”
“And where’d you get the photo?” Gordon asked.
“NSA. They’ve been watching this family since 9/11.”
Torres sighed heavily, and Elizabeth looked at him across the table.
“What?”
“I’m not seeing it.” He nodded at the second image, the forensic drawing, which was displayed on-screen alongside the family snapshot. “I mean, yeah, there’s a resemblance, but so what?” he said. “Same could be said about a lot of women. What about Zahid Ameen’s female relatives?”
“We don’t have photos,” Potter said.
“Ameen’s from Saudi Arabia,” Elizabeth pointed out. “Women are much more limited there. Many wear the niqab, which covers the face except for the eyes. They’re not supposed to mix with men socially. They aren’t allowed to drive, and they’re required to have a male guardian to go anywhere, even the doctor’s office.”
“Because of the strict rules,” Potter said, “we know next to nothing about the women of Ameen’s family.”
“Put Ahmed Rasheed’s wife back up there,” Gordon said.
Elizabeth clicked the mouse and changed the image. Yes, some of the basic features were similar, but the resemblance wasn’t nearly as strong.
“I think it’s the sister, Fatima.” She clicked the girl’s picture back up. “I know it is.”
“You can’t be sure,” Torres argued. “Not if we’re basing this on a drawing.”
“But look at the hairline, the way it points down in the middle. It’s right there. Even if she changed her name, she can’t totally disguise her appearance. I’m telling you, the woman we’re looking for is Fatima Rasheed.”
“Why are you so sure?” Gordon leaned back in his chair, frowning.
“She has motive, means, and opportunity.”
“Motive being her brother was killed in a drone strike,” he said. “But we now know he probably wasn’t killed.”
“Even if he wasn’t killed, he was still targeted by an American drone,” Elizabeth said. “That’s enough to inspire hate.”
“What’s the last concrete info we have on her?” Torres asked.
“She entered Turkey four years ago. Her father has relatives in Istanbul, and we assume she was staying with them.”
“That’s before the drone strike,” Gordon pointed out.
“Yes, but it’s what she did after that we need to be concerned about. What if she joined the cause? What if someone helped her put a new identity together, and she got on a plane to Canada or Mexico or maybe even New York City? I’m telling you, Fatima Rasheed is the face of this operation.” She waved a hand at the screen. “If you think about it, it’s perfect. Look at all we have on her. A snapshot of a little girl. She’s a face we’d never expect. But I believe she did do this. I believe she got herself over here and started laying the groundwork, finding a safe house and buying a car and coordinating all the meetings, gathering everyone together.”
“What about eliminating witnesses?” Torres asked. “That college kid who sold his car to them—he was murdered before Rasheed and Ameen got over here. You’re saying she did that?”
“Why’s that so impossible?” Elizabeth asked, getting annoyed. “A woman can hold a pistol, same as anybody. This kind of thinking is playing right into their hands, you guys. They know we’re resistant to the idea of a female terrorist. And they’re using that to their advantage.”
Elizabeth looked at the faces around the room—all of them male and most of them skeptical. Why was this so difficult to believe? Maybe they didn’t like the idea of hunting down a woman.
She wished Lauren were here to back her up.
“Okay, so what about Ahmed Rasheed?” Torres asked. “Do we have confirmation he was aboard that submarine?”
“We’re still waiting on the print from that gas can,” Gordon said.
“But it’s looking likely,” Potter added. “Hailey Gardner remembers Khalid talking about someone named Rasasa. That’s Ahmed’s nickname, and it means bullet. He’s got a reputation as an expert marksman, and we’ve got video footage of him teaching shooting at an Al Qaeda training camp.”
Gordon tapped his pen on the table. “If Ahmed Rasheed is alive—which hasn’t been confirmed, by the way—it would make for an interesting scenario. It puts the idea of an assassination back into play. But the discovery of the narco sub had led us to believe they were trying to smuggle in a chemical weapon.”
“Do we know this for sure?” Torres asked. “That there was a bomb aboard that sub?”
“Word from the lab is the submarine tests positive for explosives residue,” Gordon said. “Despite water washing away much of the evidence, they were still able to detect trace amounts.”
“What about white phosphorus?” Elizabeth asked, cringing inwardly at the thought.
“Inconclusive. However, with Zahid Ameen involved, we have to assume chemical weapons are a strong possibility.”
Her stomach clenched. This was sounding more and more like her worst nightmare: a chemical attack on innocent civilians. She studied the sketch posted on the screen, then looked at the smiling schoolgirl in the photo.
“Where’s Lieutenant Vaughn?”
She looked at Gordon. “On his way back to base.”
I’ll catch up with you before I go. It was nearly four o’clock. Obviously, he hadn’t had time for a big good-bye with her or even a phone call.
She dragged her attention back to the matter at hand. “I can see you’re not all convinced, but please listen.” She focused on Gordon. “If Fatima is the front man for this operation, then that is a strategic advantage that this terror cell will want to maximize. The motel clerk told the artist she saw this woman getting into her car in the late afternoons but not the mornings. The woman kept a regular schedule, which makes me think she has a job. Whatever it is, she probably got it in order to gain access to something or someone. That job could tell us what their target is.”
Silence fell over the room.
“Let’s run down the list again.” Gordon nodded at his assistant, and a long list of targets appeared on the screen. “The NSA’s reporting an increase in overall chatter, so the theory is that whatever they’re planning, it’s probably happening soon.”
Elizabeth’s phone vibrated in her pocket. She slipped it out and saw a text from Derek.
Come outside.
Her pulse skipped. I’m at the office, she replied.
A few seconds later, I know.
She subtly excused herself and slipped out of the room, ignoring Gordon’s look. She made her way through the bullpen and downstairs to the lobby. She passed through the security checkpoint and spied Derek’s truck sitting in the visitors lot. Her pulse skipped again.
She strode over as he lowered the driver’s-side window. “Did they cancel your callback?”
“No,” he said. “Come on, get in.”
“What are you still doing here?”
“Get in, Liz. We don’t have time to waste.”
She stood for a moment, debating. Then she rounded the front of the truck and climbed inside. “This better be important. I—”
“What’s the word on the target?” he interrupted, shoving the truck into gear.
“We’re working on it.”
He shook his head as he pulled out of the lot. She looked him over. He wore the same jeans and T-shirt he’d had on yesterday. And he still hadn’t shaved. But what really caught her attention was the tense expression on his face. Clearly, he was amped up about something.
“Why aren’t you on your way back to San Diego?” she asked. “And where have you been all day?”
He laughed, but he didn’t look amused. “Places you never want to go. Talking to people you never want to meet.”