“Well, the radio transmissions from this house are coming in over people’s toasters,” Clyde said. “That’s clearly in violation of FCC regulations.”
The muffled voice said something to Berry; Clyde could just make out the words “Iraqi military frequencies.”
“They know their phone lines aren’t secure,” Berry said, “and they’re not stupid, so they’re using, uh, some frequencies they shouldn’t be using in this country.”
“Now, I don’t know anything about that kind of law,” Clyde said, “but someone there in Washington must. They must be violating a law somewhere. We ought to be able to turn that into a warrant that would get us inside the house.”
“I have to say your strategy escapes me, Clyde,” Berry said. “These all seem like really minor violations. We could give these guys traffic tickets, too, right?”
Clyde couldn’t believe that Berry didn’t understand this. It was just basic police work. You used minor violations to work your way up to the big stuff.
Something Berry had said to him earlier finally went off in his head, like a firecracker with a slow fuse. “You said that they know their phone lines aren’t secure?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, are they secure, or aren’t they?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you guys already have a tap on their phone?”
“Clyde, I’d be reluctant to get into specifics about that over the phone.”
That sounded like a yes to Clyde. “That’s great,” he said. “How’d you get the warrant?”
“Pardon?”
“In order for you guys to get the warrant for the phone tap, you must have had some evidence on these guys! What have you got on them?”
“What we’ve got on them is that they stink to high heaven,” Berry said, laughing. “Listen, Clyde, we’re operating under a time constraint here, and we need to jump ahead real quick.”
“Ahead?”
“What can you tell us about your friend Fazoul?”
Clyde was taken aback and stumbled around for a minute. “Oh, well, I don’t know. He’s not an Arab. Doesn’t care much for the Arabs.”
“We know that.”
“Seems to be real smart with technology. Stays in touch with the other members of his ethnic group.”
For some reason these observations caused Berry and the other man in the room to laugh giddily.
“You participated in a ceremony with Fazoul and some of his buddies in the park a few months ago,” Berry said when he’d calmed himself down. “What was the deal with that?”
“Oh, some kind of traditional shindig they do with their infant sons,” Clyde said. “He named his son after me and some other fellows.”
“He named his son,” Berry said, apparently writing the words down, “after more than one person?”
“Well, for starters, they’re all named after Mohammed,” Clyde said. “And then the boy got some other names, I suppose to tell him apart from all the other Mohammeds.”
“What were those names?”
Clyde was at a loss to understand what this had to do with Iraqi biological-weapons production. But he answered the question. “Khalid, which is how they pronounce my name.”
More muffled conversation. “Clyde, not to burst your bubble or anything, but Khalid is a very common name among Muslims. Khalid was a great Islamic general—they call him the Sword of the Faith. So lots of Muslims—especially ones with revolutionary leanings—name their sons Khalid.”
Clyde didn’t say anything, but he resented this. He knew all about this Sword of the Faith stuff. The fact that there had been a real Khalid didn’t mean that Fazoul might not have chosen that name because it was similar to Clyde’s.
“Any other names?” Berry said.
“Yeah. The name of some other fella. I-you something.”
“Clyde, is there any possibility that that name might have been Ayubanov?”
“Yeah. That’s it.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re positive?”
“Yeah. But this Ayubanov character wasn’t there.”
More giddy laughter from Berry and his anonymous cohort. They laughed at the strangest times.
“So they just used a picture of him as kind of a standin,” Clyde said.
The laughter stopped instantly and was replaced by a long silence. “You saw it?”
“Yeah.”
“You said picture—you mean photograph, I hope?”
“Yeah. It was a color snapshot.”
“You’ve personally seen a photograph of Mohammed Ayubanov?” Berry said.
“I guess so.”
“Okay, we’ll get a sketch artist out from Chicago sometime soon,” Berry said after conferring with his friend again. “In the meantime, can you give us a description of the man? Any identifying marks, any remarkable physical characteristics?”
“Well, tall and dark and sort of Middle-Eastern looking,” Clyde began.
“What color are Ayubanov’s eyes?” Berry said.
“’Scuse me,” Clyde said, “I got a call coming through from the dispatcher.”
“What color are Ayubanov’s eyes?” Berry said again.