“Just a few days ago.”
The photo was of poor quality and taken by a bus station security camera in Austria eight years ago. He was last seen alive at an Obama rally in Chicago in 2008, and he was a probable suspect in a bombing in France four years ago, but after that, nothing but quiet.
“He’s one of those who look older than they are,” she said. She pushed her hair back and looked at me. “From the side he has a stoop.”
I nodded but inside leapt. That was in the bio on Garod Hurin, and you couldn’t know it from the photo.
“And a wispy kind of goatee.”
“Could you draw him and tell us where you saw him?”
Without answering, she sketched him quickly in profile—drew him tall, thin, and stooped as he walked from the entrance of the general store facing the highway. She drew sideburns and goatee and ponytail and a loose, dirty linen shirt flowing over jeans. Her eyes twinkled at me.
“I love linen,” she said. “I always notice linen.”
She drew worn boots with heels ground down on the outside, another detail that was accurate. She didn’t know where he lived, but it was somewhere around here. She didn’t know what he drove. She drew his long-fingered hands.
“He’s new here,” she said.
I looked at her drawing again, the posture, the stoop, height, chin and head, the worn boot heels. She touched the photo gently and said, “I saw him in the morning outside the market here.”
“When?”
“I’m not sure but recently.”
“Are you sure it was this man?”
“Yes, I am. I’m very sure.”
I stared at the drawing and compared it to the photo and felt a rush that wiped away all my fatigue. I called in and asked for both the ASAC and Venuti and that they be interrupted from whatever they were doing. Then I stood in the sun and waited, thinking, He’s here. She was so sure, and her drawing was right on. He’s here. Garod Hurin is here.
41
I texted a photo of Nora the Dawn Artist’s sketch to Venuti and Thorpe, along with the most recent Hurin photo in the terrorism database. The more I compared features, the more the tension built inside me. It was hard to stand here and wait. Ten minutes later, my phone rang.
“We’re comparing the sketch with the photo, and they’re running it in Washington,” Thorpe said. “What do you see as the next step?”
“We push the CIA. We get ready. We figure out where here he is. If it’s a go, we’ll need the enhanced SWAT squad out of the LA Field Office. I’ll call an analyst I know at the CIA, but if that goes nowhere, I’ll need help.”
“Make your call and I’ll get a back channel going,” Thorpe said. “We’ll talk to LA SWAT from here. Let’s get back on the phone in half an hour, but first give me a quick bio on Hurin.”
“Ukrainian. Into the military at eighteen and trained in explosives but had discipline issues. Went AWOL and may have lived with a Swiss relative for two years while studying chemistry. First known bombing was in Lebanon in 2003. Mossad got onto him. Fled Lebanon. Worked with Iranian elements in and around Baghdad, building IEDs during the war, then disappeared into Asia and started freelancing. Speaks five or six languages. Tied to two Africa bombings in 2012 and 2013.”
“Okay, that’ll do it for now. Make your call to the CIA.”
When I did and my call transferred to CIA analyst Sally Sassari, she sounded exasperated.
“We’ve already had this conversation or one like it too many times, and I have a lot going on today. I’d think you’d be busy too.”
“This isn’t one of my nagging calls, Sally.”
“They’re never that. I didn’t mean that. I’m just busy. I don’t mean to be short with you, Paul. I’ve got a deadline.”
“I have some reason to think Garod Hurin is alive.”
“Well, you’re in Las Vegas looking for a bomb maker, so let’s not play games. What have you got?”
“A possible sighting in Ocotillo Wells, California.” I let that sink in for a moment. “Does the CIA know whether he’s alive or dead?”
“We would need whatever information you have to answer that.”
“To answer whether the CIA believes he’s alive or dead?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, just so we’re clear, I’m not asking for an evaluation. I’m asking if you know whether he’s alive. If he’s confirmed dead, then we’re done with this lead, in which case I’ll leave Ocotillo Wells within an hour.”
“Where are you, again?”
“Ocotillo Wells, California.”
I heard her fingers on a keyboard and knew she was looking down at Ocotillo Wells. I also knew that what she’d see wouldn’t get her anywhere.
“Let me call you back,” she said. “Half an hour.”