Free Dead on Arrival by Mike Lawson Page B

cholesterol be damned – DeMarco strolled back into Homeland Security and five minutes later was sitting in Jerry Hansen’s office.
    Hansen looked so much like Andy Banks physically – short gray hair, trim and in good condition, wire-rimmed glasses – that DeMarco figured he was probably an ex-marine, just like his boss. Maybe a retired colonel, DeMarco thought, Banks’s trusted right-hand guy when they had served together in the corps.
    DeMarco decided to see if his instincts were on the mark. ‘Were you in the marines with General Banks, Mr Hansen?’ DeMarco asked.
    ‘Call me Jerry, and hell, no,’ Hansen said. ‘I was never in the service and never wanted to be. When they formed up Homeland Security they pulled all these government departments together. I was a supervisor over in ICE, that’s Immigration and Customs Enforcement, but in this job I got now I just keep track of things. This terrorist shit, you’ve got the FBI involved, local cops, and sometimes CIA, NSA, and DIA. And internal to Homeland Security, you got ICE, TSA, Coast Guard, and maybe Secret Service. You need a damn spreadsheet – I can show you one – just to keep track of who’s who and who’s doing what. So that’s my job. I try to make sure I know what all the players are doing and keep the general informed. And man, what a hard-ass he is.’
    ‘Got it,’ DeMarco said.
    ‘So,’ Hansen said. ‘The general left me a message saying you worked for Congress and I’m supposed to fill you in on Reza Zarif.’
    The ‘worked for Congress’ part was good, DeMarco thought. That made it sound like whatever he was doing had been officially sanctioned.
    ‘So what do you wanna know?’ Hansen said. ‘Most everything’s been reported in the papers, and for the most part the news guys got it right.’
    ‘One thing I’m curious about is this link to al-Qaeda the Bureau says they found.’
    ‘Well, that’s classified,’ Hansen said.
    ‘Come on, Hansen. I’ve got a security clearance and I’m from Congress. And your boss told you to talk to me.’
    Hansen screwed up his face as he debated giving up national secrets to a complete stranger, but he finally relented.
    ‘They found a letter in Zarif’s house that came from a mosque in Atlanta. The letter was thanking Zarif for a donation he sent them.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘Well – and this is the classified part – this particular mosque funnels money to al-Qaeda and the FBI follows the money. But they don’t want any mention of this mosque in the papers because this will tell the bad guys what the Bureau’s doing in case they haven’t figured it out already.’
    ‘And they think because Zarif got a thank-you note from a mosque that he has al-Qaeda connections?’
    ‘ Possible connections, just like they told the press.’
    ‘Did the Bureau find any evidence that Zarif actually sent these folks money?’
    ‘They didn’t find a canceled check or an electronic transfer, anything like that. But he could have mailed them cash.’
    ‘Not exactly a smoking gun,’ DeMarco said.
    ‘Hey, you don’t need a smoking gun when you find what’s left of the guy’s body in the plane you shot down.’
    DeMarco had to concede that point.
    ‘Another thing I was kinda curious about,’ DeMarco said. ‘Was there any evidence that Zarif was under psychiatric care or taking antidepressants? You know, Valium, Prozac, anything like that?’
    ‘Why would you be curious about that?’ Hansen said.
    ‘Well, according to the Bureau, the guy just went nuts. I’m wonderin’ if there was any prior indication of mental instability.’
    Hansen laughed. ‘Did you see Zarif on Meet the Press ?’
    ‘No, but I read about it.’
    ‘Well, you oughta watch a tape of the show. You talk about a guy that was wrapped too tight, that was Reza Zarif. The guy acted like such a maniac when he went off on Broderick, you don’t have to be Sigmund-fucking-Freud to know he had some problems. And then, of course, you got