Lethal Diversion. Don Pendleton

desk that looked as though it came straight out of a 1960s school, several bookcases, and many pictures of the Muslim children in the community on the walls.

      Bolan turned the tea down with a shake of his head, and took a seat across from the imam.

      “Your face is serious, Matt,” he said, using the name Bolan had given. “What troubles you?”

      “You have been honest with me,” he said, “and we’ve had a good dialogue. I think we’ve come to know each other a little bit. I am troubled because of news I received today and that my original intentions here have to change.”

      “Go on,” Al-Qadir said, sipping his tea. “I sense your hesitation, Matt, but I cannot help you or our community without information.”

      Bolan nodded. “As I told you when we met, I work for the DEA. But often, I hear about things from other federal law-enforcement agencies. A short time ago, I heard from someone at the FBI. A ship was found in Lake St. Clair with three dead men aboard—all of them from the Middle East. They found evidence that weapons-grade uranium—the kind used to make nuclear weapons—was on board the ship, too.” He watched the man’s face carefully as he shared these last words, but all he saw was shock and sadness.

      “This...this cannot be related to anyone I know, Matt,” he said. “Many of the young people here are in gangs and involved with drugs. I would be foolish to deny it. But no one has said anything about acts of terrorism!”

      “I believe you,” Bolan assured him. “But someone in the Muslim or the Islamic community knows, Aalim. Someone knows something. I need your help.”

      The imam sat quietly for several long seconds, considering his words, then he sighed and nodded. “What do you want me to do?”

      “I need you to start asking questions, pressing people a little just to see if you get a reaction of any kind. We don’t know who’s behind this, but I think it would be safe to assume that whoever it is has a lot of money, and, in this neighborhood, that means drugs and possibly prostitution. Even if they haven’t done anything themselves, someone may have heard something.”

      “In my experience, Matt, extremists in this country do their best to stay quiet,” the imam said, shaking his head. “Unless I happen to stumble upon the person who is actually involved, it is unlikely that someone will have heard something.”

      Bolan shook his head. “Maybe, but something like this takes a lot of planning, a lot of men. Please, Aalim.”

      “I will do what I can. Do you believe that 8IM is involved?”

      Bolan shrugged. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s possible and it’s a place to start, but it could be anyone.”

      “And if I find something out, I should call you at the number you gave me?” he asked.

      “Yes, as soon as possible,” he said. “Thank you.”

      “You’re welcome, Matt. The Holy Koran teaches peace, not violence, and we cannot allow extremists to take root among us. It will only make becoming part of the American culture more difficult.”

      Bolan thought for a moment, then said, “There’s one more thing, Aalim. Be careful. Don’t ask too many direct questions. If whoever is behind this hears you asking questions, they’ll kill you. I have no doubts about that.”

      “My eyes are open, Matt,” he said, rising to his feet. “And now I sense you wish to leave?”

      Bolan got to his feet. “Unfortunately. There’s a lot to do and I have to move quickly. Call me if you hear anything at all.”

      “I will,” Al-Qadir said, offering his hand, which Bolan gladly shook. “Stay safe, my friend.”

      “You do the same,” he replied. “I’ll show myself out.”

      “Fi Amanullah,” he said.

      Bolan nodded and headed back down the short hallway. He had a feeling he’d need more than Allah’s protection if the situation escalated, and in his experience, a fully loaded Desert Eagle was more reliable than a god in a fight anyway.

      Still, he thought as he headed back to his car, any blessing was better than none at all.

      3

      The Detroit Emergency Operations Center was housed downtown, in a nondescript office building two blocks from the Wayne County Courthouse, and in the largest law-enforcement precinct in the city. When Bolan arrived parking was already at a premium, which meant he had quite a walk. On the other hand, the walk gave him plenty of time to observe that every branch of law enforcement, as well as fire, medical and emergency-management personnel were already present. It was a regular house party.

      He was stopped at the main entrance, but flashed his DEA credentials and got to the reception desk, where a harried-looking security guard was manning the phones. “Can I help you, sir?” he asked.

      “Matt Cooper, DEA,” he said. “I’m looking for Denny Seles.”

      The guard looked at his credentials again, and nodded. “He’s in the main communications room, giving a briefing. If you want to catch him, that’s the best place to look. Down the left hallway. You can’t miss it.”

      “Busy here today,” Bolan observed.

      The phone beeped insistently, and the guard shrugged. “You don’t know the half of it.”

      “I wouldn’t bet on that,” Bolan replied, heading down the hall. The guard had been right about one thing—it would be impossible to miss the communications room since the hall led directly to it. The room was set up a bit like an auditorium, though there was no stage, but instead a bank of screens lit up one entire wall. Denny Seles was standing at a portable podium, and behind him on the screens, various potential target locations were being displayed as he discussed where law-enforcement personnel were going to be stationed. In front of him, tiered rows of computer stations looked down, and in addition to the people seated at them, the room was filled almost to overflowing with people standing around. At the top of the room was a set of offices, the largest belonging to the Director of the EOC.

      Seles finished up his briefing and answered a few questions, then dismissed everyone. He stayed down front, talking to a small group of people, including a woman Bolan assumed was Allison Hart, the EOC Director, according to the file Brognola had sent him. She was strikingly beautiful and obviously of mixed Asian descent. Her expression at the moment was serious, but Bolan could see the smile lines around her mouth and eyes.

      When it looked as if the group was ready to break up, he worked his way down the auditorium to where Seles and Hart were still talking. Seles must have spotted him because he stopped talking and signaled for him to come over. Bolan did so, offering a hand when he got closer.

      “Special Agent in Charge Denny Seles,” Bolan said. “We meet again.”

      “Special Agent Matt Cooper,” the agent said. “I thought you were undercover over in the 8 Mile region.” He paused, then introduced Bolan to the woman. “Allison Hart, Special Agent Cooper is with the DEA. He came by as a courtesy when he arrived in town a few weeks ago.”

      “It’s nice to meet you,” she said. They shook hands.

      “What can I do for you, Matt?” Seles asked without preamble. “As you can see, we’re kind of busy today.”

      “So I hear,” Bolan replied. “I was briefed a short time ago. I thought I should drop in and offer my help.”

      Denny’s lips pursed as he considered this information. “You’re an undercover DEA agent and you were briefed?” he asked. “By whom?”

      “Someone higher up in the food chain,” Bolan said, shrugging. “They thought your mission was more important than mine, so here I am.”

      “Look, Matt, if we’ve got a leak here...” he began.

      Bolan