Foreign Influence_ A Thriller - Brad Thor [55]
Even though his metaphor was a bit mixed up, he was right. Evidence obtained through an illegal search, seizure, or interrogation was known as a poisonous tree. Any evidence later discovered because of knowledge gained from the first illegal search, seizure, or interrogation was known as the fruit of the poisonous tree. None of it would be admissible in a court.
It would also be impossible to get any warrants based on it. This put the officers in a very difficult position. Nasiri was up to no good, but legally their hands were tied. They couldn’t share what they knew about the bomb-making ingredients.
While the mechanic’s information had been given under duress, they probably could get a warrant with it and come back, but someone across the alley had already seen them enter the apartment. As far as the apartment was concerned, they were dead in the water.
“We’re definitely impounding the cab. Somehow, there’s got to be a way to get it tested for bomb residue. If we get a hit, then everyone is going to climb on board this case.”
“Let’s say you do figure out a way to bury our poisonous fruit and get them to test the cab. What if there’s no residue?”
“It doesn’t matter. We can’t give up. We’ve got to stay on this guy. We legally obtained his name and photograph. We can put those out across the PD and I’ll reach out to a guy I know on the Joint Terrorism Task Force. I’ll have him pull all the flight records and see if Nasiri has tried to board any aircraft.”
“And if he hasn’t?” asked Davidson.
“Then we should assume he’s still in the city and that he’s not planning on taking his bombs back to Pakistan with him.”
Davidson looked down at the half-eaten plate of food. “We should also assume he’s not coming back here.”
“Agreed. So if you were him, where would you go now?”
“Someplace safe.”
Vaughan nodded. “Someplace with people you could trust.”
“Like members of your terror cell?”
“Bombers tend to need support, so I’m willing to bet there’s a cell.”
“But how do you track it down?” asked Davidson.
“We may not have to,” replied Vaughan. “Let’s finish up here and get back to your truck. I want to see if Nasiri will lead us to it all by himself.”
CHAPTER 24
Abdul Rashid’s cell phone vibrated again. He held it up so the man sitting across from him could see it.
Rashid was in his mid-twenties with dark hair and a handsome, angular face. He was lean and stood about six feet tall. He had green eyes, an unusual feature that marked his mixed Arab descent. “The longer we ignore him, the more dangerous this gets.”
The man gave a dismissive, backhanded wave.
“That’s your answer?” asked Rashid. “Are you serious? You know what? Fuck you, Marwan.”
Rashid stood up from his cushion and threw his cell phone at the man.
Marwan Jarrah, a man in his late fifties with gray hair and a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard, dodged the phone and smiled. He loved the younger man’s passion. Rashid had more than earned the right to be so outspoken. He was one of the very few true believers who could effortlessly stroll among the infidels without raising their suspicion. His methods of waging jihad were often unorthodox, but they were also brilliant. It was why Jarrah kept him close. It was also why Jarrah tolerated Rashid’s impulsiveness and foul language.
Blessed with a Caucasian father and an Egyptian mother, Abdul Rashid possessed a mixed set of features. Those features were such that Westerners never saw him as an Arab, or as being distinctly Muslim. To them he appeared perfectly American, while to Muslims he looked Arab. Such was the magic gift of his parents’ combined DNA.
With family scattered across the Muslim world, he had a backstopped cover for the extensive trips abroad where he studied in some of the most rigorous and extensive mujahideen camps. Marwan had personally witnessed him gun down two Jordanians who had tried to double-cross them in Iraq. Though they had known each other for only a couple of years, he was proud to call Rashid