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sense for a guy with only 4 suits and a handful of
shirts to have a complete selection of gym bags. He continued on schedule,
driving back over the bridge and to the same car dealership. Like the time
before, he remained a couple of minutes and discretely drove away from the back
entrance. It was time for me to get an oil change.
     
    I pulled into the service area and asked the attendant
behind the desk for service. ‘I need to get my oil changed, do you have time?”
     
    ‘Okay, the attendant said, but leave your keys because we’re backed-up and won’t be able to get to your car for
about an hour.”
     
    Backed up? An hour? As if I
didn’t already know that Qureshi’s “oil change” was a
sham he just confirmed it. Nobody seemed to be actually working except one man,
small in stature, working diligently to rotate tires on a car on the rack. When
my oil change was finally finished, a tall man in a mechanics’ shirt approached
with the keys.
     
    ‘Thanks Joe” I said, looking at the nametag on his blue
uniform. There was a controlled smile. Something told me his real name wasn’t
“Joe”.
    “Have a nice day’ he said, in a thick, Southeast Asian
accent.
    Quickly I asked “Where are you from?” Although not
expecting him to tell the truth, I was trying to extend the exchange between us
long enough so that I could pinpoint his country of origin by his accent but
the question clearly displeased him. He stared down at me with intensity, in a
cue for me to leave.  
     
      
     
    CHAPTER 11
     
     
     
    Sara provided the Club membership roster to find  people who might have information on Qureshi’s activities. I struck upon the name of our very
own Deputy Director, Mr. Mulally , which wasn’t too
much of a surprise; it was a popular gym at an exclusive club where members
make private deals in secrecy guarded by uniformed bouncers at the door. 
 
     
    The next day ,Mulally was at the company cafeteria. He denied knowing anyone by the name of Roger, at
the club to which he belonged. “No,” he replied firmly, and walked away.  
     
    The next day I returned to the coffee shop across from
the dealership. The person who had been diligently working in the service area
at the dealership  the week before seemed like a
good person to connect with. He stood out from the group, and was therefore a
potential source of information about it.
     
    He arrived and stood in line for his coffee I approached
him.  “Excuse me, “ I said.
     
    He turned and smiled, recognizing me as a customer at the
shop a week before. “May I ask you a couple of questions?”
     
    He agreed and came to the small round table where I was
sitting, anticipating mechanical questions. “How’s your car running?” he asked.
     
    “How long have you been working at the dealership?” I
replied.
    He peered at my face with a puzzled look, “ Bout  a year.”
    He asked nervously, “ Whad’ya want?”
     
    I removed the work I.D. badge clipped to my belt and
hidden underneath a sweater, and showed it to him. He squirmed in his seat.
“What can you tell me about the guys who own the shop?”
     
    “I got nothin ’ to tell you,” he
said, fidgeting with his paper coffee cup while trying to figure out how to
escape from the conversation.  
    “Do you know the guy in the white car named Roger?” I
asked.
    He replied “I see him come in a lot but I don’t know nothin ’ about him ”
    “Okay, can you tell me what country “Joe” is from?
Pakistan? Afghanistan?”
    He thought “Joe” was from Pakistan or Afghanistan. Then I
asked what hours “Joe” works and he told me. I thanked him and slid a $100 bill
across the table
     
    Back at the office, our Deputy Director, Mullaly meanwhile had put an envelope on my desk. When I
opened it there was a note inside that read:
     
    “Roger’s real name is Adnan Qureshi and he was sponsored for membership last year by
David Jones. What’s this all about? Call me.” J.M.
     
    Instead