Leave No Child Behind

  The third interview was the one that surprised the cell leader. According to the file, the soldier’s name was Jesus, and when he walked through the doorway, Yassim could not help but glare. Like many of al Quaida’s soldiers, this soldier was tall and muscular, but this one was not an Arab. Instead he was an incredibly handsome Latino. No more than 25, he carried himself with an uncommon confidence and had a carefree, almost disarming air. With his small black mustache, crystal green eyes and broad smile, this one had broken the hearts of many women, Yassim guessed. Studying the man in front of him, he was reminded of a Hollywood actor, but at first he couldn’t remember which one.

  At first, Yassim was put off by the man’s appearance, willing to dismiss his handsome looks as a lack of substance or, worse yet, a sign of weakness. However, examining the man’s dossier again, Yassim reappraised the new recruit and was met with an inspiration so powerful that it could only have come from Allah himself. Looking into the new face, he smiled at the idea. Clearly the Americans would never suspect such a man.

  With a powerful handshake, he welcomed Jesus and then briefed him on the general outlines of the mission. Giving the new soldier the address for papers and funds, he got down to specifics. “Jesus, I have a very specific task for you, one I think you will enjoy,” began Yassim. “I want you to leave today and head to Hammerville. Once there, I want you to charm your way into the school district office and get hired as a substitute teacher. We will follow in a few weeks, but in the meantime I want you to learn the high school inside and out. Get to know the teachers and learn the layout. Though we have already made arrangements to secure the blueprints from an inside source, anything you can learn may prove helpful when we arrive.”

  Jesus sported a dazzling smile, his teeth white and perfectly straight beneath his black mustache. A mischievous gleam in his emerald eyes, he asked, “Are there beautiful women at this Hammerville school?”

  “I’m sure there are,” answered Yassim, his features now lined with anxiety, “but our mission will leave little time for what Americans call ‘fraternizing.’”

  Jesus’ grin never dimmed. “Do not misunderstand, Leader Yassim. My heart and soul belong to Allah and I will carry out my responsibilities as promised. But the job is more enjoyable when the scenery is beautiful. With your permission, I’ll be off to Hammerville ... and beautiful women.”

  As he shook the recruit’s hand, Yassim could not help but smile himself. When the door closed behind Jesus, his first thought was that the team was intact again. He could succeed with these men. He picked up the phone one last time. “It is done,” he said into the receiver. Then after a brief wait, he said only, “Mustafa and Jesus,” and flipped the phone closed.

  Chapter 18

  Harold Samson stood in the Oval Office, waiting. He was alone and he fiddled with his brown and gold bow tie and looked down at his watch for the fifth time, 11:39 P. M. Even as many times as he had been to this room, he still couldn’t help but be intimidated. Just pondering the decisions made in this room made him feel smaller. Woodrow Wilson’s argument for the US to join the League of Nations. FDR’s decision to go to war with the Allies. Kennedy’s determination to blockade Cuba. Nixon’s resignation. He must have still been daydreaming about the history of this place because he didn’t hear the door.

  “Well, Mr. Director of Homeland Security, you said it was important and so I am here,” announced Ryan Gregory, looking regal in a black dinner jacket complete with ribbed vest.

  “Mr. President, I apologize.” His eyes flitted to the packet he was holding and then back to the President, “When I called, I did not mean to interrupt your schedule. I told your secretary that I could wait till you were finished for the evening.”

  “Nonsense, Harold,” President Gregory responded and slapped Samson on the back. “I’m afraid that I will not be ‘free’ until well into the wee morning hours. To tell you the truth, this dinner was so boring I was delighted to have the excuse to leave. You would not believe this woman they had me seated beside, the wife of the Spanish Ambassador.” He gestured to the green couch, “So forget the intrusion and tell me what brings you out so late this evening. Not good news, I suspect.”

  “No sir,” said Samson, “I wouldn’t call it an emergency, but it is definitely not good news.” Sitting, he pulled out several sheets of paper. He handed a grainy, black and white photograph to the President. “This photo was taken at a toll booth on I-90 near the New York/Pennsylvania border a few miles from Lake Erie. As I’m sure you remember, Mr. President, one of the changes I made last year was to install cameras at the toll booths near any of our borders, and we included a number of places along the Great Lakes as well.”

  When President Gregory nodded, Samson continued, “Admittedly, it’s not the best picture, but we are pretty sure this is Mohammed Armdi, one of the terrorists on our international watch list.” He handed the President the second picture and paused as Gregory, pulling glasses from his breast pocket, compared the two photos. “ We believe he belongs to a cell of Islamic terrorists operating out of Syria. This group is known to have ties to the group that made ‘The Voice of Allah’ announcement I shared yesterday.”

  “You are certain that these two are of the same man?”

  “No sir, we are not certain. The resolution on the second photo is not distinct enough and we believe he may have been aware of the camera and made sure we could only get a shadowed profile. In fact, the examiners didn’t even see the connection upon their first analysis and the computers only flagged it when they ran the digital analogy software.” Pulling a pen from his pocket, Harold used it as a pointer to highlight an area on the recent photo. “The face is not completely clear, but see this scar down the right side of his face? That matches the description and photo we have on file for this man.”

  “Can you tell what car he is driving?”

  “The cameras are designed primarily to capture faces, but analysts believe the contours match either a Chevrolet Blazer or GMC Tahoe.”

  “When was this new photo taken?”

  “About 30 hours ago. It took about a day for the computers to analyze every photo taken at all the border security cameras.”

  The President moved over to the lamp on the end table and turning it on, held the two photos under the light, one in each hand. After a few seconds he returned his attention to his visitor. “Assuming this is the same man, have there been any further sightings?”

  “No, sir, we have not had any further reports of the man but I’ve issued a BOLO to all the offices in the Midwest and Northeast states,” admitted Samson.

  “I can see why you might be concerned, Harold, but this doesn’t seem to be very much. I don’t see why you thought you needed to see me tonight. Couldn’t this wait till our regular briefing on Tuesday? Or do you have something else?”

  “Perhaps, Mr. President.”

  “Perhaps?”

  “I’ll let you decide after I share the second piece of information with you. This report was turned in less than 50 miles from the toll booth where the second photo was taken.” Samson took back the photos and handed the president the next sheet of paper.

  He gave the President time to scan the brief report. Then Samson pulled a map of the Great Lakes states from his briefcase and continued. “That was called in from a Pennsylvania State Trooper at this location. Right here,” he indicated a yellow dot on the map. “Also this red dot indicates the location where the surveillance photo was taken.” He pointed to the second spot on the map. “The time on the call was 22:09, approximately two hours after the photo at the toll booth.”

  “How long would it take to drive from here to here?” Gregory said, tapping the two dots with the pen.

  “I’m not familiar with the roads in that area but they tell me about an hour.”

  The President’s attention went back to the police report, his finger tapping the paper. “It says he was stopping a car for a suspected DUI,” Gregory began. “No report from h
im after that?”

  “No sir. No one has seen or heard from Officer Birch since then.”

  “What about his cruiser? Any report of a stolen or abandoned police cruiser in the area?”

  “None, sir. Both the local and state authorities are looking for the police car, but so far nothing has turned up.”

  “This officer,” Gregory tapped the report again, “Officer Jeffrey Birch called in a make and plate number,” he glanced again at the paper, “Black Chevrolet Blazer, 235DTZ—PA. Any luck on tracing the car?”

  “The plate was stolen a week ago off a car in Erie.” Samson pointed back at the map, indicating the city near the two colored dots.

  “I assume the agencies have had an APB for the car?”

  “Yessir, that’s what prompted my visit. Thirty minutes ago a mud-splattered dark blue Chevy Blazer was found abandoned in a parking garage right here in Parma, a suburb of Cleveland.” Samson raised the map again from the couch and pointed out a third dot on the east end of Cleveland. “The SUV bore no plates, but a search of a dumpster in an alley a few blocks away turned up that plate. Crime scene techs are examining the car now.” He stopped to let his boss process.

  “So you believe this fellow,” the President’s eyes strayed briefly to the first photo, “this Mohammed Armdi was the driver of the car stopped by Officer Birch?” He clicked his pen once.

  “It looks like it may have happened that way, sir.”

  “And you are saying that this terrorist,” the President glanced again at the grainy photograph, “this Mohammed Armdi was confronted by this Officer Birch, and he somehow managed to dispose of him and his car. He then drove the Chevy Blazer to Cleveland and abandoned it. Is that it?”

  “Obviously, we don’t know but, yes, sir, we believe it is certainly a real possibility. Also, the photo experts believe there may have been a second person in the car. In one of the photos taken as the Blazer passed through the toll booth, the camera caught what appears to be a shadow of at least one more person.” Samson handed the third photo to the President. “It’s possible the person may have ducked down to avoid the camera, but when they examined the shots they believe this,” he pointed to a darkened area on the photo, “is the shadow caused by another person.”

  The President got up and carried the new photo over to the lighted lamp and examined it. “Boy, that smudge isn’t much to go on.”

  “No, sir.”

  “When do you expect the crime techs to be done with their analysis of the car? Will that tell you if there were other passengers?”

  “We hope so sir, but in their initial inspection, they thought the car had been wiped clean,” Samson said. “At any rate, they should be completing their analysis within the next few hours and I will let you know immediately if anything turns up.”

  “And you’ve picked up no other notice of either Armdi or this other one since these photos were taken?”

  “No sir. We have alerted all the appropriate agencies, but so far nothing.”

  “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Harold. Anything else?” President Gregory asked, rising from the couch. The pen clicked twice and disappeared into a jacket pocket. Then he brushed imaginary crumbs off his black vest.

  “Yes sir. I think it may be time to raise the threat level and notify the public of the terrorist.”

  The President looked at him sharply. “Didn’t you tell me you’ve already alerted all the agencies?”

  “Yes, sir, we have and we’ve sent each agency photos of Armdi and a list of his known associates along with any photos we have.”

  “Don’t jump the gun on me, Harold,” the President said and turned his head to the closed door and called, “I’m ready, Bradley.” Immediately the Secret Service agent stepped back into the room and held the door open for his boss. Gregory turned and beamed his best smile back toward Samson. “I do not want to get the people of this country stirred up unnecessarily.” He clasped his Director of Homeland Security on the shoulder and finished, “Besides, we have an election in less than two weeks. We can’t have the voters of this fine country thinking I can’t protect them, can we? Come back and see me if the examination of the car turns up anything solid or if we get a hit on Armdi. Okay, Bradley, I believe we’ve kept the beautiful women waiting long enough, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” answered the agent, returning the President’s smile.

  President Gregory stopped at the door and turned back to the room. “Thanks again, Harold. Get me some hard intel. A definitive sighting of Armdi. Find me that state trooper. Stay on it and get back to me. I’ll feel better just knowing you’re on top of this.”

  Samson stood there for a full minute, staring at the now closed door. His hand tugged on the right end of his brown and gold bow tie, pulling the knot free and then yanked the tie off his neck.

  Chapter 19

  Rashid raised his hand to rap on the steel door with “260” in black raised numbers on the center panel. Standing in the hallway, his eyes jerked left, then right. He studied the doors that lined both sides of the narrow corridor of the Red Roof Inn. He was hot and trickles of sweat stained his underarms and under the straps of the backpack. As his knuckles rapped the cold, metal surface, his memory flashed back to another door, a worn, weather-beaten wooden one he had knocked on, more than three months ago.

  Had it been just three months? he asked himself, unbelieving. Then I was just a scared kid, he thought. Now here I am, in the belly of Satan, a soldier in the great Jihad, with a mission direct from Allah’s anointed Leader. His lips moving, he quietly voiced the mantra memorized in the camp, nodding his head with the effort. He mumbled the three words in the hallway, repeating them again and again.

  This practice usually helped him, but somehow the mental exercise did little to assure him this time. The old fears began to claw their way back, the image of his family suddenly hovering before him. On the pale green surface of the door, the emaciated face of his mother and young sister suddenly materialized, both weeping.

  A voice called from beyond the closed door, interrupting his thoughts. “Yes?”

  The voice jolted Rashid and it took him a bit to respond. “God, uh...is good to all who believe.” There was a pause, long enough for Rashid to doubt himself again. In the excruciating seconds his fear flooded back. Had he gotten it wrong? Was this the right room? The right hotel? Seconds ticked by and his heart raced as an enlarged olive eye appeared in the peephole. Then the dead bolt clicked and the lock was thrown open.

  “Come in, quickly,” the same voice said quietly. Rashid stepped through the opening and the door was closed behind him. He heard the lock being set. Turning to face his contact, he studied his cell leader. The man was tall, towering a good six inches over Rashid and outweighing him by at least a hundred pounds. Broad shoulders. Strong arms. A pair of fierce olive-green eyes stared out from under heavy brows, appraising his visitor. The face bore no emotion and Rashid’s anxiety spiked again. Then, the man slowly extended his right hand. “I am called Yassim.”

  The teenager grasped the extended hand and noticed that the man’s arm was striped with burn scars. When they shook hands, he winced inwardly at the cell leader’s strong grip but gave away nothing. “I am Rashid,” he said, “the humble servant of Allah and the Sheik.”

  “Come and we will talk,” said Yassim. He led the way over to the small oval table in the cramped hotel room and sat at one of the hard back chairs. Rashid followed him and, sliding the backpack off, took the seat opposite the cell leader. “Give your report,” the man commanded.

  “Where would you like me to start?”

  “Tell me about the school.”

  Opening his worn blue vinyl and brown suede knapsack, Rashid pulled out some wrinkled sheets of paper. He laid them on the flat Formica surface and, using both hands, worked to smooth them out. The graph paper contained several rough sketches, some scribbled dimensions and directions. His index finger pointing to different places on the drawing
s, the youth began to explain. “The building is a basic two-story structure in the shape of a T.” He indicated the simple diagram he had made as he sat in the classes, “idly doodling” as one teacher had called it. “At the end of each point on the T is one of the common areas.” He slid his fingers to the top right point of the diagram. “This is the large gymnasium and this,” his finger slid to the other top point of the T, “is what is called an auditorium, basically a large theater.”

  “I know what an auditorium is,” Yassim chided. “How many individuals can this auditorium hold?”

  “I am not sure, about 500, I thin....”

  “Can the area hold all the students?” the older man asked without waiting.

  “Yes. Last week all the students were sent there to hear a speaker.”

  “Go on.”

  The teenager’s hand returned to the drawing. “This section of the building holds the classrooms and offices for the principal and counselors.”

  “What about this space marked with a C? ” Yassim’s finger pointed to the bottom of the diagram.

  When the man gestured, Rashid noticed for the first time that the forefinger of Yassim ’s left hand was an ugly stump, cut off at the knuckle. He inhaled sharply and a wild memory flooded back.

  In the camp he had witnessed a similar amputation, made with the curved jambiya, of the hand of a trainee who had challenged an order of the guards. It had been Yemel, with the flaming red hair and the temper to match, who had argued with one of the guards about something small. After the short argument, Yemel and the rest of the other recruits were on the way back to their tent when two guards grabbed the redheaded teen. In front of the other boys, two guards slammed the loudly protesting Yemel spread-eagle against a training wall. A third guard sliced off the tip of the boy’s left forefinger, spurting blood on the wall. Unbelieving, Yemel had stared at the stump and begun screaming. The third guard slapped him once. He said, “There is no room for disagreement here. The devotion to Allah’s cause must be total.” It had all taken less than fifteen seconds and Rashid and the other trainees stared in disbelief as the three guards sauntered away. Then the youths grabbed their friend and, without speaking, led him to his cot in the tent. Rashid remembered trying to stem the bleeding of his hand and could still picture the gushing blood staining his own fingers red.