The Perfect Weapon

by Christopher Metcalf

  “Exactly. It goes against logic to think someone would go right back to the same place and do the same thing they were doing. Except, here’s the thing, I think they upped the game by making us think we have the players in custody. Brilliant. That takes time and planning.”

  Marta was with him and moving ahead. “Years of planning. I’ll bet the members of the cells that were arrested have all been in the U.S. less than six months, a year max. And I’ll bet Anwar has been planning this for two, maybe three years. He will have had the real players in place for years. That means jobs, families, mortgages. They would appear to be on their way to becoming citizens.”

  Preacher could see it for what it was now. Lance turned back to look down over the wing of the jet. “This is really deep-cover ops stuff. These are spies as much as bombers. These men are most likely not transients. That will make them very difficult to find.”

  Marta reached up and turned her light on. The guy in the seat behind her wasn’t happy about it and huffed. She pulled the tray down and got out the sleeve of her ticket envelope along with a pen. She wrote down three things quickly. ‘New York, Phil. and DC’. Then she wrote ‘in U.S. 18 month min’. ‘From Middle East region’. And then ‘work visas’. And finally, 'applications for citizenship'. She circled each set of words. “The minute we land, we contact your computer friend at NSA and have him start pounding his databases to narrow the list down to males in the U.S. who meet these parameters.”

  Preacher leaned forward and tapped her tray a couple of times. “Think for a minute. What kind of jobs will these men have? They won’t be taxi drivers. They are educated. Can the type and kind of work they do help narrow it down even more?”

  “Sure. We’ll eliminate menial labor such as taxis, retail, clerical. That will eliminated even more possibilities. I’ll bet we can get the list down to a few hundred, maybe fewer.”

  “Then what? Do we send out field agents to interview them? We don’t have time for that. It would take a week or more.” Preacher sighed.

  “No. We don’t need interviews. Once we get these men I.D.’d, we’ll let another computer go to work on the them – a supercomputer.”

  “How’s that? Where is this computer?” Preacher raised his eyebrows.

  Marta just smiled. Then she raised her hand and tapped Preacher on the forehead a couple of times. “Right here. I’m willing to bet once the photos of these guys are put in front of you,” then she gestured out toward the wing. It was strange, but natural. “And him. I’m sure you will recognize them from somewhere in Anwar’s records. Some of the faces are going to jump off the page or computer screen for you. And then, we’ll go get them.”

  Preacher dug into his pocket and again pulled out the card Seibel had given him with the four coded numbers on it. “We’ll need help to get to them in time. While I’m talking to my contact at NSA, you call Fuchs and have him, Tarwanah and Jamaani move toward Philadelphia and D.C. We’ll handle New York.”

  “What about Seibel?” Marta didn’t like the taste of the name in her mouth.

  “I’ll call him and tell him to assemble his top secret group. That will keep him out of our way, for a little while at least.”

  Chapter 41

  There were actually 311 names on the list. Now he needed to see their faces. Preacher walked into the New York Public Library and went downstairs to a room full of computers and monitors. He didn’t really care for computers, but they served an ever-growing purpose. And today he benefited from this new thing, the Internet, and something called the World Wide Web.

  His computer nerd contact at NSA gave Preacher a user name and password over the phone. When he fired up the computer, the date on the screen read February 25, 1993. He typed in the strange http://www address into the machine and was taken to a secure system where a list of 311 names was on the screen. He started with the first since they were alphabetical. Marta sat beside him just as fascinated by computer technology.

  Names 46, 129 and 287 were three individuals Preacher recognized after viewing all the driver's license and ID photos. Several others registered in some capacity, but not in the same way. These three were associated with Anwar and al Qaeda over the last decade. He had seen their images before. And number 287 he had even seen in person on the Philippines island of Tapul. He was the third man who had escaped that morning. The computer listed his name as Ramzi Ahmed Yousef. He left the image up on the screen and shook his head.

  “You know him.” A statement, not a question from Marta. “You’ve seen him before.”

  Preacher laughed quietly and smiled at her. “Guess where?”

  “No. Not on the island.”

  “On Tapul. He got away.” Preacher laughed.

  “He was the third one with Nosar and Anwar.” She knew the scene well having been through it many times with him as he tried to work out what went wrong, other than being dumb.

  “Yes. He has so many damn aliases that I didn’t know who I was looking for.” Preacher stared at the image, the eyes.

  “Don’t blame yourself. Others have missed him for years.” She put a hand on his arm. “Now we can get him.”

  Preacher reviewed the information available on last known address and hit print. He did the same for the other two men. It just happened that Yousef lived in the New York area, right across the river in New Jersey. The second man was last known to be in Camden, New Jersey – a stone’s through from Philadelphia. And number three kept a residence in Arlington, Virginia.

  “Just like we thought. Damn,” but she said the word in Russian - proklinat¹ - like she usually does when upset. The two of them would often wander through three or four different languages during the course of a conversation. They did it seamlessly. Each preferred the sound of certain words in Russian or German or Arabic.

  Preacher answered her in Russian. “I know. Crazy being right every once in awhile. We’ll need to get with Fuchs and Tarwanah and fax them this information so they can move on Camden and Arlington.” Preacher clicked to close the computer program he had been using and turned the computer off.

  Twenty-three minutes later, Seibel hung up the huge cell phone in his hand. “Damn. He did it. They did it.” He turned from the window he'd been looking out of while talking to Fuchs on the phone. Alan Kleinfeller, Seibel's one boss in the world and the appointed executive of the Central Intelligence Agency sat behind his desk.

  “Preacher?”

  “And his partner.” Seibel sat in a chair facing Kleinfeller. “I don’t know if they will share their methods, but it appears they found three individuals planning to blow up freedom-loving Americans here on our own soil.”

  The CIA Director had heard Seibel’s end of the conversation with Fuchs. “So New York, Philadelphia and DC. Do we have anything more specific on targets?” He was ready to move, to call other resources into action. He would never tell Seibel this, but he was now, like he was often, in awe of the man’s ability to bring things together. The borderline insane CIA spymaster had struck gold with his discovery of Lance Priest. Friggin' amazing. “Do we have resources en route?”

  “Fuchs and the Jordanians are on their way to Philly and D.C. We will need to enlist field agents.” Seibel sat back and exhaled. “I’m going to New York.”

  “Why New York? I could use you here.”

  “It’s where they are. It’s where Anwar is.”

  “How do you know?” Kleinfeller sat back in his chair and locked his fingers behind his head. A couple of minutes of relaxation before kicking literally everything at his disposal into overdrive.

  Seibel closed his eyes. “It’s only natural. He would be aiming for the biggest, most audacious target. Nothing is more American than New York. It is the heart, the beating heart of America. Anwar knows that. Preacher knows it as well. He is thinking like a terrorist.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I told you I needed him to think like a terrorist, a bomber. He is not acting, not pretending. I’ve seen it in him since his n
ear-death experience. He’s single minded. He is a terrorist, a radical, a true believer in his cause.”

  Kleinfeller sat forward. He was ready to go, needed Seibel to get going. “And what is that cause?”

  “As far as I can tell. He wants to die. He wants to go up in a fireball with Anwar.”

  The terrorist drove across the Brooklyn Bridge. Not because he needed to, just because he wanted to. He liked the structure, the sheer size and strength of the link between two New Yorks. The bridge was actually his first target. He considered it a natural five years earlier when he first visited this country. After riding across it in a taxi, he walked it the following day looking at the construction, the fabrication, assembly, weaknesses and strengths. He saw that it would take numerous immense explosives placed in strategic positions to do the job. Several trucks driven to ideal locations across the span might do the job as well, but they probably wouldn’t take the entire monument down. He needed to completely destroy his target.

  He already knew what it needed to be back then, what his targets were. It had to be the collapse, the complete destruction of a towering edifice. Two of them stood at the southern end of Manhattan. The other symbol of American ingenuity and prosperity stood at the corner of 5th Avenue and West 34th Street. When the twin towers of the World Trade Center and the Empire State Building came down, America's strength, American might and American credibility would come crashing down with them. It will be glorious.

  His brightest pupil will place the bomb in the underground parking garage of the WTC – a much simpler mission requiring only one vehicle. The explosions necessary to bring down the Empire State Building required greater planning, placement and skill. Anwar would handle this project personally. It was a grand and audacious plan. And it will change the world forever.

  The terrorist bomber walked out of the New York Public Library onto 5th Avenue. He had a permanent street map of New York City basically tattooed into his brain. He hung a right on the sidewalk and reached down to take his partner’s hand. It was reassuring. They walked a half block until they could see the tip of the radio tower spire. He looked from the tippy top of the tower on the top of the Empire State Building. His look told her all she needed to know. Her terrorist lover knew his target. The only question was how would he blow it up.

  “I need a detailed tourist guide book or access to blueprints. A guide book is probably easier to come by.” He pulled her forward. They walked the seven blocks to 34th Street to see what he could find. It was almost noon. Lance was up at about 1,500 feet looking down diagonally at the one-time tallest building in the world. He imagined how scary that would have been to be hanging from the grasp of a big ol’ gorilla up there. He was also humming a catchy tune about the Big Apple sung by Frank Sinatra.

  The wannabe terrorist and two associates he had gathered for the assignment jumped down from the back of the rented Ryder truck parked in Yousef’s driveway. They had been loading material into the back of the truck for several days and had it nearly ready. All totaled, the assembled explosive device weighed over 1,300 pounds. The main charge consisted primarily of urea nitrate with other metals, including aluminum and ferric oxide surrounding the charge. To ignite this behemoth of deadly destruction, a combination of nitroglycerine, ammonium nitrate, smokeless powder and dynamite would be used. The whole thing would go off with a bang when a 20-foot fuse was lit. Yousef and his associates had studied well the manuals supplied by Anwar.

  The three men closed the roll-down door on the truck and went inside the house whispering a chorus of “Allahu Akbars.”

  Six hours later, a Chevy sedan pulled to a curb. Out of the back of the car stepped Mikel Fuchs holding the faxed sheet he’d received from Preacher this morning. He also held another sheet of paper with a recent driver’s license photo photocopied for him and 17 other FBI agents from the Philadelphia field office who were setting up a perimeter of the location.

  Fuchs leaned into the front window to talk to the agent in the passenger seat. “I’ll go on foot from here. I’ll signal and you bring in the cavalry.” He held up the small radio before tucking it into his jacket pocket. His clothes were dirty, torn. He looked the part for this area of Camden. He brought the field agents together an hour ago to go over the operation. A few of them had raised their eyebrows at this stranger coming in from nowhere and issuing orders, but the commander in charge had received orders from Washington to listen and to obey without question this guy’s commands. Within 30 seconds of starting, Fuchs had every man and woman’s respect. His plan, details and structure of deployment were more than solid.

  They were all impressed with him. It would have been quite a surprise for them to learn it was all a bit of bluster. Fuchs did want the FBI to come in, but only after he had interfaced with the Philadelphia suspect himself. That likely meant dispatching several men to paradise. He assumed it was a small group, three or four at most, to keep a tight lid on the operation. It was just Fuchs walking toward the warehouse. The bad guys were outnumbered.

  Three hours later, 140 miles to the south and west, two Middle Eastern men approached a small group of men. The group of a half dozen men sat on benches near the laundry room of a rundown apartment complex. The men were speaking Arabic and smoking. The conversation was pleasant, but heated, as these things usually are.

  The two men that joined the group were not regulars. They were new to the area. Within minutes, they joined the conversation and took seats opposite each other on the benches. The topic of conversation was Turkey and the problem of secularism in a Muslim nation. None of the six men noticed when one of the two new members of the group glanced over at three men coming out of an apartment unit across the parking lot from the laundry.

  Passenger Geoffrey Seibel walked up the air bridge after his short Continental flight from Washington National to JFK. Two FBI agents met him at the gate and walked behind him, trying to keep up.

  One of the agents handed Seibel a folder with the latest intel. He scanned it while walking. A tiny old lady in front of him walking at a fit snail’s pace brought a silent snarl to his face. He smiled as he stepped around her. He always knew why he did the things he did. It was for people like her, just wanting to live their lives in freedom, no matter how slow they walked.

  Outside, once in the front passenger seat of the car Seibel pulled out his gargantuan cell phone and dialed. He got no answer to either call he made. He wished like hell he’d made Preacher carry one of those damn phones.

  Chapter 42

  Mikel Fuchs stood about 6 feet, one inch and weighed 198 pounds. He carried himself much lighter, moving like a lightweight, even a featherweight prizefighter. But as he walked along a broken and dirty street in the roughest part of Camden, New Jersey, he carried himself like a bag of rocks. He was slow, plodding. A man with nowhere to be and no one to see. He caused no eyebrows to raise as he approached a warehouse set about 80 feet back from the street between two other buildings that fronted the road. There was an eight-foot chain link fence and gate topped with barbed wire across the front of the property.

  Fuchs peered into the space as he sauntered by. There was no activity visible from the front. No dogs either. That was good. As he got past the warehouse, he quickened his pace, rounded the corner of the next building.

  He jogged down a dark alley and found what he needed. It was a drainpipe. He grabbed it and shimmied up the side of the abandoned two-story brick building to the roof. Once up there, he moved across the rooftop to the other side where he could see down into the warehouse next door. There were lights on inside, but he could see no movement. He turned his head for a few moments to listen. He heard two voices, one higher than the other, followed by a laugh.

  It was near dusk. His dark jacket, jeans and black cap helped him blend into the dark as he descended down the building to a window ledge below and then a 12-foot drop to blacktop. He crouched and moved over against the warehouse, below the one window not blacked out. He looked to his left then to
his right. No activity on the exterior. He peeked in and could see a light was on in a larger room past the small office he could see into. Thirty seconds later, a man walked through the larger space carrying something. He saw no one else, but knew from the laughter minutes earlier, there were more inside.

  He turned and made his way to the back of the building and looked around the corner. Not much there. One door, no unpainted windows. He slid over to the door to try it. No go, locked. He continued to the other corner of the building and looked around. As expected, there was not much. He walked the 70 or so feet back to the front of the building and stopped at the corner, leaning to spy around to the front. No one around. The double bay doors were closed. He scooted by both to the front door. It was unlocked. After putting his ear to it for several seconds, he turned the rusty handle and cracked the door. He could hear noises, but couldn’t distinguish their source.

  He silently pulled the door open and slid inside, then climbed eight stairs into a small reception room with an empty desk and a door behind it to a hallway. Fuchs stepped over to the wall beside the entry to the hall and listened. He pulled out the radio in his pocket and made sure he had turned it off. He then set it on the desk. Didn’t want it weighing him down. He pulled out two silenced Glocks and rolled his head and neck in a few rotations as he always did before going into action.

  Three steps down the hall was a doorway to the right into the open warehouse area. The door was propped open by a small box on the floor. He walked to the door and pressed himself to the wall to listen. He heard footsteps, two sets at least. A short conversation between two men and then a third voice. He heard two exhales as two men lifted something heavy. He dropped to the floor and brought his head into the doorway at foot level. He saw two cars and a large van in the middle of an open space approximately 80 by 60 feet. The men were loading large bags into the van. He could read the words on the side of the bags – fertilizer, and knew right away that he had found his target. The two men loading the van stepped back to grab another large bag of fertilizer. Ten seconds later, the man pictured in the INS photo on a folded sheet of paper in his pocket jumped out of the back of the van.