by Chris Culver
“Drop your weapon and let him go!” I screamed. “Nobody else has to get hurt.”
The agent stopped in his tracks and pivoted toward me. As Nassir’s car roared to life, I went to my knee to minimize his target.
“Don’t do this!” I shouted.
The FBI agent fired. Inches to my left, the truck’s front headlight exploded. Nassir’s tires screeched as he rocketed out of his parking spot. The FBI agent sprinted toward the minivan behind which his partner had hidden. I tracked him with the barrel of my firearm.
“Drop your weapon!” I shouted. “Nobody else has to get hurt. We’re going to the police station in Fishers. We’ll surrender there. You can meet us if you want.”
The agent didn’t respond as he ducked behind the van. I held my weapon in his direction while Nassir put his car in a forward gear. The big Cadillac’s tires chirped as my brother-in-law accelerated toward me. The FBI agent shifted his attention and then popped up from near the minivan’s hood, his weapon pointed at Nassir’s car.
“Don’t make me do this.”
Whether or not he heard me, he fired. The round slammed into Nassir’s front window on the passenger side, causing a spider’s web of cracks to spread through the glass.
I squeezed my trigger three times. The FBI agent went down just as Nassir screeched to a halt a couple of feet from me. I threw open the back door, dove inside, and heard the engine roar before I even came to a rest on the gray leather. The heavy car jolted forward, and my door slammed shut with acceleration. Within seconds, we were out of the lot and on the street.
For a few moments, neither of us said anything. Then I heard Nassir gasp.
“We’re alive,” he said. “Thank God, we’re alive.”
“Yeah. We’ve got to keep moving, though. We’ll go to the police station and get some help.”
“You murdered three FBI agents,” said Nassir. “You shot them. I saw it.”
“It wasn’t murder,” I said, looking around me. The round that penetrated the front window had hit the center of the backseat. Had it been just a foot to the right, it would have killed Nassir. That was too close. “It was self-defense. There’s a big difference.”
“They’re not going to see it like that,” he said, shaking his head and cranking the wheel to perform a U-turn. I held onto the door handle tightly so I wouldn’t roll around inside the car.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked.
“Getting us somewhere safe,” he said.
“This isn’t a good idea,” I said, looking out the window at the scenery passing us by. “Running makes us both look bad.”
“You shot three FBI agents. Nothing we can do will change what they think now. Just shut up. We’ll ditch the car, and I’ll call somebody I trust for a ride. We need to get rid of our phones, too.”
“You don’t need to get rid of your car,” I said, reaching into my pocket for my phone and opening the text messaging app. “Every witness who could identify it is dead. We should be okay for a little while.”
Nassir swore under his breath. “This is a nightmare.”
A few moments later, I pointed to the side of the road as I typed in a text message. “Pull over here. There’s a storm drain.”
Nassir slowed the vehicle and glanced at me. “Who are you texting?”
“Hannah,” I said. “I’m letting her know we’re safe. She’ll tell Rana that you’re okay, too. Now give me your phone. I’ll toss them both.”
The car pulled to a stop as I waited for the message to send. Nassir reached beside him and handed me his cell phone.
I didn’t know how cell phone carriers routed text messages across their network, so I didn’t know whether the recipient of that message would receive it right away, or whether it would take a while. Special Agent Kevin Havelock would get it eventually, though, and he’d know what it meant.
I’m in.
I walked to a storm drain and dumped in two perfectly good cell phones and a replica Glock 22 firearm that could shoot only blanks. Then I walked to the front seat of my brother-in-law’s car, knowing that if Special Agent Havelock were right, I was likely sitting beside the most dangerous man I had ever met.
Chapter 2
Hashim Bashear stepped off the Emirates Airline flight and onto US soil at Kennedy International in New York. It was just after eight in the morning, and bright sunlight streamed through every window in the building. Though it was something of a cliché now to mock America’s infrastructure, Kennedy wasn’t as bad as many airports Hashim had flown through. In Lagos, Nigeria, he’d had to hire armed escorts to drive him to his hotel, and he couldn’t walk freely at night for fear of being robbed and murdered. New York, as bad as it was, didn’t quite compare.
The cramped international wing smelled of body odor and burned coffee. He wheeled his carry-on bag down the terminal, heading toward the exit.
Hashim’s body and face still didn’t feel like his own. Over the past month, he had gorged himself on rich food to gain almost ten pounds. He had lost the gaunt look of a fighter and gained the soft, pudgy look of an aristocrat. A month ago, a surgeon in Dubai had reconstructed his nose, and he had sat beneath the desert sun for hours at a time to darken his olive-colored skin.
The American government had some of the most sophisticated pattern-recognition software in the world on its surveillance cameras. From the rumors Hashim had heard, those cameras could almost do magic. If they could see even an inch of a man’s skin, the US government would instantly know his name and background. It wasn’t magic, of course; their sophisticated abilities came from mathematical algorithms and nearly unlimited budgets devoted to spying on American citizens. Hashim wouldn’t fool that pattern-recognition software, but he could fool a police officer who happened to have seen his picture.
When traveling under his actual identity, Hashim carried a British passport. Here, he carried a Canadian passport once owned by a Egyptian-Canadian academic named Faizan Mubarak. Even before Hashim had altered his appearance, he and Faizan were the same height, they had the same build, and they had similar facial features. After Hashim’s surgery, their own wives would have had difficulty telling them apart.
Hashim’s men had offered to buy the passport, but Faizan had refused. He died for that refusal. It was a pity he hadn’t seen the opportunity God had placed in front of him.
The line to pass through customs took almost three hours, but Hashim didn’t feel nervous. With God on his side, no man could stand in his way. When he reached the front of the line, a bored-looking customs agent scrutinized Hashim’s stolen passport.
“You here for business or pleasure, Mr. Mubarak?”
“A bit of both,” said Hashim. “I’m presenting a paper at a conference and visiting some family in Queens.”
“What’s your paper on?”
Hashim forced a smile to his face. This same customs agent had allowed the Asian family in front of him to pass through with hardly a question. More than likely, the agent’s superior officers had trained him to scrutinize Arab men more closely than other groups in the mistaken belief that Arab men had a high likelihood of being terrorists. In the past, that might have been an effective technique to thwart men and women like Hashim from completing God’s will, but the future rarely looked like the past.
A majority of the world’s Muslims came from Southeast Asia, but Eastern Europe had more than its fair share. Hashim’s men could just as easily train a Caucasian man from Armenia as they could an Arab from Saudi Arabia.
As tightly as the United States government squeezed its fists around men like Hashim Bashear, some would always wriggle through its fingers. It was inevitable. It was partly God’s will, but more than that, it came from the hubris of an American political class that preferred to look as if it was combating terrorism rather than getting its hands dirty in the actual practice.
“My lecture covers topics in the architecture of the Latin East from approximately 1100 A.D. to 1600 A.D.,” said Hashi
m. “If you’re interested in the subject, my lecture Thursday evening will be open to the public. It’s at nine in the evening. I can give you the address if you’d like.”
The customs agent blinked and looked Hashim in the eyes. He either wanted to look interested, or he genuinely thought he could root out deception simply by looking at another human being. Some people had a gift for that, of course, but the eyes weren’t truly windows into the soul of a deceiver. The signs of deception were more subtle than that. A carotid artery that pulsed just a little faster than average due to stress, arms held tight to the sides to minimize movements and diminish one’s size, a smile that didn’t reach past one’s lips.
Before the Islamic State’s most recent troubles, Hashim had known men in Raqqa and Mosul who could spot a liar from across the interrogation room. No doubt the US government employed thousands of similar men and women in its vast law enforcement apparatus. The agent across from him, though, hadn’t received the same training. He wasn’t a threat.
“How long are you staying in the States, sir?”
“Four days. I have return tickets already if you’d like to see them. I have to get back to my students in Dubai.”
“No need to see your tickets. Good luck with your lecture, and welcome to the United States.”
He handed Hashim the passport and then waved the family behind him forward. He had let Hashim into the United States without even searching his bag—not that he would have found anything. Hashim and his men already had everything they needed in the country. This would work out fine. As he neared the exit, a large African man walked toward him and smiled.
“As-salamu alaykum,” he said, holding out his hand. Batul had a French accent and a deep, sonorous voice. Hashim didn’t know him well, but he trusted him. Batul was a believer, and he knew Hashim was on a mission from God. If he thought it necessary for Hashim to complete His mission, Batul would storm the gates of hell with a smile on his face. Every army in the world needed cannon fodder. Batul played the role nicely.
“Wa alaykumu as-salam,” said Hashim, smiling as well. “How are you, my friend?”
Batul looked around and drew in a breath. “Better knowing you’re here. The decadence of this place cries out to God.”
Hashim caught Batul’s eyes following a young woman—probably in her early twenties—walking past. She had black hair, and she wore a black pencil skirt that showed off her legs as well as a tight-fitting sweater that showed off a scant amount of cleavage. By the standards of the day, she looked demure, but the standards of the day were produced by men and women who would one day suffer the fires of hell.
Even still, God did make women wondrous companions.
“Do you have a car?” asked Hashim.
“Yes. My brother will drive. He’s outside.”
“Then let’s go.”
Batul had to call his brother, but eventually, a black four-door sedan pulled up to the curb to pick them up. It wasn’t posh, but it was comfortable. Malik, Batul’s brother, pulled into traffic a moment later.
“Have you had this car cleaned lately?” asked Hashim.
“We can speak freely in here, brother,” said Malik. “Your son checked it last night.”
Then they truly could speak freely. Hashim’s son, Hamza, had a master’s degree in mechanical engineering and an aptitude for electronics. He understood the modern world. If Hamza had swept the car for surveillance gear and found none, there was nothing to find.
“How are our plans?”
“Our friends from New Jersey are already in DC,” said Batul. “Insh’Allah, they will attack the Metro Center station during rush hour. It will be beautiful.”
“And President Crane’s campaign rally?”
“On schedule,” said Batul. “As are all of our plans. Hamza has created the devices as you specified utilizing the parts you sent ahead. This will truly be a glorious day.”
Hashim nodded, his mind already vaulting ahead several steps.
“How are our friends in Indiana?”
Batul drew in a breath but didn’t say anything. Hashim cocked his head to the side and narrowed his gaze.
“Tell me,” he said.
Batul blinked and looked down. “They were infiltrated by a man they believed to be an FBI agent, but they took care of it internally. Their compound is still safe. We can still use it when the time comes.”
Hashim sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Can we trust them?”
“I’ve never doubted their loyalty.”
“All right, then,” said Hashim. “Tell them only what they need to know. Our work is too important to fail. We need to start calling mosques in DC to warn them of the metro station attack. Their imams will warn their flocks to stay away from the metro.”
Batul said nothing, but he sat straighter. Malik looked in the rearview mirror at Hashim, his eyes narrow.
“You can’t trust the people in this country, even those who call themselves Muslims. If we warn them of an attack, they’ll tell the authorities.”
Hashim nodded again and looked out the window. He didn’t know New York very well, but he recognized the kind of neighborhood they were in. Mixed income, very likely with a mix of black and white and Hispanic residents. The homes were small but well cared for. It was smart that his team had rented a home in a neighborhood like that one. They would blend in.
“I’m counting on that,” said Hashim. “I want the police to know of the attack.”
“If they know of it, they’ll stop it.”
Hashim sighed. “Probably.”
“Then why?” asked Malik. “We’ve worked too hard to fail.”
“Do you ever play chess?” asked Hashim, looking forward.
“I know the game.”
“Good. Then you’ll understand this. Our friends from DC and Indiana are pawns. Regrettably, we have to sacrifice them.”
“Our cousin is in Washington right now,” said Malik, looking to his right to Batul. “He has a family. Why would you sacrifice him?”
“Because sometimes you have to sacrifice your pawns to kill the king.”
Chapter 3
Nassir and I settled into the Cadillac for a long drive. Even though he hadn’t said anything specific, I knew where we were going. It was a training facility deep in the woods near the Hoosier National Forest. Nassir had been living there with a couple of other men since leaving his wife.
The FBI didn’t know what went on at the camp, but agents kept it under tight surveillance. A couple of times a week, they even flew a drone overhead to take pictures and video. In the last video I had seen, Nassir and his friends were using heavy machinery to build an earthen mound. They may have just wanted a giant pile of dirt, but I doubted that very much.
I had been a police officer in central Indiana for almost twenty years, and I had seen dirt piled up on properties in the middle of nowhere dozens of times. About half the time, the property owner had built a redneck swimming pool. He’d dig a hole, line it with a tarp, fill it with water, and have fun for a week or two. The other half of the time, the property owner needed a backstop for a shooting range.
My brother-in-law didn’t swim.
In years past, I had always thought of Nassir as a bit of a kook, but I never would have considered him dangerous. When Havelock first approached me and said he suspected Nassir and his friends were terrorists who had murdered an FBI agent, I thought I was the butt of some kind of twisted joke.
Then he started showing me evidence.
Six months ago, Nassir and two friends had flown to Doha, Qatar, where they had met with a group of businessmen, several of whom had known ties to radical Islamic groups in the Arabian peninsula. Neither the Bureau nor anyone in the American intelligence community knew what they talked about, but at the end of their trip, Nassir and his friends created a holdings company on the Isle of Man.
A month after that meeting, Nassir’s holdings company purchased a large tract of land in Brown County, Indiana, for almost thre
e million dollars cash. Brown County was one of the prettiest parts of the state, so Nassir’s property was prime real estate. If he and his business group had started applying for permits to build a bed and breakfast, the Bureau probably would have dropped its suspicions entirely.
Instead, Nassir and his friends started putting up concrete buildings themselves late at night and on the weekends. It was bizarre.
Then Nassir had joined Facebook. Facebook had billions of users, so it wouldn’t have been strange to see Nassir on the site except that he had mocked me for years for having an account.
The Bureau didn’t have access to Nassir’s Facebook account, but its agents monitored many of the private groups Nassir was in. The people in those groups traded videos of men and women being executed in the Islamic State, they joked about mass murder, they promised retribution for American air strikes in Syria, and they cheered when terrorists murdered innocent people.
Nassir didn’t just visit the pages of these private groups, though. He posted notes to them, he liked pictures and videos, and he responded to comments other people posted. By the standards of the groups he frequented, he was moderate, but it was disturbing all the same. He had been married to my sister for almost twenty-five years. I had sat beside him at Thanksgiving; I had helped him sand the hardwood floors in the crappy house he and my sister moved into when they were first married; I had helped him put together his last three barbecue grills. I had even helped him bury his daughter.
Despite all the years together, I felt like I barely knew the man.
I glanced at him and then focused on the road ahead of us. Nassir said nothing. The adrenaline had waned inside the vehicle, leaving me feeling almost sleepy.
“Do you want to talk?” he asked.
I nodded and looked out the window. “We probably should. Even without witnesses, it’s not going to take the Bureau long to find out I shot its agents. Their guys will probably talk to Hannah first and ask whether I’ve contacted her. Once they find the text I sent her, they’ll try to track me via my cell phone. We got rid of those, so we’re good there. They’ll talk to my co-workers next, but I’m officially on vacation right now. Eventually, they’ll start questioning Rana. Does she know where we’re going?”