by Rick Mofina
“That’s been taken care of.”
“Can we talk to Fulton?” Varner asked.
Valachek removed her glasses.
“I advise against it. He’s been heavily sedated since he arrived. He’s just coming around now, in and out of consciousness. It’s touch and go, he might not survive his wounds.”
“We understand the situation. But Doctor,” Tilden said, “we need a statement from him, anything at all to help us because—”
“I’m aware of the gravity of the situation with his family.” The doctor tapped her pen on her clipboard as she considered. “Okay, I’ll allow you a few moments with him—after you put on some protective gowns and coverings.”
“Thank you,” Varner said.
Valachek escorted them past the others and into the room.
The soft beeping and rhythmic hum of the equipment next to Dan’s bed offered an air of calm in the dimly lit room. His blood pressure, heart and other vitals were monitored on the small screen above him. The doctor nodded to the nurse at Dan’s bedside, who moved an IV pole so Varner could get closer.
An oxygen tube was fixed to Dan’s swollen face, which was laced with cuts and bruises. His eyes were closed. Varner turned to Valachek, who nodded. Tilden stood at the other side holding a small recorder.
“Mr. Fulton. I’m Nick Varner with the FBI. Please, let us know if you can hear me?”
Nothing but stillness in the room, but then a slight change in hum of the monitoring equipment.
“There,” the nurse said. “He moved his right fingers.”
“Thank you, Dan.” Varner held up his phone. “I need your help with a few questions. Please, if you can, hold up one finger for yes, two for no. Do you remember what happened to you today?”
Slowly Dan’s right index finger lifted.
“Do you know the men who shot you?”
Dan lifted two fingers.
Varner cued up a photo on his camera.
“I’m going to show you picture number one. Can you tell me if this person was involved?”
Dan opened his eyes to Varner’s phone at a photo of Jerricko Blaine. Dan looked into the face long and hard as if searching for something more, something greater beyond it. After a long moment, nothing happened. He raised no fingers.
“Okay, I’ll show you picture number two.”
Varner showed him a photo of Jake Spencer. Again he and Tilden looked at Dan’s hand for a response, but nothing happened. Then the beeping of his monitor increased slightly.
“I don’t think we should proceed any further,” Valachek said.
“Just another moment, please.”
Varner cued up a third photo. This time, Dan shut his eyes and tears rolled down the side of his face as he moved his fingers. His index finger went up.
“Yes?” Varner was hopeful. “You recognize number three as the person who shot you?”
Then Dan extended his thumb at a forty-five-degree angle with his finger, confusing Varner, who looked to Tilden.
“A gun?” Tilden asked.
Dan lifted two fingers.
“I’m not sure what you’re trying to tell us, Dan,” Varner said.
Valachek’s eyes flicked to the monitor. The beeping was increasing.
“Maybe an...L,” Tilden offered.
Dan lowered his thumb, leaving his index finger extended—that meant yes.
“L for Lori?” Varner asked.
Yes.
“You want to know about your wife and son?”
Dan moved his index finger for yes and the beeping increased.
“We’re searching for them. We believe we know where they are—”
The beeping got louder, faster.
“I’m ending this,” Valachek said as the beeping evolved into a loud squeal. “Out—now!” Valachek slammed a palm on the alarm button over the bed. “Susan, get the cart! He’s going into arrest!” She swiveled to face the investigators. “I said leave!”
Varner and Tilden left the room as emergency staff rushed in.
67
Springfield, Massachusetts
Through the image of his rifle scope, the sharpshooter locked on to the living room window of the one-story house on Eddywood.
The tree-lined street was deathly still, except for the chirping of birds and the quiet work of Springfield’s SWAT team. It was responding to a lead in the bank robbery abduction in Queens, New York, and Dan Fulton’s shooting in the Catskills.
New information concerning a looming attack somewhere in the United States pointed to a suspect in Springfield.
At the perimeter of the scene, FBI agent Marilyn Chase, from the Bureau’s Springfield office, was giving play-by-play updates over her phone to Nick Varner, the case agent.
At the National Counterterrorism Center in McLean, Virginia, operations officer Shane Hudson had connected more dots between the NSA intercepts from England and new incoming data from an array of top-secret networks in the US. He broke down the new analysis on the chatter by YLOI leaders in Iraq, Syria, Afghanistan and Kuwait and, aided by security agents, they’d tracked calls to a key US suspect: Todd Dalir Ghorbani of Springfield, Massachusetts.
Ghorbani’s name had surfaced in several highly classified databases of potential terrorist suspects. He was thirty, an American citizen who was born in Tehran, Iran. He’d been a toddler when his parents had been killed in 1988, while traveling in a commercial jetliner traveling from Tehran to Dubai. A US warship had mistaken the aircraft for an enemy fighter, shooting it down with a guided missile over the Strait of Hormuz in the Gulf.
“His relatives brought him to America to raise him after his parents were killed but they never told him the truth about the tragedy,” Chase told Varner. “Our cyber people say he found out three years ago while going through family papers after his adoptive father’s death.”
“That must’ve been a trigger for him,” Varner said.
“It was. The revelation traumatized him. He used an alias and began blogging about his story, finding sympathy with extremists, including Nazihah Samadyh. Our people say that she’d recruited him online.”
Ghorbani had a PhD in chemical engineering from MIT. He worked as a forensic scientist for a global company that specialized in investigating fire and explosion incidents around the world.
In examining the most recent chatter, the CIA and NSA tracked snatches of encrypted satellite phone transmissions between Ghorbani, Jake Spencer, Nazihah Samadyh and senior leaders of the YLOI in the Gulf and Middle East about “wedding plans” and the special gift from the “clock maker.”
The FBI’s ongoing execution of warrants tied Ghorbani and Spencer to Jerricko Blaine, Doug Gerard Kimmett and Adam Chisolm Patterson. However, no criminal history or fingerprints surfaced for either Kimmett or Patterson.
Drawing on further analysis of the chatter, US intelligence had now identified Ghorbani as the “clock maker” and that the wedding gift was a bomb that he’d constructed. More recent chatter involving Spencer’s satellite phone had been intentionally scrambled and was still indecipherable. NSA technicians would need more time to extract the content of the transmissions.
Given what local justice officials called “exigent circumstances,” law enforcement in Springfield took immediate action on Ghorbani’s home and work addresses.
An intense debate among the FBI and national security officials ensued on whether to release photos and information on all the suspects. Going public could force the suspects to halt their plans, go underground and destroy evidence, making it difficult for prosecution. Investigators pleaded for more time to capture their subjects before information was released.
Calls to numbers associated with Ghorbani went unanswered. At the plant where Ghorbani worked, his supervisor told i
nvestigators that he’d called in sick that morning. The option of using a ruse to lure Ghorbani outside his home and arrest him was considered but ruled out. The option of using a robot to breach the door, out of concern that explosives may be present, was ruled out as it removed the element of surprise.
Under the circumstances, a dynamic, deliberate entry was chosen.
“No movement,” the sharpshooter said softly over his headset to his commander.
Similar whisperings came from SWAT members in various positions around the small house. With everyone in position, the commander gave the green light.
Team members breached the front and back entrances. They entered rooms in pairs, gun muzzles raised, searching for threats in corners, within furniture and closets. They called “clear” when they’d checked each room. Within minutes, they’d reported to their commander that no one was present on the property.
With the house secured, the bomb squad began processing the house, concentrating on Ghorbani’s basement worktable. There they found traces of several components used in making explosives, including C-4, black powder and triacetone triperoxide. It was a violation of his employer’s policy to have any work-related materials leave company premises. More troubling: they found detailed street maps of Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, Washington, DC, and New York City. Landmarks were flagged with Xs.
At that point, new intelligence concerning Ghorbani had been captured by FBI cyber experts from the “dark web,” which was believed to host sites unreachable by search engines and normal channels.
In a recent posting to jihadists, Ghorbani had written: “The American government murdered my father and mother. It is my destiny to do all I can to honor their memory by supporting strategic martyrdom operations.”
After Springfield detectives questioned Ghorbani’s neighbors, they’d learned that one woman had thought she’d seen him driving away from his home earlier in the day. She wasn’t certain.
“It was only a couple of hours before the police showed up,” she’d said.
Attempts to pinpoint Ghorbani’s location by tracking his cell phone or the GPS in his vehicle had failed, FBI agent Marilyn Chase reported to Varner.
“We’ve issued an alert for him and his vehicle. He’s on the move, Nick. People here are convinced he’s built a device and taken it with him, but we don’t know where he’s going.”
68
The Pioneer Valley, Massachusetts
The New Age sounds of wind chimes, harps and flutes floated from the speakers of Todd Dalir Ghorbani’s red Chevy Malibu.
This was a glorious day.
He was west of downtown Springfield when he left the Mass Pike for US 20, a two-lane strip that meandered through lush wooded farmland.
At first Ghorbani was nervous about the circumstances that had forced him and his brothers to fall back to their contingency plan for the operation. But he was calmed by his music and his confidence. For months his unit had planned, studied and prepared. God’s merciful kindness would guarantee their success and Ghorbani was honored to do his part.
This mission would inflict a terrible wound on the enemy.
It would be a profound victory that would reap lasting glory.
The group of brave young lions that he was helping would provide two hundred fifty thousand dollars to fund more operations. They’d also give him names of US-born fighters, and others in Canada, Australia and Britain and around the world poised to carry out future missions.
After today’s operation concluded, Ghorbani would post the videos of the young martyrs, ship the money and information to his commanders overseas and continue his work with new recruits.
He eyed the passing roadside, slowing and leaving the highway when he came to a steel gate with the Private Property–Keep Out sign bound by wires to the bars. He unlocked the chain and drove into the bramble along a path overgrown with tall grass.
He’d rented this isolated property well over a year ago.
After traveling about fifty yards he arrived at a barn with faded, weather-beaten slats. He wheeled to the side door, got out and unlocked the padlock. The metal pulley and rollers squeaked as he slid the door open. He drove his Chevy inside, dust and bits of straw rising in the columns of light piercing the gapped walls as he eased his car next to a vehicle shrouded with a canvas cover.
Ghorbani got out and pulled off the cover before opening the vehicle’s trunk. Then he went to his Malibu and opened the trunk where four backpacks sat waiting. Grunting, he hefted the first one, setting it carefully in the waiting vehicle’s trunk. He did the same with the others. When he finished, he dragged the back of his hand across his brow and admired his work.
He’d taken such loving care assembling the components—the initiator, the switch, the main charge and power source—within a large container. He’d used TATP, which had proven effective in the London attacks. He’d packed each container with twenty-five pounds of “enhancements” such as nails, glass and jagged steel fragments. Anyone within one hundred feet would be killed. Anyone within a thousand feet would be injured. In a crowded area, the casualties would be high. The psychological impact, the sheer terror, the disruption would be catastrophic.
Ghorbani prayed for a moment before taking care of other preparations he needed to complete. When he was ready, he got into the vehicle he’d just loaded and drove off, locking up at each step.
He resumed driving on US 20, then back on to The Pike, heading west to New York State.
69
Coyote Mountains, New York
Lori could breathe again.
“They’re gone,” she whispered to Billy, still trembling in her arms.
“You’re sure?”
“Let’s go, before they come back!”
Taking great pains, she very slowly moved the bushes enough to slip away. Adrenaline pumping, they continued rushing through the woods. Their legs ached. Their faces and hands were bloodied, stinging with cuts and scrapes from branches and needles.
They pushed on.
Lori thought of the helicopter that had passed in the distance. It was gone now but it might return. Maybe they’re looking for us. The possibility gave her hope.
Lori begged God to let them find a hiker, a house, a road—anything.
Help us! Please!
They heard a rushing that grew louder as they came to a clearing and a small cliff over a fast-flowing river. She crouched down with Billy and scanned the banks in both directions.
“We’ll follow this river,” she said. “There’s got to be help along here somewhere.”
“I’m thirsty.”
Lori slid off the backpack, pulled out the water bottle, unscrewed the cap and passed it to him. Billy took a swallow—then froze. His eyes widened at something behind Lori. She turned to Jerricko Blaine, who’d stepped from the woods leveling his gun at them.
The water bottle hit the ground as Cutty appeared and seized Billy.
“Don’t you hurt him!” Lori lunged at Cutty but Percy jerked her back and punched her in the gut, forcing her down to her hands and knees, gasping for air.
Vic snatched the backpack and pulled it open.
“We’re losing time,” Jerricko said. “We’ll prosecute them right here. Cut those vests off. We don’t need them anymore. Record the video. We’ll do the boy first.”
Cutty produced a large serrated knife and sliced off the vests.
The bombs were never real, Lori realized. But what did it matter now? She and Billy were backed up at gunpoint to a flat patch of earth. Percy pulled Billy’s arms behind his back and tied his hands with a strip of rope. Then he tied Lori’s hands. Vic had been rummaging through the backpack and dumping the contents on the ground.
“It’s not here! The laptop’s not here!”
Jerric
ko’s eyes narrowed at Lori.
“Where’s our computer?”
Lori refused to speak.
In one clean motion, Cutty clenched Billy’s hair, yanked back his head to expose his throat and pressed his knife to his skin.
“No! Don’t hurt him!”
Billy shook with fear as tears streamed down his face.
“We killed your husband. The kid’s next!”
“Mom!”
“Don’t hurt him!”
“Where’s the laptop?”
Lori looked at Billy.
I need to buy time.
“I—I hid it.”
“Where?”
She pointed her chin to the forest in the proper direction.
“I marked the spot.”
Jerricko stared at her. “You’re going to get it for us. You two stay here with the boy. Untie her hands, so she can move faster. Let’s go!”
70
Coyote Mountains, New York
What can I do now?
Lori’s heart pounded like a jackhammer; panic burned through her mind.
Yes, she’d bought time, but she was losing it every second as they marched her back through the forest at gunpoint. Her brain roared at her to do something, anything, to save them.
I have no options. I have nothing.
Locating the tree was not easy. The woods looked different to her traveling in this direction.
Oh God, what if I can’t find it?
Each time she stopped to cope with indecision on which way to go, Jerricko jabbed her with his gun.
“Stop wasting time!”
The faraway sound of a helicopter faded in and out, like a distant dream. Whenever Lori paused to look skyward he prodded her with his gun.
“Stop stalling!”
She’d stumbled over outcroppings and stepped through twisted masses of fallen trees as she led them back through the area where she and Billy had hidden. Vic and Jerricko grew impatient each time they heard the intermittent whump of a helicopter.