The Terrorist Next Door

by Sheldon Siegel

  “I already talked to the FBI. I don’t know anything about the bombing at the El. We don’t condone violence. I’m not a terrorist.”

  He was more defensive than Gold had anticipated. “We’re just trying to figure out who stole your car. Let us come inside and ask you a few questions. Then you can get back to painting, and we can get back to chasing bad guys.”

  “This is racial profiling.”

  “That’s illegal.”

  Battle stepped forward and invoked a fatherly tone. “Ahmed, word is out on the street that your Blazer blew up at the El. If you work with us, we’ll run some interference for you. If not, you know the drill—subpoenas, lawyers, the media—stuff that a law-abiding citizen like you would rather avoid. We’d appreciate a moment of your time, and we’d really like to get out of the rain.”

  Jafar opened the door.

  * * *

  Gold expected to find a painting crew inside, but he quickly surmised that Jafar was handling the job himself, with a little help from Janikowski. He felt the soft rugs beneath the drop cloths as he and Battle followed the young imam through the narrow room that served as the area for prayers, the daycare center, the senior meeting place, the performing arts room, and the dining hall. The freshly painted walls were pure white. Gold tried to break the ice as they walked. “You been here all morning?”

  Jafar nodded. “Since eight o’clock. We couldn’t do prayers because we’re painting.”

  “Did anybody else come in this morning?”

  “Mike got here about twenty minutes ago.”

  “Has he worked for you before?”

  “No. This is the first time.”

  “You’re the imam?”

  “Yeah. I’m also the CEO, secretary, cook, driver, janitor, and, at the moment, painter. I’m the only paid employee. We have a lot of volunteers.”

  Gold glanced at the painter, who was listening to music on his iPod. “Is he a volunteer?”

  “Mike’s a handyman. He recently got back from his second tour in Afghanistan. Father Sobczyk over at St. Hyacinth’s asked the religious institutions in the neighborhood to help him find work. I can’t pay him much.”

  Gold would check him out. “How long has this mosque been here?” He already knew the answer.

  “Almost five years.” Jafar’s story jibed with the information provided by Fong.

  “What was here before you moved in?”

  “The Logan Square Tap.”

  That explained the whitewashed bar running the length of the room. The shelves that once held bottles were now filled with books. “I hear you’re looking at a bigger space.”

  “We’re trying to buy a building around the corner from St. Hyacinth’s.”

  “How do your neighbors feel about it?”

  “Let’s say the reaction has been mixed.”

  “Have you raised the money?”

  “We’ve asked for a grant from the Chicago Islamic Council.” Jafar stopped in front of a teapot on the bar. “Thirsty?”

  “Thank you,” Gold said, hoping to buy some additional time with Jafar. Battle also nodded.

  Jafar poured a cup of tea for each of them. Then he led them into a makeshift office cobbled together from plasterboard partitions. Gold and Battle sat down in the mismatched folding chairs. Jafar’s dented metal desk and chipped wooden credenza looked as if they’d been purchased at the Salvation Army thrift store down the block. The only modern technology was a laptop on the credenza next to an inkjet printer. The walls were brightened by framed photos of his wife and children. Jafar settled into his tattered chair and switched on his computer. “Who stole our van?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Gold said. “When was the last time you saw it?”

  “Thursday night. I parked in the alley around eight-thirty. I was inside for twenty minutes. I didn’t see anybody or hear anything. I had the only set of keys, so the thief must have hotwired the ignition. I called you guys right away. Two of your colleagues from Logan Square station showed up three hours later. I didn’t hear another word until this morning.”

  Gold wasn’t surprised. “Was anybody else here?”

  “No.” Jafar’s tone turned emphatic. “Nobody from our mosque took our van. This is a house of peace.”

  “Maybe somebody is trying to make it look like your house isn’t so peaceful.” Gold and his people would interview everybody associated with the mosque. “Got any angry members?”

  “No.”

  “Anybody with a criminal record?”

  “Probably. We don’t do background checks before we invite people to come in for prayers.”

  “Any of your members ever been in any trouble?”

  “Nobody’s in jail, Detective.”

  “Ever had any problems?”

  Jafar considered. “This community has never been crazy about change. A lot of Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, and Muslims have moved in. It isn’t news that the Muslims—even guys like me who were born here and eat at McDonald’s and drink Starbucks—aren’t going to win any popularity contests. Ninety-nine percent of the people leave us alone.”

  Battle spoke up. “You have steel grating on your door.”

  “That’s for the other one percent. There’s opposition to our new building. You’d think we were trying to build a mosque a few blocks from the World Trade Center instead of refurbishing an abandoned auto body shop. We’ve been careful since the Al-Shahid case broke.”

  It was the opening Gold had been waiting for. “I hear you know Hassan Al-Shahid.”

  “I met him at a CIC board meeting. You probably already know that he was a donor.”

  “We do. The CIC is also suspected of trying to recruit jihadists.”

  “Not true.”

  “Does it bother you that part of your grant came from a terrorist?”

  “I accepted a contribution from a reputable charity. If Hassan Al-Shahid is responsible for what happened in South Chicago, he should be punished.” Jafar cleared his throat. “I recognized you from the news, Detective. For what it’s worth, I’m very sorry about your partner, and I’ll do whatever I can to help. I’d be happy to give you information about our members and the CIC. In the meantime, unless you have other questions, I need to help Mike finish painting. I promised our members that our daycare center would reopen tomorrow morning.”

  “Mind if we take a quick look around?”

  “Be my guest. I have nothing to hide.”

  * * *

  Gold and Battle found no throwaway cell phones, explosives, or weapons. A check of Jafar’s credit cards, e-mail accounts, and phone records uncovered no direct links to Al-Shahid. The painter had a stellar military record including an honorable discharge. Gold enlisted two detectives from Logan Square station to interview the members of the mosque. Fong already had a team of FBI undercover agents keeping the building under surveillance.

  Gold and Battle eluded Mojo and the expanding press contingent on Milwaukee Avenue on their way to the Crown Vic. Battle pulled down the sun visor as he turned on the ignition. “We need to get the full story about this mosque and Jafar,” he said. “Maybe we should talk to Fong again.”

  Gold shook his head. “If you want to know what’s going on in Polish Town, you need to talk to a priest.”

  Chapter 6

  “THE OLD NEIGHBORHOOD IS CHANGING”

  Father Stanislaus Sobczyk flashed a gap-toothed smile and extended a huge hand to Gold. “Good to see you, David.”

  Gold returned the smile. “Good to see you, too, Father Stash.”

  Father Stash had been baptized at St. Hyacinth’s Catholic Church seventy-two years earlier, and he’d spoken Polish before he’d learned English. At ten-forty-five on Monday morning, Gold and Battle had found the gregarious priest chatting amiably in Polish with an elderly parishioner on the front steps of the church next to the polished bronze plaque reading “Jesus Christ—Yesterday, Today and Forever. Jubilee 2000 Millennium.”

  The majestic triple steeples
of St. Hyacinth’s had been a reassuring landmark on the Northwest Side for more than ninety years. The church’s namesake was born in Poland in 1183, and he was ordained in Krakow. Seven centuries later, a modest wooden church bearing his name was erected near the corner of Milwaukee Avenue and Central Park to serve forty newly arrived Polish families in a city called Chicago. The parish quickly outgrew its original building, and in 1921, Father John Sobieszczyk blessed a magnificent new brick church a few blocks away. Its two thousand seats were filled for each of the five masses that followed—four in Polish, and one in English. For many years, when the Milwaukee Avenue bus approached Woolfram Street on Sunday mornings, the driver called out “Jackowo,” which meant St. Hyacinth in Polish. The church still attracted over ten thousand worshippers every weekend, where masses were celebrated in Polish, English, and, more recently, Spanish.

  Father Stash moved his reading glasses to the top of his bald dome. “How’s your father, David?”

  “He’s doing okay, Father Stash.”

  “I’ll drop him a note. We’re Facebook friends.” Father Stash had met Harry Gold when they’d marched against the Vietnam War. St. Hyacinth’s Parish had lost two dozen of its sons to that conflict, where Father Stash had served as a chaplain. The priest held out a hand to Battle. “Stan Sobczyk. Around here I’m Father Stash.”

  “A.C. Battle. I’ve heard good things about you.”

  “Thanks.” The priest’s expression turned serious as he spoke to Gold. “I saw you on the news. Do you have any idea who’s setting off the bombs?”

  “Getting closer.”

  “You wouldn’t lie to a priest, would you?”

  “Absolutely not. We were hoping you might be able to help us. Do you have time to answer a few questions?”

  “Give me a moment.”

  Gold and Battle waited patiently as Father Stash took out his iPhone and fired off a text. Then he opened the bronze door and led them inside, where he nodded to the few parishioners scattered in the pews. Gold took a breath of cool air as he admired the statues of St. Peter and St. Paul standing guard on either side of the altar. The serenity provided a welcome respite from Gold’s chaotic morning. A marble etching of the church’s namesake looked down from above, his ruddy face colored by light filtered through a refurbished stained glass window.

  Father Stash escorted Gold and Battle to an empty pew in the Alcove of Our Lady of Czestochowa. “It’s always nice to see you,” he said to Gold, “but shouldn’t you be out looking for the bomber?”

  “We were at the Shrine of Heaven.”

  “The old neighborhood is changing.”

  “So I gather. What’s the vibe about the mosque?”

  “Mixed.” Father Stash chose his words carefully. “Polish Town is like South Chicago, David. We never embrace change enthusiastically, but we try to be respectful of our neighbors. We’re trying to encourage inter-faith dialogue and activities.”

  “You know Ahmed Jafar?”

  “Yes. Good guy. He’s an honorable man who has reached out to us and done good works for our entire community.”

  “Is that the consensus of your parish?”

  “Not everybody is as open-minded as I am.”

  “We’ve heard rumors that he was involved in gun-smuggling a few years ago.”

  “The FBI paid me a visit. I don’t know anything about it.”

  “We’ve heard some of the members of his mosque aren’t such solid citizens.”

  “I don’t know anything about that, either.”

  “What can you tell us about Jafar?”

  “He’s taking a lot of heat because he wants to buy an empty building on Diversey. The damn thing has been an eyesore for years. I’ve seen his plans—it’ll be a nice addition to our community if it ever gets built. The Al-Shahid case and the bombings this morning may derail the project. I try to remind our parishioners that this wasn’t always a Polish neighborhood.” The priest arched a bushy eyebrow. “I’ve had a lot of practice at keeping secrets, David. Do you think there’s a connection between the Shrine of Heaven and the bombings?”

  “The car that blew up at the Addison El belonged to the mosque.”

  “I heard. Ahmed is too smart to blow up a car easily traceable to him.”

  “What about the possibility that somebody else at the mosque might be involved? Any disgruntled members?”

  “Ask the FBI. I’m sure they’re watching the mosque.”

  “They are. Let me ask you about something else. We met a painter at the mosque named Michael Janikowski. Do you know him?”

  “I baptized him. His mother lives around the corner. Mike’s father used to run a deli on Diversey. Unfortunately, he died of a heart attack during Mike’s last tour in Afghanistan. Mike did two tours in Iraq before that. I’ve been trying to help him find work. It isn’t easy in this economy. I got Ahmed to hire him to help with the paint job.”

  “I heard. How’s re-entry going?”

  “Up and down.”

  “Post-traumatic stress?”

  “Not as far as I can tell. I’ve been watching kids come back from the service since Vietnam. Mike’s unit dismantled bombs. It’s a high stress job with no margin for error. His brother is in the Air Force in Germany. A few weeks after Mike got home, his mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. He’s staying with her until she finishes her treatments.”

  “Tough stuff.”

  “Yes, it is. Mike still comes to church every Sunday. Played football at Gordon Tech and graduated at the top of his class. Volunteered for the Marines. Came home with a handful of medals and a Purple Heart. We’re very proud of him.”

  “Anything we can do to help?”

  “I’m trying to convince him to go back to school. He might look into the police academy. Can I put him in touch with you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Give my best to your dad.”

  * * *

  The young man took a sip of tea as he glanced at his laptop. The red dot was blinking on Milwaukee Avenue just north of Fullerton. The miniature GPS he’d slipped under the radiator of Battle’s Crown Vic two days earlier was working.

  Attention to detail.

  The CNN website was re-running footage of smoke billowing from the Addison El station. “The El is down until further notice,” the announcer intoned.

  Easier than I thought.

  “And today’s Cubs game has been postponed.”

  You know you’ve hit the big time when you shut down the Friendly Confines.

  He meticulously reassembled the cell phone sitting on his desk. He switched off his computer and pulled a throwaway phone from his pocket. He made sure that he had punched in the correct number. Then he pressed Send.

  * * *

  Gold and Battle were heading south on Milwaukee Avenue toward the Kennedy when Maloney’s name appeared on Gold’s BlackBerry. There was anger in the chief’s voice. “I need you downtown right away,” he snapped. “The asshole just set off a bomb in the garage at Millennium Park.”

  Chapter 7

  “WHAT’S THE ISLAMIC FREEDOM FEDERATION?”

  Millennium Park was an urban oasis built above old rail yards a block north of the Art Institute between Michigan Avenue and the lakefront. Bordered by the Prudential Building and the Aon Center, the old Main Library, and a greenbelt leading to the lake, the second Mayor Daley’s tribute to contemporary urban design was usually a serene public space where strollers lingered over ice cream cones and sipped fruit drinks as they enjoyed a respite from the harsh realities of the Loop.

  But this was no ordinary day. Except for police and emergency vehicles, Millennium Park was empty.

  Gold looked up at the helicopters as he and Battle approached the park on a gridlocked Randolph Drive. He glanced over at a young man driving a Honda. His knuckles were white from the death grip he had on the steering wheel.

  They parked the Crown Vic on the sidewalk. Gold’s lungs filled with black smoke billowing up through the ventilati
on shafts from the underground garage. The park was cordoned off by yellow tape. An army of cops encircled the media mob near the stage of the Jay Pritzker Music Pavilion, where the mayor was about to conduct another press briefing. Gold and Battle took a circuitous route to Columbus Drive, where fire engines, police units, and ambulances lined the west side of the street near the entrance to the garage.

  They found a stressed Maloney inside the Chicago PD’s crowded mobile command unit parked beneath the pedestrian bridge. The chief reported that one casualty had been confirmed, and at least two other people had been injured. Teams of Area 1 detectives were searching for witnesses and reviewing security videos.

  Maloney deferred to Commander Mike Rowan of the Bomb Squad, who filled in the details. “The bomb was set off in a Toyota Corolla reported stolen from the parking lot of the Blue Island Metra station on Friday. The owner is not a suspect. Security videos show the car entering the garage at five-thirty this morning. We can’t identify the driver. Trunk was filled with gas cans. Detonator was a throwaway phone serviced by U.S. Cellular. FBI says it was purchased for cash at a Best Buy in Buffalo Grove on July fourteenth.” Rowan said the initiating phone was a throwaway purchased at a K-Mart in Oak Lawn. “The initiating call was placed from downtown, but we don’t have a precise location. Verizon, T-Mobile, and U.S. Cell have shut down access to all disposable cell phones within a one hundred mile radius. We’ve made a similar request to the other carriers. We hope to have access shut down within the hour.”

  * * *

  The young man fingered the disposable cell phone as he watched the WGN website. Mojo was showing footage from the mayor’s press conference. Service to Verizon, T-Mobile, and U.S. Cellular throwaways had been cut off. The other carriers would soon follow suit. He closed his laptop and put it inside its black bag. He was tempted to send Gold another text, but he didn’t want to get cocky or make a careless mistake.

  Time to get busy.

  * * *

  Battle’s left hand rested on the steering wheel of the Crown Vic as he and Gold barreled south on Lake Shore Drive on their way to police headquarters. An exodus from downtown was underway, and traffic was heavy. Battle leaned on the horn as a Mercedes darted in front of them. “Anything more from Fong?”