Keegan deliberated on what Wolf was selling them here.
It wasn’t exactly an interrogation. He only spoke to me after what he said about my father not being killed by his people.
Keegan hung on to those words for a few moments. The idea that the NYPD could have gotten his father’s murderer wrong—or worse, intentionally hid the truth—was very disconcerting to Keegan.
Why would Zein lie? It doesn’t make any sense.
Keegan knew that he couldn’t focus on that right now as the words which Wolf was speaking was significantly more important at the present. He looked up at the screen to see the next pair of photos being displayed. Wolf had introduced the two men as Libyan nationals; brothers who were both apprehended yesterday morning in a pre dawn raid in San Francisco. He further explained that when Ali and Akeem Benliz were taken into custody, a stolen U-Haul van loaded with one hundred pounds of plastic explosives was recovered from an alley behind their residence.
Keegan’s thoughts were half with his father’s assassination and half with Wolf. He did his best to concentrate as Wolf detailed the arrest of Malik al-Jafri at a Hotel 6 in Dallas, but his mind kept wandering back to where he knew that it shouldn’t be right now.
Keegan tuned back into what Wolf was saying…this time determined to remain focused. He looked Wolf in the eyes and studied his pale features as he spoke. “Our last apprehension was both good and bad. Saleem Mihdhar was taken into custody without any incident and a twenty-five pound suicide vest was recovered.” Wolf paused and a scowl came to his mouth. “Unfortunately for us, as Murad Zein went for the suicide vest when we kicked in his door, Saleem Mihdhar instead went for his computer. He must have heard the agents coming and rather than go for the vest, he sent out an email warning the others.”
Wolf raised his eyebrows. “On the upside, none of the bombers seemed to have received the email in time to flee. Unfortunately, the man Murad Zein said was the mastermind, Ahmed Hatif, did. We didn’t discover the email until about eight hours later, so Hatif had a huge head start on us to begin with.”
Wolf once again hit the remote and another mid-eastern man appeared on the screen. His face was thin with a long black beard. His eyes were as dark as coal; not just in color. One of the other FBI agents began to pass out an assortment of photos and information about the man as Wolf spoke.
“We hit the Brooklyn apartment where Hatif had been staying, but it looks like he’s long gone. We found a couple of parking summonses, and from that, we were able to find the type of car that he has.”
Galvin leaned in to Keegan and whispered, “Just like the Son of Sam case.”
Keegan shook his head and agreed, pretending he understood the reference.
I’ll have to remember to look that case up later to see what parking tickets have to do with a serial killer.
Keegan rechanneled his attention back to Wolf. “A nationwide alarm was broadcast for the 2010 black Chevrolet Equinox listed on the summonses. We had agents throughout New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut, check all of the airports and train stations. About six hours ago, we hit pay dirt in Yonkers. The vehicle was recovered there.”
Wolf advanced the frame to another photo. “You can clearly see from the surveillance camera installed at the Amtrak station that it is, in fact, Hatif. The attendant sold him a one-way ticket to Rouses Point in upstate New York; he paid in cash. Rouses Point is only about a mile away from the Canadian Border. We dispatched agents to the train station, but we were a few hours too late. Once again, his image was captured on surveillance, but he was gone. Early this morning, the New York State Police took a report for a stolen vehicle from a private home a short distance from the train station. A nationwide alarm has been placed on that vehicle as well as all indications point to Hatif.”
Wolf had a somewhat defeated look as he added. “It seems pretty clear that he fled the United States into Canada. Murad Zein had told us their M.O. was passage in through Canada, so it would make sense that they would also use Canada as a means of egress.”
Keegan was thumbing through each picture as was Galvin. Wolf then began to close the briefing session. “So we have apprehended, or killed, each member of the sleeper cell with the exception of Hatif, but at this point it’s a safe bet that he is long gone. Through the proper channels, we notified Canada and INTERPOL. If we get lucky, he’s still in Canada. But more than likely, he’s had plans to get back to the middle-east already planned out in the event of something like this happening to him. Hatif has joined Sheykh Muhammad Hajjar on the FBI’s top ten list with a two million dollar bounty on his head.” A photo of Hajjar was passed out as well. “Hajjar is thought to be the mastermind of the plot.”
Wolf ran a hand across the back of his neck. “These guys were fairly well organized. We really got lucky…of course, that won’t be our position to the public. We recovered two hundred pounds of U.S. military grade C-4 explosives…that means four hundred pounds is still out there and unaccounted for.”
Did he just say US military grade? What the fuck?
Keegan and Galvin looked at each other; both clearly confused by this revelation. Wolf had apparently seen the look in their eyes as well and offered to them, “gentlemen, you guys just got here today. I’m sure Detective Castillo will catch you up on things, but the short story is that six hundred pounds of C-4 was stolen from the military during a transport.”
Castillo put a hand out and nodded in acknowledgement that he would catch the men up to date regarding the stolen explosives.
“Thank you, Louie,” before Wolf continued wrapping up the session. “We’ve had engineers take a look at the Golden Gate Bridge, and they feel that the terrorists did have enough explosives to take the bridge down, or at very least severely damage the info structure if placed in the correct locations. I’m assuming the terrorists were well aware of this. While it looks like this is behind us, we need to step up security to post 9/11 levels. We’ve notified local police throughout the country to have posts at both ends of every bridge; we’ve increased security at the airports, train stations, and subway systems. If nothing else, we hope this will deter any future attempts.”
Wolf clicked the remote twice more; one ended the photo display, the other turned on the lights. He shook his head slightly. “Good job by everyone involved, but we can’t rest on our laurels. I’m sure that we all have a lot of work to do.”
Keegan turned to Castillo as attaché cases were filled with the pictures and handouts given out during the meeting. Castillo was depositing his own papers in his briefcase and without looking up, addressed Keegan and Galvin. No sooner than had Castillo caught the men up than did the phone at the head of the table ring. Silence instantly overtook the room. Every breathing soul stopped dead in their tracks and stared at Wolf as he answered.
Keegan, as did everyone else in the room, tried as hard as possible to listen in on the conversation. Wolf kept the conversation short and hearing only once side didn’t yield any vital information. After he hung up the phone; “That was Warren Oliver with the Department of Homeland Security. The stolen vehicle was recovered abandoned in a wooded area less than one hundred yards from the Canadian border about a quarter of a mile west of Route 276. On the passenger seat of the vehicle, the police recovered a one way Amtrak ticket from Yonkers to Rouses Point.”
Wolf reluctantly pointed out what everyone had already resolved. “Ahmed Hatif has definitely made it across the Canadian border. He’s now out of our reach, and I would highly doubt he will ever show his face again on American soil. The CIA or INTERPOL is our best shot at apprehending or killing him.”
Chapter 20
Sixty miles east of Kabul, Afghanistan
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Riding around blindfolded in the back seat of the jeep had been rather uncomfortable. He was rather certain though, that they were still in Afghanistan—or perhaps Pakistan. He believed that although they had driven for over three hours, they wer
e not as far from where he was picked up as the men driving wanted him to believe they were. If he had to guess, he figured it to be somewhere less than a hundred kilometers, or about an hour’s drive. He respected the men for their vigilance to protect the whereabouts of the location to which he was being taken.
As a camera man and journalist for Al-Jazeera, this was to be the fourth time that Bilal Abad would meet Sheykh Mohammad Hajjar face to face. Abad had the distinction—and honor—of being selected by Hajjar to film the great ones messages to the western world. At age twenty-eight, Abad was well respected throughout the Arab community for his work with Al-Jazeera.
Abad could sense that the ride was nearly over as he felt the jeeps ride becoming rougher. While he was unable to see, his other senses seemed heightened. He calculated that it was about a half hour ago when the jeep had left a smooth road for a noticeably unpaved one.
The jeep came to a sudden halt, and with that, Abad was escorted out of the jeep. On either side, a guide aided the way by hooking their arms though his. It wasn’t in any way in a threatening or callous manner. It was just a matter of protecting the clandestine location and Abad understood that. This was the same way which he had been treated the first three times he had met with the Sheykh. The first—and even the second time—it had been angst provoking, but not this time. Abad was now familiar with the protocol, and the fact that the Sheykh not only trusted him, but also seemed to like him, made Abad feel safe.
It was a cool afternoon; perhaps even cooler than it was when he had embarked on this journey from Jalalabad. After less than a five minute walk, it became cooler yet. Abad was directed to lower his head as he walked. Although still blindfolded, the sunlight seemed to fade away into darkness. Abad was certain that they were in a cave now. He could smell the dampness; almost taste it.
Abad was ordered to stop walking, his arms were released and he was stood straight up. The blindfold was removed and before him stood Sheykh Muhammad Hajjar. Abad looked at the man who greeted him with a gentile smile. Hajjar seemed to be showing his age more now than ever before. His long beard was more gray and unkempt that it had been less than a year ago when the two men were last face to face.
Hajjar wore a loose fitting, woolen Perahan Tuban—the traditional menswear in the area commonly worn by the Taliban. Hajjar extended his arms from underneath a matching dark brown shawl and moved in to hug Abad. Abad hugged him back then bowed his head, offering much deserved respect. Hajjar nodded back as he adjusted his pakol. Abad had felt awkward at having brushed into the traditional headgear worn by the Sheykh when the two hugged.
In their native tongue, “I trust you were made comfortable during your long journey.”
Abad had been far from comfortable as he was blindfolded and made to lay down in the back seat of an old army style jeep for such a long period of time. “Yes, my Sheykh. I was very comfortable. I was even more comforted to know that I would be seeing you again.”
“That is very kind of you to say, my brother.”
Abad could see warmness in the Sheykh’s eyes that few in the west would ever see. He knew the Sheykh cared about the people; unlike Americans and Europeans who cared about money and power before their people. Hajjar turned to one of his men. “Get him some water. I’m sure the journey was lengthy and tiresome.”
Abad accepted a cup filled with water from the soldier. It was quite welcomed as his mouth was dry and polluted with dessert sand. He drank. The water seemed to travel in slow motion, hydrating from his lips to his throat in a steady pace. He handed the cup back to the man and made a quick study of his surroundings. The tan, uneven walls of the cave were much the same as the other caves he had been in over the years in the region. A half dozen brown and tan striped area carpets were laid out along the floor, covering nearly half of the area of the cave. The roof was only about six inches taller than his five foot, nine inch height. There was a table and chair set up against a wall; a white bed sheet was hung behind the table where, unless Abad missed his guess, was where the interview would take place.
Abad also noted nearly a dozen followers of the Sheykh standing around the medium sized cave. One of the men held Abad’s camera, most were armed with military type assault rifles. Two of them stood at the entrance of the cave facing out; their guns at the ready. There were also two men in the cave that outwardly would appear to be Americans. They were not tied up or did not appear to be prisoners in any way, but if their looks were not indicative enough, the way they were dressed made the conclusion obvious.
Sheykh Muhammad Hajjar motioned toward the table in the corner. “We should begin.”
The Sheykh pushed the chair aside and sat on the table. He extended an arm to one of his men who knowingly handed him an assault rifle. Hajjar slipped his arm threw the sling and allowed the weapon to hang over his shoulder.
Abad was handed his camera and turned it on. A bright light lit up the cave. Abad adjusted the light so it would reflect off the ceiling and illuminate the cave. He pointed the camera at Hajjar.
Sheykh Hajjar grabbed the assault rifle; his left hand grabbed the fore-end just in front of the banana magazine and his other hand settled by the trigger. His index finger twitched ever so slightly before coming to a rest outside of the trigger guard. Abad began to film and Hajjar spoke. In English, “Two weeks ago today, we began our latest Jihad against the American people. We suffered a loss at the hands of the Americans. But he is not gone; he is with Allah reaping his rewards for a job well done. He will have more women and riches than he ever imagined for taking the fight back to America.”
Hajjar stood up and lifted the rifle’s sling over his shoulder; setting the weapon down on the table behind him. He ran a hand the entire length of his foot long beard before he continued. “The American people think that they have defeated us—that they have stopped us. They think that this was the entirety of our attack.” He smiled and his eyes darkened. “To these Americans, I say you are wrong. You are so very wrong. The attacks on your Thanksgiving holiday were only the beginning. There are many more attacks planned throughout the United States and her allies abroad.”
Abad continued to record as he contemplated about the Sheykh’s assertion. It wouldn’t be the first time that the Sheykh had made an idle to threat to scare the Americans if it were not true. Psychological warfare certainly had its place when one is so outnumbered by the enemy. Abad realized that there was probably only one man in the room who knew if the Sheykh was bluffing or telling the truth. That would be Hajjar, himself.
“I am calling for all Muslims throughout the world, and in particular, the west, to rise up against the United States and those who support the American ideals. I am demanding that the United States President withdraw all troops from Muslim countries immediately. Until they stop involving themselves in our wars, we will not stop attacking them on their own soil. We will no longer wait for them to come to us to slaughter our women and children.” Hajjar pounded a fist on the desk to amplify his point. “We will take the fight to America!”
Hajjar took a couple of deep breaths, clearly to let the threat sink in with the Americans. Abad panned in on Hajjar’s face. His eyes narrowed menacingly. “I implore all Muslims to take part in this Jihad; I ask any Americans with a conscious to join us. You will not be alone.”
Hajjar turned to the two Americans in the corner and waved them over. Abad focused the camera on the two men as they walked over to the Sheykh. One at a time, they embraced and then bowed before him. Abad took note of the uniforms, but was not sure what branch of the United States armed forces the men had been with. Yet, there was no doubt that they were American soldiers.
Hajjar placed an arm around one of the men and smiled before he went on. “These men are my brothers. They are American, yet they are still my brothers. They have seen the ills of the American way of life and have made great sacrifice to join with those of us in the right who see the truth. They have embraced our way of life; one where money and power does not c
ome before the people; one where a government does not oppress people half the world away. The Americans would see the Muslim world suffer genocide if they could. We must not let that happen. I urge every other person throughout the world, I urge every American to see the truth. Unite with us and we can root out the infidels before they can come to our countries and kill our people.”
Hajjar once again hugged the American soldiers. “I would like to thank my brothers for their service to the Jihad and ask them to address the American people. The Americans should hear the truth from other Americans; not the lies their government spews.”
*
Sheykh Hajjar once again picked up the rifle put the sling back over his shoulder, this time he rested his finger on the trigger. The camera was focused on the American soldiers who were instrumental in the suicide bombings. Having stolen the C-4 was a huge achievement, but their true value was in the anti-American propaganda and even recruitment of other Americans. Hajjar couldn’t wait to see the worldwide reaction to the video once it was broadcast by Al-Jazeera in the next few days. Anytime Hajjar released a new message, the world took interest. He knew that this one was to be the most powerful memorandum to date. Coming on the heels of numerous suicide bombing attempts, and the defection of two American soldiers, the threat was undeniable.
The soldiers spoke one at a time. They spoke in English, and while Hajjar was fluent in the language, he hadn’t listened to a word that they spoke. It was nothing more than background noise to Hajjar. It really didn’t matter what they said—their actions spoke for themselves. They had murdered fellow American soldiers—infidels—in the name of Allah. They had stolen six hundred pounds of American explosives to be used against the Americans (only a fraction of which has been found). They were also very useful and forthcoming with any information and training they had received from their country.
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