“So tell me more about this big assignment, honey. I can tell you’re all excited.”
Ellen smiled, winked, and squeezed my knee.
“It’s a super job, probably the biggest I’ve ever handled. The client, Angus MacPherson[AB10], is filthy rich. He owns shopping malls across the country and is gobbling up land to build more. He’s an interesting guy. He’s over six feet tall, around seventy years old, and has an explosion of white hair. He’s an American citizen, but he speaks with a Scottish brogue so thick you could cut it with a plastic knife. I’ve never met a client who has more input into a project. He’s leaving the design details to me, but he has some specific requirements that I find strange.”
“Strange?” I asked. That word always gets my attention. Something that’s strange means that it’s something that shouldn’t be there. And something that shouldn’t be there often turns out to be a dot.
“Yeah, strange,” said Ellen. “Instead of a second or third floor, he wants each shopping center to have only one floor, with huge stainless steel ceiling panels tilted inward. The entire ceiling will actually be stainless steel. I’ve done preliminary sketches, and the design looks beautiful, but it doesn’t make sense. What do you think, Rick?”
“I think you’re right. Strange is the word. How much rentable floor space is this man giving up just for a pretty design? Is he a businessman or an art lover?”
“I’ll give you a specific number, Rick. For the first five shopping centers he’s planning, he’ll give up over 90,000 square feet of retail space. At the average rental prices in the five different markets, he’ll lose a potential $3.6 million a year, just on the first five projects.”
“This is wrong,” I said. “This is just plain fucked up. Sorry for my language, hon, but nobody who calls himself a businessman would sacrifice that kind of money just for an aesthetically pleasing design. Ellen, I want you to keep me up to date on these projects. Something is out of place.”
“Are you talking as my husband or an FBI agent? I wouldn’t be happy if you found something wrong and locked up my favorite client. This project is so exciting.”
“Does that mean you’re going to feel frisky for the life of the job?”
“Yes, it probably does.” She leaned over and kissed me.
“In that case, if I find he’s in violation of the law, I won’t bust him until the last possible moment.”
Finally, we found something about Ellen’s job that I could focus on, something that would make me pay more attention to what she was saying, something new for me to obsess about.
Could Angus MacPherson be a new dot? I had no idea, but Ellen’s numbers told me this project didn’t make sense. And things that don’t make sense often show up as a case file.
What was about to happen didn’t make sense either.
Chapter 6
After breakfast with Ellen I walked to my office at 26 Federal Plaza in lower Manhattan, about 10 minutes from our apartment in Greenwich Village. It was a brisk October 15, perfect for a walk. My office was quiet in the early morning, and I sat with a cup of decaf – I limit myself to decaf after having no more than full-strength cups of coffee. My nervous system was already on full alert as a matter of course, so why make it any more jittery. I opened a file and started to go into my zone, the zone of suspicion and dot connecting. I’d gotten into the habit over the years of disbelieving everything, a useful mindset for a detective. That makes Ellen nervous, although I keep assuring her that my suspicious nature doesn’t include people I love, especially her.
My case involved the recent ax attack on a New York City cop. As usual, the dots were all there, except nobody saw them until the event happened. The guy was a denizen of various nasty forums and chat rooms on the Internet, all specializing in a rabid form of Islamic radicalism. What drives me crazy is that I can’t understand the hatred. I’ve studied everything I could get my hands on about the growth of a radical personality, the religious views, the politics, the desire for the “end of days,” a final cataclysm that will bring the forces of extreme Islam into direct clash with the West, a Hollywood-style explosion where all the bad guys (us) are defeated. Fine, I got it. But I really don’t. I understand it intellectually, but I don’t get it in my gut. Until I do, I’ll be just a researcher, not an investigator.
My thoughts were suddenly broken when Barbara Auletta charged into my office, slamming the door against the wall.
“Good morning, Barbara, nice to see you too.”
“Don’t be a wise ass,” she said – a pretty tall order – as she grabbed the remote and clicked it at the TV in the corner of my office.
Wolf Blitzer, the CNN anchor, appeared on the screen, wearing his trademarked “look of concern.” The camera panned to what looked like the scene of a bombing. Bodies littered the ground in front of a typical mid-Manhattan office building. The camera quickly panned away from the bodies, a blessed bow to viewer sensitivity by the CNN execs. You can tell the public about gore and mayhem, but you don’t have to show it.
Matthew Jenkins, the reporter on the scene, looked like he was in shock. So did Barbara. I guess I did too.
“For our viewers who have just tuned in, behind me you can see the devastation that occurred less than 20 minutes ago. From what we have learned, a lone suicide bomber detonated a heavy explosive device at the entrance lobby to 666 Fifth Avenue, one of Manhattan’s most prominent office buildings. Of course, at this early stage in the story, I have no idea of the identity of the bomber or his motive. I don’t believe I’m going out on a limb to say that we suspect terrorism. Suicide bombers and terror go together. But of course we can’t say it was definitely a terrorist act until we know more. Back to you, Wolf.”
I checked my jacket pocket to make sure I had a couple of extra clips for my Glock, then stood and walked toward the door.
“Stay put for a few minutes, Rick,” said Barbara. “It’s chaos out there now, and the NYPD is on the scene. Let’s learn as much as we can from CNN. As of right now, the news people know more than we do. Sometimes these guys make our jobs easier.”
Blitzer reappeared on the TV and he began to speak, but before he could get two words out, he grabbed his ear and said, “Oh, my God.”
Blitzer’s a pro, and he seldom shows emotion on screen, but it was obvious that a producer had just filled his ear with some more news, some bad news.
“I’ve just received word that there has been another bombing, this time on Wall Street, apparently in front of the New York Stock Exchange. We go now to Pam Rickman, our CNN reporter on the scene.”
A shot of the front the New York Stock Exchange appeared on the screen.
“Wolf,” said Rickman, “the scene here is horrific. It’s 8:45 a.m. and Wall Street is its normal mass of humanity. Whoever pulled this off was obviously looking for the maximum number of casualties. Right now, we think it was a lone suicide bomber. Three deaths have been confirmed, but, and I hate to say it, that toll is probably going to rise throughout the day. We don’t want to show the direct shots of the scene because, frankly, it’s too horrible. I can tell you that I see about 20 people lying on the pavement. How many are dead or severely wounded is something we don’t know at this point.”
Blitzer peppered her with questions, most of which she had no answers for yet.
As Barbara and I stared at the TV, we suddenly rose two inches off the floor. The windows of my office shattered, following the loudest explosion I’d heard since my tour with the Marines in Iraq. When we landed we both fell sideways, and Barbara slammed her head against the corner of my desk. I didn’t think, I just let my Marine and FBI training take over. My office was a danger zone, and we had to get us out of there. Barbara was conscious but bleeding heavily from the left side of her scalp. I asked if she could walk on her own. She stared at me, not hearing a word I said. I picked her up and carried her into the hallway.
“We need medical help here,” I yelled. Within minutes a couple of EMTs from our medical de
partment ran down the hall. One of them kneeled next to the director to assess her injuries. Barbara, one tough lady, actually smiled and made a thumbs up sign.
Zeke Martin came running down the hall. My ears were still ringing, but I slowly regained my hearing.
“The bomb went off in the lobby,” said Zeke. “I think we lost a lot of people. The building is on lockdown and security wants us to stay on this floor. Let’s go into the conference room so we can leave the hallway open.”
The EMTs put Barbara into a wheelchair and moved her into the room with Zeke [AB11]and me. She apparently did not have a concussion, just a nasty superficial gash on her head.
“Here’s what we know and it’s not a lot,” said Zeke. “The first bomb was at 666 Fifth Avenue, followed by the New York Stock Exchange five minutes later, and our building five minutes after that.”
Zeke clicked on the TV in the conference room as he looked at his watch. Fortunately the TV still worked after the explosion on the first floor.
“By my count we have one minute until the next five-minute mark. Let’s see what Blitzer has to say.”
Exactly at the five-minute mark, Blitzer held his hand to his ear and looked at the TV camera.
“Our nation is under attack,” said Blitzer. “I’ve just received word from our affiliate in Boston that a bomb has exploded at the entrance to Faneuil Hall, the crowded marketplace. That’s the fourth bombing in 20 minutes.”
NYC Mayor de Blasio appeared on the TV. He said he was in contact with the Transit Authority and all commuter railroads. He had ordered outbound trains to return to the city to bring commuters home.
Until further notification, New York City was closed for business.
What we all feared would happen was happening.
Chapter 7
Six more senior agents filed into the conference room across the hall from my wrecked office. Director Auletta, whack on the head or not, knew she had to address her people.
“We’ve thought about this,” said Barbara. “We studied it, we war-gamed it, and we obsessed over it. Well, it’s happening. Lone wolves are attacking our country. It seemed too easy. Each suicide bomber had a simple job. All he needed was a suicide vest, a location, and a time. Nothing high-tech, nothing that required a lot of planning, nothing that required a lot of chatter. Just a bomb vest, a location, and a time. And a person willing to give up his life.”
Zeke looked at his watch and raised his hand.
“We’re almost at the next five-minute-mark, director.”
Auletta pointed the remote at the TV and increased the volume. She had switched stations to get another point of view.
“This is Shepard Smith of Fox News, ladies and gentlemen. It sickens me to tell you that we’ve just received word that a bomb detonated in front of the FBI building in Washington. We’ve been told that a man in an overcoat approached the building, and when he refused orders to stop, the police opened fire, but not before he detonated the bomb. Three officers are down and we don’t have details on their condition at this time. We go now to the White House, where President Reynolds is about to address the nation.”
William Reynolds, the President of the United States, appeared on the screen.
“This is the worst morning our nation has faced since the attacks of 9/11,” said Reynolds. “But we have contingency plans which we’ve shared with military and law enforcement agencies across the country. Until further notice, no one shall enter any building carrying a briefcase or package at any time until that person has submitted to a search. If you wear an overcoat, you must remove it for inspection. After a conference call with the governors of all states, I inform you that the National Guard has been mobilized in every state to assist with law enforcement. These measures will be a burden, but I call on the American people to recognize that we are faced with a national emergency, one that requires extreme vigilance and some hard decisions. That is all for now. Together we will get through this trying time. God bless you and God bless America.”
In times of danger and chaos, the job of the Commander in Chief is to sooth nerves and calm fears. He had a tough job that morning because he didn’t know what the hell was happening any more than the rest of us. It wasn’t a Winston Churchill speech, but what more could the guy say? We were under attack and we didn’t know how bad it was going to be.
***
“Okay folks, we get paid to think and act, not to panic,” said Director Auletta, holding a cold compress to the cut on her head. “I need your thoughts.”
I raised my hand but put it down quickly because I noticed it was shaking. I like to think of myself as a tough guy, a Marine combat veteran and a pistol-packing FBI agent. But I didn’t feel tough. I felt like a scared kid.
“I don’t think we’ve seen the end of this,” I said. “I think they’re working the clock, picking the timing to ensure the maximum number of casualties – rush hour, as people are pouring into buildings on their way to work. What really scares me is that this is worse than 9/11. Remember Mayor Giuliani cheering everybody to go out to a show, to go shopping, to get on with their lives? But this is different. How do people get on with their lives when they expect another bomb to go off – anywhere?”
“Do you think the worst of it is over, Rick?” said Auletta.
“I do, but five minutes haven’t passed yet.”
Zeke looked at his watch.
Chapter 8
“Everybody, look at the TV,” yelled Zeke.
“This is Shepard Smith reporting for Fox News.”
He held his ear, wearing a face that looked like fear itself, not the calm demeanor of a seasoned anchorman.
“I’m getting a carload of reports, ladies and gentlemen. I’ve just been told that there has been a train derailment on the New York Metro North line at the Spuyten Duyvil station in Riverdale. We have an unconfirmed report that an explosion ripped through the first car as it pulled out of the station. A few cars derailed and fell into Spuyten Duyvil Creek, a part of the Hudson River. I also have information that a Long Island Railroad train has been derailed near Garden City as it approached the station. There was also an explosion before the derailment. Oh, Dear Lord, folks. I’m now hearing that an Acela commuter train has exploded and derailed as it traveled through New London, Connecticut.”
The network graphic people worked furiously to make sense of the overload of data that was spewing into Smith’s ear. He walked over to a video monitor, which showed the train wrecks as soon as they were reported.
“Folks, I was on the air when the 9/11 attacks occurred. I have to tell you that this morning’s news makes 9/11 look like just another story. The Fox producers are giving my ear a break, and our graphics people are listing the train derailments as they receive the reports.”
Smith walked over to the huge monitor, shaking his head as one report after another flashed on the screen.
“You’re seeing the events as they happen, folks.
Washington, [AB12]D.C. Metro near Arlington, Virginia. Seven cars derailed.
Chicago Transit Authority train was thrown off the tracks in the Loop with five cars plummeting to East Wacker Drive.
A Bay Area Rapid Transit train was derailed near Mission Street in San Francisco with eight cars involved.
A New York subway train exploded and derailed underground at the 42nd Street station, one of the busiest in New York, as it was packed with morning commuters.
These are in addition to the explosions at Spuyten Duyvil, the Long Island Railroad in Garden City, and the Acela in New London, Connecticut.
“Unlike the building attacks that I reported just a short while ago, these train derailments appear to have been simultaneous,” said Smith, “As best as we can make out from the reports, all of the train explosions occurred at 9:37 a.m. Eastern Time. It’s now 10 a.m. and we haven’t received any further reports. Needless to say, we will be reporting the aftermath of these disasters throughout the day with no commercial interruptions.”
“Rick,” said Barbara, still holding a cold compress against the cut on her scalp, “assemble your team in the Communications Room. I’ll be there with you. We have more dots to connect than we ever imagined. Okay, everybody, I know you’d like to try to contact your families. We have our secure cell phone network, so chances are you may be able to get through. But I have no idea how our loved ones’ phones will work. Let’s take a half-hour break. I just pray to God that we’ve heard the end of this.”
Chapter 9
I called Ellen’s cell number, and I couldn’t believe she picked up after only two rings.
“Where are you, hon?” I said.
“I’m still in our apartment. Remember, I had to wait for the plumber for that clogged sink?”
“Stay put, Ellen. Nobody knows what the hell is going on, and I don’t want you going into any buildings.”
“I need to see you, Rick.”
“I understand, honey. I wish you were with me right now.”
“No. I mean, yeah, being with you sounds great, but I need to talk to you about my new client.”
“Now? I can’t possibly focus on anything but the attacks of this morning.”
“Rick, I’ve been researching this guy. You told me to keep you up to date. There’s some stuff you absolutely need to know – now. If I walk I can be at your office in 10 minutes. The subways are shut down and forget trying to catch a cab.”
“Can you give me a hint about what you’ve found out?”
“No, I don’t think we should talk about it on the phone. I’ll see you in 10 minutes.”
Ellen was about to drop another bomb in my lap.
Chapter 10
Zeke, three others from my team, and I met with Barbara Auletta in what we called the Communications Room, a place designed for quick response to unfolding situations. The other members of the team included agents Michele Hannon, Phil Lopez, and Mike Turner. Information about the suspects came in. Unless there was a surveillance photo or an eyewitness, we wouldn’t know anything about the bombers’ identities. We were plugged into the FBI’s gigantic databank of suspected terrorists with background information and photographs.
The Shadows of Terror Page 2