“Did you see the security guard before you got on the boat?” I asked.
“No, I didn’t see him.”
My cell phone buzzed. It was a message from headquarters.
“I just found out why you didn’t see the security guard last night. He was shot through the head in his guard shack.”
“Mike,” said Buster, “thank you for your help. We’ll probably have more questions for you during this investigation, so check your phone for messages. Go home and get some sleep.”
***
“Okay, guys,” I said, “I think we should have a close-up look at the ship. I’ve arranged for a Coast Guard patrol boat to pick us up at the pier in 10 minutes. Maybe a Coastie can tell us if he knows of a skinny blond guy with a cockney accent.”
Chapter 21
As we stood by the pier waiting for the Coast Guard boat, we discussed our interview with Simonetti.
“So, Dr. Bullshit Detector,” I said to Bennie, “what’s your take on Mike Simonetti?”
“The guy was telling the truth, Rick. Not one indication of bullshit. I look for about a dozen signs to see if a person is lying, including eye movements, perspiration, hand movements, and stuff like that. He could have made up a story why he left an unidentified stranger alone in the building, which was a real fuck up on his part, but he didn’t. The guy’s for real.”
“He also gave us a good description of the skinny blond guy with the cockney accent,” I said. “After we get the fingerprint results back, we should have a lead,” said Buster. “All of the people who work for the pilots association are fingerprinted and the records are kept by the Coast Guard.”
“Any chance of plugging in blond hair, slight build, and cockney accent into your algorithm, Buster?” asked Zeke with a chuckle.
“Already did it. So far my guys have narrowed it down to four people. Hey, when I said we work fast, I wasn’t kidding. As soon as we get some photographs of the possible targets we’ll pass them by Simonetti.”
“Buster, you amaze me,” I said.
“Thanks, Rick. I’m just a spook on a case.”
“What’s wrong with the picture so far?” I asked. “Is there anything that stands out?”
“Yes,” said Zeke. “We always seem to be closing the barn door after the horse got out. So here we are at a pier where boats leave to meet large ships. And all they had was one security guard. They didn’t even think to install security cameras on the building, like any grocery store owner would. Every time something explodes, we always say, gee, we should have thought about that. And this is almost a month after 10/15[AB21].”
“Here comes the boat,” I said. “Zeke’s right. We have to start thinking about what we should do before shit happens.”
Chapter 22
The Coast Guard patrol boat maneuvered slowly around the hulk of the Ocean Mariner. Because the water was only 50 feet deep and the ship’s beam was 154 feet, more than two-thirds of the vessel could be seen from shore. Commuters on the Belt Parkway and the Verrazano Bridge would be treated to a sickening view for months.
The bomb-equipped pilot boat exploded on the starboard side of the ship, which now rested on the bottom. All we could see was part of the ship. The divers with cameras would find out a lot more than we could possibly see from the surface of the water.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said. “We’re wasting our time until we have some evidence from the divers.”
“Wait!” Buster yelled. “Hey captain, pull the boat up next to that debris off to the starboard side.”
A plastic sign, about two feet by four feet floated on the surface. I grabbed a boat hook and pulled it next to us. Zeke reached down and hoisted it aboard. The sign read, “MacPherson International.”
Chapter 23
“May peace be with you, brother Bashara,” said Greg Nolan with his British cockney accent.
The two men met at a secluded vacant house in Perth Amboy, New Jersey. Bashara sat behind an old desk and Nolan sat in a chair facing him.
“I will call you by your infidel name, Greg Nolan, as we are all disciplining ourselves to do. I would prefer to call you Muhammad Chudri, but the rules have changed. You have executed our plans for the cruise ship perfectly, Greg. I commend you on a job well done. You brilliantly killed the watchman with a silencer, and you supervised the bomb-loading crew with a calmness that made it all possible.”
“It was my pleasure, Ali, I mean Phil. I sat in my car by the Verrazano Bridge and watched with pleasure as thousands of infidels were sent to hell. It was the greatest assignment you have given me to date. I await your orders for my next task. Do you have one prepared for me now?”
Bashara raised a Colt 45 automatic pistol and fired it at Nolan’s head, killing him instantly.
“May peace be with you, brother Greg.”
Chapter 24
It was 8 p.m. and I had just arrived home. Ellen and I had a habit of eating a light supper, a good way to keep our weight under control, and also a good way to handle the schedule of a compulsive FBI agent. As always, Ellen met me at the door and gave me a hug, not just a “Hi, how are you hug,” but a hug that says, “I love you.”
Ellen knows there’s a lot about my work that I can’t share with her. It isn’t a matter of trust – it’s just sound policy. She understands the “need to know” rule. Even if a person is entirely trustworthy, and that describes Ellen, it’s a bad practice to divulge information that she may inadvertently blurt out. The old World War II saying, “loose lips sink ships,” couldn’t be more accurate.
And Ellen gets it. Even though she’s a brilliant woman and would love to know everything about what’s going on, she understands.
“So how was your day, hon?” she asked.
We both cracked up at her subtle joke. There was a lot about today that I couldn’t tell her, but I’d be damned if I said, “I can’t talk about it.” I decided to tell her all about it, minus the open investigative details.
“And how’s your cold?”
“Finally gone. I’m all better, thanks in no small part to your constant administration of chicken soup.”
After a day of sweaty armpits and saltwater spray, I needed to rinse off.
After my shower, we sat in the living room with me in my terry robe. There’s something about the feeling of terrycloth that is very calming.
“I’m feeling punchy, Ellen. We all thought that after 10/15, things would calm down, but we’re one sunken cruise ship beyond that hope. I guess you’ve been watching the news reports.”
“It’s impossible not to hear about it if you turn on the TV. Do you want me to put it on, hon?”
“No, I’ve seen enough horror today. I’d like to spend some quiet time with the lady I love.” We kissed.
“Well, here’s the consensus of opinion of all of the network and cable anchors,” she said. “It was a terrorist bombing, using a bomb planted in a harbor pilot boat. A few hours ago, they stopped saying that ‘terrorism can’t be ruled out.’ They talked about a security guard who was shot and killed. The press is now calling it an act of terror.”
“And they’re right. I spent most of the day at the Sandy Hook Pilots Association on Staten Island. Obviously I can’t go into a lot of detail, but this was a sophisticated terror gig, much more sophisticated than the attacks of 10/15.”
“There’s so goddamn much that we don’t know about, hon,” Ellen said. “I can tell from the look on your face that you’re trying to think ahead.”
“What really freaks me out, babe, are the things that are not even on my mind. Things that I don’t know that I don’t know.”
And I had an ugly feeling that I was about to find out some of those things soon.
Chapter [AB22]25
“May peace be with you, brother Ali,” said Joe Portman as he walked into Ali Bashara’s apartment in Jersey City. Portman, disguised as a woman, wore a full burqa, covering his body as well as his head and face.
“And may peace be
with you, brother Joe.”
“Please, Ali, call me by my Muslim name, Abbas Muktada.”
“No, brother Joe. Your name is one of the reasons for our meeting today. You are Joseph Portman. You were born with that name, and I want you to forget the name Abbas Muktada. Am I making myself clear, Joseph Portman?”
“But Ali, ever since I embraced Islam three years ago, I have loved my new name, a name that gives praise to Allah. Now you’re telling me I must revert to my infidel name, a name of darkness?”
“You know who I am, Joe, yes? Tell me what you know about my background so I can be sure.”
“You’re a 37-year-old computer scientist, and until two years ago you were a manager with Google. You graduated from MIT with a bachelor’s degree in math and a doctorate in computer science. Until you converted to Islam, I believe 10 years ago, your heathen name was Phillip Murphy.”
“So you agree that I know what I’m talking about when the subject is computers?”
“Of course, Ali, you’re the smartest technologist I know.”
“Call me Phil, not Ali. My name is Phillip Murphy.”
“You baffle me. Why are we adopting the names of infidels? Are we not worshippers of Allah and followers of his prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him?”
“Yes, we are, Joe, and that’s why we will no longer use our Muslim names.”
“Please explain…Phil.”
“You’ve just said that you trust my knowledge of computer science. I believe you said that I’m the smartest technologist you know, and thank you for the compliment. So listen to what I am about to tell you, and keep it in your mind, never to be divulged. Agreed?”
“Of course.”
“I, along with some of my computer scientist brothers, have learned that the infidels have come up with a powerful computer algorithm to identify jihadis, especially American-born jihadis like you and me. We’ve been studying their activities for months, and we have concluded that we must take action. Do you understand what I mean by an algorithm, Joe?”
“Yes, it’s a formula or a procedure for calculating complicated pieces of data. It’s how Google can figure out what websites to recommend to us, based on what we put into a search term.”
“You have a good basic understanding of what I’m about to explain. If a researcher feeds enough relevant information into a database, an algorithm can show the investigator what he’s looking for. The more data, the more accurate the result. So let me bring this into focus as it applies to us. As you know, both of us, and hundreds of other faithful American Muslims are being called ‘homegrown radicals,’ meaning that we’re not from a foreign country but born Americans, part of American culture. This ‘homegrown’ process, here and across the world, is developing into our single best means for defeating the infidels, the single best way to advance the goal of a caliphate on earth. Look at the glorious success of October 15. We could not have done that with a bunch of Middle Eastern-looking people with names like Ali. Every one of the martyrs looked as American as you and me.”
“But what does this have to do with a computer algorithm?” asked Portman.
“We want to choke off its supply of data. No data, no knowledge. And if they have no knowledge we’re free to act on our plans. And we will cut off the data by acting in every way like infidel Americans. No Facebook or Twitter postings in praise of Islam. No surfing around radical websites. And absolutely no use of our Muslim names. When we are rewarded in heaven, Allah will sing our praise in our proper names, and the virgins will whisper them into our ears.”
“And what will be my role, Phil?”
“What I am about to tell you, Joe, will blow your mind.”
Chapter 26
“Phil, you are blowing my fucking mind. Oh, praise to Allah, I haven’t spoken with such heathen vulgarity in years.”
“That’s perfectly okay, Joe. That’s the way a typical American would speak, and it’s our job to look, act, and talk like typical Americans. Fuckin A, babe,” said Murphy as he gave Portman a high five.
“And here’s how we’re going to do this, Joe. First, I know that you have spent a lot of time on jihadi websites. You will stop that immediately. I believe the CIA algorithm probably knows about your activity over the years, so I’m giving you this article I wrote. I want you to copy it and post it over your name, Joseph Portman, on an Internet writing site like HubPages. As you can see in the article, you discuss your visits to the websites. You are writing as an amateur journalist. The article in no way says anything positive about Islam, just a review of the different sites. This will create a new profile for you, a profile that gives an innocent explanation why you visited those sites. The algorithm will exclude you as a person of interest[AB23].
“Next, you will not set foot in a mosque. You have a prayer rug, I’m sure. Use it to worship in your own home. I know you’ve been careful when visiting mosques by disguising yourself, but your visits must stop. Then, I want you to shave off your beard. And never wear a taqiyah. The only head covering you will ever wear will be a baseball cap or a stocking hat for winter.
“Further, you and I will not communicate by email or phone. The only way to contact me is by Twitter. I have a list of code phrases that we will use. When you tweet, you will not send me a DM or direct message, nor will you send me a tweet. You will simply post it in your timeline at specified times of the day, and I will check for your message at those times. I don’t want the risk that the CIA or FBI is monitoring my keystrokes, which I’m sure they’re doing. They have some brilliant programmers, as I found out when I worked for Google.”
“What if I need to contact you immediately, Phil?”
“You will text to one of a dozen phone numbers at random. I’ll give you the numbers shortly. Each of the brothers with the numbers will know to immediately send me a coded text to contact you. I will do so via Twitter. You’ll have to monitor your Twitter timeline carefully if you ever have to use this procedure.”
“But, Phil, what about our American brothers who haven’t been as careful as me about keeping their Muslim identities confidential?”
“Each of them will soon be visited by me or one of my colleagues from al-Qaeda. They will be told the same information that I’m giving you today. Some of them have been so publicly vocal about their religion that their use as jihadis has been totally compromised.”
“I feel like I’m in shock, Phil. Since I embraced Islam a few years ago, I’ve had the urge to ‘spread the word.’ Now you’re telling me that the only part of my faith I can practice is on a prayer rug in my apartment.”
“That’s right. We will praise Allah and bring him glory by becoming, at least outwardly, people we would rather not be. We will live in the shadows. Is everything I said clear to you?”
“Perfectly clear, Phil.”
Chapter 27
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, I’m Shepard Smith reporting for Fox News. What I have to tell you this morning is upsetting to say the least. I’m going to talk about a number and how that number fits into our history. Tallying up the building lobby attacks, the bombings of commuter railroads on 10/15, and the sinking of the Ocean Mariner on November 14, the death toll now stands at 3,115. This is higher than the number of deaths from the attacks of 9/11. And, because 75 people are still in critical condition, the number could get larger[AB24].
The enemy has changed. The enemy looks just like the rest of us, doesn’t talk with an accent, and doesn’t appear to be foreign. The enemy consists of native born Americans, Americans who have sworn allegiance to a perversion of a religion, an enemy that wants to kill, and kill in large numbers.
My job isn’t to alarm people, but as a journalist I have to report the facts. Those facts are alarming. America is under siege. The last thing we want is panic, but another thing none of us wants is complacency.
We’ve been told for years, ‘If you see something, say something.’ That advice has never been more urgent. When the enemy doesn’t wear a u
niform and looks and sounds like the guy or gal next door, we all have a duty to help.
In [AB25]other news…”
Chapter 28
On the afternoon of November 20, The Sovereign of the Deep, a 950-foot, 90,000-ton cruise ship owned and operated by Cunard, cast off its lines and steamed majestically down the Grand Canal in Venice, Italy. After the attack and sinking of the Ocean Mariner in New York only a week before, security was almost military in its thoroughness. The pilot boat hired by Cunard was checked so closely it could have been a medical procedure. Armed vessels of the Italian Coast Guard were stationed all along the Grand Canal. Soldiers, armed with Uzi submachine guns, patrolled the upper decks of the ship. They also carried rocket-propelled grenade guns in case a menacing vessel approached.
Although the sinking of the Ocean Mariner happened so recently, surprisingly few travelers canceled their cruise on The Sovereign of the Deep. People interviewed by journalists all reported the same basic feeling. “A cruise ship sinking? That’s not likely to happen again soon.”
***
A medium-size jet, an Airbus A318, took off from Venice Airport, headed for Turin. There, it would pick up 100 passengers, all employees of Fiat, the Italian car manufacturer, for a charter flight to New York. The captain topped off the fuel tanks in Venice before departing. As the plane left Venice, only six crew members were aboard, four Italians[AB26], including the pilot, co-pilot and two assistants, an American navigator, and a German flight engineer.
The Shadows of Terror Page 6