The Shadows of Terror

by Russell Moran

  As the plane gained altitude, the pilot, Giuseppe Aldonzo, could see the cruise ship below about three miles into the Adriatic after departing Venice. He banked the plane away from the ship, then turned and descended.

  Alfredo Manzani, captain of The Sovereign of the Deep, stepped out onto the starboard wing of the bridge to observe a crew drill being conducted on the foredeck. In the final moments of his life, he looked up and saw the Airbus flying straight for the bridge.

  The explosion was bomb-like because the plane’s fuel tanks were filled to capacity. The plane ripped into the ship’s bridge, and the firestorm exploded aft, engulfing three of the ship’s restaurants, passenger cabins on both sides, and every deck from the highest down to the waterline. The plane hit so suddenly, there wasn’t enough time to send out a distress alarm. No other vessels were within view of the ship.

  The Sovereign of the Deep, now a crippled hulk of fire and smoke, began a slow list to the starboard side. After 25 minutes, it capsized and sank in 300 feet of water.

  Michael Johanssen, the Canadian captain of the freighter Prince, heard the explosion and saw smoke over the horizon. He steered his ship toward the smoke, alerting the Italian Coast Guard as he did. In a half hour, the Prince steamed through a large debris field. Although his ship was in danger, Johanssen was a seasoned mariner, and he’d be damned if he wouldn’t do everything possible to look for survivors. Three large cutters from the Italian Coast Guard soon joined Prince in the search. The pounding thuds of helicopter rotors filled the air.

  None of the 2,500 passengers or 842 crewmembers survived.

  Chapter 29

  Ellen and I had lunch in a small cafe off Houston Street. I didn’t have much of an appetite, having watched the news about the attack on the cruise ship off the coast of Italy. No one survived.

  Interpol had been in touch with Buster and the CIA to try to piece it all together. I wondered about the chances of finding the plane’s cockpit data recorder, the black box, in 300 feet of water after a gigantic explosion. Without witnesses, the only hope of finding out what happened was the black box. Buster was doing a background check on the six crewmembers of the plane.

  “Our workout this morning felt good,” I said. “We both needed it.”

  “Our workout last night was even better,” said Ellen with a wry smile.

  I reached over and stroked her face.

  “Without you, I don’t know how I could put up with all this crap. You’re my connection to sanity.”

  “Hey, Rick, you look upset. What’s the matter, hon?”

  “Aren’t you upset?”

  “Oh yeah, that cruise ship in Italy. Horrible. So yes, I’m upset too. I guess your algorithm didn’t pick up any signals about the crew of the Italian jet.”

  “What algorithm? I didn’t tell you anything about an algorithm.”

  “Rick, you spend almost every working hour connecting dots, looking for patterns. To me it’s obvious that you or the CIA has a computer algorithm that analyzes your data. I’m sure you guys don’t keep track of terrorists by scribbling notes on the back of napkins. It’s obvious, at least to me, that you have a structured way of keeping track of these people, something that helps you predict future behavior. I’m guessing the small crew of that jetliner didn’t show up on your database.”

  “Ellen, are you telling me that you figured this out by yourself. I never once mentioned an algorithm.”

  “You didn’t have to, Rick. I’m no secret agent man like you, but I can connect a few dots myself.”

  My head was spinning. I couldn’t believe what Ellen just told me. I took out my cell phone.

  “Buster, it’s Rick. I’m with Ellen. We have to see you immediately[AB27].”

  “What’s the big deal, Rick?” asked Ellen.

  “I have to steal you away from your office for a while, hon. Come with me to meet Buster at Federal Plaza. What you just told me changes everything.”

  Chapter 30

  When we walked into Buster’s office he was, no surprise, on the phone.

  “Anything about the jet crew yet?” I asked.

  Buster cleared his throat, looked at Ellen, then me.

  “You’ve heard me say this a million times, Rick. Secrecy has nothing to do with trust. It’s a question of a need to know. I trust your lovely wife here as much as I do you, but some things we shouldn’t discuss.”

  “Well, you’re about to hear something that’s going to make you rethink a lot of things,” I said. I nodded to Ellen.

  “Buster,” said Ellen, “I freaked out my hubby over lunch. Here’s the story. I asked Rick if any of the crew members on the jet that hit the cruise ship were picked up by your algorithm. Rick looked at me with the same expression on his face that you’re wearing now. No, Rick never mentioned it to me. I just pieced it together myself from what I thought were some obvious procedures.”

  “Ellen,” said Buster, “we’re talking about the most Top Secret matter possible. But since the cat’s out of the bag, let’s talk about the cat. How did you figure out that we use an algorithm?”

  “Well I don’t know all of the details, of course, but as I said, it seemed obvious to me that you guys have a huge database of persons of interest. And the only way to manage a large database is with a mathematical algorithm. I’ve designed dozens of them for my architectural work. It’s obvious, Buster. And I’m guessing that your algorithm looks for all signs of jihidi indicators, such as visits to radical websites, mosque attendance, membership in organizations, and postings on the Internet.”

  “Buster,” I said, “look at it this way. Ellen is just one person, a smart and observant person, but she’s not a trained investigator. She just added up two plus two and sorted out what we’re doing.”

  “So one bright non-spook has figured out our Top Secret process,” said Buster.

  “And if I figured it out, guys,” said Ellen, “you can bet the jihadis have too.”

  Chapter 31

  Thanksgiving Day came and went. Because of the hyper activity I’d been going through since 10/15, Ellen and I just had a quiet turkey dinner by ourselves. I try to think positive, but I wasn’t sure what there was to be thankful for. Then I remembered – Ellen. When we said grace I thanked God for giving me Ellen. Thanksgiving wouldn’t be the start of a long weekend because we had to be in Langley for a meeting at the CIA the next day.

  ***

  I hate meetings. One or two people can get a hell of a lot more done than sitting around a conference table with a bunch of talking heads. But this meeting was important, even necessary I had to admit. We were in Langley, Virginia, at CIA Headquarters. Director Carlini conducted the meeting. Ellen was there, along with Zeke, Buster, and me. A guy named Nigel Fleming was at the meeting representing Interpol, the International Criminal Police Organization.

  It was the day after Thanksgiving, just over a week after the sinking of the cruise ship The Sovereign of the Deep[AB28]. That attack was the subject of the meeting. Carlini asked Buster to give a rundown of what we knew. I hadn’t seen Buster in a week, so I was as alert as everybody else to what he had to say.

  “I can’t believe it, but they found the black box,” said Buster. “The searchers used a US Navy mini sub and located it under 300 feet of water. The Interpol folks gave it to us to interpret the results. Along with a couple of investigators from the National Transportation Safety Board, we now know what happened. As the jet climbed, it suddenly descended and aimed straight for the ship. Here’s what we heard on the cockpit voice recorder:”

  We listened to a couple of minutes of standard plane-to-tower chatter when suddenly a loud noise rang out. Buster put the replay on hold.

  “What you just heard was a gunshot from a small caliber pistol. Our forensics people have confirmed it,” said Buster. “Within five seconds, the plane began its sharp descent. From what you’re about to hear, it’s apparent that the captain shot the co-pilot.”

  “Allahu Akbar,” shouted the pilot re
peatedly.

  “We’ve confirmed that the voice you just heard is that of Giuseppe Aldonzo, captain of the Airbus.”

  “Was Aldonzo on our radar, so to speak?” asked Director Carlini.

  “No, he wasn’t,” said Buster, “but we’ve done a post-mortem on the man. If he was in our database, it may have given us a red flag, but only a small flag. It seems Captain Aldonzo converted to Islam five years ago when he was 38 years old. There was no public announcement about this. The Interpol investigators found out about his conversion only after interviewing people who knew him. So in retrospect, we did our analysis of all of Aldonzo’s web activity and came up with zilch. No indication that he ever logged onto a radical website. The Interpol folks also checked out his religious activities. He must have worshipped from home because there is no record of his visiting a mosque. When they searched his apartment, they discovered all sorts of religious paraphernalia, but nothing that could be interpreted as radical. He was just a quiet Muslim. And here’s what scares the shit out of me, if you’ll pardon my Arabic. Given what we know about this guy, I don’t think we could have gotten a search warrant from a FISA court, assuming for the sake of argument that he was an American. Our mighty algorithm wouldn’t have blown a circuit over this man. He was just a Muslim, nothing more. But he also became a mass murderer.”

  “Buster,” I said, “I think Ellen has something to say.”

  Everybody had already been briefed on Ellen’s intuitive discovery of the algorithm.

  ***

  “This pilot knew about your algorithm long before I figured it out,” said Ellen. “He may not have thought of it as a computer algorithm, but he, and presumably his colleagues, knew that the CIA and FBI were getting good at predicting behavior, especially the behavior of latter-life converts to Islam. Look at it this way. A man converts to Islam at the age of 38. This wasn’t a man who grew up in the religion. This was a guy who made a conscious decision in adulthood. Wouldn’t you expect him to make it public? Wouldn’t you expect to see the man visiting mosques? Wouldn’t you expect this man to visit Islamic websites, radical or not? No, his conversion was discovered by police investigators after the fact. This was a guy who had a mission and realized the only way to accomplish it was to lurk in the shadows. Hey, guys, it’s a simple process of reverse engineering. If we entitled your database, ‘How to Catch a Jihadi,’ all they need to do is come up with a simple two page pamphlet entitled, ‘How Not to get Caught.’ Hell, they wouldn’t even need a friggin computer.”

  Buster slapped the table and put his face into his hands.

  “I think all of us spooks are too close to our subject,” said Buster. “Ellen has just uncovered something that could change the game. What I’m about to say I’ve discussed with Director Carlini, but now I’m making it known to you folks. Our algorithm has taken a vacation. Except for all the recent data that we plugged in after, I repeat after, the 10/15 attacks and the sinking of the cruise ship in New York, we’ve seen little output from the database. Just like Captain Giuseppe Aldonzo, jihadis, especially homegrown terrorists, are learning the art of hiding, or as Ellen put it, how to ‘lurk in the shadows.’ No matter how sophisticated our algorithm is, without a constant supply of data, it’s just a computer program.”

  “Buster,” said Carlini, “would you please give us a summary of your thoughts?”

  “We’re fucked.”

  Chapter 32

  Phil Moretti, a structural engineer by trade, was enjoying a day fishing with his friend Bob McLaughlin in San Francisco Bay. McLaughlin was a professional photographer.

  Moretti maneuvered the boat under the Golden Gate Bridge. McLaughlin, lying on a cot, clicked photos with his Nikon of the underside of the bridge. Moretti pointed out to him shots of special interest, especially the structure around the towers. With his powerful telephoto lens, he shot images that appeared to be only a few feet away.

  Both men were touring the country and fishing. Fishing and photographing bridges. They had already fished the waters under all of the bridges in Manhattan, including the Brooklyn Bridge, the Verrazano, and the George Washington Bridge. Their next fishing spot would be the Tacoma Narrows Bridge in Washington State. Then they would visit the Mackinac Bridge in Michigan, the Delaware Memorial Bridge, and the Walt Whitman Bridge in Philadelphia.

  Moretti checked his watch and motored to a secluded cove off Tiburon. The afterdeck of the boat was covered by a canvas tarp or bimini, which prevented anyone ashore from seeing them on deck. As Moretti dropped the anchor, McLaughlin spread out two prayer rugs angled toward a compass heading that pointed to Mecca.

  Moretti, age 36, and McLaughlin, age 28, had converted to Islam four years ago. Immediately after their conversion, they were approached by a man named Ali Bashara, who now went by the name Phillip Murphy. Bashara/Murphy was a high-placed operative with al-Qaeda. Murphy counseled the men on radical Islam and his desire to see the dawn of a new caliphate on earth. They didn’t need much convincing, having already embraced political Islam and the rigors of jihad.

  Murphy convinced them that they were not to make a public demonstration of their faith in any way, including the use of their new Muslim names. He counseled them to avoid any Islamic websites, not to wear traditional Muslim clothing, and not to worship at a mosque.

  “Your faith shall live in the shadows,” Murphy told them, “the glorious shadows of Allah.”

  Chapter 33

  “I don’t know what you did to deserve a great woman like Ellen,” said Buster, “but whatever it was, keep doing it. She showed us a hole in our defenses that you could pilot a ship through.”

  “Ellen’s the best, and thanks for your compliment. I’ll tell her – if you think she has a need to know, of course.”

  Buster laughed, for the first time in a long while.

  We sat in my office at 26 Federal Plaza. Dr. Bennie Weinberg, our favorite shrink, would join us shortly.

  We heard a knock on the door and Bennie walked in. I noticed the bulge of a pistol on his chest. Although he’s a NYPD psychiatrist, Bennie is also a detective. Since 10/15, no law enforcement official would even think about leaving his home without a gun.

  We brought Bennie up to speed on Ellen’s discovery of our compromised algorithm and the slowdown of data coming out of the jihadi database.

  “As Buster so eloquently concluded our recent meeting at CIA headquarters,” I said, “ ‘we’re fucked.’ Al-Qaeda is now two steps, maybe more like ten, in front of us. Unless we have data to feed the database, we may as well not have a database at all. The jihadis have figured out that they have to starve us for information, and they’ve also figured out how to do it. Without information, we have no way to predict anything, even with your brilliant psychiatric input.”

  “Did you two ever hear of positive thinking? We just have to go to Plan B.”

  “Okay, what’s Plan B?” asked Buster.

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea, but that’s what you spooks are for. I’m just a country shrink.”

  “Well, I do have a Plan B in mind,” said Buster. “Old-fashioned spy work combined with old-fashioned police work. We have to get inside, more inside than we are already. There is no central registry of people who convert to Islam. It’s not like you go to the county clerk’s office and fill out a form. It’s the same with any religion. If you convert from, say, Presbyterianism to Catholicism, your name isn’t posted on a public database. The same with Islam. And, of course, some people convert to non-radical Islam. They just adopt a new religion.”

  “But if we have operatives inside,” I said, “and I know Buster won’t admit it if we do, how do we know they’re trustworthy? How do we know they’re not double agents?”

  “We don’t, except in a few cases, which I can’t discuss,” said Buster. “The idea isn’t to have my people join mosques. I have a small army of ‘journalists’ as part of my team. They will interview people for articles about converts to Islam, and the articles will actually be p
ublished, with pseudonyms, of course. My thinking is that a conversion to Islam is an interesting news story. Nobody should suspect anything if a reporter just casually writes about religious conversions. The articles won’t call them ‘homegrown jihadis,’ of course, just ‘converts.’ ”

  “There must be a lot of writing already out there on this subject, written by real journalists,” said Bennie.

  “Of course, and our researchers scour the news every day looking for articles about people converting to Islam later in life. We also have people talking to leaders of other religions, asking questions such as ‘has anybody in your church ever converted to Islam?’ We get a lot of interesting answers.”

  “So, Buster,” I said, “if I hear you correctly, we’re not completely cut off from homegrown jihadi information, just that it’s gotten tougher to find.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying, Rick. It’s like fossil hunting. The fossils are there – we just have to uncover them.”