by J. B. Turner
Would he understand why he had to do this? The answer was: most certainly not.
The riches and accolades of America had seduced his father. Caan saw it differently. He saw what America really was. He saw the voracious monster, which polluted, corrupted and violated peoples and nations. He saw it tried to remake them in its own image. No matter the cost. It was all about spreading liberal democracy. But that was phoney. The real reason was resources. Oil, land, people. America’s interests were corporate interests. The Pentagon called the shots. The countries they had defiled, the millions they had killed, be it Vietnam or Central America, had been terrorised into servitude. It wasn’t about stopping Communism, but in getting access to resources and cheap labor, where American corporations could stride in and open up sweatshop factories and resell products at one thousand per cent mark-ups. They would spread the homogenous artificial world of Mickey Mouse and Hollywood to new and emerging markets. But Caan also saw, like millions of others did, the crusade to wipe out his people. The true believers.
His father preferred the easy cynicism and atheism of the metropolitan left. But he didn’t live to see a new generation emerge.
A generation like his son. A generation that was about to throw off the shackles of the West. It was 9/11 that had been his wake-up call. He saw it for what it was. The call to arms. He began to read about the real American Dream. Turning countries to ashes. And he realised they were embarking on a crusade to wipe out as many Muslims as they could. He saw it so clearly now.
Caan was from a new generation. He was born in America, but his bloodline was Mujahedeen. His blood brothers were being slaughtered each and every day by pilotless drones. He had watched the videos again and again. He saw what American freedom really meant. He saw women and children mown down in cold blood. Screaming all around.
He would avenge. He would avenge them all. He was going to make his own history. This was their time. Their place. Their future.
Caan snapped out of his thoughts and went through to the office and into the adjacent kitchen. Inside the top cabinet was a biometric safe. He pressed his thumb against the scanner and after a couple of beeps, the safe opened. Inside was a black water-resistant travel bag. He unzipped it and saw a clear plastic box with two satin white Christmas baubles adorned by gold glitter.
This was it. This was everything he had prayed for. The time had come.
Caan zipped up the bag and slung it over his shoulder. Then he checked himself in the mirror one last time. His eyes were sparkling, face impassive.
He was ready.
A short while later his cell phone rang again. This was the final call before his mission was due to commence. It was from a private residence at the foot of the Margala Hills in Islamabad.
A Pakistani man spoke in Pashto, “Can you remember that verse from your favourite book?”
Every soul shall taste of death, and you should only be paid fully your reward on the resurrection day; then whoever is removed far away from the fire and is made to enter the garden he indeed has obtained the object; and the life of this world is nothing but a provision of vanities.
Sacred words from the Quran he had been taught to memorise until it became engrained on his mind.
Caan spoke in English. “I know the words by heart. They will always be with me.”
The Pakistani man sighed. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. Until the next time…”
Then the line went dead.
Caan closed his eyes and began his breathing exercises for several minutes. When he opened his eyes he realised he was smiling.
Until the next time.
Caan walked out of the suite of offices, which automatically locked behind him and headed towards the elevator. He rode it alone to the arcade level, his heart rate quickening as he descended.
The world was going about its business oblivious to what he was about to unleash. He afforded himself a self-satisfied smile and headed straight for the Metro.
THIRTY-FIVE
The tension in the crammed investigation room within the Strategic Information Operations Center on the fifth floor of the FBI’s HQ was palpable as Meyerstein walked in. Stamper was on the phone hunched at a paper-strewn desk. She noticed all available workspace was used up by analysts and special agents seconded to the investigation. Six plasma screens were showing real-time feeds. The largest showed the White House Situation Room as another two screens relayed live pictures from the platform at Crystal City Metro. She caught sight of Reznick and the Red team mingling with the commuters and wondered if she would come to rue the decision. Two other screens were showing Fox News and CNN. But Meyerstein’s gaze was drawn to the sixth real-time feed showing a fresh-faced white kid with foppish brown hair staring out of the screen.
The kid was a computer genius the FBI had recruited from Brown University after the head of the computer science department – a former military man himself – let his old bosses at the NSA know about the research fellow’s ability. A short while later he was leased out to the FBI.
His name was Brandon Lally and he was on the real-time feed from the second floor office of Congressman Lance Drake in the nearby Rayburn House Office Building in Washington DC.
Stamper put down a phone and looked across at her. “Need a couple of minutes, Martha.”
She walked up to his desk. “Real quick, Roy.”
“You asked us to look into Scott Caan’s life.”
“So, what’ve you got?”
“This Scott Caan is something.”
“How so?”
“Martha, he has concocted a fantastic cover story.”
“Cover story?” Her gaze was drawn again to the real-time feeds.
“You gotta listen to this. He was born in Syracuse. That’s all been verified. He’s an American. His father registered his name four days later. On the surface, all well and good.”
“I don’t see where this is going, Roy.”
“I’ve not finished. Then we started digging into his father’s past. The records we have show his father was also born in Syracuse. But I did some more digging. Turns out his father’s name was changed forty-six years ago.”
Meyerstein’s interest was piqued. “What do you mean changed? Changed by whom?”
“The father himself. Here’s the kicker. You wanna know where he was born?”
“Is he a foreign national?”
“You’re gonna love this. Caan’s father became a naturalised American, although our records show that he was born here. We don’t know how the system shows this, but it is incorrect. The guy was born in Karachi. You believe that?”
“Bullshit.”
“I kid you not. You wanna know the father’s real name?”
“Spit it out, Roy.”
“The real name of Scott Caan’s father is Mohammed Khan. Spelled K-H-A-N. How cute is that?”
“How did we miss this?”
Stamper lifted up a copy of the original document from his desk and handed it to Meyerstein. “The father’s story reads like something out of the American dream. He was an immigrant. Came to the country in 1955. He used to work as a political cartoonist. Hence the reason he left. Moved to a small town in upstate New York and became a successful syndicated cartoonist. Winner of the National Press Foundation’s 1994 Ravelston Award. Also scooped the 1995 Best American Political Cartoon Competition. Truly bought into the American Dream. So much so that he changed his name. He Americanised it. And he became Caan. We’re still checking, but I’m being told by Freddie that from what they’ve seen so far, the computer records of Caan’s father have been altered by a third party. We’re still trying to verify if and when and by whom.”
Meyerstein’s brain was racing. There were so many strands to the story. But the link to Karachi had opened up what country was likely to be behind this. “OK, this is top priority. Circulate this immediately to the team, all intelligence agencies, and the White House.”
“You got it.”
She clapped her han
ds and looked up at the screens. “Brandon, can you hear me?”
“Sure, coming in loud and clear.”
“Look, there are a lot of people waiting to hear about a breakthrough. I want to find out if there was anything on Congressman’s Drake’s computer or the Wesley recording. Any progress?”
He nodded. “We’re still piecing this together, but we have finally got something.”
“Gimme what you’ve got.”
“The guy that decrypted the original conversation – Thomas Wesley – is either a genius or a lunatic. He stripped this down to the real voices, but I don’t know if he knew who the two guys were.”
“Brandon, cut to the chase.”
“We’ve run this through numerous voice analysis tests, checked and rechecked with the NSA – who’re freaking out that they seem to have missed this. The problem was that the voice in the conversation Wesley intercepted had been voice morphed. They wanted us to think, if this was uncovered, that it was the Israelis. But it wasn’t. We are now one hundred per cent certain of the voice. A perfect match.”
“Tell me for Christ’s sake,” she snapped.
Brandon pressed a button on the laptop in front of him and a grainy colour picture came up on one of the huge plasma screens. The pictures showed a handsome Asian man in his late fifties with short hair wearing a military uniform adorned with medals.
Meyerstein’s blood ran cold as a ripple of excitement ran through members of her team. She knew the man. They all knew the man. “Major General Muhammad Kashal. Are you sure? This is the number two in the ISI.”
“One hundred per cent, ma’am. No doubt about it.”
“What about the other guy?”
“No question about it, this is retired senior CIA officer, Vince Brewling. He works at Norton & Weiss in Miami.”
Meyerstein was speechless for a few moments as she absorbed the information. She couldn’t believe how this was playing out, the various strands concealing the true motive; a terrorist attack on America. “Brandon, stay on the line.”
Meyerstein took a few moments to compose herself before she turned to face the senior military men and women staring back at her from the feeds from the White House situation room and the FBI’s National Counterterrorism Center in McLean, Virginia.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Assistant Director Martha Meyerstein, FBI. I’ve got a critical update you all need to be aware of.”
Richard Blake in the White House situation room cleared his throat. “Assistant Director, we’re all ears.”
“I think we’ve been blindsided all down the line. I have to inform you that we believe this is either a sanctioned or a renegade Pakistan terrorist operation currently in progress, as we speak, in the United States, aided and abetted, perhaps unwittingly, by a senior CIA officer.”
Audible gasps from the feed.
Meyerstein said, “Within the last few moments, we’ve just had confirmation that Scott Caan’s father’s real name was Mohammed Khan. Spelled K-H-A-N.”
Richard Blake leaned back in his seat and shook his head. “I always envisaged an Islamist threat to us on home soil from Iran or Syria. Are we absolutely sure this comes through Pakistan?”
Meyerstein composed herself and continued, aware of all the people hanging on her every word. “One hundred per cent. Scott Caan is a sleeper. I repeat, this is a sleeper. Scott Caan is an American. But his background, his deep background, hasn’t been checked properly. Someone has fucked up way down the line, many years ago at the bio-lab. Maybe immigration, I don’t know. There are preliminary indications that immigration files pertaining to Scott Caan’s father have been altered to show he was born in the US.”
Blake said, “Who’s the Agency guy?”
“Vince Brewling. His part was to hire someone to neutralise Frank Luntz. We believe he hired Reznick. The analysis is still to be done, but Brewling was probably kept in the dark about the bio-threat to America.”
For a few moments no one talked.
Meyerstein looked up at the screens. “This is a huge breakthrough.”
Richard Blake whispered in the ear of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, before he spoke. “Martha,” he said, “what is your current assessment of where we are?”
“My view would be that there were two separate aspects. The first part was assassinating Dr Frank Luntz. Jon Reznick got that job through a CIA front organisation. We now know Brewling ran this. The law firm and its operations may or may not have had special access program status. We’re still checking. The planting of Scott Caan is a long-term plan by the ISI or factions within the ISI, to infiltrate the highest echelons of our bio-security. The proof? An embedded message, which was hidden within a decrypted telephone call. This is as serious as it gets. And the ramifications are, of course, profound.”
Blake said, “This is very grave. We have proof that the number two of the ISI, who I know personally, is behind this, and I can say without fear of contradiction, the fallout will be considerable. The fact that the NSA didn’t pick this up is also very troubling.”
Meyerstein said, “I must correct you, sir. The NSA did pick this up. Thomas Wesley alerted them. The problem was that no one listened. Sir, what also concerns me, is who were the people who took Thomas Wesley away? Was it the ISI operating with impunity on American soil?”
Blake said, “Look, I don’t think we can assume this was a sanctioned ISI operation.”
“With respect, sir, whether this was sanctioned or not, their fingerprints are all over this. The number two ordered this. The last briefing I read on Pakistan, which came out only last week, claimed the CIA had an agenda to get the Pakistan military to dismantle the ISI. We’re all over them and they don’t like it. They don’t like what we’re doing in the tribal areas of Pakistan, Afghanistan, and they don’t like our developing links with India. And they sure as hell don’t like the fact that we tracked down Bin Laden to their back yard, and took him out.”
Blake shifted in his seat. “I can’t possibly comment on such talk.”
“We can’t deny that there are influential people within the ISI who want America out of their backyard, sir.”
Blake stared down from the screen, face reddening. “There is a significant minority within the Pakistani military who are very hostile to any interference in their affairs. They continue to fund the Taliban. And I know Kashal was very involved with helping the Taliban during our proxy war with the Soviet Union. And he is against any American involvement in Pakistan affairs. Drones and such like. We’ve asked for him to be replaced on at least three occasions. I believe, also, just to compound matters, a cousin of his was killed at a wedding by a drone a year or so ago.”
Meyerstein said, “We can also point to the killings in Lahore by Raymond Davis, whose diplomatic status was disputed by the Pakistanis. They claim that he was a CIA operative.”
Blake said, “I don’t want to comment on the Davis case. Besides, the families in Lahore agreed to take the blood money.”
“Look, if that’s all, I need to get back to work.”
“Most certainly. Look, the President and the National Security Council need to be told right away. But for now, the FBI needs to find and neutralise Scott Caan.”
“Very good, sir.”
Then the screen went blank.
Meyerstein gulped down another coffee and paced the fifth floor conference room for the umpteenth time. She watched three separate feeds, which were focussed on the Crystal City platform. The first screen showed Reznick and the Red team milling with passengers, scanning the crowds. “Get the feed up for our lead guy down at the Crystal City Metro.”
A few moments later, the face of Special Agent Doug Hammett, appeared on the middle screen, coming from the command center vehicle down at the Metro.
“Doug, I’m watching the feeds come through from the platform, and all the time we’re running the face recognition program, but still nothing. What about your guys on the ground?”
“There are more
than one hundred agents scouring nine blocks, with more than one hundred shops, thousands of people moving to and from the Metro, and there are numerous entrances. We have the latest image of this guy, I know. But he could be anywhere.”
“Doug, listen to me, I want to remind you that there may be a wingman involved. We have got no ID. So this obviously complicates things.”
“Martha, all my people are fully briefed.”
“Know what worries me, Doug?”
“What?”
“That he’s slipped away. I can’t believe that we haven’t managed to track this guy down. Unless…” She let the words hang in air.
“Unless what, Martha?”
“What image do you have of Caan?”
“The one we just got. A casually dressed white guy with long blond hair, brown satchel and quilted navy jacket. It’s very distinctive.”
“What if we’re looking for a guy like that, but… Doug, what if Scott Caan has changed his appearance again, fooling our guys on the ground?”
“But wasn’t this image taken from the Metro Center a couple of hours ago?”
“Doug, remember the Dubai job which we analysed? Remember we ran through the scenarios, the identification problems.”
“You talking about the Mahmoud al-Mabhouh’s assassination?”
“Precisely. Didn’t the Dubai CCTV footage show one of the assassins disappearing from the view of the cameras in a hotel lobby as a bald man in a suit, before reappearing with thick black hair and glasses?”
“You think Scott Caan would go to such lengths in such a short space of time?”
“Doug, this guy is, we believe, planning to launch a bio attack two Metro stops away, striking right at the heart of the American military. Wouldn’t you – knowing there were countless cameras around – ensure you weren’t stopped in the final stages of the operation?”
Meyerstein was aware of a phone ringing in the background, which was not being picked up. She turned round and glared at one of Stamper’s team, a young man, who picked up the ringing phone red-faced.
She faced the screen again.
“Doug, what if there has been a switch? A last minute change. To throw people off the scent just as a precaution?”