by Mark Gilleo
The National Record Center for Immigration and Customs Enforcement resided in Lee’s Summit, a quiet suburb just outside Kansas City. The interior of the building shined with state-of-the-art architectural features designed to wow the politicians who continued to fund the project. Carpeted floors, glass walls, and exposed ducts splashed in funky colors made the N.R.C. at Lee’s Summit one of the most progressive buildings in the government. The exterior was harder to appreciate. The N.R.C. was 200,000 square feet of office space constructed into the opening of an existing cave. Thirty million files wedged into the earth in the middle of the country’s heartland. The government knew no boundaries when it came to spending money.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Lisa said, pulling her jacket closed.
“It’s information that we could have obtained through a Freedom of Information Act request, if we could wait three months. Besides, I told you we may well come out of this looking like heroes,” Clark responded.
“Or felons,” Lisa answered.
Lisa walked through the automatic doors as Clark stared at the entrance to the building from the outside. “Let’s go, Clark,” Lisa said, not agitated, but sounding like she was. Criminal Investigator Lisa Prescott pulled her badge and showed it through the thick glass to the Immigration and Customs Enforcement employee. The elderly pale white woman with a terrific set of dentures leaned far enough forward to see the picture on the badge and then moved back into her seat.
“I’m here to see Don Christie.”
“Who are you with?” the woman asked. Clark looked at Lisa, wondering exactly what the lady’s position was. Obviously, it wasn’t checking identities.
“The FBI,” Lisa responded in jest.
“And him?” she asked with a flick of the thumb in Clark’s direction.
“He is my witness. I need him to identify the person in question.”
The old woman pushed a clipboard through the counter level hole in the glass. “Please sign in and have a seat. Someone will be with you in a moment.”
Lisa and Clark signed in and the door opened with a buzz long before they made a move for the chairs.
“You the IRS agent?”
“That’s me,” Lisa answered. “Call me Lisa.”
Clark’s mind flashed back to their first meeting and Lisa’s call-me-Agent-Prescott mandate.
“And him?” Don Christie asked.
Clark took a crack at introducing himself. “Clark Hayden. Here to provide insight into the investigation as a material witness.”
Don Christie shook Clark’s hand with a knuckle grinding grip and nodded to the woman behind the glass who pushed through two visitor’s badges.
“These must be worn at all times.”
Don Christie waddled as he walked. It wasn’t a strut or a show of force. It was the way the bones of his skeleton interacted with one another. Clark walked next to Lisa and considered that their escort, from the backside, could almost pass as a silverback in a suit.
Don spoke over his shoulder as he walked, his voice bellowing. “Welcome to the National Records Center, or what we call the N.R.C. We used to call it INS NRC, but technically the INS doesn’t exist anymore. It’s all rolled under the Department of Homeland Security and Immigration and Customs Enforcement. In reality, we haven’t quite gotten over the hump with the new name. INS still rolls off the tongue.”
“Yes it does,” Clark said.
“Besides, most of the documents we use still have INS designated on them. We have over thirty million files under our supervision, with millions more arriving every year. We have been consolidating records from regional INS offices for years, and the boxes keep pouring in. We have storage on site and in two locations around the city. We are also in the process of formatting all the files for electronic storage and applying barcode technology for faster retrieval.”
“In the process, you said?” Clark asked.
“Well, as you can imagine, it takes a while to scan thirty million folders, some of them an inch thick.”
“How many have been converted electronically?”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple. Each region had its own filing system. Some filed according the INS file number. Some filed them alphabetically. Some filed them by year and month.”
“I don’t think I like where this is going,” Lisa said, unbuttoning the top button on her blouse.
“Probably not,” Don answered. He pushed a glass door open into a large work area. As he walked around the edge of workspace, Don continued the tour.
“Most of the people here are working on the classification of documents and electronic formatting. Unfortunately it is a manual process. We have to take every folder out, undo the center clips and then run them through scanners and put the folders back together. Then there is data entry for each folder so that we can retrieve the information from the database.”
Clark rolled his eyes imperceptibly. “So how many folders have been entered into the database?”
“About two million. What name are you looking for again?”
“Ariana Amin.”
“The beginning of the alphabet.”
“Is that good or bad?” Clark asked.
“Bad, I guess. We started our electronic conversion at Z.”
“But, of course,” Lisa added.
Don raised an eyebrow and continued. “Well, the folders with the last name of Z were the smallest in number. We started there for a sense of accomplishment. That, and we were mandated to have certain percentages of the alphabet finished by certain intervals. So Z is completely in the database. Easy to search.”
“And the ‘A’ section?” Clark asked.
“We’ve started, but haven’t finished. So you may get lucky, and you may not.” Don led the pair around the corner to a set of stainless steel elevator doors. “We’re going down two stories to the main storage facility.”
“Any chance this place was originally built to withstand a nuclear war?” Clark asked.
“Not that I know of. If there were a nuclear war, I hope the country would have higher priorities than keeping these folders safe.” The elevator opened with a small ding. “After you,” Don said, ushering his guests into the elevator. The silver doors opened on sub-floor two into a hall that stood behind a glass wall. The glass overlooked a huge floor of metal bookcases full of boxes and folders.
Clark spoke first. “Holy shit. That is a lot of files.”
“That’s generally the reaction we get down here in Sub-Two from our visitors. Most people have never seen anything like it.”
Clark and Agent Prescott pressed up against the glass and gawked at the hangar-sized room large enough to park a pair of 747’s end-to-end and wing-to-wing.
Lisa muttered in disbelief. “This could take all year.”
“I hope not,” Don answered. “I get off at six and I’m the only one here today with authorization to bring visitors to Sub-Two.”
“Then take us to the ‘A’ section.”
Don Christie turned down the third aisle from the end and ran his finger along several boxes reading the names and numbers on the outside.
“I think this is the area to start. This row runs from ‘AG’ to ‘AS.’ All of what you see is not in the database yet. These are the original hard copies.
Clark looked down the aisle and up at the top of the seven-foot shelves. “Are they in order?”
“In places they might be, in some places, probably not. Remember, these files came from different regions, so if the folders are still in the box, there is no telling what system they used. It all depends.”
Don looked at Lisa. “Let me know if you need anything, I will be around. Just ask for me.”
“Can we get any help?” Clark asked.
“I’ll see if I can’t have someone come down after the staff meeting.”
“Thanks.”
“Good luck.”
“So, what do you think?” Clark asked.
Lisa answere
d. “There were nine Ariana Amins in the computer system.” She pulled out the list of names and addresses. “All we have to do is locate the correct box and file for each of the nine people on the list. Then we will know where they got citizenship.”
Clark ran his fingers along the outside of the box and squinted at the scribbling on some of the labels.
“It may not be that easy. Let’s say that Ariana Amin, from Virginia in the IRS system, got citizenship in Miami before she had tax information and then moved to Washington D.C. In the IRS system, it would show her current address, but not necessarily her address when she applied to the INS.”
“So, if she hasn’t moved, the location would be the same,” Lisa paused. “Which percentage of the population moves in a year?”
“That’s not the question. The question is, which percentage of terrorists would move after gaining citizenship or legal residency?”
Lisa looked at Clark and answered. “All of them.”
“Yeah.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Intuition,” Clark answered. He shut his eyes and took five steps down the aisle towards the center. Eyes still shut, he stuck out his right hand and tapped a box. “I’ll start here.”
Lisa looked at Clark as if he were crazy before shutting her eyes, spinning around once, and grabbing the first box in front of her as she completed the turn.
It took two hours to go through a dozen boxes. File by file. Page by page. Photo by photo. At their current rate, Criminal Investigator Prescott would reach mandatory retirement before they made it half-way down the aisle. Empty Styrofoam cups that once held coffee were stacked behind Agent Prescott in a poor attempt at a pyramid. Pouring through the boxes, each person checked the photo on the file and then the name. Clark stood from his crossed-legs position on the floor. “This could take a lifetime. And my butt is already numb from this floor.”
“We don’t have a lifetime and don’t blame the floor. It’s kind of nice to be in another city and feel that D.C. isn’t the only place with a chill.”
“I don’t know if I would call it nice.”
“Yeah, that’s true. Snow just isn’t as much fun as it is when you are younger. The only thing I know enjoying this winter is my neighbor’s new puppy. He loves the snow. I watch him play from the window sometimes. Watching him brings out the pure joy of snow.”
Clark paused for a moment at the thought of Lisa’s neighbor’s dog frolicking in the snow. Something clicked. He picked up the files on the floor and put them back in the box that was in front of him. He paused again, cocking his head to the side as if a voice was calling out to him from the edge of his hearing. Clark looked down the aisle at the insurmountable task and walked past Lisa who was flipping through folders at a feverish pace.
Clark scanned the handwriting on the outside of several boxes and moved farther down the aisle. He read, paused, and then read again before stopping in front of six boxes, the same words written on each in red permanent marker. INS. Boston District Office, JFK Federal Building. 1996-2001. There were six more boxes dated 2002-2007. Beneath the title of each box was a designation for a part of the alphabet. Clark’s eyes moved to the second box in the first set of dates. “AG” through “AP.”
In the back of his mind, Lisa’s words tumbled. A new puppy playing in the snow.
“Lisa, when was the first time you saw snow?”
“I don’t remember. My parents used to take me to Maine in the winter to visit my uncle. I guess I was playing in the stuff since I was little. Why?”
Clark pulled a box off the shelf. The white cardboard bottom made a thud as it hit the cool tile floor. “You just said something that reminded me of a story Ariana told my mother and me,” Clark started. He sat down again on the floor, the nerves in his butt giving notice that they were sore in addition to cold. “It was a random story, but something I guess I never forgot. She said that a friend of hers, who had never seen snow, ran outside one morning to play in a foot of fresh powder. Ariana took the time to put on boots and gloves and headed for the door when her friend came running back into the house. Ariana asked her friend where she was going and her friend said ‘back inside.’ When Ariana asked why, her friend answered plainly. ‘I didn’t realize snow would be so cold.’”
“What’s your point?”
Clark dug through the file with verve and a certain amount of anticipation. He passed a folder with the name “Amen, Jesus,” written on the outside, and stopped to look at the picture, out of curiosity. Who wouldn’t?
“Well, I guess the reason the story stuck with me is simple. If you have never seen snow, never been exposed to snow, didn’t come from a climate where they had snow, I guess you wouldn’t necessarily realize that snow is cold.”
“I guess it’s possible. Now, what’s your point?”
Clark raised his pointer finger and then dove back into the files. Ten seconds later he found his first “Amin.” His heart rate picked up. Abdul Amin, born in Egypt. Al-Mohamed Amin, from Saudi Arabia. Assad Amin, Jordan. Ariana Amin, Pakistan.
“My point is that when Ariana told the story about the first time her friend saw snow, she said she was in Boston,” Clark said tapping the side of the folder with a smile.
“Is it her?”
Clark opened the folder and read frantically. “The name is the same. Same nationality.”
Agent Prescott pulled her stiff frame off the floor with the help of the nearest bookcase.
Clark fished for the photos which had become detached from the top page but were still in the crack of the folder which he held between his hands. He turned the picture upright and looked at it, moving it directly under a light that was fifteen feet above. “It’s not her.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure. She is not wearing a hijab, which Ariana always wore, but the nose is a little different. They are similar, but it isn’t her.”
“Let me see that file.”
“Don’t trust me?”
“I don’t trust anyone.”
“You need therapy.”
“I’ve been. It didn’t help.”
“What did you go for?”
“Shooting my partner.”
“I’m not your partner.”
“Lucky you.”
“What do we do?”
“You think it is her? There are eight others on the list.”
“Well, I remember Ariana telling me that she had been in the States about ten years. But that was a few years ago. The IRS file shows the first date for her as a taxpayer as 1997. So her age is pretty close.”
Lisa spoke. “Let me make a call and see if I can’t get more details on Boston Ariana here.” Lisa opened her cell phone and the screen told her what she already knew. Caves were not a good place to get a signal.
“What should I do in the meantime?”
“Keep reading.”
When Lisa returned, Don Christie was by her side. Lisa reached for the folder and handed it to Don Christie. “We would like a copy of this folder. Every page.”
“Did you find something?”
“Just an address.”
“Are we done here?”
“We can either check out this lead, or spend the rest of the week in this aisle.”
“Just say the word.”
“We’re booked on a plane for Boston that leaves in two hours. It gets in after midnight.”
Chapter 46
Imam Alamoudi entered the inner sanctum of the mosque and headed for the living quarters. A Persian rug worth twenty grand spread from the doorway to the window, wall-to-wall. A large cushioned sofa was placed under a set of windows, seats reserved for the elderly. Pillows balanced precariously on the end of the sofa. Generous portions of larger multi-colored pillows littered the floor in neat piles on the hand-woven rug. The pillows were for the imam and his guests. At over 300 pounds, the imam’s favorite activity was lying on the floor, his belly hugging the tightly knitted Persian rug, his eyes fixated
on the satellite feed of Al Jazeera that was pumped in from the six foot satellite dish on the roof.
Imam Alamoudi pressed the intercom on the wall and ordered lunch in his native Urdu. He shut the door behind him and loosened the belt on his salwar, his pants. He didn’t see Ariana until her hands were on his shoulder. Imam Alamoudi’s naturally-stressed heartbeat quickened.
“Long time no see?”
“You should know better than to bring trouble here.”
“I didn’t bring trouble here.”
“Your neighbor was here.”
“When?”
“Last week.”
“He came on his own. I never even mentioned where I pray. And if not for my husband, I would have never come to this mosque. Prayer is between woman and Allah. The mosque is only a building.”
“You’re incorrect. Prayer is between man and Allah.”
Ariana repeated herself and then added. “What did the boy want?”
“He wanted to know how to reach you. He said that you asked him to watch your house. Now he wants to know how to contact you. He said there was a fire in your home.”
“Nosey fucking American.”
The imam looked at Ariana, judging her vernacular and delivering a stern warning with his eyes.
“I know, I know. I have been living with a group of men.”
The imam headed for the sofa and motioned for Ariana to join him.
“What brings you here?”
“Money.”
The imam walked across the room and his weight sunk into the cushions on the sofa.