by Henry Hack
The conversation between Ali and John lasted about six minutes. Finally, John said, “Okay, go with it.”
John hung up, smiled and said, “This could be real good, but I’m afraid to get our hopes up after our recent lack of progress.”
“Fill us in,” Walt said.
“Ali al-libi lives in Queens. He has given us some small stuff in the past, usually on ordinary crimes like burglary, drugs, stolen property. As I said, he is fiercely anti-terrorist and the petty criminals he gives us he feels are anti-Islam. His reasoning is if they are dishonest they could be possibly involved with the terrorist movement.”
“It was Ali,” Walt said, “who gave us the information a ring of black gun dealers is out there in Queens or Nassau, and they may be providing weapons to the terrorists.”
“Ali has been hanging around with kids his age, eighteen or nineteen, some a little older,” John said, “who seem to us to be ripe for recruitment to the terrorist cause. They’re poor, out of work, commit petty crimes and blame their conditions on the Jews and the American government. He pretends he is one of them, and even goes along on some of the crimes. About an hour ago, six of them were hanging around a convenience store parking lot in Corona, when a guy walks up and starts a conversation. He says his name is, and get ready for this—Ahmed—and leads the chatter to topics such as the 9/11 attacks, bin Laden, Israel, the Jews in America and jihad warriors.”
“Could this be our Ahmed?” Pop asked.
“Praise Allah it is,” Nick said.
“There’s more that points in that direction,” John said. “After stirring them up Ahmed asks, if he could arrange it, would any of them like to join his group and die for Allah and the jihad. All say yes, but with varying degrees of sincerity and enthusiasm. Ahmed chooses only Ali from the group for ‘further examination,’ as this Ahmed put it.”
“When is the next meeing?” Walt asked.
“Tomorrow afternoon. Ali has to wait a block down from the convenience store between one and three. Ahmed will contact him there.”
“Will he wear a wire?”
“No, and I agree with that. It’s too soon. I’m sure he’ll be searched.”
“You’re right. Should we survey the location? I’d love to get a picture of this Ahmed.”
“Probably not a good idea. I think we have to go real careful in the beginning. Ali is cool, and has a good memory. He can write it all down in private, right after the meet, and then we can de-brief him afterwards.”
“What do you guys think?” Walt asked.
“You two impress me as the undercover specialists,” Pop asked. “I can’t be of much assistance here.”
“But it sounds like a good plan,” Nick said. “It can’t hurt to go slow at first.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Walt agreed. “John’s plan is sound. I’m just getting so frustrated with this lack of progress and this feeling events are unfolding I can’t control. I just want to jump quick at anything that looks the least bit promising.”
“Understood,” Pop said. “I feel the same way about the Winston murder.”
“Maybe our luck is changing,” John said. “Maybe God, or Allah if you will, has just provided us with some divine intervention.”
5
John McKee and Walt Kobak stared at the clock on the wall. It read 2:07. Had Ahmed arrived yet? Was the meet still on? They both desperately wanted to be in Queens right now watching the action, but they knew this was the safe way to go. They would know soon anyway. Ali had been told to contact them after the meet as soon as it was safe to do so. They waited and drank more coffee and tried to do some paperwork. Finally, at 3:40, Ali called.
“How did it go?” Walt asked.
“Fine. Ahmed arrived alone on foot a few minutes before two, at Jerry’s convenience store on Northern Boulevard, near 107th Street. He told me to follow him. We walked together down 107th Street to Elmhurst Avenue where we got into his car, a brown Chevy, about ten years old. We drove to a deserted lot near the ballpark, and Ahmed asked me to please get in the back seat. He apologized, but said he had to be careful and had to check me for recording devices. I had to remove my jacket and shirt to the bare skin, and then my trousers and underwear. I had to turn my naked body every way for his examination. Praise Allah the Chevy had a good heater. After I got dressed, he had me take off my shoes and socks and he inspected my feet. He then had me turn all my pockets inside out and empty them. The only ID I carry is my driver’s license, and he seemed happy to confirm I was who I said I was.”
“Did you get the plate number of the car?” John asked.
“Yes, it’s STT-1883.”
“Good. Please continue,” Walt said.
“Ahmed apologized again, but insisted the search was necessary for his sake as well as mine. If he were to recruit a spy, or undercover agent, his death would be certain. He asked me many questions about my feelings on the Jews, infidels and the terrorist movement. He also asked me if I would gladly become a jihad warrior and martyr myself for the holy cause. I agreed, and then he became more specific. He said, ‘Ali, would you pack yourself with explosives and push the button in Penn Station at rush hour, surrounded by hundreds of commuters?’ I said I would be honored to be chosen for such an assignment, and looked forward to my rewards in heaven. Ahmed seemed pleased with that answer. He told me he was the leader of a cell that was one small part of a large organization. He needed four more warriors to fill openings to bring his membership up to the full staff of five. He said if he chose me I would be subject to further critical review from his superior, who he referred to as his section chief.”
“Did you get any names?” John asked.
“I pushed a little, but he wouldn’t bite. I felt I should not push him for more right then.”
“Good decision,” Walt said. “Keep going.”
“That’s about it. Ahmed pondered a little while, and then smiled at me and clapped his hand on my shoulder. He said he liked me and would give me his decision soon. He told me to meet him at the same place on Monday at two p.m. He asked where I wanted to be dropped off, and I told him Roosevelt Avenue and 104th Street. He left me and headed westbound on Roosevelt Avenue. Before I got out he cautioned me not to say anything to anyone about our conversations. I got the distinct feeling there was a threat in that request.”
“Great job, Ali. Stay with it,” Walt said.
“This could be real good stuff,” John said.
“Maybe this will be our break,” Walt said, “but now I’m more nervous than ever over this scant information. And there it was again—right from this Ahmed’s lips—big things would happen soon.”
Nick immediately checked the plate number provided by Ali and said, “Bingo! This checks out to Ahmed Hanjour at the Jackson Heights address where you were shot, Harry.”
“And we know he’s not there anymore. We’ll have to tail him at his next meeting with Ali,” John said.
After Ziad’s parents were safely heading to the airport and out of harm’s way, he closed the blinds throughout the house. He sealed his bedroom window with a plastic tablecloth and duct tape, and put his lamp on high. From the yard at night no discernible light escaped from the window. The next morning he crept out the side door, and peered up and down the street. He scurried back into the house and locked the door behind him. He decided to no longer use the doors of the house to come and go, but to crawl through a small basement window, which was mostly hidden by shrubs, and opened out into the backyard.
During his self imposed semi-imprisonment in his own home, the beginnings of a plan began to form in his mind. He still had the nine millimeter gun and his cell phone. Ahmed and Ramzi must die, but how? He dialed Ahmed’s number.
“Ziad! Praise Allah, it is so good to hear from you. Where are you?”
“Still far away, and I miss you and Abu. But I cannot come home. I am too afraid.”
“Of what are you afraid? The police are no longer interested in you. They are on to
other more important things.”
“It is not the police I’m afraid of. It is Ramzi and Boussara. I’m convinced they mean to kill me.”
“Ah, Ziad,” he sighed. “I must tell you that you are right—you are a marked man—marked for death. I will not lie to you anymore. But listen closely. I have a plan.”
“What plan?”
“Are you still devoted to the jihad cause?”
“Of course,” he lied.
“I may be able to convince Ramzi to let you return unharmed, so you may die a hero, a martyr to the cause.”
“Do you think he will allow it? Or will he shoot me on sight?”
“Let me work on him. The time for big things to happen is drawing near. We can use your dedication and talents. Ramzi may have a change of heart.”
“When will these things happen?”
“I think perhaps in six to eight weeks. I should have more definite information soon. I am meeting with Ramzi at eleven o’clock the day after tomorrow.”
“Ahmed, I truly wish to come home, but you must give me a guarantee I may be allowed to die for our great cause, and not like a dog in the street.”
“I will not ask you to come home otherwise. I have moved once again. Let me give you my new address.”
By 1:30 three JTTF two-man surveillance units were in place in the vicinity of the meeting between Ali and Ahmed. Walt manned the base radio back at headquarters to coordinate their activity. At 2:02 Ahmed arrived in his Chevy and Ali got in. They spoke for a few minutes and Ali got out. Nick and Pop followed the Chevy. Five minutes later Ali called Walt and Walt arranged for John and Harry to pick him up a few blocks away. “How did it go?” John asked when Ali was safely tucked into the back seat of their car.
“It went good. Ahmed told me he has to meet with his chief at eleven tomorrow morning in Brooklyn. He will pass on his approval of me to him and try to set up an interview. He told me to meet him again at the same place at four tomorrow afternoon.”
“Terriffic,” John said. “We have two units carefully tailing Ahmed. He must have a new place not too far away. If we locate his crib we’ll tail him to the chief’s place tomorrow.”
They dropped Ali off and a few minutes later Pop got on the radio and informed everyone that the tail of Ahmed had been successful, watching him enter an apartment building a few miles away, and also noting the location of the parked Chevy. “Great work, guys,” Walt said. “We’ll set up surveillance early tomorrow morning and follow Ahmed right to his boss. Get back in here and we’ll make our plans.”
Ramzi al-Midhar, one of the two section chiefs responsible for Brooklyn and Queens with four cells reporting to him, was a happy man. He had just returned from a meeting in Newark with Eastern Area Leader Muhammed Fayez Boussara and the four other section chiefs, and the date for the attack by OBL-911 had been finalized. It would start on Friday, May 24, the beginning of the long Memorial Day weekend. He summoned his four cell leaders for a meeting at his brownstone apartment on Clinton Avenue for eleven the following morning. He couldn’t wait to distribute the plans. He knew his fellow section chiefs were as eager as he to begin the first action since 2001 against the Great Satan.
Ahmed left his apartment at ten and was immediately spotted by McKee and Harry who had been in position since seven in their unmarked sedan. Pop Hunter and Nick Faliani were two blocks away on the street Ahmed would most likely come down if he were to head for the subway. A third team, Dick Mansfield and Jerry Campora, was staked out watching the location where the cell’s Chevy was parked. Ahmed would have to pass the Chevy en route to the train.
“He’s out the door and on the move,” John said over the radio.
Nick Faliani keyed the microphone and responded, “Team two, K.”
About four minutes later, Ahmed came down the block on the opposite side of the street from where Pop and Nick were parked. When they got out of their car to begin the tail on foot, Ziad Sugami jumped back behind the bush from which he had just emerged. So, the cops were onto Ahmed! That could be very good—or very bad. If they got to Ahmed and Ramzi first, they might be able to thwart OBL-911’s plans for destruction, but then Ziad’s hoped-for preventive strike might not happen. That would be unacceptable. Ahmed and Ramzi must be killed before they could kill him and his parents.
Ziad cautiously edged out and peered up and down the street. He had to move out soon or risk the chance of losing Ahmed. He got out from behind his cover and followed the cops down the street. He was dressed in indistinguishable dark-colored clothing, black sneakers and a ski mask covering three-quarters of his face. He picked up his pace and closed the gap between himself and the cops in front of him. Ahmed reached Roosevelt Avenue at 76th Street, and turned west toward the station.
“Looks like he’s going up to catch the number 7 toward the city,” Pop said. “He should be at the staircase in three minutes.”
But Ahmed passed the staircase by and crossed Roosevelt Avenue, staying on 74th Street. He stopped, looked carefully around, and then ran down the stairs to the IND subway lines beneath Broadway.
“He passed the el station and just went down to the IND Roosevelt Avenue Station. We got him,” Pop said.
“K,” Harry said. “I’m out of the car and right behind you.”
They were all on the westbound platform now, Harry and Nick near the middle, with Ahmed and Pop nearer to the front of the station. Ziad positioned himself well back from the tracks and observed all four of them. The rush hour was over and the crowds were sparse. Five minutes later, a G train pulled in and Ahmed stepped aboard, as did all his tailors.
Pop Hunter worked his way down to Ahmed’s car and took up a position at the end and buried his head in the Daily News. Ziad sat on the opposite end of the car also behind a newspaper. The train rolled on through northern Queens and squealed south into Brooklyn. Pop’s earpiece came to life with Nick’s’s voice, “As soon as he gets up to get off, give us the word.”
“K,” he said quietly into the tiny transceiver.
The train made its way into the Fort Greene neighborhood of Brooklyn and pulled into the Clinton-Washington station. Ahmed arose and waited by the doors.
“This is it guys,” Pop said. “He’s on the move.”
They followed him up the stairs and into the bright sunlight, the cool air a blessed relief after the twenty-five minute ride on the overheated train. Ahmed walked west for two blocks on Lafayette Avenue, and then turned left on Clinton Avenue. He stopped briefly in front of an early twentieth-century brownstone, then walked up the steps and pushed the buzzer. Ten seconds later, after he had spoken into the intercom, the door opened and he entered.
“He’s in,” Pop said. “I’ll continue on past the house and get the number.”
“K, Pop,” Harry said. “I’ll stay on foot on the corner of Clinton and Lafayette. Nick, you stay on the other end at Clinton and Greene. John and team number three, park a block or two away.”
Just after eleven, and again ten minutes later, young Middle-Eastern men entered Ramzi’s apartment. John got on the radio and said, “It looks like these guys come in at regular intervals. I’m assuming all of Ramzi’s four cell leaders are now inside. We probably missed the first arrival. Let’s try to tail them all when they come out with the exception of Ahmed. That leaves three of us to watch for Ramzi if he makes a move.”
Ziad saw Ahmed enter the brownstone and smiled to himself fingering the automatic tucked in his belt. It was time to make his move.
Harry, who was on the avenue peeking around the corner, keyed his radio and said, “All four birds are in the nest. I’m going to walk up Clinton to Lafayette and I’ll stay up that end to watch them leave. I’ll get back to you when the first bird flies the coop.”
Harry started up Clinton just as Ziad began walking across the street toward Ramzi’s brownstone. Harry’s curiosity was aroused at the sight of this movement, and he wondered why this guy was wearing a ski mask on a mild spring day. Harry ducked in
between a tree and a parked van, and watched the guy continue down the street and turn up the steps to number 362A. Was he part of the meeting somehow? The masked figure withdrew a flat pinch bar from inside his jacket and began jimmying the lock. Harry began to walk up the street once more. He got on the radio and said, “Guys, something’s going down at Ramzi’s place. I got a masked man breaking in the front door in broad daylight. I’m a hundred yards away.”
“Be there in a couple minutes,” the two teams responded.
“He just got in,” Harry said. “He threw the pinch bar and the mask into the bushes, and he’s reaching…he’s got a gun! I’m going in after him.”
Pop knew his next transmission would be ignored, but he had to try. “No, Harry, wait for us. We’ll go in together.”
There was no response, and Nick said, “Let’s move. We both know Cassidy. Just like in Jackson Heights, he ain’t waiting for nobody.”
Harry withdrew his gun and cautiously pushed the jimmied door open. He stepped inside and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the hallway. Hearing footsteps, he followed the sound and turned into a parlor where he caught a glimpse of shoes as they disappeared up the stairway on the left wall. He cautiously followed. As he started up the stairs, he heard a voice scream, “Die!” The scream was followed by two quick gunshots and the words, “Die, Ahmed, die!” This was followed by a dozen more gunshots. By the time Harry raced up the stairs and got to the room at the end of the hall, the shooting had apparently stopped. He peeked into the smoke-filled room, gun drawn and at the ready. Bodies were everywhere, and all appeared to be dead or severely wounded. The scene was eerily reminiscent of the shootout in Queens. Then, just as Pop and Nick burst into the room, the body nearest him began to stir. Harry looked down at none other than Ziad Sugami.
Pop and Nick surveyed the situation. “It looks like they’re all dead.”
Nick kicked all the guns he could see into one corner of the room, and he and Pop joined Harry near Ziad. John, Jerry and Dick came huffing into the room. “Everyone okay?” Jerry asked.