by David Bishop
“The second name is handicapped and may be unable to perform the kind of physical effort necessary to handle much of a weapon. Number four dropped out of Georgetown two weeks ago and returned to Egypt.”
“Were you able to confirm that return?”
“Yes, sir. The analyst found a photo of him in the terminal at Reagan and a picture of him entering the Jetway for a plane to New York. A similar set of photos were found of him entering the Jetway at JFK for a flight to Egypt. He’s on the seat manifest for that flight.”
“And that alone brought you back to students one and three, right?”
“Mm hmm.” Dillinger mumbled while chewing, then swallowed. “It did. No guarantee either student one or three is our lone sleeper, but at the moment they top the list of nominees.” Dillinger raised his eyebrows. “I suggest we put those two: Faraj Arafa and Gamal Mostafa under round-the-clock human surveillance and get electronics in their homes so we can hear them and see what’s happening.”
“I thought Mostafa was spelled Mo-u-stafa.
“I checked with one of our Arabic language specialists. Like lots of other words in the Middle East, the word gets screwed up with multiple alphabets and transliteration. It’s a nightmare for searches and for intelligence. As for Mostafa, it goes both ways, sort of like our Johnson with an ‘o’ or an ‘e,’ the more common in Egypt is with the ‘o’.”
“Anything stand out on either of these two?”
“Nothing that screams come and get me. Faraj Arafa is in his early twenties, been enrolled and attending for about four years. That fits what Benoit told us. Faraj Arafa gets excellent grades and has never missed a single class. That fits our reasoning. His major is international business with a lot of premed classes. He’s never been in trouble with the local cops or with us. Campus security has no record of him being a troublemaker. He didn’t show up in the films we’ve seen of campus protests. There aren’t many at GU. He walked by one, but didn’t participate or even shout encouragement to those involved.”
“What about the other guy?”
“Gamal Mostafa. Similar age, two years of good attendance and grades. Major is high-tech stuff. No criminal activity, but the films show him at a couple of orderly protests—campus stuff—nothing political, nothing that required excess security or local cops.”
Testler looked directly into Dillinger’s eyes. “Mosques?”
“We haven’t put that together on either of the two. We should find out during the surveillance.”
“Okay. Let’s hold off talking with these guys’ neighbors and acquaintances. We don’t want these suspects to learn of our inquiries before we’re ready.”
“I agree.” Dillinger swigged the last of his soda. “However, I think we should talk to his professors—on the QT. Find out if he’s popping off, getting mouthy in class about religion or politics or whatever.”
Testler nodded strongly. “Okay. Do it. Now what about over at Langley. How’s that going?”
“You know Deputy Director Smidley? They call him Smiley because nobody’s ever seen a crease in his face.”
“Oh, yeah. Deputy Smidley, the guardian of the budget. I thought he’d be retired by now. Did he get his back up when you started talking about the volume of support we need?”
“Shit, yes. He growled so loud he showed his teeth.”
Ryan laughed. “Don’t let him back you off. If you need me to call Director Templeton, let me know.”
“The director doesn’t like to challenge Smidley. He doesn’t want to have to find a replacement. Smidley’s is a shit job.”
“Stay after what you need. If it’s necessary I’ll call the president.”
Dillinger’s eyes opened wide. “You can do that?”
Ryan gave a thumbs-up. “You need me, you let me know. Keep those analysts’ balls to the wall.”
“Anything else?”
“The students. If either of these two live off campus, find out what you can, but nothing that’ll spook ‘em.”
Chapter 35
A lone man drifted away from the crowd in the National Mall. Not an overly tall, but an overly large man. He walked with the effort of overweight people, each stride angled his foot out to the side. His girth prevented him from hurrying, but he walked with purpose. He carried a wrinkled brown bag, the kind in which a lowly worker might tote a lunch. He worked his way toward the Smithsonian Castle along Jefferson Drive SW, near 12th Street Expressway, several blocks from the Capitol building and the U.S. Supreme Court. He sat on a bench, facing the sun, near a small fountain outside the Smithsonian information center.
After a few minutes, a second man came along with a fabric bag suspended on a strap over his shoulder. Strangers, seemingly brought together by happenstance when each decided to eat their packed lunch outside at the same location. When the second man neared the bench he made a mind-if-I-sit-here gesture toward the first man. After receiving a nodded approval, he swung his fabric bag off his shoulder and sat at the opposite end. The bench was designed for three, but given the first man’s size, no room remained.
The first to arrive, a Caucasian dressed as a middleclass working American, opened his bag and took out a plastic sandwich holder. After opening the container, he withdrew half of a cut sandwich, snapped the cover back onto the container, and put it back into the paper bag. After the first bite, he repositioned his Kindle on his lap, crossed his legs, and opened his chosen reading.
The second man, noticeably thinner and about ten years senior to the first, unzipped his cloth bag and removed something wrapped in tinfoil. He removed a book, drew his knees together, put the book across his legs, and unwrapped the tinfoil cover of a sandwich snuggled by a fat, greenish-gray pickle. He spread and smoothed the foil, slid the book nearer, took a bite, closed his eyes, and smiled, apparently at the pleasure of his first chew.
Between these movements, the two men conversed using the fewest words they could for what each needed to say.
The first man popped the top on his soda can while glancing over to watch the second un-crinkle the tinfoil and twist the cap off a bottle of water.
“How are you?”
“Fine. You?” The first man nodded.
They continued to speak around their respective chews and bites and drinks.
“We have it.”
“What is it?”
“A MANPAD, it’s a Russian missile, the Igla class with a passive homing configuration.”
“I know what a MANPAD is. I don’t believe one has ever been used in the U.S.”
“To my knowledge that’s correct. The most recent account was a PKK fighter taking down a Turkish attack helicopter in the northwest mountains of Syria, I think it was there. If not, then, perhaps, inside Turkey.”
“Has your sleeper trained on them?”
“Some years back. Not to worry. The passive homing setup allows the missile to be drawn to the infrared discharge from engines, or some kind of technical shit. I’ve been told it’s a pretty simple weapon. Fires like a rifle with minimal need to aim. The use of weapons isn’t my strong suit.”
“I understand the military style choppers have defensive tactics that distract or confuse the missile.”
“Hey, they feel it’ll work for what they have planned. In the end, the success or failure of the mission is not your business or mine. We are bringing the MANPAD to them. What they do with it, or how they fuck up using it is not our concern.”
“What else do you need?”
“Where and when.”
“The site is set.” After saying it, the taller man lowered his Kindle, tilted back his head, elevated his Kindle in front of him, and emitted a laughing smile, as if brought on by what he had just read. He briefly turned to the other man and spoke, this time without an attempt to obfuscate his doing so. “This story is a hoot.”
The thinner man looked over and smiled. Then, while lowering his head back toward his book, he repeated, “Where and when?”
“When isn’t yet k
nown. You’ll learn where, when you learn when. We await schedules. Remain ready.”
“That’s it, we sit and wait?”
“For the million dollars you’ll receive, you’re being paid to wait.”
They remained quiet. Each reading until the thinner man stood and turned toward the other. “A most pleasant day to lunch outside. Thank you for your company.” He bowed slightly at the waist before walking off, carrying his lunch sack with his disposables inside.
Ten minutes later, the large man, leveraging himself on the arm of the bench, stood and walked the opposite direction, towards the 12th Street Expressway.
Chapter 36
That afternoon Ryan Testler met with Billy Dillinger and Clyde Blackstone. Each CIA agent brought a second person.
Dillinger introduced his lead researcher, Vanessa Bollen. Blackstone’s main assistant was Bruce Webb. Vanessa had the look of a librarian, one with highly expressive eyes that participated in whatever she was saying, hearing, or, apparently, even thinking. Bruce was more outwardly calm, an older man with the out-of-shape paunch expected of a full-time desk jockey.
Dillinger and Blackstone began talking at the same time. Testler quieted them both and pointed to Blackstone who gave his report.
“Webb did a yeoman’s job of gathering the information on the officers of the first wave of ships—the ones visiting the closest ports. After that he did the same on the ships that called on the New York/New Jersey port. The ships heading for Texas and the west coast are not yet addressed. After we finish with these, should you decide you need the info on those, we can wrap them up later today.” Blackstone glanced at Webb.
“You two keep looking at each other like there’s something else. What gives?”
Blackstone continued: “Let me start with the most promising ship. The MV Arimax, a Bay class Panamax container ship. She carries approximately five thousand TEU.”
When Testler squinted, Blackstone’s assistant leaned forward. “A TEU is a twenty-foot container unit, meaning this ship can carry as many up to five thousand of these containers.”
“Wow. But what got you two glancing back and forth?”
The lead researcher leaned back and looked over at Clyde Blackstone who poked his notes with his index finger. “For now, I’ll ignore the other ships and the other officers and focus on the ship that make it to the top of our stack: the Arimax and its cargo officer, Ali Hamdi Amman, from Yemen. Amman has some history of speaking in support of radicalism in Yemen. Our contact within the Yemeni intelligence apparatus confirms they know of Amman. He’s a Houthi, who are Shia and strongly influenced by the Iranians. We think this fellow may be the man we seek. … I might add we found no other officers on any of the other ships that looked at all like our guy.”
“What do we know of Amman’s direct involvement with the fighting in Yemen or actual terrorist activities?”
“Bruce? Whatdaya got?”
Bruce Webb turned to his laptop. “Give me a couple minutes.” He started hitting keys.
“Let me know when you’re ready.” Testler turned to Blackstone. “What’s the currents on this ship and cargo officer Amman?”
Blackstone glanced at his handwritten notes. “The Arimax left the U.S. three days ago. Its current location is somewhere south of Florida, heading for the Brazilian port of Santos at São Paulo.”
Testler was on his feet. “Get a couple of agents on their way. Wait, when is it due in Santos and how long is its scheduled stop in that port?”
Blackstone flipped past a couple of pages. “It arrives tomorrow afternoon, late. The next day is scheduled for offloading and taking on containers. It leaves Santos the following morning heading south, through the Drake Passage, up the western coast of South America, then easterly through the Panama Canal and back across the Atlantic.”
Webb looked up from his laptop. “I downloaded this earlier, but I wanted to recheck it before I said anything. According to Yemeni intelligence, Amman is a talker, not a fighter. They don’t believe Amman has ever been in the field with the Houthis. He’s participated in several nonviolent marches, but no action. He spent a few years in England and a couple more in Chicago going to college, but nothing indicates he’s done any fighting.”
“We need to talk with this guy. Let’s get some crackerjack interrogators on their way ASAP. Before they land in São Paulo I want everything we can find on this Ali Hamdi Amman. Family. Education. Job history. Assets. Property owned in and out of his home country. Sexual orientation, wives, girlfriends, whatever floats his boat. Oh, and don’t forget bank accounts. We need to know if this guy’s a real fanatic or a singing waiter working for tips to pile up cash in some dark corner of the world.”
Blackstone turned toward Webb. “Can you handle this?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll pull in another digger and get after it. I know one who’s superb at chasing money in and out of the shadows.”
“Good.”
Ryan pointed at Blackstone. “Be sure one of the interrogators you send is fluent in Arabic. The Hadrami dialect preferably. Top priority. Webb, nothing but Amman for you. If this is our guy, we’re looking at an opportunity to ID the weapon, where it was offloaded, and possibly where it was taken or by whom. Top priority.”
“Okay.”
“Not just okay, Agent Blackstone. This is where you get up and get moving. You and Webb. Don’t stop until it’s done. I’ll continue with Dillinger and summarize for you later.”
When Blackstone and Webb left the room, Testler rolled his chair closer to Dillinger and Vanessa Bollen. “Okay, you have the ball. What’s going on with our two Egyptian male students?”
“We’ve applied for sneak-and-peek warrants for both men’s homes, vehicles, and any lockers they maintain on the Georgetown campus or at other locations.”
“Tracking?”
Dillinger raised his eyebrows. “Absolutely. Assuming the court approves our sneak-and-peeks, as we requested, we’ll be able to install listening devices and attach homing devices to vehicles, including Faraj Arafa’s moped.”
“How long of a delayed notice period did we request? If we have to tell these guys we’ve got warrants too soon it’ll screw everything up.”
“Ninety days. Extensions at the end are generally easy to get. The burden is to show that giving the subject notice of the search at the expiration of the initial delay period approved in the warrant, would jeopardize an ongoing investigation. I don’t recall hearing of an extension request being refused.”
The analyst, Bollen, was shaking her head. “Something I never really understood, these Delayed Notice Warrants give law enforcement the right to a search without the person whose property is to be searched having knowledge of the search or that their conversations are being monitored. So how do we get inside their homes without violating other laws?”
Testler’s answer had an edge to it. “You’re on this assignment because you’re a top analyst. I know you’re not experienced at field work. Sneak-peek warrants include the right of surreptitious entry.”
“God forbid we have the wrong address or even the wrong person. I get it that this law was justified by our fight against terrorism, but only about five percent of sneak-and-peeks are issued with respect to terrorism.”
“Ms. Bollen,” Testler said her name sharply, “relevant to our case, are your comments going somewhere, or don’t you have enough to keep you busy?”
Agent Dillinger looked sternly at his lead analyst. “What you’re saying may be an interesting point of discussion, but it doesn’t advance what we’re here to do.”
Bollen inhaled fully. “Acknowledged, sir.”
Testler leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs. “Okay, let’s get back to it. When will we be cleared to go in?”
“Within twenty-four hours, possibly sooner. However, guessing when a judge may do a given thing is always iffy.”
“Till then, I want eyes on these guys every minute of every day. No down time. Watch ‘em sleep. See
‘em rise.”
* * *
Ryan Testler closed his door and called President Wellington. He reviewed the situation with respect to the MV Arimax and its cargo officer Ali Hamdi Amman.
“Mr. President, we may have gotten really lucky. The needle is rarely in the first haystack, but this time—maybe. Of course, it wasn’t really the first haystack. We passed up a lot based on little more than educated guesses.”
After explaining what they knew and what they expected would eventually prove true, Ryan made his next request: “We need to find out if the weapon is still onboard the Arimax. I’m guessing we might find the legal support we need through the Proliferation Security Initiative (PSI), but I’m far from versed in it.”
“Let me chat with the Naval Secretary. See what he thinks. Maybe check with the appropriate legal minds around here. But, from what you said, it appears this weapon has already been offloaded onto our shore. The ship docked in Maryland, then sailed our coast southward, and is now in Brazil or close to it. Wait one minute.… Okay, I just passed a note to my secretary to find out if Brazil is a signer on the PSI.”
“Sir, I agree. In all likelihood the weapon’s been offloaded and is somewhere nearby. But, if that’s so, and we think it is, Officer Amman will know where and maybe to whom. He’s the only human in this chain we’ve ID’d.”
“Then we need to talk with this fellow.”
“We’ve got agents on their way. We understand Amman speaks English, but one of the agents heading down there speaks Arabic. They’ll hook up with our agents in Brazil. We’ll be ready.”
“Whatever it takes, Ryan. We need this guy to talk.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What else you got workin’?”
Ryan glanced up as someone walked by the glass panel next to his door. “I plan to call CIA Director Templeton and ask what he has on file about the shipping company that owns the Arimax and employs Officer Amman. We may move faster by coming clean with the employer and asking him to order Officer Amman to cooperate. We have reason to believe Amman is more pragmatic than fanatic. This could make for an easier interrogation.”