The chief spoke first, “Mister Bradford, are your people able to get a look at the hard drive on that computer in Patel’s office without tripping any alarms?”
“Yes sir. We will send in a team late tonight to copy everything, including any flash drives or disks.”
“Mickey, do you know if the machine had a VoIP capability?” Bob Phillips asked.
“We don’t think so. My source didn’t see anything unusual, but we will find out.”
“How long before we will know what is on the hard drive and any external drives?”
“By tomorrow, sir.”
“Give me what you have so far and we will run this guy through all the databases. If you get any email addresses, telephone numbers, websites, other names, give us those too, I will coordinate with NSA and run them down as well. Make sure we have people scrub any records we uncover,” the CIA officer said to his FBI colleagues as he was leaving the room.
The FBI people by protocol were deferential to the CIA leader, knowing that while the FBI had the major role on the other side of the big pond, the CIA had primacy outside the states.
Nick and Bob Phillips put together a comprehensive secret email with everything they had and dispatched it to New York. The analysts in both Brooklyn and Manhattan were surprised by the swift action by MI-5 and slightly embarrassed at how quickly the student agent had gotten the subject from such simple open sources.
****
The next afternoon, Agent Bradford appeared at the FBI office in the embassy.
“The machine and all the accounts are password protected. Preliminarily, we have only found that one cryptic email that Khan sent three days before the attempt in New York, shortly before the phone call. We will go to the server to get all the stuff they have. I am told everything else seems to be related to the university, his students and experiments.”
“Well, that email does it for me,” said Rooker. “When MI-5 gets a chance, could you give us everything you have to exploit back in New York!”
“I’ll need approval from upstairs, but I’m sure there will be no problem.”
****
Back in Brooklyn, Al Franks and Kevin Cleary, along with a special agent, finally got a break: a Western Union clerk at 23 Willoughby Street looked at a photo and remembered seeing Aaffia Khan on several occasions picking up dispatched money. After checking his records, he said she used the name Dahlia Aher and had identification in that name. To pick up smaller amounts, all she needed was a lease or utility bill. She had both for the Dean Street address.
The clerk explained that the sender’s information did not require identification, but his records indicated several different senders from all over the UK. Upon the issuance of a subpoena all of the records were available to the FBI, he said.
Franks and Cleary believed that smaller amounts were sent and sent to that particular branch of Western Union to avoid the possibility of a Suspicious Activity Report, SAR, being sent to the US Treasury Department. When questioned about the policy on SAR, the branch manager said, “A report to Treasury is submitted if large sums of money are wired or if our central computer detects receipt by the same person at different locations. This helps avoid money structuring where large sums of cash are received in small increments to defeat detection.”
Back at the office in Manhattan, all agreed that large transactions were probably occurring through a hawala, a far more difficult method to be detected. Even the analysts in Brooklyn had little information that led to particular networks.
Al and Kevin prepared a subpoena for Jack Mason’s signature. After Jack approved it, the subpoena was served electronically on Western Union, who responded within minutes.
All of the wires indicated the receiver to be Dahlia Aher, and there was no clear pattern to the dispatches. Each was between fifty and one hundred dollars and contained a memo line with a two-digit numbers expressed. The number 44 was inserted often, as was 86; occasionally the numbers 54 and 43 also appeared.
Copies of the memo lines were sent to FBI and NSA cryptologists for analysis. Both agreed that they were likely identifiers of some sort for perhaps purposes or people, but there was no consensus. The crypto specialists did note that the number 54, along with 34, appeared in the email message sent by Aaffia Khan to the Leeds University computer but didn’t have enough information to draw any kind of conclusion within a reasonable range of reliability.
****
That morning the MI-5 contacted the Met and created a plan for the covert surveillance of Patel. All agreed that it should begin immediately, initially using MI-5 specialists, as the background investigation of the target was concurrently conducted by the Metropolitan Police.
In the embassy, Nicky and Bob created an EC reporting all the details of the project so far, as both expressed an optimistic belief that Patel would lead to Bhiren.
“Nick, done right, the Brits should have no trouble observing the professor. He is a high-profile guy, easier to follow. They have a wire on his phones and he obviously is not a career terrorist. It should only be a matter of time.”
“Bob, I think you are right, but these guys are tricky. The Met lost al Mohammed and never picked him up again. Patel is an interesting and intelligent character, and so far the only mistakes he made, ironically happening on the same day, was receiving that email and taking the telephone call.”
“What is your theory on that, Nick?”
“The email was a final message to connect before the event and the telephone call was the final details sort of in lieu of VoIP.”
“Why not just use a VoIP connection?”
“Because this call was about the bomb, Patel’s expertise, and our professor probably doesn’t have local VoIP service. But who knows.”
“Well, somebody has VoIP service, and Aaffia used it.”
****
The Met investigation proceeded smoothly and confirmed that Patel was a practicing Muslim at the Iigraa Center, liked numerology and chess, and was a twenty-year veteran at the University of Leeds with an impressive background in chemistry. He had traveled extensively and none of his associations at the school seemed to indicate terrorist involvement, and the chemist was a loner. Patel’s visits to the US had not coincided with the attempted bombing, and immigration records suggested he was at home when the New York attempt occurred. Kiran Patel’s acquaintance with Bhiren al Mohammed went back several years but never appeared to be close, and it wasn’t clear that they had ever traveled together.
MI-5 had four surveillance specialists working the case, and toll records from all of Patel’s phones did not show any nefarious contacts. He did not text, and his emails were all business oriented and written in clear language. Now, like the situation with Aaffia, questions began to arise as to how he connected with Bhiren.
****
After a few days, Brennan and Phillips decided to go home and let the surveillance play out. On the flight back to the US both were comfortable with the progress of the case, but didn’t and couldn’t discuss any particulars in the insecure environment of the jet cabin.
****
At home Joann watched out the large semicircular bay window as Nick pulled into the driveway. She excitedly went outside and met him with a big hug as he got out of the car. “Nicky, that was a long ten days. How are you?” she asked as she kissed him deeply.
“I’m exhausted but happy to be home with you and the kids. How are Michael and Elizabeth?”
“They are fine but they missed their daddy so much. Both are still at school. Let’s go inside and have a late lunch, but maybe a quick game of checkers first,” Joann said with a sexy look in her pretty blue eyes, and then pausing for a momentary serious thought and out of intense interest added, “how, in general terms, of course, did the mission go?”
“Great! I think we accomplished our immediate goal, and now it is up to greater powers to accomplish theirs.”
“Will you have to go back soon?”
“Not at least f
or a few weeks, Joann, and even then it will probably only be for a few days. Do you want to take a trip to London?”
“I’d have to have my mom and dad watch the kids. Yeah, maybe I would like that. What is the winter like in England?”
“The weather is a little cold, but the beer is nice and warm,” Nick said as he took her hand, held it high and slowly guided her up the circuitous stairs toward their bedroom. Joann, not to be outdone by Nick’s drama, theatrically, slowly, playfully and enticingly removed her clothing on the flight of steps for its pure amorous effect.
****
The next three weeks showed no change in the case, and Jack Mason was becoming concerned, perhaps agitated. The professor had been trailed all over the Leeds area but never engaged in anything that was even remotely suspicious. He went to the store, to the mosque and to work. He occasionally called the administrative offices in the university and telephoned his unemployed son Mahesh, generally at home, once a day, usually in the morning. Most of his meetings were with students and his aide Hasan Tanweer. The FBI, MI-5 and the Met were becoming frustrated.
Kristin Roberts had her network out and studied endless immigration records and could not discover how Khan got into the US. Larry Ford had come back from Fort Meade and John Planner and Tom Carrillo had nothing more to offer on Patel. In fact, the name hadn’t come up at all in the intelligence records in the custody of the Defense Department or NSA. A name check on his son and his graduate student assistant were negative as well.
Mason called a Team 1 meeting and directed with some frustration his initial comments at Brennan. “We are making no progress, Nick. I sent you and Bob over there and since you guys came back the lights went out. We’ve got to shake it up again. Let’s get some ideas!”
“Jack, the Brits can pick the professor up, interrogate him, and have the right to hold him for up to twenty-eight days in detention, but when he goes out of circulation we lose that lead, he figures out we know and Bhiren may find out we are onto him too.”
“Any other ideas?” Jack asked the group. There was silence.
“Nicky, call Rooker and have him discuss the possibility of an interrogation of Patel, but let’s give the present plan a few more weeks.”
****
In mid-January Nick and Jodie were somewhere over the North Atlantic sipping cocktails in the economy class flight to Heathrow, the busiest airport in the world.
“Nicky, I’m so excited! The London Museum, the West End, The Tower of London, Big Ben. Now, this hotel we are staying at, it is okay, right?”
“Okay? It depends on your definition of okay; small room, big bed, a shower the size of a closet, TV, and about three blocks from Paddington Station and Hyde Park. It is surrounded by restaurants and there is a nice pub, The Monkey’s Puzzle, right across the street.”
“That is okay! What are your plans for tomorrow?”
“I will go to the embassy about noon, 7 a.m. New York and meet with our group. So you and I can take a jog in Hyde Park in the morning and have breakfast together before I leave. I will be back for dinner.”
“I am going to the Portrait Museum near Trafalgar Square tomorrow. Nick, do I just take the tube from Paddington?”
“Yeah, the Circle Line, I think. If you miss your stop, stay onboard and it will come around again.”
****
The next morning in Corey Rooker’s office the mood was not good. The CIA Station Chief, like Jack Mason, was becoming agitated.
“We have been following this friggin’ guy for almost two months and nothing. How the hell could that be?”
“Maybe the MI-5 got burned, Chief,” Corey offered.
“Maybe we are chasing our own asses, Corey,” the chief responded.
“Nick, you suggest we have the Met pick him up, right?”
“Yes sir, but I think we can use a little timing. The school is in between semesters for the next two weeks beginning Monday. Let’s grab him on the break and he may not be missed at the school. His son might miss him, but most of the university is closed and many of the others will be away.”
“Corey, can the Metropolitan Police do that?”
“Yes sir, I think so. They have already agreed to nab him on our schedule.”
“Can Nick observe any interrogations?”
“Yes sir.”
“Okay, this is my bailiwick. Let’s do it!”
****
The police picked up Professor Patel at his home while his son was out of town for the weekend. The arresting officers asked Patel to leave a note advising his son, Mahesh, that he would be away for a few days and contact him later. The professor looked at the officers with tears in his eyes. “What have I done?”
“We will explain, professor. You must come with us, we need your help and we want you to write the note,” the lead investigator instructed.
“Alright, but he will be worried and calling me. What am I to do?”
“You will be permitted to talk to your son from time to time, but right now pen out the note and we are leaving.”
The potential terrorist, emotionally exhausted, was transported by government car to New Scotland Yard in London and immediately taken to an interrogation room with one-way glass and video and audio monitoring. The interrogation team from the Met was led by an inspector who had many years experience with terrorism. He had worked both IRA and Islamic terrorist investigations. Unnamed and with secret credentials, he was fully familiar with the Patel allegations.
Nick Brennan observed the interrogation through the one-way glass wall.
“Kiran, we know you are involved with Bhiren al Mohammed!” the interrogator yelled at the professor.
“I am not a terrorist. He is, but I am not. I am a British citizen!” he screamed in response.
“You have worshiped with him, you are acquainted with him and you share his radical beliefs.”
“I am not a radical. I am an observant Muslim, nothing more.”
“We know much about you: you are a chemist, you have contacted terrorists by email, and you have spoken to evil doers by telephone. We know you have received calls on the public telephone box across from your office.”
“I have no idea of what you speak. I have never used the telephone box outside, I have a telephone in my office, in my lab, at home, and a cell phone. You are pursuing the wrong man!”
Brennan watched the man’s eyes and mannerisms through the glass. Doubts immediately arose in his mind. Nick, who had interviewed a lot of suspects during his police career, began to wonder do we have the wrong guy?
“Professor Patel, we have pictures of you using the phone box with your white Washington Nationals cap perched neatly upon your head. Tell us the truth,” the agent said, exaggerating the evidence.
“I have never walked on the campus with that hat on. It is a souvenir. I happen to keep it in my office closet. I meant to bring it home, I just haven’t.”
“You do not deny your involvement in numerology, do you?”
“No, it is a hobby. It is based on relationships, nothing nefarious.”
“Have you created codes or encryption devices to send messages?”
“No, never.”
“That is a lie. You have been corresponding with others using cryptic devices, have you not?” the interrogator demanded.
“No sir, I have not!”
Nick knew that sometimes the most productive part of an interrogation occurred after a suspect was worn down, but Patel wasn’t showing any promise. He was either incredibly well prepared for the ordeal or he was an innocent man. Nicky spent time watching the process through the glass but was not presumptuous enough to suggest questions to the lead interrogator. Looking at his watch, Brennan decided to leave and meet Joann for a late dinner.
****
At a corner table next to the window in an Italian restaurant near their hotel, Nicky sat distant and troubled by the day’s work. Joann, still deeply impressed with London, looked across the table, sitting next to the
glass which was projecting the shifting shadows from the barren tree branches moving under the street lights. It was after nine, and both were famished and tired.
“Jodie, did you have a good day?” Nick asked absentmindedly.
“Nick, it was great. I went to Southwark, the borough on the other side of the river, rode the London Eye and sampled wine in a great trattoria. I love this town!” Nick was pensive and not really listening to Joann’s description of her experience. A thought entered his mind.
“Joann, you are better at this stuff than I am. What is numerology?”
“Okay, Nicky, from what I know, it is the idea that numbers influence our relationships. We have to be numerically compatible. Why do you ask?”
“One of our suspects is a student of numerology and I wonder if that plays a role.”
“Plays a role? What do you mean?”
“The guy seems genuine. Sometimes I have to get lost before I figure out where the hell I have to go, if that makes sense. The short answer is I don’t know what I mean.”
“Nicky, numerology is not a science, it is an art. My specialty is history and a little bit of philosophy, but in my opinion numerology is close to a social science. It is mystical. Pythagoras and a lot of other mathematicians got involved with it. It plays off of Isopsephy, the idea that you add up the value of letters in a word to form a single number. Strangely, the Greeks used pebbles and arranged them in certain patterns based on numerology and used that to learn geometry or arithmetic.”
“Could numerology be used to create a code or encryption device?”
“I suppose, but talk to John Planner about that. His guys would certainly be familiar with numerology. Before you ask, my beautiful lover, it is unrelated to prime numbers!”
When they got back to their tiny room, Nick, sitting in front of his laptop, spent the rest of the night online researching numerology. Complex in many ways but simple in others, he thought. Using the basic concept that A=1, B=2 and so forth, Brennan began to construct values. The name Patel = 44, Khan = 34, Bhiren = 56, al = 13, Mohammed = 72 and Kiran = 53. Was it just a coincidence, he thought? The email from Khan’s computer included both 34 and 54, and those numbers were set apart by the slash mark. Simple analysis told him that Khan was the sender, but who was the receiver? Kiran was 53 and Patel was 44 when one added up all the numbers. It certainly wasn’t Bhiren al Mohammed, another unknown, he figured. It was a stupidly simple device, but one that identified who would call and who would answer. As he crawled into bed beside his sleeping wife at two in the morning, Nicky knew he needed to talk to John Planner first thing in the morning.
Once a Noble Endeavor Page 21