“Mickey, that’s great!” the CIA chief yelled out with a sense of some relief.
“There is more, surveillance and cell phone records indicate that Mahesh Patel is closely associated with research assistant Hasan Tanweer. Our photo people also now believe that Tanweer is the man in the white baseball cap who received the telephone call in the phone box at the university. They used a comparative image we were able to capture as he left the laboratory last night.”
“How could that be?” Rooker asked.
“Well, Hasan, dark skinned, is about 178 cm, that is about five feet ten inches, and weighs about 170 pounds—larger than Kiran Patel, but clearly within the estimates. In addition, we discovered he has just shaved off a thick mustache. Tanweer borrowed the cap when he went to receive the call, probably on short notice. My source just got lucky. He picked the right place to start.”
Brennan started to think in terms of numerology again. Those new names. Mahesh Patel and Hasan Tanweer would certainly have values attached to them, he thought as he grabbed a pencil and paper.
“Corey, what were the numbers on the memo line for the Western Union money dispatches to Khan?”
“Hold it, let me bring up the EC. Okay, 43, 44, 54 and 86.”
“Let me create the numerical values for our names. Let’s see: Tanweer equals 86, Patel we know equals 44, Hasan equals 43, and Mahesh equals 54. That’s it—the sender used numerology. They use numerology to identify each other.”
The Met interrogator suddenly added, “Yes, that makes sense. Professor Patel told me his wife dabbled in numerology too. That’s where the kid got it.”
“So Mohammed is 72 and Bhiren is 56, and the cryptic email to set up the phone call was from Khan, 34, to Mahesh, 54, but we still don’t know what the 311 meant. Maybe it is just a symbol for information, and 124 is still an unknown too,” Nick said, thinking out loud.
“The research assistant, is he a chemist?” asked the CIA station chief.
“Yes sir. He has a master’s degree in chemistry and he is a doctoral student. He could definitely have the skill to lead in the construction of an elaborate explosive device,” Mickey responded.
The Met inspector queried the group, “When do we pick them up?”
“They may lead us to Bhiren. Let’s play it out,” Rooker suggested.
“They may have already planned something. Can we take a chance?” Mickey wondered.
“Let’s give it a little time and perhaps we will find Bhiren al Mohammed,” Nick concluded. After a few moments of silence, all agreed they would give it a little more time.
****
But at that very moment, before MI-5 had been able to start a full surveillance operation, Hasan Tanweer was sitting in front of the computer in the professor’s office with the final instructions written in Arabic and encrypted and placed in an email as an attached document. The encryption was rudimentary and approximately of the complexity one might find occurring quickly and inartfully drafted during a military operation. There was no message on the face of the email. Time being of the essence, Tanweer sent the email without regard to the danger it posed to him, and thought of himself as a loyal Islamic soldier who got important instructions out to an agent in battle. He had no idea that MI-5 and the Met were onto his conspiracy, but had he known, his actions would have been no different. He called Mahesh with an update. “I have sent out the information you requested from the laboratory. How did you make out with your trip?”
“All went well. When did you send the recipe?”
“A few moments ago. Did you hear from your father? He hasn’t been to the lab.”
“No, I think he is just on business. I expect him back at any moment.”
“I am going south tonight, but I want you to call the professor. I am worried.”
“Okay, I will ring him on his cell tonight.”
****
The MI-5 command center picked up the email message as it passed through the Internet server and sent it for decryption and translation. They immediately notified and relayed the message to the US embassy, which in turn moved the message to the NSA representative.
Rooker called Nick Brennan, who had just returned to his hotel room and was preparing for dinner with Joann.
“Nick, you have to come back. Something has just happened.”
“I’ll be right there. Jodie,” he said, turning to his wife, “I have to go back into work. Forgive me, but I have to do it.”
“Nicky, I came here to keep you company while you worked. Do what has to be done and don’t worry about me.”
At the embassy, Rooker was at his desk trying to figure out what was happening.
“Nick, the NSA is working on the message, but it looks like an important transmission from the lab by Hasan Tanweer. Call John Planner and find out what we have. Right now I am waiting for a notification through official channels.”
It was the end of the close of business in Fort Meade when Nick picked up the secure phone. John Planner answered on the second ring.
“Johnny, what the hell did Tanweer send, and to whom did he send it?”
“All preliminary, Nicky, but it looks like bomb instructions in Arabic using an elementary encryption device was apparently sent to an Internet café in Newport, Vermont. We don’t know who the recipient was, but a good guess is al Mohammed.”
“That means he is in the United States. We are chasing him here and he is there?”
“Yeah, maybe, but who really knows? He could have someone pick it up for him or maybe we have a new bomber.”
****
At home, Tanweer was not convinced that Professor Patel was on a business trip. He knew that the professor always called him to check up on lab activities and he knew the email sent from the office and Patel’s coincidental activities in the vicinity of the telephone box suggested the possibility of Kiran’s involvement in terrorism to the uninformed observer. Before leaving for Dulas Street in Finsbury, Hasan took his black automatic pistol from the top level of the closet in his bedroom and put it in the small of his back behind his waistband. Hasan knew almost all British policemen were unarmed, and a gun gave him an advantage in the event of a confrontation. As Tanweer pulled from his driveway in his lime green Mini Cooper at about six on that cold winter night, he didn’t suspect he was being followed by armed counterterrorism officers.
At first bearing some risk, Hasan traveled down M-1 at a high rate of speed. If he was stopped by the cops he knew if the gun was discovered he would be relieved of his freedom or end up in a fatal gunfight and that would profoundly affect the terror mission. And if he shot it out with the police and somehow escaped he would be hunted endlessly and perhaps never reach Finsbury.
Tanweer thought better of it and slowed down. He still believed the plot was unknown, but he couldn’t put aside negative thoughts. He decided to call Mahesh and find out the latest. He never considered the fact that his cell phone calls were now being intercepted and monitored.
“Patel, have you heard from your father?”
“No. I called his cell about two hours ago but I got the answering service. He usually leaves the phone on and picks up. He didn’t even call me back.”
“Where is he?”
“On business in London, I think.”
“What kind of business?”
“It’s about a research project.”
“What project? I know of no project we are working on that would require a trip to London. Our one business program is in York.”
“He didn’t say which business it involved.”
“Mahesh, I think the police are holding your father. They think he is involved, they may be eavesdropping on us right now!”
“Where are you going?”
“Never mind. Listen carefully: 72 slash 49 slash 86.”
“Okay.”
Wasting no time and now in a nervous fit, Mahesh went right to his home computer and sent “72/49/86” to an email address that officials would discover later r
esolved to Stanstead, Quebec Province, Canada.
Tanweer arrived at the warehouse in Finsbury at about eight forty-five. He immediately went inside as police and agents, still unknown to him, remained on the street surrounding the building. Once inside, Hasan looked at his watch. It was now 8:50 and therefore 3:50 p.m. in the eastern US and Quebec, Canada.
At nine in the evening in London, the VoIP connection between Bhiren and Tanweer was complete. The sound coming through the computer was audible but not crystal clear as they spoke in Arabic.
“I received your message. Is there a problem?”
“Yes, I think so. Have you received the recipe?”
“Yes. What is the problem?”
“We may have been discovered. I am not sure. Are you comfortable with the instructions?”
“I think so. +0305361891.”
At that, the call abruptly ended. The intercept operators monitoring the bugging device secreted in the storage room were not Arabic speakers and could not immediately relay the details of the conversation to the surveillance specialists outside. The tapes of the call were quickly sent electronically to the British translators and NSA and FBI linguists for analysis. No one had expected the correspondents to speak fluently in Arabic, and the delay in transcription was a problem.
While most agents and analysts knew both subjects spoke Arabic, they did not know they were both fluent and had not prepared for the possibility of a language barrier. That was an amateur mistake; the monitors suddenly realized they should have had linguists standing by.
Tanweer sat in the room staring at the wall. He knew he had gotten the most important call out, but he, nonetheless, hoped he hadn’t tipped off the authorities. He started to run the preparations through his head: all of the registration information in connection with VoIP was false, as was most of the other email account information, and al Mohammed was constantly moving and changing disguises as the need would arise. Even if they were able to intercept all of the communications at this late date, it would be of little value. Like a large, dark storm gathering and moving violently towards its final destination, this mission cannot be stopped, he thought.
Hasan Tanweer, a bit obscure yet a dedicated Islamic soldier, always knew that he would die for the cause. He was prepared to be a martyr but wanted his death to bring consequences upon his enemies. Tanweer had long ago decided he would not die in a suicide attack, but he was resigned to the reality that his confrontation with the enemy was probably suicidal. His involvement with the school bus bombing made him a notorious criminal in the eyes of the infidels, he believed.
Now he knew he had to decide where and when he would sacrifice his life. The battle was coming. Staring at the computer, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small incendiary device. With his other hand he took his small pistol out of his waistband and as a mere precaution looked at the door. He pulled the detonating pin out of the small grenade and tossed it at the computer. It exploded with a large flash and the machine was immediately engrossed in flames.
The agents outside saw the sudden explosive glare and a minute later the monitors reported over the police radios that an explosion had occurred inside the room. Waiting for a moment before leaving, to make certain the machine with all its data had been completely destroyed, Hasan was surprised by the entry of the heavily protected officers.
As the cops entered into the darkness, Tanweer began to fire his pistol at their faces. One officer went down then another as the startled cops collected in the doorway. Hasan continued to shoot and finally was hit with a burst of police firepower. Tanweer was knocked back and thrown into a fit of physical contortions, his hands and arms flailing and jerking about. Wounded several times in his upper body and neck, Hasan Tanweer fell face forward to the floor, splashing into a large pool of his own blood.
****
At 11:10 p.m. in his father’s flat in Leeds, Mahesh Patel was watching the late news on the television when a bulletin was suddenly broadcast announcing a police shooting in the vicinity of Dulas and Everleigh Streets in Finsbury, London. Mahesh knew instinctively that it involved Tanweer. At first in shock and staring at the TV screen, he finally decided to take action. He entered his small second-floor bedroom and went beneath a series of loose boards under his bed. Reaching deeply, he took out a fully loaded six shot revolver and headed for the doorway to escape in his car. As he ran towards the vehicle outside the entrance to the modest dwelling, he heard the loud call “Police, raise your hands and don’t move.” Patel, with the hair on the back of his neck standing in reaction to the obvious danger, turned and fired at the officers. Mahesh was taken down in a hail of gunfire that lasted ten seconds.
In a little over the period of one hour Doctor Kiran Patel had lost both his son and his intimate research assistant to the cause of terrorism. Though unintentional, it was clear to the professor that his cooperation with the authorities had contributed significantly to the death of both. When the interrogator re-entered the interview room the next morning, Kiran’s grief was palpable.
“By folding under pressure and complying with your wishes I have helped you kill my son and my trusted aide; the two most important people in my life. I have nothing further to say to you.”
“Doctor, your son and your close friend died at their own hands. They killed innocent children on a school bus. Tanweer killed two police officers and both Mahesh and Hasan chose to use firearms to resist arrest. You may defend them if you wish, but you should know they planned yet another attack that no doubt targeted innocent and defenseless people. Doctor, you don’t have my sympathy,” the agent concluded.
****
The meeting commencing at nine in the morning at the embassy was particularly somber. The investigators all knew they had lost two valuable resources, people with knowledge who when properly questioned could have provided the vital bits of information necessary to stop the next attack.
“Chief, it appears al Mohammed is not in the UK. He may be in Canada or perhaps the US. In some respects, I think we must begin again,” Corey Rooker suggested.
“Mickey, Corey, Chief, I have done some preliminary research. Stanstead, Quebec sits on the US-Canada line adjacent to the upper east region of Vermont next to a town called Derby Line several miles from the Vermont, New Hampshire border. The confluence of Lee Street and Caswell Avenue marks the international boundary. There is no port of entry at that location,” Nick offered.
“Then he could just walk back and forth, is that right?”
“Yes, Chief, and there is also a large body of water, Lake Memphremagog, that would provide an entry point by boat. The lake has a US Customs station at its south end in Newport, Vermont, but it relies on boaters and others to check in upon arrival, basically under the honor system.”
“Then I guess deep in the winter one might even be able to cross the ice to any shoreline on either side of the international boundary, right?”
“Yes, Corey, that is certainly possible,” Nick replied. “Bhiren, irrespective of any identity or disguise he might use, can easily cross back and forth between the two countries without any record of his movement. New York is only about three hundred and seventy miles away, a six-hour car drive. The Internet café in Newport had no cameras, so we don’t know who retrieved the message.”
Mickey added some new information, “The computer message 72/49/86 is generally regarded as a request for a call from Mohammed, identified as ’72,’ to Tanweer as ’86.’ The ‘49’ is not agreed upon. One cryptanalyst pointed out that while it was 4:00 p.m. in the eastern US it was 9:00 p.m. in London, but that analysis is not consistent with our original intercept which included ‘311.’ When it was 11:00 a.m. in New York it was in fact 4:00 p.m., not 3:00 p.m. in Leeds.”
The CIA station chief followed up, “What about the message ‘+0305361891’ spoken by al Mohammed to Hasan Tanweer?”
“There is no consensus on that as well. Numerology just provides too many possibilities. It is not really an en
cryption device, it is an understanding between the parties, sort of like the secret questions we use when we forget a password. By the way, Nick, have you spoken to John Planner?”
“Yes, last night, and I spoke to Tom Carrillo as well to have his DIA people take a look. John’s team at the NSA and Tom’s group at DIA agree with MI-5. That number could be several things: a date, a time, a location, and maybe even all three. John was also intrigued with the fact that message ‘49’ represents the correct local time in New York or at least the East Coast and London. But he added that might be just a coincidence. Numerology wasn’t much help beyond name identifiers.”
Directing his questions to Mickey and Nick, the chief asked, “The Arabic translation of the bomb instructions suggest a big explosion, is that right?”
“Yes sir. MI-5 linguists and our bomb analysts believe the careful combination of peroxide and acetone, a common building block in organic chemistry, with a stabilizer will create a powerful yet somewhat unstable combination, particularly at higher temperatures. Unlike some other explosives, it is more stable when it is wet.”
“What about you, Nick?”
“We know it is a white crystal powder that can generally pass through detection scanners. Big crystals found in older mixtures are more unstable and are therefore more sensitive to shock, heat and friction. Sometimes nitrocellulose is mixed into the acetone to provide more stability, but it also makes the explosive more powerful.”
“Rooker, you said to me we must begin again. What did you mean?”
“Well, Nick will go back to New York and Team 1 will attempt to locate Bhiren or at least get a past fix on his whereabouts. The FBI here will continue to use the Met and MI-5 to set some leads. The Brits are going to hold Professor Patel for as long as that is legal, probably about twenty-eight days. If he is not a terrorist, he is at least a material witness.”
“Explain that,” the chief demanded.
“He now knows too much and will be at some point the subject of media inquiry and interest.” Rooker took a deep breath and exhaled slowly and added, “In fewer than ten days we have moved from one solitary phone call at a public booth to two dead terrorists and another armed with a bomb making his way toward a target.”
Once a Noble Endeavor Page 23