Once a Noble Endeavor

by Michael Butler

  On the train ride home he continued to consider the message disjunctively now with the 36 and 18 again divided from the last two numbers 9 and 1. Thinking of Jodie’s lesson and factoring in John Planner’s analysis, the message was starting to come into focus. If the number 36 was an evil location, what was the significance of 18? Nick wondered, and what then was the meaning of 91?

  Slowly, Brennan began to believe that +0305361891 was a date, place and time being relayed by Bhiren to Tanweer. Al Mohammed did not expect Tanweer to die that night, and he had received the final recipe and was now telling his comrades where and when the despicable act was to occur. Nicky knew it was to happen soon, and now had to glean the foretelling message from a simple, yet paradoxically complex, transmission.

  ****

  Early the next morning, Nick was sitting in his cube staring at the cryptic message when Kristin walked in. “Nicky, have you made any progress?”

  “Not really, but I do have a few thoughts, let’s go to the SCIF.”

  Inside the vault the analysts and agents felt more comfortable having discussions that they knew might lead to highly sensitive material.

  “Kristin, I think the oral message was a date, place and time for the impending attack. I think the 36 could be either an evil place or maybe an evil person or group. Right now I go with it being a place. The number 18 is intriguing it is either ‘AH’ or ‘R,’ I pick R. Finally, I know al Mohammed has an affinity for transportation targets: buses or trains and other modes.”

  “Okay, Nick, so we have 36 R and train or bus or maybe plane or maybe boat, I’m not sure.”

  “Well, here is what I did: I went to a computer online search engine and did an open-source search and put in a bunch of different combinations—you know, 36 R bus 91, 36 R boat 91, finally I put in 36 R NYC subway 91.”

  “What did you get?”

  “Well, the 91 didn’t fit, and the R36 is a subway carriage manufactured for New York, but the NYC transit system has an ‘R’ train that runs along 4th Avenue in Brooklyn with a major stop at 36th Street. The train travels through Brooklyn to downtown Manhattan. It goes through the Montague Street tunnel under the East River. Not only that, I checked with Andy Fischer, it is possible Khan traveled on the R train, maybe casing it, the day she was captured by the CCTV on Atlantic Avenue.”

  “What are you saying?” Kristin said, now wide eyed with a befuddled look.

  “I think the 0305 is March the fifth, less than one week away, and the bomb is designed to blow up in the tunnel under the East River—take out the whole damn thing,” Brennan said with a pensive look in his eyes.

  “Nick, what about the 9 and 1?”

  “I can’t figure it out. Maybe 9:01 or 9:10 or even between 9 and 1 on that day. To get the most mileage out of the explosion, maybe 9 in the morning—you know, late rush hour would probably be best, but we can’t assume that.”

  “What about your theory involving kids?”

  “I can’t figure that out either.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I want to have Team 1 meet and discuss my theory with Jack Mason.”

  After lunch, Team 1 met in the SCIF to consider Nick Brennan’s idea.

  Bob Phillips opened up the dialogue after Nick’s presentation, “I think the percentages on it are long. There are simply too many possibilities attached to the message, and I think al Mohammed, Tanweer and Patel were far more sophisticated than that.”

  “I agree,” said Larry Ford, “you can do a lot of things with numbers to make them read out the way you want them to.”

  Kristin Roberts came in on defense, “Look, we are no closer to a solution. Nick has had good ideas before. This is chicken soup, how can it hurt?”

  Jack Mason quickly responded, “Listen we would have to put a lot of units and agencies on alert. The NYPD would fill all the R trains with undercover cops and we would have everybody except the US Coast Guard patrolling the whole damn line. This isn’t Podunk; there are a bunch of 36th Streets in this town and in fact, another 36th Street station in Queens, and any one of them, under this theory, could be the target point!”

  Kevin Cleary added his opinion, “Jack, Nick came back from the UK with a boatload of information and pretty damn good relations with the Brits and the agency. He seems to be getting hits. Maybe he is on a roll. Why not give this a try?”

  The others went silent when Nick began to speak, “I understand this is highly subjective and I know I am missing some moving parts like the kids and 91, but I don’t see any other possibilities being put on this goddamn table right here or anyplace else, for that matter. Jack, can’t we put together some kind of truncated response?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. But you all should know we are putting our reputations on the line with this one. Nick, do any other intelligence units go along with this?”

  “No, not really, Jack. John Planner and Tom Carrillo take no position. Fisher’s guys are the same: all agree it is a long shot, but no one has declared it totally implausible. The CIA hasn’t had any walk-ins who know what, where or when this is going to happen, and the NSA has no intercepts that help either. We have to start being creative and taking educated guesses. I’m trying desperately to think like Bhiren al Mohammed. Is the status quo acceptable?”

  “Okay Nick, I’ll go upstairs and explain the situation and try to sell it as an insurance policy. I’ll ask for a curtailed deployment on March the fifth and limit it to the R line in Brooklyn and Manhattan. We will not ask for a general law enforcement advisory and we’ll go to the operations center in Chelsea to monitor the situation beginning at midnight on the fifth. Is that okay with everyone?” All slowly shook their heads, indicating approval.

  ****

  As the clock struck twelve at midnight on Tuesday March the fifth, Team 1 and the entire New York Joint Terrorism Task Force had already assembled in the operations center. It was agreed between NYPD and the FBI that the R line, including all stations and trains, would be flooded with undercover and plainclothes officers and agents. The Montague Street tunnel with two separate tubes that ran beneath the East River between Brooklyn Heights and lower Manhattan had one track in each direction; completed in 1920, each tube was old, wet, narrow and dark and couldn’t safely allow for agents or cops to walk its length. With its rounded walls, rutted rail bed and third rail, a pedestrian could easily fall onto the tracks and be struck by a passing train if the walker did not stay firmly against the walls as a train passed. Officers were stationed at each tube entrance and exit.

  As eight in the morning approached, a sense of anticipation rose steadily in the large, darkened room filled with the blue lights from computers, interactive maps, communication gear, and big-screen televisions. Seated at long desks in front of the techno gear were intelligence analysts, detectives, and a variety of federal agents. Workers stared at screens projecting the images from covert cameras installed by transit employees throughout the R line in the last few days. As the station platforms began to fill with commuters, everyone in the center strained to watch the crowded activity. Outside the 36th Street station in Brooklyn, those cameras pointed away from the subway entrance and captured hundreds of travelers crossing in every direction.

  By eight, the whole detail was placed on heightened alert through the transmission of a coded message. The later morning saw a decline in commuter movement and no suspicious activity. By lunch time three arrests had been made in Manhattan for the theft of some personal property by the scavengers that roamed the system, but no acts of terror were attempted.

  And so the day went. At midnight the operation was brought to a conclusion and Nick Brennan, as scores of people walked by, sat in front of a computer screen in the darkened ops center, his face bright red with embarrassment. Jack Mason patted Nick’s back as he passed by in silence.

  Chapter 15

  Steven Clinton enjoyed working for the Starlight Corporation. He was able to move freely between and among the buildings and he liked
solving problems and fixing things. Roy Tolson was a good boss who took an interest in Clinton by speaking to him almost every day.

  “Steve, were you able to repair the stove in the office kitchen in number four?”

  “Yes, Mr. Tolson. It was just a heating element that had to be replaced. It didn’t even take me an hour. I’m on my way to building three right now to take care of the leak in the roof door.”

  “When you finish up, see me in my office.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Tolson.”

  An hour later, Clinton appeared in the general manager’s office just as he had been told. “Steve, I want you to start using the computer in the outer office to track the repairs in the buildings. There is a program that calculates how long each job takes and what equipment and parts are used. It helps me assign the work, and I get an idea of what it costs.”

  “Yes sir, I really like using computers and look forward to doing the work.”

  “Well, Steve, I’m going to have you assist me in assigning the work too. You won’t actually be a supervisor, but sort of a honcho. You’ll do the work and hand it out—a first among equals in maintenance.”

  “Can I use the machine for personal stuff in my off time, like lunch breaks and after work?”

  “Yeah, but remember I can see what websites you go to, so make sure you don’t do anything inappropriate. You are on conditional parole, and bad behavior puts you back in prison.”

  “No problem, boss. I’m never going back to jail, I’m just going to search for some old friends, that’s all.”

  “Okay, I’ll have the IT people set you up with a password and you can start on the program tomorrow.”

  ****

  On Tuesday morning when Clinton arrived in Tolson’s office there was a representative from the Starlight Corporation’s information technology department waiting for him. “Steve Clinton, right?” the round-shouldered, small, bespectacled man said with his soft, skinny hand extended. “I’m Perry from IT, and I’ll get you started on the maintenance spreadsheet.”

  Steve vigorously shook the man’s hand and said, “I’m all set, let’s go.”

  Clinton quickly mastered the program and liked sitting his enormous frame on a small chair at the tiny computer desk in front of the small screen. I wonder if I could really get to like office work, he mused.

  At lunchtime he started to use the computer to search for his old pal, Victor Guzmán. He put “Guzmán” in a general search in the computer search engine and came up with over two hundred different possibilities. When he narrowed the inquiry to “Victor Guzmán,” he had only twenty in all of New York. Using different online data banks looking for his old friend, Clinton came upon a telephone free people search website.

  As he entered the full name, Clinton was shocked to see the returned information. Whoa, this gives me all of the Victor Guzmáns in and out of New York State and the people associated with him too, he realized. As he paged through the data he almost immediately found his old cohort based on his association with “Adelina Guzmán,” the unusual name he knew to be Victor’s mother. He entered both full names and found addresses for each. Victor Guzmán was now a resident of New Jersey living slightly outside of Newark, right across the Hudson River.

  On Wednesday at the end of the business day Clinton went into the general manager’s outer room and sat down at the computer. He had completed all his tasks and the maintenance spreadsheet was up to date. After staring at the computer for a moment, he started to collect his thoughts. He went directly to the telephone people search page.

  Let’s see… Nicholas Brennan and New York, he said to himself as he typed the information into the blank fields and hit the enter key. The screen lit up. There were more than one hundred people in New York State alone with that name and a listed landline telephone or cell phone. Unaware that the FBI had purged Nick’s name and home address from telephone records, Steven was convinced Brennan must live somewhere in New York State. Clinton slowly and methodically went through the New York data trying to remember anyone associated with Brennan. Page after page, nothing struck a chord. After about an hour he had looked at each of the records with no success. As he left the office, he said to himself, I just need to think about it. It will come.

  The next afternoon after lunch, Steven went back on the computer, but this time he did a general search for Shooting Bayside Bar. After Clinton dabbed the enter key, the old newspaper article and picture detailing Nick’s police award appeared on the screen. Shit, that’s it. His middle initial is J, his wife is Joann and his son is Michael. Quickly Clinton did the people search with the middle initial J without entering a state. There were twenty-two people with that name in and outside of New York, but there was only one associated with Joann and Michael Brennan. Steve thought, there he is—Nicholas J. Brennan with an address on Route 23 in Great Barrington, Massachusetts. Clinton made a mental note of the fact that the address in Great Barrington was also associated with Tom DeBoer and Carol DeBoer. Who are they? he wondered. But he realized the important thing had been accomplished. I found him, Clinton said to himself with excitement and relief.

  That night, using the number he had found on Guzmán, he gave his old partner a telephone call from a pay phone outside his DOC residence. “Victor it’s me, Steve Clinton. I’m finally out. How are you, old buddy? Hey, I need a favor…”

  Chapter 16

  As he sat at his desk scribbling +0305361891 over and over on a yellow legal pad Nick felt foolish knowing he was responsible for the massive effort put forward by officials on several levels of government. He was also concerned about Team 1’s reputation among the other squads and the bosses. Yeah, they taught us in intelligence training to think creatively and take some risks in favor of public safety, but in the real world nobody really likes to do that, he thought, feeling a bit sorry for himself. Staring at the mysterious message, he continued to wonder what the hell have I missed?

  ****

  At dinner that night he sat at the table with Jodie and the kids lost in his own thoughts. Joann sensed his blues and asked, “Okay, Nicky, what’s going on?”

  “Oh, Jo, I blew it. I mean, I really blew it. I ran my mouth off in the office and decided the clues I had found in a message had to be what I thought they had to be. I wasn’t thinking critically and let the boss put a big operation into gear even though at least two parts of that message didn’t even fit. I went off half-cocked.”

  “Oh, you let the boss make a mistake, is that it?”

  “You know what I mean. He trusted me, he accepted what I said, and now I have let him and the whole damn team down. I made a bad decision.”

  “Alright kids, let’s send Daddy to his room without supper for letting the boss down. By the way, do they pay the boss to make any decisions, or are hiding money from me from your paycheck?”

  “I know what you are saying. It’s the boss’s call, but I still fouled up.”

  “Okay, you struck out, Nick. It happens. But I think you can just decide to turn off the self-pity and get back to work. Even I recovered from the Margaret Howell cocktail party debacle, but just barely,” Jodie said with a big, bright smile. Nick knew Joann was right: he was wasting time wallowing in defeat. He knew it was time to get back to work and just forgive himself for his failed analysis.

  ****

  In the morning, some members of Team 1 asked to have Kristin Roberts harass the NYPD.

  “Jack, the cops haven’t found anything at all. The black car must be somewhere.”

  “I know, Kev, but I don’t think Kristin can push it too much. If the car is even still black.”

  Larry Ford made a suggestion, “How about we have Kristin speak to the joint task force and see if the supervisory special agent can intercede and perhaps have a special note placed in the turnout notes to be read to the officers citywide before they go on patrol?”

  “Not a bad thought. Kristin, give that a try. But, and I hesitate to say this, but I think Bhiren will have to make anot
her move before we get another lead.”

  ****

  The month of March passed quickly without any new leads. Team 1 began to show the signs of stress and some manic behavior. Members began to read and reread the entire file, juxtapose the numbers in the secret message, randomly read automobile impoundments and even revisit 734 Dean Street even though it had been thoroughly searched several times.

  Nick kept in contact with John Planner, hoping the NSA would uncover an email, telephone, fax or voice message that could help. He asked Tom Carrillo to contact the CIA and see if any embassy walk-ins had provided any tips, or if any field agents had even heard any rumors. We got a big handoff before Khan made her attempt, why nothing now? Brennan wondered. Nothing was coming in.

  By mid-April the whole investigation seemed stalled. Team 1 to a person knew Jack was right: unless Bhiren al Mohammed made a move or a big mistake, there was nothing to be done.

  When the end of April had passed without any terrorist activity, a new paradigm was taking shape. Agents and analysts began to consider the possibility that al Mohammed was hiding and the message he gave to Tanweer was incidental, of no importance. Nick Brennan and Kristin Roberts, now standing alone, held to the belief that Bhiren would strike again soon and that the message had meaning and al Mohammed’s caution was born of Khan’s failure.

  ****

  On the morning of May 3rd, Nick was at home at about seven preparing to head to the office. Slightly behind schedule, he called Jack Mason’s cell phone and admitted to his dilatory behavior. “Jack, I’m running late, and I have to drop Elizabeth off at school. I’ll get in at about 8:50, okay?”

  “Fine, Nick. I’m already in and nothing is going on, as usual,” Mason said with a bit of regret in his voice.