Half the operations room stood motionless as the news flashed across the screen: Thousands estimated dead. Other officials gripped their cell phones, calling their families.
"What the hell is going on out there, gentlemen? I need answers!" FBI Director Kurt McMillian said angrily.
Assistant Director Frank Holloway pulled away from his phone in a panic. "Mass explosion at Houston Port in Texas."
Deputy Assistant Director James Calderon interrupted. "Reports of toxic gas at a Long Beach port in California."
McMillian shook his head in disbelief. "What kind of gas and how?" He was lost and confused, trying desperately to stay on top of everything.
"New Orleans!" Supervisory Agent Vince Walker said. "Wires confirm that New Orleans has been hit with a dirty bomb."
Collective gasps filled the room. Craig tried to let it all sink in but still couldn’t quite believe it. It was beyond even what he had thought possible.
“We’re at war, sir. That’s what’s going on,” he said to the FBI director, receiving only a confused look in response.
“Well, thank you for clarifying that, Agent Davis,” Calderon said, clearly frustrated.
Craig walked out of the room just as the officials began shouting over each other in unison, like trade brokers on the stock exchange floor.
The outside halls were much quieter. Craig took a deep breath and then started walking. The heels of his dress shoes clicked along the white-tiled floor as he walked, determined yet stealthy, toward the holding room three halls down. He could hear frenzied discussion from every office he passed.
FBI officials, clerks, and agents were pacing their offices and cubicles frantically speaking into their cell phones. Their computers, their windows to the outside world, all displayed the same ISIS flag. It wasn’t hard to conclude who was behind the attacks, even given the lack of any terrorist organization taking credit for them. The enemy had managed to hack into their system and cripple it. It was as maddening as it was terrifying.
Top FBI brass seemed to have little control of the situation. Craig believed that the answers lay with Malaka Surkov, their Chechen informant, who had provided warning of the mass transit attack. She couldn’t have been more wrong, and Craig was starting to feel more and more like a pawn in her twisted game of retribution.
He traveled to the end of the hall and kicked open the door to the holding room. Malaka looked up from her seat, squeezing and twisting a rag in her hands as if she was ready to burst. Startled by Craig’s entrance, her young nephew, Husein, jumped up. Malaka, however, remained calm. Craig went right to their table and stared at them with intense, furious eyes.
"All right. Who the hell are you?"
She had claimed to be the grieving mother of two Chechen men associated with a sleeper cell—one injured and one killed—in a thwarted attack. Craig didn’t doubt that she was their mother. He only doubted her affiliations.
Her information about the transit attack, she claimed, came from a note from her sons. It was also information that had been verified by captured sleeper cell members—men Craig had busted in a raid. He was certain she was part of the conspiracy, and he was going to make her talk.
Malaka's eyes shifted from the television screen—which displayed aerial images, not of D.C. or New York, but of ports engulfed in flames—to Craig's fierce glare. Her face remained emotionless and indifferent.
"I don't know what you're talking about. I only give the information that I hear." She pointed at the screen. "You blaming me for this?"
Craig slammed his palms down on the table and leaned into her face. "Cut the shit! We both know you're a part of this thing. You came here to throw us off."
Husein urged restraint with a hand in the air. His striped T-shirt was wrinkled from a night of sleeping on a nearby cot. "Please, Agent Davis. My aunt doesn't know anything."
"Stay out of this, Husein," Craig said, pointing his finger in the boy’s face. "I have a mind to lock both of you up until you tell me everything you know."
Malaka scoffed and waved Craig away. "Shoo, angry man. I have nothing more to say."
She began to rise from her chair, struggling, or at least appearing to struggle. Craig laid his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back down.
"Is this some kind of game to you?" he shouted. He leaned in closer, right in her face, and spoke quietly. “People are dead, and if our government links this back to Chechnya, we’re gonna blow your entire country off the map."
Malaka shook her head. "Is none of my concern."
Craig backed away and paced around her like a cat. "We've been here before, and you know that I'm willing to do anything to get the info I want. So talk."
"Never," Malaka said.
Husein got up and backed away from the conversation. He didn't like where things were going. The last time Malaka had refused to talk, only a few hours ago, Craig had pulled a gun out and put it to Husein's head. "Leave me out of this," he said.
Craig paid him no mind and slammed his fist down on the table again. "Talk!"
Three FBI agents walking by the open door stopped and entered the room, drawn by the commotion.
"What is going on in here?" One of them asked. He had a clean-shaved head and wore a dangling ID badge identifying him as Agent Hicks.
Images flashed on the television of ports aflame. Banners scrolled across the screen declaring the worst terrorist attack in American history.
Craig recognized the agents in the room but didn’t know them personally. He had met the bald one, Agent Hicks, before. He didn’t know the names of the other two. "I'm interrogating a suspect," Craig said. "This woman knew about the port attacks, and I'll be damned if she's leaving this room without talking."
The three agents examined Malaka. Her face was stone cold. "I know nothing," she said.
"Let’s all take a breather here," a curly-haired agent said. He looked down and shook his head as beads of sweat ran down his face. "I gotta call my wife and kids. This is fuckin' serious."
"I'd like to leave now," Malaka said to the three agents. She turned and looked at her nephew. "Husein!"
The boy climbed off his cot in the corner of the room. "Let's go," she said, rising from her chair.
The three agents looked at her and then Craig.
"Um. I'm not sure about that, ma'am," said a heavyset agent with slicked-back hair.
"FBI is on lockdown," Curly-Hair said. "No one can leave the building."
Craig stared at her with anger. Her blank face and utter indifference told him all he needed to know. She pushed past the FBI men and walked toward the door.
"Husein. Now!"
Husein hesitated then took slow steps to follow her.
"Ma'am," the heavyset agent said.
Craig watched her walking away. He thought of all the death and destruction on the television. He thought of his family. He thought of the terrorists on TV, celebrating in some far-away place. This triggered something in him. He balled his fist and felt himself shake inside.
"Get back here!" he shouted, sprinting forward. He grabbed Malaka by the shoulders and slammed her against the wall. He spun her around and gripped her neck tightly with both hands.
Husein screamed for help. He ran at Craig, desperately pleading with him. "Stop it! Stop it, you'll kill her!"
Craig squeezed as Malaka's eyes bulged and watered. Her face went red and she gasped for air, clawing at him.
The three FBI agents locked their arms around Craig and tried to pull him away.
"Stop!" Husein yelled again. "Please!"
Malaka gagged, kicked, and thrashed. Craig's thick hands squeezed even tighter as her arms went limp and fell to her sides. Before Craig could finish the job, the heavyset agent punched him in the kidneys.
Craig fell to the ground, clutching his side in pain. Malaka gasped. A tremendous coughing fit followed as she panted for air and turned to her side. Husein rushed to her aid, stepping over Craig.
"Aunt Malaka, are you okay
?"
She was too occupied with coughing to respond.
As Craig struggled to get up, the FBI agents surrounded him.
"What the hell is your problem?" Agent Hicks asked.
Craig offered only grunts.
"He's crazy," Husein said. "Please keep him away from us. This is the second time he’s assaulted us."
The agents gently helped Malaka stand as she continued to cough and wheeze.
"Are you okay, ma'am?" the bald agent asked.
"I do not know. My English is bad," she said faintly.
She then spoke Chechen to Husein in a raspy voice as she struggled to catch her breath.
"My aunt says she wants to file charges against Agent Davis for assault," Husein said.
Craig was on all fours. A puddle of drool was on the tile. He could hear Malaka trying to leave. With the last ounce of strength he had left, he rose to his feet and spoke.
"She's a terrorist!"
The room went silent. The FBI agents around Malaka examined her with sudden curiosity. Husein looked worried. Malaka remained defiant, her stony expression not revealing her emotions.
Craig hobbled over to them, catching his breath. "This woman is a part of the very terrorist network that just launched attacks against our ports. She has to be taken into custody immediately."
Agent Hicks looked at Craig’s ID badge. "You've been saying that, Agent Davis, but do you have any proof?"
Husein interjected. "Please, she's old and needs help," he said. "She's distraught over the death of her sons. That is all. It's not her fault that the information was wrong."
"Bullshit," Craig said. "She’s a liar. Just like her worthless sons."
Malaka's eyes widened. She looked at Craig as if she wanted to claw his eyes out. Her English suddenly became more fluent. And her eyes exposed the malice behind her every intention.
"You killed Darion. You!” Her bony finger pointed at his face. “You will pay for what you’ve done!”
The FBI agents looked at her, confused.
"Ma'am?" Agent Hicks said.
She flashed them a wild-eyed glare and turned to Craig. "ISIS will burn this country to the ground and then, and only then, will I have my justice.”
"I knew it," Craig said, closing in on her.
The larger FBI agent held his arm out, blocking Craig. "That's far enough!"
With all eyes on her, she continued. "I am Malaka Varlmout Surkov. Chechen Muslim and devoted fighter for the Islamic State. I am the Black Widow, and you will remember my name."
"Aunt Malaka," Husein said, visibly distressed. "Why are you saying this?"
The curly-haired agent immediately pulled Malaka’s hands behind her back and handcuffed her.
Craig took a step back and faced the FBI men. “Next time, don’t interfere with my business," he said.
The FBI agents looked flummoxed.
"None of you will escape!” she shouted. "You will all die! All of you!”
They pushed her out of the room as Craig grabbed Husein by the arms and moved out into the hall.
Her shrieking tirade continued. “I am the Black Widow, soldier for ISIS against the infidels. And I curse every single American to die!" Her lips curled as her eyebrows shifted downward in a vengeful angle. "I curse this country to drown in blood for eternity!"
As they led her down the hall, Craig knew that words weren't just the ravings of a fanatical lunatic. There was truth to what she was saying. Something was headed their way. He could feel it.
Deceit
It could have been another false alarm, as Malaka’s credibility was already in question. But Craig saw something in her eyes different from her formerly vapid gaze, as if she wholeheartedly anticipated another attack.
The three FBI agents followed Craig to a separate brightly lit interrogation room, where they brought in Malaka and sat her down, handcuffed. The room itself was bugged with microphones and a single security camera in the ceiling. After she was seated, Craig pulled Husein into the next room over and sat him down at the square table in the middle of a white-tiled floor. Husein shook with nervousness as Craig slapped a pair of handcuffs around one of his wrists and then cuffed him to the table.
“What have I done?” the boy asked, nervously.
Craig seemed distracted, his mind racing. He looked down at Husein and got right to the point. “Five minutes. I’m giving your aunt five minutes to talk, and if you think you’ve seen the worst of me, don’t count on it.”
He walked out of the room and closed the door, leaving Husein alone to ponder his fate. The boy looked up and saw a large mirror on the wall in front of him. He assumed there was a room on the other side where they were watching him. He pulled at the handcuffs, but it was useless. The small table he sat at was bolted to the ground. He wondered what they were going to do with him.
Between Malaka’s room and her nephew’s was a narrow observation room where the FBI could watch both suspects without being seen. The three agents stood huddled together as Craig entered the room. The curly-haired man, Agent Donaldson, was on his cell phone, as was his heavyset partner, Agent Rivers.
“The building is on high alert,” Agent Hicks said to Craig. “Just about every government facility is, given the circumstances.”
Craig pointed toward the one-way window facing the room where Malaka was sitting. Her eyes drifted onto the table in front of her. “That woman is out for blood, and while she may be delusional, we can’t take her threats for granted. We have to move this up the chain.”
“What do you plan to do with her?” Agent Hicks asked.
Craig walked close to the window, keeping his eyes on her. “I don’t know yet.”
Agents Donaldson and Rivers talked rapidly into their phones, trying to get the latest updates on the attacks. The computer server shutdown had brought the entire building to a standstill.
“I’ve alerted my people,” Agent Hicks said. “Donaldson and Rivers are doing their part.”
Craig backed away from the window, looked at his watch, and began pacing as Hicks’s eyes followed him.
“So this Black Widow? Who is she?”
Craig turned around. “She’s someone we have to beat at her own game. Somewhere within her hatred and resentment lies information.”
“But we don’t even know who’s responsible for these attacks yet.”
“It was ISIS, damn it! And mark my word, they’re just getting started.”
Hicks seemed stunned. “How do you know this?”
“I’ve been tracking sleeper cells for the past year. The port attacks were a coordinated effort, but I don’t believe it stops there.”
“Well, my expertise lies more in insurance fraud,” Hicks said. “So I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”
Suddenly Deputy Calderon entered the room with Craig’s immediate supervisor, Agent Walker, at his side. Calderon, with his disheveled hair and tense, bulging neck, looked to be on the warpath.
Walker, a short man—just over five feet—with red suspenders, walked in, rolling up the sleeves of his white button-down shirt. He didn’t look very happy either.
Calderon got right to the point. “What is this about you assaulting this woman? I thought I made it specifically clear that you were to stay away from her.” He looked toward Walker. “You make the call. I can’t deal with your out-of-control agents today.”
“She admitted her affiliation with ISIS,” Craig said, unwavering.
“Did she now?” Calderon said, stepping forward. “Well, stop the press, we caught ourselves a terrorist!”
Hicks cut in. “Agent Davis is right. And while I may question his methods, the woman did admit to being a member of the Islamic State—one they call the Black Widow.”
“Sir, I believe that the port attacks were only the beginning of a massive offensive against this country,” Craig said.
“You have evidence of this?” Walker asked.
Craig pointed to Malaka as Calderon looked through
the glass and examined her. Her checkered hijab was bound tightly to her head. Her black robe, or abaya, went down to her feet.
“She was wrong, Agent Davis,” Calderon said, turning to him. “So far, everything she told us was wrong. Why should we believe anything she says now?”
“Give me five minutes,” Craig said. “She screwed with our heads. Now it’s time to return the favor.” As he looked at his superiors, he could sense their lack of support.
“I don’t want you to go anywhere near that woman,” Calderon said. “Period.”
“Sir, if I may,” Walker said. He looked at Craig. “You said she called herself the Black Widow?”
Craig nodded.
“I’ve heard of a female up in their ranks who goes by that name. Agent Davis could be onto something here.”
Calderon took a step back, sighed, and ran his hand down his face. “Is no one listening to me here?” He thrust both arms out. “The world is on fire, our computers have been hacked, and we’re messing around with Momma Surkov?”
The two agents in the corner of the room, Donaldson and Rivers, got off their phones as things suddenly grew quiet. Calderon looked at the blank faces awaiting his guidance.
He zeroed in on Craig. “Five minutes. That’s it. But you send someone else in there. And so help me God, they better walk away with something useful.”
***
In a parking lot three blocks away from FBI headquarters, Manuel sat in a rented U-HAUL listening to the news on the radio. The country was in disarray from coast to coast. They were already referring to it as “a new day of infamy.” Big news to be sure, but Manuel’s mind was occupied with other things. He had one task and one task alone. He was to drive the U-HAUL to the south end of the J. Edgar Hoover Building at the specific time scrawled onto his notes.
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