The Third Cell

by Anthony D'Egidio

  Mel’s wife said, “We’ve been in Dallas for six years and it’s the best city we’ve lived in. Dallas offers great entertainment, shopping and excellent restaurants. I hope we’re not moving anytime soon.”

  Traci had been listening intently. “I’d love to live in Dallas. It sounds like a great city.”

  Mel laughed. “Traci, as a single woman, Dallas is really tough. There must be six women to each man and the competition is fierce.”

  Traci sat up as straight as her five foot frame would allow, pushing her chest forward, actuating her breasts. She looked Mel in the eye and said in her slight southern drawl, “I never found that to be a problem!”

  Mel and his wife laughed, but Daniel could feel his heart sink. She’s thinking of moving to Dallas? He was devastated and only then did he realize he had fallen in love. This is not part of the plan and I don’t know how to handle it.

  At her apartment Traci asked, “Are you all right? You’re as quiet as I can ever remember?”

  “I’m okay.” Daniel gave her a quick kiss on the cheek then left.

  As Traci watched him drive away, she muttered, “What’s bothering him?”

  Daniel didn’t get much sleep that night and the next day he called Traci, “Are you going to Dallas after graduation?”

  “I don’t know. Do you know where you’ll be in six months?”

  “Yes, I know what I’m doing for the next six years. I’m leaving my job and starting my own environmental consulting firm in South Florida.”

  “You never mentioned that to me before!”

  “Well, it’s all starting to fall into place, and I was going to tell you when things were firmed up.”

  “I love Florida. Why don’t we go together?”

  Daniel hesitated, and then asked, “You mean you would come and live with me in Florida?”

  “Sure, it’s not like we’re strangers.”

  Daniel quietly said, “The only way I would have you live with me is as my wife.”

  “Have you just proposed to me over the telephone?”

  “I guess I have.”

  “Well, it’s not the romantic schoolgirl notion I had of my knight in shining armor on one knee. But I accept.”

  Daniel and Traci were married at St. Joseph’s Catholic Church, Blacksburg, Virginia, nine-months later on Saturday, March 12, 1994.

  Traci was puzzled by Daniel’s daily routine of meditation, which he followed faithfully.

  Traci would tease him, but she admired his conviction. “You ought to become a Buddhist with all that meditating you do.”

  Daniel thought. If she only knew how dedicated I was to my religious beliefs, she might recoil in horror.

  Howard Lieberman

  The events surrounding the World Trade Center attack reaped financial rewards for MetroMax Security. Howard and Michelle were discussing the impact on the business.

  “It’s almost too much to keep up with,” said Michelle. “We’re working fifteen-hour days. The business is going to kill us.”

  Howard put down the stack of papers he was looking at. “We’ve already received several applications from the advertisements in the New York newspapers for retiring law enforcement personnel. Some of these applicants are great. I suspect we’ll have two or three on board by the end of the month.”

  “Can’t be soon enough for me,” replied Michelle. “By the way, you’re going to the monthly security meeting tomorrow with Barry Mills because I don’t have the time.”

  Barry Mills was the government security manger that oversaw the subcontracted security agencies for compliance. Once a month he met with all the firms to review new procedures.

  Howard walked into Barry’s office.

  Barry was sitting behind the desk twirling his handlebar mustache. He had previously worked for the CIA in Vietnam, making scouting excursions into Cambodia. After the war the CIA, NSA and other agencies not identified used him in several covert-spying assignments.

  Barry got up to shake Howard’s hand. “Good to see you again. Shut the door and have a seat. I want to talk to you in private.”

  “What about the meeting? Everyone else is in the conference room,” asked Howard.

  “They can wait. I’ve something more important that involves you.”

  “Is MetroMax in trouble?”

  “Nothing like that,” said Barry picking up a paper and handing it to Howard.

  Howard glanced at it quickly. “This is an application for the FBI. Why give it to me?”

  “Your ability to read, write and speak Arabic would be a great asset to the Bureau. Since the World Trade Center bombing, the government has stepped up surveillance of Arabs in the country and also interception of communications from the Middle East. Unfortunately, we don’t have enough people to handle the workload. Your abilities would be an asset. We could expedite the process since we’ve already done all the background checks.”

  “I’ll have to discuss this with my wife.”

  Barry shook Howard’s hand so firmly it smarted. “Give me your answer by tomorrow and I’ll get the skids greased.”

  Michelle scowled. “Two years ago I thought it was a great idea, but it’s going to put a major strain on me with all the new work coming in.”

  Howard retorted angrily, “We’re hiring competent ex-law enforcement people to handle the management. I won’t leave until they’re on board and I’m comfortable they can handle the workload. If you’d get off that ego trip you’re on running the business, you wouldn’t be so stressed.”

  Michelle wasn’t use to Howard lecturing her. In fact, she couldn’t remember a time he had been this aggressive. What he said next floored her.

  “I’m taking this job and you’ve no say in what I do and how I go about it.”

  Michelle had known Howard for five years and he had never spoken to her like this. She thought about it for a few minutes. Am I going to get into a huge argument over this and lose anyway? It’s not worth my time or trouble. Let him go see what bureaucracy is all about. He’ll be chomping at the bit to be back at MetroMax in six months.

  Howard met again with Barry Mills and returned the filled out the application.

  “My wife isn’t very happy that I’m doing this, but it’s the least I can do for my country,” said Howard. If you only knew what country I was doing this for. “What happens next?”

  We’ll do a thorough background check, most of which you’ve already been through. The FBI will ask MI5 to investigate your past in the UK. Once that’s complete you’ll have to take a polygraph and physical fitness test.” “That’s it?”

  “For most people that’s a strenuous undertaking,” said Barry.

  “I’m not most people,” replied Howard. “Besides, I don’t need the work.”

  They both laughed.

  The MI5 agent David Owens was interviewing Richard Linkman, the Abbotsfield School Guidance Counselor.

  Richard scratched his head. “I don’t remember Howard Lieberman too much. He was an above-average student, but unless they’re gifted or a dunce, we don’t spend much time with them. You say he went on to Cambridge and then to university in the United States.”

  The agent then showed Richard Linkman a recent photograph of Howard. The guidance counselor studied the photo for a moment. “That’s him as I remember, but it has been fourteen plus years. Wait a minute. I’ll pull one of the old yearbooks for reference.”

  After several minutes of digging through reams of old books and papers scattered in his office, the guidance counselor announced, “Here it is. I thought it had disappeared. I’ve kept every yearbook since I started working here.”

  Both men peered over the pages.

  The guidance counselor flipped open to the individual class photos.

  “Well there he is,” a satisfied Linkman announced.

  The two men compared the pictures side by side.

  “Well, he got rid of the long hair and has changed a little in fourteen years, but that’s Howard Lie
berman,” remarked the counselor.

  The agent agreed, and wrote so in his report for the FBI. It was a credit to the now dead plastic and reconstructive surgeon, Dr. Ali Idris Jazar, and to the excellence of his work.

  Seven weeks after Howard’s application had been accepted, the local FBI Field Office in Judiciary Square, Washington, D.C. called Howard for his polygraph test.

  Howard arrived before his scheduled time, wearing a new black pinstriped suit, conservative white shirt and blue tie.

  The polygraph examiner eyed up Howard and asked, “Do you know anything about polygraph testing?

  Howard replied, “My wife’s business requires all applicants to take a polygraph test.”

  The examiner, who hadn’t read the entire application, raised an eyebrow and asked, “What line of work is your wife in?”

  “She owns MetroMax Security.”

  The polygraph examiner was startled. Every law enforcement person in the D.C. area knew of MetroMax and of Howard Lieberman’s famous firearms museum. “If you own MetroMax, why would you be interested in the FBI?”

  “Well to be truthful, I was asked to become an agent because of my knowledge of the Arabic language.”

  The examiner was tense. Someone at a higher level has asked this man to apply and I don’t want to screw it up.

  First, the examiner went through the control measures. Satisfied, he asked questions about Howard’s application answers, throwing in some countermeasures to check validity. He didn’t go through his usual routine of twenty-five to thirty questions. Afterwards, reviewing the results, he was convinced that Howard was telling the truth on every question. His examination report reflected the same.

  The Mossad

  Benjamin Werner was holding an emergency meeting at Mossad headquarters. The team, led by Mark Heckman, had been working all weekend after the World Trade Building attack and was getting ready to report. Benjamin was in his usual grumpy mood that always followed any terrorist event.

  Before Mark could put up the first chart, Benjamin barked, “Has anyone heard from Jack Shelby or Neil Packston?”

  Jack Shelby was the CIA Agent in charge of counterterrorism and the Mossad’s direct interface in the United States. Neil Packston was his FBI counterpart.

  Mark replied, “Nothing from either one.”

  “Contact them again and tell them it’s that blind cleric, Sheik Omar Abdel-Rahman, who was behind the attack. We told the U.S. agencies this was going to happen over seven months ago and they ignored us!”

  Benjamin was going on one of his tirades and the group knew to just shut up and let him rant.

  “We should have sent in our own people to eliminate this cancer before it spread, just like we did with Cleric Omar Khamayseh. We would have done the world a great favor, but instead we’ll have endless meetings with the Knesset Foreign Affairs Committee members and try to explain to them that we don’t have jurisdiction in the United States and their surveillance agencies chose to ignore us. By the way, I noticed in the last two briefings that Ahman Imad Rahman’s name hasn’t appeared. What’s that about?”

  Mark explained, “Ben, we’ve been telling you for the past several years the guy is nothing more than a very successful businessman. After the death of his nephew, Rahman completely dropped out of the religious scene. In eighty-six he moved to Amman, Jordan because of all the upheaval in Ramallah. We’ve wasted ten years following this guy and all he did was make money. We have very good agents in Jordan and he looks clean.”

  Mark used a ruler to point at locations on the map. “Rahman’s business has expanded into Jordan, Lebanon, Syria, Saudi Arabia and even into Israel, which is something that Palestinians don’t usually achieve. He doesn’t even attend services at a Mosque.”

  Benjamin shook his head. “I still find it hard to believe that this man has severed any and all ties with his Islamic faith. What about his activities in Saudi Arabia and Syria?”

  Mark replied as he paced, “You know how hard it is to track someone in those countries. Public records show that he’s involved in many building projects and our limited informants say that he’s all business and nothing else, so we just stopped, because we need the resources elsewhere.”

  Benjamin’s stomach was churning. Waving his hand for Mark to continue with the briefing, he capitulated. “Ten years is a long time without any activity. Let sleeping dogs lie.”

  CHAPTER 21

  MERGING, 1995 - 2000

  Jonah Meyerson

  Times were good. Jonah’s business had grown to the point that he was the largest irrigation company in South Florida, and his lawn maintenance was third-largest.

  Maria gave birth to their second child, a boy they named Marcos Luis Ceballo Meyerson, on Monday, August 21, 1995.

  Luis Ceballo was supervising a multimillion-dollar landscape contract for the Paxton Arms Resort and Spa on Ocean Drive in Hallandale, Florida.

  This would be the premier luxury hotel of the Paxton Hotels chain, forty stories high and a thousand rooms with views of the Atlantic Ocean and the Intracoastal Waterway.

  The crane operator was moving a twenty-five foot tall Orange Geiger tree from the flatbed truck to its position as centerpiece for the entrance landscape foliage when the ring supported truck crane toppled over, crushing Luis, who was filling out paperwork inside his vehicle.

  The church was nearly filled to capacity as the service for the funeral began. A grief-stricken Maria had to be held up by Jonah and Ronaldo.

  At the house Ronaldo paced the floor. “I never imagined Maria’s bond to our father to be so strong after our mother’s death.”

  Jonah excused himself to see the doctor out. Upon returning Jonah said, “The doctor thinks she might become mentally unstable. He wants the antidepressants to be administered twice a day and to keep her away from any stressful situations. I’ll not reopen the business till next week so I can spend time with her.”

  In the weeks that followed, Maria’s mental state continued to deteriorate. After leaving the darkened bedroom Jonah motioned for Ronaldo to meet with him. “She’s not improving and the doctor recommends we check her into Mizner Health Clinic in Boca to get twenty-four hour medical and mental care. I’m going to call and arrange for her admission.”

  “Jonah, I would like to stay longer, but I have to return to Colombia. I’ll call you daily.”

  Several weeks later the secretary buzzed the intercom. “Jonah, it’s Ronaldo on line two.”

  “Ronaldo, how are things in Bogotá?”

  “They’re good. How’s my sister since her release?”

  “Improved, but she’s not the same. I don’t know if it’s the drugs or just a state of depression. She gets quiet for hours and doesn’t communicate with anyone except for the children. They’re her entire life and she’s completely dedicated to them. Sometimes I don’t even know if she’s aware I’m in the same room.”

  “It’s a phase,” said Ronaldo. “She’ll get over it.”

  But Maria didn’t get over it. Jonah watched her behavior. Before Luis’ death if I was going fishing or to some activity, she would plead with me not to spend the time away and to please hurry back. Now if I’m leaving, Maria’s polite but she doesn’t agonize over my return. This bothers me, but in the practical sense it is better for both of us when the time comes to implement the mission.

  In the spring of 1996, Jonah bought a new fifty-four-foot convertible yacht. The yacht could be used as a sport fishing vessel or just for cruising. It was equipped with twin 1040 horsepower diesels, a fuel capacity of thirteen hundred twenty gallons and had a top speed of thirty-three knots.

  Jonah ran his hand over the railing. I’ll call it The Phoenix Rising. All of my friends will think I named it after my two companies.

  Jonah hired a captain, Andy Sutton, to instruct him on handling the yacht. It was their first meeting.

  Andy inspected the boat. “I see you spent a fortune on fishing and scuba gear. I can help you with the fishing, but
scuba is out of my league.”

  “That’s alright, I want to get the fishing down pat first,” said Jonah. “What do you recommend?”

  “Well, we can go for marlin or kingfish anytime, but if you really want excitement, we can fish at night for swordfish.”

  “Night fishing? Hadn’t thought about that,” said Jonah. This could be my excuse for being on the ocean at night. What a stroke of luck. “When do we get started?”

  “We’ll leave late Friday for Swordfish Hill, off of Fort Lauderdale.”

  Friday evening, The Phoenix Rising departed the Boca Inlet to the Atlantic Ocean with Jonah at the helm under the watchful eye of Captain Andy. The Captain had brought his first mate Larry with him.

  “Take her slow coming out of the inlet, it’s always shallow here,” shouted Andy over the wind.

  “To tell you the truth, I’m a little nervous doing this for the first time,” said Jonah.

  “Nervous? This is nothing. Wait till you return and the seas are six to eight feet. That’ll make you nervous.” Clearing the inlet Andy said, “Were going to head fifteen miles southeast. Set your GPS coordinates to 26°10’51N latitude and 79°53’30W longitude.”

  The seas were two to three feet and the yacht easily covered the distance in just under an hour.

  “I’ll take over,” said Andy. “Larry will help you set the lines.”

  On the aft deck, Larry picked up the steel leader. “Today we’re going to use live goggle-eyes as bait. Tinker mackerel or blue runners work equally well. The leader is steel and is rated in the two hundred fifty to three hundred pound range. We’re going to set out four fishing lines between four hundred and eight hundred feet deep.”

  Larry rigged the bait and let each of the lines out. As he was placing the poles he said, “Some trips are a complete bust, with five to six hours at the location with nothing to show except for a shark. If you’re lucky enough to land a large swordfish you are in for an experience second to none. The fish can weigh up to twelve hundred pounds. The larger fish are hard to come by now, since long-line fishing has decimated the Atlantic swordfish stocks.”