The Third Cell

by Anthony D'Egidio

  Over the next several months, as Jonah became comfortable with handling the yacht, he no longer had a need for a captain.

  Running at night always raised suspicion with the U.S. Coast Guard, which was looking for illegal contraband, usually drugs, aboard the vessels. On his third solo trip he was flagged and boarded by the Coast Guard. After inspecting the yacht and finding all the paperwork in order with no violations, he was free to go. Over the next year boarding by the Coast Guard took place four times and in each incident they came up with nothing. Eventually when they flagged the yacht and saw it was The Phoenix Rising, they waved it on.

  Jonah thought about his good fortune. By being the model citizen, I’ve bought myself an immunity of sorts, but I must always be meticulous in my conduct with the cargo I’m planning to transport.

  Jonah was waiting for Fred Cooper to show up at his office. Fred was born and raised on the family farm whose southern property line bordered on Ceballo Landscaping. Cooper Farms planted and sold many different types of produce, including tomatoes, lettuce, peppers, cucumbers and green beans. He had taken over the farm operations in 1966.

  Jonah rose to his feet as the secretary brought Fred into the office. “Good to finally meet with you,” said Jonah shaking his hand.

  Fred removed his hat as he sat, his face showing the years of exposure to the sun. “I’d like to say this is a meeting to get acquainted, but I’m here on business. My family has owned Cooper Farms for over eighty years. We saw this area grow and change beyond anything imaginable but we have always been a fixture.” Fred paused, “But it’s time to move on. I’m seventy-two and have no children. My wife died years ago and she has a couple of nephews up north, but they’re professional people and don’t know the first thing about farming. I understand that you have been interested in buying my property for the past several years and since you’re right next door, I thought I’d come to you.”

  “I’m very interested,” said Jonah. “How much of the property are you selling and what are you asking?”

  “Close to a thousand acres and a developer had offered me thirty thousand an acre.”

  “That’s thirty million dollars. I don’t have that kind of money,” said Jonah.

  “Yeah, I know,” said Fred as he scratched his head. “The only people that have that kind of money are the developers and I won’t sell to them. I don’t want a bunch of houses on that land. That’s family land, so I’m ready to make a deal.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “I’ll sell it to you for twenty million payable over ten years, but you must keep the land as a working farm during that time and you can’t change the name. After the year 2006, you can do with it as you please.”

  “You’re telling me you’d turn down the additional ten million just so the land doesn’t get developed?”

  “I don’t need the money. I’m already a millionaire. This is about pride, son, something that’s missing these days.”

  “I’ll get the lawyer to draw up the papers, and I will cover all the closing costs,” said Jonah.

  After Fred Cooper left the office, Jonah sat back in his chair, a broad smile on his face. Fred, you’ve just solved my biggest problem.

  The first thing Jonah did after taking possession of Cooper Farms in June 1996 was to remove the dilapidated trailers that the migrants were living in and replace them with permanent air conditioned housing consisting of a combination living room/bedroom, completely furnished, and bathroom for each worker. Two cleaning personnel fastidiously maintained the building.

  There was a separate kitchen that served two meals a day, breakfast and supper. It was unheard of in the farming community to have such luxury for migrant workers who were treated on most farms worse than any animal they may have housed.

  Charlotte Brigs and Tom Trent, the Palm Beach County inspectors for migrant workers, approached Jonah. “We’ve seen the improvements that you made. This could be a model for other farms in the area. We’d like to have an article run in one of the local newspapers to show your facility.”

  “I’m a private person and I wouldn’t want the publicity,” said Jonah. The last thing I need is a bunch of people snooping around the property and asking questions about my past!

  Jonah made two more trips to Colombia and San Andrés Island, one in the spring 1995 and the other at Christmas 1996 with Maria and the children. It was on the 1996 trip to San Andrés that he made his first contact with Abu Abbas Ismail, the proprietor of a retail store that featured clothing, food products and literature from the Middle East.

  Jonah had received a letter at the post office box simply stating:

  Upon your advice we’ve expanded in the Caribbean to include San Andrés Island. Our new establishment is Almacén Imports; the proprietor is Abu Abbas Ismail.

  Shortly after arriving and getting settled, Jonah located Almacén Imports. He walked into the store and in Spanish asked, “Estoy buscando al señor Ismail Abu Abbas. Mi nombre es Lee Ruby. (I’m looking for Abu Abbas Ismail. My name is Lee Ruby Senior.) ”

  Abu Abbas looked anxiously around the shop. “We close in ten minutes. Please wait until all the customers are gone.”

  In San Andrés, it was customary for all the stores to close at noon and reopen at three o’clock.

  As the doors were shut, Abu Abbas motioned Jonah to the backroom of the store. “I was wondering when you would be contacting me. I’ve been here for almost a year and was beginning to think I was wasting my time. Not that I’m complaining, for the island weather is fantastic and I make a modest living without any worries. What do you have for me?”

  “Please don’t write any of this down. Memorize what I tell you and be careful how you relay the information.”

  “Okay, it will be no problem. I only use an establishment that sells long distance telephone service when communicating with Syria and Lebanon.

  That is their only business and there are several on the island. No one takes names or identification, so the calls can’t be traced.”

  Jonah then went into detail on the preparations that were in place. He never revealed any of the company names he had established or information about his private life. His only goal was to make sure that the Amir and the Muslims For Justice were fully aware of his activities. I will await word from the Amir to implement the mission.

  “I will contact you only when I am on the island. You will not have any way to reach me. We can never be too careful,” said Jonah.

  Abu Abbas acknowledged, “I agree and I will await your next visit.”

  As Jonah left the shop he thought, I mustn’t be too obvious, and what would a Jew be doing in a shop catering to Lebanese Arabs?

  Daniel Schonfeld

  Daniel and Traci completed their graduate work and each received their master’s in Environmental Sciences & Engineering. Traci worked for the Virginia Department of Health in Blacksburg while Daniel was still employed at Blue Mountain Munitions. His plan to be in Florida by the end of 1994 was only off by a few months.

  “Traci, I have been told by a colleague that this is one of the best communities in South Florida,” said Daniel as he gave her the brochure that he had received from Robert Peterson.

  Traci looked it over. “I’m not into seeking status. I just want a nice home.”

  “It’s not about status but investment. If you buy while construction is still going on, you can always count on the value of the property appreciating.”

  In April 1995 Daniel and Traci relocated to an apartment complex in Boynton Beach, Florida, taking a one-year lease while their house was being built.

  Traci hesitated as they signed the papers for a modest $300,000 home at Beekman Estates. “Daniel, are you sure we can afford to buy this?”

  “I have enough inheritance money to cover the down payment and we’ll just mortgage the rest,” Daniel lied.

  “But you’re just starting up GoldCoast Environmental and I’m worried about having enough income.”

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p; “I’ll make ends meet,” said Daniel. I certainly can’t tell her I’m using Muslims For Justice seed money to start the company.

  “Why don’t we work together to get the company off the ground,” suggested Traci.

  “I’d love to have you working with me, but we need benefits and at least one guaranteed paycheck. Besides, you already have an offer from Palm Beach County.”

  Daniel purchased a bankrupt pest control and fertilization company in October 1995.

  A nervous Traci questioned his wisdom. “Don’t you think it was a risky action, considering we are just starting out in the consulting business?”

  “I already underbid the competition that has contracts with the builders at Beekman Estates. I was told when I took possession of the company the pest control contract was mine.”

  Daniel was able to undercut all of his competition using the Muslims For Justice money. By March 1996 he landed his second contract for fertilization and pest control of all the common areas of the Beekman Estates.

  They moved into their new home a couple of months later. Shortly after moving in, Daniel was asked to be on the landscape committee and he accepted.

  As Daniel walked into the clubhouse for the landscape committee meeting, Martha Lange, a member, came up to Daniel and said, “I’m glad you’re here early. There is someone I want to introduce you to.” Martha took his hand and led him into the clubhouse office. There, two men were talking. Martha tapped on the man’s shoulder whose back was to them. As the man turned around Martha said, “Jonah Meyerson, I’d like you to met Daniel Schonfeld.”

  “Pleasure to meet you,” said Jonah as he held out his hand. “I heard good things about your company.”

  The two men shook hands, as their eyes met knowingly. For the first time in thirteen years the brethren were reunited.

  Howard Lieberman

  Howard was, as Michelle predicted, bored to death, but he knew his infiltration of the FBI was a necessary step. After successfully passing the pre-hiring linguist testing he was sworn in on Wednesday, January 12, 1994.

  Howard was first sent to complete the eighteen-week course for Special Agents at the FBI Academy, located in Quantico, Virginia. After graduating, he was then assigned to the counter-terrorist unit in Washington, D.C.

  Howard’s arrival at the Washington field office was met with cordial and polite greetings. He was only at his desk a few minutes when he summed up his situation. I am already the outsider. My Arab counterparts are not ready to embrace a Jew. In fact for all I know, I may be the only Jew in the entire field office.

  The translation office was a maze of cubicles with reams of paper stacked high on the desks representing the backlog of documents still waiting to be deciphered. Some were almost two years old.

  Howard looked at what was supposed to be the elite first defense against terrorism in the United States. It only took him a few days to see all the weaknesses.

  The whole operation is vulnerable with Arabs, who are supposed to be identifying critical information, passing up key translated passages as not being relevant. The management team, unable to read or write Arabic, is totally at the mercy of these translators.

  This is not the FBI I’ve seen in movies and television. They have inept career personnel only interested in promoting themselves, their cronies and building little empires of semi-importance. Anyone diligently working instead of ass-kissing will find their careers pigeonholed while their brown-nosed counterparts are promoted.

  Howard shook his head in disbelief at the chaos. The prejudice of the translators towards me will be a major hindrance in my ability to seek information. My only recourse is to undermine my fellow workers.

  A couple of weeks later Howard walked into his supervisor’s office. “I need to show you something. I’ve gone back and looked at several previous translations and they’re not correct. Someone is purposely changing the intent and protecting those who sent the transmissions. Here are my own translations showing the true nature of the statements.”

  “Are you telling me there are moles in our office?”

  “I’m not sure they’re moles, but I can guarantee you the information previously translated is incorrect.”

  After reviewing several of Howard’s translations the supervisor slammed his fist on the desk. “These bastards are undermining our operation. I need to get this to the Reports Officer’s attention immediately.”

  Howard’s action brought him much praise from his management team and greater distrust by the other translators, of which two were fired.

  I hate undermining a fellow Arab, but I need to secure the trust of my supervisors and upper management. I’m labeled as a backstabbing prick, but I must accomplish my goal.

  A year later, Howard was promoted to a supervising position within the department. Reports were coming in more accurately than in the previous five years and Howard was in a position to review the information, and would make sure that adequate content was brought forward to the Bureau Chiefs. It was all a numbers game and Howard continued to impress the management. By December 1996, after only three years, Howard had befriended a number of key Bureau Special Agents and their management teams.

  Howard arrived home late one night just before Christmas. Walking through the door he announced, “Michelle, I have an early Christmas present for you.”

  Michelle came walking out of the family room. “I suppose you’re going to tell me about some exciting overseas assignment that I’m just going to love.”

  “Better than that, I’m leaving the Bureau.”

  “Good, I could use the help in the office.”

  “It’s not quite that simple.”

  “It’s never simple with you Howard. I used to think I knew you, but now you’re different.”

  “Not really. I’m going to help with the business, but not in the D.C. area.”

  Michelle just stared as Howard continued. “I’m opening a second office in South Florida and I’m calling it MetroMax South.”

  “Are you crazy? You know I don’t like Florida, and besides, who is going to run the operation here in D.C.?”

  Howard retorted, “You’ve spent the past few years putting in place one of the finest security management teams in the business. You could operate the company from the moon if you wanted. Here’s an opportunity to increase the business, get out of the cold weather you’re always complaining about and leave behind all the political crap for the management team to handle.”

  “I have to agree with you that the political scene is more than taxing and I hate it.” Michelle sighed.

  Howard began rubbing the back of Michelle’s neck. “I’ve located the ultimate golfing community in Boca Raton, Florida. It’s called Beekman Estates and the homes are nicer than anything in the D.C. area. Do you object to playing golf year round?” He handed Michelle the brochure.

  “Howard, damn you, golf is my passion and you know it. Well, it seems interesting enough, but I want to see the homes and country club in person before I make a final decision.” She said while flipping through the brochure. “I have to say, the houses are beautiful and the golf course looks magnificent.”

  “I told you it’s going to be great,” said Howard gloating. “Why don’t we take your mom and dad with us?” Having Michelle’s mother with us will be the perfect. Her mother’s only ambition in life is to be purely materialistic and she’s always pushing Michelle into the finer things, even if Michelle is protesting.

  Michelle thought about her parents, “I’d like to have them get out of the cold for a while.”

  Great, we’re going to have Michelle’s mother on the trip. Howard couldn’t be happier.

  Sunday, February 2, 1997: Howard, Michelle and her parents, during a freezing rainstorm, flew from Washington National Airport to Palm Beach International, in West Palm Beach, Florida.

  Upon exiting the airport, Patricia Branson looked around. “Dear, look how green everything looks and the weather is beautiful.”

 
Michelle was overlooking the ocean from the Delray Beach Hotel. She turned to her mother. “It really would be nice to play golf year round and sunbathe by the pool in the middle of January.”

  The next day Howard and Michelle signed a contract with TIC, Inc. to build a six-thousand-square-foot home in one of the more exclusive neighborhoods of Beekman Estates.

  Michelle and Howard, on their return to Washington, met with all the MetroMax Security management team.

  Howard was speaking. “Michelle will be in charge of the D.C. operations. She’ll travel to Washington each week for three or four days as necessary. We’re counting on the management team to continue with the excellent reputation we have achieved since taking possession of MetroMax in 1990. I’ll remain in Florida to make MetroMax South the first choice in security as we have done here. We are targeting several gated communities in Palm Beach County and Florida Electric Utilities. We understand that FEU is unhappy with their present company and we intend to give them a better solution.”

  Michelle got up to address the team. “I know that several of you have already asked about having the opportunity to transfer to the new company, especially all of the golfers. Our effort in South Florida will be to a limited customer base and we will not be expanding to the size that we are in Washington. We need our strongest management here because Washington is our bread and butter. We will assess transfers in the future, but for now everything is status quo.”

  A collective groan went up from the managers. Howard was apologetic but he knew none would ever be transferred. The last thing I need is some former New York City detective snooping around and upsetting the mission!

  A few months later, Howard was waiting to be seen by the Florida Electric Utilities Corporate Security Manager, Wayne Anderson.

  The secretary led Howard to a small conference room. “Sir would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked.

  “I’d appreciate it,” said Howard as he rummaged through his briefcase for the quote he had sent in and his calculator.