On the dot, a silver Lexus SUV with dark windows pulled up and flashed its headlights. The NYPD officer allowed it through, with the FBI agents trailing a safe distance in a Bucar until the Lexus reached the building.
Two men of average height and strong builds emerged wearing black ski masks, sunglasses and brown leather bomber jackets. They canvassed around as if they were expecting snipers would split their heads any second now. When that didn’t happen, the driver popped open the trunk and removed two large courier satchels and strapped them across his shoulders. The other guy retrieved two plump duffel bags, and the two men strode inside the tower until even the omnipresent eye of the FBI could no longer see them.
ELEVEN
Saturday, November 5, 2011—9:35 p.m.
Manhattan, NY
Blackwell was punching coffee pods in his machine like candy as he paced around the room waiting for Seth to call again.
Monica and her second in command sat at the conference table, both texting with feverish determination. Nishimura worked both his iPhone and BlackBerry, even reaching for his laptop for good measure.
The kid had done well for himself to be working a case this big. Blackwell vaguely recalled crossing paths with him when Nishimura was still a rookie cadet. Perhaps at the FBI academy where special agents of all ranks eat at the same cafeteria, work out at the same fitness center, swim in the same pool, and use the same laundry service and post office. Occasionally, agents and cadets gather for a round of beers and light snacks at a popular bar at the academy called the Boardroom. Back then Blackwell was a legend and it would have taken guts for a noob like this one to come up and make polite conversation.
“A few months after I moved to Italy, a local case caught my attention,” Monica said out of nowhere.
Blackwell licked the last drops of his coffee and looked up.
“A bank clerk a few weeks shy of retiring walked into the annual board meeting of his company in Milan, wearing nothing but explosives. He threatened to blow himself up and take everybody with him.” She paused to sip on a cup of tea that may have actually been hot many hours ago.
Nishimura continued to text, his eyes sporadically fixing on Monica. Perhaps he too was up for a bit of lore from the field. There was only so much analysis an overworked brain could endure before it ceased to operate effectively.
“He held the top executives of his company hostage for three days in the boardroom, making one outlandish request after the other, but not a single demand.
“Italian police ran around in circles to keep him happy but no one could figure out what the hell he wanted. The more obscure his requests were, the more dangerous they believed him to be. Then on the third day he walked out of the building and blew his brains off with a Beretta Storm in broad daylight.”
“Did he leave a note?”
“Nothing. The negotiator and the lead investigator were left scratching their heads for months after the incident. They tried to decipher his motives, but he was clean, not even a traffic ticket.”
Nishimura stopped texting. “I’ve been to Italy a number of times. An Italian with no traffic violations should have been flagged as odd much earlier.”
Blackwell glanced away from Nishimura and back to Monica. He needed to know more now that she’d hooked him. “What happened next?”
“After they’d exhausted all possible grand plots and complex motives, they were forced back to the simplest explanation.” Monica sipped at her cup again, which Blackwell was beginning to suspect had been empty for a while now.
“A man spends his life being pushed around, then goes out and blows his life savings on military-grade explosives that he never planned to use. What if there was no grand criminal or psychopathic explanation?
“All he wanted to do was sit on top for once in his life and dangle his legs. You know, snap his fingers and boss people around for a change. To have the top executives of the bank begging for their lives must have been the sweetest bonus.”
“He did it for the ride, not for the destination.” Blackwell thought about Monica’s story and wondered if it had any bearing on their current case or even their extended history. Seth spoke with solid resolve that implied a greater purpose, not just a sociopath getting the last laugh. If anyone was going to produce demands, it was this guy.
“That’s exactly it,” Monica said. “He had his fun, then figured he was going to prison for a long time where things would only get worse for him. He must have consulted his odds and decided offing himself was the best hand he could play.” The melancholic quiver in Monica’s voice was unexpected.
“How awful does your life have to be before you start taking drastic measures to be heard?” Nishimura chimed in. Even though his fingers and eyes were possessed by a higher digital calling, he had obviously been paying plenty of attention.
“Pretty awful, which had me thinking then about how they condition us to believe every criminal has a material need.”
Nishimura put both his phones down and was now fully engaged. “When you do this job long enough you start believing there always has to be a material need or higher calling, is that what you are saying?”
“Right. Once you start overlooking simple truths and get obsessed with grand narratives, you start charting dangerous waters.
“What it boils down to is that some people commit horrific crimes with no specific end goal or cause. And you know what? They scare the life out of me. They’re the ones we have to work twice as hard to stop them from pulling the trigger for as long as they’re holding the gun.”
Blackwell considered the possibility Monica was being disingenuous with this story. The notion of preventing psychopathic criminals from taking innocent lives at any cost would have served her well during the Hermosa Beach standoff. Back then she had ignored the threat of one such criminal until it was too late.
There was also the possibility Monica was either trying to appease him or play him like a fiddle, neither of which he found palatable. Then a third option crossed his mind. What if this was her way of taking some sort of responsibility for Hermosa Beach? For years Blackwell had been obsessed with how his own life was derailed by the incident but never once contemplated how it could have also tainted her.
The only way to find out for certain was to pry Monica open and potentially expose her double standards. Before he had a chance to consider going that route, the rest of the team stepped back in the room.
Slant, Shaker and Grove stopped in their tracks as if they had sensed the after-glow of whatever profound discussion was exchanged in their absence. There was no time for any of them to inquire what they had missed, or for Monica to fill in the gaps. The baritone voice of a communication agent in another room boomed on the loudspeaker to tell them they were back in business.
“Mr. Blackwell, we have an incoming call for you.”
Blackwell bolted back to his chair, yanked the headset from the table and put it on as he uttered the first thing to come to his mind.
“Give me another address of the remaining three centers in exchange for your men and the supplies we just gave you. Goodwill goes a long way.”
Seth did not respond immediately.
“We’re done with the exchange of gifts,” he finally said.
His voice unleashed a chilling realization in Blackwell’s mind. He didn’t give them the Detroit center as a sign of goodwill, but a way to show them his work in practice to demonstrate the seriousness of his intent.
Maybe it’s time to turn the heat up a little.
“You better start telling us what it is you want. You’re facing criminal charges one way or the other, but the outcome for you doesn’t have to be all bleak. Release Julia Price now, let the hostages go and surrender before you sink any deeper.”
“You really don’t get it, do you? When I woke up this morning, I wasn’t thinking about the deal I’d str
ike if my plan faltered. I woke up knowing I only had two options.”
“Which are?”
“I am either going to get the justice I seek, or I’ll die trying. Spare me your negotiating tactics. You think you can convince me I’ll be just fine if I surrender.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Hate to disappoint you. I’m probably more up to date with the FBI’s lame negotiating tactics than you are.”
Let’s try something different then.
“You don’t seem to have any moral issue with murdering innocent children to settle your personal scores. That’s how it works with you people?”
“The brown-skinned man isn’t capable of innovating any grand ideas of his own. We learn from our white masters and just recycle history.”
“How about your religious beliefs? You can’t pin that on the white man. Whatever your religion is—maybe that of peace—does it grant you the right to sacrifice innocent lives?”
A long silence ensued.
“Don’t you dare speak of my religion or try to use it against me. I wish I had the strength to live by my faith. If I die today I am going straight to hell, but it’s a bargain price for justice served.”
Blackwell snapped. “What is this damn justice that’s worth so many lives?”
Seth cleared his throat and said, “Let me tell you.”
Blackwell held his breath.
“In 2005, there was an attack on the resort city of Sharm El Sheikh in Egypt. Two young Jordanian men were arrested and wrongfully convicted after a sham trial, even though all evidence at the time pointed to this being the work of a foreign intelligence agency.
“These men, Tarek Nabulsi and Hassan Madi, did not commit any of the crimes attributed to them. They were sacrificed to conceal the failure of Egyptian law enforcement and have been rotting since in a maximum security prison in Upper Egypt called The Devil’s Throat.”
Nishimura let out an inadvertent, “Oh, shit.”
A frenzied clicking on laptops erupted behind Blackwell as the other agents and analysts wasted no time to research the life out of the event and the characters behind it.
“These are my demands. The US government will negotiate the immediate release of Tarek Nabulsi and Hassan Madi and transport them to Naples, Italy, where a prisoner exchange will take place—my men for your senator’s daughter. My men for your hostages. Give me my men and I will spare the lives of the children in the day care centers.”
“What you’re asking for is absurd and impossible.” Blackwell tried to dent his ambitions, even though it was clear Seth was of a higher caliber than anyone else Blackwell had used this tactic on in the past with some measure of success.
“The exchange will happen at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, Central European Time, which is five o’clock in the morning here in New York. Deliver the men at the northwest end of the Scampia Park in Naples, off Viale della Resistenza. All in all, you have seven hours to meet my demands. I am being unnecessarily generous.”
Blackwell rolled his eyes up to access the part of his brain trained to lie, and launched into a rote speech.
“The US government does not yield to the demands of criminal or terrorist groups. These men you want released have been incarcerated by a foreign government for acts of terrorism.”
Nothing but stale rhetoric but it had to be said.
“Like your country plays by the rules and keeps its nose out of everyone else’s business? No assassinations of foreign leaders, no incitement of civil unrest, no covert acts of terrorism against innocent civilians, no violent invasions inspired by hateful lies—and God forbid, no torture, or outsourcing of torture.”
“What happens if we’re unable to meet your demands?” Blackwell had to drag out the actual threat of violence from Seth as material evidence. Yet another canned question required for procedural purposes.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Seth’s words painted the grim future awaiting Julia Price and these amorphous children scattered around the country.
“We’ve now also wired the entire thirty-ninth floor with explosives.”
A female hostage in the background screamed before a loud thud silenced her, likely from one of the two men who had joined Seth in the tower.
“Apparently not the most popular itinerary with this crowd. I’ll call you at midnight to wish you goodnight.”
No sooner had Seth hung up than the FBI communication agent patched in the Detroit police bomb squad. They’d found RDX plastic explosives connected to an adapted cellular phone for remote detonation, without doubt a professional job. Blackwell’s intuition was right. Seth had let them have Detroit as a proof-of-concept.
Monica wasted no time to brief the deputy director about the sudden turn of events. Marino listened as she recapped the singular demand and his multilayered threats of violence if they failed to meet it. The conversation was on the loudspeaker in the room for everyone to hear.
“He hasn’t left us much legroom, Monica.”
“With all due respect, sir, I disagree. We’ve just made our biggest break in this case. We now know what he wants and who he’s associated with. Give us a chance to process this evidence and try to solve the case rather than cower to their bullying.”
“How much time do you need and what exactly do you think you can achieve?”
“We have seven hours. If you can give me at least three, I think we can figure out an angle. This is still our main line of business, sir, isn’t it? To solve crimes and apprehend criminals to protect this country?”
Three hours? She must be high.
“Then what?” Marino’s voice boomed louder. “What if, despite your hard work, we’re still unable to rescue Julia? How about the hostages and the fireworks he’s planted in midtown? Let alone all those kids? If I give you three hours and you give me nothing, we’ll have no time to meet their demands, and then what do you propose we do?”
“You’re right, sir.” Monica’s face was flustered. Blackwell knew how much she hated to be pushed against a wall.
“I have no problem with you trying to crack this case while you wait, but I call that Plan B, Vlasic. Plan A will be to clear this with the president and do whatever needs to be done to meet their demands.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, sir.”
Marino wasn’t Monica’s real source of frustration, she was ticked off because the course of action he was proposing was essentially their only choice. She hadn’t changed much.
Marino continued. “We need to be pragmatic. This is not our fight, we just happened to get caught in the middle of it. The lives of hundreds of Americans are worth more than two convicted terrorists.”
“Free terrorists, back in the game.”
“Oh come on, Monica! You more than anyone should know how predictable these guys are. The Jordanians will probably end up in Kandahar with their pants down just like these scumbags always do. We’ll nail ’em then.”
Monica bit her lips but had nothing to add.
“I’ll cut you a deal,” Marino said.
Blackwell was uncertain why Marino was taking so much time to appease Monica. Carter was right, he really had a soft spot for her.
“If you come back to me at any point in the next three hours with a three-pronged, foolproof counterattack with zero collateral damage on our side, I’ll give you what you want. I’ll call off the exchange.”
Now there’s one smart bastard.
Marino hung up.
“I was an analyst with the CIA covering Egypt and Sudan in 2005 when that attack happened.” Robert Slant spoke out of the blue as if he was at a Spooks Anonymous gathering.
He explained that the CIA had assisted the Egyptian intelligence service, the Mukhabarat, in the immediate aftermath of the explosions. Immediately, this made him the most qualified person in the room to jump-start the br
iefing on the attack.
According to Slant, early on July 23, 2005, two near-simultaneous explosions obliterated the old town of Sharm El Sheikh and a luxury beachside resort, killing a hundred and eighty-three people.
At the time there was never any doubt Nabulsi and Madi were guilty of implementing the attacks. They were apprehended near the sleepy town of Dahab, less than an hour after the second explosion had rocked the upscale Spring Roy resort on the main beach of Sharm El Sheikh.
Egyptian police found them with guns and traces of explosives. They also had sophisticated communication gear and a set of fake Turkish passports. Not to mention floor plans of the Spring Roy resort and a lot of foreign currency. Eyewitnesses and security footage salvaged from the hotel confirmed they’d been staking out their targets a week before the attacks.
“Did they have a fair trial, though?” Blackwell wanted to understand Seth’s claims that the men were innocent and not just take the official version as the gospel.
“Inasmuch as you can get a fair trial in a police state, with draconian emergency laws in place. It was beside the point, though. These guys did nothing to cover their tracks.”
Given the high-profile nature of the case, Slant explained, jurisdiction to try it was moved to Cairo, away from El Tor, the tiny capital of the South Sinai governorate.
Nishimura, who had predictably accessed the FBI’s files on the case the moment Seth had made his demands, rose up to speak. He clicked on his remote to cycle through various pictures of Nabulsi and Madi on trial, caged like dangerous animals in a court in Cairo. The two Jordanians were young, probably in their mid-twenties at the time. Both with deep prayer scars on their foreheads and long beards.
Before Nishimura moved on to images from the explosions, Slant warned things were about to get graphic. These weren’t the pictures the public would see on the news media after a major terrorist attack, but the net sum of the unedited evidence taken from the scene of the crime by the first responders. The sort that leave a lingering smell in your nostrils for a long time after.
Terminal Rage Page 9