The Last Hedge

by Green, Carey

  “Didn’t mean too, Timmy. Have you heard from her?”

  “No, I haven’t,”

  “Any reason why you were in her office?”

  “I was looking for a file.”

  “Where is it?”

  “That’s the thing, I couldn’t find it.”

  “Anything noteworthy?”

  “No, it was the old insider trading case that we worked on together. I wanted to look it over; just for deep background on something new I’m looking at.”

  “Deep background, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Conroy said. He noticed that Highland had adopted an aggressive pose, arms folded and feet spread wide apart.

  “I trust if you had heard anything from Vanessa, you would let me know.”

  “Of course I would.”

  “Good,” Highland said. “I know you mean that.” Highland stared at him for seconds before he spoke again. He then flashed Conroy his trademark smile. “Goodnight, Timmy.” Highland turned and walked away. Conroy tried to say goodbye but Highland was already gone.

  “Yeah. You too.”

  Chapter 43

  Conroy rang the buzzer and no one appeared for what seemed like a minute. Finally someone came, and Conroy could hear the door begin to creak open. He could then see light inside the apartment, though the door was held steady by a chain. A male voice was soon speaking from behind the door. It sounded familiar, but he could not quite place it.

  “Who is it?” the voice asked.

  “Tim Conroy.”

  The door closed, and Conroy could hear the chain being removed. The door was opened. Conroy stepped inside and immediately the door closed behind him.

  Dylan was standing there in jeans and a pullover sweater. He said nothing to Conroy as he turned and walked away.

  Conroy took in the loft. It was even bigger than he had expected; at least four thousand square feet. The loft was mostly empty, increasing the vastness of the space. He barely even noticed the baby grand piano nestled in the corner.

  “Nice place, Dylan. Do you live here?”

  “No.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “The guys who owns our gallery space.”

  “Okay. I guess it’s nice to have rich friends.”

  “I would have invited you over to tea, if you would have returned my phone calls.”

  “Touché.”

  Dylan walked Conroy across the loft until they reached a small room just off the kitchen. They went inside and found Vanessa sitting at the computer. She was working at the keyboard, typing furiously. She stood up when Conroy entered the room.

  “So you came?”

  “So I did.”

  “I’m glad,” Vanessa said. She pensively looked down at the floor then back up at Conroy. “So, did you bring something for me?”

  “Yes,” Conroy said. He reached into his jacket pocket and removed the iPod, still inside the plastic bag. He handed it to her. Vanessa held up the bag and looked at it carefully. She then put on a pair of rubber gloves that were sitting next to the computer keyboard.

  She took the iPod out of the bag, and placed it next to the computer. She took the cable from the PC.

  “You two a team now?” Conroy asked. “Bonnie and Clyde?”

  “Who does that make you?” Dylan asked. “’Columbo’ or ‘Ironside’?”

  “Hah ha,” Conroy said. “Show me what you have.”

  “Let me drive,” Dylan said. Vanessa got up from the computer and Dylan replaced her in the seat.

  Dylan called up a program. The screen displayed a picture of what looked like the inside of an auto mechanics garage. The screen flashed the display, “iPod Mechanic.” Conroy bent over slightly to see the screen closer.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s a piece of software all the iPod hackers use. It’s scanning the contents of the hard drive. I want to find the hash table first.”

  A meter bar showed the progress of the operation. Ten seconds later, it found the file.

  “Got it.”

  “Now what?” Conroy asked.

  “Well, we try to find the matching file.”

  “How do we do that?” Vanessa asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  Dylan began to scan through all the files on the computer. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. In addition to the usual music and videos, Binky’s file contained a host of applications. Dylan began to examine them one by one. Except for the hash table and some of his hacked files, nothing was particularly compelling. Vanessa tapped Dylan on his shoulder whenever he reached the videos.

  “I don’t know where to start,” Dylan said.

  “What was the image you saw in Josh’s office?”

  “The Easter egg thing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe it meant something.”

  “Didn’t you say something about a clown?”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, it’s a stupid hunch, but check if there’s anything on the iPod under that name or with that symbol?”

  Dylan looked at Vanessa.

  “Are you serious?”

  “It’s worth a try.”

  Dylan used the software to search for all references to clowns. At least ten songs came back with that name in the reference.

  “Your young man has some eclectic taste,” Conroy said.

  “You got that right.”

  “Wait,” Vanessa said. There’s one more listed under video. “You ever heard of Insane Clown Posse’?”

  “Yeah, sure. It’s one of his favorite bands.”

  “Check this out.”

  Vanessa selected the video. Dylan recognized the image that appeared as the same one that he had seen on Josh’s computer. Dylan clicked on it. Soon, the image changed, and began prompting them for a file name. The three of them all looked at each other.

  “It wants a file name?”

  “Yeah,” Dylan said, “but which one?”

  Vanessa looked at the screen intensely. She then turned towards Dylan with a curious look on her face.

  “Give it the file name of the hash table.”

  “Okay,” Dylan said. He typed in the name of the file. Another meter bar appeared, this one taking over one minute to clear. The screen reappeared with a twenty-eight character string: WgTdnPJ12FvVb123NuQ173sQKbT4. A hyperlink then appeared beneath the string of characters. Dylan took a pen and copied down the string of characters. He clicked the link and the website of the bank Credit Durex appeared.

  “Who are they?” Conroy asked.

  “It’s an offshore bank in Antigua.” Dylan typed in the code into a blank prompt that appeared on the screen. An hourglass then appeared, followed soon after by an account balance screen. Dylan clicked and went into a screen that detailed the account information.

  The account was registered in the name of Charles Bannister, III. It had been transferred from the account of Yosef Fazziz. The account balance registered a cool one hundred and fifty million dollars.

  “It’s an offshore account, created the same day Binky went missing.”

  “Why would he have done this?”

  “I don’t know,” Dylan said. “Your guess is as good as mine. And there’s a good chance someone is going to want this money.”

  “My friend confirmed that Highland is CIA. Highland is the link, Tim. He knows what happened to Binky, and he knows about Fazziz.”

  “I don’t believe it. Besides, he’s my boss. I can’t just investigate him.”

  “I wouldn’t be telling you this if I didn’t believe it. Highland is the only way we can find out what happened.”

  Dan bent over and stared at the screen. He took several deep breaths before he stood up erect. “So what do you want me to do?”

  “I have an idea,” Vanessa said.

  Vanessa clicked a button and printed what was on the screen. She then went and took the document off of the printer. She handed the paper to Conroy.

  “Say Highland is CIA, and Fazzi
z is somehow involved. What would make Highland start to shake in his boots?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Think about it, Tim. Who is the most dangerous person for Highland in the agency?” Conroy thought for a moment, then the click of his brain suddenly snapped in.

  “Thompson, head of Homeland Security.”

  “Exactly,” Vanessa said. “What would happen if you faxed this to him?”

  “If Highland is not involved, then nothing happens. But if he is …”

  “The shit hits the fan.”

  “Exactly,” Conroy said. “No damage to you, him or us.”

  Conroy looked at the piece of paper. He then folded it and put it in his pocket.

  “Is there a copy shop close by?”

  “Round the corner, middle of the block.”

  “I’ll give it a shot and see what happens. But if nothing does, the three of us are going to have a big problem.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it," Dylan said.

  Chapter 44

  Thompson stood at the front of the room, orchestrating with a blue marker in front of a whiteboard. “Well, gentleman, I think this is what we have been waiting for. We first began with a search on Mamoud Shazir. He’s a Syrian lawyer and businessman connected to a host of shady characters in the Middle East. He is married to an American citizen back in 1984, and we could not get a thing on him. He’s listed under a business address at his home in New Jersey. Now, Exhibit 1.”

  Thompson had moved almost immediately on the faxed tip from Conroy and a surveillance team was put in place. Thompson used his clicker to move to the next slide on the computer, which showed a heavily bearded man in a turban.

  “This is Yosef Fazziz. He’s a known terrorist on a CIA watch list for the past eighteen months. His name has been in and across our databases for months. Just recently, that name resurfaced in an investigation of a New York hedge fund. Fazziz is a known Jihadist with ties to Al Qaeda training camps in Afghanistan, Libya, and Iraq. This is one bad boy.”

  Highland sat at the back of the room, slumped in his chair, staring into space. Conroy had been leaning against the conference room wall. He leaned in closer to ask Thompson a question. “So what does this have to with the information?”

  “It’s very simple. Our Fazziz goes to rent a car last week in Hoboken, New Jersey. He’s filling out the slip when the attendant goes back to run his credit card. Well, there was a problem with the computer, and Fazziz got nervous and jittery. He takes his credit card back and leaves in a huff. That got the car rental attendant thinking that something about Fazziz’s story didn’t jibe, and he called the local chapter of the FBI. The attendant was able to get his name and address off the credit card information he had filled out for the rental. Well, the phone number that he left matched exactly that of our man Mamoud Shazir. That goes to Exhibit 2.”

  The house in question appeared on the screen. It was a normal-looking house from Anywhere, U.S.A. It was built in the Tudor style, accompanied by well-landscaped lawns and a freshly paved driveway. It could have been a location for the next P.T.A. meeting. Thompson got closer to the screen as he described the house.

  “This is the home of Mamoud Shazir. The house is in a suburban location fifteen minutes across the George Washington Bridge in the town of Teaneck, New Jersey. To the left of the house sits a small park, and the back of the house leads directly onto Route 4 leading to the G. W. Bridge and Upper Manhattan. We were able to put a team on it immediately.”

  The next slide was a nighttime view from across the highway. Four men could be seen getting into a large sports utility vehicle. The timestamp on the film said 3 a.m.

  “We positioned our team directly across the highway on Route 4. Using night-vision technology, we were able to capture these images of various people coming and going at very odd hours of the evening. We spoke to the neighbors, and most of them were unaware that anyone was living in the house. Mamoud Shazir had told them that they would be away for a period of time and that his cousin would occasionally be dropping by to pick up the mail. The neighbors were not aware of any strange comings and goings during the course of the night.”

  “Gentleman,” Thompson said as he brought everyone to attention, “every indication is that this is a terrorist cell. The house itself is occupied by six men, each of Arabic descent. Based on some of the encryption-breaking technology that we have at our disposal, we were able to decode some of the information through their wireless router. We are quite positive they are in the final stages of a planning attack and now we understand why.”

  He removed photographs from an envelope and slid them across the table. The photos showed a huge factory located on a beach. The images were in black and white.

  “Pine River, New Jersey, one of the largest oil refineries n the Northeast. This is a key target for terrorists to create mayhem in domestic and foreign oil markets. Again, based on what we were able to discern from some of their email messages, they have reached critical mass for an attack at any moment.”

  “So what are we waiting for?” a voice asked from the back of the room.

  “Nothing. I’m giving the go-ahead to proceed and take them out.”

  Thompson moved towards the rear of the room. All eyes were on him as he approached Highland. Highland sat there emotionless and gaunt, almost like he was in a catatonic state. Conroy had never seem him like this before. Clearly, he was spooked and was on the verge of losing his cool.

  “Dan, how quickly do you think we can move in?”

  Highland said nothing. He mouthed some words first, and then turned towards Thompson. “I can mobilize men in the morning.”

  “Good; so can I. We’ll make this a joint operation: You utilize your team, we utilize ours. It will be a win-win situation for both of us.”

  “OK,” Highland said. “The call will go out tonight.”

  “Good,” Thompson said. “We have a strong opportunity to capture the attention of the entire Bureau. Let’s not blow it.” Highland said nothing as Thompson and his men exited the room.

  Conroy turned and made his way over to where Dan was sitting. Dan’s legs were stretched out spread-eagle in the chair, and he was staring mindlessly into the wall. He looked up suddenly when Conroy stepped in front of him.

  “Timmy. We’re going in tomorrow; I want you there, okay?”

  “Of course. You pick me up in the morning?”

  “Yeah,” Highland said, suddenly smiling. “You buy the coffee, I’ll drive the car.”

  Chapter 45

  The Teaneck raid took place just before dawn. Twenty-five FBI agents surrounded the house and the neighboring park. The rear of the house was isolated, as the proximity to the highway made it particularly hazardous. There was no route that the suspected terrorists could escape through, and the FBI brass was cautiously optimistic.

  Highland was the lead officer in charge of the raid. When Conroy had asked how many weapons to bring, Highland had responded, “Bring every weapon you have.” He was hoping for the best and preparing for the worst.

  The FBI units positioned themselves outside the house around 5:40 a.m. The first hint of sunlight was visible, and the officers were alert and ready. Highland got out of his car with his pump shotgun and stood across the street from the Tudor house as he reached for his phone. Highland then took the cell phone out of his pocket and dialed the number.

  The phone rang five times before a sleepy voice answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Good Morning. Is this Yosef Fazziz?”

  “Yes. Who is speaking?”

  “Sorry, wrong number,” Highland said as hung up the phone. He then waived for Conroy, who along with another agent, assumed a position outside the door. When Highland waved his hand, they used a combination of foot and crowbar to open the door.

  Within seconds, at least fifteen agents had flooded the interior of the home. Conroy was one of the first inside. From the exterior of the house came shouting, but
no shots were fired. All in all, there was about five minutes of commotion. After the interior of the house had been secured, Highland and the rest of the crew entered the home.

  The raiding agents had taken six men into custody, having cuffed them and brought them into the living room. They were in a state of semi-dress: pajama tops and underwear, several wore nothing at all. The sound of Arabic was being spoken. The rest of the officers continued to search the house.

  When Highland entered the living room, he surveyed the scene with a grin on his face: There was nothing like a raid where no shots were fired.

  “Which one is Fazziz?”

  Conroy stepped forward and pointed to a large man down on his knees.

  “I think he is,” Conroy said. Highland approached the man while Conroy watched. Fazziz was already grinning when Highland stepped in front of him.

  “Are you Yosef Fazziz?”

  “Yes, I am.” Fazziz was a heavy man, with a hairy chest and powerful arms. He was wearing a pair of striped pajama pants, open at the waist. His English was better than Conroy expected.

  “I am Yosef Fazziz, and I know my rights in an American court of law.”

  “I’m glad you do,” Highland said, “Because you are certainly going to get a chance to use them.” He turned to the FBI agents working in the room.

  “Good work, gentleman. Job well done.” Conroy and Highland exited as the room was being cleared.

  “So we got our man, huh?” Highland asked.

  “I guess so.”

  “You guess so?” Highland asked. “This is big, Conroy. Big.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know it is. You surprised? This Corbin guy definitely was involved in something. Something bad, very bad.”

  “Yeah, but why were the Corbins doing business with Middle Eastern terrorists?”

  “Maybe now that we have these guys, the pieces of the puzzle will start to come together.”

  “Maybe.”

  “By the way, I owe your friend Dylan an apology.”

  “Yeah, I’ll give it to him.”

  Highland stopped and took a long look at Tim. “You know, ten years ago we didn’t even have to think about this terrorism stuff.”