“It is truly His will,” Hamid conceded.
“We’ll need to move you to a more secure location. The FBI is working on a warrant to enter the mosque. Right now it’s under surveillance from the outside. We’ve identified two vans and an apartment with a view of the front and back doors,” he said.
“How will you get me out of here?”
“Easy enough, I hope. Just follow our directions without question. Understood?” Aleem said.
Hamid nodded. He directed Tariq to join him in the upstairs office to coordinate the escape, which would require the surveillance team to earn their paycheck. When they arrived at the top of the stairs, Tariq turned to Aleem and whispered, “What was that speech all about?”
Aleem grabbed his arm and moved him toward the back of the office, away from the stairwell.
“Hope. Without hope, he’ll put up another barrier. We don’t have time for that.”
“Well, my hope is that you don’t really plan to let him go free,” Tariq said.
“Of course not, he’s dead as soon as we confirm the information needed to move the investigation forward.”
**
Ten minutes later, Special Agent Janice Riehms stared through her binoculars at a van approaching Masjid Muhammad’s side entrance on Sussex Avenue. The white Dodge Sprinter van drove at a normal speed as it neared the last remaining stop sign separating it from the mosque. From her observation post in the front window of a third-story apartment at the intersection of Jay and Sussex, she had a clear view of the mosque’s front and side entrances. Since Hamid Muhammad had become the center of the FBI’s attention, four additional agents had been assigned to the two-bedroom apartment, shrinking the space considerably, but ensuring that they could accurately screen every person coming in and out of the mosque.
Attendance had dropped considerably throughout the day, making their jobs slightly easier. The facial recognition software tied to their surveillance cameras gave them an initial “probability of match” analysis within a second of a face appearing at the door. If any of the faces were obscured from sight, back-up cameras installed on the roofs of two additional locations along Jay Street would ensure they could capture a digital image. Failing that, undercover FBI agents mobilized along Jay and Sussex during prayer times could approach the suspect and confirm their identity. They had coordinated three on street “interactions” today, which likely explained the shrinking number of attendees at the mosque. Word travelled quickly throughout the Muslim community.
“I have a van approaching from the west on Sussex. White with no rear windows. Looks like a cargo van,” she said to the two agents watching the flat-screen monitors.
Two additional agents appeared in the doorway to observe. Tensions had been heating up all day, but sunset prayer put them all on high alert. The three young men that always stayed behind in the mosque had been joined by two additional men. One of them had entered for sunset prayer and failed to emerge an hour later. The other appeared two blocks away on Jay Street and waited outside of the front door for a few minutes before entering. Nearly three hours later, none of them had exited the mosque, which gave Special Agent Riehms the impression that they were plotting to help the Imam escape.
“Notify mobile SWAT units,” she ordered.
“Got it. Units notified. I have the van leaving the stop sign. We’ll be watching closely,” replied one of the agents in front of the monitors.
The entire internal bedroom wall had been occupied with long folding tables and computer equipment. Four flat-screen monitors showed the separate surveillance feeds, and one larger monitor held their command and control interface. The agent who had just responded typed the SWAT notification, which was instantly transferred to both of the Suburbans. The SUVs were parked one block away, effectively sandwiching Jay Street. Each vehicle carried five SWAT agents, including the driver, and could move into a blocking position to prevent the escape of a vehicle leaving the mosque.
“Confirmed. Van is approaching the mosque,” Riehms said.
She watched the van pass the side entrance and suddenly stop. Three figures darted from the mosque’s door, disappearing behind the van.
“Fuck! They’re loading him into the van!” she said, continuing to watch.
“I have the van stopped at the intersection of Jay and Sussex, turning left onto Jay. I didn’t see it stop,” said the agent watching the screen.
Another agent mumbled agreement. Through her binoculars, she saw the van speed through the intersection and turn right onto Jay Street. She ran from the window to the computer monitor.
“What the fuck are you talking about? I just watched it pick up three men and turn right onto Jay. Get SWAT moving south to intercept!”
“The van turned left. Take a look. Nobody left the mosque,” the agent said.
“I saw it with my own fucking eyes. We’re going to lose the Imam. Send SWAT south. The van has to turn on Central Ave. Either way, one of our teams can intercept!”
There was a two-second delay as puzzled agents traded glances. She didn’t like the fact that they were questioning her judgment, but she could understand their confusion. The computer monitor playback clearly showed the van turning left. Something was wrong here.
“Open a channel to SWAT,” Riehms said as the agent typed her initial intercept request into the computer.
“I just fired off the order. They’ll have plenty of time to intercept if the van went right. Should I notify non-tactical units to proceed north, just to cover our asses?”
“Fine. Send them north,” she said, grabbing the headset offered to her by the agent. “SWAT Mobile this is Overlook. Proceed south to intercept a white Dodge Sprinter van. No back windows. Minimum of four onboard, possibly including our target. How copy, over?”
A static-filled voice responded, “This is SWAT Mobile. My unit has just passed Dickerson Street. Less than five seconds away from a blocking position on Central Avenue. Sister unit is approaching Central along Hudson. Stand by for visual confirmation.”
A few tense seconds passed as they waited for the truth. Agent Riehms thought about contacting the non-tactical units, but decided against it. She had seen the van turn right; there was no point contacting them, unless the van didn’t show up on Central Avenue. There was no way for the van to break through Jay onto one of the adjoining streets and double back. They had confirmed this during a tactical assessment of the neighborhood. If the van didn’t appear on Central, the only possible explanation was that it had stopped.
“Can you call up a map that shows our units’ positions? We might need to guide them if the van tries to double back.”
“One second,” the agent replied, typing away.
All of the agents assigned to the stakeout were huddled around the computer monitor, blocking her view of the larger, central screen. She moved to a more centralized location to view the map.
“Agent Bedford, take these and make sure the van doesn’t come back down Jay Street,” she said, giving the binoculars to the newest agent to join her team.
“Yes, ma’am.”
When the agent reached the window, her headset came to life.
“Suspect van just turned left onto Central Avenue. Moving forward to block. My second unit is less than fifty feet behind them. Send back-up units! The van just slowed and is now turning into oncoming traffic! Unit two just rammed them from behind. Stand by. Out.”
The line went dead.
“Send FBI and police units to their location, Central Avenue between Norfolk and Hudson. Give them one of our radio frequencies for coordination. What the fuck? Why does this map show all of our units headed north? You ordered SWAT south, right?”
“Yes! You just talked to them! Where did they say they were?”
“On Central Avenue,” she muttered, utterly confused.
“SWAT Mobile, this is Overlook. What is your status, over?”
“Overlook. This is SWAT Mobile. I just turned left on Orange. No sign of t
he suspect van. Approaching Jay Street. Do you want me to turn down Jay and start searching? I can keep unit two at the top of the street to prevent an escape.”
“SWAT Mobile. You just reported to me that you had engaged the suspect van on Central Avenue? Confirm your location again?” she said.
“I’m at the top of Jay Street. I’ve been taking my orders from the mobile tablet. I haven’t sent an update since we started driving north,” the voice replied.
“They drove north? Shit!” she yelled.
“His GPS location matches. According to the system, both SWAT Mobile units are at the northern end of Jay Street.”
“Something is wrong with the system. Can you play back my conversation with SWAT Mobile?” she said.
“Which one?”
“The one supposedly on Central Avenue. Put it on speaker,” she ordered.
Three seconds later, her conversation echoed through the room, filling her with dread. There was a stark difference between the two voices and the quality of the transmission. Her conversation with the SWAT leader on Central Avenue had been full of static, and there was something off with the voice.
“What do you hear in that conversation?” she asked the other agents.
“I don’t mean this to sound like a racial comment, but it sounded like you were on a bad connection with Dell technical support in Bangalore, India.”
Nobody laughed at his comment.
“Is it possible for this system to be hijacked or hacked?” Agent Riehms asked.
“It’s not impossible,” conceded the agent sitting in front of the command screen.
“Shit. Communicate with cell phones only, until we figure out what happened. I want all units headed south. We have to assume they’re already on Central Avenue. I want blocks set up at every entrance to Interstate 280 for ten miles in either direction. Can you give us a directory of cell phone numbers for everyone assigned to our group?”
The agent typed a few commands, and a list appeared. He ordered the computer to print several copies. Agent Riehms entered the numbers for the SWAT team leader’s cell phone and pressed send. A second later, she heard a buzzing sound coming from Agent Bedford, who was dutifully watching Jay Street through his binoculars. He reached for his belt and took out his Blackberry. When he read the screen, he lowered the binoculars and held up the phone so she could see the screen.
“I think it’s safe to assume that our system was hacked,” Agent Bedford said, “unless you misdialed an entire cell phone number.”
**
Aleem Fayed hit the van’s sliding door and toppled to the carpeted floor, keeping a grip on Hamid Muhammad’s arm. Tariq had fared better during the wild turn, having immediately grabbed the only permanently affixed passenger seat available in the back of the converted van. Tariq had expressed his concern about using the surveillance team for this kind of a precision timed maneuver, but they really didn’t have a choice. If he had left the mosque at midnight to join up with the van, there was a solid chance that the FBI would follow him. The van took another sharp turn, which elicited a few excited hollers and sent Aleem careening into Tariq and Hamid.
“Take it easy, Graves! We’re clear! The last thing we need is to attract any local police attention. Cars speeding around corners at midnight attract a lot of attention! Slow the fuck down!”
“All right! All right! I just wanted to get us off Central Avenue. We’re fine. Right in the middle of Rutgers University. I’ll cruise us through campus, and we’ll head south,” Timothy Graves said.
Graves was the leader and default driver for the team, which had fallen short by one over the course of the past week. They had lost their secondary hacker, Benjamin Weindorf, to a startup computer security company that had just secured several million dollars of funding from the U.S. Navy. Tariq had personally visited Weindorf upon arriving in the States, to impress upon the young man that any mention of his previous “benefactor” would result in an early burial. Graves had been unable to find a trustworthy replacement in such a short period of time, but they might not need one in the future. Their primary systems hacker seemed more than capable of handling the excess workload.
Anish Gupta raised his hands above his head, palms facing upward, and slowly pumped his arms up and down. “Raise the roof, bitches! Those motherfuckers have no idea what just hit them. Watch this!” he said, typing a command on his keyboard.
“All mobile units, this is over watch. Suspect van spotted heading north on Mount Prospect Ave. Local units in pursuit. Proceed down Clifton Avenue to Bloomfield Avenue for intercept. Set up a block at intersection of Clifton and Bloomfied.”
Through the speaker, they all heard several units responding affirmatively to his command.
“I’m tracking them by individual cell phone. Every FBI unit is headed north on Clifton. Local police are a different story. Agents at over watch successfully made several calls to 911,” Gupta said. “He doesn’t look too badly burned,” he added, nodding at Hamid.
The Imam lay flat on the van floor with a fresh band of duct tape over his mouth. They had kept the duct tape off while transporting him to the van, in order to maintain the appearance that his escorted departure was an escape. Aleem sat on his chest, keeping him pinned to the floor until they were far enough away to risk propping him up in a seat.
“How long until they get their shit together?” Aleem asked.
“Not long. They’ll unscrew the cell phone issue shortly. I just scrambled their directories, so if they didn’t have a number memorized, they’d dial the wrong number. I didn’t mess with their back-up system at the field office, so they’ll probably get a data refresh. Depends on who’s working IT at the field office. If it was me, I would sever all connection to the mobile site. I’d order them to physically cut the fucking cable modem wires. Not that it would matter. I already have full access to the field office. This was more fun than I had anticipated.”
“He’s going to drive me crazy, isn’t he?” Aleem asked Graves.
“You get used to it. He’s one of the best in the business…and he actually seems to enjoy this cloak and dagger shit,” Graves said.
“Good. Because this looks like the very beginning of a long operation. We’ll need to do something with this van before we reach the safe house. How portable is all of your equipment?”
“Thirty minutes to strip it down, including the antenna and satellite rig. We’ll probably have to burn the van,” Gupta said.
“Really? Now our friend here is operational?” Aleem said, eliciting a laugh from everyone in the van that didn’t have his mouth taped.
“Just saying,” Gupta responded. “Our fingerprints and DNA are all over this biatch.”
“Where did you find a gangsta Hindu computer hacker?” Tariq asked.
“He found me, and this is nothing, by the way. He’s actually behaving for you guys,” Graves replied, turning the van gently onto a crowded urban street.
“Wonderful,” Aleem said.
Tariq and Aleem watched the traffic around the van closely for signs of unwanted law enforcement attention. Aleem spotted a three-story parking garage coming up on the opposite side of the road, which appeared to be connected to the Sheraton hotel towering over it.
“Graves, let’s pull into that parking garage and find a new ride. We won’t last much longer on the road if they successfully issue an APB. There’s too much traffic out here,” Aleem said.
“I can take care of the APB. I’m tapped into the State Police and local Newark Police network,” Gupta said.
“Forget it. You’ll lose satellite as soon as we duck into the garage. Start disassembling the gear,” Aleem said.
“Can I call you Aleem G? It’s so close to Ali G. You know who I’m talking about, right? HBO series?” Gupta said.
Aleem regarded the young Indian man strapped into a swivel bucket seat that had been bolted into the middle of the rear cargo compartment. Both of his hands typed away at one of the keyboards on the metal c
argo table. He could see that the heavy-duty table had been welded to the left side of the van at several points. All of the equipment had been secured in custom-made metal holsters and strapped down with industrial-grade Velcro straps. The entire set up, Anish Gupta included, looked like it could survive a multiple rollover accident. It was hard to get mad at someone who looked so ridiculous and so serious at the same time.
“No. To all of your questions,” Aleem said.
“Maybe I can just call you G?”
“How about you start getting all of this equipment ready for transfer and I’ll think of a name. It’ll probably sound a lot like Aleem.”
“No sense of humor. Fuck. I get it. Mouth shut,” the young man said.
Aleem continued to stare past Gupta, examining traffic through the rear window. He knew the young techie understood the stakes up front, but from behind his computers, this was still more or less a game to him. He didn’t see the dead bodies in the mosque, and he wasn’t there when they engulfed Hamid’s head in flames. And he wouldn’t be there when they put a bullet in the terrorist’s head. Hopefully, this would continue to feel like somewhat of a game for him. A game at this point that would land him in federal prison as an accessory to murder, among dozens of additional charges related to interfering with a federal investigation and hacking federal databases…and this was only the beginning.
Chapter 14
12:57 AM
National Counterterrorism Center
Washington, D.C.
Special Agent Sharpe hung up the phone and stood up from his desk. Frank Mendoza gave him one of his patented raised eyebrows looks. For a moment, he stared past his friend at the NCTC watch floor. All of the displays full of information, maps and charts gave the impression that they were on top of the situation. Analysts and technicians moved back and forth between stations, trading conversations, which to the untrained eye would appear to be a good sign of productive activity. Sharpe knew better.
Black Flagged Apex Page 15