by Jenifer Ruff
Five members of Muhammad Al-Bahil’s extended family from the watch list have left the San Diego area for Iran.
SECRET//NOFORN//FVEY
September 2017 DHS Agent picked up Kurdish conversation in ISIS chat room. Radicals readying an attack on three U.S. public transportation locations using peroxide-based explosives. The target cities are Chicago, Philadelphia, and Boston. Target date reported to be November 6th. Hasaan Fayad is the suspected ringleader. He spent time in a training camp in Ninawa city.
Rashid and Quinn made eye contact before Jayla reached the end of the last sentence. Rashid moved his body toward the back of his chair and straightened his shoulders. “That’s what Redman mentioned. So, he may have had some real intelligence after all.”
“One of our own undercover agents in a New York City mosque received the same intel,” said Ken. “The people talking about it weren’t involved. They’d just picked up on some chatter.”
“Any info picked up in there makes me skeptical.” Stephanie placed both hands on the table. “The radicals in the New York mosques have known for years that they’ve been infiltrated with undercover agents. They’re careful. It could be counter intelligence.”
“Maybe they don’t know about the undercover agents because they’re amateurs,” Ken said. “They’re planning to use peroxide based bombs? I mean, come on. Anyone can make those. It doesn’t get more amateur than that. According to my source, they couldn’t decide if they wanted to strike in New York on the subways and trains, or if that was cliché and they should attack somewhere in the Midwest where we least expect it. My source also reported the same target date. November 6th.”
“That’s the anniversary for the death of Anwar Al-Bahil. The U.S. took him out with a drone strike last year.” Quinn’s stomach turned when he remembered the other reason the November 6th date had stuck out in his mind—his vacation with Holly. They had booked a red-eye, departing the evening of November 5th. They would arrive in Spain on November 6th.
“Anwar Al-Bahil was a former ISIS cell leader, correct?” said Rick.
Quinn nodded.
“So, you think the attack is retaliation for his death?” Rick leaned forward.
“Normally I would,” said Quinn. “But a retaliation attack would likely be spearheaded by his brother, Muhammad Al-Bahil, who essentially replaced Anwar.”
“The same guy who just received an influx of thirty million from the oil baron, right?” said Rick.
“Yes. Muhammad Al-Bahil controls a relatively small ISIS cell, but a huge amount of money. And now he has a new influx of cash to plot with. But if this subway attack was his plan, it wouldn’t be so sloppy. No one would label his plans as amateur. If he wanted to avenge his brother, he’d employ something more sophisticated and new. Or something so simple that we might not suspect it. He likes to think of himself as revolutionary and techno-savvy. Bombing in the subways? Doesn’t sound like him.”
“Do we know where Muhammad Al-Bahil is?” Rick asked.
“Somewhere in Syria,” Ken said. “He’s well-hidden and well-protected. He’s a behind the scenes guy. You won’t find him outside rallying the troops like his brother did. He has a son with special needs. The son is in his twenties and Al-Bahil seems to have a soft spot for him. The only times he’s been seen in public, he’s been with that son.”
“Apparently, fathers act against rational judgement for the sake of their sons.” Ken remained facing straight ahead, but as he spoke, his eyes darted to Rick. His comment went unacknowledged.
“Maybe Redman’s contact, Kareem, is linked up with Muhammad Al-Bahil. If so, Redman was correct in saying this Kareem guy is capable of something huge and terrible,” said Rick.
“More likely, Redman and his supposed contact, Kareem, both picked up chatter on the internet,” Ken said.
“Well, one of the updates claimed part of Muhammad Al-Bahil’s extended family recently moved out of the United States, which would indicate they’re anticipating trouble of some sort,” Rick said.
“True, but I’ve been following them myself. None of them even live in those targeted cities,” Stephanie said. “So, the subway attacks don’t explain why they would be leaving the country. Something else is going on.”
The agents were quiet until Stephanie spoke again. “What do we know about Hasaan Fayad, the alleged leader of the November 6th plan?” She turned to Quinn, who turned to Rashid.
“Until now, Fayad has been a follower known to associate with ISIS cell leaders, but not a leader,” said Rashid. “He’s lived in Chechnya and the Sudan. Online comments show his pledge of support for the Islamic state. He was detained for questioning in London a few years ago, and MI6 recovered a memory card with photographs of the Sears Tower.”
“Do we know where he is now?” Stephanie asked.
“I’d start looking in Chicago,” said Rashid. “It’s one of the target cities and he’s familiar with the area.”
“Like I said, I don’t think this plot is sophisticated enough for Al-Bahil.” Quinn rested his index finger against his cheek. “But regardless, we need to find Hasaan Fayad and whoever else is planning to carry out these subway attacks.”
“Agents in NY are working on it,” Ken said. “I’ll touch base with them right after this.”
“I want us to work on it with them. Make this our number one priority until we’ve put an end to the threat. I’ll notify officials in those three cities and get them prepared,” Quinn said. He turned to Jayla. “Keep it classified as top secret, but either DHS or us will need to pass it on to local law enforcement eventually, so they can set up counter measures.” He paused and looked around. “If this plan is real, let’s destroy it.” Heads nodded around the table. Rick grinned.
“Anything else for today?” asked Quinn.
No one responded. Ken and Stephanie stood up.
“Quinn, you received two calls from our legal department today,” said Jayla. “Don’t forget. They need to talk to you about Redman’s death.”
“Got it,” said Quinn. “One more thing, everyone, before you go. This isn’t classified, but, um, I’m going to be taking a vacation at the beginning of November.” He intentionally didn’t mention the exact date.
Stephanie let her mouth fall open and stared at him with her remarkable blue eyes, feigning shock. “Am I hearing things?” She turned to Rick. “Quinn never ever takes vacation.”
“Good for you.” Jayla smiled.
“Where are you going?” Rashid asked.
“Spain, with Holly.”
“Wonderful,” said Stephanie. “Don’t think we can’t handle things while you’re gone, you know.”
“I know,” Quinn said.
“Everything is going to be fine,” Ken said. “You’re going to love Spain.”
“Not so fast,” Rashid said. “I hate to break it to you, but the last time Quinn left for a few days is when Redman died, remember?”
“Think positive,” Quinn said with a laugh. “Nothing bad is going to happen except me getting killed by my wife if I don’t go on this trip.”
Chapter Fifteen
Charlotte
September 28th
“Hell week has begun,” said Melissa, when Amin arrived at his cubicle in the morning.
“Yep, except technically, it’s a week and a half,” said Amin.
Melissa moaned.
Once a quarter Amin, Melissa, and their colleagues lived, slept, and breathed quarter-end reporting and financial forecast updates. They input thousands of data points and assumptions into one massive model. Fitness routines were put on hold. Diets suffered. Back problems flared. Family events went unattended. Days passed without reading or listening to the news, turning on the television, or checking personal emails. Aside from a few hours of nightly sleep, hell week rudely took over, pushing everything else aside.
Amin spent hours on the phone with his business partners, Continental Bank “speak” for hundreds of other cube-dwellers like himself. He as
ked their opinions on the reasonableness of his assumptions, new initiatives that might impact the forecast, and the direction of interest rates. He built spreadsheet models with Melissa and downloaded the recent actuals from the general ledger. They analyzed historical trends and met or spoke with all their business partners again to garner agreement with their projections. Amin and Melissa checked and rechecked, uploaded and downloaded, scrutinizing their work for a single mistake hiding amongst the thousands of calculations. The possibility of an error lurked around every formula and assumption; even one could wreck the department’s credibility and cause huge personal embarrassment. Finally, they created the PowerPoint deck for Doug to present to the higher-ups and prepped him to explain their work.
With Amin’s job fully consuming every waking minute, he had less time to dwell on everything his life lacked, less time to take action and make some changes, less time to think about Isa and what might have been. And not enough time to call his aunt and uncle about Kareem’s escalating anti-western views.
At seven pm on Friday, five days into hell week, he glanced at his cell phone and saw three missed calls from his father. He was about to check for voicemail when his phone lit up. His father calling again. He clicked the icon to save his spreadsheet and picked up the phone.
“Dad?”
“Amin, I’m sorry. I have some terrible news.”
Instantly alarmed by the tone of his father’s voice, Amin took a deep breath, bracing himself for what was to come. He assumed the worst—something had happened to his mother.
“What is it?”
“Your aunt and uncle were killed in Mosul.”
Amin’s stomach dropped. His face felt tingly. “What? How?”
“They were having lunch at an outdoor café. Celebrating their thirtieth wedding anniversary. They were caught in crossfire.”
Amin’s uncle, a professor, wore a perpetually thoughtful expression. As far as Amin knew, he was calm and composed in all matters. His aunt, a dark beauty, had always been exceptionally kind and gentle toward him and Kareem. Both were suddenly dead? It just couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. He struggled to process the surreal news.
“Your mother and I are traveling to Mosul tomorrow. We’ll wash the bodies. Have you heard from Kareem?”
“I don’t know. I…” Amin lost his train of thought picturing an image of his aunt and uncle lying in the ground shrouded in white fabric, the reminder everyone is equal in the eyes of Allah. “He doesn’t have my work number, and I’ve been really busy this week.” He cringed and heard his stupid, selfish-sounding words echoing in his mind.
“We’re leaving tomorrow. We’ll call when we get there. We won’t stay long.”
“Should I go with you? Meet you there?” Amin asked.
“Can you?”
He stared up at the ceiling. “I don’t know. Not until the end of the week. It’s my quarterly—.” He stopped mid-sentence. “What kind of attack? Who killed them?”
“We’re not sure.”
Amin heard a tapping noise and turned to find Melissa standing next to his cubicle. “Doug is waiting for us. Are you ready?”
He held up one finger. Had she heard his end of the conversation? He wished he had an office with some privacy.
“All right, I’ll wait,” Melissa said.
“Hold on, Dad, please.” Amin turned his face to the side and passed Melissa. He hurried to the hallway bathroom and entered a stall with his cell phone. “What kind of attack was it?” he asked again, from the sanctuary of the empty men’s room.
“We don’t know who was involved. It doesn’t matter. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s all.”
Amin was silent until he remembered his concerns regarding his cousin. “If their deaths involved a military strike from the U.S., or any Western country, Kareem is going to go berserk. He’s becoming an extremist. I wanted to tell you. I was planning on talking to his parents…” A low moan escaped his mouth. He gulped. He kicked the side of the marble stall. “This is terrible,” he said when he could speak again.
“I know. It’s a terrible thing, but indeed we belong to God, and indeed to Him we will return,” his father said, quoting the Quran. “Call Kareem as soon as you can. He needs us now.”
“I will. I’m sorry, Dad. I’m really sorry. I’ll call you later tonight, okay?”
Amin walked back to his desk leaning forward, clutching his shoulder with his hand. He could clearly visualize his uncle and aunt seated at a café with smiling faces. That picture gave way to images of chaos and a bloody massacre. He didn’t know what triggered the brutal scene in his mind, but he wanted to erase it. He shuddered and began to rub his arms up and down.
Melissa popped her head out of her cube. “Ready?”
Amin nodded and followed her into Doug’s office. The shock of his uncle and aunt’s violent deaths clouded his mind. It was too much to handle. He discovered Doug looking at him expectantly.
“Not in the mood to discuss interest rates, Amin?” Doug snorted.
“I’m sorry. What was that?”
Melissa repeated Doug’s question. Doug rolled his eyes. Amin willed his brain to focus.
That night, when he finally returned to his apartment, he searched the internet looking for a recent attack in Mosul. Using different sources, a few sentences here and there, he pieced the tragic incident together. A contract security firm, ex-military Americans guarding an oil company executive, had been traveling their daily route from office to residential compound. Their intimidating procession of vehicles, Amin pictured bullet-proof Escalades with blacked-out windows just like in the movies, passed through a crowded area of the city where traffic was lucky to inch forward. A rocket-propelled grenade launched from a roof and penetrated deep inside the engine compartment of the second vehicle. The explosion flipped the vehicle over. The Americans fired their M4s in a semi-circle around them, unsure of who or how many were attacking. The streets were crowded with donkeys, carts, and people. Everyone scrambling for cover looked like a suspect. Kareem’s parents died instantly, caught in the gunfire, attempting to run away.
Fox News briefly mentioned the massacre under the headline, “Violence Erupts in Mosul Marketplace.” Happening so far from home, in an area where violence wasn’t uncommon, the story held little interest for most Americans. The world is so big, we can’t pay attention to all of it unless it affects us personally, thought Amin.
When it was late enough in Charlotte to be morning in Syria, Amin tried to Skype with Kareem. His cousin didn’t respond, but Amin discovered he’d recently sent an email. It contained a single sentence. If Americans had stayed in their own country and minded their own business, my parents would be alive right now.
Amin’s weekend dragged by, each minute marked by the audible click of the wall clock’s hands, inside the tallest building in Charlotte. Stiff dark hairs poked out around his unshaven face. He ate leftover stale bagels and donuts from the break room, cheese crackers and trail mix packages from the vending machines. He wasn’t hungry anyway. An uncomfortable nausea took residence inside him. He attributed it to too much caffeine. He turned a container of ibuprofen upside down and shook. Nothing came out. “No way,” he said out loud. Somehow, he had used up a half-full bottle of pills during the week.
On the other side of his cube wall, Melissa sighed and said, “Yessss?” in a weary, exasperated tone when Doug plodded over for one of his random progress checks. She cursed when he left. “Sorry, if you heard that. My TMJ is back and my jaw just popped out. And Doug just asked for another rework of my model.”
“No need to apologize to me.” Hearing her exhaustion helped Amin manage his own frustration.
They experienced a brief respite on Monday afternoon when Doug presented their initial report. Amin sent another note to Kareem, expressing sympathy and concern. He said a quick, silent prayer. Please grant Kareem strength, peace, and understanding. Reluctantly, he redirected his attention to the accumulation
of emails he had received throughout the week. He scrolled through the pages, the words “action required” and “urgent” flickering by. After less than a minute, he closed his eyes and dropped his head in his hands. He heard silence in the adjacent cube, as if Melissa was too tired to tap her pen. He said another silent prayer. No mistakes and no changes. Please just let us be done with this.
He held his breath when he heard Doug’s heavy footsteps, but he walked to his office without stopping. Seconds later, he heard the ping of an instant message saying, “Come to my office.”
Amin heard Melissa’s chair squeak when they pushed away from their desks at the same time. They walked to Doug’s office in single file and stood across from his desk, waiting. Amin took a deep breath. His gaze traveled to the Krispy Kreme donut box peeking out of Doug’s trash can.
“We’re good to go.” Doug made a face and shifted his weight in his chair before loudly breaking wind. All of them successfully pretended it hadn’t happened, but Amin’s exhaustion made it more difficult than it would otherwise had been. He bit down on his lip to keep a straight face while Doug continued speaking. “The presentation went well. Just minor changes. You two should be out of here before dinner tonight. Send it to me when you’re finished and I’ll check it. I have to be somewhere so, see you tomorrow.” He handed Melissa a ream of papers and left.
“These don’t look like minor changes,” Melissa grumbled.
Amin scanned the list of Doug’s requested changes and shook his head in agreement.
“Done by dinner? Maybe he eats dinner at midnight, but I don’t,” Melissa added, massaging her lower back with one hand.
“I don’t think Doug ever stops eating dinner, so dinner time could be any time for him,” Amin said with a slight grin.
Melissa’s jaw dropped. She stared at Amin, wide-eyed. “What did you just say?”