Having watched the video himself, Muldoon sensed an opportunity, and hastily gathered a crack team to monitor this budding Jihadist cell. It consisted of Francis Bindle, veteran of the first World Trade Center attack; Ali Haddad, the elite linguist; Liam Bindle, Francis’s younger brother; Fred Vitelli, who’d not be missed from the Chicago Field Office, having just arrived; and Dennis Ericson, the son and grandson of FBI agents, whose father led the investigation into the 1988 Lockerbie Bombing.
Of course none of this would’ve been any good without legal authorization from the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court – the only body capable of giving the go-ahead to the surveillance measures this mission required. But the chief judge trusted Muldoon, and gave the warrant without even calling a formal hearing – without asking for a single detail.
All that had remained, then, was a base for these agents to work from, and Muldoon soon found a place that fit the bill – a warehouse to the south of the gritty Englewood district, and a stone’s throw from the suspects’ location. The structure consisted of a large storage area in back, and an office complex to the front – all on one floor. The agents left the storage space alone, but converted the office space. The main office by the front entrance became their control center; whereas the corridor beyond – which comprised five smaller offices, a kitchen, and a bathroom – became the living space. There was a second corridor annexed to the first, consisting of five further offices. But this area, like the storage space, was left alone.
And so for the past five months, this Bureau team had been monitoring the aspirational terrorists – bugging their homes and vehicles, watching their every move – in the hope that in the process of becoming operational, these men might provide further leads, or even reveal links to Jihadists abroad.
Since the investigation began, there had been slow progress. Initially, the Jihadists consisted of five Albanian men. But in early February, the Palestinian cabbie joined their ranks, and quickly emerged as leader. Not only did he energize the men with boasts about contacts he had in the Middle East, he also inspired them with talk of hand-grenades in malls, attacks on Fort Dix, and flying planes into the Sears Tower. Yet, despite this newcomer’s leadership, the men had still not moved beyond talk.
But it was dangerous talk all the same, and the Director of the FBI wanted to hear it. And so every other day, at 7 a.m. CST, he called Francis for an update.
‘It’s kind of perverse, isn’t it?’ said Ali. ‘Sitting about, hoping these men seek external help to carry out their attacks… willing them to do their worst…’
‘I see it differently,’ said Francis. ‘These guys aren’t likely to abandon their beliefs any time soon. And we know there are others out there with similar sentiments. So the best case scenario is for these men to radicalize further and make contact with the others. That way, we clear up.’
Ali nodded his understanding. ‘Just seems perverse,’ he grunted.
Suddenly, there was an urgent knock at the front door.
‘Who the hell’s that?’ said Ali.
Francis reached forward and pressed a button on one of the monitors. The picture transitioned to a feed of the street outside the front entrance. A young, red-headed woman was standing on the doorstep. Her mouth was bloodied, her face badly bruised. The Englewood district was notorious for its crime, and clearly this woman was its latest victim. She’d seen the lights on in the warehouse, and had come seeking assistance.
‘Please help me,’ she wailed through the door, before knocking urgently again.
‘What do we do about this?’ said Ali.
‘Well, one of us needs to drive her to the police,’ groaned Francis. ‘But we can’t have her seeing the equipment, so let’s walk her round back, and bring her inside through the storage area. She can sit in one of the vacant rooms and recover.’
More knocking. ‘Please help. Please!’
Ali got to his feet.
‘I’ll do the honors,’ he said.
The control room was a large square space, with white-washed walls, and grey carpeting. Along the length of one wall was a huge oak table, on which there was a mass of equipment. The wall opposite was empty, but the other two walls were not: one had a door leading to the living quarters; the other an arch leading to a five yard passage, which in turn led to the front door.
Ali exited the room and approached the front door.
‘Ma’am, please remain calm,’ he said. ‘I’m going to open up, and walk you around back. We’ve got a room where you can collect yourself.’
‘Thank you,’ the woman sobbed.
‘I’m opening up now,’ said Ali. He unfastened the locks and opened the door.
The next thing he knew, it hit him in the face. Hard.
The woman came barging through with surprising power, forcing past Ali, and into the room. A moment later, two men came careering in after her. They’d been lurking in the camera’s blind spot. Lean boys, all in grey, both armed with a Beretta 92F, fitted with a nine-millimeter silencer. No nonsense stuff. They seized Ali, dragged him into the room, and forced him to his knees. They leveled their muzzles at his head.
‘Down on your knees,’ the woman shouted at Francis, having drawn her own silenced Beretta, and aimed it at Francis’s head. She was perhaps eight yards off, no longer looking quite so frail.
‘We’re under attack. Three assailants. Armed. Semi-automatic pistols,’ Francis boomed towards the living quarters.
‘On your knees, now,’ reiterated the woman, her face purpling.
Francis complied.
It was then that Ali pounced, lurching back into the knees of one of the men standing over him, and hugging them with the arms he’d flung over his head. The man, unprepared for resistance, toppled into the second, throwing them both off balance. And as they swayed, arms flailing, Ali capitalized – he scrambled to his feet, and through the arch.
A third man was standing in the front entrance, Beretta in hand. He was tall and handsome and dressed in grey. He had a mess of silvery-blond hair, high cheekbones, and a strong jaw. But it was his luminous green eyes that stood out most. They seemed to laugh as the man pulled his trigger and sent Ali crashing to the ground with a 9 millimeter shell embedded in his kneecap.
The two men Ali had shaken off were on him once more, and dragged him roughly back into the room. The shooter followed them with a saunter. Francis was still at gunpoint.
Special Agent Fred Vitelli was the next to enter the room – he stumbled gingerly through the door to the living quarters, as white as a ghost. The muzzle of an FBI standard issue Glock 22 was aimed at his head, held by Special Agent Dennis Ericson – the son and grandson of FBI agents.
‘On your knees, face to the wall,’ Dennis said to Fred, nodding to the empty wall opposite the monitors. ‘Hands behind your head.’
Fred moved to the wall and obeyed.
‘You, the same,’ the woman said to Francis, motioning with her head.
Francis crawled to the wall and crouched next to Fred. Then the two men supervising Ali dragged him behind Francis and Fred and patted him down, after which, they patted down the two agents by the wall, before shaking their heads to indicate none were armed.
At that, calm descended on the invading party as they realized their moment of danger had passed. Then, suddenly, all eyes turned to the man who’d shot Ali; the man who, given the way the others looked at him, was clearly their leader. In response, this man smiled softly back. He then turned to the three he’d entered with – the two men and the woman – who were now standing with their backs to the desk, their weapons trained on the agents.
‘My sons, Lamed and Beth; my daughter, Shin,’ he said to them, with the slightest hint of a Canadian accent. ‘In a moment I will ask you to take each of these men to a separate room in the second corridor. Each must be bound to a chair, and their rooms stripped. Remove anything that might be used as a weapon or escape tool. Our whole endeavor depends on keeping these False Prophets in check.
Understood?’
‘Yes, my Zahir,’ chimed the three.
The man known as Zahir then turned to the kneeling agents, and the supine Ali. He addressed them sharply:
‘You, False Prophets, are now captives of The Order of Babylon. You shall cooperate with our revolution, or feel our wrath. The punishment for attempted escape shall be castration. Your messiah has spoken.’
‘You sick freak,’ said Fred venomously. ‘You delusional fuck.’
Zahir laughed. ‘I didn’t expect you to respect my authority quite yet. But with time, you shall learn.’ Zahir turned again to his invading army of three. ‘Take this one away first. Do it now. Dalet and I shall keep watch.’
Fred was forcibly escorted from the room, while Dennis joined Zahir in monitoring the two remaining agents. Ten minutes later, Lamed, Beth and Shin returned for Francis and ten minutes later again, they returned for Ali. Eventually, their job done, they returned to the control room, and joined Dennis in forming a circle around Zahir. The mood among the group was now relaxed and celebratory. Zahir went over to Dennis and kissed his forehead.
‘Dalet, my son, my first thanks go to you,’ he said, holding Dennis’s face in his hands. ‘You’ve lived among these False Prophets for months, enduring their degraded minds. Without you, we’d never have secured this vital vessel. I am proud.’
Tears welled in Dennis’s eyes. ‘Thank you, my Zahir.’
Zahir then turned to the two men who’d dealt with Ali. ‘Lamed and Beth. Your inability to properly subdue your False Prophet was a regrettable mislocation. But your courage and devotion have been unwavering. Thank you, my children.’
‘Thank you, my Zahir,’ they intoned.
Zahir then turned to Shin, the one who’d instigated the ruse and held Francis at gunpoint.
‘And Shin, your heavenly deception was outstanding. It’ll not soon be forgotten.’
‘Thank you, my Zahir.’
He then addressed the party as a whole:
‘My children, we have secured the ark. From here – this humble warehouse – we shall weather the Deluge of Euphrates and transform the world. And you, my children, are at the heart of the revolution. Your names will be passed from generation to generation. But for now, we must keep focused.
‘The rooms in the first corridor shall be our living area. One bedroom shall be shared by Lamed and Beth, and another by Dalet and Shin – whereas I shall have a room to my own, and so too shall The Call to Taprobana. Go now, and prepare the rooms. And Shin: wash your cuts and change into your modesty.’
Lamed, Beth, and Shin walked purposefully out of the room. But Dennis hung back – Zahir had placed a hand on his shoulder.
‘Tell me, my son,’ said Zahir. ‘How often has Francis Bindle been in contact with the Chief False Prophet?’
‘Muldoon rings here every other day at exactly 7 a.m.,’ said Dennis, ‘for an update on the Chicago outliers. The next call isn’t due till tomorrow morning.’
Zahir smiled broadly. ‘My son, your counsel has proved invaluable. I understand how you’ve struggled these past months. But your sacrifice won’t be in vain. The American empire has been governed by False Prophets for too long, and now must taste its self-induced destruction. Only then can we arise as the true arbiters of society’s fate.’
‘Our cause is true,’ replied the man once known as Dennis Ericson.
‘Now – prepare the room for The Call to Taprobana,’ said Zahir. ‘Tonight, it shall be yours to lead.’
Dalet bowed out of the door, leaving Zahir alone in the control room. This was the nerve center of the FBI’s most classified operation – a location so secret, they hadn’t even bothered to protect it.
The man once known as Ivan Drexler smiled to himself. It had been too easy.
Chapter 4
Wednesday, February 27, 2013, 5:12 a.m. EST – 935 Pennsylvania Avenue,J. Edgar Hoover Building, Washington DC.
As soon as I got through security at the J. Edgar Hoover Building, I took the elevator down two stories to the subterranean wing: the part of the building commonly understood to be the business end of FBI Headquarters. Then, after a quick walk through its expensive white and chrome corridors, which were, even at this hour, bustling with activity, I arrived at my destination: Lucinda Parkes’s office.
I entered without knocking.
The office was large, with white walls. And Parkes – who was wearing her customary slim-fitting suit and hard look of concentration – was sat at the desk on the far side of the room, writing with a heavy Waterman. The desk on whose surface sat those same old photos of her parents and brother; photos which would never be joined by ones of a spouse or child because, in Parkes’s words, she was married to her work. But though Parkes knew full well that I’d entered, still she continued to write – to punish me for not having knocked. So I planted myself on the sofa opposite and waited.
Eventually she looked up, and said in her clipped Bostonian accent: ‘Most people knock before entering.’
‘Well, I’m not most people,’ I said. ‘And you can start by thanking me for coming at such short notice.’
She looked at me a moment.
‘I’m supposed to be on holiday,’ I added, as though it were important.
‘You know I wouldn’t bother you unless I had good reason,’ she said, leaning back and steepling her fingers. ‘Don’t you think I wouldn’t rather be on holiday myself?’ she added with a smile.
I wasn’t so sure. Parkes had learned to love the abuse that came with working at the Bureau. Of course, she’d had to; because as an ambitious black woman, she’d received more than her fair share. But not only was she able to roll with the punches, she was good at it, too – which was why she’d been made Director of the Office of Intelligence. Given all I knew about Parkes, I reckoned she’d rather be in the trenches than on holiday.
‘Aren’t you wondering how my flight was?’ I said.
‘I wish I had the time to worry about such things.’
My turn to smile. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve sat here.’
‘August 2010,’ she said.
‘We achieved some incredible things together,’ I said. ‘Though there’s no denying we pushed the envelope with some of our methods.’
‘People might not have liked our methods, but they sure seemed to like our results.’
‘I heard just recently that they used to call us the Criminal Duo at the Bureau,’ I said.
Parkes laughed – an unpracticed sharp exhale.
In many ways, Parkes and I were made for one another. What we had couldn’t be called a friendship. But there was a camaraderie between us, based on a good deal of common ground. It was an honor among thieves thing, because Parkes was also a controversial figure. In the wake of 9/11, the Director of the Bureau had been under pressure to expand the FBI into an intelligence agency, the consensus being that as an enforcement organization alone, it couldn’t cope. So in 2003, Muldoon invented The Office of Intelligence, headhunting Parkes to oversee it. But it was her career beforehand that was divisive. She’d been Chief of Signals Intelligence at the NSA, and had run President Bush’s Stellar Wind operation: the legally dubious initiative which saw the NSA spy on American citizens without a warrant – no less than a middle finger to the Constitution.
Consequently, she embraced my criminal past as a unique strength. In fact, she saw in me the makings of the ideal modern agent, because, like me, she saw the Bureau as an institutionalized con-machine, using superior intelligence to undermine the enemy. As a result, Parkes had wanted me to join The Office of Intelligence from its inception in 2003. But there was a problem: I had joined the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team immediately after 9/11, which meant I was serving in Iraq at the time. So it wasn’t till 2005 – when I’d returned from my fourth tour of duty – that I quit the HRT and joined Parkes’s department. Together we’d cracked some big cases. And now, suddenly, it seemed like we were back at it.
I sighed. ‘Right then. Why’
d you call me in? Six deaths need to be pretty special to go to the Bureau’s Situation Room.’
She nodded solemnly. ‘All sorts of evidence point towards not only terrorism, but also further escalation. For starters, these killings involved a good number of perpetrators. We’re dealing with an organized team. Secondly, there’s the date. When something happens on the twentieth anniversary of the first Trade Center Attacks, we take notice, especially when the culprits rub our face in it. And that brings me to point three. There were handwritten notes at the scenes of the crimes that made explicit reference to that attack, as well as the man who planned it – Ramzi Yousef.’
Parkes paused a beat, then added:
‘Given how fascinated you’ve always been by the Jihadist threat, I thought this might pique your interest.’
‘You can’t possibly think Islamic fundamentalists were behind this,’ I said.
‘No. But my money’s definitely on some kind of religious fundamentalism. All the hallmarks are there – it reeks of ritualism. I thought it might interest you in the same way The Liberty City Seven did.’
I understood her meaning. In 2006, the Bureau arrested seven men who’d been plotting to take down the Sears Tower in Chicago from a Miami slum. But the strangest thing about them was their ideology: it was a mad, incoherent amalgam of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. And though they’d cooperated up to a point with Bureau operatives masquerading as al-Qaeda, they couldn’t easily be lumped in with radical Islam.
‘But those guys couldn’t have organized an orgy at a brothel,’ I said. ‘Whereas, by the sounds of things, these attacks were highly planned.’
‘Precisely,’ replied Parkes. ‘I think we’re dealing with a group with a similarly odd ideology; but this time, run by folk who know what they’re doing. And I’m still not writing off the possibility of collusion with Islamic radicals.’
False Prophet: The gripping breakthrough thriller (A Saul Marshall Thriller 1) Page 3