by Klaus Marre
After his arrival in Pakistan, Hassan had been taken to the safe house to get rest one last time. Since the Gulfstream had been faster than a commercial plane would have been, he did not want to arouse suspicion by showing up at the madrasah too soon.
On the way to Pakistan, the team had spent some time altering Hassan's appearance to make it believable that he managed to fly halfway around the world without being recognized. His long hair had been cut short and dyed and he wore blue contact lenses. This was done to make it look reasonable to as-Sirat that he managed to escape the United States.
After a brief rest, roughly 48 hours after the staged attack, Hassan was ready to go. He carried three tiny global positioning devices that would allow the team to monitor his location. One was hidden inside his belt buckle, another in his shoe and the last was built into his watch. Another chip had been surgically inserted in his thigh more than a year ago. It was a prototype of a product that was supposed to monitor a person's vital signs to provide doctors with more information in case of an emergency. Unfortunately, it had stopped working the day before the attack, the mission's single largest setback so far. The decision had been made not to replace it. The consensus had been that there was no time for the surgery. In addition, a new wound might raise too many questions and it could pose health risks to Hassan once he was on his own in Waziristan. They hoped that the three external GPS devices would be enough to track him.
The entire team was assembled when it was time to drop off Hassan. Every one of them hugged him, silently praying that it would not be the last time. Then he got in the back of one of the SUVs and they took off.
***
FBI Director Stevenson stormed through the White House hallways, his pace reflecting his racing thoughts. It bothered him that he had failed the president and his country. The FBI had not been able to make any significant headway in the case. Worst of all, Stevenson had the feeling that he was overlooking something big. Sometimes, as he was poring over all of the information he had on the attack, he felt as though he was close to putting it together, but he could never quite get there. One thing he was convinced of was that Hassan al-Zaid hadn't acted alone. What had been a growing suspicion at first was now a firm belief. It was simply not possible for him to pull of this attack by himself.
But there was something else that had been eating away at him. It was the same feeling one got when trying to remember a name or a place, knowing that the information was right there but unable to pinpoint it. Unfortunately, this was not about coming up with the name of an actor or a song, this was about national security and a terrorist attack that had cost American lives.
When Stevenson had finally admitted to himself that he was absolutely convinced that Hassan al-Zaid could not have acted on his own, he had requested a face-to-face meeting with the president. He hated disagreeing with Jack Sweeney, but in this case the president and people like DNI McClintock were wrong in insisting that this was a lone wolf attack.
It was time that somebody made that clear to them, but he wanted to do it in a personal meeting with his old friend. Though they might have lost valuable time, widening the scope of the investigation could still turn this case around. His request for a meeting had been granted and he was given 15 minutes with the president.
He entered the Oval Office after being waved in by the president's secretary.
“What's up Chris?” Sweeney asked his FBI director.
“There is something wrong about this bombing. I'm not entirely sure what it is, but I'm getting close,” the FBI director said. “I'm convinced that al-Zaid didn't act alone. I may not have evidence for this yet, but I just know he had accomplices.”
Stevenson leaned forward and forgot the formalities he normally used to address the president.
“Jack, you have to listen to me,” he pleaded. “With all due respect, you're wrong about this being a lone wolf attack. Maybe we bungled the beginning of this investigation, but there is still time to recover.”
The president looked at his friend of 30 years for a long time, making Stevenson shift uncomfortably in his chair. To fill the silence, he just kept talking.
“With your permission, I'm going to use the entire available force of the Bureau to look for these co-conspirators. It's not like the FBI is doing much good right now anyways with al-Zaid out of the country.”
There was more silence but Stevenson felt a sense of relief. He might be reprimanded, but at least he had spoken the kind of truth that he thought the president needed to hear.
Finally, Sweeney spoke.
“You'll do no such thing, Chris,” the president said. Stevenson was about to object when Sweeney lifted his hand, indicating him to be quiet. He picked up the phone and directed his secretary to clear his schedule for the next 30 minutes and be prepared to rearrange it further if necessary.
“I owe you an apology, my friend,” he said, turning his attention back to Stevenson, “And I applaud your instincts. We were on the fence for a long time about how much we should tell you, but in the end I decided it would be best to keep you in the dark. We knew that you'd be the one who had to brief the media and the public on the investigation, and we needed it to look real. You're a good friend and an excellent public servant but a dreadful actor, so we simply couldn't let you in on it.”
Stevenson's face did nothing to hide his confusion.
“My only comfort in you not knowing about this beforehand is that it will shield you from criticism if Operation Pathfinder fails,” the president continued. “You're absolutely right. Hassan didn't act alone. He had co-conspirators and one of them is sitting in front of you right now.”
Understandably, Sweeney's last statement exceeded the FBI director's comprehension. Stevenson's mouth fell open and his heart seemed to skip a beat before beginning to pound in his chest.
Over the next few minutes, the president gave his stunned and speechless friend an overview of Pathfinder. When he was finished, Stevenson sat in his chair for a while, trying to come to terms with what he had heard and with all the thoughts in his head.
“Jack, I'm asking you this as an old friend, not as the director of the FBI,” he finally said. “Are you fucking nuts?
“You are the president of the United States and you're telling me, here, in the Oval Office, where Lincoln worked and FDR and JFK, that you authorized this?” Stevenson added, his agitation showing. Sweeney realized that his was the first time anybody had ever raised their voice to him inside the White House but he let his friend carry on.
“I'm not even mad about you keeping this from me. God knows you didn't want a voice of reason involved in this,” the FBI director said. “But you are deceiving the American people. You made them think that there was an attack. You scared the shit out of them.”
“I know,” Sweeney said, “I wish there had been another way, but I think that, if we're successful, this will save American lives.”
“And if it fails? You'll be torn to shreds. You've done so many good things as president but this is all you'll be remembered for,” Stevenson said.
“Chris, this isn't about my legacy, it's about many people putting their country ahead of themselves, making sacrifices for the common good of our nation,” the president said.
“I also think you aren't giving the American people enough credit. They want to get Omar Bashir as much as I do and I'll come clean as soon as I can,” he added. “They'll see that Pathfinder wasn't designed to be kept from them. It has always been the plan to tell them about it once we didn't put more lives at risk.”
The president removed a key from his pocket, opened the top drawer of a dresser next to his desk and used the key to unlock a small safe.
“I had this put in a few weeks ago, just for this purpose,” Sweeney said and pulled a box from the safe.
“In here are videotaped testimonials of Hassan al-Zaid and some of the people on the bus,” he told Stevenson. “They will be the ones explaining to the country what Pathfind
er was and why they decided to participate in it. Of course the people on the bus didn't know all of the details but Hassan's video is very good. We taped it after the fake confession and I think he says it better than I ever could have.”
He took out a bundle of letters from the box.
“These are farewell letters from the people who died on the bus. Unlike the videos, these are obviously not for the public. Instead, I plan on hand-delivering them to all of the families, along with the thanks of a grateful nation.
“For none of them, it was about making sure their families are being taken care of. That was just a bonus, Chris. Instead, it was about doing something for their country. Let's make sure their sacrifices were not made in vain.”
He walked over to where Stevenson was sitting and handed him the bundle of letters.
“Jack, I'm not questioning what they did. It's a beautiful and brave thing,” the FBI director said. “I'm questioning what you did.”
“Chris, we'll be friends for a long time after getting out of government. You can criticize me then and second-guess my decisions to your heart's content,” the president said. “But now you have to put those thoughts aside. Pathfinder is underway and Hassan is in Pakistan. Now that you know about the mission, we need your help.”
“You know that I'm not gonna let you down,” Stevenson replied. “No matter what kind of reservations I might have about all of this and on what kind of thin ice we'll be skating here.”
“Hey, it's not my fault that you were close to figuring it out,” the president said, causing the FBI director to smile. “I would've been perfectly fine to keep you clueless and looking that part on TV.”
They laughed and both men knew that their friendship would be alright.
“You're lucky that you're the president and that the Secret Service is outside or I'd beat some sense into you,” Stevenson quipped. He paused for a second before adding, “Admit it, you were pretty damn impressed that I was figuring out your little secret.”
The president laughed.
“I was impressed, although it's not like you were close to putting everything together. But you would've kept pushing this 'Hassan had help' angle and we can't have that. We'll actually need you to steer the investigation away from trouble for us. I already talked to a couple of your forensics experts, but eventually, there will be others. We have to continue to control the flow of information and the news cycles for as long as possible.”
“How do you plan on doing that?” Stevenson asked.
“We have been doing it. For example, Robert McClintock's 'outburst' at the cocktail party was planned,” Sweeney noted with a chuckle. “Hassan also made sure to be captured by different surveillance cameras and we've been slowly leaking information to the media so that they focus on the manhunt and the escape instead of on the bombing itself. Pathfinder can only succeed as long as the world believes Hassan is a terrorist who managed to get away and that we are leaving no stone unturned to find him. Sadly, that cover won't stand up to scrutiny forever.”
“So what do you want me to do, Mr. President?” Stevenson said, falling back into his more respectful, professional persona.
Sweeney had taken back the letters from the FBI director. As he put the bundle back into the safe, it felt very heavy in his hands. With the letters once again locked away, the president looked up.
“I think I want you to offer your resignation.”
***
The SUV with Hassan in it found a spot in the rear of the lowest level of the Islamabad airport garage. The team had scouted out the location beforehand to make sure there were no closed circuit cameras anywhere. They had chosen the SUV and not one of the other vehicles they had available because of its tinted windows. Now, two team members had gotten out of the car and were walking around the garage, making sure nobody was around.
A second vehicle was waiting in the level above. In it, one of the team members gave the “all clear” signal.
“You're good to go,” the driver said.
Hassan grabbed his bags. The bigger one had been outfitted with a luggage tag showing that it had been checked in Bogotá. He also had the remnants of a boarding pass from a Zürich-Islamabad flight that had landed 30 minutes earlier, just in case anybody would check for these things. It was placed casually as a bookmark in a novel that had been purchased at the Madrid airport. A receipt was in the pocket of Hassan's jeans, along with some euros. They had left nothing to chance.
Before Hassan could get out of the car, the driver stopped him.
“See you in a few days, kid,” he said. “Good luck.”
“No worries,” Hassan responded. “I owe you a rematch on Madden.”
Then he was gone and on his own.
The team would keep monitoring his movement with the help of the high-tech GPS devices and using old-fashioned surveillance, but they would have no more direct contact until the end of the mission.
Hassan made his way up a staircase. Once he was on the street level, he headed for a cab stand.
“Please take me to the Faisal Mosque,” he told the cab driver in Arabic. The mosque was not far from the madrasah that was his next destination.
The cab sped off and Hassan leaned back. He let out a deep breath and closed his eyes. Though he was now on his own and headed straight into danger, Hassan felt surprisingly calm. He had been working toward this moment for a long time, and he was happy that it had finally come.
Like an athlete who had gone through two-a-days, sparring sessions, spring training or endless scrimmages, it was time for game day. Hassan knew that he could not be more ready. The mission could be derailed by any number of things, including those that were completely out of his control, but he would not fail because of a lack of preparation.
Hassan looked out of the window to get a feeling for Pakistan. The cab was surrounded by some cars and scores of mopeds. The smell of their exhaust crept into the taxi even though the windows were closed.
It was late in the evening and Islamabad was bustling with activity. The cab had air conditioning but it didn't seem to be working properly. Hassan had arrived at the tail end of the rainy season and the humidity, mixed with temperatures of more than 85 degrees, made for an uncomfortable ride. At the end of the trip, he was drenched in sweat but didn't mind. He wanted to show up at the madrasah looking as though he had actually been on the run for a couple of days.
They reached the Faisal Mosque, the largest in the city.
“200 Rupees,” the driver said.
Hassan handed him five dollars, about twice what he had asked for, and stepped into the street, which was lined with food carts.
He had a map of this part of the city memorized and headed east. After a brief walk he arrived at the madrasah that the as-Sirat-supporting Los Angeles restaurant owner had told him about. It was a large, slightly run down building that was painted white like so many other structures in Islamabad.
The madrasah had been under surveillance for weeks and intelligence officials believed that it would be possible for Hassan to make contact with the terrorist group here.
Hassan walked through the open gate into an atrium. It was filled with children who were participating in their evening lessons. They were sitting on the ground, hunched over small tables. Each of them was wearing white headgear. A teacher was discussing Islamic ethics with them and two more men with long white kaftans were hovering nearby.
Hassan turned to them.
“Salam Aleikum,” he said, again speaking Arabic. “I'm in need of assistance and was told I could come here for help.”
The two men gave him a curious look.
“Who has told you that?” one of them said in a tone that was neither friendly nor hostile.
“Waqar Navaz in Los Angeles gave me the name of Hanif Younis and said he could help me find some friends. I'm in dire need of them,” Hassan said.
“And who are you?” the elder of the two asked.
“I'm a good Muslim in ne
ed of help,” Hassan responded, handing the two men his Algerian passport and meeting their gazes. “He will not recognize this name, but I think he may know me by another. Please tell me if I can speak to him or if I have traveled here in vain.”
“Follow me,” the first man said gruffly.
Together, they entered the bowels of the madrasah. The man led Hassan two floors down and through a small maze of hallways and finally stopped at a closed door.
“Go in there and leave your bags,” the man said.
Hassan followed the order and walked through the door into a space that was more of a cell than a room. It was illuminated by a single, bright light bulb dangling from the ceiling. He heard the door being locked behind him and the sound of footsteps walking away from the cell. Hassan had nowhere to go and he wondered if they were on to him already. That would be really anticlimactic, he thought.
Then he reminded himself that this was a new stage of the mission. Things were now not mapped out and under his control anymore and there would inevitably be times when he would have to improvise.
Though it seemed longer to Hassan, within a couple of minutes, there were sounds outside the door and a panel was removed, allowing a pair of eyes to gaze into the cell. He turned to face the stare.
“Step under the light,” a voice said.
“I had to change my hair,” Hassan responded as he stepped backwards and allowed the observer to get a good look at him.
“Be patient a little bit longer,” the voice said. “I have to make a call.”
“I've been running for three days and I don't mind the rest. But I would like some water and I hope you will allow me to observe the Isha,” Hassan replied, referencing the last of the five daily prayers that Muslims observed. “For obvious reasons, I've had to be negligent with regard to my prayers on the trip.”
“It won't take long,” the voice said. Hassan thought it sounded friendlier now.
A short time later, the door was being unlocked and the man who had accompanied Hassan to the cell asked him to follow. This time, they walked up a flight of stairs before arriving at another room.
The man knocked twice and heard a response from the inside.