by Klaus Marre
“I think we have to continue our work under the assumption that the GPS devices Hassan was carrying will no longer be of help to us,” McClintock said, speaking on a secure line with Mike Sheahan. “But that doesn't mean that Hassan is in trouble. In fact, while the loss of the equipment will make things more difficult for us, the fact that the transmitters have been destroyed might be a good sign.”
“How is that a good sign, sir?” the team leader asked.
“Think about it. It's highly unlikely that some third-rate as-Sirat operative would be able to find the transmitters that, according to our techies, are virtually undetectable,” McClintock explained. “If they were sophisticated enough to find them, then they would know better than to simply destroy them. In that case, they would use that knowledge against us, maybe to lure us into a trap or something.
“The way I see it, they just destroyed all of Hassan's stuff,” the DNI opined. “Maybe they burned it or threw it in a lake or something. If that's what they're doing, then it's a good sign because it means that they believe that anything associated with Hassan is potentially dangerous. And they'd only think that if they're buying the cover story.”
McClintock's analysis calmed everybody down, but having lost the ability to track Hassan electronically was a major problem. During a conference call in which the DNI discussed the new situation with the team, several of the men voiced regret that they hadn't switched out the transmitter transplanted in Hassan's leg.
“There's no point crying over spilled milk,” McClintock said, again the voice of reason. “Thinking about it will just distract us from the task at hand, which has gotten much more difficult now. Since we've lost our ability to monitor Hassan electronically, we're gonna have to do it the old-fashioned way.”
The team spent the next hour going over how they could most effectively track Hassan. Fortunately, they had planned for this contingency and had some assets in place to conduct in-person surveillance. First, they had rented the apartment with a view on the entrance of the madrasah when it was determined that the school should be Hassan's starting point. In addition, several of the Pathfinder members were of Middle Eastern descent and could pass as Pashtun or one of the other groups of ethnic minorities living in Pakistan. They would be able to follow Hassan when he was being moved without arousing immediate suspicion.
Their car park not only included the nice SUVs but also several cars that could be used for surveillance, for example a couple of beat-up taxis and a well-used 4x4. Of course none of the vehicles were American made.
The team quickly devised a new rotation that would allow them to have some people near the madrasah at all times. The school was located at a busy part of the city, making around-the-clock surveillance possible. Once they got a glimpse of Hassan, they hoped to be able to follow him.
“If they take him out west, or up north into the mountains, you have to be very careful about following him too closely,” McClintock cautioned the team. “There won't be many cars out there and it'll be very difficult to tail somebody. Whatever you do, don't take any risks that would allow them to figure out that they're being followed. We have a lot of satellites in this part of the world and drones, so if you know the general direction of where they're taking Hassan, I hope we'll be able to pick him up from the air.”
The DNI ended the call by reminding them to stay calm. Not everything was going to go as planned, the loss of the GPS signal was just the first of many things that would cause them to have to think on their feet.
“You're the best of the best and you've trained years for this week,” McClintock said. “Trust in your ability and your preparation and everything will work out.”
***
The alarm bells that had begun ringing in Art Kempner's head before he went to sleep had not stopped throughout the night and forced him to wake up at 6:00 am on Saturday, the one day on which he normally liked to sleep in.
The reporter also broke with his routine of spending the better part of the morning eating a long breakfast and reading the four newspapers he subscribed to. Instead, he planted himself on his favorite chair with his laptop, a plate full of toast with Nutella, some orange juice and coffee.
“Breakfast of champions,” he mumbled to himself and went to work.
Whenever Art talked to young journalists, he was inevitably asked what made a good reporter. He usually responded by giving them the kind of answer they were expecting to hear, saying that it took hard work, persistence, great sources and excellent news judgment. It was his way of testing them because, most often, it wasn't the first question in an interview that yielded the best news. Instead, it was normally a follow-up that built on a previous answer.
So when he was pressed on what he thought the single most important quality was that a journalist needed, or if he was asked what he thought made him the Pulitzer Prize winner he had become, Art would always give the “real” answer, which was that he believed that his “nose” for news had gotten him to the top of the profession.
Sure, there were times when his gut feeling was wrong, but most often the alarm bells were right and led him to a huge story.
For now, Art had no idea what that story could be in this case. All he knew was that it was odd that the two local news stories from different parts of the country sounded so similar. He had read both of them carefully and then jotted down the similarities.
Both terror victims were male veterans. They were of similar age, married and active in their communities. While that description would fit any number of people, what had really caught Art's attention and caused the alarm bells to ring was how each of their wives had described their last moments together. Basically, they had both indicated that their husbands had acted in an unusual way and as though they knew this would be their final farewell.
The reporter spent the next three hours searching local newspapers for stories about the funerals of the other victims. When he was finished, the alarm bells had turned into air raid sirens.
Art had found articles on 30 of the passengers, a dozen of which made references to the victims having some affiliation with the military. That was a rate of 40 percent, making it a statistical anomaly. What alarmed him even more was that the spouses of at least five more of the victims said something to the extent that the final farewell had been especially heartfelt. That was a figure of about 20 percent. And those calculations only took into account the stories that mentioned military affiliation and final farewells.
His coffee had long gotten cold and Art got up to brew another pot and stretch his legs. He needed to think. His instincts told him that there was something going on here but he didn't know what it was. Yet!
***
Hassan had spent most of his day in the chamber of Hanif Younis. His host was adamant about keeping him out of his students' sight.
“They're devout young Muslims and I believe they'll grow up to become warriors for the cause,” he explained. “But they have much to learn, such as keeping their little mouths shut. I worry that they'd trumpet the news all over the city if they learned who you are or even that there is a special guest staying with me.”
Younis kept Hassan company for much of the morning, asking his guest question after question about his life in America, the bombing and the subsequent escape. This gave Hassan the chance to try out his cover story, and he was delighted to see that Younis never seemed to doubt the tale of a young American Muslim who grew disenchanted with his country and aspired to join as-Sirat.
Hassan appreciated the opportunity to test his cover but would have rather spent time alone to process everything that happened since his arrival. He remained elated that it seemed as though he would be able to fulfill his primary objective – to be taken to Omar Bashir. However, the loss of his transmitters was a grave concern. If the team was unable to track him, then the discovery of the as-Sirat headquarter was pretty much for naught unless he was able to somehow make contact and relay the location. He needed time to think.
“Would it be possible for me to get some rest, Hanif?” he finally asked. “I enjoy our conversation but the jet lag is getting to me and I want to be well rested for tomorrow's journey.”
“Certainly,” his host said. “I'll escort you back to your chamber.”
Once he was alone in his room, Hassan made a mental checklist of what he knew and did not know.
He was now without a working transmitter, meaning that the team would have to rely on other means to track him. They had planned for the possibility of the electronic surveillance failing and Hassan knew that assets were in place at the safe house that would allow them to follow him in person. He also knew that the team was watching the madrasah right now from across the street. Putting two and two together, he determined that the fact that they hadn't stormed into the madrasah with guns blazing was an indication that they had figured out that the destroyed GPS devices didn't mean that Hassan was in trouble. Maybe he would get the chance to give them a signal when he was leaving Islamabad. Unfortunately, he hadn't been given any information about his trip, so there was nothing he could pass on to the team even if he found a way to do so.
He racked his brain trying to figure out how he could make contact, not only on tomorrow's journey but also from his final destination but he came up with nothing that resembled a viable plan. The best he could think of was trying to swipe a cellphone before leaving but he had not seen one yet.
The more he thought about the situation, the clearer it became to Hassan that he might have to improvise once he reached the as-Sirat headquarters. Certainly there would be phones there, he would just have to find a way to use one.
***
Art Kempner was sitting in his favorite chair in the living room of his Capitol Hill home. His feet were up on an Ottoman and some classical music was playing softly in the background. In his hand, Art held a digital recording device and spoke into it occasionally.
He had spent most of his day thinking about the similarities of the terror victim's stories. As he liked to do on weekends, Art had set out before noon for a stroll around his neighborhood. He often walked to the Supreme Court and the Capitol as he was thinking about stories. Sometimes he made it down to the national mall and, on rare occasions, he even hiked all the way to the White House, especially if the articles dealt with the president.
This time, deep in thoughts, his walk ended when Art looked up and, much to his own surprise, realized that he had hiked past the Vietnam Memorial, the Lincoln Memorial and then across the Memorial Bridge toward Arlington Cemetery.
What had kept him so occupied was that he could not make sense of the information he had about the bus attack. Art estimated that the normal rate of people associated with the military in a group of 36 adults should have been much lower than 40 percent. Of course, he had reminded himself, the attack had taken place near the Pentagon where there was a much higher concentration of military personnel. Still, that figure seemed much too high. It was not as though the victims were all going to a veterans convention. Another reason for such a high concentration could have been that the terrorist had specifically targeted them but many of the victims were retired, so it was not apparent that they were associated with the military. In addition, many had just arrived at National Airport, so there was no way this could have been planned. Another possible explanation Art had come up with was that Hassan al-Zaid had simply targeted a bus that was scheduled to go by the Pentagon, but that seemed unlikely to the reporter.
The spouses' descriptions of the final farewells especially bothered him. He had done some more research and found out that there were many claims about premonition of death, including the dream Abraham Lincoln reportedly had about his assassination. In addition, some studies showed that people were more likely to cancel their tickets or not show up for flights that ended up crashing. One such case Art read about was that of former Olympic tennis champion Marc Rosset, who decided to stay another day at the U.S. Open in 1998 rather than to take a Swissair flight that crashed. So maybe that explained the hints at premonition.
Another possible reason could simply be wishful thinking on the part of the spouses. Maybe they just wanted to believe that those final farewells were especially tender and heartfelt. Art had decided that he would check with a psychologist first thing Monday, hoping that this would help him make sense of the information he had collected.
***
After two hours of basketball in the still potent afternoon sun, Captain Ken Gorsula was exhausted. Having grown up in Oregon, he felt that he would never get used to the kind of weather he had experienced in Iraq and Afghanistan. Here at Bagram Air Base, it had rained only a couple of times in the last three months and the temperatures were just now coming down a bit in the evenings.
Gorsula debated between taking a shower and going to one of the computer terminals that allowed the soldiers to stay in close touch with home. Seeing how he hadn't been online in a couple of days, he decided to check his e-mail first. There were only a few messages from family and friends.
“Out of sight, out of mind,” he thought. At least he could count on spammers writing him on a regular basis. In between offers for penile enhancements, “get rich quick” schemes and a variety of prescriptions, he found an e-mail from his mother.
“Wish you could have been here, Kenny. It was a beautiful service.”
His mom was not much of a writer. At least she had finally gotten the hang of e-mail. This time, she even managed to attach a file. It was the same article about his uncle's funeral that had gotten Art Kempner so excited. For Gorsula, it only served as a reminder that he hadn't been allowed to go home. He was still pissed off about the decision and had fired off a letter to the editor to the Army Times, which had printed it in its online version.
While he could have gone to the funeral in Oregon and made it back by the following day, he instead had been sitting at Bagram, playing poker for nickles, watching movies and shooting hoops.
In his letter, he had called the decision a “way to lower morale” that had “no foundation in their current mission.”
“What would the military rather want me to do, spend some time with my family, recharge my batteries and say farewell to the man who inspired me to join special ops or sit around in Afghanistan with nothing to do? My example isn't even the worst. Another member of the unit was not allowed to go home for the birth of his child and a third was denied the chance to see his mother before she started chemo. How do I know? Because we have been sitting around with nothing to do other than complaining about this dumb decision. I would hope that the military will quickly rethink and rescind this order.”
Gorsula had felt better after firing off his letter and publicly expressing his anger with the Pentagon leadership. But he also realized that his frustration was fueled by not being able to fight as-Sirat in Pakistan and he was just lashing out at the Pentagon because he couldn't get his hands on the terrorists. All he could do was pummel the pictures of Omar Bashir and Hassan al-Zaid that he had taped to the dart board by his bed.
The e-mail from his mother stoked his anger and frustration again and he figured he would probably break the dart board later that night.
“Fuck 'em all,” he said to himself, logged off and headed for the shower.
Sunday, 4:12 am ET
It had been another short night for Hassan. This time it was nervous excitement that kept him awake. When he finally admitted to himself that he wouldn't be able to sleep anymore, Hassan got up and ready for the day.
The feeling of anticipation reminded him of how he felt the nights before his birthday as a kid. Farouk al-Zaid was a generous father and never spared any expense to make his only child happy. He always made sure to not only buy most of the items on the wish list but to also surprise his son. When Hassan turned six, he awoke to a basketball hoop in the driveway. When he turned nine, his father took the family to Disney World. However, Hassan's favorite birthday was his thirteenth. His father woke
him up early and they drove to the airport. They boarded a flight to Chicago but his father still refused to tell him what their final destination was. A fancy town car was waiting for them at the airport and took them to Soldier Field, where the U.S. soccer team took on Brazil. The al-Zaid's had great seats and it was the best day in Hassan's life. At the time, he had already been identified as a standout soccer player, and watching the game made him practice harder than ever because he swore to himself that he would one day wear the U.S. jersey.
“Well, that didn't happen,” Hassan thought to himself, looking down on the kaftan he was wearing.
This time, he was excited for another type of trip and he again didn't know where it was going to take him. Hassan hoped that the day's journey would indeed lead him to Omar Bashir and that he would be able to serve his country in a more meaningful way than playing a soccer game. The excitement by far overshadowed his concerns over the lost transmitters. Over night, Hassan had grown more confident that he would figure out some way to make contact. And, if that was not possible, he would find another way to make sure that all of the sacrifices he and others made were not for naught.
Hassan sat on his bed, waiting for the knock from Fariq. When it finally came, he jumped up, eager to start his day. He opened the door and Fariq was surprised to see their guest dressed and ready to go.
After the early prayers, Hassan ate breakfast with Hanif Younis and the two spent the morning trading questions. Hassan was eager to learn about as-Sirat while his host wanted to find out more about the United States.
After Dhuhr, the noon prayer, the two men walked to Younis' chamber and Hassan saw that another man was waiting for them.
“This is Nasir,” Younis said. “He is part of the brotherhood and will accompany you from here on.”
They exchanged greetings and took a second to look each other up and down.
Nasir appeared like a man not to be trifled with. It was tough to say how old he was but Hassan guessed that he was in his 30s. While he couldn't really see the voluminous Hanif fighting for as-Sirat in any capacity other than as the shaper of impressionable young minds, Hassan had no doubt that Nasir had seen combat. He was wiry and not very big, but there was just something about him that oozed danger and he had the same determined look that Hassan had observed so many times when he was training with the other Pathfinder guys.