by Klaus Marre
But now was not the time for daydreaming. There was a message for him in the video. He had to check his e-mail account as quickly as possible.
Shareef Wahed had no idea how many American intelligence analysts dissected Omar Bashir's videos each time one was released to find out if they had a hidden meaning, but he doubted that they would ever figure out the “code.” It really couldn't be much simpler. An AK 47 to Omar Bashir's left meant: “Check your e-mail.” That was it.
He didn't know if there were other clues for other sleepers, but he doubted it. He was by far the most difficult to reach, in a country that had the toughest surveillance and the lowest number of as-Sirat assets.
Shareef Wahed excused himself politely. He had to get to an Internet cafe to check the account. On his way out, one of his “friends” caught up with him.
“Don't take it too hard, buddy,” the grad student said and put his arm around Shareef Wahed. “Some people in this country are assholes.”
The as-Sirat sleeper wanted to reply: “Yeah, like all 300 million of you,” but instead he just nodded sadly.
He decided to drive to Fort Wayne this time. It would take him a good part of the day to get there and back but he liked to switch cities from time to time. He had the address of several Internet cafes in his wallet and, after an uneventful drive, he chose one in a mall on Interstate 69.
This time, the login was [email protected] and the password was utut1970. There was a message waiting for him in the “drafts” folder.
“Hi sis,
It looks like most of us will all be able to get together for Thanksgiving after all.
Kyle and Peter are already making travel arrangements for the whole family. I
hope you can accommodate that many people. But don't worry, you don't have
to cook for everybody. ;)
Mammie said she would know in ten days if she can come, so let's get in touch
then at the latest.
Hugs, Brittany”
Shareef Wahed's heart leaped. Out of habit, he read the e-mail a couple more times before deleting it. It was easy enough to understand. The attack was on for Thanksgiving and the fighters would start coming into the United States soon. He'd check the next account in ten days to find out how preparations were proceeding. The as-Sirat sleeper wiped any traces of his Internet activity from the hard drive, paid in cash and left.
Less than three months! After all of these years, he finally had a target date. He hoped that the brothers would make it safely across the border. He didn't know exactly how many men Omar Bashir would send him but he knew it would be more than enough to take over the plant and hold it long enough for him to carry out his task. It would be up to him to deliver success and he was ready.
Tuesday, 5:30 pm ET
Art Kempner had spent most of his day working on a story about the as-Sirat tape and its impact on Washington. The attack and the aftermath had become an embarrassment for the administration and President Sweeney's team looked like amateurs dealing with it. In fact, a congressional source had said something to that effect in a New York Times story.
“Here we are, saying we're doing everything we can to get this 21-year-old and then he shows up in Pakistan. It made us look like morons,” the unnamed Congressman was quoted.
The consensus in the capital was that heads would have to roll and they would have to roll quickly. Sacrificing one Cabinet member alone would no longer suffice. Talk in the nation's capital was that FBI Director Stevenson would definitely need to go and that the President's national security adviser and Homeland Security Secretary deBerg were goners as well. Another thing that would likely have to happen was for the president to step before the country with his hat in hand and admit that massive mistakes had been made.
Americans were always willing to rally around the flag and their president in a time of crisis, but they also expected their elected leaders to not fumble around. Opinion polls showed that Sweeney's approval rating was heading south quickly.
The phone rang and Art picked up.
“This is Art.”
“Hi, it's Stacey Harper,” a young voice said. “My mom said you wanted to speak to me.”
It took the reporter a split second to figure out who was on the line. His story on the as-Sirat video had taken all of his time during the day and he had barely thought about his investigation of the bombing and the victims.
“Oh, yes, Ms. Harper,” he said after a brief pause. “Sorry, it's been a crazy day here.”
“Please call me Stacey, you make it sound like you're talking to my mom. Do you want me to call back when you're not so busy?”
“No, no. I'm all done with my other work.”
“Are you guys writing about the video? It's insane, isn't? I still can't believe it. Hassan and I went to high school together and now he's in a cave somewhere with Omar Bashir. What a mind fuck. Ooops, excuse my language.”
Art laughed, both at her cussing and the question of whether the Washington Post was writing about one of the biggest news stories in years.
“Yes, I did write about that, but I want to talk to you about this other thing I'm working on. This might take a few minutes. Do you have time now?”
“Totally,” Stacey said.
“Great. To start off, can you please describe everything that happened on your morning commute the day of the bombing? Try to remember every detail, please.”
“Sure. I was running kinda late for my class at Georgetown but was hoping that I could still get there on time. But then, of course, there is a problem with the train and we all had to get off at Crystal City.”
“Was the train pretty full?” Art asked.
“Nah, I'd say not even half full. There were certainly still empty seats, like, nobody was sitting next to me.
“Anyways, we're stopping in Crystal City and the train operator said there would be shuttle buses available. I know a shortcut to the bus terminal, so I totally thought I'd be able to beat everybody else there and get on a bus quickly. I was feeling lucky, too, because my door opened right at the escalators so I was one of the first ones through the gate.”
“What kind of shortcut are you talking about and how do you know about it?” Art asked.
“I interned in Crystal City before. If you get out of the Metro station, you can take the escalators up to get to the bus terminal, but they moved it a couple years back when it was expanded. So, if you take the escalator, it's the long way, but if you turn right when exiting the station, there are some steps that get you there quicker.”
“Okay, sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt.”
“Anyways, I take my shortcut and I think that my luck is continuing because I see a bus that says 'Rosslyn Shuttle' on it right as I get outside. So I tried to chase it but I guess the bus driver didn't see me, or whatever. I was really pissed at the passengers because one of them looked right at me and he must have known I was trying to get on the bus but he didn't say anything to the driver. I mean, I always say something when I see somebody wanting to get on. I was really annoyed at the time but I guess that saved my life. Pretty crazy how that sometimes works out, huh?”
Stacey waited for a response.
“Are you still there?” she asked after a couple of seconds.
“Oh yes, sorry,” Art said. His pulse was racing and he fumbled through his notes. “Just to be sure, you said you were on a Blue Line train?”
“Yeah, I live near Van Dorn Street.”
“And the bus, Bus 2405, that must have left from the terminal right before you got there, right?” Art wanted to know.
“No, actually it didn't. It came from a side street near the terminal. Maybe that's where they were loading the shuttles,” Stacey said. “So, there I am, all out of breath and so pissed off at the driver that I actually memorized the number because I wanted to call in and complain.
“Anyways, then I saw the bus stop ahead of me and Hassan got off, but I didn't know it was h
im because it was a ways away. He caught up with me as I was walking back toward the bus terminal. At first I think he didn't recognize me but later he did. Oh, and Hassan said something like that it wasn't so bad that I didn't make the bus. Now I know what he meant.”
“Earlier you indicated that you still can't believe that he did this. Why did you say that?”
“Well, he was so normal in high school,” Stacey said. “And I never felt that he hated America. I remember one time at a basketball game, he kinda yelled at this guy because he didn't take his hat off during the national anthem. I guess he just became a different person in college but when I saw him last week, he seemed, like, normal.”
“Thanks, Stacey. This has been really helpful. Do you mind giving me your cell number so that I can call you back if I have any more questions?”
“Yeah, no problem,” she said and gave him her information.
As soon as Art hung up he dialed the number of the Washington Metro press officer, hoping that she was still in the office. He was lucky.
“Hi, it's Art Kempner with the Post again. I just have a couple more questions. Are you absolutely certain that the first train that you unloaded at Crystal City was a Blue Line train?”
“Yup, 100 percent. I even double checked that after I talked to you yesterday.”
“So, the people on the train should, in theory, have been the first ones on the shuttles, right?” Art asked.
“Absolutely.”
“Those shuttles, did they board right at the bus terminal or was there a separate loading area for people coming from the Metro?”
“If there's a problem with a train, we always provide shuttle service to and from the station. In this case, that means to the Crystal City Bus Terminal. It's always a bit of chaos, but there is some legal reason for it. I think we don't want to have passengers cross too many streets because if they get hit by a car, we'll get sued.”
“Okay, I'm sorry to ask this again,” Art said, “But you're absolutely sure that the people from the Blue Line were the first off the train?”
“Yes, positive. The Blue Line train was the first one to arrive.”
“So the people from Bus 2405 would have been on that train?”
“Yes.”
There it was. Art now felt that he had conclusive proof that there was something fishy about Bus 2405. From Stacey's description, she would have been one of the first people off the train and at the bus terminal. There simply was no way that a bunch of people from out of town could have beaten her onto the shuttle. And, according to Stacey, the bus hadn't even originated at the terminal. It just appeared near the station, fully loaded.
“I want to ask you a favor,” Art said, choosing his words deliberately. “Actually, it's kind of a deal. If I can correctly predict something about the Crystal City Metro stop that I would have no way of knowing, will you do me a favor?”
“Depends on what the favor is, I guess.”
“I did a Metro story not too long ago and am somewhat familiar with your records policy, so I know that you have been trying to make your records more accessible. I also know that I can get the information that I'm seeking eventually. The favor I'm asking is that, if I can get my prediction right, we bypass all of that nonsense and you'll give me access right away.”
Delgado laughed.
“Well, go ahead and make your prediction and then we'll see.”
“Fair enough,” Art said. “I want to see the surveillance tapes from the Crystal City station but my prediction is that you will tell me that the cameras didn't work or that there is some other reason why they would be useless to me.”
There was a long pause.
“That's correct. We only had one camera operational and it's at the back of the station, so you can't really see anything,” the press officer said. “So what do you want?”
“I want access to the tapes from the station at Reagan National Airport and I need it tonight.”
Art had been certain that the Crystal City tapes would not show anything but maybe, whoever had planned this had forgotten that anybody who has to get off a Metro train also has to get on it.
“Are you gonna tell me what you're up to?” Delgado asked Art.
“I can't tonight and I'll have to ask you to keep quiet about this for a little bit.”
There was another pause.
“I'll be here for another hour. Bring a letter with your request and I'll see what I can do,” she finally said.
“I'm on my way.”
***
The Director of National Intelligence was briefing President Sweeney on the surveillance efforts he had ordered. A lot of satellite coverage was directed at the area between Zhob and the Pakistani border and half of the available drones were patrolling the area.
“It's still going to be tough,” McClintock said. “There are so many mountains and a million places to hide. But at least having these capabilities will allow us to see more. Maybe we'll get lucky.”
The air surveillance was covering an area of over 10,000 square miles, a circle with a radius of more than 50 miles that was centered in Zhob. Their efforts were focused on the mountains near the border, an area that was rich in caves and steep valleys. On this first day of the search, nobody bothered to look at Andan because the consensus was that Omar Bashir would not be living in a town.
“Our plan of distracting the media is working almost too well, Mr. President,” the DNI said, shifting subjects. “Have you seen your poll numbers?”
“Yes, they're gonna be Nixonian in a week if this keeps going,” Sweeney quipped, sounding more light-hearted than he felt. Privately, and he would never admit this to anybody, it was a good thing that the country had seen Hassan reach Omar Bashir. It showed that the plan could have succeeded, even if it failed. It would help to keep the heat off him. Primarily, he remained focused on the mission but there was a part of him that, in his darkest hours, started worrying about the political implications. One couldn't become president without being a politician, Sweeney thought.
“So, how long do you think we will have?” he asked McClintock.
“We caught a lucky break with this video, no doubt about that. It should buy us at least a day or so more. Then we'll have to figure out something else but it'll get increasingly dicey.”
The DNI had grown very close to the president in the past couple of weeks. They relied on each other to keep their spirits up and McClintock sensed that Sweeney might need a smile.
“I have a terrific idea, sir,” he said, unable to contain a wide grin and a wink. “I saw a chubby intern in the hallway when I came in. Maybe you should take one for the team because we know the media will focus on nothing else once that is leaked.”
“Thanks, Bob,” Sweeney said, acknowledging the effort. “I was thinking more along the lines of a Jello wrestling match between you and the Russian president … you know, settle some old scores between spies.”
“Are you kidding? He'd kill me! Have you seen the pictures of him with his shirt off? I heard he wrestled a bear and a rhino the other day.”
They both laughed, thankful for the light-hearted moment.
***
A little earlier than planned, Hassan made up his mind. He had spent the entire day thinking about his choices. His first plan had obviously not worked, at least not yet, and he had not found a viable way to make contact, so it was down to him trying to kill Omar Bashir or attempting to escape and call in the cavalry.
In the end, it came down to one simple truth. At this point, he alone had the power to make Pathfinder at least a partial success. Even if there was an 80 percent chance of him being able to make contact, there was still the possibility that he was killed beforehand and that the mission, his mission, would end up a complete failure. And even if he did manage to get out, it would take him a good while, giving Omar Bashir and the other as-Sirat leaders a chance to get away.
Hassan decided to give it another day to make preparations and then he would
strike. Weapons were abundant in the “bunker” and Hassan had no problems getting access to the as-Sirat leader. With the decision made, he felt a tremendous sense of relief. Even though he was certain that he would die the next day, Hassan got a good night's rest for the first time in a week.
***
Art Kempner arrived at Metro headquarters at the Jackson Graham building within half an hour. Of course he had used a cab and not Metro. Though he was in a rush, he still took the time to print out the pictures of several of the terror victims. Art was pretty sure that none of them would show up on the video, if the tape even existed.
Nicole Delgado waited for him in the lobby, accepted the letter requesting the release of the surveillance tape and together the two headed to Metro's security department on the third floor. The press officer led him to a video booth and pulled up another chair.
“So, what do you want to see?” she said. “I spoke to a couple of people, and, in light of your reputation, we will expedite your request. Within reason!”
“Sure, I really just need to see two tapes. First, I want to see the ones from the arrival and departure of the Blue Line train from Reagan National Airport. And, just to be sure we're talking about the same train, I want the one from Van Dorn Metro, too.”
“Okay, why don't we start with the one from National?”
Delgado typed in a search string and quickly found the right file. She opened it and the screen was separated into four quadrants, each showing the footage of one of the video cameras at the station.
“These seem to be working,” Delgado said and she pushed “Play”
They saw the train pull into the station from all angles. It came to a stop and about a dozen people exited the train. Apart from them, there were only a few scattered people on the platform. The videos were a little bit grainy, so Art wasn't sure about a couple of the passengers, but there was no way that all or even a majority of the Bus 2405 victims had entered the train from that station.
“Okay, let's double check the other one,” Art said. He picked up the picture of Stacey Harper that he had found on the Internet.
Delgado again found the file and they watched it. One of the cameras filming the entrance gate clearly showed Stacey entering the station and then getting on the train.