by David DeLee
“You became a nurse.”
“Yes. To help people and to give back. I reject violence in all its forms. I have seen the pain, the hurt, such hatred creates. It is not much, but I help where I can.”
“Then I’m hoping you can help us.”
“I don’t see how. As I have said, I have not seen Karim in many years. We have exchanged a few letters and emails, if only to give assurance to the other we are well. I am sorry.”
“Your brother came to America a few times a year. He was a cargo ship’s captain.”
“Yes, of that I knew. He loved the water, the life of a sea captain. It was truly the only place I saw him happy.”
“He did not contact you? Stay here with you and your husband when he visited?”
“No, as I have said, the last time I saw Karim was at my wedding.”
“Do you have any idea who he knew here? Did he have any friends? Do you know where he stayed while he was in port? Anything at all could be helpful.”
“You believe he was part of some terror operation here in America?”
“Yes. We do.”
“I am sorry, gentleman, I really am. But I do not know.”
“Thank you for your time.” Disappointed, Bannon started to turn away. Then he thought of something. “Would we be able to speak to your husband? Is he here?”
Humaira lowered her eyes to the floor. “My husband and I, we are no longer together.”
“I’m sorry.” Bannon paused, unwilling to release the thread he was tugging. “Can you tell us where we can find Behram, Ben? Perhaps he’s spoken with your brother. He might know something.”
“My husband and Karim did hold similar views.”
Bannon felt a twinge of excitement. “We would really like to speak with him.”
“Ben and I are…we met in college and we fell in love. We were very happy for a time, but recently things have gone very badly for Ben.”
“How so?”
“My husband is an accountant, a CPA, by trade. He is very good with numbers and worked for a very fine company, in their accountant department.”
“Worked?” Bannon asked. “He’s not with them any longer?”
“No. Unfortunately they let him go.”
“He was fired,” Bannon surmised. “May I ask why?”
She cast her eyes down and away, overwhelmed with shame. “Ben was always one to speak his mind. Outspoken, you would say. Things can be…difficult for Muslims here. As much as I love being here, even I must admit that. Most of us are good, hard-working people. We mean no one any harm.”
“Of course,” Bannon said. He gave her arm a squeeze. “And many people can be ignorant, and hurtful. Luckily, they are in the minority, even though it doesn’t always seem to be the case.”
“Yes. That is with people everywhere. I have met, am friends with people of many faiths that are simply wonderful. It is why I became a citizen. Ben was born here. He grew up in Brooklyn before moving to Boston. He does not see people in that way. Even before 9/11 he says being Muslim in America was difficult.”
“You say you and Ben are no longer together. Did you divorce?”
“Yes.”
“Because of his views?”
“Partially, yes. After he was terminated, he found it difficult to find another job. He searched for many months without success. In that time he grew sullen, angry. Distant. He became…difficult to be with.”
“I understand.”
“We agreed it would be for the best if we were no longer married.”
“May I ask why he was fired?”
“When we met, Ben was fascinated by where and how I grew up. He became obsessed. He would ask endless questions about my parents, about how I grew up in my country. What were the people like? Our history. He studied the Quran and Islam. It was sweet. His parents were not religious at all. I suspect they became that way in an effort to fit in. To assimilate. To not draw attention to themselves, to the fact they were different. When Ben met me, I think it sparked his curiosity, yes, but also a bitter resentment as well. He spoke often of being angry at his parents for not embracing their religion and culture. For pretending they were something they were not.
“Over time his anger grew. He became more and more outraged by the wars raging in the Middle East. He began to believe in the terrorist causes, sympathizing with them.”
“He became radicalized.”
“Yes.”
Bannon heard the shame in her voice.
“As I said, he was always outspoken. He would lecture people at work, fight with them when they disagreed with his views. Call them names. The other employees complained to management. Clients put in complaints as well. Soon his bosses could no longer put up with his behavior. They fired him. I do not blame them. He left them no choice. Even I began to find Ben’s behavior insufferable. He even demanded I stop calling him Ben. ‘My name is Behram,’ he would say.”
“And you think he might know something about your brother?”
“He and Karim met at the wedding. He was fascinated with Karim.” She laughed. “He spent more time with him than with me at the ceremony. He and Karim remained in contact on Facebook and through Skype. I was not aware of this until recently.”
“How recently?” McMurphy asked, one eye still on the roaming pit bulls.
“After we separated, Ben moved out. While trying to find a new job, he took part-time menial labor work—at construction sites, as a busboy, driving the Uber car. But he made little money at it. And, of course, he made the same mistakes as he did at the accounting firm. His views, which he continued to share, became more radicalized and less welcomed by those he interacted with.
“Before long he was unable to pay his rent. Even the minimal amount charged to stay at the halfway shelter he’d found downtown. I felt sorry for him. So when he asked, I allowed him to return home.” She cast her eyes upward. “We have a furnished room in the attic space. It has its own facilities, a bathroom, a stove, cooktop, and sink. He has his mini-refrigerator from college.”
“He lives here? Upstairs?” Bannon pointed up. “Is he home?”
“No. He went out early this morning.”
“His room. Would you mind showing us?”
She glanced at her watch.
“We wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t extremely important,” Bannon said.
Humaira hesitated but then nodded and took them inside. She led them directly to the attic apartment, not allowing them to detour. They clumped up old wooden stairs painted battleship gray. On the wall of the stairwell to the attic was an old tattered and yellowed poster of Phil Simms, the New York Giants quarterback from ’79 to ’93.
“Your husband’s a football fan?” McMurphy asked, passing the poster.
“No. That was there when we moved in. He never bothered to remove it.”
The attic had a low ceiling that sloped downward on both sides. McMurphy and Bannon had to remain in the center of the room to not hit their heads. Even then they had to duck to avoid striking the light fixture, a single bulb with no cover. The room was stifling hot. There was a window air-conditioning unit in one window, currently off. Bannon doubted it had the BTUs to combat the heat that would rise in that tiny space in the summer.
McMurphy went to check the bathroom.
Bannon stood in the center of the room, very concerned.
The place smelled strongly of gasoline. The room’s furnishings consisted of a twin-size bed, an old door placed across two paint-splattered sawhorses forming a makeshift table, and a single metal folding chair, similarly paint splattered. On the table was a battered old laptop.
But it was the rest of the material on the table that alarmed Bannon.
“Nothing of interest in the bathroom,” McMurphy reported. He stepped up beside Bannon and looked at the table. “Oh, hell.”
On the table were the remains of a very large bomb-making operation. Wire, electrical and duct tape, batteries, gunpowder residue, and the unrolled wrappers of
hundreds, maybe thousands, of firecrackers—Bannon had read where kids were paid by gangs and terrorists upward of fifty dollars an hour to strip the gunpowder from the fireworks—pliers, wire strippers, and hundreds of empty boxes of nails bought or stolen from hardware stores. On the floor were leftover fuel cans, fertilizer bags, several glass jars, a car battery, and one propane tank.
Humaira gasped. “This is not—”
“What you think it is? It’s exactly that,” Bannon said. “A bomb-making factory.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
HUMAIRA TUMANDAR SWORE SHE had no idea what her husband had been up to in the tiny, overheated attic. She worked days, often double shifts because money was tight. Tumandar was home alone, all day long. She could not possibly have known, she insisted, visibly shaken.
“I never come up here,” she said. “I would have no reason to.”
Bannon believed her, but that would be up to the police to sort out. He contacted them and then put a call into Grayson. While they waited for arriving officers, Bannon questioned Humaira further. “Did he say anything about where he was going? Did he have plans?”
“No. No. As I have said, we barely spoke. I have not even seen him in days,” she said.
“Are you saying he hasn’t been here?”
“No. I hear him through the floor, walking, pacing, all hours of the night. My bedroom is directly below. He was here last night. All night. But he must have left early, while I was in the shower.”
“How does he travel? Does he have a car?”
“Yes. It is an old vehicle. White. With one blue door.”
“One blue door,” McMurphy said, “Why?”
“He was in an accident. He could not afford to fix it properly so he bought the door at a junk yard and had a friend install it. It does not open easily.”
“Do you know the make, the model of the vehicle?” Bannon asked. He and McMurphy continued to search the room as they peppered the woman with questions.
“Old. I do not know. Scout. Does that mean anything?”
“A truck?” McMurphy asked. “It looks like a small truck?”
“Yes. I am sorry I do not know cars. I do not drive. It has big cargo space. An SUV.”
McMurphy pulled out his phone and scrolled through it. He showed her a picture.
Excited, she said, “Yes! That is it. But white.”
He showed the picture to Bannon, explaining, “It’s a vehicle called a Scout. They were manufactured by International Harvester back in the ’60s and ’70s. It was their answer to the Jeep, a precursor to today’s SUVs. My brother had one.”
Bannon called Grayson and gave her an update, giving her the information he had about Tumandar and the vehicle. She assured him she’d contact the Boston P.D. and the State Police, have them put a BOLO out.
McMurphy grabbed an empty cardboard box that sat on the floor under the table. In it a few loose firecrackers rattled around in a gritty dust Bannon knew was gunpowder residue.
Bannon noticed a stack of papers underneath. He picked them up and rifled through them. They were printed pages and glossy magazine articles of public venues in and around Boston. The Garden. Fenway Park. Events at the harbor. Information about the Freedom Trail and other upcoming summertime activities in and around the Boston area.
Bannon stopped. One brochure caught his attention. It was for an annual art exhibition and festival being held at the docks near the Boston Aquarium. Vendor booths, carnival rides, educational lectures sponsored by the aquarium and various wildlife and sea life preservation organizations. The dates were circled in heavy red felt marker. Today was the third and final day of the event.
Bannon fisted the brochure. “I know where he’s planning to attack.”
They raced downstairs, grateful to be out of the stifling attic enclosure.
They reached the front door as two Boston squad cars pulled up behind Bannon’s truck. The neighbor’s dogs went nuts.
Bannon turned to Humaira. He clasped her hands in his. “Thank you for your help. I’m sorry you have to go through this, but these officers will be very kind to you.”
Three uniformed officers crowded around them on the porch, one of them a woman. She wore sergeant stripes. Bannon handed his Coast Guard business card to the female officer. “This woman is a cooperating material witness, working directly with the Secretary of Homeland Security. She’s a witness, not a suspect.”
The female cop looked annoyed. “That’ll be for the detectives to decide. Either way, she’ll be treated respectfully, Commander.”
Bannon felt a little embarrassed being so heavy handed. Or maybe it was because he’d been called out on it, rightfully so. “She’s had a rough time of it, is all.”
“Understood,” the cop said. “She’ll be fine. You have my word, Commander.”
Bannon smiled. “Brice. Also let your command know, I believe Tumandar is planning an attack at the Arts Festival going on at the Aquarium Harbor.”
“How do you know that?” the cop asked.
McMurphy was already in the truck. He banged the side of the door to get Bannon’s attention. “Let’s go.”
Bannon shoved the crumpled brochure into her hand. “Just let ’em know.”
He jumped into his truck and he and McMurphy high-tailed it north to South Boston and the harbor. As they drove, McMurphy was on the phone with Grayson and Kayla Clarke, giving and getting updates. The festival was in full swing, and according to police and city authorities the crowd was expected to reach several thousand throughout the fast approaching midday hour.
“The perfect time to strike,” Bannon said.
While Bannon didn’t have sirens installed on his truck, he did have blue flashing emergency lights in the grill and over the sun visors. As the massive black truck barreled up the highway, motorists assumed he was a cop or a legitimate emergency vehicle of some sort and moved aside to let Bannon speed past them.
They reached the harbor in record time but were stopped by two police officers at a roadblock set up on Atlantic Avenue and India Row. Bannon pulled the truck to the curb in front of Harbor Towers apartments and they got out. Grayson had put in a call to the Police Commissioner, the Mayor, and probably even the governor’s office to clear the way for Bannon and McMurphy. They’d receive VIP cooperation up and down the rank and file.
“Any sign of the suspect vehicle?” Bannon asked, after introducing themselves.
“Not here,” the one cop said.
“Nothing over the radio either,” the other one added. “We’ve got the area cordoned off to a mile out. Uniforms are searching the target area for anything suspicious and moving civilians out as quickly and quietly as possible.”
That was good news, Bannon thought. Unless Tumandar had another target in mind and Bannon’s assumptions were wrong. What if he’d mistakenly diverted the BPD’s attention and resources in error? He couldn’t think that way. There was no time for recriminations.
Trust your instincts, he told himself.
“Come on.” He led McMurphy past the roadblock on foot. They walked the block and a half to the docks. At Milk Street they hooked a right. There they were met by a steady stream of people coming away from the harbor, many grumbling about how their plans were ruined, as the police quietly evacuated the area, trying to do so without creating a panic.
Milk Street turned into Old Atlantic Avenue, a paved roadway that looped around the large parking garage, a Legal Seafood Restaurant, and the hotel across the way. On the opposite side of the street, the Duck Boat Tours picked up and dropped off tourists, and Boston Long Warf was where the harbor cruises and whale watch tours departed from.
The area was still a sea of people, in spite of the authorities’ efforts to clear them. Somewhere a band still played. A jazz piece. White vendor tents were set up on along the harbor walk. From them vendors and artists were selling framed artwork, clothes, culture-specific handmade jewelry. There were various conservation awareness booths and a crapload of carni
val-style food vendors. Some of were closing up shop as police and security personnel moved from tent to tent, urging them to leave.
Bannon and McMurphy stood in the middle of it all and looked around.
“If you wanted to plant an IED to inflict maximum damage,” Bannon asked, “where would you put it?”
“Look around,” McMurphy said. “Anywhere. Everywhere.”
“Good point.”
Even with the police and security thinning the crowd, there were still hundreds of people about, many of them ignoring the calls to leave. “Maybe the better question is, how do you do it?”
“If it’s me, I put it somewhere it won’t be found, where there’s a lot of people. Then I get the hell out. But that’s not how these whack-a-doos think,” McMurphy said.
“No, they’re will to die for their cause. They don’t care about getting out. Inflicting the most damage and death as possible is all that matters.”
“The cops have the streets locked up tight. There’s no getting through the roadblocks,” McMurphy said.
“Humaira mentioned he left early this morning,” Bannon said absently, mulling over the problem in his head.
McMurphy followed Bannon’s train of thought. “He’s already here.”
Bannon nodded. “Waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“The right time.”
“That would be right now,” McMurphy said, his voice tight with frustration. “The crowd’s thinning out as we speak. He waits much longer he’ll miss his opportunity completely.”
They looked around. There were very few cars about. The road was kept clear for the duck boats and other tour vehicles. Hotel traffic at the other end of the harbor was handled by the valets. There was a drop off loop for guests to drive up and check in.
“Maybe he chickened out,” McMurphy suggested. “Lost his nerve.”
Bannon felt a band of panic tighten around his chest. “Doesn’t feel right.”
