by Mike Brogan
The apartment’s lobby phone rang.
Lindee grabbed it and spoke to the lobby guard. “Send them up, John.”
Lindee turned to Nell. “Donovan’s two FBI men are coming up to take us to the safe house.”
A couple of minutes later the apartment doorbell rang.
Nell checked through the peephole, saw the two male agents in coats and ties, then opened the door. They smiled and flashed their FBI badges.
“I’m Agent Dutton, ma’am,” the tall blond man said. “And this is Agent Witkowski.” He gestured toward a shorter, muscular, thick-necked man, who nodded.
“Please come in.”
They entered.
“Are you both ready to leave?” Agent Dutton asked.
“Yes,” Lindee said.
“These suitcases go?”
“Yes, please.”
“I’ve got them,” Agent Witkowski said, picking them up.
Lindee set her apartment alarm and they stepped out into the hall.
“Where’s the agent who was sitting out here?” Nell asked.
“Agent Davies is on his way to the safe house. You’ll see him there,” Agent Dutton said.
“Okay . . .”
They walked down the hall, entered the elevator and descended.
“How’s the search for Hasham going?” Nell asked.
“No luck yet.”
“He’s a dangerous man,” she said.
“Number One on our list!” Agent Dutton said.
The elevator passed the lobby and went on down to the basement.
“We’re leaving through the basement?” Nell asked.
Dutton nodded. “Safer than the front entrance.”
“But I saw a police car out front.”
“It’s still there, but they told us the basement rear exit in back has less exposure.”
Nell nodded, but then remembered the basement door also exited onto an exposed street.
Agent Witkowski bent down to grab the suitcases and she noticed a swastika tattoo creep above his gray collar.
A swastika tattoo? And a ponytail. And white socks. Would the FBI hire a guy with a large Nazi tattoo? Maybe for undercover work. But would the FBI condone a long-barrel handgun tucked loosely in Agent Dutton’s belt? Agent Manning had a holstered Glock. And Witkowski’s gun was some other brand.
She knew FBI agents dressed more casually than back in
J. Edgar’s day, but Witkowski’s green plaid sport coat, missing shirt buttons and a SmackDown Wrestling belt buckle the size of a coffee saucer - all seemed too relaxed even for today’s more relaxed FBI dress code. Drew Manning and his fellow agents wore dark sports coats and dress shirts.
Nell remembered how quickly Dutton and Witkowski flashed their FBI badges. Maybe too quickly. And the agent who’d sat outside Lindee’s door promised he’d tell them if he went anywhere. But he didn’t. And she thought his name was David, not Davies, as Dutton said. Nell was picking up bad vibes. Her instincts were usually right in situations like this.
The elevator jiggled to a stop. They stepped into the basement and she saw no one else there. More bad vibes. Something told her these men weren’t FBI agents. And Donovan had warned Hasham’s men might try to grab her again.
“Oh . . . damn!” Nell said, stopping.
“What’s wrong?” Agent Dutton said.
“I forgot my cell phone. I’ll run up and get it.” She’d go up, call Donovan and verify these two FBI agents’ names.
Agent Dutton looked at Witkowski, then her.
“Another agent will bring your phone to you,” Dutton said. “You really need to come with us now.”
“I will. But first I need to phone my daughter. She’s been traumatized. It’s very important that I talk to her. Calm her down, you understand.”
“Use your sister’s phone.”
“She doesn’t have my mother-in-law’s number and I don’t remember it off hand. It’s in my phone’s Favorites List.”
She started back toward the elevator.
Witkowski grabbed her arm and showed her the business end of his handgun.
SIXTY THREE
“Comcast, AT&T, and Time Warner are back up!” Agent Manning shouted across the conference table. “Other service providers will be operational in minutes.”
Donovan felt a glimmer of hope. “Keep blasting warnings on them all the time! Use language subtitles and signers.”
He still couldn’t believe Hasham’s brilliant, synchronous strategic plan. The man allowed ChocoYummy media warnings to go out on the Internet so all police groups would focus totally on ChocoYummy – and then when he launched his primary attack, the deadly IRS checks – he disabled cable servers to block the IRS warnings to the public.
Obviously, Hasham had highly skilled hackers and Internet cells involved in all aspects of his coordinated attacks . . . cells that had metastasized nationally like cancer.
“Finally!” Mildred Greenacre said to herself.
Her cable TV had been down, but Wheel of Fortune just popped on, even though it popped on to a Viagra commercial. At eighty-four she probably wouldn’t fiddle with many more erections. But a woman could hope.
She stood to fetch the mail and noticed her stride was getting shorter, like her time on Mother Earth. The smart-ass neighbor kid had asked if she dated Abe Lincoln. She shouted back “His father!” and flipped the little turd the finger. Hadn’t seen him since.
Back in the house, she sorted through the junk mail. One offered to clean her septic tank, another’d clean her colon, and another’d shrink her prostate thank God.
Mildred noticed a white envelope addressed to her. In the window she saw Mildred Greenacre. The return address read: Internal Revenue Service.
What’s this? I already received my $205 refund check and spent the money. It looked like another refund check. Impossible. She looked through the envelope window.
Pay to the Order of Mildred Greenacre . . .
She ripped open the envelope and took out the contents.
She was holding an IRS refund check payable to her - in the amount of - holy crap –
$4,600!
“Jesus Christ and Mary on the handlebars!” she shouted, her heart pounding louder than the Wheel of Fortune buzzer.
Was she dreaming?
Was this really her money? She looked at the name on the check. Mildred Greenacre. She looked at the address. Hers! The letter said that the IRS recalculated her taxes in the last six years and she was now entitled to this refund.
“Whatever you say!”
Should she call and verify the check? No damn way.
I’ll deposit this baby! Then I’ll pay off some overdue medical bills, before they realize their mistake and demand the money back. The IRS wouldn’t demand it back from a poor old widow, would they? Of course they would.
$4,600! A Godsend!
Her phone rang. It was her best friend, Myrna Faye.
“Myrna, I just got an IRS refund check for $4,600. I’m taking you to dinner at TGI Fridays. The quesadillas and key lime pie are on me!”
“Why’d you get the refund?”
“Because I’m a highly distinguished and deserving US citizen!”
“And I’m Doris Day!”
The two women laughed, chatted a bit and hung up.
Mildred set the check down on the coffee table as an “Urgent News Bulletin” interrupted Wheel of Fortune. She saw Lester Holt.
Please, Lester, not another school massacre.
As she started to grab her IRS check again, Lester said something about “IRS checks.” She turned up the volume.
“We have an urgent nationwide alert from
Homeland Security. There are fake IRS
refund checks which contain the deadly poison
VX arriving at homes in the mail . . .”
As she listened, Mildred felt her entire body go rigid. She looked at the envelope, letter and check on the television, then at hers on her coffee table.
<
br /> Identical!
She raced to the bathroom and washed her hands and face with soapy lather. Then she washed them again.
Her heart pounded! How long did she hold the check? A few seconds? No, several seconds. Where did she hold it? The middle? The corners maybe? Did she hold the envelope by the flap or corners? She couldn’t remember.
Mildred hurried out her front door and headed toward the 24 Hour Walk-In clinic two blocks away. Long blocks.
Her adrenaline kicked in. She grew tired as she walked. Her heart seemed to pump harder than normal. Why? Because I’m walking faster . . . or because I’m old, or because the poison . . .
She took a deep breath. Her lungs felt tighter, like something was squeezing them. Or was she imagining it? She slowed down.
She saw the clinic one block ahead.
Can I make it?
SIXTY FOUR
Their hands flex-cuffed, Nell and Lindee sat in the back seat of the Lincoln. Nell couldn’t believe she was back in the grasp of Hasham . . .
Nell wondered how these two FBI imposters knew the real FBI agents were coming to Lindee’s apartment. Clearly, a phone tap or apartment bug. Or worse, a police informant told them.
But by now, the real FBI agents had arrived at Lindee’s apartment. They would have viewed the building security video, seen her and Lindee leave with the two men, maybe even seen them leave in the Lincoln, maybe got its license number, then organized a search.
She watched Dutton steer onto 39th and head west. Opposite her on a fold-down seat sat Swastika Witkowski, staring at her. He lowered the window and tossed the crushed pieces of Lindee’s cell phone out into a sewer vent.
Donovan was right, she realized. Hasham abducted me again to tell him which files I saw in the lab - and tell him what I told the FBI. He also wants me to admit I stole the two flash drives, even though I told him at the bottling plant I did not. And when they body-searched me at the plant and didn’t find them, he accused me of hiding them in the forest near the cabin.
And he was right. She’d hidden them under a log and retrieved them after the FBI team rescued her at the gas station.
Hasham’s rage about the flash drives proves their value to the FBI. They could contain information about imminent attacks, maybe even names of people who would implement them. If so, Hasham might be forced to cancel or alter future plans. And his jihadist cell members may be forced to run for their lives. And if the FBI tech specialists could extract more data, lives could be saved. All good results.
But would Hasham somehow know when the flash drives were opened? Would opening them trigger an alert to him so he could warn his jihadists to flee.
Now, incredibly, Hasham’s men had grabbed her again. He would insist she’d stolen the flash drives. She’d deny it. He would not believe her. Then what? Torture. Me for sure. But probably Lindee to make me talk. The thought sickened her.
Nell checked Lindee. Her sister looked terrified, and Nell feared this abduction might trigger a relapse of Lindee’s depression after being attacked in her apartment last summer.
Suddenly the car went dark.
Nell saw they’d driven into the Holland Tunnel. Two minutes later, they emerged into brilliant sunlight in Jersey City. They turned onto Palisade Avenue heading north, driving parallel with the Hudson River. Some time later, she saw broken store windows, darkened buildings, abandoned warehouses, some homeless men clustered in alleys.
Dutton answered his phone, spoke fluent Arabic, said “Hasham” a couple of times.
Nell was angry with herself. She should have asked Donovan for the names of the two agents coming to the apartment. She should have inspected Dutton’s FBI badge more closely. She should have called Donovan and double-checked the agents’ names. And because she didn’t, her sister’s life and hers were now in grave danger.
After all, Hasham had ordered Aarif to kill her. But she killed Aarif instead. Then she’d escaped, twice, giving Hasham even more reasons to kill her.
SIXTY FIVE
BRONX
Hasham Habib was delighted. His IRS checks had already harvested one hundred eighty-nine infidels . . . with hundreds more in so much pain they were begging to join their deceased brethren . . . and soon would.
Yes, some were children who drank ChocoYummy. Yes, some were women and men who’d held the IRS checks. Yes, they died like thousands of Muslim men, women and children died from infidel attacks over the decades.
Like my innocent family died.
Do you understand yet, America?
But now, I must leave your shores . . . Nell Northam gave authorities his name. The FBI, Homeland Security, the police, the CIA, and the NSA with their sophisticated software and resources were searching for him and his aliases. It was only a matter of time before they discovered, if they were lucky, that one of his older aliases could lead them to the Bronx apartment where he was now. Perhaps they already knew and were on their way.
Hasham hurried to his bedroom closet, knelt down and removed a floor panel. He reached down and punched in the code to unlock his security safe. He removed four sets of passports, drivers’ licenses, and credit cards. He also took sixty thousand dollars in cash and placed everything in a leather satchel. He put his Beretta in his shoulder holster and stuffed several thirteen-round clips in the satchel.
He walked into the living room and stared at Abdul, the youngest member of his New York cell. Abdul was a brilliant NYU chemistry major with great potential for the cause. The bearded, devout Muslim lived in the apartment and monitored all police, FBI, and Internet activities for Hasham’s network of US cells. Abdul also coordinated with cells throughout Europe.
“What’s our latest total, Abdul?”
Abdul checked his computer. “Many more deaths than CNN and FOX report! Another hundred or so more according to social media. Your IRS jihad is a great success, Hasham!”
“Most gratifying!”
“Wait - Hasham! Look!” Abdul pointed at the screen.
Hasham turned and saw the US Terrorist Watch List site.
“They just announced your name! Look – your photo, too!”
Hasham looked and grew concerned. The eight-year-old photo had been age-enhanced to an amazingly accurate degree . . . like they’d snapped the photo of his face yesterday.
“Check CNN and FOX!”
Abdul checked. Both networks showed the same photo captioned: Hasham Habib. Wanted By Police! Extremely Dangerous. Call 911.
So they’re onto me. It had always been a matter of time.
Still, Hasham felt his pulse kick up a notch. He hurried to a closet and took out his small portable theatrical kit with several disguises. He would use them until the Abu Dhabi plastic surgeon gave him a new face in three weeks. He placed the kit in his satchel.
He checked his watch. By now, his two FBI imposters were driving Dr. Nell Northam to meet him. He would force her to admit that she took the flash drives. He would also force her to tell him exactly what she told authorities about the confidential file folders she’d seen and read in the lab. Based on what she told authorities, he might alter plans.
He’d been too lax with her in the lab and cabin, simply because she was never supposed to leave the cabin alive.
She’d also tell him that she’d seen his most closely guarded secret plan - his orange file. Even though the file was in code, she might have deduced it dealt with a weapon that would render an important US city uninhabitable for seventy years.
The hidden flash drive she’d stolen was also critically important. It contained plans, plus the aliases and birth names of many cell members now active in America. If the FBI hacked into that flash drive, his people would be hunted like vermin, many killed by drones or CIA assassins.
Even though he’d been assured that the FBI and NSA tech people could never crack through the series of passwords and encryption codes on the flash drives, he knew better. American analysts had sophisticated code-breaking and eavesdropping technology no one else
even knew about.
Whatever the case, Dr. Nell Northam would tell him everything she told the authorities. If she refused, torturing her sister would loosen Nell’s tongue.
Then, after she gave him the answers he wanted, he’d do what Aarif failed to do.
Kill her.
“Hasham, I think the NSA might have listened to Bassam Maahdi’s phone calls to you.”
“It’s possible.”
“How else could they learn your name?”
“From the woman, Nell Northam. In the cabin she heard Aarif call me “Hasham” a couple of times.
Abdul shook his head. “Most unfortunate.”
“Yes.”
“Still,” Abdul said, “poor Aarif died a martyr for our cause.”
“Yes.” But a stupid martyr.
“What should I say if the police ever come here?”
Hasham knew they would come here soon.
“Don’t worry. They don’t know about this place yet, Abdul. But to be safe, you must now start destroying all evidence here. All computers. Drill holes in hard drives, files, backup files, flash drives, smash the throwaway phones, destroy the SIM cards. Destroy everything now!”
Abdul looked concerned. “Everything?”
“Yes. Later, you can retrieve data all from your Cloud folders, right?”
“Yes. Fakhir and I can.”
“Good.”
Abdul began smashing computer hard drives and emails and shredding some paper files.
Hasham made a phone call and activated his backup escape plan. He watched Abdul hammer flash drives and shred old backup disks and files. Minutes later, when he finished, he faced Hasham.
“I have destroyed all sources of our metadata. All files and drives. All sources of information.”
“Excellent, Abdul. But you forgot one.”
“Where?” Abdul turned and looked around the room for it.
Hasham shot him in the back of the head.
Abdul slumped in his chair, then collapsed onto the floor. He did not move.
“I’m sorry, Abdul,” Hasham whispered. “It was not supposed to end like this. But it had to. You know what I know. You know of our glorious plans for America and Europe. You know my backup escape plan. You know who I’m meeting in Rome and where and when. And you know the police would have tortured you to get all that information.”
