The Bombmaker: A Michael Thomas Thriller

by Gavin Reese

He ambled toward the stairs, now well behind the hurried crowds that had disembarked the train when it first stopped. If I had a tail, they’re well in front of me or they couldn’t get off the train. I’m clean for the moment. Keeping himself behind the rushing commuters, Michael followed the Metro signage to the platform for the northbound #13 line and reviewed the order of the upcoming stations. Nine stops to the end of the line, but I need to get off one early to avoid the forced exodus.

  Michael strode to the far end of the platform to board the next train’s lead car. A digital overhead sign announced the next arrival in four minutes. After finding an isolated bench, Michael sat, retrieved his work cell, and reviewed the intel list he’d sent to John several hours ago through their encrypted communication app:

  --lease records and known building tenants

  --vehicle registrations

  --voter, census, visa, immigrant records tied to building

  --income records for potential suspects

  --shipping info from chemical supplier for building and local mailbox

  --postal records of mail recipients in the building

  --utility and power usage records

  Michael read over the short list again, well aware it represented a mountain of work for its recipients. What am I missing? When nothing came to mind, he again glanced among the growing crowd around him. No one’s familiar. Michael next opened a notepad app and revisited the equipment list he’d left in the hotel safe for Jacques:

  --long distance mic, concealable if possible

  --chemical sniffer for CBRNE operations and hazmat operations

  --IR or thermal, FLIR if possible

  --handheld digital translator

  --govt ID or social welfare NGO documents

  --triggerfish or similar

  --covert Wi-Fi cams and extra batteries for balcony/windows attachment

  Michael wondered if Jacques knew what a triggerfish was. Should’ve just asked for a tech device that can mimic a cell tower to identify and record electronic communications in the immediate area.

  Trash strewn along the rail lines rustled for several seconds before a warm, humid breeze brushed Michael’s face. Delivered by Doppler Effect and amplified by the subway tunnels, the whine and squeaks of an approaching train echoed onto the platform. Michael stood and inhaled. The air inside every subway smells like steamed bums, mold, and machine oil. A few add stale urine, too, just for local flavor. The breeze intensified and scattered litter along the tracks while the train’s brakes squealed in a long metal-on-metal protest over every other sound on the platform. The aging Metro train emerged from the tunnel and ground to a hasty stop. Michael hadn’t yet found any potential adversaries among the gathered passengers, so he dropped his phone back in his pants pocket and boarded the lead car.

  brrtbrrt brrtbrrt

  The phone vibrated against his leg, and Michael quickly retrieved it. He hurried to open the encrypted messaging app with his fingerprint before the train departed and his phone lost its signal. John already responded.

  “I’ll try to work my magic, shithead, but don’t hold your breath. I almost guarantee we can’t get all this info for you. Proceed as if you’ll never have any of it, and I’ll push the desk nerds to do their best. Stay frosty. -- John”

  As the train departed Place de Clíchy Station, Michael dropped the phone back in his pocket and scanned the other passengers again. Absent a potential threat, Michael reminded himself of his detailed plan for that morning’s objectives. Gotta keep the hospitals, landmarks, and safe havens in mind, along with the fastest route to them. John’s devoted more time and effort to this investigation, and it re-iterates the danger I’m facing out here alone, and how much relies on my success. Just because John ran solitary, seat-of-the-pants operations all over the world doesn’t mean that shit was ever a good idea or best-practice. More than anything, it means he needs to buy a lottery ticket. Michael looked out at the metal and concrete tunnel passing by just feet from the plastic windowpanes. I think my old life as a cop exhausted my dumb luck. I can't afford to tempt fate anymore.

  Michael’s cell phone again vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out just enough to read an automated calendar notification: Ramadan begins. He contemplated that unexpected reality, and whether it might impact the investigation. Replacing his phone, Michael scanned the other passengers again and noticed a group of three Muslim men clad in dark gowns and blue skullcaps alternately eyeing him and talking among themselves. Michael surveyed the rest of the car and realized many of its occupants were Muslim, Middle Eastern, or both. I should've noticed that. I’m too focused on finding familiar people I’ve seen somewhere else. Behavior matters more than anything else, but homogeny isn’t insignificant, either.

  Michael hoped the three were headed to a mosque for the sunrise prayers. I’m already drawing attention, and I can’t risk running into the same three men for the next week. He shifted his focus back out the window and tried to appear docile and harmless. I need to find a perch near the apartment building. The overhead map showed a parking garage to the southwest, but there isn’t any place to stay in there. No hide sites.

  Michael risked a glance back at the three men who also remained interested in him. Please God, don’t make me need Roscoe today. But, if I’m forced into such action, make my shots smooth, accurate, and few.

  May 7, 06:14am

  8 Rue du Corbillon. Seine-Saint-Denis, France.

  Abdel Abdullah Abrini strode toward the neighborhood mosque and joined a growing crowd outside that waited their turn to enter. The call to prayer sounded through a tinny public address speaker hung above the only entrance, and Abdel forced a pleasant smile to conceal his emotions. The Mu’athan who calls the imposter Muslims to pray in this mosque five times each day is a heretic of the highest order. His day of reckoning fast approaches and Allah will judge his obedience much sooner than he now expects. Despite the animosity Abdel held for the imam and the unbelievers who followed him, he rejoiced at his purpose for visiting today.

  The narrow doorway and interior hallway created a chokepoint that slowed the congregation’s ingress and egress. While they pooled and shuffled forward, many around him caught up with friends and neighbors. Abdel had avoided personal interaction with everyone but the imam, and he’d still worked to limit his contact with Siddiqi. I have no reason to know these pseudo-Muslims who seek appeasement with the West and threaten Islam’s destruction. If they will not aid me, they are an enemy of Allah that works against me. They will soon realize their mistakes, but without time to avoid the consequences.

  Someone behind Abdel brought up news of the ongoing investigation into the cause of the 15-April fire at the Notre Dame Cathedral. A brief smile came to his face as he relished the memory of flames leaping high above the heretics’ monument. Abdel regained control of his elation as a second man behind him responded to his friend’s inquiry.

  “It is shameful, a terrible loss if only an accident, but if proven to have been arson? What an abomination to God to target and persecute another people of faith. If someone intended to burn the Notre Dame, I pray it was not one of ours.”

  Abdel resisted his deep, heartfelt desire to berate the unknown man as the nonbeliever he was. Today is too important, and Allah has used this imposter to remind me that our house requires the same cleaning He provided to the cathedral for its worship of a false god and prophet. Mankind may think it an accident, but nothing happens without His permission.

  None of the surrounding men engaged Abdel, and he feared they understood his demeanor better than he expected. After finally stepping over the threshold, he saw Imam Abdul Siddiqi at the end of the narrow hallway. The spiritual leader shook hands with each man and greeted the women as they filed inside. Dressed in a simple white taqiyah skullcap and brown linen robe, Siddiqi presented the requisite appearance of a man in his position. He never wears gold or silk and shows pride in his presentation without arrogance. It is a shame he blasphemes Allah and lea
ds his servants so far astray.

  Abdel had scheduled his meeting for today, a Tuesday, because attending mosque for prayers was optional until the khutbah, the mandated Friday prayer. Although larger khutbah crowds offered greater anonymity, Abdel feared various French authorities watched and tracked Friday’s congregation, the jamaa’ah, at every mosque. I can’t risk bowing next to one government agent and being photographed and identified by another.

  Abdel smiled when the man before him walked away from Siddiqi. He stepped forward, extended his right hand, and awaited the man’s greeting.

  Siddiqi grasped him like a long-lost friend. “Alsalam ealaykum, Brother Abdel, Allah’s blessings unto you.”

  “Walsalam ealaykum.” He was too surprised and curious to match the imam’s enthusiasm. The religious leader offered a warm smile, but his eyes showed the suspicion and uncertainty that Abdel feared. He would be an agent of the West given the chance, and I cannot permit him the time and opportunity to aid their efforts.

  Abdel released the imam’s grip, averted his gaze, and continued to the washroom, where he cleansed his hands, arms, feet, and genitals. With that ritual complete, Abdel entered the musalla, the small mosque’s prayer hall, and casually scanned the congregation and spotted the clothing he’d required the contact to wear: a yellow short-sleeved shirt and green taqiyah. Abdel had needed him to stand out without drawing too much attention and he, of course, could not identify Abdel. Keeping to himself, Abdel watched the rest of the crowd until Siddiqi approached the pulpit. No one had shown interest in him or his contact, so he placed himself at the younger man’s left side and tried to make their proximity appear circumstantial.

  Abdel offered the customary greeting, which the man returned, but he maintained such a passive expression that Abdel glanced around in search of another man in similar clothing. Seeing no other yellow short-sleeved shirts, Abdel began their coded exchange. “Have you been here for Jumu’ah khutbah?”

  Yellow Shirt offered a slight smile. “Once, many years ago, while visiting family nearby.”

  Abdel nodded. “I expect you will find none greater anywhere.” It is complete.

  The mu’athan ended his call to prayer at 6:24am, the appointed time for that morning’s worship. Siddiqi began the prayer ritual and fulfilled his role as Khateeb.

  After the fifteen-minute ritual concluded, Abdel remained next to his contact as the congregation rose and maneuvered back toward the single-file exit. He spoke in a hushed tone after ensuring that Siddiqi was not watching them. “You and your men are prepared?”

  “Yes. Prepared and eager.”

  Abdel allowed himself a smile. Both teams are ready, and neither know of the other. “Very good. Once you return to your quarters, discard this clothing. Do not wear it again. Do not keep it. Do not leave it in your trash for collection. Take it elsewhere, someplace that cannot be associated with you and your men. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. I will make it so.”

  “You will not see me again until the day we proceed, but I will email you the delivery date, time, and location. Keep your men together and isolate yourselves as much as possible. Wait for my word but stay vigilant. Our ascension is imminent, my brother.”

  Abdel warmly clasped the man’s shoulder and then turned and left the narrow hallway without another word. I can’t be seen outside the mosque with him. Neither of us can risk being placed under investigation. Our success now depends on their simultaneous seclusion from society and encouragement from one another.

  Abdel strode back into the main entrance to his apartment building. Confident he’d so far escaped detection by the French authorities, his thoughts remained focused on the two groups of five men who awaited his devices and permission to martyr themselves. We must move before they falter from Allah’s appointed path. A lonely mind has too much time and space to wander, so they must stay sequestered together to remain determined to advance closer toward that One Great Day.

  May 7, 11:32pm (PDT) / 08:15am (Rome)

  Rural Training Compound. Esmerelda County, Nevada.

  After finishing his nightly Compline prayer recitation, John stood and accepted the realization that he needed help managing the Absolver’s recruitment, training, and ongoing field operations. This is too much, and I’m gettin’ too old to keep chuggin' along on four hours a night. It’s a young man’s game, and I’ve kept it up a decade longer than most. He checked his watch, added nine hours, and dialed his superior’s phone number. If the bishop ain’t up by now, he damned well oughta be.

  “Bonjourno.” Hoffaburr had been greeting John in Italian, and he didn’t know if it was eccentricity or the man’s futile efforts to blend into the local population.

  “Morning. Need to get a hand with a couple things, if ya got a minute.”

  “I have a few moments before my next meeting. How may I serve you and our men today?”

  John’s indigestion bubbled up at the hypocrisy. If they’re ‘yours,’ you oughta put their needs first for a goddamned change. He reached for a bottle of antacids on his desk and ignored the question. “We got a massive intel request from Andrew on this Paris operation. If you’ll recall, I told ya we sent him over there too soon without much to go on, and now that he’s got his feet wet, he needs a lotta back-office support. I need priority allocation on enough analysts and intel resources to get the answers our man needs.”

  “What’s he requested?”

  His boss’ tone conveyed disbelief, so John put his readers back on and summarized the list. “Let’s see. He needs to know about utility records for every apartment in the building, power, water, and gas. Vehicles registered to that building, cross-referenced against the known tenants in each apartment. He'd like for us to look for vehicles and apartments registered only to women.”

  “Does he understand the target’s a man?”

  John closed his eyes, shook his head, and silently swore. Hate havin’ to explain the basics to my bosses, and it hasn't changed no matter where I’ve worked. The good operators hardly ever leave the field, and the ineffective ones get promoted. “In literal Islamic cultures, women don’t generally live on their own, so, apartments and vehicles registered only to women are good indicators a man’s livin’ there that don’t wanna be known to authorities, for whatever reason.”

  Hoffaburr scoffed and John pressed on with the list. “He also wants us to get postal records of deliveries and known tenants, and, a-course, to compare ‘em against the apartment lease info. We need to pull records from nearby private postal companies and see if anyone from the building rents a mailbox or gets deliveries somewhere else. Check police and civil records for noise complaints, suspicious odors, or anything consistent with a haz-mat issue. And he wants us to hack into the Chinese chemical manufacturer databases to look for shipping addresses near the target building, and for known or registered tenants.”

  “Isn’t that beyond our reach?”

  “The companies aren’t under total government control, so, if their records are on a computer network, we can get ‘em, just a matter of time. Lemme see, what else? Also needs to know income and employment records for anyone registered or known to the apartment building. But,” John chuckled and pulled the cheaters off his face, “that’s about the gist of it. Best part is that it’s urgent. If Andrew can’t get it yesterday, that’s alright, as long as we can drum up the info right now.”

  Hoffaburr cleared his throat. “I’ll call the on-duty analyst supervisor at DICE and get whatever you need. We have enough code-word-authorized analysts and researchers, and nothing we’ve done so far has raised suspicions. This should be no different, and they’ve always come through for us.”

  “I appreciate the urgency. I’m still worried we’ve set him up for real trouble over there. The other thing, and I’m afraid it’s gonna keep comin’ up, but I really wanna dedicate a team to this one. We’re short on time, damned thin on corroborated knowledge, and the neighborhood’s--”

  “No.” Hoff
aburr’s curt response stopped John’s objection. “I don’t understand where I’ve been unclear, or why you continually revisit the topic. No teams. Ever. Not for any reason, for any investigation, or for any Absolver. The risk to our operational security is too great if they’re allowed to become too familiar with one another. You agreed--”

  “Yes, Your Eminence, I did agree to the premise, but a few-a the threats are beyond the capability of a singleton asset, especially with how we’ve limited the training program. We’re not workin’ these men up to be full-on secret agents, so if you and the hierarchy wanna send ‘em all over the world to every hotspot that pops up, with not a goddamned ounce of regard for their safety--”

  “How many times did you find yourself in dire straits with your previous employer?”

  John exhaled and shook his head. “That’s different, these kids ain’t no fuckin’ Jason Bourne, we ain’t givin’ ‘em that kinda training--”

  “Yet, they continue to go out into the dangers in which we thrust them, and they come back every time. And, I might add, relatively unscathed, despite facing what you perpetually fear are far superior adversaries.”

  “If we ignore that Andrew damned-near died of a drug overdose in Vienna, or that Alpha contracted malaria, or that Jude--”

  “And yet, all are upright and operational today.” Hoffaburr sounded pleased to have used John’s vernacular. “I’d offer that your quality as a trainer and instructor must far exceed that of your mentors. You should stop being so hard on your training program, and perhaps consider that God won’t put anything before our men they’re incapable of resolving.”

  John scoffed. “Well, not until He does.” He shook his head and seethed in silence.

  “No teams. Not ever. How can I make myself so clear that we never revisit this topic?”

  “Consider it done.” John disconnected the call and considered his options. At some point, I’ll have to betray either the men below or above me. I ain’t there yet, but I think I can see it from here.