by Jeff Siebold
The second, younger agent said, “Wait,” and began typing on his laptop. Zeke saw the FBI seal and crest appear on the webpage, and a password was typed in. Coleman788, thought Zeke, watching the man’s fingers move across the keys. I’ll probably never need to know that. A moment later, a folder appeared on the screen. Agent Coleman double clicked on a file, and Zeke saw it open. The agent started reading, paraphrasing what he saw.
“Once, in the mid-1990s,” Coleman said, “after the Ruby Ridge and Waco siege disasters, we, the FBI, tried to arrest one of our Ten Most Wanted that we’d tracked to his nephew’s property in Zinc. We were met by a militia of armed paramilitary soldiers who patrolled the interior of their fenced compound constantly, day and night. Demands to surrender the man went unheeded, and it says that the FBI’s usual tactics were ineffective.
“At one point,” he said, continuing to read, “the FBI agents attempted to shut down the power to the compound, only to find that the entire property was attached to generators. Another attempt to broach the barrier involved stopping traffic to and from the compound, and starving out the group. But when questioned, town citizens advised the FBI that there was enough food in the compound to feed all of the militia members and their families for two years.” He looked up at Zeke. “Looks like the men in Zinc were well prepared for a siege.”
He paused, reading on.
“It says here that after five months the agents pulled back and maintained an observational team on the compound for another month or so. A lack of available funding closed down that operation, and the suspect was later apprehended in Harrison in a bar with a local girl.”
* * *
Bill Crawford stood at the white board in the large conference room. He was surrounded by a team of his FBI agents, along with ATF’s Dan Wheeler, Clive and Zeke.
“OK, so we’ll approach from the west. We’ll take Highway 7 north out of Harrison and then head east on Zinc Road just before Bergman. Bergman’s a small town between the two. The road’s in pretty good condition. That’ll have us approaching Zinc from the northwest,” said Crawford, pointing at a map tacked to a cork board.
“Where’s the compound?” asked Zeke.
“It’s actually northeast of the town a bit further, along a dirt road. There’s nothing around it but woods and wild hogs,” said Crawford. “Satellite images are good, but most of the structures are under stands of trees, and the satellites can’t get clear shots of the buildings or the numbers of men there.”
“And I’d bet they’re all dressed in olive green or camo, so they’ll blend and look alike,” said Zeke.
“Right. But they shouldn’t be expecting anything just now,” said Crawford.
“How about drones with infrared cameras?” asked Zeke. “They should give us a feel for their numbers.”
“I agree,” said Clive. “No sense trying to storm the castle until we know the size of their defense.”
“After Waco and Ruby Ridge, I tend to agree with you. Or better yet, we need to get them to leave the compound, then take them quietly.” This from Crawford.
“That would be ideal,” said Clive. “But it’s unlikely that they would leave the compound with the automatic weapons. That’s probably the safest place to keep them.”
“The three men I’ve been tracking are paramilitary types,” said Zeke. “They’re probably an advance team set up to acquire the weapons and take them back to the Arkansas Freemen compound. They may also be the bank robbers.”
“Sure,” said Crawford. “We’re not absolutely sure who the leader is. But it could well be a fellow named Biggers. Robert Biggers. He’s been around this area for years, protesting taxes and promoting Second Amendment rights. At one point, he got himself an on-line degree in theology. Calls himself Reverend Biggers. We haven’t heard much from him lately, though.”
“How do we get the H&K’s?” asked Dan Wheeler, focusing the team on his part of the problem.
“Well, we either get them to bring the guns out,” said Crawford, “or we go in after them with force.”
“We’re thinking that these guys are involved in the bank robberies, too,” Zeke said to Crawford. “So I think ‘divide and conquer’ may be the best strategy. If we catch them leaving the compound and heading for another robbery, they’re sure to have some of the H&K’s with them. Right?”
“True,” said Crawford. “And we know from the security cameras that there are only three men at each robbery. Two in the bank and a driver. So we could stop them, arrest them on gun charges and turn them against the good Reverend.”
“Best case scenario, we could,” said Wheeler.
“Lets start with the drones at night and see if we can get infrared readings that will give us a headcount,” said Crawford. “I like that idea. Then we’ll know what we’re up against.”
“They’ll likely have women and children in the compound, won’t they?” asked Zeke.
“Almost certainly,” said Crawford. “Our guys assigned to keep an eye on these groups in northwest Arkansas and southern Missouri say that the various militia have a lot of common characteristics. Keeping family close is one of them.”
“What would be a typical size for a group like this?” asked Clive.
“Probably between thirty and fifty people,” said Crawford, after referencing an open file. “And about half would be women and children, typically.”
“OK, so let’s gather all the intel we can get,” said Crawford. “I’ll get my guys going on it. We’ll reconvene in a few days. Say this time, three days from now.”
“That works,” said Zeke.
* * *
Zeke drove the 300 miles from Little Rock to the east Dallas suburbs in under four and a half hours. It was raining when he arrived in Rockwall and crossed the bridge over Lake Ray Hubbard. On the west side of the lake, he turned north on the turnpike and headed for Richardson.
From there the ride was slow and soggy. It looked as if it had been raining for a while, with standing water at the curbs and intersections. Zeke knew that the Dallas soil, much of it Backland Prairie soil, was subject to runoff, and in heavy rain the reservoirs could be flooded with dirt and debris. The volume of standing water from the current deluge indicated that it had been raining for a while. Consequently, traffic was backed up.
Richardson and McKinney, Texas, were both on Roger’s active investigations list. They were about twenty minutes apart by car, and Zeke had chosen these two locations as his first stop because of their proximity to each other, and to Little Rock. His plan was to use the information that had been tracked and isolated by Roger Taylor’s software system to track down the possible terrorists.
According to the file, the ‘primary contact’ at the University of Texas- Dallas campus, located in Richardson, was a student named Amir Khan, who was in his fifth year as a graduate student and lived off campus in a nearby apartment. Amir was reportedly from Iraq and was enrolled in the International Studies program. Based on Roger’s research, he was from a wealthy Sunni Muslim family with a serious hatred of the current Syrian president.
Roger had identified a pattern of cell phone communications between Amir and nine other students that fit the profile of the FBI algorithm. E-mail communications to and from Amir Khan also loosely matched a pattern associated with some terrorist groups, and the content of the e-mails appeared to be generally innocuous and random. Roger’s notes indicated that this most likely meant that an Arabic word-code was being used.
The FBI file had identified the nine students at the Richardson campus who were a part of the communications patterns that pointed to Amir Khan as a possible leader. Apparently he’s a check-in point for the other students, Zeke thought. The e-mail and text communication patterns were groupings, where on certain days at certain hours all nine in the group communicated with Amir within a small window of time. There were a number of other patterns identified by Roger Taylor’s algorithm, including the placement of Khan’s return texts and a series of internat
ional calls to Syria.
“Welcome to the Hilton Garden Inn,” said the desk clerk when Zeke stepped out of the rain and into the lobby. He was a tall, red haired boy, no more than twenty-three or -four at most, likely a student at the University of Texas, possibly with a work-study job at the hotel. He had pale skin and large hands with obvious callouses, and to Zeke he smelled faintly like a plug of chaw. His name badge read “Red Parker”. Zeke would have bet that he was wearing cowboy boots, but he couldn’t confirm it from his side of the lobby desk.
“Thanks, Red. Do you play baseball?” asked Zeke.
“Yes, sir,” said Red. “First base for the Comets, the UT team.”
“How’d you guys do last season?” asked Zeke.
“We won 29 games last season,” said Red Parker. He smiled. “Ended up in third place.”
“That’s sixty-three percent wins,” said Zeke. “Nice record.”
“How can I help you?” Red was still smiling at the memory of last season’s victories when he asked. Zeke showed his identification and Red checked him into the hotel.
“Breakfast in the morning between 6:30 and 10, over there,” said Red, as he pointed. “Elevators are behind you, and the Wifi password is on your room key.”
“Great, thanks,” said Zeke. He paused and looked Red in the eyes. “You’re a student here, so you may know this. Where would I find the Arabic Student Group?”
“At UT?” asked Red. “Go to the Administration Building on campus and ask about the Student Groups. Each one has a Faculty Coordinator, and they can tell you how to get in with the right person.” Red looked at his watch. “I think they close at 4:30 today, so you may want to call or visit them pretty soon.”
Chapter 10
“I’m looking for the Faculty Coordinator for the Arabic Student Group,” said Zeke into the phone. He waited.
“That would be Nanet McGuire,” said the bored female voice on the other end of the line. “I’ll give you her contact information, if you have a pencil.”
Zeke seldom used a pencil. When he did, it was usually to put the person he was interviewing on alert that his answers were being recorded. With his almost eidetic memory, Zeke retained most all of the information he received. It was simply a matter of thinking back to the situation and replaying it in his mind. And his memory for numbers was automatic.
“Ready,” said Zeke.
She gave him a phone number and an office room number for Nanet McGuire. “That’s in this building,” she added, naming the building.
“Is she there now?” asked Zeke.
“I’m not sure, but office hours are until 4:30 today, so probably so,” she said, and she hung up.
Zeke dialed Nanet McGuire’s phone number. The call was answered by a harried female voice. “Hello, yes?”
“Ms. McGuire?”
“Yes, just a moment,” the voice answered. There was some talk between women on the other end of the line, and then, “I’m back. Sorry. It’s Mrs. McGuire, by the way.”
“Mrs. McGuire, hello,” he said. “My name is Zeke Traynor, and I’d like to make an appointment to see you.”
Zeke explained a portion of his reason for visiting and set an appointment to meet Nanet McGuire thirty minutes later.
* * *
Zeke knocked on the office door and when Nanet McGuire answered his knock, he stepped in and scanned the room. It was about six foot by eight foot in size and crammed full with a wooden desk and bookshelves on every wall. The desk was covered with stacks of papers held down by obscure items that resulted from a career in academia, such as staplers, pencil cups, a calculator, a glasses case, a personal fan and a snuffed out candle.
Zeke stepped to the guest chair facing the large desk. He moved a stack of papers from the seat of the chair onto the top of a bookshelf and, after Nanet McGuire sat, he sat.
Mrs. McGuire was of Middle Eastern descent, perhaps Egyptian. She had high cheekbones and a circular face, with brown almond shaped eyes. Her skin tone was tan. She spoke with a slight, undistinguished accent…maybe a pinch of British English, Zeke thought.
“Hello.” He reached across the desk by way of introduction and shook her hand. It was cool and dry. “I’m Zeke Traynor.”
“Hello,” she said. “Call me Nenet, like the Goddess of the Depth. Very mysterious, you know.”
“They pronounced it ‘Nanet’ when I called.”
“Welcome to north Texas.” She smiled. “How can I help the FBI?”
“Well, I’m working with the FBI,” Zeke clarified. “Looking into some student organizations. I understand that you’re the Faculty Coordinator for the Arabic Student Group.”
“Yes,” said Nenet, “I am.”
“How did you get that assignment?” Zeke asked. “Are you originally from that part of the world?”
“I’m Egyptian,” she said. “I married an Irishman, an academician with an interest in archaeology,” she said. “Egyptian relics.”
“I see,” said Zeke. “Well, this is kind of routine. We’re looking at several schools to try and confirm a link to terrorist sympathizers.”
“And you’d start with the Middle Eastern students, of course,” she said with some annoyance rising in her voice. Her face flushed. “This isn’t the first time that your agency has profiled my students based on nationality and religion. It’s ridiculous.”
“If that’s what we were doing, I’d agree,” said Zeke, calmly, with a disarming smile. “But in this case, we may have evidence of a direct connection between some of your students and terrorist sympathizers. I’d like to explain.”
“This isn’t a witch hunt, is it?” she asked.
“No, specifically our information points to communications between a graduate student, Amir Khan and eight other students with patterns that appear to be suspicious. What can you tell me about Amir?”
“Oh, Amir. Yes, he has some strong views, and he’s not afraid to share them. But I don’t think he’s a terrorist. He does like to take advantage of his freedom of speech, though,” Nenet said. She shook her head and said, “But, no, I don’t think he would hurt anyone.”
“I know,” said Zeke, “and that’s part of why I’m talking with you. To get a proper perspective about the young man and his friends.”
“The Arabic Student Group is in colleges all over the country, including ours. The University of Texas here in Dallas is very welcoming toward students from Iran, Iraq, Syria, Egypt, Saudi Arabia and other places in that region of the world. And it has been for years. But I think you’ll find that there are many institutions of higher education that share the same position. Being from one of those countries does not make one a terrorist.” She emphasized the “not”. She was getting herself worked up again.
“No doubt,” said Zeke. “And you’d be surprised how many inquiries we make that amount to nothing at all. But, tell me about Mr. Khan, if you would.”
“Amir’s from Iraq,” she started. “He’s a graduate student in International Studies, and he’s working on his thesis, as well as taking classes. He lost some family in the war in Syria a few years back, and he has some strong feelings about the civil war.”
“Where can I find him?” asked Zeke.
“He should be on campus now. You can talk in the Student Union. Let me call him and see,” said Nenet.
* * *
The boy sitting across from Zeke was handsome in a brooding sort of way. He had a strong chin, but his body was narrowly built and he looked furtive to Zeke. His brown eyes were defiant and his attitude was aggressive.
“Thanks,” said Zeke.
“For what?” asked Amir.
“For meeting with me.” Zeke smiled, ignoring the boy’s attitude.
Amir was silent.
“So, how do you feel about the fighting in Iraq?” asked Zeke.
Amir’s eyes flashed. “That’s not why you’re here,” he said through clenched teeth. His voice had an Iraqi tone to it, Zeke noticed.
“Well, so
rt of,” said Zeke. “We’re looking at possible terrorist groups, and your name came up pretty quickly.”
“You’re profiling me because I’m from Iraq,” he said.
“That kind of talk may make the police back off,” said Zeke, “but it won’t work with the FBI. They’ve been watching you and your group for a while, now.”
Amir Khan thought about that for a moment.
“I’m not a terrorist,” he said. He looked around the room at the students sitting at worktables and those on the soft chairs. The Student Union was active, but Zeke noticed a number of people were leaving, most likely for dinner.
“You’re completing your thesis?” asked Zeke.
“I am,” said Amir, responding to the neutral question.
“What can you tell me about these people?” asked Zeke, handing Amir a list of nine names, his and the eight others isolated by Roger Taylor’s algorithm. “Who are they?”
Amir looked at the list and shook his head.
“Who are they?” asked Zeke.
“Not terrorists,” said Amir. “I have to go now.”
* * *
McKinney, Texas, was a suburban stop on the highway, twenty miles north of Richardson. As Zeke turned off Highway 75, he saw a community with obviously restrictive zoning and planned development. The visible grass was green and well tended, signs were small, trees and bushes were abundant and the retail improvements that lined the street appeared to be in good condition. University Drive, which connected Highway 75 with the college campus was a busy six-lane road.
Roger Taylor’s list for Collin College in McKinney was smaller than that for the University of Texas–Dallas, but it was worth investigating. There were five names on the list, people who had been identified by FBI computers as possible terrorists, based upon their communications pattern, Internet usage and other key factors. Zeke had noticed immediately that one name was included on both colleges’ lists. That name was Amir Khan.
