Bluegrass and Crimson

by Jeff Siebold

  “And second, let’s assume that some of those members are planning something that has taken them away from the university area and has put them in another place. Which means that there’s probably a schedule, which is not such a good thing.”

  “OK, then, where are they?” asked Clive.

  * * *

  “How are you fixed for gin?” asked Clive, looking through the cupboard in Zeke’s hotel room. Clive had taken a break to handle some administrative items and then they reconvened across the street in the Hotel Harrington.

  “Knew you were coming,” said Zeke. “The Boodles is in the armoire. Tonic, too.”

  “Very good,” said Clive, as he began to build himself a drink. The hotel room was a mini-suite with a king sized bed separated by a half-wall from a sitting area with a couch and a chair. It was decorated in a Modern Inn design, with bright colors, abstract prints on the walls and oddly patterned carpeting on the floor.

  “The FBI forensics team is still working on the apartment,” Clive said as he worked. He filled the glass to half with ice, and then carefully poured the British Gin over the cubes. “This would be better with a single, large ice cube,” he said to Zeke. “Doesn’t dilute the gin as quickly.”

  “For that to be true,” said Zeke wryly, “ the gin would need to stay in the glass a little bit longer than you allow.”

  Clive smiled and ignored the comment. “I know they’re not done with the search, but I received a call just before I came over. They found something that might help us.”

  “In the UVA terrorist’s apartment?” Zeke asked.

  “Yes, they found a credit card statement, well, several, in the drawer of the end table by the couch. They were in Asad Hassan’s name and showed charges for petrol and fast food and such between Charlottesville and northern Virginia on several dates.”

  “As far as DC?” Zeke asked.

  “No, but fairly close by,” said Clive. “The statements also showed charges for a warehouse rental in a town named Culpeper in Virginia. Undoubtedly the town was named for that courtier who was fooling with Henry the Eight’s young wife, Catherine Howard in 1541. Caused them all to be beheaded, you know. Thomas Culpeper, I believe.”

  “That was his name,” said Zeke. “But as I recall,” an ironic comment coming from Zeke, “it was Catherine Howard who was convicted of seducing Culpeper at Chenies Palace in Buckinghamshire, wasn’t it? The Tudors and all that?”

  Clive ignored this also, as if Zeke had commented on the score of a cricket match. He took another sip of gin. The glass was perilously close to being empty. He stood to refill it.

  Zeke smiled to himself. “So the town of Culpeper is about ninety minutes west of DC, and with good interstate and state road linkages. It’s not far from Richmond, either, but if Richmond is the target, why rent a warehouse an hour in the opposite direction? They could have pulled off a strike in Richmond from the duplex at the university.”

  “And there aren’t many large cities near Culpeper, which sort of points to Washington as the target. Maybe something in the metro area,” said Clive.

  “Right, or multiple sites,” said Zeke. “Do we have the address of the warehouse he rented?”

  Chapter 38

  Zeke, Clive and Kimmy were in Clive’s office, looking at an electronic map of northern Virginia, viewing the aerial option.

  “We’ve identified the warehouse in Culpeper,” said Zeke.

  “Right,” said Clive.

  “Why would a college student rent a warehouse out in the country?” asked Kimmy.

  “Why would a terrorist cell rent a warehouse in the country?” asked Zeke. “Staging area?”

  “Possibly, but for what?” she asked.

  “A direct terrorist attack, we’re afraid,” said Clive.

  “Wow,” said Kimmy.

  “Based on Culpeper’s location, it seems that they would be going east, toward DC,” said Clive. He sipped a cup of Twinings Prince of Wales tea in a Royal Albert cup and set it on the table in front of him. The china pattern looked like old country roses. “Probably connect on Interstate 66 at Gainesville, and travel across I-495 into the heart of Washington, or somewhere close to it. There’s plenty of traffic to hide in. I doubt that a tail would be able to stay with them.”

  “It would have to be electronic surveillance, I agree,” said Zeke. He smelled the English tea’s earthy scent.

  “I’m wondering, though,” Zeke continued “is the target actually in the metro area? You remember what that one terrorist, Fakhir, said in the interview. That this would strike a blow as hasn’t been felt since 9/11.”

  “Yes,” said Clive, thinking. “I actually thought that he was aggrandizing his cause…”

  “I’m sure that we can identify the target,” said Zeke. “We should have enough data from the interviews of the three we arrested. Let’s think about this.”

  “Good,” said Clive. “OK, what do we know for certain? And what can we assume?”

  “Well, that the attack is imminent. The terrorists are in their final stages of preparation and they had Roger Taylor killed to buy enough time to finish their jihad. Based on the evidence we found in the Charlottesville duplex and the interviews, it seems like a well organized effort, set to make a statement of some kind.”

  “Agreed,” said Clive.

  “And we know that the group had procured automatic weapons and vest bombs for the attack. No small task,” said Zeke. “It appears that they’re well funded and well organized.”

  “Right,” said Clive, sipping his tea.

  “Let’s look at motivation,” he continued. “From my time with the group, we know that there are at least ten people involved, probably more. So how do you keep their attention? This is a lot more than painting banners and attending marches.”

  “Yes,” said Clive. “And to keep the attention of students takes a constant effort. More evidence of some kind of imminent action. They wouldn’t stay focused for very long.”

  “Not the ones we interviewed,” agreed Zeke. “They were pretty much idealistic kids.”

  “The one young man, Sa’ood Abbab, kept talking about Muhammad’s journey on his horse, Buraq. He was obviously high and it made no sense at the time, but let’s take another look at that interview,” said Zeke.

  “OK, we’ll start with that one. Let me have the film set up for us,” said Clive.

  * * *

  The young man’s face was on the computer screen on the table in front of Zeke and Clive. He was obviously amped up on something. Zeke suspected it was captagon or some other amphetamine. He looked wide-eyed, restless, nervous and unstable.

  Sa’ood was sitting at a table in a small room. The camera was aimed at his face and there were gray concrete blocks in the wall behind him. Zeke recognized it as one of the interrogation rooms at the DC FBI Headquarters. There was a can of soda on the table and the interview was underway.

  “So, Sa’ood Abbab,” said the interviewer, from off camera, “what does your group have planned? We know that you’re terrorists, planning an attack here in the United States.”

  The interviewer used a formal and authoritative tone, a superior tone, which was intended to demand compliance from the 18-year-old boy. “Tell me,” he said.

  “No, it is nothing like that,” said Sa’ood. “We are just students at the University…” He tensed his upper body as he stared at the interviewer, apparently maintaining eye contact. He didn’t blink much.

  “Tell me about the duplex apartment where we found you.” The FBI interviewer was mixing his questions at this stage of the interview to keep Sa’ood off balance.

  “My friend is dead, and you killed him,” said Sa’ood. “He had done nothing!”

  “Let’s talk about you, Sa’ood,” said the interviewer. “Tell me about the duplex.”

  Sa’ood took a sip of soda and moved the soda can directly in front of himself on the table. He said, “No, there is nothing. We were studying there, sleeping, that’s all.
”

  “So what’s all this about Muhammad’s horse?” asked the man.

  “It is a story, a part of the religion. It is a story about Muhammad’s steed, Buraq, that took him to the furthest mosque. And then, that night, Muhammad spoke with Allah. They all know the story,” he said.

  “But you are planning an attack here, aren’t you?”

  “No, no. You must be mistaken. You cannot be right.”

  “What about the weapons that we found? And the bombs in the bedroom?”

  “We know nothing of that, damn it! There were no weapons. Someone has planted them there. Toss Feek! We did nothing wrong! Who would put those things in our house?” The boy spoke louder and was becoming agitated.

  Zeke interpreted for Clive. “Toss Feek is Arabic for ‘Screw you’.”

  “Calm down,” said the interviewer from off camera, “I need you to stay calm.” A large man in an FBI windbreaker stepped into the frame, closer to Sa’ood, who glanced up at him, then back at the interviewer.

  “We will fly like Muhammad on his winged steed,” said Sa’ood. “We will honor Allah.”

  After that, the dialog became much more esoteric.

  * * *

  After a few more minutes, Clive shut off the recording. “What do you think?” he asked.

  Zeke looked at Clive, who nodded, indicating that Zeke should go first. Clive sipped his tea.

  “You saw what I saw,” said Zeke. “The kid was lying.”

  “You are looking at it with your counterintelligence eyes,” said Clive.

  “He lied from the start. First he held his upper body stiff, tense,” said Zeke. “He also maintained eye contact. Usually that’s an effort to look honest.”

  “OK,” said Clive.

  “And you saw him move the soda can directly between himself and the interrogator, right?” said Zeke. “That’s a classic response, trying to protect himself, symbolically hiding behind the can to keep his lie from being uncovered.”

  “Right,” said Clive. “I saw that and thought the same thing.”

  “Did you notice him shift to speaking in the second person, when he was accused of planning an attack?” said Zeke. “He went from ‘we’ to ‘you.’ That’s called ‘minimal self-referencing’ and it’s also a characteristic of liars’ conversations.”

  “Anything more?” said Clive.

  “When the weapons were mentioned, he got loud, angry and started swearing. He was trying to act as upset about the situation as the interviewer.”

  “He was,” said Clive.

  “And he was lying,” said Zeke.

  * * *

  “But I think he may have given us the schedule,” said Zeke.

  “How so?” asked Clive. They were back in Clive’s office, sitting in the leather club chairs.

  “His reference to Muhammad’s ride to the farthest mosque? Remember how he babbled on about it?” asked Zeke.

  “I do,” said Clive.

  “He was talking about Lailat al Mi’raj,” said Zeke. “It’s a Muslim holiday, celebrated worldwide.”

  “Yes,” said Clive.

  “This year, it’s celebrated on May 3rd, which is next Tuesday.”

  Chapter 39

  It was a bright and clear Sunday morning, like many others in the nation’s capitol. There were a few white clouds in the sky, but for the most part, the vivid blue showed through and illuminated the spring cherry blossoms lining the streets with a brilliant pink hue. Zeke was crossing the street, moving from his room at the Hotel Harrington to Clive’s office in The Agency, sipping from a paper cupful of Nicaraguan coffee that he’d bought in his hotel lobby. It was about ten in the morning.

  Traffic in DC was the usual stop and go, with cabs, town cars and private vehicles lining Pennsylvania Avenue and the intersecting streets. There was a light breeze that felt cool on Zeke’s freshly shaven face. But still, Zeke was concerned.

  Sally was already in the conference room in Clive’s offices when Zeke arrived. FBI Special Agent Howie Allen was also there with a small contingent of agents and FBI SWAT Team leader, Jack Connell. John Delany, the Deputy Director of the Secret Service was in attendance, as was the DC Deputy Chief of Police, Harold Fisher. Zeke took a seat at the conference table and set his coffee down.

  Clive, at the head of the table, was talking quietly with one of his operatives, sitting beside him. Clive was a master recruiter, and over the years he had populated his business with ex-military intelligence and ex-FBI types. The Agency did difficult contract work, typically for government entities that wished to maintain a level of plausible deniability. Today was different. Today, they expected a storm was brewing.

  “All right, let’s start,” said Clive, a moment later. He was wearing a gray suit with light blue accent threading and a starched white shirt that matched his erect bearing. His presence was palpable.

  The men and women around the room quieted and gave their attention to Clive. They were accustomed to attending meetings, and they were efficient in their attendance. The mood was somber.

  “We have good reason to believe that the attack or attacks that we’ve notified each of you about are planned to take place today or tomorrow. What we don’t know is where they might occur,” Clive said. “The information in front of each of you is a compilation of the most current data that we have, from whatever source, including your own agencies. We’ve acted as a sort of clearinghouse for it, assembling it and making sure that we all know everything there is to know.” He smiled a thin smile.

  “Possible targets abound,” Clive continued. “We’d like to narrow this down, isolate the most likely targets. We have some ideas, but nothing concrete.”

  “We have some very secure sites, the White House, Congress, the Smithsonian… All are on high alert,” said Howie Allen, the FBI team leader. “We’ve doubled the normal coverage. The entire area is being well patrolled, by us as well as Harold’s people.”

  Harold Fisher, the DC cop, nodded.

  “In Paris, the targets were mostly restaurants, and one theater,” said Zeke.

  “Very public places with large groups of people in attendance,” Clive continued.

  “They started their attack at 9:20 PM, and continued until the RAID boys showed up at the theater and shut them down,” said Zeke. “That’s the French National Police’s ‘Research, Assistance, Intervention, Deterrence unit’, as most of you know.” He looked around the table to several nods.

  “So a later strike isn’t out of the question,” said Clive. “But still we need to be prepared throughout the day. How about air power?”

  “Choppers are at the ready; everything we have has been relocated just outside the beltway for the duration. Pilots are all available, in attendance and on standby,” said Rogers.

  “EMS and fire equipment?” asked Clive.

  Harold Fisher responded. “Also at the ready. And the bomb squad.”

  “OK, good,” said Allen. “Clive tells me that his people will be going at this from another direction. Can you expand on that, Clive?”

  “Sure, glad to, Howie,” said Clive. “It certainly sounds as though you have the town tied up tightly. Our agency has been investigating a small group of individuals in Charlottesville who were acting very much like a terrorist cell. Roger Taylor’s programs actually generated the lead.” He paused.

  “Last week, the FBI arrested three members of that group, and two others were killed in the raid. It was in an off-campus duplex that they were renting, near UVA, as well as a separate loft apartment,” Clive continued. “We have information that puts that group being responsible for the planned attack on DC. We think they’re hiding and preparing right now. Our plan is to get to them before they can act.”

  “What intel do you have?” asked John Delany, the Secret Service Deputy Director.

  “We’ve been tracking some automatic weapons,” said Clive. “We have followed them to a location in northern Virginia, possibly a staging area. We’re working with the FB
I and the ATF to close in on that facility.”

  “We’re trying to stop them before they get going,” said Howie Allen, to show his involvement.

  “And we’ve reviewed the interviews of the three we arrested last week,” continued Clive, nodding to Allen. “We have a direction.”

  * * *

  The three black vans raced toward the small town of Culpeper, Virginia; each van was carrying a team of FBI SWAT agents dressed in full gear. They had been dispatched to secure the terrorists and their weapons in a rented warehouse on the south side of town. The men were tense and silent during the ride, checking and double-checking their assault rifles and mentally preparing for the attack.

  “According to our information, this is a stand alone warehouse, metal construction, with dock height overhead doors and a small office area toward the front,” said the team leader, reading from a printed sheet. “The entire perimeter of the property is fenced with hurricane fencing, so we’ll need to cut the wire quickly and quietly.” It was one o’clock in the morning, and the teams were about an hour from the target location.

  “At the same time, we’ll want to take out the exterior lights so we’re not seen,” he continued. “Peterson, you and Saunders are first out to take out the lights,” he said to the two snipers. “Then you set up to protect the perimeter in case anyone escapes. Night vision.” They all knew the drill. They’d been practicing it for years.

  “Aye, aye, skipper,” said Peterson, a blond man with a heavy beard. He was bored but ready for action.

  “Team One will lead us all in,” he continued. “They’ll handle the breach and secure the entry point. Team Two will follow them into the building. We’re expecting less than ten bad guys, but there’s no accurate headcount. Watch out for the fourth man.”

  The ‘fourth man’ was the answer to a training question. The instructors always asked new SWAT recruits, “If you’re fighting three men, which one is the most dangerous?”