Independence Hall

by Roland Smith

  Angela returned his smile.

  I frowned and said, “You still haven’t told us why we’re at Independence Hall.” I braced myself for another kick from Angela, but it didn’t come. I guess she wanted to know why we were there too.

  “What do you know about Islamic terrorism?” Boone asked.

  I had a feeling that I was about to learn more about it than I wanted.

  “I know about 9/11,” I said. “I know we invaded Iraq and Afghanistan. I know about Osama bin Laden. I guess that’s about it.”

  Boone turned his attention to Angela. “How about you?”

  “Mom talked about the war on terrorism a lot,” Angela said. “I’ve read several books on it and dozens of articles.”

  I figured she would one-up me on this subject.

  Boone stopped pacing and leaned both hands on the end of the table.

  “There are something like one-and-a-half-billion Muslims around the world,” he began. “And just like the two-billionplus Christians, most of these Muslims are wonderful people. Very few Muslims are terrorists, but these days most terrorists are Muslims. And this small group is off its chains. The press talks about terrorists being radicalized, but that’s not how terrorists see themselves. They think they’ve been enlightened. Terrorists don’t think they’re bad. They justify their bombings and beheadings and other atrocities on fervent religious beliefs. They say that God is on their side. Christians say that God is on their side. The war we’re fighting is a religious war, which is the worst kind of war. Bottom line…regardless of your religious beliefs we can’t have people killing innocent citizens.

  Boone pointed to my cards. “But the terrorists are holding a pretty high hand. They’re smart, organized, well funded, and willing to die for what they believe. They don’t have rules, but we do, and they use our rules against us. They know a lot more about our cards than we know about theirs.” He paused. “And now they’re operating right here, in the United States.”

  “What do you mean they’re operating here?” Angela asked.

  “Cells,” Boone answered. “Probably dozens of them. And I think they’ve been here for years…waiting.”

  “Do you mean sleeper cells?” Angela asked.

  “Something like that,” Boone answered.

  “Wait a second,” I said. “What’s a sleeper cell?”

  “A group of people inserted into the country, legally or illegally, with families, and legitimate jobs,” Boone explained. “They live in neighborhoods, their kids go to public schools, they’re involved in the community. Their friends, neighbors, and co-workers would never guess in a million years that they’re here to destroy the country. On the outside they’re living the American Dream. On the inside they’re waiting to demolish that dream. One word from their handlers and the nightmare begins.”

  Boone let this sink in for a moment, then continued, “This is what Malak was concentrating on. One of the bombings she prevented here was a clumsy run-of-the-mill attempt by a well-known terrorist group, but the second and third were elaborate and sophisticated. Had either of these worked it would have been demoralizing for the country. He paused again. “Unfortunately, Malak found the bombs, but she didn’t catch the people who planted them.”

  “I haven’t heard about any of these aborted bombings on the news,” Angela said.

  “That because we’re not reporting domestic acts of terrorism unless they’re on such a scale that they can’t be kept secret,” Boone answered.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “The rationale is that it would scare everyone so badly that it might affect our economy. The other reason is that we don’t want to give the terrorists publicity through the media, which is exactly what the terrorists want. The terrorist act is only the fuse. The real damage comes from social and economic repercussions. In our culture that’s the real terror.”

  He came back around the table and retook his seat. “For the past couple of years we’ve been hearing some disturbing chatter… phone conversations, E-mail, street rumors that this sleeper cell is being run by an anonymous terrorist group. It’s said that they’ve been around longer than nearly all of the other terrorist groups and that they in fact recruit the best and brightest from these other groups. And the most interesting thing is that this organization does not take, or want, credit for their terrorist acts.”

  “Then why carry them out?” I asked.

  “I don’t have the answer,” Boone said. “But here’s my educated guess. Like most Islamic terrorists groups, their goal is to further the religion of fundamental Islam. To do this they don’t have to take credit for their acts because they know that some other terrorist group will step up and take the credit for them, which furthers their goal, leaving them undetected and alive to kill again.”

  “You can’t go after a terrorist group that doesn’t exist,” Angela said.

  “Exactly,” Boone said. “It’s not a sleeper cell. It’s a ghost cell.”

  Eben walked into his hotel room followed by Carma and Devorah. He dropped his heavy duffle bag on the bed and glanced at the clock on the bed stand. It was just after midnight.

  “What’s going on?” Devorah asked.

  He told them what had happened outside the restaurant.

  “Who are they?” Carma said.

  “I don’t know,” Eben said.

  “They must be CIA,” Devorah said.

  “FBI,” Carma added. “Homeland Security, National Security Agency, Military Intelligence—”

  Eben shook his head. “I don’t think so,”he said. “Were you able to find out anything about the longhaired man?”

  “Virtually nothing,” Devorah said. “The security guards at the warehouse are all locals. They hadn’t laid eyes on the group before they pulled their coach in. He goes by the name of Tyrone Boone. Do you think he had anything to do with the shakedown in Nevada?”

  “I think he had everything to do with it,”Eben said. “When they left San Rafael he was not in their coach. They picked him up on the way and I assume it was in the desert when they stopped. Did you get inside the coach?”

  “Briefly,” Carma said. “But we had two guards with us and they were both hitting on us the whole time.”

  “We managed to get a couple of bugs in place,” Devorah added. “It should be enough.”

  Eben nodded. “Did you get a photograph of Boone?”

  Carma handed him the memory stick from her digital camera. “Several,” she said.

  Eben took his handheld computer out of his bag and booted it up.

  “Where’s Ziv?” Devorah asked.

  “We split up when we ditched the SUV. He’s getting another vehicle. Then he’s going to see about finding a spot to watch the warehouse.”

  “That’s not going to be easy,” Carma said. “It’s mostly industrial around there. I didn’t see any good stakeout locations.”

  “Doesn’t really matter,” Eben said. “They know we’re watching and by now they have a good idea of who we are.”

  He loaded the photos from the memory stick into the laptop, then ran the images through his database. There were no hits. He then typed in the name Tyrone Boone. Again he drew a blank.

  “Do you have any idea where they are?” Carma asked.

  Eben clinched his jaw. “No I don’t,” he said.

  He stared at the photo on the screen.

  “What do you want us to do?” Devorah asked.

  “Relax, but stay close,” Eben said. “I’m going to take a shower and get some sleep. They’ll have to return to the warehouse eventually. We’ll start again when they do.”

  Carma and Devorah left the room. Eben pulled his toilet kit out of his duffle and started toward the bathroom when something caught his eye. On the nightstand was a guide called, Historic Philadelphia: The City of Brotherly Love. On the front page of the guide was a photograph of Independence Hall. He threw his kit on the bed and hurried out of the room. The shower could wait.

  November 30
, 2004

  “Just a couple more things to do before we leave here,” Boone said.

  He reached into his pack and pulled out a DVD.

  “I’ll warn you ahead of time, Angela,” he said. “This is not going to be easy to watch.” He turned the television on, slipped the DVD in and hit play.

  I didn’t know what we were looking at until I saw the school group. They looked like they were high school age. It was a surveillance tape of the entrance to Independence Hall. In the upper left-hand corner was a date, November 30, 2004. The same day Malak was killed. I glanced at Angela. She looked a little pale.

  “Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” I said.

  “No, I want to see this,” Angela insisted.

  “This was taken just before closing,” Boone explained.

  “The Tuesday after Thanksgiving,” Angela said quietly.

  The guard followed the school group to the door.

  Boone paused the DVD and pointed to a boy in the school group. He had dark hair and looked to be Angela’s age or maybe a little older. “Remember him,” Boone said and started the tape again.

  The school group filed out of the entrance. A couple of minutes later the guard was locking up when a woman rushed in. Malak. She held her badge out and looked like she was shouting.

  Boone paused the recording again.

  “I want to see this!” Angela said.

  “You will,” Boone said. “There’s no audio, but I have a transcript of what we think was said.”

  He took a sheet of paper out of his pack and began to read as he restarted the DVD.

  Guard: I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’re closed.

  Malak: Malak Tucker, Secret Service.

  Guard: What’s this about?

  Malak: All you need to know is that this is an emergency and it’s a matter of national security. I need to search the building. Now!

  Guard: Fine with me. I was about to do my last sweep for stragglers. I’ll go with you.

  Malak: No, you’ll stay right where you are. In about five minutes this building will be flooded with federal badges.

  Malak pushed past the dumbfounded guard, through the metal detector, and hurried across the floor out of camera view. The next clip showed her pausing in a short hallway where she drew her automatic pistol and chambered a round. The final clip showed her walking into a large room, automatic out, looking tense. She paused, said something, then the camera shook, and the picture went black.

  I continued to stare at the screen even though there was nothing to look at. When I finally tore my eyes away I saw that Angela was staring at the dark screen too.

  “So the bomb was here,” Angela said.

  Boone nodded.

  “But you said you thought my mom was still alive.”

  “I said there was a 50/50 chance she was still alive,” Boone repeated. “I have one other clip to show you.” He took another DVD out of his pack. “As soon as the guard heard the explosion he called the Secret Service, which was lucky because they were able to keep the incident away from the media. The bomb was intended to take down the entire building, but it misfired. The damage was only in that one room. The Park Service told the press that there had been a minor gas explosion and the Hall would be closed for a few days while they made repairs.” He put the DVD into the player.

  It was the next day, December 1. Two men in casual clothes stood inside the entrance and checked identification as workers carrying toolboxes, ladders, and other construction gear walked through the doors. The workers wore stocking caps, gloves, and heavy coats as if it were cold outside.

  “Don’t be fooled by the clothes,” Boone said. “They’re all federal agents investigating the explosion—Homeland Security, Secret Service, FBI, CIA, The National Security Agency. No local cops were invited to this party.”

  The picture switched to the room where the explosion had taken place. It was a mess. It looked like an entire wall had come down. A dozen agents were sifting through the rubble piece by piece. In the center of the rubble was an outline of a body in red tape. I looked at Angela. She was staring at the screen, unblinking, with no emotion—at least on the outside. Boone was looking at her too as if he were waiting for her to say something. Five minutes passed on the tape, then ten. The agents continued to sift through the debris dropping bits and pieces into plastic evidence bags. I started to get fidgety. Why was Boone showing this to us? I shuffled my cards, but kept my eyes on the screen.

  “There!” Angela said. “Pause it!”

  Tears were running down her face.

  “What?” I said.

  She leaned over to the screen and pointed to one of the workers. “That’s my mother,” she said.

  I couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman. The person’s back was to the camera and he or she was wearing a stocking cap, bulky coat, and jeans. I looked at Boone. He was staring at Angela with a blank expression.

  “Go back a little ways and start it again,” Angela said.

  Boone rewound it then hit play.

  “Look at her right hand,” Angela said.

  It was gloved, tapping her right thigh.

  “So?” I said.

  Angela looked at me and bit her lower lip in an exaggerated way.

  “It’s a tell!” she said with a big smile. “Mom always tapped her right thigh when she was agitated or upset. Nervous hands.”

  We watched as Malak (or whoever it was) slowly made her way across the room, head down, back always to the camera, but managing it without being obvious or suspicious.

  “She’s limping,” Angela said.

  It wasn’t pronounced, but I saw it too. The agent was favoring his or her left leg.

  The picture switched to the hallway where Malak had un-holstered her automatic the day before. Again, the worker was careful not to show his or her face to the camera, but it appeared totally natural. Three people walked past and none of them gave the worker a second look. The final clip was of the worker striding across the entry room, past the men checking ID, through the front door, and out into the cold.

  “Before you ask,” Boone said, ejecting the disc, “the body under the ruble was positively identified as Agent Malak Tucker. She was wearing the same clothes she had on the day before. Her badge was in her pocket. Her automatic was a few feet away. As far as the U.S. government is concerned your mother died in an explosion at Independence Hall on November 30 that did not officially happen.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  “I swear the woman in the DVD was my—” Angela began, but Boone cut her off.

  “I have another clip to show you.” He popped the second DVD out and slipped in a third.

  “This was taken a month ago in Paris.”

  It was a video of a woman sitting at a table in an outdoor café. She was wearing sunglasses and her hair was short, but she looked remarkably like Angela’s mother. She was sitting between two men and she was smiling at one of them as if he’d said something that amused her.

  “Where did you get this?” Angela asked quietly.

  Boone paused the DVD. “We lifted it from Eben Lavi’s computer while he was being detained in Nevada. It was encrypted, but my tech guy is very good. This is fresh intel and we’re still putting things together, but this video is a big part of the puzzle. It was taken by a Mossad agent named Aaron Lavi—Eben’s younger brother. The man on Malak’s right is Salim Kazi. He was loosely connected to Al Qaeda and responsible for at least six terrorist bombings that we know of.”

  “Was?” I asked.

  Boone nodded. “His body was found in Tijuana, Mexico three weeks ago. Before he died he was beaten and tortured. We assume that Eben caught up to him before he crossed the border. I don’t know who the young man on Malak’s left is.” He took out a color photo. It was the same young man from the Paris café, but he had a carefully trimmed beard now. He was by himself.

  “This was taken at Fisherman’s Warf in San Francisco two weeks ago,” Boone said. “Do you
recognize him?”

  “It’s the guy from the café,” I said.

  Angela stared at the photo for a long time then said, “He’s older now, but it’s also the boy you pointed out to us leaving here the day of the explosion.”

  “That’s right,” Boone said. “We ran his photo through our facial recognition software. He’s an exact match. Now, let’s get back to Paris.” He hit the play button.

  The video continued. Still smiling, Malak turned and looked directly at the camera. Her smile faded and she turned her head away so we could no longer see her face. The two men jumped up from their seats and started across the street. The camera jerked crazily in a blur of sidewalk, sky, and buildings before the picture went black.

  “An hour later,” Boone said. “Aaron Lavi was found stabbed and bleeding in an alley. He died a few hours later at a hospital, but before he died he managed to pass this video to the Mossad.”

  By the Numbers

  My head was spinning and I’m sure Angela’s was too. Boone started stuffing everything back into his pack as if what he had just shown and said explained everything.

  Taking the words right out of my mouth, Angela shouted, “What are you saying!”

  “We’ll do it by the numbers.” Boone zipped and buckled his pack. “One: As I told you, the body discovered in the rubble downstairs on November 30, 2004 had the exact DNA as Malak Turner. In addition to this she was positively identified by no less than three Secret Service agents who knew her well.

  “Two: We ran our facial identification software on the woman in the café. A person can change the color of their hair, the color of their eyes, their teeth, their nose…any number of physical characteristics, but they cannot change the shape of their skull or jaw. The woman in the video is an exact match of Malak Turner. And the young man was the same boy leaving here just before the explosion.”

  “Three: Eben and his brother had been on the trail of a notorious terrorist for several years. Her name is Anmar, which in Lebanese means leopard. As far as we know the video I just showed you are the first pictures ever taken of her. The Mossad would have run the same facial identification software we ran and they would have come up with exactly one hit. Malak Turner.”