The Terrorist Next Door

by Sheldon Siegel

  “The call was initiated from a throwaway cell. It pinged a tower on the Southeast Side. Is it possible that you couldn’t see the throwaway?”

  “I suppose it’s possible.”

  Gold looked up at the brownstone where Hassan Al-Shahid had lived for two years. “Did you pull a warrant and check inside Salaam’s condo?”

  “Yes. No dead bodies. No signs of forced entry. The keys to the Mercedes were in a drawer in the kitchen. Looked like nothing was missing, but we won’t know until Salaam gets back. We’re checking his computer.” Robinson handed Gold a card with an eleven-digit international number. “We got logs on Salaam’s phone and his e-mail. No communications with Al-Shahid’s brother since Salaam left for London.”

  “Unless they used throwaways. Pull a warrant for Al-Shahid’s condo, too.”

  * * *

  Muneer Al-Shahid made Gold and Battle cool their heels for more than an hour while he consulted with two senior partners from the Chicago office of the gold-plated international law firm of Short, Story and Thompson LLP—the second largest in the world. A frustrated Gold used the time to call Fong, who hadn’t been able to identify the driver of the Mercedes. The forensic evidence from the museum was useless. Gold also checked in with his father, Assistant State’s Attorney Silver, and Katie Liszewski.

  At four o’clock, Muneer Al-Shahid and his high-priced legal entourage finally emerged from the old butler’s station and took seats on the Louis-the-Something sofa in the living room with hand-crafted crown moldings and a panoramic view of Lake Michigan. Muneer was taller and more muscular than his younger brother. He wore a powder blue oxford shirt made of fine Egyptian cotton, and his pleated gray slacks were custom-tailored. Gold figured the legal team was running him at least two grand an hour. Robert Stumpf was a gray-haired sage with a commanding baritone who oversaw the legal work for the Al-Shahid family’s business in the U.S. His partner, Larry Braun, was a tightly wound barracuda who chaired the firm’s white collar criminal defense practice. He bore a striking resemblance in appearance and temperament to his classmate from the prestigious New Trier High School in Winnetka, who happened to be Chicago’s mayor.

  Braun appointed himself as spokesman and invoked a patronizing tone. “Gentlemen, we are here in the spirit of cooperation. I would remind you that Mr. Al-Shahid is under no legal obligation to speak to you. For obvious reasons of attorney-client privilege, we can’t discuss anything relating to Hassan’s case.”

  The dance begins. “Understood,” Gold said. “We were hoping your client has some information about the individual who set off the bomb at the museum.”

  “I hope you aren’t suggesting Muneer had anything to do with it.”

  “We aren’t suggesting anything.”

  “I must also insist that this discussion be off the record.”

  Nice try. “Muneer isn’t the subject of a criminal investigation.” Not yet, anyway.

  Braun shifted to a condescending smirk. “You didn’t pull his name out of a hat. It took us a month just to get his visa to enter the country. His brother has been unjustly charged with a capital offense, which could make Muneer a person of interest.”

  So much for the spirit of cooperation. Gold was losing patience. “Your client can answer a few questions now, or he can do it in front of the grand jury. The State’s Attorney isn’t as accommodating as we are, and you won’t be able to sit next to him inside the grand jury room.”

  Braun responded with another of his seemingly endless repertoire of disdainful expressions. “I’ll allow Mr. Al-Shahid to answer a few questions, but he isn’t going to talk about his brother’s case, and we reserve the right to terminate this conversation at any time.”

  As if we’re going to water board him. “Fine.”

  Braun nodded to Al-Shahid, who responded on cue.

  “My brother is not a murderer,” he recited in flawless American English, as if reading from a script. “I don’t know anything about what happened at the Art Institute, the El station, Millennium Park, or the museum. Hassan is a peaceful man. I have nothing else to say.”

  Braun smiled triumphantly. “There you have it, gentlemen.”

  Gold was tempted to ask him if he’d written out anything else for his client to memorize. He shifted his gaze to Al-Shahid. “What have you been doing since you got into town?”

  “Organizing my brother’s affairs. Meeting with his attorney, his imam, and his academic advisor. I tried to see Hassan, but the authorities wouldn’t let me.”

  “We might be able to help you there. Where have you been today?”

  “I went downtown to see Mr. Braun and Mr. Stumpf about business. I took the eight o’clock Metra train from the 53rd Street station. I took the twelve-twenty train home.”

  This jibed with Robinson’s timeline.

  Braun pointed a finger at Gold. “You’re wasting your time if you think Muneer was involved in the bombings. He was in my office this morning. We have witnesses. End of story.”

  “The bomb at Millennium Park went off at ten-forty-seven. The initiating call came from downtown. Are you prepared to testify that he didn’t initiate the call?”

  Braun hesitated for an instant. “Absolutely.”

  Gold figured that Braun wasn’t going to risk his firm’s reputation or, more important, his seven-figure draw, on a perjury charge. “The bomb at the museum went off at twelve-thirty-five. Muneer could have driven the booby-trapped car to the museum from your office.”

  “Didn’t happen that way. Not enough time.”

  “Thirty-five minutes was plenty of time.”

  “Except Muneer took the Metra to and from downtown. We have train tickets. You’ll find him in the security videos at the 53rd Street and Millennium stations. He didn’t get back to Hyde Park until twelve-forty-eight. That was after the explosion. There’s no fucking way Muneer could have parked the car at the museum.”

  Such a delicate way with words. “He could have parked the car at the museum before he came to see you.”

  Braun harrumphed. “The museum didn’t open until nine-thirty. They tow anybody who tries to park overnight. Bottom line: there is absolutely no connection between Muneer and the bombing at the museum.”

  “Yes, there is. A car belonging Muneer’s friend, Nasser Salaam, was blown up at the museum. Turns out he lives downstairs in this very building.” Gold turned and spoke to Al-Shahid. “You want to tell us how your friend’s car got to the museum?”

  Braun answered for him. “How would we know? Muneer was with me.”

  “And you’ll make a fine witness at his trial. Why don’t you let your client answer?”

  Braun’s small mouth turned down. “We came here in the spirit of cooperation, and now you’re making accusations. Talk to Salaam about his car.”

  “He told us to talk to you.”

  “Obviously, he didn’t have anything to do with this, either.”

  Gold turned to Al-Shahid. “When was the last time you talked to him, Muneer?”

  Braun held up a hand, but Al-Shahid ignored him. “Before he went to London.”

  “How about texts or e-mails?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I trust you have no problem if we check your phone records?”

  “Be my guest. I’ve assumed you were doing that already.” Braun tried to interrupt him again, but Al-Shahid silenced him with a raised hand. “We have nothing to hide, Larry.” His eyes narrowed as he turned back to Gold. “Nasser is a smart guy from a good family who works for a top-tier law firm. He had nothing to do with the explosion at the museum.”

  “Except his car blew up. Three people were killed, Muneer, including an eight-year-old boy. Aiding and abetting is a serious crime. You’ll get a better deal if you come clean now.”

  Braun’s high-pitched voice filled with indignation. “We’re done.”

  “I trust you have no objection to our searching the premises?”

  “Get a warrant. Make sure it’s very specific.�
�

  * * *

  “That didn’t go well,” Battle said.

  Gold shrugged. “Comes with the territory.”

  They’d just completed a search of Al-Shahid’s condo. They’d found no throwaway cell phones or evidence of the Islamic Freedom Federation. A team from Fong’s office was going through Al-Shahid’s computer. So far, they had uncovered no suspicious e-mails, although they’d confiscated his hard drive for further analysis. In the meantime, Robinson’s people had retraced Al-Shahid’s route from his brother’s condo to and from downtown. They’d inspected the Metra trains, stations, and platforms. They’d reviewed the security videos from the 53rd Street and Millennium stations, which confirmed that Muneer had passed through at the correct times. They found no evidence of throwaway cell phones.

  Salaam’s condo also turned up empty. There were no signs of forced entry. As far as they could tell, nothing was missing. An analysis of his computer was in process. Fong’s people were working with their counterparts in London to monitor his cell phone and e-mail. Gold was coming to grips with the reality that he had no hard evidence connecting Al-Shahid or Salaam to the bombings at the museum.

  Battle stroked his chin as he sat in the driver’s seat of the Crown Vic at four-thirty on Monday afternoon. They were parked across the street from Al-Shahid’s condo. The air conditioner was making a valiant—albeit futile—effort to cool down the car. “You think Muneer knows more than he’s told us?” he said to Gold.

  “Absolutely. He’s also smart enough to know that we’re watching him and monitoring every available means of communication.”

  “You’re ruling him out?”

  “I’m not ruling anybody out.”

  * * *

  The red dot was at the corner of 53rd and Hyde Park Boulevard. Gold and Battle were still at Al-Shahid’s condo.

  The young man glanced at the WGN website. Mojo was warning of additional attacks by the Islamic Freedom Federation. She noted that army reserves were assisting the National Guard at all gas stations in the Chicago metropolitan area. Deliveries of staples such as milk and fruit had been disrupted. There were rumors that the mayor was preparing plans for a government shutdown on Tuesday morning. The expressways were packed with people fleeing downtown. Mojo furrowed her brow and advised viewers to go home, hunker down, and wait it out.

  He used a gloved hand to lift the receiver of the landline phone.

  Did you really think you could stop me by shutting down the throwaways?

  * * *

  Gold lowered his window as Mojo approached him. The Crown Vic was still at the corner of 53rd and Hyde Park Boulevard. “What can I do for you, Carol?”

  “Is Muneer Al-Shahid a suspect?”

  “No comment.”

  “Come on, Detective. I know you were talking to him. You promised to cooperate.”

  “No comment.”

  Mojo was about to fire another question when the ground was shaken by what sounded like a sonic boom. Gold saw a plume of smoke rising two blocks to the west. Car alarms went off and sirens wailed. The police band crackled, and Gold heard the frantic voice from dispatch.

  “Attention! All units! There’s been a bombing at the 53rd Street Metra station.”

  Chapter 13

  “WE’LL NEED DENTAL RECORDS”

  Gold and Battle pulled in behind two pumper trucks, a hook-and-ladder, and the first ambulance to arrive at the 53rd Street Metra station. They parked the Crown Vic on Cornell and jogged a half-block west toward the station, located in a viaduct beneath the elevated tracks. Smoke billowed from the underpass. The explosion had sent a fireball up the stairway toward the platform, which was consumed by flames. Sirens wailed as dazed survivors with blackened faces and charred clothing staggered toward them.

  The firefighters attacked the blaze from above until it was safe to enter the viaduct. When they finally fought their way into the station, the scene resembled footage from a World War II newsreel. They found the charred bodies of the ticket taker, the security guard, and the man who ran the newsstand. They discovered two more bodies near the turnstiles, and four others on the stairs. A dozen people suffered burns and smoke inhalation. Luckily, most of the commuters on the platform had sprinted away from the flames toward the station’s northern entrance at 51st.

  Gold and Battle assisted the firefighters and established a perimeter. Gold’s face was lined with streaks of sweat, and his clothes reeked of smoke when he finally walked out of the viaduct, where he took a moment to clear his lungs. Nine body bags were laid out side-by-side on the pavement out of sight of the helicopters hovering above the station. Exhausted firefighters in soot-covered gear emerged one by one from the underpass. The station had been reduced to smoldering rubble. Onlookers stood in small groups outside the yellow tape. Some had cell phones pressed to their ears. Others stood in stark silence.

  At six o’clock, a somber Chief Maloney summoned Gold and Battle to a briefing inside the fire department’s mobile command center. He’d learned his lesson at the museum. He wanted to assess the damage and rehearse his lines before he spoke to the media in the McDonald’s parking lot across Lake Park Avenue.

  Maloney deferred to Commander Rowan. The bomb jockey was having the busiest day of his career. “We’ll need dental records to ID some of the victims,” he said. “Seventeen injured, six seriously. Structural damage is still being determined. We’re shutting down all Metra lines until further notice.” Rowan said the bomb was similar to the others, except the detonator was a conventional cell instead of a throwaway. “It was planted in a newspaper box outside the station. No information on the initiating phone. Special Agent Fong is working on it, and we hope to have an ID on both phones shortly. The explosive was regular gasoline in a package small enough to fit inside the news box. It may have been in a tote bag or a backpack. It blasted into the station and went up the stairs to the platform. Shows how much damage you can do in a confined space with rudimentary explosives and a little ingenuity.”

  Battle asked about surveillance cameras.

  “One fixed camera pointed at the ticket booth, and two more on the platform. Nothing outside the station. The cameras were damaged, so we may not get much video. The bomb could have been planted by somebody who didn’t pass through the turnstile. Hundreds of people go through this station every day. We’re looking for witnesses, but the chances are slim. Our best bet would have been the security guard or the ticket taker, but they were killed.”

  Gold could think of another possibility. He excused himself, stepped outside, and punched in Robinson’s cell number. “You still in front of Al-Shahid’s building?”

  “Yes.” Robinson confirmed that Muneer was still inside his brother’s condo.

  “He passed through the 53rd Street Metra station twice today, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he have anything with him when he went downtown? A briefcase or a backpack?”

  “A briefcase. He still had it with him when he got home.”

  “Any chance he planted a bomb in a newspaper box in front of the station?”

  “No.”

  Somebody was going to a lot of trouble to make it appear that he was involved. Gold hit Disconnect, then he punched in Fong’s number. “You got an ID on the detonator at the Metra station?”

  “A Droid serviced by U.S. Cellular belonging to a maintenance worker at the museum. I just talked to him. He didn’t notice it was gone until the bomb went off at the museum. U.S. Cell didn’t shut it down because he didn’t report it as missing.”

  “Can anybody vouch for his whereabouts today?”

  “His supervisor confirmed that he clocked in at eight a.m. He doesn’t know when the phone was stolen. We’re having him retrace his steps.”

  “What about the phone that initiated the call to the detonator?”

  “A land line in the office at the Washington Park Armory. My people are already there. No witnesses. No fingerprints.”

  “Thank
s, George.” Gold pressed Disconnect and turned to Battle. “We need to talk to Al-Shahid’s imam. The call was initiated from the armory across the street from Al-Shahid’s mosque.”

  Chapter 14

  “THE HASSAN I KNOW IS A PEACEFUL MAN”

  Gold’s BlackBerry was pressed against his right ear as he and Battle barreled west on 53rd. The only vehicles on Hyde Park’s main east-west thoroughfare were police cars. “Did you get to the armory yet?” he asked Robinson.

  “Yeah. Looks like somebody broke into an office and used the phone. A team from Hyde Park station is cordoning off a two-mile radius. Nobody comes or goes without being stopped.”

  “Good. Your people have had eyes on the mosque since the first bomb went off at the Art Institute, right?”

  “Right. It’s been quiet. The only person in the building has been the imam. He’s been there since nine o’clock this morning.”

  “Visitors?”

  “None. A lot of people are away for the summer.”

  “Any chance he stole a cell phone from a maintenance worker at the museum earlier this afternoon?”

  “Nope.”

  “What about the possibility that he planted a bomb at the 53rd Street station?”

  “Only if he did it before we got here at nine.”

  “The detonator cell phone wasn’t stolen until this afternoon. Any chance he placed the call from the armory?”

  “Not unless he left the mosque without three of my best people seeing him.”

  * * *

  Gold looked up into the security camera as he knocked on the reinforced steel door of the unmarked brick building on the southeast corner of 53rd and Cottage Grove in the dicey west end of Hyde Park. The thoroughfare was empty except for the police cars parked across the street. The weathered sign of the shoe repair shop that once occupied the one-story structure was still visible above the chipped plywood covering the space formerly taken up by a plate glass window. The Gates of Peace Mosque was across the street from the Washington Park Armory and two blocks north of Stagg Field. The home of the U. of C. football team was better known as the site where Enrico Fermi had created the world’s first nuclear reaction in 1942—an experiment never tried again within the Chicago city limits.