The Terrorist Next Door

by Sheldon Siegel

  The heavy door swung open and a tall young man with boyish features and a trim beard acknowledged Gold with a wary smile. Ibrahim Zibari looked more like a college student than a clergyman, sporting faded Levi’s and a navy polo shirt. His watch was a low-end Casio. His sneakers were mid-priced Nikes. “Good to see you again, David,” Al-Shahid’s imam said in soft-spoken, unaccented English. “Peace be upon you.”

  “Assalum Alaykum,” Gold answered. Chicago PD had encircled his mosque. A SWAT team was standing by in the Armory. “Peace be upon you, too, Ibrahim. This is my new partner, Detective Battle.”

  The young man extended a hand. “Ibrahim Zibari. Nice to meet you.”

  “David has told me good things about you.”

  “David is very kind.” Zibari turned back to Gold. “If you’re here about the bombings, you’re way behind the curve. A couple of your people were here this morning. I presume they’re still outside. I also got a visit from two of Special Agent Fong’s commandos. Seems the FBI is already rounding up the usual suspects.”

  “The young woman killed at the Art Institute was our neighbor. Her mother is one of my father’s caregivers.”

  “I’m sorry. Please express my condolences.”

  “I will. Mind if we come inside and ask you a few questions?”

  “Would you be kind enough to remove your shoes?”

  “Of course.”

  Gold felt the soft throw rugs beneath his feet as he and Battle followed Zibari through the whitewashed room that served as the mosque’s sanctuary and social hall. There was no air conditioning. The empty space smelled of scented candles and fresh tea.

  Battle took the opportunity to do a little gentle probing. “David tells me you did your undergraduate work at Michigan. I understand you spent some time in Iraq after you graduated.”

  “The U.S. Army paid my way through college,” Zibari said. “I returned the favor by spending two years in Baghdad working on a telecommunications system.”

  “It must have been difficult for a Muslim American to be working in Baghdad.”

  “It was difficult for everybody.”

  “How long has this mosque been here?”

  “About three years. We used to meet in the basement of one of the dorms.”

  “Any problems?”

  “This corner of Hyde Park is rougher than the area around Obama’s house, and we don’t have an army of Secret Service agents.” Zibari pointed at the boarded-up window. “Some of our less-than-enlightened neighbors like to express themselves with rocks and spray paint.”

  He led them through a doorway into a windowless room in the back of the mosque, where the shoe repair equipment had been replaced by a second-hand metal desk holding a laptop and a card table with four mismatched chairs. A single light bulb in the center of the water-stained ceiling provided the only illumination. Zibari invited Gold and Battle to sit at the table, where he poured them tea in paper cups. His expression turned somber as he sat down. “Do you have any idea who might be responsible for the explosions?”

  “We were hoping you might be able to help us,” Gold said. “Heard any gossip about somebody trying to stir up trouble before Hassan Al-Shahid’s court appearance on Thursday?”

  “Nothing.”

  “We’ve received several communications from an organizational calling itself the Islamic Freedom Federation.”

  “Never heard of it.” Zibari’s tone turned pointed. “Before you ask, I’ve been here by myself all day, and I don’t have an alibi. Are you planning to arrest me?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why are you treating me like a suspect? I told you everything I know about Hassan. I gave you information for the members of our mosque. Forgive me for being blunt, but I don’t understand why I’ve been singled out for a visit by the FBI’s anti-terror team and two homicide detectives.”

  “The bomb at the 53rd Street Metra station was set off by a cell phone. The initiating call was placed from a land line at the armory.”

  “I didn’t make the call.” Zibari’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told the feds. I don’t condone violence. I don’t invoke the name of God to justify killing innocent people. I am appalled that a terrorist is setting off bombs on the streets of Chicago. But the fact remains that I have no idea who is doing this. If somebody used the phone across the street to set off the bomb at the Metra station, I would suggest that you cordon off the neighborhood. Maybe you should turn off access to every cell phone in the Chicago area if that’s what takes to stop this insanity. The only thing I know for certain is nobody from this mosque was involved.”

  Gold tried to ease the tension by changing the subject. “I understand you tried to visit Hassan.”

  “I wanted to offer spiritual comfort. They wouldn’t let me inside.”

  “Doesn’t it trouble you that he killed two people, including my partner?”

  “Of course. I understand he left a wife and four children. It must have been a terrible loss. I’m looking for answers, too. The Hassan I know is a peaceful man.”

  “Who carried a gun.”

  “That he bought for protection after he was a victim of two unsolved hate crimes. He isn’t the only member of this mosque who owns a gun. With all due respect, David, things might have been different if your colleagues had made a greater effort to find the people who attacked him.”

  “With all due respect, Ibrahim, most victims don’t express their frustrations with the legal system by making bombs. He shot Udell Jones in cold blood.”

  “Maybe it was an accident or self-defense.”

  “You really believe that?”

  The young imam pushed out a sigh. “I don’t know what to believe. Maybe I’m trying to explain the unexplainable. Bottom line: many people are dead, the lives of their families have been changed forever, and a crazy person is setting off bombs outside. It’s also making my life—and the lives of members of the Islamic community—much more difficult.”

  “It’s making everybody’s life difficult. Is there anybody else who was close to Hassan?”

  “Mohammad Raheem was his academic advisor. He just got back from Iraq. Maybe he can help you.”

  * * *

  The young man nodded as he saw the red dot near the corner of 53rd and Cottage Grove.

  They’ve figured out that the initiating call was placed from the armory. Excellent work, Detective. Now you need to figure out who placed it.

  He glanced down at his laptop and typed out a short e-mail. Throwaway cell phones were no longer an option, and conventional cells were too easy to trace. He had taken precautions to ensure that the e-mails he sent from this computer would be encrypted and transmitted through an anonymous server that would be traced to a dummy account in Yemen.

  Psychological warfare is more effective than setting off bombs.

  He re-read the message. Then he pressed Send.

  * * *

  Gold’s BlackBerry vibrated as he and Battle were driving south on Cottage Grove. He had an e-mail from a source identifying itself only as IFF. He opened it immediately.

  It read, “You need to pay attention, Detective Gold. Fifteen people are dead. I will set off more bombs until you free Hassan. Don’t try to trace this message. You won’t find us. IFF.”

  Gold hit the reply button and sent a return e-mail which went through. He turned to Battle. “Call Fong on your cell and tell him I just got an e-mail. I want to keep my line open.”

  Chapter 15

  “ONE MAN’S TERRORIST IS ANOTHER MAN’S FREEDOM FIGHTER”

  “I need a trace now,” Gold snapped.

  “Working on it,” Fong said.

  Come on. “Work faster.”

  Gold was sweating through his powder blue shirt as he sat in the passenger seat of the Crown Vic at seven o’clock on Monday night. He pressed Battle’s BlackBerry against his right ear. His eyes were locked onto the display of his own BlackBerry in anticipation of receiving additional e-mails,
but none was forthcoming.

  Fong’s voice filled with resignation when he came back on the line. “We can’t trace it.”

  “You’re the FBI.”

  “Looks like it was initiated in Yemen and routed through Eastern Europe, but they’re probably dummy accounts. It’ll take weeks to sort it out—if ever.”

  * * *

  Gold knocked twice on the open door.

  The young man with the light beard and a dark complexion looked up from a dense Arabic text. He was sitting at a worn cherry wood desk in a windowless outer office on the second floor of Albert Pick Hall, a modern five-story building on the southeast corner of the U. of C.’s Main Quad that looked out of place among its English Gothic neighbors. The building was quiet. Most of the students and professors were away for the summer. He tugged at the collar of a gray polo shirt. “Yes, please?”

  “We’d like to speak to Professor Raheem.”

  An eager nod. “This is Professor Raheem’s office.” He spoke with a thick accent.

  “Is he here?”

  A perplexed expression. “He works here.”

  I know. Gold resisted the temptation to repeat the question more slowly. Instead, he chose a disarming smile. “Is Professor Raheem here today?”

  A look of recognition registered on the young man’s face. He nodded at the closed door leading to an adjoining office. “Yes.”

  “Thank you.” Gold’s smile broadened. “What’s your name?”

  “Karim Fayyadh.”

  “Nice to meet you, Karim. My name is David Gold.”

  “Nice to meet you, David.”

  * * *

  Gold forced another smile and extended a hand. “Nice to see you again, Dr. Raheem.”

  “My pleasure, Detective Gold.”

  “You’re working late tonight.”

  “I just got back into town. I’m trying to get caught up.”

  Dr. Mohammad Raheem smiled graciously as Gold introduced Battle and they exchanged stilted pleasantries. Al-Shahid’s academic advisor was a lanky man with a light beard, sharp features, and steely brown eyes. Still in his late twenties, he had finished college at nineteen, earned a PhD at twenty-two, and become a full professor at twenty-five. His deliberate speaking manner evoked an air of polished authority.

  Raheem invited Gold and Battle to take seats in the leather chairs opposite his cluttered desk, then he sat down in his tall swivel chair. The walls of his office were lined with dusty tomes in a dozen languages. A new laptop sat on his credenza. His window overlooked the mature oak trees lining University Street. He gestured toward the closed door. “I trust you were able to navigate the language barrier with Karim. I just brought him over from Baghdad to be my research assistant. It’s his first time here.”

  “Seems like a fine young man,” Gold said.

  “He is.” Raheem’s expression turned somber. “He’s an exceptional student. His parents were killed by a stray bomb when the U.S. invaded Baghdad.”

  “How awful.”

  “Indeed.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “His uncle is a professor at the University of Baghdad. We’ve known each other for years. We thought the change of scenery might help his nephew.”

  “One student at a time. Did Karim have any contact with Hassan Al-Shahid?”

  “They exchanged e-mails about classes, housing, and such. I’ll have Karim forward them to you if he still has them.”

  “Thank you.” Gold glanced up at the photo gallery behind Raheem’s desk. In addition to pictures of his wife and two young children, there were shots of Raheem with the heads of state of several Middle Eastern countries. An enlarged photo with President Obama had the most prominent spot. “When were you in Baghdad?”

  “I went over to get Karim last week. We flew here on Wednesday.”

  “How does your wife feel about your travels to Iraq?”

  “She worries.”

  I’ll bet.

  Battle made his presence felt. “Where are you from?”

  “Evanston.” Raheem said his father was a Saudi businessman married to an American lawyer. “I was born here, but we lived in Jeddah until I was four. Then we moved back to Evanston. I met my wife here at the U. of C. Her family is from Jerusalem.”

  Battle flashed a knowing smile. “I’ve seen you on CNN.”

  Raheem smiled back. “I never intended to become a celebrity.”

  “You don’t seem to mind the attention.” Battle pointed at a framed copy of a New York Times op-ed piece on the corner of Raheem’s desk. “You caught some heat on that one.”

  “That’s the beauty of a free press, Detective. I’m trying to elevate the level of discourse between the Western and Islamic worlds.”

  “If I remember correctly, you argued that violence is one of the tools.”

  “I don’t condone it. I simply said it may be inevitable.”

  “I believe your exact words were ‘One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.’”

  “I was trying to make the point that it’s better to create institutions to prevent people from becoming disenfranchised. We live in a world of sound bites and twenty-four-hour news cycles. Rush Limbaugh and Glenn Beck need villains to help their ratings. They did the same thing to Bill Ayers when Barack ran for president.”

  “Ayers and the Weathermen set off bombs in Washington.”

  “In empty offices.”

  “They were lucky nobody was killed. I don’t recall hearing Ayers apologize.”

  “I don’t think he ever did.”

  “Does that mean you think his behavior was justified?”

  “Absolutely not. I think it was a sincere—albeit misguided—attempt to end the Vietnam War. And just so we’re clear, I believe it is morally bankrupt to try to justify murder by citing scripture—whether it’s the Bible or the Koran. Those who kill innocent people are terrorists—period. Those who attack my ideas never mention my writings about Dr. King and nonviolent dissent. For what it’s worth, I believe people would be more sympathetic toward Islamic causes if our leaders emulated Gandhi.”

  “For what it’s worth, I think you’re right.”

  Raheem arched an eyebrow. “Do you still think I’m a terrorist, Detective Battle?”

  “No, Professor Raheem. I think you’re a provocateur.”

  “That’s fair.” He turned back to Gold. “So, Detective, who’s setting off the bombs?”

  “We’re hoping you might be able to help us find out.”

  “I’ve been here all day. Karim got in a little while ago. Nobody can confirm our whereabouts. Does that make us suspects?”

  Maybe. “Of course not.”

  “But you’d feel more comfortable if you could confirm the stories of a terrorist sympathizer and his Iraqi-born assistant, right?”

  Battle was right. Raheem is a provocateur. “Frankly, Professor, you’ve never struck me as somebody who would set off bombs by remote control. You’re a South Chicago kind of guy—you look people right in the eye and tell them exactly what you think.”

  “That’s true. If I’m not a suspect, why are you here?”

  “We have reason to believe the bombs were set off by somebody with a connection to your former advisee. Do you know anybody who might want to use the Al-Shahid case as an excuse for a misguided attempt to make a point? You know—like Bill Ayers and the Weathermen?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Ever heard of an organization called the Islamic Freedom Federation?”

  “No.”

  “Hassan made a substantial donation to the Chicago Islamic Council. We’ve heard they have terrorist connections.”

  “Not true.”

  “Would you tell us if it was?”

  “As a matter of fact, I would. I’m every bit as American as you are, Detective Gold. I don’t condone terrorism in any form—anywhere, anytime, anyplace.”

  “That isn’t exactly what you said in the Times.”

  “My wor
ds were twisted.”

  * * *

  The young man looked up from the book he was pretending to read. Battle and Gold had left Albert Pick Hall and driven west on 55th Street.

  Where are you going now, Detective Gold?

  He would tweak Gold again a little later. In the meantime, he decided to head over to Assistant State’s Attorney Silver’s townhouse at 52nd and University, a few blocks away. She wouldn’t be home until later. He wanted to double-check the habits of her babysitter and, more importantly, her daughter.

  Chapter 16

  “WE CALL THEM ‘LONE WOLVES’”

  Gold was irritable as he and Battle drove south on Lake Shore Drive past the Museum of Science and Industry at eight-thirty on Monday night. The usually busy road was almost empty. They’d rounded up the two members of Al-Shahid’s mosque who hadn’t left for the summer. Both were studious and unfailingly polite. Both had verifiable alibis.

  They’d spent a half hour at a useless all-hands meeting convened by the chief at police headquarters. Maloney had provided no substantive information, but he put on a brave front for the press. He insisted that Chicago PD and the FBI were using all available resources to hunt down the “Chicago Al-Qaeda.” He assured everybody that the empty streets simply reflected a cautious response by Chicagoans. Gold and Battle ducked out through a back door to avoid Mojo and the rest of the expanding media mob.

  Gold’s BlackBerry vibrated. He pressed Talk and heard Fong’s voice. They had spoken a dozen times over the course of the evening. There were no forced pleasantries.

  “Any texts or e-mails?” Fong asked.

  “Nothing. Any new information on the source of the last e-mail?”

  “Nothing. My people traced it to a router in Bulgaria, but we think it’s a fake.”

  “You think there’s an overseas connection?”

  “Not as far as we can tell.”

  “Anything on Raheem’s research assistant?”