The Terrorist Next Door

by Sheldon Siegel

  They’re going to compare notes with Fong. Not surprising.

  He looked at the live feed from the CNN website. He smiled when he saw a “Windy City Terror Attacks” headline superimposed over Anderson Cooper’s shoulder. Not an especially original caption, but it would do. The only thing missing was a voiceover by James Earl Jones. The crawl said that additional National Guard units had been called in, and Homeland Security was thinking of suspending service to all cell phones in the Chicago area.

  Do they think that will stop me?

  Cooper furrowed his brow and conducted a split screen interview with a retired Navy Seal who had spent five years in Baghdad. After a casual disclaimer that he had no firsthand information about the Islamic Freedom Federation, the Seal proclaimed that the bombings had “all of the hallmarks of an Al-Qaeda operation.”

  And you have all of the hallmarks of a pompous blowhard.

  Chapter 27

  “SOMETIMES IT’S BETTER TO GO WITH YOUR INSTINCTS”

  “You’re avoiding me,” Mojo snapped.

  Yes, I am. Gold and Battle were speeding down Roosevelt Road toward FBI headquarters. Gold’s BlackBerry was pressed to his ear. “I’m trying to catch a terrorist.”

  “We had an agreement. You haven’t said a word to me since Cal Park.”

  It would serve no useful purpose to engage in a knock-down, drag-out with the Diva of WGN at two-fifteen a.m. “I’ve given you everything I can, Carol.”

  “It isn’t enough.”

  It never is. “Heard anything more from the bomber?”

  “No. You?”

  “Not since the last e-mail.”

  “Were you able to trace it?”

  “No. It was encrypted. I can’t say anything else, Carol.”

  “You mean you won’t say anything else, Detective.”

  * * *

  Supervisory Special Agent George Fong’s head throbbed as he stared at the grainy footage from the security camera mounted near the entrance to Giordano’s. He squinted at the fuzzy image of a thin man in a dark windbreaker getting out of a gray Lexus. A black baseball cap was pulled down over his eyes, masking his features. He glanced around nervously, then he walked out of camera view toward Michigan Avenue. He’d been onscreen for less than two seconds. “That’s him.”

  The response came from behind. “Could be the guy from the museum,” Gold observed.

  “Could be.”

  Tempers were short and nerves were frayed in the conference room at FBI headquarters at two-twenty on Tuesday morning. The stuffy room smelled of leftover Italian beef sandwiches from Little Al’s. A dozen of Fong’s subordinates had been studying videos from the bombing sites for the past seventeen hours. They were still processing footage from Giordano’s and its neighboring hotels, restaurants, and shops. Even in enhanced super slow-motion, they couldn’t find any additional images of the man from the Lexus.

  Fong asked Gold if Chicago PD had found any witnesses.

  “Still looking. We believe Mrs. Bloom’s phone was stolen on a train or at the Millennium station. Ms. Andrews thinks her phone was taken at the Starbucks at Millennium station. The valet at Giordano’s saw the guy get out of the Lexus at eleven-thirty and walk toward Michigan Avenue. As far as we can tell, nobody else noticed him.”

  “You think one guy did all of this?”

  “It’s possible.” Gold walked over to the white board and pointed at a handwritten timeline of the bombings. “He could have parked the car at the Millennium Park garage at five-thirty a.m. He had time to park the Camry across the street from the Art Institute by eight-forty-five. That left him time to drive the Mercedes to the museum at twelve-twenty-seven. Then he could have walked to the 53rd Street Metra, planted the bomb in the news box, and entered the station. At twelve-thirty-five, he placed the call to the detonator at the museum. He took the twelve-forty train downtown with Mrs. Bloom. Somewhere along the way—either on the train or at Millennium station—he stole her phone. Then he could have stolen Ms. Andrews’s phone at Starbucks. He could have taken the Metra back to Hyde Park, where he placed the call from the armory to the detonator at the 53rd Street Metra at four-thirty. He went down to South Chicago to plant the bomb in the van across the street from Our Lady. That still left him plenty of time to retrieve the Lexus and park it in front of Giordano’s at twelve-thirty.”

  Fong was skeptical. “That’s a lot of stolen cars and bombs for one guy.”

  “Maybe he had help.”

  “The call to the Lexus was initiated from the Southeast Side at twelve-thirty. If the same guy parked the car at eleven-thirty and initiated the call, he had only an hour to get there from Giordano’s. He couldn’t have taken the El or the Metra.”

  “It’s a twenty minute drive,” Gold said. “This guy is good at improvising. He could have left another car nearby. Or maybe he took a taxi or a bus—they’re still running. We’re checking with the cab companies and the CTA. Besides, your profiler keeps telling us that it’s one guy or a small group.”

  Fong frowned. “Sometimes it’s better to go with your instincts. From what I’ve seen, yours are pretty good, Dave.”

  “My instincts tell me this operation is being run by one very smart person who is meticulous and resourceful. He may have a little help, but I’d guess the Islamic Freedom Federation—whatever it might be—is a very small group. The more people involved, the greater the chance somebody will make a mistake. He bought a bunch of untraceable disposables over a period of months and converted them into detonators. He changed carriers. When we cut off access to the throwaways, he switched to conventional cell phones and encrypted e-mails. He’s also done his homework. There’s evidence pointing toward Al-Shahid’s imam, professors, associates, and friends.

  You think it’s a set-up?”

  “Could be.”

  “By whom?”

  Gold shrugged. “I don’t know—yet. Bottom line: I’d guess we’re dealing with a capable control freak with a few close associates.”

  “For what it’s worth, my instincts came to the same conclusion. So what do we do next?”

  “We start by cutting off access to every cell phone in the Chicago area.”

  “You really think that will stop him?”

  Gold answered him honestly. “It might slow him down. This guy is smart enough to find other ways to set off bombs. At least it’s a start.”

  “The mayor is lobbying the chief and Homeland Security not to shut down the phones because it will make it harder to provide emergency services. It will also shut down the city.”

  “It’s better than letting him set off bombs on the streets.” Gold’s BlackBerry vibrated. He answered it and listened intently for a moment. Gold’s voice became agitated as he asked a few pointed questions. Finally, he turned and spoke to Fong. “We need to get down to 35th and King Drive. He just set off a bomb on a CTA bus.”

  Chapter 28

  “I THOUGHT I’D SEEN EVERYTHING”

  Gold and Battle parked on the sidewalk on the corner of 35th and King Drive, across the street from a blackened #4 CTA bus in front of a White Castle which was—remarkably—still open. The intersection smelled of burning diesel fuel and White Castle Sliders. Flashing lights from the emergency vehicles bounced off the two- and three-story apartment buildings a quarter of a mile from police headquarters. The residents of Bronzeville huddled in small groups outside the yellow tape. Helicopters were now a common sight overhead, and news vans were lined up in the parking lot of the neighboring Jewel supermarket.

  Gold and Battle made their way toward Chicago PD’s newest makeshift command post in a graffiti-tagged bus shelter in front of the Castle, where Maloney was supervising the operation. He had assigned detectives from Area 1 to dispatch two dozen uniforms to question the customers at the Castle and search the neighborhood for witnesses. The mayor and the head of Homeland Security were on their way.

  “Fatalities?” Gold asked.

  Maloney’s voice was gravelly. “Two
so far. Four injured, one seriously. The driver is lucky to be alive.” He gestured at a uniformed African American man sitting inside the shelter. His large forehead was covered with sweat, and his collar was loosened. “He got out through the front door.”

  “Can he identify the bomber?”

  “No.”

  “Security camera?”

  “Wasn’t working.”

  Figures. Gold asked about the bomb.

  “A gasoline bomb in a backpack planted under the seat behind the rear door. Almost identical to the bomb at the 53rd Street Metra. The detonator was a cell phone. Fong’s people took the remains to headquarters for analysis. We don’t know anything about the phone that placed the call to the detonator.”

  “How many people were onboard?”

  “Eleven. We’ve talked to everyone. Nobody was able to identify the person who planted the backpack.”

  “Any chance he was still on the bus when the bomb went off?”

  “Doubtful. It could have been placed there by somebody on an earlier run.”

  Great. Gold stared at the charred bus. “We need to identify everybody who rode this bus tonight. We’ll have to go to the public for help.”

  Maloney nodded. “I’m going to address the press in a little while. Among other things, I’m going to announce that we’ve shut down CTA bus service and all suburban bus lines operating within the city limits.”

  “That’s a good first step. It would also be a good time to announce that we’ve shut down access to every cell phone in the Chicago area.”

  “I’m going to talk to the mayor and DHS again as soon as they get here.”

  “Talk fast, Chief.”

  Maloney took them into the bus shelter, where the heavyset driver was sweating through his uniform. His nameplate read Leon Walker. His left hand was wrapped in gauze, and a blood-soaked Band-Aid covered a cut on his shaved head. Gold glanced at Battle, who took a seat next to Walker and spoke to him in a fatherly tone.

  “You need to go to the hospital, Leon?”

  “Nah. I’ll be fine.”

  “You grow up around here?”

  “Taylor Homes.”

  “Me, too.” They discovered that they’d lived in adjacent towers. They exchanged stilted small talk for a minute before Battle eased into the business at hand. “How long have you been driving the #4?”

  “Twenty years. I thought I’d seen everything.” Walker recounted the usual trouble: guns, gangs, armed robberies, drunks, drugs, and fights. “One time a punk stabbed his girlfriend on my bus, then he came after me. I kicked his ass. I took the girlfriend to the hospital, then I took him to the police station. He’s still at Joliet.”

  “All in a day’s work. What time did you get to work, Leon?”

  “I clocked in at nine-thirty and pulled out at ten.” Walker said he didn’t mind working the overnight shift. It was quieter, and there was less traffic. “We do shift changes at 63rd and Cottage. During the day, the #4 runs from downtown to 95th. After midnight, the route ends at 63rd.”

  “Did you check the bus before you took over?”

  “Yeah. We were told to be extra careful.” Walker said he didn’t notice anything under the seat behind the back door. “I didn’t have time to check it again when I got to the end of the line. I was running late.”

  “Was anybody in the seat behind the exit door?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Battle responded with a sympathetic nod. Then he looked at Gold, who picked up.

  “Leon,” he said, “how many round-trips have you done tonight?”

  “Three. It takes about forty-five minutes each way.”

  “You get a lot of riders at this hour?”

  “Twenty or thirty on each run. A lot of people work the night shift, and the El and the Metra trains are down. Some people are staying home, but most still have to get to work.”

  They would need to track down at least a hundred people. “Leon,” Gold continued, “did you notice anything suspicious? Anybody nervous? Anybody acting funny?”

  “I drive the graveyard run on the Cottage Grove bus. Everybody acts funny.”

  Fair enough. Gold glanced at the gang slogans spray-painted in Spanish on the shelter. “Think you can give us some names of your regulars?”

  “I know more first names than last names.”

  “No worries.” Gold’s BlackBerry vibrated. Fong’s name appeared on the display. Gold stepped outside of the bus stop. “Give me something I can use.”

  “The detonator was a cell phone belonging to a custodian at Millennium station. Lives in Little Village. My people are already there. He thinks his phone was stolen sometime on Monday afternoon. He reported it as missing when he got home.”

  “Seems our guy stole a bunch of phones at Millennium station. Is the custodian clean?”

  “A few parking tickets. He got home at six-thirty last night. His wife confirmed that he hasn’t left the house. You can talk to him, but it looks unlikely that he’s a suspect. We’re still going through the videos from Millennium station.”

  Great. “What about the phone that placed the call to the detonator?”

  “A payphone at a bus stop at 47th and Cottage Grove. It’s in front of the building where Al-Shahid’s imam lives.”

  Chapter 29

  “WE HAD HIM”

  “Where’s Ibrahim Zibari?” Gold asked.

  Sergeant Miriam Montesinos was standing next to a battered payphone hanging askew on a graffiti-tagged bus shelter just south of the corner of 47th and Cottage Grove, adjacent to the three-story yellow-brick apartment building where Al-Shahid’s imam lived. Montesinos was a streetwise native of Pilsen who had been a classmate of Gold’s at the academy. She’d earned her stripes working vice on the West Side. She’d spent the past eighteen hours supervising a team of undercovers watching Zibari and his mosque.

  She pointed at a window above a boarded-up currency exchange. “Apartment 224. I have two people in the apartment next door. We’re monitoring his cell phone, e-mail, Facebook, and Twitter.”

  Gold glanced at his watch. “Where was he at two-twenty-five this morning?”

  “In his apartment.”

  Dammit. Gold looked up at the once-fashionable building illuminated by the reflection of the Golden Arches of the twenty-four-hour McDonald’s across the street. Sixty years earlier, many U. of C. faculty members had resided in Kenwood’s spacious houses and elegant flats. The community had transformed in the fifties after the Supreme Court outlawed racially restrictive covenants. Blockbusters descended upon the neighborhood and precipitated a lightning round of white flight. “What time did Zibari get home?”

  Montesinos tugged at the bill of her Chicago PD baseball cap. “He drove home at ten-fifteen last night. He hasn’t left his room since then.”

  “Any chance he placed a call from this phone at two-twenty-five this morning?”

  “No.” Montesinos pointed across the street. “I’ve been parked in the McDonald’s lot since Zibari got here. A lot of people use this bus stop.”

  “I’m only interested in one.”

  “My orders were to watch Zibari and monitor anybody who entered this building. I wasn’t focused on the bus stop. If you had called me at two-twenty-four, I would have stopped him.”

  “If I had known about this at two-twenty-four, I would have called you. The bomber was here less than an hour ago, Miriam. We had him.”

  “I’m sorry, Dave.”

  “So am I.” Gold grabbed his police radio and barked instructions to all units in the area to meet at the corner of 47th and Cottage Grove. He wanted to establish a perimeter extending three miles in every direction.

  Montesinos pushed out a sigh. “Is there anything you can use?”

  “The bomber didn’t pick this phone at random. He knows where Zibari lives. Maybe it’s somebody he knows. It can’t hurt to ask him about it.”

  Chapter 30

  “DO YOU EXPECT ME TO THANK YOU?”

&
nbsp; Zibari met Gold and Battle with an icy glare as they stood outside the battered door to his one-room apartment. His left hand rested on one of his three dead-bolt locks. He wore a white T-shirt and a pair of Bulls shorts. “It’s three-thirty in the morning,” he snapped.

  Gold kept his tone measured. “Mind if we come in?”

  “Do I have any choice?”

  No. “Please, Ibrahim.”

  Zibari’s room was barely large enough to fit a tattered black sofa, a second-hand TV, and a bookcase crammed with religious texts and thriller novels. An Arabic-language website appeared on his iPad. The kitchen consisted of a sink, a hot plate, and a mini-fridge. His window was caked with grime, blocking most of the lights from the McDonald’s across the street. The only decoration was a dog-eared poster of Derrick Rose tacked to the oatmeal wall. Gold took a seat on the couch. Battle stood near the door.

  “I’ve been hearing sirens all night,” Zibari said. “I heard about the bus at 35th. I saw the police downstairs.”

  Gold played it straight. “The call to the detonator on the bus was placed from the payphone downstairs. You know anything about it?”

  Zibari’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve been here all night. You can check with the cops who’ve been watching me.”

  “We already did. You didn’t make the call.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Did you see anybody place a call from downstairs?”

  “No.”

  “You think it’s just a coincidence that the bomber used the payphone outside your building?”

  “You think somebody is trying to set me up?”

  “You think he used the phone downstairs because he liked hanging out at 47th and Cottage at two in the morning? You’re lucky our people were watching you, Ibrahim. Otherwise, you’d already have a six-by-six condo at 26th and Cal.”

  “Do you expect me to thank you?”

  “No, I expect you to help us. A guy who’s killed twenty people knows where you live. So does the press. The news vans are already outside. The helicopters are on their way. Help us and we’ll run interference for you. Otherwise, you’re on your own.”