“Izz we’re going in.”
Ichowitz could detect a note of doubt in his friend’s voice. “Jack, what’s wrong?”
Regan took a deep breath and thought over his response and finally replied, “Izz it’s just … I don’t know, it just seems too easy.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the thieves knew everything: the schedule, the type of moving van, the lack of adequate security. How come they didn’t know the works of art were electronically tagged?”
THIRTY-SEVEN
It took Glochowski and his team forty-five minutes to remove the device from the young terrorist. While they performed their dangerous mission, the bomb squad was able to run the young man’s prints through VICAP and his photo through the FBI’s facial recognition program. By the time he was secured in the federal lock-up at 7th and Arch Street they had a confirmed identification, Farouk Mohammed, birth name Frank Alcott Jr, of Fort Wayne, Indiana. The nineteen-year-old had no previous criminal record. He was not previously listed on any terrorist watch list. A call to the local authorities had resulted in the interview of his parents, Frank Alcott Sr and Mary Elizabeth Alcott. According to the Alcotts, Frank Junior, aka Farouk, was a recent convert to Islam. He had disappeared three months ago. They could not believe that their son could possibly be involved in a terrorist attack.
FBI and Homeland Security decided that Glochowski was the best candidate to conduct the initial interview of Mohammed/Alcott. They believed he had established a rapport with the young terrorist during the ninety or so minutes that elapsed from his capture to removing the device.
“Ski, the feebies think you bonded with that lunatic. They want you to take a crack at him, before they step in. Ya know, maybe you can find out who made the bomb and who sponsored him.”
“Cap, you know that’s not my thing. I feel safer around IEDs than talking to civilians. I never interviewed a perp before. If ya don’t believe me, you can ask my ex,” Glochowski replied.
“I know, I know, but the Commissioner thinks it’s a good idea, too. Whadaya say?”
Mohammed/Alcott was waiting in one of the interrogation rooms at the federal lock-up. His hands and feet were shackled and he was chained to the table. Glochowski, still wearing his under armor, entered the room and took the chair opposite the young man.
Mohammed/Alcott glared at Glochowski, “You bastard!” he shouted at the police officer.
Glochowski held up his hands in a self deprecating manner and softly replied, “Look it, I told my boss I didn’t think it was a good idea for me to be here either. But I gotta follow orders, just like you. So, let me do my thing and then you can do whatever you’re gonnna do. I’m going to inform you of your rights now.”
“I know my rights!” Mohammed/Alcott shouted.
“I’m sure you do, but I have to do this anyway, OK?” Glochowski calmly replied.
After reading him his rights Glochowski asked, “Do you want to waive your right to counsel and allow this interview to continue?”
Mohammed/Alcott stared at the police officer. “Why should I talk to you?”
Glochowski realized that this was the most critical point of the interview. If he did not handle this correctly, the perp would invoke his right to counsel and the interrogation would have to stop. He took a deep breath and looked directly in the young man’s eyes and said, “Listen kid, you’re in very serious trouble. You are going to be charged with serious crimes, maybe even treason. You’re probably going to spend the rest of your life behind bars. If you cooperate with us and help us prevent another terrorist attack, and save the lives of innocent people, the US Attorney may take that into consideration. If you don’t cooperate…” Glochowski shrugged his shoulders.
They stared silently at one another.
Behind the two-way mirror the First Assistant US Attorney, the Philadelphia FBI SAC, the Acting Regional Head of Homeland Security and Glochowski’s captain watched the scene unfold.
After staring at him for several minutes the young man sighed. “I know that you are a brave man and I believe that you are also an honest man,” Mohammed/Alcott said.
“Thank you.”
“I will cooperate with you. But only you.”
Glochowski looked up at the camera and shook his head. He had hoped that Mohammed/Alcott would invoke his privilege and relieve Glochowski from further involvement. At least with bombs he could know and understand his risk; working with the suits like this was way out of his comfort zone.
“OK, can I call you Farouk?”
He nodded.
Glochowski pulled a copy of the photograph of the tall man with green eyes that the Homeland Security undercover agent had taken. He showed the photograph to Mohammed and asked him if he could identify him.
“That is Brother Yosef,” Farouk said.
“Who is he?”
“Yosef Allawaite, our teacher.”
“What did he teach you?”
“He taught us how to detonate the vest.”
“Farouk, he lied to you. The vest was on a timing device. The detonator was a dummy switch,” Glochowski said.
“No, that can’t be true, you’re lying to me. The timer must have gone off because the detonator malfunctioned.”
Glochowski shook his head.
Farouk’s eyes widened with recognition that he had been betrayed.
After an hour of interrogation Mohammed/Alcott had revealed the second location at which the training had been conducted, the dates they had met, and the identities of the remaining suicide bombers.
“Farouk, are you certain there are four of you?”
He nodded.
There was another maniac wearing a bomb running around Philadelphia.
After the interview, Glochowski’s captain told him Mohammed/ Alcott’s identification of the bomb maker was a dead end. Apparently Allawaite had been a well known Al-Qaida bomb maker. He had been killed in a drone attack last year. However, the Speviva Street address at which the training of the terrorists had been conducted did pan out.
“Ski, you did good; we recovered evidence that corroborates the perp’s statement. The crime scene techs are collecting all kinds of latents and trace evidence of the explosives the Allawaite imposter used to assemble his killing machines. The FBI told me they got a bite from the Brits on the facial recognition search. They’re still waiting to get the skinny but they think he’s got some tie in with the Mossad.”
“What’s that?”
“The Israeli Secret Service.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Kate O’Malley was frantic with worry and guilt over allowing Liam to accompany his friend to Independence Mall. If she had followed Jack’s advice, Liam would never have been anywhere near the terrorist attack in the first place.
“Kate, stop beating yourself up over lettin the boy go with his friend,” Mike O’Malley said. “There’s nothing to be gained by it. Liam’s a smart lad. He’ll find a way to get out of danger. You’ll see.”
“Do ya really think so, Uncle Mike?”
He nodded. “Have ya heard anything from Jack?”
“He told me that all the police have Liam’s picture. They’re lookin out for him and other kids who were separated from their folks after the bombing.”
“What about Ryan’s folks? Have ya talked with them?”
“Yes. They’re beside themselves with worry too.”
“Look, I know it’s a hard thing to wait for news about someone you love. The clock seems to stand still from the weight of the worry. But we have to have some faith that Liam will be alright. He’s wise beyond his years.”
Two hours had passed since the initial bombing. Liam and his friend Ryan were out there, somewhere, alone. Kate O’Malley could only speculate on the dangers two nine-year-olds could encounter in the wake of the terrorist attack. Her Uncle was right about Liam. He was clever, but he was only a boy.
It took Jack and Harlan and the Highway Patrol Officers less than a half hour to f
ind the trailer with the Barnes’ art treasures in the Tioga Marine Terminal lot. They secured the crime scene while they waited for the technicians to arrive. Jack could not believe the thieves could be both so sophisticated and foolish at the same time. The robbery had obviously been well planned and had been flawlessly executed. The failure to know about the electronic tags was an oversight that ran counter to everything else about the caper.
After a careful search of the premises, there was no sign of the two thieves. Why had they abandoned their prize?
In what had otherwise been a brutal day for the law enforcement community, the recovery of what might have gone down as the greatest art heist in history was a stunning victory.
“Jack, even the President made note of your achievement during his remarks about the terrorist attack. It reaffirmed his belief that the federal and local authorities would find those involved in this cowardly attack on innocent victims and bring them to justice. You and Harlan Johnson are going to receive a special Presidential Citation for what you did,” Ichowitz told him when he arrived at the terminal with the techs.
“Izz, the only thing I want is to find Liam and his buddy,” he replied.
“I know, Jack. It’s only a matter of time until we find the boys.”
“Izz, can you imagine how scared they must be?”
It had taken Liam and Ryan about an hour to walk the twenty blocks to the path that ran along the Schuylkill River.
“Ryan, see the art museum?” Liam said as he pointed up river at the building that looked like a Greek temple that sat high up on a bluff overlooking the Schuylkill River. “Once we get there we’ll be close to home. Jack and Mum took me to the park near there a couple of times. There are plenty of water fountains along the way. We’ll be at my Uncle Mike’s before you know it. I bet ya my mum and your parents will be there waitin for us.”
Ryan, still shaken by the violent events that had separated him from his family, stared at his friend. He hadn’t spoken a word since the two boys ran away from the Constitution Center.
“Here, take the compass. You can navigate us to home,” Liam said as he removed the watch/compass from his wrist and handed it to his friend.
“Really?”
Liam nodded and the two boys walked beside the river towards the museum.
While the crime scene techs conducted their analysis of the rig and the precious cargo in the trailer, Regan could not keep his attention on the proceedings. He was worried about Liam and his friend Ryan. More than four hours had passed since the attack, and they were still missing.
“What do you think, Jack?” Ichowitz asked.
“Sorry, Izz, what were you saying?”
“No problem, I was just saying the thieves must have been wearing gloves. The techs weren’t able to find any latents in the cab or on any of the boxes in the trailer. Except for the eye witness description of the thieves, and the fact that one of them spoke with an Irish accent, we really don’t have a line on who these guys are.”
Regan shook his head and said, “Christ, I thought I told you I saw the driver. He looked like Michael Flynn … you know, Liam’s father. I thought my mind was playing tricks on me, but if the witnesses said one of the thieves spoke with an Irish accent, do you think he could have been Flynn?”
In the chaos of the aftermath of the terrorist attack Regan must have forgotten to mention this.
“Jack, maybe it was Flynn.”
Regan nodded.
“How the heck did Flynn get involved in this?”
“Izz, at least it explains why he came here. I never really thought he came here just to see his son. But there’s just something about his involvement in this that doesn’t feel right,” Regan said.
“Well the Interpol report said the Flynns have been involved in a number of high profile art thefts. This surely would have been one of the biggest heists ever.”
Regan stared at the trailer and turned to Ichowitz. “Izz, are we certain all of the art is still in the truck?”
Ichowitz shook his head.
“Harlan, do you know how many paintings and sculptures were supposed to be trucked over to the new museum?” Regan asked.
“Mr. Regan, the bill of lading should indicate the number of crates. I’m pretty certain Dr. Abernathy also had a chart that identified the art by the numbers on the crates.”
Ichowitz called the Lower Merion detectives at the facility and within minutes he was provided the number of packages that were supposed to be trucked over. The Crime Techs counted the crates and reported that the truck was ten short.
“Izz, could the thieves have left them in Lower Merion?”
“Negative. All of the art that had been packed for shipment is gone.”
“Then Flynn and his accomplice somehow took ten works of art from the truck,” Regan said.
“But according to the guard, the truck went through the gate less than ten minutes before you and Harlan got here. And according to the guard no vehicles left the facility after the truck with the art got here,” Ichowitz observed.
“So that means either the ten missing packages are still here, or they never got here,” Regan said.
“Boychik, we have a real mystery on our hands.”
Ichowitz instructed the crime scene techs to search the terminal yard using Harlan Johnson’s monitor, just in case the art works had been stashed in another container. Ichowitz reviewed the records to see if any containers had been loaded on a freighter after the truck arrived. Both searches came up dry.
“Izz, there just wasn’t enough time for them to move the ten crates from the truck after they got here. So they must have stashed them before they left Lower Merion.”
“Do we know what was in the missing crates?” Regan asked.
“Still working on it.”
“This just doesn’t make any sense. Why would they take the truck here, if all they wanted to steal was ten paintings?” Regan said. “I mean, why run the risk of getting caught with the eighteen-wheeler?”
THIRTY-NINE
Michael Flynn sat at the bar at Brynes’ Tavern at East Westmoreland and Richmond Streets, six blocks west of the Tioga Marine Terminal. He nursed the half and half the bartender with a snake’s head tattoo peaking out of the skimpy tee shirt she was wearing from the top of her left breast had served him. She leaned over the bar to wipe away a phantom spill in front of where Flynn was sitting and smiled at him.
“Darlin, if you don’t stop flashing those bodacious tatas at me, I’ll likely spill my entire pint,” he said as he raised his glass in her direction. “Besides, it looks like your regulars are startin to tire of all the attention you’ve been favorin me with. Here,” he said as he placed a fifty dollar bill in her cleavage. “Give the boyos a round on me and favor them with your luvly presence for a bit and keep whatever is left for your tip.”
“I saw you staring at the snake’s head. Would you like to see the rest of him?” she asked as she leaned closer to Flynn.
“Aw darlin, I surely would luv to see it in all of its splendor. But your customers must be served,” he said and nodded at the three men at the other end of the bar who were giving him the hard look.
She pouted as she walked away.
Flynn was killing time until his ride arrived. He had walked out of the terminal minutes before Regan and the police showed up. Except for Regan’s unanticipated arrival at the Barnes facility, the rest of the plan had worked flawlessly. The original plan was to wait until the scheduled change of the security guard at the facility and to drive the art away with the monitors chirping. He found Regan’s involvement a little bonus. Katey’s new boyfriend had been just a tad too cocky. He would have liked to wipe the smile off his smug face, but that would have to wait for another day. At least he had the pleasure of taking Regan on a wild goose chase.
Flynn looked up at the flat screen above the bar. The news report of the aftermath of the terrorist attack was jarring. Seven dead and thirty seven wounded. He was appalled a
t the extent of the damage and injuries reported in the media. He had been assured the attack was only supposed to be a noisey diversion for the heist. Obviously, he had been misinformed. He figured that by now Regan and the police had probably discovered that ten of the paintings were missing. They were likely stewing over how he had gotten the paintings off the truck in the few minutes between his pulling the rig into the terminal and their arrival. He thought to himself, “I bet they think we’re a feckin Houdini act,” as he took a long pull on the pint.
Flynn looked up at the television behind the bar at the breaking news report. “We have received a report that a fourth bomber is still at large,” the somber faced reporter said. She was standing in front of the bomb-damaged entrance to the Constitution Center. The camera panned across the Mall as she said, “Somewhere out there is another dangerous terrorist. If you see any suspicious activity, immediately report it to the authorities.”
That news would surely keep the authorities busy for some time to come, when John Q Public starts reporting sightings of suspicious-looking Muslims lurking around Center City and God knows where, he thought. Jaysus, at least they won’t be blaming the Irish. Flynn looked at his watch, finished the last of his pint, smiled at Ms. Snakes’ Head and left the bar.
Liam and Ryan walked up the stairs that lead from the canal path to Main Street two blocks east of the Grape Tavern at 4:45 PM. Despite being exhausted from their ordeal, they ran the remaining tenth of a mile.
“Liam, oh thank God you’re safe!” Kate O’Malley shouted as the boy rushed into her arms. “Uncle Mike, call Ryan’s folks and tell them the boys are here,” she said as she held both boys in her embrace. “Ryan, your parents and sister are safe. We were all so worried about you.”
Within minutes the Kellys arrived and both mothers would not let their sons out of their embrace.
“Will you let the boys breath? I’ll bet they’re hungry. Want something to eat?” Mike O’Malley asked. Both of the buys nodded. “Kate, get the boys something. We’ll make sure they don’t leave our sight.”
Murder and Mayhem in Manayunk Page 22
