The Shadows of Terror

by Russell Moran

  “Good morning,” said Carlini. “You’ve never heard of Agent Atkins before, and that’s the way we like it. Buster, in my somewhat informed opinion, is the best spy in the CIA, and one of the quickest thinkers I ever met. I’ve made no secret about my recommendation of Buster to replace me when I eventually retire. I’m going to turn this meeting over to Buster, who is going to share his thoughts with us.”

  Buster stood to address us. He was a tall, good looking guy with a swarthy complexion. He had broad shoulders and stood with the posture of a Marine.

  “Hello, folks, it’s my pleasure to meet you. From my physical appearance, you may think I rode in on a camel. I’m a jihad’s worst nightmare. I look like I live in a tent, but I’m American. I’m a Coptic Christian, my mother having been born in Lebanon, and that’s where I get my Arabian looks. I was born and raised in Brooklyn, as you may tell from my Arabic accent.”

  We all laughed. This guy may be tough, but he was also easy to like.

  A guard escorted a short bald man wearing a gray pin striped suit into the room.

  “I’m sorry I’m late, folks. There was a wicked accident on the Beltway.”

  “It’s my pleasure to introduce Dr. Benjamin Weinberg,” said Director Watson. “Ben [AB15]is a psychiatrist and detective with the New York City Police Department. He’s worked with the FBI on so many cases I’m trying to convince him to join us full time. Bennie, as he likes to be called, is a nationally famous expert on detecting lies from witnesses. He’s a hit with prosecutors, both state and federal. Bennie carries a card that reads, ‘Bennie the Bullshit Detector.’ He’s also an uncanny observer of human behavior. Buster, please continue.”

  Buster walked over to Bennie and they smiled and shook hands. These two were obviously old friends.

  “Director Watson hit the nail on the head when she said we’re in uncharted waters,” said Buster. “Whenever we investigate a terrorist incident, we expect to find somebody who looks like me. But 10/15 opened a new chapter in the story. Not one of the 12 people we identified was Middle Eastern. We’ve sifted through the available background information on each of them, and we see one thing in common. They all, at some point in their lives, became enthralled with the idea of radical Islam. We also know that 10/15 wasn’t a bunch of lone wolf operations. The way the bombings were executed tells us there was command and control. But even though there was coordination, the operation was simple, and that’s why there was none of the familiar ‘chatter’ leading up to the date. A suicide vest, a set time, a set place, and a human being willing to kill himself – or herself – in the name of a perverted ideology that traffics as religion. But there’s another thing about this incident that concerns us. I’m going to use the term ‘self-radicalized,’ meaning that these people weren’t brainwashed, but washed their own brains. I’m going to ask Dr. Bennie to weigh in.”

  “You’re all probably thinking,” said Bennie, “that no person in his right mind would do such a thing. And you’d be right. None of these people were in their right minds, but that doesn’t mean they were clinically insane. The best area for us to focus on is the act of suicide itself. Studies have shown, including some of my own papers on the subject, that people who commit suicide come from all economic levels but primarily from comfortable circumstances. That pattern fits the killers of 10/15. They probably would have turned up as suicides without killing other people, but radical Islam gave them something irresistible, a chance to go out in what the killer perceives as a flash of glory, a chance to make something out of a meaningless life. Some may have turned in this direction by a spurned lover, a tyrannical boss, or an argument with a neighbor. It sounds so mundane, and that’s the scary part about this. We can’t go around interrogating people to find out if they’re unhappy with their lives or if there is a family history of suicide. Even if we could come up with a group of suspects based on a psychological profile, then what? Imagine a world where a cop says, ‘You’re under arrest on suspicion of being a disaffected loner with no enjoyment of life.’ I’ve been in law enforcement for a long time, and we know that ain’t gonna happen, not that we want it to. I hate to sound negative, but getting blown up by a suicide bomber is just one of life’s risks, and after 10/15, it’s something we may need to learn to live with – or die with.”

  “Bennie,” said Director Watson, “are you saying there was no way we could have stopped 10/15?”

  “Well, it’s conceivable that we could have stopped it, but only for one reason – this wasn’t a lone wolf operation. There was command and control, somebody who called the shots, somebody who picked the targets, rounded up the jihadis, and set the times. Did we miss any clues? After 9/11 we saw all sorts of clues, all sorts of missed opportunities. But 9/11 was a different beast. It was a carefully orchestrated and complicated terror spectacular. The 10/15 incidents were part of a simple operation – a lot of parts, but simple. We’ve said it before – a time, a place, a bomb vest, and a detonator. If we missed any clues I have no idea, probably because I don’t have a need to know. Maybe Buster or one of you FBI folks can answer that.”

  “I can answer that,” said Watson. “For the past month we’ve looked at little else beyond trying to unravel this mess. I’ve spent countless hours on the phone with Director Carlini here, and I can say this with certainty – we didn’t have a clue. Even if we missed some obvious evidence and some operative tried to cover his ass by not pointing it out after the fact, I can say there were no

  clues, no hints, no dots. Both the FBI and the CIA have the same procedure when doing a post-mortem of an event. All agents are urged to submit a list of things that we missed – anonymously. The sorry state of affairs is that 10/15 came as a total surprise. A big spectacular, but a simple spectacular.”

  “Buster,” said Carlini, “I’ve seen you pull a lot of rabbits out of a lot of hats over the years. In your opinion, can another attack like this be prevented?”

  “The simple answer is yes, it can be prevented. Beyond that, I don’t want to say anything except to you, Mr. Director. Sorry folks, but once a spook, always a spook. Until the time comes to open it, I keep my mouth shut. All I can say at this point is that my team and I are working on it.”

  “Rick, I’m assigning Buster to work with you and your team,” said Director Carlini. “I’ve already discussed it with Director Watson and Barbara Auletta. The old bullshit days of the CIA and FBI not cooperating have changed since 9/11. After 10/15, I’m declaring it officially dead.”

  From what I learned about Buster, I was happy to have him on my team. I wondered how he got the nickname Buster.

  I’d find out soon.

  Chapter 16

  “Mr. MacPherson will see you now, Mrs. Bellamy,” said Angus MacPherson’s assistant. She had a heavy accent of some sort that I couldn’t place.

  This [AB16]was my first meeting with MacPherson in a month. The shopping center project was well under way, and I saw no problem with his projected launch date of the day after Thanksgiving next year, Black Friday.

  His office was what you’d expect for a man of such wealth. It was large, about 30 feet by 40 feet. The view of Manhattan was breathtaking from his 40th floor office on Park Avenue. In the middle of the office was a large conference table. As a real estate developer, he spent a lot of time hovering over plans and charts. The smell of the leather furniture gave off a hint of power. Photographs of his various real estate developments from all over the world covered the walls.

  “Ellen, lassie, good to see ya. Please have a seat.”

  MacPherson’s Scottish brogue was charming. He always calls me “lassie.” He’s a tall man, about 6’3” and heavy set. He was elegantly dressed in a Savile Row tweed suit. MacPherson is 70 years old, with a shock of white hair that set him apart from the dark surrounding walls.

  “It’s good to see you too, Mr. MacPherson.”

  “Call me Angus, lassie. Don’t make me feel old. Tell me, how did you weather the recent storm of October 15?”


  “No problems, Angus, except for the shock that everyone felt that day. And is everything okay with you?”

  “The only impact on MacPherson International was the small army of FBI agents who wanted to know everything about my security business. Just doing their jobs, of course, but it was an annoyance.”

  Of course I didn’t mention that my husband was in charge of the investigation.

  “So tell me, lass, how are the plans coming along?”

  We stood and walked over to the conference table where I spread out the latest drawings. As we went over the details Angus asked the kind of perceptive questions you’d expect from such a successful developer. Most of his questions concerned the sloping stainless steel ceilings.

  “Tell me, Ellen, what is your personal opinion of the plans? I know that I may have stepped all over your architect’s sensitivity with my specifications. Be honest with me, lass.”

  “I’ll be perfectly honest with you, Angus. I’ve said it before and I’ll repeat it now. The sloped ceilings eliminate a second, or in a couple of the buildings, a third floor retail space. The design looks beautiful, and we’ll see it better when the model is finished next week. But my job is to advise my clients when I think their plans may be off. The design of these buildings will cost you a fortune every year, starting on the day the buildings open for business.”

  “I know, I know, but don’t you worry, lass. Old Angus can afford it.”

  “But by chopping off the second and third floors, you’re giving up 90,000 square of retail space, at an average net loss of $3.6 million a year, just on the first five projects. You’re the boss, but my job is to give you the facts, not just design buildings.”

  He let out a deep breath. I didn’t sense that he was annoyed with me, even though he had every right to be. I was being a pain in the ass, and I knew it. But an architect’s job often entails keeping a client out of trouble. He looked almost resigned, as if he agreed with my objection. I had the impression that he seemed to be going along with an idea he disagreed with, almost as if someone else was pulling the strings.

  “Do you think we’ll hit our target date of the day after Thanksgiving next year, Ellen?”

  “Yes, I do. Of course the work schedule is for the construction supervisors, but I’ve seen large projects done in less time. The plans are almost complete. If I may offer my opinion, Angus, I think your idea of opening the day after Thanksgiving is brilliant. Black Friday, the day that a retailer’s bottom line changes from red to black, is the busiest shopping day of the year. That’s not the opinion of an architect, but the business woman in me thinks it’s a great strategy.”

  “Yes, I suppose. There will be thousands of shoppers in the centers looking for bargains. Thousands.”

  As he said that, I again had the feeling that he wasn’t happy about it. This was freaking me out. I’d think that a huge successful opening would make him excited. But he seemed almost sad. Maybe I was getting like Rick, suspicious about everything, but this man looked forlorn about something.

  “So I’ll meet you in your office next Tuesday to see the model, lassie.”

  As I gathered up the plans and slipped them into the carrying case, I had to ask a question.

  “Tell me, Angus, if you don’t mind my asking. Your assistant has a charming accent, but I just can’t place it. Where is she from?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Somewhere in the Middle East, I think.”

  Chapter 17

  I woke up this morning feeling like shit. Ellen had just put a cup of tea next to my side of the bed. It’s hard to describe, but we all know the feeling of a cold coming on. Fortunately, I don’t get a lot of colds. I take my vitamins, get exercise and rest, and generally take care of myself. But a cold virus doesn’t give a rat’s ass how much you take care of yourself. The little bugger could be lurking on a door handle or a handrail.

  Ellen tells me I get cranky when I have cold. She’s right. When I have cold, I feel like something is blocking me from getting my work done. My muddled head doesn’t help much either. I constantly blow my nose and wipe my eyes.

  I just have to stop whining and get to work. I took my daytime cold medicine. It helped a little, at least in the runny nose department. But with all of the mayhem engulfing the counterterrorism task force, I didn’t have the luxury of staying in bed. I’ll just keep drinking liquids and hang in there. Ellen can switch from lover to kindly grandmother in an instant. That morning she tried to get me to stay home, but she knew that wouldn’t happen. Then she tried to convince me to go to the doctor. I’m not afraid of doctors, but the simple truth was there is no cure for the common cold. Just treat the symptoms, which I was trying to do.

  ***

  Buster, Dr. Bennie, my partner Zeke, and I sat down around the conference table in my office for the first of our many meetings. Not wanting to share my germs, I insisted on sitting down at the end of the table. I brought a box of antiseptic hand wipes to keep the surfaces I touched bug free. Zeke ordered a tray of sandwiches because he knew the meeting would be long. Bennie knew about my cold because we had spoken earlier on the phone. He brought a quart-sized container of chicken soup, which he made himself.

  “God bless you,” they all said in response to my latest sneeze.

  It was Thursday, November 13, almost a month[AB17] since the attacks of 10/15. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s being up against a case when I have no clue how to proceed. I felt good about having this meeting, except for my goddamn cold. My colleagues are sharp, and by the end of the meeting we hoped to have some direction. At least that was my plan.

  “Buster, I’d like you to start the meeting,” I said as I blew my nose. “You have a reputation as a guy who likes to get things done.”

  “You haven’t heard the least of it, Rick,” said Bennie. “We joke that Buster is a human action figure. I’ve seen him pull off some of the weirdest shit that you can imagine.”

  “Thanks for the confidence, Bennie. You’re both right. I like to get results.”

  Buster stood and carried a flip chart from the corner of my office closer to the table. He turned the chart so we could see it.

  “Here’s where we are, and here’s what we know,” said Buster. “The enemy we face isn’t the enemy we’re used to. The enemy could be the guy next door. It’s easy to keep track of Arabs because they look like me. But these killers aren’t Arabs, although they all have something in common. Anybody want to take a stab at what that is?”

  “They’re all ‘homegrown’ terrorists,” I said. “They all converted to Islam.”

  “And their psychological profile,” said Bennie, “is that they have personality disorders. Some of them are borderline psychopaths, from the little we know about them.”

  “None of them have Middle Eastern backgrounds,” said Zeke.

  “But there is something else they have in common,” said Buster, “something that precedes the excellent observations you guys [AB18]just made. There’s something about them that’s traceable and trackable. We have the ability to narrow down the group and possibly even predict their behavior.”

  “Holy shit,” said Ben. “You’ve come up with a way to get to them before they detonate the next bomb?”

  “I second Bennie’s ‘holy shit,’ ” I said.

  “Third,” said Zeke.

  Buster smiled. He smiled like a guy who just got the response he was looking for.

  “Okay, guys, here it is. You all have Top Secret security clearances, and most important, you have a need to know. I don’t have to explain that to you. You’re pros, and you’re about to hear the most Top Secret project in the CIA. What all of the attackers of 10/15 have in common is that they posted comments on various sites on the Internet. Some were even dumb enough to post under their own usernames on Facebook and Twitter. Once a person goes public on the Internet, they’re fair game. We don’t need warrants to check what’s public. So [AB19]once we’ve identified a person as a radical, we still can’t
get a warrant unless we can show intent to commit an illegal act. But those signs are all over the place. One of the attackers had a phone conversation in which he said he was ‘ready to use the sword of Allah on 10/15.’ ”

  “But how did you tap the guy’s phone?” I asked, wiping my nose on a tissue. “He’s dead. How did you get a warrant?”

  “We convinced the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court, better known as the FISA Court, to give us warrants on all of the attackers of 10/15. We argued in court that because we could seize assets if the person was found to have done the act, that property interest alone was enough to trigger a warrant, even though the ‘suspects’ were all dead.”

  “You must have some persuasive lawyers,” Zeke said.

  “For the 10/15 warrants,” said Buster, “we hired some of the best constitutional lawyers in the country. The 10/15 warrants were that important. But here’s the most important thing. Because we had detailed information on all of the 10/15 killers, we were able to plug that data into our computers. We ran it through an amazing algorithm and came up with more dots and more

  patterns than you can believe. In a strange way, the attacks of 10/15 gave us the tools to look into the future and try to prevent the next attack, using the profiles shown by the algorithm. We now have a mother lode of profile data from 12 actual killers.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “All of this assumes that a potential suicide bomber first gets onto a website and posts something. What if some smart jihadi figures this all out and just makes sure he stays away from the Internet?”

  “That’s unlikely,” said Bennie. “A suicide bomber, remember, has to show the world his miserable life meant something. That’s why so many of them make videos of themselves before they act. And also, don’t assume that these jihadis are all that smart. Their paranoid delusions usually control their behavior.”

  “But I’m still not getting something,” I said. “So we find a suspect by tracking his public Internet activity, and then we convince the FISA court to give us a warrant. We search all of the allowable records, including phone calls, and come up with nothing more than a suspicion. How do we nail the guy before he acts?”