by Henry Hack
“Thank you all, gentlemen,” Driscoll said. “I think a ten minute break is in order.”
At first there was stunned silence, then they all got up and headed for the coffee urn or the bathroom, and the hushed conversations began. By the time Jim called them back to their seats, the room was a cacophony of loud voices and waving arms.
“Questions?” he asked.
The scientist with the conservative gray suit and multi-colored bow tie arose and said, “Were there any bodily fluids expelled from the victims of the gas attacks? Involuntary defecation or urination?”
Mr. Giancarlo was the first to respond and said, “No.” He was joined by the three others who also responded in the negative.
“My God,” said the scientist. “This stuff kills almost instantaneously.”
The questions, answers and discussions consumed the rest of the day. Per Driscoll’s instructions he asked them to exhaust all the available information on the attacks and keep open minds. “Try not to draw any conclusions yet,” he said. “Let’s just keep absorbing facts.”
The next day it was the scientists turn to describe the current status and effects of known chemical, neurological and biological warfare agents. This was truly scary stuff. The general headings were bad enough—blister agents, vesicants, blood agents, bio-toxins, caustics, choking agents, incapacitating agents, anti-coagulants, nerve agents and vomiting agents. They got into the specifics—ricin, sarin, super warfarin, phosgene, hydrogen cyanide, paraquat and dozens of other deadly chemicals. But when they got to the bio-terrorism agents, Kevin whispered to Harry, “I’d rather suck in the chemical stuff and be done with it.” Harry nodded in agreement as the scientific gurus described the effects of anthrax, smallpox, hanta virus, brucellosis, psittacosis, typhus, cholera, plague, Ebola virus, Marburg virus and cryptosporidium.
Th ere was time near the end of that second day for the representative of the Joint Chiefs of Staff to explain the construction, deployment and effects of dirty nuclear devices in minute detail. By five o’clock the participants were drained and overwhelmed by the situation they, and the civilized world, were about to face.
An analysis by the scientists on the morning of the next day concluded the choking attacks were caused by a nerve agent similar to cyanide or phosgene, but they wouldn’t be pinned down to one choice. One said, “It could be something brand new whose formulation is unknown to us.” They also concluded the biological attacks were similar to Ebola virus, but much more fast-acting.
The scientist with the wild bow tie summed up their opinions and conclusions. “These are just two agents among hundreds of others out there and easily produced, and some of them can take several days for their symptoms to appear—long after the attack has taken place. Our function is to develop antidotes and methods of containment, which we are constantly pursuing, but that is for after the attack. The only way to prevent a catastrophe from an enemy bent on using these agents is to destroy that enemy before the attack.”
“That dumps it squarely in our laps,” Harry said to Vince and Kevin.
“Gentlemen,” Driscoll said. “After three days of absorbing the details of the seven incidents, and hearing the views of our scientists and military and political advisors, what say you in law enforcement? How do we stop these guys now?”
“We have to find them first,” Walt Kobak said, “and from plotting the locations of the attacks, it would appear the source is somewhere in the Middle-East.”
“That’s narrowing it down,” Harry said. “Boy, you FBI guys are brilliant.”
Several smiles and chuckles spread throughout the room, and it was a well-timed tension reliever. “What are your brilliant thoughts, Inspector Cassidy?” Walt asked.
“My thoughts are someone, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that someone was bin Yousef, has turned his evil ways from bombs and bullets, to chemical and biological weapons.”
“And where would he manufacture these weapons?”
“I would guess in Syria, but maybe our esteemed leader, Mr. Driscoll, would impart some information to us that might negate the need to manufacture them at all.”
“Harry is remembering a piece of information I casually passed on before this meeting began,” Driscoll said. “We have some information that perhaps Saddam Hussein’s weapons of mass destruction were not destroyed prior to the invasion by the United States, but were secretly smuggled—in toto—out of Iraq. Syria is a logical destination, from both a political and logistical point of view.”
“How strong is the information?” Kevin asked.
“As often happens, one of our informants overheard a conversation…”
“Don’t tell me in a bar—in Baghdad,” interrupted one of the scientists, generating a smattering of laughter.
“No, Bernard,” Driscoll said, “of course not in a bar, but outside a mosque. And what he heard was one fellow asking another fellow if he knew the current whereabouts of one Tawfiq al-Hisawi, a scientist in the old regime. The second fellow did not know, but our friends in the CIA did know, and he was located in a suburb of Mosul. Two weeks later he disappeared with no forwarding address. Surveillance was put in place on a dozen scientists who we believe may have had a part in Saddam’s WMD program. They, of course, had denied it back then, and there had been no justification for holding or prosecuting them. Over the past year, ten of the twelve have likewise disappeared.”
“Despite the surveillance?” Vince asked.
“Yes, we didn’t have manpower for an around-the-clock operation. They were checked only periodically, I’m sad to say.”
“So,” Kevin said, “we have eleven former scientists who willingly, or unwillingly, have left Iraq for parts unknown.”
“Right. Oh, do any of you remember Chemical Ali, the guy who headed up Saddam’s WMD program?”
“Sure,” said one of the scientists. “He was Saddam’s cousin.”
“Correct,” Driscoll said. “Ali had a brother, Karim, who worked closely with him, but was never captured. Supposedly, he was the scientific brains behind his brother’s political braggadocio. And two of the scientists who have disappeared also worked closely with Ali and Karim. Their apt nicknames are Doctor Poison and Mrs. Virus.”
Walt asked the CIA director if anything had turned up on the satellite surveillance over the Middle-East, such as recent excavations or construction. He answered in the negative, but agreed to have the satellites concentrate more on Syria for a few weeks. The only other avenue of investigation they could arrive at was to interrogate the families and friends of the missing scientists to try to find out exactly where they had gone. Avram Hivkind volunteered his services, but admitted the scientists may not have had an opportunity to disclose their destination to their families, or if they did know, would choose not to divulge that destination for obvious reasons.
The meeting concluded on a note of pessimism, which was to be expected in view of the enormous challenge that lay ahead of them, and the scant information with which they had to proceed. Giancarlo volunteered to be the point man for Europe, and Hivkind likewise volunteered for the Middle-East. Driscoll would continue as the United States liason. Although they had knowledge and a goal now, they all knew, barring an unforeseen lucky break, all they could do was wait for the next attack—an attack that could happen anywhere, at anytime, with devastating consequences.
Only one man in the world knew when and where that attack would occur, and Khalid al-Habib bin Yousef chuckled in anticipation of his first smashing blow to the infidels. The tests were over, the results had been evaluated and fine-tuned, and as the hated Americans were fond of saying, “It was showtime!”
“I believe, Fasiym, we can accomplish our goals with no more than two dozen jihad warriors. You and I, Mounir and Hamid, plus a dozen of their best warriors plus our old friends, Aziz and Idris, and their eight still devoted cell leaders, should be sufficient to bring America to capitulate to our demands.”
“You and I?”
; “Yes, Fasiym. It is time once more to shave our beards and trade our kaftans and hijabs for the clothing of the infidels.”
“Do you mean you and I will travel to America?”
“Of course. Do I detect reticence in you voice?”
“Certainly not. I would love to personally kill as many infidels as possible. And how will we enter America?”
“Across the Canadian border, just as did the four warriors from the Last Crusade who bravely gave their lives in Washington. It is three thousand miles long and lightly guarded. We will have no trouble getting ourselves, and our supplies, into the land of Satan. And you and I will go to New York City. We have unfinished business there.”
New York! Ali Hassan trembled at the thought of New York, and having to personally deal with the the members of the Joint Terrorist Task Force. But he pulled himself together and said, “I can’t wait to get there, my leader.”
Susan had flown down to Washington to join Harry after the meeting concluded. She had a few days of work in the expanding field office her law firm had opened there, and the partners were pressing her to permanently re-locate and assume leadership at the new branch.
“If you do that,” Harry said, “I think it would be like jumping into the fire from the frying pan, as the saying goes.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Susan,” he said, grabbing her hand, “these guys are ready to strike again, and I believe New York and Washington are the prime targets.”
“More bombs and machine gun attacks?”
“No, worse. Listen, you can’t say anything to anyone about this, but we think bin Yousef has located Saddam Hussein’s arsenal of chemical, biological and nuclear weapons and he is about to use them.”
“That’s a terrifying thought.”
“Speaking of terrifying thoughts,” he said. “How do you go from your hotel to the office when you stay here?”
“On the Metro. It’s only four stops, and practically door-to-door.”
“Don’t do that anymore—take a cab.”
“Are you saying…?”
“I’m saying crowded mass transportation is an ideal target of opportunity for these guys. Promise me—cabs only from now on—both here and back in New York.”
“Okay,” she said. “What about Lizzy?”
“I’ll call her right away.”
Harry’s oldest daughter was now nineteen years old and a sophomore at NYU in downtown Manhattan. She was living with Harry and Susan in their upper west side apartment during the school term, and commuting on the subway. Harry got through to her that afternoon and said, “Hello, honey. I want you to do me a big favor.”
“Sure, Dad. What is it?”
“Starting tomorrow I want you to take a taxi to and from school. In fact, I want you to take cabs wherever you travel in the city. No buses, no subways.”
“But, Dad, the money, and why…?”
“Don’t worry about the money. I’ll take care of that. And as for the reasons I’m asking you to do this, I cannot say right now. You know what I do for a living. We’re getting some scary information which may, or may not, be true. Please go along with me, Lizzy—just to be on the safe side.”
“All right,” she sighed. “Can I tell Mom?”
“I’ll call her as soon as we get off the phone, but please, you tell no one.”
“Sure, Dad, you stay safe, too.”
“I’ll take care, don’t you worry.”
Bin Yousef and his loyal, but now reluctant lieutenant, spent their last few days in Syria updating their information on New York City subway and rail stations, and on the details of the lives of the members of the New York Joint Terrorist Task Force. “Look at this article in Time magazine, Fasiym,” said an agitated bin Yousef. “They refer to our last battles in America as being crushed by a modern-day crusade. Their crusades failed in the middle-ages, and this pitiful one will fail now. But our crusade—our Last Crusade—will succeed beyond our greatest dreams.”
“And look at this picture,” Fasiym said. “The infidels smiling, and holding their weapons—and their leader, Kobak, pointing to them in congratulations.”
“Our loyal supporters in America informed me Kobak is now the head of the FBI in New York, and Cassidy has been appointed to an antiterrorism post responsible for the entire east coast,” bin Yousef said.
“How do you plan to attack them, my leader?”
“I’m not sure yet, Fasiym, but I will take four jihad warriors with us to New York and meet with Aziz and Idris to surveil these Task Force members, and confirm the locations we have in our possession. But first, we will attack broadly, and inflict great death to the infidels. My friend, our time is near.”
“May Allah protect us in our great jihad,” Fasiym said, but he also silently prayed Allah would protect him, personally, in the evil city of New York.
As bin Yousef was completing his final preparations for the trip to Canada, Harry was meeting with Walt Kobak and John McKee at the Task Force office in Manhattan. After briefing them on the results of the meeting in DC, he said, “I guess the first order of business is to put our team back together. Walt, is it okay with you to bring Pop Hunter and Nick back?”
“Of course,” Walt said.
Once more the members of the New York Joint Terrorist Task Force assembled at FBI Headquarters in lower Manhattan—a gathering none of them thought they would ever have to participate in again.
“After all these years I never figured I’d be back here,” Nick Faliani said.
“Yeah,” Dick Mansfield said, “and you’ll notice my employer, the Federal government, has not changed a thing in here, just so you cops would feel right at home.”
“Same slow, cruddy coffee machine?” Pop asked.
“And the same comfy wooden chairs and stained conference table,” Jerry Campora said.
“Goddamn!” Pop said, slapping his hand on the table. “It’s good to be back.”
The good-natured banter was interrupted when Harry walked into the room, and in a pre-arranged greeting, they all leaped to their feet, saluted, and shouted, “Good morning, Inspector Cassidy, sir!”
Harry grinned and said, “Knock it off you slugs, and listen up.”
“Sir! Yes, sir!” they again shouted, sitting down in unison. Harry shook his head and got right to the point, holding back nothing. And when he finished, all the smiles were gone.
“Walt Kobak got back from DC late last night. He’ll be here in a few minutes to update us on the latest news. Let’s put a fresh pot of coffee on.”
Walt was as somber faced as the rest of them when he came in and stood at the head of the table. “We don’t have much,” he said, “but we do have a promising lead. The CIA analyzed all their satellite images over the past two years. They put every available photo surveillance expert on the project. Concentrating on Syria, they discovered a location in the northeastern part of the country, near the town of Al Hasakah, about forty miles west of the Iraqi border. They have observed increased activity over the two year period. They looked back further and discovered the activity, chiefly in the form of motor vehicle traffic, began about three years ago and increased on a steady basis until a few weeks ago. Since then, the traffic from Al Hasakah has slowed down measurably.”
“What does the CIA think is going on there?” John asked.
“They don’t know for sure, but it is a logical site for a weapons cache, maybe if we’re lucky, Saddam’s missing WMD’s.”
“How do we find out for sure?” Jerry asked.
“At the highest diplomatic level. No punches will be pulled. The Syrian government will be shown our evidence and asked to mount a joint military strike with us at the site.”
“And if they refuse?” Pop asked
“They will be informed we will do it ourselves, and if they object or interfere, we will consider a state of war exists between our two nations.”
“Can’t we first get any ground intelligence on what’s go
ing on at that site?” Harry asked.
“The CIA is infiltrating some operatives into Syria from Iraq as we speak. No moves will be made until they report back.”
“When will that be?” Pop asked.
“In a week to ten days.”
“Any chance of us going over there to join the attack?” John asked.
“No way,” Walt said. “If they do go in, it will be military all the way, with hazmat gear, containment devices, the whole works.”
“What do we do in the meantime?” Nick asked.
“Wait, and hope they get to them in time—before they strike big.”
18
For three days they twiddled their thumbs, catching up with the happenings of each other’s lives over the past ten years. They did crossword puzzles, read newspapers and went outside for long walks in the mild, spring air. One afternoon Harry stepped into the conference room and announced, “Walt and I are flying to DC for an update. They may have something for us. I’ll brief you tomorrow morning. You might as well call it a day.”
They headed out of the office and Jerry Campora told his long-time partner, Dick Mansfield he would walk home over the Brooklyn Bridge, as he often did in mild weather. Dick, who lived out on Long Island, asked Jerry if he wanted him to pick him up on the way in the next morning.
“No, I’ll walk. I need the exercise. This sitting around all day is driving me nuts.”
“All right, partner,” Dick said. “Keep your eye peeled out for any stray blue-eyed Arabs you might detect on your stroll to and from the office.”
“Wiseass,” Jerry muttered.
The next morning Jerry awoke to a damp, drizzly cool day, more typical of March than late April. Gone was the near seventy degree temperature and bright sunshine of the previous afternoon. “Goddamn New York weather,” he grumbled as he headed for the shower. At breakfast with his wife he decided, despite the rotten weather, not to call Dick for a ride. This area of Brooklyn was a traffic nightmare, and he knew his partner would complain about it all the way into Manhattan. He would take the brief, four-stop subway ride to work.
