The Seventh Message

by William Johnstone

  "We're making rapid progress, Ed. I’ve started to assemble counterterrorist teams, and I'm currently interviewing lead investigators for each unit." Mike remained standing as did Rashid. "Today, I want you to meet Doctor Rashid al Youris. He will serve as our agency ambassador over at Homeland Security." Rashid extended his arm and shook the director's hand.

  Delong held Rashid's hand in a powerful grip. "I read your resume. Impressive. How long have you worked in the private sector?"

  "About five years, sir. I'm on leave from McClellen University now"

  "Five years.” Delong eyeballed Mike Johansson. “Have you checked his security clearance status, Mike?"

  "Not a problem, Ed. Rashid and I go way back. I will vouch for him. He is the most trustworthy guy I know.”

  The Director released Rashid's hand and continued to inspect him. "Agency Ambassador is a sensitive and vital position, Doctor Youris. Interagency communication or a lack of it, affects our capacity to fight terror both in America and abroad."

  "Yes, sir. I'm aware of that. I plan to make sure the flow of information from the intelligence community moves freely, into and out of the FBI."

  Ed Delong shifted his attention back to Mike. "If there's anything you need, let me know. I'm in complete support of this mission." He moved the cigar to the other side of his mouth. “As for you, Doctor Youris, you have an opportunity to make a difference in this war on terror.” He clamped down on the cigar. “Good luck.”

  “Yes, sir. I plan to work hard.”

  As soon as Johansson and Youris thanked the Director for his time, and left the office, Edward Delong ordered a security clearance investigation on Rashid al Youris.

  TWENTY-TWO

  COMPARED TO THE MISERABLE ATLANTIC crossing before his meeting with Caliph Abd al-Ghayb, Abdullah experienced a comfortable, almost pleasant return home aboard an Air France Boeing 767. The flight gave him an opportunity to relax and consider how much his life had changed in twenty four hours. Never did he think he would meet the Caliph in person, a much-revered holy man or sit before him and counsel with him. How proud his father would be to learn of this honor bestowed on his son. An honor he may never know, at least while Abdullah lived.

  Seated by a window, he stared down on an expanse of white clouds that extended to the horizon. Yes, I am the son of a Prince in my country, but that is inconsequential compared to the status of a Caliph, a successor of the Prophet Muhammad; an Imam, not of a mosque, but of a world nation of believers. Through the authority of the Caliph, Allah the Magnificent has blessed me, and has chosen me to do His will. Why would He place a nuclear weapon into my hands if He did not intend for me to use it to glorify Him? I am meant to be His servant–His sword. These thoughts excited him.

  After his meeting with the Caliph, Sheik Hadid Ghamadi had taken Abdullah aside and shared details of their plan, starting with the nuclear device. He explained. "The nuclear weapon, referred to as a Suitcase Nuke, originated in the Soviet Union. There were over 250 of these tactical weapons made, each weighing less than sixty pounds. More than a hundred mini-nukes disappeared from the Soviet arsenal after the political dissolution of that country. A cartel of international arms dealers acquired a dozen of the bombs and have kept them in storage under radiation containment for sale. Russia claims none of this is true, but clearly they do exist, because the Society of Rule by Sharia Law bought one." Sheik Ghamadi didn't reveal the cost, only that the purchase came with a team of nuclear experts who would supervise its handling.

  He continued. "The next step is in your hands. You will research a suitable target. Your goal is to maximize the effect of this weapon on the Americans. Only then will the western infidels heed the might of our jihad."

  Abdullah learned the Society continued to work on details concerned with the transport and storage of the bomb, and that they would keep him informed of their progress. Sheik Ghamadi told him the Caliph would set aside any amount of money needed to carry out the mission, no matter how large the sum. "Your actions should be deliberate," he said, "and you must take whatever time necessary to be successful, but not a minute longer."

  AFTER ARRIVING IN Mexico City, Abdullah learned he would return to El Paso on a chartered flight, arranged by Rome. A few thousand pesos here, and a few more there, smoothed his way back home–evidence that his importance had grown.

  He got his old truck in El Paso and drove back to his place in Maljamar. The dumpy little house in the middle of the bleak desert depressed him, and because of his newly defined mission, it no longer served his needs. At first, his remote location in an almost nonexistent town gave him time to adjust to his new surroundings in America. It helped him to learn how to navigate from rural to urban settings and assume his new identity. Conditions were different now. He couldn't waste his time driving to town to find a connection to the Internet. He must stay in constant touch with Rome and remain anonymous. With unlimited funds at his disposal, Abdullah was free to make changes.

  Every time he ventured out of his desert hiding place he noticed many Americans drove recreational vehicles. Most interesting were the big motor homes common in America. RV parks with hookups were everywhere. Abdullah decided to buy a motor home and tow a car. He would become an American nomad, live well, be mobile and have no permanent address.

  Before he carried out this plan there were annoying details to handle. He must contact Bashir in El Paso and arrange the transfer of money through the Hawala system: a global money handling institution based on generations of honor, and no written records. Moving a few thousand dollars would go unnoticed, but a few hundred thousand in cash needed special arrangements.

  Bitty Smith, who had lived a life of poverty, should not become wealthy overnight. That would draw attention to a sexually challenged little loser. Abdullah remembered Sheik Ghamadi had suggested he setup a small private company to receive items for storage. He realized that a company could also serve as a repository for money transfers.

  Abdullah set about creating Smith Trading Company, specializing in international imports and exports. The new enterprise would have a bank account that could receive deposits and make purchases in the name of the company. His plan included leasing office space in Roswell and hiring a mail forwarding service to transfer funds and link him to the outside world.

  Abdullah decided to pay rent on the bleak little place in Maljamar and keep it as a backup location in the event he might need it later. He would store the old truck in the shed behind the house. The title transfer of the truck from Allen Lee, his original false identity, to Russell Smith would need a Bill of Sale–easy enough to do. He sold Bitty's 1969 VW Bug on Craigslist for a few hundred dollars.

  All these preparations, the transfer of funds, creation of a company, and his withdrawal from Maljamar were necessary but served as a nagging distraction from his real job of searching for a suitable target and making plans to carry out his mission. Although he felt frustration, Abdullah knew he must proceed with caution. He must remember, no matter how friendly and accommodating the Americans might be, they remained his enemy. They were common people led by wicked evildoers bent on destroying his dream of an Islamic world. Their domination by Sharia rule would be their salvation. And he would become their agent of change–their savior.

  TWENTY-THREE

  FAYE ORR, AN EMERGENCY ROOM nurse, dealt with tragedy every day. Over the years she had learned to insulate herself from emotional involvement and concentrate on doing her job as a medical professional. That changed when her brother called to tell her Bitty Smith was dead.

  "Bitty? Dead?" she asked before she grasped the full meaning of the words. “What do you mean, Barry?" An ache welled up in her throat as she listened to her brother explain what he knew. With a quiver in his voice he said, "Two people from the FBI wants to help us. They need to talk to you."

  "The FBI?"

  "Yes. I told them you’d give ’em the information they need."

  ASHLEY TURNED INTO the Carlsbad hospital park
ing lot on West Medical Center Drive with Ramirez next to her. She spotted the Senior Circle sign in front of a converted single family house next to the main hospital building. "Carlsbad Medical Center is a corporation," she explained to Ramirez. "They sponsor organizations like this as a community service. It's only a short distance from where Barry's sister works. Faye Orr thought it would be a good place to meet."

  They parked and entered the building. A gray haired woman sitting at a desk greeted them. "Good morning, would you like to register?" She pointed to an open book with names and addresses neatly written on each page.

  Ashley noted the woman's hand trembled a bit. "We're here to see Faye Orr. Has she arrived?"

  "Why, yes. She's in the conference room in the back."

  "Thank you. My friend will sign us in. Down the hall?"

  "Yes, straight back and to the left."

  The conference room, decorated with photographs of former Senior Circle members, had chairs for eight people. Faye Orr sat in the back corner, her hands on the table clasped in front of her. She had well-groomed brown hair and wore a solemn expression. Ashley went to her side. "Hello, Faye Orr?"

  "Yes," she said, surprised at seeing a young woman holding a gold badge.

  "My name is Ashley Kohen. I’m with the FBI. My partner, Agent Ramirez, will join us in a moment.”

  "Barry told me you wanted to ask some questions."

  Ashley spoke in a quiet voice. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Orr.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I know this is a difficult time for you. We need to know more about your brother, Russell Smith. This won't take long." Ramirez joined Ashley and they sat across the table from Faye.

  Ashley began. "Barry said you were in close contact with your brother."

  "I try to stay in touch."

  “Do you know if your brother had any enemies that might want to hurt him?”

  “Enemies? Oh no. Bitty kept to himself.”

  "When was the last time you saw Russell?"

  "About two months ago. I helped him move into a little apartment in Roswell."

  "How did he act? Was he happy?"

  "I guess so. He had a job working at the college. Eastern New Mexico University on the south side. Close to where he lived."

  "What did he do at the college?"

  "He worked in maintenance."

  "And you haven’t seen him since he moved?"

  "That's right, but I called him most every week. I called about two weeks ago. After that his phone was disconnected."

  "What did you think about that?"

  "Bitty moved around a lot. I figured he would get back to me when he could." Faye looked off to the side and tears welled up. "I guess he can't do that now."

  Ashley touched Faye's hands. “The last time you talked, did he say anything unusual?"

  Faye wiping away her tears. "No. He said he had a new friend. A reporter or writer or something who showed an interest in him. Asked a lot of questions about his past life in foster care and all."

  "Questions about his life?"

  "Yes. Said his friend was beautiful. Bitty talked like that."

  "Did he tell you anything else about this man?"

  "No."

  "Do you have Bitty's address in Roswell?"

  "I have it. Barry mentioned you might ask. I wrote it down with his phone number." She hesitated, then reached into her pocket. "Here's a picture of Bitty you can have. He was a sweet boy, I loved him."

  THE EASTERN NEW MEXICO University, near the Regional Airport on the south side of Roswell, occupied modern buildings and offered both Bachelor and Master degree programs. With a campus map from the Chamber of Commerce, Ashley located the Office of Human Resources on the campus. She asked the receptionist if they might meet with the head of the department. "Of course. Dean Alice Black is in her office. I'll check to see if she's free."

  Dean Black appeared remarkably young. "I'm not often visited by the FBI. Please have a seat. How can I help you?"

  After introductions, Ramirez led off. "We are conducting an inquiry about a Mr. Russell Smith. We understand Mr. Smith worked here."

  Dean Black wore a mystified expression. "Russell Smith?"

  "Yes. Here's a picture of Mr. Smith."

  "Oh yes. Bitty Smith. Everyone called him Bitty. He worked in the maintenance unit. I'm afraid he is no longer with us. He quit a few weeks ago."

  "We need to see his personnel file."

  Alice Black paused a moment. "I'm sorry, but those files are confidential."

  Ashley leaned forward. "I understand, but our investigation concerns a serious crime."

  "Oh my. What did Bitty do?"

  "Mr. Smith was the victim of a serious crime. We are searching for a perpetrator. We need your help in this matter. You understand?"

  "Well, yes, but university policy..."

  Ramirez interrupted. "I can get a court order, Ms. Black. If that's necessary."

  Dean Black stepped over to the window and watched students hurrying by on their way to class. "I’m sorry to hear about Bitty. I'll need to make a copy of your identification before I can release those files to you."

  "Not a problem," Ashley said, "A copy of everything in the file, please. We'll wait."

  TWENTY-FOUR

  AS THE FIRST AGENCY AMBASSADOR appointed by the FBI, Rashid al Youris understood the primary thrust of the job. It consisted of sifting through terrorist related data recovered by the seventeen intelligence agencies who report to the Director of National Security. As a member of the newly formed Terrorism Threat and Investigation Center (T-TIC), he began arranging interviews within the intelligence community.

  The National Security Agency (NSA) topped his list of important contacts. After repeated tries, Rashid arranged a joint meeting with Admiral Henry Smithy, Director of NSA, and Norman Miller, head of their Signal Intelligence Unit in McLean, Virginia. To save time, Miller met Rashid at the NSA’s Security Entrance and escorted him upstairs.

  The Admiral had decorated his spacious quarters with naval artwork depicting vintage ships from both world wars and the most technologically advanced vessels in today’s navy.

  "Good morning, Doctor Youris. Come in and have a seat," said Admiral Smithy, a broad shouldered man with short cropped gray hair and a chest full of colorful ribbons and awards. "I see you have already met Norman Miller my chief of cryptology. He, like yourself, will serve as our Agency Ambassador to T-TIC." Rashid greeted each man with a cordial handshake.

  Smithy settled behind his desk and held a steady, but uncertain smile. "My assistant tells me Homeland Security is behind this creation of yet another layer of bureaucracy. Do you agree?”

  "On the contrary, while T-TIC is an added cog in the machinery of government, I consider it more like a lubricant designed to smooth agency liaison." Rashid laid his letter of introduction from Director Ed Delong on the admiral’s desk.

  Norman Miller twisted the corners of his luxurious mustache and stifled a laugh, "I can tell you are not new to Federal service, Doctor Youris."

  "I'm retired with thirty years with the FBI. I've volunteered to help in this initiative because I think it is worthwhile.”

  The Admiral finished reading the letter. "So we will pass along our findings to T-TIC who will share it with the rest of the intelligence community. How is that different from what I’m already doing?”

  Rashid expected that question. “Homeland Security built their in-house Agency Council to track their five point mission which includes: natural disasters, policing cyberspace, immigration law, border security, and terrorism prevention. T-TIC deals specifically with terrorism. It streamlines the antiterrorism program.”

  Norman Miller interjected, "This supports the government's continued emphasis on terror prevention."

  "Exactly, and among all the intelligence agencies I feel NSA’s database is most effective in uncovering potential threats to America."

  Miller gave his mustache an extra twist. "That's why we
exist, Doctor Youris."

  Rashid edged forward. "To save your time, I have a few questions for both of you."

  "Sure. Fire away," said Admiral Smithy. "Depending on the nature of the questions, I'll answer them."

  "Tell me how you isolate terror related information."

  Norman Miller straightened. "We intercept 1.7 billion information exchanges every day. Much of that is origin and destination patterns. Certain patterns will trigger closer examination needing review and approval."

  "By review and approval, you're referring to the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act–FISA?"

  "Yes. Emails, phone calls, faxed material, every form of communication is fair game. Without getting too technical, we have a series of multilingual filters using keywords and phrases coupled with geographic markers that allow us to classify information in digital form."

  Rashid glanced at the celling. "I'm glad you're not getting too technical, Norman."

  "Only a tiny portion of this information deals with national security, and most of that is ready to read."

  "By that you mean it's not coded?"

  "That's right. The stuff we can't read is the encrypted data. That's where we find the best intelligence and that's when the Signal Intel Unit goes to work–my people."

  "How do you deal with encryption?"

  "It's analyzed with mathematical algorithms that decode most of these information exchanges without staff intervention. Human eyes review advanced encryptions. Most of the time our experts can decipher, in a few hours, days or weeks these coded items."

  "How big a staff do you have to deal with the hands-on decoding?"

  "That's classified, but it's enough."

  "Okay, what percent of communications can't be decoded by your experts?"