"No Mr. President." His grim face caused Graham Steward to take on a serious expression. "I know this meeting doesn't follow standard procedures, but I think you'll agree this matter is of the highest priority."
Chief of Staff Pruitt interrupted. "That's right, it violates the chain-of-command. Now get to the point."
Delong never took his eyes off the President. "I have reason to believe we are in imminent danger of a nuclear attack by a militant jihadist."
The President leaned forward and planted his hands on his desk. Framed by the light from the windows behind him, he said, "Please say that again. I want to be sure I heard you correctly."
"An agent of the Bureau sent a text message before he died last night while working undercover." He handed a copy to the President. "I'll read it so everyone can hear me." He held his copy. "It says, WMD RA 115-01. We know what WMD means. The designation RA115-01 refers to a nuclear device designed by the Soviet Union in the late 1960's. They called them suitcase nukes. Don't let the term ‘suitcase’ mislead you. This is a six kiloton bomb with the ability to kill and maim upwards of a half a million or more people in the right hands and in the right place and time."
The President held a brooding expression. "Would you be so kind as to expand on that statement, Director Delong? You have my attention."
"Yes sir. Working with the NSA and other members of the intelligence community, we intercepted a series of encrypted messages that we decoded. The messages outlined a planned attack on America, but didn't give specific details. The seventh message, the last one, told us of a meeting of the conspirators. We devised a strategy to infiltrate their meeting and learn about their plans. Our man on the inside sent this message a few hours before he died in an explosion we are now investigating. We have reason to believe the explosion was not an accident. A person we call the Lone Wolf is suspected of the crime and is at large."
The President moved from behind his desk. "And the nuclear bomb, where is it now?"
Delong cast his eyes down. "I must assume it is in the hands of the Lone Wolf, but I don't know, sir."
Chief of Staff Pruitt blurted out, "What do you mean you don't know? It's your job to know."
The President put his hand up. "Calm down Edmond. Let's take this one step at a time." He faced Delong. "This Lone Wolf sounds more like the Leader of the Pack. What do you know about this jihadist?"
Delong glanced over to Adornetto who nodded his head in a gesture of support. "At the same time we broke their code, the Albuquerque Field Office in New Mexico was working a murder case that linked with our findings. I can tell you our suspect has operated in the U. S. for about six months. Five months ago he murdered a man and stole his identity. We tracked him down, but he escaped our surveillance about two weeks back. Based on excellent work by a field agent, we learned about a man acting as our suspect's local contact. This contact lives in El Paso. We staked-out his house. He was joined by an international arms dealer, a weapons specialist and our undercover man posing as their interpreter. Two days ago they met with the jihadist. The meeting took place in a house in rural southeastern New Mexico. We have kept it under close watch. Last night an explosion destroyed their meeting location and everyone in the house. I believe that was the work of the Lone Wolf. An extensive search of the area is underway as I speak."
President Steward moved from behind his desk and faced Delong. "So you don't know if the bomb survived the explosion or if it was even present at the site."
"We know the bomb came from a port in Dubai and arrived in Roswell, but we don't know where it is now."
"And you don't know, for a fact, if this terrorist perished in the explosion or if he survived it."
"Not for a fact, sir, but our observers believe the explosion was intentional. The Lone Wolf is a ruthless man who covers his tracks. Someone got out of that house and blew it up. I think he did it."
"Back on the farm, my Daddy use to say if the dogs are chasin' a varmint you don't know if they're chasin' a bear, a bitch in heat or some other critter until you see it treed or go to ground. For your sake, Director Delong, I hope your dogs on are on the right scent."
Leo Adornetto asked, "May I speak, sir?"
"Of course, Leo."
"I've been working with Ed on this investigation from the beginning. He's given you the recent highlights. Admiral Smithy will back me when I say this is a real threat to national security. It's well thought out, carefully planned, and professionally carried out. We have connected enough of the dots to know what we are dealing with. The next step is to learn the identity of the perpetrator and stop him." Admiral Smithy, seated next to Adornetto, nodded his head in agreement.
The President walked to his desk, turned his back on the room, folded his arms, and stared out of the window. After a few minutes he turned and faced the group. "This office got surprised years ago when the Twin Towers came down. I don't intend to let that happen again. Not on my watch." He singled out his National Security Adviser Madden. "Maggie, I want you to get smart on this threat and brief me daily, hourly if necessary. My chief of staff," he pointed to Pruitt, "will give you whatever you need."
The President then addressed everyone. "I don't want this conversation to leave this office. I will hold everyone here accountable for complete secrecy. No leaks. I don't want this coming out in the damn media. The last thing I need is panic in the streets."
His words were met with a nods of agreement.
The President turned to the FBI Director. "As for you, Delong, my Daddy also use to say if it smells like a skunk, it's a skunk." His expression hardened. "You and your boys let this skunk skip out on you. That's not the American way. I hold you personally responsible. You hear me?”
FIFTY-EIGHT
BEFORE IGNITING THE MASSIVE Maljamar explosion, Bashir had traveled five miles in two and one half hours. Now, after detonation, he flipped on his headlights, increased his speed, and continued his escape. Even with the lights of the truck, progress was slow in the inky darkness under an overcast night sky.
He touched the lead box containing the bomb on the seat next to him and felt an inner joy, a contentment he had not experienced for many years. This box would give him the peace and satisfaction he yearned for. It would allow him to advance the cause of Islam and punish the Americans who hunt down his people and kill them. Also it would let him be with the one true God, Allah the Beneficent, the place all true Muslims aspired to be.
The truck lurched to one side as it rolled over a large rock. The metal case slipped off the seat and fell on the floor, its impact cushioned by the bag of money. A second rock jolted him back the other way and a few seconds later the motor cut out. Bashir depressed the clutch and turned the ignition key. The motor turned over but didn't catch. He tried several times, and then stopped to conserve the battery. The odometer read six miles from the house and his watch showed 10:45.
Bashir pulled a box of tools from behind the front seat and opened the truck’s hood. A small flashlight from the glove compartment helped him search for the problem. Each time he attempted a fix, he failed. Finally at 11:30 he found a loose connection inside the distributor cap. He patched it with some electrical tape and tried the motor again. It started. Allah the Giver of Life must be with him. Bashir had lost forth-five minutes making the repair. He closed the hood, shoved the toolbox back behind the seat, and continued his southward trek. Twelve minutes later the truck began a choppy bounce as it rumbled over the ground.
What now? Bashir stopped, got the flashlight and walked around probing for the problem. He found it. The rear tire rim pressed down into a flattened tire. He leaned against the truck and said a prayer then noticed the flashlight growing dim.
A rage exploded within him. He stood holding on to the bed of the truck, and kicked the tire again and again. Breathing hard, he stepped back and forced his mind to deal with this new calamity. First he checked for a spare tire. Yes, under the rear of the bed. Then he hunted for tools to jack up the truck and rem
ove the wheel. He found parts scattered around the passenger compartment, but no ground plate for the jack. Bashir explored every space in the vehicle and didn't find one. He needed it or the jack would sink into the sandy soil from the weight of the truck. Why not use a flat rock in its place? In the dark it took twenty minutes to find a suitable rock.
The flashlight gave out halfway through his work dismounting the spare from under the truck. He thought to use the headlights, but decided against it to save his battery. He worked in the dark feeling his way around like a blind man exploring the intricacies of a new machine. Finally, after an hour and a half, he tightened down the tire lugs and disengaged the jack. The truck settled down, and the newly mounted tire gave way under the weight. A useless spare with too little air pressure. Kneeling beside the truck a wave of desperation swept through him.
When Bashir got back in the truck he checked the time. The clock on the dashboard read one thirty-five Saturday morning. He had to go three miles to reach Highway 180. Bashir started the truck and put it in low gear. As he let up on the clutch the truck hobbled forward pulling to one side. He corrected the steering, but the truck continued to tilt to the left. He heard the tire flapping against the wheel-well and finally rip apart dropping the steel rim into the soft desert soil. He gunned the motor and the truck slowly spun around in a circle digging a hole that grew deeper with each revolution.
He rested his head on the steering wheel and wondered if this might be a message from Mohammad. Did this mean he was meant to fail? After a moment of reflection he renewed his determination. Allah, the Finder of the Unfailing, wanted to know if he was a true believer and a soldier of the jihad. He resolved to let nothing keep him from his oath to serve the cause and the holy mission given him to perform.
He gathered the bomb, the briefcase and the duffle bag. They totaled thirty-seven kilograms or eighty pounds. He must carry them three miles in the dark. He might make a mile in an hour. That would put him at Highway180 about 4:30 or 5 o'clock. Close to sunup.
Walking in the desert at night offers many challenges. One might stumble over or into the many varieties of cholla, prickly pear or barrel cactus. Each accident would inflict a painful wound from hundreds of barbed spines. Creosote bush and mesquite trees, with their brittle branches and random clumps of dry grass, all pose dangerous obstacles able to inflict hostile collisions at night.
Bashir crept across the rolling prairie ground as if hunted by an army of ghostly warriors armed with tiny daggers and picks. After many bloody encounters he realized that his goal of three miles in the dark was impossible. He sat down on the cold desert soil and waited for the sun to show him the way.
Morning light penetrated the darkness at 6:00 o'clock, turning unseen dangers into fuzzy silhouettes. He saw his arms were swollen and bloody from contacts with the desert plants. Bashir realized if he had continued walking in the dark, he would have traveled east into the vacant desert, not south toward the highway. He gathered his three items and started in the right direction.
By 9:30 the highway appeared as a straight line on the horizon. He trudged toward it, noticing only a few cars pass by. At 10:00 he stumbled into a roadside rest area. Exhausted, he almost fell on the concrete picnic table holding the bag, case and metal box. Wet with perspiration, his clothes stuck to his body. He welcomed the hard bench, and rested twenty minutes before preparing to hitch a ride. While he rested he noticed no cars passed him going south, and only two drove by heading northeast toward Hobbs or Lovington. Bashir glanced at his wristwatch–10:35. He had planned to be near El Paso by that time.
Years ago hitch-hiking in America allowed anyone a good chance to get a free ride in a short time, but not now. A lone man in disheveled clothes offered little appeal to drivers. Bashir found many cars speeded up when he put his thumb out.
That afternoon he got an idea. He reached into his wallet and pulled out a few dollar bills and started waving them at cars with his left hand while thumbing with his right. In half and hour a pickup truck slowed and then stopped. Bashir ran to the passenger side door. The driver lowered the window. A weathered man wearing a beat-up cowboy hat tilted his head back. "Where you headin' amigo?"
"El Paso," blurted Bashir.
"Carlsbad's as far as I go. Don't need your money, but you can jump in the back." He motioned to the open truck bed. "Ain't got all-day, amigo," he said as the window closed.
Bashir shouted. "I have a duffle bag. It won't take but a minute." He ran over to the picnic table, rushed back, loaded his baggage over the tailgate, and jumped in using the bumper as a step. He barely settled down when the truck lurched forward. The wind scattered his hair and cooled his body. The bed of the truck had deep scratches and dents from years of hard use. Bashir estimated he would be in Carlsbad by 4:00 p.m. He laid down in a corner and tried to sleep but couldn’t.
Sometime later, he felt a change in the truck’s movement. Laying on his back he discovered the man in the western hat glancing down at him. "Okay, amigo, this is where you get out. I'm headin' north now." Without waiting for an answer, the man turned and started for the driver's cab. Bashir gathered his things and barely jumped down when the truck's tires squealed, leaving him standing next to a sidewalk in the city's downtown. He moved out of the street onto the sidewalk.
Still confused, he became aware his clothes were dirty and torn in places. He saw several people stare at him as they walked by. He felt miserable, tired, disoriented and weak. This wasn't the way he planned it. An ornate bank clock on the corner read 4:35.
He moved down the street. It looked like the center of town. A sign pointed the way to the Royal Hotel and Suites. Bashir needed a hot shower and a rest. He shuffled down the street, and found the hotel that at one time had been an elegant place to stay. The lobby appeared dated, but clean and tidy. A plaque on the wall declared the structure a Historic Landmark.
He took a room and paid cash. Using the handrail he labored up the stairs. Once in the room he undressed, showered, and stood in front of the bed. He felt fatigued to the point of total exhaustion. It had been many days since he last performed his prayers. He knew he didn't have the strength now. He crawled into the bed, and pulled the metal box next to him and hugged it. "What's another day," he said, talking to the box, "one more day won't make a difference. He will understand." Bashir fell asleep.
FIFTY-NINE
EARLY SUNDAY MORNING the third floor conference room of the FBI field office hummed with the sounds of orderly confusion. Mostly unfamiliar faces interacted in a growing frenzy of activity. Everyone fiddled with a laptop, a tablet or similar digital device. Three teams of people clustered around the room, some with whiteboards covered with words, phases, diagrams and crude maps. Others had photographs tacked on the wall in a random pattern. Ashley remained silent in the corner, sickened by the scene.
A stocky round-shouldered man peered down his gourd-like nose through thick eyeglass frames that appeared to contain bulletproof glass. He banged an oversized gavel, on a rock-hard sound block. "Listen up people. I'm not hearing from you. This is phase one–profiling. I want your input–pronto, you hear?" Heads turned in response to his demand. The speaker, Oliver West, appointed by the President to head a Special Strike Force Unit to catch the Lone Wolf, had a reputation for being a relentless taskmaster. Working as a freelance investigator for various Federal law enforcement agencies, he got his start in government as the chair of the Committee to Elect Graham Steward.
Ashley gave in to her compulsion to flee the conference room.
Ten hours earlier she had finished her work in Maljamar. Under Walter Kent’s direction the entire crime scene had undergone a thorough examination. Evidence was marked, photographed and cataloged. The list of findings included fingerprints, document fragments, blood, hair, fiber, possible bomb parts, and chemical samples from select surfaces. The mobile forensic lab processed everything they could handle in the field. Some items needed study in a lab. A crew, headed by the State Medical Investigat
or, collected body parts that ranged in size from a small fragment of tissue to whole limbs. Within hours these samples would undergo DNA analysis.
At the end of that long, hot, and exhausting Saturday, Ashley had slept during the trip back to Albuquerque. The entire staff had to report to work the next day–Sunday. After a quick morning shower and her usual protein shake, she returned to her office and found it invaded by the Strike Force flown in from Washington to take command of the ‘Maljamar Case.’ They had briefed her, Bill Johnson, and Mark Rodriguez, on the suitcase nuclear bomb and its characteristics. She assumed that her position as lead investigator had evaporated.
Midmorning, after she left the conference room, Ashley went to Bill Johnson's office and collapsed in a chair. Bill was completing work on a paper glider he created out of an old file folder. He glanced up. "You look like someone ran over your cat. Why so glum?"
"It's called a Special Strike Force Unit, and it's not the FBI."
"That's S.O.P. Standard Operating Procedure for the Federal bureaucracy."
"Did you hear big nose Oliver West spouting off about 'things are going to get done around here now–did you?"
"Talk like that from Washington is also S.O.P." He put his feet on the desk. "When Delong learned of a possible nuclear threat, he had no choice but to go to the President. That's the fastest way to lose control."
"But why bring an outside unit into our field office?”
"Chief of Staff Edmond Pruitt hates Delong's guts. That goes way back. This a political slap in the face. They're here because this is where the data is."
"Bill, they're reinventing the wheel. Oliver West is trying to make fleas march in a straight line. We don't have time for this crap."
Bill made a tepee out of his wrinkled fingers and peeped at Ashley over his creation. "Anyone ever tell you how appealing you are when you get pissed off and frustrated at the same time?"
The Seventh Message Page 26
