I heard Bennie in my ear piece.
“This isn't what I expected, Janice. Roll with it. Tap into your ‘method acting’ sadness and be sympathetic.”
I thought about my childhood kitten, Soxy, and the tire of the UPS truck slowly rolling over her. It worked. In a couple of seconds I joined my husband in a bawling duel.
Our slobbering finally slowed and we were in tear-wiping mode. I was glad I went light on the eye shadow that morning. But I noticed that my “act” wasn't completely an act. Maybe it's a normal human reaction, but it saddened me to see the man I once loved crying his eyes out.
I was on my own. Bennie kept telling my earpiece that I should go by my gut. I decided to see if there was any of that blame shifting that Ben coached me on.
“Joe,” I said softly – the scene seemed to require softness, “is there anything I did to drive you away, is there anything I could have done to make things different?”
Joe banged his forehead on the table and shouted, “No, no, no. This was a Joe Monahan operation. You're a beautiful, wonderful woman. You did everything possible to make a good marriage. I blew it, I fucking blew it. Lieutenant fucking Commander Joseph Monahan blew it.”
Now, I was really amazed. If there is one thing that Joe Monahan always prided himself on it was his refusal to cuss, unlike me. I don’t recall hearing him even say hell or damn. Now he's carpet bombing “f” words almost as much as me.
“I love you, Honey” Joe said, biting his knuckles to avoid crying again. “I love you more than my miserable fucking life.”
When he said that, he looked down at the table. I think he didn't want to see my reaction, didn't want to see me not reciprocating his love. Without saying it, we both realized there can be no going back. He's in prison for life, facing a strong chance of the death penalty at his next trial, which will be for treason. Our life together is over and we both knew it. But I can't say that I didn't feel bad for the guy. I like to think of myself as being emotionally tough, but pistol- packing, karate-chopping Janice was sad.
I felt like shit.
Chapter 20
Bennie here.
Buster and I have been exchanging pantomime hands up and shoulder shrugs, the meaning of which is, “What the hell is going on here?”
Like any normal self-deceiving human being, I'm trying to come up with reasons why I wasn't wrong. I'm trying to think why my predictions of Joseph Monahan's behavior were so off target. I'm trying to think of reasons why he's acting so completely different than I predicted.
Oh, to hell with it, I was wrong. Simple as that.
But I take consolation in getting right the stuff that I'm famous for, detecting bullshit, and on that count I think I'm doing well. So here's my professional diagnosis. Joseph Monahan is not lying, he's not bullshitting. He's telling the truth. This is not what I expected. But now what?
“Buster, the bad news is that I missed my prediction completely. We're not looking at a blame- shifting psychopath. We're looking at a guy who just yanked down the zipper on his soul. But the good news is that this meeting is better than we could have expected. Whatever this guy's got bottled up seems to be erupting like a volcano. If he’s got something to say, he’ll say it. Our interrogation may simply consist of asking questions and recording the answers.”
“I think we should let Janice keep going,” said Buster. “Why put you and me in the mix when Janice has this guy opening up like a thunder cloud?”
“I agree, Buster.”
“Janice,” I said through her ear piece, “this is going well, amazingly well. Just follow your instincts and keep him talking. I know this is a bit rough on you, but just hang in there.”
Chapter 21
Bennie and Buster wanted me to continue flying solo and keep Joe Monahan in talk mode. Time to suck it up and do my job. At the end of this day, I thought, I'll need a good workout, a shower, and a Martini, a nice big straight-up Martini.
I started the morning with an objective, to get Joe talking. Then I realized that all I had to do was interject an occasional question and let Joe ramble on. He seemed to want to talk, to do nothing but open up and tell me everything. He kept looking at me with that pitiful look as if he were a dog that peed on the rug and was awaiting the consequences.
For the past few weeks I've hated Joseph Monahan. After I found out he was one of the conspirators I hated him with an intensity I didn't know I had. But as I spoke to him I found it hard not to feel pity. But that's not what I was there for. I was there to see if Joe Monahan could help us avoid the approaching disaster.
“Joe,” I said, stepping into the truck-wide breach he had opened, “what happened to you?”
“Janice, Honey, I've been asking myself that question for years.”
It must have been 10 years since he's called me “Honey.”
“I lost my mind in a belief system that I confused with religion. It all came so natural, one logical building block piling on top of the next one, until there came a time when blowing up an aircraft carrier with 5,000 people on it seemed like a next step, a simple extension of where my mind was heading all those years.”
“Did you ever change your mind,” I asked, “did you ever question what you were about to do?”
“Yes, I did. I started to have doubts. It started years ago. I have been trained and indoctrinated for years that non-Muslims were heathen, and that the true path of God called on me to do whatever I could to destroy them.”
“Destroy them?” I said. “Do you include me in the word them?”
He started to cry again. I realized that I had to steer this conversation away from emotional issues.
“Yes, you,” he said. “Can you believe that my twisted beliefs turned me against you, the woman I love? I thought of you, like the others, as a barbarian. But as the day of the attacks approached, I started to have real doubts. As I did my work aboard ship, I would look at my fellow crewmembers and think about the plan to kill them. I started to wonder who the real barbarian was. Can a just and loving God inflict such suffering? You often took me with you to Mass. In my radical mind I put up with it, although I thought it was an apostasy. But as my doubts crept in I started to read the Bible you kept next to the bed. Then I I met that guy Father Rick Sampson, a good friend of Captain Patterson. I started to like him and we even had lunch a few times. He has such a simple joyous love of God. When I would ask him why he loved Jesus so much, he would say things like, ‘Hey, Jesus loves me, and he loves you, so I'm just reciprocating.’ When I asked him if Jesus helped him, he said that he couldn't live without Jesus. I remember Father Rick's favorite expression, 'Give it up for God.' Father Rick lives a religion of joy.”
“Janice?”
“Yes, Joe.”
“Would it be possible for me to see Father Rick again?”
“I will try to make that happen,” I said. I meant it.
“But Joe, were you prepared to carry through with the plan even though you started having doubts?”
“No, absolutely not. I wasn't going to go through my part of it, and I had begun to take steps to make sure none of the other Navy men did their jobs. You Thanksgiving Gang people thwarted the plan, but I would have stopped it if you hadn't.”
I hoped Bennie was in high alert on the other side of the mirror. There was no diagram for how this conversation was supposed to go, so I figured that it was time to get to the most important issue of all, the upcoming attacks.
“Joe, do you know anything about another series of Thanksgiving Attacks, a Plan B, so to speak?”
“Janice, you've come to the most important question of all. The answer is yes, I do know about the upcoming attacks. If I may make a suggestion?”
“Go ahead, Joe.”
“I assume that on the other side of that one-way mirror are agents of the FBI or the CIA. May I suggest that they join us? There isn't much time before the attacks.”
Chapter 22
Within 30 seconds of Joe's suggestion, Ben and Bu
ster walked in. I was glad to have some professional firepower in the room. Introductions were obviously up to me. Before they came into the room Buster said into my ear piece that I was not to tell Joe that Bennie is known as the Bullshit Detector.
“This is Benjamin Weinberg, a detective with the NYPD and currently Deputy Agent with the CIA. Agent Gamal Akhbar is a senior CIA Agent. We call him Buster.”
Because Joe's hand shackles prevented him from extending a hand, or even standing up, they all just nodded toward each other. I moved my chair to the right to enable Buster and Ben to sit directly across from Joe.
***
“Mr. Monahan,” said Buster, “we're hoping that you can help us prevent an unthinkable disaster. From what we've heard, I think you may be the key to stopping the attacks. My first question involves your position with al Qaeda. Are you a leader or do you hold the same status as the other naval officers?”
“Yes,” said Joe. “I am in a leadership position, I'm ashamed to admit. I know much more detail than the other officers.”
“Do you know where, when, and how the plan will be executed?” said Buster. “Do you know where the bombs are?”
“No, I don't know where the bombs are.”
Bennie tapped Buster on the sleeve, signaling that he wanted to ask the next question. Bennie had caught a whiff of bullshit.
“Mr. Monahan,” said Bennie, “you say that you're in a leadership position, but yet you say that you don't know the most important part of the puzzle, where the bombs are. Please explain.”
“Gentlemen, al Qaeda has been studying the American military and law enforcement for years. In the Navy, as well as the CIA, there's a critical doctrine known as 'need to know.' You guys are totally familiar with this rule, I’m sure. It's a simple but important part of security. The fewer people who know a secret, the less the chance of it being leaked. Plan B has not yet been fully explained to me. I can tell you that the plant that holds the bombs is similar to the one in Detroit, only somewhat smaller. I can also tell you that the bombs have a much higher yield than the one- kiloton weapons meant for the ships. The Plan B bombs are10-kilotons, close to the size of the Hiroshima bomb. They are also suitcase nukes, each one weighing about 100 pounds. But the one thing that I do not know, because I didn't yet have the need to know, is where the bombs are located.”
“Mr. Monahan,” Buster said, “sometimes problems are solved or at least uncovered by the smallest bits of information. Please think, is there anything that came to your attention in the past few months that may be significant, even if you don't understand it. Countless innocent people will die unless we can find the answer.”
“Believe me sir, I want to help. I don't want blood on my hands; I don't want the dead weighing on me. But I can only give you the information I have.”
Bennie was staring at Joe so intently I thought he'd burn a hole in his head. He was scribbling notes so fast I thought his pad would catch on fire.
I decided to weigh in.
“We used to play chess a lot,” I said. “I've never been able to beat Joe. He memorized the board. Also, if I ever mentioned to him that I was missing something and I thought it may be in the basement, Joe would be able to locate it in an instant in his mind. When it comes to objects, words, or images, Joe has a photographic memory.”
Buster then looked at Joe and each of us.
Joe rubbed his face, his shackles tinkling as he did so. Buster started to ask him a question, but Joe closed his eyes and held his hands palm out as if to say, “please let me think.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” said Joe in a loud voice. “I have no idea of the location, but I definitely recall seeing an aerial photograph of the ‘Plan B’ bomb plant. Do you have any graph paper? I can sketch it for you.”
I'm never without graph paper. Call me nuts, but to pass time I often sketch industrial designs of a project I'm working on. I handed Joe a piece of graph paper. Bennie opened the table drawer and found a pencil.
“Okay,” said Joe, “I've got a clear image in my mind of what the area looked like.”
I noticed Buster suddenly lean back, crack his knuckles, and stare at the ceiling, smiling. He looked like a guy who just won a poker hand.
“Janice,” Monahan said, “You're the engineer. I'll describe the images and you do the drawing.”
One of the structures, apparently a tank of some sort, was round, it's diameter almost as wide as the width of the bomb plant. We were all thinking the obvious: satellite images. The more details in the drawing, the easier to detect it from space or from a surveillance drone.
I chimed in, giving my perspective as an engineer.
“Joe, can you give us any idea about the dimensions of what I'm drawing?”
“Yes,” said Joe, “I do know that the width of the plant is exactly the same width as the Detroit building. The visual ratios of all the other buildings and structures are correct; they're burned into my memory.”
“Bingo,” I yelled. “We've found the Rosetta Stone! We have an image of what the place looks like from above.”
Buster splashed some cold water on my enthusiasm.
“We're a hell of a lot closer than we were a few minutes ago,” said Buster, “But I remind you that this is a gigantic country. Satellites are great, but the amount of data we have to sift through is enormous.”
Buster then announced it was time for a break. He wanted to scan the drawing and send it to his team at CIA headquarters.
Chapter 23
I called Max Williams, the warden, and asked if we could have a few sandwiches delivered. The CIA Director had clued him in that we were involved in something critical, and that he may have to bend a few rules. Max is a team player and couldn't be more helpful, even though room service isn't on the normal list of Leavenworth amenities.
Buster called to the guard and told him to unshackle Joe's hands. The guard cleared it with the warden and unleashed our talkative prisoner.
Joe seemed pleased to be uncuffed, as he massaged his wrists and thanked Buster. Then Buster reminded him that we're all armed, so it really wasn't much of a security breach. Joe actually laughed.
***
Before we broke for lunch, Ben, Buster, and I huddled for a quick conference out of Joe's hearing range.
“Bennie,” said Buster, “next to Monahan, you're the most important guy in this building. Tell us, Dr. Bullshit Detector, are we hearing the truth?”
“Like I always tell people,” Bennie said, “my job is to find out if the witness believes what he's saying. If he doesn't, he's lying. I have a 12-part checklist of things I look for, including eye contact, perspiration, hand movements, vocal inflections and other key ingredients. I could go under oath right now and put my medical license in escrow. This guy is telling the truth. No bullshit whatsoever. If he's lying, your friendly shrink, Bennie Weinberg, has met his match.
After lunch, we planned to learn a lot more about what my husband knows. I think we'd all like to hear his thoughts on Frank Thompson, aka Ayham Abboud. I knew I did. Bennie thinks Monahan seemed comfortable with me, and wanted me to continue to be a part of the interview.
Buster agreed. Well I'm glad Bennie thinks Joe feels comfortable with me. I'm still adjusting to this whole surreal experience about me being in the same room as Joe, a man who, until today, I deeply hated. I'm about to play the heavy again, and the knot in my stomach tells me so. Once again, I'm frightened, I admit it. I better watch my language. Fear turns my language obscene. No shit.
Buster decided to leave Joe unshackled for the rest of the meeting. Good move I thought. He seems to open up more with his hands free, which should come as no surprise.
Chapter 24
“Joe,” I began, “please tell us what you know about a man named Ayham Abboud.”
“I've known him for over 20 years, ever since I was a high school senior. As you all know from your investigations, four other American kids and I went on a school trip to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia in 1994. The trip
was run by an outfit called The Center for Open-Minded Youth and funded, I later learned, by the government of Saudi Arabia.”
“Do you have any thoughts you'd like to share about The Center for Open-Minded Youth?” I asked.
“Sure,” said Joe. “It was really nothing more than a brainwashing organization, a little group designed to foster homegrown American moles, future terrorists. Dr. Weinberg, as a psychiatrist you would be impressed by the many ways they infiltrated our minds.”
“Was Ayham Abboud one of the mind infiltrators?” I asked.
“Ayham Abboud has always been a mystery to me, although I really liked the guy and looked up to him like he was my big brother. The other kids did as well. Ayham was just a few years older than us, spoke perfect English; well, he was American, and was able to relate to all of us, and us to him. I'd have to say that he was one of the mind infiltrators, but there was something about the man that just seemed so natural. I know this sounds crazy, given all the evidence, but I always felt that he was just going through the motions, like he had an agenda that was different from what it appeared to be.”
“Did you see him over the years, or was Riyadh your last contact with him?”
“Oh, definitely I saw him, at least twice a year. He was the one who convinced all of us that we should become naval officers, our alternate identity. In the early years we didn't know why, but about two years ago we learned of the Thanksgiving plot. When he told me about the operation, he seemed almost deadpanned, like he was delivering words somebody else gave him. So he introduced me to a future of mass murder, and it was then that I began to have doubts. I should hate the guy, and this is going to sound completely insane, but I still kind of like him.
To tell you the truth, I have a sneaking suspicion that he didn't want the attacks to happen either. Just a gut feeling, but it's there.”
Box Set - The Time Magnet Series Page 44
