Once a Noble Endeavor

by Michael Butler

  “Ya think, Lieutenant,” said one of the nervous cops, raising his eyes and gripped with emotion.

  ****

  The federal investigation that followed uncovered some facts that intrigued Brennan. He decided to bring his officers up to date reading from a set of exhaustive notes.

  “The attempted bomber was Aaffia Khan, age forty-eight, a Brit and an illegal immigrant believed to have entered the United States from Canada through upstate New York, probably Rouses Point. British citizens have little trouble entering Canada.” Lieutenant Brennan continued, “Among the contents of her pocket, popularly known as ‘pocket litter’ by the feds, was some literature authored by another Brit named Bhiren al Mohammed. She also had stored at her apartment in Brooklyn a hard drive and flash drive with several email addresses and messages, which NSA exploited. That data had apparently connected her to Al Qaeda operatives overseas. The email addresses resolved to Islamabad and Karachi, Pakistan among other places,” Nick told his team. “As you all know, the carriage was used for its large payload and because it would fit in neatly at the open casting call. It would raise no suspicion.”

  Looking down at his notes, Nick frowned and then continued, “Al Mohammed, based on intercepts and other sources, is believed to have been the mastermind of the Grand Terminus Plaza attack, and the use of the baby carriage bomb was designed to kill many young children and infants. Bhiren al Mohammed is well known by intelligence officers in Great Britain and suspected of bombing a nightclub popular with Westerners in Tel Aviv that killed some thirty people. Neither MI 5, England’s domestic intelligence agency, nor New Scotland Yard presently know of his whereabouts.”

  Nicky went on, “At one point they had him under covert surveillance, but he cleverly escaped their watch by entering the London Underground and crossing the tracks as a train approached. He exited the system from the other side, disappearing into the crowd or perhaps jumping on a train. Moving trains don’t scare this guy!”

  Explaining the device employed, Nicky said, “The bomb used at the Grand Terminus Plaza was peroxide-based with acetone added. The dogs didn’t pick it up. The combination is highly explosive and unstable, and it also only required a small spark to set the explosion off. It was deemed unlikely that Khan constructed the device, and probably was not aware of the potential for an unintended detonation.”

  Nick added, “Make sure you all understand there is the possibility or perhaps the likelihood that there will be another attempt by al Mohammed. He is not used to failure.”

  “Lieutenant, who constructed the bomb and where?” one detective asked.

  “Our guys on the FBI Task Force would be permitted based on unclassified reports to tell us that, but right now who and where is really unknown.” Nick stopped and reflected for a moment and said, “But if Bhiren is in the US, he is the likely chemist. Just a guess, though.” Following that line of thought, Nick added, “If you ever encounter a peroxide-based bomb, get the hell out of there; it can blow up based on movement alone. Don’t pick it up, carry it, or throw it.”

  “Boss, Khan was obviously not a suicide killer, so why the unstable device? It could have blown at the wrong time, right?” one intelligence squad member interposed.

  “That’s right, Gary, but remember the options are limited. They have to use household-type products to do this. The package has to be reasonably small and blow up reasonably big. They can’t buy a truckload of fertilizer.”

  As the meeting was ending, another fleeting thought crossed Brennan’s mind. “You guys remember the arson training: you need oxygen, fuel and heat—you know, ignition. These terrorists have to buy the components on the retail level, boil down a shit load of peroxide, add acetone and create a spark to get the desired outcome. Heads up— they may buy that stuff right around here. Intelligence is the parent of prevention.”

  Chapter 8

  Nick, Jodie, Tom and Carol, cocktails in hand, were having a pleasant and relaxing chat in front of a roaring fire, facing the old penny brick hearth in the larger building the Brennans occupied at the compound in Great Barrington. The room was warmed by the reflective heat from the fire, and the big, soft, plush chairs they occupied made the whole experience even more pleasurable. All the kids were watching a video in the adjoining room, and everyone seemed relaxed and interested in the attempted terrorist attack which was the subject of over one hundred news articles and media reports throughout the country.

  “Nick, how long do you think it took Bhiren al Mohammed to plan that attack?” Tom asked with the crackling and softly roaring flames providing a faint audible background to the conversation.

  “Quite a while. Aaffia probably bought the peroxide and had to go all over the whole region over several months buying small quantities to boil it down for a useful mix. That alone takes a great deal of time.”

  ”But al Mohammed was in charge, right?” Carol guessed.

  “Bhiren no doubt managed the whole process, and that was slow and time consuming; probably over a year, all told.”

  “Nick,” Joann wondered, “why did you think at first it was going to happen on a train, not in a station?”

  “We all tend to fight yesterday’s war. The prior explosions we studied usually involved a bus, train or restaurant. Based on everything I know, the original information the State Department received and NSA later confirmed seemed perfectly plausible. It was a transit attack, just one at a crowded terminal station, not actually on a train.”

  “Is Bhiren here in the US now, Nick?” Carol asked with a slightly furrowed brow.

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure. Perhaps the task force knows, but my guess is he is out of the US planning another attack somewhere; maybe here but probably not.”

  Tom paused for a moment and made an important point, “Nicky, the only way you could know most of the answers to all the questions is if you were on the task force yourself or you worked for the FBI.”

  “I guess that’s right, but our department is not going to detail a lieutenant and bureau commander to a federal task force, that’s for damn sure.”

  Jodie, suddenly thinking of Nick’s physical exposure to retaliation and becoming uncomfortable with the whole matter, changed the subject. “What time are we going skiing tomorrow morning?”

  Tom, the only non-skier in the house, answered, “Get out by seven and I’ll meet everybody at the base lodge bar at noon!”

  “So it is,” Carol announced. Brennan, with his eyes squinting and a smile on his face, suddenly had a thought.

  “Before I hit the rack, Tommy, are there any restless spirits in need of attention you sense in this dwelling tonight?” Nick playfully queried, referring to Tom’s interest in ghosts.

  “Yes, Nick, but most of those spirits are in your liquor cabinet right over there,” said Tom with a slight smile, pointing to the large piece of dark furniture in the adjacent barroom. “I can exorcise them if you like.”

  “Good night, Tom, good night, Carol,” Nick said with feigned impatience.

  After cleaning up the living and sending the kids up to their rooms, Nick followed Jodie up the stairs to their bedroom. As he took each step behind his beautiful wife, he studied Joann’s fine swaying female form in her clinging ski pants and top. With an artificially deep voice in a bit of controlled passion he said, “I’m not too tired right now, got any thoughts? Maybe a movie, a snack, checkers, sex?”

  “Let me slip into something a little short, sexy, and maybe flimsy—you know, provocative and a little more comfortable, and perhaps we can play checkers,” Joann said, smiling with a sultry gleam in those gorgeous blue eyes.

  ****

  “Lieutenant, on line one Colonel Thomas Carrillo from the Counterterrorism Center in Virginia,” Nick’s secretary Jackie Chester announced over the intercom the following Monday morning.

  Stunned, Brennan picked up the telephone extension and shouted into the receiver “Colonel Carrillo, is that the same Tom Carrillo? Boss, sarge, what the hell do I call y
ou after all these years?”

  Laughing, the caller said, “Just call me Tom. I am retired from the Air Force now, Nicky, and I am a senior intelligence analyst at the Counterterrorism center. I’m triple dipping.”

  “That’s great, Tom. I often wondered what happened to you after you retired from the PD. I heard some rumors but never knew for sure. How are you?”

  “Great, after all those years of flying, the Air Force drafted me into the Air Force Security Service intelligence, and that evolved into counterterror—that’s what I do now. I live in Tysons Corner, Virginia, with my wife, and we love it.”

  “Wonderful, Tom, really fabulous. You were the best boss I ever had, and after I became a police supervisor I used your style as my model.”

  “I’m glad I could help you. Now I wonder if you can help us.”

  “Us? How us, Tom?”

  “Nick, I have been confidentially working with your old pal, John Planner, on a mission for a few days and we began to discuss you, the intelligence squad, Khan and al Mohammed, the New York task force and your future.”

  “My future? Planner talking about my future? That’s like the pope talking about the next swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated. He knows nothing about my future—he almost precluded the possibility of my future twice!” Nicky said, chuckling, only half kidding.

  “Yeah, you know, we talked about your next incarnation. You’ve been a cop, a soldier, a lawyer and a boss. How about another occupation?”

  “Tom, I planned on retiring in a couple of years and practicing law, maybe even criminal law. That’s what Jodie and I discussed. I don’t think I can fit anything else into my life.”

  “Nick, I spoke to the ASAC in New York,” Tom said, referring to the assistant special agent in charge, the deputy FBI commander, “and he said they are going through the selection process for an intelligence analyst for the counterterrorism task force. They would seriously consider your application.”

  “I’d have to retire, Tom I don’t know if I’m ready to do that.”

  “Nick, I went through the same thing. Just apply and see if they offer the job, then make a decision. By the way, if you are accepted, you will join the squad pursuing Bhiren al Mohammed,” Carrillo added.

  “Al Mohammed?”

  “Yeah, the New York task force has jurisdiction over Western Europe for counterterrorism. Bhiren is in the UK somewhere, and you and your squad get to hunt him down.”

  “That certainly makes it more tempting, Tom.”

  ****

  That night, Joann asked, “Nick, if you entertained this possibility, with the emphasis on if, we don’t have to move to Washington, right?”

  “No, we don’t have to go to Washington. I would be assigned to New York. I won’t take the job if they try to assign me to DC.”

  “You know we have a beautiful home here and up in Great Barrington,” she smiled broadly and added, “with great neighbors, and the kids love to ski and the town is great and we always have fun there. And you’d have to retire and you couldn’t start your law practice anyway, you know what I mean, right?”

  “Yeah, Jo, but remember this guy al Mohammed is a little more dangerous than your average black bear, and I can always practice law later on. And I won’t retire unless the job is a lock.”

  “Nicky, I will go with whatever you decide, but remember, like Sergeant Yates said in the academy: no funerals. I’m too young and pretty to be a widow. Hell, I’d probably end up bringing a date to the wake!”

  “No problem—no funeral, no wake, no date.”

  “Wait, wait a second. You have to protect yourself, Nick. You don’t have to give up your pistol when you retire, do you?”

  “No, I keep the 9 millimeter, and as a retired cop I can carry it all over the US under a new federal law. That gun becomes a shield, not a sword.”

  “Okay, Nick. You look into it and let’s see where the road takes us next.”

  ****

  The process was time consuming and took several months. Nick had to fill out reams of paper and endless responses to questions about his experience, skills, knowledge and education. He had to submit documents to support all the things he had reported in the online application process: diplomas, work records, military papers and affirmations from friends and colleagues. At one point he began to think that Tom Carrillo had never actually spoken to FBI ASAC Dave Weill about the IA application.

  The last stage of the process before drug testing was the polygraph.

  “Have you ever worked for a foreign government?” the polygraph examiner asked.

  “No sir,” Nick earnestly answered, concentrating and squinting his eyes during the preliminary inquiry.

  “Ever been an agent for any entity hostile to the US?”

  “No.”

  “Ever use cocaine, marijuana, heroin or any other controlled substance?”

  “No.”

  “Ever belong to any organizations that advocated the overthrow of the US?”

  Becoming tired and attempting to interject a little humor into the action, Nick said in response, “Yes, my wife’s garden club—wait, did you say overgrow or overthrow the United States?”

  ****

  That night, John Planner called Brennan at home, from Fort George Meade, Maryland NSA Headquarters.

  “Nicky, how is the application going?”

  “Good so far. The last step is the colonoscopy, and I can’t wait. Johnny, these people are nuts! They watch too damn much TV!” Nick breathlessly continued, “I had an FBI guy ask me today if I was a spy!”

  “Just play the game, it will all work out,” Planner counseled.

  “Work out? You mean like skiing down Mount Snow from the summit with absolutely no experience, that kind of work out?”

  “Oh Nick, for god’s sake, you neurotic wacko, will you ever forgive me for showing a little tough love when I taught you to ski?”

  “Oh, tough love, is it? More like tough luck. Never mind all that. Did Carrillo talk to Weill or what?”

  “Yeah, you will be given due consideration. It is not rigged, but you lead the pack—former MI, cop, lawyer, intelligence squad commander and your involvement in the Aaffia Khan case. I am pulling for you, so is Carrillo and so are the supervisory special agents in New York; just standby.”

  “I know, but I’m not even sure I want the job. I have to retire from the police, give up my dream of practicing law, and Jodie and the kids need me near home. Michael is a raging hormone and I don’t want to miss seeing Elizabeth grow up to be a beautiful woman like her mother.”

  “Nicky, Bhiren al Mohammed tried to kill kids—babies. You couldn’t live with yourself if he did that again, this time successfully, and luck might not favor us like it did last time. The reality is only the feds can do this job. You’ve got to get on this train. I’m sorry, poor choice of words.”

  Nick was offered the job two weeks later and decided to give it some thought.

  ****

  The morning on the outskirts of London was damp, cool and crisp with clouds as usual, but warmer than an average December day. Josephine Heller, after getting her husband Joe off to work, walked her small son Robert to his new bus stop for the first day in a new school. The Heller family had just moved to a new London neighborhood.

  “Mum, can’t you come with me? I’m scared.”

  “No, Robert you are a big boy. You are six now, you must go to school on your own today,” his loving mother said with a big hug. Robert was Josephine’s only child and he was a precious little imp with a pale, thin English face and dark, thick hair parted on the side. He was her pride and joy and made special by the fact that Josephine and Joe, older parents by most standards, had had so much trouble having a baby. They both knew there would be no more children in their future. Josephine and Joe would never see their beautiful little boy again.

  ****

  It was five on a wet, early winter morning. The grounds surrounding Nick and Jodie’s house were neatly decorated wit
h Christmas embellishments, and in the predawn silence, the yard was covered with a soft dusting of bright white snow with flurries continuing to fall. The light cover mildly muffled the occasional sounds of movement in the neighborhood. The lighter skies would not be up for another two hours. The phone in the bedroom rang with a loud, high-pitched sound that Nicky instinctively knew, based simply on the hour, was not good news.

  “Hello?” Nick said with some trepidation.

  “Nicky, it’s John. Well, Bhiren did it. I can’t tell you how we know, but he blew up a school bus in London. There are at least fifty-two young kids killed or injured! Turn on the TV, it is all over CNN. We are seeing it on Al Jazeera.”

  “How do you know for sure, John? Why? What the hell is going on?”

  “Look, you know I’m not allowed to discuss this in detail, but you understand that just like NSA can’t electronically monitor Americans without a warrant the UK can, and we can trade information between us, if you catch my drift. So too can the US intercept communications in Europe and trade it back to the UK. That’s all I am going to say until you are cleared to know more.”

  “Johnny, what the hell does that mean? Do you know for sure it was Bhiren?”

  “Never mind that now, Nick. I told you everything I’m going to say. Are you going to take the job the FBI offered or not?”

  “Johnny, I’m in. I’ll call this morning.”

  Nick turned to Jodie, lying next to him. As she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, he said, “Joann, al Mohammed killed a bunch of little kids on a school bus in London. They could’ve just as easily been our kids, but no matter, they are somebody’s children. I’m putting in my retirement papers this morning and I’m taking the job with the FBI.”

  Joann, still not completely awake, stared at Nick for a few seconds and studied his face as he spoke; she sensed his determination and felt his need to stop a madman, and the thought of Michael and Elizabeth animated his resolve.