Clay used to get that more often. It had been a while since someone recognized him. Generally, people shied away from the very large, black man.
“Yes, I did, and thank you for watching the games,” Clay said pleasantly with a smile, embracing his training from Mohammed.
The older man held out his hand, which disappeared into Clay’s massive paw. “I’m Rick Banik, and I’m a big fan. You were a beast out there, my man!”
“I’m Travis Strong, and I’m sorry, but I just transferred here. I didn’t get the pleasure of watching you play.” Travis said, impressed by the size of the young man.
“Mwanajuma Kalu, but please, call me Clay.”
“Clay? Very nice to meet you. What position did you play?” Travis watched as much football as he could, and always watched if the Citadel was on national TV, which wasn’t often. It usually only happened when they played a premier team. Like lambs to the slaughter, they lost those heavily lopsided contests.
“Outside linebacker. I loved the rush. And I still have my knees and my head, fortunately.” Clay made a fist and knocked on his own skull, eliciting a laugh from the two men in front of him. “I started to play football later than Americans and haven’t played since college.”
Rick shook his head, then brightened up. “My son plays inside linebacker and right tackle for now, but he’s only a sophomore in high school. Too bad he didn’t get to meet you. Do you attend any practices or go to a gym around here? My son plays at Thomas Edison.” Rick looked hopefully at Clay.
“I do not, I’m sorry. I go back to JMU a couple times a year to meet with the team, but I’m afraid that’s the only contact I have with football, besides watching it on Saturdays, of course.”
“I’m sorry to hear that Clay. What are you having?” Rick asked as they were next up to the counter. “It’s on me, my way of saying thank you for letting me watch you play.”
It had been a long time since Clay last basked in the spotlight of his sports prowess. “Pumpkin spice with a double shot of espresso. I’m tired and can use the extra boost, but it’s okay, I can pay for it myself.”
“Your money is no good here, my man. You heard him, Pumpkin spice, venti with a double shot kicker.”
“Name please?” The clerk asked.
Rick saw the opportunity. “Mwanajuma,” he said matter of factly. The clerk didn’t flinch and started writing on the cup. Rick couldn’t see what she wrote. They’d have to wait for the announcement. He ordered extra-large coffees with room for cream for Travis and himself.
They waited in the crowded area as names were called one by one until they were next.
“Mr. No Jimmy? Pumpkin Spice with a double shot.” The barista put the cup on the counter. Rick and Travis could barely contain themselves. The Starbucks legendary naming convention continued. Rick’s name was spelled without a ‘c’, but Travis was spelled correctly. Maybe the clerk was a country music fan.
Clay looked confused. He never understood why Americans took such pleasure in the complete butchering of someone’s name.
“Sorry, Clay. There’s always something. It’s kind of a game that we play at Starbucks. Call it cheap entertainment and keep in mind, when people come here, they’re tired and want coffee. They’re willing to put up with anything. This is the corporate foot stepping on your neck, and you willingly let them because your alternative is the silver bullet.”
“Silver bullet?” Clay asked, suddenly alarmed, worried that these two were law enforcement officers.
“Silver bullet – it’s a coffee pot we have back at the Fusion Center. I’m sorry, I meant at our work in the corporate office. It boils the water, and that drips through a tray. Then it boils itself back through the grounds. It is hideous. So yes, we’ll pay; they’ll make fun of us, and we’ll like it. It’s all part of the game. I’m very happy to meet you, Clay.” They shook one last time before Rick and Travis got back into the minivan and drove off.
Clay was pleased that someone remembered him. He worked hard and tried to play his best. It was nice to be appreciated. He took a sip from his coffee. Too sweet, he thought, but he could feel the kick from the extra shots.
With his head held high, he walked casually to the bus stop and waited for his next ride.
A Gift for the Boss
“What do you want me to say to the DDI?” Rick asked Bob again, still not understanding what he wanted.
“The DDI likes practical jokes, so you tell him that the sum of all fears is the square root of pi, or maybe forty-two,” Bob said with a straight face.
“No!” Rick said emphatically. “You tell him whatever you want, but I don’t have time to Douglas Adams him.” Rick was getting frustrated, although Bobbie Mac felt comfortable enough to depart on the tangent. The mood in the Fusion Center lightened remarkably. They had the lead they were looking for.
Rick wasn’t so sure but wanted to pull the string and see what unraveled. He expected they’d find something because there were plenty of bad guys out there preparing to do bad things. One less screamer would make the world a safer place no matter what. He tried to relax and go with the flow.
“Becky, are you having any luck with multi-entry visa lawbreakers?” He asked, trying to keep people working on their taskers. Once the FBI revealed their suspect and surveillance, the watch standers took their foot off the gas.
You can’t run at full speed all the time, Rick thought to himself. He sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers before him, lips white from pulling them tightly across his teeth. The nagging pulled at his gut, twisting and turning it. Maybe it was the Starbucks or the RockStar that he chased it with causing the fire within.
“Time to slow down?” He asked in a feeble attempt to convince himself. He clicked through the screens of his computer until he projected the caricature of the faceless man, full size onto the big screen. He stood and raised his hands to get everyone’s attention.
“When the FBI goes in and grabs this scumbag, how will we know if he’s that man?” Rick shouted over the din, pointing at the faceless man. All talking died down as people looked at the screen, fixated. “How will we know?” Rick repeated in a softer voice.
“Felipe.” Rick pointed out the Air Force sergeant from the NSA. “Walk us through the original message again. Are there any clues at all what this guy will have whenever we can go into his apartment, storage shed, wherever he’s doing his thing? What can we expect?”
The sergeant walked to the front of the room and stood to the side of the screen, pointing to Rick. “Sir, can you bring up the original message?” Rick found the folder and opened the file. It showed line by line in Arabic with the English translation beneath.
“This first part establishes that they are who they say they are, kind of like a Get Smart set of codes.” This group knew exactly what he was talking about, but Felipe took their silence as the opposite. “It’s lovely here in Spring. Yes, but I hear it’s nicer in Paris. These are programmed challenges and responses, maybe only used one time. These aren’t your usual Quranic quotes. They’re off by enough to be something different, which reinforces our analysis.” He waved his hand, and Rick scrolled to the next page.
“Here we see the status update. Whatever they are talking about is on track, with the individual already in country. The faceless man is in the country where the event will take place. At this point in the conversation, we don’t have any answers to the five Ws – who, what, when, where, and why. This is where we have to interpolate as we go forward. The first speaker, the person who the call was to, gets excited and starts posturing. This gives us the only details in the conversation. Let’s look closely.” Felipe moved to the other side of the screen.
“The big capital will burn! We’ve seen similar language in much of the ISIS rhetoric. They want the world to burn, everything except their part of it, which is actually burning. Irony, to say the least, but I digress.” Felipe asked for a glass of water before continuing. This was a hard crowd. People watched intently, without emoti
on, without giving the speaker anything to build on. It was typical within the IC. That’s why intelligence briefers usually made their own jokes, laughed at them, and then moved on. An impartial observer might describe the briefer as off, or more bluntly, insane.
“The first report on this was, we believe, incorrect because they translated the words, but didn’t balance the entirety of the phraseology. Big capital burning is rhetoric until you add in these words about an event and believers. The only time we’ve seen these combinations is in the chatter leading up to London and Brussels. Slightly different wording preceded and followed the Paris attacks. We equate the variation to an attack with firearms versus an attack with bombs, and most likely bombs made from TATP.”
Rick held up a hand to stop Felipe. He hadn’t thought that far into it, being convinced it would be a bombing and not a mass shooting.
“Is anyone looking at precursor chemicals for TATP? Anyone?” Rick asked. No one stepped forward. Travis nodded to Rick as he wrote a note for all to see on the whiteboard. Rick rolled a finger at Felipe, encouraging him to continue.
“The second speaker, the one who initiated the phone call is a cool customer. He reiterates that everything is on track and that the next update will be in three weeks, where he would relay the good news. This is where in the first report the translators bit on an attack happening in three weeks. Usually, a terrorist attack will be reported in the news. No one will have to call and tell their boss they blew up the Eifel Tower. The usual terms we see in these cases are to that effect – the whole world will know at some certain time. That kind of wording dials in the attack.
“This conversation happened a week ago. To us, that means we have at least two more weeks before the final phase of the so-called event. We can only guess at what this means. Maybe one to three weeks before an attack happens? The next conversation will be crucial, but if they use different phones or something like Skype, then we probably won’t hear it. We’ve set our computers to look for the exact challenge-response they used before. If they change that, then I fear we’ll need a miracle.”
“And that’s why you’re not alone in this. Sometimes we get lucky, but the rest of the time, we build redundant collection plans so we look into the darkness all kinds of different ways. Thanks, Felipe.” Rick gave him the thumbs up and a nod. The young sergeant walked from the stage.
FBI Agent Jordan Speaks walked to the front of the room. “I have some new information, Rick. Do you want to read it first?” Rick was on the spot. If he said yes, that would make him look like the typical IC leader, a person who keeps secrets to their own advantage.
“No. The fewer secrets we have between us, within the constraints of Horny Rose, of course, the better we’ll be.” Rick waited for the snickering to stop before nodding at Jordan to continue.
“We’ve identified a potential store where our man Ahmed is taking an unnatural interest. He stopped by there yesterday after calling the place every day since his line’s been tapped. They don’t say anything besides small talk, which is odd. If you call a store, don’t you ask about their products? If you call a friend, don’t you talk about something more substantial than the weather?”
“Felipe, can you and your people listen to those conversations and see if there is any overlap in the wording with the first message from our faceless man?”
Jordan held up a hand as Felipe nodded in excitement, eager to see the new communications. “We can’t quite release the raw traffic and not to the NSA, anyway. This conversation is happening completely within the United States. Our lawyers are looking it over now to see what can be released besides the initial analysis, although one of them feels that we’ve already shared too much.”
Becky had been standing and furled her brow. “Executive Order 12333 allows for intelligence collection, and the amendments and clarification of 2008 provide a forum for…” she drifted into a conversation with herself, returning to her desk and picking up her STU-III. Everyone watched as she had a short, relatively heated conversation with someone at the other end. Then she stood up, grabbed her purse, and started to leave.
Rick raised his eyebrows in question. She finally made eye contact.
“Oh sorry. I think I can fix this, but I need to go talk to people in person. I’ll be back.” Without waiting for a response or approval, Rick watched the young lawyer stride purposefully from the room.
People shifted uncomfortably. Jordan gave the I-don’t-know salute with his hands and shook his head.
“How about those Steelers, huh? Rick said loud enough to break through everyone’s seeming brain freeze. Nothing energized the IC more than a good football squabble. The room instantly broke out into a near riot as the attacks began on one team or another while extolling the virtues of their own teams at the same time. Rick had completely lost control and stood up as he attempted to redirect the people back toward Jordan and the main screen.
The door opened and in walked the Deputy Director of Intelligence Race Banyon and DHS Deputy Andrew Bridges. Of all times, what the DDI would remember was the instant he walked into the room, seeing Rick trying to regain control of a boisterous crowd. Andrew raised his eyebrows. The analysts grew silent, and everyone froze in place. Rick’s tongue felt like he’d just taken a bite out of a peanut butter sandwich.
“Director Banyon. Deputy Bridges. Welcome to the Fusion Center,” Bobbie Mac stepped forward smoothly offering his hand to the two high-ranking gentlemen. “Rick’s got us in a great place. We’d be burning tires, spinning in place if it weren’t for him. We’ve got a great lead and people are cranking on the right stuff. Here, I’ll let Rick tell you all about it.” He showed the men to seats at the big table. When Rick tried to give up his seat at the end, the two told him to sit down and took chairs on the side.
Rick asked Felipe and Jordan to correct him if he missed anything as he did a quick recap of what he’d just been told. Rick gave appropriate credit to each of the analysts, making sure to touch everyone in the room in some way, while also throwing a few kind words toward CIA and DHS, as Bob recommended as part of Rick’s personalized inter-agency diplomacy training.
Bobbie Mac nodded approvingly as Rick navigated the waters of his newfound position at a higher level within the Intelligence Community.
“Thanks for that Rick. I’ve been in touch with my counterpart at the FBI, and they’ve tasked the Hostage Rescue Team, the HRT, with this op. They’re planning right now, waiting on the ‘go’ order, which we expect a little time later today. We believe he’ll be going to the shop, and that’s where we’ll clean out that snake den.” Race Banyon looked around the room at each of the individuals.
“None of that information leaves this room. None. HRT operations are highly compartmentalized. The only reason I mention it is because we’ve gotten permission for you to go along Rick, as an observer. You need to report to their team room by noon.” He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to Rick. “Now memorize that address and then eat the paper,” he said with a straight face.
“Sir, I believe the answer you’re looking for is 42 because the sum of all fears is the square root of pi.” Rick responded as he studied the address on the sticky note. He wasn’t a fan of driving around Alexandria, Virginia, so the address meant nothing to him. He’d have to use his GPS to get there. When he looked up, the DHS Deputy was looking at him oddly while the DDI wore a broad grin. “What?”
“Well played!” The DDI boomed as he stood up, ready to leave. “Good job, all of you. Hopefully, we’ll put this to rest this afternoon, and you can go back to your lives. Know that you’ve made a difference here. And I’m glad this didn’t drag on as some tend to do.”
Rick wanted to tell the DDI that it was premature to celebrate, but the DDI already had his back to him as he strode boldly to the door.
D Minus 17 – Learning Tradecraft
Clay finished his last bus ride, walked two blocks as directed, and arrived at a nondescript building in a nondescript
part of Falls Church. He used the code he was given to unlock the door, depressing three numbers in sequence, then turning the lever to release the lock. He went inside to find an unordained office with a single desk, a rickety metal chair with ripped cushion, and no computer.
Clay pulled his phone from his pocket and checked it, making sure he hadn’t missed a phone call or text. He thought he was going to meet Mohammed here, where they would go through the next steps of the plan. As Clay reflected on it, he didn’t know a great deal about the plan. He knew that they had six recruits, but Mohammed planned on only four or five carrying out the mission, whatever that was.
They were going to build bombs, and this should have scared Clay, but he wasn’t a chemist and had complete faith in Mohammed’s abilities. TATP could be unstable when produced, and that’s why it was called the Mother of Satan. It sent many a well-meaning believer to an early grave.
We’re going to bomb something, Clay thought without revelation. As soon as Mohammed described the explosive, the bombing part was clear. But what? What would they bomb?
Clay thought the Redskins needed bombing. In his mind, the name was abhorrent and perpetuated the American denigration of anything not white. What about the fans? He knew other players, now in the NFL, and they didn’t deserve to die. They loved playing football, that’s all, and the fans loved watching all things football. Maybe they could bomb the stadium itself when no one was there.
Mohammed, referencing David and Goliath, said they would knock down the giant. Clay thought about which giants might be targets in Washington DC. Every branch of the government and their leaders were here. The White House? Mohammed was a confident man, but was he arrogant enough to try such an audacious target?
Mohammed never suggested in any way that he needed Clay to conduct a suicide attack. Clay wanted to survive, but what if? Was he ready to die for the Da’esh cause, for the new caliphate? A week ago, that answer would have been no, even though he grew depressed by the day. He wasn’t so sure now. He had a purpose and if that meant dying, could he do it? The believers were stalwart in their duties to Allah. He’d have to think further in a place that supported such thoughts; even if they shunned him, he needed to return to the mosque and pray.
People Raged: and the Sky Was on Fire-Compendium (Rick Banik Thrillers Book 1) Page 10
