D Minus 7 – Preparations
Mohammed and Clay met on a nondescript street corner, after which Clay drove them to the storage unit. They had the remaining items to build the bombs.
Clay thought about it. He wouldn’t back out, but he felt different about it. He took deep, quick breaths as he drove. Mohammed watched him carefully.
“What do you think about, my friend?” Mohammed asked his usual question to get Clay talking.
“I am just thinking,” he tried to dodge the question.
Mohammed was having none of it. He’d dealt with people who’d gotten cold feet before, and it required immediate attention to warm them up again. “Thinking requires a topic. Tell me,” he said more insistently.
“I was thinking of personal honor. I was pleased the other day when I went into a Starbucks and a man recognized me from my playing days,” Clay said.
“What man? Where was this?” Mohammed asked while focused like a laser on Clay’s face.
“A man in a suit, with a man in a uniform, Army, I think. It was in Herndon.” Clay said softly, aware that he may have made a mistake. He didn’t like Mohammed’s tone.
“Tell me the entire conversation,” Mohammed prompted. Clay looked at him, but the older man didn’t blink, his brow furled in intense concentration.
Clay relayed the conversation as he remembered it. The street before him started swimming in his vision. He had difficulty focusing. The storage unit was close. He only had to make it that far.
“Thank you, Clay. It is not a problem. They said they were from a business office? Did they say which one?”
“Silver bullet? No, that was their coffee pot that they hated. Fusion Center. Yes, that’s it. I remember because they arrived and left in a Ford minivan and Ford has a Fusion,” Clay said, proud that he remembered such a trivial detail from a conversation long ago. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you in some way. I was so tired. I needed the coffee to help me get where you needed me to go. I’m sorry,” Clay’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper.
“It is okay, my friend. The Fusion Center is nothing you need to worry about. Let us finish our task this day and think of it no more. We have important work in front of us, no?” Mohammed patted Clay’s arm and turned up the Boneyard as he rocked in time with the music.
The Supply Warehouse
“I’m not too keen on handing over our customer list, but terrorism you say? I wouldn’t want to hold up the authorities, but we have our corporate rules. I’m going to need to see a search warrant, and I’m really sorry. Maybe you can get one while I pull up the data?” he asked hopefully. The last thing we’d want is to fail the American people or lose all our computers. Would you seize them?” The older man behind the desk asked.
Grainger supply worked exclusively through an online ordering system, but the customer could stop by to pick up the order rather than have it shipped. The Manager, wearing a name tag that said Dave, wanted to cooperate, but he didn’t want to run afoul of corporate rules.
“We have an ongoing warrant for this investigation. Hang on and I’ll have my office fax it over,” Becky said as she stepped into the hallway and made a phone call.
“Is she…?” the man started to ask, leaving the question open ended.
“Is she what? A lawyer with the Department of Justice? Yes, she is.” Travis said.
“I was going to say old enough to drink, but let me change that. Is she old enough to vote?” Dave asked while contorting his face.
“She’s a lawyer with DOJ, and that’s the only thing that matters. How do you think she got that job?” Travis asked without waiting for an answer, “because she’s smarter than you and I put together.”
Becky leaned in, ignoring the conversation, “Fax number?”
Dave gave it to her without hesitation. Travis stood at the side of the desk and watched as Dave started digging into the warehouse database, refining the query to the timeframe he’d been given.
“We had some cases of fraud last year, really upset some people. So we had this sexy system installed where every purchase links to a picture of the buyer. You know what we found out? It was one of the company’s employees doing the stealing. When they saw his picture, they confronted him, and that’s all she wrote. I love it when a plan comes together. We had to buy extra digital storage space, but storage is cheap. Losing customers because they think we aren’t properly handling their orders? That’s expensive.”
Travis couldn’t argue with that logic. He complimented the man on their solution. Becky returned and told Dave told to check his fax machine. He locked his computer as he stepped out of his office.
“I can’t believe you got a FISA warrant already,” Travis said where only Becky could hear. She shook her head. His mouth dropped open as he realized what she was doing.
Dave walked back in, looking at a legal document with signatures and small print that didn’t fax very well.
“Everything seems to be in order. Let’s see what the computer found.”
Travis wouldn’t look at Becky, and she wouldn’t look at him. They both leaned over the desk to see what Dave was pointing to.
“All we have is two sales. One a week and a half ago and one yesterday. Let’s pull up yesterday’s,” Dave said as he slid his cursor over the database entry. He clicked before Travis could stop him because they wanted to see the earlier entry. The timing was better on that one.
The picture showed a young man wearing what could have been business casual. He represented a biofuel company. Dave looked up, and both Travis and Becky shook their heads that this wasn’t who they were looking for.
“I should have said that the last date we’re concerned about was Tuesday and not through to today. What’s the other one?” Travis asked.
The manager expertly navigated back a screen and opened the file on the purchase from eleven days prior.
“Holy shit!” Travis exclaimed. “Holy… Print that out.” Then to Becky, “we have to go, now!”
The man, a moment ago an expert mouse clicker, started fumbling through the computer screens. Travis’ mind raced ahead. He tapped his finger in impatience. Finally, Dave printed the information and with a shaky hand, gave two pages to Travis. Without a word, he hustled Becky out the door and once out of the warehouse, he ran to her car, getting there well before her. He waved at her to hurry up, but she wore a skirt and heels. She hadn’t planned on running.
Travis looked at the high-quality picture in his hand.
It showed Clay’s smiling face beside the name Kwame Ndjamena, a different name than he used when he met them.
D Minus 7 – Ready to Go
They parked facing the cameras as usual. After making sure no one else was around, they unloaded the van through the flap cut into the tarp as usual. And they turned on some music. Mohammed instructed Clay on how to pack the TATP into aluminum foil, carefully adding a detonator and trigger.
Mohammed had five Estes rocket motors with igniters. He also had five garage door openers. The actuator inside a garage door could be wired for 12v DC. Mohammed had done this somewhere else. He showed Clay how it worked.
Press the remote and the actuator connected the battery directly to the igniter, which burned red hot starting the rocket motor. Clay watched as the igniter glowed while safely contained in a bucket in the corner.
“Simple as that. Our mixture will not take kindly to a rocket motor starting in its midst and will react, shall we say, rather violently?” Mohammed smiled thinking how the fires would rage.
Mohammed put the garage door remotes into sturdy boxes to prevent an accidental button push. He labeled each one, matching it with its bomb. Then they packed nails and hex-head nuts around explosives. Fully loaded, each device was heavy. Clay wondered how the smaller zealots would be able to carry them, but he trusted Mohammed had already thought about that.
With the explosives double-wrapped and the projectiles wrapped together around the explosives, they were done building the
bombs.
The last thing they did was wrap three boxes in Christmas paper, the most expensive foil wrap Mohammed could find. He didn’t want a nervous zealot ripping the paper and exposing anything. These boxes needed to look like they belonged under that tree. The other two were backpacks containing more explosive, but fewer projectiles. These had a different purpose that Mohammed didn’t share with Clay.
Clay and Mohammed took the bombs one at a time and belted them into the back seat, protecting the unstable TATP from impacts while driving.
Mohammed slapped Clay on the back and with a big smile said, “good enough for our children, eh?” They went back into the storage shed. “What do you think we should clean up?”
Clay looked around and reached for the remaining sulfuric acid.
When Mohammed’s Taser touched his neck, Clay spasmed and tried to stand. He took the full charge for as long as Mohammed could hold it in place. Clay fell, and the jar of acid shattered, splattering his arm where the skin started to smoke. Clay tried to cry out, but Mohammed stepped over him and pressed the Taser against his throat and zapped him a second time.
Clay convulsed from the charge and the immense pain that tried to overwhelm him. One of his teeth broke as his jaw clenched.
Mohammed calmly stepped aside and pushed Clay onto his face. Mohammed took out his metal-bodied Cross pen and placed it on the back of Clay’s skull, just behind his spine. Mohammed wrapped a rag around the pen and started to push, leaning close so he could get his body weight behind it while also whispering into Clay’s ear.
“You fool. The Fusion Center is where they man the Joint Terrorism Task Force. When they come, they’ll find you. If they don’t come, then I apologize, and Allah will accept you into his tender embrace. Peace, my friend.” And with one violent push, drove his pen into Clay’s brain. He twisted the pen before pulling it out.
He meticulously cleaned it. If he was found, Clay’s murder would be the least of his worries. Although able to barter information for a life of relative comfort, he couldn’t let them take him alive. The young man’s life was forfeit from the first day they met.
Mohammed took Clay’s keys, and then wiped down everything in the storage unit. He casually rolled down the door, surreptitiously wiping it, then secured the lock. He climbed into the minivan and slowly drove out of the Empty Space Storage compound. It had served its purpose, and he was done with it.
Just like Clay.
Who is it?
Travis climbed in when Becky unlocked the door and dialed Rick’s phone. When Rick answered, Travis was ready. “You won’t freaking believe it. We’ll be there as soon as humanly possible. Becky is putting on her Mario Andretti hat right now.” Travis made wide eyes at the young woman who was still confused as to what was going on. She rose to the occasion and spun the tires as they departed the parking lot. At least they were driving opposite the growing traffic leaving Washington DC.
She swerved in and out, followed by extreme acceleration and rapid stops until Travis confirmed that they weren’t in that big of a hurry. It wouldn’t help if they got killed trying to get back to Langley. He wouldn’t tell her anything while they were in the car, only that the revelation from Grainger was probably the lead they were looking for.
“By the way, you didn’t get a warrant, did you?” Travis asked when Becky calmed her driving.
“Of course, it was a warrant. It simply didn’t apply to Grainger. I figured no one has to know where we got the lead. We’ll find that person and roust him, then that will develop its own information which will be damning?” She was fishing, and Travis wasn’t biting. He refused to talk further as they continued back to the office.
When Becky finally pulled into a parking spot at the CIA Headquarters, most employees were already streaming from the building. They rushed past. They didn’t have to wait in line to get screened before they entered the inner sanctum.
Travis hadn’t brought a classified cover sheet, so he folded the papers and put them inside his shirt.
Once upstairs, he ran between the cubicles on his way to Rick’s office. He was tugging at his shirt when he arrived and pulled out the papers. Rick took them, looking oddly at Travis.
“These are warm and sweaty,” he said before he looked. His face turned white once he saw the picture.
“I’ll be damned. Clay. Mwanajuma Kalu. He was right there. I’ll be God damned,” Rick’s lips began to quiver as the shock of what he saw hit him.
“The faceless man,” Travis said.
“No,” Rick said in a soft tone. “I listened to the raw intercept. That was an Arab speaking Arabic. It wasn’t Clay’s voice. I think he’s African.” Rick accessed his computer, and while running an internet blocking program which kept other sites from knowing he’d been there, he ran a search on Clay and James Madison University. Pages of results showed. Rick skimmed the entries until he found one that looked like a biography.
“From Nairobi, Kenya. Speaks three languages, one of which is Arabic. There’s nothing here regarding religion or any kind of affiliation that would suggest he’s an agent for Da’esh, but then again, why would there be?” Rick asked no one in particular. He was thinking out loud.
Becky entered during Rick’s monologue and waited.
“We need to tell DHS so they can go grab this guy. He may not be the faceless man but Clay sure as hell knows him.” Rick picked up the phone, but Becky stopped him, then reached back and shut the door.
“We might want to talk about how to approach this first,” she started slowly. Rick raised his eyebrows. His world was happening at light speed, and this interruption wasn’t doing his blood pressure any favors.
Becky continued, “I bluffed. We got this information without a warrant. That means that we can’t let anyone know where it came from. This is terrorism, and some of the 4th Amendment protections don’t necessarily apply, especially when we’re sure someone is a terrorist, although we didn’t before we violated their 4th Amendment rights,” she said smoothly, talking herself around in a circle.
“We dodge the question by telling them we can’t reveal the source. Thanks for the strategy. Sometimes it takes bad guys to catch other ones. Welcome to the club, Becky. You’re officially a good person doing bad things to catch bad guys.”
She squirmed and made a face. Rick didn’t care. He picked up the phone and dialed a number.
Find Him!
“Principal Deputy Under Secretary for Intelligence and Analysis, Andrew Bridges here, how can I help you?” Rick figured he saw the CIA listed on his Caller ID and decided to use his full title. Without waiting. Rick initiated a secure connection. The two STUs synced and finally, Rick could talk.
“Sir, we have a name for you. I believe this guy is the principal contact for the faceless man. We need to bring him in and rake him over the coals. We need to dissect his life until we find where they are together, where we can get a picture and start hunting the man down!” Rick blurted out in a single stream of consciousness.
“Hang on, hang on. Is that you, Rick?”
“Yes, sir. We just got this information and it can’t wait. Sorry, can’t give you the source, but it’s solid. Rock solid,” Rick emphasized.
“I was just headed out the door. Can you send the information to the Fusion Center, to the watch commander?” The Deputy asked. Rick was taken aback. The Deputy didn’t care what the information was. He only wanted it out of his hair so he could leave.
“I’ll do that, sir. Enjoy your evening.” Rick hung up without waiting for a response. He put an email under the Amber Rose classification to slow down how quickly the DHS would lose control of it, but he was cynical. The Deputy, Andrew Bridges had made him angry. Is no one committed to doing their job?
Before Rick hit send, Travis and Becky reviewed the email. He excused himself and headed for the bathroom. He needed to calm down as the rage was coming. The high cost of failure and the helplessness in dealing with those who were responsible was getting to be
overwhelming. Had the Deputy misunderstood the gravity of the information Rick tried to share?
No. But his reputation was at stake and he had no control over what was happening.
After a few deep breaths and a long drink from the water fountain, Rick was calmer but not completely calm. He was still angry but thought he had it under control. When he got back, Travis gave him the thumbs up sign.
“How’s your new better half,” Rick asked out of the blue.
“What? I wouldn’t call her that,” Travis replied. Rick raised his eyebrows in disbelief, happy for the distraction. “I would call her my new friend,” Travis said, sounding like he was trying to convince himself.
“What are we, back in Middle School? Are you going to marry her?” Rick said pointedly, locking eyes with the Lieutenant Colonel, who suddenly looked very young.
Becky watched with great interest, glad they weren’t asking about her personal life. She would crawl into a shell where those topics were hidden, as in, she didn’t have a personal life, not for lack of trying. Her worse nightmare were the married men who thought her easy prey. She shuddered.
“If Xandrie will have me,” Travis said as he shrugged and pointed to the computer monitor. “We smoothed this up a bit. I’m not sure you’d get your point across by starting off with ‘you lame bastards.’”
“I didn’t put that,” Rick countered, working his way around his desk to see the screen.
“You might as well have. That’s how it came across. Just tweaked up, my man. I like it. Straight forward without highlighting Becky’s subterfuge.” They both tipped their heads in her direction. She smiled back shyly.
Rick added his Blackphone 2 number at the end of the email, saying they could call him anytime if they had questions. He clicked send, and away it went.
People Raged: and the Sky Was on Fire-Compendium (Rick Banik Thrillers Book 1) Page 20
