by Klaus Marre
“Absolutely. I've seen and talked to him many times, although the last time has been a while back. When they showed that photo of him for the first time, I thought to myself: 'That looks like the kid from Woodbridge who went to UCLA'.”
“Well then,” Strauss said with a nod to Kempner. “Art, let's get something on this up on our website right now before some blog beats us and then you can work on an overnight piece. Our young sports writer can pull up all his files and notes on the guy to supplement your piece. You know what to do, so let's get to it.”
***
The FBI raid of the al-Zaid residence had unveiled a treasure trove of information and, within minutes of forensic experts entering the house, Jerome Wilkins, the lead agent on the scene, was on the phone with Director Stevenson.
“We can stop this 'person of interest' nonsense. We have our man,” the veteran FBI agent told his boss. “There is a video of him on his computer claiming responsibility and pledging allegiance to as-Sirat and Omar Bashir. The file was open on the computer in his room, just waiting for us to find it.
“There are also some bomb-making materials in the basement,” he added. “But no sign of him or his parents. We're sending the video to you right now through the secure network. You should be able to watch it any minute now.”
“Good work,” the FBI director said. “We already have an APB out for him and I'll authorize another for his parents. See if you can find recent pictures. We probably want to distribute a good one to the media as quickly as possible.”
Stevenson hung up the phone, then picked it up again and called his chief of staff.
“I need to talk to the president in 10 minutes. Also, we need to get an APB out on this kid's parents. Make sure all our travel databases are searched for their names and future bookings cross-referenced. And then set up a secure conference call with everybody.”
The FBI director let out a deep sigh and then logged into the secure network from the computer on his desk and clicked on the video link.
The screen showed the torso and head of a young man with Middle Eastern features. His black hair was long and wavy. Stevenson made a mental note to have the experts put together a bunch of pictures with how Hassan al-Zaid would look if he changed his hairstyle and color.
The suspect was wearing a simple white t-shirt that highlighted the darkness of his skin, a color that could be the result of genetics or a summer working outdoors. The background of the video seemed to be that of a normal teenager's bedroom with a bookshelf and a window. He was a fairly good looking kid, Stevenson thought, with a sympathetic face, even features and brown eyes. What was an American kid like doing blowing up a bus instead of being out and about, trying to chase girls, the FBI director wondered before pushing “play.”
“With the help of Allah, blessed is his name, I will carry out a strike at the heart of the enemy,” Hassan began in a voice that, to Stevenson's surprise, was completely free of an accent. Though he knew that the young man in the video had grown up in the U.S. and was believed to have spent his entire life here, he still expected the terrorist to have an accent.
“For too long, America has pushed other countries around to satisfy its own greed, killing hundreds of thousands in its wars against true believers in Afghanistan and Iraq. Though proclaiming to want peace and to promote religious tolerance, how is it that America's actions are always targeted at Muslim countries? How is it that the United States always stands with the Zionists against my brothers and sisters? You lament your own few dead without caring about all of the Muslims that have perished. Americans are ignorant of the hardships that their country has caused to millions. The United States is not bringing peace, it's bringing oppression. Since you are doing nothing to educate yourself about your country's actions, it is time that the fight will once again be brought to your doorstep.”
The young man on the screen had grown more agitated. He was pointing at the camera.
“It's time for somebody to give you a taste of your own bitter medicine. I will prove that you can no longer feel safe on your buses. You also should not feel safe in your malls or believe that your children are safe in their schools. It has been too long since America was last reminded what will happen if it tries to oppress my brothers and sisters. I pray that there will be others, who, like me, grew up right here, and realize that they are the ones who have to fight back. Although I'm tempted to die a martyr's death when I strike, I believe there is much more I can do in this fight. There is no such thing as a Muslim American or American Muslims. America has made sure that these two don't go together. I call on all of my brothers and sisters to join the fight against the infidels. The time has come for us to pick up arms and throw off the chains the oppressors try to tie around the true believers.
“I pledge allegiance to Omar Bashir and as-Sirat. The Path is at war with America and I am willing to give my life to make sure the right side prevails in this struggle. All praise be to Allah.”
Stevenson stared at his screen for a moment.
It was nice to know who committed the crime – a confession was rarely delivered on a silver platter like this. But it was mind boggling to see this kid, fresh out of college, turn on his country like that. This wasn't a grainy as-Sirat video with a Yemeni or Saudi national speaking Arabic with English subtitles.
He was looking at the first successful homegrown Muslim terrorist.
This wasn't a guy wearing a turban in a cave with an AK 47 in the background. Instead, the video showed a completely normal kid from suburban America who happened to be Muslim and decided that, instead of going to the mall, he should build a bomb and blow up his fellow citizens. The realization sank in that this would change everything.
Stevenson picked up the stress ball from his desk and squeezed. His knuckles turned white.
What if others like him would follow Hassan al-Zaid's battle cry? While hard data were lacking on the number of Muslims in the United States, it was believed to be between three and seven million. Stevenson shuddered at the thought of even a tiny fraction of them, armed with American passports, driver’s licenses, credit cards and the ability to use these assets to easily travel or buy weapons, turning on the United States.
The phone rang, for the moment tearing Stevenson from his thoughts.
“Please hold for the president,” a voice said after he picked up. Next, he heard the pleasant baritone of Jack Sweeney.
“Chris, what's the latest?” the president asked.
“Well, Mr. President, I think there can be no doubt that the young man from the photo is our terrorist.” Stevenson said. Though they had been friends for decades, he always maintained formalities when addressing his boss, no matter how hard Sweeney had tried to get him to drop the “Mr. President” stuff.
“I just finished watching a video of his confession and my agents apparently have also found some bomb-making materials at his parents' home in northern Virginia. We know from an eyewitness that he was on the bus and dozens of people have identified the picture as well. So this is fairly easy. Let's hope it will be just as easy to find him.”
“Well, Chris, I'm sure you'll be up to the task,” the president said.
“There is something else, sir,” the FBI director said. “I suggest you watch his confessional as soon as possible. I would recommend that we keep it under wraps. It is, to say the least, highly incendiary and I really don't think it would be good to give the public a look at it. It's quite stunning. In many ways, this kid is as American as you or I. I'm worried on the effect it could have.”
“Sounds reasonable. We can always release it later, I guess,” the president said. “Please make sure I continue to be briefed frequently. I want to be very much involved in this personally.”
“Of course, Mr. President,” Stevenson said. “I'll make sure you have a summary of the latest events on your desk every hour and I'll get in touch with you if there is a major development, though I hope this is wrapped up soon.”
�
��Did you know he was a high school All-American?” the president asked. “My staff just told me about it. It's all over the news. Let's go public as soon as possible with the information that we have identified the terrorist. We want to let the country know that the FBI is doing its work and we're gonna need as many eyeballs as possible to make sure we catch him quickly. And I trust your judgment on the tape. Let's not release it yet. I'll take a look at it shortly. Anything else?”
“No, Mr. President, that's it for now.” Stevenson said.
“Good, Chris, keep up the good work and keep me informed.”
After hanging up, the FBI director willed himself to momentarily put his thoughts on the video aside and he turned his attention to organizing the largest manhunt in U.S. history.
***
Just as his picture and his name were beginning to be splashed on TV screens and news websites throughout the world, Hassan al-Zaid was again in line at an airport, this time in Nassau.
He eyed his fellow travelers, looking for any traces of recognition on their faces. It was hot and humid in the airport but he would have been sweating even if it had been perfectly air-conditioned. Hassan al-Zaid shifted his weight from one foot to another, hoping to finally get on the plane.
This would be one of the diciest moments of his escape, the one he had always been most worried about.
After arriving in Nassau, he walked from the plane to the terminal and cleared immigration with no trouble at all. He went to a bathroom to discard his Canadian identity, changed his clothes and gotten back in line, this time at a Continental counter.
He told himself to calm down. There was no way a Bahamian airline worker or immigration official would think that the man wanted for a terrorist attack in Washington would already be leaving the Bahamas a few short hours after the bombing. In addition his changed clothing and a rudimentary disguise should help.
Hassan al-Zaid was now using the travel documents of a French citizen who was returning to South America after a trip to the Bahamas.
Still, though his mind told him that he would not be found out in Nassau, he was relieved to see that there were no TVs at the Continental counter and, when he had cleared that, at the immigration desk.
He gave his travel documents to the immigration officer who barely glanced at them before putting the exit date in the passport.
“I hope you had a good time here, Mr. Abussi,” the man said, featuring the rich Bahamian accent. He handed the documents back to Hassan and his smile revealed two bright rows of teeth.
At that point, Hassan al-Zaid knew he had made it.
“I had a blast,” he said, grinned and then turned to find his gate.
Once the U.S. authorities put together his escape plan and interviewed this immigration officer, Hassan hoped that he would remember the “I had a blast” comment. It would make for an excellent headline. He marched out of the terminal toward his next plane.
Another hurdle had been cleared and he now truly felt that he was slipping away, out of reach of the Americans looking for him.
Wednesday, 4:22 pm ET
Stevenson again stepped to the podium in the briefing room, his every move accompanied by camera shutters. It was his fourth press conference of the day and he would rather be anywhere than in the hot briefing room. There was so much else for him to do right now. Yet, in a time of crisis, the country needed to see its leaders, not some spokesperson, so Stevenson had to keep trotting out in front of the media whenever something new happened. At least this press conference would serve a purpose.
Using his multimedia screen, the FBI director pulled up a recent picture of Hassan al-Zaid, which had been found at his parents' house. He obviously did not want to use a screen grab from the confession video because anybody with any sense would immediately ask where they had got that from.
“I want to thank all law enforcement personnel involved in the investigation of this morning's terrorist attack,” he began. “It is their work that allows me to announce at this point that Hassan al-Zaid, the man you can see in the picture behind me, is the main suspect in the bombing. During searches of residences in Virginia and California, we have discovered enough evidence to issue an arrest warrant.”
Another round of camera shutters filled the room, along with the sound of reporters shifting in their seats, itching to start asking questions.
Stevenson raised his hand and waited for the murmur to die down.
“Though he is not yet in custody, I'm confident that it is only a matter of time before Mr. al-Zaid is arrested. In addition, at this point we have no evidence pointing to this morning's bombing to be part of a wider terrorist attack. As you might know, the Department of Homeland Security has therefore just announced that the threat level would be lowered to orange.
“I ask all Americans to be on the lookout for Hassan al-Zaid and to come forward with any information that they may have about his whereabouts. At the same time, I urge people to be cautious. This man is believed to be responsible for a heinous act of terror and we must anticipate that he is armed and dangerous. Do not try to capture him on your own. Instead, if you see him, contact law enforcement immediately.
“I'll gladly take a couple of questions now.”
The room erupted in reporters yelling over each other to get to ask the first question, even though they realized the futility of their attempts. The first question would always go to the Associated Press or one of the major networks.
“Jessica,” Stevenson said and pointed to the pretty AP reporter in the center of the front row.
“Director Stevenson, can you give us some more information on what kind of evidence you have found linking Hassan al-Zaid to the attack?”
“Sure. First of all, we have an eyewitness placing him on the scene. In addition, several people have identified him from the surveillance tape. That is what led us to Mr. al-Zaid initially. The resulting investigation, which included searches in the Washington metropolitan area and in Los Angeles, unearthed additional incriminating evidence, including documents and also materials used to build an explosive device. Rick.”
The ABC News reporter in the front row rose.
“Have you found any clues regarding his motives? There are news reports that al-Zaid lost a soccer scholarship because he refused to play a team from Israel. Apparently, that decision at the time earned him some accolades on websites and in chat rooms of radical Islamists. Is this attack related to the same beliefs that resulted in the lost scholarship?”
Stevenson paused. He would have much rather answered questions about evidence and what was being done to capture al-Zaid than the motive. As was sometimes the case, some reporters were a step ahead of the information he had on a small aspect of the investigation. Naturally, Stevenson thought as his mind was racing to find a good answer to the question, it would always be those things that were coming up in a press conference.
“I don't want to go into too much detail, but I would say that, according to documents we have recovered, Mr. al-Zaid had some misgivings about policies that the United States pursues,” he said carefully.
An NBC reporter jumped in.
“According to our information, this man was born in the U.S. and raised here. He was an All-American high school athlete and some would argue he is as American as you or I. Do you classify this morning's attack as an act of domestic terrorism or as an attack of Islamic radicals?”
“Well, listen,” Stevenson began, using a time-tested delaying tactic to buy himself a couple of moments to think. “I'm the director of the FBI. I don't concern myself with labeling attacks. My job is to put criminals behind bars and that is what everybody here is trying to do. You may want to ask that question to others. Okay, I have to get back to work. Thank you all.”
Stevenson escaped into the hallway behind the podium, the sound of the camera shutters slowly fading as he rushed back to his office.
***
“ALL AMERICAN TERRORIST!?!?”
The h
eadline was splashed in all caps below a picture of Hassan al-Zaid on the Drudge Report. Complete with the trademark blinking sirens, the link led to the AP story summarizing the latest developments in the case.
“Where is al-Zaid?” another headline asked, linking to a Reuters article on the massive manhunt that was unfolding. Other links went to first reactions from acquaintances of the terrorist, with high school buddies saying the customary things such as “He was a great guy,” “There is no way he did this.” But there were also statements from college friends who said that, while they never thought he would become a terrorist, Hassan al-Zaid had become increasingly withdrawn and “radicalized,” as one former teammate put it, while at UCLA.
Art Kempner, sitting at his desk in the Washington Post's newsroom in downtown DC, scanned all of the headlines and he was pleased to see his own story listed up high on Drudge.
The Pulitzer Prize winner looked like the old school reporter that he was, straight out of central casting for a 1940s movie in which journalists wore Fedoras with little cards on the rim that said “Press” and rushed into phone booths to speak to operators or to say things like “hold the presses.” The white hair that he kept cut short was a rarity in an industry increasingly dominated by young journalists eager to make a name for themselves. His thick glasses and his clothing could be described as “retro.” Art would say that he was just wearing what felt comfortable and that his style had not changed much since he was a young reporter.
At many press conferences, he was by far the oldest person in the room, apart from Members of Congress, of course. In fact, not too long ago a new Capitol Hill reporter had mistaken him for a senator.
“I'll be happy to tell you my views on our energy policy, young lady,” he had said, smiling. “Sadly, that won't help you much because I am just a lowly reporter like you.”
He later overheard how the novice was set straight by a member of the press corps.
“Oh my God, do you have any idea who that was? That is Art effin' Kempner. He wins the Pulitzer, like, every other year.”
