by David Spell
His time in the military had made Ware a light sleeper. An unfamiliar noise outside his small apartment woke him up. The red numbers on the bedside clock showed 4:58am. The alarm was set for 5:00 so he could be at work by 6:00. He sat up and swung his legs to the floor. I won’t have to go to this crappy job much longer he thought, dropping to his knees on the prayer mat beside his bed.
A loud crash from the other room startled him just as he began his morning prayers. Ware pushed himself to his feet, reaching for the Taurus 9mm pistol on the bedside table as he heard shouting from the living room.
“Police officers! Anderson Ware, we have a warrant for your arrest!”
The flimsy bedroom door burst open and a bright light blinded him.
“Get your hands up!”
The soldier of Allah instinctively raised the pistol and started pulling the trigger as he ran towards the window to his left. One of the SWAT officers grunted in pain as three Colt M4 rifles opened up on the terrorist, the 5.56mm bullets slamming into Anderson’s chest and head, sending him face down on the floor under the bedroom window, blood pumping out onto the gray carpet.
Officers carefully approached the downed suspect, their muzzles pointed in his direction. One of them handcuffed the perp’s hands behind his back as other officers called in the shooting and requested paramedics. The wounded NYPD SWAT officer had taken a 9mm round to the body armor and a second to the left arm, between the elbow and the shoulder.
The other arrest warrant that wasn’t served was that of Musa Khan. No one had an address for the elusive Pakistani. He wasn’t staying with any of the cell members and had again vanished.
The suspects were all transported to the FBI building in Manhattan where a team of seasoned counter-terrorism agents were waiting to interview them. The imam and each of the cell members had been transported separately and were placed in holding cells by themselves to await interrogation. When it was their turn, Imam Hassan, five of the male members, and one of the females, refused to answer any questions, all requesting a lawyer.
Chantel Benson was nineteen years of age and Calvin Stephens was twenty. As the two youngest and least experienced at dealing with the authorities, they would hopefully be the easiest to break. Agent Jerome Louis watched from the other side of a one-way mirror as a male and a female agent spoke with Benson about what she was facing.
The African-American woman was clad in sweat pants and an NYU t-shirt, exactly what she had been wearing when the SWAT team had arrested her. Her hands were shackled to the chair in the small interview room. Special Agent Lauren Campbell let the suspect sit for ten minutes as she pretended to read through the file. Her partner, Lamar Simmons, stood against the wall with his arms crossed, an angry look on his face.
Finally, Campbell pulled a sheet of paper out of a manila folder and slid it across the table.
“Before we start, I have to let you know what your rights are. They’re on this paper but let me make sure that you understand them. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in court. You have the right to talk to a lawyer for advice before we ask you any questions. You have the right to have a lawyer with you during questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you before any questioning if you wish. If you decide to answer questions now without a lawyer present, you have the right to stop answering at any time. Do you understand your rights, Chantel and would you like to talk with us?”
Benson hung her head, staring at the floor. Campbell let the silence fill the room, sensing that the suspect was almost there. The agent motioned at the folder.
“When I read through your file the first thing that I noticed was that you didn’t have much of a criminal record. Two arrests for shoplifting and a resisting arrest to go along with one of the thefts. Unlike your friends, you haven’t even done any time in prison.
“You’re being charged with conspiracy to commit acts of terrorism and conspiracy to commit murder. Together, that’s probably a minimum of thirty years in a federal prison. My guess, though, is that after those attacks in Washington and Trenton, the judge is going to make an example out of all of you. If you ever do get out of prison, Chantel, you’re going to be a very old woman.”
The agent paused again, watching tears drip from the suspect’s face as she continued to stare at the floor.
“Maybe we could help each other out,” the FBI agent prodded gently.
The suspect refused to look up, still crying softly.
Campbell glanced over at her partner and gave a slight nod.
Special Agent Lamar Simmons cleared his throat. “We’re wasting our time with this one. Let’s throw her back into her cell and move onto to the next one. We’ve already gotten some great info from the others. We don’t need her.”
Chantel finally raised her head after hearing that some of her fellow cell members were talking. She locked eyes with the female agent before speaking.
“What do you want to know?”
Calvin Stephens broke quickly, as well. The agents who interviewed the young man sensed that he might have some type of learning disability. His lawyer would likely file a motion to suppress the interview, but Stephens had signed the waiver of his rights form, giving a long statement to the federal agents.
The suspect had been particularly enthralled with Agent Campbell, remarking that she reminded him of his sister. Normally, the male agent would take the lead role with a male suspect and vice versa for a female. Here, however, if Calvin felt more comfortable baring his soul to a woman, they would let him.
By 1430 hours, the interviews were completed and the video had been uploaded to the Bureau’s server for transcription and analysis. Jason Toney found Jerome in the break room pouring himself a cup of coffee.
“How were the interviews?” the HRT agent asked.
Louis shrugged. “About what we expected. The two youngest cell members broke pretty quickly and spilled their guts. The problem is that everything was so well-compartmentalized that they really didn’t know anything about any other attacks. When I was there, we were never told what our target was going to be in NYC. Someone asked the last time we met but the imam said our leader would tell us right before we launched.”
“Who’s the leader?”
“Musa Khan.”
Jason’s eyes widened. “Really? Isn’t he the guy who murdered Agent Barry Towers? And the bastard who’s number three on the most wanted list?”
“Yeah, that’s him,” Jerome answered, softly. “Barry was a friend of mine. We went through the academy together. I’m betting that Musa is pulling the strings on both of these recent attacks. There’s no telling how many more cells he’s put together.”
“Sorry about Barry, but there’s are no telling how many lives you saved by infiltrating that group. That was really good work, Jerome. I’m getting ready to leave,” he said, sticking out his hand, “but I’m sure we’ll cross paths again.”
PHILADELPHIA, FRIDAY, 1135 HOURS
Finding the perfect safe house in Philadelphia had not been easy when Musa had first started building his cell in the city two years earlier. In the inner-city most of the homes were row houses, town houses, or just too close together. He couldn’t take a chance of having a nosy neighbor call the authorities on them.
The terrorist had previously rented a townhome a few blocks away from the Masjidullah Mosque north of the city. After narrowly escaping from the FBI and killing that agent, Musa knew he had to maintain a low profile, letting Ishmael handle the logistics of renting the suburban home. They had settled on Wynnewood, west of the city, as the location for the team to stage, as well one of the places for Khan to stay if he needed it.
The house that the Brotherhood’s money had rented sat on a big, tree-covered lot and was large enough to house the six soldiers of the cell, recruited from the Masjidullah Mosque, along with the American ex-special forces soldier, and Ishmael. The home also had a massive unfinished basement, giving the men m
ore room to train. Ishmael had brought everyone to the location over the last two days to keep any of the surrounding residents from becoming suspicious.
Aaron Richards had been the last one to arrive, having met Ishmael at a parking deck near the mosque. The American knew the drill now, leaving the vehicle behind and climbing into the back of the delivery van. Forty minutes later, Richards was meeting his newest class and immediately launching into his instruction on how to use the AK-47 rifle.
Something had gone very, very wrong in New York, Khan realized, anger boiling inside of him as he watched the news coverage of the FBI’s raids from that morning in Brooklyn. The Pakistani was in his secondary Philadelphia location, a warehouse in the back of a run-down business complex next to the Schuylkill River north of the city. He was the only one who knew about this place. The former intelligence officer liked the fact that this building was in a fairly remote area. He was uneasy, however, that there was only one way in and one way out. Musa had conducted the entire lease process online and had not picked up on this important survival fact until he had driven to the warehouse to unload some supplies.
So be it, he thought. I’ll only have to use this facility for another few days, or a week at the most, he hoped. Here, he could focus on rigging the explosives for the next car bomb and store the weapons and ammo. Khan had a cot in the small office and would sleep there as Richards trained the recruits at the Wynnewood house.
The news on his laptop computer was very disconcerting as he bounced from website to website to get the latest updates from Brooklyn. The FBI was saying that they had taken down an entire cell, including Imam Muhammad Hassan, killing Anderson Ware in the process. Musa didn’t think the cleric would talk, but when the Americans got serious, they were formidable foes. Thankfully, Hassan had no way of contacting Khan, the Pakistani always utilizing a different prepaid phone to alert the imam as to when he would be visiting.
Musa hadn’t shared his final plans with Muhammad Hassan. They had discussed various targets but Khan had never told the imam where the team would be attacking. This attack would have hit the Americans hard, the terrorist thought disgustedly. The primary target in New York was to have been the Thurgood Marshall United States Federal Courthouse in Lower Manhattan. Many brothers had been sentenced to long prison terms inside those walls for their own attacks against the Great Satan. Khan had planned on sending several suicide bombers inside before detonating the vehicle bomb in front of the building.
Losing the cell was a tremendous blow and he wondered who had betrayed them. The operational security had been as tight as it could possibly be when using amateurs. The former intelligence officer reflected over each of the members of the team, drawing a blank on who the traitor might be.
A thought occurred to him and Musa refreshed the story on the Fox News website. One of the articles provided a list of those who had been arrested along with a photo. Khan accessed his DropBox account on his computer, pulling up the list that the imam had given him. After comparing the list to the news story, he realized that Kamari Daniels’ name was missing from those taken into custody.
The young man with the shaved head and thick beard had impressed both the imam and Musa with his sincerity and devotion to the cause. Was he the traitor? Khan had actually thought that Daniels was somewhere on the autism spectrum. If Kamari had betrayed them, he would regret it, the Pakistani mused, absent-mindedly drawing his knife and flicking it open. He would pay Kamari a visit in the very near future and have a very serious conversation with him.
Even though the team had been taken down, the terrorist still had cells in Philadelphia and Detroit. He had another problem, though, that might even be bigger than what he was seeing on the news. Where was Abdallah Bamya? The leader of the Brotherhood had not responded to his texts on the encrypted smart phone.
I’m probably just overreacting, Musa thought. After all, it’s only been three hours since I texted him. Bamya normally responded quickly whenever Khan contacted him. He’s likely just busy with his cover job at the United Nations, the terrorist told himself.
After the FBI raids in New York, Musa wanted to speak with Abdullah about rethinking his decision to delay the next set of attacks. He didn’t want to take a chance on anything interfering with his and the Brotherhood’s plans. Surely, Bamya would allow him to go ahead and launch this operation in Philadelphia instead of waiting another week.
Khan closed the laptop and strolled back into the warehouse where a green Toyota Camry awaited him, the trunk standing open. After using vans in the first two attacks, the Pakistani decided to use a passenger car for this one. It was a little trickier rigging the explosives in the trunk of a car but it would still make a big bang and kill many infields, he thought. Khan would utilize the last of the EPX-1 plastic explosive for this car bomb. I’ll need to ask Abdallah to see if our Chinese friend can provide some more. Or I suppose I could call Wang Lei Chen myself. His number is still in my phone. If I don’t hear from Bamya by tomorrow, I’ll reach out to the atheist infidel, Musa told himself.
He would work for another couple of hours and then watch Saleem’s press conference. This one should be even better than the previous two. Musa had been tasked by Abdallah for providing Saleem with the talking points for each meeting with the news media. With the surprise arrests in NYC, Khan had not had time to put anything together, asking Bashir to hold off for a day or two. Instead, the former senator had sent a rough draft of his comments to Musa. Saleem was a former politician and used to speaking to groups. The comments that he emailed Khan would be sure to attract much attention.
EMPIRE LUXURY APARTMENTS E 44TH ST, NEW YORK CITY, FRIDAY, 1405 HOURS
NYPD Detective Sergeant Frank Walsh parked his black unmarked Ford Crown Victoria behind the blue and white police cruiser in the no parking area in front of the building. A doorman came rushing out of the high rise.
“You can’t park there!”
Walsh shook his head and withdrew his badge wallet, flipping it open and holding it up as walked past the doorman into the building.
“I’m working and I’ll park wherever the hell I want to park!”
The detective was in his early forties. He wore his dark hair cut short and sported a thick salt and pepper mustache. His dark suit matched his mood. When he had gotten the call from the chief of detectives about a missing diplomat and his bodyguard, Frank had a feeling this wasn’t going to end well. The two uniformed officers were talking to an older man and a younger woman at the service desk.
“Hey, Sarge, glad you could make it,” Officer Larry Goode smiled, sticking out his hand.
“You still work here? I thought you’d quit to go work for your father-in-law making cabinets or something.”
“I was that close to leaving,” Goode said, holding his thumb and forefinger about a quarter of an inch apart, “but then the bitch divorced me. She didn’t appreciate the fact that I had other love interests besides her.”
Walsh chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’m sure she didn’t. So, what do we have here? All I know is that I got a call from the Chief of Detectives saying that he had gotten a call from the Commissioner saying that he had gotten a call from the State Department about some missing PLO diplomat.”
The patrolman pulled a small notebook from his breast pocket and flipped it open.
“Abdallah Bamya. He’s part of the Palestinian delegation to the UN. He lives on the 35th floor but has apparently gone missing. His assistant, bodyguard, and maybe even lover lived with him. Bamya didn’t show up for work yesterday and no one at the UN can get in touch with him. Two of the precinct detectives are over there now, talking to some of the people that he works with. One of the investigators radioed me and said they tried to call Abdallah’s phone and it just goes to voicemail.”
Yeah, a missing diplomat was not how he wanted to finish his week, Frank thought.
“Is that the building manager over there? What’s he saying?”
“The old guy is
the superintendent. He’s a complete dick. The little cutie is the afternoon manager. They’re not being particularly helpful, claiming that their residents have a right to privacy and all that bullshit.”
“Are you kidding me? For all we know, this diplomat could be lying up there dead on the floor. Are they gonna wait until the body starts to stink before they call us?”
Walsh strode over to where the other patrol officer stood with the two Empire employees. He held his credentials out for them to see.
“How you doing? I’m Detective Sergeant Walsh and we’re trying to find one of your residents. We don’t know if he’s in any danger or not. Maybe he’s sick in his room and unable to call for help. No one seems to know. How can you help us?”
The superintendent was probably mid-sixties, tall with thinning hair. He frowned at the detective.
“My name is Arthur Jervis and I’m in charge of this building. Part of my responsibility is in protecting the privacy of our clients. For all we know, the resident in question has taken a vacation. We have no reason to suspect any foul play. Without some type of a warrant, I’m going to have to ask you gentlemen to leave the premises. The sight of the police in our lobby tends to have a disconcerting effect on our residents.”
The detective’s eyes widened but before he could respond, a loud voice carried in from where the doorman stood holding the door open.
“I’m with the FBI. I can park anywhere I want!”
Special Agent Joe O’Reilly entered the lobby looking around. When he saw Walsh, he grunted with recognition. Frank nodded at the agent and then looked back at Arthur Jervis.
“Well, Anthony, you don’t want to work with me, now you get to deal with the FBI.”
“It’s Arthur,” the super corrected him.
