The Terrorist Next Door (3 page)

Chapter 3

“THAT’S THE WAY THINGS WORK IN SOUTH CHICAGO”

Maloney’s round face was bright crimson. “Did we get a trace on the second text?”

“No, we didn’t,” Gold snapped.
We’re wasting time
. “Our people and the FBI are working with our carrier. We’ll know more shortly.”

“Dammit.” The chief had convened a summit conference around the mahogany table beneath the skylight in the Ryerson Library in the Art Institute. It was a high-brow setting for a hastily called strategy session including Gold, Battle, an assistant chief, a commander from the Bomb Squad, a captain from the Area 1 SWAT Team, and the head of the Chicago office of Homeland Security. The room was hot, and tempers were short.

Maloney held up a meaty hand. “Our people have secured an eight-block perimeter. We’re reviewing surveillance tapes. The museum has been evacuated. We’re going door-to-door in search of witnesses. The FBI is analyzing the remnants of the detonator.”

Analyze faster
, Gold thought.

The head of DHS looked up from his BlackBerry. Talmadge Blankenship III tried to sound as forceful as a rotund investment banker could. “The federal government is prepared to make every resource available,” he intoned.

Gold looked down at the table.
Just like Katrina and the BP oil spill. Somebody set off a bomb across the street and we’re having a meeting
.

The double doors swung open and a diminutive, well-dressed FBI agent marched inside, followed by two taller, equally well-attired G-Men-in-training. The leader’s dark brown eyes blazed as he tugged at the lapels of his pressed charcoal suit, put his mirrored sunglasses inside his breast pocket, and strode purposefully to the head of the table, where he placed his laptop, a legal pad, and three sharpened #2 pencils. “Supervisory Special Agent George Fong,” he announced in a forceful staccato. “I’m taking charge of this investigation.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Gold muttered.

Fong ignored the dig. His jet-black hair, boyish features, and rail-thin torso made him appear younger than forty-eight. “Nice to see you again, Detective Gold,” he lied.

As if
. Gold turned to the chief. “Was this your decision?”

“It came straight from the head of the Bureau’s Chicago office. Not my call.”

“It sure as hell is your call.”

“Special Agent Fong is the point man on the Al-Shahid investigation. It makes sense to take advantage of his knowledge and expertise.”

“His knowledge and expertise got my partner killed.”

Fong responded before Maloney could answer. “We’ve covered this territory, Detective Gold. We did everything we could.”

“Except figure out that Hassan Al-Shahid was building bombs in South Chicago.”

“If I could do it again, I would have informed you about our investigation. I’ve already told you that I’m very sorry about your partner. We can sit here and argue, or we can get to work. We already know that the bomber is using Motorola throwaway cell phones purchased for cash at various locations over the past six months. He bought the detonator at a Radio
Shack in Des Plaines. The phone that initiated the call to the detonator and the first text to you was acquired at a Target on the Northwest Side. He sent the second text using a phone purchased at a Wal-Mart in Evergreen Park. In each case, Verizon was the carrier. The same type of phones were used in the Madrid train bombings. Readily available. Easy to program. Hard to trace—especially since there’s no credit card or contract. We’ve called the stores, but the security tapes have been recycled. We’ll talk to the employees, but it’s unlikely that they’ll be able to identify the purchaser.” Fong arched an eyebrow. “You still want me to leave, Detective Gold?”

“Not yet.” Gold’s neck was burning. “Where was the call to the detonator initiated?”

“We can’t tell. The cheap disposables don’t have a GPS, so we can’t get a precise location. We can narrow it down substantially if you can send a reply that goes through. We know that it pinged a tower downtown. He could have been anywhere within a ten mile radius of Sears Tower.” Fong pulled out a new BlackBerry and slid it across the table to Gold. “This is an FBI-issue phone that will work on your existing number. If he contacts you again, I want you to send a reply immediately. Don’t even type a message. Just hit Reply and Send. Got it?”

“Got it.”
So much for the Bureau’s state-of-the-art technology
. “We should get Verizon to block access to all throwaway cells.”

“Working on it.” Fong looked at Blankenship. “An order from Homeland Security would help.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Do it fast.” Fong turned to the head of the Bomb Squad. “Tell me about the explosives.”

Commander Mike Rowan was a veteran of Kuwait, Kosovo, Iraq, Afghanistan, and Chicago’s gang wars. He moved his aviator-style glasses to the top of his shaved dome and spoke in a clipped cop dialect. “Regular gasoline in generic ‘jerry’ cans set off by a detonator made from a throwaway cell. Impossible to trace.”

Fong turned to Gold. “What do you know about the car?”

“The Camry was reported stolen Saturday night from 36th and Lowe. The owner is a nurse at Rush Hospital who’s been at work since six o’clock this morning. She isn’t a suspect.”

“Casualties?”

Gold pointed at the walrus-like assistant chief sitting to his right. Harvey Simmons was a droopy-eyed native of the Pullman district whose primary objective was to keep his nose clean as he counted the 212 days until his retirement. “No fatalities,” he said. “Fifteen injured.”

Fong nodded. “We’re monitoring the usual terrorist channels. Lots of chatter, but nobody’s claimed responsibility. We haven’t ruled out the possibility that this is being orchestrated from overseas. We’re also talking to our sources in the Muslim community. I’ve assembled a team here, and I have a group standing by at Quantico. We will, of course, set up our local command center at FBI headquarters.”

“I’d be happy to brief your people,” Gold said, “but our command center will be at police headquarters. He set off the bomb during my award ceremony. He’s already contacted me twice. You can’t expect me to let you run
my
investigation.”

Maloney spoke up. “
After Nine-Eleven, we developed a protocol for potential terrorist events. The Bureau takes the lead with assistance from us. Special Agent Fong will keep you fully apprised.”

“Just like he did last time.”

“We don’t have time for a turf battle. Our immediate priority is the security of our citizens. Besides, it’s inappropriate for you to handle this investigation.”

“Why not?”

“It isn’t a homicide.”

“It’s a serious felony.”

“But not a homicide.”

And you’re covering your bureaucratic ass
.

Simmons’s BlackBerry buzzed. The assistant chief held it to his ear and listened. He nodded twice, pressed Disconnect, and spoke in a subdued tone. “A young woman named Christina Ramirez bled out in the ambulance. Student at Chicago State. Address is 8745 South Manistee.”

Gold’s throat tightened as he spoke to the chief. “It’s a homicide case now, and I should handle the notification. The victim’s mother is one of my father’s physical therapists.”

“We need you here, Gold. There must be somebody else.”

Gold quickly considered his options. “I’ll find somebody.” He would visit the victim’s mother later that night. “Given this new information, I respectfully request that you assign Detective Battle and me to head the investigation of the murder of Christina Ramirez.” He emphasized the word “murder.”

Fong spoke up first. “That’s not the way things work in a terrorism case.”

“That’s the way things work in South Chicago.”

Maloney addressed Fong in a library-level whisper. “Detective Gold is correct. This is now a homicide.”

“Terrorism is a federal crime. He’ll be prosecuted under federal law.”

“And state law. The State’s Attorney is prosecuting Hassan Al-Shahid under the Illinois death penalty statutes even though he’s also charged under the federal anti-terrorism laws. He’ll prosecute Ms. Ramirez’s killer under the same Illinois statutes.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“He’s my brother-in-law.”

Fong wasn’t giving up. “That still violates our protocol.”

The response came from an unanticipated source. Battle placed his large hands on the table and spoke to Fong in a hushed tone. “Detective Gold and Detective Liszewski uncovered the Al-Shahid terror plot while they were investigating the Udell Jones homicide. Detective Liszewski was killed in the line of duty after you negligently failed to notify us about your investigation of Hassan Al-Shahid.”

“We weren’t negligent,” Fong insisted.

“You weren’t wildly forthcoming, either.” Battle turned and spoke to the chief. “I respectfully request that you assign Detective Gold and me to lead this murder investigation.”

“Ms. Ramirez died in Area 1. I need to assign a team from Area 1.”

“I’m still assigned to Area 1. I’m only on loan to Area 2.”

Technically, it was true.

Maloney made the call. “You and Detective Gold will lead the homicide investigation. You will cooperate fully with the FBI.” He darted an icy look at Fong. “If your superiors have a problem, have them call me.”

“I will.” Without another word, Fong led his minions out of the library.

As soon as the door had closed, Maloney addressed Gold and Battle in the plain-spoken vernacular he’d learned in his grandfather’s bar. “Everybody tells me you’re two of my best detectives. This is your chance to prove it. I don’t care how many rules you break. I want this asshole off the street before anybody else dies.”

* * *

The young man emerged from the El, hurried across the platform, and jogged down the rickety stairs two at a time. He pulled his baseball cap over his eyes and kept his head down to avoid the video cameras. He ducked into a nearby alley and
took out another throwaway cell. He looked around to make sure nobody was watching. He pressed Send, then he turned off the power and set it on the ground. He smashed it with a stomp. He put the remnants into a Dumpster behind a Mexican restaurant, then he made his way down the alley.

The stakes are going up
.

* * *

Gold and Battle were about to leave the library when Simmons’s BlackBerry vibrated again. The assistant chief motioned them to stay put as he held the phone tightly against his ear.

“What is it?” Gold asked.

“He just set off a bomb at the Addison Street El station.”

Chapter 4

THE “FRIENDLY CONFINES”

Gold took a deep breath of the heavy air as he stared at the blackened carcass of a Chevy Blazer flipped onto its side beneath the charred El tracks a half-block from Wrigley Field. “ID on the victim?”

Detective Vic Wronski was a dead ringer for John Candy who spoke in a guttural rasp. “Ronnie Smith. Tended bar at Sluggers on Clark. Did voiceovers on the radio. Single. No kids. No family. Lived near Broadway and Irving Park.”

Gold watched evidence techs from Chicago PD and the FBI catalogue the remains of the Blazer. A coroner’s van had just departed with the body of a young man who had been riding his bike past the Blazer when the bomb had gone off. He had died instantly. Four others had suffered smoke-related injuries.

Gold looked up at the back of the iconic scoreboard of the oldest ballpark in the National League. Wrigley Field was erected in 1914 in a working-class neighborhood of three-story brownstone apartment buildings and shady elm trees about five miles north of the Loop. Originally known as Weeghman Park, it was built for long-forgotten Chicago Whales of the long-disbanded Federal League. The Cubs didn’t move in until 1916, and the signature Boston ivy wasn’t installed on the outfield walls until 1937. In the fifties, Jack Brickhouse dubbed it the “Friendly Confines,” a name that stuck. Gold always referred to it as the “Overpriced Confines.”

Gold felt the soft asphalt beneath his feet as he took a sip of bitter 7-Eleven coffee from a flimsy paper cup at ten o’clock on Monday morning. He and Battle were standing in the empty beer garden behind Murphy’s Bleachers, the raucous sports bar across the street from the ballpark. The area buzzed with a tense energy even though the Cubs game had been cancelled and the El was silent. Instead of the usual cavalcade of souvenir hawkers, peanut vendors, and ticket scalpers, the block surrounding the Addison Street station was encircled by police units and fire engines, and helicopters hovered overhead. The ever-present aroma of hot dogs, peanuts, and beer was overpowered by the stench of smoke. Ballpark employees and local residents mingled uneasily between the news vans on Sheffield Avenue where tour buses usually parked.

Gold pointed at the Blazer. “What do you know?”

Wronski scowled. “FBI said it was just like the Art Institute. Gasoline bomb in the trunk ignited the fuel tank. Detonator was a throwaway cell. Asshole named Fong had his people take it to their lab.”

Gold glanced up at the rooftop bleachers on the buildings down the block from Murphy’s. In the nineties, the neighborhood had turned into a yuppie hot spot when developers and dot-commers had rechristened it as “Wrigleyville.” They’d converted the six-flats across the street from the park into private “clubs” with overpriced hot dogs, designer microbrews, and expensive rooftop seats. No self-respecting Sox fan would pay good money to sit six hundred feet from home plate. “Anybody see anything?”

“No witnesses. We’re goin’ door to door. Surveillance cameras inside Murphy’s and at the ballpark aren’t pointed this way. I talked to the ticket taker, the security guard, and the guy who runs the newsstand at the station. Nobody saw nothin’.”

“Noticed anything suspicious around here lately?

“Nah. Neighborhood’s been pretty quiet since the yuppies moved in. We get drunks after night games, but our alderman likes us to keep the punks away from the ballpark. Scares the tourists. The news guy at the station takes bets on the Cubs and the ponies. The Outfit hits him up for street taxes, but that’s about it.”

The rackets had been extorting protection money—dubbed “street taxes”—from local bookies since the beginning of time. “How does your alderman feel about car bombs?”

“He’s against them.”

So am I
. “ID on the car?”

“Reported stolen Thursday night. Registered in the name of the Shrine of Heaven Mosque on Polish Broadway.”

Gold nodded. Milwaukee Avenue—known as Polish Broadway—was the main thoroughfare through the world’s largest Polish community outside of Warsaw. Though many of the descendants of the original immigrant families had moved to the suburbs, you could still hear Polish spoken in the shops and restaurants. Gold looked at Wronski. “You live over in St. Hyacinth’s Parish?”

“Wellington and Pulaski.”

“Gordon Tech?”

“Of course.”

“You know anything about this mosque?”

“Opened about five years ago. Guy who runs it is named Ahmed Jafar. American as we are—born here on the North Side. Cubs fan. Father was an Iraqi doctor who came here when Saddam Hussein took over. Ended up driving a taxi. Now he owns the cab company. Ahmed graduated from Lane Tech. Played baseball at Circle Campus. Got a degree in social work. Drove a cab for his father for a few years.”

“He went from driving a cab to running a mosque?”

“It’s more of a community center. Most of the Muslims in the neighborhood aren’t rolling in dough, so Ahmed tries to help them out. Seems like a decent guy. The mosque sponsors a Little League team. We keep an eye on him—for his own
protection.”

“And yours.”

“You said that. I didn’t.”

“Anybody over there ever been suspected of terrorist ties?”

“I wouldn’t know. Check with the feds. They keep an eye on the mosque.”

I’m not surprised
. Gold saw Fong emerge from Murphy’s. He did his best to invoke a reasonably friendly tone. “Hey George, you got anything on the detonator?”

Fong came closer so he wouldn’t be overheard by the reporters standing outside the yellow tape. “Another Motorola throwaway. Purchased for cash at a Best Buy in Glenview. Initiating phone was a throwaway bought at a K-Mart in Schaumberg. No security videos for the purchase of either phone. The carrier was Verizon.”

“We need Verizon to shut down access to all of its throwaways.”

“Done. We’re working on the other carriers.”

“Work faster. Got a location on the initiating phone?”

“It pinged a tower servicing the area south of the Loop and east of the Dan Ryan. We couldn’t get precise coordinates. If it’s the same guy, he’s on the move.”

Or we’re dealing with more than one person.
“The Blazer belonged to the Shrine of Heaven Mosque. You know anything about it?”

“Yeah. Ahmed Jafar is one of the leaders of the Muslim community taking over Polish Town. Late twenties. Married. Two small kids. No criminal record. Works on outreach projects with the priests at St. Hyacinth’s. Won a couple of community service awards.”

“You seem to know a lot about him.”

“We keep tabs on every Muslim institution in the Chicago area.”

“Any potential terrorist connections?”

“A couple of years ago, we discovered he’d been in contact with people in Iraq who were arrested for setting off IEDs. As far as we can tell, there hasn’t been any communication since then.”

“Why hasn’t he talked to them more recently?”

“It may have something to do with the fact that they’re dead.”

“Any indication that he might be interested in engaging similar activities over here?”

“Not that we’ve been able to prove.”

“But?”

“Some of the members of the mosque have criminal records. Mostly little stuff—shoplifting and stealing cars.”

“Has Jafar been involved?”

“Not as far as we can tell.”

“Has he ever been under investigation?”

“Last year, we thought he was involved in a plot to import a shipment of assault rifles. We didn’t have enough evidence to charge him.”

“Did you talk to him about it?”

“Yes. He was fully cooperative.”

“Do you think he was guilty?”

“Hard to say. My people have already been over to see him. So far, we have no way to connect him to this bombing.”

“Except his Blazer blew up.”

“You think he blew up his own car?”

“I’m not ruling anything out. What else can you tell me about this guy?”

Fong adjusted his maroon neck tie. “Jafar likes to think of himself as the Muslim Obama. He started as a community organizer. He’s in tight with his alderman. He has political ambitions. After Nine-Eleven, he set up a website for the
Muslims in Polish Town. After the war in Iraq started, he put together a database for people searching for relatives. He even got permission to travel to Baghdad. At first he ran everything out of his apartment. Then he rented a storefront across the street from the Logan Theater. A year ago, he raised enough money to buy the building. Now he’s trying to buy a bigger space on Diversey. People in the neighborhood aren’t happy about it.”

“Where’d he get the money?”

“He got a grant from the Chicago Islamic Council.”

Gold recognized the name. “They’ve been accused of diverting money to Hezbollah.”

“We’ve never found a shred of proof.” Fong cleared his throat. “We also recently discovered that Hassan Al-Shahid’s trust fund donated a hundred grand to the CIC.”

“When were you planning to mention this to us?”

“Now.”

“You promised full cooperation, Special Agent Fong.”

“I just found out about it myself, Detective Gold.”

Sure
. “Jafar and Al-Shahid must know each other.”

“Jafar told us he’d met Al-Shahid once at a CIC board meeting. We have no evidence of any calls, e-mails, texts, or other direct communications between them.”

“Maybe they used throwaway cell phones.”

“We have no evidence that they did.”

“You have no evidence that they didn’t.”

“You think a smart guy with political ambitions and a drawer full of community service awards blew up a vehicle easily traceable to him in some half-baked scheme to get Al-Shahid out of jail?”

“A year ago, he was trying to buy Uzis. Maybe he’s moved on to explosives.”

“Maybe.”

Gold’s BlackBerry vibrated. The display indicated that he had a text from an unidentified source. He tried to send a reply, but it didn’t go through. Finally, he opened the text and showed it to Fong.

It read, “Are you going to take us seriously now, Detective Gold?”