The Terrorist Next Door (6 page)

Chapter
10

“THIS IS A DISASTER”

“Three dead, eight injured,” Fong said. “This is a disaster.”

Gold’s lungs burned as he pointed at three body bags laid out in front of the charred shells of three cars whose original colors were impossible to discern. “IDs?”

“A mother, a father, and their eight year old son. Visiting from Nashville. They were in the Chevy. They were pulling into the space next to the Mercedes when it exploded.”

At one-fifteen on Monday afternoon, Gold and Battle had found a somber Fong in the middle of an army of Chicago PD uniforms, FBI agents, firefighters, EMTs, and the museum’s security force. They’d assembled on the first level of the underground garage, about fifty feet from the escalators leading up to the majestic domed lobby of the Beaux Arts masterpiece in Jackson Park. At the moment, nobody was admiring the stately Ionic columns, the elegant copper roof, or the expansive front lawn of the only building still standing from the 1893 World’s Fair. The cement ceiling was blackened. The injured had been taken to the hospital. The museum had been evacuated.

“What about the Mercedes?” Gold asked.

“Working on it,” Fong said. “The VINs were removed—even the secret ones. We’ve provided everything we know to your people.”

The ever-competitive Gold hoped Chicago PD would ID the car before the feds did. “Detonator?”

“Another throwaway cell. Purchased at a Target in Rosemont. The call was placed by another throwaway purchased at a Radio Shack in Mt. Prospect.”

“We’ve cut off access to Verizon, Sprint, and U.S. Cellular.”

“He switched to AT&T.”

Dammit
. “How many more bombs have to go off before we cut off access to all of these phones? We need make this happen now.”

“It’s done.”

Finally
. “Where was the call initiated?”

“A cell south of downtown and east of the Dan Ryan.”

“That’s half of the South Side. He could still be in the neighborhood. I’ll get every available officer out looking for him. I need to get a statement from everybody who was here today. And I want to look at videos. Who’s in charge of security?”

Fong pointed at a middle-aged man with a military posture and crew cut who was addressing the security guards standing next to the pay stations. “His name is Fred Gilliam.”

Gold noted Gilliam’s pressed gray suit and FBI-style earpiece. There was chaos around him, but there was no sign of panic. “Marine?”

“And ex-Bureau,” Fong said.

Thought so
. Gold introduced himself to Gilliam. “Did any of your people see anything?”

Gilliam motioned toward a uniformed African American security guard sitting on a bench near the pay stations. His hands shook as he gulped water from a plastic bottle. “Edwin was standing by the escalators when the bomb went off. Worst thing he’s seen since Vietnam.”

“Did he see the Mercedes come in?”

“Doesn’t remember. We have cameras at the entrance and the exit. We have more by the pay stations.”

“I want to talk to Edwin. Then I want to look at the videos.”

* * *

Gold and Fong stood behind Gilliam in the security bunker two levels beneath the U-505 German submarine put on display at the museum in 1954. Battle had stayed in the garage to supervise the collection of evidence and interview the security staff. The soundproof gray walls were covered with HD monitors, each showing a view of empty entrances, stairways, and corridors. Behind the 1890s veneer, the museum was a twenty-first century facility.

Gilliam’s Old Spice aftershave permeated the enclosed space as he stared at footage from a camera at the entrance to the garage. He fast-forwarded until he found what he wanted. “There’s the Mercedes. It arrived at twelve-twenty-seven.”

Gold studied the grainy black-and-white video from a camera mounted above the ticket dispenser. Gold pointed at the screen. “Run it in super slow mo from here.”

Gold, Fong, and Gilliam watched the Mercedes pull up to the ticket dispenser. The license plate was missing. The windshield was tinted, and the visor was down, making it impossible to see the driver’s face. Gold asked Gilliam to rerun the tape three times, but they couldn’t discern any identifying features.

“You can’t even tell if it’s a man or a woman,” Gold said. “Can we enhance it?”

“A little.” Gilliam zoomed in, but they couldn’t see inside.

“Roll it a little more.”

The only sound was the hum of the air conditioners. Gilliam pressed a button and the video continued. The
driver-side window lowered. A gloved hand reached out and pulled a ticket. The driver was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and gloves.

Gold called Battle and asked him to check for remnants of a glove or a shirt in the shell of the Mercedes. That search
turned up empty.

They spent the next hour examining footage from dozens of camera angles, but they couldn’t identify the driver of the Mercedes. There was a poignant moment when the ill-fated Chevy entered the garage less than a minute before the bomb went off. Gold visualized the young couple and their son chatting as they enjoyed their summer vacation.

Gold finally took a seat next to Gilliam. “Is there any way the bomber could have gotten out of the garage without being filmed?”

“There’s no camera in our service stairway leading to the trash collection area. It isn’t open to the public, but somebody could have exited without being photographed.”

“I need a statement from everybody on your staff. My people are already interviewing the museum’s visitors. And I want to identify everyone we can see in these videos.”

The dark room filled with a somber silence before Gold’s BlackBerry vibrated. Maloney’s name appeared on the display. “We need you upstairs right away, Gold,” the chief said.

“Got an ID on the Mercedes?”

“Not yet, but we’re holding a press briefing.”

Chapter
11

“THERE IS NO REASON TO PANIC”

“This is a waste of time,” Gold muttered. He was sweating profusely in the afternoon heat.

“Agreed,” Battle whispered back.

At two-thirty on Monday afternoon, Gold and Battle stood like sentries on the front steps of the museum behind the mayor, the chief, and the head of the Chicago office of DHS. Behind them were twenty uniformed cops, also standing at attention. Helicopters hovered overhead, and two dozen TV cameras were lined up in front of a bank of microphones. Gold understood the mayor’s desire to project a show of force, but he thought it looked more like a wall of fear.

Gold did his best to project a confident pose as the chief tried to assuage the fears of his hometown by spewing tough-sounding platitudes.

“Yes,” Maloney was saying, “the bombs at the Art Institute, the El station, Millennium Park, and this museum were almost identical in construction. No, we aren’t sure if more than one person is involved. Yes, the El, our museums, our ballparks, and our other major tourist attractions are closed until further notice. No, people shouldn’t leave town.”

Mojo worked her way past Anderson Cooper to the front of the expanding media mob. The national networks were bringing in their correspondents from war zones around the world. She thrust her microphone forward and didn’t wait to be recognized. “Are you planning to shut down CTA buses and Metra trains?”

“Not at this time. We are inspecting all buses and trains. We have security at every train station, and we’re watching the Metra tracks. We have National Guard troops at gas stations.”

“What about O’Hare and Midway?”

“They remain open and will operate under heightened security. Passengers should leave extra time getting to and from the airports. We’re conducting spot inspections of vehicles.”

“Have you heard anything more from the Islamic Freedom Federation?”

“No.”

“Can you tell us anything else about it?”

“No.”

“Any evidence of an overseas connection? We’ve heard rumors that they’re affiliated with Al-Qaeda on the Arabian Peninsula.”

“No comment.”

Mojo’s voice filled with exasperation. “People are staying home from work. Others are leaving town. There are gasoline shortages because truck drivers are unwilling to make deliveries. Some gas stations have closed. There are reports of stockpiling. There’s been looting on the West Side. You need to give us something.”

Maloney kept his tone even. “We’ve received similar information, and we are investigating. We encourage everybody to remain calm. There is no reason to panic.”

Gold clenched his fists.

Mojo kept pressing. “Any truth to the rumor that regular army troops will be sent in to help the National Guard watch the gas stations and maintain order?”

Maloney cleared his throat. “We are exploring all of our options to protect the public.”

“We’ve heard that you are drawing up contingency plans to evacuate the city.”

“That’s false.”

Mojo asked about the car that exploded at the museum.

“A Mercedes C-Class. The identifying information was removed, but we are confident that we will be able to determine the owner shortly. We encourage the public to report any missing vehicles immediately.”

“Is more than one person involved? You must have some input from your profilers.”

“No comment.”

“Is there a terror cell operating in Chicago?”

“No comment.”

“Should people stay home?”

“Absolutely not.” The chief’s massive chin jutted forward. “The people of Chicago will not be intimidated or live in fear.”

Gold exchanged a glance with Battle. It was a valiant sentiment, but false bravado wasn’t an especially convincing strategy.

Mojo laid it on the line. “Chief Maloney, are you prepared to accept full responsibility if another bomb goes off and somebody else is killed?”

“Absolutely.” Maloney cleared his throat. “There is one other item. Homeland Security has issued an emergency order suspending service to and from all disposable cell phones within a one-hundred mile radius of downtown Chicago. All brands and models are impacted, and all carriers have now complied. We apologize for the inconvenience, but we believe the public will understand given the circumstances.”

“What if you have an emergency?” Mojo asked.

“Call nine-one-one.”

“How can you do that if your phone’s been disconnected?”

“For the time being, you’ll need to find a landline, a payphone, or a conventional cell.”

Mojo took a flyer at Gold. “Have you heard anything from
the individual who’s been detonating the bombs?”

“No comment.”

“Do you know the location of the phone that placed the call to the museum?”

“No comment.”

Mojo’s face turned red. “Do you ever intend to comment about anything?”

Gold forced himself to keep his tone even. “We will provide additional information at the appropriate time.”

* * *

The young man closed his laptop and smiled as he watched the end of the press conference.

Maloney has aged ten years. Gold has a permanent scowl. Most important: Chicago is shutting down.

He resisted the temptation to taunt Gold as he reassembled the detonator sitting on the table before him. He had anticipated the shutdown of the throwaway cell phones. He had already begun the transition to other means of communication. He didn’t want to jeopardize his mission with a careless mistake or a reckless display of ego—especially with so much work still to be done.

* * *

“How bad did I sound?” Gold asked.

“You gave the right answers,” Battle said.

They were walking along Cornell Drive toward the Crown Vic, which was parked near the entrance to the museum’s garage. The crowds had dissipated. Traffic was light. Gold had been on his feet since eight
a.m., and his adrenaline rush was fading. The three Tylenol caplets he’d swallowed during Maloney’s press conference were having no appreciable effect.

Mojo’s familiar face was waiting for them at the Crown Vic. “Got a minute?”

Gold feigned shock. “No camera crew, Carol?”

“I wanted to ask you a question off the record. What
haven’t
you told me?”

“It’s like any investigation. I’m not trying to prevent you from getting a story. I’m trying to catch a killer.”

“So am I.”

“That’s our job.”

“Six people are dead, Detective. Three dozen have been injured. We have National Guard troops at gas stations. Businesses are closed, and people are staying home. You need all the help you can get.” Mojo’s tone turned uncharacteristically subdued. “I lost a cousin at the World Trade Center. I’ll do everything I can to prevent it from happening again—especially in my hometown. I thought we could start by calling a truce.”

“Terms?”

“I’ll call you first if he contacts me, if you’ll do the same for me. I can help you, Detective. I can also make you look like an incompetent jackass in front of a national audience.”

True
. “I’d like advance warning before you go on the air with anything about this case.”

“I’ll try. Believe it or not, I’m more concerned about getting a terrorist off the street than pimping my ratings.”

Gold believed her. “I’ll do the best I can to keep you in the loop, Carol.”

“You can start by answering two more questions. First, what do you really know about the Islamic Freedom Federation?”

Gold answered her honestly. “Nothing. It isn’t on any terrorist list. We don’t know who’s behind it, or if it really exists. It’s completely off the grid.”

“Second, do you know if we’re dealing with more than one person?”

“All I can tell you is that the FBI’s best profiler thinks we’re dealing with either one person or a very small group.”

“Thank you, Detective.”

Gold opened the door to the Crown Vic and sat down in the passenger seat. He leaned back and collected his thoughts. Then his BlackBerry vibrated. Maloney’s name appeared on the display.

“We got an ID on the Mercedes,” the chief rasped. “It was leased by a guy who lives in Al-Shahid’s building. His name is Nasser Salaam. Third year law student at the U. of C. Saudi national.”

Gold recognized the name. “I talked to him when we arrested Al-Shahid. He went to MIT with Al-Shahid’s brother. Excellent student. No criminal record.”

“How well did he know Hassan Al-Shahid?”

“Not well.”

Maloney’s sarcastic laugh turned into a hacking smoker’s cough. “You think he was going to admit he was pals with the guy who killed your partner?”

“You think he blew up his own Mercedes?”

“Get the hell over there and ask him.”