The Terrorist Next Door (8 page)

Did you really think you could stop me by shutting down the throwaways?

* * *

Gold lowered his window as Mojo approached him. The Crown Vic was still at the corner of 53rd and Hyde Park Boulevard. “What can I do for you, Carol?”

“Is Muneer Al-Shahid a suspect?”

“No comment.”

“Come on, Detective. I know you were talking to him. You promised to cooperate.”

“No comment.”

Mojo was about to fire another question when the ground was shaken by what sounded like a sonic boom. Gold saw a plume of smoke rising two blocks to the west. Car alarms went off and sirens wailed. The police band crackled, and Gold heard the frantic voice from dispatch.

“Attention! All units! There’s been a bombing at the 53rd Street Metra station.”

Chapter
13

“WE’LL NEED DENTAL RECORDS”

Gold and Battle pulled in behind two pumper trucks, a hook-and-ladder, and the first ambulance to arrive at the 53rd Street Metra station. They parked the Crown Vic on Cornell and jogged a half-block west toward the station, located in a viaduct beneath the elevated tracks. Smoke billowed from the underpass. The explosion had sent a fireball up the stairway toward the platform, which was consumed by flames. Sirens wailed as dazed survivors with blackened faces and charred clothing staggered toward them.

The firefighters attacked the blaze from above until it was safe to enter the viaduct. When they finally fought their way into the station, the scene resembled footage from a World War II newsreel. They found the charred bodies of the ticket taker, the security guard, and the man who ran the newsstand. They discovered two more bodies near the turnstiles, and four others on the stairs. A dozen people suffered burns and smoke inhalation. Luckily, most of the commuters on the platform had sprinted away from the flames toward the station’s northern entrance at 51st.

Gold and Battle assisted the firefighters and established a perimeter. Gold’s face was lined with streaks of sweat, and his clothes reeked of smoke when he finally walked out of the viaduct, where he took a moment to clear his lungs. Nine body bags were laid out side-by-side on the pavement out of sight of the helicopters hovering above the station. Exhausted firefighters in soot-covered gear emerged one by one from the underpass. The station had been reduced to smoldering rubble. Onlookers stood in small groups outside the yellow tape. Some had cell phones pressed to their ears. Others stood in stark silence.

At six o’clock, a somber Chief Maloney summoned Gold and Battle to a briefing inside the fire department’s mobile command center. He’d learned his lesson at the museum. He wanted to assess the damage and rehearse his lines before he spoke to the media in the McDonald’s parking lot across Lake Park Avenue.

Maloney deferred to Commander Rowan. The bomb jockey was having the busiest day of his career. “We’ll need dental records to ID some of the victims,” he said. “Seventeen injured, six seriously. Structural damage is still being determined. We’re shutting down all Metra lines until further notice.” Rowan said the bomb was similar to the others, except the detonator was a conventional cell instead of a throwaway. “It was planted in a newspaper box outside the station. No information on the initiating phone. Special Agent Fong is working on it, and we hope to have an ID on both phones shortly. The explosive was regular gasoline in a package small enough to fit inside the news box. It may have been in a tote bag or a backpack. It blasted into the station and went up the stairs to the platform. Shows how much damage you can do in a confined space with rudimentary explosives and a little ingenuity.”

Battle asked about surveillance cameras.

“One fixed camera pointed at the ticket booth, and two more on the platform. Nothing outside the station. The cameras were damaged, so we may not get much video. The bomb could have been planted by somebody who didn’t pass through the turnstile. Hundreds of people go through this station every day. We’re looking for witnesses, but the chances are slim. Our best bet would have been the security guard or the ticket taker, but they were killed.”

Gold could think of another possibility. He excused himself, stepped outside, and punched in Robinson’s cell number. “You still in front of Al-Shahid’s building?”

“Yes.” Robinson confirmed that Muneer was still inside his brother’s condo.

“He passed through the 53rd Street Metra station twice today, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Did he have anything with him when he went downtown? A briefcase or a backpack?”

“A briefcase. He still had it with him when he got home.”

“Any chance he planted a bomb in a newspaper box in front of the station?”

“No.”

Somebody was going to a lot of trouble to make it appear that he was involved. Gold hit Disconnect, then he punched in Fong’s number. “You got an ID on the detonator at the Metra station?”

“A Droid serviced by U.S. Cellular belonging to a maintenance worker at the museum. I just talked to him. He didn’t notice it was gone until the bomb went off at the museum. U.S. Cell didn’t shut it down because he didn’t report it as missing.”

“Can anybody vouch for his whereabouts today?”

“His supervisor confirmed that he clocked in at eight a.m. He doesn’t know when the phone was stolen. We’re having him retrace his steps.”

“What about the phone that initiated the call to the detonator?”

“A land line in the office at the Washington Park Armory. My people are already there. No witnesses. No fingerprints.”

“Thanks, George.” Gold pressed Disconnect and turned to
Battle. “We need to talk to Al-Shahid’s imam. The call was initiated from the armory across the street from Al-Shahid’s mosque.”

Chapter
14

“THE HASSAN I KNOW IS A PEACEFUL MAN”

Gold’s BlackBerry was pressed against his right ear as he and Battle barreled west on 53rd. The only vehicles on Hyde Park’s main east-west thoroughfare were police cars. “Did you get to the armory yet?” he asked Robinson.

“Yeah. Looks like somebody broke into an office and used the phone. A team from Hyde Park station is cordoning off a two-mile radius. Nobody comes or goes without being stopped.”

“Good. Your people have had eyes on the mosque since the first bomb went off at the Art Institute, right?”

“Right. It’s been quiet. The only person in the building has been the imam. He’s been there since nine o’clock this morning.”

“Visitors?”

“None. A lot of people are away for the summer.”

“Any chance he stole a cell phone from a maintenance worker at the museum earlier this afternoon?”

“Nope.”

“What about the possibility that he planted a bomb at the 53rd Street station?”

“Only if he did it before we got here at nine.”

“The detonator cell phone wasn’t stolen until this afternoon. Any chance he placed the call from the armory?”

“Not unless he left the mosque without three of my best people seeing him.”

* * *

Gold looked up into the security camera as he knocked on the reinforced steel door of the unmarked brick building on the southeast corner of 53rd and Cottage Grove in the dicey west end of Hyde Park. The thoroughfare was empty except for the police cars parked across the street. The weathered sign of the shoe repair shop that once occupied the one-story structure was still visible above the chipped plywood covering the space formerly taken up by a plate glass window. The Gates of Peace Mosque was across the street from the Washington Park Armory and two blocks north of Stagg Field. The home of the U. of C. football team was better known as the site where Enrico Fermi had created the world’s first nuclear reaction in 1942—an experiment never tried again within the Chicago city limits.

The heavy door swung open and a tall young man with boyish features and a trim beard acknowledged Gold with a wary smile. Ibrahim Zibari looked more like a college student than a clergyman, sporting faded Levi’s and a navy polo shirt. His watch was a low-end Casio. His sneakers were mid-priced Nikes. “Good to see you again, David,” Al-Shahid’s imam said in soft-spoken, unaccented English. “Peace be upon you.”

“Assalum Alaykum,” Gold answered. Chicago PD had encircled his mosque. A SWAT team was standing by in the Armory. “Peace be upon you, too, Ibrahim. This is my new partner, Detective Battle.”

The young man extended a hand. “Ibrahim Zibari. Nice to meet you.”

“David has told me good things about you.”

“David is very kind.” Zibari turned back to Gold. “If you’re here about the bombings, you’re way behind the curve. A couple of your people were here this morning. I presume they’re still outside. I also got a visit from two of Special Agent Fong’s commandos. Seems the FBI is already rounding
up the usual suspects.”

“The young woman killed at the Art Institute was our neighbor. Her mother is one of my father’s caregivers.”

“I’m sorry. Please express my condolences.”

“I will. Mind if we come inside and ask you a few questions?”

“Would you be kind enough to remove your shoes?”

“Of course.”

Gold felt the soft throw rugs beneath his feet as he and Battle followed Zibari through the whitewashed room that served as the mosque’s sanctuary and social hall. There was no air conditioning. The empty space smelled of scented candles and fresh tea.

Battle took the opportunity to do a little gentle probing. “David tells me you did your undergraduate work at Michigan. I understand you spent some time in Iraq after you graduated.”

“The U.S. Army paid my way through college,” Zibari said. “I returned the favor by spending two years in Baghdad working on a telecommunications system.”

“It must have been difficult for a Muslim American to be working in Baghdad.”

“It was difficult for everybody.”

“How long has this mosque been here?”

“About three years. We used to meet in the basement of one of the dorms.”

“Any problems?”

“This corner of Hyde Park is rougher than the area around Obama’s house, and we don’t have an army of Secret Service agents.” Zibari pointed at the boarded-up window. “Some of our less-than-enlightened neighbors like to express themselves with rocks and spray paint.”

He led them through a doorway into a windowless room in the back of the mosque, where the shoe repair equipment had
been replaced by a second-hand metal desk holding a laptop and a card table with four mismatched chairs. A single light bulb in the center of the water-stained ceiling provided the only illumination. Zibari invited Gold and Battle to sit at the table, where he poured them tea in paper cups. His expression turned somber as he sat down. “Do you have any idea who might be responsible for the explosions?”

“We were hoping you might be able to help us,” Gold said. “Heard any gossip about somebody trying to stir up trouble before Hassan Al-Shahid’s court appearance on Thursday?”

“Nothing.”

“We’ve received several communications from an organizational calling itself the Islamic Freedom Federation.”

“Never heard of it.” Zibari’s tone turned pointed. “Before you ask, I’ve been here by myself all day, and I don’t have an alibi. Are you planning to arrest me?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why are you treating me like a suspect? I told you everything I know about Hassan. I gave you information for the members of our mosque. Forgive me for being blunt, but I don’t understand why I’ve been singled out for a visit by the FBI’s anti-terror team and two homicide detectives.”

“The bomb at the 53rd Street Metra station was set off by a cell phone. The initiating call was placed from a land line at the armory.”

“I didn’t make the call.” Zibari’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told the feds. I don’t condone violence. I don’t invoke the name of God to justify killing innocent people. I am appalled that a terrorist is setting off bombs on the streets of Chicago. But the fact remains that I have no idea who is doing this. If somebody used the phone across the street to set off the bomb at the Metra station, I would suggest that you cordon off the neighborhood. Maybe you should turn off access to every cell phone in the Chicago area if that’s what takes to stop this insanity. The only thing I know for certain is nobody from this mosque was involved.”

Gold tried to ease the tension by changing the subject. “I understand you tried to visit Hassan.”

“I wanted to offer spiritual comfort. They wouldn’t let me inside.”

“Doesn’t it trouble you that he killed two people, including my partner?”

“Of course. I understand he left a wife and four children. It must have been a terrible loss. I’m looking for answers, too. The Hassan I know is a peaceful man.”

“Who carried a gun.”

“That he bought for protection after he was a victim of two unsolved hate crimes. He isn’t the only member of this mosque who owns a gun. With all due respect, David, things might have been different if your colleagues had made a greater effort to find the people who attacked him.”

“With all due respect, Ibrahim, most victims don’t express their frustrations with the legal system by making bombs. He shot Udell Jones in cold blood.”

“Maybe it was an accident or self-defense.”

“You really believe that?”

The young imam pushed out a sigh. “I don’t know what to believe. Maybe I’m trying to explain the unexplainable. Bottom line: many people are dead, the lives of their families have been changed forever, and a crazy person is setting off bombs outside. It’s also making my life—and the lives of members of the Islamic community—much more difficult.”

“It’s making everybody’s life difficult. Is there anybody else who was close to Hassan?”

“Mohammad Raheem was his academic advisor. He just got back from Iraq. Maybe he can help you.”

* * *

The young man nodded as he saw the red dot near the corner of 53rd and Cottage Grove.

They’ve figured out that the initiating call was placed from the armory. Excellent work, Detective. Now you need to figure out who placed it.

He glanced down at his laptop and typed out a short e-mail. Throwaway cell phones were no longer an option, and conventional cells were too easy to trace. He had taken precautions to ensure that the e-mails he sent from this computer would be encrypted and transmitted through an anonymous server that would be traced to a dummy account in Yemen.

Psychological warfare is more effective than setting off bombs.

He re-read the message. Then he pressed Send.

* * *

Gold’s BlackBerry vibrated as he and Battle were driving south on Cottage Grove. He had an e-mail from a source identifying itself only as IFF. He opened it immediately.

It read, “You need to pay attention, Detective Gold. Fifteen people are dead. I will set off more bombs until you free Hassan. Don’t try to trace this message. You won’t find us. IFF.”

Gold hit the reply button and sent a return e-mail which went through. He turned to Battle. “Call Fong on your cell and tell him I just got an e-mail. I want to keep my line open.”