The Red Syndrome (20 page)

"So why are you asking me?" David sounded slightly annoyed. "You're
on assignment with the task force, so ask them."

"I thought I should talk to you before Bob Hodson. He doesn't know
what Benny did for us. We need to return a favor, and I think it'd be
better if you asked Hodson rather than me. Besides, I suspect there is
something in it for us, so it's not just a favor, but more of a trade-off."

"Why can't you speak with Hodson? Are you on a collision course with
him?"

"No, but we're not exactly on kissing terms, either. He simply has a different management philosophy than yours."

"What's the hurry?" I had raised David's suspicion level. "Who are you
chasing?"

"It seems that U.S. and Israeli interests are going in the same direction
again. I have a hot lead on a bioterrorism substance transaction. Now
Benny tells me independently that a week ago, two of his operatives -
one of them a biologist, the other a Mossad operative - met in Rome
with terrorists posing as scientists. The terrorists wanted to lure the
Israeli biologist to cooperate with them on research into bioterror. Then
the scientist and the Mossad operative disappeared.

"Benny tells me that the terrorist organization that took the Mossad
agents is called the Slaves of Allah. That's the same name that appeared
in the messages I deciphered, which referred to carriers of materials that
could kill hundreds of thousands. I suspect it must be the same organization and the same plan, because the messages alluded to roughly the same
amount of money - two point seven million - that Benny talked about.
Benny hinted he has intelligence on the terrorists' money movements
into the U.S. My read on that is quid pro quo: He6o me find my operatives
and I'll give you info on Iranian cells built up in the US. What I think, and
frankly I'm not sure that Benny doesn't know it already, is that our case
and his are interwoven."

David surprised me with his answer. "Tell that to the FBI. It's their job,
not yours."

"I already did. Just before I called you, I spoke with Special FBI Agent
Romano. But I don't know what the FBI is doing with it or if they've
made the connection. Two weeks with the task force has shown me that
by the time a good idea trickles down through all that bureaucracy it -
which in our case is just a lead - often fizzles into nothing."

"Not when national security is concerned. I can't let you operate behind
Hodson's back. You're stretching my good nature too thin."

"I am not," I protested. "I simply thought we could help Benny out by
having you talk to Hodson, and also gain access to information that could
help our case."

Although David concluded the conversation with his usual "all right,"
I didn't know if that meant Yes, I will, or Forget it.

I went to the file room to catch up on the accumulating intel. Three
hours later I returned to my office down the hall.

I thought about the third message. I didn't know if the NSA had
already cracked it, so I decided to give it another shot. Laura wasn't in the
office; I was on my own. I locked my office door and disconnected my
phone. I was glued to my desk for three hours, and when I was done, I
copied the message onto a clean sheet of paper. The result was horrific.

THE INFIDELS ARE WATCHING US MAKE SURE YOU IDENTIFY THE
SELLERS BEFORE YOU AGREE TO MAKE PAYMENT BY GIVING THEM
THE ACCESS CODE TO THE AUSTRIAN BANK ACCOUNT IN CASE OF
DOUBT RETURN WITH THE MERCHANDISE TO BASE GOD DOES NOT
GUIDE THE TRANSGRESSING PEOPLE SALEH.

I called Hodson and asked to see him immediately. Sensing the urgency in
my voice, he agreed. Twenty minutes later I was sitting in Hodson's office,
handing him the deciphered message. "I wish I'd broken that earlier," I said.

"We've already read it. NSA deciphered it last night." If Hodson was
surprised that I'd broken the code again, it didn't show.

"Oh," I said. "I didn't know. Here is my copy ... just in case."

Hodson took my note and asked, "How did you do it? Did you do anything different from last night?" He was almost friendly.

"I should have known that they would have tried to confuse anyone
trying to break it, something they didn't do in their two other messages."

"So ...?"

"One way to make breaking ciphers more difficult is by making the
ciphered text more random. I discovered that they'd replaced each space
with one of the letters V, K, Q,,, X, or Z, chosen at random. These letters
are rare in most contexts. They also inserted two random letters before every
plain-text letter prior to encryption, making it a nonexisting word. This
made no difference to the intended reader but it certainly confused us."

"I see," said Hodson, although his body language showed that he didn't.
He was moving in his chair, looking through me impatiently.

"They must have done that because this message was so crucial," I
guessed. "Bob, there's something else I think you should know. Mossad
played the Slaves of Allah to believe they could supply them with bioengineered materials."

"An old trick," said Hodson wearily. "We know that. But Mossad's
liaison officer tells me that the threat of using bioterror agents against
cities is real, obviously not from the stuff they gave them to stall their
efforts, but from additional sources that Mossad is still unaware of. And
Mossad says their intel shows that the intention and determination of the
terrorists is real regardless."

Hodson looked at his papers. "We also received a request from Mossad
through our channels to help them find two missing agents. Is that the
same case?"

"I think so."

"Okay. Stick around, I need to talk to you soon," he said in a mysterious
tone.

I went outside the building to get some fresh air. I stopped next to a
hot dog vendor and devoured a wiener with onions and mustard. I completed my meal by gulping down a bottle of overpriced "fresh springwater," which probably came from some factory tap in the industrial
wastes of New Jersey. I took a short walk around the block, but honking
Yellow Cabs and jackhammers drilling the asphalt curbed my appetite for
more strolling. I looked around at the people, the buildings, and then
thought about what they would look like in the aftermath of a bioterror
attack. A ghost town, with a cemetery's silence. There will be no people
shopping, no kids riding bikes, and plenty of parking.

When I returned to my office, I read the message on my monitor: GO
TO INTERROGATION ROOM 7C ON THE FBI FLOORS. I went downstairs
and saw Hodson entering the interrogation room - with Benny Friedman. That was a surprise. It seemed Benny had already found his way to
management.

Hodson turned to me. "I hear you've already met Benny Friedman."

I nodded.

"We nabbed the bastard," said Hodson. "We found Malik Fazal."

"That's great. Where is he?"

"Right here," said Hodson triumphantly. I followed him inside, into a
room with a two-way mirror. I sat next to Benny, Bob Hodson, and two
other agents watching Malik Fazal sitting in the interrogation room.
Fazal was a slim man in his midthirties, bearded and restless. When we
arrived, the FBI interrogator was already in the middle of questioning
him. The interrogator was a burly man in his late thirties with a shaved
head, dressed in a white T-shirt and cargo pants. To me he looked intimidating. Fazal moved on the chair aimlessly, occasionally biting his fingernails, his black eyes moving swiftly from one side to the other.

The interrogator, sitting across a table, maintained a neutral tone, but
Fazal didn't seem too cooperative. In fact, I wondered why he would
answer any questions at all. What would his incentive be? But from
looking closely at him and the way he was conducting himself, I assumed
that he had already been roughed up downstairs. Maybe the FBI put him
first in a holding cell with some nuts, telling them Fazal was a child
molester or something. Maybe with the fear of returning to the holding
cell he was talking. Not much, but still talking.

"When did you first join the Slaves of Allah?"

"In the spring of 2001." His English was good, although heavily accented.

"Was it in the United States?"

"Yes, there were a few of us."

"Who were the other recruits?"

"Some were born in the U.S., others came from North Africa, and also
some Afghanistani and Palestinians."

"Who recruited you?"

"A member of my mosque in Brooklyn offered me a trip to Europe to
meet other young Muslims."

"Where did you go?"

"To Paris."

"What happened next?"

"We heard lectures about our obligation as Muslims to prepare for jihad,
holy war."

"Just lectures, nothing else?"

"Yes."

"How long did you stay in Paris?"

"Two weeks."

"And then? Did you stay in Europe?"

"No. They took us to a military training camp in Yemen."

"Where?"

"Just outside Sana'a."

"How did you get there?"

"We were given airline tickets to fly to Cairo and from there to Sana'a."

"As a group?"

"No. Separately."

"And you thought nothing of it?"

"No, we were told it was all part of being a better Muslim."

"How long was the training in Yemen?"

"Three months."

"Was it all military?"

"No. We studied Arabic and the Holy Koran."

"But was there a military part?"

Fazal hesitated. He looked away from the interrogator and finally said
in a faint voice, "Yes, there was also a military part."

"Did they tell you why you needed military training if all they wanted
was for you to be a better Muslim?"

"They told us that we must be ready to defend Islam."

"Were you scheduled to return to the U.S.?"

"No. I was willing to stay and fight the infidels and follow the Ayatollah's
command."

"So why didn't you stay?"

"Because after the military training was concluded, the instructors
started to talk openly of martyrdom."

"What was your reaction to their suicide talk?" asked the interrogator.

"I said that I had no intention of committing suicide. I was willing to
fight and even die in battle, but not to walk to my death voluntarily."

"So why didn't you leave?"

"I thought of leaving immediately. But when I asked to leave, I was ushered into a room, where I sat alone on a carpet with the leader of the
Slaves of Allah."

"What is his name?"

"I don't know. We addressed him as Ayatollah."

"What was the conversation about?"

"The Ayatollah asked me how my Muslim comrades viewed suicide
operations against the West."

"And what was your answer?"

"I answered that we didn't even think about it," he answered tensely.

"The Ayatollah said nothing; he only nodded. The meeting ended and I
was allowed to return home. After I returned, I used a cover story I was
given to explain my absence to my friends and neighbors."

"So why are you now back in their service?"

"The same member of my mosque who initially recruited me knew I
was working for a bank and asked if I was willing to help."

"What's his name?"

"I won't tell you," said Fazal decidedly.

The interrogator moved on, preferring not to break the flow. I was sure
he'd get back to pressing Malik Fazal for all the missing links later.

Benny looked at Hodson and me and said, "We still haven't figured out
the mystery that consumed us throughout the search for Regev and Tal.
What, if anything, does the Slaves of Allah have in mind for its foreign
recruits like this guy?"

Hodson didn't answer.

The interrogator continued. "Before you went to Yemen, were you
willing to fight against the United States?"

"No. We had no plans, no hatred for America," insisted Fazal. "I came
here twenty years ago with my family. America has treated me well."

"So why did you go to Yemen?"

"I was curious." Fazal drank some water from a paper cup.

"I'm puzzled," said Benny. "Why do young middle-class Muslims,
some of them born in the United States, suddenly leave their homes to
spend three months in a terrorist training camp, and then quietly slip
back into their previous roles as law-abiding citizens but with a hidden
terrorist agenda?"

"Beats me," said Hodson, shaking his head.

"Do you think these terrorist groups are something new?" said Benny.
"Think again. These guys are rooted in religious tradition that is centuries
old. Their fanatic ideas emerged as a potent political and social factor as
early as the 1920s, with the birth of the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt."

Benny and Hodson looked at the two-way mirror. We could hear the
interrogator from the speakers mounted on their desk.

"What were you asked to do at the bank for the Slaves of Allah?" the
interrogator was asking.

"I was responsible for receiving donations from Islamic charities in the
U.S. and sending the money to my brothers."

"We went through the bank records. There were no deposits to justify
the size of the money transfers you were making."

Silence.

"I'm suggesting that you stole the money from the bank to send to your
brothers. That's an additional twenty years."

"No." said Fazal quickly. "I didn't steal it. The money is ours."

"So tell me how your bank received it. There is nothing in the records
to show small deposits, which are characteristic of charitable contributions. Even if the donations were made to a charity that later deposited
the proceeds in the bank, the amounts would still be modest."

"I can't."

"Why? If you're saying that the money was received as donations from
Islamic charities, with the aim of sending it to worthy causes outside the
U.S., why not just tell me how your bank received the money?" In a reassuring voice he added, "Sending money to worthy causes outside the U.S.
is not a crime."