The Red Syndrome (29 page)

She looked at me strangely but said nothing. There was a heavy silence.
I had the feeling that she wasn't buying my lie. But as long as she didn't
challenge me outright, I was home free.

"I'm tired," she said, "I need to get some sleep." She clearly sounded
unhappy with me.

There was no romance in the air, not even lust. The plans I'd made for
us seemed irrelevant now. There were no sparks between us, not even a
courtship dance. It felt odd.

We took a cab to her hotel. "Good night Dan," she said, "Call me in
the morning; maybe we could go to the beach." I should have been disappointed by Laura's coolness toward me, but I wasn't, though it had
come as a surprise. I glanced at my watch: 6:30 P.M. I returned to the
Excelsior. Personally I didn't care about her attitude, but professionally I
was uneasy. Something was happening; I just didn't know what. I decided
to sharpen my instincts. They have never failed me before.

I sat at the hotel's bar. My cell phone vibrated. I looked at the display: a
local number, 01 49 55 6o Co. That was a pay phone's number that signaled
me to meet Eric in thirty minutes at a safe apartment in Rue Guibal.

I took a cab to the location. Eric opened the door. I followed him into
the sparsely furnished one-bedroom apartment.

"Are you ready?" he asked as we sat down on the only two chairs next
to a dining table.

"Yes," I said, realizing I'd made the right decision to put Laura in a different hotel; I was relieved to be free from her company tonight.
"Anything new on the Slaves of Allah?"

"Yes, look at this." Eric handed me a manila folder marked TOP SECRET.

I grabbed the envelope and opened it. Scanning the top page quickly, I
saw that it was a CIA report on the ongoing investigation into the
"Financial Affairs of Imam Abu All Hasan"-Fazal's Ayatollah.

The first paragraph caught my attention: "Imam Abu All Hasan, a
Muslim cleric without a mosque, is soon to be indicted on criminal charges
of hiding his ties to terrorist groups in order to obtain U.S. citizenship."

I raised my head in disbelief. "You're holding him on immigration
charges?"

Eric smiled wryly. "That's allowed us to conduct a financial investigation into his links to terrorism. We've videotaped his fund-raising activities for the Slaves of Allah. Since last fall, the FBI and the Joint Terrorism
Task Force have considered additional potential charges against Abu
All Hasan, including tax evasion, filing false tax returns, money laundering, mail and wire fraud, and providing material support to designated
foreign terrorist organizations as well as other prohibited financial
transactions."

"So why file just the immigration charges?"

"Because it's easy to start with, and we need to reveal in court only a very
little of the information we've accumulated. No risk of compromising our
sources."

I kept reading. When FBI agents arrested the imam at his home in
Brooklyn on June 20, 2002, they asked his wife, Fatima, for permission to
search the house. Following her consent, FBI agents seized documents, a
computer, different computer media such as CDs and disks, passports,
and videotapes. The Department of Justice's counterterrorism unit was
evaluating the seized documents and computer data as part of their
ongoing investigation. The agents also seized political and religious
speeches, sermons, and the manifesto of the Slaves of Allah. "This stuff
is presumably irrelevant to the immigration fraud case," I said, hating to
remind Eric that I was still a lawyer.

"We don't intend to limit the trial to immigration fraud," said Eric,
"Now, with what we've seized, we can go after him for the big-ticket
items: money laundering and providing support to terrorist organizations. In a trial on those charges, this stuff will be highly relevant."

I could see some serious legal problems in federal court with their
approach, but there was no point in arguing with Eric over that. These documents included many speeches, sermons, notes, and articles by Imam
Abdul Abu All Hasan that were venomously critical of the U.S. government and people. They focused investigators' attention on foreign-language
sources that hadn't been previously translated due to lack of funds. One of
these, a videotape from early in 1993 that the FBI had seized in another
criminal investigation, showed Abdul Abu All Hasan soliciting money for the Slaves of Allah from Muslims coming to mosques to pray or attend
social events.

I took the videocassette from the envelope. "Let's see it," I said.

Eric inserted the cassette into the VCR in the corner. In a somewhat
blurred video, Abdul Abu All Hasan was seen urging worshippers to give
money to the Slaves of Allah and to murder all infidels, whom he
described as the "sons of monkeys and pigs."

"Listen to that," I said. Then, remembering that Eric did not speak
Arabic, I explained. "In response to a question from the audience on why
the receipts for donations to the Slaves of Allah are from some organization with a different name, Hasan boasted that they are fooling the
American infidels by putting the money into a front organization, which
will then transfer the money to the Slaves of Allah."

"I know," said Eric. "A translation appears farther on in the report."

Indictments had been filed in March 2003 against a group of people
for allegedly supporting the Slaves of Allah operations in the United
States. Hasan and others had been charged with racketeering and conspiracy to murder and maim people in the U.S., as well as laundering
money and contributing funds to a designated terrorist organization.
The imam hadn't been charged with terrorism. The 149-page indictment
named him as `Un-indicted Co-conspirator #i,' and charged him with
both planning fund-raising for the Slaves of Allah, and of a fraudulent
money-laundering scheme, and with conspiracy to launder money. The
report indicated that the wiretaps had been approved by the secret
Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court established under the Foreign
Intelligence Surveillance Act of 1978 with legal authority intended for
counterintelligence cases. "It looks to me that Hassan's connection to the
Slaves of Allah attracted government investigators' attention only after
the 9/11 attacks and the passing of the Patriot Act," I said.

"Agencies couldn't share information from different cases before the
Patriot Act," Eric said defensively. "I don't think the Patriot Act is perfect, but it's what Congress passed and the president signed, so that's
what we use for now, and at least we finally have some tools."

"But the act is written quite cunningly to impede any constitutional challenge," I countered, playing devil's advocate. "People, supposedly terrorists, are `disappeared' and held secretly, without being charged with any
crime; they can't reach either the press or, even more importantly, the
courts. The right of habeas corpus is worth zip. We have no idea, none,
how many people have disappeared, and no way of even getting a handle
on the numbers. Furthermore, there's no criterion for who can be labeled
a terrorist and disappeared pursuant to this act. Anyone's fair game."

He wasn't impressed. "European democracies have been employing -
for years now, I might add - the same methods the Patriot Act allows
us now, and nobody calls them undemocratic. To me, it's how you actually apply the law and what the checks and balances are. As long as we
have a free press and an open society, I think American democracy can
survive these restrictions, as long as they are not abused.

"Look at Abu All's case," he continued. "If we could've shared the relevant information we already had with the INS, they could have ousted
him ten years ago."

"Monday-morning quarterbacking," I dismissed. "Who knew about
this guy? Should we go into every place of worship and videotape every
sermon of every cleric around the country? It's insane; it can't and
shouldn't be done."

"Listen to me," said Eric. "Abdul Abu All Hasan was considered a
moderate. We thought so. But his own flock quietly rebelled against him
because he was too fiery, and wanted him ousted from the mosque."

"So they're the ones who gave you the videotape?" I guessed.

Eric didn't blink. "But there were others who supported him, and he
stayed. This should give you another example of how deeply rooted the
Slaves of Allah are in our country."

He handed me another printed report, a psychological analysis of
Zhukov, which I would read and then destroy after our meeting. We continued going over the various contingencies that could arise during my
meeting with Zhukov. Two hours later we were done. Eric left first. "You
can stay here as long as you wish, but when you're done, burn the report
here." He pointed at the fireplace in the corner.

Since any personal plans for Laura had been scuttled - for now - I opted for the second best option, work. I went through the report Eric
gave me. The report's title was "Personality Analysis - Myers-Briggs
Types."

The subject's type is: ISTJ; the strength of the qualities are:
Introverted: 22%; Sensing 11%; Thinking 67%; Judging 44%.

The subject belongs to a small group of people which logically
observes people they meet. People of this type are decisive in the
manner in which they conduct themselves. Once they assume
responsibility and agree to perform a task, they can be relied upon
to complete it. They are very demanding of their subordinates and
set high standards for achievement. Their words tend to be simple
and down-to-earth, not showy or high-flown. Their home and work
are usually clean and neat. Members of this group are thorough and
calculated. Usually they honor their word, unless changing circumstances cause them to renege.

I continued reading, but it looked like the psychologist had tried to
cover all the bases. There were many on the one hands and on the other
hands. Lawyers aren't the only ones who use obscuring double speak.

ext day the phone rang in the early morning. Half asleep, I picked
up the receiver. Why are French telephone receivers so heavy in the
morning?

"McMillan?"

There was no mistaking the Russian accent.

"Speaking."

"We are in Marseilles, and received your message about your new hotel."

"Good." I sat up in my bed, trying to focus and collect my thoughts
regarding the instructions I'd received from Brian and Eric.

"The boss wants to see you at one o'clock today," the voice said.

Too soon to alert Eric and make the arrangements; I had to stall. "I
have another conflicting appointment," I said. "Can we make it later in
the afternoon, say four o'clock at my hotel?"

"Wait," he said.

I overhead a muffled conversation. "Okay," came the answer. He hung up.

The man had said we, meaning more than one person would be
attending. I was surprised that Eric hadn't called me ahead of time, if he
indeed had known about the forthcoming call as he'd promised he would.
I went outside to another public phone. I called Eric at the clinic, but
there was no answer, so I left a detailed message. An hour later I received
a short SMS message to my cell phone: "Your message received. We'll be
there on time." I heard activity in the adjacent rooms on both sides and
presumed Eric's men were making preparations. I didn't attempt to make
contact, in case Zhukov's men had put an early watch on my room.

I waited in my room. I thought about Laura. I needed to phone her and
make up some excuse why I couldn't see her. I called from my lobby but
there was no answer from her room. I left a short message that I'd call later. At 4:05 P.M. the hotel concierge rang the room: "Monsieur McMillan,
there are people here who came to meet you."

"Thanks, I've been expecting them. How many are there?"

"Three."

"Okay, please send them up."

I felt a bit tense. The two minutes were long until I heard a knock,
more like a bang, on the door. I opened the door, and three men walked
in. I immediately recognized Zhukov from his photos, although he'd
gained weight since they'd been taken. But there was no mistaking the
man: medium height, almost obese, light receding hair, and clever blue
eyes. He was dressed in a gray Hugo Boss suit with a yellow tie, a diamond ring on his pinkie. He didn't carry a briefcase; I found it interesting
that he didn't feel the need to carry business accessories. Zhukov nodded,
never offered me his hand, entered my room, and sat down on the sofa.
He looked around the room, then at me. His thugs checked the doors
leading to the other suites where the agents were hiding. I felt my heart
race. If they opened either door, the game would be over, and a gunfight
could erupt. I looked for the best place to hide if that happened. I had no
gun. For Zhukov, I was just an office mouse, a paper pusher holding a
pen, not a weapon.