Capitol Murder (20 page)

“Allah,” Ali prayed, “purify my soul so I am fit to see you, and bless my mission with high casualties among the Americans.”

7:30, 7:29.

Ali placed his fingers on the buttons and repeated his prayer. As he did, he noticed movement at the bottom of the stairs. Two large men were walking toward him. One was wearing a Redskins jersey, and the other wore a jacket emblazoned with the Redskins logo. They looked like typical fans, but they were not acting like typical fans. At the most exciting moment in the game, their eyes were not on the players. They were staring at him.

7:15, 7:14.

Ali made a half turn and saw a man and a woman walking down the steps. Their eyes were also on him. He glanced at the scoreboard.

7:10, 7:09.

One of the men below him had a gun and shouted, “FBI!”

Ali closed his eyes, shouted “
Allahu akbar
”—God is great—and pressed the buttons.

Nothing happened. “FBI! Don’t move!” Ali’s eyes snapped open, and he pressed the buttons again. The man and woman above him were shouting “FBI!” Ali tried the buttons separately, then together again. Then he was grabbed from behind. He turned, yanked his body away from his attacker, and his feet slipped out from under him. Everything happened in slow motion. The people in the rows at his side were standing and pressing away from him. The tray was flying through the air. Then his head connected with the edge of a concrete step and he slid downhill backward like a boy on a sled, dazed. Ali’s head cracked against a second step, and he found himself upside down staring at the scoreboard. It read 6:52.

Someone rolled him on his stomach. He felt handcuffs snap around his wrists as his mind filled with confusion. There had been no explosions. Death had not been visited on the infidels. Then a black hood was thrown over his head and he couldn’t see.

What had gone wrong?
he wondered as he was lifted by several hands and hustled up the steps. Why was he alive? Why was he not with Allah? Why were the infidels alive?

His captors were running with him now. He heard the occasional shout of “FBI!” and guessed that he was on the concourse and being carried past gawking fans. Then he heard a door open. The agents stopped identifying themselves, and he was carried down a flight of stairs. The only thing he heard for a few minutes was heavy breathing. Then the agents stopped and he was laid on the ground. He wanted to speak, but he sensed that he was better off saying nothing. Moments later, the choice was made for him. Someone rolled up his sleeve, and Ali felt a needle slip into a vein. Moments after that, everything went dark.

Chapter Twenty-eight

K
eith Evans’s team had followed Ali Bashar from the concession into the stands and had kept him under surveillance until they got the signal to move. The takedown had gone off without a hitch and had ended in a staging area under the stadium, a stretch of asphalt shaded by the overhanging stands and blocked off by a high chain-link fence. While Maggie Sparks and another agent hustled Bashar into the back of a black van, Keith leaned over, rested his hands on his knees, and took deep breaths. Maggie slammed the van’s door shut, and it drove out through a break in the fence behind three other black vans, each with its own prisoner. Then she walked over to her partner and flashed a tolerant smile.

“Someone needs to spend more time in the gym.” She took hold of his elbow and he straightened up, embarrassed. “Come on, old man.”

Keith was too winded to make a witty retort. Maggie laid a calming hand on Keith’s back, and he suddenly felt better and followed her to a group of agents who were listening to Harold Johnson, a tall, balding, middle-aged black man with a rugby player’s physique.

“Good work, people,” Johnson said. “We got the lot without any casualties. Now we do the boring stuff. The Redskins are going to set us up in offices and suites around the complex as soon as the game ends. Their security people will round up the prisoners’ coworkers so we can talk to them. None of these people are considered suspects at the present time, so go easy. They’re going to be shaken up when they learn that someone they worked alongside was planning to kill them and everyone else in the stadium.”

M
aggie and Keith got comfortable in the skybox the Redskins had made available for them. It had a buffet, a bar, and rows of seats that looked out at the field through a huge floor-to-ceiling picture window. The Redskins had won on a last-second field goal, and the jubilant fans who occupied the suite had left a mess when they celebrated. The janitors had cleaned up the debris, and the buffet had been restocked for the agents. Keith was washing down a sandwich of cold cuts with a Coke, and Maggie was eating a salad and drinking a bottle of Evian water when the door to the luxury suite opened and a security guard stuck his head in.

“I’ve got eight people from the hot dog concession out here,” he said. “How do you want to handle this?”

“Is the person in charge of the concession here?” Keith said.

“Yeah, that’s Jose Gutierrez.”

“Okay, let’s start with him.”

Moments later, the guard ushered in a heavyset man in his forties with long black hair and a dark pockmarked face. The man’s eyes ricocheted around the room, and he was obviously nervous.

“My name is Keith Evans, Mr. Gutierrez, and this is my partner, Maggie Sparks. We’re with the FBI, and we want to thank you for taking the time to talk to us.”

Keith gestured toward the food. “Are you hungry? Can I get you something to eat?”

Gutierrez shook his head. “No, thanks, but you can tell me what’s going on here.”

“Ali Bashar works at your stand, right?” Keith asked.

“Yeah, where is he?”

“Mr. Bashar is under arrest. He and several other men were planning to set off suicide bombs in the stands. Fortunately, we were able to thwart their plot.”

“You’re shitting me? Ali was going to blow the place up?”

Keith nodded.

“I can’t believe it.”

“Why don’t you sit with us and we’ll talk about it.”

Gutierrez took the seat Keith indicated.

“What can you tell us about Mr. Bashar?” Keith asked.

Gutierrez started to say something. Then he stopped and thought for a moment before shaking his head.

“Now that I think about it, not much. He was a good worker, always on time. He never complained. That’s about it.”

“Did he ever talk about his personal life? You know, what he did when he wasn’t working at the games?”

“Not that I remember.” Gutierrez shrugged. “He wasn’t around much. He sold hot dogs and drinks in the stands, so that’s where he was on game day, and we’ve only had a few home games. He told me he was a student once, but we never talked about personal stuff.”

“Did he say where he was studying?”

Gutierrez’s brow furrowed. “No, just that he was a student.”

“Do you have a copy of Ali’s job application?” Keith asked.

“No. Mr. Cooper does the hiring. I just got a call saying Ali was going to show up for an exhibition game and to give him a job hawking. Mr. Cooper owns the concession. He owns a couple. You should talk to him. I can give you his business address and phone number.”

“That would be great.”

“Is Ali crazy?” Gutierrez asked.

“He’s a jihadist, an Islamic radical like the people who brought down the Twin Towers.”

“Holy Mother.” Gutierrez shook his head. “He never said anything like that. I mean I thought he was a Muslim with that name, but he never talked crazy shit.”

“He wouldn’t have.”

“Yeah, I guess not.”

“Mr. Gutierrez, was Mr. Bashar friendly with anyone in the concession stand? Is there someone he talked to more than the other workers?”

Gutierrez thought for a moment. Then he nodded. “Yeah, Ann, Ann O’Hearn. They seemed friendly.” Suddenly Gutierrez looked concerned. “But she’s no terrorist. She’s in college. This is her second year here.”

“We don’t suspect anyone in your concession of being a terrorist,” Keith assured him. “We just want to learn as much about Mr. Bashar as we can. Ann isn’t in trouble.”

Gutierrez exhaled. “That’s good. She’s a nice kid.”

“Is she waiting in the hall?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. You’ve been very helpful. Can you get us that address and phone number for Mr. Cooper before we go?”

“Sure thing.”

Keith gave Gutierrez his card. “Give me a call if you think of anything else.”

Maggie escorted Gutierrez into the hall and asked him to point out Ann O’Hearn.

“Ann, they want to talk to you,” Gutierrez said.

Maggie walked up to the girl and smiled to allay her fears. “Hi, Miss O’Hearn. I’m Maggie Sparks,” the agent said as she led the nervous girl into the skybox.

“The first thing you need to know,” Maggie said when they were seated, “is that you aren’t suspected of any criminal activity. We want to talk to you to get more information about a man who worked with you in the concession stand, Ali Bashar.”

“Why do you want to know about Ali? What did he do?”

“We’ll talk about that in a minute. Mr. Gutierrez told us that you were friendly with Mr. Bashar.”

“Yeah. I mean I only saw him at work, and we’ve only had a few games, but he was always nice.”

“What did you two talk about?” Maggie asked.

Ann took a moment to think. “He told me he played soccer. I’m on my college team. Once, after a game, we talked about soccer.”

Maggie nodded to encourage her to continue.

“He said he was going to school too, that he was a student.”

“Did he say where he went to school?”

“No, I got the impression he wasn’t going yet, that he planned to go, but I’m not completely sure about that.”

Ann looked troubled. “Can you tell me why you’re asking about Ali?”

“I can see that you liked Mr. Bashar, so this may upset you. Ali Bashar was part of a cell of Islamic radicals who tried to blow up FedEx Field today.”

Ann lost color and looked as though she might faint. Maggie laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Are you okay? Do you want some water?”

Ann shook her head. She seemed dazed. “He tried to warn me,” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Warn you how?” Maggie pressed.

“Just before he took his tray into the stands, he told me he had to talk to me, that it was important. Then he told me to say I was sick and to go home.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him I wasn’t sick and we were very busy. If I left, Jose would have been shorthanded. I asked him why I should go home.”

“What did he say to that?”

“He looked like he wanted to tell me something. Instead he said he was being foolish and that it was nothing. Then he left, and I was too busy to think about what he’d said anymore.”

“It sounds like Mr. Bashar likes you. Did he ever ask you out or say anything inappropriate?”

“No. I told you, we barely talked because he hawked in the stands. I’d only see him before the stand opened or when we were cleaning up. He seemed shy. The day we talked about soccer, I got the impression that talking to me took a big effort.”

“Can you think of anything else that might help us understand Mr. Bashar?” Maggie asked.

“Not really.” Ann shook her head. “This is a lot to take in. You’re saying he was going to kill everyone?”

Maggie nodded.

“My God. He was so nice. I can’t believe it.”

“He just appeared to be nice, Miss O’Hearn.”

“No, he was nice to me. He . . . he tried to save me. God, I feel sick.”

Maggie questioned Ann O’Hearn for a few more minutes before getting her address, e-mail, and phone number. Then she told Ann she could go home. Mr. Gutierrez was waiting outside the door with Lawrence Cooper’s phone number and business address. Maggie thanked him and called the next witness into the skybox.

An hour later, Keith ushered the last witness into the hall. No one knew much about Ali Bashar. He was quiet, worked hard, and didn’t cause any trouble. No one except Ann had talked with him about anything except work.

Keith closed the door and settled into a seat beside Maggie. “What do you think?” he asked.

“We have to talk to Cooper to find out how Bashar got his job.”

“I’m betting Cooper placed all four of the bombers, which is interesting.”

Maggie nodded. “Do you think Bashar liked Ann O’Hearn?”

“He must have if he tried to get her to go home.”

“Let’s tell Harold. Maybe he can use it when they interrogate Bashar.”

Chapter Twenty-nine

A
ll of the concessions where the suicide bombers worked were owned by Lawrence Cooper, and the managers had been told by him to let the suicide bombers work at each one. Harold Johnson told Keith and Maggie to pick up Cooper and bring him in for questioning.

Cooper lived in a ranch-style house at the end of a cul-de-sac in a development in Rockville, Maryland, that had been built in the late fifties. It was dark when Keith parked in the driveway. He noticed that the lawn was mowed and the house looked as though it had been given a fresh coat of paint in the not too distant past. The agents walked up a narrow slate path to the front door and rang the bell. There was no answer. Keith rang again, then knocked and called Cooper’s name. When there was still no answer, Maggie walked around back while Keith tried to see around the curtains that had been lowered to cover the picture window that looked out on the lawn. The living room was dark, but Keith made out a pale glow that he took for lights that were on in some other part of the house.

Maggie returned to the front yard. “The side door opens into the kitchen. It isn’t locked. What do you think?”

“I don’t like this.”

“Let’s have a look.”

Keith followed Maggie around the side of the house. They drew their guns, and Maggie eased the door open. They were immediately hit by the nauseating smell that hung over every scene of violent death they had ever entered.

“Mr. Cooper,” Maggie called, not expecting an answer.