The Terrorist Next Door (5 page)

Chapter
7

“WHAT’S THE ISLAMIC FREEDOM FEDERATION?”

Millennium Park was an urban oasis built above old rail yards a block north of the Art Institute between Michigan Avenue and the lakefront. Bordered by the Prudential Building and the Aon Center, the old Main Library, and a greenbelt leading to the lake, the second Mayor Daley’s tribute to contemporary urban design was usually a serene public space where strollers lingered over ice cream cones and sipped fruit drinks as they enjoyed a respite from the harsh realities of the Loop.

But this was no ordinary day. Except for police and emergency vehicles, Millennium Park was empty.

Gold looked up at the helicopters as he and Battle approached the park on a gridlocked Randolph Drive. He glanced over at a young man driving a Honda. His knuckles were white from the death grip he had on the steering wheel.

They parked the Crown Vic on the sidewalk. Gold’s lungs filled with black smoke billowing up through the ventilation shafts from the underground garage. The park was cordoned off by yellow tape. An army of cops encircled the media mob near the stage of the Jay Pritzker Music Pavilion, where the mayor was about to conduct another press briefing. Gold and Battle took a circuitous route to Columbus Drive, where fire engines, police units, and ambulances lined the west side of the street near the entrance to the garage.

They found a stressed Maloney inside the Chicago PD’s crowded mobile command unit parked beneath the pedestrian bridge. The chief reported that one casualty had been confirmed, and at least two other people had been injured. Teams of Area 1 detectives were searching for witnesses and reviewing security videos.

Maloney deferred to Commander Mike Rowan of the Bomb Squad, who filled in the details. “The bomb was set off in a Toyota Corolla reported stolen from the parking lot of the Blue Island Metra station on Friday. The owner is not a suspect. Security videos
show the car entering the garage at five-thirty this morning. We can’t identify the driver. Trunk was filled with gas cans. Detonator was a throwaway phone serviced by U.S. Cellular. FBI says it was purchased for cash at a Best Buy in Buffalo Grove on July fourteenth.” Rowan said the initiating phone was a throwaway purchased at a K-Mart in Oak Lawn. “The initiating call was placed from downtown, but we don’t have a precise location. Verizon, T-Mobile, and U.S. Cell have shut down access to all disposable cell phones within a one hundred mile radius. We’ve made a similar request to the other carriers. We hope to have access shut down within the hour.”

* * *

The young man fingered the disposable cell phone as he watched the WGN website. Mojo was showing footage from the mayor’s press conference. Service to Verizon, T-Mobile, and U.S. Cellular throwaways had been cut off. The other carriers would soon follow suit. He closed his laptop and put it inside its black bag. He was tempted to send Gold another text, but he didn’t want to get cocky or make a careless mistake.

Time to get busy
.

* * *

Battle’s left hand rested on the steering wheel of the Crown Vic as he and Gold barreled south on Lake Shore Drive on their way to police headquarters. An exodus from downtown was underway, and traffic was heavy. Battle leaned on the horn as a Mercedes darted in front of them. “Anything more from Fong?”

“Nothing,” Gold said.

“New texts?”

“None.” Gold leaned back in the passenger seat and tried to process reports from the police band and WGN-radio. The local TV and radio stations were running wall-to-wall coverage. The cable news networks were descending upon Chicago. Police were stationed at major intersections. National Guard troops were deployed at gas stations. Army reserves were standing by. Grocery stores were crowded, and people were stockpiling food, water, and gasoline. The mayor had quietly ordered the preparation of contingency plans for evacuating the city.

Battle chewed on his toothpick. “Tell me everything you know about Al-Shahid.”

Gold took a deep breath and laid it out. Hassan Al-Shahid had been born in Saudi Arabia twenty-eight years earlier. His father had connections to the Royal Family, and he ran an international investment firm headquartered in Riyadh. Al-Shahid had earned a master’s at the London School of Economics. He’d entered the U.S. two years earlier on a student visa to work on a PhD in Middle Eastern Studies at the U. of C. His father had bought him an upscale condo on fashionable Hyde Park Boulevard, a stone’s throw from the lakefront. He had no history of violence or terrorist connections. His mother had died of cancer when he was four. His father had died of a heart attack a year earlier.

“We did a work-up on the family business,” Gold said. “It owns millions of dollars of U.S. real estate and stock. They’re audited by PricewaterhouseCoopers and pay their taxes.”

“Who’s been running the operation since the father died?”

“Hassan’s older brother, Muneer. Another overachiever. Undergrad from MIT. MBA from Harvard. Lives in Riyadh. Married to an American. Two kids. No criminal record. I talked to him briefly after his brother was arrested. He referred me to his high-priced American lawyers. Muneer got into town on Thursday. He’s staying at Hassan’s condo in Hyde Park. We have people watching him. Fong is monitoring his phone and his computer.”

“Any chance he’s setting off bombs?”

“He’s smart enough to figure out how to rig a cell phone into a detonator, but he seems more interested in making money than making trouble. Besides, I just checked with our people. Muneer has been downtown all morning with his lawyer.”

“The call to the detonator at the Art Institute and the first text were sent from downtown.”

“He was still in Hyde Park when the bomb went off at the Art Institute.”

“The call to Wrigley was initiated from the Southeast Side.”

“By then, Muneer was downtown.”

“The text that you received at Murphy’s came from downtown. So did the call to Millennium Park.”

“True,” Gold acknowledged, “but it doesn’t mean that Muneer sent it. Maybe the bomber is moving around. Or there’s more than one. Or maybe Muneer paid somebody to do it.”

Battle drummed the steering wheel. “Fong said he was investigating a donation by Hassan Al-Shahid to a mosque in Hyde Park.”

“Al-Shahid spent his free time at the Gates of Peace Mosque at 53rd and Cottage Grove near the university. I talked to the imam, who was cooperative. He’s a young guy named Ibrahim Zibari. Born and raised near Detroit. Undergrad degree in electrical engineering from Michigan. He went into the army and spent two years building a telecommunications system in Baghdad. When he got back to the U.S., he got his masters in Islamic Studies at the U. of C. Now he’s working on his PhD.”

“Terrorist connections?”

“None. We have people watching the mosque. The imam has been there since five o’clock this morning. I interviewed all of its members after Al-Shahid was arrested. Nothing suspicious. They all said Al-Shahid was a quiet guy who kept to himself.”

“Until he built a bomb factory in South Chicago.” Battle looked at Gold. “How did Al-Shahid go from being an academic to making bombs?”

“According to Zibari, Al-Shahid was mugged twice in the past year, and the perps were never caught. Evidently, Al-Shahid thought our guys didn’t try very hard.”

“Everybody knows the area around the U. of C. is a war zone. Most people don’t vent their frustrations with Chicago PD by making bombs.”

“First he bought a gun—presumably for protection. Then he used it to kill Udell Jones.”

Battle still wasn’t buying it. “How did he go from buying a gun to making bombs?”

“A few months ago, he was detained at O’Hare on his way back from Saudi. TSA said it was an honest mistake, but Al-Shahid claimed it was the second coming of Abu Ghraib. The truth probably lies somewhere in between. In any event, we think that’s when he started building his bomb factory. We figure he set up shop in South Chicago to avoid attracting attention to himself or blowing up his condo in Hyde Park. Then Udell Jones came looking for crystal meth.”

“Has he admitted killing Jones?”

“He hasn’t said a word since he was arrested. He lawyered up right away.”

“Big surprise. Any evidence of an accomplice?”

“Nothing. The people at the mosque said he was a loner. We traced every call he made and every e-mail and text he sent for the past two years. We’ve been through his cell phone and hard drive. We checked his computer account at the U. of C. We looked for dummy e-mail accounts and coded messages. We checked for connections to international terrorist organizations. Nothing.”

“The Patriot Act has limitations,” Battle observed, “especially if somebody is working alone. Did you find anything else on his computer?”

“Instructions for making bombs. Floor plans for the Art Institute. Fundamentalist websites with anti-American vitriol.” Gold flashed a sarcastic smile. “Seems he was also visiting several porn sites, too.”

“I suspect he didn’t mention it to his imam. Anything from our people who were talking to the members of the mosque in Polish Town?”

“Nothing yet.”

Battle’s voice turned somber. “Did somebody notify Christina Ramirez’s mother?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing prepares you for the loss of a child.” The veteran detective swallowed hard. “Estelle and I lost our older son in the first Gulf War.”

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” Gold cleared his throat. “You heard about my wife and daughter, right?”

“I did. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” Gold felt a tinge of relief that they’d broached the subject. Five years earlier, Gold’s wife, Wendy, had died along with their unborn daughter on a snowy night in a single-car crash on Lake Shore Drive. Gold had dealt with the unspeakable loss by throwing himself into his work, and he hadn’t remarried. His BlackBerry vibrated. Mojo’s name appeared on the display.

“What’s the Islamic Freedom Federation?” she snapped.

“Never heard of it.”

“They just sent me a text. They said they’re going to kill more people unless you free Hassan Al-Shahid.”

Chapter
8

“IT ISN’T ON ANY OF OUR WATCH LISTS”

Gold’s heart was pounding. “Send a reply,” he barked to Mojo. “Now!”

“I tried. It didn’t go through. There’s no return number.”

Gold conferenced in Fong and asked whether he’d ever heard of the Islamic Freedom Federation.

“No,” Fong said. “It isn’t on any of our watch lists.” His tone softened as he spoke to Mojo. “I need permission to trace the text, Carol.”

“Fine.”

The line went silent for a moment. There was tension in Fong’s voice when he returned. “The text was sent from a throwaway cell purchased for cash at a Costco in Glenview. Serviced by Sprint.”

“He switched carriers again,” Mojo said.

Gold added, “We need all of them to shut down access to the throwaways—now.”

“Soon,” Fong said.

“It had better be real soon,” Mojo snapped. “Do you know where the text was initiated?”

“Southeast Side.”

“Do you have any idea if we’re dealing with more than one person?”

“Off the record, my best profiler thinks we’re dealing with one person or a small group with expertise in explosives and perhaps military training. Likely to be male between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five. Smart. Meticulous. A loner.”

Gold frowned. FBI profilers seemed to use the same description for every perp. “Overseas connections?”

“Can’t tell.”

“Muslim?”

“Don’t know.”

“A guy with a few throwaways and gas cans has shut down the El and Millennium Park?”

“No comment.”

They spoke for a few more minutes before Gold pressed Disconnect and looked at Battle. “Fong has no idea if the Islamic Freedom Federation really exists. The text to Mojo was initiated from the Southeast Side.”

“The Southeast Side is a big place. We need to narrow it down.”

“Then we need to get to Al-Shahid.”

* * *

The young man smiled as he listened to Mojo on WGN-radio. She had been contacted by
the Islamic Freedom Federation—a name he had made up that morning.

Not earth-shatteringly original, but it got her attention
.

His smile broadened when Mojo reported that the IFF had threatened to set off bombs until Hassan Al-Shahid was freed. She interviewed a retired general who had served in Afghanistan. He speculated that the Islamic Freedom Federation was affiliated with Al-Qaeda on the Arabian Peninsula.

He lowered the visor of the stolen Mercedes and pulled into the underground garage. He slumped down in the driver’s seat to avoid being seen by the security cameras as he approached the ticket dispenser. As he pulled into a parking space near the payment machines, he chuckled to himself.

Al-Qaeda on the Arabian Peninsula. Right.

Chapter
9

“WE NEED TO TALK TO
AL-SHAHID”

The Cook County Criminal Courthouse was touted as a state-of-the art facility when it opened on a rainy April Fools’ Day in 1929. The stately seven-story structure at 26th and California had classic Doric columns with sculpted figurines representing law, justice, liberty, truth, might, wisdom, and peace. It also had stiflingly hot courtrooms with terrible acoustics, inadequate plumbing, and horrendous access to public transportation. Then again, the site wasn’t chosen for the convenience of judges, lawyers, and jurors. It was in the middle of the Twelfth Ward, which was run by Alderman (and later Mayor) Anton Cermak, who doled out courthouse jobs to his political followers who enjoyed a pleasantly short commute to work. Cermak died in 1933 when he threw himself in front of an assassin’s bullet intended for President Roosevelt. Over the next eight decades, the six blocks surrounding his courthouse evolved into a razor-wire-enclosed penal colony with a dozen Stalinesque jail buildings. It was cut off from the rest of the Southwest Side by railroad tracks, a sanitary canal, and the Stevenson Expressway. It made Rikers Island look like the Palmer House.

Assistant State’s Attorney Laura Silver’s phone rang as she sat in her cramped office on the eleventh floor of the utilitarian office building that was shoe-horned between the old courthouse and the jail compound in the seventies. She took a final bite of the fruit salad she’d scooped into a Tupperware container that morning, then she put the empty receptacle in
to her bottom drawer. She recognized the phone number on her console, put on the headset she’d bought on her own dime, and punched the Talk button. “Silver.”

“Gold
.”

Their customary greeting had started as a play on the happenstance that both of their surnames were precious metals. Now it was a matter of habit. Silver’s heart beat faster as she lowered her husky voice. “How close were you to the bomb at Art Institute?”

“Not that close. I’m fine, Lori.”

Thank goodness
. She absently-mindedly twirled the tight curls of her shoulder-length auburn hair. At thirty-six, she needed a little assistance from a bottle to hide the streaks of gray. Her locks framed a wide face highlighted by full lips, a prim nose, and large hazel eyes. Her petite figure was toned from an arduous daily pre-dawn ride on the exercise bike in the basement of her townhouse in Hyde Park. She hadn’t missed a workout since her marriage had imploded two years earlier. The logistics of mixing life as a felony prosecutor with her responsibilities as a single parent made it hard to get to the gym. “I left you a message,” she said.

“I’ve had a busy morning,” Gold
said. “Are the courts open?”

“No. The presiding judge shut them down. Security hasn’t been this tight since Nine-Eleven. The jail is locked down. Are you getting close to finding this guy?”

“Trying. This guy is smart.”

“Then you need to be smarter.” Silver glanced at the framed photo of her six-year-old daughter, Jenny, next to her computer. It was the only personal item in the nine-by-twelve office that was slightly larger than the windowless space down the hall where she had worked for the past ten years. Her two file cabinets were mismatched shades of prison gray. Unpacked
boxes of legal tomes and framed Bar Association citations were stacked in front of the teak veneer bookcase she’d purchased at Costco. Her dry cleaning hung from a nail she’d pounded into her door. Her window looked out at the inmates pumping iron in the exercise yard of County Jail #3. “You’re still coming to Al-Shahid’s prelim on Thursday, right?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” She took a sip of water from a maroon mug bearing U. of C. Law School logo. “The
Trib
’s website said a woman from South Chicago was killed at the Art Institute.”

“It’s true. Turns out her mother is one of my father’s physical therapists. I just told him about it. He isn’t taking it well.”

“I’ll bet.” Silver understood the challenges in dealing with elderly parents. Her father had died a year earlier after a lengthy battle with lung cancer. Her mother had Alzheimer’s and lived in a nursing home in Evanston. “Anything I can do?”

“I need to talk to you about Al-Shahid. I don’t want to do it by phone.”

“I’m meeting with a judge in twenty minutes.”

“I need only ten. We’re pulling into the lot across the street. We’ll be up in five.”

* * *

The young man looked at the blinking red dot on his laptop. Gold and Battle had parked at 26th and California. They were probably trying to get inside to talk to Al-Shahid.

So predictable.

* * *

Gold took a deep breath of the stale air in Silver’s office. “We need to talk to Al-Shahid.” He was sitting in the uncomfortable wooden chair opposite Silver’s desk. Battle’s imposing frame filled the doorway.

Silver frowned. “If I was his attorney, I wouldn’t let him
talk to anybody—especially you.”

“We need you to persuade his lawyer that it’s in his client’s best interest to cooperate.”

“That won’t be easy. Al-Shahid just hired Earl “the Pearl” Feldman.”

Dammit. “I thought Al-Shahid’s brother’s law firm was handling his case.”

“They’re a big corporate firm. They decided to bring in a real defense lawyer.”

“I heard Feldman was representing prisoners at Guantanamo.”

“He’s back.

“Game on.”

“No kidding.”

Earl “the Pearl” Feldman was a cagey defense lawyer from Hyde Park who had cut his teeth handling civil rights cases in the South in the sixties. He’d made a name for himself representing the legendary “Chicago Seven” after the 1968 Democratic Convention. Feldman had spent the past two decades teaching criminal procedure at the U. of C. Law School, where he had butted heads with Silver’s father, a retired federal judge who happened to be the dean. A lifelong member of the ACLU, Earl the Pearl also relished his self-appointed role as an enthusiastic thorn-in-the-side to both Daley administrations. A dozen years earlier, Silver had been one of his star students, and he’d written her a glowing recommendation when she had applied to the State’s Attorney’s office. Feldman had been one of the early mentors of a young community organizer and part-time law professor named Barack Obama.

Battle took off his glasses. “I know this isn’t politically correct, but why is a Jewish lawyer representing a Muslim terrorist?”

Silver shrugged.
“Earl still thinks the constitution trumps religious affiliation. We spent this morning setting ground rules for Thursday’s hearing. He’s making noises about getting the charges against Al-Shahid dismissed.”

“He’s posturing,” Gold said. “The gun he used to kill Udell Jones was inside his pocket.”

“We can’t prove Al-Shahid pulled the trigger or disposed of the body.”

“That’s why you’re such a good lawyer. You’ll get the jury to put the pieces together.”

“A witness would help.”

“That’s going to be hard to find.”

“That’s why you’re such a good cop.”

Gold scowled. “The case against Al-Shahid for Paulie’s murder is a slam dunk. Al-Shahid was inside the house. He tried to run after he set off the bomb. End of story.”

“Earl’s going to argue that Al-Shahid didn’t intend to kill anyone. Supposedly, he wanted to make Chicago PD, the FBI, and Homeland Security look bad. Earl claimed Al-Shahid was going to phone in a tip to the
Trib
saying somebody had built a bomb factory under their noses.”

“That’s crap.”

“I agree, but he still has no incentive to let Al-Shahid talk to us.”

“This is his only chance to cut a deal. Tell him you’ll consider taking the death penalty off the table if he cooperates.”

“I can’t do that for a cop killer.”

“It doesn’t have to be binding.”

“I don’t lie about plea deals—especially to a smart lawyer on a capital case.”

“I’m not asking you to lie.”

“What exactly are you asking me to do?”

“Bluff. Put something on the table to get us an interview. Or tell him you’ll go easier if Al-Shahid implicates an accomplice.”

“I’ve tried. Earl insisted that Al-Shahid acted alone. We’ve been through his phone records, e-mails, and texts.”

Gold was about to respond when his BlackBerry vibrated. Fong’s name appeared on the display. “What?” Gold snapped.

“I need you to meet me in Hyde Park. A bomb just went off in the underground garage at the Museum of Science and Industry.”