The Terrorist Next Door (9 page)

Chapter
15

“ONE MAN’S TERRORIST IS ANOTHER MAN’S FREEDOM FIGHTER”

“I need a trace now,” Gold snapped.

“Working on it,” Fong said.

Come on
. “Work faster.”

Gold was sweating through his powder blue shirt as he sat in the passenger seat of the Crown Vic at seven o’clock on Monday night. He pressed Battle’s BlackBerry against his right ear. His eyes were locked onto the display of his own BlackBerry in anticipation of receiving additional e-mails, but none was forthcoming.

Fong’s voice filled with resignation when he came back on the line. “We can’t trace it.”

“You’re the FBI.”

“Looks like it was initiated in Yemen and routed through Eastern Europe, but they’re probably dummy accounts. It’ll take weeks to sort it out—if ever.”

* * *

Gold knocked twice on the open door.

The young man with the light beard and a dark complexion looked up from a dense Arabic text. He was sitting at a worn cherry wood desk in a windowless outer office on the second floor of Albert Pick Hall, a modern five-story building on the southeast corner of the U. of C.’s Main Quad that looked out of place among its English Gothic neighbors. The building was quiet. Most of the students and professors were away for the
summer. He tugged at the collar of a gray polo shirt. “Yes, please?”

“We’d like to speak to Professor Raheem
.”

An eager nod. “This is Professor Raheem’s office.” He spoke with a thick accent.

“Is he here?”

A perplexed expression. “He works here.”

I know
. Gold resisted the temptation to repeat the question more slowly. Instead, he chose a disarming smile. “Is Professor Raheem here today?”

A look of recognition registered on the young man’s face. He nodded at the closed door leading to an adjoining office. “Yes.”

“Thank you.” Gold’s smile broadened. “What’s your name?”

“Karim Fayyadh.”

“Nice to meet you, Karim. My name is David Gold.”

“Nice to meet you, David.”

* * *

Gold forced another smile and extended a hand. “Nice to see you again, Dr. Raheem.”

“My pleasure, Detective Gold.”

“You’re working late tonight.”

“I just got back into town. I’m trying to get caught up.”

Dr. Mohammad Raheem smiled graciously as Gold introduced Battle and they exchanged stilted pleasantries. Al-Shahid’s academic advisor was a lanky man with a light beard, sharp features, and steely brown eyes. Still in his late twenties, he had finished college at nineteen, earned a PhD at twenty-two, and become a full professor at twenty-five. His deliberate speaking manner evoked an air of polished authority.

Raheem invited Gold and Battle to take seats in the leather chairs opposite his cluttered desk, then he sat down in his tall swivel chair. The walls of his office were lined with dusty tomes in a dozen languages. A new laptop sat on his credenza. His window overlooked the mature oak trees lining University Street. He gestured toward the closed door. “I trust you were able to navigate the language barrier with Karim. I just brought him over from Baghdad to be my research assistant. It’s his first time here.”

“Seems like a fine young man,” Gold said.

“He is.” Raheem’s expression turned somber. “He’s an exceptional student. His parents were killed by a stray bomb when the U.S. invaded Baghdad.”

“How awful.”

“Indeed.”

“How did you meet him?”

“His uncle is a professor at the University of Baghdad. We’ve known each other for years. We thought the change of scenery might help his nephew.”

“One student at a time. Did Karim have any contact with Hassan Al-Shahid?”

“They exchanged e-mails about classes, housing, and such. I’ll have Karim forward them to you if he still has them.”

“Thank you.” Gold glanced up at the photo gallery behind Raheem’s desk. In addition to pictures of his wife and two young children, there were shots of Raheem with the heads of state of several Middle Eastern countries. An enlarged photo with President Obama had the most prominent spot. “When were you in Baghdad?”

“I went over to get Karim last week. We flew here on Wednesday.”

“How does your wife feel about your travels to Iraq?”

“She worries.”

I’ll bet.

Battle made his presence felt. “Where are you from?”

“Evanston.” Raheem said his father was a Saudi businessman married to an American lawyer. “I was born here, but we lived in Jeddah until I was four. Then we moved back to Evanston. I met my wife here at the U. of C. Her family is from Jerusalem.”

Battle flashed a knowing smile. “I’ve seen you on CNN.”

Raheem smiled back. “I never intended to become a celebrity.”

“You don’t seem to mind the attention.” Battle pointed at a framed copy of a New York Times op-ed piece on the corner of Raheem’s desk. “You caught some heat on that one.”

“That’s the beauty of a free press, Detective. I’m trying to elevate the level of discourse between the Western and Islamic worlds.”

“If I remember correctly, you argued that violence is one of the tools.”

“I don’t condone it. I simply said it may be inevitable.”

“I believe your exact words were ‘One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.’”

“I was trying to make the point that it’s better to create institutions to prevent people from becoming disenfranchised. We live in a world of sound bites and twenty-four-hour news cycles. Rush Limbaugh and Glenn Beck need villains to help their ratings. They did the same thing to Bill Ayers when Barack ran for president.”

“Ayers and the Weathermen set off bombs in Washington.”

“In empty offices.”

“They were lucky nobody was killed. I don’t recall hearing Ayers apologize.”

“I don’t think he ever did.”

“Does that mean you think his behavior was justified?”

“Absolutely not. I think it was a sincere—albeit misguided—attempt to end the Vietnam War. And just so
we’re clear, I believe it is morally bankrupt to try to justify murder by citing scripture—whether it’s the Bible or the Koran. Those who kill innocent people are terrorists—period. Those who attack my ideas never mention my writings about Dr. King and nonviolent dissent. For what it’s worth, I believe people would be more sympathetic toward Islamic causes if our leaders emulated Gandhi.”

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re right.”

Raheem arched an eyebrow. “Do you still think I’m a terrorist, Detective Battle?”

“No, Professor Raheem. I think you’re a provocateur.”

“That’s fair.” He turned back to Gold. “So, Detective, who’s setting off the bombs?”

“We’re hoping you might be able to help us find out.”

“I’ve been here all day. Karim got in a little while ago. Nobody can confirm our whereabouts. Does that make us suspects?”

Maybe
. “Of course not.”

“But you’d feel more comfortable if you could confirm the stories of a terrorist sympathizer and his Iraqi-born assistant, right?”

Battle was right. Raheem is a provocateur
. “Frankly, Professor, you’ve never struck me as somebody who would set off bombs by remote control. You’re a South Chicago kind of guy—you look people right in the eye and tell them exactly what you think.”

“That’s true. If I’m not a suspect, why are you here?”

“We have reason to believe the bombs were set off by somebody with a connection to your former advisee. Do you know anybody who might want to use the Al-Shahid case as an excuse for a misguided attempt to make a point? You know—like Bill Ayers and the Weathermen?”

“Afraid not.”

“Ever heard of an organization called the Islamic Freedom Federation?”

“No.”

“Hassan made a substantial donation to the Chicago Islamic Council. We’ve heard they have terrorist connections.”

“Not true.”

“Would you tell us if it was?”

“As a matter of fact, I would. I’m every bit as American as you are, Detective Gold. I don’t condone terrorism in any form—anywhere, anytime, anyplace.”

“That isn’t exactly what you said in the Times.”

“My words were twisted.”

* * *

The young man looked up from the book he was pretending to read. Battle and Gold had left Albert Pick Hall and driven west on 55th Street.

Where are you going now, Detective Gold?

He would tweak Gold again a little later. In the meantime, he decided to head over to Assistant State’s Attorney Silver’s townhouse at 52nd and University, a few blocks away. She wouldn’t be home until later. He wanted to double-check the habits of her babysitter and, more importantly, her daughter.

Chapter
16

“WE CALL THEM ‘LONE WOLVES’”

Gold was irritable as he and Battle drove south on Lake Shore Drive past the Museum of Science and Industry at eight-thirty on Monday night. The usually busy road was almost empty. They’d rounded up the two members of Al-Shahid’s mosque who hadn’t left for the summer. Both were studious and unfailingly polite. Both had verifiable alibis.

They’d spent a half hour at a useless all-hands meeting convened by the chief at police headquarters. Maloney had provided no substantive information, but he put on a brave front for the press. He insisted that Chicago PD and the FBI were using all available resources to hunt down the “Chicago Al-Qaeda.” He assured everybody that the empty streets simply reflected a cautious response by Chicagoans. Gold and Battle ducked out through a back door to avoid Mojo and the rest of the expanding media mob.

Gold’s BlackBerry vibrated. He pressed Talk and heard Fong’s voice. They had spoken a dozen times over the course of the evening. There were no forced pleasantries.

“Any texts or e-mails?” Fong asked.

“Nothing. Any new information on the source of the last e-mail?”

“Nothing. My people traced it to a router in Bulgaria, but we think it’s a fake.”

“You think there’s an overseas connection?”

“Not as far as we can tell.”

“Anything on Raheem’s research assistant?”

“Karim Fayyad is a grad student from Baghdad. He’s house-sitting for a visiting professor who’s out of town. The prof lives at 54th and Drexel.”

It was a block from Al-Shahid’s mosque and two blocks from the Armory. “What else?” Gold asked.

“His parents were killed by a U.S. bomb. The Army said it was an accident.”

It matched Raheem’s story. “Terrorist connections?”

“Our sources in Baghdad said he contacted an organization that provides justice for people who’ve lost family members.”

“I take it that’s the current euphemism for revenge?”

“Yes. The cops got wind of it and detained him for a couple of days. He wasn’t charged. His uncle is a professor at the University of Baghdad.”

“He arranged to send him here?”

“Correct. Our people interviewed Fayyadh and his uncle before Fayyadh’s visa was granted. Both denied any involvement with any terrorist organizations in Iraq.”

“What did you expect them to say?”

“Homeland Security wouldn’t have let Fayyadh into the country if he was a security risk. Besides, he was sponsored by an American citizen: Professor Raheem.”

“A lot of people think he’s a terrorist sympathizer.”

“We’ve been monitoring him for years. We’ve never found any connections. This is Fayyadh’s first visit to the U.S. He’s been here for less than five days. He speaks limited English. It would have been difficult to plant a series of bombs in such a short time.”

Unless he had help or he set it up from Baghdad.
“Are you watching him now?”

“Yes. We’re also keeping an eye on Raheem. My people have coordinated with yours. We’re monitoring their phones, texts, and e-mails.”

“That’s great—unless they’re using stolen phones and fake e-mail accounts in Bulgaria. We understand Fayyadh had some communications with Al-Shahid.”

“They exchanged e-mails. Nothing out of the ordinary—mostly information about housing.”

“Where do we stand on turning off every cell phone in the Chicago area?”

“The mayor is getting pushback from the business community.”

“He’ll get even more if another bomb goes off.”

“True.” Fong cleared his throat. “The first bomb went off eleven hours ago, Detective. It took us fifty-three hours to catch the guy who tried to blow up the SUV in Times Square.”

“This guy is a lot smarter. Have you gotten anything more from your profiler?”

“She still thinks the operation is being run by one guy or a very small group. He isn’t using the Al-Qaeda playbook. He’s meticulous. He isn’t a suicide bomber.”

“What about the possibility of a copycat?”

“The construction of the bombs indicates that it’s unlikely—so far. It’s probably only a matter of time before somebody else starts doing it, too.”

Gold asked about chatter on the terror channels.

“The usual suspects are talking to each other, but nobody is taking credit for the bombings. Seems they’re trying to figure out who he is, too.”

You have no clue
. “We’re dealing with a freelancer?”

“We call them ‘Lone Wolves.’ It makes him even more unpredictable.”

* * *

Assistant State’s Attorney Laura Silver pulled her Honda Civic into the garage beneath the living room of her brownstone townhouse near the corner of 52nd and University. She turned off the engine, then she checked her BlackBerry. It
had been almost a full minute since she’d last looked. She felt a modicum of relief that the ever-demanding red light wasn’t blinking.

She rechecked her rear-view mirror. Nothing. She looked again to check the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes.

Could be worse
.

She pulled her keys from the ignition, then she grabbed her laptop. She looked in the mirror again. The old-fashioned street lamps in Hyde Park provided little illumination. The lights were on in the living room of the building across the street. Her neighbors had locked up and hunkered down. Her heart beat faster as she saw a shadow in the bushes next to her driveway.

Or she thought she did.

She pressed the button on her remote and closed the garage door. Then she pulled out her BlackBerry and punched in 9-1-1, but she didn’t press Send. She took a breath and reconsidered.

It could have been a cat. Or the wind. Or her imagination.

She grabbed the can of mace from her purse. She made a fist and inserted her keys between her fingers the way her self-defense instructor had taught her. It was a rudimentary weapon, but a quick jab to the face might stop an attacker.

Finally, she got out of the car, squeezed past Jenny’s bike, and opened the door leading into her laundry room. She stepped inside, made sure the door was locked behind her, and headed up the stairs, where she found her babysitter watching the late news on the nineteen-inch flat screen in the kitchen.

“Everything okay?” she asked Silver. Vanessa Turner was an intense African American woman working on her master’s in child development at the U. of C.

“Just fine. Is Jenny asleep?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Silver hesitated. “Did you hear anything outside?”

“No.” The perceptive grad student eyed her. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Of course.”

“Then why are you sweating?”