Black Flagged Apex

Chapter 13





12:08 AM

Masjid (Mosque) Mohammad

Newark, New Jersey



Aleem Fayed sat in a chair they had dragged down from the classroom attached to the prayer hall. He faced Hamid Abdul Muhammad, who sat unharmed on a small wooden stool they had found in the basement. His hands and feet were tied to the stool, to prevent him from doing anything more than hurt himself if he should try to stand up. The basement had proved to be the best possible location they could have secured on short notice. They could have rented a hotel room by the hour in one of the seediest sections of town, where strange noises and even screams wouldn't raise any eyebrows. Or they could have used the rental house that had been secured this morning in an equally questionable part of town. The house had a basement and might become their only option if the Imam proved resistant to their accelerated mental and physical torture routine.

He suspected that they would have more success with physical torture. The Imam had grown soft in America, having expanded his waist at a rate that must have alarmed his handlers in the Middle East. When he arrived to preach hate and recruit terrorists eight years ago, he looked slim and fit in his traditional white garments. Now, he more closely resembled a bearded version of the late John Belushi. His white prayer robes must have gone through several alterations to cover the man sweating in the chair in front of them.

They hadn't spoken a word to him since finding him jammed into a cabinet in his upstairs office. He had left the basement door open, hoping to trick them into hastily plunging down the stairs, but Tariq had noticed two formidable slide bolts on the back of the door. If they had thoughtlessly rushed into the basement, Hamid could have easily barricaded the door and tried to escape. The single, bare light bulb in the basement was controlled from a switch inside of his office, which would have compounded their problem. They would have been locked inside an unfamiliar, pitch-black basement with the success of their mission now hinged upon the three technicians sitting in a van two blocks away. Sanderson would have never forgiven them if they had lost the Imam.

Tariq called down from the office above. "It looks like we're ready to go."

Aleem smiled at Hamid and started phase two of their plan to get him talking quickly. He hoped to have this wrapped up in under two hours. The silent treatment was just a short tension builder. Done properly, they would isolate Hamid for as long as it would take to get him to initiate contact. Tonight, they didn't have that kind of time.

"Imam Muhammad, As-Salaam Alaikum. You're in a deep pile of shit right now. You understand that, right?"

Hamid didn't respond in any way. His expression remained the same, and his gaze focused on an indeterminate point beyond Aleem. Tariq descended the stairs with their black duffle bag and walked behind the Imam. He dropped the bag to the ground and unzipped it.

"Eventually you'll talk. They all do."

Silence penetrated the room, and the Imam didn't waver. Aleem nodded imperceptibly to Tariq, who had removed a can of hair spray, a lighter and a black cloth bag. Less than a second later, Hamid Muhammad's head was engulfed in flames from the aerosol can. He immediately panicked and screamed, trying desperately to stand. Tariq had anticipated his sudden movement and forced the black bag down over his head, pulling down on the sides of the bag.

The bag served two purposes. The first was to extinguish the flames and the second was to keep him from tipping over. Tariq held the bag in place while Aleem beat the sides of the hood to ensure the fire had been stopped. Hamid stopped thrashing and started to recover his composure, just as Tariq pulled the bag's drawstrings tight.

The calmness slowly morphed back into desperation, as Hamid struggled to breathe what little oxygen had slipped into the bag. He gave it another twenty seconds for him to take in the stench of his own burnt hair and singed skin before giving Tariq the signal to remove the hood. When the hood was yanked off his head, the Imam's smug look was gone, replaced by sheer panic. Besides some burnt hair that still smoldered, there appeared to be little physical damage from the fire.

"Do I have your attention now, or do I need to light your head on fire again? This time I'll start with your beard."

"You're not the police!" he gasped.

"No. I'm about as far from the police as you can get."

"Then who are you? Mossad?"

"You might wish we were the Mossad at some point tonight. Even the Mossad has a few rules," Aleem said.

Hamid regarded him with a concerned look, which gave Aleem some hope that they might be able to wrap this up quickly. They had quickly broken the impassive wall the Imam had erected to stall them.

"You have a big problem, Hamid," Aleem said.

"And what might that be?"

"You betrayed your own cause. Shameful really. An entire network of Al Qaeda sleeper cells wiped out because of your greed and immorality."

"What are you talking about?" Hamid said, trying to glance behind him.

"Let's not f*ck around here. We know that the European network shipped fifty-eight canisters of a very nasty virus to the United States. Originally, there were several targets in Europe, but the Russian scientist went rogue and panicked your colleagues overseas. Forty of them went directly to your cells and eighteen went to True America, who then turned right around and betrayed you. Two of your cells survived, but one was just slaughtered trying to deliver the virus to their target. America is on high alert. The only targets you might have left are a few lemonade stands in your very own Muslim neighborhoods because I think the tolerance level for sweaty Arabs in most neighborhoods just hit an all-time low."

Hamid looked surprised at the level of information provided by Aleem. "What does this have to do with greed?"

"You're the one that f*cked over your own people. How else could the FBI roll up the conspiracy so quickly? Facing charges of collecting and disseminating child pornography, you tried to strike a deal with True America to finance your disappearance to a comfortable compound in Mexico. In exchange for the remaining virus canisters, three million dollars appears in a Cayman Islands account with your name on it, but is suddenly seized by the same agency that made the deposit. Surprise. You made the deal with undercover FBI agents posing as members of True America. Imagine the FBI's surprise when suddenly confronted with Al Qaeda's conspiracy to poison U.S. cities. And they just thought you might be running some kind of child trafficking ring with domestic extremists. This is going to be a hard story to explain to your colleagues in the Guantanamo Bay Detention Camp. Especially with all of the sordid details we can selectively leak into your cell block."

"The True America pigs are the ones that betrayed me. This is a fact," Hamid spat.

"Fact. Fiction. Details really. We can make this look like whatever we want. We have all of the addresses for your sleeper cell network. We'll publish this list. Trust me, your friends will wonder how in the hell we could have acquired this. Of course, the cell responsible for shipping the virus in Frankfurt disappeared without a trace, as they had no doubt been instructed."

"It won't matter. The faithful will never believe what you throw into your false media."

"You'll spend so much of your time explaining these amazing circumstances that I doubt there will be any time left for your duties as an Imam. You'll meet some of your former recruits, who will remember you as a defiant firebrand Imam. Imagine what they'll think when you show up to join them. They'll see you as a soft, corrupted traitor that capitulated to Western excess and sin."

"When my plan succeeds, I will be hailed as the greatest hero. The one who struck the most vicious blow against the Great Satan. You have no true idea how many canisters are still in circulation. Your government can't protect everyone."

"Would you like me to show you the actual list? I have a picture of it on my phone. It's a little hard to read. One of my operatives cut it out of Naeem Hassan's stomach. He swallowed the list. Can you believe that? Completely unexpected. This left us wondering how many other Al Qaeda operatives carried secrets to their graves. Disembowelment and an invasive stomach search is now part of our standard operating procedure. You can thank Mr. Hassan for that."

Hamid sighed, which Aleem knew was a subtle sign of resignation. Aleem had been watching him closely.

"Hamid, eight out of the ten sites were taken down by True America. Turn on the news and you'll see what happened to the ninth team. Give me the tenth team and any information related to your contact with True America, and I will arrange your immediate transit to Saudi Arabia, where you can start over. You have been betrayed by True America. Frankly, we don't know their motivations for stealing all of the virus. I need links to the group, contact information. Some kind of way to set up a meeting to deliver the remaining virus canisters. I need the last cell to make this happen. I need their identities so we can pose as this team and resurface. I also need to be able to report to my people that we are only facing one threat. You'll have to sacrifice this team."

"I'll never betray my brothers," Hamid said.

"They've already been betrayed. If you don't help us with this, you'll go to Guantanamo as a filthy child pornographer and traitor to your own cause. We'll put together a scenario that will be impossible for you to explain. Trust me on this."

Hamid remained silent.

"This will be easy for you. You'll report that the ninth cell was killed trying to accomplish their mission and that the final cell has been killed by True America. We'll make it look like the other attacks. Nobody will know the difference, and you'll vanish, only to reappear at some later date. We'll keep you hidden from the government until we can verify your information. Once verified, we'll start the process of getting you out of the country. Wherever you choose."

"It won't be that easy. I can't just go running back to the mosques in Saudi Arabia. It would make no sense. And I can't simply appear in Pakistan or anywhere for that matter. If the plan failed, they'll be looking for me."

"That's not my problem. I can only guarantee to get you to your chosen destination."

"How do I know you won't shoot me in the back of the head after I tell you what you want to know?"

"I swear by Allah."

"And your friend?"

"I swear by Allah as well," Tariq said.

"This is no coincidence, Hamid. I'm not the most faithful Muslim, but I am a Muslim. The Prophet has given you another chance. Before we arrived, you had nothing. Your last remaining operational cell is useless given the circumstances. All is lost, and I guarantee there is no way you could escape the country without our help. Maybe you'll disappear and never be heard from again, or maybe you'll continue the fight. That's not for me to decide. It is His will, and we are all given different paths."

"It is truly His will," Hamid conceded.

"We'll need to move you to a more secure location. The FBI is working on a warrant to enter the mosque. Right now it's under surveillance from the outside. We've identified two vans and an apartment with a view of the front and back doors," he said.

"How will you get me out of here?"

"Easy enough, I hope. Just follow our directions without question. Understood?" Aleem said.

Hamid nodded. He directed Tariq to join him in the upstairs office to coordinate the escape, which would require the surveillance team to earn their paycheck. When they arrived at the top of the stairs, Tariq turned to Aleem and whispered, "What was that speech all about?"

Aleem grabbed his arm and moved him toward the back of the office, away from the stairwell.

"Hope. Without hope, he'll put up another barrier. We don't have time for that."

"Well, my hope is that you don't really plan to let him go free," Tariq said.

"Of course not, he's dead as soon as we confirm the information needed to move the investigation forward."


**

Ten minutes later, Special Agent Janice Riehms stared through her binoculars at a van approaching Masjid Muhammad's side entrance on Sussex Avenue. The white Dodge Sprinter van drove at a normal speed as it neared the last remaining stop sign separating it from the mosque. From her observation post in the front window of a third-story apartment at the intersection of Jay and Sussex, she had a clear view of the mosque's front and side entrances. Since Hamid Muhammad had become the center of the FBI's attention, four additional agents had been assigned to the two-bedroom apartment, shrinking the space considerably, but ensuring that they could accurately screen every person coming in and out of the mosque.

Attendance had dropped considerably throughout the day, making their jobs slightly easier. The facial recognition software tied to their surveillance cameras gave them an initial "probability of match" analysis within a second of a face appearing at the door. If any of the faces were obscured from sight, back-up cameras installed on the roofs of two additional locations along Jay Street would ensure they could capture a digital image. Failing that, undercover FBI agents mobilized along Jay and Sussex during prayer times could approach the suspect and confirm their identity. They had coordinated three on street "interactions" today, which likely explained the shrinking number of attendees at the mosque. Word travelled quickly throughout the Muslim community.

"I have a van approaching from the west on Sussex. White with no rear windows. Looks like a cargo van," she said to the two agents watching the flat-screen monitors.

Two additional agents appeared in the doorway to observe. Tensions had been heating up all day, but sunset prayer put them all on high alert. The three young men that always stayed behind in the mosque had been joined by two additional men. One of them had entered for sunset prayer and failed to emerge an hour later. The other appeared two blocks away on Jay Street and waited outside of the front door for a few minutes before entering. Nearly three hours later, none of them had exited the mosque, which gave Special Agent Riehms the impression that they were plotting to help the Imam escape.

"Notify mobile SWAT units," she ordered.

"Got it. Units notified. I have the van leaving the stop sign. We'll be watching closely," replied one of the agents in front of the monitors.

The entire internal bedroom wall had been occupied with long folding tables and computer equipment. Four flat-screen monitors showed the separate surveillance feeds, and one larger monitor held their command and control interface. The agent who had just responded typed the SWAT notification, which was instantly transferred to both of the Suburbans. The SUVs were parked one block away, effectively sandwiching Jay Street. Each vehicle carried five SWAT agents, including the driver, and could move into a blocking position to prevent the escape of a vehicle leaving the mosque.

"Confirmed. Van is approaching the mosque," Riehms said.

She watched the van pass the side entrance and suddenly stop. Three figures darted from the mosque's door, disappearing behind the van.

"F*ck! They're loading him into the van!" she said, continuing to watch.

"I have the van stopped at the intersection of Jay and Sussex, turning left onto Jay. I didn't see it stop," said the agent watching the screen.

Another agent mumbled agreement. Through her binoculars, she saw the van speed through the intersection and turn right onto Jay Street. She ran from the window to the computer monitor.

"What the f*ck are you talking about? I just watched it pick up three men and turn right onto Jay. Get SWAT moving south to intercept!"

"The van turned left. Take a look. Nobody left the mosque," the agent said.

"I saw it with my own f*cking eyes. We're going to lose the Imam. Send SWAT south. The van has to turn on Central Ave. Either way, one of our teams can intercept!"

There was a two-second delay as puzzled agents traded glances. She didn't like the fact that they were questioning her judgment, but she could understand their confusion. The computer monitor playback clearly showed the van turning left. Something was wrong here.

"Open a channel to SWAT," Riehms said as the agent typed her initial intercept request into the computer.

"I just fired off the order. They'll have plenty of time to intercept if the van went right. Should I notify non-tactical units to proceed north, just to cover our asses?"

"Fine. Send them north," she said, grabbing the headset offered to her by the agent. "SWAT Mobile this is Overlook. Proceed south to intercept a white Dodge Sprinter van. No back windows. Minimum of four onboard, possibly including our target. How copy, over?"

A static-filled voice responded, "This is SWAT Mobile. My unit has just passed Dickerson Street. Less than five seconds away from a blocking position on Central Avenue. Sister unit is approaching Central along Hudson. Stand by for visual confirmation."

A few tense seconds passed as they waited for the truth. Agent Riehms thought about contacting the non-tactical units, but decided against it. She had seen the van turn right; there was no point contacting them, unless the van didn't show up on Central Avenue. There was no way for the van to break through Jay onto one of the adjoining streets and double back. They had confirmed this during a tactical assessment of the neighborhood. If the van didn't appear on Central, the only possible explanation was that it had stopped.

"Can you call up a map that shows our units' positions? We might need to guide them if the van tries to double back."

"One second," the agent replied, typing away.

All of the agents assigned to the stakeout were huddled around the computer monitor, blocking her view of the larger, central screen. She moved to a more centralized location to view the map.

"Agent Bedford, take these and make sure the van doesn't come back down Jay Street," she said, giving the binoculars to the newest agent to join her team.

"Yes, ma'am."

When the agent reached the window, her headset came to life.

"Suspect van just turned left onto Central Avenue. Moving forward to block. My second unit is less than fifty feet behind them. Send back-up units! The van just slowed and is now turning into oncoming traffic! Unit two just rammed them from behind. Stand by. Out."

The line went dead.

"Send FBI and police units to their location, Central Avenue between Norfolk and Hudson. Give them one of our radio frequencies for coordination. What the f*ck? Why does this map show all of our units headed north? You ordered SWAT south, right?"

"Yes! You just talked to them! Where did they say they were?"

"On Central Avenue," she muttered, utterly confused.

"SWAT Mobile, this is Overlook. What is your status, over?"

"Overlook. This is SWAT Mobile. I just turned left on Orange. No sign of the suspect van. Approaching Jay Street. Do you want me to turn down Jay and start searching? I can keep unit two at the top of the street to prevent an escape."

"SWAT Mobile. You just reported to me that you had engaged the suspect van on Central Avenue? Confirm your location again?" she said.

"I'm at the top of Jay Street. I've been taking my orders from the mobile tablet. I haven't sent an update since we started driving north," the voice replied.

"They drove north? Shit!" she yelled.

"His GPS location matches. According to the system, both SWAT Mobile units are at the northern end of Jay Street."

"Something is wrong with the system. Can you play back my conversation with SWAT Mobile?" she said.

"Which one?"

"The one supposedly on Central Avenue. Put it on speaker," she ordered.

Three seconds later, her conversation echoed through the room, filling her with dread. There was a stark difference between the two voices and the quality of the transmission. Her conversation with the SWAT leader on Central Avenue had been full of static, and there was something off with the voice.

"What do you hear in that conversation?" she asked the other agents.

"I don't mean this to sound like a racial comment, but it sounded like you were on a bad connection with Dell technical support in Bangalore, India."

Nobody laughed at his comment.

"Is it possible for this system to be hijacked or hacked?" Agent Riehms asked.

"It's not impossible," conceded the agent sitting in front of the command screen.

"Shit. Communicate with cell phones only, until we figure out what happened. I want all units headed south. We have to assume they're already on Central Avenue. I want blocks set up at every entrance to Interstate 280 for ten miles in either direction. Can you give us a directory of cell phone numbers for everyone assigned to our group?"

The agent typed a few commands, and a list appeared. He ordered the computer to print several copies. Agent Riehms entered the numbers for the SWAT team leader's cell phone and pressed send. A second later, she heard a buzzing sound coming from Agent Bedford, who was dutifully watching Jay Street through his binoculars. He reached for his belt and took out his Blackberry. When he read the screen, he lowered the binoculars and held up the phone so she could see the screen.

"I think it's safe to assume that our system was hacked," Agent Bedford said, "unless you misdialed an entire cell phone number."


**

Aleem Fayed hit the van's sliding door and toppled to the carpeted floor, keeping a grip on Hamid Muhammad's arm. Tariq had fared better during the wild turn, having immediately grabbed the only permanently affixed passenger seat available in the back of the converted van. Tariq had expressed his concern about using the surveillance team for this kind of a precision timed maneuver, but they really didn't have a choice. If he had left the mosque at midnight to join up with the van, there was a solid chance that the FBI would follow him. The van took another sharp turn, which elicited a few excited hollers and sent Aleem careening into Tariq and Hamid.

"Take it easy, Graves! We're clear! The last thing we need is to attract any local police attention. Cars speeding around corners at midnight attract a lot of attention! Slow the f*ck down!"

"All right! All right! I just wanted to get us off Central Avenue. We're fine. Right in the middle of Rutgers University. I'll cruise us through campus, and we'll head south," Timothy Graves said.

Graves was the leader and default driver for the team, which had fallen short by one over the course of the past week. They had lost their secondary hacker, Benjamin Weindorf, to a startup computer security company that had just secured several million dollars of funding from the U.S. Navy. Tariq had personally visited Weindorf upon arriving in the States, to impress upon the young man that any mention of his previous "benefactor" would result in an early burial. Graves had been unable to find a trustworthy replacement in such a short period of time, but they might not need one in the future. Their primary systems hacker seemed more than capable of handling the excess workload.

Anish Gupta raised his hands above his head, palms facing upward, and slowly pumped his arms up and down. "Raise the roof, bitches! Those motherf*ckers have no idea what just hit them. Watch this!" he said, typing a command on his keyboard.

"All mobile units, this is over watch. Suspect van spotted heading north on Mount Prospect Ave. Local units in pursuit. Proceed down Clifton Avenue to Bloomfield Avenue for intercept. Set up a block at intersection of Clifton and Bloomfied."

Through the speaker, they all heard several units responding affirmatively to his command.

"I'm tracking them by individual cell phone. Every FBI unit is headed north on Clifton. Local police are a different story. Agents at over watch successfully made several calls to 911," Gupta said. "He doesn't look too badly burned," he added, nodding at Hamid.

The Imam lay flat on the van floor with a fresh band of duct tape over his mouth. They had kept the duct tape off while transporting him to the van, in order to maintain the appearance that his escorted departure was an escape. Aleem sat on his chest, keeping him pinned to the floor until they were far enough away to risk propping him up in a seat.

"How long until they get their shit together?" Aleem asked.

"Not long. They'll unscrew the cell phone issue shortly. I just scrambled their directories, so if they didn't have a number memorized, they'd dial the wrong number. I didn't mess with their back-up system at the field office, so they'll probably get a data refresh. Depends on who's working IT at the field office. If it was me, I would sever all connection to the mobile site. I'd order them to physically cut the f*cking cable modem wires. Not that it would matter. I already have full access to the field office. This was more fun than I had anticipated."

"He's going to drive me crazy, isn't he?" Aleem asked Graves.

"You get used to it. He's one of the best in the business…and he actually seems to enjoy this cloak and dagger shit," Graves said.

"Good. Because this looks like the very beginning of a long operation. We'll need to do something with this van before we reach the safe house. How portable is all of your equipment?"

"Thirty minutes to strip it down, including the antenna and satellite rig. We'll probably have to burn the van," Gupta said.

"Really? Now our friend here is operational?" Aleem said, eliciting a laugh from everyone in the van that didn't have his mouth taped.

"Just saying," Gupta responded. "Our fingerprints and DNA are all over this biatch."

"Where did you find a gangsta Hindu computer hacker?" Tariq asked.

"He found me, and this is nothing, by the way. He's actually behaving for you guys," Graves replied, turning the van gently onto a crowded urban street.

"Wonderful," Aleem said.

Tariq and Aleem watched the traffic around the van closely for signs of unwanted law enforcement attention. Aleem spotted a three-story parking garage coming up on the opposite side of the road, which appeared to be connected to the Sheraton hotel towering over it.

"Graves, let's pull into that parking garage and find a new ride. We won't last much longer on the road if they successfully issue an APB. There's too much traffic out here," Aleem said.

"I can take care of the APB. I'm tapped into the State Police and local Newark Police network," Gupta said.

"Forget it. You'll lose satellite as soon as we duck into the garage. Start disassembling the gear," Aleem said.

"Can I call you Aleem G? It's so close to Ali G. You know who I'm talking about, right? HBO series?" Gupta said.

Aleem regarded the young Indian man strapped into a swivel bucket seat that had been bolted into the middle of the rear cargo compartment. Both of his hands typed away at one of the keyboards on the metal cargo table. He could see that the heavy-duty table had been welded to the left side of the van at several points. All of the equipment had been secured in custom-made metal holsters and strapped down with industrial-grade Velcro straps. The entire set up, Anish Gupta included, looked like it could survive a multiple rollover accident. It was hard to get mad at someone who looked so ridiculous and so serious at the same time.

"No. To all of your questions," Aleem said.

"Maybe I can just call you G?"

"How about you start getting all of this equipment ready for transfer and I'll think of a name. It'll probably sound a lot like Aleem."

"No sense of humor. F*ck. I get it. Mouth shut," the young man said.

Aleem continued to stare past Gupta, examining traffic through the rear window. He knew the young techie understood the stakes up front, but from behind his computers, this was still more or less a game to him. He didn't see the dead bodies in the mosque, and he wasn't there when they engulfed Hamid's head in flames. And he wouldn't be there when they put a bullet in the terrorist's head. Hopefully, this would continue to feel like somewhat of a game for him. A game at this point that would land him in federal prison as an accessory to murder, among dozens of additional charges related to interfering with a federal investigation and hacking federal databases…and this was only the beginning.