The Terrorist Next Door (15 page)

Chapter
30

“DO YOU EXPECT ME TO THANK YOU?”

Zibari met Gold and Battle with an icy glare as they stood outside the battered door to his one-room apartment. His left hand rested on one of his three dead-bolt locks. He wore a white T-shirt and a pair of Bulls shorts. “It’s three-thirty in the morning,” he snapped.

Gold kept his tone measured. “Mind if we come in?”

“Do I have any choice?”

No
. “Please, Ibrahim.”

Zibari’s room was barely large enough to fit a tattered black sofa, a second-hand TV, and a bookcase crammed with religious texts and thriller novels. An Arabic-language website appeared on his iPad. The kitchen consisted of a sink, a hot plate, and a mini-fridge. His window was caked with grime, blocking most of the lights from the McDonald’s across the street. The only decoration was a dog-eared poster of Derrick Rose tacked to the oatmeal wall. Gold took a seat on the couch. Battle stood near the door.

“I’ve been hearing sirens all night,” Zibari said. “I heard about the bus at 35th. I saw the police downstairs.”

Gold played it straight. “The call to the detonator on the bus was placed from the payphone downstairs. You know anything about it?”

Zibari’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve been here all night. You can check with the cops who’ve been watching me.”

“We already did. You didn’t make the call.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Did you see anybody place a call from downstairs?”

“No.”

“You think it’s just a coincidence that the bomber used the payphone outside your building?”

“You think somebody is trying to set me up?”

“You think he used the phone downstairs because he liked hanging out at 47th and Cottage at two in the morning? You’re lucky our people were watching you, Ibrahim. Otherwise, you’d already have a six-by-six condo at 26th and Cal.”

“Do you expect me to thank you?”

“No, I expect you to help us. A guy who’s killed twenty people knows where you live. So does the press. The news vans are already outside. The helicopters are on their way. Help us and we’ll run interference for you. Otherwise, you’re on your own.”

“That’s not fair, David.”

“Life’s not fair, Ibrahim. Who knows you live here?”

“Lots of people.”

“Anybody mad at you? Threats? Hate mail?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“What about your neighbors? Maybe some idiot doesn’t like living next door to the imam of a terrorist.”

“I barely know them. You think somebody decided to fight terror with terror?”

“I stopped looking for rational answers after this wing-nut set off the bomb at the Art Institute. Now I just want to stop him. What about a member of your mosque?”

“It’s a house of peace.”

“You keep saying that. Maybe somebody is trying to make it look like your house isn’t so peaceful.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. To scare you. To get you to leave. To make you look bad. To make all Muslims look bad. A group called
the Islamic Freedom Federation is taking credit for the bombings.”

“Never heard of it.”

“We’d like your permission to conduct a full search of this apartment and your mosque. And we need to go through your computer, e-mails, and phones. We can get a warrant, but it’ll make things easier if you cooperate.”

“I thought you said I wasn’t a suspect.”

“You aren’t. We want to see if anybody has contacted you who might be on a watch list.”
And we want to make sure there’s nothing on your computer that would implicate you.

Zibari considered his options. “I’ll give you the passwords to my computer and my phone. I have absolutely nothing to hide.”

Chapter
31

“NOBODY ELSE GOES DOWN ON MY WATCH”

Zibari was telling the truth. The search of his apartment and the Gates of Peace turned up empty. His e-mails and phone records uncovered no evidence of conspiracies or threats, and there were no suspicious transfers through his bank accounts. Several of his neighbors had criminal records, but there was no evidence of any overt animosity toward the Muslim community in general, or Zibari in particular. The search for the person who had placed the call from the payphone likewise was unsuccessful. Homeland Security ordered the shutdown of service to all payphones within the Chicago city limits.

At five-forty-five on Wednesday morning, Gold and Battle were sitting in Chicago PD’s command center in a conference room on the second floor of headquarters, a short walk from the intersection where the #4 bus had exploded. They’d just received an update from the lieutenant supervising three dozen of Chicago PD’s best computer jockeys who were studying video from Millennium station, Rush Street, and the McDonald’s across the street from Zibari’s apartment. A second team was going through the records of the cell phones used in the bombings. A similar exercise was taking place at FBI headquarters.

Silver’s name appeared on Gold’s BlackBerry. “I just got a call from Earl the Pearl,” she said. “Zibari just hired him as his lawyer.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Gold said.

“Earl said you were hassling his new client.”

“The call to the detonator on the bus was placed from a payphone outside his apartment building. We didn’t think it was coincidence, so we questioned him. Turns out he didn’t place the call.”

“Earl said you tried to intimidate him.”

“Maybe a little.”

“You understand that sort of thing is frowned upon.”

“I’ve heard.”

* * *

At five to six, Maloney summoned Gold, Battle, the commanders from Area 1 and Area 2, and two assistant chiefs, for a status conference. The chief’s ceremonial office was a shrine to his favorite public servant—himself. Depending on your perspective, the wall behind his massive mahogany desk—a gift from the Eleventh Ward Democratic Club—was either a Hall of Fame or a rogue’s gallery of Chicago’s politicians. Portraits of Maloney’s five sons—all cops—were lined up on his credenza next to a state-of-the art laptop that wasn’t turned on. The only item not reeking of political cronyism or self-aggrandizement was a small plaque listing officers who had been killed in the line of duty during Maloney’s tenure. The last name was Paulie Liszewski’s.

The chief emerged from his private bathroom sporting a crisp white shirt and a fresh tie. “I will be addressing the press in a few minutes. I wanted to give you a preview.” He glanced down at his notes, then he looked up. “We are increasing the reward to a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. Every available officer has been called in for duty. Nobody’s going home until we catch this guy. We’ve posted National Guard troops and army reserves at every gas station within the Chicago city limits. Reinforcements are on their way to monitor busy intersections. If necessary, the President is prepared to send in additional troops. The El, Metra trains, and
CTA buses are down. O’Hare and Midway are on high alert, and passengers are subject to extra screenings. We’ve shut down throwaway cells and payphones. We’re considering the possibility of shutting down all non-essential service to conventional cell phones.” Maloney pointed a finger at Gold. “Have you heard anything from him?”

“No.”

“He’s set off eight bombs, Detective. You gotta give me something.”

“We’re going through every frame of video from the bombing sites. We have teams of detectives working each location. We have dozens of officers and FBI agents on the streets looking for witnesses. We’re tracking down everybody who rode the Cottage Grove bus. We have people going door to door within a three mile radius of 47th and Cottage.”

“Is he affiliated with a terrorist network? Does he have international connections?”

“The FBI has no evidence of any link to any known terror channel. They have nothing on the so-called Islamic Freedom Federation—if it exists. The Bureau thinks we’re dealing with one person or a small group who are unknown and off the grid.”

“There must be a connection to the Muslim community.”

“We have no evidence.”

“Then find some. Somebody must be paying for this.”

“He bought some throwaway cells, a few gallons of gas, and some gas cans. He’s stolen some cars and conventional cell phones. The whole plan has cost a couple hundred dollars.”

Maloney wasn’t satisfied. “What about Al-Shahid’s imam? The call to the bus was placed from the payphone outside his building.”

“We were watching him. He was sitting inside his apartment. He didn’t make the call.”

“Maybe he paid somebody.”

“We’ve had eyes on him since the first bomb went off. We’ve checked his bank accounts. We’ve been through his computer and cell phone. We have no evidence that he did.”

“What about Al-Shahid’s brother?”

“We have people watching him, too. He hasn’t left his brother’s condo since we talked to him yesterday afternoon.”

The chief placed his fingers on his spotless desk. “I need to give the press something, Gold.”

“Tell them we’re doing everything we can.”
And stop talking to them every five minutes.

“I need to give them more. Twenty people are dead. People are staying home and hoarding food. If we shut off the cell phones, the city will shut down completely.”

“That wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”

“We pay you to solve cases like this. I need to make this perfectly clear: nobody else goes down on my watch.”

* * *

The young man watched Maloney’s press conference on his laptop. The chief announced that the reward had been increased and that service to and from payphones had been suspended. It was only a matter of time before they cut off service to all cell phones, too. Not that it would matter; there were many ways to detonate untraceable bombs.

Don’t get cocky
.

On CNN, a leather-faced expert who had worked for Blackwater plugged his new book, then he stated with certainty that the Islamic Freedom Federation was a shadow organization backed by the Pakistani secret police.

Yeah, right.

He switched over to WGN, where Mojo was reporting from the McDonald’s at 47th and Cottage Grove. She noted that Zibari had been questioned, but not detained.

Attention to detail
.

Mojo threw it back to the studio, where the pretty anchorwoman replayed footage of troops guarding a gas station on Milwaukee Avenue. She invoked a melodramatic tone when she said that Homeland Security had set the terror threat at its highest level. She described more looting on the West Side and gunfire in Woodlawn. She noted that gas supplies were running low. She admonished viewers to report suspicious activity. Her voice filled with feigned disappointment when she said the Cubs-Giants game had been cancelled.

The Cubs can’t lose if they can’t play
.

He switched off his computer and used a gloved hand to pick up the handset of the land line on the desk in front of him. He punched in the number he’d memorized. He waited for an answer, then he replaced the handset in its cradle.

* * *

Gold and Battle were waiting for the elevator on the third floor of headquarters when the Area 1 commander summoned them back to Maloney’s office. The chief was standing at his desk. His right hand had a vise-like grip on the handset of his land line. His face was bright red as he screamed, “This isn’t happening!” Then he slammed down the phone.

He gathered himself, then spoke in a tense whisper. “A bomb just went off on the fourth level of the parking structure at O’Hare. There are casualties. The garage is on fire. The FAA has shut down O’Hare and Midway.” He took a breath. “At my suggestion, Homeland Security just ordered the suspension of service to every cell phone in the Chicago area except for law enforcement, fire, and emergency medical personnel.”

Chapter
32

“I NEED A TRACE RIGHT NOW”

Gold and Battle joined a convoy of police and emergency vehicles speeding north on the Dan Ryan toward the Kennedy. By the time they reached O’Hare, the western winds had carried a huge cloud of black smoke all the way to Lake Michigan, and the airport had devolved into a state of chaos. The FAA suspended air traffic. Disgruntled passengers were trapped in planes on the tarmacs. A similar scene was playing out at Midway. The ripple effect was felt worldwide.

Chicago PD shut down all roads leading into and out of O’Hare to make room for emergency vehicles. The inevitable gridlock meant that cars, cabs, and vans couldn’t transport thousands of passengers stranded inside the terminals. With the El and buses down and the parking garage closed, it became as difficult to get out of the airport as it was to get in. Frustrations were exacerbated by the fact that people couldn’t use cell phones or payphones to call their families or arrange for transportation. Many eventually left on foot, and the hotels on Manheim Road became make-shift emergency shelters. Others abandoned their luggage, creating several unnecessary bomb scares.

Inside the terminals, things went from bad to worse to intolerable. The news footage showed scenes reminiscent of the Super Dome after Hurricane Katrina. O’Hare’s security force—even supplemented by TSA personnel, Chicago PD, and National Guard troops—was no match for thousands of short-tempered travelers who couldn’t rebook their flights, retrieve their suitcases, or simply leave. Luggage areas were
jammed. Restrooms were overwhelmed. Restaurants and shops ran out of food. Conversations turned into arguments; arguments turned into shoving; shoving turned into fights. In one of the more surreal moments, two stranded college soccer teams came to blows over the last keg of beer in the American Airlines concourse.

There were also moments of great kindness and heroism. Young men and women from a college swim team pushed elderly travelers in wheelchairs three miles to a Burger King on Manheim Road, where their families eventually picked them up. Strangers banded together to form impromptu alliances to find transportation and lodging. A group of high school students who were in town for a debate tournament led hundreds of travelers on the two-mile walk to the rental car center on Coleman Drive.

The ceilings in the parking structure were too low to accommodate fire engines, so the firefighters blasted water from the outside until it was safe for smaller equipment and ambulances to enter the garage. Dozens of brave firefighters and EMTs fought their way up smoke-filled ramps to reach the injured. The detonator was helicoptered to FBI headquarters.

The mayor went on TV and made an impassioned—albeit futile—plea for calm. He promised to get the planes flying and the terminals cleared. The talking heads on TV and radio implored Chicagoans to lock up, stock up, and stay home. Some called for the resignation of the mayor, the head of Homeland Security, and the top brass at Chicago PD. A visibly shaken Maloney ordered in busloads of Chicago PD in riot gear to restore order.

At eight-fifteen—more than two hours after the bomb had detonated—a team of firefighters escorted Gold and Battle into the garage for a first-hand look at the carnage. Four deaths and fourteen injuries had been confirmed; more were expected. Gold’s stomach churned as they toured the fourth level of the garage, which looked like a moonscape. He got out of a fire department SUV and stared at the burnt-out shells of two dozen vehicles. EMTs were dealing with the horrific task of gathering charred body parts. “Can you believe this?” he said to Battle.

The veteran detective responded in a tone of disbelief and anger. “An asshole with some gas cans and a cell phone shut down O’Hare and Midway. Un-fucking-believable.”

It was the first time Gold had heard him swear. Gold quickly determined that the bomb had been detonated inside a Toyota Sienna minivan packed with gas cans. The flames had ricocheted off the low ceiling, creating a domino effect and igniting two rows of vehicles. The fireball had spread into an elevator bank, where most of the victims had died. The Sienna had been reported as stolen in Rogers Park on Saturday night. The owner was ruled out as a suspect. A security video showed the Sienna entering the garage at four-thirty on Sunday afternoon. The driver wasn’t visible through the tinted windshield. Chicago PD, the FBI, and O’Hare security were slogging through security videos for hints of the driver’s identity. Teams from the Bomb Squad had begun the painstakingly slow task of checking every vehicle in the garage for explosives. A similar exercise was underway at Midway.

* * *

The young man’s heart pounded with elation as he watched the footage from O’Hare on the CNN website. He silently commended himself for setting off the bomb at the airport after he had shut down the El, the Metra, and the buses. It had resulted in a level of chaos beyond his expectations.

He opened up his anonymous e-mail account and typed in a short message. He waited a moment, then he pressed Send.

He smiled triumphantly.

* * *

Gold was picking through the rubble of the Sienna when his BlackBerry vibrated. He had a new e-mail from an unidentified source. He opened it immediately.

It read, “How many more people need to die before you release Hassan? IFF.”

He typed in a response reading, “Please contact me. Prepared to negotiate.”

There was no answer.

Gold punched in Fong’s number. “I just got another e-mail,” he said.

“I know. So did I. So did the chief. So did Mojo and all of the media outlets in Chicago.”

“Trace?”

“No. Encrypted.”

Dammit
. “You got an ID on the detonator at O’Hare?”

“A cell phone owned by a woman who lives in Logan Square. My people are talking to her right now. She thinks it might have been stolen at a Laundromat on Saturday night. The security camera there wasn’t working.”

“You got a trace on the initiating phone?”

Fong’s voice was tense. “Working on it.”

Come on
. It couldn’t be a throwaway cell or a payphone. “I need a trace right now.”

Gold strained to hear as Fong spoke to one of his subordinates. The only words he could make out were, “You’re absolutely sure?”

Fong came back on the line. “The call was initiated from a land line at Albert Pick Hall at the U. of C.” He waited a beat. “It’s the extension for Mohammad Raheem’s graduate assistant: Karim Fayyadh.”