Authors: A.M. Khalifa
Monica rushed to call Deputy Director Benny Marino about the sudden turn of events. Marino listened as she recapped Seth
’
s singular demand and his multi-layered threats of violence if they failed to meet it. The conversation was on the loudspeaker in the room.
“It doesn
’
t seem we have much legroom here, Monica, at least not in light of what Detroit is telling us.”
“With all due respect, sir, I disagree. We
’
ve just made our biggest break in this case. We now know what he wants, and who he
’
s associated with. Give us a chance to process this evidence and try to solve the case, rather than cower to their bullying. This is still what we do, sir, isn
’
t it? Solve crimes and apprehend criminals to protect this country?”
“How much time do you need? And what is it you think you can achieve, Monica?”
“We have seven hours. If you can give me at least three, I think we can figure out an angle.”
Monica must be insane to think three hours was nearly enough time to crack this case.
“And then what? What if despite your hard work, after your time
’
s up, we
’
re still unable to rescue Julia? And let
’
s assume we
save her, how about the hostages and the fireworks he
’
s planted in midtown Manhattan? In fact—how about the remaining daycares with all those kids? If I give you three hours and you give me nothing, we
’
ll have no time to meet their demands, and that
’
s unacceptable.”
“You
’
re right, sir.” Monica
’
s face was flushed. Blackwell knew how much she hated to be pushed against a wall, stripped of any meaningful options.
“I have no problem with you trying to crack this case while you wait, but let
’
s consider it Plan B, Vlasic. Plan A will be to clear this with the president and commence the procedures necessary to meet their demands.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, sir.”
Blackwell was certain Marino wasn
’
t Monica
’
s real source of frustration. She was ticked off because the course of action he was proposing was essentially their only choice.
Marino continued, “Monica, please don
’
t sulk. We need to be pragmatic here. This is not our fight, we just happened to get caught in the middle of it. You need to ask yourself what is worth more to us, the lives of hundreds of Americans, or two convicted terrorists? You know how predictable these guys are. Nabulsi and Madi will probably end up in Kandahar with their pants down just like these scumbags always do. And we
’
ll nail
’
em then.”
“I understand. I do—”
“Monica, I
’
ll cut you a deal. If you come back to me at any point in the next three hours with a three-pronged, foolproof counterattack, I
’
ll give you what you want. I
’
ll call off the exchange.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Now there
’
s one smart bastard, thought Blackwell.
“I was an analyst with the CIA covering Egypt and Sudan in 2005, when that attack happened.” Robert Slant spoke out of the blue as if he was at Spooks Anonymous. As if no one else in the room had known about his past. He explained how the CIA had assisted the Egyptian intelligence service, the
Mukhabarat
, in the immediate aftermath of the explosions. There was no one more qualified than Slant to jump-start the briefing on the attack.
According to Slant, early on July 23, 2005, two near-simultaneous explosions obliterated the old town of Sharm El Sheikh and a luxury beachside resort. One hundred and eighty three people were killed.
Slant claimed there was never any doubt Nabulsi and Madi were guilty of implementing the attacks. They were apprehended near the sleepy town of Dahab less than an hour after the second explosion had rocked the upscale Spring Roy resort on the main beach of Sharm El Sheikh.
Egyptian police found them with guns and traces of explosives. They also had sophisticated communication gear and a set of fake Turkish passports. Not to mention floor plans of the Spring Roy resort and a lot of foreign currency. Eyewitnesses and security footage salvaged from the hotel confirmed they
’
d been staking their targets a week before the attacks.
“Did they have a fair trial, though?” Blackwell wanted to understand Seth
’
s claims that the men were innocent and not just take Slant
’
s official version as the gospel.
“Inasmuch as you can get a fair trial in a police state, with draconian emergency laws in place. But it was beside the point. These guys did nothing to cover their tracks. Nothing meaningful, anyway.” Given the high-profile nature of the case, Slant explained, jurisdiction to try it had been moved to Cairo, away from El Tor, the tiny capital of the South Sinai governorate.
Nishimura had accessed the FBI
’
s files on the case the moment Seth had made his demands. He clicked on a remote control to cycle through various pictures of Nabulsi and Madi on trial, caged like dangerous animals in a court in Cairo. The two Jordanians were young, probably in their mid-twenties at the time. They both had deep prayer scars on their foreheads and long beards.
Before Nishimura moved on to images from the explosions, Slant warned things were about to get graphic. These weren
’
t the pictures the public would see on the news media after a major terrorist attack. This was the unedited evidence taken from the scene of the crime by the first responders. The sort that leave a lingering smell in your nostrils. Pictures of human bodies charred to the bone. Blood splattered in diabolical patterns. Body parts still intact but nowhere near the bodies they were severed from. Fragments of human belongings that hadn
’
t burned in the explosion. Objects separated from their deceased owners that told stories of their own. Colorful beach buckets with collected shells. A wedding dress still unworn. An iPod stuck on the last track its owner was listening to. Souvenirs collected from previous stops along the holiday journey—mementos that never made it out of Egypt. Relics of death and destruction.
Slant motioned to Nishimura to stop the images as he pushed his white-framed glasses on top of his head.
“The attacks were claimed by a group previously unheard of—”
“The Amir Morsi Brigades,” Nishimura followed up for him.
“Yes, that
’
s them, I think. It was their first and last attack. A one-hit wonder on the terror charts.” Slant looked down at the table and rubbed his hair as if it would massage out of his brain the finer details of the attacks. He paused for a beat and then continued.
“The precise details of the investigation escape me now, but one thing I remember well is the massive volume of incriminating evidence against these two.”
Slant recalled how back then it had seemed that whoever had masterminded the attack had been keen for Nabulsi and Madi to take the fall for it. And given their backgrounds, there was no way for these two to have thought of this on their own, let alone have the resources to bankroll it. Nabulsi had been a math teacher in Amman, and Madi an unemployed graphic designer in Irbid.
“Were they related, or did they know each other before the attack?”
“No, Alex. If my memory serves me well, they claimed they met for the first time on a ferry from Jordan to Sharm El Sheikh.”
Nishimura took over from Slant and read straight from the case files. According to the CIA, both were interviewing for jobs as bellboys at the Spring Roy resort. Neither of them got the job so they stuck around for a few weeks in Sharm El Sheikh looking for other opportunities. When neither found one, they shared a taxi back to the port of Newabaa, where they would hop on a ferry to Jordan.
Their lawyers asserted when Nabulsi and Madi were intercepted by the police, there was an Egyptian taxi driver with them, who was arrested, never again to be seen. Their entire defense was built on this phantom taxi driver who they claimed, as the owner of the vehicle, was responsible for its contents.
Monica didn
’
t seem too convinced. “How did they explain the fake passports, the foreign currency, and the traces of explosives on their bodies?”
Nishimura skimmed some more until he got to the part that answered her question. Madi was a graphic designer. His lawyers told the courts he and Nabulsi had hatched a plan to smuggle themselves on a European cruise ship from Jordan heading to Athens. While they were hanging out in Sharm El Sheikh looking for other jobs, Madi said he
’
d designed fake Turkish passports for the two of them to enter Greece illegally, from where they would make their way to Italy to look for work.
Monica pushed on. “And the explosives?”
“They claimed the taxi driver had asked them to help him load some luggage in the car, and that
’
s when the trace elements could have transferred to them.”
“How about the cash?”
Nishimura skimmed a little bit more. “Their lawyers said it was Nabulsi and Madi
’
s combined life savings, and money they had both borrowed to finance their move to Sharm El Sheikh.”
Blackwell thought hard before speaking. What he was about to say would be controversial.
“Robert, you said the evidence against these guys was too good to be true, and someone more powerful and with more resources must have paid for this. Could they have been framed? I don
’
t see any major holes in their stories. Why are we so sure they
’
re guilty?”
“These guys were guilty, Blackwell. Forget the cock-and-bull story spawned by their lawyers.”
Slant asked Nishimura to skip ahead to the evidence provided by Jordanian intelligence. According to the report, the Jordanians had been tracking a Bosnian criminal operative in the months prior to the Sharm El Sheikh attacks. The man in question, Demir Salimovic, had suspected ties to terrorist cells. He was a former Bosnian army officer in his fifties who had become inexplicably wealthy since the end of the war in his country in
’
ninety-five.
Salimovic, a monstrous kiddy porn impresario, had been on the FBI
’
s most wanted list for crimes against children and was wanted in Europe for human trafficking. He was flying in and out of Amman up to four times a month. The Jordanians were preparing a sting operation to nab him, but he disappeared into thin air, and he hadn
’
t resurfaced since.
Once again Nishimura accessed the FBI photo bank, and displayed a series of images on the main screen in the room.
“Nabulsi and Madi were photographed with Salimovic as far back as April of 2005. Not only were they lying about not knowing each other before Sharm El Sheikh, but they were meeting with a known criminal and a terror operative.”
“I think you
’
re right, Bob. I think they did it.” Blackwell stared at Salimovic
’
s face in the last picture Nishimura had displayed. He had a large moustache and merciless eyes. This wasn
’
t the first time Blackwell had heard of Salimovic. He had worked on a joint child pornography sting operation with the Australians in
’
ninety-nine. They had come close to catching him in Indonesia, but just like his performance in Amman, he had disappeared right before the surveillance teams were able to get any meaningful evidence to warrant an arrest.
Monica
’
s phone started to ring. “This is Vlasic.” She put a finger to her lips to signal to Slant and Blackwell to stop talking while she took the call. She didn
’
t say much. Just nodded her head and bit her lips while the person on the other line did all the talking. “Okay, I
’
ll pass that on,” she said and hung up.
“The President has approved the exchange of Julia Price for the two Jordanians. The White House is contacting our embassy in Cairo as we speak to put the request to the Egyptians.”
Slant shook his head and rolled his eyes as far up as they could possibly go without looking like a freak. “It
’
s not a given the Egyptians will agree to this. The army generals running the show have been royal pricks since the fall of Mubarak.” He knew his stuff when it came to the Middle East. No one at the Bureau could summon analysis and facts on demand like he did, and Monica trusted him.
Nishimura jumped from his seat abruptly. “Something
’
s just come in.” He took center stage and clicked his remote control. Footage of the wreckage of an airplane being salvaged in the middle of the ocean played on center screen.