The Red Syndrome (16 page)

Hodson looked at Laura and me sitting across his desk. "That may
explain why there were no reports on these massive transfers. He `forgot."'

He pushed a button on his speakerphone. "John, get me Hayes from
legal; we need to get search warrants. Then take three messages from Dan
Gordon, two of which apparently have been deciphered already. Ask
NSA to break the third message and verify the accuracy of the decryption Dan and Laura have already made."

"Right away."

A moment later, another voice came on the speakerphone: "Joe Hayes."

"Joe, I'm sending Laura Higgins to your office. She'll give you all the
pertinent details for search warrants we need right away. I want you to
complete the paperwork immediately; get it before a federal judge within
the hour."

Laura left the room with the messages.

A short time later Joe Hayes, looking barely out of high school, walked
into Hodson's office with Laura, carrying a manila folder. Judge McElroy
was expected in his chambers in twenty minutes, he told Hodson. If
Hodson approved, Hayes would submit to the judge an affidavit, attached
to the warrant petition, asking that the entire file be sealed.

"I approve," snapped Hodson.

"The question is whether Judge McElroy will agree to it. He has a reputation for being tough on government search warrants. That could take
time," said Hayes.

"Do we have anyone else?" asked Hodson.

"No, he's the duty judge, unless you want to wait."

"No, I don't."

"Then it's Judge McElroy," said Hayes. "Who'll sign the supporting
affidavit?"

"I'll sign it," said Hodson. "Make sure the search warrants include wire
and computer tapping."

"I already included that," said Hayes. "But from what I've heard so far,
we still don't have enough probable cause for an arrest. We need much
more, so we may have to do wire and computer tapping first before we
force ourselves in."

"No time for that," said Hodson. "Anyway, I hear he's gone already."
With that, Hayes handed the documents to Hodson, who gave them a
quick look, took out a pen, and signed the affidavit.

Two hours later Joe Hayes he returned to 26 Federal Plaza. "We got it.
Old McElroy signed and sealed the warrants."

Hodson nodded, looking relieved, then picked up the receiver and
called his assistant. "The Fazal matter: We have warrants. Send three
agent squads to his home and two to his office at the bank. Both
searches should be done concurrently. Give them an hour to prepare,
that's all."

By now I was wide awake, despite my short and uncomfortable night.
I felt the same rush of adrenaline that I usually experience during overseas operations. For a change this one was home-based.

"Bob, I want to accompany the search units at Fazal's home," I said,
expecting a refusal.

Hodson thought for a minute, then nodded. "Okay, but no independent initiatives. Got it?"

Only two weeks in the task force and he already knew me well. I
quickly went downstairs and got in an unmarked FBI car. From the
southern tip of Manhattan, we crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and drove to
Midwood, Brooklyn, the country's largest residential and commercial
Afghanistani neighborhood. Many stores displayed signs offering
Afghanistani groceries and delicacies. Others carried signs offering Dari
translation services, Afghanistani books, music, and videos.

The streets were crowded with people. It was a late Thursday afternoon. Scores of mothers, many of them hijab-clad, were pushing baby
strollers with full shopping bags. The neighborhood looked as if it had
been imported wholesale from Afghanistan or Pakistan. We passed
Makki Masjid, the neighborhood mosque, which stood next to three
adjoining brick apartment buildings. As we made a turn into a side street,
two other unmarked FBI vans arrived from the other direction.

Sixteen FBI agents jumped out of the vehicles, all wearing blue windbreakers with FBI marked in yellow on the back. The lead agent bounded
up a short flight of stairs to one of the redbrick buildings and knocked on
the door. Curious passersby and neighbors started gathering to watch.

"Open up. Police," shouted the mustached armed agent as he banged
on the door. It was quickly opened by an elderly, Asian-looking woman
in a h~ab and a long, loose-fitting robe who seemed too scared to react.
The agent showed her the search warrant and seemed to exchange a few
words with her.

"She's Fazal's aunt, it's her home," I heard the agent reporting over the
radio.

The woman looked startled and overwhelmed while a female agent
silently moved next to her to keep her from compromising evidence.

I got out of the car and went up the few steps to the door, peering into
the aunt's face. Why hadn't she asked any questions or protested the
search? Was she too stunned and fearful to react, or did she have some inkling of Fazal's activities, in which case her lack of curiosity would be
telling? I followed the agents inside. The modest apartment was empty.
Fazal was not there. Not a surprise. I was certain he was long gone - "in
the wind," as the intelligence community likes to say of a target of surveillance who has vanished.

The small apartment had two bedrooms and one living room joined by
a kitchen. The living room was decorated with inexpensive green-upholstered furniture, a small chipped wooden coffee table, and an old TV set. A
big photograph of al-Aqsa mosque in Jerusalem was hanging on a wall.
The FBI agents went through everything in the apartment, emptying
drawers, kitchen cabinets, and bedroom closets. They rolled up the carpets,
checking underneath. They inspected the wooden floors to see whether any
of the planks had recently been removed. They checked the walls, the
ceiling, even the bathroom pipes, using sonic and magnetic sensors to scan
for inconsistencies indicating hollow areas that could be used to hide
objects. I was impressed with the methodical and efficient manner with
which they operated, visibly making efforts not to damage the premises.

During all that time, Fazal's aunt stood silently, her eyes wide open,
next to the female agent.

I entered what I assumed was Fazal's bedroom. Two agents were
searching the closets. I looked around. There wasn't much to see: a closet,
a queen-sized bed with a pinkish marblelike Formica headboard, and two
night tables, one on either side. On the left-hand table was a copy of the
Koran: The Arabic was printed on the left side, the English translation on
the right. A bookmark pointed to the ninth Sura, or chapter. It said:

Is one who establishes his building on the basis of reverencing
Allah and to gain His approval better, or one who establishes his
building on the precipice of a crumbling cliff, that falls down
with him into the fire of Hell? Allah does not guide the transgressing people.

The agents lifted the mattress from the box spring, but nothing looked
suspicious. They checked the seams to see if something had been sewn inside. They passed a metal detector over the bed and the walls, and
repeated the process with the sonic sensor. The beeping remained steady.

I was curious about Fazal; I wanted to get into his head. Was he young
or old? Was he innocent despite the circumstantial evidence mounting
against him? Was he a thread that, if pulled hard enough, would unravel
the intricate weaving of a terrorist network?

I went to the front door. The female agent was still standing silently
next to the elderly lady.

"I need to ask her a few questions," I said. "Madam, how are you related
to Malik Fazal?"

"I'm his aunt," she answered in a strong Afghanistani accent.

"His father's sister?"

"No, my late husband was Malik's mother's brother."

"Does he live here?"

"Yes."

"When is he coming home?" I didn't want to show that we knew he
had probably already taken off.

"At about six thirty."

"Did you talk to him today?"

She hesitated, then lowered her eyes. "No, not today."

"Did he sleep here last night?"

"I don't know. I went to sleep early last night. I didn't see him."

"And did you see him this morning?"

"No, he usually leaves early for the morning prayer at the mosque and
then goes to work."

"Where is his telephone book?"

"You mean the telephone directory? It's inside, in the kitchen."

"No, I mean the apartment's private telephone book. Where you write
up numbers of your friends, your doctors."

"In the kitchen, underneath the telephone directory."

I went inside to the kitchen. It was small and clean. There was no evidence of having been in use that morning. I found the telephone book.
Leather-bound, it looked like a prayer book. I flipped through the pages.
There were hundreds of numbers and names written in Arabic script.

I returned to the front door, where Fazal's aunt stood quietly. I expected
that at some point she'd ask what the hell was going on. Why are the agents
there? What do they want? Am I being accused of something; is Fazal being
accused of something? But she still said nothing. "Where does he keep his
passport? Can I see it?"

"I don't know."

"Did he have a U.S. passport?"

"No. He has an Afghanistani passport."

"Any other passports?"

"I don't know."

"I need to see a recent photo of him."

She entered the living room, the female FBI agent following, and took
a family album from the coffee table. She pointed to a color photo of
Fazal, who looked in the picture as if he were about thirty-five and fairly
slight - maybe five foot eight. "That's him."

"How long ago was this taken?"

"I don't know, maybe two or three years ago."

"Does he look the same?"

"No."

"Why?"

"He grew a short beard."

"With a mustache?"

"No."

Back in the living room, I saw two agents pull out of their side pouch
two big plastic trash bags, loading them with documents. I handed them
the telephone book, the Koran, and the album. His photo would be used
in the identikit - a tool used to reconstruct portraits of suspects for
whom no current photo is available.

"Please keep the Koran separately," I said. "This is their holy book.
Treat it with respect."

The agent put the Koran in a small clear plastic zip-lock bag, and put
it in his jacket pocket.

Another agent went to his car and pulled out a folded cardboard box,
which he assembled and loaded with files. By now we'd been here two hours, but the agents were still searching the premises. I looked through
the window. A crowd had gathered in front of the house, silently
watching the agents in action. Four New York police officers stood
behind a yellow police line that cordoned off the agents and their cars
from the crowd. A resourceful hot dog vendor, sensing the business
potential, had moved his cart close by.

The mustached agent once again approached Fazal's aunt, gave her his
card, and politely asked her to call him if she wanted to talk to him. "We
may have to call you with some more questions. If Fazal returns here or
calls, call me. I hope you understand that this is a serious federal matter
and anyone who makes any attempt to obstruct justice may find him- or
herself in a serious trouble with the law."

She nodded; she understood. The agents loaded four cartons full of
documents and three plastic bags into their vans, and we returned to
Manhattan.

"When can we see the items you removed from the premises?" I asked
the lead agent, sitting in the front seat.

"As soon as we make a complete inventory. I suggest you see Mr.
Hodson about arrangements. It's his call."

As I entered the task force office, I saw Laura and Jim Lion in the
hallway.

"Any success?" asked Jim.

"The FBI removed about thirty pounds of documents. But I don't
know what they include, except for a few items I found. We'll have to
wait for Hodson to tell us."

"Anything special?" asked Laura.

"A photo album, a telephone book, and the Koran."

"Why the Koran?" asked Jim.

"There was a particular verse marked. It troubled me."

"Remember what it said?"

"I copied it." I read it to them.

"It sounds like a prophecy," said Jim Lion.

"I hope not," said Laura.

"I hear that the search at the bank turned up empty," said Jim. "Fazal must have cleaned up his office before leaving. He even reformatted the
hard disk of his computer to erase all traces of stored data."

"If the formatting has been done recently, we could still retrieve information," I said.

"I know. They brought in the entire computer."

I looked at Laura. She looked lovely, but pale. Either she wasn't
wearing makeup or the implications of the case alarmed her.

I entered my office and filled up the time writing long-overdue reports.
I glanced at my watch; two more hours had passed, and still no call from
Hodson. At five o'clock I went home. Nothing major had been found, I
concluded, so I might as well call my children and walk my dog.