HALF AN HOUR later, Mahoney and I showed up at a four-story, red-brick building on the corner of Sixth and P streets, across from Masjid Al-Qasim mosque. We parked in the back and took the stairs to a third-floor. railroad apartment.
Inside, it was mostly empty. Just a few lawn chairs and long folding tables, loaded up with listening equipment. Two agents sat in the chairs, both of them with headphones on. Another was at the kitchen counter with two laptops in front of her.
I didn’t know any of these agents, but Mahoney’s kind of a rock star with the surveillance crews. He introduced me to Cheryl Kravetz in the kitchen, and pointed out Howard Green and Andrew Landry with the headphones.
“Thanks for calling,” Mahoney told Kravetz. “We’ll try to stay out of the way.”
“No problem.” Kravetz worked while they talked. She had half a dozen different camera views up on two screens and scrolled through them with an external keyboard hooked up to both computers.
Most of what I saw didn’t look like much — an empty hallway, a classroom of some kind, a dark alley.
“Isha prayers let out about an hour ago,” she told us. “I’m not sure what the holdup is.”
“And nobody’s going in after them?” Ned asked.
“When was the last time you took someone down in a mosque?” Kravetz said. “Or any church, for that matter. It’s too damn complicated. Besides, we’ve got this covered.”
I listened but didn’t say anything. This wasn’t my op. All Mahoney had told me in the car was that intel from the Bureau’s Al Ayla informant had been coming in fast and furious. Tonight was supposed to be some kind of takedown. As for who they were going after, he had no idea.
It was another hour before anything significant happened. Ned and I were talking quietly in the corner when one of the listening agents put up a hand and snapped his fingers several times.
“Here we go,” Kravetz said. We went over and stood behind her, where we could see. She had pulled up two full-screen views. It looked like the front and back entrances of the mosque.
A second later, one of the double front doors opened from the inside, and a woman in a
“What the hell —?”
It took a second to see the man in the wheelchair. Once they’d cleared the door, the woman did a 180 and started pushing him down toward the street.
“That’s
They looked to be in their sixties, both of them heavyset. The man had a thick, almost nonexistent neck and just a few wisps of hair. The woman walked with a slight limp. Actually, she hobbled more than walked.
Kravetz manipulated her controls to follow them on camera.
“Wait for it,” she said. “Wait for it …”
As soon as they turned onto the sidewalk, two unmarked cars were there! They pulled up to the curb, and half a dozen agents jumped out. One of them took control of the wheelchair. Another cuffed the woman immediately.
I could hear the man in the chair shouting now, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.
It all happened very fast. They’d barely gotten the woman into one of the cars when a handicap-accessible van pulled up. The Bureau was clearly ready for this. They loaded up their mystery man and everyone took off, leaving the corner just as quiet as it had been sixty seconds ago.
I looked over at Ned when it was done. He was still staring at the screen, but his eyes looked blank. If I had to guess, I’d say he was thinking about that terrible scene at the motel from the other night. Was this couple responsible? Were they the planners?
“Where are they taking those two?” I asked. “Any idea?”
Mahoney shrugged. “To hell, I hope.”
THE NAME OF the man in the wheelchair was Faizal Ahmad Angawi. According to the prevailing intel, he went simply by “Uncle” within the organization.
When they reached their destination, he was unloaded from the van, and his blindfold was removed.
“You maniacs! Where in God’s name have you taken me?” he screamed at the FBI agents. “You are breaking your laws.”
They’d arrived in a vast, unheated garage bay. Nothing too specific to clue him in to his exact whereabouts. There was a loading dock and a long row of empty steel shelving units along one wall. Several fluorescent light fixtures hung from the girdered ceiling, far overhead. Also, it was quite cold.
CIA interrogator Matt Sivitz stood in front of Angawi. His hands were clasped behind his back, while the seated man ranted on and on.
“I have my rights! You can’t do this. I demand to see my attorney immediately!”
“Absolutely,” Sivitz told him. “Just as soon as we’re back in the real world, you can see a lawyer, Mr. Angawi. Or should I call you Uncle?”
The man squinted up at him while the corners of his mouth turned down. “Uncle? What’s that supposed to mean?”
