Wanting for Independence: Chapter 37
Even though she had been up past midnight, and had to deal with the chirping of Jeff's cell phone just about every hour as Simple texted updates from Bethesda, Kim Cunningham woke early for a quick run with her husband before she headed to work.
Gardezi had sent her an email with the details of what he had explained over the phone the night before, and she perused it carefully, hoping the connections that had been obvious to her probie were as clear to her. The case he referred to was pretty much as he had said: a man in the vegetable oil industry in Detroit had been procuring ethylene and sulfur monochloride. He had gotten the attention of property crimes when he reported the theft of some heavy duty industry-sized lab equipment, probably by someone who thought it would be useful in setting up a meth lab. He had apparently realized that involving the police had been a bad idea shortly thereafter, disappearing into the wind and leaving Detroit Homeland Security with vats of chemicals, a Canadian passport and work visa, and readings from some of the more radical Islam clerics.
As she read, Cunningham made notes to herself of things to be researched, or even just speculated: Was the lab equipment really stolen? What would he have gained from the police report? What had he thought the outcome would be? If it had really been stolen, did he think the police would be too busy/ignorant to look into a man with such equipment and chemicals? If it hadn't been stolen, why pretend it had been? Had he failed in either synthesis or distribution of mustards, and want to draw attention to how close he had been and how unsafe Americans really were? Or was it a diversion all along? If so, why? What had he gained?
She turned her attention to the Canadian passport and visa, and began jotting notes about those at well. Was the passport real, or a good forgery? How had he gotten to Canada? Had he been born there? If so, then what was his connection to Al-Shabaab and the Somalian writings he had left behind? Had nobody looked into his background before issuing a green card?
Well, she knew the answer to that one. Their border to the north was much more porous than the one to the south. Illegal immigration from Canada was practically a non-issue, because their economy was similar to that of the U.S. and their social programs much stronger. Rich Canadians sneaking across the borders to pay for medical procedures they didn't want to deal with the waiting lists in Canada for just brought more money into the U.S. healthcare system and was actually encouraged, even though both sides tended to frown on the opposite, when Americans went north for cheaper prescription medications. Cunningham's grandfather had been known to do that a few times.
People holding rallies and protesting Canadians taking jobs from hard-working Americans just didn't happen. Nobody stopped white people in the streets of northern Washington or Idaho to ask where they were born.
These were all things that terrorist organizations were well aware of. If you wanted to strike at the United States, you could go through Canada, because once there, it was just a matter of driving through a busy border crossing where people weren't looking too close at anything.
Hell, she once had a case where a guy drove a mobile meth lab through the border, because he thought he'd be able to get away with it. He hadn't, but the very fact that he thought he could was a testament to what those who lived close to the border thought of it.
She put aside the case reports from Detroit and focused on what they had on Omar Zahidi, the name that Cunningham had given Gardezi, remarkably close to Umer al-Zaidi, the name from Detroit. Anti-terrorism was like a small but extended family, where people didn't always get along, but still played nicely because, hell, they were family and you might need help from them someday. In addition to the members of her task force in California, both she and Gardezi had contacts in agencies that spanned the alphabet soup, and although there were no letters on the report she was currently reading, it had that NSA look about it and probably came from someone in Homeland Security.
And was ridiculously thin.
NSA focused on signals, and although they were vilified for tapping into Americans emails and phone calls, the thing they did best was connect dots. Sure, the content of an email may be important, but what's much more important is who the email is between. If John is sending Sue an email, they must know each other. They may be friends, or family, or co-conspirators. That was for an analyst to decide; it was the job of those giant supercomputers they had there to create those webs of contacts.
And in Zahidi's case, that web of contacts was mostly Muslim-Americans in the D.C. area, along with a number of chemists of varying ethnicities, which tended to get people's attention just because of the stuff they tended to buy in bulk. Notably absent from the list was anyone who seemed to have any connection to Somalia.
That didn't automatically make him a good guy, though. Also didn't automatically make him a bad one. He was still in the gray area, which is where most of the people she looked into seemed to live.
She was so engrossed in her reading that she hadn't been paying attention to the passage of time, much less to her surroundings, which were, admittedly, pretty easy to block out with her iPhone, noise-cancelling headphones, computer monitor, and tablet.
Which was why she was caught off guard when her tablet was suddenly removed from her hands.
She looked up to see her probie and former sergeant standing with her tablet in hand. "Gardezi," she said as she paused her music and removed her headphones. "You look like shit."
"Thanks, Skip," he replied, handing the tablet back.
"You need a shave," she continued. Back when they were both in the Corps, he used to shave twice a day in efforts of removing the five o'clock shadow that was usually visible before lunch. After a full day at work and transcontinental flight, he had more of a beard than Jeff did after a week of leave. "Let me introduce you around, and then you can brief us on Detroit and what you found."
"No time to shave first?" he asked, only partially in jest.
"You can do pushups later," she replied. "Special Agents Gibbs, McGee, and Wilson," she said, indicating the respective men. "Gentlemen, my probie, Special Agent Kazim Gardezi. He used to work for Detroit PD and may have had a case during that time that may help us figure out this mustard case thing."
He nodded slightly, looking around. "Where's your briefing room?" he finally asked.
"This is it," Cunningham replied, gesturing to the plasma screen.
"Really?" he asked in disbelief. "Well, I guess we can work with that. Skip?" he asked, handing over a CD, which she put into the computer, and he began talking. It was pretty much everything in the file: the Arab-Canadian industry worker in Detroit, the community college chemistry professor in Northern Virginia, the similarities of their names and professions, the chemicals they both purchased, the lack of any connection to Somalia.
"But he's Arab," Wilson said with a frown when Gardezi was done. "I thought African Arabs and black Africans didn't get along." Everyone turned to him with eyebrows raised. "What?" he asked defensively. "We're working an anti-terrorism case that has to do with Africa. I read up about African terrorism."
"Well, you're right," Gardezi said. "Sudan's the perfect example, with the split into Sudan and South Sudan and everything that's still going on in Darfur with the Janjaweed, but it's happening everywhere. That's why I think if al-Zaidi or Zahidi or whatever his name is is involved, he's more of a mercenary."
"For his chemistry skills."
"Right," Gardezi agreed.
"How do we find the guy in charge?" Gibbs asked, the first words Cunningham had heard out of his mouth all morning.
"If they have something planned, especially if it's supposed to happen on Wednesday—"
"That's tomorrow, by the way," Cunningham reminded her junior agent.
"I know," he assured her before turning back to Gibbs. "If they have something planned for tomorrow, we might not," he said honestly. "The stuff will involve the chemicals, which are likely still in Zahidi's possession. If we find him, we can stop him and stop the attack from happening."
"And save the ringleader for another day," Cunningham finished grimly. It was obviously not the ideal situation, but when given the choice between catching one terrorist and stopping an attack scheduled for the next day, she'll always opt for stopping the attack.