9/11 TWO Chapter 10. Extraction

10. Extraction

The front end of the Bangalore Five Star weapons factory didn’t look like a factory at all. It rose to four stories, a gleaming glass and steel structure, with geometric shapes protruding here and there, set in an expanse of cleared fields ploughed and flattened, ready to plant a huge lawn. In contrast there were, nestled around the structure, a higgledy-piggledy array of shanties and makeshift tents of local workers and their families. Dr. Jamal squatted under a lean-to that was strung to the branch of the one sole tree left standing. Squatting next to him was a very dark skinned South Indian. They spoke in Telugu.

“And how are things in Vizag,?” asked Jamal.

“They are well. My father sends his regards. And I will be married late next month, if the planets are aligned properly, but everything looks good.

You will come to the wedding?”

“Of course. And with the money you are getting, I expect a very big wedding!”

“It will be the greatest wedding ever held in Vizag.”

“Your bride is also from Vizag?”

“Yes, but I don’t think you would know her. Her family moved to Vizag after you went away to Oxford.”

“Ah, my times in Vizag. We had such a fun time. Got up to lots of mischief!”

“Yes, we did, Jamal. But now we must be serious,” he said half joking.

“All right then. So let’s get down to business. The Nags are already disassembled?” asked Jamal.

“Yes, and packed in one compact crate.”

“How big?”

“About the size of a Tata Nano.”

“And the truck? Where is it?”

“We will use a Five Star truck.”

“Really? But how?”

“It’s easy. With the money you pay, it’s easy.”

“I am pleased to hear it. You must have paid out a lot?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I do need another $500,000.”

“What? But I already gave you a million for expenses, plus a million each for the missiles and launcher.”

“I know, I know. But I had to reach the executive director — the top dog, you know — to smooth out the operation.”

“But it’s half a million more than we agreed!”

“The top dog drove a hard bargain. He could blow the whistle on the whole thing. He wants half a million to look the other way.”

Jamal’s legs were cramped. He was not used to squatting like this anymore. He stood, turned to face the factory and stretched his arms and legs. “The truck rolls out tonight?” he asked.

“Yes, for sure.”

“It will be in Mumbai in two days max?”

“With a Five Star truck, it will be a smooth drive. No questions.”

“OK. You win.” Jamal handed over his cell phone. “Call this number for the money. Code name Zero.”

The South Indian grinned broadly. “Thank you, thank you! You are a Sahib, a perfect gentleman!”

“Here is the paperwork for delivery to the ship in Mumbai. It’s a freighter called the Maple Leaf, sailing under a Greek flag. Indian customs should already be taken care of.”

“No worries Sahib. No worries!”

“If there’s a problem at the Port, call the other number in the cell phone contact list.”

“Yes, Sahib. Anything else?”

“When you’re done with the job, you must destroy the phone,” he said,

“and that’s enough of the Sahib. It’s not funny anymore.”

The South Indian turned towards the Five Star factory and walked towards the rear of the building, picking his way across the ploughed field. Jamal opened another cell phone and made a call.

*

Shalah Muhammad sat at his favorite table at his favorite hotel in the world, the Mumbai Taj Mahal. He sat outdoors, eating a large English breakfast of eggs and bacon, even though it was well into afternoon. He gazed at the Gate of India which threw a long shadow across the pavement over which tourists wandered here and there, taking photos of each other, trying to frame photos that caught everything, the languid cerulean sea lapping at the stone embankment, the arched Gate of India, the white frilled Taj. This was his idea of bliss.

He gulped down a mouthful of egg, licking the yellow yoke from the corners of his mouth, followed by a slurp of coffee. He looked around the restaurant and mused how awful it was that such an idyllic spot was recently the scene of an horrific terrorist attack. There was no sign of it now. Had he been in charge, this place would not have been a target. Anyway, he knew nothing of it. It was the stupid Pakistani ISI that did it. You couldn’t trust them. He tried to have as little to do with them as possible. And he chose his Pakistani operatives with great care, making sure as far as possible that they had no links to the ISI. He had just lit a cigarette when his phone rang. It was Sarah.

“Kommie! Right on time! Where are you?”

“I’m out walking in this beautiful place overlooking a waterfall in the mountains of Kyrgyzstan.”

“And how is your uncle?”

“He is fine, everything is fine, but I suspect that uncle does not want to do nuclear.”

“What do you mean?” Muhammad was annoyed.

“He hasn’t said no, but he and his scientist Turgo say that ricin would be a much more startling attack.”

“I said I want nuclear.”

“I know, I know. And he’ll still do nuclear. It’s just that he says that they can make it cheaply and easily in the U.S. Uncle says Turgo is an expert on ricin.”

“And the delivery mechanism?” asked Muhammad aggressively.

“We didn’t talk about that.”

“This is bad. In fact I’ve a good mind to go elsewhere.”

“Darling, that would not be wise, now that they know what we are planning.”

“I’ve told you not to call me Darling.”

“Sorry — Shali — is that all right?”

“It’s better than Darling.”

“They don’t know what they are talking about. It’s never been used successfully before. The Japs botched it on their subway.”

“Uncle says he will do it for half the price of nuclear.”

“I’m beginning not to trust your relatives.”

“He also says that Turgo already has nuclear components stashed away in the U.S. So transporting would not be a problem.”

“Then why are we talking about ricin?”

“Uncle thought, and I do too, that you should understand what options were available. Like buying an energy efficient car, you know?”

“I have another call. We shouldn’t be talking about this by phone anyway. I hope you’re using the scrambler phone. Tell him it must be nuclear, or no deal.” Muhammad abruptly closed his phone and took a deep draw of his cigarette. His phone rang immediately, playing the first measure of “Stars and Stripes.”

“Yes?”

“Is this Mr. Zero?” It was the dentist Dr. Jamal.

“Who is this?”

“You know who this is.”

“OK. OK. I told you not to call me,” answered Muhammad with considerable annoyance.

“I know. But I wanted to let you know that the extractions have gone very well and the X-rays revealed nothing out of place. However, you will be billed another $500,000 for additional X-rays that were required.”

“My insurance paid you more than that amount up front,” replied Muhammad clearly conveying a threat.

“Oh, there has been a misunderstanding. In the interest of customer satisfaction, I will not charge you for the additional amount.”

“I should think so.”

“I have made arrangements for Dr. Maple Leaf to contact you upon arrival in America for a follow-up appointment.”

“Excellent. I am feeling much better already.” Muhammad closed his phone and leaned back with satisfaction. The sun was inching towards the horizon. Soon the sea would take on its evening luminescence.

*

The large crane swung a container on to the deck of the freighter. Though it was late afternoon at the Port of Mumbai, the sun baked its heat into the pier. Dr. Jamal, standing in the shadow of the crane, watched nervously as a customs officer shouted to the crane operator to stop the loading and began to return the container to the pier. Jamal had thought everything was covered, but he knew from experience that last minute games to extract more bribes were likely. His dock worker through whom he had funneled his initial bribes gesticulated widely, and delivered a torrent of abuse at the customs officer. Jamal reached into his pocket and counted out five $100 notes. He signaled to the dock worker. An incident like this could draw in other officers whom he had not paid off. It could kill the whole project which Jamal knew full well would mean his demise. Shalah Muhammad took personal pleasure in punishing failure.

At last the dock worker saw his signal and let up with his abuse. Jamal’s policy was never to hand a bribe directly to a government official. He always had others do it for him. Multiple layers of corruption were more difficult for investigators to uncover. And it made it easier to ensnare the investigators themselves into the web of corruption. It was not so much the fear of getting caught that concerned Jamal, but the delay it would cause, which would upset the finely organized plan of attack he knew Shalah Muhammad always had in motion.

The dock worker came across. The crane had stopped moving the cargo, and the container hung in midair, half way from the dock, half way to the freighter. Keeping his back to the customs officer, Jamal counted out five $100 bills to the dock worker, plus another for the worker himself who smiled broadly. The customs officer continued to order the container be returned to the dock, but not so forcefully. In fact, he struck up a friendly conversation with the crane operator. With a subtly cowed demeanor the dock worker approached the officer who immediately saw that a resolution was in the offing. He clicked his heels and came to attention. “May I be of service?” He asked politely.

“I just want to thank you for all your help,” said the dock worker as he proffered a hand shake, “thank you very much for your excellent service.”

They shook hands and in the dock worker’s palm was $300 folded into the size of a strip of chewing gum.

“The Government of India at your service sir!” answered the officer as he saluted and clicked his heels once again.

As if on cue, the crane sprang to life and the container was reloaded on to the freighter. In no time at all, the freighter sounded its horn and Jamal watched with great satisfaction and relief as it slowly inched away from the pier.

*

After a brief diversion for an Asian breakfast, which he had missed greatly since leaving Mumbai, Manish Das approached 1 Police Plaza, NYPD HQ via the pedestrian walkway. He was nervous and uncertain about doing this because his boss Professor MacIver had told him that it would be a waste of time, though he had not forbade him from trying. The entire approach to 1 Police Plaza was a stark example of the effects of Nine Eleven. Park Row, once a four lane artery that linked the financial district to Chinatown had been closed off because NYPD feared a terrorist attack on its HQ. It was the direct outcome of his professor’s campaign to get New York to harden its targets.

Das looked up at the squat thirteen story building. It seemed too small a building to house the nerve center of the NYPD, the largest police force in the world. After several checks of his ID, he made it into the lobby and was directed up to the sixth floor where he had an appointment to meet with the Assistant Commissioner in charge of crime prevention. He was immediately confronted by a desk sergeant. She sat bolt upright behind a large, elevated desk. Das showed his ID and was immediately directed to sit as if in a doctor’s waiting room.

An hour went by. Das played with his cell phone. Finally, he lost patience and approached the desk.

“My appointment was for 8.00 AM. It’s now 9.00 AM.”

“Superintendent Askanazy is very busy. There’s a lot of crime to prevent in this city, you know,” she answered officiously.

“I’m here on behalf of Distinguished Professor MacIver. It is urgent. There is a lot to do and very little time left to do it.”

“In this country we patiently wait our turn. Sit down and the commissioner will be here shortly.”

Das paced back and forth in front of the window which looked out on lower Manhattan. He jangled the keys in his pocket, played with his iPhone, doing Google street view of the streets he saw below. At last, he was called.

“Mr. What’s-your-name?” called the desk sergeant.

“Das. Manish Das.”

“The commissioner will see you now.”

Das entered the assistant commissioner’s office, which was but a larger version of the desk sergeant’s. Assistant commissioner Askanazy, a tall, overweight fellow with flushed puffy cheeks, stood in front of his desk, his sizeable rear end leaning against it, arms folded. “So what do you want now?” he asked.

“Professor MacIver asked me to personally hand you the risk assessment protocols that will help you decide what places need protection and what kind of target hardening would be appropriate.”

“I already know the targets at risk. Everyone knows that.”

“This is scientific sir. Not based on whimsy.”

“Whims-what? Speak English for Christ sake!”

“Apologies commissioner. Risk assessment is a scientific way of doing it. Eliminates personal bias or anything else.”

“It’s bull shit, that’s what it is.”

“Science isn’t bull, sir.”

“Look, I don’t need any professor, least of all his student lackey to tell me how to do my job.”

“Commissioner, we must act quickly. There could be an attack any day.

We must know what to protect and how to mitigate the fallout of any attack.”

“We do that by arresting terrorists and criminals and getting them off the streets. That’s how we prevent crime around here.”

“But sir, the mayor!”

“I work for the Commissioner, not the mayor, that hand-wringing liberal progressive!”

“Sir! This has nothing to do with politics! As my professor says, ‘this is science, not politics’!”

“Yeh, sure. Just shows how you pointy headed academics know nothing of the real world.”

“Here are the protocols, commissioner. I am available any time and as much as you want, to help in implementing them.” Das dug into his briefcase and thrust a handful of papers towards Askanazy.

“Just leave them with the sergeant on your way out.”

Das took out his iPhone and began dialing. “Maybe you would like to speak directly with Professor MacIver?”

Askanazy stared over Das’s shoulder.

“Sir? This is Das, sir. I’m in assistant commissioner Askanazy’s office.

He says it’s unnecessary to do a risk assessment, sir.”

“I warned you not to go to him,” answered MacIver.

“Would you speak with him sir?”

“No point. I’ll speak with the mayor.”

“OK, sir. OK. Bye, sir.” Das looked to Askanazy. “He says he will speak with the mayor, sir.”

Askanazy’s face reddened. “Don’t forget to leave the protocols with the sergeant on your way out,” he directed, then turned his back, walked behind his desk and stood, looking out the window.

Das stumbled backwards, then turned and hurried out, stopping briefly to leave the protocol papers with the desk Sergeant.

“Thank you so much!” she said.

Das’s iPhone rang loudly with the sound of Jai Ho, the Slumdog Millionaire hit.

“Hello Professor, sir.”

“The mayor will do it with her people. She’s moving officers on to it from the traffic division. It will be better, anyway.”

“Should I go to City Hall now sir?”

“Yes. Take the protocols and training materials. Do as much as you can.”

Das reached on to the sergeant’s desk and retrieved the protocols.

“Changed your mind?” asked the sergeant sarcastically.

Das left without a word.