9/11/TWO Chapter. 13. Barriers

13. Barriers

Ruth Newberg, first ever woman mayor of New York City, was a very determined woman. To have become mayor was clear evidence of that. Her inherited wealth, on its own, was of little use in getting her elected, and to a considerable extent, a liability. Now, after three years in office, with the media pretty much turned against her, and daily, street protests of one sort or another, any other person would have been rattled. As she walked under the fabulous rotunda of City Hall, where Abraham Lincoln had lain in state, where all manner of historic events had occurred, she steeled herself for the press conference she was about to hold on the City Hall steps. She would stay the course, would not be jostled by the media or anyone else into a panic response just for the sake of media satisfaction. The media didn’t give two hoots about public safety. They thirsted for ‘news,’ that is spectacle and sensation. The media obviously stood to benefit a great deal from a terrorist attack in New York City. She would have to be careful not to say that to them this morning.

Trouble was, the traffic snarls caused by the proliferation of street closures, barriers and altered street patterns that MacIver had engineered, had pushed the people of Manhattan to breaking point. She had to admit it. To herself, that is. Not to them.

Foster led the way out to the steps and guided Mayor Newberg over to the rostrum that was crowded with microphones. He ushered MacIver to her side.

“Professor, are you sure you want to do this?” Madam Mayor asked MacIver.

“You need my support.”

“Just be careful what you say. You know what they are like.” She tapped the microphone and looked out over a small group of reporters and a noisy mob of protestors. There were signs saying UNCLOG OUR STREETS, TEAR DOWN THE WALLS, and SURVEILLANCE NO! She addressed the audience.

“Let me begin by saying that I greatly appreciate your concerns and thank you for coming here today. I know we have created some inconvenience for you, what with the street closures and barriers and so forth, but I assure you that our best researchers think that hardening targets is the wise thing to do.”

A reporter interjected. “Madam Mayor, why isn’t your Police Department involved in this? Is it true that you fired the Assistant Police Commissioner for crime prevention?”

“No it is not true. We just thought that the traffic division had more expertise in handling street closures and traffic, obviously.”

“Could have fooled us! You’ve made life hell for New Yorkers,” yelled a protestor.

“To explain in more detail why we are doing what we are, I’d like to introduce you to Professor MacIver from Rutgers University, world expert on terrorism and crime prevention. Prof. MacIver?”

There were boos, cat-calls a-plenty. But MacIver stepped up, undaunted.

“We are faced with the prospect of another attack on the scale of nine eleven.” The crowd shuffled nervously, then went silent. MacIver continued, “I hasten to add. Such an attack is very unlikely, but we must be prepared for it, just in case.”

“Can’t you do it without making our lives so miserable? It takes me two hours to make a half hour commute these days!” called another protestor.

“We are only hardening those targets we assess as most likely to be attacked.”

“But it’s so unpredictable,” responded a reporter, “streets are closed, barriers appear almost magically overnight.”

“But that’s the point,” MacIver responded, “they must be unpredictable, that’s how we stopped suicide bombing in Israel.”

Another reporter saw an opportunity, “But this isn’t Israel,” she called.

“Not yet. But our borders are just as porous as Israel’s used to be before they built their fences.”

“Build your freaking fences in Texas, not here!” yelled another protestor.

“We have to control our borders. The problem goes beyond NYC!” replied MacIver.

The crowd became restless, people calling out, loud arguments starting among various factions.

Madam Mayor intervened. “Of course, Professor MacIver is not advocating that we close our borders. That’s a discussion for another day. We are not planning a ‘ring of steel’ around New York. This is not Belfast. We are just taking small, cautious steps.”

“Are you expecting another nine eleven style attack any time soon —on nine eleven maybe?” asked another reporter.

“We’ve heard some vague chatter but nothing specific. We just want to make sure."

"Is it true you have Islamic community centers, including in Newark, under twenty four hour surveillance?”

“The NYPD as far as I know does not put innocent people under surveillance. If they are, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“But didn’t the FBI just arrest two Al Qaeda suspects at the Newark mosque?”

“I know nothing about that. You had better ask the Mayor of Newark.”

At that moment, Foster received a phone call. He listened attentively, then moved to get attention from the Mayor, whispering something to her. In response, the Mayor stepped back and Foster stepped forward. “Thank you all. This news conference is now over,” he announced.

Mayor Newberg, turning to Foster, asked, “You’re sure of this?”

“That’s what Buick said.”

“Uh Oh. What’s he done now?” asked MacIver.

“It seems they sent the two Al Qaeda suspects for rendition to Saudi Arabia. And they talked.”

“Said what?” asked MacIver.

“There’s a plan to attack Ground Zero. That’s all he would tell me. Says Silenzio wants a meeting of our task force.”

“She arranged the rendition?” Mayor Newberg asked.

“Yes, she did. Or at least, I guessed she would when we confronted Buick at the Newark PD lock-up,” said MacIver.

“Seems I’m the last to know what’s going on,” said the mayor.

“If you don’t mind a political neophyte saying so, you’re better off not knowing, and certainly better off not knowing what Buick was up to,” said MacIver with a smile.

Foster’s phone rang again. “It’s Silenzio,” he said.

“Foster, can you put me on to the mayor?” Foster handed the phone to Mayor Newberg.

“Monica?

“Yes, Ruth. We have full confessions. They are part of an Al Qaeda cell that is planning to use a drone to bomb Ground Zero. Supposedly, launched from the roof top of a Newark Hotel. I think we need another meeting of our task force.”

“I’m not sure what can be accomplished by such a meeting. We have put a lot of protections in place.”

“But not in anticipation of a drone attack.”

The mayor looked at MacIver. “Can you make it to a meeting of our task force, Skyline Restaurant, in two hours?”

“I doubt it will achieve anything. But if it’s so urgent, OK. I’ll need to pick up Das on the way.”

“Agent Silenzio, you got that?

“Good, Skyline Restaurant in two hours,” replied Silenzio.

“May I speak with Silenzio? asked MacIver. The mayor passed the phone.

“Monica?”

“Yes, Larry.”

“This rendition. You made it happen? Were you there?”

“Yes, and no. Couldn’t stand to watch one of those.”

“They don’t produce reliable information.”

“I know. But as I said before, we have to cover all bases. Got to go.”

“See you soon.”

MacIver handed the phone back to Foster, then called Das on his own phone. Manish answered immediately. “Hello sir! What can I do for you, sir?”

“I’ll pick you up in an hour. There’s an urgent meeting of our counter terrorism task force. I’d like you to do a brief presentation on how you have hardened targets in NYC.”

“Yes sir! No problem sir! There’s no need to pick me up. I will meet you at the restaurant, sir. It will give me more time to prepare, sir.”

“OK. That’s fine.”

“You should see my Google data, sir!”

“Yes, yes. We’ll get to that.”

*

One hundred and nine Skyline Drive, Ringwood New Jersey was a rare find, a single-story suburban house on the edge of a commercial development, a few hundred yards down the road from Wells Fargo bank.

For a single-story New Jersey house, its roof was unusually high, built to mimic an old English house with big timber beams and white stucco walls.

Viewed from Google Earth, the house sat square in the middle of a large lot of about an acre, all trees completely removed. On the commercial side the lot was lined with elms planted in orderly rows and on the other two sides by a dense forest of the heavy leafed trees of New Jersey: maples and oaks, with a sprinkling of dogwoods, silver bell, serviceberry and spicebush. Nicholas had done well to find a house close enough to the road with a drive wide enough to allow a large truck to enter, one that was not buried in one of the occasional suburban enclaves that were slotted in between the several nature reserves and parks along this Passaic county road. The large blue tarpaulin now stretched over the complete eastern side of the roof. Nicholas had even gone to the trouble to erect a small contractor’s sign to allay any suspicions the neighbors might have. They were converting a residential house into some kind of commercial establishment. The large expanse of lawn at front was freshly mowed and the remains of an English garden lining the front of the lawn just back from the road showed signs of neglect. The house had been empty for some time, but by at least mowing the lawn, the new owners were showing that they were going to take care of their property.

Inside, Turgo and his assistants were hard at work. The walls had been knocked out to make room for tools, the launcher and a bench for the missiles while they were being assembled. The two missiles, about five feet in length and a diameter of a foot tapering down to about six inches at each end sat open on the work bench set up in the dining room. They were mostly reassembled, the covers at the nose open revealing a maze of wires and switches and computer chips and circuit boards. LED lights flashed intermittently, accompanied by occasional beeps in response to Turgo’s manipulations. The scene was not unlike that of a hospital emergency room, Turgo’s assistants running back and forth, providing him with various instruments and parts.

“Cannot fit payload in tip. Have to remove some fuel to make room,”

Turgo muttered in half English and half Russian.

“Why we not use drone? Much better and easier,” asked an assistant.

“Agree. But have to work with what they give us,” answered Turgo, then after some thought added, “need much bigger space to launch drone with this size payload.”

“We make deadline?”

“Nine-eleven is one week away. Have plenty time. Only problem is payloads. Not enough explosive for two missiles.”

"Where you get explosive?”

“Sergey’s little brother arranged it.”

“What you do?”

“What Sergey and I planned from the beginning. We put ricin in one missile which will weigh much less than explosive so will use less fuel.”

“Where you get ricin?

“We make it right here in kitchen.”

“But how?”

“Have equipment in kitchen. Basic ingredient is protein from the waste left over from castor oil manufacture. That in garage. We start make it now and let it dry overnight.”

“How deliver payload?”

“I program detonate one hundred meters up from ground. Will spray toxin over many kilometers,” said Turgo with confidence and considerable satisfaction.

“How it kill?”

“Ingestion, breathing, or through skin. Will be first major use of bio toxin terrorist attack. Spectacular!”

*

Time was running out for the task force. It was obvious that the members could not work together. They just did their own thing. Days had slipped by, MacIver had managed with Das’s assistance to harden most of the likely targets in New York City. The mayor had managed so far to fend off protests and attacks from the media. MacIver had kept out of the way there, though he did give a long interview for ‘60 Minutes’ which had not aired as yet, but he suspected would air tonight, the eve of the nine eleven anniversary. The task force had, in the end, not met in response to the last so-called emergency precipitated by the rendition of the two suspects. But as the anniversary of nine eleven loomed, the mayor had insisted that they should meet and review the situation. Some had already charged that she had not responded to the information obtained from the rendition, even though those same critics complained about their lives being messed up by street closures and unpredictably changed traffic patterns.

They met in the Skyline restaurant, same room as before. Foster, alone, arrived early to place pads and pencils around the table. Mayor Ruth Newberg entered. “We need water, could you see to it?” she asked.

“Haven’t been able to find the waiters. Their supervisor says they called in sick. I’ll see what I can do,” replied Foster.

MacIver and Das entered. “Where is the projector?” asked Das.

“Sorry, I couldn’t find their I-T guy,” answered Foster, a little frustrated.

“Don’t bother with slides Das.” said MacIver, “anyway, you brought handouts, didn’t you?”

“Sir, yes sir.” Das busily trotted around the table leaving copies of notes and graphics, carefully straightening everything up at each place.

Mayor Newberg, turned from a pensive moment gazing at the view of New York City, and asked MacIver, “What are you planning to do?”

“Das will present an overview of how we predict targets most likely to be attacked, the talk he was going to do before. He’ll outline the method of identifying attractive targets, how to harden them, and briefly show the results of our efforts to stop suicide terrorism in Israel.”

“Is that really necessary?” asked the mayor.

“From the events of the last weeks, I think that people do not really understand what we are trying to do.”

At this moment, the door opened and Monica Silenzio quietly entered.

MacIver nodded.

“I think they do,” observed Silenzio as she sat down, “but they don’t appreciate the cost to the comfort of their daily routines that it entails.”

“Good afternoon Agent Silenzio,” smiled MacIver.

“Fact is, they want us to do everything unseen, unnoticed,” Silenzio continued.

Mayor Newberg quickly added, “and when something happens, they blame us for not having done anything.”

Manish Das, sitting in his corner seat raised his hand. “Sir, Professor, shall I start? Or should we wait for Captain Buick?”

“It’s Buick who needs to be made to understand it all. But I’ve really given up on him as a hopeless case,” answered MacIver.

Right then, the door flew open and in walked Buick. “Who’s a hopeless case?” he grinned.

Silenzio spoke up quickly. “I think we should really get down to deciding what to do about the information we got from the rendition.”

“That’s what the meeting’s for, isn’t it? Or have I missed something?” said Buick.

“I think Agent Silenzio is right,” said Mayor Newberg, “let’s get the rendition business out of the way first.”

“I give up,” sighed MacIver.

“Perhaps you can take the materials I have put out, and we can discuss them at a later time?” offered Das helpfully.

Silenzio answered, “OK. Let’s get on with it. The suspects have talked under rendition. They say there is a plan by an Al Qaeda cell to launch a drone from the top of a Newark hotel with a payload of ricin.”

“What’s ricin?” asked Buick.

“It’s a bio toxin that attacks the nerves, a small speck can kill in a few seconds. It’s cheap and easy to make from the widely available castor plant.”

“And how is it spread?” asked Mayor Newberg.

“We can go into all that later. For now, we have to decide what to do,” said Silenzio, one eye on MacIver.

Buick spoke up. “Are the two suspects part of the Al Qaeda cell?”

“They say not. But it doesn’t matter.” Silenzio looked around the table, puzzled. “Where’s Agent Lee?” she asked Foster.

“I think I forgot to invite him,” he answered with a slight smirk.

“It doesn’t matter. Once it goes to CIA, the FBI washes it hands of the case,” said Silenzio.

MacIver got up from his chair and looked out the window.

“We have to search every Newark Hotel," continued Silenzio, “you must clear a wide space around Ground Zero. At least a radius of one mile, and that may not even be enough. We don’t know how they will deliver the ricin, should it turn out to be a ricin tipped payload.”

MacIver turned from the window, cheeks flushed under his closely cropped beard. “This is ridiculous,” he complained, his voice a little too loud for the room, “we have no evidence — zero — that there is going to be any kind of attack, let alone a bio attack. Besides, how do you launch a drone with a payload big enough to drop on Ground Zero from a hotel roof top? It's all fantasy. You people watch too many movies.”

Mayor Newberg responded quickly. “The professor is right. Anyway, I’m not going to act upon information that was obtained under torture. I can’t justify it morally, let alone politically.”

Buick fidgeted with his pencil, snapping it into pieces, then pushed his hands against the table, pushing back on his chair.

Silenzio, in a measured voice turned to the mayor and said, “Madam Mayor. That’s a foolish policy. You have to act to protect the people of New York. You may or may not approve of so-called torture, but if it has produced information, you are duty bound to act on it.”

“She is acting on it. I am acting on it. ‘It’ being the scientific estimate of the probability of when and where an attack may occur. That’s why we are putting up barriers and closures,” countered MacIver.

Buck Buick could contain himself no longer. “You pointy headed idiot!” he yelled, breaking his pencil into even more pieces and throwing them across the table at MacIver.

“Careful now!” warned MacIver, adopting a superior tone, at the same time, grabbing up the pieces of pencil and squeezing them tightly into his fist which he then raised as if to retaliate.

“Captain Buick. Control yourself. You’re not in Iraq now!” lectured the mayor, looking first to Buick then to MacIver.

“Control myself ? You puny bastard!” growled Buick in consternation.

“An attack is imminent, and the professor’s got you putting up fences and barriers around city hall, stopping people from visiting the statue of Liberty, causing massive traffic snarls, protestors amassing in front of city hall. And you just want us to wait around until we are attacked!”

Silenzio firmly gripped Buick’s arm. “Buck, this isn’t helping!”

“Can’t you see?” he pleaded. “If we don’t act now, take out the animals, people are going to get hurt, and you, Madam Mayor, will be blamed!”

Das, squirming in his corner, timidly raised his hand, looking across to MacIver. “Sir, er, Madam Mayor, Madam, I’ve been thinking about drones, Madam. I mean, it might not be a drone, but surely it’s obvious that the easiest, perhaps the only way, to reach a well-protected stationary target like Ground Zero, is from the air.”

They all fell silent, awaiting MacIver’s reaction. He did not disappoint.

“For the last time Das, I've had enough of this. You’re either on board with target hardening or you can pack up and go back to Mumbai.” Das cringed in his seat, staring hard at the floor.

Buick grabbed the opportunity. “You see, even your own bum-boy thinks you’re wrong!”

“Sir!’ cried Das in consternation and embarrassment.

MacIver threw the pieces of pencil in Buick’s face. Buick laughed, stood up quickly, knocking his chair backwards, hands on his hips. “Now Professor. My fist is bigger than yours,” he grinned as he frowned.

“Boys! Please!” pleaded Silenzio.

MacIver, embarrassed, but certainly not sorry, sat down, head in hands.

“We’re leaving. Come on Das.”

Das remained in his seat, still cringing. “Sir, I’m sorry, sir. I was just trying to find a compromise. Sir?”

“Perhaps we should disband the meeting, Madam Mayor,” suggested Silenzio.

Mayor Newberg said, “Captain Buick. If you want to go after them —

whoever ‘them’ are — I can’t stop whatever you do in Newark. That’s for you to work out with your Chief and the Mayor of Newark. But I’m sticking with MacIver’s strategy.”

“The blood, and there will be blood, will be on your hands,” warned Buick.

All were about to rise when Foster, his phone in hand, turned to the Mayor, then whispered something. He then turned on the TV. “Before you leave, I think we had better watch this,” he said.

The TV flickered and Foster tuned to Fox News. The news commentator spoke:

“Exclusive to Fox news, this just in. The FBI has arrested six individuals it says are members of a terrorist cell that is planning to attack Ground Zero on nine eleven. The FBI made this announcement at a press conference a half hour ago. I think we have some video of that now.”

Agent Fred Lee stands center screen, flanked on one side by the NYPD Police Commissioner John Ryan and on the other by Agent Crosby. Lee addresses the group of journalists who hang on his every word:

“I know that many of you have been very concerned about the rumors of these past few weeks of an impending attack by Al Qaeda on Ground Zero on nine eleven. That rumor was true. But, thanks to the close coordination between the FBI and the NYPD, we have had the Al Qaeda cell that was working out of the Newark Community Mosque under surveillance for some time. Earlier this evening, we arrested all six of them, and they are even now on their way to Guantanamo Bay where they will be held and processed, in anticipation of trial by a military tribunal. I will now take a few quick questions.”

“What kind of attack was it?”

“It was to be a drone set off from somewhere in Newark, we still don’t know where, carrying a nuclear tip.”

A buzz of excitement ran through the crowd.

“Just to be sure. You said nuclear???!!”

“That’s right. But we believe that part of the rumor to be false. In fact we believe that the drone does not exist either.”

“Wait a minute. How do you know?”

“From our preliminary questioning.”

“But how do you know they’re telling the truth?”

Agent Lee turned to Commissioner Ryan.

“Because we’ve had the Islamic community under surveillance for over a year and are certain that if drones or bombs, especially nuclear bombs were present, we would know about it," answered Ryan confidently.

“NYPD has had the local Newark Islamic community under surveillance for over a year?” asked a reporter.

“That’s right.”

9/11 TWO 139

“Does Mayor Newberg know about this?”

“She probably does now.”

“And the Newark mayor?”

Agent Lee interjects. “We had to do this completely under cover. Could not let either of the mayors know.” The reporters murmured their surprise.

Lee continued, “Thank you for your attendance. You can rest easily that we have this operation entirely under control and that there is no threat of a nuclear or any other type of attack from Al Qaeda.”

The reporters pushed forward, hands raised, calling out questions. Lee waved his hand as he turned away and said, “I’m sorry, but as you can imagine, we are very busy and have no time for any more questions.”

The Fox News Announcer returned to the screen and continued:

“There you have it. We understand that Governor Christie will be making an announcement soon in response to this incredible news conference.”

Foster turned off the TV. The Mayor was flabbergasted. “I guess I am estranged from my Commissioner, rather than he from me,” she said, "hopefully, as far as our task force is concerned, this changes nothing.”

“Buick, you didn’t even know about this?” asked MacIver, having calmed down.

“Got to hand it to the assholes. They pulled it off right under my nose. I’m as stunned as the mayor.”

Foster’s phone rang again. It was the sound of ‘I Love New York.’ “It’s the Governor,” he said, passing the phone to his boss.

“Which one?” she asked.

“Yours.”

“Governor?”

“What the blazes is going on?”

“You tell me! I’ve been broad-sided.”

“I want you in my office in one hour. I want to know everything.”

“Pardon me, Governor. But I answer to the people of New York City first, and it is to them that I will speak just as soon as I am in Manhattan which will be in a half hour.”

“Where are you now?”

“I am consulting with my special counter terrorism task force.”

She handed the phone back to Foster who looked at the phone, then said to it, “Governor Cuomo, er, the mayor had to rush to her helicopter.

Good-bye, and thank you for your concern, Governor.”

Mayor Newberg rose to leave just as Foster received another call. He looked for the TV remote, and switched the TV on again, waving to his boss to watch it. The old TV flickered once again, and Governor Christie came into view, speaking to an animated group of reporters:

“It has come to my knowledge that the New York City Police Department has been conducting undercover surveillance of our fellow citizens of the Islamic community of Newark. This has been going on for an extended period of time. This was done without authorization or consultation with either the Mayor of Newark, or my own Justice Department. I apologize to our Muslim friends for this unconstitutional invasion of their privacy rights as free citizens of New Jersey. I promise a full investigation to get to the bottom of this travesty, both at the federal and state levels. Thank you. That’s all I have to say at this time.”

Foster switched off the TV. Mayor Newberg turned to the group and said, “We should continue on our current strategy. Looks like MacIver has been right all along.”

“No it doesn’t!” countered Buick.

“Captain Buick. This makes you look even sillier than me. You’re the one who is supposed to be protecting Newark. You’ll do well to bow to MacIver’s strategy.” And then she left, Foster right behind her, talking on his cell phone.

But just as they reached the door, Das called out, “Madam, if I may say so Madam Mayor! I am still not convinced there’s no attack. One from the air, a missile or two, would demolish Ground Zero and the Freedom Tower.”

Mayor Newberg hesitated, then resignedly gesticulated to MacIver, and left.

“Das, that’s enough,” scorned MacIver, “get out of here and get back to your work.”

“Sorry, sir! But, OK. Sorry sir, Sorree! Sorree!” Das rushed out of the room, followed by Buick.

“Perhaps I can drive the professor to his office?” offered Silenzio solicitously. MacIver said nothing, but followed her to the parking lot.

*

Manish Das slowly walked to his van, deeply chastened. Buick caught up with him. “You upset your boss, not a good idea!” he said, trying to make light of it.

“So did you!” said Das.

“But he’s not my boss!”

“Can I show you my van?” asked Das with a faint smile.

“What?

“My van, my surveillance van. I call it my Google van.”

“You have a surveillance van?”

“Yes, captain. I use it to study car theft in Newark and Northern New Jersey. It’s for my dissertation.”

“Car theft?”

“Yes, I monitor the coming and going of parked cars. Do you use Google Street?”

“What’s that?”

“You must have seen the Google vans patrolling the streets, taking video.”

“So that’s what they’re doing.”

“It’s a kind of surveillance, except that they only update theirs once a year. I do mine weekly, sometimes even more frequently.”

“You do that? Don’t you have anything else to do?”

“Er, I suppose not. It’s for my dissertation. I must get finished, so I can go back to Mumbai and get married.”

“You have time for a girlfriend?”

“Oh, no. I haven’t met her yet. My parents are arranging the marriage. A very good one too.”

Buick was lost for words. He grinned and frowned at the same time.

“Come, let me show you,” said Das.