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The call Stickman had made in search of a diversion was well-timed. His Northern California friends were restless. Led by Raymon Swale, there were seven men, down from nine. Two had become casualties of war. They hadn’t planned on martyrdom, but both decided that was their best option. Diagnosed with cancer within weeks of each other, their prognoses were short. About the same time, Swale and his wife had returned from a wedding anniversary trip to Hawaii that presented an unexpected opportunity for jihad. Arrangements were made quickly, including getting false IDs for the cancer-stricken men. Little time passed before the Swales woke up to news reports of two Kapakahi Air commuter planes exploding in mid-air off the coast of Maui. No bodies were found, but Swale had no doubt who was among the missing. “The Swale people,” as they were called by neighbors and the residents of a nearby town, had planned well. Officials could not pinpoint why the commuter planes went down. Most analysts blamed terrorists, finding no other plausible explanation for almost instantaneous explosions. In the public’s mind, the tragedy accentuated the continuing threat of terrorism underlined by the attack on the Russian Embassy. Not since 9/11 had people been so fearful.
Swale took quiet enjoyment from that fear, even as it began to subside. After all, he and his people lived every day with something akin to fear. Bias against Muslims in Los Angeles was sometimes palpable even before 9/11. Post- 9/11, religious prejudice in their neighborhood grew much worse. Authorities, particularly the feds, kept mosques under close scrutiny. At times, undercover agents were believed to be operating in their midst. Suspected agents were shunned, and suspicions were confirmed when the agents, effectively neutered, quietly melted away.
Swale slowly created a militant jihadist cell in his Los Angeles neighborhood. It was not easy. The huge majority of Muslims who attended his mosque were not militant. Most applauded non-Muslims who refused to say “radical Islamic terrorism,” seeing those words as falsely labeling all Muslims as terrorists and wrongly giving credibility to the Islamic State and other terrorist organizations.
Quietly, Swale counseled his small band of followers to believe they had every right to their fundamentalist interpretation of Islamic religious law, or sharia, and that what moderate Muslims labeled terrorism was a justified response to oppression. He rejected charges that practices of the Islamic State and al-Qaeda were barbaric, particularly when inflicted on fellow Muslims, but his militancy was more in line with al-Qaeda.
With maturity, Swale had learned the virtue of patience and deception and to keep his radical views from sight. Those in his cell appreciated his discretion, but they were younger and impatient to inflict pain on America. Occasional missions that took them far from California increasingly failed to hold Swale’s cell in check or together.
Swale decided the answer was moving to a remote area where threats posed by law enforcement or by Muslims not sharing his radicalism were far diminished. He needed a rural community where it was not unusual to find small groups of people who had fled what they saw as societal oppression. He needed a place where people didn’t ask too many questions, where being a little different was acceptable, where the barter system and living off the land, at least in part, helped mask the isolation they desired. He and his people needed to stay pretty much to themselves, where they could be in the community but not of the community. He found land for sale near a small town in Northern California that had a reputation for tolerance, and boasted enough “characters” that the Swale people did not stand out.
While not a commune, Swale and those who decided to follow him were definitely close-knit. They lived on properties adjoining each other, not separated by outsiders. Of the remaining seven men, three had wives and now there was a widow. Of the eleven children, those old enough were homeschooled. Swale sold most of the land to two of his men, who shared the farming equipment needed to grow small cash crops and support a few head of livestock. Everyone planted large gardens and fruit trees and some of the land already had vines producing small quantities of wine. Some of the Swale people worked full- or part-time, bringing them into casual contact with the broader community. The martyred Asian man and the skinny man had held jobs. When local residents asked about them, the response was a version of the truth: They had aggressive cancers and had left to exercise their preference for suicide.
The isolated and insular area had no mosque. The Swale people tried to practice their faith quietly, though it was difficult to advise their offspring about what to tell friends when religion came up. The unsatisfactory outcome was that everyone avoided the subject as best they could. The oldest of the children, a girl and a boy, were twelve and eleven. As they became more inquisitive, planning and carrying out missions became more difficult. At the same time, the children’s growing acceptance of things American posed a huge challenge to radicalizing them. Before long, Swale thought, it would be necessary to return to a place with a large Muslim community where parental guidance had less influence on lifestyle choices. There, young people would gravitate more naturally in the direction of radical jihad, or not.
Meanwhile, his men, and sometimes Swale, continued to discretely carry out missions, though not as often as they wanted. Like Stickman and Maple’s, missions typically took them far afield to avoid drawing local attention.
Though awakened by Stickman’s call, Swale answered on the fourth ring and was glad to hear his old friend’s voice. He slipped quietly from his wife’s side and into the living room.
“Just a few days ago I had a notion I’d be hearing from you,” Swale said, removing any doubt he had been following television news. There was no reason to believe the phone was tapped, but he and Stickman had long practiced extreme caution. They also had a simple three-part code for joining forces if need be. Swale figured they were finally going to use the code.
“Hope I’m not calling too late. Tired of reading and TV and can’t sleep. I thought I’d take a chance.”
“Nice to hear your voice, my friend.”
“Did you and Fawn enjoy your wedding anniversary?”
“More than I ever expected. We were ready for a break, mon. Good food, good times, even came across a business opportunity. The timing couldn’t have been better.”
More chitchat and then part one of their code: “Your Giants are not exactly off to an explosive start. What odds do you need to pick them to make the playoffs?”
“That would depend on whether you want a friendly bet or are trying to pull me into serious money, mon. Oh ...assuming it’s friendly and they improve, I might go for twelve-to-one.”
“It would be friendly. But let’s wait a bit. If the Giants perk up, maybe you’ll be easier to get along with.”
A little later, parts two and three: “I’m taking some time off. If you’re not too busy maybe you’d like to meet at a mid-point.”
“Sorry, mon, I’ve got to finish a couple projects for a guy. How about in a couple weeks? I could invite some neighbors, guys you’ve met. If I got four plus you and me, we’d have a good poker table.”
“Not sure I’ll still be loafing in two weeks, but we’ll see.”
They hung up a few minutes later. Swale, in giving odds on the Giants’ less than explosive start, signaled he could deliver up to twelve pounds of C-4. Saying he was busy meant Swale was, in fact, not, and that he and four others could meet Stickman within a few days.
Swale sat back, remembering Stickman in his formative years, when he was a friend of several young Muslims that Swale also knew. They became acquaintances. After 9/11, those young men sought to understand the religious prejudice being heaped upon them. They found that reaction extremely unpleasant, particularly when it came from people long valued as friends and equals. It drove their conversations for months. Stickman joined them, mostly listening. So did Swale and other older men from the mosque, guiding the conversation as their own beliefs dictated. As Stickman’s interest in Islam grew, so did his bonds in the Muslim community and with Swale.
Swale’s subtly-expressed militancy was not lost on Stickman. Similarly, Swale saw how anti-Muslim prejudice was fueling the young man’s growing anger. When Stickman showed an interest in travel, Swale was there to assist, contacting relatives in Brussels who welcomed Stickman and, in turn, fostered the next step of his journey, to Afghanistan.
The first conversation upon his return to Los Angeles was stilted, with Stickman and Swale trying cautiously to gauge the militancy of the other. As they probed, they slowly learned they shared an animosity toward the United States that, in their minds, justified radical jihad. It was one of the happiest days of Swale’s life. Another was when Stickman headed east to rejoin Maple and embark on a very patient journey of homegrown terrorism.
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The day after the late-night phone call, Stickman handed Maple an envelope and asked him to drive nearly to Pittsburgh to mail it. The envelope contained a single sheet of paper with a coded line of fifty-three numbers. The numbers included eight zip codes of five numbers each, written in reverse order. By previous agreement, the fourth zip code to emerge identified the key location. Also buried in the line of numbers – right after the key zip code – was a ten-digit telephone number, also in reverse order.
When the envelope arrived, Swale consulted a weary scrap of paper that nearly had worn out two billfolds. The scrap bore faded notes, meaningless to anyone else, but they jogged Swale’s memory enough to identify the key zip code. He went to his computer and identified a medium-size Midwestern city. He deciphered the phone number and saw that the area and zip codes overlapped.
Swale knew the travel code worked out with Stickman would barely slow a cryptographer. But as long as their mail wasn’t monitored, the string of numbers would mean nothing to anyone else. When confronting the vast resources of the federal government, it at least made them feel good.
Having a match, Swale called the telephone number and was relieved when a motel desk clerk answered. He was to meet Stickman at the motel. The fifty-first and fifty-second numbers gave him the date. The last number told him to come with a crew of four.
Just in case the mission dragged on, Swale made a week-long reservation for three rooms. His friends could double up.