Monday, April 13
They exited the elevator into a stark-white sterile corridor. The hallway ended at a large white metal door. The FBI director opened it, walked in, and held it open for Jason.
The pharmacist stepped in and looked down upon a semicircular indoor amphitheater. At the lowest level, ten large screens, six feet high and ten feet wide, were mounted on the wall. Four screens showed satellite images of various locations around the world. The remaining six displayed data scrolling over a black background.
Its multi levels were occupied by the stepped stages of the theater crammed with computer stations, terminals, and secure phones. Fifteen men and women were seated at these stations and other locations. Certain smaller computer screens were synced displaying the computer’s information on the larger screens.
“Welcome to the SIOC,” McNamara declared.
On the highest level of the center, a large conference room overlooked the massive technological display below. The common walls were floor-to-glass, allowing for a panoramic view. From this vantage point, agents in the enclosure could observe the goings-on in the command post.
“Jason,” FBI Director George McNamara began, “has agreed to help us. I want everyone to brief him on Operation Dust Storm.”
The faces around the table shot the director shocked glances.
“Sir, he’s not cleared,” one woman objected.
“I just gave him clearance!”
No one made a movement to comply.
“I mean it,” he persisted. “Just give him facts. And do not mention what security agencies or databases were accessed. Give him the important details.”
Throats were cleared and papers shuffled.
“Tom, you start.”
The wheelchair bound Tom Johnson opened a thick file and spoke in a slow, methodical manner, reciting facts.
“Two weeks ago, we learned that the explosion on the yacht after the assassination attempts was staged.”
“How did you come to know this?” Jason asked.
“We intercepted a communication between someone in Newport News called The Watcher and an unknown subject that caused us to question the conclusion that Hussein was dead. A special team was dispatched to look into the explosion. It was determined that the bodies on the yacht were not those of Hussein and her associate. That information was not shared with the local police … or anyone else for that matter. We knew that Lily Zanns, aka Delilah Hussein, was alive. We brought in the FAA and began to look at all flights, commercial and private, originating from the area in and around Newport News.
“The tail letters on Hussein’s plane and its transponder signal were cross-referenced with electronic flight records from the FAA’s mainframe. All flights are tracked and saved at their headquarters here in DC. Hussein and her associate flew to a few miles of the coast of North Carolina. The plane’s track terminated over the water. At first, we thought they may have crashed into the sea.
“We checked with the Coast Guard and the Navy, looking for a record of a crash and/or recovery operation. There was nothing. But we did find a report of an abandoned aircraft, a float plane, matching the tail numbers of her aircraft.”
“Hussein,” Jason began, “was off the grid. I understand she had no papers, no social security number. How did she manage to buy a plane?”
“She had no paper trail as Lily Zanns. But she did have one as Delilah Hussein. The plane was owned by an organization based in Syria with ties to The Simoon.”
Johnson continued his explanation. “The plane was found empty, floating on the ocean waves. There was no sign of foul play. We assumed that they rendezvoused with others.”
At that point another gentleman unknown to Jason took over.
“Back checking, we cross-referenced the shipping lanes and routes for the day after the assassination attempt and were able to determine that two ships were in the area at the time the plane’s flight terminated. Both ships’ crews were interviewed. It was learned that two people, a dark-skinned man and a woman, were rescued from the sea in a rubber raft in the early morning by a Liberian tanker headed to Cuba.
“Based on the interviews, we determined that the man and woman debarked in Cuba and disappeared.”
A third man picked up the story.
“Let me stop you right there,” Jason interrupted. “Where is Agent Broadhurst?”
McNamara tapped the table. “Clay is ill. He is resting right now. Continue.”
“Since that day two weeks ago, we have continuously monitored all communications looking for any key words associated with Delilah Hussein and her organization, The Simoon, from anywhere in the world. The single communication we intercepted two weeks ago led to this area of the world.”
The man picked up a remote and pointed it at a blank monitor on the wall of the conference room. The screen came to life showing a world map. Slowly the image zoomed in on an area highlighted by a sizable rectangle.
The western wall of the box stretched from below Panama on the Pacific side north to the Gulf of Mexico. The top border ran west to east between Cuba and the southern tip of the Florida peninsula. The top right corner of the box floated over the middle of the North Atlantic. The eastern line dropped south to a point east of French Guiana. The southern side of the immense quadrilateral stretched east to west through the northern countries of South America: French Guiana, Suriname, Guyana, Venezuela, and Colombia.
“That’s a sizeable area,” Jason commented.
“More than 3.2 million square miles,” the man replied.
“I thought the government had all these resources at its disposal to monitor and locate the bad guys. Why can’t you pin her location down?”
“Given enough time we will find her. The problem is time,” McNamara explained. “An operation is underway. We need to find her. She’s using some kind of sophisticated cloaking mechanism to hide the source of her electronic and voice transmissions. Normally calls are routed through satellites and cell towers which makes tracking them relatively easy. Hussein’s communications, when they occur, are sending hundreds of signals out in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree pattern.”
“So trace the signals back to where they all converge …”
“We’ve thought of that, young man. The origination point of the calls changes every time a call is made or a secure text is sent. It can vary anywhere inside this rectangle you see on the map.”
“How do even know this is Hussein?” Jason demanded.
McNamara smiled as if explaining a simple concept to a child. “We have other assets around the world that have confirmed communications are coming from this area. We have teams analyzing large amounts of electronic data. And that’s all I will say about that. Again, continue.”
The agent with the remote continued. “We’ve cross-referenced each communication with known cell towers and transmission points. None of the calls can be traced to a specific cell tower. It’s a complicated algorithm which we can solve. We will need time. Time we don’t have.”
“So she’s somewhere in the Caribbean but you don’t know where.”
“Exactly,” said the director.
“How do you expect to contact her if you don’t know where she is?”
The director stood up. “Thank you, gentlemen.” He turned to Jason. “Follow me.”