David Ellis - The Wrong Man

“It’s not that simple,” said Shauna.

Maybe not, but that wouldn’t assuage Randall Manning.

“He’s going to replicate it,” I said. “He’s got explosives and assault weapons. He’s going to bomb those buildings and shoot anyone who tries to flee.”

Randall Manning always closed his eyes when it came to mind, as if that would shut out the imagery. He recoiled from it but pursued it at the same time. He’d promised himself he’d never forget.

The Brotherhood of Jihad had posted the video following the attack at the Sahmeran Adana Hotel. Someone had had the sense to take it down shortly thereafter, but Manning had a copy. He didn’t play it every day. Only once in a while. Like when he was having any second thoughts, any residual doubt, about what he was going to do.

Like today, when he got this text message on his prepaid cell phone: The FBI was looking for you this morning.

He had to admit it had crossed his mind to abort the plan. He was only human. Bruce McCabe had harbored similar thoughts. But the feeling had been fleeting. All Manning had to do was hit Play on the computer and watch that video for five seconds.

Chunks of the building falling to the ground. The torso of the building buckling as it struggled to remain standing. Innocent people jumping from windows or scrambling out from the lobby. Terrorists shooting at them, chasing them with machetes, which they swung without mercy, without regard to man, woman, or child.

He remembered the bodies coming back from Turkey on a military plane. He remembered the inconceivable sense of loss. He remembered asking the funeral director, an old family friend, if it was possible to reattach his son Quinn’s head to his body for the visitation, and bursting into tears when the answer was no.

He remembered the image of Jawhar Al-Asmari, the leader of the Brotherhood of Jihad, speaking into the camera, a white mural behind him, hiding like a coward from an undisclosed location, praising the attack on the Sahmeran Adana Hotel and vowing more of the same.

He remembered a president with nothing but words. Diplomacy and justice didn’t belong in the same sentence.

He remembered the runaround from the Department of State, a lot of political doubletalk about a complicated menagerie of interests and considerations in the Middle East.

He remembered how desperately he wanted the head of Jawhar Al-Asmari, and how desperately he wanted his government to want the same thing.

He remembered promising his wife, Bethany, his son, Quinn, his daughter-in-law, and their only granddaughter-he remembered promising them, as he stood over their dead bodies, that he would never forget.

He’d met Bruce McCabe and Stanley Keane on the military plane on the way to Turkey. They lived close enough together that they shared the same government transport. They were all shell-shocked, wounded and numb and completely at a loss. They spoke then in only general concepts-this can’t go unanswered, our government has to respond, someone has to pay. They’d traded phone numbers and agreed to keep in touch.

It didn’t have to come to this. But the goddamn government was so sensitive about anything concerning Islam, more concerned about the rippling effects of international action, than they were about making it clear what happened to you if you killed Americans. The president didn’t face much political pressure at home on this. It didn’t happen in America, it wasn’t aimed at Americans, and few American casualties resulted. Seventeen Americans, in the scheme of things? Not a big deal. Shake your head, make an off-color remark about Muslims, and flip over to the latest reality television show.

He remembered his old fraternity brother from the Ivy League days, now a defense contractor with good ties to the CIA, who put Manning together with someone who could help. He remembered the agent who agreed to give him the straight scoop-for a fee, of course. Costigan was his name, a man with loads of information and twin girls who wanted the same expensive Ivy League education Randall Manning had received.

He remembered what Costigan had told him, two weeks later. He’d always remember every single word that Costigan told him.

He remembered several weeks after the bombing, calling Bruce McCabe and Stanley Keane. Manning was firmly committed to the idea, but he danced around it initially with the two of them. He didn’t know if they’d go along, if they’d need some coercing, or if they’d simply say no. He wasn’t sure what he would have done if they’d said no outright.

But they didn’t. They said yes.

Manning always described it to them as something they could pull off without detection. A large, international company like GHI and a smaller industrial supply company like SK could separately sell bomb components to a front company, a farm, that could justify purchases of both fertilizer and nitromethane for pesticide. Nobody would be expecting it. And nobody would suspect it afterward, if the bombings were carried out correctly. The trucks could be rented in a way that didn’t lead back to them; the bomb components wouldn’t be traceable; and the individuals actually carrying out the attacks wouldn’t survive and wouldn’t be traceable back to them, in any event.

But the truth was, Manning never really believed he’d get away with this. The federal government had ways he couldn’t fathom of gathering evidence and chasing down leads. They would catch him. But maybe not Stanley, a small-business owner who would be guilty of nothing more than selling a legal product to a farm. And maybe not Bruce McCabe, guilty of nothing more than practicing law, working the financial deals that allowed GHI to purchase Summerset Farms and Stanley’s company.

Manning had to cancel the public offering of GHI, naturally. The things he was going to do, he couldn’t be answering to a board of directors and shareholders. No, he’d have to keep the company private, so he was the one and only boss, free to do whatever he pleased with the company. Like selling an inordinate amount of ammonium nitrate fertilizer to a small farming company. Like keeping people such as Patrick Cahill in a job, so he had the right people watching the gates and driving the trucks.

He thought the hardest part would be finding recruits, people who detested the government and were willing to take up arms against it and risk their lives in the process. He was surprised to learn that this was the easiest part.

Tuesday, December 7, was the ideal date. The symbolism was perfect, and it gave them sufficient time to stockpile materials for this attack and future ones, and to recruit and train the soldiers.

Manning stretched his nervous limbs and sat down on the bed. He looked at his prepaid cell phone again, an untraceable phone he’d purchased at a convenience store two days ago with a package of two hundred minutes. The FBI had come calling today. They didn’t search the place. They just came by to chat.

So they’d gotten wind of things, probably from Jason Kolarich, but it didn’t sound like they were close.

Not close enough. Not soon enough.

The attack was less than forty-eight hours away.

After Joel Lightner’s briefing, he and I spent the next several hours with Lee Tucker of the FBI. This time, Lee Tucker wasn’t wearing a patronizing smirk. I’d made some headway with him, and the information Joel and I gave him now only solidified our position.

Not that Lee gave up a single damn thing in return. He didn’t confirm or deny anything. He gave no indication whether my information was news to him or stuff he already knew. I couldn’t tell if he put the threat risk at low, medium, or high, or the imminence of that threat as near or far.