The Miami Metropolitan Correctional Center was quiet this time of the evening. The administration didn’t like visits after six, but for law enforcement they would make exceptions. Tasker found that Kaz Jourdi had already been moved to Atlanta, where he was being evaluated for a future destination. Samir Al-Soud was still at MCC waiting for transportation. Neither had caused any trouble while guests of the Federal Bureau of Prisons.
After a thirty-minute wait in an interview room the size of a small closet with a rickety table and three folding chairs, two burly Bureau of Prisons officers escorted a small dark man about thirty-three with a wicked comb-over hiding a large, shiny head. He had intense dark eyes which he immediately trained on Tasker, trying to assess who he had to talk with now. He was thin but had some muscle. Tasker wouldn’t want to tangle with him if he was pissed or had a cause.
The prison officers let him step inside the small room alone and said to Sutter, “We’ll be in the control room. If you need us, stick your head out the door. We have to see you.”
Sutter smiled, looking at the prisoner. “No problem. I think we could handle this one.”
The second officer laughed and said to the first, “How many times have we heard that?”
Tasker asked, “Is there something we should know about Mr. Al-Soud?”
“No, nothing specific. We just seen more than one FBI agent get his ass kicked down here.”
Al-Soud seemed to follow the conversation with interest.
Sutter said, “Don’t worry, I’m a Miami cop.”
The first officer said, “Seen that, too.” He turned and shut the door.
Tasker pulled out the chair next to the table and offered it to the small man.
Al-Soud slowly sat, exchanging looks with both cops.
Tasker said, “Mr. Al-Soud, you speak English, don’t you?”
He nodded.
“My name is Bill Tasker and this is Derrick Sutter.”
The man made no reaction.
“We wanted to talk to you about your arrest. It has no bearing on your case, which, from what I understand, is already concluded.”
The man looked at Tasker and said, “Why would you want to talk to me? Why not talk to another FBI agent?”
“I’m not with the FBI.”
He looked at Sutter. “And you’re a Miami cop?” He had no trace of an accent. He could have been from Los Angeles.
Sutter said, “That’s right.”
Tasker said, “I’m an agent with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement.”
“So an FDLE agent and a Miami cop are interested in an FBI case. This must be some turf war.”
“Not really. The opposite, actually. We’re on another case that the FBI is not interested in.” Tasker looked at the calm little man. “Who arrested you?”
He looked surprised. “Why, the FBI, of course.”
“I mean, which agent? Do you remember?”
He nodded vigorously. “Oh yes. Of course. A most disagreeable man. Agent Bolini.”
Tasker cut his eyes to Sutter. Then said, “I read the news article, but what exactly did you do?”
“I am afraid, due to legal considerations, I shall not answer that.” He looked at Sutter. “And nothing could make me talk.”
Sutter shrugged, stood up and said, “Okay, that just means I’m outta here quicker.” Sutter took a step toward the door. The small Arab man looked to Tasker.
“Okay, okay, wait. I’ll talk to you.”
Sutter let a small smile cross his face.
Tasker winked at him, turned to Al-Soud and said, “We’re listening.”
The man gazed ahead as he recalled details. He began, “I’ve got to tell you-it was brilliant.”
Tasker smiled. “Hold on, ah, what should we call you? Samir? Mr. Al-Soud?”
“Call me Sami. Everyone does.”
“Okay, Sami, tell us your idea.”
“It was mostly mine, but Kaz added some logistics.”
Sutter cut in. “Summarize this shit, Sami. We’re not investigating you. We’re just interested in your case.”
Sami nodded, anxious to get on with his story. “Well, you know that Turkey Point used to be relatively unguarded. I am an electrical engineer and had done some contract work out there a few years ago.”
“At the nuclear plant?” asked Tasker.
“No, the fossil fuel plant, but they’re right next to each other and the engineers showed me around plenty of times. They have that typical American pride in their accomplishments. They love to brag and show off how smart they are.” He took a second and asked, “Now, where was I?”
“You were saying how brilliant you are,” said Sutter.
He nodded, “Yes, of course. So, as I was saying, I talked it over with Kaz, my friend, and we thought that if someone attacked the plant from the ocean side, they could make quite an inroad to this facility. There used to be a dock there and everything.”
Sutter said, “Why’d you want to attack it?”
“It was a popular idea among some of us. Make a statement about America’s vulnerability.”
Sutter took a harsh tone. “A vulnerability based on freedom that you enjoyed.”
“Correct,” said Sami, like he couldn’t understand Sutter’s reasoning.
“And you liked living here?”
“Yes, of course.”
“But you wanted to attack us?”
“Yes, the power plant.”
“Why?”
“I told you, to make a statement about America’s vulnerability.”
Tasker looked over to Sutter and shook his head so they could move on.
Sami was silent for a few seconds, then said, “So, I had the idea that a big enough bomb planted on the ocean side of the plant might not destroy it but would scare a lot of people and disrupt life.”
Tasker asked, “How were you going to get the bomb in? Suicide attack?”
“No, of course not. Not unless Kaz wanted to ride in a boat loaded with explosives. And he wanted to live as much as me.”
“So what did you plan?”
“A sealed explosive that when it was dumped in the water and reached a certain depth, it armed itself. Then, after we were gone, it exploded.”
“You could build something like that? Where’d you learn how to do that?”
“Not us. We met a man. An engineer who told us he wanted to see the same thing-the plant to go up in a big show. He had the whole device made up. He had the explosive, too. But before we even had a boat, the FBI grabbed us and we abandoned the plan. They had us, they knew everything, so Kaz and I pleaded guilty. I start a twelve-year sentence next month.”
“What happened to the other guy, the engineer?”
“I don’t think they ever caught him. I gave his name to Agent Bolini, but I don’t know what happened.”
“What was his name?”
“Daniel Westerly. He lived in Naranja.”
Tasker just stared at Sutter.
Wells had almost everything ready to go. He was about to get some rest for the night, when his pager went off. Within a minute, he’d hustled down to a gas station and called the number back, and when a man answered, Wells said, “Hello?”
The man just said, “They talked to Al-Soud.”
“So?” asked Daniel.
“So be careful.”
“I always am.”
Wells heard the line go dead and shook his head. If that little Arab fella couldn’t tell the device he’d made for him and his buddy Kaz was as bogus as a three-dollar bill, then Wells wasn’t worried about what he might tell the cops.
Wells chuckled at the memory of him showing the two would-be terrorists the heavy marine fuel tank with the few fake gauges and switches welded on the outside, and then saying it was a pressure-triggered bomb that could bring down Turkey Point. The confusion on their faces when the FBI had swooped in was worth its weight in gold. That was the sort of thing that everyone liked. It satisfied his urge to a degree and had bought him some goodwill, too. If Sami Al-whatever wanted to blab, he could, but that dumb son of a bitch didn’t know anything useful.