After September 11, Hassan spoke to Brett, and Brett set up a covert meeting with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Hassan Abdul became a mole. His jobs changed over the years, as did his location. His responsibility under the Bush administration had been to provide leads on possible terror suspects attending mosques in prominent urban areas. For the past several years, he had been stationed in New York City. At the mosque, he posed as a borderline radical—he spoke regularly about the injustices of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan—but during his off-hours, he spoke frequently with a connection at the FBI. When al-Awlaki made contact with the treasurer of a local mosque via e-mail, the FBI found out, because that treasurer was Hassan Abdul.
With the election of Mark Prescott, however, the FBI had undergone certain changes. The monitoring of mosques had largely been shut down, deemed offensive and inefficient by the new administration. Hassan still received occasional contacts from the FBI, but the lack of regularity made it difficult to track secondary suspects, or to continue long-term monitoring of those who left the area. Over time, Hassan cut off contact altogether, frustrated with the lack of investigative follow-up.
Then he received a call from Brett.
Hassan adjusted his glasses. “I don’t know who’s behind the bridge attack, Brett. I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t expect you would.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I don’t think it’s over. And I need you to help me find someone.” Brett laid out what he knew about Mohammed: the name, the fact that he’d heard Ashammi specifically address him in Tehran.
“It’s not a lot to go on. How do you even know he’s coming to New York, as opposed to some other city? How do you know he wasn’t involved in the original attack? Has the government even locked down the bastards who planted the bombs?”
“I don’t know, Hassan. All I know is that there’s something more to this. And I know that he is religious. The way that Ashammi spoke to him. If he’s here, the only way to find him will be through the mosques.”
Hassan laughed. “You could try the strip clubs, too. The 9/11 hijackers weren’t Islamic enough to avoid seeing some unclad Western women before their flights.”
“I’ve thought of that, too, but all the strip clubs are closed. Seriously, Hassan, please dig around. See if you can spot any new faces. I think he’s here.”
Hassan got up, stood over his old friend. “I put myself at risk to help preserve the truth of my religion once. Your boss cut me off. Why would he not do so again?”
Brett stood up, towering over Hassan. “Because this time, my boss doesn’t know anything about it. Derek—Hassan—I know you’re angry. You should be. So am I. But if there’s anything we can do, now’s the time to do it.”
“You don’t need to convince me, white boy. I just want you to know why I’m doing this. And it isn’t for your president.”
“Believe me,” nodded Brett, “neither am I.”
Hassan nodded. “I’ll be in touch when I’ve got something for you.” He turned toward the door, then turned back. “There’s good and bad in everyone,” he crooned, a smile suddenly creasing his lips. “We learn to live, we learn to give.”
Brett laughed., “Each other what we need to survive. Together alive.”
Hassan gave him a quick thumbs-up. Then he was gone.
President Prescott
ICONIC MOMENTS.
These were the moments that Mark Prescott had always wanted. FDR standing before Congress, declaring war on Japan. John F. Kennedy in Berlin. Reagan at the Berlin Wall. George W. Bush in the wreckage of the World Trade Center.
And now, Prescott, standing on the precipice of the Hudson River, with the Coast Guard still dredging the waters, with the wreckage of one of America’s greatest public works projects mangled behind him. No iconic moment could take place without tragedy lurking in the background.
An American flag flapped in the breeze behind him, forlorn against the bright blue sky. Prescott had his best men work on the speech. He’d given it a personal touch, too—he’d rehearsed it down to the last inflection. If there was one thing Mark Prescott knew how to do, it was hit the emotional high notes. And there would be little need to press emotional buttons after an event that had already become known by its date, like December 7 and September 11.
Prescott didn’t wear a suit for the speech. Instead, he wore a Windbreaker, allowed the media to join him for a ride-along with the Coast Guard through the scene. As he looked over the waters, tears came to his eyes—genuine tears, not manufactured ones. This was his country, and these were his people, and if not for the tragedies of the past, they would be driving through the city today, living their lives. The cameras clacked loudly in the background as those thoughts crossed his mind, and he briefly hid his face from them. Of course, that would make the front pages of the newspapers, too.
The cameras broadcast him to hundreds of millions the world over; he stared above the camera line so that he appeared to be looking into the distance, into the future. He had positioned himself so that the light hit him squarely in the face. He spoke without notes, without a teleprompter—no niggling critics would be able to call this staged. His moment had arrived.
“My fellow Americans,” he said, “we have experienced the greatest single attack on American soil in our history. Two days ago, we lost thousands of American lives: men, women, children.
“But let our enemies hear this: we remain strong. We remain unbowed. We remain unbroken, unwavering, unshaken. We stand together, and our unity is our power. Today, our enemies rejoice in our tragedy. Tomorrow, they will see us rebuild from these ashes, restore what once was, rebuild our America: better, stronger than it was before. They hoped that their destruction would cause us to question ourselves, question our course. They hoped that we would surrender our philosophy, our way of life.
“They were wrong. And so today, I speak to those who attacked us. We will never surrender. We will never give up. You think you are strong and we are weak for our freedoms. It is you who are weak, and we who are strong.”
He paused, let the words echo over the crowd before him. Then, he inhaled, preparing to continue. This would be the moment when his soaring rhetoric would pull the crowd together, give them hope. This would be the moment when adversity turned to power. This would be…
A voice cried out from the back of the crowd. “YOU DID THIS!”
Prescott was momentarily startled. Then he began: “In times of grief, we do not walk alone. We walk together, yes, but we walk together holding the hand of a higher power, a power that believes in a higher justice…”
The voice again: “YOU DID THIS, MR. PRESIDENT!”
A murmur carried through the crowd. The voice continued, and suddenly a few of the cameras swung around from facing Prescott toward the lone protester. It was a woman, overweight, wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt with holes in it, her hair chopped short. “YOU DID THIS, MR. PRESIDENT! MY HUSBAND IS AT THE BOTTOM OF THIS RIVER BECAUSE OF YOU, MR. PRESIDENT!”
Prescott tried to seize back the moment, kept speaking into the sky: “A power that believes in America just as we believe in Him, and who will guide us through difficult times that try us…”
“MR. PRESIDENT, YOU OWE US ALL ANSWERS!”
Now all the cameras were turning to face this woman. Members of the Secret Service closed in around her, seeing her as a potential threat. Prescott could already see how it would play out on the evening news: crying victim hustled away as the president of the United States looked on.