of Allah is planning. Okay, send it through.” Kurtzman put down the phone and swung his chair around to face the plasma screens. “Facial recognition made an ID of the shooter.”
A face flashed up on one of the screens. Full frontal and profile. A lean, dark-complexioned man in his early thirties. Thick black hair, his angry gaze fixed on the camera.
“Hussein Muran,” Kurtzman said. “Born in Pakistan. Spent time in Europe. Associated with a number of Islamic groups. Pretty vociferous in his condemnation of the West. He’s been on the move the past few years. Wanted by the French. Kicked out of the U.K. because of his extremist views. Mossad even have a file on him and the latest update on him suggests a link with Hand of Allah. At the moment that’s all it is. A suggestion.”
“Damn well better be more than a suggestion,” Brognola said.
“Suggestion or not,” Price said, ‘he still shows up on a U.S. street, spraying bullets into a crowd and throwing grenades around? It’s too convenient not to be connected.”
“I’d like to know the answer to that,” Brognola growled, letting his anger show in his tone.
“It seems he flew into LAX just over a week ago,” Kurtzman said, working the plasma screens. “That was his entry point. Came in on a false passport along with a party of tourists. It’s only just been tagged. He wasn’t on any watch lists because he hasn’t been here before. There was a glitch in the system so the foreign interest data wasn’t made a relevant issue. No one made a connection. Muran walked through customs and hasn’t been seen since. His image has only just been verified through the FBI running his picture through their database. His papers have him using a false name.”
“Jesus,” Brognola said, “I hope someone gets his, or her, ass kicked for this.” He slammed a heavy fist down on the table. “We have all these damn agencies and screening procedures and still let these bastards into the country. How many more times are these crazies going to slip into the U.S. before we shut the gates?”
“It’s going to take more than we have right now,” Kurtzman said. “Sheer volume of passengers in and out every day. Airport staff overworked. Bound to be slipups. A percentage of the wrong individuals are going to get through, Hal.”
Brognola sat down. He rubbed his face with his big hands.
“Can we at least confirm he’s with Hand of Allah?”
“Working on it,” Kurtzman said. “Hal, we’ve only been in the loop for a short time. Information is coming in slowly, and we have to get it secondhand.”
Brognola held up a hand. “I know, Aaron. Not your fault. Just keep me updated, huh?”
* * *
IN THE COMPUTER ROOM heads were bent over keyboards, fingers tapping, data flashing across the monitors. There was a palpable sense of urgency in the air. Each member of the team was aware of the situation. They understood how things could change in a short time and how the need for information became increasingly relevant with shifting scenarios.
Carmen Delahunt, ex-FBI, sat upright, a soft “yes” passing her lips. She gazed at her monitor, rereading the lines of data displayed there.
“DCRI,” she said out loud. “French Central Directorate of Interior Intelligence.”
The Direction Centrale du Renseignement Intérieur, founded in 2008, was responsible, among other things, for monitoring threats to France and had built a database of suspect individuals. Using one of Kurtzman’s programs, Delahunt had penetrated the DCRI. She had keyed in Hussein Muran’s name and had found his file and known associates.
The list threw up a number of other names, with brief biographies.
The one that stood out was Shaia Kerim. Now associated with Hand of Allah. When Delahunt read through the French-compiled list she saw that at least three other names were coupled with Hand of Allah.
And one of them was Hussein Muran.
Stony Man had its connection.
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