Living Stones (30 page)

“Do you have his last name?”

“Oh yeah. Bentley. Robert Bentley. Pays his rent every month on time, by check.”

Gordon showed him both the search and arrest warrants by penlight. “We didn’t have his name until now. We have reason to believe he could be involved in a serious crime. This is a search and arrest as part of our investigation. So we are asking for your cooperation in quickly answering a few questions. You are the owner of this property?”

“Yes.”

“Are there other individuals in the house that we need to protect?”

“No.”

“Do you have a dog or any animal that would make noise?”

“No.”

“Do you have any reason to believe Robert Bentley is not here now?”

“No. I heard him moving something heavy across the floor just an hour ago. Woke me up. It sounded like dragging a dresser over to the door on the north side of the room. It’s right above my bedroom.”

“So there may be a dresser blocking the door. Are there any backstairs where someone could escape, or windows?”

“No. It’s a small house, one stairway with just two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. There are two windows in his room and also in the empty one.”

“Is the door to the empty room open?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “I keep it aired out. There’s no one living there now. The bathroom door should be open too. It’s directly ahead as you come up the stairs. Robert’s door is on the right as you reach the upstairs hall.”

“Robert could have explosive material with him and use it. We would like you to wait safely in that vehicle across the street. One of our officers will escort you there before we go inside. Are you willing to do that?”

“Yes. But could I go back in to get some things I can’t lose?”

“No, sir. We cannot allow that. We need total silence. Surprise is one of our best means of avoiding injury to anyone or any property. Now we need to move. The officer next to you will escort you to the police vehicle for your safety.”

A SWAT officer silently signaled the team on the perimeter of the house by a red light flash that they were going in, guns drawn. Gordon and the two SWAT officers crept silently up the pitch-black stairs to the top, finding the small hall and the open bathroom door ahead.

Through their night vision goggles they saw the right-hand door clearly. The SWAT officer who looked like a football lineman raised his right leg and smashed the door open with a huge kick, pushing the dresser clear across the room. With the loud crash, the three men leaped into the room shouting, “Police! Hands up.” They focused an intensely bright light on the far wall and bed, momentarily blinding its occupant. Robert Bentley squinted into the light as he bolted upright and leaped toward his laptop computer. A SWAT officer tackled him, pinned him on the floor, and quickly bound Robert in handcuffs. They dragged him to a chair and turned on the room lights.

While one officer guarded their prisoner, Gordon and the other one searched the room for any evidence of explosives or weapons. They found a small pistol only, loaded. Gordon again displayed his FBI identification with his picture, and examined Robert’s wallet and driver’s license.

Gordon told Robert his Miranda Rights. He had gone through this so many times he could say them in his sleep. “You are being arrested. I have here both search and arrest warrants signed by a federal judge, based on a legal affidavit that states there is some evidence to believe that you have committed a serious crime. We will detain you as a suspect only, in jail, pending further investigation. That will include questions of you. Do you understand . . . Robert?”

Robert looked down, refusing to look at the warrants and refusing to speak.

“You have certain rights under the Miranda law. They include the right to silence. You should understand that anything you say could be used against you in court. You have the right to counsel, a lawyer, before answering any questions. Do you understand?”

Robert offered no response.

“You can choose to answer my questions now if you wish. What is your name?”

Robert remained mute, refusing eye contact.

“Alright, gentlemen, please escort the prisoner to your vehicle and bring back in the owner of the house with an escort to get a few clothes and essentials,” Gordon said. He pressed his radio activation button. “I’m asking the team to come up here with latex gloves and containers for gathering evidence. Contact the bomb squad with a dog to sniff out any missing explosives. We’ll ask the owner to leave briefly until that sweep is finished.”

They took pictures of everything in the room. With many gloved hands obtaining evidence from Robert’s file drawers, scraps of paper, CDs, iPod, smartphone, and most importantly his laptop. The passport picture matched his driver’s license one. Gordon noticed a Pakistan visa dated in March. The team labeled everything, including where they found the item in the room. Finally they carried it all down and loaded the plastic containers in the SWAT vehicle with Robert caged in back. They drove to the Federal Detention Center in SeaTac not far from the airport. Robert, heavily guarded, walked with the SWAT officers into a room for pictures and fingerprinting. Then his jail door clanged shut.

Robert stood in the middle of the cell, hearing the footsteps of his guards receding down the echoing hall. Suddenly alone, he stared at his enclosed cell. It smelled like floor cleaners. The light in the ceiling, covered with a steel mesh, would be just enough to read. The toilet and fold-down bed on one side balanced the steel chair and table on the other. He stared blankly, thinking of all that had transpired in one hour, his greatest fear now realized. He grimaced and shook his head.

It had all started with such excitement, such fervor, as he would prove to the West, to the U.S. and Israel, their injustice to the Muslim world. He had prayed facing Mecca. But it didn’t seem to protect him.
Maybe Allah wasn’t merciful after all. He had been in the company of jihadists, but now he was alone. They offered no help.

He used the toilet and then sat down on the bed. It felt hard, with a thin mattress enclosed in tough plastic, a small pillow, and two blankets. Robert Bentley lay down, unable to sleep. He saw no one. He was in solitary confinement. He thought of his parents. They would soon find out where he was. What should he do? The FBI guy mentioned that anything he said could be used against him. So the best thing was to say nothing. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of any reply. They would have to prove his guilt. The guy had said something about getting a lawyer. He wouldn’t even do that. A lawyer might make him talk somehow.

Gordon collapsed in bed at six a.m. and set his alarm for nine o’clock. The State Police laboratory chief called just after it went off. Gordon’s wife had insisted that he sit down to eat.

“What have you found so far?”

“Gordon, we’ve got enough on this guy’s computer alone to hang him.”

“Passwords any problem?”

“Not for our people.”

“So what have you found?”

“E-mails galore to and from Islamic radicals here and abroad. He came out to Seattle because of a group that frequented the Islamic Center of Imam Jabril. From his online banking evidence, we found the missing link, the check for thirty grand that the imam split, sending fifteen to Mossad’s guy in Jerusalem.”

“You know if he went to Pakistan?” Gordon asked.

“Yeah, we’ll get the CIA going on that. We won’t leave any stone unturned.”

“Good. We’ll send everything here to the FBI lab for confirmation—fingerprints, traces of explosives, anything we find. But we’ve got enough evidence now for any prosecutor to put this murderer away for life, even if he says nothing.”

Ashley slept in after the excitement of the previous night. She boiled a couple of eggs to go with her toast when the telephone rang. Her housemates had left for work.

“Hello.”

“Ashley, this is Gordon, from last night. We got him.”

“You mean you already have the bomber? In jail?”

“Yep. Behind bars. His name is Robert Bentley.”

“I can’t believe it!” She exhaled slowly . . . and for a moment couldn’t speak. “You guys amaze me! Anyway, Najid apparently found the right guy, huh? Have you confirmed it?”

“Ashley, his computer is full of incriminating evidence. This is all preliminary of course, but there’s hardly a snowball’s chance in hell that he’s innocent of the bombing.”

“Isn’t there a lot more to do? Has he said anything?”

“Yes there is, and no, he won’t talk.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Not yet.”

“Will he get out on bail?”

“I doubt it.”

“I assume you can’t discuss details with me, but do you think he has any accomplices here that might be looking for me?”

“Ashley, I don’t know. It’ll take time to find that out. We do know now that you were followed in Israel, four times, with the intention to abduct and kill you.”

“Uh . . . only three times, Gordon. Twice in Bethlehem and once in Jerusalem.”

“You’re wrong. It’s four times. You were stalked in Nazareth on a shopping afternoon, but you apparently never realized it. I am not sure what happened to thwart that one.”

“I didn’t know that. Are you sure?”

“Your stalker over there, guy by the name of Walid, has confessed to all four attempts, including the one in Nazareth.”

“Oh my goodness! How did this ‘Walid’ get involved, or even know me?”

“It’s a long story, Ashley, but just know that Robert Bentley here in Seattle paid thousands of dollars to have you wiped out in the
Holy Land because he feared you recognized him and would turn him in. Which you did.”

“Oh my goodness! It’s all . . .” Once again, the reality of how and why she came so close to being killed in Israel shocked her into silence.

“Are you still there, Ashley? You OK?”

“Yeah, I think so. It just hit me again how close I came. So there still could be someone out there he paid to track me down here in Seattle?”

“It’s possible. For now I’d still be careful.”

Ashley hung up the phone and sat down to think. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. They got the bomber with lots of evidence against him—that was the good news. But did someone out there, here in Seattle, still want her in his gun sight? Most jihadists didn’t work alone.

Robert heard footsteps rumbling down the hall, echoing off the bare walls. An armed officer opened his cell door and stepped in, followed by the tall FBI guy who arrested him the previous night. Robert had only had a couple hours of sleep.

“Robert Bentley, I’m Gordon Appleby with the FBI. We met last night, as you will recall.” He quickly showed Robert his FBI documentation.

Robert remained silent.

“We informed you of your right to be silent and to be represented by an attorney. It would be best for you to have one. Are you agreeable to that?”

Robert stared at the floor without speaking.

“Alright. Let me explain the situation to you. We have evidence from many sources, now including your computer, that you may be guilty of a combination of hate crimes. That puts you in federal court jurisdiction. This is not your usual local or state court system. So you are now in the Federal Detention Center in SeaTac. Do you understand that these are serious charges against you and that the justice system of the United States of America will govern what happens
to you next?”

Robert struggled to keep from shaking. Trembling, he would not speak, even if tortured.

“You will be treated fairly and are presumed innocent until proven guilty. I’m going to explain the procedures you will go through. You will be taken to a U.S. district court where the federal judge will talk to you and give you some good advice. This is a preliminary hearing. He will decide whether you could be released on bail. He will review the charges against you and explain the procedures. The government has the legal right to keep you confined here during the pretrial period if it comes to that. You could avoid a trial by pleading guilty in court. Do you understand, or do you have questions?”

Robert shifted his position on his bed and said nothing. His mind whirled. He had lots of questions. He couldn’t seem to put everything together. Watching crime shows and court scenes on TV didn’t prepare him for this.