At this time on any normal Friday, the entire floor would have been dark—workstations empty, desks tidy. But the Counterterrorism branch was simmering with hustle and bustle—buzzing voices, ringing phones, chattering keyboards. Around her were colleagues working at computers, standing in groups and talking, or on the phone. The room was shrouded in an atmosphere of concentration. It was just after eight in the evening. Counterterrorism was planning several operations within the next twenty-four hours and was also working at top speed to analyze the intelligence, assess the threat. One of the chief analysts, an expert on the Salafist movement, hurried past her, breathless. “I’ll be right there!” he shouted. “Two minutes.” She moved past a group of people standing and examining surveillance footage on a screen and hurried to the frosted-glass door behind which Kempell and some other men and women had just disappeared. Twelve hours earlier, no one had known who Jamal Badawi was.
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