About 15 minutes after he sat down at his desk, the Minneapolis field office’s in-house counsel, an agent he’d seen maybe twice in his life and never off the management floor, appeared in the squad bay, walked past his desk and, Albury thought, appeared to give him a sideways glance. Later, Albury would replay certain moments: that the agents, frequently standoffish, seemed unusually friendly that at 8 in the morning, the fourth floor, where Albury worked, was entirely empty, and that even though a few people began to trickle in by around 8:15, there were far fewer than were usually at the office at that hour. Albury mentioned his meeting with the inspectors. “I thought you were over at MSP,” one agent said, referring to the airport. Albury chatted with them for a few minutes. The encounter left him with an uneasy feeling.Ī couple of agents stood by the entrance. It was fairly routine - headquarters was always dispatching inspection teams to make sure agents and their managers were doing their jobs - but Albury had been at the office so infrequently that the last time his supervisor saw him, he asked him what he was doing there. That morning, Albury had been summoned to the field office for an interview with a group of F.B.I. His role was to supervise this form of intelligence gathering, a particularly unsavory aspect of counterterrorism, as he saw it, though it was better than being stuck at the sprawling, five-story edifice that was the Minneapolis field office, where he had worked since 2012. or another intelligence agency, pull a person out of the customs line and interrogate him or her based solely on being from Pakistan, or Syria, or Somalia, or another country in which the U.S. Customs and Border Protection could, at the behest of the F.B.I. It had always amazed him how little most Americans knew about the legal netherworld of the international terminal, where federal agents from ICE or U.S. Paul International Airport as a liaison officer. Then he left for work.Īlbury had spent the past six months assigned to the Minneapolis-St. “Stop being so paranoid,” he told himself.
The memory card was buried in his closet, tucked into a shirt pocket under a pile of clothes. But this time he had reason to be apprehensive, even though he’d been careful. “You always think there’s something going on.” She was right. “Something is going on behind the scenes that I’m not aware of,” he told his wife the night before. He was a careful investigator and a keen observer. directors Robert Mueller and James Comey, which praised his “outstanding” work recruiting confidential sources and exposing terrorist financing networks. Most of his career he had spent in counterterrorism, investigating sleeper cells and racking up commendations signed by the F.B.I. He was a 16-year veteran of the F.B.I.: 38, tall and powerfully built, with buzzed black hair and a black goatee. special agent, lived with his wife and two young children, and he lay in bed for a few minutes, running through the mental checklist of cases and meetings and phone calls, the things that generally made him feel as if his life was in order. It was not yet dawn in Shakopee, Minn., the Minneapolis suburb where Albury, an F.B.I. 29, 2017, Terry Albury awoke with a nagging sense of foreboding.
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