Inside the lift, Gibbons pressed the button to the eleventh floor. “I have a team of five men waiting. Director Hall has given us the address and the name of the suspect; we aim to apprehend the cleric and bring him back here for you to question.”
“How much have you been told about this operation, Inspector?”
“Not much really, all I know is Homeland Security has asked us to apprehend a person of interest and leave the rest to you. NYPD has been notified to immediately disseminate an alert to all staff to be on heightened alert for any reference to Syria. Other than that, we have no other operational reference. Anything you can enlighten me on?”
“Not yet, sorry.”
Gibbons shrugged. “As I suspected.”
The elevator door opened to the eleventh floor.
“This way.”
A map of Bedford-Stuyvesant had been spread over a large table; a group of five officers in civilian dress were discussing operational procedures. Gibbons interrupted them, and introduced Matt. Formalities and quick briefing over, the seven men departed in an unmarked white Ford Transit.
The driver negotiated his way over the crowded Brooklyn Bridge and pressed further on to Atlantic Avenue, heading in a southeasterly direction to the heart of Bedford-Stuyvesant, less than four miles away. In the back of van, spread out on the seatless metal floor, Lilburn made himself as comfortable as possible.
“Not much of a sightseeing tour.” Gibbons smiled.
“I’ve had worse. Tell me what you know about this cleric — Abdul Baari Fawaz?”
Inspector Gibbons looked over the details sent from Albany. “Fawaz was born 1959, Egyptian by birth, immigrated to America 1993, and founded a mosque in Brooklyn soon after. His name, Abdul Baari, means ‘servant of the Creator’. Five foot ten inches, identified by a birthmark on the his neck, left rear side. He doesn’t show up on our radar.”
The officer in the passenger seat leaned around towards the back of the van. “ETA two minutes.”
“Right, heads up.” Gibbons gave out instructions. The van was to park outside the mosque, he and one other officer, together with Lilburn, were to proceed directly to the building and enter, the remaining two in the back of the van were to station themselves outside, weapons concealed. The front-seat passenger to remain seated unless events dictated otherwise. A radio check was performed, using their hidden mikes and concealed earpieces. All working.
The van turned off Atlantic Avenue then turned again before slowing down. The officer in the front passenger seat looked for the mosque. “Here it is, sir, looks like we’ll have to double park. We have three persons directly out front, two probable Muslim men with beards and skullcaps. Could be corner men. There’s a kid as well, sitting on a box by the double doors. Can confirm the entry door is open.” The van stopped.
“Let’s go.”
Lilburn quickly took in the surroundings. The mosque was one of many similar-sized buildings nearby, all sharing common walls, approximately fifteen feet wide with access through a large grey door directly off the footpath. There were signs protruding out into the sidewalk on either side of the mosque, attached to the bottom of the two floors above. One sign advertised a barber shop, the other a travel agent. The mosque itself had Arabic writing above the entrance; Lilburn also noticed a security camera facing down towards the door.
The two bearded men tensed as the group from the van approached. Even though they wore plainclothes, they still looked menacing.
“Is the Imam here?” No reply was forthcoming. “Imam Abdul Baari Fawaz, is he here?” Still no reply. The bearded faces showed no response, not a flicker of emotion, yet Lilburn saw their deep brown eyes missed nothing. Silence was clearly their friend. The seated boy, no more than eight years old, with a collarless white shirt, long grey shorts and black sneakers that seemed far too big for him slowly stood up, backed towards the open door then suddenly made off inside at a run. Gibbons ignored the silent men and followed. Lilburn and one officer followed his lead. Inside, Gibbons only just saw the flicker of the boy’s white shirt disappear up a flight of stairs.
With weapon drawn, Gibbons charged up the stairs, leaving his two colleagues to follow suit.
The upper level prayer room, the musalla, with its wooden floor, was bare of trappings save for the racks of rolled prayer mats and numerous bookshelves. As Gibbons entered, a door in the far corner slammed shut. There was only one other person in the room. The Imam finished his prayer, then after stepping off his prayer mat, knelt down and carefully rolled it up.
“Imam Abdul Baari Fawaz?”
The man did not look up as he spoke. “Who wants to know?”
Gibbons repeated the question. “Are you Imam Abdul Baari Fawaz?”
“As I said, who wants to know?” the cleric turned to face them. His long dark beard was starting to gray from the outside in, falling over a loose-fitting dark-blue tunic. The dark eyes well set into his eye sockets were in stark contrast to his brilliant white skull cap.
Gibbons holstered his weapon, his colleague did the same. “NYPD. My name is Inspector Gibbons. Are you Imam Abdul Baari Fawaz?”
The cleric walked to the rack of prayer mats and placed his own neatly in a cubbyhole. “You are forbidden in our prayer room.” Fawaz showed no sign of being overwhelmed by the strangers. “You enter our sacred room without permission, you do not respect our religion. You have not even taken off your shoes. You must leave our place of worship. Go now.” His hand shot out towards the men as he pointed towards the door.
Gibbons had seen the birthmark on the left side of the man’s neck. It was all the identification he required.“I don’t think so. Abdul Baari Fawaz, I’m placing you under arrest.”
“On what charge?”
“Not complying with a request when asked.”
The NYPD officer handcuffed the protesting cleric, before marching him barefoot down the stairs. The two men outside had no alternative but to watch as their religious leader was bundled into the back of the waiting van and driven off for questioning.
Chapter Nine
The Ford Transit van entered the basement car park with the suspect in custody. The cleric, barefoot and hands handcuffed behind his back, was guided to a lift. Accompanied by Lilburn and Gibbons, he was taken to the eleventh floor, where he was left alone in an interrogation room.
Lilburn and Gibbons stared at their captive from behind the one-way glass in the adjoining room.
“You know,’ said Gibbons, “we haven’t read him his rights yet or done a formal process.”
“I know and for the time being that suits me fine. I want to see what he has to say first. The last thing we need is for him to get some smartass lawyer holding things up.”
“You haven’t told me why Homeland wants to question him?”
“No, I haven’t. Afraid it will have to stay that way, at least for a while. How long can you hold him?”
“Twenty-four hours. But unless Homeland will be taking the rap for unconstitutional arrest, I don’t know how my bosses will feel if Fawaz starts demanding a lawyer.”
“Give me ten minutes with him. If I can’t get anything I want out of him in that time, I doubt if I’ll get anything later. While I’m in there with him, I would appreciate it if no one was in this room or any recordings taken.”
Gibbons looked at Lilburn. “I can do that, but it must be for something really important for you guys to be interested in him. Homeland Security, Muslims… why don’t you arrest him under an enemy combatant status, then you could hold him indefinitely?”
Lilburn could see the direction the inspector was heading and he had to admit Gibbons was putting one and one together rather well.
“Ten minutes.” Lilburn opened the door of the observation room to the foyer and waited for Gibbons to follow before he shut the door behind him. Taking a deep breath, he turned the handle and entered the interrogation room.
The room was compact and practically empty, with just a desk and three chairs �
�� designed to take anyone unfortunate enough to be interviewed out of their comfort zone. The chair was intentionally uncomfortable and the large one-way mirror, not only a tool for observers, was intended to raise the suspect’s anxiety.
Abdul Baari Fawaz wasn’t one to be coerced by a room; nor for that matter, by a mere interrogator. Lilburn didn’t rate his chances, as he sat in a more comfortable chair on the other side of the table.
Lilburn sat silent and stared at the cleric, who stared back. After a few moments Lilburn asked Fawaz if he would like his handcuffs removed; there was no response.
“I’ll decide for you, then.” Lilburn rose from the chair, opened the door and called an officer to remove the cuffs. With the handcuffs removed and the officer gone, Lilburn sat down again. More silence.
“You are a cleric in your mosque, right? The Imam, the person who leads prayers.” Lilburn hadn’t yet managed to get a response. “I’ve seen death, up close, Imam Fawaz, real death, the hard cold facts of life. Have you ever seen a mother carrying her dead child in her arms? Doesn’t matter if she cries out to God or Allah — they all cry for the same help, don’t they? You ever seen a soldier with his guts hanging out clawing the ground in agony screaming for help… same Creator, same God, same Allah. Don’t we have enough destruction already on this earth, Imam Fawaz?”
Fawaz shifted slightly in his hard chair. He hadn’t taken his eyes off his interrogator throughout the one-way conversation. He rubbed his wrists where the steel handcuffs had pressed against his flesh. Lilburn saw the movement; he hoped Fawaz would in some way connect with what he said and see the man before him as someone he could relate to, someone to trust, perhaps a kindred spirit. It was interrogating 101.
“You have a choice, an individual choice to stop this right now… if you want to. Do you want to make that choice, Imam?” As he spoke, Lilburn studied the man in front of him. The dark eyes and stony unrelenting glare revealed a man whose faith would never waiver; it would remain unchanged until his dying day. Neither Matt Lilburn, nor anyone else, would be able to even chip the outer layer.
He was fast running out of time and needed to take another tack. “You know why you were brought in here. We’ve uncovered your little scheme and once this is over, you’ll be put away for a very long time.” Lilburn stood up. As far as he was concerned there was no more to be gained. “And just in case you think I’m bluffing, I’ll leave you with one word.”
Despite himself, the Imam looked up at Lilburn.
“Syria.”
Lilburn left the room, but not before watching the beginning of a smile appear briefly on the Imam’s face.
Gibbons was waiting outside the interrogation room.
“Did you get what you were after?”
“Nothing, as I expected. Fawaz didn’t utter a word. Keep him as long as you can, then I’ll need you to put surveillance on him when he’s released and have his phones tapped.”
“We need the necessary authority to tap the phones… and I still don’t know what information we’re looking for.”
“I’ll see you have the authority. Look for anything to do with a breach in national security. You’ll know if you come across it. What I can say is anything to do with Syria will start alarm bells ringing.”
The phone operator at Homeland Security transferred Lilburn’s call through to Director Hall.
“How did you go?”
“No luck, sir. We pulled in the cleric but he won’t answer any questions and certainly hasn’t volunteered anything.”
Unsurprised, Director Hall gave Lilburn instructions to stay in New York and return in the morning. “Nothing for you to do up here. Dr. Crawston is working out a strategy in conjunction with the Disease Control Center on how to deal with an outbreak, if and when it occurs. I’ve sent out a heads-up nationwide to all enforcement agencies and postal services to report any activity to do with Syria. Best guess at the moment is the virus arrives in the post, possibly New York but that’s not certain by a long shot. Be back here tomorrow morning.” There was a click on Lilburn’s mobile as Hall bluntly ended the call.
*
“All right, all right, you rabble, settle down, it ain’t over until I say so. The lieutenant wants to say something. Boss.”
“Thank you, sergeant. This has come in from Homeland Security — while you’re out on the street, be specially diligent about any reference to Syria. Mail from the place, anything like that. And for you bozos who don’t already know it, Syria is a country.
An officer not known for his wits spoke up. “Which state, sir?”
“Button it, pinhead,” the sergeant broke in. “You don’t know where Syria is, go look up a map.”
“Thank you, sergeant, anyone else here want to interrupt me? No? Now Homeland has sent this out as a top priority. You all know as well as me when Homeland starts sending us stuff,” the lieutenant waved around a piece of paper in the air, “we know something is serious. Now for your information, yesterday a squad picked up a Muslim preacher from our precinct and took him back to have a word with him. One of the Homeland boys from Albany tagged along. I don’t know much more than that but let me say it again, anything at all regarding Syria then let me or the sergeant know. Just don’t forget what happened with the Twin Towers. No questions? Then carry on.”
Rookie officer Martinez couldn’t believe his luck. Something Homeland Security was interested in was going down in the streets he worked. The lieutenant mentioned Syria, something registered about that name. Something… “Officer Maitland?” Maitland, the briefing over, had stood up and was about to leave the room when the rookie spoke. “The other day, remember? The apartment.”
“What friggin’apartment are you talking about? There’s thousands of the damn things.”
“Remember the old lady who said the two men next door were making a bomb?”
Maitland took a moment to recall the incident. “Yeah, so what? We searched the place, spoke to some raghead, nothing, except…” Maitland hesitated. The stamp, the stamp on the wrapping paper was the same one his nephew had shown him in his stamp album. “Where did that guy say he came from?”
“Syria, I remember it was Syria.”
Maitland sat back down. “The lieutenant, he said something to look out for, what the fuck was it?”
“I took notes, he said to look out especially for anything to do with Syria.”
“I know that, what was the other thing?”
Martinez brushed though his notes. “The lieutenant mentioned to be diligent about anyone from Syria and any mail we might see.”
“You know what, kid? You might just do OK. Come with me.”
Martinez followed Maitland to the lectern at the front of the room.
“Hey, Sarge.”
The roll call sergeant was putting his notes back together when Officer Maitland approached him. “Don’t ask me for leave, Maitland, we’re short staffed as it is.”
“We might have something for you regarding the Syrian thing…”
“Keep talking.”
“The rookie and me got called out to attend a domestic. When was it, kid, yesterday? Yeah, yesterday. Turned out it was just two guys probably pissing off the old lady next door by praying all the damn time.”
“Congratulations, you want a medal or something?”
“The guy we interviewed said he was Syrian. And he had an empty parcel wrapper…”
The sergeant looked up. “Follow me. You too, Martinez.”
The lieutenant looked up from his office desk at the sound of the single knock; his sergeant leaned forward, one hand on the door jamb, the other on the handle of the half-opened door.
“Lieutenant, you might want to hear this.”
Chapter Ten
Five times a day their religion required them to face holy Mecca and prostrate themselves. Twice already they had ritually cleansed themselves and carried out their obligations. The second time was within a much shorter interval than usual, as they would soon be
traveling and prayers would only be taken when the opportunity allowed. Yusuf and Bashir locked their apartment door for what could be the last time. They saw their first few steps down the corridor as the first steps to martyrdom. Both men felt the weight of responsibility that had been placed on their shoulders. There was no choice but to succeed in the mission to help bring down those of another book, the infidels of America. Nothing the men had ever done had felt so satisfying. Millions of future followers would one day recount their names with great reverence.
The door to apartment twenty-seven shut quietly, the lock turned and a security chain rattled as the old woman’s wrinkled black hands fumbled to secure her door from the inside. Taking a piece of paper from a drawer she scribbled down what she had just seen. The two Arab men left the apartment at ten past ten, wearing jeans, one with a black hoodie with I love Montana written on the front. Other one had a white T-shirt with Patriots for Patriots. Both carrying a blue duffel bag with white straps. They yabbered twice this morning, first time woke me just after five a.m. The old lady had been making notes about her neighbors long before she had phoned the police the day before. The piece of paper along with the pen was carefully placed back in the desk drawer. The men kept on annoying her with their continual praying — damn caterwaulin’ don’t sound like no prayers to me. Looking at her phone on top of the table she picked up the receiver to call the police. Yesterday she had memorized the older policeman’s number and written it down. She thought about phoning and asking for him to come on out again. Fancy them Arabs wearing a shirt that said Patriots for Patriots. That’s un-American, them wearing that shirt. Police should do something about it, she thought to herself. The old lady started dialing nine-one-one but the pain in her arthritic fingers bit hard, making her hands tremble. Dang — but that smarts some! I’ll wait until tomorrow, I’ve got my shopping to do today.
Yusuf al-Nasseri and Bashir Zuabi walked out of the apartment block to the sidewalk. Blending in with other pedestrians in the ethnically diverse neighborhood, the two silently, casually made their way to the nearest bus stop. There they caught the next available commuter bus via the Manhattan Bridge to 625 Eight Avenue, midtown Manhattan and the Port Authority Bus Terminal located in Times Square, just over five kilometers from One Police Plaza.
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