“Why do you think they were Israeli?”
“I’m Muslim, and I cried when the towers fell down.”
Richie shrugged. “So these men don’t share your empathy.”
Mr. Ahmed pounded the plywood board with his fist. “They were Israelis pretending to be Muslims!” The plywood nearly tipped over. His face reddened as he steadied the desktop with his hand. “Sorry.”
Richie nodded and helped balance the plywood. He understood what it was like to be stereotyped for the actions of a few undesirables. A long time ago, he was one of them, dealing drugs and doing burglaries. Eons ago. But still, Ahmed’s story didn’t make any sense. “Why would Israelis impersonate Muslims?”
“At first, I thought they wanted to make us look bad. So everyone would hate us.”
“That’s a lot of trouble to go through just to foster prejudice.”
“Yes, I realize that now!” Ahmed waved his hands. “After President Bush announced that al Qaeda took responsibility for the attacks, that’s when I knew the Israeli men wanted everyone to think that Muslims did it.”
“What makes you think that al Qaeda didn’t plan the attacks?”
“The Israelis parked the van before the first plane hit.”
Richie sighed. “How could you be sure of the time?”
“The van pulled up at 8:30 a.m. That’s when I get my bread delivery. Their van blocked Anwar’s truck. I had to leave my cart and go into the street.”
“It was the same van?”
“A white Chevrolet with Moving Systems printed on the doors.” Mr. Ahmed held out a napkin with writing on it. “This is the plate number.”
Richie stared at the neatly written characters. He wanted to bang his forehead on the desk. Hard. He had written Ahmed off as a man in mourning defending his ethnicity from bias. How often had he been written off because of his race? And now he had done the same to this man. He put his pen down and looked into the man’s eyes. “How did you know they weren’t Muslim?”
“When I went into the street to get the sacks of rolls, I heard them speaking English with Israeli accents. I peeked inside the passenger window.”
“What did you see?”
“The driver and passenger were pulling dishdashas over polo shirts and blue jeans.”
Richie tilted his head. “Dish Dashes?”
“Dishdashas. Long tunics.” Ahmed stood and ran his hands up and down his chest and legs. “Islamic clothing. Robes.”
“Describe the driver.” Richie began taking detailed notes. It didn’t make sense, but nothing did lately.
As soon as Ahmed debarged Richie stepped into the next room, where the recruits had done their magic putting together a temporary communications center. Three satellite phones directly connected to Intelligence Division Headquarters at the BAT, Operations at One Police Plaza, and the emergency dispatcher sat in charging cradles. He grabbed the phone labelled BAT and requested all intelligence reports regarding detentions of men filming the attack. Even as he asked, he knew there was little chance he’d see the reports until the next tour. One trip per shift from the BAT to Manhattan had become routine since the attacks.
Until power was restored near ground zero, a single detective on a dilapidated boat with three satellite phones was the best the NYPD could do to gather public tips. He would have to wait eight hours for information that only four days ago was instantly available through a few key strokes. Richie wanted to jump overboard.
The men Ahmed saw, no matter their nationality, had fore-knowledge of the attacks. Richie couldn’t wait hours! He snapped up the phone for the BAT again and asked for immediate delivery of the reports.
An hour later, Richie held an intelligence report in his hands. The incident Ahmed had reported was already on record with the FBI, but the report provided no details. No names, no license plate. How did Ahmed have more information than the reporting officer, a sergeant from the Jersey City Police Department? Richie scratched his head. He’d follow up on this report in person.
Chapter 18
Dewer Rock’s eyelids closed as his valet smoothed cream on his burning palm. I never should have touched the girl detective’s cattle skin. What did she do to me? His eyes were still stinging from the glow of the crucifix. A buzzing energy had emanated from the damn cross. He shuddered, remembering the same vibrating energy around him on September 11, when things did not go exactly as planned. And now, a pint-sized detective shows up with a majestic cross and just the touch of her skin harms me. What the hell was going on?
Dewer opened his eyes. His valet dabbed ointment on a gauze pad and held it to his palm. His skin began to cool, and he relaxed.
“Better, sir?” the valet asked as he wrapped a bandage around Dewer’s hand.
He nodded. The private telephone line on his desk rang.
The valet peeked over his shoulder and read the caller ID. “It’s the Vatican, sir.”
“The Vatican?” he whispered. He closed his eyes and gulped. “Very well.”
The valet answered the phone. “Good evening,” he said, and held out the receiver. “Cardinal Sanger, sir.”
Dewer shook his head and held up a finger.
“Master Rock will be with you in a moment, your Eminence.” The valet spoke into the phone and placed the call on hold.
Dewer smacked his dry lips together and pointed at the crystal pitcher on the side table. “Bring me water.”
The valet walked across the room, poured a fresh glass, and placed it on Dewer’s desk.
He waved the valet away. “Leave me,” he said. He lifted the glass and rolled the cool surface over his forehead. He glanced at the wrought iron pentagram mounted above the side table and took a comforting breath. The power of the sigil, hung with the fifth point facing downward and two points reaching upward like goat horns, calmed him.
He guzzled the water and placed the empty glass next to the phone. Then he slowly exhaled and he pressed the red button. “Dewer Rock here.”
“Good evening, Dewer. Thank you for taking my call.”
“What do you want?”
“For you to embrace your humanity. It’s almost too late, Dewer.”
The cardinal compares me to common cattle. “Why would I want to do that when I can be so much more?”
“I can help, but you have to want it too. I implore you to resist evil.”
“Evil? My wealth? The Vatican has the same fortune as me.”
“You are deflected from the truth.”
Dewer looked at his bandaged hand and then read the caller ID display. Why this call now? “I am the truth, and humanity is deflected from me!”
“The fallen angel is influencing you. His wickedness has found a handhold in your soul.”
“Azazel is not wicked. He just is.”
“You are partly man and are redeemable. Azazel is neither.”
“I don’t need redemption. I don’t want redemption!” Dewer paused to catch his breath. “Loosh is turning dark. Negative energy is building, giving me all the power I need.”
“In today’s world, the truth is hidden almost entirely and everything collapses if truth is missing.”
“The towers collapsed.” Dewer licked his lips and glanced at the pentagram decoration again.
“They did collapse, didn’t they, Dewer?”
How does the cardinal know? Dewer remembered the gleaming crucifix around the detective’s neck and wondered if she saw its brilliance. Did she know too? Dewer gasped for breath.
“And the truth of the attack is hidden. I am forever at truth’s service.”
Prickles crawled all over Dewer’s body—just like the electrical vibrations that stung him when the Salomon Building stood, when it should have fallen.
“Your soul is not yet damned and can be saved.” The cardinal’s voice boomed throughout the room; it no longer seemed confined to a telephone line.
The cardinal’s words reverberated in Dewer’s body, mind, and soul. Dewer opened his mouth to prote
st, but he couldn’t speak.
“Jesus, I ask you to cast out any and all demons in and around Dewer Rock.”
Dewer’s stomach rumbled with dread. Positive energy resonated everywhere. His eyes were drawn back to the pentagram. He stared at it and it slowly pivoted on the wall. Was he imagining the movement? Positive energy couldn’t be that strong. The hair on the back of his neck stood up.
“Say it with me.”
It took all his strength to utter one small word. “No.”
“Azazel, I command you in the name of Jesus to leave Dewer Rock’s body now!” the cardinal roared.
Dewer watched the pentagram pivot until the point faced upward toward Heaven. “No!” He slammed down the phone and slumped onto his desk.
His private line rang. He elbowed the phone, and it smashed onto the floor.
Chapter 19
As soon as the midnight crew relieved him, Richie drove to Jersey City. He stepped into the East District Precinct just as the 6:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m. shift was signing the return roll call. A beefy middle-aged sergeant stood at the head of the line.
Richie took a seat in the lobby, closest to the supervisor’s area. He had a front row view to the change of tour activity. He’d wait for things to settle down before introducing himself.
The last cop signed the sheet, passed it to the sergeant, and gave him a quick salute.
“Good night,” the sergeant said as he initialed the return roll call. He looked it over and then handed it to the desk officer. “Smythe and Rivera are still out at the JCMC. The hospitalized prisoner is a cop fighter. If you can’t spare a sector team to guard him, my guys will stick it out until the day shift.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Thanks for the heads up, Todd.”
Richie hoped Todd was his guy. Any boss who cared about officer safety as much as he did was all right in his book. Richie stood and approached the desk. “Excuse me, are you Sergeant Wilson?”
“That’s what the name tag says.” The sergeant looked down from the raised platform. “Who’s asking?”
“Detective Richard Carson, Intelligence Division.” He held out his shield and identification card. “From across the river.”
Wilson held out his hand and shook Richie’s. “What can I do for you, Detective?”
“I’m looking for information about the Muslims you detained on Tuesday morning.” Richie held up the intelligence report.
“It’s all in the report.” The sergeant looked at the floor.
“There is nothing in this report.” Richie crumpled the paper and tossed it in the trash.
Sergeant Wilson stared at Richie. “That report is confidential. You can’t throw it in the damn garbage. It has to be destroyed. Burned!” He reached into the trash and retrieved the report.
Richie spoke above the change-of-tour clatter. “A witness says those men knew about the attacks before it happened.”
Wilson smoothed the paper. “It’s all here.”
“That report has been sanitized. I need to hear the story in your own words.” Richie lowered his voice. “Off the record.”
Wilson’s eyes darted around the precinct. “Give me a few minutes to change.”
“Okay.” Richie took a deep breath and stepped back into the waiting area. Why was an intelligence report making a seasoned Jersey City cop so nervous?
Five minutes later, a blue-jeaned, T-shirted Todd Wilson emerged from the stairwell. “Meet me at the Ninth Street Park,” he whispered as he walked past Richie and out the door.
So Wilson didn’t want to be associated with him. He knew that game well and he’d play along. No problem. After waiting a minute, he approached the receptionist and asked for the community policing officer’s name and telephone number. Pretending to jot the information down, Richie nodded a thanks, and then left.
Feeling his way around the neighborhood, he drove in circles for a few minutes before stumbling onto Ninth Street. And then the park came into view and he slowed. Tree branches provided privacy from prying eyes, and thick bushes doubled as sound buffers. Richie wondered if Sergeant Wilson had chosen this spot based on unturnoffable cop smarts or plain paranoia.
He parked behind the only other car on the tree-lined block, a green coupe. The driver’s side window was open and a hand twirled an unlit cigarette. The driver peeked in his side-view mirror, and Richie recognized Sergeant Wilson.
Their gaze met and Wilson drummed the outside of the car door and nodded. Taking that as an invitation, Richie approached the coupe and popped into the passenger seat. He turned his head toward Wilson. “What’s up with the clandestine meeting?”
“Meeting? What meeting?” Wilson rolled up his window. “Two guys relaxing after a busy night’s work.” He pointed to a D & D coffee cup in the holder between their seats. “Hope you take milk and sugar.”
“Perfect.” He took a sip. “What’s your—”
Wilson pressed his index finger to pinched lips and then turned on the radio. “Now, you can talk.”
Richie looked out the windshield and checked the side-view mirror for a surveillance van. The street was empty except for his own car. “Really?”
“You’re from Intel. You know the technology that’s out there.”
“Yeah.” Richie shrugged. “But why waste it on us?”
Wilson squeezed the steering wheel and frowned. “Can’t be too careful, nowadays.”
Wondering if this guy really was paranoid, Richie waited a moment before speaking. He didn’t want to set him off. “A food vendor says the men you held were Israelis pretending to be Muslims. He saw them wait for the first plane to hit,” he said slowly.
Todd reached for a coffee cup wedged between the dash and the windshield. “Ahmed.”
Richie nodded. “I believe him.”
“You should.” Wilson shifted in his seat to face Richie. “I vetted his story. He’s telling the truth.”
Richie rested his head back against the bucket seat and sighed. So Islamic terrorists had been framed by Israelis. “So what really happened?”
“Can’t talk about it.”
Richie slapped the center console. “You mean you won’t!”
“The feds made me sign a confidentiality order.” His eyes dulled. “I have no choice.”
“A gag order!” Richie slapped the glove box. “This is America, damn it, not Nazi Germany.”
“Crazy shit, I know.” Wilson leaned back in his seat and shook his head.
“What the hell are they hiding?”
“They’re covering for the Israelis who own the moving company.”
“Why?”
“I have no idea. But it’s eating me up.”
“Tell me what you do know.”
“The feds will press charges.” Wilson looked at the floorboard. “I’ll lose my job. My oldest is starting college next year.”
No freaking way should the feds be pressuring Wilson into secrecy. Richie’s blood boiled. “The attacks are not what they seem. Help me make sense of it.”
Wilson looked at Richie, a twinkle in his eye. “The feds didn’t know enough to ask for my memo book, and I didn’t offer it. Empty suits.” He reached up and grabbed his memo book from the sun visor. “I’ll show you if you promise to keep it off the record.”
“I didn’t get it from you.” Richie held out his fist. “Brother to brother.”
Wilson bumped Richie’s fist. “Okay.” He flipped through ruffled pages in his memo book. “Here’s the plate number. Registered to Moving Systems.”
“Same plate Ahmed gave me.” Richie copied the business address onto a D & D napkin. “The men?”
Wilson flipped the page. He pointed to a list of three Israeli names.
Richie copied the names and looked up. “Anything else?”
Wilson hesitated. “Nah, that’s all.”
“The death count is over two thousand, you know that, right?” Richie sighed.
Wilson lowered his head. “That’s all I got.” He cranked u
p the volume on the radio and leaned close to Richie. “There’s something under your floorboard mat. Don’t read it now. Just take it.”
Man, oh man. Was Wilson on the level? Hiding shit under his freaking mat? Richie looked in the sergeant’s eyes. He didn’t see crazy, just super frustration. Damn, he could be looking in a mirror. Richie swallowed and slid his hand under the mat. He grabbed what felt like a folded piece of paper and stuffed it in his pocket.
“I copied it right before the feds showed up.”
“Thanks for trusting me.”
“I did a little investigating. I have to sit on the results, but you don’t.” Wilson raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Up for a quick ride?”
“Hell yeah.”
Wilson drove a few blocks and cruised by a block-long brick building. “See that fortress.”
Richie noted the lack of doors and cubed-shut windows. “Warehouse?”
“That’s the moving company the van is registered to.”
“Holy shit.”
“Two other employees filmed the attacks from the roof.” Wilson drove away. “They ditched the camera before the sector team reached them.”
“Damn.” Richie punched the armrest. “No proof.”
Chapter 20
Mel stood on the corner and waited for the pedestrian signal to turn green. She grasped the handle of the baby stroller and glanced over her shoulder. Commuters, some dressed in business suits and some in jeans, turned north onto Fourth Avenue. She wondered why they weren’t waiting with her to cross the street. The subway station was two blocks south.
Maybe they were taking a bus to the ferry, instead of the train. If there was another disruption with subway service into the city, Mel’s plans for the day would be shot.
Oh, God! Had something else happened?
She fished her Nextel out of the diaper bag and flipped it open. No alerts. So where was everyone headed?
The light changed, but she didn’t cross. Instead she watched the commuters’ progress. Most of them climbed the shallow steps into Our Lady of Angels Church. Mel raised an eyebrow. Church? It was almost 7:00 a.m., too early for a funeral.
The Council House (The Impoverished Book 3) Page 8
