Al-Haq studied his surroundings. There were two workers in the store; the first was counter man, the other one manning the grill. There were also six customers in the store at the time. One was a man in his late teens that stood on line. Two were women who had already placed their order and were waiting for their food. Another sat alone at a table, but looked more American than anything else. The last two were seated at a table eating their lunch. Although neither had seemed to pay particular attention to al-Haq as he entered, his money was on them for being his contact. They were clearly from the mid-east and in their late twenties to early thirties. Al-Haq continued to study the men as his thoughts were interrupted. “Can I take your order?”
Al-Haq turned his attention to the counterman. He wore black pants and a collared yellow polo shirt with a matching baseball cap; each bearing the store’s logo. He was in his early fifties and had a short beard. Al-Haq stepped up to the black counter and addressed the man. “I was supposed to meet someone here,” al-Haq tested; looking for some sort of response.
There was no obvious recognition from the man. “So would you like to order, or are you going to wait for your friend?”
Al-Haq, unsure of what he was supposed to do, looked up at the menu as it hung above the counter on the wall. He ordered a lamb kebab with a side of rice and a can of soda. After paying the man, al-Haq continued to try and assess the situation. He watched as the grill man cut a portion of lamb from the spindle with a bright silver carving knife and placed it on the grill. Al-Haq grabbed a can of soda from the freezer next to the counter as he contemplated what the day would bring.
As he waited for his food, the two men who he had thought were possibly his contacts got up from their tables. They deposited their trash into the brown garbage container in the front of the store, placed their orange trays on top, and left. He became slightly frustrated, but realized that he needed to be patient. Once his food was ready, al-Haq took his tray to the table closest to the entrance and sat facing the door.
It made sense that whoever his contact was, would want him to get there first. Al-Haq’s mind raced in many different directions. What if nobody made contact with him? Could this just be a test to see if he would show up and then they would contact him again at the mosque? He certainly didn’t know the answers to those questions…what he did know was that they were all out of his control.
Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, not one other person had entered the restaurant. All of those who had been in there, except for the workers, had now left. As a frustrated al-Haq picked at his lunch, a voice from behind him spoke; “As-salamu-alaykum, my brother.”
Al-Haq turned around to see the same man who had met him outside the mosque. Al-Haq immediately stood up and gave the man a brotherly hug. “As-salamu-alaykum.”
“Please sit,” began Ahmed Hatif.
He did and Hatif joined him.
Although al-Haq did not recall seeing the man prior to yesterday, he felt somewhat secure to see a familiar face. At least this way there was no guess work—this was who he was supposed to meet. Al-Haq put the near empty can of soda to his lips trying to quench his suddenly dry mouth.
Hatif motioned to the half eaten plate of food. “You do not like your lunch?”
“No, no, the food is fine,” careful not to insult his host.
“Sheykh Hajjar and Murad Zein both speak very highly of you. They say you have become quite proficient at making certain articles of clothing.”
While the details of the man’s language were somewhat ambiguous, there was no doubt in al-Haq’s mind that the man was referring to the suicide vests. “Yes, that’s very true. It has been a few months, but I have no doubt with the right materials I will be able to duplicate what I have made in Afghanistan.”
Hatif nodded his head. “That is good my brother…that is very good.” Hatif slid his chair closer and put a reassuring arm around al-Haq. “You are going to make history my brother. As the Americans celebrate their beloved Thanksgiving, you are going to detonate the bomb at the Thanksgiving Day parade. It will kill many Americans; and you my brother…you will be with Allah in paradise. You will be a hero of our people and live in eternity. You will die engaging in Allah’s will and your rewards will be endless.”
Al-Haq had a chill run down his spine. “Yes, my brother. I will lay down my life for Allah and his followers. I will kill as many infidels at the parade as I possibly can.”
Hatif slowly nodded in approval. “That is good.”
Al-Haq took a deep breath. “Tell me exactly what I must do my brother.”
Hatif reached to the inside pocket of the light brown blazer he was wearing and withdrew a pack of cigarettes. He removed one, lit it and took a deep draw before offering one to al-Haq. Al-Haq’s hands trembled subtlety as he reached for a cigarette. “You will make the device just as you have done many times before,” began Hatif as he held a lighter out to al-Haq. “On the morning of the parade, you will wear the vest underneath your shirt and jacket. You will go early that morning, before the parade is set to begin and wait at Forty-Second Street and Sixth Avenue. You will blend in with the crowd—hold one of those miniature United States flags for all I care—just make sure you blend in. When the NYPD marchers come past, that is when you will run under the barrier and detonate the bomb. Get as close to them as you possibly can; we want as many of those murderous Americans killed as possible. Given your past history with the police in New York City, this should be a particularly satisfying way to get revenge for you. Do you still have the list of emails that were in the envelope?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Memorize them and burn the piece of paper. Do you still have the email account that you were given before you left Afghanistan?”
Al-Haq nodded. “Yes, I do. I haven’t yet used it as Sheykh Hajjar had instructed me not to,” he lied. Al-Haq was afraid to admit to the man that he had used it to send emails to his friend Murad Zein. He was sure that it wouldn’t make a difference anyway, but there was no need to tell the man about his indiscretion.
“Good. If you ever need to contact the people on that list, you will do it from a library. My email address was the first one on there. The other two are your brother Jihadists who will be carrying out simultaneous attacks on Thanksgiving Day. I won’t be specific with their targets, but they are in Chicago and San Francisco. You must go to the library and check the email once a week from today on forward, then twice a day the week of Thanksgiving. If you receive any coded messages from any of us, then you will abort the mission and await further instruction.”
“What kind of message?”
“You should not be contacted at all unless there’s a problem, so if you receive a message it’s more than likely to abort the mission. If you’re contacted or detained by the police or any law enforcement for any reason, you will go to the library as soon as you are able to and send all of us a message that there is bad weather in New York. If you receive any messages about bad weather in Chicago or San Francisco you will abort. If you have any minor interaction with the police and don’t think there’s anything to it, you will still contact me right away by sending a blank email. I will then meet you back here at this restaurant the next day at ten-thirty in the morning. Do you understand everything that I have explained to you?”
“Yes, I do.” Al-Haq could feel the emotions getting the best of him.
Maybe this had been Allah’s plan all along. Maybe going to prison had just been a way of making me stronger for a bigger cause.
He then bowed his head to the man. “Thank you.”
“Do you have any questions?”
“Yes, what is your name my brother?
“My name is not important. I am but one of Allah’s soldiers, just as you are.” Hatif stood up. “You only have a few weeks to get everything that you will need and put it all together. Remember, spread your purchases out; do not buy more than one item on a single day, and never from the same store. Exactly one week before Th
anksgiving, I will meet you back here at nine am. I will supply you with the one ingredient that you will not be able to pick up from your shopping list.”
Al-Haq immediately understood.
The explosives.
As al-Haq stood up, the man once again gave him a hug. “Go in peace my brother and may Allah be with you.”
*
Keegan finished the last of his pancakes just as the waitress brought the check. Once she set it down, Keegan was quick to grab it. “As I promised, this is my treat.”
Cathy smiled at him. “Thank you. I’ll leave the tip.” She reached into her purse and left a five dollar bill on the table.
The two of them walked out of the restaurant with their arms interlocked. They each knew that this was more than a casual fling. “Tell me more about your dad Timmy; more about your family.”
Keegan pulled her closer. “Nope, it’s your turn. The only thing that you’ve told me so far is that you’re Irish. I want to know more about the girl who took advantage of me last night.”
She laughed and gave him a playful push. “I took advantage of you? Well…maybe I did. Okay let’s see. I have one brother and I’m my daddy’s little girl. He’s a retired Lieutenant, and he knows a lot of people so you better treat me good.”
Now it was Keegan’s turn to laugh. “Okay, good to know. What else?”
“My dad worked in Queens North Task Force for years before he retired. He was a Sergeant in the Evidence Collection Team before that and a cop in Jackson Heights. My mom is a teacher. She teaches in a middle school in Bayside. We moved to Long Island from Woodside when I was eleven.”
Keegan interrupted, “and what about you? I want to know more about Cathy Quinn…not her family.”
“Well I took Irish step dancing growing up…big shocker there. I went to catholic school my entire life and then went to Hofstra University. I graduated with a degree in Criminal Justice. I interned for two summers at the Nassau County District Attorney’s office before taking the NYPD entrance exam. Hmmm, I think that about sums it up. Oh and wait, I almost forgot. I have a boyfriend named Timmy.”
Keegan again smiled. “You do, do you?”
Tim Keegan felt pretty good about the way things were turning out for him after such a tragic event early in his life. He had followed in his late dad’s footsteps. And maybe Sergeant Galvin had been correct in his assessment; that he had cop blood running through his veins. His first collar had earned him the first of what was hopefully to be many awards. And on top of all of that, he had finally connected with the girl that he’d had his eye on for quite a while. Things couldn’t possibly get any better.
*
Nazeem al-Haq opened the Singer sewing machine which he’d purchased at the Target in College Point. Al-Haq figured the store to be far enough away from the Home Depot where he’d purchased the nails the previous day. He knew in his mind that he was going to follow the instructions which he had been given very carefully.
Having been given a second chance to make things right, there was no way he would do anything to jeopardize it. He read through the instructions, familiarizing himself with the machine as he thought about what lay ahead. He’d been somewhat surprised to learn that he would be the one wearing the suicide vest. Nevertheless, he was okay with that. There are not too many men in his situation that ever get a shot to redeem themselves.
He walked to the closet in the back corner of the room and removed a denim jacket which he’d purchased some months back. He took a pair of scissors and cut off the sleeves. Al-Haq decided this jacket would be a perfect carrier for the explosives. There were large pockets on both sides on the inside. He would sew fabric pockets in a few more spots around the jacket making it suitable to store the screws, nails, and ball bearings which would serve as the shrapnel. He knew that this would probably be as heavy a vest as he ever made. The explosion needed to be grand; it needed to kill as many Americans as possible—as many cops as possible.
This revelation brought him back to the pictures and the article on the wall.
My ghost…my tormentor.
He reread the article. He wondered what part of Brooklyn the sixty-seventh precinct was in. He walked to the other side of the basement apartment, and on his computer, he looked up the address of the precinct. He sat there momentarily staring at the precinct’s address on the screen before walking back into the kitchen area.
His attention went right back to the pictures; his eyes alternated from one Keegan to the other. The anger once again built up inside of him. He knew that he must carry out his mission this time. He couldn’t stray from the plan for any reason. He mustn’t…but still.
Chapter 7
Every other Thursday had come to mean something for Sergeant Tommy Galvin. The first Thursday in November was no different. First, and most importantly, it was pay day. But now as a supervisor, it also meant something else; it was the bi-weekly Commanders Officer’s meeting. C.O.’s meetings were not unique to Galvin’s command. Quite the contrary, every precinct commanding officer in the city held them. They were used to discuss current crime trends and strategies, man power issues, ways of reducing civilian complaints and unnecessary overtime, and any other police related issue one could possibly think of.
In truth, Tommy Galvin never had any desire to be a supervisor. All he ever wanted to do was to be the best cop that he possibly could. He wanted to be out in the field, taking criminals off the streets and helping as many people along the way as was possible. It was the words of his late father that convinced him to study for and take the Sergeant’s test.
Galvin’s father, who was a retired police officer himself, had passed away a few years back. Five years after his retirement, the elder Galvin was diagnosed with lung cancer. It had been as a result of breathing in the toxic air during many months of working at Ground Zero shortly after the attacks on the World Trade Center. Galvin’s father had always told him that the NYPD was a ‘boss’s job’. He’d further explained that every rank that you went up, meant there was one less rank of people who could to tell you what to do, and he always reminded Galvin that the cop was on the bottom...and ‘shit always rolls downhill’. Of course, the well over ten thousand dollar pay difference between cop and sergeant was also a good incentive to take the test.
Galvin sat mostly lost in his own thoughts along with the majority of the other fifteen sergeants and lieutenants as Inspector Enton discussed a variety of issues in the command. Enton, wearing his dress uniform, sat at the head of the large brown conference table with his administrative Lieutenant to his right. The rest of the supervisors sat around the table in no particular order. Galvin sat at the far end of the table, barely listening.
At first, Galvin hadn’t minded the meetings so much. He found them to be informative, and as it was something new to him, it kept his interest. However, as time went on, Galvin quickly became bored by them. He knew more about the crime patterns in the command than any other supervisor—or cop—just from speaking to the detective squad and reading the crime pattern sheets.
He wasn’t so much concerned with overtime issues, administrative errors on taking complaint reports, or anything else being talked about for that matter. Not every supervisor attended the meetings, and Galvin had considered no longer attending them as his tour didn’t start for over two hours after the meetings. It would be a fair excuse, Galvin felt, as the supervisors who worked the midnights were excused. But after a bit of deliberation, Galvin felt it was in his best interest to attend. As a rookie sergeant, he was afraid his absence would be frowned upon, and after all, he did have higher ambitions than to be the training sergeant for rookies.
The rumor was that there was going to be a group of promotions the week before Thanksgiving. The current Anti-Crime Sergeant was close on the list to get promoted to lieutenant and Galvin hoped that if the sergeant were to get the promotion, Inspector Enton would remember the discussion they’d had when Galvin first arrived at the precinct; that Enton would co
nsider him for the Anti-Crime spot. The only thing that Galvin really wanted in this precinct was to be the supervisor for the arrest oriented team. The cops who were assigned to the Anti-Crime teams were generally considered as the elite in every command. Even if the sergeant didn’t make this round of promotions, that meant he was a shoe in for the first batch in the next year. Galvin knew he had to play the game and keep on Enton’s good side.
Galvin’s day dream was broken as he heard the shuffling from outside of the muster room. Galvin looked at the clock on the wall and observed it was a few minutes before three. The cops getting ready to stand roll call were gathering outside the muster room waiting for the room to vacate. The supervisors began quietly gathering their belongings on the desk as it was clear the meeting was about to end.
Enton, evidently realizing that the time was running out, “Hold on guys. There’s one last thing I need to discuss; it’s important. The holiday season is only a few weeks away. A teletype came down from the Chief of Department’s office. It’s to be read at roll call for the remainder of the year.”
Enton picked up the teletype and began:
“A threat has been made against the United States and in particular in New York City by mid-eastern terrorists. Although there are no known details, the threat is believed to be credible. Each and every Member of the Service is to remain vigilant while on patrol and on their foot posts. Each precinct and any other department facility will have uniformed officers assigned to station house security at both the front and rear entrances. These officers are to remain at their posts and not to leave for any reason without face to face relief.”
Lieutenant Shea was quick to respond. “Every holiday season it’s the same bull shit. There’s always a credible threat and no details to support the claim. Now, I have to knock out a sector car every day for the rest of the year? Looks like nobody will be getting a meal break for a while. This command can’t run on six sector cars…we’re too busy.”
Legacy and Redemption Page 8
