by Steve Israel
But Hassan could not share these things. And so he willed himself to move ahead.
To the presidential debate, in one week, where he would hit a career dead end. Literally.
“I am fine, Mrs. Feldstein. In fact, I have decided to go home. To visit my mother. In Kuwait.”
“Ohhhhh, how nice! Accchhh, I’m so proud. Are you surprising her?”
“Yes, it will be a big surprise. To everyone. So please say nothing, Mrs. Feldstein.”
“My lips are sealed, Hassan. I’m like a vault. Remember . . . therapist-client confidentiality. When do you leave on your trip?”
“Next Thursday. One week from today. From Miami.”
“You know what? I’ll FedEx you some rugallah from Bruce’s Bakery. You can take it with you.”
Nothing like a light nosh before a suicide bombing. So we don’t have to blow ourselves up on an empty stomach.
Rona said, “Promise me you will call when you get there so I know you’re okay.”
“Yes, Mrs. Feldstein.”
“Take your pills.”
“I will, Mrs. Feldstein.”
“And, Hassan, don’t forget to tell Pervez about my secret ingredient in the fruit salad. So the fruit doesn’t turn brown. It’s important.”
“Yes, Mrs. Feldstein.”
FBI Agent Alonso Diaz listened, rewound the tape, and played it again:
“And, Hassan, don’t forget to tell Pervez about my secret ingredient in the fruit salad. So the fruit doesn’t turn brown. It’s important.”
Secret ingredient. Fruit salad. Riiiiggghhhtttt.
Next Thursday, he thought. Miami. Connect the dots. Think ahead.
Oh my God, the bastards are going to hit the presidential debate in Miami! With biological or chemical or even nuclear weapons.
Or lemon juice.
TASK FORCE FELDSTEIN
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 2004
Even Jon Pruitt, who was generally skeptical about the federal government’s threat assessments, was concerned about the intelligence advisory that trickled through the highest offices in Washington that Friday morning. He raced through the West Wing to the emergency meeting that had been convened in the Vice President’s office. Inside, standing behind his desk, Dick Cheney was studying the written advisory, sneering at its audacity. The Secretary of Homeland Security, the head of the Secret Service, the FBI Director, and Porter Goss, who had been confirmed by the Senate two days before as CIA Director, sat on two couches. As they read their copies of the intel report, they nodded their heads in syncopated disbelief.
Scooter Libby and Karl Rove huddled in a corner. They could have waved a banner at Pruitt proclaiming WE TOLD YOU SO! But that was unnecessary. It was all over their faces.
Cheney looked up from the report. “The Abu al-Zarqawi Army of Jihad Martyrs of Militancy Brigade. Is this some sort of joke?”
“It’s nuts!” agreed Homeland Security Secretary Ridge, slapping his hand on his knee. “How do they expect to target a presidential debate? It’s the most protected venue on the planet!”
Cheney responded: “Even al-Qaeda has rational operational thinkers. This,” he waved the report in the air, “just doesn’t seem credible.”
Porter Goss cleared his throat. “That may be the point, Mr. Vice President. We have analysis suggesting an attack against a high-profile event, like the internationally televised presidential debate, is both operationally and strategically rational for the al-Zarqawi network. For two reasons: One, it would be a potentially devastating blow against us if they could pull it off. Which no one believes they can. And two, there is a growing rivalry between global jihadist groups. This would be a powerful, demoralizing blow to al-Qaeda, even if it fails. This would signal to terrorists around the world that the new power in town is . . .” Goss glanced at the report, “the Abu al-Zarqawi Army of Jihad Martyrs of Militancy Brigade, the people with the bravery to attack a US presidential debate.”
Sounds like a good television commercial on Al Jazeera, Pruitt thought. We’re Abu al-Zarqawi and we approve this message.
“So we should not underestimate their willingness to attack the debate next Thursday,” Goss finished.
Cheney nodded. “In fact, they have experienced some success so far. Embedding a cell in South Florida. Recruiting a Jewish couple in New York. Running a counterfeit-drug ring to fund their operations. And all under the radar, may I add, with hardly any human intelligence picking them up.”
That was Cheney’s dig at the conventional intel assets that had failed to detect threats in the past, and a silent homage to NICK.
The FBI Director said, “We have enough to go on to issue arrest warrants and take them into custody immediately. My guys are ready to go.”
The Secret Service Director said, “We should reschedule the presidential debate as a precaution.”
Cheney scowled. “That is exactly what we will not do. We will not cave in to terrorists by postponing the debate, a premier demonstration to the world of freedom and democracy. It sends an unmistakable signal of weakness. Next we’ll be considering rescheduling elections.”
Which, thought Karl Rove, might be a good idea. But only in certain states.
“And we’re not going to make arrests . . . yet. We’ve got six days between now and the debate. Six days of intel gathering to assess how deep and how far this al-Zarqawi network goes. The American people need to know that they have infiltrated our suburbs, our resort hotels. On Long Island. In Boca Raton for God’s sake! So we’re going to monitor them for the next few days. Cast a wide net. See who else we catch and where we catch them.”
Everyone nodded their heads. Even Pruitt. Begrudgingly.
“As for next week’s debate, we won’t let them get near it. But we’ll let them get close enough to catch them in the act. Announce it the day of the debate. And turn this thing from a televised political debate to ‘The Kennedy Center Honors President Bush.’ ”
Cheney thought about John Kerry’s opening statement at the debate. Something like: “Mr. President, let me just take a moment to thank you for saving my ass and once again saving the American people from another mortal threat to our way of life. And now, in my remaining time, let me tell you why you need to be replaced . . .”
And speaking of saving asses, Cheney thought, let me cover my own.
“Just to be clear, I am specifically not saying or suggesting or even intimating that we should proceed with the debate if it places the President or any innocent Americans in a dangerous situation. The President is not bait.”
And don’t read anything into my failure to mention Senator Kerry in the aforementioned statement.
“I am saying we will commence an operation to monitor the al-Zarqawi group’s movements to disrupt their plan while gathering as much intel as possible about their network and operations within and outside of the homeland.”
The Vice President continued, “I want a joint-agency task force all over the al-Zarqawi cell in Florida. If one of them takes a crap I want our guys dusting the toilet paper for prints. And I want a task force on their New York recruits: Rona and Morris Feldstein. They are committing treason against the United States. They are aiding and abetting the enemy. Pull in every counter-terror asset we have. Put predator drones above their house if you have to!”
“With Hellfire missile authorization?” asked the newly confirmed CIA Director, maybe not as a joke.
Rookie exuberance, thought Cheney.
“I will have operational control of all decisions made by Task Force Boca and Task Force Feldstein.”
“But—”
Before Pruitt could continue, Cheney said, “Under the express authorization granted to me by the President in Executive Order one-five-three-two-zulu-zulu-two.” Which had been written by Cheney himself and might as well have been filed under “Things the President Signed
But Couldn’t Be Told Why.”
The Secret Service Director seemed restless. “Sir, respecting your authority, I wish to register my deep concern with placing the President in a situation with a known elevated threat.”
Cheney scowled. What part of the cover my ass part did you miss, asshole? “We will disrupt and dismember the cell before they come close to being a viable threat. But just to put your mind at ease, you may provide the President with additional personal protection. I’m sure your tech guys have some toys they’d like him to try on. Spend whatever you need.”
Magic words in Washington.
“I want every Cabinet department on this task force.”
“Everyone? Even the EPA?”
“Okay, not them. But all the others. We should call this the JTFF. Joint Task Force Feldstein.” Cheney gave a satisfied smile, knowing that in Washington, nothing said power like a good acronym. With the word joint.
Libby said, “Sir, J-T-F-F may get confused with the J-T-T-F.”
“What’s that?”
“Joint Terrorism Task Force.”
“No. J-T-F-F versus J-T-T-F. One has an extra F and the other an extra T. It’s clear as day, Scooter. The American people aren’t stupid. They know the difference between an F and a T.”
“Yes, sir,” Libby replied. “I suppose you want the Director of National Intelligence on the JTFF?”
“Yes, but not the Director of Central Intelligence.”
“Check. Yes to DNI, no to DCI.”
Director Goss’s shoulders slumped.
“How about the OIC?” someone piped in.
“Who?”
“Office of Intelligence and Counterintelligence.”
“Fine,” said Cheney.
“Well, you can’t invite the OIC and not include the OIA!” said the Homeland Security Secretary.
“OIA?” asked Cheney.
“Office of Intelligence and Analysis,” Libby answered. “At DHS.”
“Oh, fine. OIC and OIA. But that’s it.”
“Actually . . .” Libby sighed.
“What?”
“I just don’t see JTFF without ONSI. The Office of National Security Intelligence at DEA. And if ONSI is in, you have to invite the Office of Terrorism and Financial Intelligence at Treasury. How do you have a JTFF with ONSI but no OTFI?”
“That wouldn’t be right,” someone said.
“Let me think that one over,” replied Cheney. “So how many do we have?”
Libby reported: “The DNI but not the DCI. OIC and OIA. ONSI and maybe OTFI. And all the Cabinet agencies. But not EPA.”
“Okay. That wraps it up?”
“Well, we should probably add Customs and Border Protection.”
“Or maybe Immigration and Customs Enforcement?”
“What’s the difference?” asked Cheney.
No one remembered.
“Fine. They can both come. Anyone else?”
Pruitt thought, What? No room for the Hoover Dam Police?
Cheney adjourned the meeting.
“Jesus H., now the whole world is watching,” Agent Tom Fairbanks muttered as he stared incredulously at his computer screen on Long Island. Agent Russell stood nearby, wringing his fingers and shifting his weight.
All my work, my surveillance, my careful case management. Shot to hell by NICK. Sending urgent threat advisories to everyone from the Agriculture Department to the National Zoo! Introducing them all to Rona and Morris Feldstein. Jesus H., this case was mine. My bust! and I’ve been shoved aside by a goddamn computer.
Fairbanks sat back in his chair, rocking back and forth.
Now what? Let the others grab the glory? Go back to staring at multicolored pins stuck onto that giant map of Long Island on the wall? Making the world safe for another Starbucks?
No way, he thought. Joint Task Force Feldstein might be all over Morris and Rona Feldstein. But Fairbanks knew how these things worked. All these agencies stumbling all over one another. Dancing the bureaucratic version of the hokey pokey: you put your right hand in, you put your left hand out. Except that the right hand had no idea what the left hand was doing. Meanwhile, Fairbanks had McCord, just across the street from Feldstein, so close he would be able to pounce before anyone else.
This bust will be mine.
After all, one benefit to being ignored by everybody is that nobody knows who you are. Or whom you know.
LAP DANCE
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 2004
Ricardo Montoyez loved a good lap dance. Particularly at the Merry-Go-Round Lounge in Melville. After weeks at the Bella Abzug Home for the Aged, it would be a pleasant and necessary diversion.
He had driven from Riverdale across the Whitestone Bridge and back to Long Island. He took the Long Island Expressway east toward Melville. At one point, near a sign that said MANHASSET NEXT EXIT he thought about that restaurant, Murphy’s, and the receptionist, Victoria. The memory stirred his groin, which gave him the idea for the lap dance.
But first he would check on some business matters. Business before pleasure.
In Melville, he drove past the steel-and-glass valley of office buildings, including one that was known to house several US government offices. He pulled into the parking lot of a small, squat building painted dark purple with a weather-beaten canopy of fading pink.
Even now, in late afternoon, there were several cars at the Merry-Go-Round Lounge, driven from the nearby offices of accountants, lawyers, engineers, bankers, and even an occasional federal employee taking a titillation break.
The club was dingy and cramped and reeked of stale beer. “Entertainers” prowled the floor in search of a parking spot on someone’s lap. Guns N’ Roses blared from overhead speakers.
The crowd was sparse. But paying customers didn’t necessarily pay the bills here at the Merry-Go-Round.
Ernie, a wiry assistant manager who doubled as a bouncer, approached Montoyez and whispered, “A shipment came. It’s in the back.”
Montoyez nodded and walked toward a door with an oversized red sign that said, AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. He stepped inside.
The room was large and brightly lit. Dozens of plastic picnic coolers, red and blue, lined the walls. Water was puddled on a yellow linoleum floor.
A FedEx carton sat on a table. Montoyez read the shipping label. It came from AAA Pharmaceutical Wholesalers.
Just what the doctor ordered!
He peered into one of the coolers. Hundreds of tiny vials containing low doses of a medication called Epogen were immersed in a solution of soapy water. Their labels had all fallen off cleanly. Soon, freshly printed labels—falsely indicating a higher dose—would be applied to each vial. Cha-ching!
The miracle of modern medicine!
Of course, this markup might cause some inconvenience to the unsuspecting patient who injected the wrong dose into his blood stream: violent convulsions, extreme pain, permanent liver damage. Death.
But, Montoyez figured, isn’t that the cost of doing business?
And besides, the risk of getting caught was low. Thanks to the lobbying clout of the pharmaceutical industry on Capitol Hill, regulations to keep America’s pharmaceutical supplies safe by tracking their movements—through a strip club, for instance—had been thwarted. It was easier to recall a defective toaster oven than a counterfeit medication.
Maybe that will be my next gig, after I’m done profiting from the contamination of lifesaving medications. Maybe I’ll become a pharmaceutical lobbyist.
He shuddered.
His business now in order, it was time for pleasure.
As soon as he reentered the club, his sixth sense detected trouble. He looked across the room, past the dancing and writhing Brandees and Stormees, and saw a man sitting by the stage, focusing on two massive and bare breasts approaching his face.
<
br /> Junior G-Man.
Montoyez could tell by the discount suit, the blue polyester tie rumpled against a bluer polyester shirt. Plus the official identification on a lanyard dangling around his neck.
So much for the lap dance, Montoyez thought as he headed for a back door.
Near the stage, a dancer named Summer Rayne bent toward the agent and accepted a five-dollar bill between her breasts.
Agent Russell sported an embarrassed smile.
YOM KIPPUR CONFESSION
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 2004
“It never rains on Yom Kippur!” Rona exclaimed.
A cool drizzle fell across Great Neck. Morris and Rona drove to Temple Beth Torah to the soft whooshing of his windshield wipers and the angry proclamations of callers to WFAN demanding that the Mets “trade away the whole friggin’ team” before next spring.
Morris was anxious.
It was the strangest Day of Atonement of his life. A man who refuses to make waves generally doesn’t have a lot of atoning to do. On this day, however, he had specific sins to acknowledge and some major forgiveness for which to beg. Morris was anxious to get things rolling, to wipe the slate clean.
Suddenly traffic on Middle Neck Road stopped, and brake lights glared at Morris through the rain-streaked windshield. In the distance, he saw the ominous swirl of police lights against the gray sky.
“Oh my God!” cried Rona. “Something happened at the temple! On Yom Kippur of all days!”
Traffic nudged forward and the police lights grew more intense, along with Morris’s anxiety. He was close enough to see that the Nassau County Police Department was detaining vehicles that were turning into the synagogue parking lot, and waving ahead those that weren’t.
Morris eased his car to the checkpoint and lowered his window. He was always intimidated by police officers. For some reason, their presence induced guilt, as if he’d done something wrong. If the officer at the checkpoint had accused Morris of kidnapping the Lindbergh baby, he would have thought, Well, they must know something I don’t, and extended his wrists for the handcuffing.
