“You were the only freelancer I met with, while Henderson met with every one. He told them the same story he told you; we don’t know who’s behind the plot and don’t know when or where it is going to happen. We needed to fish with a broad net and see what swam to the surface. The other 11 freelancers got nowhere and only pissed off the Muslim community with their aggressive questioning. But you,” Juan said, pointing a finger directly at Derek’s chest, “you not only ruffled some feathers, but got a prime suspect blown up.”
“Knowing that I was responsible for Abdul’s death doesn’t give me a warm and fuzzy feeling.”
“You didn’t cause his death, Cole. It was inevitable. Worst case is that you sped up his death by a day or two.”
“Who killed him,” Derek asked.
“The person who arranged Abdul’s death,” Juan said as he sat down in the only chair in the hotel room, “is the person behind everything. I need to spoon-feed you this information. If I just tell you, you’ll never believe me.”
“I’m pretty good at picking things up,” Derek said. “Try me.”
“Not yet,” Juan said. “Need to see what Henderson put in that second case folder.”
As Juan stood and reached for the folder, Derek grabbed it and pulled it in tight to his chest. “Hold on a minute,” he said. “As far as I know, you may be part of this plot. Before you go looking into confidential intel, you need to come clean with me first.”
“I knew you’d be a good freelancer to have on this case. Shoot. What do you want me to tell you?”
“Start with the note you slipped into the first folder. What did you mean that I shouldn’t trust anyone, and, need I remind you, you stated that your admonition to not trust anyone included you as well? Also, why did you say that you may be dead by the time I read your note? You seem pretty much alive to me.”
“Henderson is lead on this investigation. He may tell you that he handpicked you but, believe me, he didn’t. He wanted to play the role of the good cop, and I was to play the bad cop.”
“More like the asshole cop, if you ask me.”
“Then my dreams of being an actor on Broadway aren’t dead. Anyway, Henderson arranged to meet with all the freelancers at different diners all within an hour of Manhattan. We had envelopes for every freelancer. Each one had a few pictures, addresses and leads. I put them all together and made sure yours contained the pictures of our prime suspects and the addresses of the mosques we are most interested in. I knew Henderson would check each folder before we distributed them, so I had to slip in my note to you right before we left the department to meet with you. Right before we left the office to meet with you, Henderson was called into a briefing. Senator Robert Sterling Johnson from Virginia is on the Senate Intelligence Committee. He had been hanging around the office for a few days, asking questions and making sure that his ass and all of his fellow politicians' rear sides would be covered in case something bad happened. When Henderson was called into the briefing, I took the opportunity to slip that note into your envelope.
“Don’t think that we didn’t do our own investigation, Cole. We were balls to the walls for weeks until that wall ended. We dug up and followed more leads than we’ve ever done on any other case. But they all led to the same place; nowhere. At least that’s what Henderson and our superiors think. I left that note for you because of what I uncovered the day before we met in Yonkers. And trust me, when I said this is bigger than you can imagine, I wasn’t exaggerating. As for me thinking I would be dead, that would have happened had I not gone on the lam and disappeared. The people I mentioned in my note found out that I was digging too close to home. I figured that they’d rather silence me with a bullet than to risk me finding out even more.”
“So whatever you uncovered, you’re the only one who knows about it?”
“Me and the people who will do anything to make sure that the secret dies with me.”
“And since you seem to be getting ready to tell me about it, I guess I can assume that I’ll be on their list, soon.”
“You’re dead, Cole,” Juan said through a smile. “At least that’s what everyone will believe once they realize that it was your room in the Marquis that exploded.”
“But they won’t find a body in that room. Or will they?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Actually, they will find a body and they will assume that it is you. The bomb and resulting fire should make the body unidentifiable, and any DNA tests that they might run won’t produce results for at least two weeks. So for the next two weeks, you’re dead, Cole.”
“Whose body will they find in that room, Juan?”
“Not sure what his name was,” Juan said smugly. “I discovered him dead at a warehouse in Harlem that I’ve been casing for a while. You have a picture of him in your case folder, I believe.”
“Wait a minute,” Derek demanded. “The picture that Henderson put in the folder he gave me of the unknown suspect was the guy you found dead in the warehouse and is the same person whose dead body you somehow got into my hotel room without being noticed?”
“Like I said, I don’t know his name, but I know who he was. Illegal from Syria. Came over three years ago and was planning on heading back to Syria to join ISIS. He got involved with the wrong people, the ones behind the plot you are now familiar with, and was killed. I watched them murder the asshole and watched them cut him up into pieces. They left his body wrapped in garbage bags in a dumpster. I found out that the waste management company that empties those dumpsters is owned by the same people who own the warehouse. I got there right in time, luckily, I got the body out around 3 AM this morning and the truck came and emptied the dumpster around 3:15.”
“Still doesn’t explain how you got his body into my room without anyone seeing anything.”
“The people who killed him didn’t leave his body in one piece. I told you he was wrapped up in garbage bags but didn’t tell you how many bags he was in. It took me around five trips from my car to your room, spread out over a four hour period to get all of him up in your room.”
“Let me get this straight,” Derek said. “You witness a murder in a warehouse that is somehow connected to the terror plot you and Henderson hired me for, but, you don’t alert the police and try to stop the killers, who may very well be the very ones who are planning the terrorist attack. Instead, you gather up the pieces of his body, drive over to my hotel room, arrange the body pieces, probably on the bed then…Wait,” Derek’s face flushed with awareness. “You couldn’t have just left the body there and hoped that a bomb would make identifying it nearly impossible. You planted and detonated the bomb? Are you insane?”
“You are good at picking things up, Cole.”
“Do you have any idea how many people you could have killed or injured?”
“I was very careful with my execution. The bomb I used was powerful enough to destroy the contents of the room, tear apart the body, and blow out the windows but not powerful enough to cause too much collateral damage. The bomb was a directional bomb, meaning that it exploded in one direction. I didn’t use any shrapnel; just a lot of incendiary material. I cased the entire floor for nearly an hour before I was certain that the rooms on either side were empty and the cleaning crews were all on a different floor.”
“Remind me to congratulate you on your superior bomb-making skills later,” Derek sarcastically said. “You told me in your note not to trust anyone including you. I’m beginning to think that the person I was trying to stop from executing a terrorist attack was you.”
“I’m not,” Juan said, his face instantly sullen. “I suggested that you shouldn’t trust anyone, including me, because I figured if I was snuffed out before we had a chance to talk that you would be better off assuming that I was complicit in part of this whole thing. The less you knew, the better off you would be.”
“And yet,” Derek said, “here you are telling me something that just knowing will make me a dead man walking.”
; “After I saw the murder in the warehouse, I knew I needed help. Couldn’t go to Henderson or anyone else in the agency, so, I chose the next best person.”
“I’ve never been a fan of being chosen as the last result.”
“Last resort?” Juan said. “You were one of 12 investigators we contracted on this case. I could have chosen any one of the others to help me. You were my first choice. My only choice, actually.”
Derek sat, his body tense with anxiety and his face, slack with exhaustion and confusion. He shook his head slowly as he tried to collect his thoughts.
“You said you watched that guy get murdered and cut up in the warehouse. How'd you manage that without getting caught?"
“Actually I told you I saw that asshole get killed and cut up. As for me watching the whole thing, you’re not the only person who knows how to leave spy cameras behind.”
“Implying that you have been inside that warehouse?"
“A few times. Funny thing about that warehouse; it is completely empty. Took a while for me to find a place to hide a camera, but, I was resourceful. Watched the whole murder on my iPad two blocks away from the warehouse.”
“What the heck made you start scoping out the warehouse in the first place? And don’t tell me it’s confidential information.”
“It’s highly confidential, actually,” Juan replied. “So confidential in fact that my life is in jeopardy.”
“Does that mean you aren’t going to tell me?”
“No,” Juan said, pausing to both consider Derek and to more fully understand the position he was in. Juan had been an agent with the FBI for 12 years and loved both the agency and the country it was charged to protect. He had seen things, and done things, that he wasn’t proud of during his career, but he knew that those questionable activities served a much greater good. When his investigation efforts on the terror plot case uncovered the people behind the plot and eventually those willing to provide cover for the terror masterminds, Juan knew he had reached a critical fork in the road.
Before he fully understood the magnitude of his discoveries, he met with his department’s director to update her on his findings. Within hours of that meeting, an agreement was proffered to him from someone much higher upstream in the governmental food chain. The offer came via a phone call.
“Special Agent Cortez, you’re an asset to this country. What you’ve discovered will save thousands, if not millions of lives. We know it took courage to do what you’ve done, and we certainly believe that courage and dedication like yours should be rewarded. Here’s the thing,” the stranger said, “I’m sure you will agree with our thinking that one man simply doesn’t have the resources needed to continue the investigation you’ve started. Doing so alone will certainly create misinformation and may cost many innocent people their careers. At the same time, as I’ve said, you’ve earned not only the respect of your country but also compensation for your work and for your agreement going forward.”
“What agreement is that, exactly?” Juan pressed.
“Turn over all the information you have, halt all further investigations, agree to keep everything on a very confidential basis, and retire early from the FBI. In return, you’ll be given enough financial consideration to never have to worry about paying your mortgage or car payment ever again.”
“Go pound salt,” Juan snapped. “You’re going to bury all the info I found right after you bury me in a shallow grave.”
“I have to believe that you understand the consequences of not accepting our offer?” the man said, his voice much calmer than Juan would have liked it to sound.
“You’re not giving me an offer,” Juan said. “You’re giving me a threat. Tell me, what happens if I say no, and I continue the investigation on my own?”
“I believe you will find your efforts prevented. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised that someone isn’t walking into your lovely New Jersey home any minute now to remind you of your limited options. Special Agent Cortez, please be realistic. My associates and I have no interest in destroying your brilliant reputation.”
“But?” Juan said as he made his way out of the back entrance of his one story, ranch home.
“You played football while attending Notre Dame, correct?”
“Linebacker. Second string, to be precise.”
“Be assured, Cortez, choosing the path you are thinking about taking will find you on a field of play that you are wholly unfamiliar with. I’m offering you the opportunity to continue playing on a more comfortable field.”
“I like playing my position.”
“Understand that your position no longer likes you playing it. I urge you to reconsider, Juan. This may be your final opportunity.”
Juan dropped his phone on to the concrete patio in his backyard and smashed the phone with the heel of his boots. He ran back inside his home and retrieved the rucksack that he had prepared earlier in the day. By the time his expected and unknown visitors sounded their knocks on his front door, Juan Cortez was gone.
“Cole,” Juan said as the hint of tears clouded his eyes, “understand that if I tell you everything, and anyone even suspects that you and I are working together, you will be a marked man.”
“Marked by who and for what?”
“By people much more powerful than you can imagine and,” Juan paused, “you’ll be marked for elimination.”
“Don’t suppose you can offer me any guarantees?”
“The only guarantee I can give you is that I guarantee if anyone sees you and me together, suspects that you are meeting with me, or has the faintest idea that you know more than what Henderson has told you, you will either spend the rest of your life on the lam or will be eating a bullet. I’ll give you the choice right now; I can either keep talking or get walking. Your call.”
“If I decide that I don’t want to know what you’ve discovered and someone finds out that you and I were talking, I’ll still be a marked man. Right?”
“Watched, but not marked. You make a call to Henderson. Tell him that I knocked you out and stashed you in that warehouse. Tell him that you only saw me for a second and that you didn’t talk with me at all. Give them some bullshit story that you overheard me speaking with someone on a disposable-looking cell phone about getting my ass to Costa Rica. Henderson and the others will press you hard about why I knocked you out and kidnapped you. You tell them that I wanted to get you on my side, but before I told you anything, my phone rang and I hightailed it out of the warehouse. You stumble outside, make your way to a phone and call the police. Guarantee that Henderson will be picking you up from wherever you call and not the NYPD.”
Derek studied Juan’s eyes. He was desperate to see a hint of insanity in Juan’s eyes, a clue that whatever Juan believed was really happening with the terror investigation was a product of a distorted and sick mind. Derek saw only worried honesty in Juan’s eyes.
“It’s either learn what you feel is the truth and put myself in a very compromised situation or never know what you’ve discovered and hope that Henderson and the rest of the FBI believe that I never had a conversation with you. Seems to me that my choices suck.”
“Had to pull you in,” Juan said, his voice revealing genuine remorse. “I can’t do this alone. Still, you tell me what you want; in or out?”
“Shit balls,” Derek sighed. “I’m in.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“The warehouse is owned by a medical supply company that has averaged zero in revenues over the last 16 months. Usually, a business that earns no revenue is inspected or at least watched closely by the IRS, especially one that claims millions of dollars in losses each month. Before I got put on the terror case, I was assigned to look into this medical supply company and see if they represented any threat to America. It is way more common than most Americans would believe for American-based companies to be fronts for terror organizations or to have been set up to funnel money to terror groups.
“The medical supply company goes by the ve
ry original name, American Medical Supply, Limited. They claim to export medical supplies to Middle Eastern countries and have customer payment terms that extend into the three-year range; meaning that they can show any IRS agent or auditor a very healthy accounts receivable balance, but also can account for showing over $30 million in losses over the 16 months they’ve been in business.
“I’m not a financial specialist and not very interested in understanding how a business works, so my investigation focused solely on the owners of American Medical Supply. Turns out that no one owns the company. The officers listed on the articles of incorporation are either dead citizens of Middle Eastern countries or turned out to be fictional. That got me digging even deeper. I connected some dots that weren’t supposed to be connected and found out that American Medical Supply company is associated with the IUIEEO.”
“What the hell is that? The IUIEEO?”
“International Union of Islamic Education and Equal Opportunities. It was given the nickname of 'The Old McDonald.’”
“And what the hell does Old McDonald do?” Derek asked.
“Name kind of says it all, doesn’t it? Their charter states that the IUIEEO is focused on assisting those of the Islamic faith to have equal rights in every country around the world. They provide education, legal assistance and faith-based mentoring. The leader of the IUIEEO is Tareef Omar. He’s an Iraqi national and, four months ago, was named a Permanent Observer with the United Nations.”
“A permanent what?” Derek asked.
“Permanent Observer. The UN is a group of nations that, according to the UN charter, work together for the betterment of all countries. But, there are several organizations that are not actual sovereign countries that belong to the UN. They aren’t full-fledged members of the UN but have been granted access to attend most of the UN meetings, the UN work sessions, and have been given access to the UN files. It started when non-member states could apply to become an Observer, in hopes that they would eventually become a full-fledged member. However, the UN started allowing organizations to become Observers. The IUIEEO is one that not only became an Observer, but was granted the status of becoming a Permanent Observer since they will never become a sovereign state. At least, that’s what their UN charter states.”
The Observer (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 3) Page 8
