“Not yet, but we are pretty sure it wasn’t the guy who reserved this room.”
“So it’s not Derek Cole?” Mark asked. "I was told this was Cole's room."
“Not unless Derek Cole was around 21 years old, had dark skin and was about four inches shorter than what the description I read about Cole stated. Cole is 35, blond hair and six foot tall. Not sure who our vic is, but we know it wasn’t Cole.”
“Interesting,” Mark said.
“Now, what I’m wondering,” Roger said, his southern accent slowly becoming more prevalent, “is why would there be a cut-up dead guy in Cole’s room, and why would a very well designed bomb be detonated in Cole’s room, and where the hell is Cole? That’s what I’m wondering.”
“Were all of the vic’s pieces and parts recovered?”
“All that could be. I’m sure that some of him burned up in the fire or got blown so far out that window that we’ll never find all of him.”
“But his head? We have that?”
“Yeah,” Roger said, a bit concerned over his new partner’s line of questioning. “Head, torso, arms and legs are all in the city morgue.”
“Not sure what your plans are now, but I’m heading over to the morgue.”
“Yeah,” Roger said through an exaggerated smile, “you and me, we’re partners now. Where you go, I go.”
***I***
The drive to the NYU School of Medicine campus, where the Chief Medical Examiner’s office was located, took nearly 30 minutes. As they drove, Mark continued racing through his memories, struggling to find some missed clue that would explain why Juan had become a wanted man.
“You always so quiet in the car?” Roger asked.
“Just trying to figure some things out. Didn’t mean to be rude.”
“Ain’t no bother,” Roger said. “Must be weird, huh?”
“What must be weird?”
“Your old partner now being a wanted man. I can’t imagine what you’re probably thinking. Wondering if he said something to indicate what he was planning to do. Maybe thinking about some case you two worked together that put him over the edge. I mean, it must be weird. Unless, you saw this coming.”
Mark turned his head towards Roger, his eyes flashing with anger. “Is that what you’re doing here? Trying to find out if I know something about Cortez and what he did to turn himself into a fugitive? You here to try to catch me telling some story that you and your fellow profilers in DC can twist into some distorted admission?”
“You think I’m a profiler? Wow,” Roger said while shaking his head. “I’ve been accused of being plenty of things but being accused of being smart enough to be one of those profilers? Now that is new ground for this Kentucky boy.”
“Yesterday morning, I started my work day with the same partner I’ve had for seven years. By late morning, I hear he’s off the case and that I’m supposed to report his location to my superiors. By mid-afternoon, I get a call saying that my partner of seven years is wanted for expected treason. Twenty-four hours and two bombings later, I get a new partner, who tells me he’s been with the FBI for two years and that he’s spent those two years doing ‘mostly desk duty.’ Now tell me, Agent Foster, would you believe that the FBI, the same FBI that has been complaining about budget cuts and the sequester, would send a green-ass, rookie agent into a highly volatile investigation?”
“Does seem like a bit of a stretch,” Roger replied.
“Glad you see it that way. The FBI doesn’t swap out agent partners without fully vetting both to make sure they are compatible. The only reason they would make a quick replacement is to use the new agent to figure out if the old agent was up to something illegal. You may not be a profiler, but you sure aren’t here to be my new partner. Are you?”
“What do you want to know?” Roger snapped, his cover being blown. “You want me to tell you that I’m here to catch you in something? Well, I’m not. And don’t think for a second that I’m happy about being sent here. Yeah, I’m here to watch you and make sure that whatever the hell motivated Juan Cortez to jump ship isn’t motivating you to do the same. I’m here in case you were partners with Juan on more than just this case.”
“So you’re not my new partner,” Mark said, “you’re here to determine if I should be added to the watch list.”
“You think I’m happy about this assignment? I’ve been sitting on my ass behind a desk for over two years, waiting to get a field assignment. And for God only knows why, I get called into my director’s office, handed an envelope and told that I am on the next bird to NYC. So I think that I’m actually going to be part of the terrorist investigation, but instead, the contents of the case file only tell me to stick close to Special Agent Mark Henderson and to report any suspicious activity back to my director.”
“Weren’t you told not to tell me your objective?” Mark asked, his curiosity growing.
“Negative. All I was told was to watch you, see if you contacted Cortez, and to report to my director every two hours.”
Mark paused, considering what Roger had told him. He believed that either Roger wasn’t telling him the truth or that Roger wasn’t told everything about his real objective. The other possibility was that the FBI was getting sloppy and not covering their tracks by not informing an agent to keep his spy mission confidential.
“I know you’ve never been in the field before,” Mark continued, “but don’t you find it strange that you’d be sent into an active investigation, with the orders to watch a tenured special agent and were not told to keep your objective confidential?”
“Hadn’t thought about it, but now that you mention it.”
“Something is going on behind the scenes and, whether you decide to report this to your director or not, I plan to find out what the hell it is.”
***I***
Henderson needed only one minute to determine his suspicions about the victim found in the hotel room rented out under Derek Cole’s name. The medical examiner had the victim’s body laid out on a steel table; each body part positioned where it was designed to be.
“Post mortem burns,” the medical examiner said, “coupled with the effects of the bomb blast, will make identification very difficult, if not impossible. Lab is already running the partial print we were able to pull from the vic’s thumb, but results so far have produced no matches.”
“How bad is the face?” Mark asked.
“Surprisingly, not bad.”
“Just need to see the face,” Mark said.
“You think you may know the vic?” Roger asked.
“Not his name, but I have a weird feeling that I will recognize him.”
When the cool, metal shelf was pulled open, and the brilliantly white sheet pulled back, Mark Henderson looked only at the victim’s face.
“Cortez and I were given this vic’s picture. Told that he was a suspect in the terrorist plot.”
“Looks like he ain’t gonna be a problem now,” Roger said.
“True,” Mark said as he and Roger started marking their way out of the morgue, “but whoever did this to him, sure is a problem.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
He wasn’t afraid for his life, but rather for the lives of those he had grown close to; his associates, assistants and any who knew or had assumed who was giving him his instructions. The two men, though not considered close friends, who Badr was told to recruit to act as the “muscle” and who had dispatched of the “alternate” in the warehouse, were certainly dead by now. After completing their gruesome task at the warehouse, and after they had returned Aahill and Badr back to the mosque, they were instructed to meet another associate at another location. Badr knew their services were no longer needed.
“There must be others hired as muscle,” he thought, finding the grin that had invaded his face quite inappropriately.
Tareef was very thorough. He was also patient, Badr believed. What besides patience could explain how Tareef managed through the numerous setbacks and delays and nev
er showed even a hint of anger? Yes, Tareef had been trained to always assume that he was in the public eye and insisted that he maintain a level of professionalism no matter the external circumstances. When Badr watched his mentor conversing with the “other candidate” in amazement, Tareef seemed to comfort the terrified young man, despite knowing what was going to happen as soon as Tareef ended the conversation.
His name was Izzat Abu. He was one of only two handpicked by Badr and approved by Tareef for the approaching mission. Tareef decided that Izzat and Aahill should never meet before their final martyr was chosen. While Aahill, favored by Tareef, was assigned to be guided, shaped, taught and molded by Bard, Izzat, favored by Badr because of his Saudi heritage, was sent to Abdul Fattah Huda. Both had their progress measured each month during meetings of the three mentors.
“Izzat is strong in his beliefs and has asked, on more than one occasion, about what more he can do,” Abdul had reported.”
“And Kevin?” Tareef asked, “how is Kevin advancing?”
“Slowly,” Badr said reluctantly. “He struggles to understand our ways. He asks few questions and seems, I am afraid to say, to lack any sophistication and ability to expand his understanding.”
Both Abdul and Badr were sent back with more targeted objectives.
“Badr, you seem not to see the value in that which you claim to be weaknesses. Your prejudice is your enemy. Go back, embrace Kevin. Bring him fully into your heart.”
Badr and Abdul knew they were never to discuss their apprentices without the presence of Tareef. No comparing of notes, no sharing of ideas and never, under any circumstances, were they to allow their apprentices to ever cross paths. That was until Tareef had made his decision.
“Our Kevin has become our Aahill,” he said to Abdul and Badr as the two Imam’s sat across the desk in Tareef’s upper east side office. “He has displayed the qualities that we require. Izzat will be rewarded in a different manner. Aahill must be made ready.”
There was a reluctant sense of victory that filled Badr’s mind. Though he had first hoped to have Izzat as his student, being assigned Kevin Washington and having fully transformed Kevin into Aahill, the chosen one, was certainly an accomplishment that would be rewarded by Tareef. He believed that the stakes were high in Tareef’s non-identified contest of his pocketed imam’s, but fully understood the severity of the stakes when he learned that Abdul needed to be martyred. And as he stood in front of Abdul’s student, Aahill by his side, while the hired muscle mercilessly beat Izzat to his inglorious death, Badr hoped that his place beside Tareef was assured.
“We will not meet or speak again, Badr,” Tareef said to Badr. “This call will be our last call before we will scatter ourselves to the guided winds. Have faith that we will be collected and assembled again on newly sacred grounds. Be prepared, Badr. Your swiftness needs to be tempered, for movement too soon may prove to be hubris.”
“Have I done well?” Badr asked, desperate for confirmation; to know that Tareef's trust in him was wise.
“To this point, I could not have asked for better. But,” Tareef said, his voice steely certain, “it is not yet accomplished. Do you not agree?”
“I do agree and will assure you that it will be done.”
When Tareef had finished giving him his final instructions, then making Badr recite them back to him to ensure that everything was clear, Badr called Aahill on the cell phone that Badr had purchased from a gray market street vendor several blocks away from his mosque.
“Aahill, I trust that you are comfortable?”
“I am. What am I supposed to do now?”
“I need you, we all need you, to choose the location that you will use to make your greatness known. I am sending someone to pick you up soon. He will have several locations that I, that we, need your help in choosing between. Choose well, then let us know. We will not see each other again, Aahill. Not until the great day arrives. You will save a place for me, will you not?”
“I will.”
As he ended the call with Aahill, he called the number that Tareef had given him and told the man who answered that Aahill was ready.
“Let him believe that he is choosing the location,” Badr reminded the man. “He needs to believe that he is guided in his decisions. Do not let him choose unwisely. When he has chosen correctly, call me. Then, bring him to the apartment. Have him drive you to the chosen location at least three times to make sure he knows the way. Then, when you are confident, return him to the apartment. Stay with him all night. Feed him, offer him anything he desires, and treat him with the respect that you would show a prophet.
“Call me only when he is asleep and when you are certain that he will not hear you speaking with me. He is well prepared and should not offer any challenges. But if he does, if he falters, you need to be prepared to take his place. This is how our mentor wants it. Do you understand your job?”
“I do,” the man said.
“Tomorrow, give him a drink of juice with the medicine fully dissolved. It will make him sleep for several hours. When he is asleep, go to the warehouse and retrieve the packages that will be left for you. Return them to the apartment and dress him in the clothes when he awakes.
“Lastly, give him your cell phone after erasing and removing your sim card and replacing it with the one sent to you in the certified letter. Be certain that your phone is clean.”
“I will. This isn’t my first time, in case you have forgotten.” the man said.
“I know. And I also know of the past failings of your team. Our mentor trusts you and promises great rewards. He also promises great punishments if things do not go as planned.”
“And when he leaves the apartment tomorrow afternoon?” the man questioned, ignoring the obvious threat-reminder that Badr just delivered.
“You are to follow him to his location. Watch him, but do not be seen in your surveillance. Watch and report only if you fail in your assignment.”
“I will not fail.”
“I would hope not. For your sake and for the sake of all of us. This marks the beginning; the announcement. Should you fail, our words will not be heard.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Derek's jaw didn't bother him as much as did the back of his head and his knees. As part of Juan's plan, Derek scraped his knees on the rough concrete loading dock in the back of the warehouse. When blood had seeped through and stained his pants, Juan suggested that Derek scrape the back of his head along the same concrete.
"You want me to scrape my head across this filthy concrete? You do understand the risk of infection I am taking?"
"Boo hoo, Alice," Juan retorted. "A few scrapes and bruises won't kill you. You want them to think that I roughed you up and dragged your unconscious body around."
"Wouldn't the bruise on my jaw be enough?"
Without notice or warning, Juan snapped a roundhouse punch into the back of Derek's head, sending him crashing to the concrete floor. It took Derek several seconds before he could see straight.
"Maybe I'll just stay down here," Derek said, holding the back of his head. "Seems safer down here than standing next to you."
"Sorry about that last shot," Juan said as he extended his hand to Derek. "I think that's enough damage."
"You know," Derek said once he was stable on his feet, "I've never been knocked down in a fight before."
"And yet today, you've been flat on your ass twice. You need to work out more, Cole."
"Or get better partners."
"You know what you need to do, right?" Juan asked.
"Yeah," Derek answered. "Unless you knocked it out of me, I know what to say and what not to say."
"Good." Juan pulled out a small, black flip phone from the backpack he had brought with him. "Turn this on only when everything is set up and you are 100% sure that you are alone. It's untraceable but the call can still be picked up by the NSA. There's one number stored in there. Just long-press the number 2, and it will connect to my matching phone
. Mine won't be on, so leave a message saying 'good.' If things don’t go well with your and Henderson’s chat, leave a message saying ‘no good.’ As soon as you leave the message, turn off the phone, crush it and drop it in someplace very wet. I'll check for messages every two hours. If things go well, I'll head back to this warehouse and wait for Henderson.”
"So, once I destroy this cell phone," Derek said, holding up the burner phone, "how will I be able to contact you again?"
"You won't," Juan said. "This is it for our partnership. Henderson and I will be working this case together again. You need to get your ass back out there and figure out a way to stop the terrorist attack in case Henderson and I fail. Good luck, Cole."
Without waiting for Derek to respond, Juan Cortez opened the back door of the warehouse and disappeared into the streets of Manhattan.
Derek waited for the full hour as suggested by Juan, before intentionally stumbling out through the warehouse's front door. When he realized that no one had seen him, he slipped behind around the side of the warehouse and moved along the narrow alleyway that separated the warehouse from a six-story office building. When he was deep enough into the alley to be certain that no one could hear or see him, he pulled out his iPhone, turned it on and opened the BuryMe app.
"Glad to know that you're still alive. Payday is coming up tomorrow."
"Thanks for your concern, Crown," Derek whispered. "Did you let my folks know I'm not dead?"
"I told them that you weren't blown to shit in the explosion, but that I wasn't sure you hadn't died in another manner. I'd say they were somewhat positive about their chances of seeing you again when I left them."
"Your bedside manner sucks, Crown. You know that? It sucks."
"You don't pay me to be all sparkly and shiny. You done worrying about mommy and daddy?"
"Sure," Derek said while he checked to make sure that he was still out of sight and earshot. "Did you find anything out?"
The Observer (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 3) Page 12
