“I don’t think they’d do that. Alerting anyone about what’s going on would cause mass panic. Word would get out, and the last thing the NYPD wants is panic in the streets of Manhattan.”
Silence again hung heavy in the air.
It was close to 11 in the morning before Derek’s iPhone rang. Derek and Nikkie had given up their seat in the restaurant and had moved to a quiet area of the hotel lobby to finish their waiting-for-word vigil.
“Cole, it’s Connor. You and Nikkie together?”
“Yes,” Derek said. “We’re in the hotel lobby. What’s the word?”
“I contacted the FBI last night. Was routed to Agent Roger Foster who has assumed lead on the case. I told him everything you found out. He called me back 20 minutes later and arranged a meeting at my precinct. Here’s what’s happening. FBI is pulling agents from the area and have already taken positions in every building within a two block radius of Aahill’s target. NYPD will have six response teams standing by, out of sight and not in marked vehicles. We also will have nearly 100 officers, all plainclothes, either walking near the target, inside the tavern or inside the other businesses near the target.
“We’ve coordinated with the DOT to block off two of the side streets that lead towards the target, meaning that if Aahill is driving to the location, he will have to drive on only one street. If he’s walking, which we highly doubt, our spotters will see him. Our SWAT team snipers are positioned along that route every 100 yards with instructions to hold fire, but to be ready to fire if commanded.
“We have spotters situated all along the area. Each has a picture of Aahill and will report to Central Command the second they see him. When we spot him, we will cordon off the area ahead of him, shut down the street, evacuate all citizens, then form a 100-yard area around him.
“FBI wants him alive, so once we have him trapped, we have his parents ready to speak to him via loud speaker from a visible distance. If all goes as planned, he will take off the vest, surrender and no one gets hurt.”
“I have no idea how many resources the FBI will have in the area, but the NYPD will have nearly 500 of New York’s finest in the area. We’ll stop him, Derek, because of you. When this is over…”
“Let’s table any ‘when this is over’ conversations until it really is over,” Derek said. “So, what do Nikkie and I do?”
“Two options: You can either hole up where you are or come down to the precinct and wait for this to be over from the comfort of one of our lovely waiting rooms.”
“I think we’ll hang out here. You will call me and let me know what’s happening, right?”
“When it’s over. Not sure of the sophistication of this group, so FBI instructed no cellular communications and only code-word radio communication. I’ll be dark to you until Aahill’s in custody.”
“Or he’s dead,” Derek said.
“Either way, I promise that the first call I make will be to you.”
“Good luck and be safe.”
“Thanks,” Connor said. “And, not that I know you all that well, but, if my suspicions are right, you and Nikkie may think it’s a good idea to meander around the east side. Stay away. FBI doesn’t want you around and have instructions to detain you if they see you. Nothing personal, it’s just that they don’t want any more people in the area than will already be there.”
“You know me better than you thought,” Derek said. “We’ll hang back and stay away. But if you don’t call me once this is over…”
“Gotta run. Sorry. And don’t worry, my first call is to you, remember?”
“Stop him and catch the bastards driving this whole thing.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“Seems like we have nothing to do but sit around and wait.” Derek and Nikkie were too restless to do their sitting and waiting in the hotel lobby and decided to make the short walk through Times Square to Bryant Park. Once in the small park, the two sat on a park bench, shared their life stories, while both struggled not to keep checking the time and the signals on their cell phones.
It was close to 4 in the afternoon before Derek’s iPhone finally rang. A quick glance at the caller ID told him that the caller wasn’t Patrick Connor.
“Derek Cole.”
“No shit, Cole. You don’t have to tell me who the hell you are since I called you.”
The voice was unmistakable.
“Juan? Juan Cortez? What the hell happened to you? You left me hanging after Henderson never made it back.”
“I’m sure you heard what happened to Mark by now,” Juan said. “Bullet in the head in exchange for him keeping quiet. Who’s that you’re sitting next to?”
“She’s my associate. Since you obviously have eyes on me, why don’t we have this conversation face to face?”
“Not a good idea, Cole.”
“Why not?”
“Three reasons. One, you suspect that I may be the one who killed Henderson and am the brains behind this whole thing. I’m willing to bet that either you, your associate, or both of you, are carrying heat and may be inspired to employ your weaponry on me. Second, I’m still a much sought-after hombre. Walking around in a park may not be my best choice of places to make an appearance. And third, too much shit going on to keep still. Connor fill you in on the FBI’s response to the info you shared with them?”
“Yes. Sounds like Aahill won’t be able to fart without a hundred agents and cops jumping on his ass.”
“And that would be true if they were surveilling the right tavern.”
“What are you talking about?” Derek said, standing suddenly.
“Cole,” Juan said, “didn’t you think it was a bit too obvious? I mean, I don’t know exactly how you got your freelancing hands on whatever info you passed on to Detective Connor, who, in turn passed it along to my old employer, but you had to suspect that it was a bit too much a rookie fuck-up. You think that the IUIEEO would let information that detailed the location of a terrorist attack be so carelessly left somewhere where anyone could find? Come on, Cole. You must have suspected it was too easy.”
“Holy shit balls,” Derek said. “I found a letter written by Aahill to his parents sticking out of the heating vent in his apartment above the mosque. It was the only thing in the entire apartment. Sonofabitch, I should have known. I have to call Connor.”
“Don’t bother,” Juan said. “If he’s where I bet he is, he’s under a no-communication order from the FBI.”
“He said we wouldn’t be able to get in touch with him. Sonofabitch!”
“Let me give you a lesson on how the FBI and CIA prep a suspected terror sight. First, they put every available agent in every possible location, all with eyes on different areas of the location. Second, since many bombs are remotely detonated by cell phone, they start blocking cell signals early in the day. The closer the time gets to the expected time, the more the signals are blocked. A few hours before the expected time arrives, cell phones will ping a tower only about 15 minutes per hour. They’ll shut down all cell signals two hours before the expected time. This drives people out of the area since they can’t update their Facebook pages or send a Tweet about how fucking awesome the vodka penne they had for dinner was. You ain’t gonna be able to contact Connor till after Aahill blows himself up, six blocks from where Connor's huddled up in some coffee shop.”
“You said six blocks away. You know where the actual location is?”
“What if I do?” Juan said. “You think you can do something to stop this from happening?”
“I can try. I have to try.”
“You ready to kill poor little Kevin Washington if it comes to that?”
“You seem to know an awful lot about this case, Juan.”
“And that makes you think that I may be involved, right?”
“How did you know that Aahill’s real name is Kevin Washington, and how do you know that he’s the bomber?”
“You actually think that I’m the only agent who smells something bad po
uring out from this case? I have connections, Cole. Connections that have kept me informed of every development. You told Connor what you found in Aahill’s apartment, he tells the rookie agent who’s now in charge, who then informs his team. Five minutes later, old Juan knows exactly what’s going on. Answer my question: you prepared to kill Kevin Washington or not?”
“And how do you know that the location the FBI and NYPD are covering is the wrong location?”
“The warehouse, Cole. I told you the warehouse was the place to be. I followed a member of the IUIEEO’s team from the warehouse to an apartment in the Bronx where little Kevin Washington is being held. I broke into their Lincoln Navigator, punched up recent locations in the built-in navigation system and did some cross-checking. They went to the tavern you all think the attack will happen one time, but they went to the real location at least seven times. Now,” Juan said, his voice stern and raised, “I’ve answered your questions. You need to answer mine.”
“Tell me where this is going to happen, Juan.”
“You prepared to kill Kevin or not?”
“You can’t stop this alone, Juan. You need me.”
“Are you prepared…”
“Yes,” Derek yelled. Then, softer, “I’ll kill him if I have to. I’ll put a bullet right between his eyes without hesitating, if there’s no other choice.”
“How long you think it will take till you realize there aren’t any other choices?” Juan asked.
“This kid has no idea what he’s about to do. No idea at all.”
“Heartbreaking narrative, Cole. So, put it all together. Moron gets brainwashed by terrorists. Moron gets a vest loaded with C4 strapped to his chest. Moron is expected to walk into a crowded restaurant, scream ‘Allah Akbar,’ then blow himself and everyone up into itty-bitty pieces. This is how this will go down: Poor little Aahill will be brought to the restaurant, will walk in and the bomb will be detonated by someone with a cell phone who’ll will be far enough away to ensure his safety. The only choice is to shoot Aahill the second you see him. That’s my plan. See him, kill him. What’s your plan?”
“The location, Juan. Tell me the location.”
“You cover from the west, and I’ll cover from the east. You see him, you shoot him. Agreed?”
“The location. Tell me the location.”
“Agree or not, Cole?”
“Agreed.”
“The Green Dolphin. Upper East Side. Six blocks from where every cop and agent in the area are setting up a circle jerk. Get your ass there in 20 minutes. Don’t call me and don’t look for me.”
“We’re on our way.”
“Remember Cole. You see Aahill, you shoot Aahill. No questions, no hero bullshit. See him, kill him.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
His thoughts drifted to problems that needed to be solved. First, was his belief that there should be a better way to get from NYC to Washington.
“High speed rail,” he thought. “Lesser countries have them, and so should we. If not for those damn Republicans and their incessant worry about where the money to pay for shit comes from, this country would be far and away the best in the world. The best ever.”
Ideas streamed through his mind whenever he was behind the wheel. Campaign speeches, reactions to controversial statements, brilliant ways to raise funds and ideas to bring to the Senate floor; all had their birth behind the wheel. It wasn’t that his position demanded that he spend an inordinate amount of time traveling, it was more the feeling he got when doing so. Planes were fine but the incessant chatter always took him out of his thoughts. Trains were hypnotically enjoyable, yet there was still chatter and the rhythmic clickety clack was, at times, too comforting, calling sleep to occasions better used for thinking.
Driving was his favorite. “If we had more rail, more people would be in a train and off the road. Road traffic would be a bane of the past.”
He was still considered a junior Senator, and this moniker was saddled with traditional and expected reactions from others. Though his ideas were far and away superior to the career politicians, each of his seemed to be required to squeeze through a filter. Immediately, discounts were applied, as if mandated by a coded process. For the tenured, the filter wasn’t molded by their most recent vote, idea or position, but instead by a streaming history of blended and aggregated positions. Who was considered worthy was largely decided by the number of favors and mutual agreements made in a long stretching past.
But his past was much too short to have earned anything yet.
“You need to cut your teeth,” one of the senior Senators told him once. “We’ll get you on a committee or two. You just vote on issues that are in line with the party’s narratives and avoid the optics of trying to make a name for yourself, and you’ll be just fine. Leave your grandiose bullshit ideas at the door. Those are for the Representatives, not for Senators.”
So he played the game, avoided impatience and venturing out with progressive ideas only when the subject matter was inconsequential. He voted as suggested, gave expected responses and media interviews, and sacrificed his remaining morals when another Senator needed support. When the President’s polls started plummeting, he was told to “go low profile” and to “wait it out.”
“Things in this country have such a short life span that reactionaries are labeled, removed and forgotten. Hold course. The less your voters see you and the less they think about you, the better.”
His father-in-law, Theodore Sterling, had held the same office he was now holding, for 30 years. And for 30 years, Theodore Sterling quietly built himself up into a force to be feared. A proposal brought to the back-office meetings by Sterling usually became a shared proposal, demanding equal amounts of passion and commitment from those also interested in maintaining their positions of power.
When he married Theodore’s daughter, Robert’s future was decided.
“You got the looks, the brains, and now you've got the money behind you. You take my name as your middle name, keep your mouth shut for a while and you’ll end up replacing me. I never had a son, Robert. You’re as close as I’m going to get.”
Robert Sterling Johnson became a Senator eight years, four months and eleven days after he married Claire Sterling, daughter of the Senator. Robert was introduced to the party members, those that truly mattered, when Theodore thought the timing was right. He was seen in public, standing beside his father-in-law on stages across the State during Theo’s last campaign. He was the young, good looking and progressive prop Theo used to help win a landslide election; his last election.
When Theodore announced that his sixth term would be his last, the nominee was certain.
“Robert, I have two years left in my term. During these last two years, you’re going to become my public face. You’ll represent me in all those useless public meetings, at events, fundraisers and even a few party meetings. You keep to the script, keep your ass clean, keep your face pretty and the happy idiots will vote for you like they vote for me: Mindlessly. Most don’t know who they’re voting for anyway. They see a name they recognize, punch the ticket and go back to their lives of quiet desperation. Once you’re in, you listen to me and to those I tell you to listen to. Get through your first term before you even think about advancing your own ideas. Make waves and the party will kick your ass right out of the boat. And believe me Rob, this is one boat you don’t want to lose your seat in.”
But Robert Sterling Johnson had too many ideas. Good ideas, some great. They sat, boiling in his brilliant mind until they were reduced to reminding scars on his soul. Idea after idea was put over the flames of expectation. Idea after idea steamed away into a silent reduction of disappointment. But the boat was, as his father-in-law suggested, a good place to be. His simmering ideas that flew in the face of the establishment were quickly identified by their rising steam. A gentle reminder was all it took for the idea to be moved into a quiet, fully private space.
“Your ideas will have their time,”
he was reminded. “This ain’t your time.”
There was one idea, however. Not his. Certainly not his. This idea was much too grand for even his brilliant mind to have given birth to. The purpose of the idea didn’t matter, nor did the desired result or the consequences. All that mattered was the shift in power that he was assured.
“People are sheep in your country. They want to be taken care of and protected. Do you not agree?”
“I hold out a bit more hope for my fellow citizens than that.”
“Are you able to temper your hope until a time when your strengths and talents will be sought out?”
“I am.”
“This is what we require and what we will return.”
The plan was masterful. By the time he was offered a seat in their boat, the plan was near its completion. All he needed was to ensure a few minor details. Arrange some meetings, drop some subtle reminders and, only if needed, clean up some unintended and unscheduled messes. Henderson was an unintended mess that only he could clean.
He forced the memories of hearing the shot and Henderson’s body collapsing to the floor as he drove away from the city. He pushed those useless memories back, letting them boil themselves down. A report of steam needed to be well guarded against. The memories needed to be pushed very, very far back.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
“Tareef, are you prepared for your speech? You take the floor at 5:30 and we are running a packed evening agenda. You go first, followed by the Director of the Climate Change subcommittee. We break for dinner, then we have a full schedule of speakers through ten.”
“I am quite ready,” Tareef answered. “I still have 15 minutes, correct?”
“Try to keep it under 12. I know it’s nit-picky, but every minute saved is a minute gained. Can you do 12 minutes?”
The Observer (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 3) Page 20
