Chapter 19
I liked how both men stayed calm and didn’t jump when I appeared in the driver’s-side window. I crouched low so my face filled the window, and rested my arms across the door with my Glock service weapon in my right hand, casually hanging into the car.
I said, “Hello, fellas, how’s your day going?”
The driver, the burly man with a pockmarked face, mumbled, “No English. Go ’way.”
“You think you’re the first one to pull that kind of shit on me? There is a universal cure for those who don’t want to speak English.” Without hesitation, I pulled the door handle, reached into the Lincoln, and grabbed the man with two fingers behind his jaw. The pressure made him hop out of the car with no help from me other than the two fingers on his sensitive nerves that ran there.
I spun him around and slammed him into the car.
I was prepared to order the other man out, but he jumped out on his own to help his friend. Just as he reached the rear of the Lincoln, Darya sprang out from behind the car parked next to them. I had no idea what she did, but the guy was on the asphalt in a heartbeat.
I said to her, “You okay?”
She said, “Good.”
She was careful to keep her words to a minimum, because even though her accent is barely discernible, she didn’t want these Russians to pick up that she knew their language.
I focused on the man I had in an arm bar against the car. I patted him down quickly and pulled out a Ruger 9mm from his waistband. Holding him with one hand, I holstered my Glock and stuck his Ruger in my pants.
I said, “If you don’t speak English, you’re under arrest for carrying a concealed weapon. If you do speak English, I’ll talk to you for a minute.”
He said in a remarkably clear voice, “We speak English.”
“Good. See how easy that was?” I eased up slightly on my arm bar, then stepped back and let the man face me. I said, “Now, why were you asking about Temir Marat?”
“Who?”
I grabbed his arm again to show him I could get rough if I had to. That’s when he surprised me. He was fast for a big guy. He twisted his body and then landed a knee right on my thigh. It hurt. I mean, in an it-made-me-want-to-pee kind of hurt.
I staggered back and he immediately threw two punches at my head. He had some style and looked like he’d boxed at some point in his life. That’s probably how he landed a job like this.
I had done a little boxing myself and immediately had my guard up, fending off his punches. As I stepped back, I saw that Darya, still alert and on top of her man, was watching what was happening.
I let the guy in front of me take a wild swing. I ducked the right fist as it just grazed the top of my head. Then I twisted hard and landed a left, low on his back, right in his kidneys. Ouch—I knew from experience that that location was painful.
I spun to his other side and kneed him in the left thigh, making sure things were equal. Then I grabbed him by the groin with my left hand and by the throat with my right hand, and bull-rushed him backward into a parked pickup truck.
He let out an umphf as the air rushed out of him. Then I put him on the ground close to his partner.
The partner tried to sit up and Darya blasted him with a forearm right across the back of his head. I could hear his nose crush against the asphalt; blood started to leak out and pool into puddles near his face.
I said to the guy I had on the ground, “This is serious shit. For all I know, you were involved in the attack on the parade. That’s why you’re about to have the worst day of your life.”
The man sputtered, “Wait, wait. It’s not what you think.”
“Then tell me what it is.”
“I don’t want to get in more trouble.”
“You can’t get in more trouble. You’re carrying a gun illegally and you assaulted a police officer.”
“I don’t want to get in more trouble by talking.”
I sat there for a moment and thought about it. Darya looked up at me expectantly. Finally, I said, “Tell me what you want to tell me. Anything you say while I have you on the ground like this is free. Total immunity.”
“If I tell you the truth, you let us go?”
“That depends on how much of the truth you tell me.”
The man thought about it for a moment, then said, “I don’t know your man, Marat. I have the same photo you showed the bartender. Someone contracted us to take him out.”
“A mob hit on a terrorist? Why?”
“Why is not one of the questions we ask in my line of business.”
“Where did you get the photo of him?”
“It was in an envelope with some cash and instructions to find him and kill him.” After another moment he said, “That’s the truth, the whole truth.”
I released my grip and let him sit up. He brushed off a couple of pebbles that were lodged in his face. One of them perfectly filled the biggest pockmark on his left cheek.
I looked at him and said, “Surprisingly, I do believe you.”
I got a little more information out of the other, but stuck to my promise to release them. Besides, I had gotten the information through an illegal interrogation. There was nothing I could do to them.
After I stood up, I took his Ruger out of my waistband, took it apart, and tossed two pieces in a sewer drain. He started to object, then kept his mouth shut. I would toss the rest of the pistol, including the magazine, down a few different drains on our way back to Manhattan. I appreciated his groan as the gun disappeared.
I stepped over to the other man standing next to Darya and started to pat him down. Just as I did, the man said, “She took it already.”
I gave Darya a look and she reached in her purse, then pulled out a Smith & Wesson revolver. She shrugged as she slipped it into the palm of my hand.
She gave me a smile and said, “A girl has got to try.”
Chapter 20
After we talked to the Russian mobsters, I drove us back to the task force headquarters. Darya said she had calls to make based on some of the information we’d found. We agreed to meet up later.
She was very quiet on the ride back, and I found myself wondering what her role in all this was. Dan Santos trusted her, and even though he was a fed I didn’t think he’d put someone in the middle of the investigation who couldn’t be trusted. But still, something nagged at me. The moment I got to my desk, my cell rang. I didn’t recognize the caller, a man’s voice with a thick Russian accent. He said his name and I still couldn’t place it. Then I realized who it was: the silent husband of the woman we had spoken to in Midwood yesterday. The only English word he had said was, “Bullshit.”
Now he spoke in halting English. I guess Darya’s idea of not letting people know you spoke their language wasn’t a unique trick.
I said, “What can I do for you?”
“When you and the pretty Russian woman came here—we told truth.”
He spoke slowly and carefully so I could understand him. Aside from the accent, his English was not bad at all.
I said, “But some of your truth has changed since we were there?” I was trying to think how he had reached me, then I remembered that Darya had written my number as well as her own on a sheet of paper.
“Nothing has changed, except I met someone who might know the man you’re looking for. He gave me some information that I thought you might use.”
On every big case, there are thousands of leads. God help me, but I was a sucker for someone giving me new information, even if the odds of it being accurate or useful were small.
The old man said, “A man I ran into said he knows the family of the man who did this terrible crime.”
“In Russia or Kazakhstan?”
“In New Jersey.”
That caught me by surprise and made me pull a notepad from the FBI desk I was sitting at. I couldn’t help but look around the room to make sure no one was eavesdropping on my conversation. Technically, all official leads were supposed to
be put into a computer program for review before anyone followed up on them.
I said, “It’s interesting he has family in New Jersey. That’s nothing I had heard.”
The old man said, “There are lots of Russians trying to live the right way. Many of us fled terrible conditions and appreciate all the advantages we have here in United States. Most Russians are perfectly respectable. It might not seem like it in your line of work, where everyone is a potential suspect. But this isn’t Russia. You can’t think that way.”
“I don’t generally think that way about any group. Nevertheless, I am a cop and I have to follow up on leads. Can you narrow down where his family might live in New Jersey?”
“A little community called Weequahic, in Newark. The name you’re looking for is Konstantin Nislev.”
“Do you want to give me some details about the person who gave you this information?”
“No. No, I don’t.” Then the phone went dead.
If nothing else, it gave me another excuse to get out of the Federal Building for a few hours. With Manhattan’s usual Saturday traffic, I knew I could be in the car for a while.
A little work in Google and in the New Jersey public records database gave me an address for a Konstantin Nislev, right where the old man said he’d be.
Traffic wasn’t as bad as I feared, and I was cruising past neat row houses in the Newark community of Weequahic. I found a parking spot just across from where I was going. I sat there for a minute, checking out the situation.
It was a well-kept row house, and an old oak tree rose up from the front yard and sent branches toward the house like a giant monster. Other than that, the yard was immaculate. Just a few short strips of grass and a lot of decorative stones. It looked like a comfortable home.
I stepped out of the car and tried to look casual as I walked up toward the front door. But I didn’t feel casual. If this lead was accurate, it was a big deal. A giant deal. So big I might have a hard time explaining to the FBI how I managed to get the lead, not file it in the proper system, not tell anyone where I was going, and then question the suspect’s family.
It was probably nothing.
I rang the bell and heard soft chimes on the inside of the house. A moment later, a man who looked about sixty, with thinning hair, wearing heavy-framed glasses, answered the front door.
He smiled and had a noticeable accent when he said, “May I help you?”
I held up my badge and said, “Konstantin Nislev?”
The man said, “I wondered how long it would take the authorities to find us.”
Chapter 21
I sat on a couch with an uncomfortable wooden frame on the back. I took the tea that Konstantin’s wife, Vera, offered as we all chatted in a small living room almost overwhelmed with photographs.
Temir Marat’s aunt and uncle had heard through the Russian grapevine that he was a suspect in the attack on Thanksgiving. The older couple didn’t deny the relation, or that they were worried about their nephew.
I gave them a few minutes to settle down and we chatted about other things before I got to the serious questions on my mind.
I said, “You have a lot of photos of Seton Hall.”
Konstantin said, “I have been the facilities manager there for five years. I was an engineer in Russia, and it fit in perfectly with the needs of the university when I started to look for a job here.”
“How long have you been in the US?”
“We moved here about six years ago. I had lived in the US before for extended periods, while I worked on different projects for a construction company based in Switzerland. My children and the rest of the family came over four years ago.”
“And your nephew, Temir?”
Vera answered that one. “We were hoping he would come with his cousins four years ago, but he had a wife who was pregnant, and already had one young child at home.”
“Where was he living?”
“Moscow.” I just nodded and let the story continue.
“Temir had a decent job doing something for either the city or the Russian government. He had a nice apartment and a little bit of money. He speaks English so I thought he might want to come. But he decided to stay.”
“When’s the last time you talked to him?”
“He always sends me mail on special occasions,” Vera said. “He loves his aunt Verochka.”
“And you had no idea he was here in the US?”
“None at all.”
“Do you have any photographs of your nephew?”
Vera stood up quickly and went to a series of framed photographs sitting on a bookshelf. She walked back with a particularly large one that showed a group of more than twenty-five people.
Vera pointed to a young man, no more than fourteen or fifteen, in the corner of the photo. “That is Temir. This was at a family gathering in Moscow about fifteen years ago. His father had died and we thought it was important for him to have male role models. Konstantin’s brothers all spent time with him.”
“Do you have any idea when he might’ve become radicalized and interested in attacking the US?”
Konstantin said, “I’m not sure I understand. Radicalized in what way?”
“Had his belief in Islam twisted to where he felt he needed to participate in a jihad?”
Konstantin said, “That’s ridiculous. I don’t understand any of that. We’re not Muslim. We are Russian Orthodox. The whole family is Russian Orthodox. We are all, to my knowledge, devout and law abiding. Are you sure you have the right suspect?”
Suddenly I had some doubts. They had identified their nephew through the photograph I had. The ATF had taken the fingerprint from the truck used in the bombing. I had fought the man in the photograph hand-to-hand. He was the right suspect, but did we have the correct motive?
I’d have a lot of explaining to do when I got back to Manhattan.
Chapter 22
After I’d interviewed Temir Marat’s family in New Jersey, I took my time driving back to the Federal Building. I lingered in the lobby and called home to make sure everything was all right. Then, God help me, I sneaked back into the task force office. I felt sheepish, like a dog who had peed on the carpet.
Now I had to figure out how to explain my trip to New Jersey and all the interesting information I’d found out.
Darya was working on some notes at a table on the side. When I sat down next to her, I noticed the report was written in Cyrillic.
Darya glanced up and said, “When I’m in Moscow, I write in English. It’s quite convenient. Like my own secret code. Because no one tries to learn anyone else’s languages anymore.”
I said, “Thanks, grandma, for the lecture. Besides, you’ve been with me during most of the investigation. There’s nothing you could write that I haven’t already heard firsthand. Probably from someone with a thick Russian accent.”
“Where have you been?”
“Jersey.”
Darya gave me a smile and said, “Seeing a girlfriend?”
“Ha, that’s funny. Until I think about my Irish fiancée. Then it’s scary. If I went to see a girlfriend in New Jersey, it would probably be my last trip to New Jersey ever.”
Darya said, “While you have been out sightseeing, your friend the FBI agent and I have come up with an interesting wrinkle.”
“What’s that?”
“We’ve found the phrase Marat said before detonating the bomb, hawqala, the one that means ‘There is no power nor strength save by Allah.’”
I said, “What do you mean you ‘found’ it?”
Just then Dan Santos strutted up to us and said, “It’s a phrase that has been used by people being blackmailed into committing an attack.” He looked between Darya and me, then just kept talking. “A Georgian soldier said it before he detonated an explosive vest at a police station, killing eleven, including himself. Turns out his mother was being held by a group that forced him into the attack. Apparently Georgians love their mothers.”
“What happened to his mother?”
Darya answered. “They released her. They want people to believe them when they say they’ll release someone for carrying out an attack.”
Then Santos said, “Last year a former Russian security agent said hawqala before he charged a speaker at a meeting of businessmen in Chechnya. He managed to kill the mayor and a deputy with a hand grenade. The mayor was opposed to Russian influence in Chechnya. That attacker survived four bullets by security. He said he’d been told to do it. He regretted it. He also said the reason he shouted hawqala was because he heard it would show he wasn’t a monster. It’s a weird situation. The military and some law enforcement types know the phrase. This is the first time it’s been used outside the former Soviet Union. It might be the wave of the future.”
That all started to make sense with what I had just learned in New Jersey. Now I had to find a way to tell them I’d been working on my own.
I looked at Darya and realized I wasn’t built for keeping secrets. I just started to talk. “I’ve developed some information I want to discuss with the two of you.”
Neither of them offered any encouragement so I kept going.
“I got a tip that Temir Marat had family that lived in Newark.”
Darya said, “Right here in the US.”
I nodded.
Santos said, “Did you put the lead into the system?”
“Not yet.” I paused, but I could have been just as easily yelling, I ignored you and went out on my own. Instead, I said, “I wanted to make sure it wasn’t a prank.”
Santos calmly said, “I’m listening.”
“So to ensure the information was good, I took a ride across the river.”
Santos glared at me and raised his voice. “What?”
It was about as emotional as I had seen an FBI agent.
Santos said, “Was there something not clear about your place in this task force and how the investigation was going to be conducted?”
I shook my head. “All I can say is that it was not a prank. Marat’s aunt and uncle moved here years ago and are still in touch with their nephew.”
Manhunt: A Michael Bennett Story Page 5
