“May I ask for a motion, Madam Secretary?” I said as I wrapped my arms around her, squeezing her cute little butt.
“Yes, you may, Mr. President. I’ll make as many motions as you can handle.”
Chapter 35
Zayan Ansari was the head of the Abdullah Madrassa in the Bay Ridge section of Brooklyn. Bay Ridge is known for its large Muslim population. The once Irish neighborhood saw its Muslim resident numbers soar in the 1990s. Throughout Bay Ridge you will find mosques, halal butcher shops, halal restaurants, and educational institutions, such as the Abdullah Madrassa. The school’s mission was to teach the Quran and the strict interpretations of the Islamic faith to teenage boys.
Just after dawn, Ansari called to his 18 students to arrange themselves kneeling on the floor for the Fajr, the morning or dawn prayer. After 10 minutes, the ceremony was over and a day of study lay ahead. His assistant, the only other person at the school that day, stood attentively off to the side of the room.
Ansari began with a two-hour session of reading and memorizing the Quran. His main task was to keep himself awake, because he had little to do while the boys read silently. After the quiet two hours was over, he called on a student to recite from memory one of the verses.
After an hour of recitations, Ansari delivered his lecture.
“The way of the infidel is the way of death, death to your soul. The way of life is the way of Islam. Allah is not interested in your puny thoughts or opinions. Allah is only interested in your lifelong commitment to his ways and to the way of his word as it appears in the Quran.”
As Ansari spoke, his assistant walked up to him. He gave the man a look of fury, as it is strictly forbidden to interrupt when he speaks to his students.
His assistant pointed toward the back of the room where two men had just appeared. They both wore masks.
“You are interrupting a sacred time of learning,” he yelled to the two men. “What do you want?”
The men reached under their long coats, raised their M16s directly at Ansari and his assistant, and opened fire. As their lifeless bodies fell to the floor, the terrified boys crouched, expecting to die.
One of the men walked to the front of the room, carefully stepping over the two bodies.
“You have nothing to fear,” the man shouted in Arabic. “You are free to go, but more importantly, you are free to think. May Allah be with you.”
The men left by the same door they entered. A car awaited them and it drove off at a moderate speed.
***
Two hundred men gathered at a mosque in the Jackson Heights section of Queens, New York for the Dhuhr, the Muslim noontime prayer service. The large crowd had gathered to hear a speech by Usman Assaf, a visiting Imam from Detroit. Assaf had a reputation, one that he cultivated over the years, as an excellent orator. The words of his message changed for every speech, but the central theme always remained the same—Islam is the way, the only way.
Although unemployment was high in the neighborhood, the crowd was unusually large. One of the reasons so many gathered at mid-day was because the shopkeepers simply closed their stores to attend the prayer service and to hear Assaf speak.
After the prayer service, Assaf walked to the front of the room. He remained silent, looking out over the crowd, a technique he had learned for getting the attention of an audience.
Four men stood at the back of the room. They had entered with the throng of worshippers, and nobody asked for identification. It would have been a needless task anyway, because Assaf insisted that all the faithful be allowed in to hear him speak, whether or not they were regular attendees at the mosque. People moved from one spot to another to get a good viewing place. The four men knew this happened all the time, so they just walked around with the rest of the attendees. They slowly walked to the back wall, along which was placed a horizontal eight-foot long wooden locker.
Assaf began to speak.
“If you can’t follow the way of Allah, you will follow the way of the heathen…”
As he spoke the word “heathen” the four men reached into the locker and withdrew M16 automatic machine guns. They opened fire at the backs of the audience in front of them. One of the men was “assigned” to take out Assad, which he did. After 30 seconds of gunfire, all 100 people lay on the floor, covered in blood. Ninety were killed instantly, and the condition of the remaining five hadn’t yet been determined.
The four gunmen walked to the rear of the building where a car awaited them.
***
“Bonnie, it’s Joel Fenster,” said the NYPD Chief of Police to detective Bonnie Logan. “Got two more for you. Have you heard about the shootings?”
“Yes, Chief, I heard about the madrassa shoot-up in Brooklyn. I’m there now. Only two dead. The place is empty.”
“Are the CSU people there?”
“Yes, they got here a half-hour ago.”
“Good, they won’t need your help right now. I want you to go to a mosque in Jackson Heights Queens. It’s a fucking slaughterhouse, Bonnie. Happened about 30 minutes ago. Please get there ASAP.”
Bonnie Logan, NYPD homicide detective, has taken on a specialty in the past few weeks—investigating scenes of attacks on Muslims. It wasn’t a way she expected to spend her career, but Police Chief Fenster was so impressed with her previous investigations that he wanted her to take the lead in any case that looked similar.
She took out her cell phone as she ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and walked toward the front door to the mosque.
“Jack, it’s Bonnie,” she said to her husband. “This feels like fucking déjà vu all over again. I’m about to enter a mosque where about 100 people were shot. I assume the FBI wants to have a look.”
“Can you bring me up to date, captain?” she said to Captain Jose Lopez, the officer in charge of the scene.
“Wow, none other than detective Logan. Looks like you have a weird specialty.”
“Yes, I seem to have developed a weird specialty, a really morbid specialty. So what happened?”
“Ten survivors out of about 100. One of the survivors wasn’t even wounded, and I’ve questioned him already. He says that this was pulled off by four gunmen with machine guns. After they shot the place up they walked to the rear of the building and presumably a waiting car.”
“This is Homicide Detective Bonnie Logan,” she yelled to the Crime Scene Investigators. “Please carry on. I’ll have a lot of questions for you but for now I’m going to let you do your work.”
She slowly walked back and forth across the back of the room, the place where the shooters opened up. She determined that fact from the positions of the bodies. Her husband, Jack Logan, head of the FBI Counterterrorism Task Force, walked up next to her.
“How many husbands and wives do you think meet this way, Bonnie?”
“I can think of nicer places to get together, but we have our jobs, our strange jobs.”
He joined her in her walk across the back of the room.
“Jack, does this look familiar?”
“Yeah, it looks like a remake of that Islamic Center shoot-up a few weeks ago. Well planned, precise execution, and no bombs, just guns. Let me guess, M16s?”
“Yes, that’s our initial guess from the shell casings. Military weapons again. And the shooters vanished without a trace. I’m making a preliminary observation that the shooters got their guns from that wooden trunk over there. If that theory holds up, it means another case of an inside job. Somebody had to put the guns there.”
“Isn’t this a large crowd for a mid-day prayer service?”
“Yes. The faithful were gathered to hear a guy from Detroit, an imam named Usman Assaf. That’s his body next to the lectern. He was one of those rock star preachers who draws crowds with his loving words. From what that uninjured guy told me, half these people were shopkeepers who closed their stores for the event. The stores will now remain closed. The people of Jackson Heights won’t be doing local shopping for a while. Jack,
this goddam pattern is starting to look like it came out of a manual.”
She leaned over next to his ear because of the Top Secret matter she was about to discuss.
“Anything new with your investigation of that outfit we think is named the NFL?” she said softly.
“No, nothing new. The FBI could learn a thing or two about secretiveness from those people, whoever the hell they are.”
“Somebody’s targeting Muslims, Jack. Don’t you find it strange that we don’t have a damn clue as to who they are? At this stage you’d expect to have a few dots to connect, but we’ve got nothing.”
“I know what I have to do,” Jack said.
“Great, I wish to hell I knew what I have to do.”
“I’m going to call that guy Matt Blake, the lawyer from Chicago, the one who represented one of the mall bombing suspects. He’s sharp as hell, and I want to talk to him and his client. I think his client may have some information that we need. I’ll meet him at the safe house in…”
“Hey, Jack, you’re not supposed to tell me that information. You know, ‘need to know’ and all that bullshit.”
“You’re absolutely right, Bonnie. You’d think an FBI guy like me would have more discretion.
And by the way, ‘need to know’ isn’t bullshit. There’s nobody in this world I trust more than you, honey, but loose lips sink ships.”
“Hey, you shouldn’t call me ‘honey’ when we’re on assignment.”
“You’re right again, sweetheart.”
Chapter 36
“Matt, it’s Jack Logan in New York. I want to meet with you and your client and the other guys. If possible, I’d like it to be just you alone. You’re co-counsel with the other lawyers, so you can represent all three of the guys.”
I was worried about this. I know damn well what Logan wants to talk about, the NFL group. I want Al Yamani to spill his guts and tell them everything he’s told me. I want to make sure that Al can’t be hit with an obstruction-of-investigation charge down the road. So I’m off to New York again. I wonder if I can get a commuter pass from O’Hare to JFK.
We were escorted into a large sunken den at the safe house in Tenafly. The room was about 40 by 40, and it was handsomely furnished, with leather upholstery, and cherry wood cabinetry. Two large-screen TVs hung on opposite walls. Great place for a Super Bowl party, I thought. The floors were bare rich oak wood, covered in spots with expensive Persian carpeting. A baby grand Steinway piano stood in a corner of the room. The American taxpayers have excellent taste.
“Fellas,” Jack said, “I want to talk about a group called the NFL. I’ve given your attorney a stipulation of immunity, so you can feel free to say whatever is on your minds. There’s a group of people, and we think they may be named the NFL or Not For Long. We believe that they’ve been targeting radical Muslims, but the thing is this: Whoever they are, they’re murdering American citizens, and they’re murdering them in large numbers.”
“Like I told, Matt, I‘ve heard of this outfit, but I couldn’t remember how.”
“Think, Al, think,” Logan said. “The name NFL didn't just pop into your head one day. You heard it from somebody. Try to remember.”
“Hold on,” Al said, “wait a minute. Yes, I was talking to a guy in a bar in Evanston. Maybe about a year ago. We talked about Islamic reformers, and I told him about my book. He looked at me and said, ‘the NFL would like you, if they don’t already.’ Yes, that’s exactly what he said. I remember it like yesterday. It’s been buried in my mind.”
“But your attorney here tells me that you have an excellent memory. You only remember that now? Why?”
“I had quite a few beers that night, and so did the guy I spoke to.”
“Do you remember this man’s name?”
“Wow, now you’re pushing it. Let me think. Phil or Bill. Yes, Phil was the guy’s first name.”
“Now for the next obvious question,” Logan said. “His last name?”
Al closed his eyes and put his hands up signaling us to let him think.
“Merton, or Burton, I think. Wait, yes, Burton, no Bertone. Definitely, the guy was Phil Bertone. He said he was a part-time instructor at Northwestern.”
Logan opened his laptop and began typing. The Internet and Google bring instant gratification.
“Holy shit,” Logan said. “I’m looking at the part-time faculty list for Northwestern. Here he is, Phillip Bertone, adjunct professor of computer science.”
He excused himself and walked into another room to make a phone call. Mr. Bertone will be getting a visit from the FBI shortly, I thought. Logan walked back into the den.
“Al, this is great, or at least I think it is. Can you recall any more of your conversation with the Bertone guy?”
“The man was really worked up about terrorism. When I first told him my name, he seemed guarded. But as our conversation got rolling and he realized I was on the reform side of the equation, he loosened up.”
“Al, tell us everything he told you about the NFL, and include your opinions, anything.”
“Well like I said, we’d both had a few too many beers, but I seem to recall that he had a good feeling about the NFL. Yes, I remember him saying, ‘they’ll get the scumbags.’ It’s almost like he was talking about a new ball team he just started rooting for. I also remember him saying that ‘these guys know what the fuck they’re doing,’ smiling as he said it.
“Did he say anything that led you to believe that he was part of this NFL?”
“No, but he didn’t deny it either. At this point I’d only be guessing.”
Logan’s phone rang. He excused himself and walked to the next room. He walked back with a big smile on his face.
“We have Phillip Bertone in custody. Our agent asked him if he knew anything about the NFL and he denied it. Based on what Al told us today, we’re holding him on a suspicion of obstructing an investigation.”
“Good luck with that one,” I said.
“Hey, we have him in custody and can talk to him. Matt I want you with me when I do. I’m going back to Chicago with you. You’ll be deputized as an FBI agent.”
Great, I thought. The last time I was deputized as an FBI agent I was almost killed.
“I have a five o’clock flight out of JFK,” I said.
“We’re going FBI style, in the bureau’s Gulfstream.”
Jack Logan and I got into the FBI car awaiting us and headed to Newark Airport where we’d catch the FBI Gulfstream. I felt like I was in an episode from Criminal Minds.
Chapter 37
Jack Logan and I arrived at O’Hare at 2 p.m. I hoped the FBI Gulfstream got decent gas mileage because I had a feeling that the taxpayers just blew some good money. We were on our way to interview Mr. Phil Bertone, the best lead we had so far about the strange group we’ve come to know as the NFL. But I don’t think anything is going to happen in this interview.
“Jack, I hope you’re not expecting too much from this guy. I don’t expect him to say anything.”
“You mean you think he’s lawyered up?”
“Well, those of us in the legal profession prefer to think of it as retaining counsel. If he has, and I don’t doubt it, his lawyer is simply going to tell him to shut up. Hell, I could get this guy sprung in five minutes.”
“Well, let’s just hope he hasn’t retained a lawyer as sharp as you, Matt.”
“But any lawyer is going to tell him not to say anything. Wouldn’t you?”
“Of course I would, but I’m going to make him an offer he can’t refuse.”
“Immunity?”
“Why not? I’m not looking to prosecute the guy. I don’t think he’s anybody we want to pursue. Hell, he was just a drunk in a bar when he chatted with Al Yamani about that NFL stuff. No, I don’t think he’s a bad guy, just a guy with information that we need.”
We walked into the lockup at the Chicago FBI headquarters. Typical of the FBI, the place was neat and clean, more like an office, an office with bars
on the doors and windows.
Uh, oh, I thought. Bertone’s lawyer was sitting across from him. William Jamison, one of the best criminal lawyers in Chicago. Jamison is a tall black guy, about 6’3” wearing an impeccable gray tweed suit, his hallmark. Bertone looked decidedly Middle Eastern.
“Matt Blake,” Jamison said, “long time no see, my friend. Since when have you been moonlighting for the FBI?”
“Hello, Bill, good to see you. In answer to your question, I’ve been deputized as an FBI agent for a case we’re working on.”
“And I guess that case involves Mr. Bertone here, my new client.”
“Yes it does, Mr. Jamison,” said Jack Logan. “We believe that your client has some important information for us.”
“Well, I’ve advised my client that he should exercise his Fifth Amendment right not to incriminate himself. Therefore I don’t believe you’re going to have a very productive conversation.”
“He can’t possibly incriminate himself, counselor.”
“Do you mean you’re granting him immunity from prosecution?”
“That’s exactly what I mean, Mr. Jamison. Anything Mr. Bertone says will not and cannot be held against him.”
“Well, that’s certainly interesting, Agent Logan, but I’ll see your cards and raise you. I want unqualified immunity for anything he says.”
“Excuse us, Mr. Jamison, Matt Blake and I need to confer.”
Logan and I stepped out into the hallway.
The Reformers: A Matt Blake Novel (The Matt Blake legal thriller series Book 2) Page 15
