CHAPTER TWO
About three hours after Ms. Sims did not get her muffin in Manhattan, we pulled into the long, fountain-lined drive of the Trump Taj Mahal. The Taj is topped with bulbous domes and minarets, so perhaps Big Bird thought this was a mosque.
Ms. Sims had the contact info for our team here, and she'd called ahead to let them know the subject was on the way so they could get to reception. She also described what he was wearing and let them know, 'Subject is code-named Big Bird.'
I radioed Unit Two, who were parked a distance from the entrance, and told them, 'You can take off.'
Mel Jacobs and George Foster volunteered to stay-above and beyond the call of duty-and I replied, 'Do whatever you want. You're on your own time.'
The nature of this job and of this Task Force is such that we all trust one another to do the right thing. There are rules, of course, but we're informal and free of a lot of the bureaucratic crap that keeps the job from getting done. And the thing that really makes the Task Force work, in my opinion, is that about half the agents are retired NYPD, like me, which means we're not worried about our careers; these are second acts, maybe last acts, and we can improvise a lot and not worry about crossing the line. Plus, we bring NYPD street smarts to the table. Results may vary, of course, but we mostly get the job done.
The driver pulled away in the Mercedes without Big Bird, who went inside carrying an overnight bag. We couldn't give the fully equipped SUV to the parking attendant, so we just parked near the entrance and locked it. I flashed my creds and said, 'Official business. Watch the car.' I gave the parking guy a twenty and he said, 'No problem.'
We entered the big ornate marble lobby, and I spotted Big Bird at the VIP check-in, and I also spotted two guys who I recognized from the Special Operations detail. We made eye contact and they signaled they were on the case.
Great news. Time for a drink.
I didn't think Big Bird could recognize us from our brief, long-distance exchange of salutes, so I escorted Ms. Sims past where he was checking in. I mean, he knew he'd been followed here, but he wasn't looking over his shoulder. He wasn't supposed to be this far from Third Avenue, but we don't make an issue of it unless someone in Washington wants us to make an issue of it. The dips from most countries can travel freely around the U.S., but some, like the Cubans, are confined to New York City, or a set radius, like the Iranians. If I had it my way, they'd all be living and working in Iowa. Bottom line here, we have had no diplomatic relations with Iran since they took over our embassy and held the staff hostage, but they were U.N. members, so they were here. Also, since we had no diplomats in Iran, we could mess with these guys without worrying about them retaliating back in Sandland. In fact… stay tuned.
Anyway, we each made a pit stop, then went into the casino area, and I asked Ms. Sims, 'Would you like a muffin?'
'I owe you a drink.'
I headed directly for the Ego Lounge, which late at night becomes the Libido Lounge. We sat at the bar, and Ms. Sims inquired, 'Have you been here before?'
'I think I may have been here on business.'
The bartender-actually a tendress with big… eyes-asked what we were drinking, and Ms. Sims ordered a white wine while I got my usual Dewar's and soda.
We clinked glasses, and she said, 'Cheers,' then she asked me, 'Why are we here?'
I replied, 'Just to be sure Big Bird is playing and not meeting someone.'
She reminded me, 'We have a team here. Also, B.B. can have a meet in his room and we wouldn't know.'
I replied, 'The SO guys would know.' I advised her, 'You want to be around if something goes down. Being in the right place at the right time is not an accident.' I asked her, 'Were you listening to my stories?'
'Every word.'
'You got someplace else to go?'
'Nope.'
'Good. We'll give it an hour.'
Actually, there was no reason to stay, except I needed a drink. Plus, I was pissed off at Big Bird for giving me the finger. That wasn't very diplomatic of him. I mean, it's my country. Right? He's a guest. And I'm not his host.
'John? I said, sorry I couldn't tell you about this.' She explained, 'They wanted to run it as a standard surveillance so that the subject couldn't guess by our actions that we knew where he was going.' She added, 'Only I knew in case we actually lost him.'
'Right. Whatever.' I had no idea whose brilliant idea that was, but I could guess that it was the idea of Tom Walsh, the FBI Special Agent in Charge of the Anti-Terrorist Task Force in New York. Walsh is somewhere between a genius and an idiot, and there's not much space separating the two. Also, he loves the cloak-and-dagger stuff and doesn't quite get standard police work. I mean, this secrecy crap would never have happened when I was a cop. But it's a new world and a new job and I don't take it personally.
To change the subject, I said, 'Call the SO team and get a fix on Big Bird.'
We all have these Nextel phones that, as I said, have a bling feature-a walkie-talkie capability-and Ms. Sims blinged one of the SO people and reported our location and asked that we be called if Big Bird left his room and came down to the casino or wherever.
So we chatted, mostly about her living and working in New York, which she didn't like personally, but did like professionally. Lisa Sims reminded me in some ways of my wife, Kate Mayfield, who I met on the job three years ago on the previously mentioned case of the Libyan asshole. Kate, too, is from the hinterland, and she wasn't initially thrilled with the New York assignment, but after meeting me she wouldn't live anywhere else. And then there was 9/11. After that, she wanted us to transfer out of New York, but after the trauma wore off-we were both there when it happened-she rethought it and realized she couldn't leave. Which was good, since I wasn't leaving.
I had a second drink, but Ms. Sims-now Lisa-switched to club soda because I told her she was driving back.
Her cell phone blinged, and she took it and listened, then said to the caller, 'Okay, we'll probably head out.' She signed off and said to me, 'Big Bird is alone at a roulette table.'
'How's he doing?'
'I didn't ask.' She called for the check, paid, and we left the Ego Lounge.
She turned toward the lobby, but I said, 'I just want to get a close look at this guy.'
She hesitated, then deferred to my professional judgment and nodded.
We made our way into the cavernous casino, and Lisa blinged her contact on the SO team and got a fix on Big Bird. Within a few minutes, we spotted him sitting at a roulette wheel with a drink in his hand.
The Iranian's sinful behavior was not my problem-in fact, we record all this on film and it can be useful-but I think there's something deep down schizo with these people, a total disconnect that is not good for the head.
Lisa said, 'Okay? There he is. Let's go.'
I observed, 'Satan has entered his soul.'
'Right. I see that.'
'I need to help him.'
'John-'
'Let's get some tokens and hit the slots.'
'John-'
'Come on.' I took her arm and we went to the cashier, where I got a hundred one-dollar tokens on my government credit card-the accounting office will get a good laugh out of that-and we headed for the dollar slots, from which we could see Big Bird's back.
Lisa and I sat side by side at two poker machines, and I asked her, 'You ever play the slots?'
