card is all over town. Well, Muslim neighborhoods. It pays to advertise.
My brief phone conversation with Nabeel revealed that his legal status in the country was a little shaky, and he wanted some help with that in exchange for some information he had. Nabeel worked in a delicatessen in Brooklyn, so I wasn’t sure what kind of information he had for me. Phoney baloney? Exploding beans?
A little-known factoid is that many Yemeni immigrants work in delis in Brooklyn and Queens. Why? Who knows? Why do the Turks own so many gas stations? Why do Indians own all the 7-Elevens? Who cares as long as the Irish still run the pubs?
Anyway, I told Nabeel to meet me in Ben’s Kosher Deli on West 38th Street, a place unlikely to be frequented by others of the Islamic faith-though, ironically, kosher food is halal, meaning okay for Muslims, so this works.
And here I was now in Ben’s, sitting in a booth across from Nabeel. He had to get back to his deli in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, so this was going to be a happily short meeting.
Nabeel looked to be about mid-thirties, but he was probably younger, with a scruffy beard, dark skin, and teeth stained green by khat-a narcotic leaf that keeps ninety percent of the male population of Yemen perpetually stoned and happy. I wished I had some now.
Nabeel ordered tea and a bagel with cream cheese, and I had coffee.
I asked Nabeel, “Where did you get my name?”
“I tell you on phone. From friend.” He also reminded me, “Can not tell you friend.”
“Was it Abdul?”
“Who Abdul?”
“Which Abdul. Who’s on first?”
“Sir?”
“Talk.”
Nabeel talked. “There is big plot from peoples of Al Qaeda. Saudi peoples. No Yemen. All Saudi. Plot is to make bomb exploding in New York.”
“Can you be a little more specific?” And maybe grammatical?
“Yes? What more?”
“Bomb where? When? Who?”
“I have all information. I give you. I need work visa.”
Maybe I could give him my visa to Yemen. I asked him, “You have ID on you? Passport?”
“No.”
They never do. I really didn’t want to speak to this guy unless I could see his passport, so I said to him, “I need you to come to my office.” I took a card from my pocket and asked him, “What’s your last name?”
He gave me a scrap of paper on which his name was written in badly formed Latin letters-Nabeel al-Samad- saying to me, “I copy this from passport.” He said proudly, “I can sign name.”
“Wonderful.” I wrote on the back of my business card,
“Yes? You arrest me in office?”
“No. I can arrest you here.” And fuck up my day. Not to mention yours.
“Talk here first.”
“Okay. Talk.”
Nabeel confided that he was in contact with people who knew more about this bomb plot, but he needed more time-like a six-month visa-to get the details. Sounded like bullshit. But you never know.
Finally, he agreed to come into the office on Monday if he could get the morning off. These guys work twelve-hour days, six or seven days a week, and they send what amounts to a fortune home to their wife and ten kids. A deli in Brooklyn is like a gold mine in Yemen.
I asked him, “Where you from in Yemen?”
He named some place that sounded like “Ali Baba.”
“You like it there?”
“Yes. Beautiful country. Good people.”
“Then why do you want to stay here?”
“No work in Yemen. I go home, two months. Three months. See family. Come again here. Go again Yemen.”
A Yemeni jet-setter. I tore a sheet out of my notebook, gave it to him with a pen, and said, “Write your info.”
Unfortunately, he couldn’t write English beyond his name, so I said, “In Arabic.” No luck. Illiterate in two languages. “Spanish?”
“Sir?”
Three languages. I asked him the name of his deli in Brooklyn, his place of residence, and his cell phone number.
He spoke-slowly, please-and I wrote in my notebook, saying to him, “I want to see you Monday morning at 26 Federal Plaza or I’ll send a police car to pick you up. Have your passport with you. And your visa-expired or not. They’ll have your name at security. Bring my card. Understand?”
He nodded.
I dialed the cell number he’d given me and it rang in his pocket. Trust, but verify. I threw a twenty on the table and left.
I was supposed to meet Kate at the Met to see the stupid Monet exhibit. I should learn to keep my mouth shut.
I had some time, so I began walking the forty blocks. Good exercise.
I thought about Nabeel. Most informants have or can get you some information, or they wouldn’t come to you. All of them want something in return. I’ve never seen a Mideastern informant who just wanted to do their civic duty to their adopted country. In Nabeel’s case, as with most of them, he wanted permanent citizenship or a green card in return for ratting out someone. Sometimes they just wanted money. Money for informants was easy-green cards not so easy. Meanwhile, I still can’t figure out why they want to live here. Could it be that their beautiful countries suck?
I have a theory about immigration. Wherever you were born, stay there.
Kate and I made cell phone contact and met at the Met. We had lunch in the museum restaurant, then went to the Monet exhibit. Was this guy going blind? Or do I need glasses?
Saturday night we joined two other couples at Michael Jordan’s Steak House. This is a cool place. Cholesterol and testosterone.
The restaurant is located on the balcony above the Grand Central Station Concourse, with an overhead view of the famous clock under which lovers and others meet. I watched the mass of humanity arriving and departing by train-a scene that hasn’t changed much in a hundred years, except now there were soldiers and police watching everything. No one seemed to notice them anymore; they were part of life now. That sucks.
Cops tend to hang with cops, but I’ve expanded my social circle since joining the Task Force, and tonight we were with Feds. Fortunately, the two guys, Ed Burke and Tony Savino, were ex-cops like me, working for the Feds like everyone else these days. One of the wives, Ann Burke, was an MOS-Member of the Service-and still on the job, working in the 103rd Precinct. The other lady, Marie Savino, was a stay-at-home mom with two crumb snatchers under five and one in the oven.
Which gave me an idea. If Kate were to get pregnant-like about four hours from now-then the Yemen thing was off. I reached under the table and ran my hand over her thigh. She smiled.
Anyway, we tend not to talk business when we’re out, but tonight I said, “Kate and I have been asked to apply for a posting to Yemen.”
Ed Burke, a former NYPD detective with the Intelligence Unit, advised, “Just say no.”
Tony Savino said, “I know two guys who were there.”
I inquired, “What do they say about it?”
“I don’t know. No one has ever heard from them again.”
This got a big laugh. Cops have a sick sense of humor.
