Levant punched his locker so hard he dented it when he heard the news that his bosses let his collar go. “They want us out there to find the bad guys. These creeps don’t wear it on their sleeve. It’s in the eyes, man, and I am telling you this guy was bad.” He told his sergeant, who then reminded Levant that he was a good cop with 27 years in, and that going up against the bosses was a surefire way to patrol Far Rockaway on foot in the winter.
The various papers and news outlets ate lunch and dinner on the story. Rodney had been referred to as an “immigrant” in the stories, which used as their angles that this was a case of racial and religious profiling. The far- left crowd started making allusions to Hitler’s storm troopers, Pol Pot’s ethnic cleansing, and the lynching parties in the south.
Finally, not being able to take it anymore, the commissioner went on one of the Sunday morning shows and made only two points. One was that the NYPD never released the ethnicity or religious affiliation of the alleged immigrant. That could only have come from the lawyer or the press. The second was that the arresting officer was black. He then gave a look that might have confused the rest of the country but every New Yorker knew meant
This sideshow aside, the big story nobody got was that the only concrete lead, the only tangible connection to the biggest assault and mass murder ever to be planned against any country, was allowed to walk out of police custody. It was a great feather in the cap of David Ginsberg.
?§?
Bill entered the Situation Room. Only Reynolds was there.
“What’s up, Ray?”
“NSA intercepted encoded traffic from a suspected terrorist cell node. They have not been able to decode the entire message, but two words are setting off alarms and I wanted you to know.”
“Thank you.”
“Roosevelt and Maghra.”
“Isn’t Maghra the name of the oil refinery where we found the nukes?” Ray was starting to catch on.
“Exactly.”
“Holy shit.”
“Double-xactly.”
“What’s the brain trust think?”
“Well, there’s a Roosevelt Island in New York City.”
“Sure. I got a buddy who lives on it, along with a lot of U.N. personnel.”
“Well, a nuke on the island would take out the U.N. buildings as well as most of the East Side.” Hiccock said as he opened his I-pad to a list. “There’s Roosevelt Raceway, Roosevelt Field Shopping Center, the Roosevelt Hotel in midtown.”
“There’s a Roosevelt Hotel in Paris, too. In fact, there are hundreds of places named Roosevelt, including dozens of schools and the Roosevelt Room upstairs.”
“You know, Ray, Bridgestone and Ross are in New York,
At the Store and Lock, Number 1 knew of the difficulties Number 3 had encountered in the subway. According to plan, he knew Number 3 was now hiding out in a Jersey City mosque where the blind Sheik had once presided and presently was little more than a meeting hall for devout Muslims to pray and discuss the Koran and all the other aspects of the religion of peace and love. Those good, law abiding Muslim-Americans had no idea that below the building was a safe house, initially built to house the conspirators of the first World Trade Center bombings back in the early nineties. This chamber was so well hidden that the federal agents who swept the building in late ‘93 never discovered it. Therefore, the place where the enemy had already looked offered the best place to hide Number 3.
Number 1 thought of having Number 3 killed because he was now a loose end and could compromise the entire operation. Rodney’s job was practically done. All that remained was the actual location managing of the prep day and that could be handled by Number 5. Number 1’s only hesitation came from the fact that Number 3 also had a backup role on the helicopter should Number 8 be injured or killed. There was not enough time left to train someone else. He’d have to think about this and pray to Allah for wisdom.
Soon it came to him, a plan so perfect that it was surely the idea of God himself, delivered to him and his mission as a sign of invincibility.
Rousting a federal judge at 4 a.m. is never a good idea, but Brooke Burrell was under orders to execute with all due haste, and that doesn’t mean wait till the judge has had her coffee. Now, with search warrant in hand, she waited at the ramp at Butler Aviation as the little G5 government jet rolled to a squealing stop. The stairs uncoiled from the doorway before the plane lurched to a halt. Joey Palumbo and Peter Remo jogged down the steps and right to her.
“Agent Burrell, Peter Remo,” Joey said over the noise of the plane’s engine winding down.
“Good to meet you, Mr. Remo,” Brooke said, her hair whipping her face.
Peter’s mouth was literally open. He knew they were meeting an F.B.I. agent, but he never considered that a woman would greet them. Especially this blonde in the dark blue blazer with sunglasses and either a killer of a great body or a form fitting bulletproof vest. They drove in a small fast motorcade to Jackson Heights.
Peter hadn’t been to Kasiko’s apartment since his last visit in ’98. Everything looked the same in the still meticulously-cared-for apartment, now in the care of a part-time housekeeper hired by Kasiko’s nephew. For a second, Peter dwelled on the long dining room table where he, at the age of fourteen, sat with some of the greatest minds in the world prognosticating scientific theories that today are accepted and well-known fact. “Look for a lawyer’s briefcase,” Peter said, snapping out of it. “He always kept stuff in one of those.”
“Got it,” Brooke said, coming into the living room from the bedroom. They dumped the contents on the couch. A quick examination revealed nothing but legal papers, leases, deeds, citizenship documents, and the like. No key code.
A knock on the door announced the local N.Y.P.D. forensic team. Now the dismantling of the apartment would begin in earnest. As they filtered in, Joey and Brooke asserted their control of the scene and issued orders on what to look for.
Peter finally drummed up enough courage. “Er… Excuse me, Agent Burrell?”
“Yes, Mr. Remo?”
“Can I ask you a professional question?”
“Shoot.”
“Do you wear a bulletproof vest?”
“I do.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks.”
“When I am on a case or stakeout. But not now.”
“Oh… Oh well then, I understand.”
“Mr. Remo?”
“Yes?”
“They’re real. Can you get over that? ‘Cause I did long time ago,” Brooke said walking away from Peter.
“I hadn’t noticed, but good for you, detective…”
“Agent!” She corrected not even looking at him.
Feeling 10 years old, Peter tried to make himself invisible. He gravitated over to the mantle above the fireplace. Thirty brilliantly bejeweled eggs on spun gold stands adorned the entire width. In a further attempt to avoid making eye contact with the gorgeous agent, he focused on the minutiae of the artisan craftsmanship. He picked one egg up in his hand and rotated it. The work was exacting and delicate. The blue one caught his eye next. It was heavier than the other was.
The crashing sound turned Brooke around. When she saw the smashed egg on the floor, she looked up to Peter. “That’s about 20 grand in intentional damages that I am going to have to spend a few hours filling out a report on.”
