analysis, whatever that meant.
The special team once had its own little space near the Command and Control Center on this floor, and we worked in close proximity, with Kate at the desk directly across from mine, so I could look into her beautiful blue eyes every day. But now we were separated, and I had to look at Harry Muller, a former NYPD Intelligence Unit guy. I said to him, “Harry, what’s the definition of a moderate Arab?”
He looked up at me. “What?”
“A guy who ran out of ammunition.”
He chuckled and said, “You told me that one.” He advised me, “You got to watch what you say. What’s the difference between an Arab terrorist and a woman with PMS?”
“What?”
“You can reason with an Arab terrorist.”
I chuckled and said, “I told you that one, too. Two demerits. Racial
The Arab and Muslim community in New York, I should point out, is probably ninety-eight percent upstanding and loyal citizens, and one percent are useful idiots for the other one percent who are bad guys.
I mostly watch and interrogate the useful idiots, and when I get a lead on the real bad guys, I have to turn it over to the FBI, who sometimes notifies the CIA, who similarly is supposed to notify the FBI of interesting leads. But in reality, they don’t keep each other informed, and they certainly don’t keep me informed. This is very frustrating, and was one of the reasons why I didn’t like this job since Koenig had basically dissolved the special team. Maybe it was also one of the reasons that Kate had dangled the TWA 800 crash in front of me and why I bit.
Regarding the CIA, they have agents assigned to the ATTF, such as the late Ted Nash, but you don’t see many of them; they have offices on another floor and also across the street at 290 Broadway, and they drift in and out of the task force on a situational basis. I’m happiest when they drift out, and at the moment they seemed to be scarce.
Harry asked me, “What did you do yesterday?”
“I went to the TWA 800 memorial service out on Long Island.”
“Why?”
“Kate worked the case. She goes every year. Did you work that case?”
“No.”
“But it goes to show you. Five hundred people busted their tails on that case, and it turns out to be a mechanical malfunction.”
Harry didn’t reply.
I added, “Sometimes we get too paranoid on this job.”
“We’re not paranoid enough.”
“Right.” I asked, “What are you working on?”
He replied, “Some stupid Islamic charity out in Astoria-it looks like they’re funneling money to some terrorist outfit overseas.”
“Is that illegal?”
He laughed. “How the hell do I know? I guess the illegal part is collecting money for one thing and doing something else with it. It violates some federal law. Problem is the money goes to a supposedly legitimate charity overseas, and
“I’m taking a sensitivity course in Islamic culture.”
He laughed again.
I turned my attention back to the stuff on my desk. There were a lot of memos to read through, initial, and forward on, which I did.
The interesting folders-what the Feds call dossiers-were locked in the records room, and if I needed one, I had to fill out a form, which was processed by persons unknown and either rejected or returned with the dossier.
I have a secret clearance, but my need-to-know was limited, so I had to confine myself to the Khalil case, or cases I’d been assigned. This makes it difficult to discover if one case has anything to do with another. Everything was compartmentalized for security reasons, or reasons of turf protection, which, in my humble opinion, was a major weakness in the intelligence game. In police work, virtually every file is available to any detective with a hunch and a long memory about some case or some perp.
But I shouldn’t make negative comparisons. Nothing succeeds like success, and so far, knock wood, the Feds had been very successful in keeping America off the front lines of global terrorism.
Except once. Maybe twice. Maybe three times.
The first time, the World Trade Center bombing, was a big surprise, but almost every perpetrator had been arrested, tried, and sent to jail for life.
There was a nice granite monument for the six victims of the blast, erected between the Twin Towers directly above the site of the underground garage explosion.
Then there was the TWA 800 explosion, which may or may not have been a score for the visitors.
And then there was the Asad Khalil case, which from my point of view was a terrorist attack, but which the government had passed off as a series of murders committed by a man of Libyan descent who had a personal grudge against a number of American citizens.
This was not quite the truth, as I can attest to, but if I said that, I’d be breaking the law, according to some oaths I’d taken and pledges I’d signed, all having to do with national security and so forth.
This world of national security and counter-terrorism was truly a far different world than I was accustomed to, and I had to convince myself, every day, that these people knew what they were doing. Somewhere, however, deep in the back of my uncomplicated mind, I had some doubts.
I stood, put on my jacket, and said to Harry, “Beep me if someone calls a meeting.”
“Where you going?”
“On a dangerous mission. I may not return.”
“If you do, can you get me a Polish sausage on a roll? No mustard.”
“I’ll do my best.”
I left quickly, glancing at Kate, who was fixated on her computer screen. I got on the elevator to the lobby and went out to the street.
There are still a few pay phones left in the era of cell phones, and I went to one out on Broadway. It was getting warm, and the sky was clouding up.
I used my cell phone to look up Dick Kearns’s cell phone number, and I used the pay phone to call him.
Dick, an old NYPD homicide colleague, had left the ATTF a few months earlier and was now a civilian doing security clearance background checks on a contract basis for the Feds.
He answered, “Hello.”
“Is this Kearns Investigative Services?”
“It is.”
“I think my wife is having an affair. Can you follow her?”
“Who is this? Corey? You asshole.”
“I thought you were doing matrimonial.”
“I’m not, but in your case, I’ll make an exception.”
“Hey, what are you doing for lunch?” I asked.
“Busy. What’s up?”
“What are you doing now?”
“Talking to you. Where are you?”
“Outside 26 Fed.”
“You need me now?”
“I do.”
There was a pause, then he said, “I’m home. In Queens.” He added, “I work from home. Great job. You should consider it.”
