rebels, and its history had gone downhill from there. It never was much of an area for farming, and after it was developed it quickly became choked with refugees from less fortunate areas of the city, who found the cold-water walk-ups somewhat more hospitable than the crammed tenements farther downtown. There were a few upward bumps of progress here; for a few weeks during the 1940s, it was even considered a nice place to live, a way station to the greener pastures of suburban New Jersey across the way. Urban renewal and the construction of the highway network related to the George Washington Bridge, along with the grand plans of Robert Moses, razed some of the worst buildings in the early sixties, replacing them with structures whose main asset was their height. In the course of time, Irish immigrants were replaced by Puerto Rican immigrants who were replaced by Caribbean immigrants. Crack replaced bootleg whiskey.
In sum, it was exactly the sort of New York community Fisher felt at home in. But it didn’t give him much of a grip on the terrorists.
“Corner apartment — there,” said an NYPD officer named Paesano tasked to the team keeping the place under surveillance. The city had supplied about a dozen officers and support personnel to help with the nitty-gritty work. “Couple of ragheads have the lease, but there’s at least five people live there.”
“ ‘Ragheads’?” said Macklin.
“We’re among friends, right?” said the cop, who was in plainclothes. They had taken an apartment above a store across the street from the three-story building the call had been made to. “They worship, if you can call it that, at a storefront mosque down the street. Got this imam in there who rolls his eyes backwards in his head and says ‘kill the infidels.’ ”
“ ‘The only good infidel is a dead infidel,’ ” said Fisher.
“Yeah, except we’re the infidels,” said Paesano.
They’d passed the mosque on the way up; it looked more like the abandoned five-and-dime it had been than a house of worship. Metal grates and thick plywood covered all but one of the large plate-glass window areas, and the surviving glass was covered with advertisements and handbills. A piece of cardboard in the corner gave a lecture schedule; anyone interested in services was presumed to know when they were. According to the surveillance team, there were two guards at all times just inside the doorway.
“Theory is, these guys are connected with the mosque. They worship there. Two of ’em have jobs at that shoe store on the corner,” continued the cop.
He was a smoker, but he preferred Newport menthols, which to Fisher made no sense at all. Why screw up good tobacco with a candy flavor? You wanted mint, buy some Tic Tacs.
“Maybe it’s a front or something, but they do business,” said the cop, referring to the shoe store. “We sent somebody in to check it out. They have used shoes and repairs. One of the DIA guys bugged the place.”
“What’d they find?” asked Fisher.
“That it’s hard to get EE width.”
“Usual DIA efficiency,” said Fisher. “Probably reviewing it at the Pentagon right now.”
“I heard that, Andy,” said Kowalski from the hallway. He and one of his lackeys came into the room.
“Good to see you, too, Kowalski.”
“Yeah, I’m real emotional about it. But at least you’re on the right team now. Maybe later on you can tell us how you screwed up in Moscow,” added the DIA agent, never one to miss a chance to twist the knife.
“It was easy,” said Fisher. “I just asked myself what you would do in my situation.”
“As I was saying,” continued Paesano, “ragheads stay in during the day, most days. They’re all there now.”
“Fire escape’s clear,” said Fisher.
“That significant?” asked the cop.
“Only if there’s a fire.” Fisher pushed the window open, trying to escape the odor of cat piss that had been left by the last tenants. The odor of rotten eggs and overcooked cabbage wafted into the room. It was a decided improvement.
“You shouldn’t make yourself conspicuous,” said Macklin.
“You think a bunch of white guys wearing suits in this neighborhood isn’t conspicuous?” asked Fisher. He leaned out the window, casing the block. It seemed neatly divided between the man selling crack from the back of an old Toyota at the corner on the left and the two Rastafarians selling loose joints on the right. The Jamaicans seemed to be in a time warp: Most of the dealing in this area had been taken over by Nigerians long before.
“We have a warrant, and we have backup manpower,” said Kowalski. “We can go in whenever we want.”
“How about now?” asked Fisher.
“You think it’s worth raiding the place?” asked Macklin.
“No,” said Fisher. “But at least if you raid it you can close down this surveillance operation. Then Paesano can get the cat smell out of his clothes.”
“Amen to that,” said the cop.
It took several hours to set up the operation; in the meantime, Fisher and one of the city cops went down to the shoe store. The owner of the store spoke Spanish with a Puerto Rican accent, which gave him away as a longtime resident of the area. He was also nearly blind and partly deaf, though he did give Fisher a good deal on a new heel.
The shoe was fixed just in time for the FBI agent to join in the raid, which began with two large police vans from the city’s emergency response unit blocking off the street. As they moved in, members from the SWAT team tossed military-style flash-bang grenades into the apartment window, then blew in through the windows and front door.
“Too bad we couldn’t have been with the first wave,” said Fisher wistfully as he walked up the steps with Paesano after the apartment had been secured. “I always wanted to do a Tarzan swing into a New York City apartment.”
“Maybe next time,” said the cop.
“Sure you don’t want a Camel?” asked Fisher.
“No, thanks.”
Cat piss seemed to be the odor du jour; it was stronger here than across the street. But at least in the Arabs’ apartment it mixed with the scent of strong coffee and human excrement — the latter undoubtedly caused by the SWAT team’s sudden arrival. Among those joining in the operation were two members of an Immigration and Naturalization Service task force: Three of the four men here had student visas that had expired.
There was a small amount of pot in one of the two rooms used as bedrooms. While under ordinary circumstances it might have drawn the equivalent of a parking ticket, the marijuana inspired creative thinking on the part of Paesano, who found grounds for a dozen related charges. Just the processing alone could keep them tied down for weeks.
The men were led downstairs under heavy guard; in the meantime, Macklin’s people had begun interviewing neighbors for information.
“Nice computers,” said Paesano.
And they were: three brand new Dells, all lined up on the kitchen table. Wires snaked off the cracked Formica top of the table across a chair to a router; there was a DSL modem strapped to a shelf on the wall where a phone had once hung.
“Hey, don’t touch!” shouted Macklin as Fisher went to tap one of the keyboards. “They may have them rigged to erase the contents of the drives, or maybe explode.”
“You think?”
“Fisher!”
“I’m just seeing what they were doing before the screen savers went on,” said Fisher. “Relax.”
One of the computers had not been on. The second had a word processing program active; it looked as though the user had been typing a letter home to Mom.
The third had a game called Red Rogue on the screen. A terrorist with a gas mask pointed a souped-up Mac 11 point-blank at the viewer.
“Computer guy is on his way,” said Macklin. “We’ll have everything analyzed. Don’t screw with it.”
“We’ll wrap all this stuff up, get the crime scene guys in, dust around for prints,” added Kowalski. “Very good
