The Last Crusade: A Harry Cassidy Novel Page 6

  “Are you sure about this promotion thing?”

  “I got it from a reliable source, the Mad Russian himself—Inspector Peter Gregorovich.”

  “Is he finally getting the gold star of a deputy chief?”

  “Let’s just say there were stars in his eyes, and a big Slavic smile on his face, when he told me, in confidence by the way, this afternoon.”

  “Why would he tell you?”

  “Because he wanted to let me know I would be leaving Internal Affairs when he does, and I will be assigned to the Eight-Three precinct in Queens as a patrol supervisor.”

  “Good for you, but are you still sure you want to go to patrol?” He was visualizing the Eight-Three in the Jamaica section of Queens. Tough, mean streets out there. A lot of dope and a lot of violence.

  “You know I need patrol experience in a busy house if I’m ever going to amount to anything on this Job.”

  “I know. I’m just concerned for you. You understand, right?”

  “Yes, and I appreciate your concern. Let’s eat our pasta and we’ll continue this conversation later.”

  As they were finishing a shared tiramisu Harry said, “I’m beginning to believe this promotion is going to happen. We’re both going to be in for some major changes. Wouldn’t it be something if I ended up in the Eight-Three with you?”

  “How about Internal Affairs? It’s a career enhancing move, you know.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. Besides, I recently spent enough time there to put it on my resume as an actual assignment.”

  The copies of Ziad’s wanted poster, all 2,000 of them, sat in cardboard boxes on the rear seat of Kobak and McKee’s unmarked sedan. It took them two full days to deliver them to each of ten designated precincts with substantial Middle-Eastern residential and commercial populations—four in Manhattan, three in Brooklyn, two in Queens and one in the Bronx. Kobak and McKee explained although it would be a great assist to the Nine-Five squad in solving an attempted murder, the real importance in scooping up the perp was his possible link to terrorist activity. That was why, prior to the printing of the flyers, the investigators had added, in bold red lettering—“MAY BE ASSOCIATED WITH TERRORIST GROUPS AND INVOLVED IN TERRORIST ACTIVITIES.” They had also listed the JTTF’s hotline number in addition to that of the Nine-Five Squad.

  “What we’re looking to do,” McKee said to the ten precinct commanders “is to shake loose some information, even if we can’t grab the perp right away. Ask the sector cars and foot cops to show this composite around, put some pressure on their informers, and try to get someone to say something. The rest of our guys in the Task Force are already out on the streets spreading some money around. We’d like to go with a full court press for a couple of weeks and see what pops.”

  McKee and Kobak stopped at Barleycorn’s in Manhattan for a cheeseburger and a couple of beers. “It’s been a long two days,” Walt said, after he swallowed down a chunk of burger with a long pull from his bottle of Beck’s.

  “That it has, partner. I wonder if it will do any good.”

  “Yeah, I sure wish we can pop something. I’m getting nervous. I fear a big attack in my bones, and I feel helpless to stop it.”

  The whole team worked that weekend and the next two as well, walking the neighborhoods, showing the flyer, showing their shields and showing the money. They bullied, begged, cajoled and called in favors. And after three weeks of shaking, Ziad had not fallen into their hands. In fact, he had not even been identified by anyone, and his possible whereabouts still remained unknown.

  “What a waste of time and manpower,” Nick said. “Praise Allah, when the hell are we going to catch a break?”

  Ziad had spent two terrifying days alternately hiding out between Ahmed’s new apartment and his parent’s house which was a couple of miles away. When Ahmed had returned from the meeting with Ramzi, Ziad’s mood changed a bit for the better as Ahmed related the plan he and Ramzi cooked up to soothe the anger of the area leader.

  “But what if the leader doesn’t go for it?” Ziad asked.

  “I don’t know. We could all be in deep trouble—you, me and Ramzi.”

  “Do you think he will kill any of us?”

  “I don’t think so. The big thing in our favor, as I just told you, is there is no link from this incident to our group. I’m sure it will blow over. We’ll just have to wait until the meeting between Ramzi and Boussara.”

  When darkness arrived, Ziad walked to his parent’s house keeping to the shadows of the side streets. He located his ski mask, and after his parents went to bed, he began to assemble items in his backpack, which he then secreted under his bed. At sunrise, the ski mask fully covering his face, he returned to Ahmed’s apartment.

  Ahmed, rubbing his eyes, opened the door in response to the coded knocks.

  “Ziad, come in. You look terrible.”

  “I tossed and turned all night. I fear for us. I think they will have me killed, for sure.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions. The meeting between Ramzi and the eastern area leader is set for today. We’ll know soon. Worrying won’t help now.”

  “But how can I live like this with my picture all over the papers? What will they do to me if they catch me?”

  “They’re not going to catch you. Relax and lay low for a week or two. By then it will all be old news. Come, lay on the couch or go in the bedroom and try to get some sleep. I’m going back to bed myself.”

  Ziad’s mind and body finally gave in to his exhaustion and he slept a solid five hours. He awoke to a singing tea kettle on the kitchen stove.

  “Feel better now?” Ahmed asked, smiling at Ziad.

  “Yes, but still afraid.”

  “Ah, nothing’s going to happen to the best man in cell three. You’re too valuable to OBL-911.”

  “I hope the area leader agrees.”

  “Look, I went out and got the papers. There is nothing at all about the case. It’s old news already. Cheer up and drink your tea.”

  Ziad stayed with Ahmed until night had fully fallen then got up and announced he was going home to have dinner with his parents.

  “Be careful on the streets.”

  “I will. I have the ski mask and I’ll use the side streets.”

  “Will you be back here in the morning?”

  “I don’t know. My parents have been nagging me to rake up the property, so if I’m not here, call me as soon as you hear anything from the meeting.”

  “All right. As soon as I get word from Ramzi, I’ll let you know.”

  During the afternoon with Ahmed, Ziad’s brain had been working feverishly on the possibilities that lay ahead of him. His future existence was being determined by others, and a feeling of helplessness overcame him. After three hours of examining the likely outcomes of their deliberations, he matter-of-factly concluded the leader and Ramzi would have him eliminated. What made him so certain of this fact was he would do so himself if he was in their shoes. It was time to leave. And if that was not their decision, he could ease back into the group after the heat had died down. When he had noticed Ahmed nodding off, Ziad darted into his bedroom and removed the Beretta, which he had previously returned to Ahmed, from its hiding place. He slipped the gun inside his jacket, which was draped over a chair in the kitchen, and quietly returned to the sofa.

  At home that evening when he was sure his parents were sleeping, he got up from his bed and retrieved his backpack. He stopped in the bathroom for his toothbrush and comb, and quietly crept downstairs to the kitchen where he chose an apple, a banana, and two oranges to take with him. He made a pita bread sandwich, using the left over lamb from dinner, and put everything in the backpack, now satisfied he had ample food to carry him through the day. He patted his pants pocket assuring the folded bills were still there. He had almost $400. Taking a pencil and paper from the drawer, and keeping the kitchen light low, he wrote:

  “Dear Mom and Dad,

  I must leave home for awhile. I do not know how long
I will be gone. I am in a little trouble, but it should go away soon. I will call you when I can. Do not report me missing to the police. Do not tell the police or anyone, anything other than I just disappeared, and you have no idea where I am. I love you both very much. Ziad. P.S. You must destroy this note!

  When Ziad left home it was after midnight. He walked to the Junction Boulevard Station on the number 7 elevated line, and thirty-five minutes later he got off at Times Square and walked one block to the Port Authority Bus Terminal. He kept his ski mask on and glanced furtively at the police officers stationed around the area. None paid him any attention. He bought a ticket for the next bus to Detroit, which was leaving in twenty minutes. There was a large Middle-Eastern population there where he could safely blend in. The danger was someone from OBL-911 might recognize him, and notify the eastern area leader of his whereabouts. He was hiding from two organizations now, the police and OBL-911. Who would catch him first, and what would happen to him then?

  Although the mattress on the cheap motel bed in Detroit was not the softest he had ever slept on, Ziad had a solid night’s rest. He had called his parents, Omar and Wafa, to re-assure them he was all right, and when they realized they could not convince him to come home right now they wired him $500 and hoped the best for their only child.

  The next morning, welcomed among his own kind, he found a job in a supermarket and a room to rent at the home of the store’s owner. After a week, exhausted after a long day’s work at the market, Ziad went to his room and locked the door. He got his backpack from the closet and retrieved his cell phone which was hidden at its bottom, alongside the Beretta. He tapped Ahmed’s number in, and when he answered he said, “It is Ziad. How are you?”

  “Ziad! Praise Allah. Where are you? I have been calling your parents, but even they tell me they do not know where you have run off to.”

  “Far away, and I’m not coming back because I fear for my life.”

  “No, no, we need you. You are important to our cause.”

  “Yes, but the police are looking for me, and Ramzi probably wants to kill me.”

  “Nonsense, the story has gone away. Ramzi needs you. Come home—the sooner, the better.”

  “You have made me feel much better, but I am still uncertain. I will think it over.”

  “Don’t take too long to think. Big things are going to happen soon, and you are an important part of our jihad.”

  “I will call you again when I decide.”

  “Don’t take long. Come home.”

  Section Chief Ramzi al-Midhar was not pleased. His displeasure, in fact, bordered on rage. His trembling hands held the flyer, and he could not take his eyes from the bright red lettering. How do they know? What do they know? Or are they just guessing, reaching for straws in the wind? He knew he had to tell Boussara soon, before he found out himself. Ramzi had to make Boussara aware of this latest bad news from his section. His fingers shook as he punched the buttons on the telephone.

  The voice message on Boussara’s machine stated, “I will be out of the office for a few days…” Ramzi breathed a sigh of relief that Boussara was not there. Perhaps he was overseas again to meet with bin Yousef. But to protect himself, he left a message with his code identification saying, “Important information has just come to my attention that I must discuss with you upon your return.” Perhaps this delay was a great blessing and he should make the most of it to show Boussara something other than bad news. After all, his own life would be on the line if Ziad were caught alive. He paged Ahmed for an immediate meeting at the Belmont Park City location.

  Ahmed slid into the front seat and saw Ramzi did not look happy.

  “Ahmed, have you seen or heard from Ziad?”

  “No,” he lied, “not a whisper.”

  “It has become critically important he be located and terminated right away.”

  He handed the flyer to Ahmed whose eyes widened in fear as the red warning penetrated his brain, “MAY BE ASSOCIATED WITH TERRORIST GROUPS AND INVOLVED IN TERRORIST ACTIVITIES.”

  “May Allah protect us,” he said.

  “We will need the direct intervention of Allah to save us from the wrath of Boussara unless we find Ziad quickly. He must tell us how the authorities know of this terrorist connection and then you must kill him. Ahmed, is the seriousness of the situation clear to you?”

  “Yes, my leader it is”

  “Let’s pray we can find Ziad soon. He must be killed before Boussara kills us.”

  Ahmed had not heard from Ziad since their last conversation. He could not wait for him to decide what to do. He had to push him. He sent off a text message and waited.

  On this particular night when Ziad went upstairs to bed he noticed his backpack as he hung up his shirt and remembered to check his phone. He pressed the button and the message light went on. The words simply said, “Call me.”

  When Ahmed’s phone rang, it startled him from a light doze. “Praise Allah you called, Ziad. I had just about given up hope.”

  “I had to wait until the people I live with went up to bed and to sleep. I was surprised to see your message. What is happening?”

  “Big things, Ziad, and the timetable has been moved up. I need you back here in a few days at the most.”

  “But the police and Ramzi…”

  “The police have forgotten about you, and I just left a meeting with Ramzi. He told me to get you back. I convinced him of your importance to our cell’s success in the upcoming mission.”

  “I am homesick, Ahmed. I miss my parents, and you and Abu, very much.”

  “Ziad, I need you. OBL-911 needs you. And speaking of your parents, they could be in danger if you do not come home quickly. Boussara’s wrath knows no bounds.”

  “I’ll let you know. I promise,” Ziad said. He disconnected the call with trembling fingers. His parents! He now knew for certain—he could detect it in Ahmed’s voice—they meant to kill him. He would have to strike first. This time, leaving no note, he slipped out of his employer’s house and took the local bus to the interstate bus terminal. He stepped up to the counter and said, “New York, please. One way on the next bus.”

  As soon as Ahmed hung up with Ziad, he called Ramzi who said, “I hope you have some good news.”

  “I do. Ziad responded to my message.”

  “Will he come back?”

  “I think I have him convinced to do so, but I don’t know when.”

  “Pray to Allah he will, Ahmed. Also you need replacements for Satam, Mohammed, Abdul, and Ziad. Devote all your time to the recruitment process, but do it carefully, one person at a time. It is not important that your cell be back to full strength before we attack. It is more important that we do not recruit another Ziad. And I will personally pass judgment on those you select.”

  About an hour after the bus pulled away from the terminal Ziad fell into a deep sleep. He awoke with happiness in anticipation of seeing his parents, but he also knew Ahmed was luring him home to his death and perhaps the death of his parents as well.

  The bus reached Manhattan five minutes ahead of schedule. Ziad got on the Queens bound E train at 42nd Street then switched to the number 7 at Queensboro Plaza. He walked the few blocks to his house, staying in the shadows, and often checking behind him. He rushed up the driveway to the side door and inserted his key into the lock. His parents were already at work and would not be home for hours. He went upstairs to his room and removed his backpack. All was exactly as he remembered, exactly as he had left it. He went back to the kitchen and sat down to await the arrival of Omar and Wafa. Wouldn’t they be surprised to find their son here?

  “Ziad!” Wafa cried out as she walked into the kitchen. She threw her arms around him sobbing, “Omar, Omar, come quickly. Ziad is here. He has come home.”

  After the hugging, and the kissing, and the smiling, and the tears had stopped, Wafa said, “Tell us of your time in Detroit, Ziad.

  “We are so happy to have you back, my son,” Wafa said. “Let me fix
our dinner and we will eat as a family once again.”

  After dinner Ziad hit them with the bad news. He told them everything that he had been involved in and concluded his confession saying, “I fear I have put you in extreme danger. You must leave at once. I know Ahmed called you and he knows where we live.”

  “Leave?” Wafa said. “We have jobs. Where would we go?”

  “You must leave or they will surely kill you, too. They will stop at nothing to get me. You must leave the country for awhile. Take a few weeks’ vacation and go back to Arabia until it’s safe to return.”

  “And you, Ziad?” Omar asked. “You will come with us?”

  “No, I will remain here and do what must be done. I have gotten us all into this and I will get us all out of it.”

  It took almost an hour for him to finally convince his parents if they did not leave, they would certainly be killed. They finally agreed to go.

  “What will you do?” Wafa asked. “Maybe the police can help.”

  “Momma, they are looking for me, too. I cannot go to them, or to anyone else. I am responsible, and I alone must do what is necessary.”

  “And what is that, more killing?” Omar asked.

  “I don’t know yet. But I will figure out what to do, and I will do it.”

  On an early Sunday morning Omar and Wafa Sugami boarded a plane at JFK airport for Cairo and then to Riyadh. They wondered when they would see America again, and more importantly, when they would ever see their only son once more.

  The phone on the table in the conference room rang and Nick said, “Maybe it’s Allah calling with a break for us.”

  Jerry Campora and Dick Mansfield were on a day off and the five other team members were still searching for a lead—any lead. They all chuckled at Nick’s comment as John McKee picked up the phone and identified himself. “It’s Ali,” he said.

  “Who’s Ali?” Nick asked.

  “One of our informants,” Walt said. “He’s a decent kid, religious, pro-American and he hates the way the terrorists have distorted and twisted Islam.