BioKill (6 page)

Chapter Seven

Matt Lilburn had
relayed Evangeline’s concerns.

“It’s logical, I’ll give you that. And too damn easy.” Hall stood looking at the large map on the wall. “So where on earth do we start? America — nearly three point eight million square miles. If the virus is already in the country it could be anywhere.”

A staffer interrupted him. “Sir, the list of suspected Islamic terrorist organization sympathizers.”

Hall placed his glasses on and read the list. “Great, thousands, spread over how many states?” His response was sarcastic. “Too many suspects, too many locations — I need specifics and fast. Any of these relate to Takfir wal-Hijra?”

“Sir, our system came up with two possibilities. Our Keyword Detection Software has only picked up references to Takfir wal-Hijra four times in the last twelve months. Two in California and two in New York, with phone conversations from the suspects named. The California dialogues are the oldest and one of the New York ones was made just three months ago.”

“That’s a step in the right direction. What have you got on that one?”

“I can have a full transcript in fifteen minutes, sir.”

“Make it five,” Hall snapped. The staffer hurried off. Hall turned back to the wall map and studied it as would a general preparing to wage battle. “Lilburn, go get the doc. It’s a lead, a fucking small one, but it’s better than nothing.” Picking up a marker pen, the director drew a ring around the state of New York. “Just over fifty-five thousand square miles. The odds might have just gotten a bit better.”

Director Hall was still staring intently at the map as Evangeline approached. He didn’t shift his gaze as she joined him. “So you reckon the virus could come in the post?”

“That would be my opinion, a logical choice given what we know already.”

“There’s a lot to be said for opinion, especially when we’re short of facts.” Hall’s face gave nothing away. “Especially a woman’s intuition. You a married man, Lilburn?”

“No, sir.” Matt thought he caught a glimmer in Evangeline eye.

“Well, son, if you were you might well have learnt that a woman’s intuitive sense is usually right… trust me, I’m married to one. And she’s usually right on the money, dammit. You ever tell her that Lilburn and your next posting will be somewhere cold enough to freeze your balls off. Holbrook Jackson, an Englishman if I recall correctly, once said intuition is reason in a hurry. And by God, we’re in a hurry.”

The same staffer caught Hall’s eye again.

“What have you got?”

“The phone transcript, sir.”

“Talk to me.”

“Yes, sir. Our target, a Muslim cleric in his mosque, was in conversation with another person, identity unknown. There on page two is the name of the extremist organization. From the first instance we were alerted to him, as per standard procedure, we monitored all his incoming and outgoing calls.”

“And?”

“The bottom of page two, sir, I’ve highlighted a name.”

Hall let his eyes scroll down the page.
Karam Azrak.

“Holy hell, we’ve got the son of a bitch!” Hall looked up and scanned the operations room soon finding the stern features of Director Lopez, who was gathering data from one of her team members at the other side of the room. “Suzanna, over here!” Hall’s loud voice traveled the large conversation-filled room with ease; others looked up from their stations, desks and wall charts.

Director Lopez strode over to Hall. “Yes.”

“New info.” Turning to the staffer, Hall prompted him to repeat what he had just said.

Lopez placed her hands on her hips. “Do we know who the cleric is talking to?”

“No, ma’am, unfortunately we have no way of telling. What we do know, however, is that the person has an American accent, most likely someone born here, quite possibly with Islamic heritage from his knowledge and pronunciation.”

“Where does this cleric live?” Lopez was abrupt, all business.

“I have the address here, ma’am.” The staffer went to hand another piece of paper to Lopez, Hall intercepted it and read the notes. Turning to the wall map, he raised a finger and brought it down with a loud thud. “Right here, smack in the middle of New York City. Lilburn, you know what to do?”

“I do, sir.”

“Good, go to it. By the time you’re halfway to New York I’ll have the info for you. Take the chopper. Jones,” Hall called to his assistant nearby, “tell the helicopter pilot he’s to take orders from Lilburn, and have his bird ready in five.”

“Five minutes, sir?”

“Seconds.” Director Hall was in his element. “Doc, I want you to stay here and work out a plan, I want to know where these punks would release a virus, best you can do. Use your intuition, you’re good at that. Suzanna, the other keyword detection came from California, let’s not discount that just yet, and let’s keep our options open. If you’d look after that, I have a phone call to make.”

Lopez was indignant. “In case you haven’t noticed, you do not outrank me!”

“Suzanna… Look and learn. Jones, as soon as you’ve contacted the pilot, I want you to get someone on the phone for me.”

“Who would that be, sir?”

“Right now, besides my wife, the only other goddamn person I answer to. The President of the United States.”

Chapter Eight

Before heading back
to the rooftop, where the helicopter pilot was going through his pre-flight procedures, Lilburn made a stop off in one of the complex’s armories. The cliché of heading into a gunfight with only a knife didn’t appeal. The arms officer watched as Lilburn approached his counter top. Mac was overdue for retirement and had seen a lot of life, from military service in Vietnam to a long career in the Secret Service. There weren’t many times his first impressions of a person had let him down… and this would be no exception.
A no-nonsense kinda guy. Probably six-one, six-two
, he thought,
athletic build, the sort who could break into a sprint, cover ground then smack bullets dead center in a target.
Military background — the guy was no pen pusher, Mac would bet his bottom dollar on that, most likely a field agent and a good one. Mac was from the same mould, though the stranger was thirty-odd years younger, ruggedly handsome and would have no problem with the ladies.
Age is a bastard
, he thought to himself.

From the door to the counter was only five steps.

“Haven’t seen you before, son, you a new boy?” Mac was too close to being pensioned off to worry about offending someone who might be superior in rank.

Lilburn had done his own summing up — the older man stood straight and proud, one of the old school. “Just flying in to do a bit of business,” he replied. “I need to sign out a piece.”

“Come to the right place, son. Let me go have a look. Nine mill.”

“Yeah.”

“Ammo?”

“A box and two clips will be fine.”

Mac went towards the back of the room and opened a large heavy steel door which led into the weapons storage. Collecting a Glock pistol off the rack, two magazines and some ammunition, he strode back to the counter.

“There you go, just sign here.” Mac pushed a clipboard towards Lilburn.

Lilburn ignored it, picking up the Glock and feeling the balance in his hands.

“Good weapon. You lose it, you pay for it.”

“I’ll try not to lose it then.” He put the gun down and reached for the pen.

Mac placed both hands on the counter and looked the younger man in the eyes. “So where did you say you were from?”

“I didn’t.” For some young, inexperienced officers, Mac would be intimidating. Not for Lilburn. Staring back, eye to eye, he couldn’t help liking the man, so he carried on the conversation. “I flew over, in a round-about way, from Kincaid. There’s some urgent business on this side of the country, so I was brought in for the duration. When I’m finished, it’s back I go.”

“Kincaid eh? Long way from home. Well, best advice I can give you is keep your bowels clean and your powder dry. My old man told me that.”

“Good advice.” Lilburn started to fill out the form. “You remind me of an old friend back home. He’s a lot like you, a crusty old-timer who really knows his stuff.”

There was a short silence; both men looked at each other. Mac smiled first, then broke out with a loud laugh.

“Yeah, my friend is made out of the same cloth. Old Hank James, a real character.”

“James, you say… Hank James?”

“The one and only.”

“Vietnam vet?”

Lilburn stretched out his reply. “Yeah.”

“Likes to be alone, sort of speaks like a hillbilly and probably walks with a limp?”

“That’s him. Tough as a Marine’s boot. You know him?”

“Hell, son, we go way back, haven’t heard from him since we got back from ’Nam.”

“That goddamn cantankerous old man is like a father to me and my brother.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!”

“Look, I got a chopper to catch, but when this is over I’ll drop in again.” Lilburn turned to leave, sporting a cheeky grin.

“I’ll look forward to it… say, you likely to have to use that thing?” Mac cast his eyes down to the gun in Lilburn’s hand.

“Who knows, may do.”

“Here, give it back, I have something better. Brand spanking new. Wait there.” Mac went back to the arms room and returned with another weapon. “Sig Sauer P250, nine millimeter, seventeen-round clip, pistol comes in three sizes, full, compact and sub-compact. I figure you suit the full.”

Lilburn took the weapon in his hand. The balance seemed perfect. He looked over the sleek lines of the semi-auto. “I’m kind of partial to the Sig, this will do just fine.”

The new paperwork completed, the Sig in a holster on his belt, full clip shoved home and an extra packet of ammunition together with a spare clip, Lilburn was ready to leave. “I never did get your name.”

“My friends call me Mac.”

“Thanks, Mac. Be seeing you.”

“Take care, son.”

The downdraft whipped the air into a mini gale as Lilburn opened the door to the front passenger seat of the helicopter. Buckling himself in, he gave the thumbs up to the pilot then placed the head phones on. With expert precision the pilot proceeded to take the helicopter skyward. The sensation of gaining altitude was one Lilburn had never minded.

“Where are we going?” the pilot’s voice was loud and clear through the headphones, slightly metallic and astronaut-like, the engine and whirl of the blades providing background noise.

“Head for New York City, we’ll get confirmation about our exact RV sometime between now and then.”

“The Big Apple it is. Where’s your lady friend?”

“Back at HQ. Where’s yours?”

“You’re sitting in her. Best girl I’ve ever had — doesn’t answer back, no demands except for a little drink and a lube job every now and again, goes just where I want her. I call her Grace.”

It had to be asked. “Why Grace?”

“’Cause by the Grace of God I hope she never drops me.”

“For both our sakes I hope she doesn’t.”

The headphones crackled and the pilot acknowledged an incoming call before turning to his passenger. “Director Hall for you.”

“Lilburn, over.”

“Matt, listen in. Go to Manhattan, NYPD HQ, where you’ll be met by Inspector Lance Gibbons of the Major Case Squad. He’s been briefed and is up to speed.”

“Wilco, sir.”

Lilburn looked at the pilot. “You know the place?”

“Puzzle Palace, here we come. Downtown Manhattan, One Police Plaza to be exact. Hope they put away their barbecues this time.”

Lilburn didn’t get the subtle innuendo.

The pilot grinned as he took a quick glance towards his passenger. “Cops got caught having a barbecue on the rooftop by a newspaper chopper. You should have seen the headlines:
NYPD HQ BBQ, Grill the grillers
. Lot of shit goes on down there on the ground, makes me feel good when I’m up here. Me and Gracie just fly away and leave them to it.”

The buildings of New York seemed to grow out of the ground, getting larger and larger as if they were huge brown and gray beanstalks reaching for the sky in a fairy-tale land.

“There she is, NYPD police headquarters, tucked in close between those skyscrapers like she’s trying to hide.”

From the air One Police Plaza looked like a large brown square brick with a grid of regularly placed square windows on all sides. A smaller dark square landing pad rose from its flat square roof and to the side, Matt saw a row of huge ventilation fans. The helicopter maneuvered around the taller buildings while decreasing altitude, until the imposing structures loomed above them. Lilburn was in an immense concrete jungle, tall buildings casting deep shadows. Occasionally he could see the greenery of inner-city trees. He glimpsed the nearby Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges, along with the Brooklyn River, as the helicopter gently touched down on the concrete helipad.

“Here we are, sir, all safe and sound. My instructions are to wait here for you. Welcome to New York and enjoy the shopping.”

A man in a dark suit and tie was standing on the helipad at a safe distance. Waiting for the helicopter to touch down he gave a thumbs up to the pilot, who replied with an affirmative hand signal. The suited man ran forward crouching down towards the helicopter with its still whirling blades and opened the passenger’s door. “Special Agent Matt Lilburn?”

“Yes.”

“Inspector Lance Gibbons, follow me.”

Away from the rush of downdraft Gibbons thrust out his hand. “Good to meet you, Agent Lilburn. I’ve been given instructions to offer you any assistance you require.” Gibbons held open a door accessing a stairway down to a lobby with a lift.

Inside the lift, Gibbons pressed the button to the eleventh floor. “I have a team of five men waiting. Director Hall has given us the address and the name of the suspect; we aim to apprehend the cleric and bring him back here for you to question.”

“How much have you been told about this operation, Inspector?”

“Not much really, all I know is Homeland Security has asked us to apprehend a person of interest and leave the rest to you. NYPD has been notified to immediately disseminate an alert to all staff to be on heightened alert for any reference to Syria. Other than that, we have no other operational reference. Anything you can enlighten me on?”

“Not yet, sorry.”

Gibbons shrugged. “As I suspected.”

The elevator door opened to the eleventh floor.

“This way.”

A map of Bedford-Stuyvesant had been spread over a large table; a group of five officers in civilian dress were discussing operational procedures. Gibbons interrupted them, and introduced Matt. Formalities and quick briefing over, the seven men departed in an unmarked white Ford Transit.

The driver negotiated his way over the crowded Brooklyn Bridge and pressed further on to Atlantic Avenue, heading in a southeasterly direction to the heart of Bedford-Stuyvesant, less than four miles away. In the back of van, spread out on the seatless metal floor, Lilburn made himself as comfortable as possible.

“Not much of a sightseeing tour.” Gibbons smiled.

“I’ve had worse. Tell me what you know about this cleric — Abdul Baari Fawaz?”

Inspector Gibbons looked over the details sent from Albany. “Fawaz was born 1959, Egyptian by birth, immigrated to America 1993, and founded a mosque in Brooklyn soon after. His name, Abdul Baari, means ‘servant of the Creator’. Five foot ten inches, identified by a birthmark on the his neck, left rear side. He doesn’t show up on our radar.”

The officer in the passenger seat leaned around towards the back of the van. “ETA two minutes.”

“Right, heads up.” Gibbons gave out instructions. The van was to park outside the mosque, he and one other officer, together with Lilburn, were to proceed directly to the building and enter, the remaining two in the back of the van were to station themselves outside, weapons concealed. The front-seat passenger to remain seated unless events dictated otherwise. A radio check was performed, using their hidden mikes and concealed earpieces. All working.

The van turned off Atlantic Avenue then turned again before slowing down. The officer in the front passenger seat looked for the mosque. “Here it is, sir, looks like we’ll have to double park. We have three persons directly out front, two probable Muslim men with beards and skullcaps. Could be corner men. There’s a kid as well, sitting on a box by the double doors. Can confirm the entry door is open.” The van stopped.

“Let’s go.”

Lilburn quickly took in the surroundings. The mosque was one of many similar-sized buildings nearby, all sharing common walls, approximately fifteen feet wide with access through a large grey door directly off the footpath. There were signs protruding out into the sidewalk on either side of the mosque, attached to the bottom of the two floors above. One sign advertised a barber shop, the other a travel agent. The mosque itself had Arabic writing above the entrance; Lilburn also noticed a security camera facing down towards the door.

The two bearded men tensed as the group from the van approached. Even though they wore plainclothes, they still looked menacing.

“Is the Imam here?” No reply was forthcoming. “Imam Abdul Baari Fawaz, is he here?” Still no reply. The bearded faces showed no response, not a flicker of emotion, yet Lilburn saw their deep brown eyes missed nothing. Silence was clearly their friend. The seated boy, no more than eight years old, with a collarless white shirt, long grey shorts and black sneakers that seemed far too big for him slowly stood up, backed towards the open door then suddenly made off inside at a run. Gibbons ignored the silent men and followed. Lilburn and one officer followed his lead. Inside, Gibbons only just saw the flicker of the boy’s white shirt disappear up a flight of stairs.

With weapon drawn, Gibbons charged up the stairs, leaving his two colleagues to follow suit.

The upper level prayer room, the
musalla
, with its wooden floor, was bare of trappings save for the racks of rolled prayer mats and numerous bookshelves. As Gibbons entered, a door in the far corner slammed shut. There was only one other person in the room. The Imam finished his prayer, then after stepping off his prayer mat, knelt down and carefully rolled it up.

“Imam Abdul Baari Fawaz?”

The man did not look up as he spoke. “Who wants to know?”

Gibbons repeated the question. “Are you Imam Abdul Baari Fawaz?”

“As I said, who wants to know?” the cleric turned to face them. His long dark beard was starting to gray from the outside in, falling over a loose-fitting dark-blue tunic. The dark eyes well set into his eye sockets were in stark contrast to his brilliant white skull cap.

Gibbons holstered his weapon, his colleague did the same. “NYPD. My name is Inspector Gibbons. Are you Imam Abdul Baari Fawaz?”

The cleric walked to the rack of prayer mats and placed his own neatly in a cubbyhole. “You are forbidden in our prayer room.” Fawaz showed no sign of being overwhelmed by the strangers. “You enter our sacred room without permission, you do not respect our religion. You have not even taken off your shoes. You must leave our place of worship. Go now.” His hand shot out towards the men as he pointed towards the door.

Gibbons had seen the birthmark on the left side of the man’s neck. It was all the identification he required.“I don’t think so. Abdul Baari Fawaz, I’m placing you under arrest.”