Fear City (27 page)

Unless they found a way to bring the traffic to a halt.

He continued uptown and made another trip through the UN underpass.

Yes, ten minutes seemed like plenty of time to clear the blast area—
if
everything went as planned. A slip or a trip resulting in a sprained ankle or knee could slow him considerably.

He sighed. Well, if the blast caught him, he would find a martyr's reward waiting for him in the next life.

But before all that, he needed a way to stop traffic on First Avenue.

As he headed back to Jersey City, an idea began to form.

 

5

After ending her shift at three, Hadya had posted herself at the intersection of Virginia Avenue and Kennedy Boulevard, waiting for Kadir to pass. But two hours on watch yielded no sign of him or the green car. She was sure if she quit now that the car would pass as soon as she turned her back. Not only was she weak from hunger and thirst after her day-long fast, but her fingers and toes were numb with cold.

She needed food and water. Jala had been home for hours now and would have a plate of dates ready to start
iftar
, the fast-breaking meal, at 5:40, right after sunset. Her mouth watered at the thought.

But instead of heading back toward the tiny apartment they called home, she walked north toward the Al-Salam Mosque. Perhaps she would see Kadir there.

Instead she spotted a familiar pickup truck parked at a corner just off Kennedy but with a view of the mosque. However, instead of the bearded older man she'd seen before, a clean-shaven young man now sat behind the wheel. As she watched, he exited the truck and walked to the pay phone a few steps away. After a brief conversation that seemed more like an argument, he hung up—none too gently—and stalked back to the truck.

She hesitated, then overcame her customary inhibitions. Taking a deep breath, she strode toward the passenger door.

 

6

We'll have him broken in time for a leisurely lunch …

Bull
shit.

Not wanting to waste his period of banishment from the Mahwah house, Jack had decided to devote the time to pursuing the Arab connection to Cristin. He couldn't imagine what it might be, but since he was already in north Jersey, and since Bertel was no longer on the job, he assigned himself the task of watching the mosque.

He'd anticipated a brief stakeout, so he'd parked near some phones, allowing hassle-free call-ins. But each call had been the same: Sorry, no, they hadn't broken him yet.

Jack's watch had been equally fruitless. Lots of Muslims going in and out the doorway next to the toy store. Bertel had mentioned that today started their holy month of Ramadan and so Jack guessed that was why. He'd learned nothing and had been zoned out—eyes in a half-dazed stare at the mosque but mind somewhere else—

A
knock-knock
on the passenger-side window jolted him to full alertness.

His hand was automatically reaching for the Glock under the seat when he saw the young woman with some scarflike thing around her head—similar to all the Muslim women he'd watched entering and leaving the mosque. What he could see of her face was kind of pretty. With her wary dark eyes she looked harmless enough, so he rolled down the passenger window.

She spoke as soon as the upper edge cleared her lips.

“You are government? Police?” she said in heavily accented English.

He hadn't been prepared for that level of directness.

“Not even close.”

“Why you are watching the mosque?”

“I'm not.”

“Where is the old man who once drive this truck?”

So much for the clandestine part of Bertel's surveillance.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You are watching my brother?”

“Lady, I don't know you, I don't know your brother, and I'm not watching anyone.”

“His name is Kadir Allawi. I want you to arrest him.”

Holy crap. He knew that son of a bitch. And here was his sister looking to get him arrested. Talk about surreal.

He forced a laugh. “Like I told you, I'm not police. Have you called the cops?”

“I have called FBI.”

“No kidding? What did they say?”

“They say they are ‘aware' of Sheikh Omar and that is all.”

Sounded like a brush-off. Bertel had said the Bureau was no longer watching the mosque. Maybe they didn't want any reminders.

“Not much help. But just out of curiosity, why would you want your own brother arrested?”

“He is planning something bad.”

“How bad?”

“Very bad.”

Jack stiffened. Just what Bertel had been saying. Maybe his rants about those clowns bringing jihad to America weren't so far out after all.

He noticed her shivering.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“If you are not police, you cannot help.”

“I might know some people who can.” He leaned over and unlocked the door. “Come in out of the cold,” he said as he cleared off the passenger seat.

She shook her head. She looked scared. “No. I cannot.”

“Don't be afraid. I've no wish to harm you.” He gestured at the traffic on Kennedy Boulevard. “Besides, there's too many people around for me to try.”

A gust of cold wind ruffled her scarf and she seemed to waver. He pulled the keys from the ignition, placed them in the ashtray in the center of the dashboard, and pushed it closed.

“Look. Now I can't drive away with you either. You have nothing to fear.”

Setting her lips in a tight line, she pulled the door open and stepped up to the passenger seat. She slammed the door behind her and immediately rolled up the window. He noticed a paper bag labeled “Ramallah Bakery” in her lap.

“So … what is your brother planning?”

“I do not know,” she said, rubbing her hands together.

He pointed to the ashtray. “If you let me start the engine, I can put on the heater.”

She shook her head. “No. That is all right. I fear Kadir will hurt people.”

That didn't sound good.

“Hurt how?”

She shook her head and he could sense her frustration. “I do not know. I see him driving up and down the boulevard—”

“In a Chevy Nova?”

A shrug. “I do not know cars. It is old and green.”

“I know it.”

A sharp look. “Then you
have
been watching him.”

“I've seen that car pull up in front of the mosque quite a few times with different men inside.”

“Yes … his friends.” That last word was laced with acid.

Jack decided to take the plunge and see how much she knew.

“Are they interested in jihad?”

Her light brown skin paled as she looked at him in shock. “How do you know of jihad?”

He shrugged. “I know nothing for sure. I've been told by the older man you saw in this truck that the preacher in there”—he pointed to the mosque building—“hates America and that he has followers who feel the same way.”

“He is called an ‘imam.' Yes, he hates America, but I have listened to him and I know that he also hates many Muslims who do not agree with him. He says he speaks for Allah and my brother believes him, but Allah does not hate.”

Jack remembered something Bertel had told him.

“But doesn't Allah reward those who die for jihad?”

The girl looked away. “It is … what is English word for not simple?”

“Complicated?”

“I do not know this word.”

“Yeah, well, religion is always complicated. But all that aside, I haven't seen—” He stopped himself from saying
your brother
. He wasn't supposed to know Kadir. “—that car all day.”

“I wish to know where he goes, but I have no car.” She looked at Jack. “If you see him, will you please follow him and find out?”

That might not be a bad idea.

“Time permitting, I'll try. And if I do find out what he's up to, how do I tell you?”

She hesitated, then seemed to notice the bag in her hand. She held it up and showed him the label.

“I work here.”

He shrugged. “Okay. I'll do what I can. That's all I can promise.”

She smiled for the first time. A nice smile. “Thank you.”

Without another word she got out and walked off. Jack watched her for a moment, then retrieved the keys and started up the truck. He considered calling in again, then thought, screw it. He'd head back to the Mahwah house and they'd have to deal with him.

 

7

Tommy piloted his Z through the Stuy. He cruised around Marcy Park, looking for a likely suspect.

He'd got to thinking about the moulies who busted up the cars he covered. And he'd kept on thinking about them. Why would they do that? It hadn't been just Tommy's lots, but like nine out of ten was his. That didn't sit right.

So he'd had a little talk with himself: Let's just say, for the sake of argument, that somebody put them up to it. Who gained from that?

Tony the Cannon Campisi.

Okay. So if Tony wants Tommy out of the detailing business, he dings up all the cars Tommy covers. But he's too sick to do that himself. And if someone else is gonna do it, it's gotta be on the down-low. Gotta be a trusted guy in his crew who don't have no love for Tommy Totaro. Who would that be?

Vinny Donuts.

But fat Vinny ain't about to go running around car lots with a ball-peen hammer. He's gonna find someone to do it for him. Someone with no connection to family business. Someone who can talk about it all they want but nobody that matters will hear. Who would that be?

Moulie kids.

But what does Vinny know about moulies? Well, there was that deal a couple months ago where he off-loaded a truck full of Air Jordans to the Raysor brothers. The Raysors use kids to take orders and deliver product. If the price is right, they might be favorably disposed to letting Vinny take a bunch of their runners for a joyride.

Like this skinny kid with the cockeyed cap under the hoodie and the saggy pants and the shades up ahead, lounging on the corner right here.

Tommy slowed, then stopped, but left the car in drive. He lowered the passenger window as the kid sidled up. Smooth cheeks and good teeth—couldn't have been more than fourteen, maybe younger.

“What up?”

“Thirsty.”

“For what?”

“Coca-Cola.”

“Yeah? What you like? Powder, cake, rock? You look like powder to me.”

“You got a good eye. How much will an ounce hurt?”

“Three C's.”

“Whoa!”

Tommy was used to wholesale prices from his friends in the family. Was that what the suckers were paying on the street?

“Primo product, man. Gotta pay for quality, know'm sayin'?”

Okay, here was where it was gonna get dicey.

“For that price it better be fuckin-ay pure as new snow.”

He pulled three Franklins from his pocket. As he extended them across the passenger seat, his free hand found the window button. When the kid reached in for the cash, Tommy dropped the bills, grabbed his wrist, and hit the button. The window slid up, trapping his arm.

Tommy let the kid thrash and scream and fill the air with motherfuckers. When he paused for breath, Tommy said, “Where were you last Tuesday night?”

More rage and screams about it being none of his fucking business.

Tommy repeated the question with the same result.

“Okay.”

He took his foot off the brake and the car started to roll. Now the kid's rage turned to fear.

“Hey, what you doin', muthafucka?”

“You're a runner, right? Let's see how fast you can run.”

After being dragged for a block, where the fear turned to agony, the kid told him that his boss had rented him out to some fat greaseball type who took him and his buddies around in a big black Crown Vic to a bunch of car lots where they dinged everything in sight.

Tommy roared away, leaving him lying in the street.

Vinny … Vinny and Tony—and maybe Aldo too—had fucked up his business.

Time for payback.
Big-time
payback.

 

8

Bertel hung up the phone and wandered to his hotel window. The Tyson's Corner Marriott didn't offer much in the way of a view, but he could appreciate the last orange rays of the setting sun lighting the tops of the downtown office buildings.

He'd placed his calls and made his contacts. Tomorrow he'd return to HQ with the City Chemical bill of lading in hand. They'd have their usual skepticism on display, but the bill would force them into action. They couldn't ignore the list. They'd know the end product of proper mixing of those ingredients, and the damage that more than half a ton of said end product could do. They'd have to place the storage facility under watch, track the conspirators to their bomb factory, and shut them down.

And then they'd have to admit that Dane Bertel had been right all along.

Perhaps if he'd been more politic. But that simply wasn't his nature. Still, his decades as a field agent in the Middle East should have lent him some credibility.

Once the shah had been kicked out of Iran, Dane had warned that the U.S. embassy in Teheran would be next on the revolutionaries' list. Sure enough, he witnessed the so-called “student riot” back in 1979 and, because of his preparedness, managed to ferry a few Americans to safety before they could be taken hostage. After that he saw Mohammedan fundamentalism spread like wildfire through the region, and he knew that wasn't going to be good for the U.S.

The only bright spot had been the commie takeover in Afghanistan and the civil war it started. The Russians moved in and became the focal point for all the Mohammedan crazies. It could have stayed that way. If Carter and Reagan and that damn Congressman Wilson had kept their meddling hands off, the crazies would be calling Russia “the Great Satan” instead of “the Lesser Satan.”