Legacy and Redemption (12 page)

He nodded.

“Good,” Hatif began as he handed al-Haq a cell phone. “This is the final piece that you will need. You will wire the cell phone to the vest on the morning of Thanksgiving. This way in the event you are shot and killed by the police, I will still be able to detonate the bomb by making a phone call. Do
not
turn the power on or connect it until the morning of the parade. I’d hate for a wrong number to ruin everything.” It had been said with an eerie smile.

Al-Haq accepted the phone and placed it in his pants pocket. He then put the blasting caps along with the rest of the explosives back inside the back pack and slung it over his shoulder. Hatif moved in and gave him a hug. “Do you have any questions?”

In silence, al-Haq shook his head from side to side.

“Good. Now don’t forget to check your email twice a day; every day from this day forward until you are reunited with your son and Allah.”

The mention of al-Haq’s son had nearly brought a tear to his eyes. He hadn’t realized that the man would have known about his son, and he was taken off guard. “Yes, I will check twice a day.” He felt his voice crack as he spoke the words.

“You will not hear from me again my brother unless there is a problem.
Insha Allah
.”

“May Allah be with you as well.” As al-Haq continued towards the door, the man standing guard unlocked it; holding it open for al-Haq. Neither the bright morning sun, nor the briskness of the November air phased al-Haq in the least; he was lost in thought. He walked to his car—almost robotically, opened the trunk, and put the back pack inside.

He started the car and headed back to his Queens home. He drove slowly, obeying all traffic rules as not to bring any unnecessary attention to himself. He was too close to have a silly mistake cost him his chance to avenge his son’s death and ensure his own martyrdom. Hatif’s mention of his son had taken over his thoughts.

Malik would have been twenty-one this year had it not been for the Americans and their drone strikes.

He became more sad than angry when thinking about his only son this time. Still, he knew that they would be reunited in the afterlife soon—very soon.

There was a relative calm over Nazeem al-Haq as he assembled the suicide vest. He carefully molded the C-4 into a makeshift liner in the denim jacket as he’d been instructed. Once he felt the vest was complete, he tried it on for size. It was heavy and uncomfortable—not that it mattered at this point. Al-Haq grabbed his winter coat and put it on over the vest. He believed the puffiness of the down feathers provided a great concealment for the vest. The fact that the long term weather forecast predicted a cold Thanksgiving was fortunate.

Walking into the tiny bathroom, he switched on the light. The lights exposed not only filthy grey walls, but also an assortment of cockroaches running back towards the darkness that any gap would afford. Al-Haq stood as tall as he could, turning sideways to get the best possible view that the half mirror above the dingy yellow vanity would allow. He felt confident. As far as he was concerned, there was no way that anyone looking at him could possibly realize that he was wearing twenty-five pounds of powerful explosives beneath the black waist length coat.

Once al-Haq returned to the living room, he stared at the assorted nails, screws, and ball bearings as they lay on the kitchen table. With three days to go before Thanksgiving, there was still plenty of time to press them into the plastic explosives. Instead, he removed the vest, carefully setting it down on a chair next to him and examined the blasting caps, the toggle switch, and the safety guard.

He assembled the triggering mechanism in a matter of minutes and fastened the wiring to the toggle switch. A small red light illuminated from the back of the switch, letting him know that it was properly wired. He then secured the safety cover over the switch. He took his jacket and ran the wiring through the right sleeve. With black duct tape, the wire was fastened to the edge of the sleeve with a few inches of slack to spare.

Putting on the jacket, al-Haq adjusted the triggering mechanism in his hand. He held it firmly making a fist around it. After placing his thumb gently under the lip of the safety cover, he practiced flipping the cover open and putting his thumb on the actual switch. While the blasting cap was not connected to the rest of the vest, the blasting cap was still live. He needed to be careful not to detonate it.

Once he felt confident, he removed the jacket, leaving the triggering mechanism attached and placed it next to the device. He got up from the table with a sense of accomplishment. There wasn’t a nervous bone in his body. He wanted to contact his friend, Murad Zein, in the worst way, but knew he couldn’t do anything this close to the target date to endanger the mission.

Al-Haq picked up the suicide vest and once again put it on. He then took the unused C-4 and placed it into the pockets of the vest. It was now at full capacity. The only thing that needed to be done was for the blasting cap to be inserted into the explosives. He removed the newspaper article from his pants pocket—the one which had been tormenting him for months now. He folded it over once and stared one last time at the pictures of James and Timothy Keegan before placing the article into the vest pocket next to a five pound block of the C-4 explosives.

*

“Thomas”

“Here”

“Andre, you have foot post nine with a 2100 meal.”

“Quinn”

“Here, Sarge.”

“Cathy, you have foot post eight with a 2200 meal.”

“Williams and Maldonado”

They responded in harmony. “Here.”

“You guys have station house security,” Galvin explained. “Williams, you have the front door. Maldonado, you have the parking lot entrance. You guys need to be seen out there. Inspector Enton made it clear that if anyone is caught off post, not only are they getting written up, but so is the desk officer. Trust me, the last thing you guys need to do is have the Lieutenant have a hard on for you.”

“Keegan.”

“Sarge.”

“You’re driving me tonight. We’re in
RMP 2327
with a 2200 meal.” Keegan was happy to hear that he’d be driving Sergeant Galvin tonight. The last time they worked together, Galvin had gotten him a gun arrest. Keegan wanted to learn the job and how to be a good street cop. He also knew that Galvin would be the one to teach him these things.

Keegan noted the
Radio Motor Patrol
car number and his meal hour in his activity log as Galvin continued. “I know you’ve heard this a few times already, but it has to be read at every roll call for the remainder of the year.” Galvin held the teletype to eye level and began, “A threat has been made against the United States and in particular in New York City by mid-eastern terrorists. Although there are no known details, the threat is believed to be credible. Each and every Member of the Service is to remain vigilant while on patrol and on their foot posts. Each precinct and any other department facility will have uniformed officers assigned to station house security at both the front and rear entrances. These officers are to remain at their posts and not to leave for any reason without face to face relief.”

He set the teletype down on the podium in the front of the muster room and continued. “Guys and gals, in case you’re living under a rock, the Department of Homeland Security issued an elevated alert for a potential terrorist attack on US soil.
The job
also has intel that the attack may be attempted here in New York City. Homeland Security has never issued an alert since they implemented this procedure in 2011 so if they’re doing it now you better believe that something’s up. You guys need to stay alert and be careful out there.”

Keegan was both skeptical and apprehensive. He’d heard of potential terrorist threats before, but this time seemed different. Still, it was highly unlikely that a terrorist would be coming to the East Flatbush section of Brooklyn, he reasoned. If there
are
going to strike in New York, it would be in Manhattan. Keegan felt his assessment was fair and accurate. Manhattan is where all of the tourists would be flocking for the holidays and would get the most attention of the media. The outer boroughs would simply not be as desirable a target for any terrorist group.

Keegan’s thoughts were interrupted as Galvin approached the officers, handing them each a
notification
. The notification was an official directive informing the officers that they were going to be assigned to the Thanksgiving Day Parade. Each officer, as required, signed a copy and handed it back to Galvin.

As he collected the signed notifications, “This is one of the better
details
to work. We have to report to Sixth Avenue and Forty-Second Street at 0800 hours. I want everyone dressed and ready to go by 0700. Make sure that you all remember to wear your dress winter coat. That’s the heavy wool one for those of you who may be unsure. We’ll take the van in and should be home in time for the kick-off of the four o’clock game and Thanksgiving dinner. I’ve worked this detail a half dozen times as a cop, and it’s one of the few details that I actually enjoy. It’s just an all around nice day. Just make sure you dress warm; it’s supposed to be pretty cold.”

Once roll call had completed, the officers gathered their gear and made their way to the radio room. Keegan walked with Cathy Quinn.

“What do you think of the terrorist threats?”

Keegan not wanting to show his concern, “I don’t know Cathy. These guys are always making threats since 9/11. There’s never been anything behind them—just scare tactics probably.”

Quinn seemed to consider Keegan’s words and with a hint of skepticism, “I suppose you’re right.”

Keegan could sense the doubt in her voice. She was clearly concerned about the threats as well. He did his best to sound comforting as they reached the radio room where Officer Gilbert was filling out the
radio log
. “Plus, I bet those terrorists don’t even know that this part of Brooklyn exists.”

Gilbert looked up. After handing her a radio and jotting the number in the log. “Oh hey, Officer Quinn, I was looking for you in the locker room before but my screen wasn’t working.” Gilbert laughed as an annoyed Cathy Quinn placed her radio in its holder.

“Very funny, Bernie,” she commented as she gave him her back and walked away.

After getting radios for both himself and Sergeant Galvin, Keegan caught up to her. “Why are you letting him get to you? He’s only kidding around; after all, you’re not still angry with Brenda.”

“Brenda came up to me later that day and told me it was a joke. I was a good sport about it and we shared a laugh. We moved on and became friends.” She motioned angrily with an open hand towards the radio room. “Every time he sees me, he makes a joke about it. Enough is enough already.”

She then got quiet as they walked out to the parking lot. Keegan wanted to give her a hug, but he knew that he couldn’t. They had decided to keep their relationship a secret from their co-workers. They had been seeing a great deal of each other—spending almost every day off together. She walked just far enough away from the rest of the rookies, so she’d be out of their earshot. “Are you worried at all about working the parade? I mean, like you said, terrorists are not coming to the
Six-Seven
precinct…but the parade is a nationally televised event…and it’s in Manhattan. Like you said, if they are going to hit, it’s going to be there.”

The thought had crossed Keegan’s mind as well, but he would downplay it. “Not really. They said the threat is for the holiday season. I would think they’d be more inclined to strike Rockefeller Center or Times Square around Christmas time…if this threat is even real, which I doubt it is.”

She smiled, seeming a bit more at ease. In a soft voice, “Hey, do you want to come back by my place after work tonight?”

Keegan gave her a toothy smile. “Don’t you know that I’m driving Sergeant Galvin tonight?”

She laughed, “Oh that’s right. I guess you’re
collaring up
huh?”

“Well, it does seem like who ever drives him has an arrest for something by the end of the night. Last time I drove him we got a gun collar, and you’ve had collars both times you drove him.”

“Okay, just be careful,” as she turned away and headed for the marked van with the rest of the rookies, who were waiting to be dropped off on their foot posts.

Keegan sought out the
RMP.
He examined the brass key ring and compared the number engraved on it to the number painted on the side of the police car.

2327

Keegan started RMP 2327 and pulled it to the gas pumps. Keegan watched as the marked van drove from the parking lot; he and Cathy had briefly made eye contact as the van disappeared from his sight. Keegan filled the cruiser with gas and waited for Sergeant Galvin to join him. Keegan wondered to himself what the night would bring. Sergeant Galvin had a knack of finding the bad guys, a knack which Keegan felt was starting to rub off on him.

Galvin sat in the passenger side of the RMP and tuned the radio to a classic rock station. He then opened his memobook and began catching up on entries as Elton John sang in the background. He flipped through the pages of the roll call, making a slight notation here and there, and when he was finished, he placed it above the sun visor.

Galvin turned his attention to Keegan, “Do you remember the two most important questions?”

Keegan laughed. “Of course, Sarge; am I looking for a collar, and what’s for dinner?”

Galvin turned his palms up and shrugged his shoulders. “Well?”

“I told you last time, Sarge, every night that I’m out here I’m looking to
collar up
…and how about Chinese?”

“Sounds like a plan, Tim; just head over to Dunkin Donuts so I can get a cup of coffee before we start the hunt.”

Keegan threw the car into gear and made a left hand turn on Snyder Avenue. He passed a dark blue Chevrolet Impala parked across from the precinct’s parking lot. Neither Keegan, nor did Tommy Galvin, ever give the car a second look, or even notice it.

*

Nazeem al-Haq, like he had done so many days over the past two weeks, sat outside the Sixty-Seventh precinct between the hours of five and six in the evening. Finding out the hours in which the rookies worked was easier than he had ever imagined. Al-Haq had looked up the Sixty-Seventh Precinct on line and learned that the third Thursday of every month, the commanding officer held a community council meeting. The forum was open to the public and al-Haq had attended October’s meeting. The officer running the meeting had informed those in attendance that the rookies worked from five-thirty in the evening until two in the morning. He also said they would primarily be on foot posts along some of the major commercial strips in the precinct.

Al-Haq had paid his due diligence. Almost every night that he had sat there, he’d observed Police Officer Tim Keegan get into a marked police van and dropped off on a foot post with other cops. How to proceed had been the dilemma. He didn’t want to jeopardize his mission, but he needed to see Keegan dead.

He must pay for the sins of his father
.

At first, he considered following Keegan home from the precinct as Keegan got off from work at two am, but that was not feasible. His contact had told him not to miss any days of work as any small change in his routine could draw unnecessary attention. So instead, a frustrated al-Haq continued to report to his midnight shift at the gas station.