The Last Hedge (29 page)

Conroy looked at the piece of paper. He then folded it and put it in his pocket.

“Is there a copy shop close by?”

“Round the corner, middle of the block.”

“I’ll give it a shot and see what happens. But if nothing does, the three of us are going to have a big problem.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it," Dylan said.

Thompson stood at the front of the room, orchestrating with a blue marker in front of a whiteboard. “Well, gentleman, I think this is what we have been waiting for. We first began with a search on Mamoud Shazir.
He’s a Syrian lawyer and businessman connected to a host of shady characters in the Middle East. He is married to an American citizen back in 1984, and we could not get a thing on him. He’s listed under a business address at his home in New Jersey. Now, Exhibit 1.”

Thompson had moved almost immediately on the faxed tip from Conroy and a surveillance team was put in place. Thompson used his clicker to move to the next slide on the computer, which showed a heavily bearded man in a turban.

“This is Yosef Fazziz. He’s a known terrorist on a CIA watch list for the past eighteen months. His name has been in and across our databases for months. Just recently, that name resurfaced in an investigation of a New York hedge fund. Fazziz is a known Jihadist with ties to Al Qaeda training camps in Afghanistan, Libya, and Iraq. This is one bad boy.”

Highland sat at the back of the room, slumped in his chair, staring into space. Conroy had been leaning against the conference room wall. He leaned in closer to ask Thompson a question. “So what does this have to with the information?”

“It’s very simple. Our Fazziz goes to rent a car last week in Hoboken, New Jersey. He’s filling out the slip when the attendant goes back to run his credit card. Well, there was a problem with the computer, and Fazziz got nervous and jittery. He takes his credit card back and leaves in a huff. That got the car rental attendant thinking that something about Fazziz’s story didn’t jibe, and he called the local chapter of the FBI. The attendant was able to get his name and address off the credit card information he had filled out for the rental. Well, the phone number that he left matched exactly that of our man Mamoud Shazir. That goes to Exhibit 2.”

The house in question appeared on the screen. It was a normal-looking house from Anywhere, U.S.A. It was built in the Tudor style, accompanied by well-landscaped lawns and a freshly paved driveway. It could have been a location for the next P.T.A. meeting. Thompson got closer to the screen as he described the house.

“This is the home of Mamoud Shazir. The house is in a suburban location fifteen minutes across the George Washington Bridge in the town of Teaneck, New Jersey. To the left of the house sits a small park, and the back of the house leads directly onto Route 4 leading to the G. W. Bridge and Upper Manhattan. We were able to put a team on it immediately.”

The next slide was a nighttime view from across the highway. Four men could be seen getting into a large sports utility vehicle. The timestamp on the film said 3 a.m.

“We positioned our team directly across the highway on Route 4. Using night-vision technology, we were able to capture these images of various people coming and going at very odd hours of the evening. We spoke to the neighbors, and most of them were unaware that anyone was living in the house. Mamoud Shazir had told them that they would be away for a period of time and that his cousin would occasionally be dropping by to pick up the mail. The neighbors were not aware of any strange comings and goings during the course of the night.”

“Gentleman,” Thompson said as he brought everyone to attention, “every indication is that this is a terrorist cell. The house itself is occupied by six men, each of Arabic descent. Based on some of the encryption-breaking technology that we have at our disposal, we were able to decode some of the information through their wireless router. We are quite positive they are in the final stages of a planning attack and now we understand why.”

He removed photographs from an envelope and slid them across the table. The photos showed a huge factory located on a beach. The images were in black and white.

“Pine River, New Jersey, one of the largest oil refineries n the Northeast. This is a key target for terrorists to create mayhem in domestic and foreign oil markets. Again, based on what we were able to discern from some of their email messages, they have reached critical mass for an attack at any moment.”

“So what are we waiting for?” a voice asked from the back of the room.

“Nothing. I’m giving the go-ahead to proceed and take them out.”

Thompson moved towards the rear of the room. All eyes were on him as he approached Highland. Highland sat there emotionless and gaunt, almost like he was in a catatonic state. Conroy had never seem him like this before. Clearly, he was spooked and was on the verge of losing his cool.

“Dan, how quickly do you think we can move in?”

Highland said nothing. He mouthed some words first, and then turned towards Thompson. “I can mobilize men in the morning.”

“Good; so can I. We’ll make this a joint operation: You utilize your team, we utilize ours. It will be a win-win situation for both of us.”

“OK,” Highland said. “The call will go out tonight.”

“Good,” Thompson said. “We have a strong opportunity to capture the attention of the entire Bureau. Let’s not blow it.” Highland said nothing as Thompson and his men exited the room.

Conroy turned and made his way over to where Dan was sitting. Dan’s legs were stretched out spread-eagle in the chair, and he was staring mindlessly into the wall. He looked up suddenly when Conroy stepped in front of him.

“Timmy. We’re going in tomorrow; I want you there, okay?”

“Of course. You pick me up in the morning?”

“Yeah,” Highland said, suddenly smiling. “You buy the coffee, I’ll drive the car.”

The Teaneck raid took place just before dawn. Twenty-five FBI agents surrounded the house and the neighboring park. The rear of the house was isolated, as the proximity to the highway made it particularly hazardous. There was no route that the suspected terrorists could escape through, and the FBI brass was cautiously optimistic.

Highland was the lead officer in charge of the raid. When Conroy had asked how many weapons to bring, Highland had responded, “Bring every weapon you have.” He was hoping for the best and preparing for the worst.

The FBI units positioned themselves outside the house around 5:40 a.m. The first hint of sunlight was visible, and the officers were alert and ready. Highland got out of his car with his pump shotgun and stood across the street from the Tudor house as he reached for his phone. Highland then took the cell phone out of his pocket and dialed the number.

The phone rang five times before a sleepy voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Good Morning. Is this Yosef Fazziz?”

“Yes. Who is speaking?”

“Sorry, wrong number,” Highland said as hung up the phone. He then waived for Conroy, who along with another agent, assumed a position outside the door. When Highland waved his hand, they used a combination of foot and crowbar to open the door.

Within seconds, at least fifteen agents had flooded the interior of the home. Conroy was one of the first inside. From the exterior of the house came shouting, but no shots were fired. All in all, there was about five minutes of commotion. After the interior of the house had been secured, Highland and the rest of the crew entered the home.

The raiding agents had taken six men into custody, having cuffed them and brought them into the living room. They were in a state of semi-dress: pajama tops and underwear, several wore nothing at all. The sound of Arabic was being spoken. The rest of the officers continued to search the house.

When Highland entered the living room, he surveyed the scene with a grin on his face: There was nothing like a raid where no shots were fired.

“Which one is Fazziz?”

Conroy stepped forward and pointed to a large man down on his knees.

“I think he is,” Conroy said. Highland approached the man while Conroy watched. Fazziz was already grinning when Highland stepped in front of him.

“Are you Yosef Fazziz?”

“Yes, I am.” Fazziz was a heavy man, with a hairy chest and powerful arms. He was wearing a pair of striped pajama pants, open at the waist. His English was better than Conroy expected.

“I am Yosef Fazziz, and I know my rights in an American court of law.”

“I’m glad you do,” Highland said, “Because you are certainly going to get a chance to use them.” He turned to the FBI agents working in the room.

“Good work, gentleman. Job well done.” Conroy and Highland exited as the room was being cleared.

“So we got our man, huh?” Highland asked.

“I guess so.”

“You guess so?” Highland asked. “This is big, Conroy. Big.”

“You think so?”

“I know it is. You surprised? This Corbin guy definitely was involved in something. Something bad, very bad.”

“Yeah, but why were the Corbins doing business with Middle Eastern terrorists?”

“Maybe now that we have these guys, the pieces of the puzzle will start to come together.”

“Maybe.”

“By the way, I owe your friend Dylan an apology.”

“Yeah, I’ll give it to him.”

Highland stopped and took a long look at Tim. “You know, ten years ago we didn’t even have to think about this terrorism stuff.”

“Yeah, the world is flat now.”

“The world is what?”

“The world is flat. It’s an idea someone wrote a book about. The theory is, everything is getting smaller because the world is becoming globalized.”

“I don’t know about flat, but there’s a lot more shit we have to worry about now.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” Tim suddenly spun towards Dan as they reached his vehicle. He did his best bit of acting as he attempted to seem surprised.

Oh, Dan, by the way: I forgot to tell you: Vanessa called me.” Dan quickly turned towards Conroy with an angry look on his face.

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“And you are just telling me this now?”

“Yeah, she was babbling about some guy named Luke or something. I couldn’t quite understand.” Highland’s face was redder in an instant. He looked like he wanted to sock him in his face.

“Where is she?”

“Didn’t really say.”

“Jesus, Tim! What were you thinking?”

“Hey, a lot is going on, right?” Highland quickly got in his car, ignoring Tim as he got in. “Dan, can you drop me off?”

“No. I have to see someone. Hitch a ride with those guys.” Highland quickly slammed his door.

“Okay,” Conroy said. He quickly removed the GPS device from his pocket, and with the subtlest of gestures, stuck it on the rear bumper of Highland’s car.

Vanessa and Dylan were parked downtown in lower Manhattan when the GPS device came to life. Conroy had activated it just before attaching it to Highland’s car. The device would now help Dylan and Vanessa follow Highland wherever he went. They hoped that it would help lead him to whomever he had been working for, and hopefully to Binky. Dylan started up the car when the device began to beep.

“Looks like he’s on the move.”

“Yeah,” Vanessa said. “Let’s see where he goes.”

The Chrysler town car came from a rental agency in Harlem, one that specialized in renting used limos and taxi conversions. It was an older model in slightly run-down condition, but with one important feature: deeply tinted passenger windows, probably a shade darker than legally allowed. The car had been easier to obtain than Dylan had expected. Dylan had slipped the owner two crisp hundred-dollar bills and assured him that there would be no damage.

They were following the trail of the GPS that Conroy had placed on Highland’s car. Dylan wove the car through the Soho neighborhood west towards the West Side Highway, and crossed the George Washington Bridge and took Route 4 into New Jersey. The cloudless sky gave him no idea of what was ahead, and Dylan drove silently as he approached his destination.

“Where do you think he’s going?”

“Hard to say. He lives on Long Island.”

“Then why is he going to Jersey?”

“I don’t know, but the GPS is pointing right towards Teterboro Airport.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

The cutoff for Teterboro airport came sooner than Dylan had expected. He was not very familiar with this part of New Jersey, but the limo’s global positioning system efficiently guided him towards the airport. As they approached, he could hear the rumbling of jets in the distance. It was gut check time now. He took several deep breaths as he entered the airport.

As he drove through the gates of the airport, a series of large hangars were arranged like dominoes.

“His car seems to have stopped.”

“Where?”

“Probably by one of the hangars.”

“Which one?”

“The last hangar.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure, loser.”

“Be nice.”

Dylan turned off the car’s headlights as he glided silently towards the hangar. He stopped the car fifty yards short of the door and turned off the ignition.

“So, here we are,” Dylan said. “I’m going in.”

“No you are not.”

“Why?”

“Because I have this.” Vanessa opened up the inside of her denim jacket to reveal her .38 strapped inside her shoulder holster.

“Good point.”

“Drive around to the front of the hangar, and wait. Keep the engine running.”

“I will.” Vanessa spun to get out of the car. Impulsively, she looked back and kissed Dylan on the lips.

“Don’t be late.”

“I won’t.” She got out of the car and headed towards the hangar.

The doors to the hangar were slightly open, wide enough so that Highland could have driven his car through. Vanessa stood near the doors and looked inside. The hangar was gigantic, even larger than it had looked from the outside. In the distance, a jet was being loaded with cargo. It was a large business jet, a Gulfstream, capable of international travel. Vanessa could see Highland’s car parked next to it. She was looking at the jet, scanning for the letters and numbers that made up the aircraft’s registration. The tail insignia of the jet was too far away for Vanessa to make out. Slowly, she edged herself closer, hiding behind barrels that were along the faraway wall.