by Dick Wolf
“Politikar,” said Jenssen, once inside the lift.
“What is that, a curse word?” said Maggie, smiling.
“It is…” said Jenssen, with what seemed to be a struggle to remain polite, staring at the closed doors, his eyes low. “It means ‘politician.’ ”
Chapter 38
Aminah bint Mohammed did not know what to expect, what to say, what to think. Normally she faced stressful situations by rehearsing her emotions ahead of time, in order to keep them under control, but here she had no idea what she was walking into.
Everything would have been easier for her had she been able to visualize the midafternoon cab ride, crawling slowly across the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan, the lurching, horn-blaring rush uptown on Sixth Avenue, and finally the loop around the block onto Twenty-eighth Street heading east. As it was, the ride seemed like a haphazard meander, leaving her anxious and confused.
She paid the driver cash. She nodded awkwardly at the bellhop who opened the glass door for her. She hesitated a moment while passing the Hotel Indigo desk clerk, wondering if she needed to say anything or if they would let her walk right onto the elevators. The clerk looked up, smiled, and turned away. Aminah continued through the open elevator doors, turning, avoided the bellhop’s gaze as she waited — for what seemed like an eternity — for the doors to close. Once they did, she exhaled and prayed.
She was carrying a pound of high explosives in her Macy’s shopping bag.
The hallway on the penthouse floor was surprisingly short. Aminah pressed the buzzer next to the door labeled A — and the door opened immediately.
She was met by a Saudi Arabian with handsome features offset by a nickel-size mole on the left edge of his jaw. His black eyes judged her.
For his part, Baada Bin-Hezam, when he first saw the red-faced, stocky woman, thought for an instant that she was the hotel maid. Then he saw the shopping bag in her hand. She was not what he imagined when he was informed that he would be contacting a sleeper agent in the United States. This American woman held very little intrigue.
There were no passwords for this meeting. Bin-Hezam stepped aside so that she could enter, then closed the door, locking it behind her.
Aminah walked a few paces forward, then stopped. She had not been alone in a room with a man for a long time. She felt even more uncomfortable because of the way she was dressed. Compared to her usual attire, even the most modest of Western clothes drew attention to the feminine figure.
She glanced at his face again and saw that his thick-lidded eyes were downcast, avoiding her face and her body out of respect. This was a source of relief to her.
“Assalamu alaikum,” he said.
She did not know whether to continue into the main room or await instructions. “Walaikum assalam,” she said.
“Please,” Bin-Hezam said, stepping into the room. He reached out his hand to take the shopping bag from her. Then he introduced himself formally. “I am Baada Bin-Hezam.”
“I am Aminah bint Mohammed. Please forgive my presence, and…” She did not know how else to say it. She knew he had been expecting a man. She had heard it in his voice on the telephone. She wanted somehow to apologize, not for her gender, but for the awkwardness posed by her presence.
He moved around her into the sitting room. The room assaulted Aminah’s eyes with its insistent decor even in the dimness of the light from a single floor lamp and the overhead globe in the entry hall. The drapes were closed, a bright sliver of afternoon sun slashing into the room through the narrow gap where they did not quite meet.
It was indeed a setting for illicit behavior, though not of the kind normally associated with hotel rooms.
On a small, round dining table, she saw two black messenger bags, a large plastic bag of folded white gauze, a small blue box, a curled sheet of plastic, and some things that looked electronic. Through the open door into another room, she saw a bed on which the jacket and trousers of a coffee-brown suit and a folded white shirt were neatly laid out as though in a vestry.
“Sit,” said Bin-Hezam, motioning Aminah to one of two purple horseshoe chairs. He removed the sweater from the shopping bag and set it aside, carefully taking out the twin plastic-wrapped loaves of explosives and placing them on the tabletop.
With the tenderness of a man unwrapping a swaddled newborn, he opened one of them. He touched it to test its consistency. It held the impression of his finger when he pushed down. The fresh explosive was as malleable as plumber’s putty.
“Yes, you have done well,” Bin-Hezam said to Aminah.
Her spirit lifted. “I followed instructions. It is good?”
“Very good.”
She wanted only to be useful. God had seen fit that she should be adequate to the challenge today. This feeling would raise her up and carry her through the rest of the day.
He studied the fingerprint impression he had left in the explosive. Each half-pound loaf was powerful enough to turn a three-bedroom suburban house into a pile of splinters. The blast would kill anyone within a radius of fifty yards and maim out to a hundred yards. Ignited in an open field, it would yield a crater thirty feet in diameter and ten feet deep.
Bin-Hezam gingerly rewrapped the loaf with his fingerprint on it, sliding it into one of the black messenger bags, which he then set apart from the rest of the items on the table.
He put the other slab carefully into the second messenger bag, followed by the gallon-size bag of white gauze, a box of cotton, the plastic sheeting, the model rocket fuel pellets, and the electronic ignition components. Bin-Hezam hefted the bag gently to let everything settle, then checked the interior again to confirm that he had packed it well enough to prevent accidental explosion. Unlikely, but possible. All told, the messenger bag with its contents weighed about five pounds.
“This is for you,” he told her.
She was surprised to carry only one. But she did not question his command.
“These things I give you are very important. You have provided the most critical element of all.”
Bin-Hezam took a breath. His most crucial task was the instructions he was about to give her. Everything hinged on this American woman now.
“You will take this bag by taxicab to the East Eighty-fifth Street entrance of the Central Park. From there, you will walk into the park to the south end of the reservoir. There you will find a granite pump house. You will wait outside until you are greeted. Is that clear? Until you are greeted.”
“Will it be a man?” she asked.
Bin-Hezam hesitated before answering. “It is best that you do not know.”
“How will I know it is… the person?”
“They will find you there and summon you. You will know them the way you would know Allah. And then you will follow their instructions. You may have to wait some time for the meeting. Maybe hours. You will be patient?”
Aminah nodded sincerely.
“Perhaps you should bring a book — a Western book — in order to appear leisurely and occupied. Your contact will have very little time, so it is critical that you are available.”
Aminah felt certain it was to be a man. She believed that Bin-Hezam would have told her if it was a woman, knowing that it would have a calming effect on her.
“First a hotel room, then a rendezvous in the park,” she said. “After years of strict observance, I am disobedient at the end.”
She was making a joke, but also telling the truth. For the first time since the door opened she looked directly into Bin-Hezam’s eyes.
He nodded paternally. He accepted her. That much was enough.
He said, “You have never been more observant than you are today.”
“Please forgive me, but… can you tell me what it is we will achieve?” she asked.
“This is a perfect plan because none of us except for the last person knows what is to come.”
Aminah nodded, then lowered her head. “Insha’Allah,” she said.
Bin-Hezam said, “There is no
reason for you to delay.”
“I have one request,” she said, her heart starting to race.
Bin-Hezam looked at her doubtfully. “What is it?”
“May we pray together before I go? Is it allowed in the same room?”
Bin-Hezam appeared warmed by this display of devotion. “It is allowed.” He stretched out his arm, pointing to indicate the east. “You must kneel behind me, that is all.”
He left the room, returning a moment later with his prayer rug and a bath mat for Aminah. Together, they moved two chairs aside to give them room.
“Do you know the passage?” Aminah said.
“I memorized it as a boy,” Bin-Hezam answered. “As a child, when this great day was only a dream.”
“I am grateful to you, Baada Bin-Hezam,” she said. Aminah closed her eyes and waited for God to flow into her as Bin-Hezam prayed aloud.
“Think not of those who are slain in Allah’s way as dead,” he intoned in a soft, lilting Arabic that was almost a song, his hands open to heaven, his eyes closed. “Nay, they live, finding their sustenance in the presence of their Lord. They rejoice in the bounty provided by Allah. By Him in whose hands my life is! I would love to be martyred in Allah’s cause and then get resurrected and then get martyred, and then get resurrected again and then get martyred and then get resurrected again and then get martyred.”
When Bin-Hezam stopped speaking, both of them pressed their heads to the floor. Aminah’s cheeks were wet with tears. It was beautiful.
Separately, and yet together, they said their private prayers, pleading for strength and courage.
Chapter 39
Bin-Hezam stood for many moments after she left, listening for the elevator ding and the doors to open and close, then sat deeply in one of the purple chairs. He remained still for several minutes, praying silently now. He was grateful for having reached this point in the mission.
The woman Aminah bint Mohammed appeared capable. He reviewed his steps many times, making certain that he had fulfilled each one and in doing so had left nothing lacking, or to chance.
Bin-Hezam stood and walked to the closet. He entered the month and year of the prophet Mohammed’s birth into the keypad of the room safe. He removed the nickel-plated pistol and the shoulder holster, and unloaded and reloaded the handgun.
In the bedroom of the suite, Bin-Hezam laid the holster and pistol upon the bed. He stripped to his white briefs and T-shirt, unfolding the freshly laundered white shirt and slipping into it, enjoying the sensation of clean, crisp cotton against his skin.
Next the trousers. He recalled packing them in Stockholm, and the anticipation of boarding the plane three days ago. He clasped the belt at his waist and smiled to himself. Everything becoming totems now.
He began to recite the prayer aloud, his own voice a soothing accompaniment to the schripp of Velcro as he arranged the straps of the holster to fit his back and shoulder.
“Think not of those who are slain in Allah’s way as dead.”
The holster fit perfectly with the butt of the gun on his left flank just below his rib cage. To draw it, he had only to reach across his body, slide his hand under the suit coat, and tug it free.
Free.
“I would love to be martyred in Allah’s cause and then get resurrected and then get martyred…”
Bin-Hezam lifted the dark brown suit coat from its place on the bedcover, feeling the back straps of the holster tight against him as he slipped it on. He turned to face the mirror over the vanity across from the bed.
Perfect, he thought.
He retrieved his cell phone. He was dismayed at first when he opened the desk drawers and found them all empty — but then discovered the New York phone directories stacked on the top shelf of the closet.
He opened to the middle of the book and flipped pages until he found a listing for Saudi Arabian Airlines. He placed a call to their office on Kew Gardens Road in Kew Gardens, Queens, and inquired about the next available flight departing for Saudi Arabia.
He conversed with them in Arabic. He mentioned that he would be paying cash.
The man on the other end of the line read him the flight number and details, but Bin-Hezam did not bother to write them down. He hung up once the call was completed, and then set his cell phone down on the ledge by the high window.
Chapter 40
Fisk shot back over to Intel, lighting up his grille flashers and siren at red lights to get there faster. At his desk, he was looking over an array of Bin-Hezam photos showing his face from various angles when his computer chimed with a programmed alarm for the Joint Terrorism Task Force e-mail network.
It was an encrypted message, an incident number and instructions to call the JTTF liaison at NSA. Fisk dialed on a secure Intel landline.
The voice on the other end asked for his name, then his incident number.
“We just got a good hit on cell line Arabic per your request, Detective Fisk.”
“I’m listening.”
“So are we,” said the NSA agent. “Call went out of mid-Manhattan to Saudi Arabian Airlines in Queens. We’re tracing the originating end now.”
“The airline? What flagged it?”
“The voice asked for flight information and wants to pay cash.”
Fisk nodded. “A flight tonight?”
“From JFK. In five hours.”
“How long ago?”
“About four minutes ago. That’s why we haven’t traced the source yet.”
“Male voice, I’m assuming?”
“That is correct.”
“Can I hear it?”
“Not over the phone. I can e-mail you the voice file, but it is in Arabic.”
“Yes. Not a problem. Send it immediately, please.”
Fisk hung up and waited. An e-mail from an unknown source landed in his spam file. He opened it. The audio file was attached.
Fisk clicked play and the telephone conversation played out of his speakers. He slapped in his headphone jack in order to concentrate.
They had no comparison voice impression from Bin-Hezam. It could have been him. If so, why was he planning to fly out as soon as possible? Because his work here was finished? Or because he had gotten spooked and needed to flee?
Fisk’s secure line rang. He pulled down his headphones to answer it.
“Detective Fisk?”
It was the same NSA agent. “How’d you get this numb… never mind.”
“If you could give me that incident number again.”
Fisk found it in his e-mail and repeated it.
“I have a twenty on the other end of that call. The location it was placed from is the middle of the block on the north side of West Twenty-eighth Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues. GPS zeroes it at the Hotel Indigo.”
Fisk did not know the hotel, but he knew the block. Flower shops.
“Don’t suppose you have a room number for me?” said Fisk.
“Ha,” said the NSA agent. Not a laugh, but the actual word. “Good luck, Detective.”
Fisk rushed into Dubin’s office to brief him. Dubin scrambled an interdiction team in full extraction armor. There was no discussion about getting a warrant first.
“I’m going with,” said Fisk. “That way if something breaks on the photo front, we’re already on the island.”
Chapter 41
The heat wave was doing a real number on Frankie D’Aquila’s business. July was usually a slow month — Independence Day was not known as a “flower” holiday — but he had multiple large orders due to be delivered to One World Trade Center that evening, and the heat was just one of many obstacles in his way. They were shutting down the security ring at midnight, but he did not want to risk getting tangled up in fireworks traffic, so he had to find a way to get his blooms down to Battery Park, and another way to keep them from wilting overnight.
He was renting coolers all over town. He even got his hands on two misters like the type they use out in the Midwest. He’d brought on
extra staff to help him load and transport.
Frankie had earned his smoke. He stepped out onto the sidewalk and snapped his Zippo, firing up an American Spirit Light. This was only number five of the day — no, he realized, counting the cigarettes left in his pack, six — since he came to work at five thirty that morning. Not bad. His wife would be pleased, if she believed him. Saturday night was normally their date night. Best night of the week. He hoped to be home in time to catch the fireworks show on TV.
Almost quitting time for everyone else on Twenty-eighth. Except the Spanish guys who stayed open until eight. Frankie exhaled the first luscious drag over the sidewalk rows of cat palms and dwarf bamboo partially obscuring his view of the street. He noticed most of the other vendors had been backing away from trees. Too much dead loss, too much work to display. They were using their sidewalk real estate for tourist color, the big bunches of Alstroemeria lilies, roses, and mums that gave the district what was left of its visual charm. Frankie was always ahead of the season. A July Fourth heat wave, and he was thinking about fall houseplants and ornamentals.
Frankie reached out and plucked a dry brown frond from one of the palms, tossing it into the gutter. Across the street, the guys at the silk flower shop were already outside furling their awning. Frankie envied them on days like these because they weren’t slaves to living plants. And he would never admit it to a customer, but he couldn’t believe how beautiful some of the false flowers and fruits were these days. Some even with the fake fragrance. Just like the real thing, until you got close enough to feel them. The human touch always knows a dead thing from a living thing.
Frankie finished his smoke with one last deep drag. He was field stripping the cigarette butt when he saw a blue-and-white squad car pull across the intersection of West Twenty-eighth and Sixth Avenue and stop there, sealing off one end of the block.