The Intercept jf-1

by Dick Wolf

  Frankie’s eyebrows went up. He looked the other way, to Seventh Avenue, just in time to see another NYPD squad car pull across.

  No flashing lights. No sirens.

  Aw, shit, thought Frankie. There goes date night.

  The uniforms were out of their cars in seconds, trunks popping open, cops assembling sawhorse barriers and using them to further block off the street and the sidewalks. A New Yorker’s sense of self-preservation prompted Frankie to back into the big, tiled double doorway of International Garden, though he kept watching.

  From both ends of the block, men and women in khaki trousers and black Windbreakers fanned out along the sidewalks outside the shops. Definitely cops. And maybe FBI.

  Frankie quickly ducked inside his shop. “Pack it up!” he called. “Lock the tills. Some kind of roust going down.” He went and used his belt key to lock the cash registers himself, pulling out the big bills first, stuffing them deep into his pockets. “Cops all over the street.”

  Half the men and women working in the flower district, aside from the owners, were illegals of one sort or another. Clerks, cutters, gofers. Their biggest fear was an ICE raid. Immigration cops.

  Ernie went out first, pulling his cap from his back pocket and popping it onto his head, low over his eyes. Then Flacco, Marie and her daughter Jean, then the Asians from the tables in the back where they put together the bouquets and wreaths.

  Frankie hustled everybody out, including the store’s only customer, then tugged down on the rolling iron gates, snapping the locks into place. He pulled down the rear door of the loading truck, working the lock.

  Maybe she’d stay up late for him tonight, Frankie thought. In the meantime, he was worried about the flowers, hoping they stayed cool enough in the truck. This was his livelihood on the line.

  Frankie joined the exodus toward Seventh. There, the late afternoon traffic was further tied up by curiosity seekers.

  Something big was going on. He rounded the corner by the old fur factory building and spotted a blue-and-white police helicopter hovering high above the intersection. Not good, Frankie thought, weaving between the stuck taxicabs. Not good.

  Chapter 42

  Fisk saw the helicopter he had not requested. He punched in a phone number that patched him into the tactical radio channel. Strict communications discipline was in force. Nobody said anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary. He was waiting for a go from the police sniper team trying to get roof-ready across the street from the glass-front Hotel Indigo.

  The tactical arrest team consisted of three officers in full armor, armed with M16s and a bullhorn. The uniformed policemen on the bottlenecks listened in but did not speak. Their job was simple: shepherd as many civilians off the street as possible in case this thing went live.

  Fisk said, “Sky, this is Detective Jeremy Fisk with Intel. I need you back. Way back.” He squinted up at the Bell Jet Ranger helicopter as he spoke.

  “Uh, roger that,” came back the air cowboy’s voice. “Snipe team is installed and prepping.”

  “All units,” said Fisk. “Hold fast. We don’t know if we have an official snatch op or not. You are not hot. I repeat,” he said, raising his voice for emphasis, “you are not hot. If we are go, we want this guy in a chair, talking to us.”

  “Roger,” said the sniper pair and the arrest team. They repeated their orders. “We are not hot.”

  * * *

  Fisk entered the lobby alone through the front glass door. A young hipster in a plaid shirt and Converse sneakers sat on a bench to the right, facing the small reception desk, thumbing the touch screen of his smartphone. There was no bellman. A runway led to a neighboring restaurant, which was empty.

  Fisk had not called ahead first to check on Bin-Hezam’s reservation. He could not take a chance at warning anybody at the hotel, on the off chance they might be sympathetic to Bin-Hezam. That was the problem with the helicopter: it ruined any potential element of surprise.

  He crossed to the clerk, who was taking a phone reservation. Fisk waved to get his attention. The clerk failed to pick up on Fisk’s insistence, showing him one finger before returning to his keyboard.

  Fisk pulled out his shield and held it out for the clerk to see. The man looked at the badge with acute interest, not alarm, as though this were the first police badge he had ever seen close up. Only then did he look up at Fisk’s face.

  He said into the phone, “May I put you on hold for a moment?”

  He pressed the hold button on the phone and turned his full attention to Fisk.

  Fisk said, “I need to check your reservations.”

  “Okay. Yes, sir. What is the name?”

  Instead of giving him a name, Fisk pulled a scan of Baada Bin-Hezam’s passport photograph and ID page from his pocket and unfolded it in front of the clerk. “Recognize this face?” asked Fisk.

  “No, sir,” said the clerk. “But I came on at two o’clock.”

  “Okay, check the register for his name. Bin-Hezam could be under B or H. If the name isn’t there, then I want you to check cash customers. And if that doesn’t work, we’re going to have to close up your hotel and go room by room. There’s a chance he could be staying with another guest.”

  The clerk looked pained, as though he were the one in trouble. “Let me check here.”

  While he was doing so, his head lowered to within inches of his beneath-the-counter display screen, the lobby elevator dinged.

  Chapter 43

  Baada Bin-Hezam watched the numbers descend on the elevator digital display like a countdown while he prayed.

  Ten… nine… eight…

  “… and then get resurrected again and then get martyred and then get resurrected again…”

  Seven… six… five… four…

  “… and then get martyred and then get resurrected again…”

  He prayed to shut out all the other thoughts in his head.

  Into the jaws of the lion. Head high.

  He adjusted the strap of the messenger bag across his chest, jostling the butt of the pistol in his holster. This reminded him of the fat man, the Senegalese who tried to cheat him and whom he had had to release into eternity.

  Would he meet that man in the afterlife? Bin-Hezam did not think so.

  Three… two…

  Upstairs, in his penthouse suite, the helicopter had drawn his attention sooner than he was ready. He had hoped for a little more time to sort his thoughts. To prepare.

  But when he looked out and glimpsed men on the roof across the street, one of them carrying a long suitcase, he knew the time had come.

  They were there for him. It had all been foretold.

  His service was nearly complete. This was the last of his directives. The exit. The way out.

  The elevator stopped.

  One.

  The doors slid open. He immediately saw a young man sitting with a handheld device, scrolling through its contents. This man was no threat.

  Then he saw the man at the counter, who turned his head and looked at Bin-Hezam… and knew him. He knew him. The man’s eyes reacted though his face did not.

  This was Bin-Hezam’s confirmation that a policeman was already in the lobby.

  The policeman turned back to the desk clerk. Bin-Hezam started walking. His legs carried him out of the elevator toward the door, constant prayers running through his head. He passed within ten feet of the policeman, who faced away from him but, Bin-Hezam could tell, was hyperaware of his presence.

  The street appeared quiet and peaceful through the glass doors ahead. No traffic. No bellman. No taxis awaiting fares or cars idling at the curb.

  An innocent summer afternoon. Bin-Hezam laid his hand upon the cool glass door, pushing it open.

  Chapter 44

  Fisk had made Bin-Hezam instantly. It took everything he had to suppress his astonishment at seeing the Saudi walk directly into his path.

  Had he not seen the helicopter? Bin-Hezam did not run. Nor did he hesitate.
r />   Fisk did not like the bag of imitation leather across his back. No disguise, nothing in his hands.

  Fisk had made a split-second decision to turn back to the desk. He allowed the Saudi to pass. He wanted him outside the hotel. The arrest team was in position outside, the street was sealed. The desk clerk and the hipster guest behind him were directly in the line of fire if something happened inside the hotel.

  Fisk stared at the clerk, fearing he would look up at the exiting guest and point him out to Fisk as the man from the scanned photograph in front of him. The moments moved in slow motion, Fisk listening to the terrorist’s footsteps crossing the lobby behind him.

  Once the Saudi was past, Fisk glanced over his shoulder. He focused on the bag across the man’s back. Could be anything in there, starting with the handgun he had acquired from the murdered Senegalese. Bin-Hezam wore a jacket as well, enough to conceal a weapon.

  Fisk slid his phone out of his belt.

  The subject pushed open the door to the sidewalk.

  The door eased shut behind him, and Bin-Hezam was out on the sidewalk of the oddly quiet street.

  “This is him exiting,” said Fisk. “I repeat — mark is exiting.”

  The clerk looked up at him, puzzled. “Excuse me…?”

  “Get down on the floor now!” said Fisk. He turned and grabbed the hipster’s shoulder, throwing him down to the floor. “Down!”

  The hipster’s phone never left his ear as he looked up at Fisk with great offense. Into his phone he said, “Some asshole just shoved me to the floor.”

  “Stay down!” said Fisk, already rushing to the door.

  Chapter 45

  Baada Bin-Hezam walked out of the Hotel Indigo into late-day heat. He noticed instantly how quiet the canyon of West Twenty-eighth Street was.

  Silence in the valley. He savored it.

  All for him.

  Racked plants and flowers stood along on the sidewalks, but the vendors were all gone. Hose water trickled into the gutter.

  Bin-Hezam muttered a prayer of gratitude at that moment, only his lips moving.

  Then he sensed another body moving through the glass door behind him.

  “Bin-Hezam!”

  They knew his name. The voice behind him — surprisingly, given what Bin-Hezam had seen of his face inside the hotel lobby — yelled at him in Arabic, ordering him to lie facedown upon the burning sidewalk.

  Joy flowered in Bin-Hezam. He stepped off the curb and stopped.

  There, across the street to his left, in an alcove in the front of one of the shops, appeared two men in black jackets and helmets. And from behind a parked car to his right. Rising like spirits, greeting him.

  He heard the policeman’s voice again behind him, instructing him to lie down before them. Yelling at him now. Commanding him.

  Bin-Hezam raised both of his arms in the universal gesture of surrender.

  The man behind the car straightened, aiming a large automatic weapon at Bin-Hezam. The two from the alcove slowly advanced.

  Bin-Hezam recited his prayer. He knew he would be forgiven for standing.

  Chapter 46

  Fisk saw Bin-Hezam’s arms go high, the messenger bag shrugging up his back. He had stopped and surrendered, but he had not begun to lie down.

  “There is no god but Allah,” said Bin-Hezam. Not a yell, just a statement. An assertion.

  Fisk repeated his orders. The crouching black-armored tac team cops moved a few more shuffle steps toward the opposite curb, their footsteps like drumbeats on the pavement.

  “Get down!” Fisk yelled, this time in English.

  “Mohammed is His prophet!” called Bin-Hezam, now yelling in reply. Fisk didn’t like this.

  Bin-Hezam was lowering his hands. Fisk instinctively started toward him from behind.

  In a single motion, Bin-Hezam lifted the messenger bag off his shoulder and reached across his chest. He drew something from within his jacket under his left arm. Fisk saw it was shiny, nickel-plated.

  Fisk yelled, “No!”—both at Bin-Hezam and the tac cops.

  Bin-Hezam pointed the weapon first at the cop coming from behind the car. He squeezed the trigger, the handgun leaping in his hand.

  He barely got off a second shot before a single 7.62 full-metal-jacket, boat-tail sniper bullet exploded in his brain.

  Concurrently, the other tac cop had opened up on the Saudi. The twin impacts drove Bin-Hezam back and down against the sidewalk, collapsing him in a quivering heap. He resembled a pile of rags more than a human being.

  What was left of Bin-Hezam’s life flowed from the gaping wound in the back of his head, his blood joining the water trickling in the gutter, turning it crimson.

  The messenger bag, having jumped from his hand, lay a few feet away.

  Fisk stood stunned. Only later did it occur to him that he had unwisely been standing opposite the tac teams’ lines of fire. Had they missed Bin-Hezam by just a few inches to the right — unlikely at close range, but possible — Fisk too would have gone down on the pavement in a bloody heap.

  As it was, Fisk walked to Bin-Hezam, standing over the dead terrorist. They would get no further information from him. Bin-Hezam had wanted to die. The only consolation was that he never would have consented to be taken alive.

  The helicopter reappeared overhead. The tac agents joined Fisk at the curb. They looked down at the Saudi, whose eyes were beyond seeing.

  Part 7:

  Double-Speak

  Chapter 47

  The cab crawled uptown on Sixth Avenue in the thick of early evening traffic.

  It hit every light because of the snarl of pedestrians crossing against them on this late Saturday afternoon. The driver had the radio on, 1010 WINS New York. All talk. Traffic on the ones.

  The announcer cut in with breaking news. A police barricade in Chelsea had resulted in a shooting. Early reports indicated that it was an antiterrorist operation, but it was unclear at that time whether they were reacting to a confirmed threat or the actions of an unbalanced individual. The announcer issued a traffic alert for the area around Twenty-eighth Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues.

  “This heat make people crazy,” mumbled the driver.

  In the backseat, Aminah bint Mohammed felt herself regressing into Kathleen Burnett. As completely as she had pledged her word and life to Allah, her meager training had not prepared her for this.

  The man she had met that afternoon had died. He had been martyred on the field of battle — this she knew. Baada Bin-Hezam had known he was walking into death. She realized that now. He went bravely. He went unquestioningly.

  As she must now.

  This was how she had come to work in the emergency room. Nursing the sick and dying. So much like what she was doing now: saving the world from godlessness and the torture of innocents.

  For some time, she had passionately tended her secret life as an Islamic jihadist. That had been enough to soothe her insecurities and fears. But the bottle in which she contained herself cracked now as she understood that she had left a man to walk to his death.

  She was his last human contact. She carried the things he provided in the bag he had given her. She was acting for him now.

  He had accepted his death. He had passed along his strength to her with the bag and the assignment. She was, as she had never seen herself before, a sacred messenger.

  Sacred, yet still scared.

  The cab turned right onto one of the larger east-west thoroughfares, then left on Madison Avenue for the run up to the park. She had given the driver the Metropolitan Museum of Art as her destination. The museum was a short walk from the fenced hundred-acre pond officially known as the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir.

  Aminah glanced at the red LED digits of the clock on the cab’s meter, then her eyes fell to the driver’s ID placard below. Aaqib bin Mohammed. “Follower Son of Mohammed.”

  In the mirror, she saw the eyes of a fiftyish man whose face had seen sorrow and grief. His eyes flic
ked up into the mirror and noticed hers staring at him. She wondered what he saw in his passenger. One of those typical New York white women slipping uncomfortably into middle age. Unaware of the simple privileges of birth and geography.

  “Can I help you, miss?” he asked. “You are crying?”

  Aminah had not been aware of this. She swept away the tears rolling down her cheeks. “No… I’m fine. Really.” She played at looking out the window. So many people, so many buildings and doors. So much life. “Maybe… maybe you can help me. You are a Muslim?”

  He glanced at her again, this time with suspicion. “I am, miss. As much as I can be, which is not much these days. It is worse now that everyone mistrusts us. But I… I have lost my faith in the heat of its violence.”

  Aminah felt cold. “The world is violent,” Aminah said, reciting one of the most primitive truths. “Is it not?”

  “It is. But I remember a time when religion brought us peace without violence. It is so much easier not to believe now. Easier and saner. So I close these windows and I drive.” He laughed, a tired smoker’s hack all too familiar to Aminah from her nursing days.

  “You should have your lungs checked,” she told him.

  “Yes.” He honked twice at a slow passenger vehicle in front of him. “Yes, I know.” He glanced back at her again. “You would be surprised how many people cry in taxis. Very surprised. But no one worries about my cough, until you. No one cares.”

  “Then, may I ask you one more question?” She struggled to get this out. “If you have lost your faith, as you say, then have you also lost God?”

  “I have not lost God, miss. What I have lost is the idea that I can ever know what God is. That is why religion has become a curse on the earth. Nobody can know. But everybody presumes. Many are willing to kill without knowing. Without even thinking.”