As we were driving on the Ocean Parkway through Flatbush on our way to Midwood, Darya said, “These are ethnic Russians who lived in Kazakhstan. I don’t want to explain why an NYPD detective is with me. Don’t show your badge. I’ll try to speak in English, but if we speak Russian, just smile and nod.”
“Did you just tell me to be quiet and look pretty?” That got the laugh I intended.
“I hope that brain of yours is as sharp when we have to act quickly. I don’t have a great deal of faith in your FBI.”
“With an attitude like that you could be an American cop. We hate the FBI, too.”
“I’m not a cop.”
I didn’t know exactly what Darya was, but I didn’t get a chance to follow up, because we had arrived at our destination.
The first people we talked to were an elderly couple who lived on the first floor of a five-story walk-up. The man said virtually nothing but glared at me like I had stolen something from his bedroom. His giant, bald head reminded me of a pale watermelon.
The little knickknacks around the apartment could’ve been from any grandmother in the world. I liked a figurine of a burly man in a fur hat driving a wagon with an ox pulling it. It shouted “Russia.”
The woman was better dressed than the man and evidently took care of herself. She agreed to speak English with Darya, and while she had a thick accent, I could still understand her.
Darya told me in a low voice as we walked through the apartment that the man still had ties to Kazakhstan and Russia. That was one of the reasons she didn’t want to bring the FBI along with us. They just wouldn’t understand.
She was also afraid the FBI would use heavy-handed tactics and threaten these people with everything from arrest to deportation—and ruin any chance of getting useful information.
The woman said, “Living in Kazakhstan can be hard in the best of times. We went with a program to work as teachers at a school for Russian children. The climate is better than Moscow, but as we got older, it was still tough on our bodies. We had a chance to follow our oldest son here and have been quite happy for the past nine years.”
Darya said, “Do you talk to others in the Kazakh community?”
“Of course. Every day.”
I followed the conversation, but the woman’s accent was sometimes tough to understand. I liked the way Darya showed her respect as if she were a daughter visiting a grandmother. The old man just stared on in silence.
Finally, Darya got to the meat of our questions. “Have you heard anyone talk about the attack yesterday?”
“Some. Mostly people just repeating things from the news.”
I had considered this question and thought this would be a critical juncture in any interview. Do we reveal the fact that we think the driver was from Kazakhstan? It might make people pay attention.
Then Darya said, “We think the driver was a Kazakh.”
The old woman was shocked. “How can this be? The Kazakhs have no real hatred for the United States. Is this some ploy to ship us all out? Do they want us all to move back to our homelands? We live here, but we’ve never trusted the government.”
I said, “Neither do we. Governments try to trick people. But this isn’t one of those times.”
Then the old man mumbled something. I thought it was English.
I looked at him and said, “Did you say something, sir?”
The old man said it again and I heard it clearly: “Bullshit.”
Apparently, he spoke the essential English words.
Chapter 13
AFTER WE TALKED to several other Russian families with ties to Kazakhstan, I decided to track down a couple of my informants as well.
Darya said, “I don’t understand. If your informants are not Russian, what would they know about this?”
“These are the type of people that hear everything. Small things. Big things. We may get a tip about someone looking for a ride out of the city that could break open the case. The more ears we have listening the better chance we have to hear something.”
“But none are Russian?”
“These people aren’t Russian, but they’re criminals, and criminals often trade in information.”
Darya said, “If they’re criminals why aren’t they in jail?”
I had to shrug at that simple question. “Different reasons. Some are smart. Some are lucky. Some have good lawyers. You can’t tell me all the criminals in Moscow are locked up.”
“It depends on who is protecting them.”
I laughed. “Here in America, we don’t care who protects who. We just found it’s easier to let most criminals stay free. Keeps me in a job.”
I could tell my Russian guest didn’t agree with my flippant logic. I was curious to see how she reacted to some of my informants.
I added, “I also have some Russian mob people who occasionally help me. But these guys are easier to reach for now.”
The first place I stopped was a gambling house in Flatbush. It was close and not too dangerous. A good test for Darya.
The small storefront on Foster Avenue looked like a simple diner. Busy, but simple. Few people realized that when you ordered one of only five things on the menu, you also got access to a variety of gambling opportunities from football to soccer in Asia.
I heard someone call out, “Hey, Mike.” I smiled and waved at one of the gamblers I knew from somewhere. No one was alarmed to see me. They knew I was a homicide detective and this place was as safe as any in the city.
I ducked into a corridor past a heavy curtain. Darya followed right behind me. When we entered the rear room, a blond man with tattoos smearing his upper arms and neck jumped up in alarm until he recognized me.
He said, “Jesus, Mike, a little notice would be nice. You scared the crap out of me.” Then he took a moment and didn’t hide the fact that his eyes were wandering over Darya like she was a piece of meat for sale in the grocery store. He flashed a charming smile and said, “And who is this?”
Before I could say anything, Darya gave him a dazzling smile. Better than any I had earned. Maybe she was a softy for lowlife attention and cheap compliments.
My informant held out his hand and said, “Edward Lindell, at your service.” Then he winked at her.
Darya grasped his hand and put her left hand over both of them like it was a warm greeting. Then she twisted quickly, put him in an arm bar, and drove Lindell’s head into a table that held thousands of betting slips.
To make the point that she didn’t care for the attention, Darya ran Lindell’s head down the length of the table, using his face to push everything onto the floor.
Then she released her grip and watched him sprawl onto the dirty green linoleum floor that used to be part of the kitchen.
I suppressed a smile as I watched Ed Lindell get up on his hands and knees and shake his head to clear the stars.
“I think that was her way of saying she doesn’t have time for your shit.”
From the floor, Lindell said, “All she had to say was, ‘Cut the shit.’”
“Frankly, I like her way better. But we’re wasting time. We aren’t here to watch you get the shit kicked out of you by a pretty woman. We need you to put out feelers about anything unusual related to someone trying to get out of the city or trying to buy a gun or explosives.”
Lindell slowly rose to his feet and said, “This have to do with the bombing at the parade?”
“How did you know that?”
“Because I went to Penn State and I’m no idiot. That’s all anyone is interested in right now. What will it get me?”
The universal question by informants. I thought about it and said, “Depends on what you give us. But it’ll save you more lumps from this lady and you’ll be in my good graces for a very, very long time.”
Lindell said, “That and some toilet paper means I could take a shit.”
Still without looking or acknowledging him, Darya raised a closed fist and caught Lindell across the left side of his face, kn
ocking him against the wall and back onto the floor. She walked out without saying a word.
I nodded to Lindell on the floor and hustled out after Darya.
As we walked a block toward the car, she said, “You’re not upset that I assaulted that man?”
“He’s had worse. I’ve given him worse.”
Darya said, “You don’t want to know why I did it?”
“I assume you did it to hide the fact that you stole the 9 millimeter pistol he had sitting on the table.” I didn’t wait for an answer. I just held out my hand.
She slipped the gun out of her purse and laid it in my palm. “This is America. I’ll be able to find a gun if I need it.”
All signs pointed to her being a pretty good partner. I’d be able to work with her.
Chapter 14
THE NEXT MORNING everyone was in the task force meeting rooms early. Even some of the FBI agents seemed a little annoyed at all the planning and meetings we had gone through the day before. As far as I could tell, Darya and I were part of a handful that had actually gone out and done something. Not that we were telling anyone.
And of course, we started off the day with a stupid meeting. At least I thought it was stupid, until things got rolling.
Dan Santos went over some of the information they had learned the day before, including some of the forensic information from examining the destroyed truck.
Santos said, “There wasn’t a lot to grab from the truck—mainly chemical residue that will be used to track down the exact manufacturer of the explosive. The ATF did manage to lift a fingerprint off the inside of the steering wheel, so we put a rush on it to every agency and database in the country. No hits came back. But our esteemed colleague from the Russian Embassy”—he turned and opened his hand toward Darya, as if he were a ringmaster announcing an act—“has found the print in a Russian military database.”
Santos nodded to Darya, who stood up. She took a moment to gather her thoughts, as if she was trying to make the announcement more dramatic after the dull crime-scene analysis.
Darya said, “The fingerprint belongs to a thirty-one-year-old male named Temir Marat. His father was raised in Kazakhstan and his mother is an ethnic Russian. He spent his early years in Kazakhstan, then bounced back and forth between there and Russia.”
I noticed everyone taking furious notes, but I still hadn’t heard anything that would tell me where this asshole was.
Darya continued. “Marat served a stint in the Russian army, and that’s how we got his fingerprint on file. He has no history of extremism, but the FBI says that’s very common. There’s little else known about him.”
Someone from the back room called out, “Do we have a photograph of him?”
Darya shook her head. “It’s printing now. It’s five years old. It’s from an application to the Moscow police. There is an older photo from when he entered the army, but he is much younger and he has a buzz cut.”
I wrote one line in my little notebook. Applied to police. Why?
An Asian woman who worked for the FBI said, “I don’t think a history of extremist views is necessary anymore. The way some of these groups recruit leads many without previous violent histories to join. In fact, it’s a good move to recruit people not on any terrorist watch lists. This guy sounds like the perfect choice. Smart, unafraid of death, and able to blend in with the general population in the US. He could’ve been recruited from a website.”
An Army major in uniform said, “I can see recruiting people inside the US like that, but this was someone living in Russia or Kazakhstan. There were some serious expenses. This is a step above some of the spur-of-the-moment attacks ISIS has inspired.”
Dan Santos said, “It’s hard to tell exactly what happened until we catch this guy. Our intelligence indicates that shifting to using trucks and cars and simple attacks like this has a major effect on public opinion. Anytime a group uses the fear of something common to exploit terror, they’re eating away at our way of life. Berlin and Paris are perfect examples. There’ll be kids there in ten years that jump at the sight of a truck. It’s important that we move before this guy comes up with anything else to do.”
Darya said, “Russia has seen some of this. Several attacks using trucks that plow into crowds.”
When she sat down next to me I said, “I haven’t seen those attacks in Russia on the news.” This was a private conversation, not intended for the others.
“We don’t have a need for everything to be public. Perhaps your government should try that approach occasionally.”
I said, “Let’s not get into a conversation about whose government is more effective.”
“You’re right, of course.”
I said, “This wasn’t some kid trying to get famous. I agree with our colleague in the Army. This attack was organized and funded. It was too big to try and keep quiet in a free country. The US government generally makes information about attacks public. Even if keeping things secret works for Russia, it’s not the way we do things.”
Darya smiled and said, “I know Americans have a fixation with fame and publicity. You also have many more TV networks than Russia. But sometimes it’s better to handle things quietly and not cause a panic. I fear this is a lesson the US will have a chance to learn in the coming years.”
I hoped that wasn’t the case.
Chapter 15
DAN SANTOS SURPRISED me. As soon as our early morning briefing was done, he grabbed Darya and me and said, “I lined up some interviews we can do today.”
I withheld any smartass comment, because I wanted to encourage this kind of behavior.
Darya looked bored, but stood up and gathered her things.
Santos said, “Pretty exciting, huh? Your first interviews on a major terror investigation.”
I mumbled, “Yeah. Our first interviews. Exciting.” I could barely meet Darya’s eyes.
She had a wide grin, but Santos was too wrapped up in his own world to notice.
The first stop we made was in lower Manhattan near the NYU campus, a small deli on University Place. It was still early and the place was nearly empty.
I caught up to Dan, who was walking pretty fast from the car, and said, “Are you hungry? What would this deli have to offer us for the case?”
“It’s not the deli, but who’s working there.” He pulled a photograph of a young man with a dark complexion and short-cropped, black hair. “His name is Abdul Adair, he’s from the United Arab Emirates. He’s studying biology at NYU and works here part-time.”
“What led you to him?”
“What do you mean? He’s a Muslim, first of all. He attends virtually all of the Muslim student union meetings, and we have intel that he has acted suspiciously and taken a lot of photographs of New York.”
That response actually gave me more questions than answers, but I wanted to see how this would go. Santos had just described a college student who likes to sightsee.
We stepped in the doors and no one paid any attention to us, the sign of a good neighborhood. A couple of little kids chased the deli cat, and a young mother lazily followed them while chatting on her cell phone. The smell of the chicken cutlet hero the cook was wrapping up for a customer reminded me I had forgotten to eat breakfast. My stomach growled.
Santos stepped to the counter and asked about Abdul. A minute later, we were sitting at a small table in the corner, next to a refrigerator stocked with smoothies that cost seven bucks each.
The student from the UAE was twenty-one and small. He couldn’t have been over five foot five and 130 pounds, which made him look even younger. The kid was already trembling.
Santos spent a few minutes clarifying Abdul’s information. The whole process only seemed to make the young man more nervous. I scooted my chair back slightly because I didn’t want to be in the splash zone if he vomited.
Then Santos asked a series of questions. “Have you ever had contact with an organization that espouses jihad? Don’t lie. I’ll know if you’
re lying.”
The young man vigorously shook his head.
“Do you or any of your friends know anyone involved in a group like that?”
This time Abdul thought about it, then shook his head. He said, “I spend most of my time either studying or working here.”
Santos said, “What about the Muslim student union at NYU?”
“What about it? I go there to see my friends. Meet women.”
“And what do you plan to use your degree in biology for?”
“This coming summer I have an internship at an institute in San Francisco doing cancer research. That might be what I’m interested in long-term.” The young man seemed to be getting some confidence.
The FBI agent made notes, but didn’t invite Darya or me to say anything at all.
Now Santos moved on to our case. He pulled up our photograph of Temir Marat and said, “Know him?”
Abdul shook his head.
“Where were you on Thanksgiving morning?”
“Having breakfast with the family of one of my professors who lives in the Village.”
“We’ll need his name and address. Now.”
Santos pushed over a notebook for Abdul to write in. He made more notes and asked more questions, which Abdul answered quickly and clearly. Then the FBI man thanked him, but warned him not to leave the city. That was it. It felt more like a schoolyard bullying session than an interview. When Santos stood up and handed Abdul a card, I did the same thing. The only difference is, I smiled and winked at him when I gave him the card. He gave me a nervous smile and nod in return.
Then all three of us marched out of the deli.
Before we even got to the car, I had to say, “What the hell was that?”
“What was what?”
“Treating that kid like that! We have no reason to believe that he’s done anything wrong. Why are we wasting time scaring kids to death?”
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