He searched the rest of the papers for letters. He giddily cut out the letters he needed, heedless of the slices the box cutter carved into the floor. He would not have cared had he noticed the damage.
Ibrihim chose only large upper case letters from headlines. His message must be clear, even if it was a lie. The state department would think it was true. They would be convinced by the two explosions during the morning rush hour. They had no way of knowing that they were the only two bombs. His heroes would be released.
He laid out his message on the New York Post centerfold.
GOOD MORNING AMERICA
BOOM BOOM
2 BOMBS SO FAR
2 SURPRISES FOR AMERICA
MORE BOMS PLANTED ON TRAINS AND BUSES
FREE SHEIK RAHMAN
FREE RAMZI YOUSEF
FREE SHEIK YASSIN
OR MORE SURPRISES FOR AMERICA
GOOD EVENING AMERICA
BOOM BOOM
Perfect.
What should he paste it on? He sprung up and immediately plopped back down on his butt. His right hamstring down to his big toe had become numb.
He massaged his leg as he dragged it across the room to the kitchenette. Opening and slamming cupboard doors, he searched for a large piece of paper, a restaurant menu, or advertisement flyer. Something poster size would work best.
He looked at the wall across the room, at the poster of Sheik Rahman. That would be perfect. But no, he couldn’t, could he? Dare he? What a message that would send!
He pasted the letters onto the backside of Sheik Rahman’s poster, careful not to sacrilege his image. Once the glue dried he will fold it to fit in the envelope without fear of any letters sticking together.
He pulled a manila mailing envelope from his pocket. He unfolded it and wrote the State Department’s address on it in his own handwritting. He was more worried that the letter would not get delivered if the post office saw pasted newspaper letters on the envelope than he was about getting caught. He will be in paradise before the letter was even opened.
Ibrihim stuck four stamps on the envelope. He knelt on the floor and blew on the poster. Anxious for the glue to dry. A mailbox and it would be done.
Chapter 17
On Tuesday morning Carson awoke without the blaring of an alarm clock. He showered and dressed. To quiet his growling stomach, he walked to the Atlantic Avenue Diner.
After indulging in an egg breakfast, he strolled along Fourth Avenue to his apartment. When he neared his block, he could see the telephone kiosk in front of Nelley’s Grocery. Ibrihim was on the phone again. No surprise there.
Just as Carson crossed President Street, Ibrihim hung up the phone and dashed into the apartment building.
Great. The phone was free. He could jot down the telephone number for Carmella.
He lifted the receiver and groaned. The space above the faceplate, in the narrow slot where the telephone number should be, was empty. Carmella will not be able to discover if Ibrihim has been in contact with terrorists. Not until it was too late, anyway.
During the tail end of his drug dealing days in Bed-Sty, Carson remembered the telephone company had stopped displaying telephone numbers on public pay phones. The police department had teamed up with the telephone company to reduce narcotics activity. Taking away the drug dealer’s easy access to a telephone put a huge dent in his trade by making it difficult for his customers to reach him.
Carson hung his head as he said goodbye to his nice relaxing day. He had to find another way to ascertain if Ibrihim and his roommates were involved in terrorist activities. Maybe he could come up with another excuse to get inside their apartment so he could see what Khali was doing with all those electronic components and electrical wires.
Since he still had the receiver in his hand, he jostled the cradle and dialed Carmella’s cell number. Maybe she dug up something that would shed some light.
He leaned against the Plexiglas and waited for her to pick up. He barely noticed the graffiti on the Plexiglas but when he saw the grime and slime, he jolted straight up, brushing his shoulder.
Carmella answered on the second ring. “What’s up?”
“I cannot get the number for the payphone. The number is not printed on the faceplate. Since I am calling from it now, can you get it through caller ID?”
As he waited for her to reply, he stared at the black markings on the Plexiglas, earlier dismissed as graffiti. He could not believe what he was seeing. The black markings were a bunch of numbers. Was it the number to the phone, scrolled there by Ibrihim or another frequent user?
“Hey, Carmella, wait a sec. I think I have the number after all.” Carson gave Carmella the number and asked her to call him back.
As Carson waited for the phone to ring, he tapped impatiently on the shelf below the phone. His hand brushed against a newspaper and it fell to the sidewalk. Carson reached down and picked up what he mistook for a newspaper. It was a city bus map. It was folded over to the Borough Park section of Brooklyn, displaying the B16 bus route.
A thick black line circled the bus stops along Thirteenth Avenue and New Utrecht Avenue. Carson was searching the map to see if the B16 bus stopped nearby and the phone rang.
“Hello” he said, expecting to hear Carmella’s voice.
But he was surprised by a man speaking in Arabic. He made out the name Ibrihim, but every other word was unrecognizable.
When Carson asked the caller if he spoke English, the male caller muttered in broken English, and disconnected the call.
As soon as Carson cradled the receiver, the phone rang again. This time it was Carmella. He told her about the strange call.
“Yes, a phone dump will be vital in determining whether Ibrihim has terrorist ties,” she said.
She filled Carson in on the little that she learned about Ibrihim and Khali. “Do you know the names of the other roommates?”
When he told her their names were Ahmed and Abdul, she groaned. “Damn. Those names are so common. In the absence of specific pedigree, it will be impossible to discern accurate information on them.”
“That’s all I know about them,” Carson said.
“Well, I’ll start the dump right away and see what turns up. It may provide more info on Ahmed and Abdul, which may aid in identifying them,” Carmella said, undeterred.
“Sounds good,” Carson said. “I‘ll try to get another look inside the apartment.”
Carmella sighed. “Be careful. Let’s talk again tomorrow.”
“Okay,” he said, but before hanging up, Carson could not resist a little zinger. The Yankees were having a great season and the Mets were sucking wind. He had to rub it in. “How about those Mets?”
Carmella said, “Hey, the season is not over. We still have a chance.”
When Carson did not respond she added, “See, you know the Mets will come back.”
Silence.
“You do not even know what to say.”
Carson did not reply. Carmella began to worry. “Hey, are you there?”
Silence.
She grabbed her desk phone to dial the Division 11 dispatcher. She was about to send an unmarked police car to Fourth Avenue to check on Carson when he spoke, “Janice, I am sorry I missed Johnny’s birthday party. I had to work. Tell him I will visit next weekend. I promise.”
Janice! Carson was using her cover name. His cover was in risk of being blown.
“Do you need help? Should I send a sector car?” she whispered.
“No, absolutely not.”
“Are you sure?”
“Janice, tell Johnny I am sorry.” Carson hung up.
Carmella reluctantly put down her desk phone.
Chapter 18
Carson pretended the nudge on his back came as a surprise. He swung around from the phone and faced Ibrihim. “What the heck?”
Ibrihim was breathless and pointed at the bus map in Carson’s hand. “That is mine. May I have it?”
“Of course, I found it here un
der the phone. I was just about to throw it out.” Carson handed the map to Ibrihim.
Ibrihim grabbed the map and sprinted across Fourth Avenue.
Although the morning rush hour was dwindling down, there remained a steady stream of cars heading into Manhattan. Ibrihim almost got clipped by one. He did not seem to notice and continued running towards the mailbox on the other side of the street.
Carson waited for Ibrihim to cross back to their side of the Avenue. “What is so important in that letter that you risked becoming road pizza to mail it?”
Ibrihim hissed. “I will not die until it is my time, as Allah wills.”
“So Allah willed you to mail a letter at the peril of your life,” snipped Carson.
“Actually, the letter is a message from Allah.”
As they walked into their building Carson asked, “What kind of message?”
Climbing the stairs, Ibrihim said, “Allah has two surprises for America and the letter explains them.”
Carson gave Ibrihim a puzzled look. “What are you talking about? What surprises?”
Ibrihim grabbed Carson’s shoulders with both hands, looked him in the eye. “It will soon be clear.”
Carson shrugged his shoulders, forcing Ibrihim to release his grip.
Ibrihim unlocked his door and disappeared into his apartment. Before the door closed, Carson asked, “Those bus maps are hard to figure out. Do you need directions to Boro Park?”
Carson peeked over Ibrihim’s shoulder and studied the narrow view of the apartment that lay beyond the door.
“Thank you, but no. It is all planned.” Ibrihim smiled and closed the door.
Carson entered his studio apartment, sat on the bed and closed his eyes. Think Richie, think. What did you just see? He pictured all he saw during his brief glimpse into Ibrihim’s apartment a few seconds ago. He saw the wall that was previously devoted to Sheik Rahman’s portrait. There was a subway map there instead of the portrait.
Near Khali’s toolbox, lay scraps of electric wire. The previously pristine hardwood floor was now marked with fresh scratches. Crumpled duct tape was strewn on the floor, next to two black duffle bags. As hard as Carson tried, he could recall nothing further. Only a few seconds passed before Ibrihim closed the door.
Carson pictured the subway map posted on the wall, right where a picture of an icon of the radical Islamic terrorist movement once was– under a spotlight. It worried him that the subway map was given such importance.
Also, the bus map was clearly important to Ibrihim. So much so that he rushed back to the phone and nearly knocked Carson down to retrieve it. The bus map had circles drawn around the Boro Park section of Brooklyn. Did the subway map have markings on it, as well? He did not discern any. But that does not mean there were none; just that he could not see them from his vantage point.
An attack was imminent. Ibrihim said he had two surprises for America. That means two targets have been chosen. One was in Borough Park and the other somewhere on the subway.
But, were the explosives ready? Clearly, Khali has been busy working with wires in the apartment. Has he completed the detonation devices?
Two targets, two bombs. Two suicide-bombers. Ibrihim must be a suicide bomber. He practically admitted it on the stair landing earlier. But who was the second bomber? Khali, Ahmed or the new arrival, Abdul?
Carson’s head was spinning like a kid’s toy top. He had to figure it out, and quick.
Chapter 19
As soon as Carmella hung up the phone with Carson she started the dump on the pay phone. She retrieved all calls made from the phone for the past two weeks. It was a public phone, so she was not slowed down by a warrant.
Carmella spent the whole day reviewing the numbers called with Desert Oasis and Cheap Call calling cards. Her job was easier than expected because most of the calls made at the phone were paid for the old-fashioned way- with quarters. Few calling cards were used. The cards used were the ones favored by Ibrihim.
She could not prove that Ibrihim made the calls, but she could prove which calls were made with which cards. At this point, Carmella was not concerned about building a court case against Ibrihim. Her sole intention was to avoid a terrorist attack.
She identified each card by its pin number and matched up the calls made with the same pin number. She entered each number called on a spreadsheet. Then she sorted the phone numbers by numerical order. This way, she could see numbers that were called multiple times. She would focus on them, first.
The number called most often was an international number. She entered the number into a website for international numbers. It originated in Lahore, Pakistan. After entering the second most called number into the website, she found it originated in a town in Palestine. The third most called number was a domestic number. A reverse lookup located the subscriber. She read the street address: 23 Islamville Way, Holy Islamville, South Carolina.
Islamville Way! She bit her lower lip. Another Impoverished encampment?
No time to check into that now. She spent the next hour matching the numbers Ibrihim called to their locations. Her mind was so deeply buried in her task that she did not hear the cell phone ring. Not until Matt screamed at her to answer it.
It was Carson, of course. He relayed his encounter with Ibrihim and the peek into their apartment.
“Ibrihim is plotting to set off two bombs somewhere on the subway,” he said. “He plans to be a suicide bomber. I am sure of it. But which of his three roommates will explode the second bomb, is anyone’s guess. I do not know the timetable, but a good guess is within a day or two.” She could her him catching his breath. “I’ll call as soon as I know more.”
“Be careful, Rich.” She snapped the phone closed.
Carmella’s hand shook as she lifted her desk telephone receiver to call Arthur Henderson. She took a deep breath and counted to three. Her hand steadied. She called Matt over to her cubicle, wanting him to know what was happening without wasting time repeating it. He would listen the same time she filled Henderson in on the looming threat of bombings.
After she relayed everything to Henderson, he placed her on hold to check the Pakistani and Palestine telephone numbers Ibrihim called most often.
Henderson came back on the line. “Carmella, you will not believe who the Pakistani telephone number is registered to.” She heard him exhale. “Sheikh Gilani.”
Just as Carmella hung up the phone with Henderson, Roy came over with some news. A record in the New York City Court System Database shows Ibrihim was caught turnstile jumping on Monday, July 28th – yesterday!
Roy had just hung up the phone with the transit cop that wrote the summons. The transit cop said when he informed Ibrihim of his return to court date on August 16th he ranted about the Jihad and smiled freakishly. He released Ibrihim after confirming his identity, just as procedure mandated, but he felt uneasy about letting him go.
Carmella briefed Roy on the plot. His eyes widened when she told him the target was on the subway system. “Where was the summons issued?” she asked.
He looked at his notes and read, “Time, place of occurrence: The Pacific Street Subway Station.”
Carmella groaned. “The Pacific Street Station is connected to the Atlantic Avenue Station. Both stations are just a few train stops from Manhattan.”
Roy added: “The express train is only one stop away. After the Atlantic Ave/ Pacific Street stop the express train stops at Dekalb Avenue before submerging under the East River to reach the Grand Street or Houston Street stations in Manhattan.”
“First the Hudson River tunnels were targeted.” Carmella gulped. “Now the bastards want to blow up the subway tunnel under the East River.”
Roy shook his head. “But how will they time the explosion? The East River subway tunnel is a lot shorter than the Lincoln and Hudson Tunnels.”
“Yes, that’s true.” Carmella nodded. “The subway passage under the river is short in distance, but it takes over ten minutes for a train to pa
ss through because so many trains share the tunnel passage. A suicide bomber will have ample time to set off his bomb while still underwater.”
Carmella shared a look with Roy and Matt. Even a small bomb explosion would cause the maximum chaos and confusion, if it occurred under the river between the two boroughs. How would the surviving passengers be rescued if the train was immobile? How would the injured passengers receive medical aid? The passengers would rely on the conductor, engineer and fellow passengers until emergency responders reached them.
She has seen the resiliency of New Yorkers in extreme situations time and time again. New Yorkers knew how to handle a crisis. But an explosion on the subway, isolated under the river would be horrific.
Chapter 20
Abdul ran down Fourth Avenue, his lungs pounding. Street lights blurred as he looked ahead, towards Pacific Street. They were planning to bomb the subway. Why? This was not Israel. Not Palestine. It was New York – America! He came here to be free of bombings and fighting. He came to America to get a good job, attend mosque, find a wife and have a family – in peace. His roommates cannot do this terrible thing. But how could he stop them?
Twirling lights of a police car filled his vision. The police car sped by and came to a screeching halt on the next corner. Two policemen exited the vehicle and approached a distraught man, who was bleeding from his head. One policeman helped the man into the back seat and the other spoke into the radio. Then the police car crawled down the Avenue. The bleeding man must have been robbed and the police were helping him find the criminals that hurt him. In Palestine, a victim would never go to the police for help. They were criminals themselves. But America was different.
Abdul knew what to do.
He walked the next couple blocks as fast as possible. All the time, listening and looking for another police car. He looked up and down each street he crossed. No police cars in sight.
The Impoverished: Boxed Set Page 13