After purchasing a bottle of the cheapest scotch he could find, Derek headed up towards 7th Avenue until he reached the Sheraton Times Square Hotel. After checking in and paying cash for five nights, Derek drew the drapes closed, connected his laptop to the WiFi, and checked the stream from his other hotel room.
“Still perfect,” he said.
On of the first things that Derek's assistant, Crown, persuaded him to do was to invest $40,000 into updating the office technology. Though Derek was intelligent and could learn new things quickly, he believed that technology was stealing away humanity's ability to communicate and connect with one another.
"You aren't in this business to become all buddy-buddy with people," Crown scolded him when he suggested that investing $40,000 into technology would make his agency less people friendly. "You're in it to make money by solving cases. You can arrange a big group hug with all your clients every year if you want, but if you want to really provide an unbeatable service, you need technology on your side.
"You may be right, but $40,000 is a hell of a lot of money."
"That's just the start of it. The first 40 grand will just get you into the 21st century. A server with VPN remote access, a few tools to use out in the field and, of course, I need the newest iPhone to keep track of your ass. We also need a new laptop for you, one for me, and one for your new investigator."
"I'll make a decision about hiring another investigator when I get back," Derek replied.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?"
"To see a friend of mine, Ralph Fox, out near Albany."
"Vacation or work?" Crown asked.
"Not really long enough to be a vacation. Ralph saved my life during one of my cases a short while ago. I'll be back in the office in two days. Think you can handle things while I'm gone?"
"Don't be surprised if I make some changes while you're gone," Crown replied. "Still a lot of shit that needs to be done before we become a world-class operation."
"Not interested in being world-class," Derek said as he headed for the door. "Just want to keep doing the best job we can for our clients."
"When are you leaving?" Crown asked.
"Day after tomorrow. That work with your schedule?" Derek asked, pouring out as much sarcasm as he could muster.
"I'll make it work. If you're leaving, we need to go shopping, now. Bring your credit card. You should probably buy me lunch while we're out as well."
"Crown," Derek said as he retrieved his wallet and car keys from the top drawer of his desk, "I really wonder who owns this agency of mine sometimes. I really wonder."
***I***
As he watched his laptop screen display the streaming video feed from his room in the Marquis, Derek pulled out his iPhone and called his assistant Crown's personal cell.
"Those spy pens are working great," he said.
"Thought you were having lunch with an old friend? What the hell are you using the viewing devices for?"
"Got called in for a case in Manhattan. Can't tell you what it's about or who the client is. Just know that I won't be back in the office tomorrow. May be down here for a few days."
"Surprised you didn't call me asking for step by step instructions. Hope you remembered to give the pens a full charge before you activated them?"
"Listen," Derek said, ignoring Crown's question, "this case has a lot of potential to it. Some bad and some very, very good. I can't tell you too much about it, but am pretty sure that I'm going to need your help."
"That's what you pay me for. Help. Right?"
"I guess," Derek said. "Is there a secure way I can send you the IP address that the pens are transmitting over?"
"Text me the IP address. I took the liberty of installing an encryption software pack on your iPhone when you were taking a nap in the office last week. Pull up my contact name and send the text using the app called 'BuryMe.' It's secure as hell.”
"I was wondering what that icon was doing on my screen. Ok, I'll send it over in a bit."
"Open the app and use the dialing features if you need to call me as well. It encrypts the call, and the software on my end decrypts it. We'll sound like a couple of robots talking but no one else will be able to eavesdrop."
"Sounds good. Thanks."
"What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Cole?" Crown asked.
"I'm not sure yet."
***I***
Derek poured himself a taller drink of scotch than what he would normally take while working a case, sat down in the lounge chair that was crammed into the corner of his room, and began reading the case file.
Each of the three pictures in the folder were of men of middle-eastern descent. Beneath the images, names were written by a thin, black marker. The first picture showed a middle-aged man sitting in an arm chair, smiling broadly for the camera.
“Abdul Fattaah Huda,” Derek read. “What have you been up to?”
There was a short paragraph written on the back of the photograph of Abdul.
“Abdul is imam of Shrine of the Island Mosque in Manhattan. Large following. Known to produce radicals. Lives on the upper east side. Originally from Iran. Affable and talkative.”
The address of the mosque was scribbled in the same thin, black marker beneath the short note. Derek pulled out his Moleskin notebook and wrote down the imam’s name and the address of the mosque.
“I think I’ll visit Mr. Huda tomorrow,” he whispered before picking up the next photograph. It showed a man dressed in a long, black kurta and a black, felt cap. His beard showed traces of white, and his eyes held a kindness that drew Derek in. Beneath his image was written “Badr Irani.”
“Irani is imam at mosque in financial district. ***UN sponsored*** Irani is from Pakistan and has been back and forth to Pakistan and Syria 11 different times in last 16 months. Politically active and well known for his negative stance on American culture. Concerning position taken on 9/11 attacks.”
After jotting down Badr Irani’s name and the address of the mosque that he served as imam, Derek wrote down “UN sponsored?” in his notebook. He assumed that “UN” stood for the United Nations, but wasn’t aware that the UN did or could sponsor mosques.
Derek then studied the face on the man in the final picture. He was young; no older than 22. His eyes were dark brown, and his hair was as black as any man’s hair Derek had ever seen; cut short and nearly shaved on the sides. The young man was dressed in casual clothes; a pair of jeans and a solid black sweatshirt. It was obvious that the young man in the picture was not expecting his image to be captured, as the look of surprised curiosity was clearly written across his face. Beneath the picture was written “Person of Interest.”
Derek flipped the picture over but saw no paragraph to indicate why this man’s picture was included in the folder. There was only one sentence: “Do not approach. Identify and notify agents.”
Derek placed all three photographs inside his notebook. He placed his notebook on the small nightstand and took a long draw of scotch before reading the two-page list that detailed all the mosques in the Greater NYC area. Beside each mosque’s name, was written the imam, or mosque leader’s name, the address, phone number and the words “known radicals” followed by a number. Of the nearly 200 mosques listed on the sheets of paper, only a handful were listed as having any people determined to be radicals among their members. The vast majority listed “0 radicals.”
As Derek finished his glass of scotch, he wondered how the FBI determined if someone was a radical or not. He wondered how many of those indicated as being radicals truly were and how many were considered as such only because of their strict adherence to their religion. He fully understood that the relatively few Islamic terrorists in the world were high-jacking the Muslim religion and were the catalyst behind so many non-Muslims believing that they were all jihadists or would soon become one. As he filled his glass with more scotch, Derek admitted that he held a prejudice belief against the religion, its followers and their assumed
intentions.
Without much information to plan out his investigation, Derek again checked the feed of his “spy pen camera” and when he saw all was still as he left it, he closed his MacBook, placed the case notes back into the manila folder and then stuffed the folder into his computer bag. His thoughts then returned to the handwritten note that Juan Cortez left for him. Derek began to question the possible intentions of Juan Cortez.
“Was he just trying to scare me so that I ditch this case and stay out of his way, or was he really trying to tell me something?” His mind raced back to the conversation he had with Mark Henderson and Juan in the diner. “Did he say anything that may have been a clue? What am I missing?” In his mind, Derek struggled to recall every word that Juan and Mark said to him. “Unwanted nuisance is what I think he wanted me to consider myself. He’s such a nice guy.”
As he finished the last few sips of his scotch and prepared for bed, Derek stood and looked out his hotel room’s window. Twenty-two stories below him the crowd of people once crammed into Times Square began to disperse, as they headed back to their apartments, homes or hotel rooms. Being so high above them, Derek sensed that he was somehow apart from the masses; as if he was untouchable and immune to the struggles, challenges and disasters that humanity has and/or will face. As his thoughts returned to the photograph of the unnamed young man, Derek knew that he was no further away from those people 22 stories below him than if he was walking beside them.
Driven by a sense of compelling obligation, Derek turned from the window, unzipped his computer bag and pulled out the case folder. He sat on the side of his bed, studying each picture and note again, straining his mind and his eyes to see anything that could lead him to a clue. He studied the list of mosques in the area, paying close attention to those that were indicated as being known to produce radicals. He looked for a pattern, a linkage of any commonality that might direct his investigation.
Finding nothing, he retrieved his Moleskin notebook, grabbed a pen, and began writing his thoughts.
“Start with Abdul Fattaah Huda and Badr Irani. Why did Henderson/Cortez indicate Badr is UN sponsored??? Try to contact Cortez - ask about note. Bring pic of unknown to Abdul/Badr - ask if they recognize. What did Cortez mean by me being an ‘unwanted nuisance?’”
He closed his notebook, flipped open his laptop and checked the private IP address for the streaming look into his other room in the Marquis. Seeing only the occasional flashing light pouring out from the TV, Derek closed the laptop’s lid, fell back into bed, and prayed that his thoughts wouldn’t keep him awake all night.
He had battled against insomnia since the day his wife was killed; shot by a deranged man during an attempted bank robbery. For weeks after her death, Derek would vividly see his wife Lucy’s eyes, filled with terror as her murderer pressed her face against the bank’s front window. He could still clearly see the life pour out of her eyes as the bullet ripped through her brain. As she collapsed in a heap of death to the floor, Derek watched his life crumble beside his wife’s body.
As the weeks and months passed, he was haunted by the consistently returning images of that final moment. Her eyes, both pleading and saying “goodbye,” had become a furnace; burning loss, sorrow and despair as its fuel. With his eyes, he watched his own life falling apart. He saw himself, as if he were watching someone else’s life, turn down paths that inevitably led to bad places. He had fallen into a role of a simple observer to his own life. Though he could not see his own eyes that night, he sent a bullet through his mouth, missing its intended mark and leaving only the three inch scar across his cheek as it marched along its path, he felt that his eyes matched the sorrow, terror and hopelessness that his wife’s held during her final moments.
As he lay in bed, desperate to keep his eyes open, he held off sleep’s approach as long as he could. He had found the memory of Lucy’s face, the memory of her smile when her eyes were filled with love and joy instead of horror, again, but still feared the invasion of the other memory each night. He had come to understand that it was this flash of the memory of her beautiful face that had caused Derek to turn his head away at the last possible second that night he tried to silence all memories. Her face, the desperately hoped-for and finally recalled memory of her face was what had saved him that night. He held on to that face, studied each delicate line as he slipped into sleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
August 13, 2014
It wasn’t what he expected at all. The mosque was tucked tightly in between a hair salon and a small clothing store. Derek would have easily missed the mosque if he hadn't known the address and was actively looking for it. Next to the commonly used heavy glass front door of the mosque, was a tarnished, brass plaque that read "Shrine of the Island Mosque in Manhattan.” There were no other signs or indications that the door he was standing in front of led to a place of worship; a temple that, out of the nearly 200 in the area, was singled out, along with its imam, as a place of interest.
The door was unlocked and led to a flight of immaculately clean stairs. Along the stairs were several images of mosques around the world, framed sayings written in Arabic and, towards the top of the stairway, a framed, full color picture of Abdul Fattaah Huda. Derek paused to study the picture and realized it was the same picture that was included in the case folder.
The door at the top of the stairs opened to reveal a long, narrow hallway, which was completely void of any furniture, photographs or images. Along the left side of the 12 foot hallway, were two pairs of shoes.
As Derek passed through the hallway, he saw that it opened up into a large, open room; its carpeted floor still showing the track marks of a vacuum cleaner’s travels.
“Hello?” he called, hoping to make his presence known.
“Yes, yes,” a voice called from behind an open door that lead to a small room to the far left of the open room he was standing in. “Please, take your shoes off, and I will be right with you.”
Derek untied, removed his shoes, and placed them next to the pairs he had passed in the hallway. He quickly inspected the other shoes and mentally made note of the sizes of each. As he turned around to return to the open room, he saw a man walking towards him wearing a felt cap, a pure white kurta and a smile that seemed to fill up the entire room.
“How can I help you?” the man said in a strong middle eastern accent.
“I’m hoping to find Abdul Fattaah Huda. I believe he is the imam of this mosque?” Derek tentatively asked.
“I am Abdul,” the man said as he extended his hand. “Please, come in and tell me how I can help you.”
Abdul invited Derek to sit on the floor. “Use the column behind you to brace yourself, if you like.”
Once both were sitting, Abdul, his smile still filling his face, said, “Now, how can I help you?”
“Uh, I’m not sure what to call you. I’m a Catholic and am used to calling people like you Father.”
Abdul laughed as he rocked his body back and forth in a calming, rhythmic pattern. “You can call me Abdul. What can I call you?”
“My name is Derek Cole.”
“Well then Derek Cole, what is a Catholic like you doing visiting an Islamic mosque?”
“I’m a private investigator and have been hired by some clients to do some research into a possible terrorist attack in the city.”
“And you think that I may be the terrorist you are looking for?” Abdul asked, his dark eyes slowly revealing a hidden sadness.
“Not at all,” Derek responded. “I am hoping that you may know other people that I could talk to.”
“Others who I feel may be terrorists or have malicious intentions?”
“Honestly, I don’t know exactly,” Derek said as his eyes fell to the carpet. “My clients insist on remaining anonymous and only provided me with few details to start my case on.”
“And my name was included in those few details?” Abdul asked.
“Your picture, the address of this mosque and a few
notes about you.”
“And, tell me Derek Cole, what did the notes indicate?”
“Only that you are the Imam of this mosque and that this mosque may have a history of producing radicals.”
“Producing radicals?” Abdul said. “Tell me, did your notes say exactly how a radical is produced?”
“Maybe produced is the wrong term,” Derek answered. “How about my clients believe that some people who attend this mosque for prayers and instruction are considered to have radical beliefs?”
“That is better,” Abdul said, his smile fading a little. “And tell me, what makes someone a radical?”
“I don’t know my client’s definition,” Derek said.
“Not your client’s, but yours. What is a radical Muslim according to Derek Cole?”
Derek paused a beat, hoping to find words that would convey his definition of a radical while not offending his host. “I would say that a radical is someone who uses his or her religion as a justified reason to commit a violent act against someone else. Someone who has very strong beliefs about something and believes that those who don’t agree with those beliefs deserve to be killed, punished or made to believe the same beliefs.”
“You just described your own Catholic church, haven’t you?”
“Excuse me?” Derek said, a bit shocked at Abdul’s question.
“Certainly you are familiar with the Crusades?”
“Yes, unfortunately. The church certainly had some years that it would rather forget about.”
“Some years?” Abdul asked, his eyes displaying his intentional surprise. “Seven centuries is more than ‘some years.’”
“Yeah, I, uh, am not that good with the history part of my religion. Sorry.”
The Observer (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 3) Page 3