“Seven centuries of radicalism, terrorism and extreme acts of violence against others who did not believe the same beliefs as the leaders of your church. Many want to see the Crusades as nothing more than territorial wars but, it is hard to see them only as wars over land when you understand the truths behind them.”
“I guess radicalism isn’t unique to any one religion,” Derek said.
“And not only to religions, either,” Abdul said. “Look at your culture, and you will see radicalism in every walk of life.”
“But you don’t see people strapping on a vest-bomb and blowing themselves up in a subway or on a crowded street,” Derek shot back.
“No,” Abdul said as he slowly shook his head. “However, if the technology were available during your religion's Crusades, I am certain that it would have been employed. Every day, you see radicals shooting each other in the streets. You see them attacking innocent people and rioting in the streets. You see them ridiculing people who don’t believe as they do on your social media sites. Fighting in gang fights, stealing property from others and, in the case of your politicians, accusing each other of horrible atrocities. I remember,” Abdul continued, his smile turning more sarcastic, “seeing a political ad on TV that depicted a candidate’s opponent pushing an old lady in a wheelchair off a cliff.”
“Our politicians leave a lot to be desired,” Derek agreed.
“Radicalism is not owned by religions. Humanity owns radicalism.”
Derek heard stirring coming from the office that Abdul had walked out of to greet him. He then remembered that there were two pairs of shoes in the hallway. “I’m sorry if I interrupted a meeting.”
Abdul’s face turned instantly quiet. He made small movements with his head as if he was about to turn and look into the room where Derek had heard the noises. He then called back his smile and said, “You are not interrupting anything.” Abdul gestured over his shoulder towards the room, “I was meeting with a friend who stopped by for advice. He is a very patient young man and won’t mind waiting until our conversation is completed.”
“Mind if I ask him if he knows of any people who he thinks I should have a conversation with?” Derek said as he began to stand up.
“I’m sorry,” Abdul said as he reached out and placed his hand firmly on Derek’s shoulder. “My acquaintance is a very shy young man and has only been in this city for a very short while. I am certain that he won’t be able to provide you any assistance. Please,” he said as he removed his hand from Derek’s shoulder, “let us continue our conversation.”
It was clear that Abdul did not want Derek to see who was in the adjoining room. While he was certain he could easily overcome any resistance that Abdul offered if Derek insisted on seeing who was in the room, Derek decided to temper his suspicions and to keep the conversation going. If he could keep the conversation going long enough, perhaps he could persuade Abdul to introduce him to his other guest or the guest may grow impatient and choose to no longer wait for Abdul.
“I understand,” Derek said. “I apologize for my suspicions. It’s just that this type of case is outside of my comfort zone, and I feel that I need to follow every possible lead. Again, I apologize.”
“Your desire to keep your fellow citizens safe from an attack is admirable, but I assure you, my friend is no threat to anyone.”
“I believe you were talking about how the American culture is ripe with radicals of all sorts, but, you have to admit that Americans don’t have a monopoly on violence towards one another.”
“Indeed,” Abdul said, his posture and expression more relaxed. “It seems to me that many cultures are filled with varying degrees of radicalized citizens.”
“Still,” Derek said, “it is those of the Islamic faith who seem proud of being terrorists. Jihadist, willing to die for a promise of 72 virgins. To advance a cause that, according to what I’ve heard, many are heavily influenced to believe in. I agree that the Catholic religion went through a very similar stage, and if Catholics were still the terrorists that they once were, I bet I’d be talking with a priest about anyone he knows that may be planning something. But that’s not where our circumstances find us today.”
“And so you grace my mosque and ask me if I have participated in the radicalization of any Muslims. Tell me, Derek, if a member of your Church commits a crime, would the FBI send an investigator to talk with the criminal’s priest?”
“Depends on the crime. If the criminal’s crime was religious based or was done to advance the Catholic faith, I’d bet the priest would be visited by several investigators.”
“And have any of the people who worship in peace at this mosque committed any crimes?”
“I don’t know the answer to that.”
“But yet you are here, asking me about any who come here being radicalized. Am I not to assume that your clients suspect that I am teaching radical ideology?”
“Are you?” Derek said as his eyes shifted away from Abdul and towards the adjoining room.
“Who are you clients, Derek Cole?”
“I’m afraid that information is confidential,” Derek said as his returned his gaze to Abdul.
“I can tell you, if you’d like?”
“Feel free.”
“The fact that you seem to have more questions than answers and that you are looking to me for direction, suggests that your FBI or Homeland Security has retained your services. And if I were to expand my assumptions, I would say that Special Agent Juan Cortez is one of your primary contacts. Am I right?”
Hearing Juan Cortez’s name reminded Derek of the note Juan had slipped into the case folder. He wondered if Juan’s prediction that he would be dead before Derek read the note had come true.
“You are familiar with Agent Cortez?”
“Special Agent Cortez,” Abdul corrected. “I have spoken with him several times.”
“Recently?”
“Last week, maybe ten days ago. And when did you last speak with Special Agent Juan Cortez?” A creeping smile played on Abdul’s lips. A knowing smile.
“I spoke with Cortez on the phone right before I walked into your mosque,” Derek lied, hoping to see a reaction from Abdul.
“And I hope that he is well,” Abdul said. “Though, we both know you didn’t speak with him today.”
***I***
“Abdul,” Derek said as he started to stand, “your last statement concerns me.”
“And why is that?” Abdul said, quickly getting to his feet.
“For several possible reasons,” Derek said. He began walking towards the adjoining room where Abdul’s other guest was patiently waiting. “The main reason it concerns me is the possibility that you may actually know who I did and didn’t speak with today. The second reason is that you may actually know who a Special Agent of the FBI spoke with today.”
“Or in this case,” Abdul interjected, “who a Special Agent of the FBI did not speak with today.” Abdul stepped in front of Derek, stopping Derek’s progress. “Tell me, Derek Cole, what do you want from me?”
Derek pulled out the picture of the unknown person of interest from his pocket. Keeping his eyes fixed on the doorway of the adjoining room, he asked, “Who is this person?”
“I’m afraid I’ve never seen that person before,” Abdul said, his eyes darting between Derek’s and the picture that was being held a few inches from his face.
“We both know that you have seen him,” Derek said. “What is his name?”
“You are far away from being skilled enough to be playing in the arena you are in, Derek Cole. Far, far away and with far too few resources.”
“I have certain liberties that make up for a lack of resources.”
“Am I to take that as a threat?” Abdul said, his face turning sternly serious.
“Not at all,” Derek said. “Just a response to your insult.”
“An observation,” Abdul said, his hands and arms raising to his side.
“Let me give you my obse
rvations. Your pupils dilated twice during our conversation. First when I asked about your guest in that room and second, when I showed you this picture. Though I may lack the skills that you feel are necessary for my investigation, I do know when someone is lying to me and your eyes have betrayed you. Another observation is how your brow relaxed when I told you that I spoke with Agent Cortez this morning. That tells me that you believe you gained some advantage over me after I said that.”
“After you lied to me,” Abdul quipped.
“If it was a lie, how did you know?”
“I think our conversation has reached an appropriate conclusion,” Abdul said as he gestured towards the door leading to the hallway and the stairway.
“I disagree. In fact, I think we need to include a third person to our conversation.”
Derek was compelled to see who was in the other room. He stood only 20 feet from the doorway, but as he began moving towards it, his emotions dragged on him. His legs felt as if they were filled with lead as they reluctantly obeyed his commands to move him forward.
“I am a much older man than you,” Abdul said. “While physically I cannot stop you from walking into my office, I do know that with age comes wisdom. Do not go into my office, Mr. Cole. You are not prepared for the consequences.”
“Is that a threat?” Derek asked, pausing his advancement.
“It is how you take it,” Abdul said as he made his way casually towards the office door. “But I’d rather you accept it as sage advice; a gift from a friend, perhaps? My guest prefers his anonymity. I think it is good manners to respect that. Do you not agree?” Abdul reached the door and slowly pulled it closed. Once closed, Derek could hear the swift sound of someone moving in the office towards the door. He then heard the deadbolt lock slide into place.
A sweeping sigh of relief raced across Derek’s body. He felt relieved that, without taking violent and destructive actions that he would not see who Abdul’s mystery guest was. Knowing that, Derek’s relief was palpable. He knew that this case was far more involved, complicated and dangerous than what he was familiar with, and after Abdul offered the threat/advice, Derek began to question if he was capable to dealing with the possibility that a terrorist was standing behind the now locked door.
“Fair enough, Abdul,” Derek said, desperate to hide his relief. “But, please tell me one more thing before I leave.”
“Does your question concern Special Agent Juan Cortez?” Abdul asked as his full smile returned to its natural position.
“How did you know that I lied to you when I told you that I spoke to him this morning?”
“You seem to have a skill of reading another person’s body language. Am I correct?”
“I do what I can,” Derek answered.
“As do I,” Abdul said. “As do I.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
It took him well over an hour before he could collect and calm himself. Derek sat at the counter of the East Side Diner, sipping a cup of stale coffee, recounting the conversation he had with Abdul. His emotions swung from anger at himself for his inability to overcome his fear to a sweeping calmness.
“What would I have done,” he thought to himself, “if I recognized the man in the other room as the one in the picture? Who could I have called? What could I have done?
Though Henderson gave him his contact information, it was clear that Derek was expected to run things on his own. Henderson had told him that how he ran the investigation was entirely up to him and that, once their conversation at the Yonkers diner was over, so too would be their mutual involvement. Derek wondered if the FBI was completely lost with the case and hired Derek in hopes that he could save their asses, find the terrorists and prevent them from carrying out their plan. He questioned if anyone besides Henderson and Cortez even knew that he was hired as a freelance detective on the case. And, as his coffee was refreshed for the fourth time, Derek wondered if, somehow, the FBI knew that the terrorist plot was already too late to be stopped and had hired Derek only to answer to the inevitable public outcry that they hadn’t done enough to prevent the attack.
He then felt a sudden rush of fear when he thought about the note that Cortez had slipped into the case folder. “Henderson had possession of the folder,” he thought. “So he may have known about the note, wrote the note, or Cortez was able to slip it in without Henderson being aware. And why did Cortez suggest that I trust no one, not even him? What was he trying to tell me and, more importantly, is he still alive?”
By the time he left the small diner and started walking towards the financial district and the address of the next mosque he had on his list, Derek was more centered. He had a welcomed focus to his thoughts.
“Just keep asking questions,” he reminded himself. “Don’t worry about what you cannot control.”
He knew that he had very little to continue his investigation, but also that he had solved cases in the past with even less to go on.
“Follow every lead and see where it takes you,” he thought. “Any lead could be the only lead I need.”
The warm, damp August air seemed to trap the smells of the city in a cloud. From the sickening smells of the sewer system to the promising scents rising up from the street vendors who were busy preparing their eclectic mix of lunch dishes that represented nearly every culture in the world. As he walked, Derek pushed back his fears of being in the wrong place when and if the planned attack was executed. He refused to think about the innocent faces of the people he passed and how none of them had any idea about the tragedy he was trying desperately to prevent. And as he passed the countless and nameless faces, Derek wondered if someone he may have passed could be involved in the horrible plot.
He kept the photograph of the unknown person of interest in his hand as he walked, frequently glancing at the man’s face, committing each feature to memory. He knew that the chances of passing by the unknown man was a million to one shot, but, with so little information to base the rest of his investigation on, Derek was prepared to do anything, no matter how unlikely of producing results, in hopes of finding something that might lead him in the right direction.
He found it hard not to stare at any person that looked as if they had a Middle Eastern heritage. Though his conversation with Abdul raised more concerns than it quelled, Derek felt that Abdul’s point that not all terrorists are Muslim, was compelling. Not considering a home-grown terrorist could prove disastrous. Though the only photographs he was given were of people of Middle Eastern descent, he forced himself to make no assumptions.
Derek arrived at he second mosque, which was much easier to identify, shortly after noon. Though the mosque was sandwiched between an office building and a 30-story apartment building, the greenish dome that sat above the four-story building provided immediate recognition. As Derek climbed the 12 steps leading to the front door, he noticed several plaques and signs, all written in Arabic, on each side of the double-wide door. He checked the address to ensure that this was the mosque indicated in the case file, and after confirming, he opened the doors and walked inside.
Inside, was an elaborately decorated entryway, with numerous pictures of other mosques, Arabic inscriptions, and several photographs of men of all ages. There were several people removing their shoes and heading into a large, expansive room that began at the other end of the entryway.
“Can I help you?” a bearded man asked Derek.
“I hope so,” Derek replied. “I am looking for Badr Irani. I am told he is the imam at this mosque?”
“Your information is correct,” the man said; his eyes and face filled with a smile. “Can I tell him who is calling?”
“My name is Derek Cole. I don’t have an appointment.”
“That is fine,” he said. “Our Imam is preparing for Thuhr prayers, as are all of us,” he said as he gestured to the people around him and Derek. “You are welcome to wait for Imam Irani in his office if you’d like?”
“That would be great. Thank you.”
T
he man led Derek off to the right of the entryway, up a flight of stairs and into an office that was directly across from the top of the stairs.
“Please,” the man said as he framed his arms around a chair, “make yourself comfortable. I’ll let Imam Irani know you are waiting for him. Derek Cole, correct?”
“Yes,” Derek replied. “And thank you.”
He waited no more than 15 minutes before a man dressed in a long, white kurta, black pants, black shoes, and a small, black woolen cap entered the office.
“Derek Cole, I presume?”
The man spoke with a very heavy accent. His eyes were dark and held an intense stare.
“Yes. Are you Badr Irani?” Derek asked.
“I am he. While I have suspicions about the reason for your visit, please tell me how I can serve you?”
“I am a freelance detective and have been hired…”
“Stop right there, please,” Badr said, raising his hand just a few inches from Derek’s face. “Do you know, Derek Cole, that you are the fifth person to have visited me in the past week? All saying that they are some form of detective or another. Five in one week. Surely you detectives communicate with one another, yes?”
“I’m sorry,” Derek said, “but my services were just retained yesterday and I was unaware that others were working on the same case.”
“So it is a ‘case’ that brings you here? Interesting. All the others simply wanted to speak with me. Ask me questions about our mosque and those who pray here. But you,” Badr said, the intensity in his eyes growing more severe, “are here to visit with me because of a case. Tell me, please, what are the circumstances surrounding this case of yours?”
“I was told that there is a terrorist plot planned to happen in this city. I don’t know when it’s supposed to happen or who is supposedly planning the attack. In fact, I don’t know much except that your name was included in a list of names that I was given.”
“And this list, were there many names on it?”
“No,” Derek said. “Only a couple.”
The Observer (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 3) Page 4