The Observer (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 3)

by Phelps, T Patrick

  “It is more than just okay, Kevin. It is wonderful. You know, you are the only young man who accepted the gift of this pamphlet. No one else in your entire school, no other young men had the insight to take the pamphlet. And you,” he said, his arms extended wide, “you listened to your insight and heard the voice of Allah telling you to read the pamphlet and to join us here. You must be a gifted young man. Just and upright in all things.”

  He had so much to learn, so many things to understand. His life in Queens quickly began to lose the little draw it had. His parents, though kind and caring people, seemed to have expected that their only son would one day drop out of school and become one of the many who live on the margins of society. At first, his parents questioned why he was gone so much and inquired about where he was spending so much of his time. But their questions abated as they recognized a new and longed-for confidence in their son. He would smile when he would tell them about his new religion. He seemed to bust with pride when he told them that he had been hired as a caretaker of the mosque he attended.

  Kevin was a 16 year old high school sophomore when he first walked into the mosque. For the first year, he was overwhelmed by the continuous outpouring of support, praise and love that those that attended the mosque and the mosque’s Imam showed him. He remembered one day, as he entered the mosque after school, that he was greeted by several of his brothers, all wearing tight smiles and holding small gifts.

  “Today,” Badr began, “marks one year since you enhanced our lives with your presence. One year ago today, Kevin, you took your first steps.”

  As the weeks and months rolled past, Kevin became less interested in going to school. He began cutting classes in order to spend more time at the mosque with his new family. When his junior year was drawing to an underperforming conclusion, Kevin was asked by Badr to join him in his office. Being asked to sit, one on one, with Badr was an honor. Though Kevin had been in the Imam’s private office numerous times to clean it, he had never been asked to sit across from Badr’s modest desk, have the door closed and speak alone with Badr.

  “You have captured the attention of many. Some of whom are very learned in our ways. You are gaining great favor.”

  “What have I done that was so good?” Kevin asked.

  “Very few have displayed your devotion. In America, you would be called a rising star.”

  Kevin had heard that term before, but never heard it associated with him. He felt that his star was more muted, diffused as it struggled to be seen over the brighter, more vibrant ones that surrounded him. “What does that mean?” he asked Badr.

  “It means that those who have received favor, as you have, are called upon to do great things. Wonderful things, Kevin. Things that will find your name written alongside the great ones in the history of Islam.”

  He was finished with his old life. It offered nothing for him. A few distant, pleasant memories could not provide enough draw to keep him where he was. He wanted more. He wanted his name written alongside the great ones. He wanted to understand and feel what it was like to be a shining star.

  The summer before his senior year in high school began, Badr again invited Kevin to sit across from his desk in his office.

  “Kevin,” Badr said, “I have wonderful news. Our leader has chosen you to be our first pupil. We have received multiple blessings and now can provide the education that you deserve.”

  “What does that mean?” Kevin asked.

  “It means that, as long as you feel that you are devoted and ready, that the rest of your education will be completed here.”

  “No more high school?”

  “And no more dealing with others that lack your gifts. No more hearing their ignorant insults. No more being led astray by their supposed education. You have been chosen again, Kevin. Truly, you are just and upright in all things.”

  Though neither of his parents agreed with his decision to leave school, they acquiesced when he told them that he was attending a different school.

  “But I am going to school still. Just a different one. And I will have my high school diploma before I turn 19.”

  Kevin’s parents were relieved. His father, Daniel, a manager of a fast food restaurant, believed, as did his father, that a man’s job was to support his family financially, and the mother’s role was to offer comfort, caring and emotional support. Daniel never questioned his beliefs about how to raise a child since things worked out just fine for him. His father, an immigrant from Lebanon, instilled in him the importance of hard work more so than any other value.

  Neither Daniel or his wife, Maryanne, ever held any lofty expectations for their son, and both were too busy with their own lives to get as involved as they felt others thought that they should be in Kevin’s. When they saw how happy and content he was, they felt that, somehow, they had done their jobs as parents. After all, their only son was happy.

  When it was suggested that he change his name from Kevin Washington to Aahill, he was confused.

  “Why do I need to change my name?” he asked, as he again sat across from Badr’s office desk.

  “Aahill means someone who is just and upright. What does Kevin mean?” Badr asked. “I will tell you what it means; nothing. It represents a boy that society shunned. It means that the holder of the name is one that is intended only to blend in, as best as he can. To accomplish only what he is allowed to accomplish, to dream only what those around him deem worthy of dreaming. You are much more than that name, Aahill. You are one that believes in justice. One who stands taller than so many others. You remember that first day when you walked into this mosque?”

  “I do. Of course I do.”

  “You were surprised, weren’t you, at how welcomed you were. Tell me, do you remember?”

  “I do.”

  “I never told you this, Aahill, but you were the only young man to whom we gave an invitation to that day outside of your school. You were the only one that possessed the just and upright ethics that we needed. You, young Aahill, are destined for things far greater than you, your parents or anyone who has ever known you could ever possibly imagine.”

  He became Aahill.

  ***I***

  Aahill was unaware of where he was being taken. He battled against his rising fears that, perhaps, Badr had received other instructions and that he was no longer needed. “But how could that be?”, he thought? “I am the chosen one. The one that sets everything in motion.” His fears quelled when, at last, Badr turned to him.

  “Your time of greatness draws near, Aahill. He has given you his blessing and praise. I am envious of you, Aahill. All of us are,” Badr said.

  Aahill saw the driver and the man sitting beside him slowly nod their heads in agreement with Badr’s statement.

  When the driver finally pulled the car into a garage and shut the engine off, Badr again turned to Aahill.

  “Please, wait for me inside the car. I need only to make a phone call to my superior. You are comfortable?”

  “I am,” Aahill answered, a look of appreciation crossing his face.

  “Five minutes.”

  Badr Irani disappeared through a door on the far side of the garage. He walked up a short flight of stairs, knocked softly on the door before having the door opened for him.

  “He is waiting for you in his office,” a man told Badr.

  “Very good.”

  Badr made his way down a narrow hallway, passed several men, some sitting, some standing, all holding AK 47’s, and walked until he reached a door-less office. The man sitting behind the desk smiled when Badr entered.

  “Things are progressing much more quickly than expected,” the man said to Badr.

  “They are expecting something,” Badr offered.

  “The second bombing? Beyond our control.”

  “My sources can give me no information. The first, yes, of course, but the second is unknown.” Badr was nervous. He knew how precise his host expected things to be and would certainly not tolerate any inte
rruptions. Having Abdul end his life in such a dramatic and public way was Badr’s idea. He reasoned that since the authorities were suspecting a bombing, that he would give them one. While Abdul was his friend, he also was compromised and neither Badr, nor the man sitting across from him in the office, fully trusted that Abdul would keep his mouth shut.

  But the second bombing, that was unplanned. It was potentially disruptive in the way it elevated the awareness of the authorities and the citizens of the city.

  “Our time frame needs to be altered,” the man said, interrupting Badr from his thoughts. “He needs to be ready by Friday, two days from today.”

  “Our martyr is ready.”

  ***I***

  When Badr returned to the car, Aahill’s nerves were tempered. There was something calming about Badr’s face, his delicate, knowing smile that seemed to have a magical effect on Aahill. A man whose face was so gentle in its reflective gaze could never cause harm.

  “Aahill,” he sat as he sat down in the passengers seat, “our leader praises you.”

  “He does?” Aahill said, finding it impossible to hold back a face-filling smile. “What did he say?”

  “Only that he that is just and upright in all things deserves no more delays before he receives his rewards.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means it is time for you to know everything; to be prepared for your glorious arrival. It means, dear Aahill, that your time has arrived.”

  "My name will be written alongside the great ones?" Aahill asked.

  "You will start a volcano of cleansing lava to flow across the world. Written alongside the great ones? No Aahill. Your name will be written atop those names."

  Aahill was ready.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “I have absolutely no idea what we are supposed to do next,” Derek said.

  “Let’s see what Henderson put in that new folder for you. I have a feeling I already know what’s in there.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Information intended to throw you way off course. I’m sure that Henderson has no idea what I’ve uncovered, but I’m also sure that people in positions above him have been given an overview. I’d be willing to bet my life that Henderson was given fabricated intel that removes any hint of the IUIEEO’s involvement.”

  “So you think that people want to let this attack happen?” Derek snapped.

  “I think that the people pulling the strings in this government are more concerned about the IUIEEO being linked to the plot and risking the exposure that would result from their involvement, more so than they are concerned about innocent lives being lost. Do they want it to happen? No. But if allowing it to happen means that our politicians can keep their asses covered, then they will let it happen.”

  “You’re talking about a conspiracy that reaches all the way to the Oval Office.”

  “Now you understand why they want me dead?”

  Derek picked up the small, manila folder, broke the seal and removed the folder’s contents. There were only two, grainy black and white photographs of Middle Eastern-looking men, a folded up letter, and a map of Long Island with red dots scattered in various places. Derek unfolded the letter and read it out loud.

  “FOR IMMEDIATE DISTRIBUTION

  SUBJECT MATTER: Suspected terrorist plot for NYC intel

  UPDATE: 13, August 2014

  Manhattan area mosques have all been cleared as of 13, August 2014. Recent chatter suggests plot being planned either on Long Island or in Providence, Rhode Island.

  Reassign assets to canvas neighboring businesses adjacent to mosques of interest.

  DO NOT ENGAGE IN CONVERSATIONS WITH ANYONE IN OR ASSOCIATED TO ANY MOSQUE, ISLAMIC CULTURAL CENTER OR KNOWN ISLAMIC OWNED ESTABLISHMENT.

  National threat level to remain at Orange.”

  Derek silently re-read the letter as Juan released a few quick sighs of disbelief. “Like I said, they want you and everyone else on this investigation to pull out of the area,” Juan said. “When Abdul blew himself up, the string-pullers figured that someone was getting too damn close.”

  “So they’re just going to let this happen?” Derek said as he stood quickly and flipped the letter towards Juan. “Sons of bitches.”

  “Trust me,” Juan said as he leaned over and picked up the letter off the floor, “they’re all scared shitless. Abdul’s grand exit and the bombing in your hotel room; everything has them running scared.”

  “That’s not accurate,” Derek said, suddenly realizing a missing component. “This letter was dated today, and Henderson gave it to me before your little bomb went off in my hotel room.”

  “But still after Abdul went boom,” Juan said. “The hotel explosion probably only added to their worry. I guarantee that they know it was your room where the bomb went off and are probably convinced that the IUIEEO was trying to shut you up. If anything, that bombing solidified their concerns.”

  “Their concerns over what? Being found out?”

  “Yes, and that the IUIEEO may do something to display their anger.”

  “Makes no sense,” Derek protested. “What the hell could they be angry about?”

  “About the FBI and our team of freelance detectives getting too close to the truth.”

  “So me pushing so hard against Abdul and Badr got Tareef nervous?”

  “Not sure, but your new orders certainly suggest that someone very high on the food chain wants the investigation to find nothing.”

  “If everything you said is true, and I’m still not convinced that you’re not a lunatic, then whoever is looking for you is probably doubling their efforts.”

  “And expanding their resources as well,” Juan said with an out-of-place smile across his face. “I'm almost certain that Henderson and the rest of my old team were given orders to give up on the terrorism case and focus their efforts on finding me.”

  “He did receive a phone call when he and I were meeting. Came back, dropped off the folder then left in a hurry,” Derek said.

  “Figured as much. Henderson and I go back a long way. Probably tearing him up inside knowing that he’s been instructed to find me at all costs. Wouldn’t be surprised if I’m wanted, dead or alive.”

  Derek felt trapped in the hotel room. He assumed that, sooner or later, someone would be knocking on his door, collecting his personal information and identification and detailing the next step in whatever evacuation or relocation plan they were working on. If he was identified or was unable to produce identification that showed him as being named Ralph Bryant, things would turn very ugly, very quickly.

  “We need to get out of this hotel,” he said to Juan.

  “And go where?”

  “Anywhere but here. Well, not anywhere,” Derek corrected himself. “Don’t think the nearest police station or the FBI office would be a smart destination, but we need to keep on the move.”

  “Afraid that someone will come knocking on your door soon?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Makes sense,” Juan said, nodding his agreement. “But I know how the FBI and the NYPD work. They are scrambling right now, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Two bombings in Times Square in the same day has a tendency to do that. I figure they won’t send anyone to check on us until tomorrow or Friday. Worst case is that either a hotel employee will check to make sure that all their new guests are okay, or the FBI will send out a letter that will be slipped under our doors, giving us information about transportation and accommodation options.”

  “If the FBI and NYPD are both in emergency response modes, we should get someplace safer, now. They’ll be too busy with calming things down to even give us a second glance if we are seen.”

  “Tell you what,” Juan said as he stood and started making his way to the door, “you come up with a place that you think will be safe for us to hide out in and to use as our home base, and I’ll leave right away.”

  “The warehouse. That’s where we should go.”
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  “Are you serious?”

  “You said it’s empty, right?”

  “Yeah, and empty places don’t have a lot of places to hide in if anyone comes strolling in.”

  “If it’s empty, it is either not used or is empty for a specific reason.”

  “Like a place where whoever is behind the real terrorist plot would meet before they do whatever the hell it is that they are planning on doing?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Like I told you,” Juan said, “I’m ready to leave right away. Think we should make a stop at the United Nations while we are headed that way? Maybe say hello to Tareef Omar?”

  “Funny. And in case you are being serious, no, we shouldn’t stop at the UN on our way.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Tareef arrived back in his small, rented office on the sixth floor in the United Nations building. Tareef had tried to manipulate a larger office with at least a partial view of the East River, but was instead confined to a 250 square foot office that overlooked the front of the UN building. Each time he visited his office and looked out to see the 193 flags that graced the UN’s grounds, he imagined that, someday soon, a new flag would be raised. It wouldn’t be for several years and would probably not be raised in his lifetime. He knew that and accepted it. For his country’s flag to be raised, so many things had to happen first.

  He needed to organize millions of people; their leaders, an eclectic mixture of fools and geniuses. He needed other nations to succumb to the new wave, to embrace a single-minded mission. His vision. He had done so much in the 12 years since his dream was presented to him, most of which had gone largely unnoticed. But when he, Tareef Omar, was selected to be the Permanent Observer, representing the IUIEEO for the United Nations, people started to take notice.