It was challenging for him, not to fall in love with the recognition and power that meeting with heads of States offered. Sitting in the Oval Office across from the President of the United States and being invited to sleep in the Lincoln bedroom, were like opiates at times. He recognized their dulling effects, and though his corrective response was delayed longer than he had wished, all things were put into their proper perspective.
His trip back from his meeting to his office took him much longer than he wished for, as his driver needed to take numerous detours to both avoid the Times Square area and to avoid the massive traffic as people rushed to get as far away from the city as they could.
“They will not go far and not be away too long,” he said to himself. “Their weekly religious holiday is approaching.”
Tareef sat, daydreaming as he gazed out of his office window, he reminded himself that the very building that he had grown so comfortable being a tenant of, was once the site of a slaughterhouse. The ground beneath him was once soaked in the blood of animals; killed in order that others, a more superior race, could continue marching forward. Tareef did not enjoy the killing, the spilling of blood. He despised hearing the wrenching cries and pleas of help from those that needed to be slaughtered in order for a superior race, a superior mindset, to march forward. But his hands had been bloodied and only through grace could they be cleansed.
He had others now, so many others, to inflict the catalysts that caused those horrible cries. But still, he knew that it was his voice, his direction, that set everything in motion.
“We march forward, all of us, arm in arm. Those that cannot or will not march need to be removed, for they are obstacles. Nothing more. Allah be praised when these barriers are eliminated.”
He had work to do. Abdul and the rogue bombing in the hotel were concerns of his but well beyond his control. Though he had approved Abdul’s public demonstration, he understood that it would raise the concerns of the infidels. And when the second bomb exploded in the hotel, Tareef was struck with fear that the infidels would be too aware.
"Do not underestimate them," he told his closest associates. "Though they may be dull of senses, they are not yet asleep. Remove any who have been part of our announcement. Take them quietly away and dispose of them even more quietly."
“Should we delay our announcement?” one had asked.
“Delay?” Tareef said. “Should the rain be delayed to fall on a parched land? Should the wind be put on hold for a sailboat lost in its drift? No, there is no cause for delay. Only for an alteration of our timeframe.”
"And once all have been quietly disposed of? What are we to expect for ourselves?"
"You have proven to be more valuable than the others. Arrangements have been made. You will be given an envelope from an associate you've yet to meet. You will have instructions and the means to follow those instructions. We will see each other on more friendly ground. It will be our ground on which we stand when we see each other again."
As he glanced at his simple, paper calendar, he grabbed his modest pen and circled his only scheduled event he had on his agenda for the coming Friday. He was scheduled to speak to the gathered representatives at the UN General Session. Though not all the members were scheduled to attend, those he most cared for would be there and would be in attendance to hear him speak. His speech was written by his own hands months ago; fine tuned each day.
“It begins, at last, at 4:45 PM in two days. Years, decades of preparation, congealed into a 15 minute speech.”
He was ready.
CHAPTER TWENTY
August 14, 2014
Derek and Juan Cortez decided that spending one night in their newly assigned hotel would be safe. Neither expected anyone to come knocking on their door, but, just in case a knock would be sounding soon, agreed to leave the hotel in Queens by 4 AM the next morning.
“It’s a long walk back to Manhattan,” Derek said. “Any ideas on how to expedite our trip?”
“Taxi,” Juan replied.
“Think that’s safe? I mean, two guys taking a taxi in the middle of the night from a hotel that was used to accommodate guests from a hotel that was the scene of a bombing? Not sure that makes sense.”
“Taxi drivers in New York don’t give a shit. Especially those who work the graveyard shift. Again, worst-case scenario is that my friends at the FBI get around to questioning taxi drivers in about a week. By that time,” Juan said as their taxi pulled up down the street from their hotel, “either whatever is being planned will have happened, or we will have prevented a terrorist attack.”
“I like the second possible outcome better,” Derek said.
The taxi driver dropped them off six blocks north of Times Square.
“We walk from here,” Juan said.
“Where’s the warehouse?”
“Not too far from the diner you and Henderson met at yesterday.”
“And how exactly do you know where Henderson and I met yesterday?”
“Let me tell you a secret,” Juan said through a slight smile. “The best method to avoid detection is to keep very close tracks on those who are tracking you. I never let Henderson out of my sight after I knew my career was over. The thing about investigators is that they seldom assume that they are being watched.”
“How about all the other agents and NYPD? They must have been on the lookout for you as well.”
“Things like a hotel bombing have a tendency to distract people. I actually went right up to a NYPD officer and asked for directions.”
“Bold or stupid. Not sure which.”
“Neither, actually. The more you can blend in the less people will remember your face.”
The two walked for nearly 45 minutes before Juan stopped. “I watched the murder from right here,” he said, pointing to an empty, road side parking spot. “Waited around an hour before I drove up and parked my car a few streets behind the warehouse. Betcha a grand that my car is still where I left it?”
“You planning on getting your car?”
“Hell no,” Juan said. “Guarantee that it has at least three GPS tracking devices hidden on it. Plus a pair of eyes. No, we’re gonna walk right through the front entrance of the warehouse.”
“Again, not sure if that’s bold or stupid.”
“Before I left the warehouse, I made certain modifications to the entrance.”
“What modifications?”
“I left the door unlocked,” Juan said.
“Brilliant. No one would ever figure that one out. I’m sure the owners leave it unlocked all the time.”
“Should have mentioned that the lock is a slide bolt system. It can be locked with a key, but all we need to do is twist the entire lock mechanism and the bolt will slide right open. Pretty common way thieves set up a cased house. Owners put in their key, slide the bolt into its home, then walk away without a care. Very few actually test to see if the whole system can be turned by hand.”
“Any security cameras pointing at the front entrance?” Derek asked.
“Now what warehouse owner in the Big Apple wouldn’t have a security system in place?”
“So, can I assume that you made modifications to the security system as well?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I guess that every warehouse owner in the Big Apple would have a security system. Unless they had nothing to protect inside.”
“Exactly,” Juan said. “Like I told you, the warehouse is empty. There’s a few cameras set up but they’re not live. Not even connected to a power source. All for show.”
“Last question,” Derek started, “any chance that others are watching the warehouse?”
“The only person I even shared my curiosity about this warehouse with was Henderson. I made damn sure not to make too big of a deal about it. Henderson’s good but, with everything that has happened over the last 24 hours, I doubt that he will even think about visiting this place.”
***I***
Juan was absolutely correct. The warehouse was completely empty except for a single metal folding chair sitting smack dab in the middle of the empty space and several empty cardboard boxes laying in various places. Derek walked over to the chair, pulled out and turned on his Maglite, shining its beam of light onto the chair. He noticed that the concrete floor around the chair was much cleaner than the rest of the floor.
“Looks like someone did some cleaning,” Derek said to Juan, who was strolling over towards one of the large cardboard boxes. “What are you looking for over there?” he called.
“Need to retrieve my camera,” Juan said. “Damn things are expensive and the bureau didn’t comp me for this one.”
“You said you watched someone get killed right here?” Derek asked, still amazed that Juan, a tenured FBI agent, had not notified the NYPD about what he had seen or that he hadn’t tried to interrupt the murder.
“That I did,” Juan said, his voice trailing off. “And I watched Tareef Omar stand right about where you are standing, talking to the victim. That was, of course, before he became a victim.”
“Wait a minute,” Derek said. “You saw Tareef standing here? What was he saying?”
“It's a video camera, not an audio recorder. I have no idea what he said but, whatever he was saying, he was very calm when he was saying it. Didn’t know it was him at first. I knew that I’d seen his face before but once I identified him, I knew that this whole thing was much bigger than just a terrorist plot.”
“If you have evidence that Tareef Omar was involved in this murder, why don’t you use it to clear your name and get that asshole arrested?”
“Cole,” Juan said as he drew next to Derek’s side, “you have no idea how protected this guy is and no idea how quickly evidence can get buried. I told you not to trust anyone with this case, remember?”
“Including you, if I remember correctly.”
“That means Henderson, the NYPD, me, and anyone else who you may come in contact with. Tareef Omar is about as untouchable as anyone ever has been. Between diplomatic immunity and his friends in high places, I’d have a bullet between my eyes before a video of him standing in front of a murder victim ever got played on a computer screen. You think I don’t want to make this public? You think that I haven’t thought of a million different ways to try to get this out in the public? Shit, Cole, the minute I traced back American Medical Supply to the IUIEEO, I emptied my bank account of options.”
Derek stared at Juan blankly. He had no idea, no thoughts about what he could possibly suggest that Juan should do with the information he had discovered.
“I’ll admit,” Juan said before Derek could imagine something to say, “that coming to this warehouse was a good idea. But, we aren’t going to do anyone any good just sitting around here, waiting for the bad guys to come waltzing in.”
“If they even do waltz in here,” Derek added.
“Exactly. This is a great spot for our headquarters, but no case was ever solved by agents sitting at their desks. We need to get out there and put more pieces together. And by we I mean you.”
“But I’m dead, remember?”
“I think you need to be resurrected. I’ve been thinking about this since we ended our conversation last night. I think you need to contact Henderson and let him know that I contacted you. Tell him that you believe that I was behind the bombing in your hotel room and tell him that I told you that the body found in your bed was the unknown suspect you were looking for.”
“Pretty sure that I remember you telling me that I’d be a marked man if the FBI found out that I was talking with you.”
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Juan said.
“Well, thanks. That’s very brave of you, but I don’t think I share your risk tolerance.”
“I have some more tricks up my sleeve that will convince them that you don’t know shit.”
“Are you going to share them with me,” Derek asked.
Juan was certainly well-trained and conditioned. As he felt himself falling to the ground, Derek was shocked that he never saw the punch coming. Straight right, direct contact to his jaw. Juan snapped the punch off so quickly that Derek, though trained in hand-to-hand combat himself, could only marvel at the speed, accuracy and complete absence of wasted motion of Juan’s blow as he tumbled like a dropped bed sheet to the recently cleaned concrete floor.
“That was a bit sudden,” Derek said as he lay flat on his back.
“Didn’t think you’d agree to my plan if I told you how much prep work we had to do first.”
“By that can I expect that my jaw won’t be the only thing screaming in pain?”
“Rest of it won’t be so bad. I know exactly what you need to tell Henderson and anyone else who insists on questioning you to make sure they feel that you are not a threat. And, I have a special message for Henderson that will get him on our side, too.”
“Sounds like you thought this whole thing out,” Derek said as he pulled himself into a seated position. “Mind giving me a hand up or do you need to kick me a few times while I’m on the ground?”
“I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think I need to kick you. Just need to mark you up a bit.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound like much fun.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Mark Henderson had his orders. He was to release all of the private investigators working on the case, instruct them to strictly adhere to their non-disclosure agreements, and then he was to locate Juan Cortez. He had known Juan for too many years to believe that he had been jeopardized or to believe that he chose money over his own country. Juan wasn’t the most optimistic guy he knew, but he wasn’t a traitor.
Something didn’t feel right. Mark had a nagging voice mumbling some scattered and uninterpretable words in the back of his mind. As he walked the eerily quiet streets surrounding Times Square, he focused his attention to what he must have missed. What had Juan said or done that would explain why he had just become one of the FBI’s most wanted men in America? It was there, the clue he had missed. He just needed to find it.
The Marriott Marquis, working with the NYPD, had done an amazing job getting every one of their guests and employees safely out of the building. The guests that needed, or decided, to stay in the city had all been found rooms in other hotels; some in Manhattan, others outside of the borough. As Mark Henderson strolled through the lobby, empty except for a handful of firefighters, the hotel manager and a few of Mark’s fellow FBI agents, he headed towards the one lone bank of elevators that the NYPD insisted was left in operation.
He rode the elevator car up to the 23rd floor then exited and followed the two-inch fire hose to the epicenter of the explosion.
“Talented bomber,” Mark said softly, noting the complete lack of damage to the hallway. He inspected the door and found that it too had escaped any damage from the bomb and was only charred by the short but intense fire that had erupted after the bomb was detonated.
“Makes the investment in the sprinkler system seem like chump change, huh?” The man was dressed in a white shirt that was marred with black marks on both arms. “Roger Foster,” he said, extending his hand to Mark. “Don’t think we’ve met officially, but I guess I’m your new partner. At least for this case.”
“Mark Henderson,” Mark said as he shook Roger’s hand. “You new to the agency?”
“Two years. Desk duty, mostly. Down in DC.”
“And now you’ve been assigned to work with me?” Mark asked, immediately suspicious of his new partner. “When did you get your new assignment?”
“About two hours ago,” Roger said. “Got my assignment then jumped on a bird and was dropped off here. I was told you’d show up here, sooner or later.”
“So,” Mark said as he moved deeper into the charred room, “any ideas about what happened in here?”
“Remote trigger device. Whoever set it off couldn’t have been more than 100 yards away based on the proximity trigger the guys from exp
losives discovered. Probably stayed close and waited until he was told to detonate. Talented bomber, I’ll give him that.”
“Why do you say that?” Mark asked.
“Directional bombs aren’t usually this accurate. It was placed here,” Roger said, pointing to the wall a foot or two away from the remains of the bed. “Darn thing was no bigger than a small backpack. The wall received zero damage but everything in the bomb’s path, gone.”
"Have we checked the security cameras to see if anyone suspicious was captured?"
"Forensics are pouring over them now, but initial reports are that nothing peculiar was captured on video."
“Derek Cole show up on any videos?" Mark asked as he made his way closer to what was left of the window.
"I was told was that Cole was confirmed to have checked in. I believe the forensics team said that they spotted him walking through the lobby a few times. Last video capture puts Cole in this hotel lobby around 45 minutes before detonation."
"That makes him a person of interest," Mark said.
"Sure does."
“Any ID on the body yet?”
“I can tell you that the bomb didn’t kill the vic. He was pretty shredded but he was dead long before the bomb went off.”
“How do we know that?” Mark asked.
“Coroner said that the vic’s arms, legs and head were severed by a sharp instrument. No bomb could have done that. He was splattered pretty good and we found some pieces of the vic out in Times Square but there is no way the bomb dismembered him like he was. No way.”
“But do we have an ID?” Mark repeated.
The Observer (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 3) Page 11