Manhunt: A Michael Bennett Story

by James Patterson

  I caught up to Dan, who was walking pretty fast from the car, and said, “Are you hungry? What would this deli have to offer us for the case?”

  “It’s not the deli, but who’s working there.” He pulled a photograph of a young man with a dark complexion and short-cropped, black hair. “His name is Abdul Adair, he’s from the United Arab Emirates. He’s studying biology at NYU and works here part-time.”

  “What led you to him?”

  “What do you mean? He’s a Muslim, first of all. He attends virtually all of the Muslim student union meetings, and we have intel that he has acted suspiciously and taken a lot of photographs of New York.”

  That response actually gave me more questions than answers, but I wanted to see how this would go. Santos had just described a college student who likes to sightsee.

  We stepped in the doors and no one paid any attention to us, the sign of a good neighborhood. A couple of little kids chased the deli cat and a young mother lazily followed them while chatting on her cell phone. The smell of the chicken cutlet hero the cook was wrapping up for a customer reminded me I had forgotten to eat breakfast. My stomach growled.

  Santos stepped to the counter and asked about Abdul. A minute later, we were sitting at a small table in the corner, next to a refrigerator stocked with smoothies that cost seven bucks each.

  The student from the UAE was twenty-one and small. He couldn’t have been over five foot five and 130 pounds, which made him look even younger. The kid was already trembling.

  Santos spent a few minutes clarifying Abdul’s information. The whole process only seemed to make the young man more nervous. I scooted my chair back slightly because I didn’t want to be in the splash zone if he vomited.

  Then Santos asked a series of questions. “Have you ever had contact with an organization that espouses jihad? Don’t lie. I’ll know if you’re lying.”

  The young man vigorously shook his head.

  “Do you or any of your friends know anyone involved in a group like that?”

  This time Abdul thought about it, then shook his head. He said, “I spend most of my time either studying or working here.”

  Santos said, “What about the Muslim student union at NYU?”

  “What about it? I go there to see my friends. Meet women.”

  “And what do you plan to use your degree in biology for?”

  “This coming summer I have an internship at an institute in San Francisco doing cancer research. That might be what I’m interested in long-term.” The young man seemed to be getting some confidence.

  The FBI agent made notes, but didn’t invite Darya or me to say anything at all.

  Now Santos moved on to our case. He pulled up our photograph of Temir Marat and said, “Know him?”

  Abdul shook his head.

  “Where were you on Thanksgiving morning?”

  “Having breakfast with the family of one of my professors who lives in the Village.”

  “We’ll need his name and address. Now.”

  Santos pushed over a notebook for Abdul to write in. He made more notes and asked more questions, which Abdul answered quickly and clearly. Then the FBI man thanked him, but warned him not to leave the city. That was it. It felt more like a schoolyard bullying session than an interview. When Santos stood up and handed Abdul a card, I did the same thing. The only difference is, I smiled and winked at him when I gave him the card. He gave me a nervous smile and nod in return.

  Then all three of us marched out of the deli.

  Before we even got to the car, I had to say, “What the hell was that?”

  “What was what?”

  “Treating that kid like that! We have no reason to believe that he’s done anything wrong. Why are we wasting time scaring kids to death?”

  Santos stopped on the sidewalk and looked at me like I was a little kid who just asked a stupid question in class. “Do I have to remind you, Detective, that this is a federal case? It’s not some cheap New York City misdemeanor or dead dope addict.” Santos looked at Darya to see if she was interested in getting involved in the argument. Then he said, “The FBI has to look at the big picture and see if we can link different terror networks. It may not seem like it’s helping much now, but it could pay off big later. Let me know when you solve a major terror case.”

  That stung a little bit. As I slipped into the Crown Victoria, I felt like I’d been told off pretty effectively.

  Chapter 16

  After the interview with Abdul, I realized my time might be better utilized. I saw my opportunity when Santos was called to a boss’s office to give an update on the investigation.

  I tried to quietly slip out of the task force office, ready to tell anyone who asked that I was just going to lunch. It would take a while to drive out to Brighton Beach, the Brooklyn neighborhood with a high population of Russian immigrants. But I doubted anyone would miss me, especially Agent Dan Santos.

  As I hustled down the corridor away from the office, I heard someone behind me. I turned to see Darya Kuznetsova with a smile on her face.

  She said, “Going somewhere?”

  “Yeah, I’m going to do my job.” Then, for no real reason, I said, “I’m going to visit some Russian mobsters. Do you want to come?”

  She didn’t say a word but just kept following me.

  “Why didn’t we talk to these Russians yesterday when we talked to your other informants?”

  “Because Russian mobsters are in a different class. They could help us, or they could try to find Marat themselves for a reward.”

  Darya said, “Do you think every Russian living in the US is a mobster?”

  “That’s ridiculous. Not everyone can be a mobster. Some Russians work in support roles.” I waited until she turned and stared at me, then laughed and said, “I’m just kidding. But if you think no Russians are involved in organized crime, you’re just as wrong. I know a couple of them. I know they won’t be happy about the attack. So why don’t we use that?”

  That seemed to satisfy Darya and she stayed quiet, but alert, all the way through Brighton Beach. I pulled off Neptune Avenue a few blocks from our destination.

  I parked away from the apartment we were headed to. No sense in alerting everyone by driving an NYPD Impala, whether it was marked or not, into one of the tightest, most isolated communities in New York.

  Darya said, “What are you hoping to find out?”

  “I just want to see if anyone knows anything about Marat. These guys won’t have any loyalty to a terrorist. Terror attacks hurt their bottom line. They’ll listen for information if we tell them what to listen for.”

  We walked up to the second-floor apartment, which offered a glimpse of the Atlantic if you angled your gaze just right.

  I told Darya, “This guy we’re going to see goes by different names. I’ll wait until we see him to tell you what his name is now.”

  A wiry man with a disturbingly dark tan and a cigarette dangling from his mouth answered the door and just stared at us for a moment. He was about forty but looked older. He said, “What a surprise. I have no idea why you are visiting me now. I’ve been a very good boy lately.” He ushered us inside. It was a surprisingly comfortable apartment, even if it did stink of cigarette smoke and beer. He plopped down in an oversize recliner while Darya and I eased onto a leather couch.

  I said, “It’s nice to see you too, Mr.…”

  “Vineyard. Lewis Vineyard. Good name, eh?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  The Russian said in accented English, “I like it. I figure I work on my English, no one will ever suspect who or what I am.”

  I shrugged and said, “Except for the fact that you live in Brighton Beach, work at a Russian mob-run bar, and sell drugs and guns to Russian mobsters, I doubt anyone would ever suspect you of being a Russian criminal. I’m sure everyone will assume you’re Swiss.”

  He gave me a smile and said, “That’s my hope.” Then he turned his attention to Darya. “And who’s this l
ovely creature you brought to my home? If you’re looking for a place for her to live, I agree. She can even have my bedroom.”

  Darya didn’t say a word and I immediately realized she didn’t want this guy knowing she was Russian as well. It was also useful for people to not realize she spoke their language.

  He held up his arms to show off his tan and said, “You’d love it, baby. I sit on the beach every single day. You would, too, if you were raised in a place like Moscow.” He gazed into her face and said, “With soft, white skin like that, you could be a Russian beauty yourself.”

  I said, “This is my colleague. And we’re here about something serious.”

  “I’m listening.” Then he threw in, “And what’s in it for me?”

  “We’re working with the feds on this, so there could be some decent reward money.”

  He clapped his rough hands together and rubbed them. “Sounds good to me.” He stubbed out the cigarette in an overflowing ashtray.

  I said, “It’s about the attack on the parade Thursday. I’m looking for any information about a Russian-speaking suspect. If there’s anyone unusual in the area. If there’ve been strange requests for guns or explosives. Anything you can think of.”

  Lewis Vineyard said, “I deal mostly with people I know already. But I’ll keep my ears open. No one wants to see shit like that happen. There were little kids killed.”

  “And we’re going to catch that son of a bitch.”

  Chapter 17

  We stopped at a few other places in Brighton Beach, but none seemed as promising as Lewis Vineyard. He knew everyone and dealt with everyone. I was confident he’d come up with something.

  Darya said, “I can see why these people leave Russia. They left food lines, and found decent weather and good housing. It’s hard to compete with America head-to-head. Even your marketing is better than ours.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You have land of the free or the streets paved with gold. We have plenty of land to farm if you don’t mind freezing in Siberia.”

  I laughed at that.

  She gave me a smile and said, “It would be interesting to work with you on a daily basis.”

  “Let’s catch this guy first, then see where it goes.”

  “And when we catch him, what happens to him next?”

  “The FBI will bleed him for information. On everything.”

  “That’s what we thought.”

  Before I could ask her what that meant—that “we”—my phone rang. I looked down and saw it was my grandfather. I never like to ignore calls from Seamus because it could be something serious, the fear always associated with an elderly relative’s calls.

  “Seamus, everything all right?”

  His chuckle told me he was fine. “It’s not like I’m going to keel over at any minute. I may still be in my prime. It’s a new millennium. Age is just a number.”

  “The fact that you’ve seen the last few millennia makes me worry about your health.”

  “For a change, I’m calling to help you with your job.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “As a man of the cloth, I have friends in every denomination. One of them happens to be a Muslim cleric. He’s the imam of a mosque in Queens.”

  “I appreciate that, Seamus, but we’re not really taking the shotgun approach that all Muslims know about terror attacks.”

  “But this imam spent some time in Kazakhstan. If I overheard you correctly on the phone last night, Kazakhstan has something to do with your investigation.”

  All I could say was, “Give me the info.”

  Twenty minutes later, we were in Jamaica Estates, pulling up to a mosque off the Grand Central Parkway near 188th Street.

  As soon as we were out of the car, a small man who looked about sixty-five approached us. He was wearing a suit with a collarless white shirt and a small, white cap.

  The man gave us a warm smile as he said, “You can’t be Seamus’s grandson, Michael, can you? I am Adama Nasir.” He had a slight accent that was hard to place. His wire-rimmed glasses gave him the look of a scholar.

  I took his hand and said, “I am Seamus’s grandson. He’s much older than he pretends to be.” I introduced Darya as my associate.

  We stayed outside and strolled through a playground for the school attached to the mosque. Nasir explained that he was born in Qatar and had traveled throughout the world as a visiting scholar of the Koran. I noted that he had spent two years in Kazakhstan.

  Nasir said, “Your grandfather mentioned what you were doing. I think it’s important for Muslims to spread the truth that, just like Christians, the vast majority of Muslims just want to worship in peace. Most Muslims are outraged at attacks like the one on the parade.”

  I said, “I can appreciate the sentiment, but right now I’m only interested in catching who’s responsible. It doesn’t matter to me what religion he is or even what his motivation was. We need to catch him before he does anything else.”

  “That’s why I asked your grandfather if I could speak with you, because he mentioned that there was a possibility the suspect was from Kazakhstan. There is a bar in Rockaway Park that’s a meeting place for ethnic Russians with connections to Kazakhstan. It’s really quite a festive place. I have visited it myself because of my stay in Kazakhstan. Of course, I couldn’t drink alcohol, but the company was invigorating. If anyone knows about someone from Kazakhstan looking to hide in the greater New York area, it’s that crowd.”

  This was a good lead. Probably more than the FBI had. I thanked him and turned with Darya to head for our car.

  Nasir said, “I hope you find who you’re looking for. It’s a tricky business, these attacks. I’ve seen it all over the Middle East. Some are based on religious conviction. Some people are forced to do the attacks and some attacks are not what they seem.”

  I said, “Not what they seem in what way?”

  “I used to see it in occupied Palestine. They’ve been known to kill other Palestinians in attacks so that Israel is blamed. I’ve even heard rumors that some of the old Israeli governments allowed attacks in Jerusalem so that they would have a reason to respond. There is a certain return on this philosophy.”

  He was right, but I didn’t see the US government allowing an attack like this. I also couldn’t see them putting so many resources into catching someone if they had allowed the attack to occur.

  All we could do was follow up on the leads we had.

  Chapter 18

  The streets felt more alive than ever on the drive to Rockaway Park. It was incredible. Even with the cold weather, people were out in the streets, as if telling the terrorists, “New Yorkers don’t hide.”

  The bar was on Rockaway Beach Boulevard, not far from the Jacob Riis Park. As soon as we stepped in the door, I heard conversation in Russian.

  Darya was right behind me as I surveyed the long room with booths on the left and stools against the bar on the right. Bright sunlight crashed through the wide bay windows, saving the place from the usual depressing air of a bar in the middle of the day.

  It was also surprisingly crowded, with people shouting good-naturedly from one booth to another while the bartenders called out orders in Russian.

  I wasn’t sure what to do, so without identifying myself, I told the bartender I was looking for someone. I showed him the picture of Marat and told him he was a Russian, speaking Kazakh.

  The burly bartender scratched his red beard and shook his head and said in English, “No, no, I never seen this man. Sorry. What you want to drink?”

  I bought two beers and settled in at the bar with Darya. There were several other women in the place, but the way they were sitting in booths by themselves or with one man led me to believe they might be prostitutes. I hoped no one would make a mistake and approach Darya. For their sake.

  I watched our bartender speaking in a low voice in Russian to one of his colleagues, not far from us.

  Darya leaned in close and s
aid, “The bartender just said the two men at the end of the bar are looking for the same man we are.”

  Having Darya undercover was brilliant. They didn’t seem to care if we overheard them speaking Russian.

  I looked over to the far end of the bar where there were two men standing, dressed in cheap suits with ties, about my age, but heavy and out of shape. One of the men was burly, with a pockmarked face, and the other had cold, gray eyes, and as soon as they met mine I realized someone at the bar had just told them who I was asking about.

  I assumed he made me for a cop, because he made no move to come over to talk. That was fine by me. His interest didn’t concern me.

  I formulated a plan, and appreciated the fact that Darya didn’t ask what it was.

  After a few minutes, the two men in suits stepped out the back door of the bar and into the narrow parking lot. We wasted no time going out the main door and into the same lot.

  I saw them get into a new Lincoln. Comfortable, but not flashy. Once we got into my Impala, I ran the tag quickly and it came back to a moving company owned by Russians. Shocking.

  When it didn’t look like they were going anywhere, I said to Darya, “Sometimes we have to make our own karma.”

  All she said was, “I agree.”

  As we slipped out of the car, I said, “Whatever happens in Rockaway Park stays in Rockaway Park. Is that a problem?”

  “Not unless you expect me to dig a hole if you kill them. I hate to dig.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Both the men were still sitting in the car, looking out at the traffic trickling by on Rockaway Beach Boulevard.

  I was careful, trying to approach the car from behind and in the blind spot. As we got closer, I realized they were taking a smoke break with both the windows open.

  Neither seemed to be monitoring the mirrors. For a couple of mobsters, they weren’t terribly observant.

  They couldn’t have set it up better for me.