The group of officers continued to enjoy each other’s comradery for several hours while watching a New York Mets baseball game. Peter glanced at his cell several times to ensure he had the man’s face memorized before leaving the smoke-filled pub. Peter Marsico had something to occupy his attention until the suspension expired.
The 66 Rockwell, Brooklyn, New York – November 16, 11:05 PM
Foday and Jesse Sane arrived at the lobby of the 66 Rockwell Apartment Complex. The forty-two-story luxury high-rise building had breathtaking views of New York and was conveniently located close to several hot spots including Barclays Center and the Brooklyn Academy of Music. A short walk one block away offered its residents access to the coveted New York Metro Transit system. It was the ideal location for Foday to conduct his reconnaissance.
“Thank you again, Jesse, for providing me a place to stay for a few days. Do you have the money we transferred to your account?”
“Yes, it’s in the drawer by the computer.”
“You know why I came to New York?”
“I have no idea, Foday, but I do not care. When I left Kenema, I came to make a new home here in the United States. You are only here because my father is an acquaintance of Sheikh Cissi.”
“You appear to have done well for yourself, my old friend. Are you still managing that restaurant?”
“I am. I have enjoyed living here for the past nine years. Hard work and some luck has paid off.”
“Why did you leave Jesse? You would have made a good life for yourself in Kenema. The Mosque has grown tremendously the last few years. We have more members than we could have ever imagined.”
“When Sheikh Cissi began publicly supporting Al Qaeda I could no longer remain in Kenema. That kind of thinking is why Muslims are still struggling all over the world. The senseless killing of civilians only sets us back. We might as well be in the middle ages. My father asked me to house you for a few days. I will honor him but do not ask me to join in whatever craziness you have planned. Let us make the best of it.”
“You know, Jesse, I see you here in a nice apartment surrounded by all these Americans. What are they doing to help us in Kenema as Ebola ravages our people?”
“I understand your frustration, Foday. I really do. We have both lost family during previous outbreaks. You may have even lost some now. America cannot help everyone, but its people are good, and they help where they can.”
“Why then do they not help us, Jesse?”
“They are too busy fighting terrorists around the world for starters. At least they are helping those who cannot help themselves. Many American doctors and nurses have traveled to Sierra Leone to help. Could America do more? Sure, but that is not for me to decide.”
“Have you heard of the Islamic State?”
“I heard something recently in the news. They want to create a caliphate. So, what?”
“Have you been practicing our faith here in the United States?”
“Every day, of course. I am welcome here, and a Mosque is just a few miles away. There are thousands of us in the city, Foday.”
“That is good, Jesse,” said Foday as he reached for the pistol inside his bag.
Foday fired several rounds into Jesse’s chest. The man slumped forward and fell to the ground. Jesse Sane was dead. He might have been useful for a few days if not for the Black River’s compromise. Like any operation, no plan survives without the ability to exert flexibility. Foday was demonstrating that yet again. He simply did not need the man, only his apartment as a location to stage the attack. In a few days, it would be over, and no one would miss Jesse.
He entered Jesse’s bathroom and opened the thick sliding glass door. He placed his hands into the armpits of Jesse and carefully slid him into the bathtub. Foday returned to the living room and opened his backpack. He reached in and pulled out the vials of blood still cold from the frozen ice packs surrounding them. Walking into the kitchen, he placed the vials into the refrigerator. Turning to his left, Foday walked toward the balcony’s door. With a gentle pull, he slipped onto the terrace and sat down. As he gazed into the bright lights of New York City, he wondered if he had the courage to do what he came for. An hour later, he decided the citizens of New York would experience the fear and horror of Ebola as his fellow compatriots back home.
The following morning, Peter Marsico decided to go for an early morning run. Today, he would take the L train on his way to Central Park and enjoy the cool temperatures and clear blue skies. These were ideal conditions for any runner regardless of their ability or commitment. He looked forward to crossing the thirty-six bridges and arches that welcome millions of tourists each year. Situated on eight hundred and forty-three acres of landscaped beauty, Central Park was the ideal location for Peter to go and keep himself busy.
He pulled his keys from the indigo-painted walls and opened the door to his nineteenth story furnished studio apartment. The lucky son of one of the principal investors of the 66 Rockwell apartment building, he enjoyed a steeply discounted monthly rent commensurate with his salary from the New York City police department. Peter Marsico was the only public employee he knew who resided in the swank complex.
Dressed in long black sweat pants, and a short sleeve yellow t-shirt composed of lycra fabrics, Peter walked out of his apartment and closed the door. He decided to leave his sweatshirt at home since the long run would be difficult enough without the added heat it would bring while worn.
This morning, he took the stairs, a ritual he adopted years ago while going for a run on a wet stormy day. He hoped taking the stairs would deter the insanity of running in cold, wet conditions with winds blowing onto his exposed skin. On that day, he had his best workout, and the routine stuck with him ever since.
Peter began descending the stairs along the eastern side of the building. As he passed the fourth floor, he ran into Mrs. Honeyrider, a widowed British woman who still walked the stairs to her sixth-floor apartment. At seventy-five years young, the woman retained her stamina through daily walks with her black fifty-two-pound labradoodle, Sunny.
As Peter approached the second floor, he noticed a man walking up the stairs. He had never seen him before, but he was only able to see the top of his head. After the stranger turned left, he and Peter walked right past each other. Peter observed the stranger looking down, a clear indication he did not want to be recognized. However, he quickly turned around and looked upward as the man continued his slow walk alongside the Russet stairwell walls.
Peter Marsico realized he was staring at the man whose photo he saw last night at the McMahon Ale House. The stranger’s pace picked up as if he knew Peter’s stare was more than a curious look.
Peter waited a few seconds until the man disappeared behind the stairwell. He then turned around and began moving up the flight of stairs. His instincts told him to simply go to the lobby and call his blue brothers at the 77th Precinct in the northern portion of Crown Heights in Brooklyn. If the man did not suspect anything, he would surely remain in the building, thought Peter. However, Peter’s bravado would get the best of himself and he went where the action took him. Rather than showing discipline, the appeal of assisting with the apprehension of New York’s top person of interest was too great.
As Foday approached the seventh floor, he considered whether the stranger below was following him. He did not wave in his pace and rapidity as he continued climbing the stairs. Foday determined it was best to continue up to the nineteenth floor. The remaining flight of stairs allowed Foday to think of contingencies for at least a few minutes longer.
Foday arrived at the nineteenth floor and quickly entered the hallway leading to the apartment. Room 1912 was only a few steps away and adjacent to the stairwell. He could feel the stranger just a few seconds behind him. He had no doubt the man was dangerous, but, as far as he could tell, had not made any phone calls or communications.
Pe
ter Marsico entered the hallway and turned to his left as the stairwell door opened to his right. Just ahead, he saw one of the apartments unsecure with the red door slightly open. He did not see the person of interest but expected he was inside the apartment. It did not matter.
As soon as he glanced in the direction of the apartment, the door came crashing behind him. The violent strike hit Peter in the back of the head and knocked his body forward into the open hallway. Foday immediately positioned himself behind the stranger and applied a vicious neck hold while strangling the man. Foday’s momentum put both men at the entrance of the apartment.
Peter fought back, but the stranger’s grip was too strong. He even attempted to execute a reverse head butt; however, Foday’s position prevented a successful strike to the face. Peter then tried to slam his attacker backward into the wall, but Foday hung on. Foday feared the ruckus would bring curious dwellers.
The situation then turned in Foday’s favor. As he bounced off the wall and pushed his legs forward, he used his weight to pull Peter into the apartment. Peter’s ability to resist began to fade as the lack of oxygen took its toll on the police officer. He motivation to fight faded quickly.
Peter Marsico would lose consciousness within a minute. Death followed shortly thereafter.
Ten minutes later, Foday moved toward the refrigerator. The time to act was upon him. He pulled open the refrigerator and removed the vials of blood stored in the plastic container. His first priority was to assemble the supplies he needed to begin. Foday had identified the likely venipuncture site and he placed the tourniquet around his arm and tightened it. He then took the empty needle and carefully placed the tip into the first vial filled with blood. Slowly, he pulled back the plunger and filled the needle with the infected blood. He felt as if he could already feel the Ebola virus moving through his veins.
Foday was a cold and calculating man, never shy of being incredibly unforgiving and brutal. Nevertheless, this was by far the most challenging task he had ever attempted. The man took a deep breath, satisfied his veins were ready for the puncture. Foday carefully stuck the needle into his vein and depressed the needle’s plunger.
Foday now became a weapon of mass destruction.
It would take several days before he felt the effects of the disease. By the time it became unbearable, it would not matter.
He would spend the next several days riding on the trains in New York hoping to infect anyone he met or shared space with on the train. Tonight, he would prepare his suicide vest for a massive detonation near Times Square. This final act of jihad would allow him the opportunity to kill more Americans, resulting in a surefire and swift death.
The full effects of Ebola would never come to fruition Foday thought to himself, but his place in Islamic State history would soon be secure.
Hampton Inn, Manhattan Grand Central Hotel, New York – November 17, 7:10 AM
Michael sat inside the hotel’s restaurant sipping coffee and reading the New York Times. A traditional newspaper with ink was still his preferred choice for keeping abreast of current international developments. He always enjoyed the depth and intense research often found within its articles and opinions, as did the millions of readers around the world. An article on Ebola captured his attention as the journalist proposed for further US action in the region to combat the deadly outbreak. After his trip to Sierra Leone, he agreed with the woman’s assessment. Then his phone rang.
“Good morning, Michael,” said Doug.
“Good morning, Doug.”
“We finally got the Intel on that account in Brooklyn. It belongs to a man named Jesse Sane. He is a former citizen of Sierra Leone and has lived here for nearly a decade. It looks like his father has a connection with Sheikh Cissi.”
“What is the connection?”
“His father was the site manager who oversaw the construction of his Mosque.”
“Good. Where does this Jesse Sane live?”
“He resides at the 66 Rockwell Apartment Complex in Brooklyn. I imagine you are just a few miles from there. His apartment number is 1912. We’ll send you the address right away.”
“What else do we know about this guy?”
“By all accounts, he appears to be a law-abiding citizen. We found no criminal history or financial problems. There are no purchases of firearms or liquids and materials to create explosives. He pays his taxes and does not even have a parking ticket. He appears clean.”
“How does he earn his living?”
“He manages a restaurant in Brooklyn.”
“Have we contacted NYPD?”
“Not yet.”
“Give me an hour to find out what I can, Doug.”
“You have it. I cannot hold on to this information longer than that. The Director will have my ass if we do not share this Intel with New York. If you see the locals moving in, you need to leave, Michael. You’re now on US soil.”
“Understood, Doug. I’m heading there now. I assume the address is 66 Rockwell?”
“Yes.”
“Who is the onsite manager for the complex?”
“Not sure, but I can have the operations center text you the name.”
Michael quickly exited the restaurant and found the valet.
“I need a cab right away.”
“Yes sir,” as the man motioned for a cab alongside the circular entrance.
Fortunately for Michael, the traffic moved, albeit slowly. Michael received a text shortly after the cab departed.
The manager is Raymond Hurt. Ack receipt.
Received. B
Michael arrived at the complex and met the apartment’s concierge.
“Good morning, my name is Michael Brennan. I have a meeting with Raymond Hurt. Where can I find him?”
The valet checked his folder and found no such meeting.
“Sir, I have no record of a meeting with Mr. Hurt this morning. He usually comes in at eight AM.”
“Are you sure? He was very adamant about meeting him here at seven-thirty.”
“I am sure, sir. I have no record of a meeting.”
“There must be a mistake. Can I at least go inside and wait in the lobby?”
“Why are you meeting Mr. Hurt?”
“I am with the Bergeson agency. We are the company that just secured the marketing contract with Mr. Hurt. I am meeting him to discuss some proposals we have in mind for the holidays.”
“I suppose it would be okay to wait in the lobby. Please go inside and make yourself comfortable. There are plenty of sofas and chairs.”
“Thank you.”
Michael sat closest to the elevator waiting for the opportunity to jump in. He would give this course of action only a few minutes and hoped a distraction to the valet occurred. It finally came when Michael heard the chimes of the elevator. He sprung off the chair and walked briskly to the doors. The young couple, dressed in workout gear, exited, gave Michael a smile, and wished him a good morning.
The ride up to the nineteenth floor allowed Michael a few moments to prepare for a possible encounter with Jesse Sane. What would he ask him? How would he establish rapport with a man who apparently lived a normal life free from radicalization? How quickly would he confront him about the fifteen-thousand-dollar-transfer? How would he deal with the valet on his way out? Michael would soon get his answers.
Upon exiting the elevator, he moved swiftly down the spacious corridor toward the apartment. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, except for a picture frame near apartment 1912. It was slightly crooked. Probably nothing, Michael thought to himself as he arrived at the front door.
Michael knocked several times, as he maintained a watchful eye to his left and right. A professional spy never likes being in confined spaces as his or her options become limited.
Michael knocked a second time and still nothing. It was early in the morn
ing, and he fully anticipated the man to be home due to his profession as a restaurant manager. Michael finally realized that no one was going to answer. He reached into his left suit pocket and pulled out an advanced rake pick developed by CIA. Using a tradecraft technique he learned at his initial training, Michael carefully maneuvered the pick into the keyhole and unlocked the front door.
He then reached into his hip holder and removed his trusted Ruger LCP. Michael Brennan was prepared for anything.
Michael slowly opened the front door and entered Jesse Sane’s apartment. It looked clean and well maintained, he thought to himself. The bright colors emanating from the floral walls added a sense of calm and serenity. As he walked into the living area, he noticed the hallway to his right. Michael slowly entered with his pistol drawn at the ready.
Michael glanced into the bathroom and saw two dead bodies in the bathtub. Michael guessed the man at the bottom was Jesse Sane; however, he had no idea who the man on top of him was. Probably an innocent bystander, he thought to himself. Michael knew Foday was nearby.
“Doug, I’m here at the apartment. Two dead bodies. I am certain one is the tenant, Jesse Sane. Not sure who the other one is but he has not been dead for very long.”
“Any sign of the blood, Michael?”
“Going to look in the refrigerator now. Stand by.”
Michael looked inside and found a blood-shipping container. He carefully removed it and only saw five vials of blood inside.
“Only five vials, Doug. The sixth one is missing.”
“Damnit. Foday either has it with him or has used it.”
“Yep. I am going to call Tony Carlucci and let his people deal with this. They will have to get a Hazmat team here right away and secure the vials.”
“Understood. Where do you think Foday went?”
“He’s probably already on a train doing his reconnaissance, unless of course, he injected the blood days ago. My bet is he did it very recently, if at all. Either way, we have a potential mess on our hands.”
Into The Shadows Page 25