The Observer (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 3) (13 page)

“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.

“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.”

“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.”

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.

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.

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.”