“Lilburn, over.”
“Matt, listen in. Go to Manhattan, NYPD HQ, where you’ll be met by Inspector Lance Gibbons of the Major Case Squad. He’s been briefed and is up to speed.”
“Wilco, sir.”
Lilburn looked at the pilot. “You know the place?”
“Puzzle Palace, here we come. Downtown Manhattan, One Police Plaza to be exact. Hope they put away their barbecues this time.”
Lilburn didn’t get the subtle innuendo.
The pilot grinned as he took a quick glance towards his passenger. “Cops got caught having a barbecue on the rooftop by a newspaper chopper. You should have seen the headlines: NYPD HQ BBQ, Grill the grillers. Lot of shit goes on down there on the ground, makes me feel good when I’m up here. Me and Gracie just fly away and leave them to it.”
The buildings of New York seemed to grow out of the ground, getting larger and larger as if they were huge brown and gray beanstalks reaching for the sky in a fairy-tale land.
“There she is, NYPD police headquarters, tucked in close between those skyscrapers like she’s trying to hide.”
From the air One Police Plaza looked like a large brown square brick with a grid of regularly placed square windows on all sides. A smaller dark square landing pad rose from its flat square roof and to the side, Matt saw a row of huge ventilation fans. The helicopter maneuvered around the taller buildings while decreasing altitude, until the imposing structures loomed above them. Lilburn was in an immense concrete jungle, tall buildings casting deep shadows. Occasionally he could see the greenery of inner-city trees. He glimpsed the nearby Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges, along with the Brooklyn River, as the helicopter gently touched down on the concrete helipad.
“Here we are, sir, all safe and sound. My instructions are to wait here for you. Welcome to New York and enjoy the shopping.”
A man in a dark suit and tie was standing on the helipad at a safe distance. Waiting for the helicopter to touch down he gave a thumbs up to the pilot, who replied with an affirmative hand signal. The suited man ran forward crouching down towards the helicopter with its still whirling blades and opened the passenger’s door. “Special Agent Matt Lilburn?”
“Yes.”
“Inspector Lance Gibbons, follow me.”
Away from the rush of downdraft Gibbons thrust out his hand. “Good to meet you, Agent Lilburn. I’ve been given instructions to offer you any assistance you require.” Gibbons held open a door accessing a stairway down to a lobby with a lift.
Inside the lift, Gibbons pressed the button to the eleventh floor. “I have a team of five men waiting. Director Hall has given us the address and the name of the suspect; we aim to apprehend the cleric and bring him back here for you to question.”
“How much have you been told about this operation, Inspector?”
“Not much really, all I know is Homeland Security has asked us to apprehend a person of interest and leave the rest to you. NYPD has been notified to immediately disseminate an alert to all staff to be on heightened alert for any reference to Syria. Other than that, we have no other operational reference. Anything you can enlighten me on?”
“Not yet, sorry.”
Gibbons shrugged. “As I suspected.”
The elevator door opened to the eleventh floor.
“This way.”
A map of Bedford-Stuyvesant had been spread over a large table; a group of five officers in civilian dress were discussing operational procedures. Gibbons interrupted them, and introduced Matt. Formalities and quick briefing over, the seven men departed in an unmarked white Ford Transit.
The driver negotiated his way over the crowded Brooklyn Bridge and pressed further on to Atlantic Avenue, heading in a southeasterly direction to the heart of Bedford-Stuyvesant, less than four miles away. In the back of van, spread out on the seatless metal floor, Lilburn made himself as comfortable as possible.
“Not much of a sightseeing tour.” Gibbons smiled.
“I’ve had worse. Tell me what you know about this cleric — Abdul Baari Fawaz?”
Inspector Gibbons looked over the details sent from Albany. “Fawaz was born 1959, Egyptian by birth, immigrated to America 1993, and founded a mosque in Brooklyn soon after. His name, Abdul Baari, means ‘servant of the Creator’. Five foot ten inches, identified by a birthmark on the his neck, left rear side. He doesn’t show up on our radar.”
The officer in the passenger seat leaned around towards the back of the van. “ETA two minutes.”
“Right, heads up.” Gibbons gave out instructions. The van was to park outside the mosque, he and one other officer, together with Lilburn, were to proceed directly to the building and enter, the remaining two in the back of the van were to station themselves outside, weapons concealed. The front-seat passenger to remain seated unless events dictated otherwise. A radio check was performed, using their hidden mikes and concealed earpieces. All working.
The van turned off Atlantic Avenue then turned again before slowing down. The officer in the front passenger seat looked for the mosque. “Here it is, sir, looks like we’ll have to double park. We have three persons directly out front, two probable Muslim men with beards and skullcaps. Could be corner men. There’s a kid as well, sitting on a box by the double doors. Can confirm the entry door is open.” The van stopped.
“Let’s go.”
Lilburn quickly took in the surroundings. The mosque was one of many similar-sized buildings nearby, all sharing common walls, approximately fifteen feet wide with access through a large grey door directly off the footpath. There were signs protruding out into the sidewalk on either side of the mosque, attached to the bottom of the two floors above. One sign advertised a barber shop, the other a travel agent. The mosque itself had Arabic writing above the entrance; Lilburn also noticed a security camera facing down towards the door.
The two bearded men tensed as the group from the van approached. Even though they wore plainclothes, they still looked menacing.
“Is the Imam here?” No reply was forthcoming. “Imam Abdul Baari Fawaz, is he here?” Still no reply. The bearded faces showed no response, not a flicker of emotion, yet Lilburn saw their deep brown eyes missed nothing. Silence was clearly their friend. The seated boy, no more than eight years old, with a collarless white shirt, long grey shorts and black sneakers that seemed far too big for him slowly stood up, backed towards the open door then suddenly made off inside at a run. Gibbons ignored the silent men and followed. Lilburn and one officer followed his lead. Inside, Gibbons only just saw the flicker of the boy’s white shirt disappear up a flight of stairs.
With weapon drawn, Gibbons charged up the stairs, leaving his two colleagues to follow suit.
The upper level prayer room, the musalla, with its wooden floor, was bare of trappings save for the racks of rolled prayer mats and numerous bookshelves. As Gibbons entered, a door in the far corner slammed shut. There was only one other person in the room. The Imam finished his prayer, then after stepping off his prayer mat, knelt down and carefully rolled it up.
“Imam Abdul Baari Fawaz?”
The man did not look up as he spoke. “Who wants to know?”
Gibbons repeated the question. “Are you Imam Abdul Baari Fawaz?”
“As I said, who wants to know?” the cleric turned to face them. His long dark beard was starting to gray from the outside in, falling over a loose-fitting dark-blue tunic. The dark eyes well set into his eye sockets were in stark contrast to his brilliant white skull cap.
Gibbons holstered his weapon, his colleague did the same. “NYPD. My name is Inspector Gibbons. Are you Imam Abdul Baari Fawaz?”