Rookie officer Martinez couldn’t believe his luck. Something Homeland Security was interested in was going down in the streets he worked. The lieutenant mentioned Syria, something registered about that name. Something… “Officer Maitland?” Maitland, the briefing over, had stood up and was about to leave the room when the rookie spoke. “The other day, remember? The apartment.”
“What friggin’apartment are you talking about? There’s thousands of the damn things.”
“Remember the old lady who said the two men next door were making a bomb?”
Maitland took a moment to recall the incident. “Yeah, so what? We searched the place, spoke to some raghead, nothing, except…” Maitland hesitated. The stamp, the stamp on the wrapping paper was the same one his nephew had shown him in his stamp album. “Where did that guy say he came from?”
“Syria, I remember it was Syria.”
Maitland sat back down. “The lieutenant, he said something to look out for, what the fuck was it?”
“I took notes, he said to look out especially for anything to do with Syria.”
“I know that, what was the other thing?”
Martinez brushed though his notes. “The lieutenant mentioned to be diligent about anyone from Syria and any mail we might see.”
“You know what, kid? You might just do OK. Come with me.”
Martinez followed Maitland to the lectern at the front of the room.
“Hey, Sarge.”
The roll call sergeant was putting his notes back together when Officer Maitland approached him. “Don’t ask me for leave, Maitland, we’re short staffed as it is.”
“We might have something for you regarding the Syrian thing…”
“Keep talking.”
“The rookie and me got called out to attend a domestic. When was it, kid, yesterday? Yeah, yesterday. Turned out it was just two guys probably pissing off the old lady next door by praying all the damn time.”
“Congratulations, you want a medal or something?”
“The guy we interviewed said he was Syrian. And he had an empty parcel wrapper…”
The sergeant looked up. “Follow me. You too, Martinez.”
The lieutenant looked up from his office desk at the sound of the single knock; his sergeant leaned forward, one hand on the door jamb, the other on the handle of the half-opened door.
“Lieutenant, you might want to hear this.”
Chapter Ten
Five times a day their religion required them to face holy Mecca and prostrate themselves. Twice already they had ritually cleansed themselves and carried out their obligations. The second time was within a much shorter interval than usual, as they would soon be traveling and prayers would only be taken when the opportunity allowed. Yusuf and Bashir locked their apartment door for what could be the last time. They saw their first few steps down the corridor as the first steps to martyrdom. Both men felt the weight of responsibility that had been placed on their shoulders. There was no choice but to succeed in the mission to help bring down those of another book, the infidels of America. Nothing the men had ever done had felt so satisfying. Millions of future followers would one day recount their names with great reverence.
The door to apartment twenty-seven shut quietly, the lock turned and a security chain rattled as the old woman’s wrinkled black hands fumbled to secure her door from the inside. Taking a piece of paper from a drawer she scribbled down what she had just seen. The two Arab men left the apartment at ten past ten, wearing jeans, one with a black hoodie with I love Montana written on the front. Other one had a white T-shirt with Patriots for Patriots. Both carrying a blue duffel bag with white straps. They yabbered twice this morning, first time woke me just after five a.m. The old lady had been making notes about her neighbors long before she had phoned the police the day before. The piece of paper along with the pen was carefully placed back in the desk drawer. The men kept on annoying her with their continual praying — damn caterwaulin’ don’t sound like no prayers to me. Looking at her phone on top of the table she picked up the receiver to call the police. Yesterday she had memorized the older policeman’s number and written it down. She thought about phoning and asking for him to come on out again. Fancy them Arabs wearing a shirt that said Patriots for Patriots. That’s un-American, them wearing that shirt. Police should do something about it, she thought to herself. The old lady started dialing nine-one-one but the pain in her arthritic fingers bit hard, making her hands tremble. Dang — but that smarts some! I’ll wait until tomorrow, I’ve got my shopping to do today.
Yusuf al-Nasseri and Bashir Zuabi walked out of the apartment block to the sidewalk. Blending in with other pedestrians in the ethnically diverse neighborhood, the two silently, casually made their way to the nearest bus stop. There they caught the next available commuter bus via the Manhattan Bridge to 625 Eight Avenue, midtown Manhattan and the Port Authority Bus Terminal located in Times Square, just over five kilometers from One Police Plaza.
The nation’s largest bus terminal sat amidst commercial neighbors, the likes of the New York Times building, Madame Tussaud’s and Ripley’s Believe It or Not, mothership to a swarm of state and interstate passengers, with over two hundred thousand people passing through each day.
The two bioterrorists arrived outside, unnoticed in all the hustle and bustle. Exiting the city bus onto the busy sidewalk, the men made their way inside, where the semi-organized street traffic gave way to organized chaos. Duffel bags slung over their shoulders, tightly gripping the straps, they negotiated the throng of commuters, swerving in and out of the rumbustious flow. Every so often an unwitting person would bump into them, some knocking the bags the men carried. On not a single person’s mind was the notion that, within their midst, two young men were on their way to unleash an economic catastrophe to rival the loss of the Twin Towers. And it would be done so easily, so cheaply. The poor man’s nuke was in transit.
Yusuf glanced down at his watch — ten forty-five in the morning. The last bus upstate to Binghamton had left at ten; the next was due to depart at eleven-thirty from the lower level of the North Terminal.
Music played over loudspeakers, every so often interrupted with messages about security and not leaving luggage or parcels unattended otherwise there was the probability of search by the Port Authority Police. Neither Yusuf nor Bashir had any intention of letting go of their bags. Retrieving his credit card from the automated ticketing machine, Yusuf placed it safely in his pocket.
Bashir carried out the same procedure. “C’mon, we’ve got plenty of time before we pick up our ride. Let’s go for a coffee and use the restroom, it’ll probably be a long trip.”
“You’re as bad as my mother!” Yusuf grinned. “Hey, I’m getting more excited every minute! Look at all these people around us — the morons have no idea what we’re about to do!”
His friend nodded. “Yeah, I’m the same. Can you feel the presence of Allah walking with us? It’s like he’s guiding our every move — and we’re totally invisible to our enemies. It’s like he’s put a protective shield around us.”