Outside number twenty-five Maitland, gun drawn, hammered three times on the door. “NYPD, open up.” No reply. He knocked harder. The door opened. A man stood there, with Middle Eastern looks, twenty something, short black curly hair with what appeared to be a week’s growth of sparse facial hair. Martinez remembered the drill. Details… note the details for the inevitable paperwork. Dressed in a faded black T-shirt hanging out over a pair of blue jeans. As the man’s eyes focused on the two gun barrels pointing at him, his eyes widened.
“Back up now.” Maitland took control. The man raised his arms and shuffled backwards. Maitland entered followed by the rookie; they visually searched the main living area for the other occupant.
“Where’s the other guy? Is there anyone else here?”
“No, sir, just me.”
“Turn around, back to me, keep your hands up.” Maitland kept his Glock trained on the man with one hand while he expertly patted him down. “Martinez, search the place.”
The living area was sparse but tidy — there was one couch and a small coffee-type table, with a pitcher of water and a hair comb. The floor was carpeted; a smallish dyed rug lay beside the table skewwhiff to the walls and couch.
“Officer, I’ve done nothing wrong.” The accent was American.
“Turn around, place your hands down by your sides.”
Martinez was back, a quick shake of his head. The other rooms were clear. “No one else.”
Holstering his weapon, Maitland spoke to the man. “There’s been a complaint made — excess noise. You live here alone?”
“No, sir, I share the apartment with a friend.”
“Friend… really. So how is it we get complaints about this place?”
“I… I am very sorry, sir, sometimes our prayers upset the neighbors, they don’t understand.”
Maitland walked past the man towards the kitchen. This job was going nowhere. The man was nervous but polite, and spoke like an American. So either born here or been here a while. Long enough to know the score. Didn’t look the type to be forced into losing his temper so he could be cuffed. Even the kitchen area was tidy. He could see a large pot of water on the stove. Probably preparing for the next meal. His eyes canvassed the rest of the room — the stainless steel bench top was clear save for a brown paper mail wrapper, which had been emptied and flattened out, ready for the trash. Postage stamps showed it had come from overseas. His nephew collected stamps, these were real colorful. He thought briefly about asking if he could take them. Aarrgh, another day. Above the kitchen sink a small window looked out onto the bleak wall of a neighboring unit. Piss all view. Below the window, on the sill, were four clear plastic lids. There was something nasty growing in them. He turned his nose up. “You need to do some cleaning.” As he spoke he turned back towards the man. Metal clinked as his foot inadvertently knocked over some cans, which went sprawling across the vinyl floor. “Shit.” Looking down, Maitland saw he had just kicked over a half — dozen or so cans of spray-on deodorant.
The man in the center of the living area swallowed hard. He felt a cold trickle of sweat run down inside his shirt.
“Martinez, take the man’s details.”
Pulling out his notebook Martinez started to write. “What’s your name?”
“Yusuf al-Nasseri, sir.”
“Name of the other guy who lives here.”
“His name’s Bashir Zuabi.”
“What sorta names are those?” Maitland interrupted, frowning as he saw Martinez hesitate. How the fuck do you spell that? he thought.
“They’re Syrian, sir.”
Officer Maitland looked al-Nasseri up and down. Another fuckin’ import.
With the necessary details taken, Maitland nodded to the rookie. Time to leave. At the doorway he looked back at the man still standing in the middle of the living room. “I suggest you keep those prayers down, or we’ll be back.”
“Those damn stairs again,” he muttered, to no one in particular.
Out on the sidewalk Maitland spoke to Martinez. “No bomb-making equipment I could see there, you find any in the other rooms?”
“No, Officer Maitland, nothing.”
“Like I told you — another stat for the quarter. That’s what it’s all about boy, get back to the station, write it up, sign it off then it gets buried.” A few more paces down the road Maitland said thoughtfully, “That filthy stuff growing in those lids, above the kitchen sink… everything else was clean… they seemed kinda out of place…”
“Those were petri dishes, Officer Maitland.”
“Say what? OK, Professor, and what the shit do you do with peetree dishes?”
“Grow things in them, like cultures.”
Maitland’s knowledge of science precluded him from entering into any form of educated discussion. “Like what? You saying they’re making that furry stuff to eat?”
“Could be something like… yogurt gone wrong.”
“Well, that rag-head can grow yogurt if he likes. Me? I get mine from a store.”
Chapter Two
“Ladies and gentlemen, and I use that phrase very loosely indeed…”
A howl of protest came from the auditorium.
“We are most fortunate, indeed honored, to entertain in our hallowed halls one of the most dynamic, knowledgeable and illuminating scientists in her field of expertise.” Professor Martin Jennian-Jones paused. Festooned in a bright tweed sportscoat, unbuttoned to allow for the ample proportions of his abdomen to settle comfortably over his corduroy trousers, his voice boomed around the lecture hall. With a round jovial face capped with wavy salt and pepper-colored hair and a large unruly reddish beard and generous mustache, his was a larger than life personality. “Our eminent guest, my dear fellows, is profoundly qualified to raise the bar…” With an exaggerated movement he raised one arm high above his head. “… of your inquiring young minds to the festering world of bioterrorism, the ‘poor man’s nuke’.” The professor reached out his large puffy hand and rested it on the lectern beside him. “With a doctorate in bio-pharmaceutics from our own honored institution, an extensive pedigree of employment at the likes of Plum Island, New York and the Institute of Integrative Biology in Zurich to name a few; I give to you lowly and undeserving students of War Studies from the School of Social Science and Public Policy, Dr. Evangeline Crawston.” Professor Jennian-Jones extended his hand in welcome to the woman standing off to the side of the theatre, indicating it was time to make her way to the lectern.
Loud applause erupted from the forty or so mainly male students, together with a lone wolf whistle from somewhere near the elevated seats of the back row.
“Down, gentlemen, respectful clapping is quite sufficient,” interjected the professor.
Evangeline Crawston glided over to center stage. Her knee-length gray skirt with long tailored jacket over a crisp white blouse failed to hide her feminine curves. The heels of her stylish dark-gray Italian court shoes emphasized the graceful curves of her calves, her long, thick auburn hair bounced with each purposeful step, catching the light. Every red-blooded male in the lecture room watched as she slid smoothly behind the lectern, skillfully adjusted the microphone and acknowledged her gracious welcome. “Well now… I certainly have a lot to live up to after that wonderful introduction, thank you, Professor Jennian-Jones.” As she gazed out at the students ranged before her, Evangeline smiled at the thought of the full circle she had come. “I am indeed honored to be here. Now, can you all hear me?” An affirmative murmur came from the audience. “I must confess, the last time I was in this room was at least ten years ago. I was sitting, just like you, listening to some boring lecture on something or another. I shall do my best not to inflict anything similar on you.” There was an almost unanimous shaking of heads; no one was bored.