We were in Jersey City now, and we got on to the Pulaski Skyway, from which we had a scenic view of belching smokestacks.
I asked Ms. Sims, "Where do you think he's going?"
She recognized the question, smiled, and replied, "How do I know?"
We approached the interchange for Interstate 95, and I said, "Ten bucks says he goes south." I added, "Newark Airport."
She asked, "What's to the north?"
"The North Pole. Come on. You betting?"
She thought a moment, then said, "Well, he's been traveling south, but he has no luggage for the airport-unless it's in the trunk."
"So, you pick north?"
"No. I say he's going south, but not to the airport. To Atlantic City."
I wasn't following the train of thought that led Ms. Sims to Atlantic City, but I said, "Okay. Ten bucks."
"Fifty."
"You're on."
Unit Two radioed, "Subject has taken the southbound entrance to Ninety-five."
"Copy." So it was either Newark Airport or maybe Atlantic City. I mean, these guys did go down to AC to gamble, drink, and get laid. Not that I would know about any of that firsthand. But I have followed Abdul down there on a number of occasions.
I could still see Unit Two, and they could see the subject vehicle, and Jacobs radioed, "Subject passed the exit for Newark Airport."
Ms. Sims said to me, "You can pay me now."
I said, "He could be going to Fort Dix. You know, spying on a military installation." I reminded her, "He's a military intel guy."
"And the chauffeur and Mercedes are cover for what?"
I didn't reply.
We continued on, hitting speeds of eighty miles an hour on Route 95, known here as the New Jersey Turnpike.
Ms. Sims announced, "He's past the twenty-five-mile limit."
"Good. Do you want to keep following him, or kill him?"
"I'm just making an observation."
"Noted."
We continued on, and I said to Ms. Sims, "You know, maybe I should call for air."
She didn't reply, so I further explained, "We have an air spotter we can use. Makes our job easier." I started to switch the frequency on the radio, but Ms. Sims said, "He's booked at the Taj Mahal."
I took my hand off the dial and inquired, "How do you know?"
"We got a tip."
I inquired, "And when were you going to share this with me?"
"After I had my muffin."
I was a little pissed off. Maybe a lot.
A few minutes later, she asked me, "Are you, like, not speaking to me?"
In fact, I wasn't, so I didn't reply.
She said, "But we've got to follow him down there to see that he actually goes to the Taj and checks in." She informed me, "We have a team down there already, so after they pick him up we can turn around and head back to the city."
I had no reply.
She assured me, "You don't owe me the fifty dollars. In fact, I'll buy you a drink."
No use staying mad, so I said, "Thank you." I mean, typical FBI. They wouldn't tell you if your ass was on fire. And the Special Agents, like Ms. Sims and my wife, are all lawyers. Need I say more?
I radioed Unit Two with my new info, though I advised Mel and George to stay with us in case our info was wrong and Big Bird was heading elsewhere.
Mel asked, "How did you find this out?"
"I'll tell you later."
We continued on, and Ms. Sims said, "We have about two hours. Tell me all you know about surveillance. I'd like to know what you've learned in the last forty years."
It hasn't been quite that long, and Ms. Sims I'm sure knew that; she was just making an ageist joke. She actually had a sense of humor, a rarity among her colleagues, so to show I was a good sport, and to demonstrate to her the spirit of joint FBI/NYPD cooperation, I said, "All right. I talk, you listen. Hold your questions."
"Will there be a test?"
"Every day."
She nodded.
I settled back and imparted my extensive knowledge of surveillance techniques, interspersed with anecdotal and personal stories of surveillances, even the ones that went bad.
The criminals I've followed over the years were all pretty dumb, but when I got to the Task Force, I realized that the guys we were following-diplomats and terrorist suspects-were not quite as dumb. I mean, they're certainly not smart, but they are paranoid, partly because most of them come from police states, and that makes them at least savvy that they're under the eye.
Ms. Sims, true to her word, did not interrupt as I held her spellbound with my stories. I really don't like to brag, but this was a teaching moment, so how could I avoid it? And, as I say, I was honest about the screw-ups.
On that subject, and on the subject of smart bad guys, I've run into only two evil geniuses in my three years with the Task Force. One was an American, and the other was a Libyan guy with a very big grudge against the USA, and not only was he evil and smart, he was also a perfect killing machine. My experience with the Libyan had less to do with surveillance than it did with hunter and hunted, and there were times when I wasn't sure if I was the hunter or the hunted.
This episode did not have a happy ending, and even if there were any lessons to be learned or taught, the whole case was classified as Top Secret and need-to-know, meaning I couldn't share it with Ms. Sims, or with anyone, ever. Which was fine with me.
But someday, I was sure, there would be a rematch. He promised me that.
CHAPTER TWO
About three hours after Ms. Sims did not get her muffin in Manhattan, we pulled into the long, fountain-lined drive of the Trump Taj Mahal. The Taj is topped with bulbous domes and minarets, so perhaps Big Bird thought this was a mosque.
Ms. Sims had the contact info for our team here, and she'd called ahead to let them know the subject was on the way so they could get to reception. She also described what he was wearing and let them know, "Subject is code-named Big Bird."
I radioed Unit Two, who were parked a distance from the entrance, and told them, "You can take off."
Mel Jacobs and George Foster volunteered to stay-above and beyond the call of duty-and I replied, "Do whatever you want. You're on your own time."
The nature of this job and of this Task Force is such that we all trust one another to do the right thing. There are rules, of course, but we're informal and free of a lot of the bureaucratic crap that keeps the job from getting done. And the thing that really makes the Task Force work, in my opinion, is that about half the agents are retired NYPD, like me, which means we're not worried about our careers; these are second acts, maybe last acts, and we can improvise a lot and not worry about crossing the line. Plus, we bring NYPD street smarts to the table. Results may vary, of course, but we mostly get the job done.
The driver pulled away in the Mercedes without Big Bird, who went inside carrying an overnight bag. We couldn't give the fully equipped SUV to the parking attendant, so we just parked near the entrance and locked it. I flashed my creds and said, "Official business. Watch the car." I gave the parking guy a twenty and he said, "No problem."
We entered the big ornate marble lobby, and I spotted Big Bird at the VIP check-in, and I also spotted two guys who I recognized from the Special Operations detail. We made eye contact and they signaled they were on the case.
Great news. Time for a drink.
I didn't think Big Bird could recognize us from our brief, long-distance exchange of salutes, so I escorted Ms. Sims past where he was checking in. I mean, he knew he'd been followed here, but he wasn't looking over his shoulder. He wasn't supposed to be this far from Third Avenue, but we don't make an issue of it unless someone in Washington wants us to make an issue of it. The dips from most countries can travel freely around the U.S., but some, like the Cubans, are confined to New York City, or a set radius, like the Iranians. If I had it my way, they'd all be living and working in Iowa. Bottom line here, we have had no diplomatic relations with Iran since they took over our embassy and held the staff hostage, but they were U.N. members, so they were here. Also, since we had no diplomats in Iran, we could mess with these guys without worrying about them retaliating back in Sandland. In fact… stay tuned.