Legacy and Redemption (16 page)

Setting the clipboard with the fingerprint card on the ground, Castillo took the dead man’s hand in his own and pushed his thumb against the ink pad followed by the rest of his fingers, one digit at a time. Once the corpse had been fingerprinted, Castillo compared his features to the man in the sketch.

Castillo nodded confidently.
Bingo! A perfect likeness.

The investigation carried on well into the night after the men returned to 26 Federal Plaza to continue with it. Finally, around three-thirty in the morning, some of the pieces started to fall into place. The first thing which Castillo had learned, much to his frustration, was that Nazeem al-Haq was in fact the dead man’s name. A passport, a New York State driver’s license, vehicle registration, and insurance cards were all issued in his name. He even had pay stubs in his apartment from a gas station job where he worked in the overnight hours. Castillo hoped the gas station could possibly turn up some leads as another team from the FBI was at the gas station assisting in the investigation.

A search of the passport, however, revealed that it was likely a forgery, and that it was never used by al-Haq to enter the United States. If their information from Tel-Aviv was correct, al-Haq had snuck across the border just as they suspected which meant the plan has been a long time in the making.

Castillo was sorting through any information that he could find on the man when Frank Balentine called out to him. “Louie, you got a phone call—a detective from
BCI
.”

Castillo anxiously picked up the phone. He knew if the Bureau of Criminal Identification section was calling, the dead man’s prints must have come back. He put the phone to his ear and had a pen at the ready as he answered; “Detective Castillo.”

“Good morning, this is Langston from BCI. I’ve got a match on your prints. Let me know when you’re ready to copy.”

“I’m ready.”

But in truth, he wasn’t. Castillo listened and wrote down the name as it was told to him.

Tariq Azir. It can’t be? That doesn’t make any sense.

A sudden sinking feeling engulfed his body; a sensation he was experiencing way too often lately. While it didn’t seem possible, it made all of the sense in the world that it was. Castillo recognized the name instantly. He hung up the phone as quick as possible and called an emergency number for the New York State Bureau of Prisoner Information. After a few minutes of red tape, Castillo learned the information was accurate.

In total disbelief, he knocked on the door of Robert Wolf where Wolf and Talbot were having a cup of coffee. Castillo shook his head looking at one man and then the other, “You’re not going to believe this. That wasn’t just a random terrorist attack…he targeted Officer Keegan.”

Robert Wolf, who had once worked with James Keegan many years ago when Keegan had been assigned as a Lieutenant to the Joint Terrorist Task Force, stood up. “What are you talking about, Louie?” The concern in his voice was evident.

“Nazeem al-Haq. That may be his real name, but the only time he was arrested here in the United States he went by the name Tariq Azir.”

Castillo could read the instant recognition on Wolf’s face as it quickly went ashen. “Are you telling me that the man lying dead on Remsen Avenue is the same man James Keegan arrested for plotting to blow up the Brooklyn Federal Courthouse in 1994?” Wolf now shook his head in disbelief. “What the fuck is he doing out of prison?”

Making no effort to mask his anger, Castillo continued—overtly shrugging his shoulders as he did. “It seems he was released from prison after serving twenty years and nobody bothered to let anyone know. They said he was deported immediately upon release so there was no need to tell us.”

Wolf slumped back down into his seat. He whispered, “Holy Christ.”

Castillo could see the stunned look on Wolf’s face. He knew that the two men had been friends so many years ago. He also knew that Wolf didn’t know the truth about Lieutenant James Keegan the way Castillo did…and he was not about to fill Wolf in.

Just as that revelation unraveled, the next crucial piece fell like a domino. Frank Balentine knocked on the door and entered. “Here’s where we are with al-Haq’s home computer. We popped his IP address into a database and came up with his server. We served their security department with a warrant about two hours ago for all of the content and emails. What we got back was just a few correspondences to one particular person. We repeated the process with that person’s server and should know more within the hour. You’re never going to believe what he sent to the other person.”

Castillo was not particularly computer savvy. “Frank, in English…please!”

Balentine smiled although Castillo hadn’t been joking in the slightest. “Okay, each computer has its own Internet Protocol or IP address. That is the unique location where you log into your computer; it has nothing to do with your email account. So if you log in at work and then log in at home on the same account it will show two different IP addresses for you. Are you with me so far?”

Castillo nodded. “So far, so good.”

“We served the internet provider with a search warrant, and they turned over everything he has ever looked up and every email he’s ever sent. Most of the emails are inconsequential, but we got a couple of emails with personal correspondences to the same person with two different IP addresses which means he also logged in at two different locations. If either is his home or place of business, then we got him.”

Castillo was more upbeat. “Thank God for some good news for a change.”

“Here’s the creepy part though,” Balentine continued. “You’re never going to guess what al-Haq emailed to this other person.”

Castillo responded without missing a beat, “a newspaper article about the son of James Keegan being assigned to the
Six-Seven
.”

Now it was Frank Balentine’s turn to be caught up on things.

FBI Field Office

Chicago, Illinois

-----------------------------------------------------

The pain on the left side of Murad Zein’s face was the least of his problems, he realized. When his door came crashing in around four am, he knew the reason. Still, he did his best to get to the suicide vest which he had prepared for days before the cops had gotten to him, but it was to no avail. He received the butt end of an assault rifle to the face for his effort. He was then handcuffed and brought to this rather small room without any further beatings…at least for now. Zein conceded to himself that had he went for a suicide vest when the police were approaching him in his native Yemen, he would have never seen the inside of a police station.

Zein studied his interrogator. The dark haired man was in his early forties standing nearly six feet tall and was easily two hundred and thirty pounds. His hands were enormous and Zein imagined he would experience all of the pain that those large hands could inflict upon him before long. So far the man had been cordial—if not friendly—but Zein was sure that would change. He had even introduced himself, not by rank, but by first name—although Zein could not remember what it was.

Zein had hardly listened to a word the man had spoken over the last hour. He was too preoccupied trying to figure out what went wrong. In his gut, he felt it was most likely the emails that Nazeem had sent him a short time ago. They were given very clear instructions not to send each other any emails unless it was vitally important. They had all been warned that not following this protocol could jeopardize the entire operation.

Zein watched as the large man stood up momentarily and removed the jacket of his navy blue suit and placed it on the back of his chair. As the man began to take his seat, Zein’s eyes immediately went to the man’s midsection where an empty holster was apparent.

They are afraid I would have tried to take the officer’s gun.

There was sweat dripping down Zein’s forehead. He attempted to wipe the sweat away before remembering that both of his hands were fastened by chains to the four foot long desk separating him and his captor. While he had only met this one man so far, he was quite sure there were numerous other agents and officers watching from behind the three foot glass mirror directly opposite him.

There was a knock on the door. A second man entered and handed the first one two bottles of water before immediately leaving.

“Murad, would you like a bottle of water? It’s really warm in here.”

Zein looked into the man’s light brown eyes and then down at his shackled hands. “And how would you propose I drink it?”

The man stood up, reaching into his pocket. “So you do speak?” He produced a set of keys. “Are you right handed or left handed?”

After a slight delay, “I am right handed.”

The man inserted a key into the handcuff freeing Zein’s right hand. He opened the bottle of water for Zein and slid it across the table. Zein took a long drink, empting nearly half of the bottle. He became once again lost in thought. He wondered if the entire operation had been taken down or if it was only him that the authorities were on to.

“Murad…Murad…Murad!” The man’s voice broke his trance. He met his captor’s eyes. “I’m not here to play games with you. You haven’t hurt anybody. You can still walk away from this with a relatively short prison sentence.”

Zein could feel his eyes narrow. “Prison? Do you think I care about prison?” He took another pull from the bottle of water. “I am not worried about your prison. I have failed my Allah. Hopefully my brothers will not.”

Armed with the information that Louis Castillo had provided over the telephone, “They already have, Murad. We know all about New York and California.”

“Really, what do you think that you know?”

The man stood up and knocked on the door. The same man who had brought the water now handed over a manila envelope. A series of photos which had been emailed over from the office of the Joint Terrorist Task Force in New York were laid out across the table in front of Zein. His heart raced and his eyes immediately filled with tears as he focused in on the photo of Nazeem al-Haq as he lay dead in the streets of New York City with a bullet hole above his open left eye.

Zein was instantly filled with rage. He stood up—his chair tumbling backwards as he did. “You have murdered him!” With his free hand, he threw the bottle of water at the two way glass. The chains around his ankles restricted his movement; he bent at the waist and slumped face first over the desk and began to cry. Nazeem al-Haq was more than a brother in Jihad to Murad Zein. He was a father figure and a true and loyal friend. Without saying another word, the FBI man picked up the chair and set it back in place. A suddenly solemn Murad Zein sat back down in the chair and buried his head into his folded arms on the desk.

His anger and hatred towards the American’s ebbed into anger toward Sheykh Hajjar. As his interrogator walked out of the room, all Zein could think about was how the Sheykh had put him in charge of the operation and then just before it began, replaced him with Ahmed Hatif. There was no doubt in his mind that had the Sheykh not changed the plans, not only would he not be under arrest, but Nazeem would still be alive and the plan would still be moving forward as planned.

Assistant Special Agent in Charge, Richard Feller, of the FBI’s Chicago field office, clearly struck a nerve with the prisoner when he showed him a photo of the dead terrorist. He decided the best course of action would be to leave the man alone for a little while to let him dwell on the fact that his friend was dead, as he had been visibly shaken by the news. Feller grabbed his jacket and left the interrogation room as the prisoner seemed to crumble back into his chair and put his head down on the desk.

Feller closed the door behind him and slid the dead bolt in place. He gave thumbs up to the other four agents who had been watching from behind the one way mirror. It was only the beginning of what was most likely going to be a painstakingly long interrogation. “Keep an eye on him while I call Bob Wolf back in New York,” Feller directed.

“Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid, like try to kill himself,” added Feller before returning to his office.

Although there wasn’t a clock in the room with him, Zein sensed it had to have been an hour since the man dropped the photos on the desk in front of him and walked out. Zein looked around the small eight by ten room which was void of any furniture other than the desk he was chained to and a few chairs. The walls were a drab gray. There were no windows to the outside and clearly no visible means of escape.

Zein starred back down at the picture of his now deceased friend. In his mind, he pieced together what happened. Nazeem had decided to go after the cop, Keegan, rather than wait for the Thanksgiving Day Parade. He was sure of it. While he knew that Nazeem shouldn’t have done this, in his heart, he understood the need for vengeance. If Zein had known the identities of the people who stole his family away from him, he would have wanted to exact revenge on them as well.

The fact that Nazeem was shot dead and the suicide vest was clearly not detonated meant one thing; the cop was still alive. Nazeem had failed yet again. Zein prayed to Allah to be merciful on his friend, who had now failed twice in his part of the Jihad. Once again, Zein couldn’t help himself but to blame Sheykh Hajjar for removing him from running the operation. Zein knew that he could have kept his friend more focused. He thought long and hard about what he could possibly do to make the situation better, not only for him, but also to ease Nazeem’s anguish in the afterlife.

After turning the photo over so he would no longer have to look at it, he knew what he needed to do. Zein took a deep breath. He looked up at the mirror. “I am ready to talk. Please bring me another bottle of water and a pack of cigarettes.”

While there was no immediate response, Zein was sure his request had been heard. More than likely, it was even recorded. All he had to do now was wait.

Twenty-five minutes later, Richard Feller entered the room with another agent. They sat down across from Zein. Feller pushed a pack of cigarettes across the table. Feller momentarily played the irony out in his head. Smoking was prohibited anywhere on federally owned buildings…unless of course you’re a terrorist or a murderer. Those rules don’t apply to them.

Feller opened the water and poured a small amount into a Styrofoam coffee cup to serve as an ashtray before he began. “Murad, this is Special Agent Brock. He’s going to be assisting me if that’s okay with you,” as he handed over the bottle of water.

Zein glanced at the man as he took a sip from the water. He nodded meekly as he studied the man. Brock was more Zein’s own height and weight and had to be in his very early thirties. He was clean shaven, had thinning blond hair, and light eyes. Zein watched as Brock placed a legal pad on the table for note taking.

“May I have a cigarette,” he asked in a barely audible voice.

Feller nodded and opened the pack, offering a cigarette which Zein placed in his mouth. Brock reached over with a lighter. Zein drew in a deep drag, the end of the cigarette glowed a bright orange. He could feel a calming effect coming over his body. He looked at Feller. “Why did your officers kill my friend?” He knew what the answer would be, but he was on a fishing expedition to see if it had been the son of Nazeem’s
ghost
—Police Officer Timothy Keegan—who had fired the fatal shot.

Feller answered in a consolatory yet even tone. “Murad, he tried to kill two cops when they stopped him. In fact, if they hadn’t shot him there would have been many casualties…but I guess that was the intention, wasn’t it?”

Zein considered the question. “Quite possibly…but not necessarily. What was the name of the officer who killed him?”

Feller shook his head. “Does that matter?”

“It does to me?”

Brock sorted through an array of papers in a manila folder and handed one over to Feller. Feller perused the
Unusual Occurrence
Report
sent from the NYPD and answered the question. “The officer was a Sergeant named Thomas Galvin who fired the shot that killed your buddy.”

Zein took a moment to assess before he continued. “And was this Sergeant Thomas Galvin in the presence of another officer named Timothy Keegan?”

Feller once again inspected the report. Zein could see Feller’s face redden. He knew the answer before Feller would give it. “The report doesn’t say who Galvin was with,” lied Feller.

“May I see that report?”

Feller was quick to respond. “No. There’s sensitive material on here that you can’t see.” His tone was clearly more agitated this time.

“Like the name of Officer Keegan?”

“No. Like many other things that we already know…like about the attack in California.”

Zein considered the man’s response. Now it was clearly the federal agent who was on a fishing expedition. Had he really known about the pending attack, he would have been more specific than just saying California. Zein replied in a tone that was somewhere between condescending and mocking, “So you know about the attack planned for California then? Good for you. I’m sure that you will save many lives.”

Zein could sense the agent was losing patience with him as he took another long drag from the cigarette then disposed the growing gray ash into the cup.

Feller snatched the cigarette from his hand and dropped it into the cup. A slight fizzle could be heard as it hit the water. “Look Murad, I’m not here to play games with you. You said you wanted to talk so here we are.”

Zein nodded in agreement. “Yes, I am willing to talk…on one condition.”

With an annoyed look on his face, Feller took a deep breath in through his nose. “Okay, what’s your one condition?”

“I want to speak to Police Officer Keegan, face to face, right here in this room.”

Feller looked at Brock and let out a sarcastic snicker. “Murad, we’re in Chicago. Keegan is a cop in New York City. That’s eight hundred miles from here!”

Zein watched Brock feverishly scribble the name down on the legal pad. “That is not my concern.”

“It may not be your concern, but it’s not happening.”

Zein shrugged his shoulders. “Then I’m not talking. What are you afraid of?” He raised his left hand above the table as far as the restraints would allow. “I am the one in chains. I will not harm your officer. Not physically, anyway. But there is a truth that he needs to know.”

Feller shook his head in disbelief. “What’s so important about you speaking to this one particular cop face to face?”

Zein could sense the wavering from Feller’s demeanor. The tides were turning in Zein’s favor, and he knew it. “That is not
your
concern,” he said defiantly. He grabbed the pack of cigarettes and took one from the pack. He held it in his hand before he continued. “You say you do not want to play games, but you do. You have no idea what is going to happen in California. You have no idea what I was going to do, or what Nazeem’s real target was. You don’t know if there are others who are going to take my place or Nazeem’s. I know all of these things and much more. I suggest you get Keegan on a flight here as soon as possible.” He put the cigarette to his mouth and looked to Agent Brock for a light.