“They’re here, Kate,” I reminded her. “We’re manning the ramparts of Fortress America.”
She thought about that, then said, “We’ve done a good job here. But now we need to go into the belly of the beast.”
“The asshole,” I corrected.
Our table was ready, and as we made our way through the restaurant, who should I see but my ex, sitting with yet another beau. I mean, this lady has had more mounts than a Pony Express rider.
She saw me and waved, so I went to her table and said hello and got introduced to Mr. Right Now, who looked like he was about halfway through a sex change operation.
Kate, who is cool about this, said hello to Robin and her date, and Robin asked us, “How’s the war on terrorism going?”
I informed her, “The alert level is still yellow.”
Robin didn’t respond to that, but said, “God, sometimes I think they’re going to blow this place up.”
Kate had a nice comeback and said, “Why would anyone want to kill lawyers, judges, and politicians?”
Robin wasn’t sure how to take that and asked me, “Are you still in the apartment?”
The apartment in question is the former marital residence, a very expensive place on East 72nd Street that Robin had lived in when I met her. She’d signed over the long-term lease to me on her way out, a very nice gesture that took care of most of my monthly income. I said, “Still there.”
“Good. I wanted to send you both an invitation for a fund-raiser I’m running. It’s for the Downtown Association for the Arts.” She explained, “To raise money to commission artists to create murals and sculpture in Lower Manhattan.”
More shit.
“It’s at the downtown Ritz-Carlton. Black tie. March twenty-sixth. You’ll be my guests.”
I found myself saying, “Thanks, but we’ll be out of the country.”
“Where are you going?”
“Classified.”
“Oh… well… good luck.”
“Thanks.”
We followed the hostess to our table, and Kate asked me, “Does that mean you’d rather go to Yemen with me than a black-tie fund-raiser with your ex-wife?”
“You know I’d follow you to hell.”
“Good. We leave next week.”
CHAPTER FIVE
It was Saturday, and Kate and I agreed not to discuss Yemen until Sunday evening.
Kate went to the office Saturday morning to clean up some paperwork and to identify cases that she would need to hand off if, in fact, she was going to Yemen.
I had an appointment with a guy named Nabeel, who coincidentally was from Yemen. I didn’t know Nabeel, but he’d called the ATTF office, using only his first name, asking for me by my full name, and saying to me that we had a mutual friend. I doubt that, but that’s how I get half of my contacts in the Muslim community; my business card is all over town. Well, Muslim neighborhoods. It pays to advertise.
My brief phone conversation with Nabeel revealed that his legal status in the country was a little shaky, and he wanted some help with that in exchange for some information he had. Nabeel worked in a delicatessen in Brooklyn, so I wasn’t sure what kind of information he had for me. Phoney baloney? Exploding beans?
A little-known factoid is that many Yemeni immigrants work in delis in Brooklyn and Queens. Why? Who knows? Why do the Turks own so many gas stations? Why do Indians own all the 7-Elevens? Who cares as long as the Irish still run the pubs?
Anyway, I told Nabeel to meet me in Ben’s Kosher Deli on West 38th Street, a place unlikely to be frequented by others of the Islamic faith—though, ironically, kosher food is halal, meaning okay for Muslims, so this works.
And here I was now in Ben’s, sitting in a booth across from Nabeel. He had to get back to his deli in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, so this was going to be a happily short meeting.
Nabeel looked to be about mid-thirties, but he was probably younger, with a scruffy beard, dark skin, and teeth stained green by khat—a narcotic leaf that keeps ninety percent of the male population of Yemen perpetually stoned and happy. I wished I had some now.
Nabeel ordered tea and a bagel with cream cheese, and I had coffee.
I asked Nabeel, “Where did you get my name?”
“I tell you on phone. From friend.” He also reminded me, “Can not tell you friend.”
“Was it Abdul?”
“Who Abdul?”
“Which Abdul. Who’s on first?”
“Sir?”
“Talk.”
Nabeel talked. “There is big plot from peoples of Al Qaeda. Saudi peoples. No Yemen. All Saudi. Plot is to make bomb exploding in New York.”