toward the skyline where the Towers once stood. We’d both lost some good friends that day. And tens of thousands of other people lost friends, family, and neighbors. We were all heartbroken. Now we’re pissed.
Kate stayed quiet awhile, then said, “I really wouldn’t have gone without you.”
“You would have. But you’re not.”
We went inside and I settled into my soft leather La-Z-Boy recliner. I was really going to miss this chair.
Kate was curled up on the couch with her laptop, and she said to me, “You were right—Yemen has the highest ratio of guns to people in the world.”
“It’s a typical baby shower gift.”
She also informed me, “It’s the most impoverished, backward, and isolated country in the Mideast.”
“And that’s from the Ministry of Tourism. Wait until you read what the critics say.”
“Over a hundred Westerners—tourists, scholars, and businesspeople—have been kidnapped in the last ten years and held for ransom. Some were killed.”
I didn’t respond.
She continued, “Did you know that Yemen is the ancestral homeland of Osama bin Laden?”
“I did. It’s also the homeland of Nabeel al-Samad.”
“Who?”
“My breakfast date.”
“He was Yemeni? Did you talk to him about Yemen?”
“Yeah. He said don’t drink the water.”
She went back to her computer and informed me, “Yemen is known as the Land That Time Forgot.”
“Sounds romantic.”
“In ancient times, it was the Kingdom of Sheba—where the Queen of Sheba came from.”
“Where’s she living now?”
“She’s biblical. King Solomon’s lover.”
“Right. As long as you’re up, can you get me a beer?”
“I’m not up.” She read her screen silently for a minute or two, then said, “This place is a shithole.”
“What was your first clue?”
“You never said much about it when you got back.”
“I don’t like to complain.”
I launched myself out of my chair and got two beers from the refrigerator. I handed one to Kate and said, “You understand that if we tell Tom we’re going, and he tells us more about this, then there’s no turning back.”
“Tom thinks this is right for us and I trust him.”
“I don’t. Tom only knows part of this. We get the real deal after we land.” I added, “It’s like quicksand.”
“I’m still in. As long as you promise that after we get there, you won’t say, ‘I told you so.’ ”
“That’s the only reason I’m going.”
“No, we’re going there to apprehend the man who masterminded the murder of seventeen American servicemen.”
“Correct.” We clinked bottles and drank.
CHAPTER SIX
Monday morning.
Kate and I got to 26 Federal Plaza at 8 A.M.
The lobby elevators are surrounded by thick Plexiglas walls and a Plexiglas door with a security pad. I punched us in and greeted the three armed and uniformed security guards, who are actually FBI Police. I gave the senior guy, Larry, my card, on the back of which I’d written Nabeel’s info, and told him, “Arab gent to see me. He’s supposed to show in the A.M. If he’s late or he doesn’t have his passport, beat the shit out of him until I get down.”
Larry thought that was funny. Kate, Ms. FBI poster girl, pretended she didn’t hear that. But on the way up in the elevator, she said to me, “Tom’s right. You’ll do better overseas.”
“I do just fine here.”
“Every Islamic civil rights group in the city has a wanted poster of you hanging in their office.”
I assured her, “I just joke around.”
“Like when you punched that Iranian U.N. diplomat in the groin?”
“He slammed his nuts into my fist.”
Anyway, we got to our office on the 26th floor and separated. Kate is in the FBI cube farm, I’m on the NYPD side. The FBI gets more sunlight, but the cops are closer to the elevators.
I gave ICE a call. Immigration and Customs Enforcement is in the same building and they work closely with us. I explained to a woman I know there, Betty Alvarez, that I had a possible informant and he had a work visa problem. I gave her the info from my notebook, and she said she’d try to check him out in her data bank. She asked, “Do you have his passport info?”
“No. But if he shows, I will.”
“Okay. Call me later.”
“Right.” I asked her, “Are you here legally?”
“John, fuck off.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
I was feeling a little nuts this morning, a result no doubt of the liberating effect of my pending departure to Siberia.
I used my landline phone to call Alim Rasul. Alim is NYPD, working for the Task Force. He was born in Iraq, but now lives in Brooklyn and calls himself Al.