The Panther

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, f*ck 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.

He answered, and I said, “Are you around this morning?”

There was a second of silence, then he asked, “Is this Corey?”

“Yeah. Are you around?”

“John, I’m sitting right next to you.”

“Good. Do you speak Arabic?”

“Why are you calling me on the phone?”

“This is a secure landline.”

“You’re a f*cking idiot.”

“Me? You’re the one still talking on the phone.”

He hung up and came around to my cube. “What can I do for you?”

I explained about Nabeel and said, “I need you to be in the interview room.”

“To translate?”

“No, Al. I just need you to hold him while I head-butt him.”

Al smiled politely.

I said, “I have to see Walsh at nine. If Nabeel shows while I’m with El Cid, maybe you can go down and get him.”

“Sure.”

I also informed him, “I may be out of town for a while. Maybe you want to handle this guy.”

“Okay.” He asked, “Where you going?”

“Sandland.”

“That’s a derogatory term.”

“Sorry. I’m going to the shithole of Yemen.”

“You screw up?”

“Not recently.” I let him know, “This is a promotion.”

He thought that was funny. He asked me, “Kate?”

“She’s coming.”

“Good. It’s b.y.o.b. in Yemen.”

“Yeah? I thought the babes were hot.”

“No, it’s the guys who will make you lose your head.”

So, with all the cultural jokes and slurs out of the way, I thanked Al for sitting in on the interview—formerly known as the interrogation—and I promised to bring him back a crucifix from Yemen.

I spent the next half hour on my computer, reviewing and updating my cases for whoever was going to get them.

Kate came over to my desk and said it was time to go see Tom.

On the way up the elevator to Tom’s office, she asked me, “Are we still okay with this?”

“I’ve always wanted to go to Sweden.”

“It’s Yemen, John.”

“Oh… well, that’s different.”

We got off at the 28th floor—housewares, supervisors, aggro, and bullshit—and walked to Tom’s door.

I was about to knock and enter, but Kate said, “Last chance.”

I knocked on the door and said to her, “You make the decision. Surprise me.” I added, “Remember the Cole.”

I opened the door and we entered.