The Observer (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 3) (4 page)

Derek then studied the face on the man in the final picture. He was young; no older than 22. His eyes were dark brown, and his hair was as black as any man’s hair Derek had ever seen; cut short and nearly shaved on the sides. The young man was dressed in casual clothes; a pair of jeans and a solid black sweatshirt. It was obvious that the young man in the picture was not expecting his image to be captured, as the look of surprised curiosity was clearly written across his face. Beneath the picture was written “Person of Interest.”

Derek flipped the picture over but saw no paragraph to indicate why this man’s picture was included in the folder. There was only one sentence: “Do not approach. Identify and notify agents.”

Derek placed all three photographs inside his notebook. He placed his notebook on the small nightstand and took a long draw of scotch before reading the two-page list that detailed all the mosques in the Greater NYC area. Beside each mosque’s name, was written the imam, or mosque leader’s name, the address, phone number and the words “known radicals” followed by a number. Of the nearly 200 mosques listed on the sheets of paper, only a handful were listed as having any people determined to be radicals among their members. The vast majority listed “0 radicals.”

As Derek finished his glass of scotch, he wondered how the FBI determined if someone was a radical or not. He wondered how many of those indicated as being radicals truly were and how many were considered as such only because of their strict adherence to their religion. He fully understood that the relatively few Islamic terrorists in the world were high-jacking the Muslim religion and were the catalyst behind so many non-Muslims believing that they were all jihadists or would soon become one. As he filled his glass with more scotch, Derek admitted that he held a prejudice belief against the religion, its followers and their assumed intentions.

Without much information to plan out his investigation, Derek again checked the feed of his “spy pen camera” and when he saw all was still as he left it, he closed his MacBook, placed the case notes back into the manila folder and then stuffed the folder into his computer bag. His thoughts then returned to the handwritten note that Juan Cortez left for him. Derek began to question the possible intentions of Juan Cortez.

“Was he just trying to scare me so that I ditch this case and stay out of his way, or was he really trying to tell me something?”
His mind raced back to the conversation he had with Mark Henderson and Juan in the diner.
“Did he say anything that may have been a clue? What am I missing?”
In his mind, Derek struggled to recall every word that Juan and Mark said to him.
“Unwanted nuisance is what I think he wanted me to consider myself. He’s such a nice guy.”

As he finished the last few sips of his scotch and prepared for bed, Derek stood and looked out his hotel room’s window. Twenty-two stories below him the crowd of people once crammed into Times Square began to disperse, as they headed back to their apartments, homes or hotel rooms. Being so high above them, Derek sensed that he was somehow apart from the masses; as if he was untouchable and immune to the struggles, challenges and disasters that humanity has and/or will face. As his thoughts returned to the photograph of the unnamed young man, Derek knew that he was no further away from those people 22 stories below him than if he was walking beside them.

Driven by a sense of compelling obligation, Derek turned from the window, unzipped his computer bag and pulled out the case folder. He sat on the side of his bed, studying each picture and note again, straining his mind and his eyes to see anything that could lead him to a clue. He studied the list of mosques in the area, paying close attention to those that were indicated as being known to produce radicals. He looked for a pattern, a linkage of any commonality that might direct his investigation.

Finding nothing, he retrieved his Moleskin notebook, grabbed a pen, and began writing his thoughts.

“Start with Abdul Fattaah Huda and Badr Irani. Why did Henderson/Cortez indicate Badr is UN sponsored??? Try to contact Cortez - ask about note. Bring pic of unknown to Abdul/Badr - ask if they recognize. What did Cortez mean by me being an ‘unwanted nuisance?’”

He closed his notebook, flipped open his laptop and checked the private IP address for the streaming look into his other room in the Marquis. Seeing only the occasional flashing light pouring out from the TV, Derek closed the laptop’s lid, fell back into bed, and prayed that his thoughts wouldn’t keep him awake all night.

He had battled against insomnia since the day his wife was killed; shot by a deranged man during an attempted bank robbery. For weeks after her death, Derek would vividly see his wife Lucy’s eyes, filled with terror as her murderer pressed her face against the bank’s front window. He could still clearly see the life pour out of her eyes as the bullet ripped through her brain. As she collapsed in a heap of death to the floor, Derek watched his life crumble beside his wife’s body.

As the weeks and months passed, he was haunted by the consistently returning images of that final moment. Her eyes, both pleading and saying “goodbye,” had become a furnace; burning loss, sorrow and despair as its fuel. With his eyes, he watched his own life falling apart. He saw himself, as if he were watching someone else’s life, turn down paths that inevitably led to bad places. He had fallen into a role of a simple observer to his own life. Though he could not see his own eyes that night, he sent a bullet through his mouth, missing its intended mark and leaving only the three inch scar across his cheek as it marched along its path, he felt that his eyes matched the sorrow, terror and hopelessness that his wife’s held during her final moments.

As he lay in bed, desperate to keep his eyes open, he held off sleep’s approach as long as he could. He had found the memory of Lucy’s face, the memory of her smile when her eyes were filled with love and joy instead of horror, again, but still feared the invasion of the other memory each night. He had come to understand that it was this flash of the memory of her beautiful face that had caused Derek to turn his head away at the last possible second that night he tried to silence all memories. Her face, the desperately hoped-for and finally recalled memory of her face was what had saved him that night. He held on to that face, studied each delicate line as he slipped into sleep.

August 13, 2014

It wasn’t what he expected at all. The mosque was tucked tightly in between a hair salon and a small clothing store. Derek would have easily missed the mosque if he hadn't known the address and was actively looking for it. Next to the commonly used heavy glass front door of the mosque, was a tarnished, brass plaque that read "Shrine of the Island Mosque in Manhattan.” There were no other signs or indications that the door he was standing in front of led to a place of worship; a temple that, out of the nearly 200 in the area, was singled out, along with its imam, as a place of interest.

The door was unlocked and led to a flight of immaculately clean stairs. Along the stairs were several images of mosques around the world, framed sayings written in Arabic and, towards the top of the stairway, a framed, full color picture of Abdul Fattaah Huda. Derek paused to study the picture and realized it was the same picture that was included in the case folder.

The door at the top of the stairs opened to reveal a long, narrow hallway, which was completely void of any furniture, photographs or images. Along the left side of the 12 foot hallway, were two pairs of shoes.
 

As Derek passed through the hallway, he saw that it opened up into a large, open room; its carpeted floor still showing the track marks of a vacuum cleaner’s travels.

“Hello?” he called, hoping to make his presence known.

“Yes, yes,” a voice called from behind an open door that lead to a small room to the far left of the open room he was standing in. “Please, take your shoes off, and I will be right with you.”

Derek untied, removed his shoes, and placed them next to the pairs he had passed in the hallway. He quickly inspected the other shoes and mentally made note of the sizes of each. As he turned around to return to the open room, he saw a man walking towards him wearing a felt cap, a pure white kurta and a smile that seemed to fill up the entire room.

“How can I help you?” the man said in a strong middle eastern accent.

“I’m hoping to find Abdul Fattaah Huda. I believe he is the imam of this mosque?” Derek tentatively asked.

“I am Abdul,” the man said as he extended his hand. “Please, come in and tell me how I can help you.”

Abdul invited Derek to sit on the floor. “Use the column behind you to brace yourself, if you like.”

Once both were sitting, Abdul, his smile still filling his face, said, “Now, how can I help you?”

“Uh, I’m not sure what to call you. I’m a Catholic and am used to calling people like you Father.”

Abdul laughed as he rocked his body back and forth in a calming, rhythmic pattern. “You can call me Abdul. What can I call you?”

“My name is Derek Cole.”

“Well then Derek Cole, what is a Catholic like you doing visiting an Islamic mosque?”

“I’m a private investigator and have been hired by some clients to do some research into a possible terrorist attack in the city.”

“And you think that I may be the terrorist you are looking for?” Abdul asked, his dark eyes slowly revealing a hidden sadness.

“Not at all,” Derek responded. “I am hoping that you may know other people that I could talk to.”

“Others who I feel may be terrorists or have malicious intentions?”

“Honestly, I don’t know exactly,” Derek said as his eyes fell to the carpet. “My clients insist on remaining anonymous and only provided me with few details to start my case on.”

“And my name was included in those few details?” Abdul asked.

“Your picture, the address of this mosque and a few notes about you.”

“And, tell me Derek Cole, what did the notes indicate?”

“Only that you are the Imam of this mosque and that this mosque may have a history of producing radicals.”

“Producing radicals?” Abdul said. “Tell me, did your notes say exactly how a radical is produced?”

“Maybe produced is the wrong term,” Derek answered. “How about my clients believe that some people who attend this mosque for prayers and instruction are considered to have radical beliefs?”

“That is better,” Abdul said, his smile fading a little. “And tell me, what makes someone a radical?”

“I don’t know my client’s definition,” Derek said.

 
“Not your client’s, but yours. What is a radical Muslim according to Derek Cole?”

Derek paused a beat, hoping to find words that would convey his definition of a radical while not offending his host. “I would say that a radical is someone who uses his or her religion as a justified reason to commit a violent act against someone else. Someone who has very strong beliefs about something and believes that those who don’t agree with those beliefs deserve to be killed, punished or made to believe the same beliefs.”

“You just described your own Catholic church, haven’t you?”

“Excuse me?” Derek said, a bit shocked at Abdul’s question.

“Certainly you are familiar with the Crusades?”

“Yes, unfortunately. The church certainly had some years that it would rather forget about.”

“Some years?” Abdul asked, his eyes displaying his intentional surprise. “Seven centuries is more than ‘some years.’”

“Yeah, I, uh, am not that good with the history part of my religion. Sorry.”

“Seven centuries of radicalism, terrorism and extreme acts of violence against others who did not believe the same beliefs as the leaders of your church. Many want to see the Crusades as nothing more than territorial wars but, it is hard to see them only as wars over land when you understand the truths behind them.”

“I guess radicalism isn’t unique to any one religion,” Derek said.

“And not only to religions, either,” Abdul said. “Look at your culture, and you will see radicalism in every walk of life.”

“But you don’t see people strapping on a vest-bomb and blowing themselves up in a subway or on a crowded street,” Derek shot back.

“No,” Abdul said as he slowly shook his head. “However, if the technology were available during your religion's Crusades, I am certain that it would have been employed. Every day, you see radicals shooting each other in the streets. You see them attacking innocent people and rioting in the streets. You see them ridiculing people who don’t believe as they do on your social media sites. Fighting in gang fights, stealing property from others and, in the case of your politicians, accusing each other of horrible atrocities. I remember,” Abdul continued, his smile turning more sarcastic, “seeing a political ad on TV that depicted a candidate’s opponent pushing an old lady in a wheelchair off a cliff.”

“Our politicians leave a lot to be desired,” Derek agreed.

“Radicalism is not owned by religions. Humanity owns radicalism.”

Derek heard stirring coming from the office that Abdul had walked out of to greet him. He then remembered that there were two pairs of shoes in the hallway. “I’m sorry if I interrupted a meeting.”

Abdul’s face turned instantly quiet. He made small movements with his head as if he was about to turn and look into the room where Derek had heard the noises. He then called back his smile and said, “You are not interrupting anything.” Abdul gestured over his shoulder towards the room, “I was meeting with a friend who stopped by for advice. He is a very patient young man and won’t mind waiting until our conversation is completed.”

“Mind if I ask him if he knows of any people who he thinks I should have a conversation with?” Derek said as he began to stand up.

“I’m sorry,” Abdul said as he reached out and placed his hand firmly on Derek’s shoulder. “My acquaintance is a very shy young man and has only been in this city for a very short while. I am certain that he won’t be able to provide you any assistance. Please,” he said as he removed his hand from Derek’s shoulder, “let us continue our conversation.”