9. The Sting

All was not well for would-be terrorists in Newark. Agent Fred Lee had seen to that. Immediately after nine eleven he sent agents to hang out around the mosque and he put aside a special slush fund to pay off Arabic speaking immigrants to inform him of any new arrivals from Saudi Arabia or elsewhere in the Middle East. It didn’t take long for him to discover that some of these “pee-ays” (petty agents) as he called them, were taking money from the NYPD as well. So he paid a visit to the NYPD police commissioner and they came to an understanding of sorts. He wanted to do a sting operation and the commissioner was against it. But since the NYPD had no jurisdiction over anything that happened in Newark, the commissioner had no choice but to go along with it or his cover would be blown and that would be a disaster. They parted cordially, both agreeing to share all intelligence they collected, both having no intention of doing so.

Lee was determined to carry out his sting operation. These stings never failed, always resulted in lots of arrests, the juries always convicted in spite of the usual entrapment defense put up by the government paid defense lawyers. Most important, though, a successful sting operation would get him noticed in D.C. and set him on a sure path out of this rat-hole they called Newark.

The day before, he picked up his vintage FBI style dark gray suit from the dry cleaners run by immigrants from Libya, or so they said. He gave them extra good tips and they gave him excellent service and any information they thought he might be able to use. In fact, he first met his future quarries in the dry cleaners. They had heavy accents and said they were from Iraq. They laughed and joked around and seemed like regular guys. But Fred Lee knew better. The dry cleaners gave him their addresses and he sent a couple of his agents to pal up with them. One of them worked as a security guard for a local private security outfit, the other drove a taxi. They went to the local mosque regularly so their heads were sure to be filled with the hate-America drivel spewed forth by the local mullah. It didn’t take long for his agents to rope them in. The hardest part of the operation was to get a hold of an old non-functioning shoulder-fired grenade launcher. He had contacts at the armory in Hoboken. It took several weeks, but finally they were able to smuggle one out of the armory and get it to him.

*

This morning, Fred Lee shaved with his best razor that he saved for special occasions. After each stroke, he ran his fingers over his skin behind the razor. It was beautifully smooth, as smooth as, well, let’s not say it. He combed his short cropped sandy hair and admired his figure in the mirror, naked except for a tightly fitting undershirt and bikini style briefs. He carefully slid into his tailored white shirt perfectly pressed by his Libyans; each button he meticulously pressed through its button hole. He followed with his suit pants, slipping the elastic suspenders over his shoulders. Next was his gun holster, which fitted snuggly over his shoulder, the gun nestling close to his arm pit. The jacket fitted nicely over all, leaving just a slight bulge where his gun was. Exactly as he wanted it. He patted himself down.

It was hard for him to leave the mirror. He released his phone from the charger and bounded down the stairs to the front door and out to the leafy streets of Ridgewood, his haven from Newark. Just around the corner he would stop off for his usual donut and coffee at Donut Queen where Agent Crosby would be waiting for him.

*

Take President Obama, add about a foot and, with a tweak or two, you have Agent Danforth Crosby. The tweaks are significant, though, mainly because of director Lee’s insistence that Agent Crosby have his hair done in dread locks so he would look more authentic African American and blend in with the local culture. Crosby offered to grow a bushy beard as well, but for the director that would have been too much. “We blend, we don’t become,” the director liked to repeat in his most superior tone. Crosby pointed out that if he were Islamic, it would be part of his religion so he would be within his rights to have a bushy beard.

“But you’re not Islamic, Crosby,” said the director shaking his finger at him, “who do you think you are, the ACLU?” At which he simply turned away as if there were no possibility for Crosby to counter that perfect truth.

At 5.00 a.m. Agent Crosby was up feeding his one-year old. Now this was fortunate because it was the morning when he had to be out at Ridgewood to pick up his boss in time to get back to Newark to conduct surveillance of the Newark mosque, monitor the crowds as they left after dawn prayer. This time of the morning it would be about a twenty minute drive and he would pick him up at the Donut Queen as usual. He got really annoyed with his boss because he had insisted that they had to do this operation for the dawn prayer session. There was no good reason that it be then. The midday Dhuhr, about 1.00 pm. in Newark, would do just as well. It was especially annoying given that his boss would oversleep as usual and he’d be left double parked outside the Donut Queen. He usually dropped the kids off at daycare on his way to pick up the director, but this morning he could not, so he had made a deal with his wife that she would take the kids to day care and that he would pick them up.

Agent Crosby managed to quiet the baby and as soon as he heard his wife moving about upstairs, he stepped out into the dirty street of Newark. The place was basically a slum, but again it was not his choice to live there. Director Lee had told him that he must live “in the hood” as he insultingly called it, as part of his blending into the culture. Then Lee added insult to injury by making him pick him up every morning in the company car, and some company car it was, a Honda Fit into which it was a miracle to be observed every morning that a person so tall, with limbs like Spiderman’s, managed to get every part of himself inside that tiny car, let alone drive it.

Agent Crosby arrived at the Donut Queen at exactly 6.10 am, but as expected, the director was nowhere to be seen. So he double parked as usual and bought himself a long black coffee and three jelly donuts. He had read the entire local paper that lay on the counter by the time his boss showed up.

“Good morning, sir,” Crosby said.

“I suppose that’s your third?” remarked Lee, pointing to the donut.

“Well, I’ve been waiting for a while.”

“You’ll get fat and have a heart attack,” he said and continued without waiting for Crosby to respond, “I’ll take a large coffee, with three fingers of half-and-half, three sugars and a glazed donut.”

“Hey let me get it, sir,” offered Crosby.

“How many times have I told you, Crosby, that it’s not ethical? We each pay for our own, no matter where or when. Are you eating jelly-filled again?”

“I am. I can’t give them up,” smiled Crosby.

“Danforth, how many times have I told you that the jelly will spurt out and drip down on your suit?”

“It’s worth the risk, sir. And please don’t call me Danforth. Only my wife calls me that, and I don’t like her calling me that either.”

“In any case, Crosby, listen to me. FBI men never take risks, not even with jelly donuts.”

“OK. I’ll try sir.”

“We’re doing a pickup today. How will it look if you show up and put cuffs on the suspects and there’s red jelly all down your jacket?”

“Not too good, I guess.’

“Then don’t do it again, or next time I will put it in your evaluation.”

Crosby tried changing the topic. “So how are we doing for time? Will the men be in place?”

“We’re running a bit late, but I called up the mosque to find out when this morning’s session ended. Won’t be until 7.00 AM. They have some visiting mullah from Texas or somewhere. The ATF guys have been told.

They’ll be in their positions by the time we get there.”

They both looked out the window to the street just in time to see a parking attendant about to write a ticket for double parking. Director Lee was by her side in a flash. He looked around, then showed his FBI badge and said, in his most serious tone, “Officer, FBI. We’re on special assignment.”

“So I see,” replied the attendant, eyeing his donut. She put her docket book away and moved on. “Have a nice day,” she called over her shoulder.

*

Most likely, Director Lee had misunderstood the prayer times he had been told over the phone. In any case, their quarries had still not appeared in front of the mosque, in spite of many comings and goings. Crosby had finally found a parking spot just across from the mosque, thanks to the little Honda that could fit in just about any little gap. Director Lee had long ago told the ATF guys to step down and be on call, await his signal. Midday prayer had come and should have been gone. Director Lee had settled down for a nap, having ordered Crosby to remain vigilant. Crosby, chronically short of sleep because of his kids not sleeping through, slept soundly too. It was only thanks to a sharp pain in both his legs, pins and needles of the most excruciating kind, that awoke him and he noticed a stream of people exiting the mosque. He combated his pins and needles by opening a power bar to munch. And just as he took the first bite, Director Lee awoke suddenly with a shiver.

“What’s this? Crosby, you’re eating on duty! You know that’s against the rules! Only allowed when you are working undercover.”

“We are undercover, aren’t we?”

“Get rid of it or I’ll write you up! This is the second time today!”

“Sorry, sir. It’s gone.” He crammed the entire bar into his mouth and chewed ferociously.

“They’re coming out.” Lee opened his phone and tapped out his instructions to the ATF. Agent Crosby stirred and opened his door. His legs would not move. “Aahh, my legs,” he winced.

“Come on Crosby. Let’s go. I think I see them.”

“Sir, couldn’t we use a larger car? This is really hard for me.”

“I’ve told you many times. It’s FBI policy to blend in with our communities. We don’t want to turn them off by sporting a fancy big car. Hearts and minds, remember. Hearts and minds.”

Lee sprinted across the road followed by Agent Crosby, limping badly. Suddenly Lee stopped almost in the center of the road and pointedly surveyed the rooftops above. He raised his hand with thumb thrust upwards. He rushed forward just in time to confront two men in western dress, wearing telltale black and white checkered scarves.

Director Lee stood tall, all five foot five inches of him, holding up his badge. “FBI! You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit a terrorist act. Cuff them Agent!”

A crowd of onlookers exiting the mosque began to gather as it watched Agent Crosby efficiently handcuff the suspects.

“Very good, Agent. At least they taught you something useful at Quantico. Read them their rights.”

Agent Crosby pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and began to read them their rights.

“You can’t say them by memory?” asked Lee incredulously.

“I don’t want to mess up sir,” Crosby responded.

The suspects stood petrified. The crowd of onlookers was getting larger and some were inching closer. Someone called out, “What did they do?” and another, “Leave them alone you bullies!”

Director Lee was trying to find his phone. “I’ll call for the pickup,” he said, “and you better pat them down. They might have knives or guns.”

Crosby, however, had messed up reading their rights and had started over so now was trying to pat them down at the same time.

“You have the right to remain silent…”

“OK. Bring the van around. We’ve got them,” ordered director Lee.

A black Escalade pulled up and the rear doors opened. The suspects still had not spoken. Now the small crowd was becoming an angry mob. Onlookers began to jeer and they were closing in. One spat at the feet of Director Lee and moved as if to attack him, or at least that is what Lee later testified. Said he thought he had a knife. So he looked up to one of his spotters and gave the signal. There was a loud crack and a bullet whistled past Lee’s ear, or so he thought. He dropped to the ground yelling,

“Down! Down! We’re under attack!” The bullet crashed harmlessly into the pavement, spraying small shards of concrete into the crowd which quickly dispersed, people running frantically in every direction.

Crosby, either unaware of events or completely calm, ushered the suspects into the Escalade. “Where are we taking them, sir?” he asked.

Lee struggled to his feet, brushing down his best suit. “To my office of course!” he answered.

“But we can’t hold them there sir. We don’t have enough room.”

“My office! I’ll follow in the Honda.” But Lee didn’t follow, he led. He placed the blue flashing light on top of the Honda Fit and zipped forward, speeding through the traffic, squeezing through tight spaces, like a roller derby player. Of course, he went through the ten red lights between the mosque and the FBI headquarters which were located on Washington Street. He arrived well before the van which had been held up in the traffic snarls mostly caused by Lee running the red lights. He screeched to a halt right in front of the Grand Old Liberty Insurance building and parked illegally. He flashed his badge to the parking officer who stood, hands on hips, not at all pleased.

“FBI! Counter terrorism operation in progress! Make way! Make Way!” ordered Lee.

The Escalade pulled in. Agent Crosby stepped out, grinning. “Now this is my kind of car,” he said to the director. The back doors opened and Crosby awkwardly grabbed at the suspects trying to help them down. They were now in leg chains so they half fell out of the van as Crosby pulled at them. He then prodded them towards the entrance.

The FBI office was on the top, fifteenth floor of the Old Liberty Insurance building, the oldest multi-story building in Newark, complete with beehive turret on the top. The suspects shuffled towards the grand brassy entrance, the revolving doors spinning as people came out. Agent Crosby pushed the suspects towards the doors and they fell down, unable to cope with the speed of the doors because of the chains on their legs. The door was jammed and someone else was trapped on the other side. Crosby tried to push the door around, but it would not budge. The person on the other side was yelling obscenities. Crosby looked to his boss for help.

“Pull them out Agent! Pull them out! Didn’t they teach you anything at Quantico?”

The suspects were panic stricken. One began to scream. Director Lee ignored it all and continued with his orders. “And what about the rocket launcher? Bring it too!”

Agent Crosby left the suspects to their plight and returned to the Escalade, pulled out a large shoulder firing grenade launcher and carried it towards the revolving door. The crowd of onlookers reeled back in horror when they saw it. One of the onlookers, rather frightened, opened the side door and beckoned to Crosby. At that moment, a loud police siren sounded, immediately followed by the arrival of a Newark Police vehicle.

It was Captain Buck Buick.

“You guys need a regular cop, that’s what you need,” called Buick. “Hey, Freddy! Why didn’t you tell me you were doing your pick-up?”

Crosby, Lee, the crowd, all watched Buick in silence. “Just a minute,” he said as he strode forward and wrenched the door back, dragging the suspects out. They cried out as their limbs were twisted and squashed against the door. “OK animals. Let’s go!” Buick pulled them upright then roughly pushed them forward to the open side door. The suspects were traumatized. The helpful citizen kept the door open, but tried to stand back as far as he could as though he were about to be infected with vermin.

“Are you gonna keep ‘em over night?" asked Buick.

“We’ll need longer than that.”

“Then why didn’t you call me? We can use the Newark lock-up. You don’t have one, do you?”

“We don’t. But rules are that I have to question them at official FBI headquarters. There’s the U.S. flag and everything. You don’t have one in your lock-up do you?”

“You guys are really dopey.”

“What was that?”

“Hope it’s gonna work. Reckon you’ve got a good case?”

“Watertight. We never lose with these stings. Juries always convict.”

Buick and Lee stepped into the now functioning revolving door. They entered the old marble lobby which was laced with lots of shiny brass and indiscernible sculptures set into the ceiling and walls. Agent Crosby finally entered through the side door and placed the rocket launcher against the wall, beside the elevator, which he then held open. Buick roughly pushed the suspects in. “Come on animals!” he growled. They all piled in and rode the elevator to the fifteenth floor.

“Captain Buick. They’re suspects. Innocent until proved guilty. Treat them with respect,” cautioned Lee.

“You want help with the interrogation?”

“Not from you. The FBI knows best how to question a terrorist suspect, especially when it’s been a sting operation. Don’t want to mess up our case.”

“As you wish. But they won’t break for you softies. Call me when you need me. It’s more than just this one case, you know. We have to find out when it will be.”

“When what will be?”

“You know, our special mission with the mayor.”

“But that’s the point. We have the terrorists. We’ve foiled the plot.”

The elevator reached the fifteenth floor. As Buick pushed the suspects out the door he called, “yeh, right! I’ll await your call.” He looked with amusement at Lee. The elevator doors closed and he hit the button for the lobby as and he chuckled to himself all the way down.

*

The FBI office took up a small corner of the fifteenth floor. It was one room in which were crammed a very large desk with an exotically leather padded desk chair, a very large U.S. flag standing to the side, a small student sized desk with wooden chair in one corner for Agent Crosby, and one chair for visitors placed squarely in front of the Director’s desk. Director Lee slipped quickly behind his desk. Agent Crosby, unsure what to do, left the suspects standing and went to sit at his desk.

“Agent Crosby, another chair for the suspects,” ordered Lee, as he leafed through a folder on his desk. Crosby brought his chair to the suspects and they struggled to sit, unused to managing their chains and hand cuffs.

“Now gentlemen, let’s talk civilly, shall we? Our undercover agent has you on video buying a rocket launcher. Before we picked you up, we paid a visit to your home and retrieved it.”

Lee looked around the room. “Agent, where’s the launcher?” he said with annoyance.

“Oh. I left it in the elevator,” Crosby apologized. He made to leave but stopped, worried that he was leaving his boss alone with two terrorists.

“Go on, go get it!” ordered Lee, and Crosby obeyed.

Lee continued to address the suspects. “Of course, the launcher is non-functioning. You couldn’t have done any damage.” He looked at each of the suspects trying to make eye contact. They looked at the floor. “What are your names?” he asked. They did not answer. Of course, he had their names in the folder right in front of him, but he had to admit that he did not know which was which. They were both about the same height and build, both had lots of black wavy hair, both had black bushy beards, both had checkered scarves. “Your names?” he repeated, this time in a much louder voice. Still they remained silent. Lee drummed his fingers on his prized cherry wood desk that he had personally picked out at Raymore and Flannigan. “Alright, then, if that’s the way you want it. I’ll call you both Abdul. You,” he pointed to the one on his left, “you’re Abdul One, and your pal is Abdul Two.”

“We are innocent. You tricked us!” blurted out Abdul One.

“We want a lawyer,” complained Abdul Two, “this is America. We have a right to our lawyer.”

“Of course you do. It’s only right. Do you want to call one now?”

“Yes,” replied Abdul Two, “this is wrong.”

“We were just fooling around,” said Abdul One.

“Buying a launcher isn’t just fooling around.”

Agent Crosby returned with the launcher.

“Is this the launcher?” asked Lee, pointing to the weapon.

“Might be,” shrugged Abdul One.

“You were planning a terrorist attack. When were you planning to carry it out? Nine eleven?”

“We had no plans,” said Abdul One. “We were just fooling around!

Please, you must believe us!”

“You’ll get for certain life in prison without parole, maybe the death penalty,” Lee said, looking at them very seriously, but still getting no eye contact. “If you cooperate, I can try to get the U.S. Prosecutor to go easy on you.”

“But there’s nothing more to tell,” complained Abdul Two with a whimper, “you know everything. You have it all on video, you said.”

“We want to confirm the planned date of the attack, and the names of others involved. Just two people can’t carry out an attack of this magnitude. Especially if the target is Ground Zero, and it is, right?”

Abdul One looked alarmed. “No! No! We know nothing of this.”

“There are no others!” added Abdul Two.

“I want names and target confirmation,” demanded Lee.

The suspects began to sob. They bowed their heads as far as they could.

“Please believe us. We are just ordinary men with families and jobs. I am a taxi driver. He is a security guard,” pleaded Abdul One.

“We know,” answered Lee calmly.

“We want our lawyer please,” said Abdul Two, daring to lift his eyes just a little.

“As you wish. But I could make it much easier for you.” Lee signaled to Crosby to hand Abdul Two the telephone.

“I want to call my wife,” said Abdul Two.

“Wife or lawyer. Your choice,” said Lee.

Abdul Two made his call and began an hysterical conversation with his wife. It was all in Arabic. Abdul One sat hunched rocking back and forth on the chair. He muttered to himself in Arabic.

Agent Crosby then leaned over the director’s desk to speak to his boss.

“Sir, this is the day I have to pick up my kids from day care. I have to leave in ten minutes.”

Lee pushed back into his chair, and cranked the handle to raise the chair to its highest position. He shook his finger at Crosby. “God, Country, then Family. Wait till we’re done,” he lectured.

“But sir, we had an agreement.”

“We’re dealing with terrorism here, Agent Crosby! It’s not just some common crime!”

“Please, sir! Let’s call in Captain Buick then, to take my place. My wife’s away. I can’t put my kids at risk.”

Director Lee stared at his underling and then at the suspects who were now conversing rapidly in Arabic. Suddenly, they appeared to him as impenetrable, hostile Al Qaeda operatives. But he had made an agreement.

And it would be a good excuse to call in Buick. “All right. Then before you go, call Buick and arrange for him to pick up our friends here and transfer them to the Newark PD lock-up.”

“Thank you. I won’t forget this, sir.”

Agent Crosby snatched the phone from the suspects and called Captain Buick.