There is a Plan B, however, and I called Unit Two and explained that we'd been burnt. I told Ms. Sims to drop farther back, and Unit Two passed us and picked up the visual tail.
We all continued on, and I kept Unit Two in sight.
I could have called for another surveillance vehicle, but the Iranians weren't doing any escape and evasion, so I just let it play out. They damned sure weren't going to lose us, and if I screwed up their plans today, that was a good day's work.
We got down below the West Village, and Unit Two radioed that the subject was turning on West Houston. Jacobs also said, "I think this guy made us."
"Then pull up alongside and give him the finger."
"Say again?"
"He flipped me the bird."
I heard laughter on the radio, then Unit Two said, "Subject is turning into the entrance ramp for the Holland."
"Copy."
In a few minutes, we were on the entrance ramp to the tunnel.
There are no toll booths in this direction so traffic was moving quickly into the tunnel entrance. I passed on a tidbit to Ms. Sims: "Almost none of these dip cars has E-ZPass--they don't want their movements recorded--so when there's a toll booth, they're in the cash lane, which is very slow, and if you go through the E-ZPass lane, you'll be ahead of them, which you don't want."
She nodded.
Unit Two was in the tunnel and we followed.
Inside the long tunnel, Ms. Sims asked again, "Where do you think he's going?"
This time I knew. "New Jersey." I explained, "That's where the tunnel goes."
She didn't respond to that bit of Zen, but she informed me, "Iranian diplomats may not travel more than a twenty-five-mile radius from Manhattan."
"Right." I think I knew that.
She had no further information for me, so we continued on in golden silence. The tunnels under the rivers around Manhattan Island are, of course, A-list targets for our Mideast friends, but I didn't think Big Bird was going to blow himself up in the tunnel. I mean, why put on such a nice suit for that? Plus, you need a big truck bomb to actually open the tunnel up to the river. Right?
We exited the tunnel, and it took me awhile to adjust my eyes to the sunlight. I couldn't see the Mercedes, but I did spot Unit Two, and I pointed them out to Ms. Sims, who followed. Unit Two reported the subject in sight.
We were in Jersey City now, and we got on to the Pulaski Skyway, from which we had a scenic view of belching smokestacks.
I asked Ms. Sims, "Where do you think he's going?"
She recognized the question, smiled, and replied, "How do I know?"
We approached the interchange for Interstate 95, and I said, "Ten bucks says he goes south." I added, "Newark Airport."
She asked, "What's to the north?"
"The North Pole. Come on. You betting?"
She thought a moment, then said, "Well, he's been traveling south, but he has no luggage for the airport--unless it's in the trunk."
"So, you pick north?"
"No. I say he's going south, but not to the airport. To Atlantic City."
I wasn't following the train of thought that led Ms. Sims to Atlantic City, but I said, "Okay. Ten bucks."
"Fifty."
"You're on."
Unit Two radioed, "Subject has taken the southbound entrance to Ninety-five."
"Copy." So it was either Newark Airport or maybe Atlantic City. I mean, these guys did go down to AC to gamble, drink, and get laid. Not that I would know about any of that firsthand. But I have followed Abdul down there on a number of occasions.
I could still see Unit Two, and they could see the subject vehicle, and Jacobs radioed, "Subject passed the exit for Newark Airport."
Ms. Sims said to me, "You can pay me now."
I said, "He could be going to Fort Dix. You know, spying on a military installation." I reminded her, "He's a military intel guy."
"And the chauffeur and Mercedes are cover for what?"
I didn't reply.
We continued on, hitting speeds of eighty miles an hour on Route 95, known here as the New Jersey Turnpike.
Ms. Sims announced, "He's past the twenty-five-mile limit."
"Good. Do you want to keep following him, or kill him?"
"I'm just making an observation."
"Noted."
We continued on, and I said to Ms. Sims, "You know, maybe I should call for air."
She didn't reply, so I further explained, "We have an air spotter we can use. Makes our job easier." I started to switch the frequency on the radio, but Ms. Sims said, "He's booked at the Taj Mahal."
I took my hand off the dial and inquired, "How do you know?"
"We got a tip."
I inquired, "And when were you going to share this with me?"
"After I had my muffin."
I was a little pissed off. Maybe a lot.
A few minutes later, she asked me, "Are you, like, not speaking to me?"
In fact, I wasn't, so I didn't reply.
She said, "But we've got to follow him down there to see that he actually goes to the Taj and checks in." She informed me, "We have a team down there already, so after they pick him up we can turn around and head back to the city."
I had no reply.
She assured me, "You don't owe me the fifty dollars. In fact, I'll buy you a drink."
No use staying mad, so I said, "Thank you." I mean, typical FBI. They wouldn't tell you if your ass was on fire. And the Special Agents, like Ms. Sims and my wife, are all lawyers. Need I say more?
I radioed Unit Two with my new info, though I advised Mel and George to stay with us in case our info was wrong and Big Bird was heading elsewhere.
Mel asked, "How did you find this out?"
"I'll tell you later."
We continued on, and Ms. Sims said, "We have about two hours. Tell me all you know about surveillance. I'd like to know what you've learned in the last forty years."
It hasn't been quite that long, and Ms. Sims I'm sure knew that; she was just making an ageist joke. She actually had a sense of humor, a rarity among her colleagues, so to show I was a good sport, and to demonstrate to her the spirit of joint FBI/NYPD cooperation, I said, "All right. I talk, you listen. Hold your questions."
"Will there be a test?"
"Every day."
She nodded.
I settled back and imparted my extensive knowledge of surveillance techniques, interspersed with anecdotal and personal stories of surveillances, even the ones that went bad.
The criminals I've followed over the years were all pretty dumb, but when I got to the Task Force, I realized that the guys we were following--diplomats and terrorist suspects--were not quite as dumb. I mean, they're certainly not smart, but they are paranoid, partly because most of them come from police states, and that makes them at least savvy that they're under the eye.
Ms. Sims, true to her word, did not interrupt as I held her spellbound with my stories. I really don't like to brag, but this was a teaching moment, so how could I avoid it? And, as I say, I was honest about the screw-ups.
On that subject, and on the subject of smart bad guys, I've run into only two evil geniuses in my three years with the Task Force. One was an American, and the other was a Libyan guy with a very big grudge against the USA, and not only was he evil and smart, he was also a perfect killing machine. My experience with the Libyan had less to do with surveillance than it did with hunter and hunted, and there were times when I wasn't sure if I was the hunter or the hunted.
This episode did not have a happy ending, and even if there were any lessons to be learned or taught, the whole case was classified as Top Secret and need-to-know, meaning I couldn't share it with Ms. Sims, or with anyone, ever. Which was fine with me.
But someday, I was sure, there would be a rematch. He promised me that.
CHAPTER TWO
About three hours after Ms. Sims did not get her muffin in Manhattan, we pulled into the long, fountain-lined drive of the Trump T
aj Mahal. The Taj is topped with bulbous domes and minarets, so perhaps Big Bird thought this was a mosque.
Ms. Sims had the contact info for our team here, and she'd called ahead to let them know the subject was on the way so they could get to reception. She also described what he was wearing and let them know, "Subject is code-named Big Bird."
I radioed Unit Two, who were parked a distance from the entrance, and told them, "You can take off."
Mel Jacobs and George Foster volunteered to stay--above and beyond the call of duty--and I replied, "Do whatever you want. You're on your own time."
The nature of this job and of this Task Force is such that we all trust one another to do the right thing. There are rules, of course, but we're informal and free of a lot of the bureaucratic crap that keeps the job from getting done. And the thing that really makes the Task Force work, in my opinion, is that about half the agents are retired NYPD, like me, which means we're not worried about our careers; these are second acts, maybe last acts, and we can improvise a lot and not worry about crossing the line. Plus, we bring NYPD street smarts to the table. Results may vary, of course, but we mostly get the job done.
The driver pulled away in the Mercedes without Big Bird, who went inside carrying an overnight bag. We couldn't give the fully equipped SUV to the parking attendant, so we just parked near the entrance and locked it. I flashed my creds and said, "Official business. Watch the car." I gave the parking guy a twenty and he said, "No problem."
We entered the big ornate marble lobby, and I spotted Big Bird at the VIP check-in, and I also spotted two guys who I recognized from the Special Operations detail. We made eye contact and they signaled they were on the case.
Great news. Time for a drink.
I didn't think Big Bird could recognize us from our brief, long-distance exchange of salutes, so I escorted Ms. Sims past where he was checking in. I mean, he knew he'd been followed here, but he wasn't looking over his shoulder. He wasn't supposed to be this far from Third Avenue, but we don't make an issue of it unless someone in Washington wants us to make an issue of it. The dips from most countries can travel freely around the U.S., but some, like the Cubans, are confined to New York City, or a set radius, like the Iranians. If I had it my way, they'd all be living and working in Iowa. Bottom line here, we have had no diplomatic relations with Iran since they took over our embassy and held the staff hostage, but they were U.N. members, so they were here. Also, since we had no diplomats in Iran, we could mess with these guys without worrying about them retaliating back in Sandland. In fact... stay tuned.
Anyway, we each made a pit stop, then went into the casino area, and I asked Ms. Sims, "Would you like a muffin?"
"I owe you a drink."
I headed directly for the Ego Lounge, which late at night becomes the Libido Lounge. We sat at the bar, and Ms. Sims inquired, "Have you been here before?"
"I think I may have been here on business."
The bartender--actually a tendress with big... eyes--asked what we were drinking, and Ms. Sims ordered a white wine while I got my usual Dewar's and soda.
We clinked glasses, and she said, "Cheers," then she asked me, "Why are we here?"
I replied, "Just to be sure Big Bird is playing and not meeting someone."
She reminded me, "We have a team here. Also, B.B. can have a meet in his room and we wouldn't know."
I replied, "The SO guys would know." I advised her, "You want to be around if something goes down. Being in the right place at the right time is not an accident." I asked her, "Were you listening to my stories?"
"Every word."
"You got someplace else to go?"
"Nope."
"Good. We'll give it an hour."
Actually, there was no reason to stay, except I needed a drink. Plus, I was pissed off at Big Bird for giving me the finger. That wasn't very diplomatic of him. I mean, it's my country. Right? He's a guest. And I'm not his host.
"John? I said, sorry I couldn't tell you about this." She explained, "They wanted to run it as a standard surveillance so that the subject couldn't guess by our actions that we knew where he was going." She added, "Only I knew in case we actually lost him."
"Right. Whatever." I had no idea whose brilliant idea that was, but I could guess that it was the idea of Tom Walsh, the FBI Special Agent in Charge of the Anti-Terrorist Task Force in New York. Walsh is somewhere between a genius and an idiot, and there's not much space separating the two. Also, he loves the cloak-and-dagger stuff and doesn't quite get standard police work. I mean, this secrecy crap would never have happened when I was a cop. But it's a new world and a new job and I don't take it personally.
To change the subject, I said, "Call the SO team and get a fix on Big Bird."
We all have these Nextel phones that, as I said, have a bling feature--a walkie-talkie capability--and Ms. Sims blinged one of the SO people and reported our location and asked that we be called if Big Bird left his room and came down to the casino or wherever.
So we chatted, mostly about her living and working in New York, which she didn't like personally, but did like professionally. Lisa Sims reminded me in some ways of my wife, Kate Mayfield, who I met on the job three years ago on the previously mentioned case of the Libyan asshole. Kate, too, is from the hinterland, and she wasn't initially thrilled with the New York assignment, but after meeting me she wouldn't live anywhere else. And then there was 9/11. After that, she wanted us to transfer out of New York, but after the trauma wore off--we were both there when it happened--she rethought it and realized she couldn't leave. Which was good, since I wasn't leaving.
I had a second drink, but Ms. Sims--now Lisa--switched to club soda because I told her she was driving back.
Her cell phone blinged, and she took it and listened, then said to the caller, "Okay, we'll probably head out." She signed off and said to me, "Big Bird is alone at a roulette table."
"How's he doing?"
"I didn't ask." She called for the check, paid, and we left the Ego Lounge.
She turned toward the lobby, but I said, "I just want to get a close look at this guy."
She hesitated, then deferred to my professional judgment and nodded.
We made our way into the cavernous casino, and Lisa blinged her contact on the SO team and got a fix on Big Bird. Within a few minutes, we spotted him sitting at a roulette wheel with a drink in his hand.
The Iranian's sinful behavior was not my problem--in fact, we record all this on film and it can be useful--but I think there's something deep down schizo with these people, a total disconnect that is not good for the head.
Lisa said, "Okay? There he is. Let's go."
I observed, "Satan has entered his soul."
"Right. I see that."
"I need to help him."
"John--"
"Let's get some tokens and hit the slots."
"John--"
"Come on." I took her arm and we went to the cashier, where I got a hundred one-dollar tokens on my government credit card--the accounting office will get a good laugh out of that--and we headed for the dollar slots, from which we could see Big Bird's back.
Lisa and I sat side by side at two poker machines, and I asked her, "You ever play the slots?"
"No."
"You play poker?"
"I do."
So I divided up the silver coins and briefly explained the machine to Lisa, and we played slot machine poker. They should have a slot game called Sucker. You get a row of five suckers and the machine kicks you in the nuts and swallows all the coins in your tray.
We each got a drink from a passing waitress, and I inhaled the secondhand smoke of a catatonic fat lady sitting next to me.
Anyway, we were up and down, and Lisa was getting into it, hoping to retire early on the Zillion Dollar Jackpot. Meanwhile, Big Bird is sinking deeper into the fires of hell with each spin of the wheel. I had to save him.
After about half an hour, Big Bird cashed out and got up. He drifted over to
the blackjack tables, then hesitated and decided to go somewhere else.
Lisa got four kings and the machine chimed and disgorged a stream of coins into her tray.
I said to her, "Big Bird is moving. Stay here and play my machine. Call the Special Ops team and tell them I've got him."
She glanced around, noticing her surroundings, then said, "Okay..."
I headed across the casino floor, hoping that Big Bird would head to the elevators, or the men's room, or the boardwalk--any place where we could be alone for a chat.
He walked like he needed to take a leak, and sure enough he headed out toward the restrooms. I followed him into a corridor and saw him go through the men's room door. I followed.
These guys don't piss at the urinal--they like privacy when they pull out their pee-pees--and Big Bird was in one of the stalls.
There were two guys at the urinals and one at the sink. Very quietly and diplomatically, I showed my creds and asked them to move out quickly, and I asked one of them to stand outside and keep people out.
They all exited, and I stood at the sink, looking in the mirror. The stall door opened--without a flush. In fact, Big Bird didn't even go to the sinks.
I turned and he gave me a glance and I could tell he didn't recognize me. But then he made his move. He suddenly rushed me and somehow managed to smash his balls into my fist. Well, that took me by surprise, and I stepped back as he made his next aggressive move, which was to sink to his knees and make threatening groans at me. His eyes were rolling like the wheels on a slot machine, and then he slumped forward and lay on the floor, breathing hard, ready to attack again. I didn't want to cause an international incident, so I excused myself by saying, "Fuck you," and left.
Out in the corridor, I released my deputy and went back into the casino, where I ran into Lisa, who was carrying a plastic container filled with tokens. She asked me, "Where were you?"
"Men's room."
"Where's Big--"
"Time to go."
We headed toward the lobby, and she asked me, "What do I do with these tokens?"
"Give them to accounting."
We got outside and headed toward the SUV.
Lisa asked, "What happened? Where's Big Bird?"