Ambush (Michael Bennett 11)

“I was raised in Maryland. My father was in the diplomatic corps in Washington, DC. Then I attended MIT on a student visa.”

“What did you study?”

“Engineering. I still get to use it occasionally. What about you? Did you go to college?”

“Right here in New York. Manhattan College.”

“What did you study?”

“Philosophy.” That one earned a little bit of a smirk.

“Do you ever get to use your degree?”

“That depends. If my studies did, in fact, open my mind to help me better understand the human condition, then yes, I do. If I was merely sucked into the factory of higher education designed solely to make money, I still use it every day.”

“What do you think we will be doing on this investigation? Will the FBI try to hinder us?”

“I guarantee the FBI will try to hinder us. Some of the NYPD Intel detectives say that the FBI stands for Forever Being Indecisive. But sometimes they’re useful.”

“Agent Santos did not seem interested in some of my suggestions.”

“Such as?”

“Reaching out to Russian immigrants who have an excellent communications network. I’m also looking into the word hawqala, to see if it has been used in the past. It seems like an unusual change of pace for someone delivering a message from a jihadist organization. Perhaps this will be the link we need to find and destroy a significant terror group.”

We sat in silence for a few moments and then I said, “Do you have some personal beef with terrorists, or are you just focused on this asshole?”

“Russia has seen many more attacks than the US. Some are more public than others. It’s a scourge that we would like to see neutralized. If it takes a little effort on our part to teach our friends in the United States how to best deal with extremist groups, then I am all for it.”

“Let’s hope we don’t disappoint you.”

She smiled and said, “Don’t worry about it. Everyone disappoints me.”

All I could say was, “Hard-line. I like it.”

Chapter 12

LESS THAN AN hour after our first briefing, I found myself playing chauffeur to my Russian liaison, Darya Kuznetsova. She apparently had less use for bureaucracy than me. When Dan Santos said he had to go talk to his bosses and directed us to either sit tight or grab something to eat, Darya said, “I’m going to talk to some Russian speakers who might help us. Do you care to be part of such a conspiracy?”

Not only did she have the right idea, she worded the question perfectly. Next thing I knew, we were driving through Brooklyn on our way to Midwood. There were a lot of Russian immigrants from Midwood all the way to Brighton Beach, but I wasn’t sure what information they could offer us.

As we were driving on the Ocean Parkway through Flatbush on our way to Midwood, Darya said, “These are ethnic Russians who lived in Kazakhstan. I don’t want to explain why an NYPD detective is with me. Don’t show your badge. I’ll try to speak in English, but if we speak Russian, just smile and nod.”

“Did you just tell me to be quiet and look pretty?” That got the laugh I intended.

“I hope that brain of yours is as sharp when we have to act quickly. I don’t have a great deal of faith in your FBI.”

“With an attitude like that you could be an American cop. We hate the FBI, too.”

“I’m not a cop.”

I didn’t know exactly what Darya was, but I didn’t get a chance to follow up, because we had arrived at our destination.

The first people we talked to were an elderly couple who lived on the first floor of a five-story walk-up. The man said virtually nothing but glared at me like I had stolen something from his bedroom. His giant, bald head reminded me of a pale watermelon.

The little knickknacks around the apartment could’ve been from any grandmother in the world. I liked a figurine of a burly man in a fur hat driving a wagon with an ox pulling it. It shouted “Russia.”

The woman was better dressed than the man and evidently took care of herself. She agreed to speak English with Darya, and while she had a thick accent, I could still understand her.