Ambush (Michael Bennett 11)

“And we’re going to catch that son of a bitch.”

Chapter 17

WE STOPPED AT a few other places in Brighton Beach, but none seemed as promising as Lewis Vineyard. He knew everyone and dealt with everyone. I was confident he’d come up with something.

Darya said, “I can see why these people leave Russia. They left food lines, and found decent weather and good housing. It’s hard to compete with America head-to-head. Even your marketing is better than ours.”

“What do you mean?”

“You have land of the free or the streets paved with gold. We have plenty of land to farm if you don’t mind freezing in Siberia.”

I laughed at that.

She gave me a smile and said, “It would be interesting to work with you on a daily basis.”

“Let’s catch this guy first, then see where it goes.”

“And when we catch him, what happens to him next?”

“The FBI will bleed him for information. On everything.”

“That’s what we thought.”

Before I could ask her what that meant—that “we”—my phone rang. I looked down and saw it was my grandfather. I never like to ignore calls from Seamus because it could be something serious, the fear always associated with an elderly relative’s calls.

“Seamus, everything all right?”

His chuckle told me he was fine. “It’s not like I’m going to keel over at any minute. I may still be in my prime. It’s a new millennium. Age is just a number.”

“The fact that you’ve seen the last few millennia makes me worry about your health.”

“For a change, I’m calling to help you with your job.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“As a man of the cloth, I have friends in every denomination. One of them happens to be a Muslim cleric. He’s the imam of a mosque in Queens.”

“I appreciate that, Seamus, but we’re not really taking the shotgun approach that all Muslims know about terror attacks.”

“But this imam spent some time in Kazakhstan. If I overheard you correctly on the phone last night, Kazakhstan has something to do with your investigation.”

All I could say was, “Give me the info.”

Twenty minutes later, we were in Jamaica Estates, pulling up to a mosque off the Grand Central Parkway near 188th Street.

As soon as

we were out of the car, a small man who looked about sixty-five approached us. He was wearing a suit with a collarless white shirt and a small, white cap.

The man gave us a warm smile as he said, “You can’t be Seamus’s grandson, Michael, can you? I am Adama Nasir.” He had a slight accent that was hard to place. His wire-rimmed glasses gave him the look of a scholar.

I took his hand and said, “I am Seamus’s grandson. He’s much older than he pretends to be.” I introduced Darya as my associate.

We stayed outside and strolled through a playground for the school attached to the mosque. Nasir explained that he was born in Qatar and had traveled throughout the world as a visiting scholar of the Koran. I noted that he had spent two years in Kazakhstan.

Nasir said, “Your grandfather mentioned what you were doing. I think it’s important for Muslims to spread the truth that, just like Christians, the vast majority of Muslims just want to worship in peace. Most Muslims are outraged at attacks like the one on the parade.”

I said, “I can appreciate the sentiment, but right now I’m only interested in catching who’s responsible. It doesn’t matter to me what religion he is or even what his motivation was. We need to catch him before he does anything else.”