Every Second

55

Manhattan, New York

At 7:15 a.m. Kate Page joined the bustle of Grand Central’s main concourse, loving its sweeping staircases, glimmering chandeliers and cathedral splendor.

Striding with thousands of commuters, she made her way to the lower level, aware that she was being watched on Grand Central’s closed-circuit security camera system. Kate knew about the electronic sensors, the radiation detectors, and that you couldn’t go twenty feet without seeing a cop. Since 9/11, Grand Central was considered one of the world’s top targets for terrorists-just another part of life in New York.

But this morning it all underscored her unease over her meeting.

Bert was a complete stranger, but meeting with strangers was part of her job.

As a reporter, Kate had met sources like this all the time. She was not fearless and she was not a fool. She always took precautions. She was extremely careful never to meet anyone alone, unless it was during the day and in a very public place.

Bert could be luring her for his own reasons. He could be a nut who wanted to be part of the story, but, if her instinct was to be trusted, he could also be a genuine source of critical information.

At the food concourse she was greeted by appetizing aromas of freshly baked bread, bacon, coffee and fresh fruit. She threaded her way among commuters, moving under the marble arches along the many food kiosks and joining the line at Grabbin Run Deli.

She studied the sea of faces, trying to guess if she could match one to Bert’s voice. He’d called her again this morning to say he was bringing someone with him and ensured Kate that he’d recognize her from pictures he’d seen online related to news stories.

Kate bought a tea and a bagel with cream cheese. She got lucky when someone vacated a table with three chairs. She took a seat and unfolded her copy of the New York Times. She’d managed two bites, two sips and got to page three before two men stood at her table.

She lowered her paper.

“May I help you?”

“You’re Kate Page, the reporter?”

She nodded.

“I’m Bert, and this is my son, John.”

Bert was in his mid-fifties. His dark-complexioned face was covered with salt-and-pepper stubble. His dark, oily hair was parted neatly to one side. He wore a sport jacket with a newspaper rolled in one pocket-Arabic, Kate noticed from the headlines.

His son was in his early twenties, with white earbuds collared around his neck. He wore a Lady Gaga T-shirt and jeans and was chewing gum.

“Please, sit down,” she said.

“We have very little time before we catch the train to Federal Plaza.”

“I understand.” Kate set her phone to record and took out her notebook.

“No pictures, please.”

“Got it. What do you do for a living, Bert?”

“I’m a contractor. I have a small carpentry business in Yonkers.”

“And John?”

“I’m a student at Hunter College.”

“What’re you studying?”

“Chemistry.”

“Okay, let’s get to it. Why did you call me? What is your relation to Jerricko Blaine and his family?”

“His mother, Nazihah Samadyh, is my cousin,” Bert said. “I want you to know that we’ve not had contact with her for years. To be honest, we never got along. We’re going to the FBI to tell them the truth about her son Jerricko.”

“And what’s the truth?”

“First, you must know that I am an American citizen. I came to this country because I respect it and love it for the freedom and dignity it offers to everyone who is willing to work hard.”

“Understood.”

“John, my son, is also an American citizen, born here in New York.”

“Okay.”

“Nazihah and her sons have brought shame upon our family. When she came here, she always complained, she never even tried to fit in. Her husband, Andrew, was a good man, but she was not happy here. She was always critical of US policy. You know that her son Malcolm went to prison for robbery, then murdered a police officer and was shot.”

“Yes.”

“In her twisted thinking, Nazihah said it was the fault of the US government and its policies that Malcolm was shot. She believed in some fantasy conspiracy and moved back to Afghanistan. Jerricko, Malcolm’s brother, didn’t want to leave the US at first. He was never the same after his brother’s death. He started hanging out with the wrong people. We know because he recently tried to pull John into his circles.”

Kate turned to the younger man.

“It’s true. He messaged me online, told me how much he respected and admired me for my work at Hunter.”

“Did you hang out with him much?”

“He came to our place and we went out a few times. But he was just like his mom-all he ever wanted to talk about was the corruption of America and how everyone here was greedy and sinful. But he was never open to talking about it or letting anyone argue with him. I knew things were getting out of control after he’d told me that he’d used a stolen and altered passport to go to Afghanistan to visit his mom. When he came back, he kept sending me online links to read, extremist stuff that his mom had sent him. He was always denouncing the US and Israel as part of a global system of oppression. I mean, some of the stuff he talked about was true-there are tons of pretty horrible things that happen all the time. But he’d show me all these jihadi sites, stuff that was way too intense, and tried to convince me to join him and his friends.”

“Were you interested?”

John shook his head.

“People are entitled to their opinions,” John said. “You can argue that US foreign policy is flawed and Jerricko’s friends make good points, but it doesn’t mean I should rush out and cut somebody’s head off. That’s doesn’t improve things. I think these guys are off-the-chart crazy with their need for revenge.”

Kate nodded.

“So,” Bert said, “when we saw the news about Jerricko and the bank manager, the robbery and the bomb vests in Queens, we were so ashamed and disgusted. That’s why we’re going to the FBI this morning-in case we can answer any questions that could help them.”

“They don’t know you’re coming?”

“No. We’ll show up and tell them what we just told you,” Bert said. “I’m certain they’ll be very interested in talking with us. Last night, when my cousin in California called about you, I’m thinking, I must have the truth be known that our family denounces this and we have no part in it. That is why we’re speaking to you first, so the press hears this, too. Please, you must understand.”

“I do.”

“Okay, so here’s the thing,” John said. “Jerricko was trying to recruit me to their cause because I’m a chemist. They said if I helped them it would be part of something ‘really big, glorious and monumental,’ and that was going to happen very soon.”

“Did they mean the robbery using the bomb vests?”

“No,” John said. He looked around nervously, but Kate gave him a reassuring smile, nodding at him that it was okay to continue. “I think the robbery’s only the beginning.”

“Beginning of what?”

“I’m not sure. Something bigger,” Bert said, glancing at his watch. “We have to go now.”

“Wait,” Kate said. “I need to see some ID, so I know who I’m talking to?”

Unease spread across the older man’s face.

“My editors will think I made this all up,” Kate said. “I need to confirm your identity, but we won’t publish your names. I’ll protect you as sources, but I need to see ID.”

After a moment’s hesitation, both men produced wallets with photo ID. The father’s real name was Walid Sattar, and his son was Omar. After she photographed their IDs and made notes, both men got up and disappeared into Grand Central’s chaos.

Kate sat there for a moment absorbing what she’d just heard. It was astounding. Then she left and hurried down East Forty-Second Street half a block to the lobby of the Grand Hyatt, glad she’d alerted the photo desk to her meeting. Nothing was going to slip through her fingers this time.

Kate sat on one of the cushioned benches near the registration desk. Two minutes later, Strobic joined her. During her meeting at the Grabbin Run with Bert and his son, Strobic had positioned himself unseen at the next food vendor, taking pictures of Walid and Omar.

Strobic showed them to her, a series of crisp shots, clearly identifying the faces of the men, frame after frame. Kate would protect their identities, but if anything happened, she now had evidence of the meeting.

“Good work, Stan,” she said as her phone rang.

“Kate Page, Newslead.”

“Kate, it’s Thane in the newsroom. You’re with Strobic, right?”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“We need you to get up to the Blue Coyote Mountains, about two or three hours north. I’ll get you directions. We’ve got a major break.”

“What happened?”

“They found Dan Fulton’s body.”