“What do you mean? He’s a Muslim, first of all. He attends virtually all of the Muslim student union meetings, and we have intel that he has acted suspiciously and taken a lot of photographs of New York.”
That response actually gave me more questions than answers, but I wanted to see how this would go. Santos had just described a college student who likes to sightsee.
We stepped in the doors and no one paid any attention to us, the sign of a good neighborhood. A couple of little kids chased the deli cat, and a young mother lazily followed them while chatting on her cell phone. The smell of the chicken cutlet hero the cook was wrapping up for a customer reminded me I had forgotten to eat breakfast. My stomach growled.
Santos stepped to the counter and asked about Abdul. A minute later, we were sitting at a small table in the corner, next to a refrigerator stocked with smoothies that cost seven bucks each.
The student from the UAE was twenty-one and small. He couldn’t have been over five foot five and 130 pounds, which made him look even younger. The kid was already trembling.
Santos spent a few minutes clarifying Abdul’s information. The whole process only seemed to make the young man more nervous. I scooted my chair back slightly because I didn’t want to be in the splash zone if he vomited.
Then Santos asked a series of questions. “Have you ever had contact with an organization that espouses jihad? Don’t lie. I’ll know if you’
re lying.”
The young man vigorously shook his head.
“Do you or any of your friends know anyone involved in a group like that?”
This time Abdul thought about it, then shook his head. He said, “I spend most of my time either studying or working here.”
Santos said, “What about the Muslim student union at NYU?”
“What about it? I go there to see my friends. Meet women.”
“And what do you plan to use your degree in biology for?”
“This coming summer I have an internship at an institute in San Francisco doing cancer research. That might be what I’m interested in long-term.” The young man seemed to be getting some confidence.
The FBI agent made notes, but didn’t invite Darya or me to say anything at all.
Now Santos moved on to our case. He pulled up our photograph of Temir Marat and said, “Know him?”
Abdul shook his head.
“Where were you on Thanksgiving morning?”
“Having breakfast with the family of one of my professors who lives in the Village.”
“We’ll need his name and address. Now.”
Santos pushed over a notebook for Abdul to write in. He made more notes and asked more questions, which Abdul answered quickly and clearly. Then the FBI man thanked him, but warned him not to leave the city. That was it. It felt more like a schoolyard bullying session than an interview. When Santos stood up and handed Abdul a card, I did the same thing. The only difference is, I smiled and winked at him when I gave him the card. He gave me a nervous smile and nod in return.
Then all three of us marched out of the deli.
Before we even got to the car, I had to say, “What the hell was that?”
“What was what?”
“Treating that kid like that! We have no reason to believe that he’s done anything wrong. Why are we wasting time scaring kids to death?”
Santos stopped on the sidewalk and looked at me like I was a little kid who just asked a stupid question in class. “Do I have to remind you, Detective, that this is a federal case? It’s not some cheap New York City misdemeanor or dead dope addict.” Santos looked at Darya to see if she was interested in getting involved in the argument. Then he said, “The FBI has to look at the big picture and see if we can link different terror networks. It may not seem like it’s helping much now, but it could pay off big later. Let me know when you solve a major terror case.”
That stung a little bit. As I slipped into the Crown Victoria, I felt like I’d been told off pretty effectively.
Chapter 16
AFTER THE INTERVIEW with Abdul, I realized my time might be better utilized. I saw my opportunity when Santos was called to a boss’s office to give an update on the investigation.