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“That’s why I asked your grandfather if I could speak with you, because he mentioned that there was a possibility the suspect was from Kazakhstan. There is a bar in Rockaway Park that’s a meeting place for ethnic Russians with connections to Kazakhstan. It’s really quite a festive place. I have visited it myself because of my stay in Kazakhstan. Of course, I couldn’t drink alcohol, but the company was invigorating. If anyone knows about someone from Kazakhstan looking to hide in the greater New York area, it’s that crowd.”
This was a good lead. Probably more than the FBI had. I thanked him and turned with Darya to head for our car.
Nasir said, “I hope you find who you’re looking for. It’s a tricky business, these attacks. I’ve seen it all over the Middle East. Some are based on religious conviction. Some people are forced to do the attacks and some attacks are not what they seem.”
I said, “Not what they seem in what way?”
“I used to see it in occupied Palestine. They’ve been known to kill other Palestinians in attacks so that Israel is blamed. I’ve even heard rumors that some of the old Israeli governments allowed attacks in Jerusalem so that they would have a reason to respond. There is a certain return on this philosophy.”
He was right, but I didn’t see the US government allowing an attack like this. I also couldn’t see them putting so many resources into catching someone if they had allowed the attack to occur.
All we could do was follow up on the leads we had.
Chapter 18
THE STREETS FELT more alive than ever on the drive to Rockaway Park. It was incredible. Even with the cold weather, people were out in the streets, as if telling the terrorists, “New Yorkers don’t hide.”
The bar was on Rockaway Beach Boulevard, not far from the Jacob Riis Park. As soon as we stepped in the door, I heard conversation in Russian.
Darya was right behind me as I surveyed the long room with booths on the left and stools against the bar on the right. Bright sunlight crashed through the wide bay windows, saving the place from the usual depressing air of a bar in the middle of the day.
It was also surprisingly crowded, with people shouting good-naturedly from one booth to another while the bartenders called out orders in Russian.
I wasn’t sure what to do, so without identifying myself, I told the bartender I was looking for someone. I showed him the picture of Marat and told him he was a Russian, speaking Kazakh.
The burly bartender scratched his red beard and shook his head and said in English, “No, no, I never seen this man. Sorry. What you want to drink?”
I bought two beers and settled in at the bar with Darya. There were several other women in the place, but the way they were sitting in booths by themselves or with one man led me to believe they might be prostitutes. I hoped no one would make a mistake and approach Darya. For their sake.
I watched our bartender speaking in a low voice in Russian to one of his colleagues, not far from us.
Darya leaned in close and said, “The bartender just said the two men at the end of the bar are looking for the same man we are.”
Having Darya undercover was brilliant. They didn’t seem to care if we overheard them speaking Russian.
I looked over to the far end of the bar where there were two men standing, dressed in cheap suits with ties, about my age, but heavy and out of shape. One of the men was burly, with a pockmarked face, and the other had cold, gray eyes, and as soon as they met mine I realized someone at the bar had just told them who I was asking about.
I assumed he made me for a cop, because he made no move to come over to talk. That was fine by me. His interest didn’t concern me.
I formulated a plan, and appreciated the fact that Darya didn’t ask what it was.
After a few minutes, the two men in suits stepped out the back door of the bar and into the narrow parking lot. We wasted no time going out the main door and into the same lot.
I saw them get into a new Lincoln. Comfortable, but not flashy. Once we got into my Impala, I ran the tag quickly and it came back to a moving company owned by Russians. Shocking.
When it didn’t look like they were going anywhere, I said to Darya, “Sometimes we have to make our own karma.”
All she said was, “I agree.”
As we slipped out of the car, I said, “Whatever happens in Rockaway Park stays in Rockaway Park. Is that a problem?”
“Not unless you expect me to dig a hole if you kill them. I hate to dig.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Both the men were still sitting in the car, looking out at the traffic trickling by on Rockaway Beach Boulevard.
I was careful, trying to approach the car from behind and in the blind spot. As we got closer, I realized they were taking a smoke break with both the windows open.
