corner office to take in the views of midtown skyscrapers and the shining East River. By the looks of things, Charlson was hardly a flunky.
“What can I do for you?” the man said pleasantly. Jack would have expected him to ask if they’d had any success in tracking down the deli perp, but Charlson just waited. Jack didn’t take a seat; he preferred the psychological advantage of standing, as he would in a more routine station house interview. He stared down at the fed, who sat back in a swanky executive chair with his hands steepled together and a mildly curious expression on his face. Grandfatherly, Jack thought again.
“My partner and I have a bit of a problem here,” he said. “The thing is, we’ve got a murderer walking around our city right now. And it really troubles me that we’re out there pounding the sidewalks, looking for this guy, with what seems to be incomplete information.”
Charlson considered this statement thoughtfully. “I want to assure you gentlemen that I’m not out to disrespect you in any way or to maintain any secrecy that’s not absolutely necessary.” He didn’t continue.
“Okay. I’m glad to hear that. Maybe you could explain why secrecy is necessary at all.”
“Were you on the job in ’ninety-three, detective?”
Jack nodded.
“I don’t know how much you remember about what happened back then, with the first attack on the World Trade Center, but it was a major cock-up. The men who plotted that bombing had been under surveillance by the FBI for some time, but the surveillance was dropped just months before the attack. And there were confidential informants who were handled quite poorly.”
Jack leaned forward. “What are you saying? There’s some kind of terrorist plot going on here?”
Charlson took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I can tell you that we’re in the middle of an investigation. But this kind of case is incredibly sensitive. You bring too many people into the loop and lives get jeopardized. Or plotters hear about surveillance and they go deep into hiding.”
Richie entered the conversation. “We understand. But we’re not some rookies, running around shooting our mouths off. We know how to run an undercover operation. Do you know who our perp is? Did you already have him under surveillance?”
Charlson spoke carefully. “We know who the man is.”
Richie gave Jack a look, then turned back to the fed. “No offense, but you’re making it sound like he’s some kind of high-level terrorist or something. The fact is, he killed a guy right out in the open. With a can of beans . He doesn’t sound very smart or stealthy to me.”
Charlson fixed the detective with an eagle eye. “You know how we caught the first bomber in ’ninety-three? Shortly after the attack, he returned to the car rental place where he had ordered the van they filled with explosives. He asked for the deposit back! Now, that doesn’t sound very smart or stealthy either, but that man and his comrades succeeded in blowing a gigantic crater in the basement of the North Tower.”
“All right,” Richie conceded. “But you’ve got our guy’s picture on videotape. Why don’t we just put it out there? We can probably scoop him up within a few hours.”
Charlson shook his head, as if he were talking to a child. “You’re not listening. If we spread the word that we know who this man is, his compatriots will go underground. And then we may never be able to stop them.”
Richie remained unimpressed. “How do you know this guy is even involved with anything? I work in Little Pakistan. I’ve seen how these people get implicated, called terrorists, just because somebody doesn’t like ’em and calls in a bum tip.”
Charlson stared at him, incredulous. “You live in New York City and you want to argue with me about whether this sort of threat is real? Where were you on Nine-eleven? Do you know how many funerals I attended that month, detective?”
Reluctantly,
“What can I do for you?” the man said pleasantly. Jack would have expected him to ask if they’d had any success in tracking down the deli perp, but Charlson just waited. Jack didn’t take a seat; he preferred the psychological advantage of standing, as he would in a more routine station house interview. He stared down at the fed, who sat back in a swanky executive chair with his hands steepled together and a mildly curious expression on his face. Grandfatherly, Jack thought again.
“My partner and I have a bit of a problem here,” he said. “The thing is, we’ve got a murderer walking around our city right now. And it really troubles me that we’re out there pounding the sidewalks, looking for this guy, with what seems to be incomplete information.”
Charlson considered this statement thoughtfully. “I want to assure you gentlemen that I’m not out to disrespect you in any way or to maintain any secrecy that’s not absolutely necessary.” He didn’t continue.
“Okay. I’m glad to hear that. Maybe you could explain why secrecy is necessary at all.”
“Were you on the job in ’ninety-three, detective?”
Jack nodded.
“I don’t know how much you remember about what happened back then, with the first attack on the World Trade Center, but it was a major cock-up. The men who plotted that bombing had been under surveillance by the FBI for some time, but the surveillance was dropped just months before the attack. And there were confidential informants who were handled quite poorly.”
Jack leaned forward. “What are you saying? There’s some kind of terrorist plot going on here?”
Charlson took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I can tell you that we’re in the middle of an investigation. But this kind of case is incredibly sensitive. You bring too many people into the loop and lives get jeopardized. Or plotters hear about surveillance and they go deep into hiding.”
Richie entered the conversation. “We understand. But we’re not some rookies, running around shooting our mouths off. We know how to run an undercover operation. Do you know who our perp is? Did you already have him under surveillance?”
Charlson spoke carefully. “We know who the man is.”
Richie gave Jack a look, then turned back to the fed. “No offense, but you’re making it sound like he’s some kind of high-level terrorist or something. The fact is, he killed a guy right out in the open. With a can of beans . He doesn’t sound very smart or stealthy to me.”
Charlson fixed the detective with an eagle eye. “You know how we caught the first bomber in ’ninety-three? Shortly after the attack, he returned to the car rental place where he had ordered the van they filled with explosives. He asked for the deposit back! Now, that doesn’t sound very smart or stealthy either, but that man and his comrades succeeded in blowing a gigantic crater in the basement of the North Tower.”
“All right,” Richie conceded. “But you’ve got our guy’s picture on videotape. Why don’t we just put it out there? We can probably scoop him up within a few hours.”
Charlson shook his head, as if he were talking to a child. “You’re not listening. If we spread the word that we know who this man is, his compatriots will go underground. And then we may never be able to stop them.”
Richie remained unimpressed. “How do you know this guy is even involved with anything? I work in Little Pakistan. I’ve seen how these people get implicated, called terrorists, just because somebody doesn’t like ’em and calls in a bum tip.”
Charlson stared at him, incredulous. “You live in New York City and you want to argue with me about whether this sort of threat is real? Where were you on Nine-eleven? Do you know how many funerals I attended that month, detective?”
Reluctantly,
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