Legacy and Redemption (8 page)

Keegan’s eyes dropped almost instinctively. He took her hands in his and began to explain. “I was so young when he died; I was only eight. The thing that I remember most about him was how he’d always make time to play with us. I have a brother whose three years older than me and a sister who’s four years younger. He played football and board games with us on weekends and would always tell us Irish history and the meaning of some Irish songs; he was very proud of being Irish.”

Quinn gave a knowing nod. Her eyes lit up as she began, “Oh my God, Tim. Both of my parents are Irish—my dad was born in Ireland. He’s from County Cork. He’s always playing his Irish music in the car and around the house. He sounds a lot like your dad.” She offered a compassionate smile. “Do you know much about your dad’s career as a cop?”

“Like I said, I was pretty young so I really don’t have much of a memory about his career, but I learned an awful lot after his death. I can remember so vividly that when we returned from my father’s funeral, my mother took my brother and me into the living room. My sister was only four at the time so my mom had asked my grandmother to stay with her. My dad kept a scrap book of things that happened in his career—mostly newspaper articles and medals that he received. My mother sat with us, going through page by page of the things in the scrap book. For the first time, I really understood what my dad had accomplished. I know you’ve heard the stories of him single handedly breaking up a terrorist attack that they teach about in the academy, but that was just one story. I know he’s my dad, but putting that aside, after reading all of the things in the scrap book, he really was a hero cop in every sense of the word.”

Keegan paused momentarily, staring at a receptive Cathy Quinn and began to caress her hands. Her eyes met his, and he held the gaze slightly longer than he should have, he felt. “The truth is Cathy, the day that I read through that scrap book was the day that I decided I was going to be a cop just like my dad was.”

Quinn smiled at Keegan—a soft and kindhearted smile. “That’s a wonderful story, Tim. I’d love to see the scrap book one day if you’d be willing to share it. Do you still have it?”

He nodded. “Yeah; the day I graduated from the police academy my family presented it to me as a gift. My mother was crying when they gave it to me. They felt since I was the only one to follow in my dad’s footsteps it would be appropriate for me to have it. My older brother, Kevin, went into contracting and has his own business and my kid sister just finished law school. She’s trying to get a job with the District Attorney’s office. She interns there now.”

Almost another hour had passed with the two of them talking in the back of the bar when the bartender announced last call. Keegan looked around. The chairs were up on every table in the dining room, save for the one that he and Cathy sat at. At the bar were only four other patrons. Keegan didn’t want the night to end, but knew it had to.

Quinn looked down at her watch, “Oh my God, it’s almost four o’clock already.”

Keegan had been aware of the time, yet he acted surprised. He shook his head before speaking. “Where did the night go?”

Cathy Quinn was the first to stand as she searched her pocketbook for her car keys. “Walk me to my car, Tim.”

As they stood up, Keegan took a hold of her jacket from the back of her chair and helped her on with it. The two of them walked out of the bar at a slow and even pace. Jericho Turnpike, a main thoroughfare on Long Island, was nearly desolate in the early morning hour. Keegan noticed that Cathy’s Toyota had been parked only a couple dozen feet in front of his car. Their cars were now the only two cars on the entire block.

As they reached their destination, Keegan was trying to build the courage to ask her out on a date. He was sure the feelings were mutual. As they stood outside of her car, he looked her in the eyes. “Cathy...”

Before Keegan could utter another word Quinn had moved in pressing her body against him. She leaned in and gently pressed her lips to his. They kissed slowly and softly at first. Quinn set her purse down on the hood of her car, her hands resting on his shoulders. Keegan put his hands on her hips as the kissing became more passionate. Keegan could sense her breath becoming shallower as he felt his heart race heavy against his chest. Quinn withdrew from the kiss long enough for the two of them to momentarily search each other’s eyes. Neither said a word, but instead began to kiss again.

Nazeem al-Haq stepped out from the Richmond Hill mosque with his left foot first as was tradition. He bowed his head. “I exit in the name of Allah. Oh Allah! Send your prayers upon Muhammad and the progeny of Muhammad and forgive my sins and open the doors of your grace to me. All praises belong solely to Allah, the Lord of the universe.”

Al-Haq tucked his white button down shirt into his loose fitting khaki pants and began his walk to the bus stop. He reflected on the Friday sermon given by the Imam as he walked. Al-Haq seemed to have found peace attending this mosque. He hadn’t missed a single Friday prayer service since his return to the states.

Less than a block away from the mosque, al-Haq was approached by a stranger. The man extended his hand, “As-salamu-alaykum, my brother.”

“As-salamu-alaykum,” al-Haq returned the greeting as a sense of heightened awareness took over his body. It was a feeling he had not felt since he left Afghanistan to begin his journey back to America.

This is it!

There was no doubt in his mind that this was the contact he had been waiting for. The contact that Muhammad Sheykh Hajjar had told him about; the one that the Imam had also reassured would find him when the time was right. Al-Haq studied the man. He was about the same age as al-Haq, but still had a full head of dark black hair and a long beard to match. He was tall and lean, but the most distinguishing feature on the man was his eyes. They were dark; not just in color. There was something in those eyes that told al-Haq that this was a dangerous man.

The man reached into the inside pocket of his cream colored jacket and withdrew an envelope. He handed it to al-Haq. “Take this and open it when you get home. Do
not
open it before then,” the man instructed. He then turned away and walked in the opposite direction from al-Haq without any further dialogue.

Al-Haq felt the weight of the envelope and studied it’s thickness before placing it in the front pocket of his pants. His mind raced as he walked to the bus stop. It was really happening. He had no idea what was being asked of him, but it didn’t matter. This was the chance he had dreamed about. He stood at the bus stop along Jamaica Avenue in Queens. The bus couldn’t come fast enough. His mouth went dry from the excitement. As tempted as he was to open the envelope and take a peek inside, he knew that he couldn’t. It seemed to take an hour until a bus finally came. A light rain started to fall in spite of the bright sky. Al-Haq never even noticed the rain as he watched the bus pull to the curb.

*

Ahmed Hatif handed off the envelope to the man whom he’d had under surveillance for nearly three months. The Syrian native had no reason to doubt al-Haq’s loyalty. He had observed him at prayer service every Friday and even followed him on many occasions to his apartment and to his job. There was nothing that Hatif had seen to give him any reason to doubt the man’s loyalty.

There was a sense of relief for Hatif, feeling that he had someone who he could trust. He had been told by both Sheykh Hajjar and Murad Zein that al-Haq was trustworthy, but still, Hatif needed to vet the man for himself. There could be no wavering or lack of conviction as the role al-Haq would be playing was to be a crucial one.

Hatif got into his black Chevrolet Equinox and started it up. He drove around the block until he got to a vantage point where he could once again surveil al-Haq as he waited at the bus stop. Hatif turned on the vehicle’s windshield wipers and set them on intermittent. Al-Haq appeared nervous, pacing through the sun shower as he waited by the bus stop. Every few minutes, al-Haq would put his hand against his pants pocket, almost as if he expected the envelope would no longer have been there. Once the bus came and al-Haq had boarded, Hatif drove off and waited in front of al-Haq’s home; wanting to make sure that he went straight home without contacting anyone first.

Hatif began to reflect on how he had gotten to this point. Hatif had been surprised that Sheykh Hajjar had selected him to be the coordinator for the attacks; it was a huge compliment. Of course, he was also fairly certain that Murad Zein was not so happy. Originally, Zein had been assigned as the coordinator while Hatif was to be the suicide bomber for O’Hare International airport. The rumor had been that Sheykh Hajjar had questioned Zein’s loyalty and decided to make the switch.

Small details like those didn’t matter, however, to Hatif. He had one objective and one objective only—to see that the bombings went off without any issue. To be part of the Jihad was an honor—to be coordinating and supervising the attacks was nothing short of a dream come true for him. His was a deep hatred for America and her people. He hated everything about them, from their righteous attitudes, down to their customs and holidays. This holiday season would be one they would be sure to remember, Hatif assured himself. He couldn’t wait for Thanksgiving.

Once Hatif saw al-Haq walking up the block, he was content that al-Haq had come directly home. He watched as the man took out his keys and entered his living quarters, removing the envelope from his pocket as he did. Satisfied, Hatif pulled out of his parking spot and headed for the Van Wyck Expressway. He glanced back in the rear view mirror at the dark blue Chevy Impala parked in front of al-Haq’s residence.

*

Nazeem al-Haq’s heart raced as he walked as quickly as his legs would carry him to his apartment. He withdrew his house keys and the envelope simultaneously. Once inside, he closed the door behind him and tore open the envelope before even sitting at the kitchen table. He dumped the contents onto the table. The first thing which caught his attention was the cash—there was hundreds, if not thousands of dollars, all in twenty dollar bills. There were also numerous pieces of paper to sort through and a set of Chevrolet car keys.

Al-Haq set the car keys and the cash aside and looked through the papers. There was a vehicle registration and insurance card registered in his name for a 2009 Chevrolet Impala. The next piece of paper he read appeared to be a shopping list. Some of the items on the list were a sewing machine, ball bearings, assorted nails, a cell phone, fabric, and wire.

A chill ran down his spine; he knew that he’d been correct. These were many of the same items he’d used so many times back in the Al-Qaeda training camp when he had first learned how to make a suicide vest. He read further. Each item was to be purchased on different days and in different locations; all were to be purchased with cash.

The next piece of paper had a list of three email addresses with no names attached. The instructions were to use them only in the case of an emergency, and should the need arise to send an email, to keep all messages to a minimum. Al-Haq was a bit surprised to see that he actually recognized one of the email addresses. It was that of his close friend, Murad Zein. Al-Haq took comfort in knowing that whatever the plot was, his dear friend would also be a part of it.

The last piece of paper was an address in Brooklyn. Underneath the address was tomorrow’s date along with a time. Al-Haq’s heart beat quickened. He knew whatever the plot was, he would likely find out tomorrow.

He took a deep soothing breath and closed his eyes. When they opened, he sought out the pictures hanging on his wall over his mattress. It was the picture of NYPD Lieutenant James Keegan and his son Timothy which he’d cut out of a newspaper a couple of months back. He hadn’t forgotten about the revenge which he sought on the Keegan family and still vowed to make good on it, but right now he had a new focus. He had been called upon by Allah to once again take part in the Jihad.

Al-Haq gave another quick glance at the newspaper article before retrieving his prayer mat from the top shelf of his closet. He sought out the niche in the top of the red and tan mattress and positioned it in a south easterly direction; assuring the niche was pointed towards Mecca. Al-Haq removed his shoes and socks and set the mat down next to his mattress. He knelt on the two and a half by four foot mat, closed his eyes and began to pray…but his thoughts were scattered. He did his best to concentrate on his prayers, but his mind kept wondering back to the twenty years he’d spent in prison and to the man who’d put him there…Lieutenant James Keegan.

He thought of his son—his only son. The one he had never even met because of James Keegan. It wasn’t fair that Keegan had the opportunity to know his children when Keegan had stripped al-Haq of the same exact opportunity. Of course, the drone strike which had killed al-Haq’s son could not be blamed on Keegan, but his imprisonment could. The fury built up inside Nazeem al-Haq. He had lost focus on his prayers. The only thing he truly wanted at this very second was to see James Keegan’s son dead as well. He was fully aware that his thoughts had become consumed by Keegan as well as his need for revenge. He was also aware that he needed to remain focused to serve Allah as best that he could.

Al-Haq stood up and paced the floors. He needed to refocus. He couldn’t let his brothers down again. He’d have to take care of Keegan once he was done with whatever Sheykh Hajjar needed him to do. After all, making a suicide vest didn’t mean that he would be the one to necessarily wear and detonate it. Al-Haq felt his training in making the vests would probably be best served by him continuing to make them for his fellow Jihadists for years to come.

He walked back over to the kitchen table and looked at the list. There was no reason the delay what needed to be done. He took twenty dollars from the pile and decided to take a bus to the Home Depot store on Rockaway Boulevard. The keys on the table then jumped out at him. He picked them up, along with the paperwork for the car, and headed for the door.

Once outside, he held the remote out to the street and depressed the button. A navy blue, 2009 Chevrolet Impala parked in front chirped; the door locks opened. Al-Haq had goose bumps as he walked to the car. While he knew that the car was to aid in his mission and in no means a reward for him, nonetheless, he was happy to have it. No more walking to the bus stop in all sorts of inclement weather, and it also meant it would now only take him a few minutes to get back and forth from his job.

He opened the door, got inside, and turned the key. After briefly searching the car to see if there was anything else for him to find, he put the car in drive and headed to the store to pick up the first of many items on his shopping list. It was a good day and it had been a long time coming.

His happiness was short lived however, as Lieutenant James Keegan once again marched into his head. He thought back to the day in which the lieutenant had placed handcuffs on him well over twenty years ago—and then to the day that he sat alone in his prison cell and learned of the murder of his only son. He could feel the rage and hatred once again take over his emotions.

Timothy Keegan needs to pay for the actions of his father. That is truly the only way justice can be served. Please Allah guide me in finding justice as well as striking a blow on the American people.

Al-Haq began to calm down as he prayed. He turned off the Van Wyck Service Road onto Rockaway Boulevard. He thought about things a bit more clinically and with less emotion. Still, there was one thing that he could be sure of; revenge would be his if it was the last thing he ever did. That was a promise that he made to himself.