I opened the door and we entered a small interrogation room. Sitting at a table was Fadi Aswad, dressed in jeans, running shoes, and a green sweatshirt. He was puffing on a cigarette, the ashtray was overflowing, and the room was thick with smoke. This is a federally correct no-smoking building, of course, but if you're a suspect or a witness to a major crime, you may smoke.
There was another ATTF/NYPD guy in the room, watching the witness for signs that he might kill himself more quickly than by smoking, and making sure he didn't stroll away, down the elevator and out, as happened once.
Fadi stood as soon as he saw Gabriel Haytham, and I liked that. I have to get my witnesses and suspects to stand when I enter a room.
Anyway, the ATTF guy left, and Gabriel introduced me to my star witness. "Fadi, this is Colonel John."
Jesus. I must have done really well on the sergeants' exam.
Fadi sort of bowed his head, but said nothing.
I invited us all to sit, and we sat. I put my briefcase on the table so Fadi could see it. Third World types equate briefcases with power, for some reason.
Fadi was a voluntary witness, and thus had to be treated well. His nose appeared unbroken and there were no visible contusions on his face. Just kidding. But I knew that Gabe could be rough at times.
Gabe took Fadi's cigarette pack and offered me one. I noticed that the cigarettes were Camels, which I found funny for some reason. You know-camels, Arabs. Anyway, I took a cigarette and so did Gabe. We lit up with Fadi's lighter, but I didn't inhale. Honest. I did not inhale.
There was a tape recorder on the table, and Gabe hit the button, then said to Fadi, "Tell the Colonel what you told me.
Fadi looked anxious to please, but he also looked scared shitless. I mean, you almost never get an Arab walk-in unless they're trying to fuck someone else, or if there's a reward to be had, or if they were agents provocateurs, to use a French and CIA term. In any case, the guy who he was telling us about, Gamal Jabbar, was dead, so part of this guy's story checked out already, though he didn't know it yet.
Anyway, Fadi's English was okay, but he lost me a few times. Now and then, he'd slip into Arabic, then turn to Gabe, who translated.
Finally, he finished his story and chain-lit another cigarette.
We sat there for a full minute, and I let him sweat a little. I mean, he really was sweating.
I leaned toward him and asked slowly, "Why are you telling us this?"
He took a deep breath and sucked about half the smoke in the room into his lungs. He replied, "I am worried about my sister's husband."
"Has Gamal ever disappeared before?"
"No. He is not that type."
I continued the interrogation, alternating hard and soft questions.
I tend to be blunt during interrogations. It saves time and keeps the witness or suspect off-balance. But I knew from my brief training and experience with Mideast types that they are masters at beating around the bush, talking in circumlocution, answering a question with a question, engaging in seemingly endless theoretical discussions, and so forth. Maybe that's why the police in some of their countries beat the shit out of them. But I played the game, and we had a nice, non-productive half hour of chitchat, both of us wondering what in the world could have happened to Gamal Jabbar.
Gabe seemed to appreciate my cultural sensitivity, but even he was getting a little impatient.
The bottom line here was that we had a lead, a break, really. You always know that something is going to pop up, but you're always surprised when it actually does.
I strongly suspected that Gamal Jabbar picked up Asad Khalil at JFK, took him to the Park and Ride at Perth Amboy, New Jersey, then got a slug in his back for his trouble. My main questions were: Where did Khalil go next, and how did he get there?
I said to Fadi Aswad, "Are you certain that Gamal didn't say to you that he was picking up a fellow Libyan?"
"Well, sir, he did not say that. But it is possible. I say this because I do not think my brother-in-law would accept such a special fare from, let us say, a Palestinian, or an Iraqi. My brother-in-law, sir, was a Libyan patriot, but he was not much involved in the politics of other countries who share our faith in Allah-may peace be unto him. So, sir, if you are asking me if his special passenger was someone other than a Libyan, or if in fact he was a Libyan, in either case, I could not be certain, but then I must ask myself, Why would he go to such lengths to accommodate a man who was not a Libyan? Do you see my point, sir?"
Holy shit. My head was spinning, and my eyes were rolling. I couldn't even remember the fucking question.
I looked at my watch. I could still catch the flight, but why should I?
I asked Fadi, "And Gamal did not say where his destination was to be?"
"No, sir."
I was a little thrown off by the short-form answer. I asked, "He didn't mention Newark Airport?"
"No, sir, he did not."
I leaned toward Fadi and said, "Look, you didn't contact the ATTF to report a missing brother-in-law. You obviously know who we are and what we do and this isn't family court, my friend. Capisce?"
"Sir?"
"Here's a direct question, and I want a one-word answer. Do you think your brother-in-law's disappearance has anything to do with what happened with the Trans-Continental flight at Kennedy Airport Saturday? Yes or no?"
"Well, sir, I have been thinking about this possibility-"
"Yes or no?"
He lowered his eyes and said, "Yes."
"You understand that your brother-in-law, your sister's husband, may have met with a misfortune?"
He nodded.
"You know that he thought he might be killed?"
"Yes."
"Is it possible he left any other clue-any other-" I looked at Gabe, who asked the question in Arabic.
Fadi replied in Arabic, and Gabe translated, "Gamal said to Fadi that Fadi should look after his family if something happened to him. Gamal said to Fadi that he had no choice but to take this special fare, and that Allah in his mercy would see him safely home."
No one spoke for a while. I could see that Fadi was visibly upset.
I used the time to think about this. In one way, we had nothing of any immediate use. We just had Khalil's movements from JFK to Perth Amboy, if indeed it was Khalil who was in Gamal's taxi. And if it was, all we knew for sure was that Khalil had probably murdered Gamal and then left Gamal's taxi and disappeared. But where did he disappear to? To Newark Airport? How did he get there? Another taxi? Or was there an accomplice with a private car waiting for him at the Park and Ride? Or maybe a rental car? And which direction did he go? In any case, he'd slipped through the net and was no longer in the New York metro area.
I looked at Fadi Aswad and asked him, "Does anyone know you contacted us?"
He shook his head.
"Not even your wife?"
He looked at me like I was nuts. He said, "I do not speak to my wife of such things. Why would you tell a woman or a child of such things?"
"Good point." I stood. "Okay, Fadi, you did the right thing by coming to us. Uncle Sam loves you. Go back to work and act like nothing has happened. Okay?"
He nodded.
'Also, I've got some bad news for you-your brother-in-law has been murdered."
He stood and tried to speak, then looked at Gabe, who spoke to him in Arabic. Fadi slumped into his chair and buried his face in his hands.
I said to Gabe, "Tell him not to say anything when the homicide guys come around. Give him your card and tell him to show that to the detectives and have them call ATTF."
Gabe nodded and spoke to Fadi in Arabic, then gave him his card.
It occurred to me that I once had been a homicide cop, but here I was telling a witness not to talk to NYPD Homicide and to call the Feds instead. The transformation was nearly complete. Scary.
I took my briefcase, Gabe and I left the room, and the ATTF guy went in. Fadi's statement would be reduced to writing, and he would sign it before he left.