Bad Faith
( Butch Karp and Marlene Ciampi - 24 )
Robert K. Tanenbaum
Robert K. Tanenbaum
Bad Faith
PROLOGUE
The handsome young New York Fire Department paramedic jumped from the back of the ambulance with his gear bag and looked up at the old four-story walk-up on the Upper West Side. Once a haven for junkies, including the infamous Needle Park, much of the neighborhood had been gentrified and cleaned up. However, the West 88th Street building, located between Amsterdam and Columbus Avenues, had fallen into disrepair. The steps leading up to the building’s entrance, like the sidewalks along the narrow, tree-lined street, were cracked and uneven; a rusted fire escape climbed the faded red bricks of the facade; what paint remained around the windows was peeling away.
There was certainly nothing charming about the bitter November evening air, nor the three large white men standing in front of the stoop who moved to block the paramedic. “False alarm,” said the man on the left, the words coming out from his bearded lips in puffs of condensation that hung briefly in the chill breeze before dissipating.
“Sorry, but we got a 911 call about a child in medical distress, and I have to check it out,” the paramedic replied. He tried to step past, but the man in the middle-the tallest of the three and ruggedly handsome, with long wavy gray hair swept back from his tan face-placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder and stopped him.
“Sorry, brother, but as Brother Frank just told you, your services are not needed here,” the man said, fixing the paramedic with his intense blue eyes. He was smiling wide, his big white teeth flashing in the dusk, but there was nothing friendly about his demeanor.
The paramedic scowled and brushed the larger man’s hand off of his shoulder. “I’m not your, brother, mac, so keep your mitts to yourself.”
“What’s the problem, Raskov?”
The paramedic, Justin Raskov, turned at the sound of his partner’s voice. “Yo, Bails, these jokers won’t let me in the building,” he replied to the other paramedic coming up behind him.
“Well, it ain’t up to them,” Donald “Bails” Bailey Sr. growled as he moved ahead of his partner to glare at the three big men confronting them. “We got an emergency call for this address and we legally have to check it out. And you, my friend,” he added, thrusting his jaw at his opponent’s face, “are breaking the law, and I’m maybe two seconds from siccing New York’s finest on your ass.”
In his experience, Raskov was used to seeing even the most recalcitrant people move out of the way when stared down by his pugnacious partner, a muscular middle-aged black man who’d been a staff sergeant in the army and still carried himself like one. But the three other men closed ranks, two behind the third, who was obviously the leader and now raised his hand palm-outward and thundered, “‘YOU SHALL NOT PASS THROUGH, LEST I COME OUT WITH THE SWORD AGAINST YOU!’”
At the unexpected outburst, Raskov took a step back but Bailey stood his ground and rolled his eyes. “Frickin’ great,” he sighed. “We got us a Bible thumper. Numbers 20:18, right? Yeah, I know the Good Book, too, and I’ll take that as a threat.” He looked back at the ambulance, whose driver had his head out of the window and was listening to the exchange. “Hey, Dougy, call the cops and tell them we got three morons preventing us from responding to a 911 medical emergency, and one of them just said he was going to attack us with a sword.”
When he finished, Bailey looked back at the three men and tilted his head with a slight smile on his face. “Tell you what, asshole. If there’s somebody in that building who needs our help and doesn’t get it on time because of your cute little antics, it’ll be on your head.”
Disconcertingly, the big man smiled back. “The true believers of this household are under the protection of the Lord.”
“Yeah, we’ll see how that works when the cops show up,” Raskov said.
As if on cue, a patrol car swung around the corner and pulled over to the curb behind the ambulance. Two officers got out and hurried up to the knot of men. “What seems to be the problem here?” the older officer asked.
“Hey, Sergeant Sadler, how ya doin’?” Raskov said to the cop. “We got a 911 call that a child has a medical emergency in apartment 3C. But these jokers won’t let us check it out.”
Sadler nodded at the paramedics. “Evening, Justin, Don,” he said before frowning and turning to the three men on the stoop. “One of you want to explain?” he asked.
The man who’d shouted the biblical verse stepped forward. “I am the Reverend C. G. Westlund and God’s emissary at the End of Days Reformation Church of Jesus Christ Resurrected. I speak for the family in apartment 3C. The call was in error and any intervention by these gentlemen would be against the family’s religious beliefs.”
“Well … reverend … is it true there’s a sick kid in there?” the sergeant asked, his voice indicating that his patience was not going to last long.
“The child’s infirmities of the body are being healed by the power of prayer,” Westlund answered. “God’s will and compassion are the only medicine the child needs.”
“Then with all due respect … get your ass out of the way, and let the paramedics do their job,” Sadler barked. “That or you, me, and your pals here are all going to take a little ride down to the precinct house, where I’ll toss your butts in the pokey for obstructing these fine officers of the NYFD in the performance of their lawful duties.”
Westlund turned his head slightly to his right, and the man he’d identified earlier as “Brother Frank” suddenly rushed forward with a growl as though to attack the sergeant. But Trent Sadler, a grizzled old veteran who’d been dealing with street thugs and violent criminals for more than twenty-five years, was ready. He stepped neatly to the side and in one swift motion pulled a Taser stun device from the holster on his belt and applied it to the neck of the would-be assailant.
Brother Frank yelped and fell to the sidewalk in a twitching heap. Keeping his eyes on the other two, Taser at the ready, the sergeant spoke to his partner. “O’Leary, handcuff this quivering mass of idiot and hand him over to the backup when they get here,” he said just as another patrol car wheeled around the corner with its lights flashing. “Speak of the devil. Now, reverend, I didn’t like the little nod to your ‘brother’ here, so I wouldn’t mind lighting you up, too. Having said that, you need to answer this question: Do you want to find out what a Manhattan sidewalk tastes like, or will you get the hell out of my way?”
The smile disappeared from Westlund’s face and he glared at the police sergeant. But he then moved aside, followed by his man. “‘The god of this age has blinded the minds of unbelievers, so that they cannot see the light of the gospel of the glory of Christ, who is the image of God,’” the preacher warned them.
“What?” Sergeant Sadler replied.
“It’s Second Corinthians 4:4,” Bailey said. “The guy is a walking Bible quote. Loony tunes if you ask me.”
“Yeah, well, I like a good sermon on Sunday,” Sadler replied. “But not when it’s wasting our time and there’s a kid who needs help. Follow me; I’ll make sure no one gets in the way. O’Leary, bring up the rear as soon as you hand Brother Frank over to the backup … and tell them to keep the good reverend out of the building, otherwise he and his other goon are free to go.”
With that the sergeant entered the building with the two paramedics hustling along behind him. Reaching apartment 3C, he pounded on the door. “Police, open up!”
An older woman with frizzled hair, poorly dyed to a sort of burnt orange, answered the door. “Are you believers?” she asked.
“Yeah, sure,” Sadler replied. “We believe there’s a sick child on the premises, and t
hese two men need to see him.”
The woman’s eyes widened and she tried to close the door. “No doctors! Blasphemers!” she shrieked. “You can’t come in!”
“Like hell we can’t,” the police sergeant replied, and pushed the door open with his shoulder, entering the apartment with the two paramedics as the woman continued to protest.
The apartment was enveloped in shadow; the shades were drawn over the windows, and no electric lights were turned on. The only illumination was from dozens of candles that had been lit and placed around the small living room and tiny kitchen. But even in the half-light, the police officer and paramedics could see that the only adornment on the walls were portraits of Jesus and of the Reverend Westlund.
Several people were sitting on a couch and on a few chairs pulled into a circle in the living room. They’d appeared to be praying when the men entered but had stopped and now only stared up at the intruders.
“We’re looking for a sick child,” Sadler announced. No one answered. “Who called 911?” Again there was no answer. Instead, the group returned to their prayers, their voices droning on.
“Come on,” the sergeant said to Razkov and Bailey. He led the way down a hallway to a back bedroom in which more than a dozen adults and several children were crowded around a bed praying. A young boy lay on the bed, nude except for a pair of underwear, his skin nearly white except for the dark circles below his closed eyes. His thin chest rose and fell slightly and he groaned once.
The paramedics pushed through the crowd and checked the boy’s vital signs. “He’s comatose,” Raskov said, looking up at the police sergeant. “His pulse is weak and breathing shallow, we need to transport him to the hospital now!”
“You can’t,” one of the women in the prayer circle said. “My name is Nonie Ellis and I’m Micah’s mother. My son will be cured through God’s will; Western medicine is the false hope of Satan. We will heal him with prayer!”
“He hasn’t got a prayer if we don’t move him now,” Bailey replied.
“I want you to leave,” Ellis demanded. “You have no right to force us to accept your ways.”
“And I’m ordering you to stand back,” Sadler told her. “In fact, if anyone in this room delays us one more second, I’ll have the whole lot of you hauled down to the Tombs-and if you want to meet devil worshippers, that would be the place to spend the night.”
A worried-looking man walked over and stood behind Ellis. “Nonie, honey, I think we have to let them take him,” he said as he tried to put his arms around her. She shrugged him off but made no more attempts to stop the men and instead ran from the room.
Bailey picked the boy up in his arms. “No time for a stretcher,” the paramedic said, “this kid’s dying.”
The sergeant looked at the man who’d tried to console the boy’s mother. “And you are?”
“David Ellis,” the young man replied. “I’m Micah’s father. Please help him if you can.”
This time the paramedics led the way out of the apartment and down the stairs to the ambulance. Waiting on the sidewalk, having been joined by the people who’d been in the living room, the Reverend Westlund yelled when he saw Bailey emerge with the child. “There they are! The new centurions! No different than the Roman soldiers who helped the Jews murder Christ!”
“Blasphemers!” someone shouted.
“Satan worshippers!” yelled another.
“Stop them!” cried a third.
The crowd of Westlund followers started to surge toward the ambulance even as Bailey laid the boy on a gurney to be loaded into the back. But before they could reach the paramedics, Sadler and the other three officers on the scene had placed themselves in the way.
“Hold it right there!” the sergeant yelled, his booming voice rising above all the others. “Back off, or we will arrest each and every one of you!”
The crowd hesitated. But then from the rear Westlund cried out, “Don’t be afraid, my brothers and sisters! ‘Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake; for theirs is the kingdom of heaven!’ This is a direct affront to the will of God!”
Again the crowd, which had been augmented with those who’d been praying in the boy’s bedroom, started to move forward. The sergeant pressed the button to the radio transmitter on his shoulder. “Dispatch, we have a situation and are in urgent need of backup,” he said even as he pulled the Taser from its holster again. He and his men prepared to defend the paramedics.
“Stop this!” a voice suddenly shouted. It belonged to David Ellis, who inserted himself between the crowd and the police. “Micah is my son, and I don’t want anyone else hurt,” he said to the angry mob. “Please, we appreciate your prayers and your concern. But just go home now. Please.”
The crowd stopped and seemed unsure of what to do. A few of them yelled but no one moved to interfere with the police and medics.
Sadler turned to Ellis. “Thanks, son, that could have got ugly,” he said. “Now, do you and your wife want to ride in the ambulance with your son?”
The young man turned to find his wife and saw her standing next to Westlund, who had his arm around her shoulders as she sobbed. “Honey, do you want to go with Micah?” he asked.
His wife stopped crying long enough to glare at him. “I will not sin! Micah was in the hands of the Lord and now you’re taking him away.”
Westlund pointed his finger at David Ellis. “Whoever removes the boy from his fellow believers is responsible for his passing from the world and will face the wrath of God.”
The father’s shoulders sagged and he looked back at Sadler. “I’d like to go, thank you,” he said.
The sergeant directed him to the back of the ambulance. “Then let’s hurry, son, your boy needs more than prayers right now.”
David Ellis climbed in and sat next to his son, his hand caressing the boy’s ashen face. “Please, God, take care of Micah,” he whispered, and began to cry.
1
Four Months Later
The two men tried to look as calm and nonthreatening as possible as they waited in line for the ferry that carried tourists to Ellis Island and then onto Liberty Island, where the Statue of Liberty stood bathed in the morning sunlight. They had arrived at Battery Park early that Monday to make sure that they would be on the first boat to the islands.
Both men were Muslim, one an American-born twenty-one-year-old of Pakistani descent. The other was a twenty-five-year-old native of Afghanistan who’d come to the United States two years earlier on a student visa. According to plan, the Afghani attended classes at New York University, but acting like a student was only a ruse. His attendance had been spotty at best, and when a month ago he’d begun preparing with other members of the team for the Ellis Island event, he stopped attending school altogether.
As the student and his partner stood in line, they chatted idly about the late-March weather, relatives, and schoolwork while occasionally-to reinforce the image of themselves as innocent sightseers-smiling at their fellow passengers and chuckling at the antics of children, all of whom would be dead by noon. God willing, Aman Ghilzai thought as he bent over to pick up a stuffed animal dropped by a toddler who was being held in the arms of his mother.
“Thank you so much,” the doomed woman said to him.
“You are very welcome, a beautiful child,” he replied.
A native of Afghanistan, Ghilzai had been recruited by the Taliban as a teenager living in the tribal areas of Pakistan and then, when he complained that their focus on Afghanistan was too narrow, by al-Qaeda. Several other members of the team were also from abroad, places like Yemen and Somalia. They, too, had entered the land of the Great Satan at various times over the past several years to await orders that would carry them to martyrdom. The remaining members were Americans brought into the fold by the Chechen mujahideen Ajmaani, a beautiful and mysterious blond woman who’d become a legend even in al-Qaeda due to her savage attacks on the infidels.
Ghilzai sighed. He hoped a
t least one of the virgins who would be attending to him when he reached paradise would look like Ajmaani. A year or so prior to meeting her there’d been rumors that she’d been killed or captured by the Americans, but then she’d reappeared a month ago carrying coded instructions from a trusted al-Qaeda courier telling Ghilzai and the others to cooperate with her. He’d been impressed with her plan and her cold-blooded viciousness; she had no regard for the lives of Americans, whether they were adults or children.
It did not occur to him that she also had no regard for the lives of his team, or that of any Muslim tourist who might happen to be killed as well. He wouldn’t have cared either way. His only complaint was with her reliance on the American-born jihadists she assigned to the team, such as his fellow sightseer, Hasim Akhund. Although these men were enthusiastic about taking part in the attack, they liked to boast to each other-like men who had to talk in order to keep their courage up-and pose for photographs with their weapons. They all seemed to have some nebulous complaints about their treatment in the United States, such as not being able to get good jobs, which they blamed on racism and anti-Muslim prejudices; or that they didn’t have girlfriends; or that they were just what Americans called “losers” with nothing else to do.
They said all the right things and prayed fervently in the days leading up to that morning, but Ghilzai thought their reasons for volunteering for jihad were insignificant or petty, rather than to strike a blow for Allah and repressed Muslims all over the world. He didn’t trust them; he worried that their boasting would get beyond the group, and he worried they wouldn’t come through when it mattered. But he was not in charge, and he could only hope that the other foreign-born jihadists, who like him had fought the infidels overseas, would be enough if something went wrong.
So far, everything seemed to be going right. Ghilzai had seen Ajmaani that morning as he’d crossed State Street to Battery Park. As prearranged, she’d been haggling with one of the Somali sidewalk vendors who sold knockoff purses to tourists. When she spotted him, she held up two purses, the sign that he was to proceed with the plan. As he and Akhund walked toward Castle Clinton National Monument to buy tickets and get in line for the ferries, he placed a quick call from his cell phone. “Allahu akbar,” he said quietly, and then hung up.
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