“Oh, I didn’t know anyone was out here. Is that you, Brooke?”
Brooke turned and put on her Doris Day smile. “Why, yes it is Mrs. Ratner, and I was just looking forward to a hot bath and a good night’s sleep.”
“Went to a dance tonight? Ended early did it?”
“No, it was a little function after work, after a long day’s work . . .”
“Well, it’s good I bumped into you.”
“Yes . . . bumped,” Brooke said, a slight smile emerging on her face.
“Because I have a message from that nice British fellow that was here.”
“Who was here?”
“A Mister Nigel?”
“Nigel? What did he want?”
She patted her housecoat. “Now where was it . . . He had me write it down . . . Oh, here it is . . . Please meet me at Tenth Avenue and Thirty-Seventh Street as soon as you get this. I found something about our friend, Prescott. But you have to see this, before anyone else . . .” She dropped her hands in a frustrated manner. “You know, now that I read it out loud, it isn’t all that damn romantic, is it?”
“No, no, it wouldn’t be . . . thank you.” Brooke slipped on the dreaded pumps and went out to get a cab.
.G.
Mrs. Ratner watched her get into the cab through the sidelight. “Dressed like that, she’ll definitely get to boff him.” She turned to go into her apartment but not before putting her foot on the first step and pressing down to hear the creak. Smiling, she shut and locked, locked, locked, locked, and locked her door.
Chapter 21
A Little English on It
The northwest corner of Thirty-Seventh and Tenth was a construction site. The other corners were dark buildings with no lights burning past 6:00 p.m. The cabdriver looked out at the site and said, “This don’t look like no party here, miss.”
Brooke ignored him, threw down a twenty and got out.
“Geez, classy broad like dat, never woulda figured her for a hooka,” the driver said out loud in the empty cab as he reset the meter and drove off.
.G.
There was no sign of Nigel on the street. Brooke immediately assessed the situation. The chain link fence to the construction site was unlocked and open with no security guard in sight. She wobbled as she stepped off of the uneven plywood onto the tamped-down dirt in her totally-wrong-for-this-terrain pumps.
She only went in a little way. She strained to see into the shadows. She listened for any sounds . . . of anyone. She scanned the ground for recent footprints and then all the shadows and places someone might hide. The job site looked dead. She let out a relieved breath and turned to go. Then she thought she heard something . . . It sounded like a moan. She pulled her gun from her purse, shook off the leg holster and it hit the wheel-rutted dirt that her three-inch heels were now sinking into. Taking a chance, she called out in a loud whisper, “Nigel? Is that you? Where are you?”
There it was again . . . Definitely a moan or groan. Leading with her Glock, she moved her head trying to see if one of the shadows moved less than the background. At night, with no depth perception, things that were closer moved differently than things farther away when you moved your head from side to side.
At the end of a shanty was an open area. She would be exposed. She strained to see any sign of . . . There it was again. She slipped off her shoes, but looked down and saw in the dim light bent nails, screws, and shards of wood. She held her breath and held the shoes against the edge of the shanty and, with the butt of her gun, hit the heels until they snapped off. With a sigh a tragedy like that brings to a woman, she slipped the mutilated pumps back on. Brooke now walked funny but she had protection against tetanus. She swept the area through her gun site. Seeing no one, she went for it. Stepping like a gazelle, trying not to wrench her feet, she made it to the dark area across the open expanse. The moan was louder now. She took out her cell phone and, shielding the light from going anywhere else, scanned the ground before her. Feet, a man’s feet. She panned the light up. Nigel. His face was beaten and a noose was around his neck. It was tied off just high enough so that every time he relaxed he choked himself. “Nigel!”
She got down on her knees and began to undo the noose until she could lift it off his head.
He was spitting blood as he choked on the words. “I found . . . the priest . . . Get out . . . Get out of here . . . He’s not . . .”
She bent over a little lower to relieve the pressure on the knot. The timing saved her life; otherwise the first shot would have hit her in the head, but instead it got her on the top of her shoulder. She immediately rolled to her right in searing pain. The next shot smacked into Nigel’s head with a wallop that banged his head back against the corrugated steel wall.
“Nigel! No . . .” she screamed.
Brooke’s breathing was now rapid. Her shoulder was burning but she knew it wasn’t a bad wound because it wasn’t numb like the last time she’d gotten shot. She rolled behind a fifty-five-gallon steel drum. She glanced back over to Nigel with sorrow but the next shot hit the drum and made a contorted whine, snapping her out of it.
From the sound of the shot, she was able to locate the general direction that it came from. She lifted her gun over the edge of the barrel and fired. She then immediately looked over the ridge and saw a muzzle flash. She ducked as the bullet snapped over her head and pinged off the corrugated metal wall behind her. She blurted out, “I love you, Mush.” Then took a deep breath and tried to steady herself and let her training and discipline take over.
The shooter was behind a dumpster. There were four or five of the containers in one spot. She looked back and saw Nigel slumped over. She dragged his body over behind the drum by his legs. She took out her cell phone and put the camera in video mode. She rested it on the rim of the steel barrel and pointed it in the general direction of the dumpsters. She said, “Sorry Nigel,” and with her foot pushed his lifeless body to the other side of the drum.
Four shots rang out, three hitting their mark, dimpling Nigel’s body with each perforation.
She stopped the video and replayed it. The shots came from behind the second dumpster, the one with two hinged tops, side by side—the flash came from the narrow space between the open lids and the top of the container. The shooter was crouching behind there and had a slot to shoot through, which afforded him maximum protection from her return fire.
She had to think of something. Then a strategy came to mind; maybe the shooter would think that Nigel’s body was hers. In the dark, he might not be able to tell the difference. Assuming he doesn’t have night vision, she thought. She listened to determine whether he was coming over to confirm the kill.
She waited but there was no sound, no movement. She looked at the video again. He was well protected; and then she saw a way.
With her shoulder screaming in pain, she lifted her clutch over the top of the barrel while she leaned over to the right side.
A shot rang out and the bullet went right through the bag. She aimed at the dumpster at a bit of an angle, right behind and to the left of the shooter. She fired three shots in rapid succession into the front of it, and heard the ping of the ricochets and then a moan. She was up and running, emptying her gun as she did. One of the last shots got the shooter right in his neck as he made one last attempt, in agony, to shoot at her.
She kicked away the gun as she grabbed her shoulder. She looked down at the shooter. In the dim light she saw the flow of blood gushing from his neck lessen with death. With her foot, she rolled him over to his side. There, puncturing the back of his shirt, was a small, bloody hole. Two . . . Three. She looked at the dumpster right behind and to the side of the shooter’s position. There was a shiny dent where her hollow-point jacketed, 40-caliber bullet had hit and shattered into at least three fragments from the looks of it, puncturing his lung and possibly his kidney. “Thanks, Harley,” she sai
d, looking up to heaven and to her brother who’d died in the first Gulf War. He’d taught her to play eight ball and how to play the angles by putting a little “English” on the ball.
With her back against the other dumpster she slid down onto the muddy dirt, not caring about her dress. She shuddered and then lifted her head and closed her eyes. She thought of Hawaii, coaching the girls and making dinner for Mush out on the barbeque in the back of their captain’s quarters by the palm trees. She had her hand on her shoulder; it was sticky wet with her blood. She looked over to where Nigel’s body was sprawled out; it made her mouth curl into a frown as she dry weeped—crying without tears. She got a hold of her emotions long enough to take out her phone and dial the FBI New York field office—she knew the number. “This is former assistant director in charge of the New York office, Burrell, on temporary assignment to FinCEN, just involved in a shooting at Tenth and Thirty-Seventh . . . a construction site, two dead on the scene—down by gunshot and I, I need an ambulance. This is a national security level-one priority. Silent approach, no local response, federal jurisdiction only. Authorization, director level 07206. Be advised I am in plain clothes. Alert JTTF for NYPD protocols . . .” She stopped talking as she noticed something. She stood and rolled the shooter over onto his back again to get a better look at his face. It was the kid! The one who was fighting with the priest.
What did Nigel say? What did he say? She couldn’t remember.
.G.
Harrelson met George at the emergency room. They could see Brooke sitting up in the bed. Owing to the superficial nature of her wound and the need for containment, the veterans hospital across town was decided on because the FBI could control the government staff and access. Nigel’s body and that of the dead shooter were also brought there for initial processing. In the morning, the locals would be brought in and the rules of containment followed.
“Is she crying?” George said.
“Hell, she just lost a member of her team, plus the emotions that must have built up during the shootout. I guess it all needs a way to escape.”
“I guess here is as good a place as any,” George said with a sigh. “Besides, from the looks of it, she got the drop on a guy who had the tactical advantage in an ambush.”
“The legend continues . . .” Harrelson said of his former boss and Special Agent in Charge of the New York office of the FBI.
.G.
Later, Brooke sat in the emergency room waiting for the mild painkiller to kick in. She turned her head to see the two butterfly stitches in her shoulder as the nurse checked on the seepage. “I hope the scar won’t be too ugly for strapless gowns,” she said to the nurse.
George and Harrelson approached, cutting off the nurse’s response,
“You okay?” George said.
“I can’t believe I lost Nigel. He was a very special man, George, with a lot to contribute. Gone too soon.” The catch in her throat spoke volumes as to what a loss it was to her.
They waited a respectful amount of time before continuing. “Was he . . . was he on assignment for you?” Harrelson asked.
“No, he was following his own little crusade. Somehow, it got him killed.” Brooke choked up. “They used him as bait to draw me out.” She swallowed hard.
She steeled herself, grabbed a tissue and dabbed at her eyes and wiped her nose. “Anything on the shooter?”
“Not yet. His prints are not in the system; expanding to Interpol and ICC,” Harrelson said.
“I saw him last night.”
“Who? The shooter?” George asked.
“Yes, he was in a fight with a priest outside my apartment door.”
George stayed silent as the pieces started to come together for Brooke.
“. . . and Nigel showed up. The priest knew his name.” She continued reconstructing the events. “I remember now. Right before he died, Nigel said he’d found the priest. He was trying to tell me to run.”
“So you think a priest is involved?” Harrelson handed over her service weapon and holster. Somebody had cleaned off the dirt from the construction site.
“Father . . . Father . . . Paul! Maybe the shooter got Nigel’s name from him . . . Oh God, Harrelson, check with NYPD. See if there’s a dead priest on their sheets,” Brooke said.
.G.
Brooke was released from the hospital at 3:00 a.m. Harrelson drove her back to her apartment. “You sure you don’t want to stay in a hotel tonight?”
“No, I’m good. Besides, all my stuff is here and I am supposed to be in court in the morning. Thanks for the lift. Get some sleep.”
“Sure thing.”
Brooke got out and walked up the steps in the hospital slippers she’d had to borrow.
.G.
7 days until the attack
She silenced her cell phone for the tenth time since she’d gotten to the office . . . late. The pain meds and the stress teamed up to make her sleep right through three alarms and a ringing cell.
Brooke had the pictures of the ten visa violators blown up and pinned to a wall in her office. A few days earlier, she had similar sets of photos disseminated to all law enforcement agencies, airports, rail and bus stations, as well as universities and sporting venues. If one of these engineers showed his face, she wanted to be able to swoop down and find out what he’d been up to. It was the universities that gave her the most flak. Tenured professors, who themselves were once on LBJ’s list of radicals for opposing the Vietnam War, fomented a movement to stop the government from violating these foreign “guests’” rights. To that end, she was ordered to appear before Judge John J. Kelley as a defendant at 10:00 a.m. in federal court, part twelve.
“Director, it’s 10:05; you are late for your court appearance,” Jeannine said as she handed her the folder with the defense’s case-in-chief prepared by the Treasury’s lawyer, Fienberg.
On cue, her phone rang again. This time she took it. “Fienberg. Yeah, I know. I’m bad at voicemails. Stall. Look, I had a bad night . . . I broke a heel . . . Okay, I’m on my way.”
It was a chunk out of her day that she could ill afford but judges had a way of getting your attention so Brooke grabbed her bag, and was walking out when she glanced at the pictures on the wall. She stopped dead in her tracks . . .
Chapter 22
Sweethearts
“Your Honor . . .”
“Mr. Fienberg, we have a huge backlog of cases and I’ve set aside ten o’clock for this case. I expect parties to be on time and ready to proceed when their case is called,” Judge Kelley said from the bench.
“Your Honor, Director Burrell-Morton, as you know, is currently on a case . . .”
“There are no excuses. Either you’re ready or you are in default, Mr. Fienberg.”
“I beg the court’s indulgence, she may be caught in traffic . . .”
“Nice try.” He was handed a file from the court reporter. “Plaintiffs, are you prepared to move forward at this time?”
Brenda Nussbaum, the attorney for the professors who’d brought the suit against the government, stood up and said, “Yes, Your Honor, we are all here on time and ready to proceed. We move for a default judgment. Obviously, the government cannot defend its unfair profiling practices and apparently hasn’t bothered to show up to this esteemed court.”
“Save it, Miss Nussbaum. But I’ll take that as a yes; the plaintiffs are ready.” Judge Kelley looked at his watch. “Mr. Fienberg.”
Even though he’d graduated Harvard Law twenty-two years ago, then clerked for a chief justice and had appeared before the Supreme Court five times as US Solicitor General, here, in this little court room, sweat was starting to bead on Jules Fienberg’s head. He looked at the door anxiously then turned to the judge and smiled sheepishly.
The door to the courtroom opened and Brooke blasted in. She walked up to Fienberg.
H
er attorney spoke in a louder than necessary whisper as she approached. “Ms. Burrell, it is inexcusable for you to be late to a federal court . . .”
“Stow it. I need to speak to the judge . . .”
“Mr. Fienberg, is this your client? Can we proceed?” Judge Kelley pressed.
Brooke and Fienberg didn’t hear him as they were going at it.
“You can’t.”
“I have to.”
“This is improper . . .”
“I don’t care,” Brooke said.
The judge interceded. “Mr. Fienberg, if it’s not too much trouble might we proceed?”
“Yes, of course, Your Honor. Your Honor, my client, Ms. Burrell has a rather special request . . .”
“I’m sorry but tell your client I was doing special requests a half hour ago when this trial was supposed to begin. For now, please ask her to sit so that we can get going.”
Brooke sat but continued arguing.
The judge hit the gavel. “The defendants are put on notice that if they do not display proper respect for these proceedings, they are flirting with a contempt charge!”
Brooke stood up. “Your Honor, permission to approach?”
The judge was thrown. “Ms. Burrell, only counsel may approach . . .”
Brooke reached down and with her good arm, pulled Fienberg up by his and pulled him towards the bench like a rag doll. “Fine, then he wants permission.”
The judge looked to the court officer, then back to Brooke, then waved the officer off. Nussbaum quickly rose and headed for the bench as well.
“Your Honor, this whole case is about an improper profile of supposed guests in this country.” She slammed down the picture of Shamal that she’d pulled off the wall in her office. “This man attempted to kill me last night and, as you can see, failed. However, he did succeed in the murder of a British government official. Here’s his other picture.” She placed down the ME’s shot of the dead Shamal; blood caked around the hole in his neck.
Give Us This Day Page 17
