by Henry Hack
THE LAST CRUSADE
A Harry Cassidy Novel
A novel by
HENRY HACK
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2014 Henry Hack
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 1499561547
ISBN 13: 9781499561548
www.henryhack.com
Dedicated to all the men and women in law enforcement who, despite all odds, valiantly protect us from the predators and terrorists of the world
Also by Henry Hack
Danny Boyland Novels
Danny Boy (Salvo Press, 2009)
Cases Closed (Dog Ear Publishing, 2012)
Mommy, Mommy (Createspace, 2013)
Harry Cassidy Novels
Cassidy’s Corner (Salvo Press, 2013)
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
PART 1: OBL-911
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
PART 2: MEAN STREETS
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
PART 3: POLICE WORK
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
PART 4: THE LAST CRUSADE
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
PART 5: POLITICS
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
EPILOGUE
PREVIEW OF NEXT HARRY CASSIDY NOVEL
PART 1: THE SAVIOR
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
PROLOGUE
Khalid al-Habib bin Yousef, third in the hierarchy of al-Qaida, had been in the field for over a month directing his jihad warriors in the rugged mountains of Afghanistan, when he received a summons to return to Pakistan, and meet with his leader, Osama bin Laden. He relinquished his duties to his second-in-command, Fasiym ali Hassan, and set out immediately on his journey with great anticipation—and great trepidation.
As he approached bin Laden’s cave, two men who he recognized, stepped in next to him and one said, “Our great leader is no longer here. The drone attacks from the infidels were getting closer, and he was just recently forced to move once again.”
The second man said, “Have your driver follow us. It is about two hours away.”
The news of bin Laden’s forced re-location disconcerted bin Yousef, and he wondered if his sudden recall had anything to do with this situation or the drone attacks.
The two American-made jeeps reached bin Laden’s compound at his new location at dusk. They parked the jeeps under a thick grove of trees and set out on foot through rocks and scrub bush. Twenty minutes they later reached a complex of buildings surrounded by a high stone wall and guarded by several men armed with automatic weapons. The guards immediately recognized bin Yousef, and waved the four of them inside.
The guard in charge bowed and said, “Welcome, Khalid. Please proceed to the large room down this hall, on the left. Our leader awaits you there.” He then turned to bin Yousef’s driver and the two escorts and said, “Remain here with us. We will provide you with food and drink and a place to rest for the night.”
Khalid reached the door to the room, which was flanked by two more guards, opened it and walked inside. Only two people occupied the room—Osama bin Laden, and the number two man of al-Qaida, Ayman al-Zawahiri, “Welcome, Khalid,” Osama said, smiling and standing up. Please share dinner with us us. We must refresh you after your long trip before we discuss our business.”
After a modest repast, when Osama’s servant had finished removing the dishes and bowls, Osama said, “I assume you must be wondering why I summoned you when the battles in your area are going so well.”
“Yes I was, my great leader,” he said happy that Osama seemed pleased with his military performance.
“I will get right to the point, Khalid. The title you just used to refer to me—my great leader—I now wish to bestow upon you.”
Bin Yousef’s mouth dropped open and after several seconds he said, “I do not understand what you mean. You, Osama, are our leader, and have always been, and Allah willing, will always be.”
“Allah may be willing, but my body may be not. Although I am not yet of advanced age, I am very ill. I fear death will overtake me soon. The constant stress of moving locations, dodging drone attacks, fearing discovery and fearing betrayal, has taken its toll on me. And our trusted companion here, Ayman, who is several years older than I, is experiencing the same mental and physical stress. It is now the time to turn our leadership over to a younger, stronger man—you, Khalid.”
“I am flattered, but you are the spiritual leader of us all. I fear when you leave us, and go to Allah, our cause and organization will disappear.”
“And you flatter me, Khalid, but I assure you, and Ayman agrees, you will rise to the occasion and continue our long jihad to its final victory.”
“I am humbled by your faith and confidence in me and swear to Allah to triumph over all the infidels in the world. But your talk of soon dying depresses me.”
“A fact we must all face, Khalid. Now here is what you must do. You must lead a mass attack against America. We have languished too long since the attacks of September 2001. Our other attacks, while successful, have been too small. You will re-locate to Riyadh, and I will give you control of all our funds—and they are in the hundreds of millions of dollars. We must bring the Great Satan of America to its knees and force them to abandon Israel. When they do we will easily be able to destroy the Jews and establish the Palestine nation on its rightful soil. Those are the only two obstacles in our way to impose Muslim law on the entire world. Europe will be ours in less than fifty years, with Africa and Asia shortly before or shortly after, depending on your future success. America will then have to follow.”
“Do you have any specific plans for me, my leader?”
“Yes, I want you to build a new organization in America from the ground up. Use known jihad commanders to lead this organization. Take your time to build it right.”
“May I take Fasiym ali Hassan with me to Riyadh as my second in command?”
“Yes, and may I suggest some names for your top leadership positions in the new organization?”
“Of course.”
They plotted and planned for the next two hours and when weariness set in they took to their beds. The next morning, a rejuvenated, rededicated Khalid al-Habib bin Yousef prepared to leave for Riyadh to begin building his new organization, and he knew exactly what he would name it—OBL-911—in honor of his great leader.
Osama and al-Zawahiri bid him good-bye and promised to pray to Allah for his success. Osama said, “We will probably never see each other again, my friend. May Allah be with you—our new Great Leader.”
With tears in his eyes bin Yousef turned toward Riyadh to begin what he hoped would be his victorious jihad against all the world’s infidels.
PART 1
OBL-911
1
He was working on The Pile, bent over, carefully moving small pieces of debris, searching for any signs of a living person. Acrid smoke drifted up from the cr
evices around him, and he thought he saw movement near a large crack off to his right. He cautiously reached down to part the hot, twisted steel and put his gloved hand down into the crack. Suddenly, something grabbed it firmly. He yanked his arm up in fright and a green arm followed it up, its scaly hand gripping his tightly. The arm started to pull him down into the hole. He couldn’t break its steely grip, and his strength was no match for that in the bony arm. The crack widened as the arm drew him down and he saw the ugly, green face of a witch leering up at him. She opened her mouth in a grotesque smile and said, “I’ve got you now my pretty. I’ve got you now.”
He trembled in terror and, try as he might with all his strength, he could not break free from her terrible grasp. The witch’s other scrawny arm shot up from the ground and grabbed his shield which was securely fastened to his uniform shirt. “This is what I want,” she said, her raspy voice sending shivers down his spine. “This is what I’ve come for, my pretty.”
And now she was slowly, inexorably, dragging him down into the widening crack as the heat and smoke rose and seared his face and eyes. She had a death grip on him and she cackled loudly saying, “This is what I want, and if you don’t give it to me, I’ll drag you into hell.”
He screamed, “Help me! Over here! She’s dragging me into the hole…”
The dream had not awakened him, but when the early morning sun streaming in through the half-open blinds in his hospital room struck his eyes, Detective Harold T. Cassidy opened them fearfully. It took him a full minute to realize where he was, and how he had gotten here.
Although his bullet wounds were healing nicely, Doctor Johannsen, the surgeon who had operated on him, postponed his departure from the hospital for two more days. He said, “Harry, the wound in your upper arm was the worst, and it’s still draining somewhat. I want to see it heal up some more before I let you out of here. The others are fine, but even the two days will make only a week since you were shot. Let’s be cautious.”
“Sure, Doc,” he said. “That one still hurts like hell anyway. No problem.”
When Sergeant Rita Becker came to visit on Tuesday evening, he told her he would not be going home the following morning as planned, but probably on Friday instead.
“Are you disappointed?”
“Not really. I’m still kind of weak in the knees anyway. Tomorrow I’ll start walking some more. The days will go by in a hurry with you and the guys always visiting and keeping me company. Hey, it’s great you’re coming to see me all the time. How are you getting away from Internal Affairs so often?”
“Inspector Gregorovich has been wonderful. He told me to take as much time as needed to visit with you until you get back to work. Must be he likes heroes.”
“I was hoping maybe he felt sorry because of running roughshod over me during the Winston investigation.”
“He never mentioned that at all, and with the polygraph decision on a court-ordered stay, I don’t have much work on my plate.”
“Have you ever considered getting out of there? How long has it been?”
“About two years, and yes, I have been thinking of asking out. In fact, Gregorovich kind of hinted at it after the stay came down. He mentioned my talents as a polygraph operator should be utilized by the Department in criminal cases.”
“That would be a good move plus you’re a terrific interviewer. I bet you could crack a lot of cases.”
“Maybe, but I was thinking about patrol.”
“Patrol? You want to go into uniform and work the street?”
“You told me the street was where you really learned police work, didn’t you? What was it you said you had out there—a front row seat at the greatest show on earth?”
“Yeah, but Rita, you’re a…” he caught himself and stopped.
“I’m a what? A woman? A poor little female who can’t do a man’s work at a man’s job?”
“No, no, that’s not what I was going to say.”
“What were you going to say then?”
He took her hand and said, “I was going to say I couldn’t bear the thought of you out there, in harm’s way, at all hours of the day and night. I wouldn’t want to see you get hurt. That’s all.”
“That’s thoughtful of you, but I am a police officer and I know the dangers out there.”
“Do you now? Do you know you could get shot out there?”
They laughed and she said, “I haven’t decided anything. Don’t worry; we’ll talk a lot more about this. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
On Thursday, Detectives Pop Hunter and Nick Faliani and two investigators from the NYMPD/FBI Joint Terrorist Task Force came in to see him. They introduced themselves as Detective John McKee, New York Metropolitan Police Department and FBI Special Agent Walter Kobak. They told Harry the two fledgling terrorists he shot were now represented by an ACLU lawyer of obvious Middle-Eastern origin. Mohammed, who Harry had shot three times, was still in CCU down the hall. He had given them some good information a few hours ago, but was no longer talking since the visit by the lawyer. Abdul, who was shot in the arm by Harry, had refused to talk since his arrest. And Satam, who was killed by Harry, wasn’t in speaking condition. The three who had gotten away, Ahmed, Ziad and Abu were still in the wind.
Kobak held up Ziad’s composite photo and said, “Harry, what do you think this guy was doing on your beat in Elmont last Christmas Eve? Why was he there, and how did he get involved with the bartender?”
“Good questions. There were only a few Middle-Easterners living or working on my old beat, and he’s not one of them. I had never seen him before that night, and didn’t see him again until a couple days ago in Jackson Heights.”
Nick said, “Do you suppose he was meeting someone in the neighborhood?”
“That’s a good possibility,” McKee said. “Maybe a meet to buy weapons? We’re onto a group of black gun dealers that may have a base somewhere around there or in Queens Village. Nothing definite yet, but our intelligence unit is working on it.”
“And maybe those were the weapons they used during the shootout,” Pop said.
“Prematurely, no doubt,” McKee said. “Those assholes were planning something bigger until our shot-up hero cop here interrupted their scheme.”
“We are coming to the conclusion the remnants of al-Qaida left in the country are coalescing,” Kobak said. “We think something big is going down soon, and we think our lovely city will be the main target—again.”
There was complete silence for several seconds, then Pop said, “How soon?”
“We think maybe the spring or summer. At least that’s what our informers seem to think, but that’s all we know for now,” McKee said.
“But,” Kobak said, “we do know something of their organization. Before Mohammed clammed up, he told us the smallest group is a cell comprised of five members with a cell leader. Ahmed was the leader of cell number three. He also said four cells report to a section chief, and Ahmed’s chief is named Ramzi. The group’s name is OBL-911.”
“I think we can all figure out what that stands for,” McKee said.
And all these cell members are much like the young guys you encountered in Jackson Heights,” Kobak said, “eighteen to twenty years old, poor, filled with hate, eager to be a martyr to the cause and join Allah in heaven.”
“Any idea of how many sections and cells are around?” Nick asked.
“Not really,” Kobak said. “There could be several in each boro and county in the region. They all have to report to someone to get their orders and money, and by the way, there is plenty of money.”
“I thought all those funds were frozen years ago,” Pop said.
“Only some of them were, but most of bin Laden’s money is still out there,” McKee said, “and the latest intelligence indicates there is a new guy in charge of all world-wide terrorist operations. He may be headquartered somewhere in Yemen or Saudi Arabia, and he has control of the dough.”
“I thought we had these guys down and out af
ter Seal Team Six killed bin Laden and his top cronies,” Harry said.
“We did,” Kobak said, “but two things have changed recently—politics and fanaticism. I should say only one thing has changed. The fanaticism was always there only we had it suppressed. But ever since the administration changed, increased activity among the hate groups is apparent. With the presidency and both houses of Congress controlled by liberal democrats, and they all want their goddamn social programs more than they want security. They feel the threat is over. We feel it’s about to erupt again.”
“That’s about it,” McKee said. “When are you getting out of here, Harry?”
“The doc says he’ll come by around ten tomorrow and if everything looks fine, he’ll release me.”
“That’s good news. I’m sure we’ll talk some more on this shortly.”
Harry watched the two Task Force partners leave thinking they were somewhat of an odd couple. Walt Kobak was the poster-boy image of the FBI agent who possessed the classic FBI looks familiar to TV viewers—tall, smooth-shaven, close-cropped dark hair and steel-blue eyes—and John McKee was the typical ruddy-faced, rough around the edges, Irish New York detective. When they were gone Harry said, “What do you think of those two?”
“Totally different from each other, but they seem to work well together,” Pop said.
“Yeah,” Nick said, “they seem okay to me. Hey, do you want us to take you home tomorrow?”
“Sure, but you have to bring me some clothes.”
“Okay,” Nick said. “Give us your keys and we’ll stop by your place before we come to get you. We’ll give you a call from there, and you can tell us what to bring.”
Later that day Rita stopped by. “So are you out of here tomorrow?” she asked.
“Looks like it. Doc Johannsen should give me the thumbs-up in the morning.”
“Do you want me to be here to take you home?”
“No, Pop and Nick are doing that. They’re going to bring my clothes.”
“Do you want me to wait for you at your place then? I could straighten it up and get your bed ready.”
