by Henry Hack
A burst of machine gun fire came through the bedroom door at them, and they were forced to dive for cover. Mansfield and McKee came into the room and John said, “Remember, all the poisons are in the bedroom closet.”
Harry and Pop emptied their machine gun magazines at the door and the lock, and charged in. Bin Yousef leaped from the closet, shooting his Beretta with his right hand and clutching a glass jar in the other. Both Harry and Pop were hit in the chest, but the body armor held, and both got off a couple of shots despite being stunned by the impact of the nine millimeter slugs crashing into them at close range. Harry heard the slide on bin Yousef’s gun lock on empty, and he charged at him. The glass jar began to slip from bin Yousef’s hand. “Pop!” he yelled. “The jar!”
Pop slowly spun back, and reached out with his left arm. The jar plopped softly into his hand, and he sat down cradling it, gasping for air. Harry had the struggling bin Yousef by the throat, and he squeezed and squeezed. Bin Yousef’s eyes bugged out of his head as he struggled for air, but he would not die. A hand lightly touched Harry’s shoulder and Dick Mansfield said, “Let go, Harry. Move aside.”
Harry did so, and Dick Mansfield shot Khalid al-Habib bin Yousef right between the eyes. “That’s for my partner, Jerry Campora.” He then shot bin Yousef three times in the heart. “And that’s for being a rotten, nasty, murdering, terrorist bastard.”
Pop recovered his breath and set the deadly jar down carefully on the carpet. He struggled to his feet and stood over Harry. Harry was breathing hard and trying to get to his feet. He was sweating profusely, and his face was a bright crimson. Pop smiled and said, “Need a hand there old-timer? Maybe you’re the one who’s too old for this shit.”
Harry tried to laugh, but ended up coughing instead. “Here, partner,” Pop said, “take my hand. I’ll help you up and make sure you get back to the old folks’ home before bed check.”
It was finally over and they all called their wives from their cell phones on the ride back to Manhattan. “Oh, Harry,” Susan said, “thank God you’re all right. You are all right, aren’t you? You didn’t get shot again, did you?”
“I’m fine. Just a couple of bumps and bruises. But it’s over. Bin Yousef is no more.”
“When are you coming home?”
“A few hours at the most. We’re heading back to the office to drop off our weapons and body armor. After I get checked out, I’ll be home.”
“Checked out?”
“Yeah, the bruises. Just to make sure nothing’s broken, or bleeding internally.”
“Just exactly how did you get those bruises?”
“Well…”
“Son-of-a-bitch! You did get shot again.”
“Pop and I took a couple in our vests. Maybe we won’t be home tonight. Maybe we’ll be in the hospital a couple of days. No big deal.”
Susan let out a big sigh, “Let me know what’s happening as soon as you find out. Hey, I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
When they got back to the office, John McKee informed ali Hassan of the death of bin Yousef. “I am much relieved,” he said. “I would like to ask a favor.”
“What is it?”
“When you report his death, could you also report mine? It would make my future existence more promising.”
“I’ll talk to Harry and Walt. If it’s okay with them, I don’t see why not.”
“Thank you, Mr. McKee.”
“Fasiym, would you please tell me why you turned away from your cause and betrayed bin Yousef?”
“I truly believed we could never defeat Israel unless your country abandoned their support for it. And after the events of the past ten years, I finally came to believe we could never muster the means to make your country do that.”
“Do you think others may now be convinced of the futility of your jihad?”
“A handful perhaps, but not the millions.”
“So the hatred and violence will go on for a long time?”
“Forever, Mr. McKee. Sadly, forever.”
Harry and Pop were released from the hospital after a day and a half with huge bruises, but no internal damage or broken bones. True to his word, Pop put in his retirement papers and a big party was planned. Dick Mansfield did likewise, and the FBI began to put together a big bash for him as well.
President Morgan addressed the nation, and assured all Americans the threat from OBL-911 was over, but he warned against letting their guard down in this age of terrorism. Mounir and Hamid, who with the other captured Syrians had been transferred to the Federal lockup in Brooklyn, were watching the president’s speech in the common room. When the President said, In addition to those captured, the leader of OBL-911, Khalid al-Habib bin Yousef, and his second-in-command, Fasiym ali Hassan, were killed as they attempted to flee to avoid capture. Our agents suffered just a few minor injuries, Mounir looked at Hamid and said, “Ali Hassan killed? That is not possible.”
“Why?” Hamid asked.
“Because I saw him alive. I glimpsed ali Hassan as he was being placed into the cell next to mine. If he was locked up next to me, how could he have been killed an hour later in Westchester?”
“How indeed, Mounir? Perhaps Fasiym sold us all out.”
“I am certain of it, and we will get the word out to our fellow jihadists. He will be tracked down, and killed like a dog in the street.”
“And his head will sit upon a stake for all to see the consequences of betrayal.”
John McKee and Walt Kobak flew Fasiym ali Hassan down to FBI headquarters in an unmarked government plane. Harry flew down a few days later for a wrap-up meeting with Kevin, Vince, Jim Driscoll and all the others who had helped bring the terrorist threat to an end.
“Is Fasiym giving up anything good?” Harry asked Jim.
“Indeed he is, and he promises more, including bin Yousef’s millions, when we get him safely back to Saudi Arabia.”
“I wonder how long he’ll survive before they figure out what he did.”
“Who knows, but maybe we can accelerate the process by dropping a few hints in the right places.”
“You may think I’m nuts, Jim, but I wouldn’t want to betray him after I gave him my word. I would feel uncomfortable with that.”
“I understand, and you’re right,” he said. “It’s not the honorable thing to do.”
Pop Hunter’s retirement party was held on the night of May 18, in a huge ballroom of a beautiful Manhattan hotel. Pop seemed mellow and happy with his desicion, but Vera was ecstatic. Speaker after speaker heaped praise on Pop, citing many aspects of his career and long friendships. Harry was chosen to introduce the guest of honor, and decided to be brief, relating only one incident in their long association—the tale of the takedown of bin Yousef. “Pop Hunter chose to go in with me to get bin Yousef. We all kid him about his age, but let me tell you he performed as a young athlete that night. Pop Hunter is one helluva detective and one helluva human being, but more importantly, he is one helluva friend. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Detective First Grade Charles E. Hunter.”
Pop came up to the podium wiping a tear from his eye. He was eloquent in his thanks and appreciation to all who attended in his honor, claiming he didn’t deserve all the fuss. He concluded with his experience working on the Task Force “with the finest, bravest bunch of men and women in law enforcement on the planet.” He singled out each one for some special praise, and then asked all to rise and bow their heads in a moment of silence for Jerry Campora. “You can now rest in peace, partner. We got them for you and for your family. OBL-911 is finished.”
Pop left the podium to a standing ovation and people gradually began to leave. After a half hour, when it was obvious the team members and their families looked as if they wanted to party until dawn, Deputy Chief Dan Snyder tapped Harry on the shoulder and said, “I just came over to say good-night to all you wonderful people.”
After Dan shook hands and exchanged pleasantries with all, he motioned to Harry t
o step away and join him as he walked to the door. “I didn’t want to spoil the party with bad news, but I think you should be aware of this right now. I got paged a few minutes ago. The PC had a heart attack earlier this evening. It’s a bad one, but he’ll probably survive, though I doubt he’ll be able to stay on the Job.”
“And if McKenna gets to move up, I’m in big trouble.”
“No way, Harry. He wouldn’t dare screw with you. You’re a genuine hero.”
Harry smiled and said, “Yes I am, Dan, at least for a little while. At least until the next wicked curve ball gets thrown at me. But right now, let’s have another drink to victory.”
PART 5
POLITICS
21
The morning after Detective Pop Hunter’s retirement party, Harry Cassidy sat in his office at FBI headquarters in Manhattan and reflected on the dramatic news given him by Deputy Chief Dan Snyder as the party had wound down. The big question was whether Commissioner Donaldson would remain on the Job, or leave due to health reasons. And if he left, and if Chief McKenna rose higher on the Job, Harry’s career would rapidly go down the drain.
Edward Donaldson survived, but his doctors advised him to leave the pressure cooker that is the position of police commissioner of the largest department in the world. He took their advice and gracefully retired on May 31. On June 1, the mayor appointed his deputy mayor of public safety, Frank Schrader, as the new police commissioner. Schrader, a career politician, had no formal law enforcement training, but he did have a relative in the Department with whom he could consult—Francis McKenna, his brother-in-law.
On June 2, the new PC made McKenna the chief of department and he was now Harry’s direct boss. It did not take long for him to act. At ten o’clock on Monday morning, Harry got a call from an Inspector Daly, an aide to to the chief, directing him to report in one hour.
Inspector Daly greeted him sternly, and made him wait twenty minutes before he accompanied him into McKenna’s office. McKenna got right to the point. “Cassidy, I’m replacing you as the Department’s terrorism liaison officer to the FBI, effective immediately. I also have a demotion and transfer order in front of me signed by Commissioner Schrader. You are now Captain Cassidy, and assigned as the executive officer of the One-Oh-Two precinct in Staten Island.”
“Would you give me the opportunity to retire right now as an inspector?”
“Normally, that is a courtesy extended by the Department, but in your case no such courtesy will be offered. In my opinion, you never deserved to be promoted above the rank of captain. You can, of course, put your papers in when you leave this office, but it will be as Captain Cassidy, not Inspector Cassidy.”
“I see,” said Harry, his anger rising.
“Do you know where your new precinct is?” he said. “Let me tell you how to get there. You drive down the West Side Highway from your fancy apartment, to the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, and don’t forget to pay the eight dollar toll. Then take the Gowanus Expressway to the Verrazano Bridge—I believe that toll is now sixteen dollars—then drive all the way to the southern end of the boro. The One-Oh-Two is down there somewhere. It should take well over an hour on a good traffic day.”
Harry was seething and McKenna was struggling to keep his smile from turning into a full-faced grin. “Thanks for the directions, Chief. Anything else?”
“That’s all, Cassidy. Go clean out your desk at the FBI and report to your new command tomorrow. And tell your buddies Sergeant McKee and Detective Faliani, to expect transfers also—some precinct in the south Bronx for McKee, and a squad in the dregs of Brooklyn for Faliani.”
“I understand you wanting to screw over me,” Harry said, “but don’t try to screw over my friends. If you hurt them, I’ll hurt you worse.”
“You’re in no position to hurt me, or threaten me, Captain,” McKenna said, the color rising in his face.
“Oh, but I am. All of us will soon be decorated with high Departmental commendations. We are now genuine heroes of the NYMPD. I’ll go to the press, I’ll go to the FBI, and I assure you, I can, and will, go right to the President of the United States.”
You’re hallucinating, Cassidy,” he said, but Harry saw a look of concern cross his puffy red face.
“Do what you have to do to me and I’ll keep my mouth shut. Screw with my guys and I’ll be on tonight’s TV news.”
McKenna fumed and the color in his face changed from bright red to a deep purple. He was not a stupid man, and fully realized Cassidy was crazy enough to do what he threatened. He’d have to leave McKee and Faliani alone for now, at least until they became yesterday’s heroes, but then….
“Get out of my office,” he yelled, a spray of spittle accompanying his words.
Harry was smiling now that McKenna was in a rage, and he knew he had beaten him. “Fuck you, you red-faced phony,” he said as he went out the door slamming it hard.
Daly ran out after him sputtering, “Are you crazy talking to the chief like that?”
“What’s he gonna do, Daly? Send me to Staten Island?”
“Listen, Cassidy, I have to escort you to the Property Bureau to make sure you turn in your inspector’s shield for a captain’s.”
“No problem. And when I leave there I’m heading over to the Pension Bureau. Tell your fat-head boss he wasted his breath giving me directions. I’m not going to Staten Island. I’ll be on terminal leave beginning tomorrow.
By the time Harry finished the paper work at the Pension Bureau it was two o’clock. He had called Walt Kobak right after he switched shields and Daly had left him. He walked out of One Police Plaza for the last time as a member of the Force, and headed back to his Task Force office. Walt came in as he was emptying out his desk. He said, “I tried to call the PC, but he wouldn’t take my call. Then I tried the mayor. Same non-response.”
“Thanks for trying,” Harry said, “but it’s okay to let it go.”
“Are you sure? What are you going to do now?”
“It’s time to move on. I don’t want to work for this new crew of brass anyway. As we used to say in the old days, they can take this Job and shove it. I’m thinking of giving private security a shot. I was prepared to do that before you rescued me and got me promoted. Just have to change a few dates on my resume.”
“Do you have any particular firm or company in mind?”
“No, but I have a few leads from a friend of mine in the security field, so I’ll send out the resume to those places.”
“Ever hear of Sheldrake Associates?”
“Sure.”
“They are the top-notch security firm in New York, and Bill Shelton is a friend of mine from way back. He’s former Secret Service. And Vinny Drake is a retired deputy chief from the Job. I’ll get your resume to them personally as soon as you touch it up.”
“Thanks, Walt. Susan and I will work on it right away.”
“Good luck, old friend, in whatever you do,” Walt said. “Does Susan know what happened yet?”
“No, I’m going to call her now. Then I’m going to say so long to all the good guys here, and then…and then I’m going to go home and get drunk and cry in my beer.”
He dialed Susan, and after she had run out of expletives for McKenna and calmed down somewhat, she said, “I know how much the Job means to you, but as you once told me—there’s a big world out there. I made it, and so will you. Don’t get down on yourself.”
“The only thing I’d like to get down on is that red-faced fuck, with my hands around his fat neck.”
“So would I, but things will turn out fine despite this bump in the road. Come on home and get your hands around a cold martini or two.”
“Good idea, then maybe I’ll get my hands and arms around you.”
“That’s a better idea,” she said.
“Yes, it is, Susan, and I will deal with this curve ball as I’ve dealt with all the others—the NYMPD has not heard the last of Harold T. Cassidy.”
A week later Harry was in the
office of Bill Shelton, who with Vinny Drake, was interviewing him for a position in their firm. “Usually,” Drake said, “we would ask why a young captain, with an obvious promising career, would leave the Job, but Walt Kobak already gave us all the dirty details. It seems phonies like this McKenna still manage to sneak into positions of power.”
“Harry,” Shelton said, “let me cut to the chase. Vinny and I would like to offer you a position at Sheldrake. Your credentials, background and education make an ideal fit for our operation. You qualify in several areas, but I’d like to place you in the executive protection division. The current head of that division is going to retire in a few weeks. He can break you in during that time and then you can take over.”
“I’d love to work at Sheldrake. I accept. And whatever you want to give me is fine. I just want to work and learn.”
“I like you, Harry,” Drake said. “The Department’s loss is certainly our gain. Now let’s figure out your salary, benefits, vacation, and expense account.”
Harry’s first big prospective client was Philip MacDonald, a wealthy businessman and former city councilman, who had recently decided to throw his hat in the ring for mayor. They met for dinner at MacDonald’s club on 53rd Street.
A man in a tuxedo greeted Harry with a broad smile and said, “Welcome to the Winchester Club, Mr. Cassidy. I will bring you to Mr. MacDonald’s table.”
He was escorted to a rear table in the restaurant area of the club. A man arose from his seat and greeted him with a dazzling smile. “Hello, Mr Cassidy,” he said, “I’m Phil MacDonald.”
They shook hands and MacDonald motioned for the waiter saying, “I’m one drink ahead of you already.”
