The Last Crusade: A Harry Cassidy Novel

by Henry Hack

  “Change does come hard to the NYMPD.”

  “We will begin changing things tomorrow,” Harry said. “After all, as a famous movie star once said—tomorrow is another day.”

  EPILOGUE

  Years later, when the new president finally closed the notorious detention facility at Guantanamo Bay, all the terrorist prisoners were transferred to their home countries with the stated promise they would be immediately imprisoned under the highest security conditions. Three months later, Mounir Jamal and Hamid Essabar escaped from their indifferently guarded prison outside Damascus without much difficulty at all.

  Their first goal was to locate the traitor Fasiym ali Hassan, and exact justice for his betrayal of their last crusade. They found him in a suburb of Riyadh, tortured him, stole his money and then beheaded him. As they had long ago promised themselves, they stuck his head on a tall wooden stake, and in the dead of night placed it in a public square. When the sun rose the next morning the citizens of the city would see the head of ali Hassan and the word traitor written on a placard beneath its gruesome visage.

  Mounir and Hamid set out the next day for Europe to join and assist the on-going Islamic takeover, now in full bloom. They offered their services—murders, bombings, poison attacks—where needed, but soon discovered their services were not necessary. The great weapon of Islam was time and Mounir and Hamid, both not yet thirty years old, were now certain they would witness the total domination of Europe well before they were destined to join Allah in heaven.

  And then the final jihad would begin in earnest against the Great Satan of America—and this time victory would be certain.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to my readers, family and friends for their support and encouragement. As I move along in this endeavor they have become too numerous to mention. To attempt to do so would take several pages, and my imperfect memory would cause me to leave some well-deserved supporter out.

  Special thanks, however, must go out to my wife, Lorraine, who did a great job turning my crossed-out, around-the-margins scratching into a completed typed manuscript. She is my final reader, nonsense detector and copy editor. All my love to her for staying with me on this quest.

  PREVIEW OF NEXT HARRY CASSIDY NOVEL

  COMING SOON—THE ROMEN SOCIETY

  EXCERPT BEGINS ON NEXT PAGE

  PART 1

  THE SAVIOR

  1

  After four long years of planning and plotting, the Savior was ready to pull the trigger of the gun that would fire the first shot in the battle to save Mother Earth. Relaxed and totally at peace he inhaled the sweet smell of the damp morning earth mixed with that of the huge pine trees surrounding Senator Edward Millard’s country home. He peeked cautiously into the kitchen window for the fourth time, and finally the evil politician had appeared.

  Creeping back to the French doors that led from the patio into the dining room he reached through the hole he had cut in the glass two hours earlier under the cover of darkness. He silently raised the latch and entered. He had briefly considered searching for the senator’s bedroom, but was deterred by the uncertainty of its location and the fact he wanted the villain to know in the bright, morning sunlight why he was going to die, and who was going to kill him.

  The Savior strode into the kitchen, .357 Magnum revolver gripped firmly in both hands, arms raised, the barrel pointed straight ahead directly into the face of the silver-haired senator, now raising his coffee cup to his lips. “What the hell?” Millard said.

  “Good word for you, Senator—hell. Appropriate because that is what you will turn Mother Earth into if you’re allowed to continue living.”

  “Who do you think you are?” he asked, starting to rise from his chair.

  “I am the Savior of Mother Earth. Sit back down.”

  Millard complied and said, “Relax. Let’s talk about this.”

  “Sure, Senator, we’ll chat a bit. Did you know thousands of people agree with me that you are the single most dangerous man on the planet? That your bills in the Senate will accelerate the destruction of our forests and wildlife and air? I am going to prevent that—The Romen Society will prevent that.”

  “I will never withdraw my bills. I will never change my mind or my vote.”

  “We know that, and that’s why you must die.”

  “You called yourself the Savior, but I think you’re just another one of those wacky tree-hugging assholes. Why don’t you just put your gun away and leave my house.”

  “No, you evil bastard,” the Savior said, his voice rising. He fired one round into Millard’s face which hit to the left of his nose, blowing out his entire right cheek. He shouted, “That’s for Dad!” He fired a second round into the senator’s right eyeball saying softly this time, “And that’s for Mom.”

  Toppling backwards over his chair, the senator fell dead onto the floor, blood flowing from his fatal wounds, channeling its course into the perpendicular grout lines between the polished tiles. The Savior sat down on a chair at the table and reached over for Millard’s coffee cup. He took a sip and looked down at the senator’s corpse. “Good riddance, you monumental hypocrite. You used to live in this wooded paradise that your foul laws and policies would have ultimately destroyed. May you rot in hell, you stupid old fool.”

  He removed a small digital camera from his backpack and took a few pictures of the dead senator focusing on the bullet damage and the pool of bright, red blood surrounding his head, now overflowing the grout channels and spreading rapidly across the white tiles. He righted the chair, propped the body on it and snapped a few more pictures. Taking another sip of coffee from the senator’s cup he marveled at how calm he now felt. The battle had finally begun. Reaching once again into his backpack he took out the white cardboard sign he had prepared weeks ago, and hung it around Millard’s neck. Neatly stenciled in red ink were the words, The First of Many. Underneath those words was the signature, The Romens. He took more pictures making sure the sign was readable in the frame. Setting up the camera to take a delayed shot he joined the senator in the photo, grinning widely, brandishing the heavy nickel-plated revolver over the head of the dead body.

  The Savior was in no rush to leave relishing the reactions of his apostles when they opened their e-mail and saw the photographic proof of the beginning of their first campaign. It was necessary they see what he had done, alone, and without fear. They had to know their leader was capable of doing the things himself that he was about to ask them and their disciples to do—cold-blooded murder. And if there was a “doubting Thomas” among the twelve, those apprehensions should melt away with the confirmed kill of Senator Edward Millard.

  He finished the coffee and checked around the kitchen for any possible traces of himself that might remain. His latex gloves were still intact, his smooth-soled sneakers free of traces of blood, the cartridge cases remained snugly in the revolver’s cylinder. All was in order. He walked out of the patio doors into the brilliant sunlight of a beautiful October morning. Phase one of the first campaign had been accomplished. In three days The Romens would strike again—in force. He couldn’t wait for Sunday night, and phase two, to arrive.

  It was the type of raw, dreary October morning that caused his bullet wounds to ache and occasionally throb to the beat of his pulse. Harold T. Cassidy had been the commissioner of the New York Metropolitan Police Department for almost three years, and as he listened to the chief of detectives summarize the major crimes that had occurred during the past night, he reflected back to that day when he had shot it out with the six members of a new terrorist group, calling themselves OBL-911, in a third floor apartment in Jackson Heights. He had been a thirty-three year old police officer then, and now at age forty-seven, he was in charge of the nation’s largest police force.

  “Commissioner, are you okay?” asked Chief O’Halloran.

  “Oh yeah, Bill, I was drifting on you. Forgive me, but this weather causes my old wounds to act up and makes me remember when and where I
got them. I can’t believe it was over fourteen years ago I got shot up in Queens.”

  “At least those terrorist bastards are history,” he said. “Looks as if you buried them for good last time.”

  “I don’t know if they’ll ever be buried forever, but at least they haven’t shown their faces anywhere for over two years.”

  There was a knock on the door and Inspector Charlie Carson, Harry’s chief aide, walked in and said, “Sorry to bother you, Commissioner, but I just received a call from the Joint Terrorist Task Force. Inspector Petersen and Lieutenant McKee have requested an urgent meeting, preferably today. Walt Kobak will come along, too.”

  “Any mention as to the subject of this urgency?” Harry asked.

  “No,” Carson said, “but Carl Petersen is not one to panic, and the fact the assistant director in charge of the FBI wants to join us is a bit ominous.”

  “I should have shut my mouth about burying the terrorists once and for all,” O’Halloran said. “I hope I didn’t jinx us.”

  “Maybe it’s not about terrorists,” Carson said.

  “Does anyone want to make a wager on that?” Harry asked.

  There were no takers, so he said, “Charlie, what’s my schedule like this afternoon?”

  Without looking in his calendar book, Inspector Carson said, “Nothing so important that can’t be rescheduled for another day.”

  “Good. See if you can get that meeting they want set up for two o’clock and be sure to include Dan Snyder with us.”

  Harry adjourned the meeting and glanced at his watch. It was ten-thirty and time for a second cup of coffee which was sitting, steaming, on his desk when he returned to his office from the conference room. He saw Charlie leaving by the side door and he called out to him to return. “Get yourself a cup of coffee and come back and sit down with me a minute.”

  Charlie returned and sat in front of Harry’s desk. Harry took a sip of his coffee and smiled. He said, “I’m going to miss you around here. You’re going to have to thoroughly train your replacement in the art of making a good cup of coffee.”

  “Miss me? Replacement? But, sir…”

  “Charlie,” he interrupted, “you have been invaluable to me during this long transition period. Your knowledge and loyalty deserve to be rewarded. I’m going to promote you to deputy chief soon and assign you to a boro detective command. And a year or so after that I’m going to promote you to assistant chief and give you a boro patrol command. Those experiences will serve you well when I eventually do bring you back here to the ivory tower at One Police Plaza with your third star. You’ll make a fine chief of patrol or chief of detectives someday.”

  “Commissioner, I don’t know what to say. I’m not worthy. I…”

  “Not worthy? Nonsense! You’re one of the finest officers on the Force. You should have been promoted a long time ago, but the former administration knew a good thing when they had one and held you back so you could stay here and make them look good. Now its payback time for you, Chief Carson. How does that sound?”

  “It sounds great, Commissioner. Thank you for recognizing my service. I never thought it would happen, but then I never met a boss like you before. It will be tough to leave this office. Any chance of getting that star and staying?”

  “No chance at all. You know everything here in this office like the back of your hand. There’s no challenge for you. We all need a change in our routine to allow us to grow. It’s time to move out and move up.”

  “Yes, sir,” Carson said. He rose with a huge smile on his face and snapped off a perfect salute. Harry did not return the salute but extended his arm and he and Charlie exchanged a long, heartfelt handshake.

  It was about 12:30 when Harry wrapped up his morning meetings and Charlie Carson came in after the last group left and asked, “Are you going out for lunch?”

  “Yeah, I guess I have time to run out before the two o’clock meeting.”

  “Sir, you may wish to go out the back way. There’s a man in the lobby demanding to see you. He has ID showing he is a retired detective. He was told to make an appointment, but he’s refusing to leave.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Charles Hunter.”

  “I’ve just changed my lunch plans. Order me in a ham and Swiss on rye and ask Hunter what kind of sandwich he wants, too.”

  “I guess you know him?”

  “Oh yeah, I know Pop Hunter real well. Do me a favor, Charlie. Go down and personally escort him up here. And during your ride up on the elevator mention he bears a strong resemblance to the actor, Morgan Freeman. In fact, pretend you think he is Morgan Freeman and ask him for his autograph. Okay?”

  “Whatever you say, sir.”

  “And make sure you are standing well away from him when you say those things. That old bastard has a wicked left hook.”

  Five minutes later Carson escorted an annoyed looking Pop Hunter into Harry’s office and retreated back out the door, closing it firmly behind him.

  “Hello, Pop,” Harry said. “How the hell are you old-timer and what brings you downtown to my humble office?”

  “Don’t call me old-timer,” Pop snapped. “And who the hell does that Inspector Carson think he is, insulting me like that?”

  “Charlie Carson insulted you?”

  “Yeah, he told me he thought I was Morgan Freeman. Can you fuckin’ believe that? He asked for my autograph, for Pete’s sake!”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “I told him Morgan Freeman is old, and I’m not old. That’s what I told him.”

  “Did you also tell him you resemble a mature Denzel Washington as you used to tell everyone you ever worked with?”

  “Yes, I did. I…you son-of-a-gun! You set me up, didn’t you?”

  “Gotcha, Denzel!” Harry said, laughing as he stood up and came out from behind his desk to hug his old friend. Pop was also laughing now and shaking his head. “Did Carson take your sandwich order at least?”

  “Yes, he did. At least he did that. And by the way you ain’t looking any younger yourself, my boy. The handsome young cowboy, with eyes of blue and six-foot two, who I met in the Academy many years ago, is now a tad worn around the edges. And do I see some gray hairs in that thinning head of…?”

  “Are you quite finished, Denzel?”

  “For now, Hoppy,” Pop said with a grin referring to his old friend with the nickname he had bestowed on him in their rookie days.

  “Good. We’ll eat and chat about old times. I want you to hang around for my two o’clock meeting. Walt Kobak, John McKee and Inspector Carl Petersen are coming over on something they say is urgent.”

  “The goddamned terrorists again?”

  “Could be,” said Harry. “We’ll find out soon.”

  “Why do you want me there?”

  “To say hello to old friends of course, but also for your opinion on whatever they’re going to tell us.”

  “You still value my opinion?”

  “Certainly.”

  “All right, put me back on the Job.”

  “Wh-a-a-t?”

  “I’m bored out of my mind. This retirement gig is bullshit. I just came back from two months in Florida. I hate Florida. Do you know what’s in Florida? I’ll tell you—old people—thousands of old farts who can’t drive and who eat their dinner at four o’clock in the goddamned afternoon and…”

  “Pop! Slow down. I got the message.”

  “You’ll take me back, right?”

  “Does your wife know you’re here asking this?”

  “Never mind about Vera. Are you, or are you not, going to put me back to work?”

  “No, I am not.”

  “Why?”

  “I cannot.”

  “Why?”

  “You might be able to return if you were under the mandatory retirement age, but I believe you have slipped past the magic number of sixty-three. Have you not?”

  “So what? You’re the goddamned PC, even though you got the
job by political luck. You got a lot of power. You can do this for an old friend.”

  “I have quite a bit of power regardless of how I got this job, but it doesn’t extend to usurping civil service law. I’m sorry, Pop. I just can’t do it.”

  Pop slumped into a chair and Carson entered with the sandwiches. “Would you like a soda or coffee, Mr. Hunter?” he asked.

  “Soda will be fine, Inspector.”

  They chewed their sandwiches in silence for awhile. Pop took a swallow of his soda and said, “So you can’t do anything for me. Is that it?”

  “I didn’t say that. I said I couldn’t return you to the Force.”

  “Do you think Walt Kobak could get me on the FBI?”

  “Their retirement age is fifty-nine.”

  “That’s it? I’m just too old for anything? A useless piece of shit condemned to sit out my days doing nothing?”

  “Oh, woe is me,” Harry said. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. I’ll get you a job if you want one.”

  “Doin’ what? Sweeping your office?”

  Harry sighed and shook his head. “No, you’re probably too old to do that, too. How about a job in private security as an investigator? For Sheldrake Associates?”

  “The biggest private security outfit in the city? Isn’t that where you were working when you were named commissioner?”

  “Right.”

  “They’ll take an old guy like me?”

  “If I say to take you on, they will do so—regardless of age, color, religion, nasty attitude or resemblance to movie stars.”

  Pop relaxed and said, “Thanks, Hoppy, I appreciate what you’re doing for me.”

  “They’ll appreciate you. You will be a great asset to their firm. I’ll make the call before the two o’clock meeting.”

  They finished their sandwiches and Harry glanced at the clock on the wall. “We have fifteen minutes,” he said, reaching for the phone. “Let me see if I can reach Drake or Shelton.”

  Bill Shelton picked up his private line, and after they exchanged pleasantries, Harry got right to the point. “I’ve got a retired first grade detective in my office in need of a job. I vouch for him completely. He is one of the best, if not the best investigator I ever had the pleasure of working with. He…”