Grale stopped his story and climbed a ladder to a wide but low-ceilinged tunnel that required they crawl as he led them in. “Quiet, please, from this point on,” he whispered to Jojola. “Anyway, most New Yorkers know the story of Mr. Beach and his clandestine subway, which worked, but due to Boss Tweed’s machinations never went any farther.”
Reaching a spot twenty yards in, Grale carefully lifted a sheet of metal from the ground and scooted it to the side. “What only a few know is that Mr. Beach built another, somewhat longer prototype—two blocks long that runs almost directly beneath the triangle created by the intersection of Broadway and Seventh Avenue from Forty-fifth to Forty-seventh Street—Times Square,” he whispered. “He died before he could put it to use and his team sealed it off; his grand project was forgotten. However, someone has discovered this long-lost tunnel and is planning to put it to their own less-benign uses. Here, have a look.”
Jojola crawled to the place where Grale had removed the metal sheet. He looked down, letting his eyes adjust to the dimly lit interior of another large tunnel.
Now he understood the presence of the armed troop of men in the tunnel. More than a dozen such men were below him no more than twenty-five yards away—some of whom appeared to be Middle Eastern, including some in traditional headgear wrapped to hide their faces; others were young blacks. They carried weapons, and the Arabs were obviously training the black men on how to conduct a defensive delaying action to protect whatever was at the other end of the tunnel.
Grale tugged on his sleeve and motioned him to follow as he crawled farther up along the top of the other tunnel. Behind them the bodyguards slid the sheet metal over the viewing hole.
At the far end of the tunnel, Grale removed another cover and motioned for Jojola to look through the opening. Below him more men were rolling fifty-gallon drums into place, hundreds of barrels it seemed, though it was tough to tell in the light thrown by the workers’ lanterns. Above the center of the drums, a scaffold had been erected on which several foot-locker-size boxes had been placed.
Jojola backed away from the view port; then he and Grale retreated until they stood again in the access tunnel. “What are they doing?” he asked.
“We suspect that the barrels contain fuel oil to be mixed with those bags of ammonium nitrate you could see stacked up in that far corner,” Grale said. “As best we can tell, there’s between three and four hundred fifty-pound bags, which is about four times the amount Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols used to blow up the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City. As I told you, that tunnel runs directly beneath the north end of Times Square.”
“They’re planning on blowing up Times Square?” Jojola said, alarmed.
Grale nodded. “I’d guess on New Year’s Eve,” he said. “The blast, according to one of our former engineers—a good man but a cocaine addict who suffers from extreme paranoia and simply can’t handle the up-world—should be enough to blow through the other subway lines that bracket Times Square and create one hell of a hole. And I mean that literally: fires, buildings collapsing, and tens of thousands of people trapped in the middle of it. The initial blast will probably cause the most casualties, but it’s not necessarily the worst of it.”
Stunned, Jojola heard himself ask, “What would that be?”
“Two weeks ago, we found two dead men—bearded, obviously Arabs—at the bottom of a pit,” Grale said. “They showed all the signs of having died of radiation poisoning. We believe they were probably the couriers who brought the material into the country.”
“The material?” Jojola asked. Then the answer dawned on him. “The dirty bomb in my dream. They’re planning on blowing up Times Square and releasing radiation into the air.”
“Yes, killing thousands more and making Manhattan unlivable for the next hundred years,” Grale said. “Of course, the real purpose of the atomic weapon is to sow fear. The use of such a weapon on a city in the United States will cause widespread panic.”
As he spoke, Grale’s voice grew increasingly prophetic, and he began to pace. The change disturbed Jojola. He’s losing it.
“The economy will plunge,” Grale continued. “Our allies will be afraid to do business with us for fear that it could happen to them.”
“You’ve got to tell the police,” Jojola said.
Grale stopped short, his eyes blazing as he turned toward Jojola. “I’m sorry, my brother, but we can’t do that.”
I was afraid this is where that was leading, Jojola thought. “Why not? As you said, thousands will die. How can you let that happen?”
“We are aware of that,” Grale said. “But if we tell the police, they will discover our down-world and that will be the end of us.”
“What does that matter when so many lives are at stake?” Jojola said, aghast.
“Maybe not much to you,” Grale said. “But everything to those who live here.”
“But they’ll all die, too, if that bomb goes off.”
“If we don’t succeed in stopping them ourselves, then yes,” Grale said. “We don’t have the strength of arms to take them on. So we’ve been trying to narrow the odds a few at a time.”
“The beheadings.”
“Yes, those and others down here where our little life-and-death struggles go on unnoticed by the up-world. We kill them. They kill those of us they catch. The beheadings are our attempt to terrorize the terrorists into abandoning their plans and hamper their recruiting efforts. Some of the more superstitious have even taken to calling me Shaitan; I think it’s rather ironic that such evil men would call me Satan. Or sometimes they use the fallen one’s true Islamic name, Iblis.”
Grale sighed as if talking about recalcitrant school bullies. “They are right about one thing: they refer to the ‘others’—the so-called morlocks, though I prefer the term demons—as rajim, the cursed ones. Unfortunately, they have been led to believe that our efforts in the up-world are the work of a few racists, and their plans are going forward.”
“Then you have to go to the police, get help. Surely, something can be done for your people.”
“Like all the wonderful things that are done for the homeless and insane now?” Grale said. “No, my friend, we will defeat them ourselves, or we will all die. As the Muslims say, In sha’ Allah, ‘God’s will be done.’”
“What do you mean?” Jojola said angrily. “How could God want such an evil thing?”
“It isn’t a matter of what God wants, but it is all according to His plan. It’s the beginning of the end…of Armageddon…the United States will react to this act by lashing out and attacking Muslim countries that have any link at all to Islamic extremists. Other western countries will either join them or, fearing a U.S. hegemony in the Middle East and a threat to their oil supplies, will support the Arab nations. Muslims around the world will react, entire generations will dedicate themselves to suicide bombings. Starting with the Middle East, the world will convulse in flames and death. As it foretells in the Bible, the nations of the world will divide along the lines of those on the side of God and those on the side of Satan. The temple will be restored in Jerusalem and the Messiah will return to establish his kingdom on Earth.”
“You’re insane,” Jojola said.
“Probably,” Grale said. “But I might also be right.”
“If you won’t go to the police, I will.”
“I thought you’d probably say that, John,” Grale replied. “But I’m afraid I can’t allow it.”
Jojola heard the sound behind him, but too late. A blow struck him on the side of the head and then the world went black.
24
Monday, December 27
KARP STOPPED AT DIRTY WARREN’S NEWSSTAND OUTSIDE 100 Centre Street and regretted it immediately when the man shouted, “Morning, Karp. Did you have a…damn shit…great Christmas?”
“Great, Warren. And you?” He really wasn’t in the mood for light, epithet-filled conversation. Kipman had called Sunday, apologized for bothering
him at home, then asked for a meeting between just himself, Karp, and Rachman. The way old Hotspur said it, Karp knew it wasn’t going to be pretty. So he’d decided that they’d meet Monday. It was officially a legal holiday because Christmas had fallen on a Saturday, but he preferred that the rest of the staff not be around if things got ugly.
“Went and saw my…oh crap…mother in Queens. Thanks for asking.”
Karp turned to go, but Warren called out to him. “Okay, smart guy, in It’s a Wonderful Life, what film is showing at the movie theater in Bedford Falls as George runs down the street?”
Answering Warren’s film trivia questions had been an ongoing contest between the two of them for years. Warren had yet to stump him and wasn’t going to with this question. “Too easy, pal, you’re slipping,” he said. “I just watched It’s a Wonderful Life with the family Christmas night.”
“So what’s the answer…bitch?”
“The Bells of St. Mary’s,”Karp replied. He expected Warren to be disappointed and launch into one of his expletive-enhanced tirades, but instead the little man just smiled.
“Okay, genius,” he said, “but what’s the other connection between the two films?”
“Now that’s a good one,” Karp admitted. “How many tries do I get?”
Warren grinned. “No way, Karp. This isn’t some…piss shit…guessing game. You either know or you don’t.”
“Oh, well in that case…Henry Travers, who played Clarence the Angel in Wonderful Life, also starred in Bells as Horace P. Bogardus.”
“Goddammit!” Warren howled. “It’s not…fuck you…natural for someone to have all that crap swimming around in his head.”
“Have a great day, Warren,” Karp said.
“Don’t look so smug,” Warren grumped. “Son of a bitch.”
“Warren…”
“Can’t fucking prove nothin’.”
Inside the Criminal Courts building the Streets of Calcutta were deserted. The eighth floor was even quieter, and there was no one in his office when he walked in. He breathed a sigh of relief. At least at the office he could get a moment’s respite from the twins’ haul of new Game Boys, PlayStations, and Xboxes and their never-ceasing electronic noises that he was sure had been invented to drive parents insane.
The day after Christmas had dawned bright and clear, which seemed a good thing until Karp felt the bitter cold that accompanied it as he led his clan to Rockefeller Center to skate beneath the tree.
The outing proved to be just the ticket to shake the family’s melancholy over Marlene’s parents and the disappearance of John Jojola. They’d gone home and feasted on leftovers from the party, then called it an early night.
Karp was already in bed when Marlene walked in from the bathroom in a new silk robe. “I just remembered,” she said, “that I forgot to give you that early Christmas present.”
“It’s never too late,” he said.
Marlene let the gown fall open. Apparently she’d spent quite a bit at Victoria’s Secret. “Care to unwrap one more?” she asked.
“I think I might die…but what a way to go,” he said.
“Hmmm,” she murmured, stalking him across the bed like her totem mountain lion. “I suggest you lie back then and let me do all the work. I wouldn’t want to overtax that poor old heart.”
The next morning as he was putting on his coat to leave for work, Marlene had slipped up to him and kissed him a little longer and a little warmer than the standard good-bye buss. “I love you, Butch Karp, and don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Feeling’s mutual, Marlene Ciampi. And, God willing, we’ll never have to find out what it means to be without each other.”
Walking to work, he’d wondered why he’d added, “God willing.” That wasn’t the sort of thing he normally said. He’d never believed that God would react one way or another based on superstitious addenda to conversations. Must be the season, he told himself.
In his office, Karp pulled the bear fetish Jojola had given him out of his pocket and placed it on his desk. He hoped it might make him feel wise, but mostly he felt grouchy as a grizzly when he walked into the conference room a half hour later.
Kipman and Rachman were already seated on opposite ends of the table, not speaking, just staring off into space. Karp took his usual seat.
“Okay, Harry,” he said. “Talk to me.”
Kipman adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat but did not look at Rachman. “In light of what just occurred with the Columbia basketball players’ case, I spent the weekend down here looking over the case of the People v. Alexis Michalik.”
“YOU WHAT!” Rachman seethed. “What gives you the right to second-guess—”
“Actually,” Kipman interrupted, “as this office’s chief appellate attorney, I have the right to vet cases where I might have concerns about future grounds for appeal. And you know that. After all, better to correct a problem before it’s a problem.”
Rachman sputtered she was so angry. “Concerns about future appeals? You sneaky little—”
Karp rapped on the table with his knuckles. “Rachel, please, Harry does have the obligation to prereview cases that he may have to defend later.” He asked Kipman to go on.
“Well, I have to say that I have some real concerns about the Michalik case.”
“Oh, my God.” Rachman started to say more but shut up after she looked at Karp, who gave her all the warning she needed with his legendary glare.
“For one thing, during a follow-up interview with the police, the complainant, Sarah Ryder, told a detective that when she ‘woke up’ from an apparently drug-induced sleep, she was naked and tied by her wrists to the legs of a couch. In that interview, she says it was at that point that Michalik removed his pants and, as she begged him to stop, he’d raped her. However, in her initial interview with the police, Ms. Ryder told the officer that Michalik was already raping her when she woke up. Nor was there any mention of attempts to dissuade the defendant.”
“Please,” Rachman sneered. “This is your big concern? She’s mixed up about at what point Michalik actually raped her? And did you ever think that maybe the first officer didn’t ask her if she’d told Michalik to stop?”
Kipman shrugged. “Perhaps, perhaps not. If I may continue…I am also wondering why we haven’t heard from you, during discussions of cases in this very room, that the complainant has a mental health history that may be relevant to these allegations.”
Rachman snorted. “Because it’s not relevant.”
“This includes having made false sexual assault allegations against another man in the past.”
“A mixed-up child, angry over her parents’ divorce and the mother’s subsequent remarriage to a man she didn’t like.”
“Also, apparently Ms. Ryder used to date a member of the New York Rangers hockey club. But when he broke up with her, she attempted suicide by swallowing a jar of pills.”
“A cry for help,” Rachman interjected, “from a young woman who’d been led to believe this man loved her. Then when he said it was over, she gave in to despair. Is that a crime? You want to talk about something that’s relevant to the case? How about an eyewitness who sees her in the building, disheveled and in tears? Then she tells him that she’s been raped. Or how about the roofies in the beer glass and in her blood tests? How about the doctor who says she has injuries consistent with forced sexual contact? And the rope burns on her wrists? All of it relevant, admissible in court, and consistent with her story.”
Kipman nodded. “No one disputes that there was probable cause for the arrest and that you have a strong case. And you’re right, the complainant’s medical history will probably…probably…not be allowed into evidence. However, it is relevant to us as we decide whether to go forward, if it is clear that this complainant lied to the investigating officers and to you.”
Rachman frowned. “What do you mean she lied? About what?”
“You’ll recall that during the rape examination
the doctor took swab samples from her body, and the investigating officer collected her clothing to be tested for body fluids. You’ll also recall that the complainant stated that she had not had any sexual relations with any other man, except the suspect, for a period of several months.”
“What about it?”
“Well, the reason I asked for this meeting is that the DNA test results came in late Friday afternoon,” he said. “The stain on the victim’s blouse was a match for the suspect.”
“You’re surprised?” Rachman smiled.
“Not about that,” Kipman said. “However, there was a small stain in her panties, almost too small to test, but enough. It was another semen stain…but not the defendant’s.”
Rachman sat silently for a moment, then slapped the table with her hand. “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “Her prior sexual history is not relevant.”
“No, but it is relevant that she lied,” Kipman said. “The defense will have copies of her statements, and they will have copies of the DNA reports. At the very least, they will have an argument in pretrial motions that if the victim lied about her sexual history, this information can be used to impeach her on the stand. It also gives them an opening to get into her mental health history, if they can demonstrate that she has established a pattern of false accusations and lies about sexual assaults.”
“The shield laws would never allow it,” Rachman countered.
“The shield laws are not absolute,” Kipman said.
“The very reason the shield laws were created was to make inadmissible these distractions,” Rachman said.
“Maybe, but the table’s been set,” Kipman said. “And we now have a complainant who we know has a history of making false accusations and lying. She lied about this case. It’s not just a question of what we can fight in court. As Butch says, we have an obligation to prosecute only when we have a moral certainty that we are right. I think there’s a real question of whether we have that moral certainty.”
Fury (The Butch Karp and Marlene Ciampi Series Book 17) Page 40
