THE WAVE: A John Decker Thriller

by J. G. Sandom

  Then, after Gemayel’s assassination, Israeli troops – ringing the Palestinian refugee camps of Sabra and Shatila – had allowed revenge-seeking Maronite militiamen into the shantytowns. More than 1,500 refugees were slaughtered, including hundreds of women and children. Including babies, El Aqrab remembered. The narrow muddy lanes were choked with broken bodies, splattered with blood. Israel was widely condemned and, later, Yuri Garron was found to be “indirectly responsible” for the carnage. Indirectly responsible! “You are running out of time,” said El Aqrab.

  “Why? Are you planning to go somewhere?” asked Seiden. “You have an appointment, perhaps?”

  “You could say that.”

  * * *

  The UH-60L Black Hawk transport helicopter emblazoned with the Knesset seal prepared to take off in Jerusalem. More than fifteen meters in length, with a speed of 360 kilometers per hour, the Black Hawk was powered by two 1,500 horse power General Electric T700 engines that sputtered and caught as the rotors started to spin.

  “What’s going on?” inquired the co-pilot.

  “No idea,” the pilot said. “Must be urgent to get these guys up at this hour.”

  Just then, a door burst open in the adjacent building. Three figures huddled together for a moment by the door. Then they dashed across the tarmac and ducked inside the helicopter. The ship rose steadily. She slid across the tarmac, reached transitional lift, and lifted herself into the air at 450 feet per minute.

  Chapter 6

  Thursday, January 27 – 5:38 PM

  Queens, New York

  They had been watching the apartment in Long Island City for just shy of a week now, from a squat across the street – John Decker, Jr., recently transferred to the Joint Terrorism Task Force (JTTF) in New York, and his partner Anthony Bartolo; plus a second team made up of Special Agents Williams and Kazinski, who kept an eye on the three suspects as they commuted to and from their jobs each day. On this particular Thursday night, the second team was back at the office for a lecture on criminal financial networks by an Intel specialist named Otto Warhaftig, attached to the JTTF from the Central Intelligence Agency as part of a new, interagency Homeland Security initiative.

  They knew the routines of the suspects intimately. Well . . . at least two of them. A Saudi Arabian by birth, the first was Mohammed bin Basra, a student, wanted for questioning by the FBI since the spring of 2002. The second, Ali Singh, was originally from Pakistan and worked for a local cab company. They had both been arrested once – for disorderly conduct at a mosque in Queens – but acquitted for lack of evidence.

  The third suspect remained unidentified, despite many attempts to follow him over the past few days. The agents had nicknamed him “Mecca” because he always seemed to be praying, facing Mecca.

  As they watched the apartment across the way, Bartolo kept up a running commentary about his fiancée, Angelina. He’d been trying to set Decker up with one of Angelina’s girlfriends for the past two weeks, to no avail. A blustery Italian kid from Hell’s Kitchen, Tony Bartolo was inconsolable. He was convinced that Decker needed to get laid, and Angelina’s high school girlfriend, Lissy, a Boricua, was just the thing: dark and voluptuous, with a dirty reputation that Bartolo knew was well deserved. “The best blowjobs in Hell’s Kitchen,” he repeated. Decker just ignored him. He liked his new partner but his infinite cajoling was beginning to wear thin.

  As Bartolo rambled on, he took his jacket off, his handgun and his phone, and began his endless regimen of sit-ups, push-ups and crunches. He was obsessed with his physique, vainer than any girl Decker had ever known. Yet his vanity was endearing. Bartolo was completely genuine. Indeed, he made a fetish of his self-absorption, displaying it for all to see. He was a handsome man: six feet three inches tall; thick, dark brown hair; broad-shouldered, with an iron stomach, in sharp contrast to his feminine red lips.

  When Bartolo was finally finished, he rolled in one smooth movement to his feet, grabbed his jacket and raincoat and gun, and started for the door. “More coffee?” he inquired.

  “Sure,” said Decker. “Black. No–”

  “Yeah, I know, I know,” Bartolo said, slipping on his holster. “Don’t get how you can drink it plain like that though. I mean, it’s no espresso.”

  “And I don’t know how you can stomach all that milk and sugar. It’s a wonder you’re not three hundred pounds, or more, the way you eat.”

  Bartolo laughed. “That’s why I’m so sweet,” he said, opening the door and stepping out into the hall. He caressed the raincoat draped across his arm. “And why you sleep alone at night.” With that he slammed the door behind him.

  Decker shook his head and returned to his surveillance. He had set up a Nikon D70 digital camera on a tripod with a telephoto lens. The suspects’ apartment was on the seventh floor of a nondescript pre-war, nine-story building just across the street. It was part of a whole row of rather run-down brick apartment buildings that stretched for almost eleven blocks. Decker took photographs of Mohammed bin Basra while the suspect used his PC in the living room. He couldn’t see the screen, not clearly anyway, despite the powerful lens; it was raining again. But he had seen and photographed the PC wallpaper before. It featured some kind of arabesque design and Arabic calligraphy that fascinated Decker. Indeed, curious for another perspective, a few days earlier he had even emailed copies of the images to some Islamic expert over at the CIA, who had promised to pass them on to NSA, who had . . . It was always the same, Decker thought. He likened it to skipping stones over black holes. He had yet to get a response to his email, and he doubted he ever would.

  With a deep sigh, Decker zoomed in a little closer. It was difficult to read but he took some pictures anyway. As Decker photographed the PC screen, he managed to make out a few brief words in Arabic that he’d already documented in his notebook: Pregnant she-camels. And then, more chilling still: When hell is stoked up. He sketched a corner of the arabesque design. The notebook was already full of images, stray pieces of the PC wallpaper rendered over time. He flipped the pages and the images fluttered into place, coalescing like a film strip. He hesitated at the final page. In the lower right hand corner of the wallpaper was a number, clearly visible: 540,000.

  Decker considered how they had first discovered the three suspects. The man on the PC, Mohammed bin Basra, had been linked to a scheme to sell stolen cigarettes tax free. Some of the profits had been funneled through bank accounts in Indonesia suspected of being connected to the Brotherhood of the Crimson Scimitar and other Islamic terrorist networks.

  Originally from Saudi, bin Basra first came to the United States in 1997, when he took undergraduate courses at Hunter College in New York. His father was relatively wealthy, involved in some kind of construction business back in Saudi. A few years earlier, bin Basra senior had been suspected of being associated with Al Qa’ida; the family had given money to a charity that turned out to be a front for the terrorist network. In 1999, Mohammed was arrested with Ali Singh and a youngster named Mohammed Qashir for disorderly conduct during a disturbance at a mosque in Queens, but the charges were dropped after his family made a sizeable contribution to the mosque. In 2000, he traveled to Afghanistan where – according to suspects imprisoned at Guantanimo Bay – he turned up at an Al Qa’ida training camp. Then, in the summer of 2002, although he was now wanted for questioning by the Bureau, bin Basra somehow managed to slip across the border into Canada. From there he traveled via Russia to Kazakhstan, where he underwent further training in explosives with a man named Gulzhan Baqrah, known associate of El Aqrab, the spiritual leader of the Brotherhood of the Crimson Scimitar. This was after the U.S.-led invasion had shut down all the Afghan training camps. Henceforth his whereabouts remained a mystery, at least until the cigarette heist.

  Suspect number two, Ali Singh, was born to a middle class family in Islamabad, Pakistan. Following graduation from a technical college, where he’d excelled, he worked as an electrical engineer in Islamabad from 1992 through 1995. He wa
s discharged, but the reasons were somewhat vague. He emigrated to the U.S. in 1996. When he couldn’t find work in his chosen profession, Singh got a job at the Imperial Taxi Company in Long Island City, Queens, and at a storage company in Flatbush. Not much was known about his past; his file was pretty thin. He’d been married briefly in 2000 but divorced within a year. Immigration and Naturalization Services said it was probably a marriage of convenience so that he could become a U.S. citizen. Like bin Basra, he was arrested for disorderly conduct during that incident in Queens, then released. He traveled to Germany and Russia in the spring of 2002, and to Kazakhstan later that same summer. He may have trained with Gulzhan Baqrah, but there was no hard evidence. Then he was implicated in the same black market cigarette scheme as bin Basra.

  Despite their status as fugitives and their recent identification after the cigarette heist, the FBI decided not to arrest the suspects. “Sunfish lead to bass,” the Special Agent in Charge intoned. Better to be patient and wait.

  Ali Singh and Mecca sat together on a sofa in the living room, watching something on TV. All of a sudden, Mecca got up, said a few words, put on his coat and headed toward the door. Decker whipped out his cell phone and called Bartolo. As soon as it connected, Decker heard the phone ring – on the chair immediately behind him! He spun about. There it was, glowing. He could hear the familiar theme song from The Godfather. His partner had forgotten his cell.

  * * *

  Bartolo entered the Happy Day deli to the tinkle of a bell. He walked up to the counter, said hello to the Korean man behind the bulletproof glass, and ordered two coffees – one black, one light and sweet. The deli smelled of Pinesol and old mothballs. Bartolo eyed a pack of brownies on a rack. One hundred and twenty calories, he read. About six minutes on the Stairmaster. Forget it, he thought. The Korean poured the coffees, capped them with lids and stuffed them into a small brown paper bag. Bartolo paid. “Thanks,” he said, and turned, and ran right into Mecca.

  For a moment they stared at one another. Then Bartolo said, “Excuse me,” and shuffled down the narrow aisle. Mecca stepped forward to the counter. He asked for half a pound of green tea, with scarcely an accent, as Bartolo headed for the door. Bartolo could feel the suspect staring at his back but he resisted the urge to turn. He ambled nonchalantly through the deli door. He made his way outside and risked a quick glance sideways through the window. Mecca was still staring at him. Bartolo shied away. He gazed at a silver-gray Toyota parked across the street. He strolled along the sidewalk, around the corner, and stopped to catch his breath.

  * * *

  Decker watched the men in the apartment get the call. It was Ali Singh who finally stood and answered it. He said something, turned and peered out through the window. Something was wrong. Decker picked up his infrared eavesdropper – a device that bounced a laser beam across the street and captured conversations from vibrations on the window glass – but since it was still raining, the voices were impossible to hear. Not even the noiseless PIN-Diode laser linked to a 500 mm lens could distinguish what was being said. Singh hung up the receiver. He barked something at bin Basra and then moved swiftly through the room, past the blank wall, into the bedroom where he began to pack up some belongings in a small black duffel bag. Decker swung the camera back toward the living room. Bin Basra still hovered by the personal computer. He typed furiously on the keyboard. Then he stood and made his way to the front hall. Singh joined him and they vanished.

  Decker leapt to his feet, grabbed his coat, and bolted out the door.

  * * *

  At exactly the same moment, the man known only as Mecca left the deli and sauntered through an alley toward his apartment building. Bartolo spotted him as soon as he had turned the corner. The Arab glanced about, hesitated for a moment, and then ran. Bartolo gave chase. Mecca tore into the lobby of the apartment building with Bartolo close behind. The suspect ducked into an elevator. The doors closed just as Bartolo stepped into the lobby. The agent threw himself against the elevator doors but he was just too late. The doors slammed shut. Bartolo smashed his hand against the console. He spun about. After what seemed like an eternity, another elevator descended, and Bartolo got inside. The elevator doors closed soundlessly behind him, with excruciating slowness, just as Decker dashed in from the street.

  Decker sprinted over to the elevators. Both were occupied, of course, ascending. He turned, searching frantically for the stairwell. There it was. In the corner. He saw the illuminated Exit sign, a livid red. He ran across the foyer, barged through the door, and started up the steps.

  * * *

  The elevator paused at the seventh floor and Bartolo jumped out. He checked the apartment first, then pounded up the stairs. He could hear foreign voices in the stairwell leading to the roof.

  “Bartolo?” Decker shouted from below.

  “The roof,” Bartolo shouted back. He had already reached the top floor of the building. The door leading out onto the roof was swinging closed. Bartolo drew his gun. He stepped up to the door, kicked it open, and threw himself onto the ground outside, rolling as he fell.

  The suspects were fleeing across the roof. He could see them running, rushing through the pouring rain. Bartolo spat, got to his feet and gave chase.

  They made their way across the glistening rooftops in a line, leaping from one apartment building to the next, scrambling over chimneys and lawn furniture and clotheslines and giant rolls of tarpaper in the rain. Bartolo closed on Mecca, the trailing suspect. All of a sudden, the Arab leapt across a chasm between two buildings, his arms waving in the air above him as if he were holding a trapeze. He landed roughly on the next rooftop and rolled. Bartolo followed without hesitation. He ran and jumped, but slipped at the last moment on the glistening parapet. He fell just short. The lip of the next building caught him on the chest with a loud thump, and he felt the wind knocked out of him. Bartolo kicked and struggled but to no avail; his body slid across the parapet and he found himself dangling from the roof, his legs waving in the empty air, his muscles straining. “Decker,” he cried. “Decker, help me. Help me!”

  * * *

  Decker appeared behind him on the other roof. “Hold on, Tony,” he shouted. “Don’t move.”

  There was a shot and Decker ducked. Mecca was firing at him. He had rolled behind a chimney and was taking potshots at him from the other roof.

  Decker shielded himself behind a set of chimney pots. “Hold on, I’m coming, Tony,” he shouted. “Just hold on.”

  Decker couldn’t see Bartolo any more; he was hidden by the chimneys. Then Decker noticed Mecca on the other roof. The Arab was approaching his partner slowly through the rain.

  Decker unholstered his gun – a double-action Beretta 92FS with a matte-black Bruniton finish. He aimed it at the Arab who continued to draw nearer and nearer, seemingly mindless of his obvious exposure. At first, Decker had the unreasonable feeling that he was going to pull the struggling agent to his feet. “Don’t move,” Decker shouted frantically. “Freeze. I said freeze!” But Mecca just ignored him. He leaned down over the parapet, as if to offer some assistance, eyeing Decker the whole time, reached out for Bartolo with his hand, and stabbed him in the back.

  Decker fired.

  The shot struck Mecca’s knife, blasting it from his grasp and up into the air. It spiraled out of sight. Mecca ducked and rolled away behind a low brick wall.

  Decker holstered his gun. He zigzagged madly across the roof, set his foot, and leapt across the wide divide. A bullet whizzed above him. He sailed and sailed and sailed, and finally hit the other roof. He pulled out his Beretta as he rolled. He aimed, but Mecca had already disappeared.

  The shooting had stopped.

  Then Decker saw him – tearing across the roof two buildings down, immediately behind his two companions.

  “Help me,” shrieked Bartolo behind him. His voice was desperate now. “John, for Christ’s sake, help me!”

  Decker ran back to his partner. He was about to reach down for h
is wrist when he saw the fingers come apart, like the splaying of a fan, and slip and disappear as Bartolo flattened out against the backdrop of the street, his arms and legs stretched out, his mouth, his eyes more pregnant with surprise and disbelief than with the terrible foreknowledge of his doom. He hit the sidewalk with a sickening thud, still looking up, the back of his head smashed inward like an uncooked egg, already fertilized and forming, the blood seeping out beneath him, mixing with the fallen rain.

  Decker squatted there on the edge of the parapet for a long time. He could not tear his eyes away. Somewhere, a woman screamed. Finally, as the rain ran down his collar and snaked around his neck, Decker got up and shook the water from his hair. He looked up at the night sky. In the unnatural glow of the streetlights, he could see raindrops falling out of nowhere, falling like liquid string around him, tying him down.

  Chapter 7

  Friday, January 28 – 5:12 AM