At the top of the stairs, Bhiren burst through the doorway and fell on both knees, tearing his pants on the grass and concrete pathway running along the East River far south of the Brooklyn Bridge. The pathway was across from the upper harbor with the Statue of Liberty gleaming in the distance. Bhiren ran west across the narrow southern tip of Manhattan towards the Whitehall subway station and away from the East River. Aware of the possibility of detonation at any second, Brennan reached the top of the stairs out of breath with his heart racing. He ran in the opposite direction of al Mohammed, towards the water with the device raised in both hands over his head, yelling out to the hundreds of pedestrians to “get down.” Summoning all his strength, Nicky pitched the device almost one hundred feet out into the water down toward the harbor and away from the vessels traveling further upstream. Reversing field, Nick immediately turned and ran once again after al Mohammed. Nick could hear the approaching sirens but knew he couldn’t wait. Bhiren will now go down in a firefight and take some cops and innocent civilians with him if he is given a chance.
Al Mohammed, now running out of options and bleeding badly from his right armpit, with his gun in his left hand, crawled behind a large white box truck covered in scribbled graffiti parked along the curb line. Nick, running inland, away from the water, heard a deafening explosion, like an enormous concussive boom of thunder or the deep resonant sound from the barrel of an enormous cannon. The loud, rumbling explosion occurred behind him just as he spied al Mohammed’s torn and mud-covered exposed pant legs beneath and behind the big vehicle. “He finally detonated the damn thing,” Nick whispered to himself with a small sense of relief, knowing that no boats or people were near its deadly report.
Nicky ran towards the killer thinking about the number of rounds still in his pistol. Three, maybe four. Pulling up on the other side of the big vehicle, protected by the large rear tire, Brennan peeked under the truck and again saw the ripped and dirty fluttering pants being worn by the gunman. Suddenly a shot rang out. Bhiren, still somewhat vibrant, had attempted to hit Nick as he looked under the truck. In response, like he was taught in the police academy, Brennan fired his gun, parallel to the ground, skipping two rounds on the asphalt roadway and striking Bhiren’s leg. With his left calf muscle pierced by the bullets, al Mohammed fell backward to the sidewalk firing in the air. Looking over his shoulder, he turned his unsteady aim on a crowd running away from the gunfight. Nick rushed around the back of the vehicle, moved up the side, threw himself against the large metal container to support his motion, took quick and steady aim and shot the killer twice in the face. Bhiren al Mohammed threw his blood-covered head back and died with his dark, evil eyes wide open looking at the sky. Brennan looked at his watch—it was 9:32, 1:32 Zulu.
Within a minute blue and white NYPD police cars with waling high-pitched sirens were pulling up all around Brennan. He stood with his hands open above his head in an act of deference and compliance, understood universally by cops, with his empty pistol at his feet. Nick, his heart pounding, was completely exhausted and was staring at “The Lady in the Harbor” as the officers, with their guns drawn, carefully approached him.
“Don’t move!” multiple officers ordered as they began to frisk the FBI operations specialist.
****
At One Police Plaza, NYPD headquarters, Nick was met by ASAC Dave Weill, Jack Mason, Kristin Roberts and Bob Phillips.
“Nick, you got him. You were right, I was wrong. You did a great job!” Mason said as he hugged Brennan, sitting in the brightly lit barren interrogation room on the seventeenth floor.
“Nicky that was fabulous!” Kristin chimed in as she put her arm around her colleague.
“Just lucky, I just got lucky. By the way, I didn’t get lucky when it came to interrogation rooms. Do they have to interview me so far up in the building?” Nick said with a slight smile.
The ASAC took over as a police chief from the detective bureau was entering the room. “Nick that was a very courageous act— it was frigging great! I am putting you in for an AG award and any other goddamn medal I can think of, but right now I want you to explain to Chief Hayes what happened,” he said, smiling and pointing at a big, burly gray-haired man in an expensive dark blue suit.
Nick looked at the imposing figure and told the chief the whole story as it related to the pursuit in the subway, but hesitated before answering any questions dealing with any classified material—sources and methods. More than once Brennan was compelled to ask, “Mister Weill, can I answer that question?”
When the interview was completed, the chief asked Nicky to submit a statement in summary form detailing the events of the day.
“Nick, I will be the lead investigator on this shooting, and I have to submit your statement to the DA, but rest assured this will not even be presented to the grand jury. Your use of force was completely justified, I will vouch for that. Sadly, we lost one of our great young officers today, but you got her killer. Well done, young man!”
“Thanks, Chief. I hope there is a media blackout on this. My wife and kids are out of town, and I’d like to be with them when they hear about it.”
Weill interrupted, “Nick, the fact that you got Bhiren al Mohammed is not going to be disclosed. We will hide his death from all his radical friends for as long as we can. We may find a profit in that. If his cohorts don’t know he was killed, maybe we can exploit their ignorance and get some important information. For now, no one will know the FBI was involved in any way in the subway shooting or the Battery gunfight. We have already gotten to the motorman, he is a closed-mouth patriot.”
“Thanks Mr. Weill. Thanks again, Chief.”
“You are welcome, Nick. By the way, we have to take your pistol until I complete my investigation. Do you have any other guns at home?”
“No, chief, that’s it. Now can I write the summary, go back to my office and bring this day to a close?”
“Yes. I will be in touch,” said Chief Hayes.
****
Back at 290 Broadway, Team 1 collected at the SCIF to congratulate Nick, critique the mission and bathe in the enormous credit Team 1 would surely get for disposing of Bhiren al Mohammed with “great prejudice” as the FBI lawyers would later say. When Brennan entered the room, he was treated to a standing ovation that lasted for two full minutes. Mason asked Nick to explain the whole thing.
“Nicky,” Cleary asked, “how the hell did you figure the message out?”
“It just struck me after talking to John Planner. After I figured out the location, it started to occur to me. Planner made me realize I was getting the date and time wrong. I realized they had created a simple battlefield code.”
“What do you mean?” Larry Ford asked.
“Well, just look at it. ‘+0305361891’ the plus sign was the symbol for the bomb I figured that out early on, the date followed 0305 was 3 May using the European way of numerically expressing the calendar. I first thought it was March fifth, our way of writing it. Well, anyway, the 36 with the help of my wife was the evil location 36th Street. 18 is the letter R in numerology, the R train, and 9 and 1 are the local times for the act of terrorism in New York and Greenwich Mean Time—Zulu Time, which is different than London time in the spring, summer and early fall when all the clocks go ahead. Then Kristin did the quick open-source Internet check which confirmed the location and time involving those Catholic school kids.”
“Interesting,” said Ford, “but what about the message between Mahesh and Khan ‘54/311+3/124/34’ on the computer?”
“Pretty much the same, Larry. As you know, the 54 is the numerical value of the name Mahesh. Khan’s value is 34. Together they are the receiver and the sender. Three and 11 are the times GMT and New York, again during daylight savings, for the telephone call. The plus is the symbol for the bombing to occur in three days, and the times are 12 noon New York and four in the afternoon Zulu.”
“Nick, what about when Mahesh sent ‘72/49/86’ to Mohammed?” Kristin asked.
<
br /> “We had that about right too. As we knew, it was a request for a telephone call from Mohammed, numerically 72, to Tanweer, numerically 86. The 49 was the local time in Stanstead, Quebec: four and nine Zulu.”
“You are pretty damn good!” Al Franks announced, looking at the group as everyone sat in awe.
“Not so, if I was any good I would’ve gotten it right the first time. It was trial and error. Without Joann and Planner we’d be cleaning up body parts in the East River,” Brennan said, looking down at his watch. “Shit, look at the time. Jack I have to make an 8 o’clock bus at the Port Authority terminal if I’m going to get up to Great Barrington before midnight.”
“No sweat. I’ll drive you there myself, Nick, let’s go,” said the boss.
Nick ran to his desk and called Joann in Massachusetts. “Jodie, hi, can you pick me up at the bus station in South Egremont at eleven thirty? It’s a little late, I know, but Michael can watch Elizabeth, or I can walk to the house. It’s only…”
“Yeah, I know, a mile and a little more. No way, I will be waiting for you there. By the way, Michael is staying with a friend’s family in downtown Great Barrington for the night. I’ll take Elizabeth with me to the bus stop or have Tom and Carol watch her. Maryann and Julie aren’t up here; they stayed back home with their grandma. Hey, Nicky, there was a shooting and a big explosion in New York today, do you know anything about it?”
“Yeah, some, I’ll tell you about it when I get there. See you in a few hours.”
****
Passing through the bus gates at the Port Authority terminal, Nick couldn’t help but think about what the early business day had entailed. It had all started with a pleasant phone conversation with John Planner, then a frightening train ride, followed by a harrowing trip through a subway tunnel and finally had erupted into gunfire on a crowded street in the Battery. I am going to get on that bus and just relax, he vowed.
Nick, pent up, was unable to sleep. He tried and even dozed, but no luck. Tired but restless, he realized. Riding up into the Berkshire Mountains into the blackness of the surrounding dark forest, Brennan looked down at his wristwatch. Wow, we must be ahead of schedule. I’m going to call Joann and have her pick me up fifteen minutes early. Reaching into his empty suit jacket pocket, he realized he left his cell phone plugged into his charger back at the office. In his haste to make the bus, Nicky made himself incommunicado.
Chapter 17
Steven Clinton looked down the white gravel road as he slowly drove by. In the headlights, a big silver mail box with the names DeBoer and Brennan written in black cursive boldly stood out on a pale yellow wooden post at the entrance to the long driveway. The lights from two houses were visible to the north in the distance. Clinton continued east on Route 23 for a half mile, briefly daydreaming, then uncertain and finally excitedly thinking about what was to come. Suddenly he made a sloppy and unsteady U-turn and headed westbound. The son of a bitch might have a gun. I have to be careful, he thought as he passed the driveway a second time.
Clinton rode about a quarter of a mile, turned off the headlights and made a left into a dark roadway covered with a canopy of tall trees. After about four hundred feet he pulled to the right and parked the big Oldsmobile off onto the thick, deep grass. He reached into the back seat and retrieved a flashlight, needle nose pliers, a hammer, a roll of duct tape and a small sawed-off shotgun. Steven put all the items into a small black tool bag he pulled from under the front seat.
Clinton then quietly opened the car door, got out and went to the trunk and took out a black, long-sleeved sweatshirt and a dark baseball cap. He put the shirt on over his white tee shirt and pulled the hem down to meet his black jeans to completely conceal the undershirt. He put the cap on his head and pulled it down tightly.
Walking with a distinctive limp up the dark road and turning right on Route 23, Clinton stayed in the shadows provided by the trees in full bloom. The only light cast through the moving leaves on the road was an occasional passing car and the lampposts, each erected every two hundred feet or so on alternating sides of the highway.
When Clinton reached the mailbox, he stopped and sat down in thought across the street in a dark clump of stout, thick bushes which ran slightly downhill away from the entry road. Perhaps five hundred feet long, he estimated the length of the driveway. He studied the layout and remembered the satellite image of the large compound he had seen on the Internet.
There were two cars parked near the buildings obvious in the projected lights from the houses, one on the far left and the other on the right. Clinton stood up and looked both ways to avoid any approaching traffic that might witness his presence. He stood in the shadows for a moment, planning his next move.
Steve ducked down to conceal his enormous frame as he lumbered across the barren roadway towards the gravel driveway. Once on the property, Clinton’s dark clothing camouflaged his profile and movement. As he had hoped, he was well hidden in an open area and far away from the prying eyes of neighbors or motorists. Staying off the gravel, Clinton, in spite of his pronounced disability, stepped silently toward the carriage house. Within four minutes he was in front of the first structure.
From the front of the building he looked up and noticed a light on in a room off to the left and he saw the blue glow from a television screen in the room to the right. He walked up the front steps softly. His heart was pounding with adrenalin-fueled excitement as it had at the Bayside so many years before.
Quietly, Clinton looked through the upper panes of the main door and saw a man, probably DeBoer, he thought, seated on a couch looking at a TV. That’s definitely not Brennan, he reasoned, he must be next door. He saw no one else. Clinton opened the unlocked screen door and tried the interior doorknob—it was locked. He reached into his bag and took out the tape and unraveled a twelve-inch length and wrapped it around his right hand. He took out the shotgun, which had been sawed at both ends and resembled a large pistol, and placed it in his left hand. Punching his empty hand through the lowest panel of glass, he reached in and opened the door as the startled Tom DeBoer stared in shock for a second or two.
Clinton threw the hollow wooden barrier aside and raised the gun as DeBoer put his head down and ran at Clinton to tackle him. The intruder took downward aim, fired with a loud blast and struck Tom in his left shoulder and upper left arm. DeBoer was thrown back onto the couch with an open wound of torn flesh running down his upper left side.
Suddenly, Carol ran from the kitchen into the living area to see her husband bleeding and moaning. Clinton watched as she entered the room and hit Carol with a backhand motion across the face as she ran toward her husband. Knocked back, he struck her again and knocked her to the floor as she began to bleed profusely from the mouth. Her lips were cut and her front teeth were broken.
“Shut up, bitch, or you are both dead,” Clinton announced. “Get two goddamn chairs from the kitchen right now!” Clinton said, staring at Carol with frightening and hate-filled eyes.
“What do you want?” Tom said.
“I want you to shut up, you prick!”
Carol, crying with blood running down her chin, returned, carrying two small chairs and a dish towel. She dropped the chairs on the floor and placed the cloth on Tom’s shoulder. All she could think about were Maryann and Julie living the rest of their childhood without a mom and dad.
“Stand those chairs up right here and each of you sit down.”
The chairs were positioned away from the windows and door, behind the oversized couch. Clinton took the duct tape and first wrapped it around Carol DeBoer by securely attaching her smaller frame and hands to the chair with multiple loops of the flexible tape affixed to the back and seat. Clinton basically did the same with the wounded Tom DeBoer but then decided to add extra tape as a guarantee against escape.
“Where are your phones?” he demanded.
“Right there,” Carol said, nodding toward the kitchen wall.
Clinton pulled the landline off the w
all and cut the wire with the pliers.
“Where are your cell phones? And you damn well better have two.”
“They are both right on the coffee table,” Carol answered.
Clinton picked up both devices, reached into his bag, pulled out the small hammer and hurriedly smashed them both with the claw side of the tool.
“Where is your computer?”
“In the office room right there,” she answered, shaking her head towards the right side of the building.
After Clinton went into the small room with the hammer in hand, the DeBoers could hear the sound of breaking glass. He walked back into the room and yelled at Tom, “Do you have any guns?”
“No,” Tom responded as Carol looked away.
Clinton again left the room with the hammer in one hand and the shotgun in the other. Tom and Carol heard loud noises upstairs: the clashing of metal and wood, and Tom knew the intruder had found his automatic pistol in its locked container.
“What the hell is this, you lying sack of dog shit?” the madman screamed as he held up Tom’s gun. “You lie to me again and she dies. Where is the goddamn magazine?”
“In the top drawer in the desk right behind me,” Tom said in a low voice with a sense of helplessness and reservation. He figured this maniac wasn’t going to kill them after he went to all the trouble of tying them up. DeBoer had no reason to know that Clinton indeed planned on killing them right after he had gotten his long simmering need for revenge with Brennan out of the way. He just wanted to keep the noise to a minimum.
Clinton, with the shotgun and Tom’s loaded magazine and gun stuck in his waistband, went out the front door and disappeared into the night for a moment. Carol looked at Tom with big eyes and a quizzical look and then suddenly the lights throughout the house and the TV went out. The gunman returned with the lit flashlight glowing in hand and wrapped tape loosely over both Carol and Tom’s mouths. Closing the front door, he left the house once again, now with two guns and the bag full of equipment. He didn’t know that Tom and Carol were quickly able to force the tape off their lips by thrusting their tongues forward. Both, in low, stuttering voices, began to discuss the situation in the midst of panic.
Once a Noble Endeavor Page 28
