The president interrupted. “What’s this?”
For the second time today the blood rushed from Bill’s face. There, in the President’s hand, was Joey’s stupid counterfeit seal of the QuOG. Trying to read the expression of the man who stood down the Russians in the geopolitical poker bluff of all time over the sovereignty of the Georgian State was futile. The only sound Bill heard was the sound of the blood rushing through his ears.
“You know…I like it!” the President said as he put it back down on the desk. The he turned and snorted, “Football,” and walked out of Bill’s office, leaving the door open.
The giant sigh of relief that escaped from Bill’s lungs had a quick, sharp stop as he realized that Joey would never let him live this down.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Civil Rights And Wrongs
It was a field day for the press. An Al Qaeda operative was caught in Karachi, Pakistan with, of all things, a New York subway map in his possession. Immediately, the NYPD and other agencies went into prevent-defense. “Random Bag Searches” became the phrase du jour as subway stops became checkpoints. What followed was the expected torrent of outcries from every religious, racial, and civil liberties group. Instant polarization occurred between the conservative, if-you-have-nothing-to-hide-then-you-have-nothing-to-fear crowd and the liberal, how-am-I-going-to-smoke-some-weed-at-work-now group.
It all went away after a news cycle…until Thursday. That was when Ali Rashid, a.k.a. Rodney Albert, having not read the papers, tried to take the number 1 train from 50th Street to 34th Street/ Penn Station to take New Jersey Transit back to the Store and Lock. His senses tingled as he saw the two officers going through the bags of a blonde woman right ahead of the turnstile. It momentarily froze him. A New York City subway station has a constant wave of people coming and going. Therefore, someone stopped in his tracks creates eddies as scores of people start swirling around that person like water around a rock in a stream. The effect created a highlighted human circle around Rodney. Officer Levant Harris took immediate notice. His eyes met Rodney’s for the briefest of seconds then Rodney averted, turned, and climbed back up the stairs onto 7th Avenue.
“I’ll be right back, Phil,” Levant said to his partner as his hand rested on his standard issue Glock 9mm, steadying it in its holster as he took the stairs two at a time against the flow of entering commuters. On the street, he saw Rodney walking fast downtown. He weaved his way through the throngs of lunchtime workers, visitors, and street vendors. At 48th Street, for the first time, Rodney hazarded a look behind him. Levant startled him by being right there.
“Sir, would you step over to your right.”
“Why? Why you bother me? I not doing nothing.”
Note to anyone visiting New York during a heightened terror alert: do not, repeat, do not under any circumstances disobey a direct order from a member of law enforcement. This especially includes any lip…especially lip in broken Arabic-English. Just ask Rodney.
Before he knew what hit him, Rodney’s face was up against the brick wall of an office building, his arm twisted behind his back, his legs kicked apart, and his wrist smarting from the cuffs that crashed down on them. He was hearing but not understanding what the policeman was saying to him. “…silent, you have the right to an attorney…”
Midtown South was the cop house for that part of Manhattan. David Ginsberg, a proud member of the ACLU, was always poking around there looking for his “issue,” a tort or malfeasance of the law that would catapult him to the stratosphere of the great civil libertarians, the best known of which he shared a name with, if unfortunately not the blood. He felt as though he’d hit the lotto when Levant manhandled Rodney up to the sergeant’s desk for booking.
Within two hours, David had a court order releasing Rodney from a sympathetic judge, who just happened to once be his law professor at Columbia. One Police Plaza had made a political decision not to fight the judge’s order. The commissioner, the Mayor, the New York Visitors Bureau didn’t want to have a major brouhaha over the new subway searches unless this guy Rodney was caught with a weapon, a bomb, or Bin Laden’s baby picture in his wallet.
Levant punched his locker so hard he dented it when he heard the news that his bosses let his collar go. “They want us out there to find the bad guys. These creeps don’t wear it on their sleeve. It’s in the eyes, man, and I am telling you this guy was bad.” He told his sergeant, who then reminded Levant that he was a good cop with 27 years in, and that going up against the bosses was a surefire way to patrol Far Rockaway on foot in the winter.
The various papers and news outlets ate lunch and dinner on the story. Rodney had been referred to as an “immigrant” in the stories, which used as their angles that this was a case of racial and religious profiling. The far-left crowd started making allusions to Hitler’s storm troopers, Pol Pot’s ethnic cleansing, and the lynching parties in the south.
Finally, not being able to take it anymore, the commissioner went on one of the Sunday morning shows and made only two points. One was that the NYPD never released the ethnicity or religious affiliation of the alleged immigrant. That could only have come from the lawyer or the press. The second was that the arresting officer was black. He then gave a look that might have confused the rest of the country but every New Yorker knew meant so shove your racial profiling charge up your ass.
This sideshow aside, the big story nobody got was that the only concrete lead, the only tangible connection to the biggest assault and mass murder ever to be planned against any country, was allowed to walk out of police custody. It was a great feather in the cap of David Ginsberg.
?§?
Bill entered the Situation Room. Only Reynolds was there.
“What’s up, Ray?”
“NSA intercepted encoded traffic from a suspected terrorist cell node. They have not been able to decode the entire message, but two words are setting off alarms and I wanted you to know.”
“Thank you.”
“Roosevelt and Maghra.”
“Isn’t Maghra the name of the oil refinery where we found the nukes?” Ray was starting to catch on.
“Exactly.”
“Holy shit.”
“Double-xactly.”
“What’s the brain trust think?”
“Well, there’s a Roosevelt Island in New York City.”
“Sure. I got a buddy who lives on it, along with a lot of U.N. personnel.”
“Well, a nuke on the island would take out the U.N. buildings as well as most of the East Side.” Hiccock said as he opened his I-pad to a list. “There’s Roosevelt Raceway, Roosevelt Field Shopping Center, the Roosevelt Hotel in midtown.”
“There’s a Roosevelt Hotel in Paris, too. In fact, there are hundreds of places named Roosevelt, including dozens of schools and the Roosevelt Room upstairs.”
“You know, Ray, Bridgestone and Ross are in New York, from Paris. I feel pretty strongly that if they are here, Paris, Long Island, or even upstairs isn’t going to be the target. Roosevelt Island, right smack dab in the center of the East River. That sounds like a reasonable target.”
At the Store and Lock, Number 1 knew of the difficulties Number 3 had encountered in the subway. According to plan, he knew Number 3 was now hiding out in a Jersey City mosque where the blind Sheik had once presided and presently was little more than a meeting hall for devout Muslims to pray and discuss the Koran and all the other aspects of the religion of peace and love. Those good, law abiding Muslim-Americans had no idea that below the building was a safe house, initially built to house the conspirators of the first World Trade Center bombings back in the early nineties. This chamber was so well hidden that the federal agents who swept the building in late ‘93 never discovered it. Therefore, the place where the enemy had already looked offered the best place to hide Number 3.
Number 1 thought of having Number 3 killed because he was now a loose end and could compromise the entire operation. Rodney’s job was practically done. All that
remained was the actual location managing of the prep day and that could be handled by Number 5. Number 1’s only hesitation came from the fact that Number 3 also had a backup role on the helicopter should Number 8 be injured or killed. There was not enough time left to train someone else. He’d have to think about this and pray to Allah for wisdom.
Soon it came to him, a plan so perfect that it was surely the idea of God himself, delivered to him and his mission as a sign of invincibility.
Rousting a federal judge at 4 a.m. is never a good idea, but Brooke Burrell was under orders to execute with all due haste, and that doesn’t mean wait till the judge has had her coffee. Now, with search warrant in hand, she waited at the ramp at Butler Aviation as the little G5 government jet rolled to a squealing stop. The stairs uncoiled from the doorway before the plane lurched to a halt. Joey Palumbo and Peter Remo jogged down the steps and right to her.
“Agent Burrell, Peter Remo,” Joey said over the noise of the plane’s engine winding down.
“Good to meet you, Mr. Remo,” Brooke said, her hair whipping her face.
Peter’s mouth was literally open. He knew they were meeting an F.B.I. agent, but he never considered that a woman would greet them. Especially this blonde in the dark blue blazer with sunglasses and either a killer of a great body or a form fitting bulletproof vest. They drove in a small fast motorcade to Jackson Heights.
Peter hadn’t been to Kasiko’s apartment since his last visit in ’98. Everything looked the same in the still meticulously-cared-for apartment, now in the care of a part-time housekeeper hired by Kasiko’s nephew. For a second, Peter dwelled on the long dining room table where he, at the age of fourteen, sat with some of the greatest minds in the world prognosticating scientific theories that today are accepted and well-known fact. “Look for a lawyer’s briefcase,” Peter said, snapping out of it. “He always kept stuff in one of those.”
“Got it,” Brooke said, coming into the living room from the bedroom. They dumped the contents on the couch. A quick examination revealed nothing but legal papers, leases, deeds, citizenship documents, and the like. No key code.
A knock on the door announced the local N.Y.P.D. forensic team. Now the dismantling of the apartment would begin in earnest. As they filtered in, Joey and Brooke asserted their control of the scene and issued orders on what to look for.
Peter finally drummed up enough courage. “Er… Excuse me, Agent Burrell?”
“Yes, Mr. Remo?”
“Can I ask you a professional question?”
“Shoot.”
“Do you wear a bulletproof vest?”
“I do.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks.”
“When I am on a case or stakeout. But not now.”
“Oh… Oh well then, I understand.”
“Mr. Remo?”
“Yes?”
“They’re real. Can you get over that? ‘Cause I did long time ago,” Brooke said walking away from Peter.
“I hadn’t noticed, but good for you, detective…”
“Agent!” She corrected not even looking at him.
Feeling 10 years old, Peter tried to make himself invisible. He gravitated over to the mantle above the fireplace. Thirty brilliantly bejeweled eggs on spun gold stands adorned the entire width. In a further attempt to avoid making eye contact with the gorgeous agent, he focused on the minutiae of the artisan craftsmanship. He picked one egg up in his hand and rotated it. The work was exacting and delicate. The blue one caught his eye next. It was heavier than the other was.
The crashing sound turned Brooke around. When she saw the smashed egg on the floor, she looked up to Peter. “That’s about 20 grand in intentional damages that I am going to have to spend a few hours filling out a report on.”
Peter bent down and pulled a key from the wreckage. “You can’t make a nuclear omelet without breaking an egg.”
Joey approached them. “A safe deposit key.” He grabbed it and checked it out. “It’s foreign… could be Swiss.”
“I thought you said we were looking for a key code?” Brooke said.
“Key code, Key to code, or Key where code is. All within the error of Hungarian translation in broken English.
Joey turned to Brooke. “Have them finish up here by the numbers. We have either found it or found where Kasiko kept his darkest secrets.”
On the ride back to the copter, Brooke was in the back seat next to Peter. Joey was riding shotgun as another agent drove. Peter looked upset about something.
“What is it, Mr. Remo?” Brooke asked.
“Call me Peter, please. It’s just that these guys must be monsters. Kasiko was a hero and no pushover. Even at 80 years old. He was really nice to me, and how Brodenchy — or whatever he is calling himself now days — could have him killed is mind-boggling. Kasiko saved his life and his brother’s life. Protected them in Europe and their committee here in America. What kind of animal can turn like that on a friend and protector?”
“Unfortunately, Peter, sometimes religious fervor or dogma can allow a person license to do the most heinous things in the name of their cause,” Brooke said trailing off in self-conscious censorships over the few “un-lady-like” things she had done to protect her country and its citizens.
“If this key leads to the code, you will have gotten even with the killers big time, Pete.” Joey added.
A silence came over the car after that. Peter eventually broke it when he leaned over and said in low tones to Brooke, “Sorry about before. You know, the vest thing. I didn’t mean any offense by it.”
“No offense taken, Peter.”
Brooke looked out the window and added with a smile, “Boob man.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Big Stick
Seaman First Class Orville Hayes was weary and bleary-eyed. He had stayed up all night studying for his petty officer exam. Still, he reported for duty as starboard fantail lookout at dawn. As he scanned the horizon for anything that wasn’t wet or blue, he swore that as soon as his watch was over he’d hit the bunk and catch some heavy ‘z’ instead of attending the steel beach picnic the crew had planned for tonight.
At first, he panned right over it…then he swept back. He rolled through the focus of his Nikon binocs and, when the image was sharp, he saw that there was something out there. He flipped down his polarizing sunglasses and saw the bouncing bow of a zodiac type boat. No, wait, two zodiac boats heading right at the “Big Stick” right out of the wash of the rising sun reflecting off the inky blue waters of the Persian Gulf. He pressed his chest-mounted, sound-powered microphone and reported to the captain of the watch.
“Sir, this is starboard fantail. I have two bogeys, surface craft, incoming direct vector. I make them to be zodiac type, sir.”
“Roger that, starboard.”
A claxon horn sounded, and the P.A. system called for “Force Protection.” This was a call to stations just shy of battle stations, in which the known threat was not a heavy displacement surface or submerged ship or an airborne intruder like a plane or missile.
Immediately, the radio shack started hailing a warning on all frequencies and in many Gulf languages. “Craft approaching U.S. warship. Turn away or you will be fired upon. Repeat: turn away or you will be fired upon.” Ten guns up and down the side of the “Big Stick” took a bead on the incoming boats. The mostly-rubber crafts were essentially impervious to sonar or surface radar scan. So Orville used the low-tech triangulator and read the distance as 700 yards out. He started broadcasting the distance in 50-yard intervals.
Out of the corner of his eye the U.S.S. Donald Cook, a guided missile destroyer, was making full-steam to intercept and shield the “Big Stick” in a potentially self-sacrificial gesture, but Orville’s time/distance calculations told him they’d never beat the fast, low-slung zodiacs. At 600 yards out, the order was given to fire one across their bow. The auto-loading five-inch gun on the Cook punched out a round that flew like a line drive and exploded in the water 100 yards ahe
ad of the two on-rushing craft. It did not deter them or cause them pause.
“Sir, bogeys are not veering away.”
“All starboard guns: train on incoming boats and await my order to fire.”
The Officer of the Watch turned to the captain of the ship, Commander Wes Halbrook, who had just made it to the bridge. “No response to hailing; they have not changed course and are heading straight in.”
“Weapons loose, Captain. Boatswain, make sure we are running tape.”
“Roger that, Commander.”
“All guns, weapons are free. Fire at 500 yards.”
All there was to do now was watch and hope that maybe these guys would turn away. But they didn’t.
Orville winced as Cook’s five-inch gun and the 20 mm PHALANX Gatling gun auto-cannon, amidships, opened up as the ocean 496 yards away went up into a wall of blue water, white steam, and orange flame. Then something happened that scared the crap out of him and the better part of the 5,500 men and women who were the crew of “the Big Stick,” U.S.S. Theodore Roosevelt. A siren and an automated P.A. announcement tore across the ship and flight deck.
“Nuclear Radiation Detected. Take appropriate measures. Nuclear Radiation Detected. Take appropriate measures.”
Instantly, sprinkler heads started washing down the flight deck and superstructure of the ship. Everyone scrambled to get inside. Orville slid down the railings outside the ladder rungs like a trapeze artist and scurried onto the deck, closing and sealing the hatch behind him.
Bill’s government phone went off as he was leaving his office.
It was Li. “I just got another spike.”
Bill grabbed a pencil as he swung back around his desk. “What’s the location?”
“Persian Gulf.”
“What country?”
“No, in the Gulf. In the middle.”
“Do you know what it was?”
“No, just a radiation event. Not small, but not mega-tonnage either.”
The Hammer of God Page 25
