The Hammer of God

by Tom Avitabile

  Ann rose. “Mahmood. Are you angry that I came here?”

  Without a word, he approached her. She dropped to her knees and started to unzip his fly and open his belt. His thoughts caught him off guard. I am a sixty-five-year-old man. What is this Infidel whore expecting? As she took him, he felt a flushing over his entire body. The girl had skill. He found himself responding, pushing himself deeper. She responded, accommodating him and bringing pleasure. The hand that held the knife relaxed. His back arched and he experienced the first orgasm since he was a young man in Budapest with the butcher’s young daughter. He shuddered and she moaned. But Ann didn’t relent. He had to pull away because of the sensitivity. She went to follow, but he held his hand out to stop her. She obeyed and began to stand.

  She didn’t see the knife as she went to hold him and rest her head on his shoulder. The sharp shooting pain in her stomach followed the punch that forced the breath out of her. Then searing pain as Number 1 pulled the knife up through her sternum, cutting her open like a filleted fish. She fell away with an expression of fear and seeming disappointment. In a few seconds, she stopped breathing. He stood there, looking at her, zipping his fly. It had to be done. She would have threatened the whole operation.

  He returned to the kitchen and threw the bloody knife down on the counter. “Clean it up” was all he said. He left the kitchen now filled with the new respect he had gained from among those he would lead into death.

  The next night, Number 5 waited until the deli was empty and entered the store. He approached the Pakistani immigrant who scrapped together enough money to purchase the store from the old Jewish couple who ran it since the ‘30s. Number 5 grabbed a newspaper and threw a dollar on the counter, “Did a girl come here asking about the Store amp; Lock?”

  “Um yes, a few days ago. She was asking about that other guy.”

  Number 5 looked around and, seeing no one near, raised a street-silenced.22 gun and shot the owner once in the forehead. The owner crumpled behind the counter. Number 5 then banged on the register and pulled all the cash out of the opened drawer. On the way out, he turned the “open” sign to “closed” and walked in a direction away from the Store amp; Lock. A block later, he removed the hooded shirt and his big white sneakers, tossing them into a trash barrel. He threw the.22 caliber pistol with the 3 chambered, ghetto silencer on the end, made from plastic water bottles, into the next dumpster. Making it easy for the police, who would certainly view the deli’s security tape, and find only the evidence of one of the local black or Hispanic gang’s guilt.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I Love A Parade…

  It was a problem of circular logic. Owing to Bill’s national security position, the ride from LaGuardia for Janice and him was a mini-motorcade. Two Secret Service cars sandwiched an armor-plated Chevy Tahoe with flashing lights and two armed-to-the-teeth agents in the front. A New York City police car led the way. Bill pondered whether this was better than Janice and him just getting a cab and melting in with the thousands of others headed to the Big Apple. Didn’t the flashing lights and sirens say “Aim here!” to any would-be bad guy?

  Turning to Janice, he suddenly realized that all this security made her feel safer and therefore the argument in his head stopped. He placed his hand on her protruding belly as she sat in the half-rotated crescent moon curve a pregnant woman assumes when sitting. When he thought how the lights and agents also proclaimed “Stay away from my wife and kid,” he took a deeper breath, relaxed a little, and watched the skyline of New York loom larger as the convoy raced through the unusually light early morning traffic of the Grand Central Parkway.

  On the other side of the limo, Citi Field passed by, quiet in the morning light. The only barely noticeable activity was the small smattering of people and trucks along with a helicopter lashed down in the parking field.

  Number 1 watched from the grip truck as the small cadre of cars with their flashing lights sped by. His walkie-talkie crackled. It was Number 4.

  “Insurance has arrived.”

  Number 1 looked down at his copy of Chemical Engineering Today and the headline, “Hiccock to Address National Meeting in New York City.” Beneath was the yellow-highlighted paragraph ending with “catch a show while we are there.”

  He turned and saw Number 8 checking the hydraulic line under the rear cowling of the craft. In the camera truck, the camera department was loading magazines. In a few hours, the Caliphate would begin. This one act would serve as a signal to all the cells, all the groups, all the freedom fighters to attack, overwhelm, and start the beginning of the end of the West’s stranglehold on an entire culture. On a personal level, his brother’s incarceration at the hands of the Infidels would be avenged. As he threw the magazine down on the table, a Time magazine from months before, with Bill on the cover, was right under it.

  The Waldorf Astoria is an historic, world-class hotel on New York’s Park Avenue. Kings, queens, and presidents have stayed in its opulent suites. To Bill’s dad, the impressive part was that their room was one floor below the famed ballroom where Guy Lombardo ushered in every New Year for decades.

  “It just wasn’t New Year’s until Guy Lombardo played ‘Auld Lang Syne’ at midnight,” the elder Hiccock explained.

  “Gee that’s great, Pop, I’ve got my meeting now. You and Mom going to be okay here?”

  “Very,” he said as he poked at the overstuffed welcome basket, eyeing the chocolate goodies amidst the fruits, nuts, and jellybeans.

  Janice was unpacking her dress for this afternoon and smoothing it out as Bill sat at his laptop and reviewed the top 50 e-mails forwarded by his staff. He quickly perused the headings and decided to go right to the SCIAD network. Only three messages in his in-box were from the Element ring.

  One caught his eye with the heading, “Remo calculator — Q.E.D.” What he found when he opened it was a program that was based on the data that Peter Remo’s original “smuggled” Harmonic Epsilon manuscript furnished. It was the combined work of two nuclear physicists, three mathematicians, and two astronomers, who collaborated over the SCIAD network. Using GPS positioning and celestial charts, it calculated the nuclear cusps on the face of the Earth using the calculations and the formulas in the text of a book that purportedly got many people killed to protect its contents. The notation that accompanied this new software proudly boasted, “In 1968, the celestial and global data available was accurate to only eight decimal points. Today, thanks to shuttle flights, geosynchronous satellites, and the Hubble space telescope, we’re able to reach out 24 places beyond the decimal point.”

  Just then, Cheryl knocked on his door. “Bill, your 10 o’clock is here.”

  Bill looked at his watch and pulled out his iPad. He synced the e-mails to it while he adjusted his tie. He then took the twenty steps into the meeting in the adjoining suite and toward the rest of his day, which would end up at the Brooks Atkinson Theater with his wife and parents tonight.

  “They will be dispatched by myself and Number 9,” Number 1 said to Number 8, referring to the two movie cops who just pulled up in their police cruiser.

  Originally part of the TPF, the elite weapons and tactical patrol force of the old NYPD, today’s movie cops are more like New York City’s ambassadors to the film industry. In a good year, $3 billion dollars could be dropped into the city’s economy by movie and TV production. The NYPD Movie Unit was the key interface between a massive operating city bureaucracy and the day-to-day running of the multi-billion dollar film business. Most of the time, they stopped traffic or helped control crowds, usually acting as the shepherds of the private security people the movie companies hired. Many of those hires were ex-cops or moonlighting cops. In fact, in many cop shows and cop films, retired and moonlighting cops made a bundle as extras or tech advisors. It was safe to say that in the relatively small group of movie artisans and craftsmen, everybody knew or heard of everyone else. That made it odd that out of this whole crew, the only person these two cops knew was
the catering truck guy, Sammy.

  Sammy was a new guy in the business, meaning he came around within the last 10 years. An Egyptian by birth, he started as a server for one of the biggest catering services in the business. He worked hard and opened his own business and now did very well supplying breakfast, lunch, dinner, and craft services to hungry film crews on the smaller films and shows across the city. Sammy also followed the first rule of the business: cops eat free.

  “Officer Ralph and Officer Fernandez, good to see you. I got cheese croissants and hazelnut blend.”

  “Sounds good,” Ralph said. “What’s up for lunch?”

  “Halaal food! Lamb, goat… you know!”

  The Irish cop looked at the Puerto Rican cop and scrunched his face.

  “The crew and the stars are out of Iran. This is what they eat,” Sammy explained. Then he had a thought. “Wait, maybe I can find some roast beef and potatoes.”

  The cops smiled and Sammy got his assistant to take some food off his second truck going out to a small commercial crew shooting in Queens.

  About mid-morning, the cops watched with little interest as the crew prepped for whatever they were going to shoot. Ralph looked at the permit. He saw the helicopter and some prop guns as wardrobe. The guns being wardrobe meant no gunplay and, therefore, they would not have to validate the licensee. New York law required that any gunplay, firing of blanks, or even brandishing a weapon was supervised by a licensed gunsmith or gun dealer. The cops would have to make sure his license was current and that no foul play or accidents could ensue. Also, they would call in to let the local precinct know to ignore any calls about gunshots or guns observed. At the bottom of the permit, Ralph noticed the production company had a Brooklyn address.

  “Hey, didn’t Sammy say these guys were from Iran?”

  “Yeah, goat eaters.”

  “That’s funny.”

  “It’s probably a racist comment,” Fernandez admitted.

  “No, not the goat-eaters crack. The address here on the bottom of the permit… Let me check this out.”

  With little else to do, Ralph exited the car and set out looking for the producer.

  Bill’s secret, encrypted phone rang during his 11:30 meeting with the CEO of UniDyne Industries. “Excuse me; I’ll have to take this in private.”

  He stepped into the outer room, closed the door, and answered.

  “Bling,” was the monosyllabic greeting.

  “Bling brothers! How are you guys doing?”

  “We’re okay, sir. We are onto something, but the trail just split into two.”

  “Well, it’s all moot now guys. In fact, I came up here in part to tell you guys it’s over…to buy you dinner and let you get back to your lives.”

  “All the same, sir, it don’t look over from here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Not over the phone, sir.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Is that Palumbo guy available?”

  “When do you need him?”

  “ASAP.”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  Bill grabbed his regular phone.

  “Well, he only said, ‘Cheryl, cancel my meetings for the rest of the day,’ then he left. He did say that I should tell you he’ll meet up with you at the theater.”

  “You don’t know where he went?” Janice asked.

  “You know when he gets like that, you can’t get anything out of him.”

  Janice took out her phone. She tried Bill. No answer.

  “He doesn’t want to be found,” Janice said. Both women knew that this must be some security thing. Neither woman could conceive of Bill having a clandestine meet or tete-a-tete with a paramour. Although something in Janice’s spine almost wished it was as simple as that. She knew if Bill disappeared, something big must be happening.

  “Cheryl, could you try him again?”

  Bill disabled his cell phone battery so that any GPS tracking data wouldn’t give away his position, or that of Bridgestone and Ross, who he was meeting. As he exited his father’s Cadillac, he approached two men sitting on the bench on the edge of the public park.

  “Mr. Hiccock! We were expecting Palumbo.” Bridge said.

  “He was heading out to Europe. I turned him around, but he’s at least four hours out. So I figured maybe I could help.”

  The two warriors looked at each other. Bill felt the need to intercede in his defense.

  “Look guys, I’ve seen my share of action and I can handle myself pretty well if it comes to that. Now, what do we got?”

  “Our movie producer, Rashani, is too clean. We’ve run him through a bunch of checks and double checks and couldn’t even find a pissed off waiter that he stiffed. Too clean. Too neat.”

  “Look fellas, the nuke is accounted for. It’s deep-sixed.”

  “That may be, sir, but what we’re onto sure as hell lead us this far, and we’re here because we were on the trail of the nuke.”

  “And…?” Bill asked, knowing that that fact alone could not form the basis of their case against the producer.

  “Sheik Alzir El Benhan.”

  The name of the bio-terror mastermind and reason for the kidnapping of an ambassodor sent a shiver up Bill’s spine. “Go on.”

  “Seems the movie mogul, Rashani, had a security guard who is an ex-chopper pilot for the Iranian Air Force. After we did a little digging, we found that the pilot came there” — Bridge hitched his head at the building across the street — “a few weeks back.”

  Hiccock could only imagine the trail of broken bones and ripped skin “a little digging” by these two might have caused. He looked across to the mosque on this quiet Jersey City street. “A little obvious, ain’t it, using a mosque?”

  “Just another benefit of the great American Suicide Pact, Mr. Hiccock,” Ross said.

  “No law enforcement agency could even surveil it now. Not with all the bleeding heart bullshit going on. But the subway boy who was released also came by this way. As far as we can tell, he’s still in there.”

  “So why did you need Joe?”

  “Ross did some investigating. Rashani’s ex-pilot is working on a movie here in New York.”

  “But he’s not working for Rashani; he’s working for Alazir El-Benhan, who is posing as Rashani.”

  “You go to the head of the class, Mr. Hiccock.”

  “Been there, done that, got the egghead reputation to prove it. What’s the plan?”

  “Ross will stay here and bird-dog Rodney.”

  “Rodney?”

  “Ali Rashid, also known as Rodney Albert, the guy who ran from the subway checkpoint. He’s a loose cannon but he made his money as a freelancer in the L.A. indie movie biz, as an assistant cameraman.”

  “Movies again.”

  “Yeah. They’ll be the death of Western culture.”

  “Let’s go!” Hiccock said.

  “Here. Know how?” Ross handed Bill a Sig Sauer.357. Bill popped the clip, checked the load, pulled back the slide, checked the chamber, released the slide gently, reseated the clip, and stuck the gun in his waistband.

  “We’ll take our car,” Bridgestone said.

  Bill tossed the keys of the car he drove to Ross. “It’s my dad’s.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  On the way, Bridgestone filled Bill in on the details. Hiccock started processing what he was learning from the pointy end of the stick that he pointed at the problem. His training as a scientist kicked in as he listened to data that seemed to contradict the commonly held belief that the suitcase nuke threat was over. Bill instinctively knew that the trail that brought B amp;R to this point could have been correctly on the scent of another nuke device. A wholly different one not connected to the one that blew up in the Persian Gulf.

  The scientist caught himself in mid-thought. It didn’t blow up. There was no detonation, just radioactive debris. Enough rads to be read as a spike by the satellites. But not a detonation.

  He
pulled out his cell phone and said, “It didn’t blow up!”

  “What didn’t?” Bridge asked.

  “Li, it’s Bill. Have you done a high-resolution analysis of the Mahgra spike against the Persian Gulf spike? Could ja? Like now! Call me back A.S.A.P.”

  He killed the call, then redialed. “Peter, get over to Kronos right now. This thing may not be over. Call me when you get to Kronos’” He hung up.

  “Tell me more, Sergeant.”

  As Bridgestone further explained the trail of events that brought them to New York, Hiccock realized they had bits and pieces of the puzzle but nothing hard, no evidence. Then Bill remembered that evidence was the purview of law enforcement and the kind of stuff you needed if you planned on going to trial. In this case, if there were a second loose nuke, there would be no trial. In fact, if they didn’t follow these threads there might be no courthouse or enough people left to form a jury. The endgame here was not jurisprudence. The endgame was ending the game before, as the President put it, sudden death overtime.

  In a moment of silence, Bill realized his deja vu was happening all over again. He had been here already. He had gone from being a paper-pushing bureaucrat into field operative before. He kept trying to tell himself it was just until Joey got back.

  Number 1 looked at his watch and mentally went through the next steps: in two minutes, Number 3 would be on his way and executing his second diversion phase to take place in 33 minutes. In ten minutes, Number 4 would initiate the primary distraction and revenge for Number 1’s brother. One hour from then, the package would be picked up, then five minutes later…

  His mental checklist was interrupted when he saw one of the two cops that were chatting with the caterer approaching him.

  “Mr. Rashani, Officer Ralph Chesney.”

  “Nice to meet you, Officer. Anything wrong?”