At that moment Griffin’s cell phone chirped loudly. He reached into his pocket and pulled it out, looking at the text message that was sent to him. It was from Ramirez.
The person who signed the request for Baxter’s searches was the Deputy Secretary. His name is William Zahn.
Griffin stared at the text message, not believing what he had just read. He realized his eyes had opened wide, and he tried to quickly regain his composure. He turned to Buckley and showed him the message. Buckley had a similar reaction.
In front of them stood Zahn, standing behind his desk and watching. He was watching them closely, observing the sudden change in their positions and ease.
Zahn looked up at Sarat, then slowly back down to Griffin and Buckley who were still seated. He calmly reached over to his desk phone and pushed a button. A female voice answered immediately.
“Yes, Mr. Zahn?”
Zahn spoke, never taking his eyes off Griffin and Buckley. “Dorri, hold my plane.”
“Yes sir,” she answered.
Zahn ended the call and stood up straight. He continued looking at the detectives until a smirk appeared. His aide, Sarat, moved back a few steps as Zahn came around to the front of his desk. He stopped and sat on the edge between the two detectives, just a few feet away.
“You may not know this, but my aide, Mr. Sarat, is one of our top liaisons for our middle eastern allies. He’s also one of many experts on the countries that are not so friendly to us. Iran for example. He even knows some extremists personally, though most of us western nations call them terrorists.” He glanced at the ceiling. “It is, of course, a little more complicated than that.” He looked back at the men. “But one thing they have in common, the one thing that seems to run through all Persian blood, is they can be extremely ruthless.”
Both Griffin and Buckley looked at him with confusion. Zahn raised his eyebrows and motioned for them to look at Sarat. Both detectives turned around to find Sarat standing six feet behind them, pointing a gun at Griffin’s head.
Both men jumped in their seats. “Jesus Christ!” Griffin said. “What the hell are you doing?!”
“I wouldn’t do that,” cautioned Zahn, as Buckley’s hand instinctively moved around his hip.
Buckley withdrew his hand.
“Mike Buckley,” continued Zahn. “Born on April 3rd, 1978, in the Bronx to a plumber and teacher. Graduated high school with a B average in ’96 and applied for the New York Police Department two years later. Now divorced with a young eight-year-old daughter. Tell me Mr. Buckley, how is your daughter enjoying the second grade at Kennedy Elementary?”
Buckley looked at him with eyes wide, completely stunned. He slowly turned and looked at Griffin with a mix of shock and fear.
Griffin was already watching Zahn. “You can’t be this stupid. We’re police officers!”
Zahn frowned. “And only marginal at best as I understand it.”
Griffin’s mind was racing. He was trying desperately to keep his wits and think, but panic was quickly overwhelming him.
“Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re about to get into?” he tried reasoning. “Look, I think we have a major misunderstanding here.” He turned slightly to see if Sarat was still in the same position. He was. “Just put down the gun and let’s figure out what happened!”
Buckley nodded desperately in agreement.
Zahn looked at Sarat. “The detective feels we have a misunderstanding Kia.”
“Listen to me!” Griffin said. “Don’t take this any further. Look, we can work this out! If we don’t, things are going to escalate and then it will be out of our hands. Christ, our people know where we are!”
Zahn looked amused. He reached for the phone again and pushed the same button. “Dorri, get me the New York Police Department, 19th Precinct.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied.
Zahn raised his fingers to his lips instructing the detectives to remain silent. As an extra incentive, Sarat took a step forward and lined his gun’s sights with Griffin’s right ear.
Zahn’s secretary transferred the call and it began ringing.
After four rings, a voice announced, “Police department, 19th. Can I help you?”
“Yes,” Zahn said calmly. “I’m calling from the State Department in Washington D.C. I had two detectives, a Mr. Griffin and Mr. Buckley scheduled for 11 a.m. It looks like they are no shows. I’m afraid they will have to call back and schedule another appointment.”
Griffin’s eyes widened.
“Uh, okay,” replied the loud voice on the other end. “I’ll let the Lieutenant know.”
Zahn calmly returned the phone to its receiver and hung up. He looked at Griffin. “You were saying?”
Griffin still could not understand what was happening, but he could feel his heart about ready to jump out of his chest. “What the hell are you doing? What do you want?! We’re just working a goddamn case here!”
Zahn watched him silently for almost a full minute. He was enjoying the look on their faces. “How did she do it?” he asked simply.
Griffin shook his head. “What?”
Zahn sighed. “Don’t test me Mr. Griffin. I want to know, how did she do it?”
Griffin quickly looked at Buckley who was as confused as he was. “What are you talking about? How did who do what?”
Zahn stared at him. Finally, he sighed again. “I was hoping it wouldn’t have to come to this.”
“Wait, wait!” Griffin blurted. “Don’t…do anything crazy. Just tell us who you’re talking about. We’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
Zahn watched him carefully, trying to decide if he was being sincere. He finally replied. “The girl,” he said, “Baxter’s daughter.”
If the detectives looked confused before, they looked completely baffled now. “What?”
“The girl!” Zahn said, raising his voice. “Sarah Baxter!”
Griffin began shaking his head. Sarah? How did he know about Sarah? What in the hell did she have to do with this? “I-I don’t understand-”
Zahn lunged forward. “She saw me! How did she do it? Did someone tell her?”
“What do you mean, ‘she saw you’? I don’t-” Griffin still could not comprehend what Zahn was saying.
Zahn was watching him, waiting for an answer.
Griffin and Buckley looked at each other again. Neither of them were following any of it.
“At the cathedral…she saw me, didn’t she? Was it the mother?”
Griffin shook his head again. “What cathedral? When?”
“Saint Patrick’s,” Zahn said. “She spotted me. When no one else did. Someone must have told her!”
In that moment, it began to dawn on Griffin. Saint Patrick’s Cathedral was the one that was blown up. Was Zahn there? Was Sarah? “You were there?” Griffin asked.
Zahn leaned back with a look of disappointment. Neither one of them knew. He looked at Sarat who had not moved an inch. “Hmm…,” he said, thinking. “Well, I suppose if you don’t know, then there’s really only one thing you can tell me. Where is she now?”
Now Griffin’s expression changed from fear to terror. He wanted to know where Christine and Sarah were. He could see Christine’s face in his mind. He had to warn her.
Zahn watched Griffin and then turned to Buckley. “You know, I don’t think he’s going to tell me. But I think you will.”
Buckley slowly shook his head.
Zahn smiled. “Ah, don’t play hero, it doesn’t fit you. You see, Mr. Griffin is single, never married. But my dear Michael, you are a father.”
Buckley immediately stopped his head, nervous. At that moment he could feel the tip of Sarat’s gun touch the back of his head.
“Yes,” Zahn continued. “You love your daughter don’t you? Of course you do. Daddy’s little girl.” He crossed his arms. “So…Michael Buckley, father to Amanda Buckley, do you want your little girl to grow up without a father? Or would you rather she not grow up at all?”
<
br /> Buckley didn’t reply. He didn’t say anything. Instead he just sat there and stared at Zahn, as tears began to well up in his eyes.
18
The New York City Public Library was the largest public library system in the United States, founded over a hundred years earlier in 1895. It hosted over 51 million items, all contained within 58 different locations throughout the city. Some of the system’s historical treasures included Columbus’s 1493 letter announcing his discovery of the New World, George Washington’s original Farewell Address, and John Coltrane’s handwritten score of “Lover Man.”
Cheryl Roberts ran up the four short steps of the Yorkville branch, barely a dozen blocks from the 19th Precinct station. She swung open one of the heavy doors and quickly ducked inside. She walked briskly, but quietly, through the library’s Palladian-inspired décor, looking around the lower level for the person she was supposed to have met there twenty minutes ago.
There were dozens of people in the lower level, silently reading or browsing through books and magazines. Near the back, she spotted the person she was looking for and hurried over.
Wilcox was sitting at a long table with a few books spread out before him.
She bent down and surprised him with a hug from behind. “Sorry I’m late, Chaplain.”
“Ah, that’s alright there lassie,” he said with a smile. “I was just doing some reading.”
Roberts circled to the other side and sat down, then dropped her purse on the table and scooted her chair in.
Wilcox grinned. “So what is it you wanted to meet and talk about?”
She took a deep breath and looked around. “I wanted to talk to you more about what we were discussing last night. About Saint Patrick’s.”
“Ah,” Wilcox said leaning back in his chair. “Well remember, that’s just a theory. The ramblings of an old man really.”
Roberts smiled, acknowledging the comment as his standard clause for what came next, being “just his opinion”. She cleared her voice. “You said you thought this may not be a terrorist attack, which is the story all the news channels seem to be trumpeting.”
The chaplain made an innocent gesture. “I have my doubts. Primarily for the reasons I explained last night.”
“Right,” she said with a small nod. “You said terrorist attacks target the highest number of people, but the attack on Saint Patrick’s was the opposite.”
“More or less,” acknowledged the Chaplin. “Terrorism is about damage, or retribution. The terrorist attacks on the World Trade Centers in 2001 is an example. A truly horrifying event, but the attack was largely in retribution over a long standing level of oppression and control over their sovereignty, as a country and as a people. In essence, we had military bases and a presence that were allowing us to take their oil, which was pretty much their only natural resource of any value. The point is, the attacks targeted a very large number of people for a very dramatic result. Something that would truly scare, or terrorize, their enemy. Of course, the reason they used airplanes was because they did not have any weapons that could come close to the arsenal the United States had. Therefore, they made do with what they could. The bombing of the USS Cole is another example,” the chaplain went on, “They wanted to achieve the most visual and emotional damage possible. They wanted to make a statement.”
“And what statement was that?” Roberts asked.
The chaplain shrugged, “Leave us alone.”
“I thought they hated our freedom?”
The chaplain almost laughed. “Please. I am not a believer in the Muslim faith, but the literal words of the Qur’an share many values and principles with our Bible. And while many see the Arabs as being backwards, which they’re not, they are certainly not stupid. In other words, they don’t travel halfway around the planet to attack a way of life that doesn’t affect them. They don’t do that unless, of course, it does affect them. Which means, unless we are doing something to them.”
“Like stealing their oil,” Roberts answered.
“Correct.”
“So you’re saying they had no reason to attack Saint Patrick’s.”
The chaplain sighed. “I’m saying, that if they were making a statement, it’s pretty unclear what that is. And if they really were trying to achieve the most damage, to gain the most attention and sympathy to their plight, why wouldn’t they wait another twenty-four hours, when they could hurt or kill three times as many innocent people?”
“And this is why you think the target may have been the church itself?”
“It might make more sense, but only on the surface.” He turned one of the books around which showed an older, full-sized picture of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. “Why travel all this way to destroy a church? If they wanted to destroy a big church, there are dozens, hundreds, of other candidates that are much bigger and much closer. And it would be far easier than here in the United States. Why this one?” he asked rhetorically. “Saint Patrick’s holds no historical or religious significance above the others. The only real significance is that Saint Patrick’s is the seat for the archbishop of New York, but a lot of churches serve as seats for archbishops.”
Roberts looked at the picture in the book. She turned the page and then another and another. Page after page showed pictures of other giant churches and cathedrals around the world. “Maybe they were after the archbishop.”
The chaplain shook his head. “He hasn’t been there for weeks.”
Roberts sat silently, considering what the chaplain had said. He was right, the terrorist angle did not make much sense. Without a motive like self-preservation or revenge, it simply did not fit with an extremist mindset.
Roberts had a thought. “What if this is not the end? What if more are coming?”
“So instead of attacking the cathedral, the attack may be one in a string against the establishment?”
“Possible?” Roberts asked.
He continued thinking it over. “That’s a frightening thought. It’s a little too reminiscent of the crusades.”
“The Crusades?” asked Roberts. “You mean The Crusades?”
Wilcox nodded. “Yes, the two hundred year war between the Muslims and Christians with their ultimate goal of retaking Palestine.”
“My god,” Roberts whispered. “You don’t think this could be the start of something…like that.”
“It’s possible,” the chaplain replied. “But if it is, it could be far worse.”
“What do you mean?”
“The battle between the Turks and the Franks, as they were known, was gruesome and unrelenting. But it was largely between Europe and the Middle East.” He took a breath. “Today the Christian and Islam faiths are much, much bigger and they span the entire globe. They are now the two largest religions in the world. The warring that surrounded The Crusades was, for the most part, geographically localized. Today it would be global.”
“So,” Roberts said, “I guess we hope that this attack is not part of something larger.”
“Not hope, pray,” he replied.
“And we still don’t know who did this, or why?”
“Correct.”
Roberts fell against the back of her chair and thought to herself. Nor do we know what this has to do with a six-year-old girl.
19
Christine turned on the small table lamp in the living room to give them some light. The sun was down, and they were trying to remain distracted. She taught Sarah how to make a paper airplane which had kept her busy for the last hour, and Sarah was now making her most colorful version yet.
Behind her, Christine moved through the rooms and double-checked the doors and locks. She had to admit some doubt was beginning to creep in on how much danger she was really in. Things had been incredibly quiet since they got there, and she was wondering if some of this had been an initial overreaction.
She certainly didn’t know why Sarah’s mother was killed or under what circumstances. Was it possible that she had some terrible skeleton i
n her closet? Maybe she had made the wrong person angry, or maybe she had an ex that was jealous or crazy. Even in her old job, Christine had seen so many life tragedies first-hand that she didn’t think anything could surprise her at this stage, including what Barbara Baxter might have had in her history.
And what about the elevator? That horrible memory would keep playing itself out in slow motion if she let it. The police were sure it was sabotaged, but…could it have been sabotaged for someone else? There were other people on that elevator. Was it possible that she and Sarah were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Sarah’s gift had saved them?
No. She shook her head. Chance didn’t work like that. A homicide and a near-homicide that close together could not be an accident. And Danny was sure they were in danger. He wouldn’t have moved them to a safe place unless he was really worried. She had to trust him. She may not have romantic feelings for him anymore, but she sure as hell remembered how smart he was. She wondered where he was right then.
Christine turned after she was hit in the arm by what looked like a flying rainbow. She faked a troubled look at Sarah and reached down to pick it up. Just as she stood back up and pointed the paper airplane back at Sarah, she heard something outside followed by a loud knock on the door.
They both jumped and stared at the front door. She motioned at Sarah who quickly ran around the couch and stood behind Christine. They both remained frozen wondering who it could be. How could someone just walk up to the front porch?
The knocking came again, this time louder. Christine and Sarah did not move.
“Ms. Rose?” a man’s voice called. “Ms. Rose, are you in there?”
She slowly looked down at Sarah, and then back to the thick brown door. She took a deep breath. “Who is it?”
“Ms. Rose, I’m from the FBI. I need to talk to you.”
The FBI? That would explain how he made it to the porch. “Who are you?”
Amid the Shadows Page 7
