Counterplay bkamc-18

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  Grale had sent more of his people to hang out in the park-digging in Dumpsters, begging on street corners, and sleeping in stair-wells-to keep their eyes and ears open. Even Jojola had visited the neighborhood, acting the part of a drunk derelict, but there’d been no sign of Kane. However, a Caucasian male, with chestnut hair, a scar beneath his right eye and a crooked nose was occasionally seen entering and leaving the apartment building where the others congregated.

  “The building is across the street from Columbia University’s track and football stadium,” Grale explained as they emerged from a sewer into a construction zone that brought them to the tunnel between the Times Square station and the blue line subway station, the rail that ran north to the very end of Manhattan. “The stadium is called Baker Field.”

  “I get it,” Jojola said. “But what about ‘annoy Satan.’ Was Lucy trying to say that Kane is Satan?”

  Grale barked out a laugh. “Not a bad guess, but Lucy knows that Kane is just one of the minions,” he said. “I don’t think that’s what she’s saying. It took me a minute-and I had to think about the area around Baker Field-and that’s when it hit me. As you already know, there’s a big park on the far end of the island close to the stadium, as well as the Columbia University boathouse, where they store their crewing boats. The park has a lot of trails and softball diamonds, as well as a large, tree-covered hill that sort of juts out into the water-the northernmost point of Manhattan from which the Henry Hudson Bridge crosses the Harlem River to the Riverdale section of the Bronx. That’s where the Harlem River meets the Hudson River-a turbulent stretch of water called Spuyten Duyvil.”

  As the two moved quickly through the tunnel toward the subway station, other pedestrians gave them a wide berth. Unshaven, lank haired, and pale from a lack of sunlight, with their long, dark cloaks billowing, they looked pretty rough. Probably smell bad, too, Jojola thought.

  Just before reaching the station, Grale stopped for a moment to say something to an old black man playing the saxophone behind a beat-up hat in which a few dollars had been tossed. Jojola looked behind as they took off running again and saw that the old man was talking into a cell phone.

  “Spuyten Duyvil? I still don’t get it,” Jojola said as they reached the stairs leading down to the subway platform.

  “Wouldn’t expect you to,” Grale said. “It’s tied to an early piece of New York folklore, but I think it’s what Lucy meant by ‘annoy Satan.’ Another word for ‘annoy’ could be ‘spite,’ and, of course, Satan is the devil.”

  “And?”

  “Spuyten Duyvil is sort of a bastardized Dutch from the original European colonizers on that part of the river,” Grale said. “Some people think it translates to ‘Devil’s Whirlpool,’ which is certainly apt for the water conditions. But the more accepted definition is ‘in spite of the devil’-it comes from a story I’ll tell you about sometime. I think Lucy was trying to sign ‘spite the devil,’ and I think she was trying to say she’s going to be taken someplace near Baker Field and Spuyten Duyvil.”

  Jojola heard the rumble of an approaching subway. At the sound, Grale began taking the stairs three at a time, urging Jojola to keep up. “Come on,” he shouted, “or we’ll miss our rendezvous with the devil’s pal, Kane.”

  Many blocks away, the people in St. Patrick’s Cathedral jumped when there was a small explosion at the main door, followed by an invasion of rifle-bearing SWAT team officers. The new arrivals very nearly shot Tran, who quickly dropped his rifle and raised his hands, but K. C. Chalk had identified him as one of the good guys just in the nick of time.

  The SWAT teams were surprised to discover that “the situation” was well in hand. The FBI’s Chalk, as well as civilians, apparently including a small Asian priest, the district attorney of New York, a thin young man who spoke with a Western drawl, a nun, and an altar boy with an ax had taken on a well-armed team of terrorists and won the day. One of the terrorists had even been jumped and beaten senseless by spectators as he tried to draw a bead on the avenging nun.

  Everywhere they looked, the officers were confronted by a grisly scene. Along with people killed by bullets, a woman’s head lay at the bottom of the steps leading up to the altar.

  One team quickly made their way to the Pope, who was kneeling on the floor, holding the head of a wounded priest with a badly scarred face.

  “Leave me, Father,” the dying priest begged. “I’m not worth your trouble. I have sinned against you and God for the sake of my love for a woman and a child. God turned His face from me for my sins.”

  “For the sake of love, I forgive you,” the Pope said smiling and stroking a loose lock of hair from the man’s face. “Now, for the sake of your soul, confess your sins and ask for God’s forgiveness. But I want you to know that He has not turned his face from you. Indeed, He has a place for you and the woman and child.”

  Those watching turned away as the man confessed to the Pope. They knew it was over when they heard the pontiff call for holy water to perform last rites for the man.

  They were all distracted by the appearance of a SWAT team that had entered from the rear of the cathedral leading a bloody-faced female prisoner and followed by two priests. Marlene recognized the woman as Nadya Malovo and that bringing up the rear were Father Mike Dugan and “Father” Yvgeny Karchovski.

  “You wouldn’t have had anything to do with the reason St. Patrick’s is still standing,” Marlene asked Yvgeny as she was joined by her husband and Ned.

  The tall Russian held out his hand, which contained a key. “Let’s say it was a close call,” he replied.

  Yvgeny had been with Dugan, who he’d discovered in a broom closet into which both had ducked when the hostage crisis began. Leaving the older priest behind, Yvgeny had discovered the room where three terrorists were monitoring the bank of security cameras and hovering over an electronic panel he recognized was the computerized detonator. On the desk next to the panel was a small box with a key, which he believed would be turned to arm the bombs set in the cathedral.

  Yvgeny had returned to Dugan, and they’d been trying to formulate a way to take out the team when they heard Nadya Malovo shouting at the men. It was apparently a pep talk.

  Are you prepared to strike a blow for Islam? the Russian double agent had asked.

  Allah akbar, the men yelled in reply. We will die for Allah!

  As Malovo left the room, she’d rolled her eyes. But then caught sight of a priest at the end of the hall. He ducked to the left as she pulled her gun; she couldn’t chance that someone would survive who might endanger her own escape plans.

  Malovo raced to the end of the hall and was about to turn left when she heard a voice behind her. Good evening, Major Malovo, or is it Colonel now? She whirled, ready to shoot, but the man intercepted her gun hand with a grip like iron, then with a simple backward twist, broke her wrist, which sent the gun clattering to the floor.

  Malovo looked up into the face of Yvgeny Karchovski. She recognized him just as a fist the size of a small ham struck her in the face, knocking her back and to the floor.

  Yvgeny began to follow but was driven back by a shot from one of the men who’d emerged from the room down the hall. It gave Malovo a chance to scramble for her gun. She grabbed it with one hand and began to stand up, intending to finish off the man who could identify her to the authorities for who she really was, but found herself looking into the face of the first priest and, for the second time in a matter of seconds, at a fist on its way to her face. This time, she was knocked unconscious.

  Dugan kicked the terrorist’s gun across the hall to Yvgeny who picked it up just in time to shoot the man advancing down the hallway. Leaving Dugan to watch over Malovo, Yvgeny had raced back down the hall to the room just in time to hear a woman’s voice on the radio shouting to detonate the bombs. His first bullet went through the temple of a man reaching for the key to arm the bombs; the remaining bullets stopped the second man from reaching it as well. He retrieved the key to keep it
safe, just as the SWAT team came in through the back.

  “I think it’s time for this ‘priest’ to fade into the woodwork,” Yvgeny said to Marlene. He winked at Butch and said, “Good luck, cousin,” and left just as Jaxon arrived.

  “Are you all right?” Karp asked his wife.

  “No,” she said. “My daughter’s with Andrew Kane.”

  Karp turned to Jaxon. “Do you have a helicopter outside?”

  “Yes. What’s up?”

  “Is there room for the three of us and you?”

  “I think so. Want to tell me what you have in mind?”

  Karp started running down the aisle, ignoring the pain in his arthritic knee. “I’ll explain on the way,” he said. “But I’ve got a bridge to cross.”

  37

  Kane stood with Lucy just inside the entrance to the Columbia University boathouse just to the north of Baker Field to get out of the rain that had begun to fall with an accompanying rise in the wind. Lying just outside the door like a useless sack of potatoes was Clay Fulton, his wrists bound behind his back.

  They were awaiting the arrival of two speedboats that would carry them up the Harlem River, beneath the Henry Hudson Bridge, through Spuyten Duyvil and past the Amtrak bridge to the Hudson. There they would be met by a larger boat that would take them up the Hudson-the least likely place for cops to be watching.

  When he’d formulated the plan, Kane had expected that everyone’s attention would be focused on the devastation of St. Patrick’s Cathedral and the death of the Pope, as well as a couple thousand others, including Butch Karp. And the plan had continued to go smoothly from the moment the doors on the ambulance had closed and they were beyond the police barricade.

  Then Fulton had sensed something when the ambulance pulled over to the curb, but when he went for his gun, he found himself staring down the barrel of “Agent Hodges’s” 9 mm Beretta. I’m afraid you have the misfortune of finding yourself at my mercy again, Detective.

  Kane! Fulton exclaimed.

  Yes, indeed, Kane replied. And these gentlemen with the rifles pointed at you-and I might add just in case you’re feeling heroic, at Lucy-would like you to disembark now. We need to get ready for a little boat ride.

  They’d all loaded into a couple of vans, which had driven to the apartment building across from Baker Field. There Lucy had been given another shot to wake her up while they waited for a call that the speedboats were at the boathouse dock.

  When Kane got back to the apartment building, he’d been in a great mood. He was free, immensely wealthy again, and had brought ruin and despair to his enemies.

  However, his mood had blackened when the dirty, bald man with the bulging eyes stepped out of the shadows of the stairwell outside the building. Master, he said, weeping and reaching out for Kane. I’ve come to warn you.

  Warn me about what, you filthy pig? Kane said, backing away from the man’s hand. Two of his al Qaeda bodyguards moved between them.

  They know Dickens! the man cried.

  What?

  Dickens! They know Dickens! “Thus, cases of injustice, and oppression, and tyranny, and the most extravagant bigotry, are in constant occurrence among us every day.” They know these things about you and are coming! the man cried, the smell of his rotting teeth wafting over Kane.

  Who’s coming? Kane had asked in spite of himself, wondering at the same time, Do I really want to know this?

  Who? the man asked as if he’d thought the answer was obvious. Who? Why, Karp, of course. He fell to his knees, groveling as he wept.

  Karp, of course. The three words sent a shiver up Kane’s spine and formed a cold, tight fist in his stomach. “Shoot him,” he directed the bodyguard closest to the man.

  He’d hoped the quick, terrified scream followed by two silenced shots would make him feel better. But the knot was still in his gut when he entered his apartment and turned on the television, expecting to see St. Patrick’s Cathedral in ruins and his nemesis Karp dead. Only to his incredulous eyes, the church was still standing and, as the broadcaster cheerfully reported, The Pope is safe!..Two terrorists have been captured, but most are dead, as are an undisclosed number of civilians. Another newscast indicated that New York District Attorney Butch Karp, as well as his wife, Marlene, plus several unknown civilians, are credited with stopping the terrorists and rescuing the Holy Father…

  Nearly purple with rage, Kane kicked the television off the stand. Goddamn, I hate that fucker Karp! he shouted. Every time I turn around, that son of a bitch and his frickin’ wife are messing up my life.

  I’d suggest you surrender now, Lucy said with a smile on her face. You know he’s coming for me…and for you.

  Kane turned to her with his eyes looking like they might bug out of this head. He aimed his gun at her head and kept it there shaking in his hand for a full minute before he lowered it and laughed. You know, he said calmly. This is even better. He gets to go home and find his precious little boys have been turned into worm food. And I still have his daughter…so I guess he will be thrilled to receive the baby pictures after all.

  I’ll kill myself before I have your baby, Kane, Lucy said.

  Kane tsked. What-a good Catholic like you committing a mortal sin that would send you straight to hell?

  It would be worth it, she replied.

  We’ll see, he said just as the call came in that the boats were on their way.

  The group had left the building and crossed the street where the fence into the boatyard was open. “My dad once told me a story about Spuyten Duyvil,” Lucy said as she peered out into the dark night.

  “Oh, really? I like stories. Why don’t you tell me while we wait for our cruise ship,” Kane said.

  Lucy paused. She thought she’d heard Andy’s childlike voice when Kane replied about liking stories.

  “Well, the story goes that long before the Revolutionary War, a brave trumpeter-his name was Anthony Van Corlaer-used to blow his trumpet when the leader of the colony of New Amsterdam, Peter Stuyvesant, wanted to warn the people or call them together.

  “One night, Stuyvesant heard that the English were going to attack New Amsterdam so he sent Anthony to warn the Dutch settlers along the Hudson. But a storm was brewing, sort of like tonight, so that when Anthony reached the tip of Manhattan, the ferry that should have been there to take him across was nowhere to be found. But he’d been given a mission, so he decided he would swim across at the spot where the Harlem River and the Hudson met. Even without the storm, the waters in that area were known to be especially turbulent with bad currents. But he vowed to swim across ‘en spijt den duyvil.’ In spite of the devil.”

  Kane frowned. He did not particularly like the way this story was going. “Are you going to get to the point or bore me to death?”

  Lucy smiled. “If it would bore you to death, I’d talk all night…. Anyway, Anthony dove into the water and began to swim across. However, the devil had heard his boast and reached up and grabbed Anthony’s leg. The brave lad pulled out his trumpet and blew such a blast that it drowned out the storm and startled the devil so much that he let go of Anthony. The sound of his trumpet warned the settlers far up the Hudson that danger was approaching, so they were prepared when the English arrived. But poor Anthony was so exhausted by his efforts that he drowned.”

  “So the moral of the story,” Kane said, “is: don’t fuck with the devil.”

  “Or use his name lightly, Mr. Kane.” Lucy smiled back. “You never know when he might reach up and grab you by the leg and pull you back to hell.”

  Kane scowled but any comeback was interrupted by the sound of gunfire from across the road where he’d left a rear guard to watch for any cops. He could see flashes from the area of the park and more popping noises.

  An Arab man came running up, obviously frightened. “We are being pursued by jinn,” he said. “We must leave.”

  “ Jinn with guns?” Kane asked. “Why am I surrounded by such fools?”

  “They move lik
e shadows, and when you shoot at them, they aren’t there anymore. They are jinn,” the man repeated confidently, which started several of the other men murmuring.

  Kane raised his gun and shot the man in the stomach. “Now,” he told the others as they watched their comrade suffering on the ground. “Let’s have no more talk about jinn and get to the boats.”

  There was more gunfire. Closer. Kane looked down toward where the street rounded the corner into the park. It was hard to see in darkness through the rain, but he thought he spotted several shadowy figures run across the street.

  “Move!” he shouted, suddenly afraid himself. “Get to the boats!”

  “What about him?” one of the men said pointing at Fulton.

  Kane considered shooting the detective. “Two hostages are better than one,” he said. “Bring him. Two of you stay here and hold them off, then join us in the second boat.”

  With that they ran down the boat ramp for the floating dock. At Kane’s direction, Lucy climbed in the front boat, followed by Kane. Two terrorists brought Fulton, who they dumped on the floor; then one moved quickly to the helm while the other untied the boat. The second man was about to get in when a bullet caught him in the back and he fell into the water.

  “Go! Go!” Kane shouted.

  “What about the others?” the man at the wheel shouted.

  “Leave them,” Kane said. “Just go.”

  The speedboat pulled away from the dock with a roar. Lucy looked back and saw several men running for the second boat, firing over their shoulders at the shadow people who chased them.

  One of the terrorists fell and lay still. Another was struck in the leg. He went down but got back up and was trying to hobble to the boat. But a tall shadow figure caught him. There was a piercing scream loud enough to be heard over the roar of the boat engine.

  Grale, Lucy thought. And John is with him! Come on, guys. Here I am!