The last of the terrorists got to the floating dock and, throwing off the line, jumped in the boat. It looked like he was going to get away, but then another pursuer ran down the dock and leaped just as the boat was starting to pull away.
Jojola landed hard and rolled across the deck. The man at the wheel saw him land and left his post to meet him. Pulling a long, curved knife, he slashed at Jojola, who threw himself backward to avoid the blow. The man leaped for Jojola, intending to finish him, but instead impaled himself on the Indian’s upraised hunting knife.
Jojola pushed the body off and stood, just as the wet figure of David Grale, who’d dived in after the boat, pulled himself over the side. Grale rushed forward and took the wheel and gunned the engine so suddenly that Jojola was thrown back and nearly overboard.
It was difficult to see with the rain pelting their faces, and the water was getting increasingly choppy as they sped into the Spuyten Duyvil area. On the subway, Grale had told him that although the waters could look calm, they were deceptive. The Harlem River is affected by the ocean tide, he’d said. Especially at high tide, which it will be at tonight, the waters in the river actually push up against the waters from the Hudson that flow down from the north. Strong swimmers have been sucked beneath the surface and never seen again.
Now, over the roar of the boat engine, Grale pointed ahead at a dark object in the middle of the river. “That’s the Amtrak rail bridge,” he said. “It’s only about eight feet above the water at high tide. You can’t go under it, but it swivels in the middle to let boats pass and then back again for the train to pass over. I’m not sure, but it looks like it’s open for boats now. If they get through it and Kane’s men close it before we can get there, we’ll lose them.”
Up ahead, Kane saw that the Amtrak bridge was open and smiled. His men had obviously reached the control office and forced the operator, who was undoubtedly now dead, to swing it open.
Some nemesis you turned out to be, Mr. Karp, he thought, happily. Yes, you managed to save your stupid cathedral and precious Pope, but your life will be one of never-ending tears when you find your sons butchered and have to live with the idea that your daughter is my whore. I’ll ruin you politically as well when my friends in the media hear how you’re related to Russian gangsters. My new good friend Rachel Rachman will be the district attorney, and I’ll be able to return to the city…perhaps with a new face and identity.
Kane looked behind. The second boat with the shadowy pursuers would never catch him in time. We’ll scoot through and then shut the door, he thought happily. But the smirk left his face when his driver sounded the boat’s horn, which for the moment drowned out the sound of the storm, reminding him of Lucy’s story.
“What in the hell!” Kane shouted.
His man pointed ahead. The bridge was swiveling to a close, and it was going to be a race to see if they could reach the opening in time.
“Faster!” Kane shouted.
“There is no more speed,” the man shouted back.
They almost made it, but at the last minute, the driver had to cut the engine and turn the boat sharply to avoid crashing into the end of the bridge section. The drastic move caused the engine to stall and despite repeated efforts it wouldn’t start up again.
“No!” Kane howled. “How did this happen?”
As an answer a spotlight suddenly stabbed down from a helicopter overhead. “This is the New York City Police Department. Put down your weapons and remain where you are with your hands up.”
Suddenly, the lights on the bridge were turned on. Kane shaded his eyes and tried to see who was on the bridge. He could just make out three figures standing on the edge of the bridge looking down at him. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and when they did, making out the features of the tall one in the middle, he screamed in rage. “Karp! I don’t believe this!” He aimed his gun and fired until he was out of bullets, but his aim on the pitching boat was worthless and all his shots went wide.
“Shoot them, dammit,” he yelled at his driver. The man obediently grabbed his AK-47 and jumped up on the bow of the boat. He aimed the rifle but never got a shot off before there were two flashes from one of the figures on the bridge and the terrorist fell back and into the water.
Up on the bridge, standing between his wife and Ned, Butch Karp picked up a bullhorn. “It’s over, Kane,” he said. “There’s nowhere to go. The river’s sealed off in both directions. The Pope is safe. So is the cathedral. And by the way, you don’t have any money.”
“You’re lying, Karp,” Kane said, suddenly turning to point his gun at Lucy. “Open the bridge or I swear I’ll kill her.”
Kane glanced over as the second boat pulled up twenty feet away. A tall, pale man stepped to the edge of the boat. He looked almost like a skeleton. Or the pale rider, a voice said in Kane’s head sending a spasm of fear through his body.
“Nope, telling you the truth, Kane,” Karp said. “Emil never got the chance to reroute the money into your foreign accounts. You got nothing, nada, zippo.”
Kane’s call to confirm the transfer of the money from the Vatican’s bank had arrived with Emil Stavros already in handcuffs and Ray Guma holding the phone so he could speak. Dante Coletta was also handcuffed and sitting on the floor, somewhat worse the wear for having tried to duke it out with Clarke Fairbrother first.
Kane stood for a moment as if contemplating his surrender. But fast as a snake, he reached out and yanked Lucy to her feet and then held his knife at her throat.
“So this is how it ends, Karp,” he said. “But first you’re going to have to watch me cut this bitch’s head off.”
Karp spoke quietly. “Can you get him, Ned?”
Ned shook his head. He still had the terrorist’s handgun from the cathedral, but it was an automatic, not what he was used to, and the boat was pitching. “I’m as likely to hit her as him.”
“Open the bridge, Karp,” Kane said. “Is it worth watching your daughter die?”
Down in the boat, Lucy was finishing her conversation with St. Teresa when Kane pulled her to her feet. For the first time in a long time, Teresa had appeared as a visual manifestation sitting on the seat at the back of the boat. But she looked different than she had in the past. Before, she’d appeared as a young, not particularly pretty woman in fifteenth-century robes; for unknown reasons, this time she was wearing a blue silk shirt over white cutoffs. She also looked to be in her midthirties and was very beautiful.
“I swam this once,” Teresa said. “But I wouldn’t try it at high tide.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Lucy replied, though she realized she’d said nothing aloud.
“No reason,” the woman said. “Just a memory of who I used to be. Andy’s got memories, too, of your kindness once before. I suggest that the white queen make her move. Oh, and Lucy, when you see Ray Guma, tell him hi for me.”
I’ll do that, Lucy thought, then said aloud, “Andy, you need to stop him.”
Kane tightened his grip and pressed the knife harder against her throat. “What the fuck are you talking about, you little whore.”
“Andy. You have to be strong.”
“Quit calling me ‘Andy,’ I hate that name, and you’re giving me a headache,” Kane snarled. “As soon as we get your daddy, I mean Karp, to open the bridge, I’m going to cut your fuckin’-”
“You shouldn’t use bad words,” a boy’s voice scolded.
Lucy felt the grip on her loosen for a moment, then it tightened again.
“Shut the fuck up, you little wimp,” Kane yelled.
“Let her go,” Andy replied. “You’re a bad man.”
“Get out of my head!” Kane shouted again. “You’re not real. You died a long time ago…worthless…stupid.”
“Sticks and stones may break my bones,” Andy rhymed, “but words will never hurt me.”
“I’ll hurt you, you son of a bitch,” Kane said, letting go of Lucy who crawled over next to Fulton.
Kane
slashed at the air with his knife. “Die, you little faggot,” he screamed, slashing again. “You’re weak. You’re stupid. You’re a whore’s son.”
“I’m just a little boy,” Andy cried. “I want to be loved.”
Kane slammed his left hand down on the gunwale of the boat. He raised the knife and chopped down, cutting off three fingers. “There, you weakling,” he screamed. “Now, run and hide. You never could handle pain.”
Blood pouring from his wounded hand, Kane turned to Lucy. “Nice try, bitch. But your little friend is gone. And now I’m going to finish you, too.”
Kane took two steps toward Lucy with his knife in the air. A shot rang out from the bridge above, but the bullet whizzed past. He leaped for the girl, but even as he prepared to drive the knife into her chest, Fulton’s foot lashed out and caught him in the stomach.
The blow knocked Kane to the deck. When he rose, the big detective was between him and the girl.
“Well, Detective.” Kane smirked as he dropped into the Kali on-guard pose. “Guess it’s like I said…I should have killed you back in February.” He feinted with the knife for Fulton’s eyes, then stabbed at his chest. But instead of his blade sinking into flesh, he was surprised when his hand was deflected outward; then the wind was driven out of him when the detective’s other hand shot in and caught him in the solar plexus.
“This ain’t my first knife fight, sucker,” Fulton snarled. “And you…” the next blow caught Kane under the chin “…ain’t that good.” The right cross sent Kane spinning against the rail of the boat where he tottered for a moment and then fell over the side.
Fulton limped over to the side of the boat and looked down at the water. “You’re right,” he said to the bubbles rising to the surface. “The bad guy should always kill the good guy when he has the chance.”
Over in the other boat, Grale also looked at the water. The police helicopter hovering overhead played its spotlight on the area around the boats. But there was no sign of Kane.
Grale dove over the side and down into the dark waters where Kane had disappeared. It was a fool’s chance, the likelihood of finding the other man in the roiling, tumbling currents below was almost nothing. And yet, call it fate, call it faith, call it what you will, the two men found each other beneath the surface. They grappled and held on-one man with only a thumb and finger on one hand but strong in his insanity-each trying to locate the other’s body with his knife.
Over and over they tumbled like socks in a dryer. Down they sank like rocks. Beneath and past the bridge. Their lungs screamed for air, but their brains focused on the death of the other.
Until at last, one knife finally found a home and sank deep into the ribs of the other, who stiffened for a moment, then sagged. The victor pushed the wounded man away and struggled to reach the surface, though in truth he had no idea which direction it was. So it was almost with surprise that he felt his hand break the surface and in the next moment sucked cool fresh air into his aching lungs.
Exhausted and too weak to do anything except float on his back with the current, he looked up to where the clouds were abandoning the sky and saw the stars. A hundred yards away, a police helicopter’s search beam drifted over the waters near the bridge. He began to kick toward the shore…and smiled.
Epilogue
October
Karp glanced at his watch. Four o’clock. Still, plenty of time to hear the verdict, congratulate Guma, then meet up with Marlene, swing by the loft to grab the kids, and make it to the synagogue in time for the twins’ bar mitzvah class.
Word that the jury in the Emil Stavros murder trial had reached their verdict had come an hour ago…more than two weeks after summations and deliberations had been delayed due to the events at St. Patrick’s.
Jon Ellis had wanted to make a deal with Stavros, who, according to his lawyer, had quite a bit of information on al Qaeda banking practices and the accounts he was supposed to send the ransom money to after the transfer from the Vatican bank. He’d be placed in a Witness Protection Program and given immunity from further prosecution for his role in the weekend’s events, as well as the murder trial.
In a meeting with Karp, Guma, Murrow, and Jaxon, Ellis hinted that he didn’t need “the locals’ ” permission “seeing as how this is a national security matter” but was asking as a “matter of courtesy.” Karp told him where he could stick his courtesy and that Stavros was still a prisoner under the lock and key of the New York City criminal justice system and under the jurisdiction of the Honorable Paul Lussman of the New York County Supreme Court, Trial Part 34.
I’m sure the media will be interested in a story about how you vouched for “Agent Hodges,” also known as Andrew Kane, and almost got the Pope and two thousand other people killed, Karp said looking the assistant director in the eyes until the man stood as if to leave.
This isn’t the end of this, Karp, Ellis said.
Damn straight it isn’t, Karp said. So don’t be surprised if you receive a subpoena to testify before a New York County grand jury.
Ellis glared for a moment longer at Karp, then laughed and shook his head as he turned to Jaxon. You coming? he asked.
Jaxon kicked back in his chair. No, he said. I have other matters to discuss with Mr. Karp.
Ellis stormed from the room as Guma quipped, See you in court.
When he was gone, Jaxon gave the others the “official” explanation being handed down by Homeland Security’s public relations office. Agent Hodges came from another agency, and therefore wasn’t personally known to Ellis, except by reputation, Jaxon said. Heads will roll…supposedly…but not Ellis’s. Obviously, Kane went to great lengths to alter his appearance and was able to force the real Hodges to reveal information, including passwords and such, that only an agent would have. Ellis was as stunned as anyone…at least that’s his story, and he’s sticking to it.
In other words, Ellis has “plausible deniability” going for him? Murrow asked. But what about the Russian agent? Nadya Malovo.
Jaxon shook his head. She wouldn’t say anything to us, he replied. The Russian government is, of course, denying any knowledge of her involvement in a conspiracy to blow up St. Patrick’s and blame it on Chechen nationalists. They’re labeling her “a rogue element” and making noises that they want her returned so that she can be prosecuted in Moscow.
You guys going to go along with that? Karp scowled.
Jaxon shrugged. I hope not, but it may not be up to the Justice Department, he said. Homeland Security and the administration are desperate to keep the Russians involved in the “War on Terror;” so saving the Russians embarrassment might trump federal charges of murder, attempted murder, conspiracy to commit murder, kidnapping, and various other crimes that fit under the terrorism label.
And, of course, Putin canceled his appearance at the United Nations to explain the need for continued Russian occupation of Chechnya, Karp noted.
Yeah…and the rumors are that the administration is going to trade Malovo and keeping a lid on Russian involvement at St. Patrick’s in exchange for the Russians sitting down for “meaningful dialogue” with the nationalists, Jaxon said, which, if something came of it, would be a blow to the Russians and al Qaeda, but I’m not holding my breath.
On a sad note, the bodies of the Homeland Security agents who had been assigned to work with the fake Agent Hodges on security inside the cathedral had been discovered in a parking garage near Columbia University. But on the brighter side, the real Agent Hodges had been found in the cabin of Kane’s speedboat-bound and gagged, but alive. Apparently, Kane had planned to dump him in the Hudson as if he’d been abducted from the ambulance with Lucy and then killed. He’s been reunited with his family, Jaxon said, and a former priest who had an outstanding warrant out for sexually molesting children and was tailing the family for Kane, was arrested with Hodges’s help.
Karp looked around the courtroom. Guma was chatting amiably with detectives Fairbrother and Bassaline. With surprise he no
ted that Amarie Bliss Stavros was sitting on the prosecution side of the aisle with her arm around Zachary. Meanwhile, those sitting at the defense table appeared as if they were on their way to a good friend’s funeral.
Anderson looked like the bully on the playground who’d just had the shit kicked out of him by the new kid he’d tried to pick on. He hazarded a quick glance back at the blond reporter and, Karp thought, probably wished he hadn’t; she was staring at him with open contempt. Karp half expected her to mouth the word loser.
Unshaved and crumpled-looking in his jail jumpsuit, Stavros just sat morosely looking at the table. He’d tried claiming that he’d been blackmailed into cooperating with Kane and pointed to Dante Coletta as his wife’s killer. But Coletta started squealing as soon as Fairbrother got him to the Tombs-admitting to his part in the murder and burial in exchange for eight to twelve years at Attica for conspiracy. Given the circumstances, Judge Lussman had allowed Guma to put Coletta back on the stand to recant his original testimony.
Hear that banging? Guma had asked Karp after Coletta’s testimony.
What banging? Karp asked, puzzled.
The last nail going into Stavros’s coffin.
There were still many unresolved questions from what Ariadne Stupenagel in a “special report” for the Times had called “The Siege at St. Patrick’s.” The biggest blank was whatever happened to Kane and Grale. The official view of the NYPD was that the two were “missing, presumed dead,” but no bodies had been found after extensive searches of the banks of the Harlem and Hudson rivers. But Karp wasn’t going to believe that either man was gone, not until he’d seen the bodies himself.
Now, Karp and everyone else in the courtroom jumped to their feet when Judge Lussman entered the courtroom and remained standing while the judge brought in the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”
“We have, Your Honor,” the foreman said. He handed the paperwork to the court clerk who took it to the judge for his perusal.
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