The Brotherhood Conspiracy

by Brennan, Terry

  On the sheets were three thermal images—like photo negatives—taken around a house. The image was only in tones of gray, but it was remarkably clear. The president could easily identify the shapes of bodies in each image.

  “They come and go at different times,” said Cartwright, handing over the last sheet of paper. “It’s random, sporadic, not always the same number.”

  The president scanned down the page. So many dates and times.

  “We went back over the last few days and pulled up what we could. This has been going on for a while. Somebody has been watching Bohannon’s house. And I’ll bet they’re wearing lightning-bolt amulets.

  “We’ve alerted NYPD,” said Cartwright, “and they’re stepping up patrols . . . will try to keep an unmarked car in the vicinity. But, even though it’s still the Bronx, that part of Riverdale is very suburban—heavily wooded, houses spread out, long, deep, wild areas along the Hudson. Nearly impossible to control.”

  President Whitestone looked at the thermal images once more. “Oh . . . Oh, God help them.”

  New York City

  The solution was up instead of down.

  The Bowery Mission’s main, five-story building, fronting on Bowery, was constructed specifically for the mission in 1909. Directly behind that structure was a three-story building, fifty years older, that was originally the location of a casket maker. Flanking the 1909 building which housed the chapel, on the uptown side of Bowery, was the oldest structure, a Federal-style, two-story building that now housed the mission’s kitchen and dining hall.

  Three days after meeting with Maybry, Bohannon stood atop the casket maker’s building and watched as a long-necked crane, with Louis Klopsch’s ancient safe suspended in a reinforced pouch from its tip, began to retract from the hole in the building’s roof.

  It was a good time to move the safe. Activity around the mission was at its lowest point on a Sunday evening, minimizing the risk to others. Traffic should be cooperative, and there was still plenty of daylight remaining to complete the move. The safe itself was mammoth, heavy, and dangerous. Huge double doors spanned the entire front of the steel safe, still painted a flat black with decorative stencil designs at the corners. Maybry at his side, Bohannon watched as the crane drew itself back into Freeman’s Alley, a frighteningly narrow right-of-way behind the mission. With the care of a porcelain maker, the crane operator lowered the safe onto the waiting deck of a flatbed truck.

  While teamsters scurried around the truck, securing the safe, Bohannon and Maybry made their way down the fire escape.

  “Too bad you guys couldn’t just get rid of it,” said Maybry. “This is costing a mint.”

  “It’s part of Bowery Mission legend now, part of our history,” said Bohannon. “And not to forget, the assortment of books and manuscripts that were preserved in that safe—most of them—earned six million dollars for the Mission.”

  They reached the ground, slipped past the crane, and circled the truck, testing the tautness of the cables and straps that held the safe in place—just as the teamsters had done three times already. “Well, they’ll take good care of it at the library,” said Maybry. “That will be a sweet, little exhibit commemorating your trip to Israel.”

  “You make it sound like we went on vacation.”

  Maybry shrugged and walked over to the driver as he began to climb into the cab. “This truck is awfully narrow.”

  “Hey, Mack, that’s all that would fit up this alley.”

  “Okay . . . okay,” said Maybry, holding up his hands. “Just take it easy, okay? That’s a lot of weight there and not a very wide base to carry it.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Mack,” said the driver as he started up the diesel. “Once we get out of here, and around the corner on Bowery, it’s almost a straight shot to the library: right up Third Avenue, one left-hand turn on 39th Street then two rights to come up alongside the library at Bryant Square. They’re waiting for us to put this baby in place. It’s as good as home. What you should be worried about is that hole in the roof.”

  Tarik Ben Ali sat in a stolen taxicab at the corner of Third Avenue and Fifth Street, opposite Cooper Square, his “Out of Service” lamp lit, as he surveyed the traffic coming up Third Avenue.

  There had been little time to prepare. Only by watching the mission had they discovered the safe was being moved. Only two hours ago they learned, from a talkative truck driver, where the safe was going and how it would get there. Now Ben Ali hoped they had made the right decisions.

  St. Mark’s Place at Third Avenue was the target. That was an easy decision. The intersection was a major crossroads of both vehicular traffic and pedestrians—crowded, confusing, at almost all hours of the day and night, with cars and people constantly jostling for position to get across the street. Two of Ben Ali’s team sat at an outdoor table of Ray’s Pizza, just off the corner. They were ready to move as soon as he signaled.

  Earlier, looking at their map, they planned the best route to the warehouse in Queens. With Allah’s good favor, they should be well hidden before anyone knew the truck was missing.

  The flatbed inched up Third Avenue. Not because of traffic . . . the traffic was light this time on a Sunday evening. But more because the driver was concerned about shifting weight. The safe was securely strapped to the truck. It wasn’t going anywhere. But the relative size of the safe, calculated against the narrow width of the truck bed, made every bump in the street, every pothole or sinkhole, an adrenaline-pumping adventure.

  A cab crossed two lanes of Third Avenue without signaling and jerked to a stop in front of the truck.

  “Yo . . . Mack,” the driver shouted as he laid heavy on his air horn.

  Shocked by the horn blast, a lady with a little white dog jumped into the cab and it took off up Third Avenue.

  “Crazy cab drivers will drive me nuts,” the truck driver muttered to himself as he slowed for the busy intersection at St. Mark’s Place.

  Tarik Ben Ali watched as the truck with the safe nearly collided with a taxi cab just short of the intersection with Fifth Street. The truck’s horn blast made him jump in his seat. He picked up the cell phone and speed dialed the number.

  Gil, the truck driver, eased to a stop at St. Mark’s Place. This was not a bad spot to catch a red light. Lots of NYU coeds lived in the dorms a block away and the parade this evening kept his attention from the taxi that came up close on his left.

  Before the light turned green, the taxi driver hit his horn, bulled his way through the pedestrians, and suddenly pulled the cab across the right-most lane, right in front of Gil’s truck.

  “What are you, nuts?” Gil roared, leaning forward on his massive steering wheel as he tried to get a better look at the cab. Pedestrians trying to navigate the street crossing were shouting, gesturing at the taxi as they poured around it on both sides. “Get outta there. You’re an idiot!”

  He didn’t hear the door open, but he sensed the movement to his right. He turned to see a dark-haired man climbing into his truck cab. Words formed on his lips, action flexed in his biceps. But, before he could react, he heard the door open behind him, a searing pain throbbed through the back of his head, and the lights went out.

  Ben Ali opened the back door of the taxi as Mustafa steered the semiconscious man toward it.

  “Hey, what are you doin?” someone asked.

  “We need to get him home,” Mustafa said as they poured Gil into the back seat. “Too much to drink.”

  Mustafa ran back to the passenger side of the truck and jumped in. As the traffic light turned green, Ben Ali turned the taxi back up Third Avenue, followed closely by the hijacked vehicle. Both the taxi and the truck traveled the short distance to Stuyvesant Street and turned right, taking the diagonal street over to Tenth. Ben Ali tried desperately not to speed, even though his adrenaline was pumping. They both got through the traffic lights at First Avenue and Avenue A, but the lumbering truck caught the red at Avenue B and Tenth. Ben Ali pulled the taxi to
the curb on the far side of the street. He jumped out, ran around the taxi, pulled open the rear door, and dragged the half-conscious truck driver out of the back seat and across the sidewalk. As he planted the driver against the stoop of a walkup, between two trash cans, he pushed the button on his cell phone.

  “Drive beyond me and I will fall in behind. It will be easier for me to follow. Make a left at the next street, Avenue C, and go straight. You will see the entrance. Don’t miss the road. We need to get across the bridge quickly.”

  At least the truck was moving more quickly now. They crossed 14th Street and drove under the raised highway, taking the slight left onto the access road for FDR Drive. As he drove up the ramp, Ben Ali stole a quick glance at the truck in front of him, then at the map on the seat beside him. Good . . . the FDR would take them directly to the 59th Street Bridge, which would deposit them safely in Queens.

  The truck was not speeding, by any means. Ben Ali had given strict instructions that they be very careful with the heavy load but, most of all, that they remain below the posted speed limit. So why were so many of the cars on this road honking their horns at the truck . . . many of the drivers gesturing toward Mustafa. He didn’t understand.

  They came to the tunnel that carries the FDR under the United Nations Plaza and, for a moment, Ben Ali was afraid the safe wouldn’t clear the tunnel’s low entry. He took a breath as the truck made it into the tunnel, but froze when a white NYPD cruiser raced by on his left, its lights flashing like an alien apparition.

  The police cruiser closed on the truck and pulled up alongside.

  “Pull the truck over,” he could hear through his open window.

  The truck began to increase speed, the exit for the 59th Street Bridge just ahead.

  “Pull the truck over . . . now!” came the order from the police car as it added its sirens to its array of flashing lights.

  The truck closed rapidly on the exit, a big, sweeping, left-turning curve. Ben Ali’s eyes opened wide. As the truck careened into the exit’s curve, the safe began to shift to the right. The truck bed settled down on the right tires and the left tires looked as if they were about to leave the ground. The police cruiser braked heavily to get behind the truck and away from the safe. Ben Ali’s tires were screaming as he jammed on his brakes to avoid both the police car and the dangerously listing truck.

  At what seemed like the last moment, the truck straightened out. But the exit curve did not. The truck slammed into the concrete barrier on the outside of the curve, pushed it aside, and continued on into the ramp of oncoming traffic exiting from the downtown side of the FDR.

  It was mayhem. As oncoming cars slammed into each other trying to avoid a collision with the flatbed, the truck crossed the far ramp, ran up onto the sidewalk, and came to rest in a small park beside a veterinary hospital. The safe sat at the edge of the flatbed, then, as if it were rising from sleep, the truck rolled ponderously over onto its right side, the safe gouging a huge chunk of grass out of the park.

  The police cruiser, pulled over to the berm of the exit curve, sat empty, its doors open, as the two uniformed officers, guns drawn, zigzagged through the mangled cars toward the truck.

  Shaken, but not panicked, Ben Ali eased the taxi around the stopped police cruiser and slowly inched his way onto 61st Street. The carnage was behind him, but his eyes were on the flatbed truck, and the two police officers who were staring into the empty cab, already calling in for help.

  Allah be praised. They will know where to meet me.

  Once the city’s Parks Department cleansed Bryant Park of its drug dealers, pimps, prostitutes, and most pickpockets, and renovated the broad, green expanse on 42nd Street between Fifth and Sixth avenues, New York City gained its most beautiful midtown oasis. Gravel walkways under broad shade trees bordered the well-tended grass rectangle that welcomed luncheon picnics, sun-bathers, and Monday Movie Nights several times during the summer.

  To rid the park of its darker element, the city installed lights—lots of them—antique-looking, copper patina lampposts with frosted-glass globes. Cosmopolitan cute, they gave off plenty of light, enough to dispel most shadows, even under the trees.

  Which left Kais and Aziz little cover. There was even less shadow surrounding the massive Humanities and Social Sciences Library that fronted Bryant Park along Fifth Avenue. There was no way to be invisible.

  It was late Sunday night. There were a few strolling couples crossing through the park. Traffic on 42nd Street was a trickle of its normal deluge. A light breeze carried the smell of pizza across the lawn and gently mussed the leaves on the plane trees. It was quiet.

  On their third circuit around the perimeter of the park and library they identified their best chance of entry. At the back corner of the library building, on the northwest side of the park along 42nd Street, there was a prewar, stone public restroom, now closed. Behind the stone restroom, which stood on its own, separated from the shuttered restaurants along the library’s rear terrace, was a dark, sheltered space to store trash. Behind that, toward the back of the library building, was a small, wooded plot that was relatively isolated. Across a wide gravel walkway from the plot, a set of stone stairs dropped down from the building’s surrounding wall into the darkness of the library’s northeast corner. The stairs were guarded by a locked, wrought-iron gate.

  And a security guard, sitting on the wall, having a smoke.

  Kais looked at his watch. Time spilled from his window of opportunity.

  He tapped Aziz on the arm, and they slipped around the far side of the restroom, ducked into the shadow surrounding the dumpster, then crawled through the darkness of the wooded plot, toward the gate and the guard. Coptic cross amulets—with the lightning bolt slashing through on the diagonal—dangled outside of their shirts.

  Kais crossed the gravel path, hesitating in the shadow of a large bush that flanked the gate and butted against the wall. He could smell the guard’s body odor.

  Thrashing loudly, Aziz emerged from the darkness of the wooded plot onto the sidewalk of 42nd Street and immediately captured the guard’s attention. As the guard tossed away his cigarette and motioned in the direction of Aziz—“Hey, you”—Kais slid to the side of the bush away from the guard’s vision. A two-sided blade in his right hand, Kais placed his foot on a jutting piece of the wall and drew his arm back.

  A brilliant shaft of light exploded in the night, bathing Kais in its blue-white illumination, the knife poised to swing into the sitting guard’s neck.

  “Don’t move . . . not an inch.”

  Kais’s eyes shifted to the left, to the gravel walkway, and traveled down the shaft of light. He heard the guard dismounting the wall as he saw a blue-uniformed New York policeman emerge from the shadow of the wooded plot, a service revolver resting across the arm that held the flashlight. Kais began to raise his hands, then shoved off his left foot and rolled his body to clear the wall.

  He heard the noise and was spun around like a rag doll by the pain that incinerated his chest. By the time his body hit the sidewalk, he heard no more.

  The darkness was intense on the western side of the building, in the small alleyway between the Collector’s Club and the apartment building at the corner of 35th Street and Madison Avenue. At 3:30 on a Monday morning, New York’s streets are mostly abandoned, silent strips of asphalt. An occasional taxi. A bus. Then the unnatural quiet.

  Ali Suliman—dressed entirely in black, his head and face, except his dark eyes, covered by a black hood—edged down the side of the building, feeling for the service door he knew was cut into the stone foundation. In his right hand he held the “scrambler,” a high-powered, microwave-impulse transmitter designed to confuse and countermand any electronic security system, converting its programmed security code to a new code supplied by the scrambler device. Suliman located the touch pad beside the service door, positioned the scrambler under it, and triggered the intense impulse. He took a deep breath, punched in the counterfeit code, gingerly pushed
against the heavy metal door, and waited for any telltale sign of an alarm.

  The door swung easily inward. Suliman stepped quickly into the dark of the building, disappearing into the shadows, out of sight of the closed circuit cameras. He saw the blinking red and green lights of the building’s internal security apparatus on the wall to his right, placed the scrambler against the face of the metal box, just below the keypad, and triggered a second pulse. The lights all burned green, and steady, and Suliman breathed once again.

  So much for electronic gadgetry. The ornamental wrought-iron gate guarding the Collector’s Club vault and archives was secured not by digital electronics but by a much more fundamental security system. A padlock . . . a huge padlock, its hasp girded with strips of wound steel, a half-inch tempered steel shackle, impervious to bolt cutters, holding it in place. Suliman shrugged.

  He placed the black duffle bag in his left hand on the marble floor, unzipped the top, and withdrew a device about two feet long, a muffled electric motor at one end, attached to two steel arms, side-by-side, with flat, spade-shaped, grooved pads at the ends. Suliman positioned the arms of the device between two of the wrought-iron bars, pushed a button on the motor, and watched the arms swing outward until they touched the bars. Then the bars began to move, pushed apart by the small, but powerful, arms of a miniature version of the Jaws of Life.

  Twenty minutes later, Suliman squeezed through a ragged, two-foot-wide opening in the wrought-iron gate. He ignored the priceless archives of the world’s rarest stamps arranged in wooden bins and cabinets to his left and moved with purposeful haste to the vault on the right, behind the proctor’s desk, hidden by thick, dark green velvet drapes. His heartbeat quickened as he eased the drapes aside and stepped up to the face of the vault. His right hand rose, fingers outstretched toward the metal vault, but stopped in midair.