Lucy looked where he was pointing and saw al-Sistani was tied to a chair on the concrete deck outside the house. He struggled against the ropes and seemed to be yelling something, but the house was soundproof. Kane and Abu had placed bets on whether he would die immediately or suffer for a while when the ship blew up.
“But don’t worry,” Kane continued. “It won’t be too big. You and me and Abu will all be snug as bugs in a rug. But thanks for the thought.”
Hobbling back to the telescope, Kane turned it toward the Brooklyn Bridge. “Ah, there’s your dad now. I was beginning to worry that he wouldn’t figure out all of Andy’s riddles.”
Lucy frowned. “You knew?”
“Jesus Christ, who do you think is the dominant personality here?” Kane laughed. “Are you really that stupid? Of course I knew he wanted to warn your dad, the traitorous little do-gooder. I probably couldn’t have stopped him entirely; he does keep trying to get out and it does take an effort to keep him submerged. So I let him make up his stupid riddles, and even went along with the hand-delivered messages, just so long as it kept him from spilling the beans entirely. In fact, I thought it would be fun to find a way to kill the invincible Karp-daddy at the same moment of my triumphant return to my favorite city in the whole wide world.”
Kane pulled out Lucy’s cell phone and leaned against the picture window in front of her. “Let’s give him a call, shall we?” He hit the speed dial button for Karp. “Hi, Butch! It’s your future son-in-law. How do you like the show so far?”
Winking at Lucy, Kane giggled. “Now, now, what good are empty threats? But hey, I’ve got another riddle for you. This is for the jackpot…. ‘What do you get when a famous Muslim traveler crosses the Nile? I’ll give you a hint: Longfellow said it best.’ I’ll call back in a few and see if you’ve figured it out. But a lot of lives could depend on it, including your daughter’s. Want to say hi?”
Kane held the cell phone out toward Lucy. “Say hi to dear old Dad?”
“Do the right thing, Dad,” Lucy shouted.
“My, my, how altruistic,” Kane said, snapping the phone shut. “That ought to keep him there. Isn’t this fun?”
Karp closed the cell phone but kept it in his hand. “You got him, Espey?”
“Not quite,” Jaxon said. “I think we’ve narrowed it to a row of houses on Pierrepont Place. I hope he calls again. I want to narrow this down. We’re going to have to go in fast and heavy, and we’re only going to get one shot at this.”
Jaxon didn’t have to finish the thought. If Lucy’s going to survive. But Karp knew. “I think he’ll call. But it might be the last chance. Keep working on it, I’ve got to figure out this other riddle.”
Karp punched the number for his home. “Zak?”
“Dad!” his son replied. “They bombed the Brooklyn Bridge. It’s all over the news. I guess I didn’t save the world?”
“You can, Zak,” Karp said. “I’m okay and everything’s going to be all right. But I need your help again. Are you still at your computer?”
“Yeah.”
“Search for this phrase: ‘famous Muslim traveler.’”
“There’s a few names that come up,” Zak replied. “I’m not sure how to pronounce these but…looks like I-ben Arabi. I-ben Battuta. I-ben Jew-bare…”
“Wait! That one,” Karp said. “How do you spell it?”
“I-B-N…J-U-B-A-I-R.”
“Thanks, Zak, you did it again, love ya,” Karp yelled. “I’ll get back to you.”
Closing the cell phone, Karp spoke aloud. “Jaxon, did you get that?”
“Yeah, what are you thinking?”
“Kane’s riddle,” Karp said. “I think he was referring to Longfellow’s famous quote about ships passing in the night. Do you have access to that list of ships that left Trinidad when Jojola and Tran disappeared? Maybe they were on to something.”
“Hold on a sec,” Jaxon said. That was followed by silence and then he came back on the line. “I’m patched in to one of my computer guys at the office. Give him the names of the ships.”
“The Ibn Jubair…that’s I-B-N and J-U-B-A-I-R, and The Nile.”
“I can tell you right now that The Nile was one of them,” Jaxon said. “That was the ship that Ned and I were watching the last night we saw Jojola and Tran. It’s a big liquefied natural gas tanker. We had reports that something was up involving the ship. But nothing came of the tip. Got anything, Greg?”
“Yeah, just came up. The Ibn Jubair is a medium-size refrigerated cargo vessel. It was supposed to be heading for Nova Scotia. But was contacted by the U.S. Coast Guard early this morning off the coast, reported mechanical problems…. Let’s see, was diverting to…the Brooklyn shipyards.”
“Shit!” Karp exclaimed. “Is there any chance those two ships crossed paths and The Nile could have transferred gas into the Jubair?”
“They left within a few hours of each other,” Greg replied. “And had similar routes. The Jubair to Nova Scotia. The Nile to the floating transfer facility in the Long Island Sound.”
“Jaxon, I’d tell somebody about that tanker,” Karp said.
“Already on it. What about the Ibn Jubair?”
Karp turned to Blanchett, who’d been standing by trying to decipher what was happening. “Ned, do you think you could get your scope on that ship out there?” he said, pointing to the cargo ship sandwiched between the tugboats. “And tell me the name?”
Blanchett opened the case containing his sniper rifle and pulled out the scope, which he trained on the ship. “It’s tough to see with the snow and haze,” he said. “Hold on a sec…. It’s the Ibn Jubair!”
“Jaxon, did you hear that!”
“I’m on it,” Jaxon replied. Karp heard him yelling to others. “Call the airbase, give them this code…and tell them to scramble fighters, we have a hostile ship in New York Harbor, possibly loaded with liquefied natural gas. And Greg, you get on the line to the Coast Guard and Harbor Patrol. Same message.” The agent turned his attention back to Karp. “I don’t know how they did it—it takes a special refrigeration unit to get cold enough to store LNG—but if that ship is filled with gas and they set it off under this bridge or next to the waterfront in lower Manhattan—”
Blanchett interrupted. “More bad news,” he said. “The ship is moving toward us.”
As Karp and the others watched, small figures of men appeared on the forward deck of the ship. One stood up next to the railing and a moment later a gray line of smoke marked the path of the rocket-fired grenade into the wheelhouse of the tugboat. A single heartbeat passed and then the wheelhouse exploded. The tugboat veered wildly away from the Ibn Jubair. Meanwhile, on the other side, the remaining tugboat was trying to get away as men on the deck of the ship raked it with automatic-weapon fire. Smoking and on fire, the tug finally broke free and headed away at full speed like a singed cat.
Slowly, a white wake grew around the bow of the Ibn Jubair as it began to pick up speed. Karp looked around; there were still hundreds of people trying to get off the bridge, and who knew how many thousands in all the glassed-in rooms and offices of the skyscrapers, and driving in cars, along the waterfront.
“Espey, whatever happens, catch Kane,” Karp said. “Or this will just be the start of something much worse.”
“I promise, Butch. Now leave; there’s nothing more for you to do there. Let NYPD and the air force deal with this. If they can’t, you did everything you could.”
“Can’t do it, Espey,” Karp said. “This is personal to Kane. He’s somewhere he can see me. I’ve got to keep his eye on me and get him to call again.”
Karp turned to Blanchett. “I think you better go, Ned. You, too, Gilbert and Clay.”
The three others ignored him and looked out at the ship in the harbor. “We’re staying,” Murrow said.
Karp smiled. He patted Blanchett on the back. “Ned, you might want to get your rifle ready,” he said. “I don’t know why, but as Lucy might say, maybe there’s a
reason you’re here.”
Blanchett nodded. “Been thinking the same thing. Don’t know how I’m going to stop a ship with a .50 caliber, but maybe I can pick up a few of those assholes. All I know is that if the bear is trying to eat you and all you have is a rock, you throw the rock.”
“Look for the leaders,” Karp replied. “Maybe you can put them in a panic if the main guy is gone.”
Karp flipped open his cell phone again. “Ivgeny,” he said when his cousin answered. “Here’s the situation.”
“Bomb team, have you killed the infidels?” Omar Abdullah yelled into the radio. But there was only silence. “Bomb team, report!”
More silence, and then a voice. “Why, hello, Omar. I’m afraid the bomb team is indisposed at the moment. In fact, you might want to send a few more. Tran and I are tied at three each, and we need a tie-breaker or three. No even numbers, please.”
“Give me that,” said another voice Abdullah recognized as the Asian. “What’s the matter, Omar, cat got your tongue? Or maybe Stupenagel has your tongue? I heard she’s been hanging around some loose company.”
“Hey, watch it, Tran!” Stupenagel laughed. “You should see the look on Omar’s face. Priceless!”
Abdullah’s eyes blazed with fury. “Make more jokes. You’re just going to die with the rest of us,” he said, and slammed the radio against a bulkhead. He turned to Stupenagel and grabbed her chin. “You do know you’re going to die, don’t you?” he snarled. “You’ll never see your wonderful boyfriend or anyone else you love ever again. No matter what else happens, I am going to make sure that you in particular never live to see another sunrise, even if I have to kill you with my hands.”
“I know that, Omar,” Stupenagel replied softly. There were tears in her eyes but her voice was firm. “I’ve already accepted that. But I’m happy. The boys have fucked up your plan.”
Omar’s cruel eyes glittered but he smiled. “They have only made it more difficult.” He turned to the captain. “Aim for the docks between the last tall building and the bridge. We’ll rupture the tanks by running into them.”
The captain nodded. He and the rest of the crew had volunteered for this suicide mission. “Police boats approaching,” he said.
Abdullah picked up the microphone for the ship’s broadcast system. “Prepare to repel the infidels.” He then watched with pride as his men assumed the positions they’d trained for while at sea—some manned searchlights, others set up .50 caliber machine guns, or checked their assault rifles, grenade launchers, or handheld rockets before finding cover from which to fight. Not only would his men have the advantage of shooting down on the police, he knew from the Internet that the Harbor Patrol was lightly armed. He also knew that the Coast Guard—at least those who hadn’t been paid off—were busy monitoring “hazardous” shipping, not some broken-down old milk wagon.
An NYPD helicopter suddenly appeared off the starboard bow and shined a spotlight on the bridge. “Ibn Jubair, cut your engines, lay down your arms, and prepare to be boarded,” said the pilot over the loudspeaker.
Abdullah nodded to a young man who’d been standing near the door with an over-the-shoulder missile launcher. The young man stepped out of the bridge and sighted and fired the missile, which buried itself in the copter and exploded.
As the helicopter whirled away from the ship and crashed in the water, the men on the Ibn Jubair cheered. Then they began firing at the Harbor Patrol boats that were approaching at high speed over the dark water, the twilight suddenly blazing with tracers and spotlights. A rocket grenade caught a police boat broadside and left it dead and smoking as its crew jumped overboard or lay where they’d fallen.
It was soon clear that the police were outgunned and unable to approach the slow but inexorable ship. There’d always been a plan just in case the small bomb attached to the hull and linked to the tanks of gas malfunctioned. Even a change in target if it looked like the Brooklyn Bridge was too far. The skyscrapers of lower Manhattan along FDR Drive crowded along the waterfront, thousands of windows and who knew how many lives exposed to the flash fire of an exploding LNG ship.
“There are your warriors of Islam,” he shouted at Stupenagel, pointing to his men.
“Yeah, just like any other scumbags waiting in a dark alley,” she sneered. “And I don’t see you out there, risking your ass. Just a bunch of poor ignorant slobs who’ve been sold a bill of goods.”
Enraged, Abdullah decided it was time to kill the woman. Why should I have to go through this hell before I get to Paradise? he thought, and started to reach for his gun. But just then the captain shouted.
“Tugboats!”
“Tugboats?” Abdullah forgot about Stupenagel for the moment and looked toward where the captain was pointing up the East River. Two big tugboats had passed under the Brooklyn Bridge and were bearing down on the Ibn Jubair. He grabbed a pair of binoculars and trained them on the new arrivals.
Immediately, he saw these weren’t just any old tugboats. They were both carrying many armed men. One of them, a very tall man with a black eye patch, stood on the bow. The man turned and waved to someone on the bridge.
Abdullah followed the man’s gaze to where a knot of four or five men stood at the center of the bridge. He did a double take. One of the men on the bridge and the man in the tugboat at first looked to be the same man, except for the eye patch.
Twins? he wondered, then shook his head. It doesn’t matter. They’re both going to die.
38
AS HE PASSED UNDER THE BROOKLYN BRIDGE AND OUT INTO the harbor, Ivgeny Karchovski turned and looked up at his cousin Butch Karp. He lifted a hand and saw Butch wave back. Then he turned and faced the ship to assess the situation.
He’d just been informed about the bombings by one of his men when Butch called and asked for a “favor.” It surprised him because his cousin maintained an arm’s-length relationship with the Karchovski family, understandable given their divergent career paths. There’d been a few quiet dinners with Butch and Marlene, or visits from the twin boys to their “uncle Vladimir,” since circumstances had reunited the two sides of the family a few years back. But it was always understood—and Ivgeny’s father and head of the Karchovski mob, Vladimir, had insisted—that they respect Butch’s position as district attorney and not jeopardize that.
However, he understood within the first few words from Butch that this was a special occasion. The attack he knew about, but his cousin said he was worried that a bigger attack was on the way and it would come over the water from the harbor.
Karchovski also knew immediately why Butch had called him. His cousin knew that one of the Karchovskis’ legitimate enterprises was their ship repair facilities in Brooklyn. The twins, Zak and Giancarlo, along with their mother, Marlene, had once toured the facility with him and Vladimir. The boys had been sent home with replicas of the tractor tugboats Natasha and Natalie, used in real life to maneuver large ships from the harbor into the dockyards.
“If the attack comes from some big ship, I don’t think the police have anything big enough to deal with it on the scene,” Butch had said.
Fifteen minutes after Butch’s first call, Karchovski and a small army of his “soldiers” were armed and gathered at the docks where Natasha and the Natalie were tied up. He’d gathered them and the crews of the tugboats and explained the situation and what he intended to do.
“This will be extremely dangerous,” he’d said. “I expect that some, maybe all, could die. But if we do nothing, many innocent lives will be lost.” He’d looked from one man’s face to the next. Many of the men, or their fathers, had served with him in the Soviet army in Afghanistan, others he’d smuggled into the United States and given jobs. “But I am not ordering anyone to risk his life. Many of you, like me, are not even citizens of this country. To most, we are criminals and have no chance of ever becoming citizens. But I know you…I know you are good men…many of you have families of your own and this is not your fight, so I will understand if y
ou stay. No one will lose his job, or my affection, if he chooses to stay behind. However, if you wish to fight with me, then we must leave now. There is not a moment more to waste.”
Never in all his years of military service had Karchovski been prouder than when every man filed aboard the tugboats. They had already pulled away from the docks and were approaching the Manhattan Bridge when he received the second call from his cousin. The threat was real…a cargo ship called the Ibn Jubair; its crew was armed with automatic weapons and handheld missiles, and there was reason to believe that it might be filled with liquefied natural gas.
“Is that all?” Karchovski teased his cousin. He laughed. “I thought you might want to arm them with some nuclear warheads and give them a few helicopters as well.”
Up ahead in the growing darkness, Karchovski saw helicopters, but they belonged to the NYPD and were shining spotlights on the cargo ship. One flew around the port side of the ship and narrowly avoided a missile that continued on into the city, where a moment later a thin pillar of smoke rose. After that the helicopters remained on the starboard side of the Ibn Jubair—firing at the ship while dodging return fire, obviously no more capable of stopping the ship than the small police craft that darted back and forth.
Karchovski looked around. His men were piling large hawser ropes and whatever other material they could find into bunkers. On the stern of each boat, he’d left his lieutenants—both men who had served with him in Soviet special forces—to prepare boarding parties.
A radio he held in his hand crackled on. “The ship is turning toward Manhattan,” the tug captain said. “It may be trying to run aground.”
“Then we must do whatever it takes to prevent that,” Karchovski said.
Capture (Butch Karp Thrillers) Page 43
