In their dark suits and darker glasses, they stand out like goons on the pedestrian street.
The way they move makes them stand out. They think they are sharp eyed, but they are not. They think they are invisible, but they are not. Conrad can see every one of them.
Conrad is the one who is invisible.
He watches the Jaguar’s leather interior take in the men. All that plush luxury.
That false sense of safety in the luxury vehicle, cocooned in tan leather and bullet proof glass. Conrad knows none of that matters as he presses a button on the cell phone, punches in a code and looks out to where the Jag is parked. Two seconds to detonate. “One, two” he counts to himself, waiting.
Boom.
The sound is almost deafening.
The Jaguar and everything around it shatters. Glass hurls into the air like tiny drops of light. A concussion shock wave of heat. Conrad could smell rubber of the car’s wheels on fire. There is nothing left of the men inside. Only flames and smoke. They had not screamed. There had been no time to scream. And now, they are well beyond screaming.
As the fire reaches the vehicle’s gas tank, Conrad watches a second fire ball consume the car. Glass and metal flying. Intense heat. An acrid smell from gasoline and choking black smoke. People screaming on the street. Some lay injured, unable to get away from the chaos. There is nothing left inside the car to scream.
Conrad feels his heart beating hard in his chest.
Conrad runs his finger over the cell phone’s number pad - smooth and cool to his touch. For a few seconds, he closes his eyes, imprinting the chaos into his brain cells and forever in his memory.
It feels good to watch the chaos he created.
He takes in a quick deep gasp of air into his lungs. Then exhales it. The bitter taste from burning chemicals, rubber, metal, on his tongue, on his taste buds. He likes it. He has always liked that smell and taste.
“All is good in the world,” he says the words just above his breath, so the words are just a whisper.
Around him, the air feels electric. People are running away from the area of his blast. He sees their panic-stricken faces as he drives by. Some are crying and some yelling. Some are pushing others out of the way – all trying to get away from the blast. He watches a young man trample over an older woman, her face contorted in pain as he steps on her leg to escape.
To escape the blast.
His blast.
At times like this, you see the best and the worst of people.
Conrad puts his vehicle in gear, driving past the exploded car in flames and past what is left of people. It is easy to do. No one looks at him with all the mayhem and confusion. He does not drive quickly to avoid attracting attention. He turns right into one of the alleyways that connected with another street.
Within minutes, he is seated at an outdoor café four blocks away lunch with ice cold Heineken beer. His bull dog, Gino, is leashed to his chair, a copy of the New York Times stretched out in front of him, to hide his smile from strangers walking by. To them, he looks like your average New Yorker on a Saturday afternoon, dog and all, concentrating on finishing that damn cross-word puzzle.
His lunch date sits down next to him.
He admires her long tanned legs, her body and her face.
“So how did everything go?” she asks with a coy smile.
She knows the answer because he is here. She sits across from him so close, he can smell her flowery perfume. Something of roses and lilacs and orange peel. In the distance, there is the sound of emergency services converging on the bomb scene. His bomb scene. Her legs catch his attention, as she crosses them under the glass table. Even Gino seems to notice them, licking her left ankle above black three-inch Stiletto pumps with red soles. She laughs and shoos Gino away.
“Everything went as planned. Our friend is now one step closer to the Federal Reserve in heaven.”
“Or hell,” her lips curl upward, “as the case may be.”
Conrad laughs just a little.
“We have another job for you.” She seems to enjoy how distracted her legs are making him. She drops one Stiletto off the back of her foot and watches it dangle, enjoying what she is doing to him.
“You’re such a tease, you know?”
“I know.” A twinkle in her eye.
“Another job does not surprise me. I’m good at what I do.”
She rubs on his knee cap, moving her fingers up his thigh. He can feel the electricity from her touch through his Levi’s 501. “Yes, you are.” She leans over, murmurs the words soft in his ear. He feels a chill.
“I’m good at many things. Want to go?”
Before she can answer, she is up out of her seat, Gino in tow. Conrad throws a $20 bill on the table. “Can’t think of anything I’d like better. Except maybe to check the news to see how many New Yorkers you’ve effected today.”
They walk north to his penthouse apartment rented under a fake name and ride the elevator in silence. He opens the apartment’s door. It creaks as it always does. Gino follows them inside. He closes and deadbolts the door, kicks off his loafers, turns to face her and kisses her hard on the mouth.
Soon, they are in his bedroom. He turns on the flat screen TV to the national news. The story of the New York bombing, his bombing, is already all over the airwaves. On each of the stations, reporters talking at a fast clip. Behind them, photos of chaos. Police and other first responder’s vehicles parked haphazardly, bodies covered, yellow numbered evidence markers dot the street. Conrad catches a glimpse of the shell of Bernie’s burned out Jaguar. The car is unrecognizable. Only a portion of the chassis and the melted tires let you know it was once a car, much less a Jaguar.
Reporters are trying to make sense of chaos but not doing a good job. They are all saying the same thing in different ways. All trying to put their own “spin” on the story. But none of them know the answer to 3 questions – who? what? and why?
All in a day’s work.
New York City is a such a magnificent city. So much to offer. As does she. As he lays her down on his bed’s Egyptian cotton sheets, her dark hair around her luminous face, eyes shine bright at him. He kneels in front of her and lifts her left Stiletto off her ankle, kissing her toes. Her legs never felt so magnificent. That flowery smell of her perfume again. Just a whiff of it.
She laughs as she knows what is to come.
New York City is a such a magnificent city.
So much to offer.
* * *
March 13.
Conrad thinks how well things have gone yesterday - both the bombing and at his apartment. She made him smile. They shared so many memories over the years. Each time he was with her, it was like it was new again. He does not love her, and yet he does, in his own way.
Conrad turns his attention to the things he must accomplish today.
It will be like yesterday.
Smooth as silk.
Listening to the sheer chaos yesterday felt good. It was familiar to him. Growing up in Syria, he had grown used to chaos at an early age. Sounds from explosions. The sound of funerals. The sounds of tears, sorrow and grief.
All music to my ears.
Now, just as when I was a boy.
Today, the air in New York is clear as it had rained hard during the evening. This midday, the streets are uncluttered. In the financial district, people are going to work, but there is an unspoken feeling of fear on the streets. Most people do not look him in the eye as he walks. For those that do, their faces are filled with anxious anticipation.
Fear does funny things to people.
Conrad walks down Wall Street with a spring in his step, looking like a young trader going into work. He has the photograph with him, as he always does, tucked in his breast pocket. It is a talisman. A reminder that what he is doing now is right and just. In his right hand, a burgundy attaché case and over his left shoulder, slung a black computer bag. Neither of these items seems out of place, nor do they draw any attention.<
br />
It is 11:45 am as he strolls into a Subway shop for a sub and soda. Soon, he sits on one of the Exchange’s steps, next to the statue of George Washington, taking in the sights. Just after 12 noon, the street in front of the NY Stock Exchange – Wall Street – is filled with people. Secretaries, traders, lawyers and businessmen. Tourists find the façade of the famous exchange a fascinating place. They stop to take quick photos and videos posing with the iconic Charging Bull Statue and newer Fearless Girl Statue. The New York Stock Exchange Building is a symbol, a bastion of the free world market economy. A symbol of capitalism in all its infinite glory. No one figures today will be any different than any other day in the financial district. They all think at the end of the day, they will go back to their simple suburban lives or apartments. Tourists will go about their vacations, more sights to see.
Conrad knows it will be different.
Conrad closes his eyes, taking in the city’s sounds and smells before he blows it all to hell. Chatter, laughter, horns honking, exhaust fumes from traffic. New York on the move. As a young woman walks by, he catches a slight scent of her perfume with a name he cannot place. He opens his eyes and finishes his lunch. His work always makes him hungry, but more so today, for some reason. He does not know why. But there does not have to be a reason for anything that he does.
He slides the black computer bag off his shoulder and places it next to the statute – at George Washington’s feet. Then, he places the attaché case against the statute – leaning against it. He does not linger. With the remnants of his lunch in hand, he starts walking away. Not at a fast clip. Just a regular stroll. His long legs stride with confidence. He holds his head high. His chin up. Enjoying New York. His city.
No one seems to notice what he has left behind until they detonate in unison.
The blast is even bigger than the one yesterday. The night before, Conrad packed each bomb with broken glass shards and 4-inch nails, such that when the blasts happen, these items become projectiles. Each bomb contains chemicals too. His own special blend. All tied up in a neat bow. Ready to send shock waves through Wall Street. Through the financial district. Through the heart of his city.
This is just the beginning.
Now he hears screams. Conrad turns around. In his mind, he knows what is happening, but he wants to see it for himself. He wants to capture the memory in his mind. Before him, people and bodies mangled. One woman’s leg is gone, just below the knee, blood spurting out from her stump as her heart still beats. Even at a distance, she looks in shock, her face ashen white. A man lays unmoving; the front of his skull and face are gone. Conrad smells chemicals, using his pocket square to cover his mouth and nose. Within a minute, sirens. First responders approaching. He turns away and continues walking.
Ah, New York.
What a great city to live in.
What a great day to be alive.
CHAPTER ONE
We haven’t the time to take our time.
—Eugene Ionesco, Exit the King.
March 13. 12:37 in the afternoon.
Catherine looked around at what pure evil had created and what it had destroyed. FBI Special Agent and forensic pathologist, Dr. Catherine “Cat” Powers was used to scenes like this. And then again, she would never be used to them.
The area near the second bombing is covered with reporters and news vans, all trying to get closer to the scene of destruction. All trying to one up each other, as NYPD, FBI, NSA and other Feds are milling about. The outer perimeter has been taped off by police, familiar yellow “POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS” tape catches a faint breeze – fluttering and then twisting back on itself. NYPD cops are positioned at key points around the taped area. Many seem wary of their surroundings, some look tired, some look bored. Cat knows many of them will be here through the night.
As Cat passes the reporters and approaches the actual crime scene, she notes an eerie quiet. The cop cars’ sirens have been turned off. Even this far away from the actual bomb site, it is as if the bomb not only destroyed people and things, but took away the sound of life itself. That’s the only way she can describe it. There is a steady, but light, rain that starts to fall.
As Cat lowers her torso to step under yellow “POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS” tape, a pencil-necked rookie cop steps in front of her.
“Ma’am, you can’t be here. This is a crime scene. No civilians.”
“I’m not a civilian. I’m FBI. Dr. Catherine Powers.” She flashes her badge at the young cop. “Who is your superior on the scene?”
The young man says nothing but steps to the side, pivots and points to his left.
Cat walks over to a group of men.
“One of you in charge here?”
An older cop who looks to be in his mid-sixties chimes in. “Yeah, I’m Lieutenant Max Peterson. You must be the famous Dr. Catherine Powers.” The way this old coot said the word “famous”, it is clear that he does not appreciate Cat’s presence at his crime scene.
Cat chooses to disregard the rudeness. There are more important things to deal with right now than the pettiness of a local cop.
“Yes, yes, I am. I presume they told you I and my team would be here?”
“Yeah, they did. Feds always got to get involved in stuff like this, right?”
“Given that it’s a bombing situation following the murder of the of head the Federal Reserve, yes, I think the Feds have jurisdiction on this one. Sorry about that.”
Cat emphasizes the word “sorry” in a sarcastic way, to make sure the good Lieutenant Max Peterson understands that her dig is meant for him.
“So why don’t you boys let me do my work.”
With that, Cat turns and surveys the scene again. She lifts her beige wool coat collar as she stands inside the police tape, surveying the scene for a good five minutes, making notes in the little notebook she always carries with her, shielding it from the rain as she writes. She is careful to note everything about the scene, time of day, where things and objects are located, distance between objects and persons at the scene.
In the light rain, she puts away her notebook and takes multiple photos of the crime scene. She knows the crime scene guys will do so as well, but she always takes her own photos. It is just her way. She is careful not to move anything. Careful not to touch anything. Careful not to disturb things.
NYPD and FBI personnel in jackets emblazoned jackets are placing familiar little yellow triangles with numbers over every piece of marble, every nail, every screw, every piece of glass. She watches the men and women bend over every piece of evidence, placing the markers, one by one.
She can see some folks are still being treated at a makeshift triage center the NY paramedics and firefighters established. Cat watches as their brows knit with concern assessing victims, the ones who have the least life-threatening injuries. Cuts, bruises, sprains and the like.
One by one, Cat watches as the injured are loaded into waiting ambulances. It does not matter the injury. The same level of care and respect is delivered to each patient. As a licensed medical doctor, she wants to go over and help with the injured, but that is not her job right now.
Sirens blare one by one as the victims are whisked away at top speed.
Cat wonders how many of the more seriously injured folks, the ones who have already been transported, will survive the night. She wonders how many families will get the awful news tonight that there loved one will not be home for dinner or anything else ever again. She tries not to think of it. But she has placed many calls like that herself so many times. It always breaks her heart to do it. It is the worst part of her job. The part she hates the most.
But now, she must concentrate over the sirens, the noise. Concentrate over the dead bodies shrouded with white sheets in the street, rain soaking them, so that the blood and carnage showed through. Cat forces herself to look at them. White and red against the wet dark pavement. The coroner’s van is parked. Personnel loading the dead bodies, one by one. Cat does not want to look
at the carnage, but she must. It is her job. To look. To see what others cannot. To put the pieces of this crime together.
She can smell the chemicals still lingering in the air. She is not sure what they are, but toxicology will do air samples and she will find out soon enough. The air smells like Cyanide but she is not sure.
Beyond the immediacy of the crime scene, she knows that homeland security has already placed the nation’s transportation systems on high alert.
New York City is on lock down.
This being the second bombing in New York in as many days, the Mayor has gone on air, stating that all public transportation will not be running until further notice. In a panic, many folks are trying to get out of the city. Somehow, people reason that if they are in the countryside, they are safer than being in the city. Cat knows that is just a myth. The streets are jammed with cars, their drivers angry from the gridlock, shouting and screaming and honking – all trying to get things moving. The bridges are jammed.
Even angrier than usual for New York.
Cat knows that many people will sleep in their offices tonight. They have no choice. With the transit systems shut down, they will have no way to get home. There will be no normalcy in New York for a while. In that way, the terrorists have won, at least for a while.
She and her team have been called in because there seems to be a pattern now. A serial bomber.
Cat wonders where he or she will strike tomorrow.
The mere thought of it brings shivers to Cat’s spine.
Deal with the here and now.
That means getting her hands on any video that has been taken of Wall Street on this day. New York has always been a great city for video camera surveillance, even more so after 9/11.
Cat walks back over to Lieutenant Max Peterson. As she approaches, the other cops leave the lieutenant’s side.
“I have already obtained a federal warrant to obtain every video camera recording for the entire day for every camera in a 3-block radius. Have your boys canvas the area for anyone suspicious. We both know that killers like to come back to their crime scenes to see the carnage they have created.”
Dying Declaration Page 24