The uniformed sergeant, clearly a Brooklyn native with a long Italian name, got on the radio and gave out the limited description I had of the driver. He was clear and thorough. That’s exactly what we needed right now. A patrolman was going to drive me down to One Police Plaza to work with a sketch artist.
I could still hear sirens in the distance. Cops were everywhere. The parade was canceled, and everything in a two-block radius was closed off while the bomb squad made sure there were no other nasty surprises. It was complete mayhem.
This was not the Thanksgiving Day I had envisioned.
CHAPTER 7
I WAS TOGETHER with my family by the time darkness fell. Other than when I was at police headquarters, I had been on the phone just about all day with one person or another from the NYPD. There were several still photographs of the bomber holding the detonator where you could see the kids and me in the background. One photo had already appeared on CNN and ABC.
CNN had named the attack “Holiday Terror.” The theme music had just a hint of Eastern influence. I wondered if that was intentional.
Even after seeing all the footage and the news that six were dead and twelve seriously injured, all I could think about was how much worse it could’ve been. I was standing there. I saw the crowds. Just the truck itself plowing into them could have killed twenty people, but the driver hadn’t been able to get to full speed, because he’d had to slow down to get around the dump truck that was blocking off the intersection. Thank God.
The bomb itself caused very little damage. Mainly it ripped apart the truck. The blast didn’t cause any additional injuries. Had the explosive been set properly and the blast spread out in every direction, the result would’ve been very different. Just the idea of it made me shudder. More than one witness interviewed thought it was a miracle the exploding truck didn’t kill many more.
Seamus said, “These people are taking it too lightly. It was miraculous. God did intervene.”
Fiona looked at her great-grandfather and said, “Why didn’t God stop the truck driver in the first place?” It was a simple question asked by an innocent girl, no trap or guile in it.
My grandfather turned and put his hand on Fiona’s cheek. “Because, dear girl, God gave man free will. It’s not something he can turn on and off.”
Fiona said, “I learned about free will at CCD. Does it basically mean we are responsible for the things we do?”
Seamus said, “Exactly.”
I noticed Trent frantically searching something on his phone. Recently he had been making a concerted effort to match his brother Eddie’s intellectual output. A tall task by any measure.
Trent said, “C. S. Lewis wrote, ‘Free will, though it makes evil possible, is also the only thing that makes possible any love or goodness or joy worth having.’” He turned and gave me a sly smile.
I chuckled and said, “Good job, Trent. Watch out or you might end up studying philosophy.”
Trent said, “Why do you say it like that? You studied philosophy.”
I wanted to say, “Look where that got me.” Instead, I just nodded and said, “And enjoyed every minute of it.”
Finally, we gathered for our Thanksgiving dinner. When we were all around the long table, with one chair left empty for Brian, as had become our custom, we joined hands and Seamus said grace.
“Thank you, God, for this family being safe after what they witnessed. I can ask no more of you at this moment. The fact that we are all here together makes everything else in life trivial. We thank you for your guidance and understanding as we humans try to figure things out.”
The old guy could still make his point in a quick and efficient way.
Later, as I was helping the kids clean off the table, my phone rang. I was prepared to let it go directly to voice mail, but I noticed it was from my lieutenant, Harry Grissom.
I tried to hide the weariness in my voice when I said, “Hey, Harry, how has your day been?” That got the rare laugh from my boss.
“You did a good job out there today.”
“You mean except for the part where I let a suspect beat my ass and get away.”
“From what I hear, you got a good look at him, you marked him with the cut on his face, and got a few licks of your own in. They all can’t be home runs.”
“Did you call just to try and cheer me up?”
“You’re assigned to work with a joint terrorism task force at the FBI building starting tomorrow.”
“Do they know that?”
“Frankly, I don’t give a shit if the FBI wants to work with us. But we’ve gotta give it a chance. By pooling our resources, we have a better chance of catching this jerk-off and unrolling the cell he’s connected with. And we gotta do it before they try something else.”
CHAPTER 8
I WAS READY to go at six the next morning, but I had been told to arrive at the FBI building at eight o’clock sharp, so I enjoyed having a little extra time with the kids and Mary Catherine. But at eight, that’s where I was: standing in front of the Jacob K. Javits Federal Building on the corner of Broadway and Worth Street in lower Manhattan.
The building was the standard, drab government off-white color with an efficient, if not attractive, design. There were low decorative posts all around the property to discourage car bombs.
I had friends here. Agents I’d worked with and analysts who had helped me solve some of my biggest cases. But the Bureau’s attitude and ability to work with others was still questionable. Old habits die hard.
A tall, good-looking guy in his mid-thirties took his time coming down to collect me from the front desk. He stuck out a big hand and said, “Dan Santos. You must be Mike Bennett.”
We walked slowly to a conference room behind the main FBI door. I was impressed that the entire office seemed to have shown up ready to work.
As we walked, Santos said, “I thought about joining the NYPD after I graduated from Hofstra.”
“What changed your mind?”
“I wanted to make a real difference in the world.”
I said, “I hear you. Guess I don’t mind just collecting a fat city paycheck without doing anything.” I could tell this was going to be a long special assignment.
The conference room was the new headquarters for the investigation into yesterday’s bombing. I recognized a few of the agents and a couple of the NYPD Intel people who were also working the case.
Santos walked me over to a woman sitting at a table in the corner. I could tell she was making a complete assessment of me with her pale-blue eyes. Apparently, I didn’t impress or disturb her, because she didn’t say a word and looked back at a report she was reading.
Santos said, “NYPD Detective Michael Bennett, meet our liaison from the Russian Embassy, Darya Kuznetsova.”
The woman extended her hand and said with almost no accent, “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Her blond hair muted her hard-edged look. She was athletic, with broad shoulders, and attractive in every sense of the word. But something about her told me I’d never want to tangle with her.
Not knowing what else to do, I sat at the long table next to her. I tried to make small talk, without much success. Finally, I came right to the point and said, “What’s your job with the Russian Embassy?”
She turned that pretty face to me and said, “For now, I am the Russian liaison to this investigation.”
“I realize that. What is your title at the embassy?”
“I am just an assistant to the ambassador. They thought it would be a good idea for me to work with you because of Russia’s own issues with terrorists, and I might see or hear something that American police officers might overlook due to differing cultures.”
I said, “Am I missing something? Why would Russian culture be important in this investigation?”
That’s when Dan Santos said, “I think all your questions will be answered during our briefing. Believe me, we’re going to need all the help we can get.”
CHAPTER 9
SANTOS STOOD UP in front of the gathered agents and NYPD people to get everyone’s attention. There were maybe twenty-five people in the room now. The tall agent looked confident as he straightened his blue tie and faced the crowd. Of course, few people got to run a case like this unless they were confident. It was a key element to getting people to do what you needed them to do.
Santos gave a recap of what had happened, but he didn’t say anything I had not already heard or personally witnessed.
We had several videos taken from bystanders’ phones that covered almost every angle of the attack. He played all the videos a few times, ending them all just as the truck came to an abrupt halt and the driver stepped out and yelled, “Hawqala!”
Santos said, “Based on our analysis and the attacker’s accent, we believe he is a Russian speaker from Kazakhstan. To help us with language and context, we have Darya Kuznetsova, who will be working the investigation with us.”
Suddenly the attacker’s neat hair and blue eyes made more sense. Perhaps even his training. This was a wrinkle I had not been expecting.
Santos continued. “The Russians have excellent contacts with the Kazakhstan Security Forces and have a shared interest in working with us to curb terrorism.”
We watched another video and some of the aftermath, and then Santos broke us down into smaller groups and explained what everyone would be doing. One group was only following up with interviews of witnesses. Another was working with informants to see if anything was being talked about on the street. A third group, which included analysts, was scouring computer databanks to see if it could find information that might shed some light on the attack.
When Santos said, “Any questions?” I could see the annoyance in his eyes when I raised my hand. He said, “Go ahead, Bennett.”
“What, exactly, does hawqala mean?”
“Literally it means, ‘There is no power nor strength save by Allah.’”
“I’ve never heard it before. Is it common?”
“Not in attacks like this. We’re looking into it.” He looked around the room. “Anything else?”
Once again, I raised my hand.
Santos just looked at me.
“Is there some significance to hawqala? Could it mean he’s after something else or representing a certain group?”
“As I said, we’re looking into it.” Then he quickly moved on and introduced Steve Barborini from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives.
The tall, lean ATF man stood and looked around the room. He didn’t use notes when he spoke. That meant he knew what he was talking about and he was confident about his subject matter. I liked that.
The ATF agent said, “Obviously we’re still processing the van, the explosive, and parts of the scene. It looks like the device was fairly simple. It contained a five-gallon paint jug with an explosive made up mostly of commercial Tannerite, which is a brand name for the most popular binary explosive on the market. We’re not absolutely sure how many pounds were crammed into the paint jug, but we’re guessing it was at least twenty.”
One of the FBI agents raised her hand. “Where could they buy something like that? How is it legal?”
“Tannerite can be bought anywhere. Even on Amazon. There hasn’t been any big move to curb it. It’s legal because it’s sold in two different packages. Unless the packages are mixed, they are not explosive. That’s why it’s called a binary explosive.”
That seemed to satisfy the FBI agent as she made a few notes and nodded her head.
Barborini went on. “There were nuts and bolts taped around the paint jug. The idea is that the explosion should have dispersed the nuts and bolts like shrapnel in a wide circle around the explosion. What we believe happened was that the metal paint jug that was used did not have a secure lid. The detonator was a simple blasting cap on an electronic igniter. When the blasting cap went off and started the chain reaction in the Tannerite, it blew the top off the paint can and the power of the explosion went straight up. That’s why the roof of the truck blew off so neatly. An explosion will travel the path of least resistance. That’s what saved so many lives.”
CHAPTER 10
AFTER ALMOST AN hour of briefing, I wondered if all we were going to do on this case was have meetings. This went against my instincts—to get out on the street and start talking to people. In my experience as a cop, that’s what always broke open major cases. People talk. It doesn’t matter where they’re from or what their reasons are for committing a crime. People always talk.
I couldn’t find out what they were saying if I was sitting in a conference room in Federal Plaza.
Dan Santos went through the last few things on his list, explaining how the scarf over the attacker’s face had thwarted any efforts to use facial recognition to match the attacker with photographs in the intelligence databases.
Santos turned to me and said, “Turns out that Detective Bennett here is the only one who’s seen the attacker’s face.” He held up the police artist’s sketch of the man I’d described. “This is based on Detective Bennett’s description. There’s nothing unusual about him except possibly a cut on his left cheek.”
Then I had to speak up. “There’s no possibly about it. The man has a decent gash on his left cheek from a broken bottle across his face.” I could still feel the heft of the bottle, suddenly going weightless as it broke against his face.
Santos continued. “We’re covering the leads on the step-van truck—which was a rental—immigration, current gripes against the US government, and even city employees. The last group is because the dump truck at the intersection was too far to one side, allowing the attacker to slip past.
“I know we have a lot of different agencies working together, but there will be an FBI agent in each group. They will document everything you do, brief me, and handle evidence.”
He closed his notebook and straightened up to glance around the room. “Are there any questions?” He shot a dirty look at me in an effort to keep me quiet.
As everyone broke into their small groups with different assignments, Dan Santos walked over to me and Darya and said, “I’m on your team. We’ll be handling a lot of different things. But no matter what we do, neither of you are to run down any leads without me. Is that clearly understood?”
I was preparing a smartass answer when Darya said, “I sorry. My English not so good. Let’s hope I make no mistake.” She turned to me, winked, and shot me a little smile.
I was liking this Darya more and more.
CHAPTER 11
I FELT LIKE I’d found a kindred spirit in Darya Kuznetsova after she stood up to the FBI agent, Dan Santos. It wasn’t just what she did, but how she did it—it was playful yet said, Don’t mess with me.
That’s why I was comfortable sitting down next to her away from everyone else in the corner of the conference room. She seemed pleased that I had chosen to speak with her. She gave me just a hint of a lovely smile, but her sharp eyes didn’t miss anything.
She said, “Do you always carry two pistols? I thought the NYPD usually carried only one gun, their duty weapon on the right hip.”
“I decided a backup .380 on my ankle was a good idea considering how tough this suspect was. How did you pick up on it?”
“You dragged your left leg ever so slightly and I noticed your ankle holster. Your duty weapon on your hip is obvious.”
“You don’t approve of guns?”
“On the contrary, it’s smart. The Kazakhs tend to be of a rougher sort than most Russians. It would be similar to someone being raised on the frontier in the Old West.” She grasped my right hand and held it up to examine it. “Just like I could tell you were not raised on the frontier.”
I gave her a smile, though she had subtly just called me a wimp. “New York City is its own kind of frontier.”
Darya considered my comment for a moment and said, “Were you ever pressured to join a group and commit crimes?”
I
thought about mentioning the Holy Name basketball team when I was a kid. We’d been a tough bunch, and on a dare I’d stolen a bag of M&M’s from a grocery store on the corner. But that probably wasn’t what she meant, so I didn’t mention it. Besides, I had gone back the next day to give old man Rogers, who ran the place, money for the candy.
I changed the subject and said, “I know we talked about this, but how did you get this assignment?”
“Part of it was that I happened to be here in New York and my English is better than most Russians’.”
“Your English is better than most New Yorkers’.” It was satisfying that the comment earned a smile.
“I was raised in Maryland. My father was in the diplomatic corps in Washington, DC. Then I attended MIT on a student visa.”
“What did you study?”
“Engineering. I still get to use it occasionally. What about you? Did you go to college?”
“Right here in New York. Manhattan College.”
“What did you study?”
“Philosophy.” That one earned a little bit of a smirk.
“Do you ever get to use your degree?”
“That depends. If my studies did, in fact, open my mind to help me better understand the human condition, then yes, I do. If I was merely sucked into the factory of higher education designed solely to make money, I still use it every day.”
“What do you think we will be doing on this investigation? Will the FBI try to hinder us?”
“I guarantee the FBI will try to hinder us. Some of the NYPD Intel detectives say that the FBI stands for Forever Being Indecisive. But sometimes they’re useful.”
“Agent Santos did not seem interested in some of my suggestions.”
“Such as?”
“Reaching out to Russian immigrants who have an excellent communications network. I’m also looking into the word hawqala, to see if it has been used in the past. It seems like an unusual change of pace for someone delivering a message from a jihadist organization. Perhaps this will be a link we need to find and destroy a significant terror group.”
Triple Homicide: Thrillers Page 18