A Twist of the Knife

by Stephen Solomita

  Muzzafer switched languages without switching tone. “When the Jews invaded Lebanon, they came straight to the home of your brothers, of the one who fought alongside you, and killed them. Yes. They pulled them out of their homes and shot them. How did they know which house held freedom fighters and which held ordinary workers? Because you told them.” Once again he drew the tip of the knifeblade across Muhammad’s flesh, this time down his cheek, hard enough so the tip penetrated into his mouth leaving a gaping wound. “Did the Jews hurt you like I’m hurting you? Did they make you tell them everything about your brothers? Or perhaps you sought them out and made a deal. You have very nice clothes, my friend. I cannot afford such clothes.” Muzzafer raised the knife high into the air, so filled with righteousness he would end it on the spot, but he felt the firm pressure of Katanos’ grip on his shoulder.

  “Don’t kill him yet,” the Greek said. “I want to do it like we planned.”

  It was not a pleasant ride for Muhammad Massakan, formerly Abou Farahad, although the morning air was quite warm for mid-April. Johnny drove the van due north on the Parkway to the 155th Street Exit, then turned east, across northern Manhattan to the 155th Street Bridge and the South Bronx to Mott Haven and a level of poverty almost incomprehensible to ordinary Americans, despite the television documentaries and tons of newsprint. In the daylight, it was just possible to see the beginning of a turnaround—many of the burnt-out tenements had been knocked down and the rubble removed so the neighborhood presented the eyes with perspectives unusual in cities, odd configurations of near and far. At night, however, at three o’clock in the morning, it presented nothing but fear. The custom was to break the streetlamps on the day they were repaired. Not that the avenues were deserted. Far from it. It was just that nobody walked alone. Men and women, radios blaring the hottest salsa, huddled in knots, in doorways or alleys—away from even the light of passing automobiles.

  Johnny Katanos drove quickly through the desolation, looking neither right nor left. It was their neighborhood and he was just visiting. He took 161st Street straight across to Melrose, then turned south toward St. Mary’s Park, a small patch of darkness within darkness at 144th Street. The park, however, was not his objective. Across from it, on St. Ann’s Avenue, there remained the first six floors of the Mott Haven Houses, one of the showier examples of the area’s failures. In 1975, Jimmy Carter stopped in the South Bronx on his way to the presidency. He made promises that neither he nor the local politicians were prepared to keep. Yet they did get something moving. Money was raised and an enormous, state of-the-art housing project was placed under construction. By this time, however, it was 1979 and Jimmy Carter’s fortunes were already on the wane. Somehow, the funds for the Mott Haven Houses were buried in the Reagan landslide. The skeleton that remained was completely surrounded by an eight-foot plywood fence; it guaranteed privacy if the neighborhood animals could be kept at bay.

  The method for accomplishing that formidable task was actually quite simple. They would be there for no more than ten minutes, a black van without side or rear windows, bearing commercial plates. Johnny Katanos pulled up to one of the many breaks in the fence surrounding the project, walked to the side of the van, and opened the cargo door. All the while, quite openly, he held a small Israeli automatic rifle across his chest. Both he and Muzzafer could feel the eyes around them, sense the predators moving one step closer, considering the possibilities. But the weapon made it clear that there was no profit to be made from these people, no easy score. The two men pulled Muhammad Massakan out of the van by his feet and dragged him quickly through the fence and into the darkness. Their intention was to be finished before the crazies asserted some perverted version of neighborhood pride and attacked as a matter of principle.

  Once inside, Johnny Katanos performed the trickiest part of the operation. They needed to uncuff the traitor and they wanted him to be helpless, but alive. Many methods had been discussed. They had drugs to put him to sleep, but nothing to wake him up before the effects of the drugs wore off. Muzzafer had suggested a second tap on the head with the blackjack, but Johnny had opted for a more personal method. As they’d decided, he put his upper arm across the nose and mouth of Muhammad Massakan and drew it tightly into his own chest, holding it there until the Arab’s body went slack.

  They worked quickly. Muzzafer turned to remove the handcuffs while Johnny Katanos retrieved the four-pound hammer and the heavy, galvanized spikes from Muzzafer’s backpack. The hands were easy, the soft tissue parting and the bones snapping at the first stroke of the hammer. The feet, crossed at the ankles, were another problem. They took turns working at it, but the nails were too short and no matter how hard they hit them, would not penetrate both flesh and wood. So they settled for doing the feet individually. Muzzafer had wanted him to be crucified in the same position as the most famous of all Jews, but the papers would get the idea despite the improvisation.

  They finished the crucifixion in nine minutes. Muhammad was awake by this time, of course, and in very great pain. Muzzafer wanted to say something more to him, but could think of nothing. He was very excited; he could feel the heat coming from his lover. If only there was time, they would couple like demons before the devil’s throne. But they had to finish their business and what’s more, could not chance the possibility that help would come before their enemy died. They must kill him. Muzzafer raised the knife, but was again held back by Johnny Katanos.

  “No, no,” the Greek whispered. Muzzafer noted that his eyes seemed to glow—like those of an animal caught in a car’s headlights. “We can afford a few more minutes. Let’s do it right.”

  He stepped up close and drove his fist into Muhammad’s ribs, then stepped back, offering his partner a turn. Muzzafer, in spite of everything he knew about revolution and discipline and putting goals ahead of desire, did not hesitate. Smiling a child’s smile of delight, he moved forward and began driving his fists into the flesh of Muhammad Massakan.

  20

  CAPTAIN ALLEN EPSTEIN, IN the waiting room of Deputy Inspector Seamus Flynn at One Police Plaza, felt like a cornered rat: Worse than a rat, for he could not even turn to make a final stand. There was no one to turn against.

  He’d been taking the attitude that his men came first for so long, he couldn’t begin to accept what he was about to do. And worst of all, he didn’t know if he was doing it because he sincerely believed Moodrow to be wrong (which he did) or because he was a coward and wanted to cover his own ass. Naturally, Flynn kept him waiting, standard procedure for cops visiting One Police Plaza, but it was torture for Epstein. A small voice reminded him that it was not too late to leave—Flynn would be mad, but would accept some excuse about an emergency at the precinct. If he stayed, they would crucify Moodrow just as surely as that Arab they’d found the day before in the Bronx.

  His agitation increased minute by minute until he desperately wanted to stand up and pace the floor. All the while, one question continued to rumble through his mind—would he be here if there was no chance the department could find out that he knew about Moodrow’s activities?

  “All right, Captain, you can go in now.” A sergeant, young and very male, gestured toward the door. If Epstein had been one rank higher, he would have opened it for him.

  “How are you, Allen,” Flynn said, as Epstein stepped into the room. He nodded toward a chair, waited just a second to show that he wasn’t entirely an ogre, then launched into his standard “dealing with subordinates” speech. “I’m unbelievably busy, Allen. Sorry,” he ran his fingers over his hair, patted it gently, “but this has got to be quick.”

  Epstein tossed the pictures onto Flynn’s desk. “Moodrow’s handing these out. Canvassing. So far, only in Queens, but I don’t know his plans,”

  Flynn stared at the sketches for a moment, before speaking. “The source?” he demanded.

  “The only man who survived the Chadwick massacre.”

  A look of ultimate disgust passed over Flynn’s face. Holdin
g up the pictures he growled, “Do you mean to tell me that you don’t have any legitimate reason to associate these people with the American Red Army? I can’t believe you came to me with this crap. Tell me, Allen, did we ever question the possibility of apprehending the criminals who murdered Mr. Chadwick? But that, as we noted at the time, is a problem for a precinct leader, often called a captain, not a deputy inspector.”

  Epstein returned Flynn’s gaze, advertising his determination. “I don’t think he’s reporting to Higgins. I think he’s completely on his own.”

  “Did you call the bureau to ask if he was reporting?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Inspector, you think I’d go outside the department without talking to you first?”

  Flynn, his loyalty challenged, had only a single response open to him. “Of course, you’ve done the right thing, Captain.” He nodded enthusiastically. “One little question, though—has anyone at the FBI complained about Moodrow’s lack of diligence?”

  “Not to me.”

  “Then why do you want to make a big deal out of it?”

  “Suppose the gang that murdered Chadwick is part of the American Red Army? If we put more people on it, we might…”

  “Hold it, Captain. I’ve already passed a report on the Chadwick case to the mayor’s task force. If they’re interested, they’re keeping it to themselves. From where I sit, it’s the same with Agent Higgins and her people. If they really expected anything to come from Moodrow’s activities, they’d be screaming their heads off. Why not let sleeping dogs lie?”

  Epstein, his anger tempered by the switch he was about to pull on his superior, leaned forward. “I assume that means you do not want me to go to Bradley with this information.”

  To his credit, Seamus Flynn did not fail to hear the trap when it sprung. Now it would hang on his ass; he was taking responsibility for a crazy cop on a personal hunt. He sat back in his chair, considered the question for half a minute and realized there was only one move on the board.

  “Let’s call Bradley and let him decide,” he said quickly. He wasn’t at all embarrassed to be taken for a coward. “Perhaps you can run these out to him and see what he wants to do.”

  For George Bradley, FBI, Deputy Inspector Seamus Flynn’s morning phone call came as a pleasant interlude in what he hoped would be an extremely significant day. Hassan Fakhr had agreed to a meeting.

  “You are a very smart man, Agent Bradley,” he’d said. “That’s why I’m giving you the American Red Army on a platter. Naturally, the price is slightly more than thirty pieces of silver, but we can chalk it up to nineteen hundred years of inflation.”

  “Very witty. I just hope you’re smart enough not to ask for the treasury,” Bradley had answered.

  “Try to see it from my point of view, George. Here I am shitting on everything I hold sacred, betraying every one of my living friends. And the nature of my treachery is so all-encompassing that it will force me to take up an entirely new identity. In effect I am to be reborn into any life I want.” Hassan’s voice was still full of good humor. “Now, I hope you have a portable telephone in the office.”

  “I have one.”

  “Get in your car and drive down Queens Boulevard. I’ll call you at 4 PM and give you an exact meeting place. Keep this in mind, George—it’s going to take at least a week to get the material, even if we can come to terms. If someone on your end betrays me, you might not get another chance at the Army for months. No one can tap a portable phone, so if you’re not personally bugged, I won’t be caught. Get it, George?”

  Bradley had been beside himself with excitement, convinced at last that a nameless, wiseguy Arab was going to give him the American Red Army. Which explains why he suddenly found it important to assert control. “That’s absolutely right,” he said. “Your freedom depends entirely on me.”

  So Flynn’s call was a welcome diversion, an interlude to cut the tension. Bradley had insisted on seeing Epstein immediately, much to Epstein’s chagrin. New York police captains were not accustomed to being summoned by federal agents. But he went, nonetheless, and without Hassan Fakhr’s ability to laugh at his predicament. The best he could hope for, now, was that Moodrow’s quest would prove fruitless, that his friend would look like a fool.

  Bradley, on the other hand, found Epstein’s visit the answer to a knotty problem. Leonora Higgins had been away from her office for nearly a week. When the final report was written, what could he say about her contribution? No matter how innocuous the information, Flynn’s call and Epstein’s interview constituted ample justification for Higgins’ assignment to Stanley Moodrow.

  Nevertheless, Bradley took Allen Epstein through his story in great detail, listening, as had Flynn, for anything new. Unlike Flynn, however, Bradley was not so quick to fault the captain. He studied the pictures very carefully, as if he could draw the American Red Army off the pages, then turned back to Epstein. “Tell me,” he said mildly, “how long have you been a cop?”

  “Thirty-three years,” Epstein muttered. He found it extremely difficult to be in the same room with the FBI agent.

  “Then why do you come to me with this crap?” He waved the pictures in Epstein’s face. “If this was all you had, you would not be sitting in that chair. You must have a legitimate reason for your suspicions and I think I should hear it. If you didn’t intend to share your information, why go to Flynn in the first place?”

  Epstein cleared his throat. He’d been afraid of this question from the beginning. “I must have had two hundred detectives working under me since I became captain and I never had one better at finding the shortest route to an arrest than Moodrow. In all the time I’ve known him, he never once went on a wild goose chase.”

  “Maybe he’s in so much pain, he’s lost his judgment. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “And what if he’s got something he isn’t telling us?”

  “If he’s holding back information that could lead us to these terrorists,” Bradley said, smiling, “I’ll bury him so deep he’ll think the sky fell on him.”

  It was a dismissal, a flip, final word which Epstein refused to accept. “I can’t seem to convince anyone that I know how Moodrow thinks. Maybe it’s better that way. But if it was up to me, I’d put those faces on every television set in New York.” He stopped abruptly. Now that he had put it squarely, he felt more at ease. It wasn’t up to him anymore.

  Bradley, by way of an answer, held up the likeness of Johnny Katanos so both could see it. “The only thing we know about this person is that he was a friend of a boy named Enrique Hentados. Everything else is speculation. Everything. If you put his face on television and even hint that he’s some kind of terrorist, and he turns out to be an ordinary citizen, his lawyer’s going to retire on ten percent of the settlement. The newspapers already call us a gang of witch hunters. What do you think they’d say if we set the whole city hunting some poor truck driver from Queens?”

  By the time Allen Epstein made his obligatory visit to Moodrow’s apartment (a visit he’d known he would make even before the day began), it was nine o’clock and he was very drunk. On the way he cursed the stairwell, his own legs, the FBI, Seamus Flynn, and the entire 203rd Precinct so loudly that Moodrow was waiting, door open, before he reached the third-floor landing.

  “Guess what, asshole,” Epstein shouted. “I just sold your butt to Flynn and the Feds.” He broke into ą malicious laugh. “And I don’t give two shits about it.”

  Moodrow, who was also drinking that night, was well prepared for this turn of events. He’d been drinking to drown the effects of a ten-hour shift in a Bay Ridge pizza joint, ten hours of tossing dough and spreading sauce while a thoroughly amused Anthony Calella cracked jokes at his ineptitude.

  “Come in, Captain,” he said formally.

  “Thass right.” Epstein stumbled into the room and collapsed on the couch. “Sold ya mutha-fuckin’ ass to anyone willing to buy.” He paused a moment, then turned his eyes up to meet Moodrow’s.
“But guess what again, Stanley? They ain’t buyin’. They don’t give a shit. Just another dopey cop.”

  Moodrow digested the information passively. The truth of it was that he didn’t care a damn for what any of them did; for Stanley Moodrow there was no “afterwards.” His post-Army future was as uncertain as that of a blind man sleepwalking on the edge of a cliff. Whatever came would find him utterly unprepared.

  Nevertheless, his captain needing cheering. He said evenly, “I understand what you did. Look at the bright side. They’re not going to do anything and you got your ass covered. What could be better?”

  “Oh yeah,” Epstein demanded, pointing to the likenesses of Effie, Theresa, and John pinned to the wall. “I know these assholes are the Army. I know this, so don’t bullshit me. You’re playing a game with the whole goddamn city. And it ain’t the right thing.”

  Moodrow shrugged his shoulders. “Nobody wants it, whether it’s true or not. So why get ya balls in an uproar? How ‘bout a drink?”

  Epstein sank back into the chair. “Goddamn right.”

  Moodrow went for another glass, filling it halfway with Caulfield’s Wild Turkey Bourbon before returning to the living room.

  “What the fuck is this shit?” Epstein cried. He looked around wildly for a moment, then fell back. “You really drink this stuff?” he asked in a much quieter voice.

  “Listen, Captain, you want I should call Alma and tell her you’re gonna stay over?”

  Instead of answering, Epstein began to cry in that gross, slobbering way common to men who do not ordinarily get drunk. “I sold out my friend,” he moaned. “Sold him out to the cocksuckers. The pencil pushers.”

  “I’ll call Alma.” Moodrow went to the bedroom phone and made the call to an unsurprised Alma Epstein.

  “Take good care of him, Stanley,” she said before falling back to sleep.

  “I will,” Moodrow said into a dead phone. He was accustomed to housing local cops too drunk to make their way back to surburbia and had no objection to Epstein’s presence. In a way, it eased his obsession with Rita’s killers. As the days passed, he was becoming more and more depressed. What if he failed? What if someone else captured them? Or if they were never captured? Only the fantasy, now summoned whenever he was alone, kept him from total immobility. As for Flynn and the FBI—his contempt for them was what had prevented him from discovering Leonora Higgins on that first day in Queens Village.