One Police Plaza

by William Caunitz

  Looking up from the oil-stained floor, Stanislaus noticed the Braxtons sitting on the cot with their heads together, whispering. He pushed away from the van and moved around to the rear where he opened the door and climbed inside. He bent to make his way into the tool chest and flipped open the lid. He reached inside, moved some canvas about, and took out one Ingraham submachine gun. He opened the tubular stock and then reached back into the chest and took out one fully loaded magazine and a stubby, bulbous silencer. He inserted the magazine into the weapon’s housing and attached the silencer to the end of the barrel. He then put the gun into a paper bag and climbed out of the van the same way he had entered.

  “Just look at those slobs playing cards as though they haven’t a care in the world,” Aldridge Braxton said to his sister. “And those foul-smelling Semites, picking their noses, impervious to all these goddamn flies.”

  His sister whispered, “When we leave this place they are going to be too busy to keep constant watch over us. At some point they are going to be distracted, and that is when we will get away from these madmen.”

  “Thea, I am getting bad vibrations from these people. I wish to hell …” He froze as he saw his sister’s head explode into gore. Before he was able to utter a sound his body was thrust up off the cot with his outstretched arms flapping through space. For the brief part of a second Aldridge Braxton had the sensation of being spun through a dappling light, and then there was nothing.

  24

  MONDAY INTO TUESDAY, July 6–7

  The locker room in Midtown Precinct North smelled of moldy old sweat. Long benches lined the rows of lockers and old newspapers overflowed from the tops. Empty garment bags hung from hangers that were stuck into the air slots. Bleary-eyed policemen were busy exchanging their street clothes for the bag. Some of them donned their bulletproof vests, most did not; it was too hot to wrap your body in a furnace of Kevlar. The policemen reached into their lockers and took out their gun belts. When fastened around their waists, the hickory batons that were hooked around their revolvers swung freely, striking metal and wood and occasionally a kneecap. It was the same scene in every patrol precinct in the city: policemen suiting-up for another cursed late tour.

  Tuesday was about to begin.

  At fifteen minutes before the hour the First Platoon was formed into ranks in the muster room of Midtown Precinct North to receive their instructions and assignments for the tour.

  The sergeant had called half the roll when the carriage of the teletype machine sprang to life, shattering his monotonous drone.

  The urgent-message bell clanged, demanding immediate attention. The lieutenant strode from behind his raised desk to read the orders that were being ejected. He perused them, then tore them off the machine and started to assemble them in consecutive order. He then walked into the muster room to address the platoon. “Gimmeya attention. We got some special orders for this tour.”

  The lieutenant’s gaze slid over the platoon. Fidgeting stopped. He held the teletype sheets out in front and started to read. “Until further orders, routine calls for service are to be canned. We’re directed to respond only to emergency calls involving life-threatening situations or to reported crimes in progress. Every member of the patrol force is directed to give continual and sustained attention to the search for the following individuals.”

  Descriptions were read. They were not read names, nor were they told that the people they were to look for were cops. There was a chance, they were told, that the people they were searching for might be accompanied by three or more Arab extremists. These people were wanted in connection with a breach of national security and were to be considered armed and extremely dangerous. Confidential information revealed that they would be heading toward Queens. Members were therefore directed to give special attention to bridges and tunnels leading into Queens, paying particular attention to two or more vehicles that give the appearance of traveling together. Under no circumstances were any efforts to be made to apprehend these individuals. If observed, their location and direction of travel were to be reported. Aviation would have helicopters standing by to follow them. Borough Task Forces had been mobilized and were standing by. Detective and plainclothes units were patrolling in unmarked cars.

  “Look. I don’t know what this is all about, but it has got to be a heavy. So protect your ass and follow instructions. If you spot these humps, lay back and report. Do nothing else.”

  He started to pace the length of the platoon and grinned lightly. “There is one more minor point that I want to cover. We expect sixty minutes to the hour on this one. No eighty-fives with the girlfriends.” His eyes moved from face to face.

  “Anyone got any questions?”

  There were none.

  “Take your posts.”

  Patrolmen Andy Jenkins and Juan Rivera walked out of the stationhouse with the rest of the First Platoon.

  “Wonder what it’s about?” Andy Jenkins said.

  Juan Rivera raised his shoulders. “Who the fuck knows?”

  They walked over to RMP 2356. Rivera went around to the passenger side and opened the door. He stabbed his nightstick between the seat and started to clean out some of the garbage. Andy Jenkins tossed his summons pouch and memo book on the dashboard and then slid in behind the wheel. “Ya’ever see any Arab extremists?”

  “Naw. I useta screw an Arab chick from Fourth Avenue when I worked in the Seven-eight.”

  “She any good?”

  “Her armpits smelled like an asshole.”

  It was ten minutes past the hour when RMP 2356 pulled away from in front of the stationhouse. Their first stop was Rocco’s on Amsterdam Avenue where pizza and a six-pack were waiting for them.

  The ramparts were manned. Men were stationed on the roof, at exits and windows. Anderman had fought this kind of war before and knew how to prepare. His office had been converted into the message center for the coming battle. Radios bristled with messages in English and Hebrew. Maps of the city were spread over tables and chairs, every conceivable route to the warehouse outlined in red. Crash cars had been dispatched to prowl the streets with instructions to intercept. He had combined forces with the police force he had been fighting.

  Anderman moved about, shouting orders, making sure that his people had taken up their positions in and around the warehouse.

  Det. Gus Heinemann was manning one of the radios, logging every transmission, and between messages munching on Milky Ways. His Israeli counterpart was next to him, monitoring the Hebrew transmissions.

  Detectives Davis, Johnson, and Stern were busy studying maps, ensuring that no routes had been overlooked.

  Malone, McQuade, and Jack Harrigan were standing around Anderman’s desk discussing the disposition of their forces.

  “Has Harbor been notified?” Malone said.

  “Why Harbor?” McQuade asked. “It would seem to me that we need men, not launches.”

  Malone held up a map and pointed. “Here is Manhattan Island. To the east, the East River; to the north, the Harlem River; south, the Upper and Lower Bays; the west, the Hudson. We know that their destination is here in Long Island City. Here at Newspoint, Brooklyn and Queens kiss each other. Zangline could load his circus onto a boat or barge in Manhattan and cut across to Brooklyn or Queens.

  “Brooklyn is a borough of creeks and canals. The Spring Creek is a few blocks from here. And here is the Maspeth and the Gowanus.” He held the map at his side and looked at McQuade. “I really think that we should notify Harbor and the Coast Guard.”

  McQuade acquiesced. He went over to the radio and made the necessary notifications. Anderman came over to Malone and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I have one of my helicopters standing by at Fort Totten.”

  “We have our own,” Malone said, fixing his gaze on the map.

  Anderman grinned, patted him on the shoulder, and walked away shouting something in Hebrew.

  “What other precautions have been taken?” Malone asked McQuade when he walk
ed back.

  The Chief of Op told him that sniper teams had been posted around the depot. The bomb squad had a detail hidden in a building one block away. Temporary headquarters had been established inside the warehouse. The fire department had been notified and a hook-and-ladder company was on alert. St. Johns, Elmhurst, and Doctors Hospital were notified to have their disaster units standing by.

  “Looks like everything has been covered,” Malone said.

  “Do you think there is a chance Moorehouse will call it off? Your visit might have put the fear of God into him,” Jack Harrigan said.

  Malone flared. “Wishful thinking. Moorehouse is a psycho who really believes that he is above the law. He thinks that he is leading a crusade against the infidels who caused his election defeat. Besides, I doubt that he could stop it even if he wanted to. These things have the habit of taking on their own form, building up their own momentum until there is only one way to stop them—by force.”

  Time passed and they waited, tensing with each transmission, straining to hear every word. Empty Styrofoam cups littered desks and radio panels, and a thick cloud of smoke wafted over the converted message center.

  Malone was weary. It was three-thirty in the morning and the new day gave promise of being even longer than the last one. On an impulse, he picked up the phone and dialed Erica’s number. It rang a long time before he heard her sleep-filled voice answer. He hung up.

  RMP 2356 was parked in the shadows on Pier 90. Jenkins and Rivera were working on their second six-pack. They had spent most of their tour patrolling their sectors. Rivera had suggested that they pick up some more beer and go into the heave for a little R and R. Jenkins thought that was a good idea. It was going to be a long tour.

  Rivera popped open the top and passed the can to his partner. “I wonder what those guys did to generate so much heat? I can’t ever remember the radio being so dead. It’s eerie. Central must be shitcanning everything.”

  Jenkins gulped beer and belched. “Maybe they stole some secrets or something.”

  “Who gives a shit?” Rivera said, hefting his can.

  “Didya hear what them humps in Congress did? They voted a special tax bill for themselves so that they don’t have to pay any more taxes.”

  “So what else is new? Everyone knows that they’re a bunch of crooks. Yet they keep gettin’ elected. The people of this country are gettin’ just what they ask for. A Congress full of pompous, low-life, theftin’, scumbag, fag motherfuckers.”

  “Yeah!” Jenkins bent his can in half and tossed it out the window.

  “Hey? Didya hear why God gave women pussies?”

  “No. Tell me.”

  “So men would talk to them.”

  Jenkins laughed. His eyes teared and he started to cough. “I like that … so we would talk to them … that’s good.” He was reaching for another beer when he noticed the two flatbed trucks speed past. “Hey? Didya see that?”

  “What?”

  “Them two trucks. One of them guys had on one of them head scarfs you always see them PLO dudes wearing on television.”

  “No shit? Let’s have a look-see.” Rivera gulped the dregs and tossed out the can.

  RMP 2356 drove off Pier 90 and fell in behind the trucks, quickly closing the gap.

  The radio car crept alongside of the trucks, the policemen feigning early morning doldrums.

  Iban Yaziji was driving the last vehicle. Bramson was next to him and Marku was by the window. At the first sight of the police car, Marku tightened his grip around the Uzi which was on his lap. Bramson saw him tense and placed a calming hand over his. “They’re just cops on patrol. No problem.”

  RMP 2356 inched past the trucks and made a right-hand turn into Pier 84. “Get on the horn. It’s them.”

  Everyone in the converted message center was either sleeping, dozing, nodding, or staring at the walls. Malone had been staring for the past hour. He was tormented by the thought of another man possessing Erica. He lived in a world of men; he needed more—he needed her. And he lost her over one lousy phone call that he failed to make. He felt rotten.

  He was just starting to nod when the sudden commotion caused him to snap his head up. His countenance was that of a man unsure of where he was, and of what was happening. He saw the men scurrying for the radio sets and plunged up off the floor and made for the map table.

  “They’ve been spotted,” Heinemann shouted.

  “Where?”

  “West Four-four and One-two Avenue, heading south. They’re in two flatbed trucks that are loaded down with junked cars and it appears that they are being led by someone driving an Econoline van.”

  “Have all surveillance teams in the area close in. But tell them to lay back and do nothing,” Malone said.

  Men gathered around the map table. His gaze went to each one. He could see their excitement blossoming.

  Malone bent over, fingering the map. After scrutinizing it for several minutes he began. “As I see it, there are three ways in which they can come at us. First, they take the West Side Highway to the FDR and over the Triborough Bridge and onto the LIE. They go west and exit at Van Dam. They’d be two blocks from here. Two: the West Side Highway to the FDR and then through the Midtown Tunnel,” he traced the route. “They exit immediately after the toll and turn onto Borden Avenue and make a left. They’d be here in less than a minute. Three, the West Side Highway to the FDR and over the Brooklyn Bridge and onto the BQE. They’d exit at McGuinness Boulevard in Brooklyn and take McGuinness over the Pulaski Bridge and into our backyard.”

  “Before we make any moves against them we’d better make damn sure that they’re isolated within a frozen zone,” McQuade said.

  “But where?” Malone said, studying the map.

  “Aviation has them spotted,” Heinemann piped. “Still proceeding south, just passing Three-four Street.”

  Starling Johnson poked the lieutenant. “We’re getting real short on time.”

  Malone glared at him with a look that said, I know, and then returned his attention to the map. “Isolate inside a frozen zone—some area where they’d be boxed,” he said as his finger prowled the map.

  He jerked his head up and faced the Chief of Op. “We’re going to have to have details at three locations. The Midtown Tunnel on both sides. If they come that way, we’ll wait until they’re inside and then spring both ends closed. The expressway. If they come that route, we wait until they pass the Greenpoint Avenue exit and then spring a blockade across the expressway between Greenpoint and Van Dam. The Pulaski Bridge. If they come through Brooklyn we wait until they’re on the bridge and then choke off both ends.”

  “How many men do you think they have with them?” Anderman said.

  “The radio car team that spotted them reported seeing three men in each of the two trucks. If they brought along four or five of Marku’s friends plus the Braxtons, that would give them around fifteen people,” Malone said.

  “Five and fifty at each choke point?” McQuade said.

  “Should do it,” Malone said.

  “I have to talk to the PC,” McQuade said, as he walked over to the telephone on the desk and dialed. He cupped his hand around the receiver as he talked. It was a short conversation. When he was finished, he went over to the radio and picked up the handset. “This is the Chief of Operations.”

  “Go, Chief.”

  “Signal ten-seventy-seven. Five and fifty at each of the following locations.” When he finished his message to Central, McQuade telephoned Deputy Inspector Obergfoll and issued him specific instructions. A captain or above was to be assigned to command each choke point. Personnel to be concealed at least one block on either side of each choke point. When the suspects’ route was definitely ascertained the point concerned would be notified. Personnel assigned at other locations were to remain thereat. The suspects might have divided their forces and could be coming at them from different directions. TPU and Borough Task Force Units were to take up positions around the wa
rehouse.

  The whirlybirds were now the department’s eyes and ears; their assignment, to track the caravan without being spotted and report its direction of travel.

  The surveillance vehicles on the ground began to close the gap between the air and ground. Throughout the city policemen responded to the Rapid Mobilization Plan. Vacant patrol sectors were added onto other sectors to provide maximum coverage with a depleted force; desk officers made the necessary adjustments on roll calls.

  Inside temporary headquarters, Detective Heinemann manned the radio, calling out the coordinance.

  The helicopter pilot’s voice was loud and clear despite the static and engine noises: “Passing West Houston …” A short time later: “Chambers Street … Broad Street.… They’re turning onto the Battery.”

  “We’ll know soon enough,” Jake Stern told the silent men.

  Anderman tugged at the lieutenant’s arm. He grabbed him by the elbow and walked him across the room to a corner. “Policeman. Listen to what I’m going to tell you. You are not going to be able to talk those men out of what they plan to do. They are fanatics. Greed might have been the catalyst for this whole thing, but the thrill of killing has become the reason. I have seen many such men. You are going to need my help. Police weaponry is no match for military ordinance. Uzi submachine guns can cut your police line to shreds. And who knows what other weapons they might have with them? Your people are going to die without reason unless you let me help.”

  “We have shotguns and automatic rifles.” A weak retort.

  Anderman clutched his arms. “Don’t be a fool! Let me call in my men. A precaution, nothing more.”

  Malone knew that there was no time to argue. He also knew that Anderman was right. He went over to McQuade and pulled him from a huddle. When he finished whispering to the Chief he looked over to Anderman and shoved his thumb upward.