Police Officer Edmonds was prone behind a steel chassis that had been blown off a car. His head rested on the stock of his shotgun. His stomach was snarled with cramps and flashes of cold sweat racked his body. His partner, Neale, lay six yards away, his intestines a seeping mass oozing from his stomach. In front of his position lay the body of Sgt. Sam Nelson, his legs still inside the burning radio car.
He thought of his wife and Kenny and Billy and Mary Ann and little Artie and wondered what they would do without him. He had made an Act of Contrition and was now asking God to let him survive. Without warning a warm mass exploded from his body, running between his legs and over his genitals.
A sudden whine filled the air. Two dull thuds were followed by loud explosions. He buried his head in his arms. The rockets hit the center of the police line. Shrapnel splintered in the air. A radio car disintegrated in flames while another one leaped up in the air and tumbled down. A body cartwheeled through space. Heavy automatic fire raked the barricade. The carnage had begun again.
Edmonds forced himself to look. The two trucks were rolling down off the bridge, looming through the smoke and shimmering waves of heat. They reminded him of dune buggies from another planet with their flattened pieces of junk stacked one on top of the other. Flames burst from hidden guns; slugs whined incessantly. The men inside might prevent him from seeing his family again; these men had killed his partner. He pushed himself up off the ground into a standing position, his weapon firmly pressed to his shoulder. He leaned forward and pump-fired double action at the advancing enemy.
The trucks were halfway down the bridge. Westy’s team was crouched behind piles of junk, firing their weapons at the police. Zangline was in the front seat of one of the trucks. He had smashed out the windshield and was firing his Uzi at the barricade. Not once did he give pause to think that they were policemen he was trying to kill. Ahead lay the enemy. He threw his Uzi down and picked up a rocket launcher. He assembled it and fired at the center of the line.
The men manning the barricade were no match for the combined firepower of the Uzi and the rockets. They started to back away from the barricade, firing as they went. Some ran, to put as much distance between themselves and the trucks as possible. People on the rooftops cheered and catcalled. The first train of the morning pulled into the Hunters Point station from Port Jefferson. The platform was crowded with bewildered passengers, none of them willing to climb the steps up into the street.
Jeeps appeared from nowhere. They were first seen speeding up Jackson Avenue. Men were at the guns, and others knelt beside the weapons and fingered belts of ammunition. Some people on the roof started to cheer. Others booed.
The column sped across the rear of the barricade and made a sharp right-hand turn into Hunters Point Avenue and then pushed its way around the left flank of the police line to take up a position in front of the barricade.
Ahmad Marku and Iban Yaziji were the first to see the fluttering pennants. “Jews!” Marku yelled.
The GE Miniguns laid down a withering field of fire. Tracers found their marks. The tires on both trucks exploded. They were stopped dead in their tracks. A fender flew off one of them and tumbled through the air. A hood was ripped from its chassis and tumbled down. Both radiators exploded. A smoke screen of steam covered the bridge. A loud hissing sound came from the trucks.
Whitney Zangline leaped down and knelt at the side of his truck. He wanted to run, to get away. But how? Where would he go? Perhaps if he could reach the barricade he could find some way to convince them that he was really on their side? Working undercover. A body toppled from the truck and splayed next to him. Run! Get away! Before he was like that lifeless mass with blank eyes. The creek! Dive in and swim away. He leaped up and ran for the railing. He gripped the top and started to push himself over when a hail of bullets cut his body in half. The top part toppled over into the water; the bottom crumpled onto the bridge.
Stanislaus and Edwin Bramson were together, hunched down behind a rusting ’69 Ford. Bullets chunked around them. Stanislaus passed his friend a tube. He could see the fear on his face. “We’re going to get out of this!” he shouted.
Bramson forced a smile as he readied his launcher.
When their weapons were assembled they looked at each other. Stanislaus nodded and they leaped from their positions and fired.
The jeep bearing the nameless man with the ugly scar blew outward and then collapsed in a fireball. Gus Heinemann was in the next vehicle, kneeling beside the gun mount, feeding the ammo belt up into the action body. The missile hit underneath the jeep causing it to bound up into the air and tumble backward into the barricade. Heinemann was thrown out. His body slammed down over the hood of a radio car and bounced off. Two policemen ran up and dragged him to safety.
The gunner in Starling Johnson’s jeep lurched forward, clutching his throat. He knocked into the gun and toppled backward onto the ground. Johnson jumped up and took his place. Another jeep exploded. Missiles were exploding around them. Two jeeps were left. Policemen were running back to the barricade, joining the fight. Jake Stern and Harrigan were fighting on foot from behind a disabled jeep, firing their .38s and cursing at the enemy.
“You better send us help,” Malone shouted into the radio. “We’re catching hell from those rockets.”
“I’ll release the Brooklyn choke point,” McQuade radioed.
“No! We’d be caught in a crossfire. Our own people would be firing down on us.” As he talked, he was watching Anderman feed the ammo belt. He heard his name screamed and turned in time to see Starling Johnson spin in a swirl of blood and fall. He threw down the handset and bounded from the jeep. Slugs chewed up the ground as he ran. He leaped into Johnson’s jeep and grabbed the machine gun. “You motherless cocksuckers!” he screamed, firing. Bo Davis was suddenly by his side feeding up the belt. He fired again and again, longer and longer bursts. The Gatling rotated on cue, the ejector spewing out a colony of casings. He sprayed the enemy with a devastating fire. The steel cables that had lashed the junked automobiles to the truck beds were snapped by bullets. No more fire came from the trucks. Clusters of slugs continued to chew up the junk as Malone maintained a relentless field of fire. The cargo started to shift. Then totter. One by one the stacks caved in. And then an enormous explosion shook the earth. Malone was pitched out of the jeep and slapped to the ground. Bo Davis was flung into the front of the jeep, his body smashing into the gear stick. Both Jake Stern and Harrigan were thrown onto their backs. Anderman landed on his shoulders and rolled about four feet.
A fireball shot hundreds of feet into the air. And then a gush of water frothed down over the bridge, with a waterfall of muddy water that rushed down at the police.
It was quiet. Men began to stir. Malone looked up, slowly pushing himself up off the ground and feeling his body. He was covered with slime and mud and soaked with putrid water. He wiped his palms over his face and body. There was no blood, no holes. He was alive. He looked up at the bridge where the trucks had been. They were gone. In their place was a gaping hole. Girders twisted in the churned-up waters of Newtown Creek.
“It’s over, policeman.”
The voice came from the rear. He turned his head and saw Anderman lying on his back, looking at him.
“Over? It’s far from over. We have our dead and wounded to care for. Notifications to make. And we had better concoct some plausible story to explain this madness. And then there is the matter of Mr. Carter Moorehouse. His ass belongs to me.”
25
TUESDAY, July 7 … Morning
The first news team arrived at the One-oh-eight, the precinct of occurrence, about twelve minutes after the bridge blew up. By 5:02 A.M. the front of the stationhouse was jammed with camera trucks and police vehicles. Inside, the muster room swarmed with shouting, pushing newspeople demanding information. The desk lieutenant was besieged by cameras, microphones, and screaming reporters. Tell us what happened. Who was involved? Is it true that it was the FALN? Wha
t is your name, Lieutenant? Why are you with-holding information?
“I wasn’t there so I don’t know what happened. You’re going to have to wait for the official release from the PC.” He had his orders. Direct from the Chief of Op. “Keep your mouth shut until I tell you what to say,” McQuade had told him when he rushed into the stationhouse.
Policemen stood across the stairway leading to the upper floors, and the stairs were crowded with more. Their orders were to prevent unauthorized personnel from gaining access to the upper stories—newsmen in particular.
In the second-floor detective squad the mayor, PC, first deputy police commissioner, the chief of detectives and several State Department types were closeted with Malone and McQuade and Anderman. They searched for a way out. It was no longer possible to deny; they needed a cover story. They argued and cajoled each other, while each man attempted to protect his vested interest. The Israelis had to be left out of it, one of the men from State said. National interest demands it. The City must be protected from lawsuits, the mayor told them, kicking a chair and glaring at his police commissioner. Every telephone in the squad room was ringing. “Shut off those goddamn phones!” shouted the PC.
A detective scurried to take the receivers off their hooks.
“Our story has to be believable, plausible, and verifiable,” McQuade said, looking over at Malone, who sat on the floor with his back against the wall, not paying attention or caring.
Malone was bone tired and his teeth felt numb and cold. His clothes were still wet and he smelled of smoke and cordite. He yearned for a bed, clean sheets, and to awake from this nightmare. But he knew that was impossible. He kept seeing the ambulances pulling up to the bridge; then the doctors and nurses working on the wounded and finally the neatly arranged rows of body bags. He would never be able to find peace until he got Moorehouse. He dwelled on it, searching for a way. He caught himself staring at the tiles, green tiles splotched with gray. Why did every stationhouse have the same ugly tiles and cinderblock walls? Why not oak floors and wallpapered walls? A little class to jazz up the shithouses. Maybe he would kill Moorehouse. Stalk him, learn his routine, and then waylay him. Four in the head with a .22 throw-away. It would mean twenty-five to life if he got caught, and a cop does hard, hard time. Was it worth the chance? He thought so today, but how would he feel tomorrow, or next week, or next year? He could hide in the shadows with a baseball bat. Savor the exhilaration of feeling his skull shatter; watch the blood spurt from his ears and flow from his eyes. Turn him into a living vegetable. Or he could employ all of his investigative skills and gather enough evidence to convict. I could investigate until hell freezes and still come up with zip that would stand in any court, he told himself. He would think of a way. He needed sleep and a clear head. Then the answer would come to him.
Yachov Anderman was sitting on the floor next to him, his knees pulled up into his chest, his chin resting on kneecaps.
“I’m going to miss Ancorie, policeman.” A sad tone.
Malone looked sideways. “I’m going to be missing people, too.”
The other men in the room were shouting. The PC and McQuade and the mayor wanted to cover up Zangline, Stanislaus, Kelly, and Bramson’s complicity. If it were to become known the department would be destroyed, the PC reasoned, and the mayor and McQuade concurred. “But they committed serious crimes,” a man from State said.
“So what?” the mayor said.
“I don’t believe you people!” Malone shouted. “You want to make heroes out of those humps? Besmirch everything this job stands for? I’d vomit every time I’d walk into headquarters and saw their names up on those scrolls.”
“And what choice do we have?” the PC shouted back.
“The truth is available,” Malone said.
“Are you for real, Malone?” said the mayor.
“The department would be finished for all time. We would end up with civilians running the show. Every precinct, division, and borough command would have a fucking civilian politician running it. Everyone connected with this case would end up with his head on the chopping block. Including you,” McQuade said.
“No way would I make martyrs out of them,” Malone said.
“You’re overruled, Malone,” said the mayor.
“Why don’t you fuck off,” Malone said, turning and looking at Anderman.
“Shmucks,” Anderman muttered.
“What will happen to you?” Malone said.
Anderman twitched his thumbs. “I’m a survivor. I’ll be okay. We’ll more than likely move the warehouses to different locations.”
A detective walked into the room and looked around. He saw Malone and went over to him. He bent down and whispered to him. Malone leaped up from the floor and ran from the office. He threaded his way through the gauntlet of policemen on the staircase and plunged into the throng of reporters at the bottom, parrying the microphones with his hands and ignoring their questions.
He saw her standing in the 124 room. She looked beautiful and nervous as she stroked the edge of a desk. “Erica!”
She looked up and waved to him. They ran into each other’s arms and began kissing each other with a mixture of affection and relief. The newshounds set upon them, shoving their damnable microphones into their faces and shouldering them with their endless goddamn questions.
He took her by the hand and led her through the crowd, searching for someplace where they might be alone—and talk.
The stationhouse broom—a thirty-year hairbag who in addition to keeping the stationhouse clean was the precinct’s gofer—saw his plight and shouted to him. “Lou! Over here!”
Malone heard the unfamiliar voice calling him and looked over the heads of the crowd. He spied the broom standing in front of the door which led into the detention cells.
He pulled Erica through the throng of reporters, slapping their microphones aside, forcing himself to remain calm. He was not going to do what they wanted him to do. Lose his cool before the cameras. Explode at them. Tell them what he thought of them.
When he neared the empty jail cells, the broom pulled the steel cover open and let them slide past him, blocking the reporters with his body and slamming the door closed.
They were alone in a cold, gray hall of empty jail cells. Bare lightbulbs caged in their own tiny cells ran the length of the corridor. Steam pipes were high up on the walls.
For a moment they just stood there, a foot apart, staring at each other, and then, as though on cue, they rushed into an embrace and kissed.
He was holding her again! He felt her press to him. He smelled her scent and felt her hair on his face, caught between their lips. Her tongue caressed his in that special, wonderful way.
He slid a hand over her back, satisfying himself that she was really there, that it was not a dream.
“Erica. I love you. I’ve been miserable. I know that I was wrong about not telephoning. Forgive me?”
“I’ve been a shit, Daniel. I’m sorry. I’ve been unable to sleep. I was sitting up in bed at five this morning watching TV when the news flashed on. My heart stopped. I just knew that you were involved. I prayed that you were alive.”
She kissed him lightly on the lips. “I realized then just how much I love you.”
He looked around for a place where they might sit down and talk. He took her by the hand and led her into the nearest cell.
The walls, the floor, the ceiling, the bars, the plank that hung down taut from the steel wall and served as the bed; everything was shiny battleship gray—everything except the stainless-steel toilet with a rounded lip and without a flush or a seat. Holding hands they lowered themselves onto the plank. His eyes were on her face, not daring to leave, afraid that he would wake and find her gone. He became conscious of the tumult beyond the door, a muffled din. He told her about the Eisinger caper, all of it, omitting nothing. Except Carter Moorehouse.
They sat in the cell for a time, he talking; she listening, gazing into his eyes, caressing his han
ds, occasionally bending to kiss them.
“I telephoned you this morning. When you answered, I hung up.”
She reached up and touched his cheek. “I. Love. You. Daniel. Malone. You are my Lou.”
He kissed her and began caressing her breast. She forced his hand away. She wore a faint smile, one that said, Men! She turned and swept her hand around the cell. “This place is hardly what I would call conducive to lovemaking. Where do you suggest that we do it? On the cold floor? Or shall I lie down on this wonderful slab of wood?”
They looked at each other and burst into laughter.
“Your place or mine, handsome?”
“Yours is closer.” He held her face and kissed her. He then broke away and went to the door and cracked it, peering out.
It was 7:50 A.M.
The mayor was standing on the first landing. The PC, McQuade, the Chief of Detectives, the First Deputy Police Commissioner, and the men from State were at his side. Reporters and TV crews pressed against the cordon of police at the foot of the staircase. All cameras and microphones pointed upward. Despite the size of the crowd, there was an unbelievable hush; the only sounds were colliding microphones and shuffling feet.
The mayor put on his glasses and held the prepared text out in front of him. The cover story was ready. The mayor had spoken but five words when Malone was able to imagine the banner headlines around the world—LIBYAN HIT SQUAD FIGHTS TO DEATH ON PULASKI BRIDGE. The mayor told the assemblage that the United States Government had previously announced that it was in possession of irrefutable intelligence that Libya’s Muammar al-Qaddafi had dispatched teams of assassins to this country to assassinate the president and other top leaders. He told them how upon receipt of this information the Intelligence Division of the NYPD had launched a massive search for these individuals. Deputy Chief Whitney Zangline had headed up the investigation.
Zangline and an elite unit of SOD trapped the suspects on the Pulaski Bridge as they were on their way with a cache of explosives to blow up the Con Edison generating plant on Vernon Boulevard in Long Island City. This attack was to have been a diversion for the assassination of the United States Ambassador to the United Nations.
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