by Oliver Stark
They watched a plume of black and gray smoke rise above the rooftops.
Harper’s ears rang and he saw the people all around dash into huddled groups. Taking Denise by the hand, Harper raced back to his car. ‘Get in,’ he shouted. They pulled away, turned and drove towards the center of the explosion.
Chapter One Hundred and Fifteen
Crown Heights, Brooklyn
March 15, 11.18 a.m.
Harper and Denise abandoned their car a street away. The traffic was too bad. Hundreds of cars packed tight. They got out and ran hard towards the scene. There was no telling what the bomb had done or how many were injured. The priority for the team was to get the injured out of there and to secure the scene. His priority had to be to stop Jack Carney.
Harper moved through the crowds at the end of the street. He slowed as he came across the scene. A gray New York street spread out from the center-point of chaos. Scattered, twisted, smoking metal. The wasted hulk of an exhumed truck, quietly breathing gray-black smoke. The spread of debris. Dazed victims, some staggering at the edges of the blast, some moving on the ground, others still. The whole front wall of the museum blasted to pieces. Carney hadn’t targeted the empty synagogue but a museum full of people. What’s more, like some final insult, he’d chosen Aaron Goldenberg’s workplace. Harper’s mind raced.
He stared at the devastation in a civilian street. Blood on concrete. Torn clothes. Papers and shoes. Body parts against fast-food wraps. The pressure wave had been enough to crush the closer victims. Their bodies were hit by an impenetrable wall of high pressure and had been thrown against the buildings. Further out, the shrapnel had caused carnage. The mix of bright red blood and black soot was smudged across the entire frontage of the museum.
Harper made for the makeshift Incident Command. He scanned the scene quickly.
There was no one in the bomb zone except the essential medical services and the Bomb Squad. There were two Bomb Squad detectives in big green EOD 8 Bomb Suits, fifty layers of Kevlar shielding them from any potential explosion. Thank God that they’d put the city on red alert. Every team had been up and mobile. The response time was astonishing and it meant that lives were being saved. The bomb crew were on all fours looking under cars along the street with a mirror.
A great phalanx of injured bodies lay at the entrance of the Museum of Tolerance. It was the epicenter.
‘There’s too many. Far too many bodies,’ said Harper.
Denise was in shock. She turned. ‘What?’
‘Something’s wrong. A street scene at this time wouldn’t have been this busy.’
Harper watched for a moment as the paramedics continued the pre-hospital triage – a hell of a thing to be doing in a New York street: tagging each of the wounded red, amber or green depending on how long they’d live. The red-tags were already being moved to the ambulances. Amber and greens would have to wait in the street in horrible agony.
As soon as Harper and Levene entered Incident Command, they spotted Sergeant Luce Colhoon, who called them across.
‘Just got here,’ Harper said. ‘You have anything on the bomber?’
‘Listen, we’ve got emergency services taking care of the wounded. Three dead already in ambulances. We got the utilities on it – there’s a burst gas main somewhere down the street, but they’ve closed off the gas already. I’ve got no idea about the bomber. What we got to know, Detective, is this: what the hell happened?’
‘You speak to any witnesses?’
‘Nobody who can hear me. They’re all deaf.’
Harper went back to the street. He looked again at the mass of bodies outside the museum, and then across the street. Debris, smashed car glass. Walls full of shot. Dazed and wounded people sitting where they could, receiving treatment. The ground scattered with nails. A sickeningly barbaric device aimed at maiming the maximum number of people.
But there were too many dead and wounded. That’s what he saw again. Normally at this time, the street would’ve maybe had a dozen or so people on the sidewalks, but this looked like someone had let off a bomb in a crowd.
Harper edged forward, mentally totting up the numbers. He put his hand on the shoulder of a cop trying to clear a path for the paramedics.
‘You get anything from any witnesses?’
‘I don’t know. There was a guy on the second floor of the building opposite the museum who said he was watching the street. Saw a crowd streaming out of the museum – and then the blast shot his window out. He’s in one of the ambulances. Maybe he’s gone already.’
‘They were coming out of the museum before the bomb went off?’
‘That’s what the man said.’
Harper thought for a moment and looked up at the museum. There was a window out on the second floor. Not unusual given the scene, but it was the only one out. Maybe there had been a smaller blast first. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe someone had set off an alarm.
Harper pulled Denise across to the entrance and in through the shattered glass doors. Two security officers were helping set up a temporary hospital area in the foyer.
‘We got to find out what happened,’ Harper told Denise. ‘Talk to people.’
‘This is where Aaron Goldenberg works. I need to find him. He might be hurt.’
‘Okay, try to locate him,’ said Harper. He went up to a security guard. ‘Detective Harper. I need some information fast.’
‘Okay, sir, I’ll tell you what I can, but you gotta speak up.’ The guard tapped his ears by way of an explanation.
‘Okay. Listen, did something happen prior to the blast, anything you see from in here?’
‘Yeah, something, but I don’t know what it was. The fire alarm went off and people began to walk towards the exits, then this crowd started down the stairs from the upper floors, in a panic, caused everyone to stampede. We couldn’t stop them. They got out of the doors and then, BAM! The device went off.’
‘The alarm went off first? You sure? Sometimes it can get confusing.’
‘It went off first. That’s why the blast hit so many. Like they were running right into it.’
‘Can you show me where the alarm was set off?’
‘We didn’t get a chance to look. The control is in the back office. I’ll take you.’
The security guard took Harper inside the main office and through a back corridor to the security unit. It was empty. The security officer stood in front of a bank of lights. ‘It’s flashing in Area 8B, I got to look it up, give me a second.’ Harper gazed at the TV screens as the guard looked up the code. Two screens were blank, but the two screens on the outside of the building were still working.
‘8B is up on the second floor in the exhibition room.’
‘And these two cameras that are out?’
‘Shit, I didn’t see. Okay. Maybe something happened. They’re both from the exhibition room. Shit. That’s bad news. You don’t think someone’s set off something to . . .’
‘To what?’
‘To create a diversion and steal the artefacts?’
‘If that’s what’s going on, it’s the most fucked-up theft I ever heard of.’ Harper was already out the door, his Glock 19 firmly in his hand as he leaped up the stairs to the second floor. The security guard followed.
The second floor was quiet. Harper stopped. The big wooden doors at the end of the corridor were closed. He waited until the security guard caught up.
‘They should be open, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Okay, let’s take this nice and slow. We don’t know what’s going on.’
‘Nice and slow.’
Harper made his way down the marble corridor, his reflection perfect in the freshly polished floor. At the door, he stopped and sank to his knees. He put his eye to the large old-fashioned keyhole and stared for a moment. It was enough. He turned and pulled out his radio.
‘Sergeant Colhoon, it’s Detective Harper,’ he whispered. ‘I’m in the museum up on the second floor.�
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‘So what have you got for me, Detective?’
‘This is worse than we thought. The first blast happened up here. We’ve got several casualties on the second floor. And you’re going to need to call a SWAT team. Maybe two. The bomber is in the building. And he’s got hostages.’
Chapter One Hundred and Sixteen
Museum of Tolerance, Brooklyn
March 15, 11.32 a.m.
The truck had been packed with explosives. Nothing ornate or fancy. Ammonium nitrate sitting loose in a flat box. Three bangers stuck in there and a can of fuel. All according to the instructions he’d been given. Carney had also thrown in a few bags of old nails he had no more use for.
The truck bomb had worked better than he’d expected. The fuse must’ve been just right. He’d had exactly the right amount of time to walk up to the second floor, set off a small incendiary device, start screaming, ‘Fire!’ all over the place, and then watch as the chaos ensued. All of them running as if to freedom, only to feel the heat of a bomb blast and a barrage of red-hot nails flaying their skin.
In the chaos, he shot out the two cameras on the second floor and then he shut the door to the exhibition room behind him. Those who hadn’t managed to escape stood there in front of him. Mindless sheep, unable to think or realize what was happening. He blocked the doorway. The crowd stopped.
‘What are you doing, man?’
‘There’s a fire in the stairwell. Smoke’s real bad. It’ll kill you.’
‘What do we do?’
‘There’s another stairway. Follow me.’
There were about twelve of them. Men, women, children. They turned from the exit and followed Carney down a corridor and into another exhibition room. When they were all in the room, Carney shut the door and pulled out Josef.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Making a point that needs making. Now all of you, sit the fuck down.’
The twelve hostages started to scream and panic. Carney shouted but the panic had set in. He pulled a man out of the crowd of wailing, crying people and pushed his Luger hard into the man’s cheek.
‘Shut the fuck up.’
Carney shot one round into the floor, then returned the gun to the man’s face.
‘What’s your name, Jew?’
‘Jeb Rosenbaum,’ the man said. Slowly, the group fell silent.
‘I’ll kill the children first, if you scream again.’
Jeb held his head in his hands. He was crying. Carney turned to him. ‘What are you crying for, Jeb? You’re the lucky one.’
He took Jeb by the elbow and pushed him against the opposite wall.
‘Why are you doing this? What do you want?’
‘I want people to know.’
‘What?’
‘Kneel.’
‘Please don’t kill me. I’ve got three children.’
‘It’s the breeders that are the worst. Fucking kneel!’ shouted Carney.
Jeb knelt and Carney took out a knife from his boot leg. He stood in front of him and stared.
‘You know what a scapegoat is, don’t you?’
‘I don’t know what you mean . . .’
‘Yes, you do. It’s the innocent goat sent away bearing the sins of its people.’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘You will. Don’t you worry about that.’ Carney produced a roll of barbed wire from his backpack. He threw it down. ‘I’m going to wire you up, Jeb.’
The twelve stopped and stared. Carney stared back. He stepped up to the man and held up his gun. ‘You are not human. You are no longer human, you understand?’
Carney moved in with the barbed wire. He took Jeb and wrapped the wire three times around his neck.
Chapter One Hundred and Seventeen
Museum of Tolerance, Brooklyn
March 15, 11.37 a.m.
Harper sat with his back against the wooden door to the exhibition room. Inside, he’d seen Jack Carney clutching a Luger and pointing it at a group of hostages. He counted twelve: one of them was half-wrapped in barbed wire.
Harper looked through the big keyhole again. Carney was armed. His face and clothes were coated in a film of soot from the incendiary device. Harper watched in silence as Carney taped an explosive device around one of the hostages. Harper felt his breath shorten as he listened to the hostages pleading. They were terrified. Carney would be in no mood for negotiation. Harper could sense the tension in his voice. It was a bad sign. Carney clearly had a plan and he was going to stick to it.
Harper spoke low into his shortwave. ‘How long till SWAT get here?’
‘Three to four minutes. Keep it nice and quiet up there.’
‘I don’t think this guy intends to live. That makes him very dangerous.’
‘I’ll pass it on, Harper. Just sit tight.’
Harper tried to breathe deeply. Three to four minutes to get to the location. A minute to get out of the SWAT truck and a minute to get up to the second floor. Inside, a couple of the younger hostages were sobbing. In the background, further off, was the sound of crying and shouting. A scuffle, then silence. There was too much silence.
Harper looked again. Right in front of him was a man. He was about forty years old; three sticks of dynamite were now taped around his waist beside the detonation device. His face was blank. He had goose bumps all over his body.
Harper heard the killer walk up and down the room.
‘I just want the world to see you as you are. Rich bastard, aren’t you? I want you to crawl out of this place. I want to hear you bleat like a goat.’
Then what? Harper considered the plan. He looked at his watch. Time was too tight to call. If he waited for the SWAT team to get there, something might have happened, but if the killer was planning on getting his hostage to crawl out of the museum, he’d have a chance. Harper heard Carney’s voice barking commands.
‘Okay, all of you now get down on all fours.’
Harper leaned in and watched the killer orchestrating his delusions. Then he called into Command.
‘We’ve got a situation developing. He’s wiring the main hostage with explosive devices.’
‘They want to know the exact layout of the rooms, you got that information?’
‘Sure. But how long till we got some backup here?’
‘They’re caught in the fucking chaos. They’ve left the truck but they’ll be maybe another five minutes.’
‘I could take a shot.’
‘This is an order, Detective. Do not, I repeat, do not attempt a rescue.’
‘Okay. I’ll hold off.’
Inside the room, the terrified hostages were on their hands and knees. When the device blew, the explosion would savage them all.
Harper watched Carney stand back.
‘Look at you go. Terrified to die, my little goats?’ Carney wiped his mouth. Spit was forming on his lips. He looked tired. The adrenalin must have hit him in fits and starts – rising up and then falling like a wave.
Carney approached Jeb Rosenbaum.
‘You want to know what’s going to happen? You’re going to crawl out into the street.’
Carney laughed.
Jeb dared not look up. Carney took out a small black device that looked like a cell phone. He held it up.
‘You know what? I’m going to see how far you all get to. I shall let you go, just so long as you don’t squeal. But if they touch you, I press this number; it dials, connects to the little receiver next to that dynamite and what it will do, Jeb, what it will do . . . is explode.’
Jeb started to shake.
‘The idea is that it will rip your head clean off. Your head will go flying into the crowds. It’s up to you. You keep them off you, you’ll live. For a time. I want the TV crews to see you Jews as you should be seen.’
Harper listened and turned to the security guard. ‘If he gets that hostage into the street, that fucks up the whole idea of a rescue. Any other way into that room?’
The security gua
rd pointed to the stairs. ‘You can get into it from the other side.’
Harper nodded. ‘Keep watching through the keyhole. Soon as you see me on the far side, knock three times on the door. He’ll look up and I’ll . . . well, I’ll do something.’ Harper stood and shot up the stairs.
The security guard waited in terrified silence. He didn’t hear someone coming up the stairs until she was right there. He turned and saw a blond-haired woman. ‘Who are you?’
‘Denise Levene. I’m with Harper. Where’s Dr Goldenberg?’
The security guard shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Harper’s gone round the other side.’
‘What’s his plan?’ asked Denise.
‘I don’t think he has one.’
Inside the foyer of the museum, Aaron Goldenberg stared down at the dead and injured. The cops had taken the worst to the ambulances. He saw one of his security guards lying on his back, a bloody bandage pressed to his shoulder. He approached the man and knelt at his side.
‘What happened, Bill?’ he said.
‘Dr Goldenberg. God, Dr Goldenberg. A bomb, that’s what happened.’
‘I know there was a bomb. The alarm went off in here. Why?’
‘They think he’s in here, the 88 Killer. The cops just went up. I’d like to go up with them. Some lady is looking for you, too. I sent her up to the exhibition room.’
‘The 88 Killer?’ said Dr Goldenberg.
‘Detective took the other guard. They went upstairs. Exhibition Room.’
Aaron Goldenberg let the pain emerge. He could think of just one thing. He reached down to the security guard’s side and opened the plastic holster.
‘What are you doing, sir?’
‘Shh,’ said Aaron. ‘He’s got my daughter.’ He pulled the gun out and held it in his hand. He looked at it. ‘How do I work it?’
‘You can’t do it, Dr Goldenberg. You got to leave it to the police.’
‘I have – for seventeen days. Now I’ve got to do something. He’s here. Where’s the safety?’
The guard nodded to the side of the gun. Aaron pushed down the small button. ‘This ready now?’