Kate reluctantly released her hold on her son. “Would you like some fish and chips?” She asked.
Both boys nodded.
“All right then, but I want to hear what happened and how you got here.”
Liam and Ryan alternated in providing their accounts of the journey from the Constitution Center to Manayunk.
“Mum, we used the compass Jack gave me to get here. It was just like he said; with a compass you can always find your way home. Ryan and me took turns,” Liam said as Ryan nodded his agreement.
“I have to call Jack and his parents and let them know you’re both safe,” Kate said.
Jack was relieved and grateful to learn that Liam and his friend were safe. He marveled at the manner in which Liam had reacted to the chaos with which he had been confronted in the wake of the bombing. His ability to maneuver out of harm’s way was impressive and demonstrated abilities that grown men did not possess. All of this from a boy, not yet ten years old!
“Kate, I was so worried about Liam, I found it nearly impossible to focus on the robbery from the Barnes.” He filled her in on his unanticipated involvement in the art heist. “Kate, you need to go back to my parent’s house, you and Liam. It’s really important.”
“Jack, don’t you think we’ll be OK with Uncle Mike?”
“Kate, we think the guy driving the rig with the stolen art was Michael Flynn. If it was he’s still around, and he’s dangerous. I need you to take Liam to my folks. I asked Izzy to send a unit from the Fourth District to take you there. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can get out of this. Please do this for me. The unit should be there any minute.”
Kate realized that had she followed Jack’s advice this morning Liam would never have been in the terrible predicament and danger he had endured.
“Alright Jack we’ll be there.”
FORTY
Among the dignitaries invited to attend the awards ceremony was Sheikh Nazeur ibn Aziz, third cousin to King Abdul-Aziz of the House of Saud, the King of Saudi Arabia. Nazeur was one of the most influential advisors to the King. He had been educated at Harvard and the London School of Economics. Nazeur, like many of the Royal cousins spent the majority of his life away from the Kingdom. Unlike many of the King’s cousins Nazeur had amassed a fortune as an options trader and oil broker. He was not financially dependent on the Royal Family’s largesse. Also unlike many of the 15,000 members of the family, he was a devout Muslim who refrained from the outrageous behavior and excessive lifestyles that often brought disgrace to the Royal Family.
Nazeur, although a man of faith, was not a complete ascetic. His great personal wealth afforded him a lifestyle beyond the imagination of even the vaunted one per cent of the meritocracy in the United States, or the aristocracy of Europe and the newly-minted capitalist/criminals of Russia. His traveling entourage often numbered over fifty. His personal security force sometimes as many as fifteen bodyguards were all trusted members of his family. He always traveled in his own luxury custom jets and yachts.
Nazeur’s yacht, a ninety-meter beauty powered by 8 electric generators with two heli-pads, and security features that rivaled those of a US Navy destroyer, was docked on the Delaware River at Penn’s Landing. With the exception of the Battleship New Jersey and freighters discharging containerized cargo, Nazeur’s yacht was the largest seafaring vessel in the port.
His great wealth also afforded him the luxury to indulge his passion to acquire works of fine art. Nazeur had over the years amassed the single greatest private collection of post-impressionist paintings in the world; and the publicly reported works in his collection were only the tip of the iceberg. Nazeur’s private collection also included dozens of masterpieces that had been obtained by other-than-legal means.
Michael Flynn was escorted by one of Nazeur’s cousin-guards to the pool and lounge on the top deck at the stern of the yacht. His colleagues, the Nooris brothers and Shona, greeted Flynn, and Nazeur embraced him.
“Michael, I can’t thank you enough for bringing all of us together,” Nazeur said as he released Flynn from his embrace.
“Your Highness, when Ari first approached me I realized that you were the only person in the world who would appreciate the opportunity to possess the best of the best.”
Nazeur smiled, and said, “And likely the only person in the world with the assets to finance the operation and purchase the art.”
Seated near the end of the bar was a lean man who quietly observed the gathering. His most arresting feature was his green eyes. His stare was almost penetrating.
“Michael, I don’t think you had the opportunity to meet my colleague Nochem Rabinowitz,” Ari Nooris said, pointing at the man with green eyes. “The two of you were without doubt the most important members of our team.”
Flynn walked over to the man and extended his hand. “So you’re the mystery man who fooled the Imam and his Afghani sponsors, masterful job, mate.”
Rabinowitz nodded silently as he shook Flynn’s hand.
“Don’t talk much, do ya?” Flynn commented.
“Michael, Nochem has been undercover for so long I don’t think he’s gotten used to the fact that he no longer has to play the part of an Al-Qaida terrorist,” Ari Nooris responded.
Flynn and Rabinowitz continued to stare at one another.
“Michael, would you like to see the Cézanne? I couldn’t keep it in the hold any longer,” Nazeur said taking Flynn by the arm and leading him into the lounge.
There under the lights in an alcove was “The Card Players,” one of Cézanne’s greatest works. “You know, some months back another version of the “Players” went for $225,000,000 at auction. This would likely yield over $300 million,” Nazeur said.
“Your Highness, I would say you got yourself quite a bargain, considerin the entire lot only cost you $900 million,” Flynn observed.
“Michael, you are forgetting the considerable risk I assumed in agreeing to sponsor your project. My cousin the King would never understand how I could collaborate with former Mossad agents and expose my brothers to the outrage that will surly follow in the wake of the ‘terrorist’ attack,” Nazeur said barely concealing the smile.
The value of the ten works of art Nazeur had obtained was incalculable, conservatively several billion dollars. Not that he would ever sell them. The fact that these treasures would no longer be available for the world of art lovers to enjoy was in his perverse view far more valuable – a thought that Flynn found depressing.
“My friend, will you be joining us when we weigh anchor?”
“No, Your Highness, I’ve some unfinished business to attend to,” Flynn replied. “I trust you’ve wired my commission to the usual location.”
Nazeur nodded.
“Michael, how will you get back to Ulster?” Nooris asked.
“I’ve made appropriate arrangements. And you?”
“His Highness has graciously arranged for our passage on this beautiful vessel to Curacao. From there we will make our way home from Venezuela.”
“Ari, what about your family and your business interests here, are you just going to abandon everything?”
“Michael I’m touched by your concern. I’ve made provisions for my family. As to the business, between the market collapse and real estate downturn, what’s left isn’t worth the trouble. Our share of the proceeds from this operation assures that all of us will live comfortably for the rest of our lives.”
“Lady and gentlemen, I’m sure you have things to discuss, you must excuse me as I prepare for evening prayers,” Nazeur said as he withdrew to his private quarters.
“Ari, the media’s reportin there’s a fourth bomber unaccounted for,” Flynn said.
Nooris smiled and said, “Yes, there is. It ought to keep the federal and local police on edge for some time. It should keep them focused on the Mall and other public sites while we make our escape.”
Flynn took a notepad from his pocket and wrote, ‘Our host has eyes and ears on all of u
s, so be careful what you say,’ and handed it to Ari Nooris who nodded.
Nooris and Flynn walked to the stern and looked out across the Delaware River at the Battleship New Jersey.
“That was some distraction your man created,” Flynn whispered.
Nooris shrugged, “It isn’t an exact science, and it had to look authentic. He did manage to get one of the vests to blow up where no civilians could be hurt,” he responded.
“I heard the news report on the boy who was taken into custody. Will he be a problem?”
“Shouldn’t be, Nochem tells me he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, and Nochem never broke his cover.”
“What about the Imam?” Flynn asked.
“He’s in the wind. Why so worried? Are you getting a conscience?” Nooris asked.
“Nah, it’s just your entire operation was so messy with all the loose ends with your real estate deals and all.”
“I told you I cleaned up the mess, besides there’s nothing that links any of this to you; nothing for you to worry about. Am I missing something?” Nooris asked.
“Nah, nothing I can’t take care of myself.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to sail down to Curacao with the rest of us?”
Flynn shook his head. Nooris patted him on his shoulder. “Seems like His Highness likes the art,” Nooris said.
“That tool will hide it in one of his mansions never ta see the light of day. He’s what your people call a scmuck.”
“You mean a schmuck.”
“Yeah.”
“Well he’s a very rich schmuck.”
FORTY-ONE
There had been 150 calls reporting suspicious-looking individuals logged in by 911 dispatchers after the local newscasters announced that a fourth terrorist bomber was unaccounted for. None of them panned out. Ichowitz was starting to wonder if the statement the captured terrorist had given to Glochowski about another suicide bomber was accurate. Although the feds believed that Farouk/Alcott was telling Glochowski what he believed was the truth, it could be misinformation that had been fed to the gullible young man.
There were so many aspects of the attack and the art heist that did not add up, maybe this was another attempt to distract them. Despite the apparent incongruities of the crimes, Ichowitz believed the two events were connected; however, at this point in the investigation he was unable to figure out how.
The only common thread between the two events, aside from the timing, was the fact that both crimes had inexplicable elements of both brilliance and incompetence. The terrorist attack had obviously been carefully planned. The suicide bombers had been selected, trained and armed by an individual, or individuals, with great sophistication and substantial financial and organizational support. This had been no fly-by-night operation.
That being the case, the execution of the plan was shoddy and largely ineffectual. With the exception of the explosion near the entrance to the National Constitution Center, the attack caused minimal property damage, and in consideration of the potentially catastrophic losses that could have occurred if the suicide bombers were stationed near the awards ceremony when the Vice President was making the presentation, the human carnage would have been devastating. Seven dead and thirty four injured, although significant, was nowhere close to the body count that might have otherwise occurred.
As to the theft of the art, once again the planning of the robbery was impeccable. The thieves knew when the paintings and other art treasures would be packed and ready for transport, and when security would be slack. The failure of the thieves to account for the electronic monitoring was beyond careless. Why would such a carefully-planned caper result in abandoning a truck filled with some of the most magnificent works of art in the world in a parking lot? If the objective was only to steal the ten missing paintings, why go to all the trouble of stealing the entire truckload in the first place?
Neither the FBI nor Homeland Security had any evidence that the crimes were connected. Both agencies were working under the premise that the terrorist attack was the work of Al-Qaida and that the art theft was the independent act of criminals that just happened to take place at around the same time. Jack Regan, like Ichowitz, found the coincidence too convenient. To Regan, the entire sequence of events was telling. In fact his happening upon the Barnes at the time the thieves were driving away was the only piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit. The involvement of Michael Flynn added a whole new dimension to the matter that made it personal and even more alarming.
“Izz, have you heard from your buddy Ossberg?” Regan asked.
“No he’s managed to insulate himself from any unwelcome interruptions from the local authorities,” the detective replied. “I’m happy to hear that Liam and his buddy are safe. Those kids are really something. Did the unit from the Fourth District pick up the boy and his mother and take them to your parents?”
Regan nodded.
“At least we won’t have to worry about their safety for the time being. How do you think Flynn fits into all of this?”
“Izz, I’ve been trying to figure that out for hours with no joy.”
“Let’s sleep on it and see if we can figure out some connection in the morning.”
The Flynns had long and deep connections with the American Irish community dating back to the time of “The Troubles.” IRA soldiers on the lam from the British authorities were often sent to the States until the heat cooled off. In some cases they married and took up permanent residence, and the connection with their brothers who remained in the homeland further strengthened the ties between their families. It also enlarged the criminal enterprises on both sides of the pond.
The bartender at Duffy’s Tavern on 2nd Street near Girard Avenue in Northern Liberties looked up from the glass he was cleaning when Michael Flynn entered the bar. With a nearly undetectable nod of his head he directed Flynn to the door at the end of the room. Flynn smiled and made his way past the patrons seated at the bar, none of whom acknowledged that he was there.
He knocked on the door and waited as someone on the other side looked through the peep hole. He heard a muffled exchange and the door opened, allowing him access to the room. An old man sitting at the head of a conference table, whose wrinkled face told the story of the hard life he had endured, smiled at him. “Jaysus, would you look at what the winds of fate have blown our way,” he said to the others who flanked both sides of the table.
Six men, whose ages spanned several decades, but all of whom looked hard and dangerous, stared silently at Flynn.
“Gentlemen, this is Michael, the young man I was tellin ya about, who traveled from the Isle to our fair city on a mission of undisclosed purpose. Michael, how’s your family?” Daniel Duffy, the patriarch of the Irish mob in Philadelphia asked.
“Duffy thanks for seein me on such short notice. My family is fine and my father sends his regards to you and yours,” Flynn responded as he continued to stand awaiting a signal from his host to take a seat.
The old man said, “Take a load off,” and pointed to the vacant chair at the opposite end of the table. “Quinn, get our guest something to take the taste of the road off his lips so that he can share his story with us.”
The youngest of the men got up and walked over to the bar. He brought a bottle of Jamison’s and a tumbler over to Flynn and poured a generous portion of the whiskey into the glass.
“Slainte,” Flynn said as he raised his glass to his host and drank the whiskey.
“And will ya be tellin us the purpose of your visit?” Duffy asked.
“I was just hopin for your hospitality for a short spell so I can finish my business,” Flynn replied.
“Would your business have anything to do with the botched job I’ve been hearin about concerning certain works of art from one of the museums?”
“Well, ya can’t believe everything you’re hearin about certain things being botched and all,” Flynn replied.
Duffy stared at his guest silently. He was aware o
f Flynn’s involvement in the Barnes robbery since the Flynns had sought permission to operate in his territory, provided they would agree to pay appropriate compensation for the privilege.
“Well boyos, me and Michael Flynn have some things to discuss so why’nt ya give us some privacy, if ya don’t mind. Have a good night and stay out of trouble,” he said, dismissing them.
When the room had cleared Duffy motioned Flynn to move next to him. Flynn got up and brought the whiskey bottle and poured both of them two inches of the rich amber whiskey.
Duffy drank his whiskey and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and whispered, “Michael lad, don’t tell me ya had anything ta do with that mess at the Mall today.”
“All right, I won’t.”
Duffy stared at him, “Jaysus that was fooked up.”
Flynn nodded.
“Did ya know what they were gonna do?”
Flynn shook his head.
“Are ya gonna do anything about it?”
“I’m workin on it.”
“Will ya be needin any assistance?”
“Na, but thanks for askin,” he paused and said, “There is something though; do ya know Vito Coratelli?”
Duffy nodded.
“Do ya think ya could set up a meetin for me tonight?”
“Consider it done,” Duffy replied.
“Oh, and there’s something else. Do ya know a Michael O’Malley?”
The old man looked at him, “O’Malley the runt who runs a bar in Manayunk?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Whaddaya want to trouble yourself with him for?”
“Duffy, it’s a personal matter, nothing ta do with our business,” Flynn replied.
The old man stared at him and said, “O’Malley is a man who keeps his word and pays his debts, if ya get my meanin. If I were you, I’d leave O’Malley alone. He might not look like much, but back in the day he was quite the brawler. Pound for pound he was one of the toughest welterweights ever to come out of this town. I saw him nearly beat a man to death at the Blue Horizon.”
Murder and Mayhem in Manayunk Page 23