Bad Faith

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  “Like hell we can’t,” the police sergeant replied, and pushed the door open with his shoulder, entering the apartment with the two paramedics as the woman continued to protest.

  The apartment was enveloped in shadow; the shades were drawn over the windows, and no electric lights were turned on. The only illumination was from dozens of candles that had been lit and placed around the small living room and tiny kitchen. But even in the half-light, the police officer and paramedics could see that the only adornment on the walls were portraits of Jesus and of the Reverend Westlund.

  Several people were sitting on a couch and on a few chairs pulled into a circle in the living room. They’d appeared to be praying when the men entered but had stopped and now only stared up at the intruders.

  “We’re looking for a sick child,” Sadler announced. No one answered. “Who called 911?” Again there was no answer. Instead, the group returned to their prayers, their voices droning on.

  “Come on,” the sergeant said to Razkov and Bailey. He led the way down a hallway to a back bedroom in which more than a dozen adults and several children were crowded around a bed praying. A young boy lay on the bed, nude except for a pair of underwear, his skin nearly white except for the dark circles below his closed eyes. His thin chest rose and fell slightly and he groaned once.

  The paramedics pushed through the crowd and checked the boy’s vital signs. “He’s comatose,” Raskov said, looking up at the police sergeant. “His pulse is weak and breathing shallow, we need to transport him to the hospital now!”

  “You can’t,” one of the women in the prayer circle said. “My name is Nonie Ellis and I’m Micah’s mother. My son will be cured through God’s will; Western medicine is the false hope of Satan. We will heal him with prayer!”

  “He hasn’t got a prayer if we don’t move him now,” Bailey replied.

  “I want you to leave,” Ellis demanded. “You have no right to force us to accept your ways.”

  “And I’m ordering you to stand back,” Sadler told her. “In fact, if anyone in this room delays us one more second, I’ll have the whole lot of you hauled down to the Tombs—and if you want to meet devil worshippers, that would be the place to spend the night.”

  A worried-looking man walked over and stood behind Ellis. “Nonie, honey, I think we have to let them take him,” he said as he tried to put his arms around her. She shrugged him off but made no more attempts to stop the men and instead ran from the room.

  Bailey picked the boy up in his arms. “No time for a stretcher,” the paramedic said, “this kid’s dying.”

  The sergeant looked at the man who’d tried to console the boy’s mother. “And you are?”

  “David Ellis,” the young man replied. “I’m Micah’s father. Please help him if you can.”

  This time the paramedics led the way out of the apartment and down the stairs to the ambulance. Waiting on the sidewalk, having been joined by the people who’d been in the living room, the Reverend Westlund yelled when he saw Bailey emerge with the child. “There they are! The new centurions! No different than the Roman soldiers who helped the Jews murder Christ!”

  “Blasphemers!” someone shouted.

  “Satan worshippers!” yelled another.

  “Stop them!” cried a third.

  The crowd of Westlund followers started to surge toward the ambulance even as Bailey laid the boy on a gurney to be loaded into the back. But before they could reach the paramedics, Sadler and the other three officers on the scene had placed themselves in the way.

  “Hold it right there!” the sergeant yelled, his booming voice rising above all the others. “Back off, or we will arrest each and every one of you!”

  The crowd hesitated. But then from the rear Westlund cried out, “Don’t be afraid, my brothers and sisters! ‘Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake; for theirs is the kingdom of heaven!’ This is a direct affront to the will of God!”

  Again the crowd, which had been augmented with those who’d been praying in the boy’s bedroom, started to move forward. The sergeant pressed the button to the radio transmitter on his shoulder. “Dispatch, we have a situation and are in urgent need of backup,” he said even as he pulled the Taser from its holster again. He and his men prepared to defend the paramedics.

  “Stop this!” a voice suddenly shouted. It belonged to David Ellis, who inserted himself between the crowd and the police. “Micah is my son, and I don’t want anyone else hurt,” he said to the angry mob. “Please, we appreciate your prayers and your concern. But just go home now. Please.”

  The crowd stopped and seemed unsure of what to do. A few of them yelled but no one moved to interfere with the police and medics.

  Sadler turned to Ellis. “Thanks, son, that could have got ugly,” he said. “Now, do you and your wife want to ride in the ambulance with your son?”

  The young man turned to find his wife and saw her standing next to Westlund, who had his arm around her shoulders as she sobbed. “Honey, do you want to go with Micah?” he asked.

  His wife stopped crying long enough to glare at him. “I will not sin! Micah was in the hands of the Lord and now you’re taking him away.”

  Westlund pointed his finger at David Ellis. “Whoever removes the boy from his fellow believers is responsible for his passing from the world and will face the wrath of God.”

  The father’s shoulders sagged and he looked back at Sadler. “I’d like to go, thank you,” he said.

  The sergeant directed him to the back of the ambulance. “Then let’s hurry, son, your boy needs more than prayers right now.”

  David Ellis climbed in and sat next to his son, his hand caressing the boy’s ashen face. “Please, God, take care of Micah,” he whispered, and began to cry.

  1

  Four Months Later

  THE TWO MEN TRIED TO LOOK AS CALM AND NONTHREATENING as possible as they waited in line for the ferry that carried tourists to Ellis Island and then onto Liberty Island, where the Statue of Liberty stood bathed in the morning sunlight. They had arrived at Battery Park early that Monday to make sure that they would be on the first boat to the islands.

  Both men were Muslim, one an American-born twenty-one-year-old of Pakistani descent. The other was a twenty-five-year-old native of Afghanistan who’d come to the United States two years earlier on a student visa. According to plan, the Afghani attended classes at New York University, but acting like a student was only a ruse. His attendance had been spotty at best, and when a month ago he’d begun preparing with other members of the team for the Ellis Island event, he stopped attending school altogether.

  As the student and his partner stood in line, they chatted idly about the late-March weather, relatives, and schoolwork while occasionally—to reinforce the image of themselves as innocent sightseers—smiling at their fellow passengers and chuckling at the antics of children, all of whom would be dead by noon. God willing, Aman Ghilzai thought as he bent over to pick up a stuffed animal dropped by a toddler who was being held in the arms of his mother.

  “Thank you so much,” the doomed woman said to him.

  “You are very welcome, a beautiful child,” he replied.

  A native of Afghanistan, Ghilzai had been recruited by the Taliban as a teenager living in the tribal areas of Pakistan and then, when he complained that their focus on Afghanistan was too narrow, by al-Qaeda. Several other members of the team were also from abroad, places like Yemen and Somalia. They, too, had entered the land of the Great Satan at various times over the past several years to await orders that would carry them to martyrdom. The remaining members were Americans brought into the fold by the Chechen mujahideen Ajmaani, a beautiful and mysterious blond woman who’d become a legend even in al-Qaeda due to her savage attacks on the infidels.

  Ghilzai sighed. He hoped at least one of the virgins who would be attending to him when he reached paradise would look like Ajmaani. A year or so prior to meeting her there’d been rumors that she’d b
een killed or captured by the Americans, but then she’d reappeared a month ago carrying coded instructions from a trusted al-Qaeda courier telling Ghilzai and the others to cooperate with her. He’d been impressed with her plan and her cold-blooded viciousness; she had no regard for the lives of Americans, whether they were adults or children.

  It did not occur to him that she also had no regard for the lives of his team, or that of any Muslim tourist who might happen to be killed as well. He wouldn’t have cared either way. His only complaint was with her reliance on the American-born jihadists she assigned to the team, such as his fellow sightseer, Hasim Akhund. Although these men were enthusiastic about taking part in the attack, they liked to boast to each other—like men who had to talk in order to keep their courage up—and pose for photographs with their weapons. They all seemed to have some nebulous complaints about their treatment in the United States, such as not being able to get good jobs, which they blamed on racism and anti-Muslim prejudices; or that they didn’t have girlfriends; or that they were just what Americans called “losers” with nothing else to do.

  They said all the right things and prayed fervently in the days leading up to that morning, but Ghilzai thought their reasons for volunteering for jihad were insignificant or petty, rather than to strike a blow for Allah and repressed Muslims all over the world. He didn’t trust them; he worried that their boasting would get beyond the group, and he worried they wouldn’t come through when it mattered. But he was not in charge, and he could only hope that the other foreign-born jihadists, who like him had fought the infidels overseas, would be enough if something went wrong.

  So far, everything seemed to be going right. Ghilzai had seen Ajmaani that morning as he’d crossed State Street to Battery Park. As prearranged, she’d been haggling with one of the Somali sidewalk vendors who sold knockoff purses to tourists. When she spotted him, she held up two purses, the sign that he was to proceed with the plan. As he and Akhund walked toward Castle Clinton National Monument to buy tickets and get in line for the ferries, he placed a quick call from his cell phone. “Allahu akbar,” he said quietly, and then hung up.

  Purchasing the tickets, the pair proceeded to the dock, where they discovered that they weren’t the first arrivals. A young couple was first in line, acting like newlyweds with shameful public displays of affection, kissing and hugging as though no one else was near. The man was lean and carried himself like an athlete, while the young woman was tan, pretty—though her nose was a bit prominent by Western standards, Ghilzai knew—and green-eyed. Other than giving friendly nods when Ghilzai and Akhund walked up to stand behind them, the couple paid them little attention. When they weren’t kissing, they laughed and joked without a care in the world, and it pleased Ghilzai, who had never had a woman’s love, to know that their day would end tragically.

  Ghilzai pretended not to notice when Ajmaani got in the line just in front of a middle-aged couple. He quickly studied the pair, looking for signs of danger. The man was a fit, square-jawed type with close-cropped gray hair—the sort Ghilzai disdainfully thought of as a wealthy businessman who spent too much time at the gym and barber; his woman was tall, buxom, brunette, brown-eyed, and, the terrorist conceded, a match for Ajmaani in beauty. Although they were more discreet than the young couple standing next to him, they were obviously in love from the way they looked at each other and their hands occasionally met. But they didn’t seem particularly interested in Ajmaani, who caught his eye and gave him a slight nod.

  At last, the guard at the entrance announced that the ferry would begin loading. Entering a large white tent, passengers were told to remove belts, shoes, coins, and anything else metallic, as well as all cameras and electronic devices, and place them in a basket to be viewed by security personnel. Then passengers had to pass through metal detectors, all part of the fallout from the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Center.

  Ghilzai and Akhund did as requested, knowing they had nothing to worry about—everything they needed was already on board the ferry, placed there by a member of their team who’d gained employment years before with the company that ran the ferries.

  As the pair walked aboard the boat, they were greeted by an Asian-looking man who, according to a tag on his lapel, was named Tran and was a volunteer guide. “Do you have any questions about where to go for the best views?” he asked pleasantly.

  “No,” Akhund answered curtly.

  Ghilzai noted with alarm that his partner was sweating profusely and looking around nervously. “No thank you,” he added politely, and then pointed toward the stairs leading to an observation deck. “Let’s go up there.”

  After he’d separated Akhund from the volunteer and anyone else who might overhear, Ghilzai whispered through clenched teeth. “Relax. You are beginning to act suspiciously. The plan is going according to schedule; this will be a great day for Allah and all of us. Do not bring attention to us.”

  Akhund swallowed hard and nodded. “I’m okay,” he said. “Just some nerves and excitement.”

  “Do not let either interfere with your duty to Allah and your comrades,” Ghilzai warned him.

  Up on the observation deck in the open air, Akhund seemed to settle down and Ghilzai actually enjoyed the ride out to Ellis Island, his third trip in four weeks. However, what pleased him wasn’t quite the same as what engaged the tourists around him, who pointed and laughed and took numerous photos of the Manhattan skyline, the Statue of Liberty, and themselves. What lifted his heart was looking at the empty space where he knew the WTC Twin Towers had once stood. It also pleased him to know that while the morning’s events wouldn’t cause as many deaths as that attack, they would be spectacular in their own right. After all, terrorism wasn’t so much about how many deaths resulted—though large numbers were good for publicity; it was the way in which the infidels died, suddenly and in a place they considered safe.

  Arriving at Ellis Island, Ghilzai was surprised to see another ferry tied up at an adjoining dock. A number of men and women in ferry-company uniforms bustled about on board the other boat but no tourists were in sight. “I thought we were the first ferry this morning,” he said to the volunteer, Tran, as they were departing to view the American Family Immigration History Center.

  “Engine trouble last night,” Tran explained. “They had to send another ferry to pick up the passengers. They should have it up and running again soon.”

  As though on cue, the other ferry’s engines suddenly roared to life. “See,” Tran said with a smile. “Those guys are good.”

  Leaving the boat, Ghilzai and Akhund wandered through the buildings where, from the early to mid-twentieth century, more than twenty-five million immigrants were processed and granted legal entrance to the United States. The two looked at the photographs of immigrants on the walls and read the inscriptions, feigning great interest in the hopes and dreams of the people looking back at them from long ago. But as soon as they dared without arousing suspicion, they got back in line to reboard the ferry for the trip to Liberty Island and the Statue of Liberty.

  Waiting in line, Ghilzai noted that the young couple he’d been behind in line were nowhere to be seen. He knew from his previous trips that it was not unusual; there was no requirement to ride the same boat and sometimes tourists tended to linger on Ellis Island and take a later ferry to Liberty Island. Their lucky day, he thought regretfully, a gift of their lives to them from Allah.

  Nor did he see Ajmaani. But he also knew that was according to plan, as she was going to wait until they’d commandeered the boat, just in case there was trouble and they needed backup from an unexpected source.

  As the engines roared and the crew prepared to cast off, the terrorist took a deep breath and tapped his partner on the back. “It is time,” he said as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and called the number he’d reached earlier that morning. “We’re moving,” he said, and hung up again.

  Walking over to the railing, Ghilzai glanced around and, seeing that no one was payi
ng attention to him, dropped the phone overboard as he’d been instructed by Ajmaani. “There is no need to call again if you carry out the rest of your mission,” she’d said the night before at their last meeting. “If you’re caught before you can accomplish your task, I don’t want the American agents to have the other phone number to locate your comrades.”

  Being out of contact with the rest of the team troubled Ghilzai. He understood security measures and no one was ever quite sure about the capabilities of American counterterrorism agencies, but this seemed extreme. Still, Ajmaani had a reputation for dealing forcefully and fatally with anyone who questioned her instructions, and he wasn’t going to risk it.

  With the cell phone swirling down into the depths of New York Harbor, Ghilzai and Akhund sauntered in the direction of the pilothouse as the ferry’s engines revved and the boat lurched. The plan was to now take control of the vessel, which would then be met in the waters just off Liberty Island by the rest of the team in a speedboat. The others would board, killing anyone who resisted, and then prepare to turn back any attempt to retake the boat while they negotiated with the authorities. Of course, the negotiations were just a way to stall for time and make sure the American media had been alerted so that when the ferry—with the Statue of Liberty in the background—was blown up with all on board, the moment would be caught for posterity and the glory of Allah.

  It had been more than ten years since the images of the collapsing WTC buildings had been etched into the minds and psyches of Americans and the West. How many times had those images been shown? Thousands? Tens of thousands? Every time there was a story about terrorism, there was a mention of al-Qaeda. Every anniversary and every event related to 9/11 received attention. He was convinced that the images of an exploding tourist ferry with that green monstrosity of a statue behind it would get similar billing and reach audiences around the world for another ten years. At least ten, he thought to himself with a smile.