“The American media ought to pay us for giving them such great videos for their newscasts,” one of the other jihadists had joked at their last meeting.
If they knew about this, they probably would have, Ghilzai thought. Nothing is sacred to the media in this country, not even images of slaughter. They are our best propaganda tool, and it doesn’t cost us anything more than our lives.
Ghilzai and Akhund reached the pilothouse deck without being challenged. They stopped beneath a net that held a dozen orange life preservers and reached up to remove three, which had been marked with a black X. Instead of lightweight vests meant to save people in water, these were heavy—the first two, which they quickly put on, were filled with C4 explosives and ball bearings, all connected to a detonator. All they had to do was yank the cord hanging from the front of the vest and death and mayhem would result. Inside the third vest were two Glock nine-millimeter handguns—not a lot of firepower, but enough to overcome an unarmed crew.
With the vests on and the guns in their hands, they ran for the pilothouse, where they encountered a thick-shouldered, bronze-colored man wearing a ferry employee shirt. “Hey, you’re not supposed to be here,” the man complained.
Ghilzai pointed his gun at the employee’s head. “Open the door,” he said, nodding at the pilothouse entrance.
The man held up his hands and cried out in terror. “Okay, okay, please don’t shoot.” He fumbled with a set of keys attached to a chain on his belt. He found the key he was looking for and unlocked the door, then stepped to the side and cowered.
Ghilzai pushed past the employee and jumped into the room. “Allahu akbar!” he exclaimed, holding up his gun. “Nobody move or everyone dies!”
Akhund followed him, shouting in a high-pitched voice, “Death to America!”
2
GILBERT MURROW HELD UP THE PIECE OF PAPER. “I FOUND this taped to your building’s entrance. It’s addressed to you and says, ‘The fear of the Lord adds length to life, but the years of the wicked are cut short.’”
The little pear-shaped man in the vest and bow tie put the paper down and folded his pudgy hands on his round belly. He was sitting on the couch in the Crosby Street loft Roger “Butch” Karp shared with his wife, Marlene Ciampi, and their children, looking across the living room at the kitchen, where his hosts stood next to each other, leaning back against the granite-topped island. “If that’s not a threat,” he said, scrunching his nose to move his round, wire-rimmed glasses back into place, “I don’t know what is.”
“It’s Proverbs 10:27,” answered Marlene, an attractive and petite, sexually appealing woman. She glanced up at her six-foot-five husband with a smile and shrugged. “Catholic school upbringing.”
Karp chuckled. “Glad Sacred Heart High School was good for something, as it appears the nuns’ other influences may have waned over the years,” he said, giving his wife a wink.
“You complaining?” Marlene asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Absolutely not! Merely stating the obvious,” Karp replied, and they both laughed. They’d been married since they were young ADAs in the office of legendary DA Francis Garrahy, and while Marlene’s face had its share of care and smile lines, and vanguards of gray had crept into the tight curls of her dark hair, he still considered her the most beautiful woman in the world, as well as his best friend.
“Very funny, you two,” Murrow said with a sigh. “But I’m serious, and now they apparently know where you live. Here’s another one that came to the office: ‘Whatever they plot against the Lord He will bring to an end; trouble will not come a second time.’ That’s Nahum 1:9, by the way.”
“Really? I’m impressed,” Marlene said. “I didn’t know that you were a biblical scholar, Gilbert.”
“I’m not,” Murrow retorted. “I Googled it.” He shook his head. “Look, I know you two think you’re immortal, but these people are nuts, and one of them just might go off. That snake-oil salesman, the so-called Reverend C. G. Westlund, has his demented disciples convinced that you’re the anti-Christ, Butch.”
Karp stopped smiling as he looked at the worried face of his friend and colleague, who’d shown up unexpectedly to walk with his boss to the Criminal Courts Building at 100 Centre Street for the Monday morning bureau chiefs meeting. As the district attorney of New York County, which encompassed the island of Manhattan, Karp had become the lightning rod for Westlund and his followers after the District Attorney’s Office charged David and Nonie Ellis with reckless manslaughter in the death that past November of their ten-year-old son, Micah. It hadn’t alleviated the situation when the DAO also charged Westlund and one of his henchmen with a misdemeanor for “obstructing a paramedic from the performance of his duty” outside the Ellises’ apartment building, which had resulted in a sentence of sixty days in the Tombs and a fine of a thousand dollars for the preacher and his follower.
As anticipated, the indictment against the Ellises ignited a firestorm of controversy between the proponents of “faith healing” and those, such as Karp himself, who believed that parents had a legal duty to provide “an accepted standard of care” for sick children. Lined up against Karp and the DAO were the religious zealots, who labeled the charges “a direct affront to the will of God,” and also so-called Constitutionalists, who railed about the government infringing on parents’ rights under the First Amendment’s freedom-of-religion protections. However, the debate wasn’t confined to the DAO versus the far end of the political-religious cult spectrum; it had also become a hot topic for newspaper editorials, as well as television and radio talk shows.
Although Karp didn’t pay much attention to the ever-fluctuating pulse of public opinion, Murrow, his adminstrative assistant, kept him updated on the general tenor of call-in radio shows, as well as letters to the editors of newspapers. The gentler remarks were that the district attorney was a heartless wretch who needed to be run out of office; some simply suggested that God should remove him for his transgressions.
Even those who agreed that Micah’s parents should have sought medical attention for their son were often convinced that the DAO was overreaching in accusing the Ellises of reckless manslaughter. Many of them argued that the “poor parents had suffered enough” and that attempting to convict them and send them to prison was cruel and unnecessary.
After one such briefing in his office by Murrow, Karp had shaken his head. “These people have forgotten that this isn’t about religion or the Constitution, it’s about a ten-year-old boy who suffered and died because his parents didn’t take him to a doctor,” he’d said. “It’s about a dead child and parental responsibilities, not a theoretical debate.”
Given the controversy, Karp would have preferred to try the Ellises himself. It was the sort of case that to him went to the heart of the justice system. He also understood that his taking the lead in trying cases set an example for the attorneys who worked for him; it demonstrated that he believed, as had his mentor, Francis Garrahy, that the New York DAO should pursue cases based on the rule of law—not popular opinion or political expediency—and that they were to keep foremost in their minds that before presenting a case to the grand jury they must have factual evidence of the guilt of the accused and legally admissible evidence to convict beyond a reasonable doubt.
However, he’d had another trial to prepare for and prosecute, which precluded his day-to-day direct involvement in the Ellis case, but he still kept vigilant oversight. He’d approved assigning Kenny Katz—one of his protégés in the Homicide Bureau, who’d sat second chair with him on several high-profile cases—as lead counsel, with an old colleague, Ray Guma, sitting in as the supervisorial seasoned mentor.
With jury selection for the trial starting in a little more than a week, Karp had been satisfied with Katz’s preparations under Guma’s watchful eye. The young man had avoided getting caught up in the hype surrounding a high-profile case and approached it professionally, as he would any other homicide case—with thorough preparation. And at the
meeting this morning, he would be presenting his case to the bureau chiefs and various other assistant district attorneys to be dissected.
Katz had avoided any appearances in the media, directing all inquiries to Murrow, who’d mostly relied on the old “we won’t be trying this case in the press” non-comment. But Murrow had grown increasingly alarmed at the vitriol of those who thought that the Ellises should not have been charged and that Karp was the devil incarnate. When Murrow called that morning to say he was dropping by “to talk,” Karp knew it was because his friend was worried about his safety.
“It’s a lot of rhetoric, Gilbert,” Karp said. “If I responded to every threat, we’d never get anything done. Clay is on it and is taking the usual precautions, which as you know with him means Secret Service–type surveillance.”
Murrow sighed. Although trained as a lawyer and originally hired as an assistant district attorney, his duties now were to run the daily administrative operations of the office, including keeping Karp’s schedule and acting as his mouthpiece with the media. His “other” job was as Karp’s political adviser, which, while not a thankless task—as the boss frequently expressed his appreciation—was a difficult one to juggle since Karp hated that part of his job. But Murrow did his best to dance between his employer’s distaste for politics and the exigencies of his having to run for office every four years.
When the decision was made to charge the Ellises, Murrow shook his head, knowing what was to come. But he knew better than to argue judicial philosophy with his apolitical, merit-driven boss, so after glumly pointing out what to expect and from which corners, he accepted the fact that the case would go forward. Then he’d done his best to defend the DAO when the press came calling for comment, or when unfavorable and unfair editorials and “talking head” opinions came out, which again was no easy task as Karp could not have cared less what the media thought.
Nor was Karp going to give in now on the idea of beefing up security. It wasn’t that he was oblivious to the threats or trying to be a hero, but Karp wasn’t going to let his personal safety affect how he ran the office and his life. Nor did he think it would save him if he did. As he’d explained to Clay Fulton, the NYPD detective sergeant who was in charge of the detectives assigned as investigators to the DAO as well as Karp’s security, and to Murrow just a few days earlier, “If someone really wants to get at me, they’re going to do it. We take reasonable measures to prevent any incidents, but we all know from experience that a determined assassin will find a way to strike.”
Karp was not as matter-of-fact about the security for his twin boys, his daughter, and Marlene. However, even there he had limited control because of the rather unique makeup of his nuclear family.
Marlene, a former ADA herself who’d started the office’s sex crimes unit, was tough as nails. She had turned in her prosecutor’s badge to start a firm that provided VIP security services. Ultimately, the firm became highly successful and was purchased by a publicly held operation for millions. Lately, experiencing an apparent midlife crisis, she’d started taking on special cases in which her talent as a private investigator, as well as her law degree, were needed. Over the years, including “volunteer” work protecting abused women from brutal spouses and boyfriends, she’d shown a surprising proclivity for meeting violence with violence and coming out the winner. So when he’d mentioned the idea of increasing police protection for her and their children, she’d scoffed.
“I’m quite capable of taking care of myself,” she noted pointedly—she’d barely managed to shoehorn some of her dealings with abusers and other miscreants into the strict confines of the law. “I’ve made plenty of enemies in this world without worrying about a few more nutcases. And even if they are dangerous, I’m probably more aware of my surroundings and potential threats than my dear, but somewhat naïve, husband, and he won’t allow any extra security for himself. And to be honest, I certainly don’t want to rely on some cop watching my back; it might give me a false sense of security, trusting someone I don’t know. So I’ll watch my own, thank you very much.”
Karp had no more luck with his daughter, Lucy. But considering that she and her fiancé, Ned Blanchett, worked for a secretive “off-the-books” antiterrorism agency that exposed them to grave danger on a regular basis, there was no reason to think that an NYPD officer or two was going to make much of a difference.
In fact, Lucy and Ned, who made their home in Taos, New Mexico, were in town on assignment for the agency, which was run by an old family friend and former FBI agent, Espey Jaxon. They’d had dinner with the family and spent the night in Lucy’s childhood bedroom. Karp had heard them stirring before dawn and got up, catching them heading out the door with to-go cups of coffee.
“Off to a boring ol’ meeting,” Lucy said unconvincingly. “We should be home by dinner, but if not, don’t wait and don’t worry.”
When the door closed, he’d walked into the kitchen to check out the television monitor mounted in a corner that was connected to a security camera above the outside door. He shook his head when a black sedan with tinted windows pulled up to the curb and the two young people got in and then sped off into the dark. Boring ol’ meeting, my ass, he thought. He’d already been filled in on the events transpiring that morning by Jaxon, but he knew that his daughter and future son-in-law were precluded from discussing it and he honored their silence.
That left the twin boys—Zak and Giancarlo—to worry about. The problem with them was that they were in high school and, as with any teenagers, they liked their freedom and sense of independence. They were active, involved in sports, the music scene in the Lower East Side, and whatever else two teens who considered Manhattan their playground might be up to at any given time. When he’d suggested that a plainclothes police officer be assigned to tag along “discreetly and at a distance” until after the Ellis trial, they’d complained mightily, saying, “a cop would cramp our style.” They threatened to “ditch the tail” as soon as possible.
“I’m not worried about a bunch of crazies; I’ll club them with this,” said Zak, the larger and more rambunctious of the two. He sounded disturbingly like his mother as he raised his right hand, which was in a cast due to his having broken it punching a larger, older upperclassmate who was bullying his brother and another player on their high school baseball team.
So for the time being, Karp had let it be. The truth was that while the biblical verses about God’s wrath were thinly disguised threats, they were no more alarming—indeed, quite a bit less alarming—than others the Karp-Ciampi clan had dealt with in the past. Because of his job the family was a magnet for trouble. They had been fending off a variety of sociopaths, terrorists, and other assorted killers and thugs since he and Marlene had met at the DAO and started dating. Marlene had even lost an eye opening a letter bomb intended for him before they were married and had kids. Lucy’s version of all these events was that the family had a spiritual calling to battle the “forces of evil.”
“We better get going,” Murrow said, standing up.
Karp looked at his watch—it was almost eight o’clock—and nodded. “Sure, let’s roll,” he said, pulling on an off-the-rack blue suit jacket.
3
LUCY KARP NOTED THE LOOK OF SURPRISE ON THE TERRORISTS’ faces after they burst into the pilothouse and the crew hardly reacted except to cast hard glances at them before going about their business. Only the captain said anything, which was, “Go to hell.” He muttered the sentiment with his back turned to them.
The crew members were not the only other people in the pilothouse. Besides Lucy, there were the two young men who’d been standing in line—agents for USNIDSA, the United States National Inter-Departmental Security Administration, which her agency had teamed with for this operation. They both had their guns trained on the intruders, identified at the morning’s briefing as Aman Ghilzai and Hasim Akhund.
“Drop your weapons!” the lead agent demanded as he sighted down the barrel of his gun at Ghi
lzai’s forehead.
“Girnaa aap ka bandooq!” Lucy said, repeating the command in Urdu.
Swift as a cobra the terrorist pointed his gun at Lucy and pulled the trigger. His face registered surprise again when there was an empty click but no loud report and no bullet left the barrel.
Ghilzai dropped the gun and reached for the cord hanging from the faux life preserver to detonate the C4 explosives packed inside and spew ball bearings and fire throughout the pilothouse. He braced himself for the expected flash that would carry him off to his reward, but his path to martyrdom took a detour when his weapon failed him again.
“Maghloob ho jana,” Lucy yelled. “Surrender!”
Ghilzai sneered at her. “I speak good English, randi.”
“Well then next time you call me a whore, I’m going to slap that ugly mustache off your ignorant face,” Lucy replied.
The agent next to her smiled. “Sorry about that, asshole,” he said scathingly to Ghilzai. “The bomb’s a fake and the guns are loaded with dummies. You and your pal are my prisoners.”
Ghilzai wasn’t just some poorly prepared, brainwashed recruit from New Jersey. As they’d been told at the briefing that morning after she and Ned left her parents’ loft, he had been trained at a top-notch al-Qaeda camp in Pakistan. “Remember, he is able and dedicated, and he will be determined to carry out his mission,” Jaxon had said. “When he realizes the mission has been compromised, he will adjust and try to kill as many Americans as he can. Precautions have been taken, but that doesn’t rule out some surprise. Be careful.”
Suddenly, the second terrorist screamed something incoherent, dropped his gun, and started to run from the room. But he only reached the doorway before he was knocked back onto the deck of the pilothouse, where he lay clutching his midsection and gasping for air. A bronze-skinned man wearing a ferry company uniform stepped in behind the downed man, followed by a tourism volunteer named Tran, according to his name tag.
Bad Faith Page 3