Tanenbaum as a toddler in the early 1940s. He was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York.
A five-year-old Tanenbaum in Brooklyn, near Ocean Parkway.
Tanenbaum’s family in the early 1950s. From left to right: Bob; his mother, Ruth (a teacher and homemaker); his father, Julius (businessman and lawyer); and his older brother, Bill.
Tanenbaum’s high school varsity basketball photo from the ’59–’60 season. He played shooting guard, center, and forward, and earned an athletic scholarship to the University of California, Berkeley, where he continued to play.
Tanenbaum shooting during a basketball game his junior year of high school. He wore the number 14 throughout high school and college.
Tanenbaum’s senior portrait. In addition to basketball, he also played first base for his school’s baseball team.
Standing outside a courthouse in downtown Manhattan are Tanenbaum, James Woods, NYPD detective Cliff Fenton, and Yaphet Kotto. Woods and Kotto played Tanenbaum and Fenton in the 1985 movie Badge of the Assassin, based on Tanenbaum’s book of the same name about a real-life murder mystery in 1971 Harlem.
Seen here in the late 1980s, Mayor Tanenbaum poses with Ed Koch, then mayor of New York City, while Tanenbaum’s son Billy stands in front wearing a hat given to him by Koch. The two mayors were meeting to discuss a tourist exchange program between Beverly Hills and New York City.
While mayor of Beverly Hills, Tanenbaum awarded Jimmy Stewart, seen here, with this proclamation of Outstanding Citizen of Beverly Hills in the late 1980s.
Tanenbaum and his wife, Patti.
Tanenbaum with Patti and their children Roger, Rachael, and Billy at home in California.
Tanenbaum’s author photo, which has graced the covers of many of his books.
Gallery Books
Proudly Presents
BAD FAITH
Robert K. Tanenbaum
Coming soon in hardcover
from Gallery Books
Turn the page for a preview of Bad Faith . . .
PROLOGUE
THE HANDSOME YOUNG FDNY PARAMEDIC JUMPED from the back of the ambulance with his gear bag and looked up at the old four-story walk-up on the Upper West Side. Once a haven for junkies, including the infamous Needle Park, much of the neighborhood had been gentrified and cleaned up. However, the West 88th Street building, located between Amsterdam and Columbus Avenues, had fallen into disrepair. The steps leading up to the building’s entrance, like the sidewalks along the narrow, tree-lined street, were cracked and uneven; a rusted fire escape climbed the faded red bricks of the façade; what paint remained around the windows was peeling away.
There was certainly nothing charming about the bitter November evening air, nor the three large white men standing in front of the stoop who moved to block the paramedic. “False alarm,” said the man on the left, the words coming out from his bearded lips in puffs of condensation that hung briefly in the chill breeze before dissipating.
“Sorry, but we got a 911 call about a child in medical distress, and I have to check it out,” the paramedic replied. He tried to step past, but the man in the middle—the tallest of the three and ruggedly handsome with long, wavy gray hair swept back from his tan face—placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder and stopped him.
“Sorry, brother, but as Brother Frank just told you, your services are not needed here,” the man said, fixing the paramedic with his intense blue eyes. He was smiling wide, his big, white teeth flashing in the dusk, but there was nothing friendly about his demeanor.
The paramedic scowled and brushed the larger man’s hand off of his shoulder. “I’m not your brother, Mac, so keep your mitts to yourself.”
“What’s the problem, Raskov?”
Justin Raskov turned at the sound of his partner’s voice. “Yo, Bails, these jokers won’t let me in the building,” the young man replied to the other paramedic coming up behind him.
“Well, it ain’t up to them,” Donald “Bails” Bailey Sr. growled as he moved ahead of his partner to glare at the big men confronting them. “We got an emergency call for this address and we legally have to check it out. And you, my friend,” he added, thrusting his jaw at his opponent’s face, “are breaking the law and I’m maybe two seconds from sic-ing New York’s finest on your ass.”
In his experience, Raskov was used to seeing even the most recalcitrant people move out of the way when stared down by his pugnacious partner, a muscular middle-aged black man who’d been a staff sergeant in the army and still carried himself like one. But the three other men closed ranks, two behind the third, who was obviously the leader and who now raised his hand, palm outward, and thundered, “‘YOU SHALL NOT PASS THROUGH, LEST I COME OUT WITH THE SWORD AGAINST YOU!’”
At the unexpected outburst, Raskov took a step back but Bailey stood his ground and rolled his eyes. “Frickin’ great,” he sighed. “We got us a Bible thumper. Numbers 20:18, right? Yeah, I know the Good Book, too, and I’ll take that as a threat.” He looked back at the ambulance whose driver had his head out of the window listening to the exchange.
“Hey, Dougy, call the cops and tell them we got three morons preventing us from responding to a 911 medical emergency, and one of them just said he was going to attack us with a sword.”
When he finished, Bailey looked back at the three men and tilted his head with a slight smile on his face.
“Tell you what, asshole. If there’s somebody in that building who needs our help and doesn’t get it on time because of your cute little antics, it’ll be on your head.”
Disconcertingly, the big man smiled back. “The true believers of this household are under the protection of the Lord.”
“Yeah, we’ll see how that works when the cops show up,” Raskov said.
As if on cue, a patrol car swung around the corner and pulled over to the curb behind the ambulance. Two officers got out and hurried up to the knot of men. “What seems to be the problem here?” the older officer asked.
“Hey, Sergeant Sadler, how ya doin’?” Raskov said to the cop. “We got a 911 call that a child has a medical emergency in Apartment 3C. But these jokers won’t let us check it out.”
Sadler nodded at the paramedics. “Evening, Justin, Don,” he said before frowning and turning to the three men on the stoop. “One of you want to explain?” he asked.
The man who’d shouted the Biblical verse stepped forward. “I am the Reverend C. G. Westlund and God’s emissary at the End of Days Reformation Church of Jesus Christ Resurrected. I speak for the family in Apartment 3C. The call was in error and any intervention by these gentlemen would be against the family’s religious beliefs.”
“Well . . . Reverend . . . is it true there’s a sick kid in there?” the sergeant asked, his voice indicating that his patience was not going to last long.
“The child’s infirmities of the body are being healed by the power of prayer,” Westlund answered. “God’s will and compassion are the only medicine the child needs.”
“Then with all due respect . . . get your ass out of the way, and let the paramedics do their job,” Sadler barked. “That or you, me, and your pals here are all going to take a little ride down to the precinct house where I’ll toss your butts in the pokey for obstructing these fine officers of the FDNY in the performance of their lawful duties.”
Westlund turned his head slightly to his right, and the man he’d identified earlier as “Brother Frank” suddenly rushed forward with a growl as though to attack the sergeant. But Trent Sadler, a grizzled old veteran who’d been dealing with street thugs and violent criminals for more than twenty-five years, was ready. He stepped neatly to the side, and in one swift motion pulled a Taser stun device from the holster on his belt and applied it to the neck of the would-be assailant.
Brother Frank yelped and fell to the sidewalk in a twitching heap. Keeping his eyes on the other two, Taser at the ready, the sergeant spoke to his partner.
“O’Leary, handcuff this quivering mass of idiot
and hand him over to the backup when they get here,” he said just as another patrol car wheeled around the corner with its lights flashing. “Speak of the devil. Now reverend, I didn’t like the little nod to your ‘brother’ here, so I wouldn’t mind lighting you up too. Having said that, you need to answer this question: Do you want to find out what a Manhattan sidewalk tastes like, or will you get the hell out of my way?”
The smile had disappeared from Westlund’s face and he glared at the police sergeant. But he moved aside, followed by his man. “‘The god of this age has blinded the minds of unbelievers, so that they cannot see the light of the gospel of the glory of Christ, who is the image of God,’ ” the preacher warned.
“What?” Sergeant Sadler replied.
“It’s Second Corinthians 4:4,” Bailey said. “The guy is a walking Bible quote. Loony tunes if you ask me.”
“Yeah, well, I like a good sermon on Sundays,” Sadler replied. “But not when it’s wasting our time and there’s a kid who needs help. Follow me; I’ll make sure no one gets in the way. O’Leary, bring up the rear as soon as you hand Brother Frank over to the backup . . . and tell them to keep the good reverend out of the building, otherwise he and his other goon are free to go.”
With that the sergeant entered the building with the two paramedics hustling along behind him. Reaching Apartment 3C, he pounded on the door.
“Police, open up!”
An older woman with frizzled hair, poorly dyed to a sort of burnt orange, answered the door. “Are you believers?” she asked.
“Yeah, sure,” Sadler replied. “We believe there’s a sick child on the premises, and these two men need to see him.”
The woman’s eyes widened and she tried to close the door. “No doctors! Blasphemers!” she shrieked. “You can’t come in!”
“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 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 Rev. C. G. Westlund.
Several people were sitting on a couch and on a few chairs pulled into a circle in the living room. They 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 Raskov 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 is 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 worshipers, 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 the paramedic Don 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 worshipers!” 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 on 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 or 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 as he looked back at Sargeant 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.
CHAPTER ONE
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, he’d 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 began preparing with other members of the team for the Ellis Island event, he stopped attending school altogether.
As he 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 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, 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.
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