The Last Crusade: A Harry Cassidy Novel

by Henry Hack

  Twenty jihad warriors converged on Penn Station—eight were armed with machine guns, eight with a dozen fragmentation grenades each and four were wearing explosive vests. Twenty similarly armed young men turned toward Grand Central Station. The eight cell leaders, unarmed and dressed in business attire, would remain in the area to direct their warriors via cell phone as the need arose.

  Idris went into the kitchen and came back into the living room with two cups of tea. “Pray they are successful, Shoaib. We need a decisive victory.”

  “Yes, Wassem, may Allah guide them to success. I fear the reaction of our great leader if we fail once again.”

  8

  Hundreds of uniformed and plainclothes police officers from the NYMPD, Metropolitan Transit Authority PD and Port Authority PD were assigned to cover every conceivable entrance to the stations—outside stairwells, escalators and exits from subway stations and passageways from all the concourses. They were directed to look for young Middle-Eastern males dressed as if they could be concealing weapons or explosives. Supplementing this group of officers were two hundred FBI agents dispatched from the New York field office. The police and agents were all aware their focused surveillance would be classified by the ACLU as “racial profiling,” but they had been specifically told by their higher-ups they would defend this position, if necessary, all the way to the Supreme Court.

  This July third was typical of New York’s summer weather, very hot and very humid. There was little breeze blowing. The jihad warriors were conspicuous in their bulky garments as they began to infiltrate their targets. Despite their bravado and devotion to their unholy cause, the majority of the young men were nervous, sweating and afraid. Sahim Goba, a handsome eighteen year old, was one block from the 34th Street entrance to Penn Station. His heavy bomb jacket pressed in on his slim body, and his hand was in his pocket on the button of the triggering device. He observed the attractive young secretaries in their scanty summer outfits hurrying on ahead of him and thought of the seventy-two virgins awaiting him in paradise. Then he thought how happy he would be if he could remain on this planet with just one young New York beauty to call his own. He dismissed that evil thought from his mind as best he could, and continued on.

  Port Authority Police Officer, Lenny Warren, dressed in battle gear and armed with a sub-machine gun, was the first to spot Sahim coming toward the entrance. He alerted the three other officers stationed there with him saying, “Subject approaching fifty yards away to our left.”

  When Sahim was twenty yards away, Warren and a second officer turned and began walking toward him, weapons at the ready. Sahim panicked and ran back toward Eighth Avenue, but the crowd blocked his way. Lenny Warren shouted, “Freeze,” and Sahim Goba pushed the button in his hand, blowing himself and forty-two civilians to eternity, and injuring dozens of others. Warren and his fellow officer were knocked to the ground by the terrific blast, but were otherwise uninjured. The other two officers ran to their assistance, but this turned out to be a tragic mistake. Three other jihadists following Sahim managed to slip, unnoticed, down the stairs—another suicide bomber and two with machine guns.

  At the Seventh Avenue entrance, four attackers were spotted and subdued with little resistance. They were disarmed of their weapons and grenades, but in the commotion another suicide bomber sneaked by and made his way down the escalator to an outbound Long Island Railroad train. Similar confrontations occurred at the other entrances to Penn and Grand Central. Many of the jihadists surrendered meekly in the face of overwhelming force. Those who resisted were shot down before they could unleash their weapons. But many managed to reach the crowded platforms, including two suicide bombers at Penn, and three at Grand Central.

  In both terminals, the density of the crowds made it difficult for the attackers to raise their machine guns, or release their grenades. Their attempts, however, did not go unnoticed by the savvy New Yorkers who surrounded them and held them for the police before they could inflict much damage.

  At Grand Central Station a suicide bomber was grabbed and thrown onto the tracks in front of an inbound Metro North train, but managed to detonate his lethal cargo causing the first two cars to lurch and derail. A grenade exploded and machine gun fire erupted, causing the commuters to panic and try to run for the exits. Chaos now prevailed at both locations.

  At Penn Station, in the third car of the Ronkonkoma bound Long Island Railroad train, the passengers were startled to hear a shout of “Allahu Akbar” followed by a tremendous blast. Body parts of fifty-one dead and dying commuters littered the floor and stuck to the walls. The carnage was repeated on a Westchester bound Metro North train as it left Grand Central, resulting in forty-four more horrific deaths and dismemberments.

  By 5:15, it was all over and the clean-up process began. Midtown Manhattan traffic was grid-locked. The ambulances could not get through to take away the injured that were being carried up to the streets. The reporters and camermen from the city’s newspapers and television stations rushed to the two locations on foot. The chaos and panic spread to the streets. OBL-911 had finally struck a deadly blow.

  The eight cell leaders calmly made their way to new safe locations unknown to their cell members. They were eager to report the results to their section chiefs.

  Later that evening, the numbers of dead and injured were reported by the news media, along with still photos and videotape of the aftermath of the attacks. One video, taken by a commuter, showed the doors opening on the Long Island Railroad car where the suicide bomber had struck. Rivers of bright red blood gushed out carrying with them some of the smaller body parts of the victims. Thus far, 217 people were dead and 432 injured severely enough to be hospitalized. An additional 673 victims were treated for minor injuries and released.

  The members of the Task Force were shocked at the loss of life, but realized the carnage would have been worse—much worse—if it had not been for their efforts. All forty of the attacking cell members had been accounted for—twenty-three dead and seventeen captured. The eight cell leaders were still out there, and unaccounted for, as were the two section chiefs. A few jihadists gave up their cell leader’s names and addresses, but of the four locations hit, none were there, and their empty apartments yielded no clues to their new whereabouts. The long bloody day was over.

  The Task Force team gathered the next morning, forsaking their Independence Day holiday, to wrap up the loose ends and prepare reports for the higher-ups. Don Campbell said, “As you can figure, there’s a real tight lid on all of this. The big shots have to release some stuff, but if the public knew the magnitude of the planned attacks, they know their days in office would be numbered.”

  “Goddamn politicians,” Jerry said. “Covering their cowardly asses, as usual. Maybe this will finally wake them up and allow us to add to our team.”

  “We’ll probably find out our status after the weekend. Let’s get home to our families and salvage the remainder of the holiday.”

  After a well-deserved Independence Day weekend of rest, Don Campbell said to his team, “I was on the phone with the brass this weekend. We have two weeks to wrap up all our paper work, and then this magnificent team will be reduced drastically in manpower for reasons which I will shortly explain.”

  There were murmurs of surprise and dismay, and a few of them began to protest, but Campbell put up his hand and said, “Let me finish. There is also some good news, which is the reason for the bad news. In a few hours, the largest promotion and transfer order in the history of the NYMPD, will hit the computer screens in all commands. I’ve been given an advance heads-up on those changes that will affect some of us here. First, I am leaving the Task Force. Unexpectedly, they reached my number on the captain’s list, and I’m being promoted out.”

  They all cheered and applauded and got up to congratulate him and pat him on the back.

  “Where are you going?” Jerry Campora asked.

  “I’m getting a precinct in Nassau—the Nine-Five,” he said, lookin
g at Harry.

  “Great,” Harry said. “That means Captain Snyder is leaving. I hope it’s good for him.”

  “It is. I knew you would be interested, so I pried it out of my source. Snyder is getting promoted to deputy inspector, and is being given command of the busiest precinct in the world—Midtown South.”

  “Who’s going to be our new boss here?” John asked.

  “Why, our own Walter Kobak, of course, who the bureau had seen fit to promote to supervisory special agent.”

  More cheers and congratulations filled the room and Campbell said, “However, Walter won’t have much to command. He’s going to need a lot of replacements.”

  That pronouncement got their attention, and they quieted down as Campbell continued. “Detectives Harry Cassidy and John McKee are being promoted to sergeant and transferred to the Academy for training, and Detective Nick Faliani is getting his wish and going to Manhattan, specifically the Midtown North detective squad.”

  After the final round of cheers had died down, McKee asked Campbell when these changes were to take effect.

  “On Monday, July 21, we all report to our new commands.”

  Walt said, “And my first order, even before I am officially the boss, is to direct all of you to recommend some replacements. I need four good guys to replace you mutts.”

  “But right now,” Campbell said, “we have some serious work to do—serious drinking, serious eating, and serious celebrating. Let’s go do some partying.”

  When they returned, they gathered around the computer monitor when the first pages flashed on the screen, and the laser printer began churning out page after page. Assistant Chief William T. Kelly was promoted to chief of detectives. Peter Gregorovich, Harry’s former nemesis, and now friend and benefactor from Internal Affairs, was promoted to deputy chief. He was designated as the commanding officer, Manhattan South detectives, a high profile position.

  After twenty-two pages of promotions, came an additional nineteen pages of personnel changes. He spotted Rita’s transfer from Internal Affairs to the Eight-Three precinct, and under resignations, “Sergeant Susan Goldman, effective 2400 hours, Friday, July 18.”

  A shudder coursed through Harry’s body as he thought of Rita out on patrol at night on the mean streets of South Jamaica, the heart of the Eight-Three precinct in Queens.

  When Harry arrived back at his apartment, Rita was awaiting him with a chilled bottle of champagne, a big smile and a copy of the orders in her hand. She was wearing a tiny, sheer, sexy, red nightie. “Wow,” he said. “That’s what I call a great welcome home after a hard day at the office.”

  “It better be hard, my hero Sergeant,” she said with a lascivious grin.

  He took her in his arms and kissed and hugged her with all his might.

  “Easy there, Sarge, your strength has returned, you know.”

  They drank half the bottle of champagne and made love for a long time. After, as they relaxed and sipped the rest of the champagne, Rita said, “Here it is, finally, in print. Big changes for both of us.”

  “Yeah, but the Eight-Three…”

  “I can handle myself out there lover boy, don’t you worry. But right now let’s do each other one more time.”

  My pleasure, Sergeant Becker,” he said as he placed his glass on the night table. “My pleasure, indeed.”

  Promotion day was a happy one for families, friends, and of course, the promotees. Harry’s Uncle Mike, a still plugged-in retired deputy chief, and Aunt Mary were there. Mike introduced Harry to his old friend, William T. Kelly, as “Bill,” the new chief of detectives. Harry was in uniform for just the second time since he had been shot, and it felt loose on him. He had lost the ten extra pounds he had been carrying, plus a few more, and he felt lean and fit. The gold detective’s shield he’d had for only four months was replaced by a gold sergeant’s shield, and three light-blue chevrons adorned each sleeve of his dark blue uniform shirt and blouse. As he walked across the stage when his name was called to shake hands with the mayor and the police commissioner, he felt as proud and happy as he did when he graduated from the Academy eleven years ago.

  After the ceremonies, he searched out Deputy Chief Gregorovich and Deputy Inspector Snyder to congratulate them, and to remind them he had indeed put in a good word to the commissioner when he had come to the hospital in March.

  “If that did the trick,” Gregorovich said, “I am in your debt forever, Sergeant Cassidy.”

  Just then Uncle Mike came over and said, “And Peter, you look after my nephew and maybe he’ll get you a second star some day.”

  “I’ll be watching, Mike, don’t you worry.”

  The afternoon wound down and the dignitaries left. Smiling cops with their families drifted out to restaurants, or to their homes, to continue celebrating. The JTTF team assembled for one more group photo. Then this tough bunch of cops and agents, with not a dry eye among them, shook hands and hugged each other one last time, and then went their separate ways. Vera Hunter, who had snapped the photo, grabbed Harry by the arm as they walked out and said, “She’s a great gal, that Sergeant Rita Becker. Bring her over for dinner soon. I mean business this time.”

  The four weeks of intensive study in the Academy dragged by. They were lectured to by the brass on rules, procedures, the disciplinary process, supervision, chain of command, the desk officer’s duties, the fact they were a “boss” now and not one of the “boys,” and on, and on…Twenty days of mental work, role playing, and quizzes had made them anxious to get off their butts and get back to the real job and, thankfully, on Friday, August 16, it was over. The commanding officer of the Academy called the newly-minted sergeants up alphabetically to award them their certificate of completion of supervisory training, and to announce their new commands to which they would report the next day.

  Harry was listening to the numbers that were called before him trying to figure out a pattern, but the assignments seemed scattered among the boros in no rational order. The inspector called Harry’s name and announced, “…to the Midtown South precinct.” Terrific! Back with his old boss, Dan Snyder. He couldn’t wait to get there, back on the street, real police work again and no more damned terrorists to deal with.

  There was one surprise assignment. John McKee went back to the Joint Terrorist Task Force as the team leader. His old partner, Supervisory Special Agent Walt Kobak, had obviously pulled a few strings for him.

  “Hey, John,” Harry said, “that’s great news. I’m real happy you’re staying there.”

  “Me, too. And you got a great precinct to work in.”

  “I guess this is the end of our partnership,” Harry said. “I wonder if our paths will ever cross again.”

  “You never know, Harry. These terrorists seem to never give up. We may have to drag you back if they show their ugly faces here again.”

  “Not a chance, John. We buried them for good this time.”

  “Not really. We missed a few of the bastards, including those two Manhattan section chiefs.”

  “And they all probably ran back to their huts in the desert,” Harry said.

  “Let’s hope so, old friend. See you around.”

  This time it had not taken Fasiym ali Hassan three days to call Boussara and voice his and bin Yousef’s extreme displeasure with the failure of the attacks. He called Boussara’s cell phone that night, July 3, as soon as the news had reached Riyadh.

  “Where are you now, Boussara?” he asked.

  “I am with al-Rahim in Washington.”

  “Both of you are to travel to us, separately of course, for a meeting with our leader. Fly to Riyadh on Saturday and wait there at the airport for further instructions. And notify your two un-arrested section chiefs to also fly here. Understood?”

  “Yes, Fasiym, I will convey your instructions to them.”

  “I trust you can handle that assignment, Boussara,” he said, and hung up.

  Boussara turned to al-Rahim with a stricken look on his face and said,
“We and our two remaining chiefs have been summoned to a meeting with bin Yousef. We must leave tomorrow.”

  “What do you think our chances will be of surviving that meeting alive, Muhammad?”

  “I am not optimistic, but we must use all of our brainpower to come up with rational explanations for the failure and a future plan of action that will satisfy him.”

  “I share your fears, my friend, but remember—we have now failed twice.”

  Boussara arrived in Riyadh several hours after al-Rahim and was paged as he waited in the terminal. He was told to proceed out a specific set of doors where a hired car would meet him. The car, a white Lincoln, was waiting by the curb as he exited, and an hour later it passed through a set of iron gates to a large brick house set well back from the street. He was greeted at the front door by a servant who took his luggage and welcomed him to the leader’s new home. Boussara had met with bin Yousef a few times in the past, but never at this location.

  “I will take your bags to your room, sir,” said the servant. “Please feel free to wash up and then join the others in the parlor to your left. Dinner will be served at 6:30.”

  Boussara glanced at his watch. He had only a few minutes to clean up. As he left the bathroom, he spotted Zacarias, Shoab Aziz and Wassem Idris entering the dining room and he followed them in. Khalid al-Habib bin Yousef was sitting at the far end of an oval shaped polished wood table. Fasiym ali Hassan sat immediately to his right. There were four other place settings around the table.

  “Welcome to my table,” bin Yousef said, “and to my new home. Please sit where you choose. We will dine and drink and not discuss business. That will come later.”

  Boussara was not deceived by bin Yousef’s smiling countenance. He well knew behind the well-trimmed beard, manicured fingernails and sparkling eyes was a ruthless, cold-blooded killer. He himself had witnessed this cruelty on several occasions in the rugged hills of Afghanistan. He choose a spot on the side of the table, one seat away from ali Hassan.