Rashid pretended to be a radical Muslim convert that longed for martyrdom. In truth, he loved to fight. Anywhere. When the CIA approached him to be an operative, he jumped at the chance. The CIA paid him to be a militant. Whether he fought in Afghanistan, Bosnia or New York made no difference to him. How he wished to be part of the attacks today. Instead he fed the pigeons. Just so the Feds saw him carrying on his normal routine.
He was on the sidelines, a mere spectator to the action. Why couldn’t he spray the federal guard at 26 Federal Plaza with bullets, so the driver of the van-bomb could drive down the garage ramp unimpeded? He was missing out on the rush of a lifetime.
But it was not to be. He must keep a low profile so as not to jeopardize the whole operation. The Feds were watching him – always watching him. Damn them. He has to pretend everything is normal so the FBI did not suspect that the attacks were happening any minute.
So, here he was, in the courtyard of the housing projects feeding the freaking pigeons. He threw some seed onto the cement walkway and the pigeons swarmed down.
Walking towards New York Ave, he sprinkled the sidewalk with bird-seed. He strolled up and down the block, making himself visible to the occupants of the unmarked car parked across the street. Maybe his birds would crap on their car.
Rashid grinned. The image of white bird crap dripping down the windshield of the Feds unmarked sedan was freaking funny. Maybe the windows will be down and his birds will hit a bull’s-eye. This thought made him laugh out loud.
A car drove by blasting rap music through souped up speakers. The passing car’s music gave him an idea. He would listen to the news on his car radio.
Once he made up his mind, Rashid could not contain his curiosity any longer. Even stuck on the sidelines, this would be one hell of a day. He had to know what was happening. If something went wrong, he had to run. He’d escape to Lahore, Pakistan as a last resort.
Chapter 35
An unmarked police car was parked on Canal Street, facing the Holland Tunnel. Carmella Russo and Matt Rosen waited inside the dark blue Ford Fury. Behind the Fury, an NYPD Highway Unit waited to block New Jersey bound traffic from entering the tunnel. As soon as they were sure traffic from the New Jersey side was completely stopped, Matt and Carmella would drive into the Manhattan bound tube. They were waiting for the Bomb Squad to arrive before they moved.
Late last night and early this morning, when they were making plans at 26 Federal Plaza, the time was productive. Once the planning was over, the waiting started. Waiting and hoping the plan would work. It had to. Too much was at stake if it failed. Waiting wasted precious minutes. The morning was growing longer by the moment. She was afraid of how it would end.
She glanced at the dashboard clock. It was nine-twenty. Time for the van-bombs to explode.
“Where the freak is the bomb squad?” She groaned.
She did not realize she had spoken aloud until Matt said, “Guess we will have to go in without them.”
“Damn.” Mel swallowed and looked into Matt’s eyes. “We have no other choice.”
Matt held Mel’s gaze. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “Here goes.” He tapped the siren. The quick toot signaled the Highway Unit to shut down the Manhattan side of the tunnel.
The highway car pulled from its parking spot, turned on its lights and blocked traffic from entering the west bound tube of the Holland Tunnel. Soon, both tubes of the tunnel will be clear of traffic.
“So far, so good.” Carmella said. “Are you ready to roll?”
“Give it a few more minutes.” Matt studied the traffic patterns exiting the tunnel.
Manhattan bound traffic exiting the Holland Tunnel was heavy, typical for rush hour. A minute later, it trickled down considerably. If the Jersey side was shut down, incoming traffic should stop completely in the next minute or two.
When no vehicles exited the tunnel for a full sixty second interval, Matt squeezed Mel’s hand. “We are good to go.”
He slowly entered the north tube of the tunnel and drove west towards the Jersey side of the Hudson River. Even though the tube was closed from Jersey City, it was nerve racking to be heading the wrong way in the tunnel. A car may have lagged behind. He shuddered at the thought of a head on collision.
Matt shielded his eyes from a bright light that flooded the interior of the car. He squinted in the rear view mirror. He let out a puff of air. “It’s headlights from the bomb squad’s truck.” He blinked his eyes. “Looks like a fire engine is right behind them.”
“Yes!” Carmella cheered. “It is a-” Carmella’s breath was sucked out of her.
A flash of dazzling white light filled the tunnel. A thundering boom blasted her eardrums. The car shimmied on the pavement and came to an abrupt stop. The florescent lights running along the roof of the tunnel blinked once, twice and went out. A glow of orange light flickered up ahead, bending around the curve. A haze of black and gray smoke swirled towards them.
As soon as her breath returned, she turned to Matt. “Are you alright?”
When he nodded, she rolled down her window. The air was smoky, but it was breathable. “Let’s see what happened up there”. She bit her lower lip.
The lights overhead flickered and then came back on steady.
“And then there was light. Hope it is a good sign.” Matt said. “Let’s go on foot. I do not want the car’s gas tank close to the flames.”
Carmella nodded. “Good thinking.”
As they inched around the curve in the tunnel, the air became dense with smoke but did not get hotter. They trotted fifty yards along the curve and stopped when they faced the windshield of a blown out blue van. The flames were puttering out, but there was an orange glow lingering in the front passenger seat.
Mel gagged as the stench of burned human hair and flesh reached her nostrils. A pile of reddish-black meat leaned over the steering wheel. Its blue Port Authority shirt was still recognizable.
“Gilbert!” She turned away. “He is far from paradise. The damned fool is in hell.”
Two figures wearing thick iron masks and padded gloves ran past Carmella and Matt towards the van. One figure carried a fire extinguisher and the other lugged a thick ballistic shield. The bomb squad techs extinguished the last of the flames and disconnected the amber fuse before it reached the explosive mixture in the cargo area.
The Hydrogen tank was the only thing that exploded. The blast made a gooey mess of Gilbert’s head and torso and blackened the tiles above the van. But that was all. No structural damage to the tunnel was visible. The walls, ceiling and floor were soot covered – but dry.
The bomb squad technician holding the fire extinguisher lowered it to the ground and removed the mask from his face. He wiped sweat from his face and head with his padded arm. “We made it just in time. Another fifteen seconds and the nitrate would have detonated.”
Carmella was speechless. She looked wide-eyed at Matt. Gilbert’s van was a fraction of a minute from detonation.
Chapter 36
Rashid’s Bronco was parked on the corner. He patted his pockets to make sure he had his car keys. He found them buried under bird seed. Approaching the truck from the rear, he unlocked the passenger door and sat down. Stretching over the center console, he slid the key into the ignition. Turned the radio on.
He was sure 1010 news would be the first radio station to cover the bombings. Way before the television stations picked up the story. 1010 News had helicopters out to cover the morning traffic. The reporter in the copter hovering over the east river crossings would see the smoke from the United Nations Building first. Since the UN was located between the FDR Drive and the East River, the traffic helicopter pilot could not miss the explosion.
It would take a little longer for the Hudson River Tunnel explosions to make the news because the initial explosions would happen under the river. It would not be immediately evident that bombs went off in the tunnels. It may not be known that the explosions in the tunnels were bombs unti
l the news reports of the United Nations and Federal Building bombings come in.
Rashid’s thoughts would run rampart until he heard the first concrete reports. But 1010 was reporting the weather - the freaking weather! Rashid slumped. Unbelievable!
He punched the steering wheel. The plastic broke and sliced his hand. He reached into the center console and grabbed a paper towel. As he blotted his bleeding hand with the towel he froze. The radio announcer was reporting a car fire in the Holland Tunnel.
Rashid cheered out loud. The Day of Terror has begun.
Hopping onto the sidewalk, Rashid jumped up and down, like an oversized ugly bunny. He danced in circles like a witch doctor. Suddenly, he froze. What was he doing? Did he give himself away?
Rashid smoothed his clothing. He reached into the Bronco to retrieve his keys and noticed a white piece of paper tucked under a wiper blade. He closed the Bronco’s door, grabbed the note and galloped to his building.
He wanted to see the rest of the news reports from the privacy of his living room on live television. The networks were sure to have their copters on the scene any minute. No way would he miss the live pictures of flooding and smoke pouring from the United Nations and Federal Buildings.
He unlocked the building’s front door. He tapped the elevator call button over and over. He bounced up and down until the elevator car arrived. Rashid felt something in his hand. He had forgotten all about the piece of paper that was shoved on his windshield. He had crumpled the note in his excitement.
On the ride to the fifth floor, he read the note.
Beware of Extreme Emergency
Shit! The handwriting belonging to Yaya. What could it mean? What was the emergency? Didn’t the fire in the Holland Tunnel mean that the bombs went off as planned?
As soon as the elevator car stopped, Rashid pushed open the elevator door and sprinted down the hallway. What was going on? He had to turn on his television. He skidded to a stop at his apartment door and shoved the key in the lock. He never got a chance to turn the key.
The stairwell door burst open. Two men wearing flak jackets labeled FBI leapt out of the stairway. Rashid was pushed to the ground and handcuffed.
Damn. Keep calm. How much do they know?
Chapter 37
Last night, Tom Malone was transferred from the Intensive Care Unit of Cabrini Medical Center to a room on the cardiac floor. The angioplasty cleared the blockage in his arteries. He does not need open-heart surgery, but he will have to take heart medication for the rest of his life. He is no longer qualified to perform duty as an NYPD detective.
The choice when to retire was no longer his to make. He would retire as soon as the paper work was completed and approved: a process that could take months. Time no longer mattered to him. He would get used to an unhurried, unscheduled lifestyle.
As soon as his retirement becomes official, he will take Maryanne on the long awaited Caribbean cruise. She deserved it after all she put up with over the years.
When it mattered most, she proved to be a cop’s wife. She did not hesitate when she received a call that he had had a heart attack. Maryanne was listed as his emergency contact and arrived within minutes. She barely left his side since, only to sleep and shower. She should be back soon. He could not wait to see her expression when she found him in a regular room.
The new room had a television and a telephone. Access to the outside world, to a cop’s world. He could not wait to catch up on all the news he missed.
He was out of the loop for a couple of days, but it felt like forever. He needed to know what was happening in his city. Will he always feel that need? The adjustment to civilian life would be slow.
He turned on the television set and was stunned by the breaking news: “-both Hudson River Tunnels will be closed for the remainder of the morning rush hour. A vehicle fire in the Holland Tunnel is under control by the Fire Department. The Lincoln Tunnel is closed due to police activity….”
Malone read between the lines of the newscast. A vehicle fire, my ass! Did the building van-bombs explode as well? Is Carson OK? Grabbing the telephone, he dialed the JTTF. Detective Mike Wigger answered the phone. Mike briefed him on the morning events. Four nitrate bombs diffused. Six arrests and one DOA. A Gilbert Foster. He put his head back on his pillow and closed his eyes. Carson was okay. Carson was okay!
“Thanks Mike, have the Captain call me.”
While Malone waited for the Captain to return his call he firmed up the idea that has been rattling around his mind since he realized he could not return to work. He was no longer able to be Carson’s handler, so he needed to find a suitable replacement. It was going to be close to impossible to convince Carson to stay undercover in The Impoverished.
His handler had to be someone Carson trusted, especially since he had let him down. A heart attack was a rock solid alibi, but still Carson was left without support during the most critical time imaginable. The only other person Carson trusted was Carmella Russo. She was the only candidate for the position.
But she was a patrol cop. No way she could ride in a sector car handling radio runs and be Carson’s contact, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
Malone turned off the television and closed his eyes. How could he bring Russo into a spot where she would be available for Carson and still earn her pay. She would have to be promoted to detective and brought into JTTF. She only has four years as a police officer and no investigative experience at all. Her peers in the NYPD and counterparts in other agencies would never take her seriously.
Malone had to come up with an alternate plan that would work. He was formulating a solution when the phone rang.
It was the Captain.
He briefed Malone on the occurrences of the past view days. “Carson reached out to Russo, after he failed to get in touch with you, to report the acceleration of the attacks.”
Malone winced.
The Captain continued. “She contacted the JTTF. Because of that, the JTTF kept the vans for the attacks on the United Nations and 26 Federal Plaza from leaving the garage. The van-bombs for the tunnels reached their targets, but were diffused in time. The driver of the van bomb in the Hudson Tunnel was shot by an ESU sharpshooter just as he was setting off the bomb, so the hydrogen tank blew; causing some damage, but the explosives did not ignite.”
“That was close,” Malone said. “Is Carson’s cover blown?”
“No. As prearranged with Russo, Carson walked away from his van-bomb without lighting the fuses. The bomb squad diffused the bomb in time, just as it did in the other three bombs. The Impoverished could not possibly know that Carson never lit the fuses, so his cover is safe.”
When Malone pointed out that Russo and Rosen played a huge part in preventing this disaster, the captain agreed. He acknowledged the interaction between Carson and Russo was instrumental in foiling the plot to bomb the four New York landmarks. Malone pitched his idea and the Captain caught it.
The Captain said, “I will recommend Russo for promotion to detective and transfer her to the Intelligence Division. She will learn investigative skills and be available to take Carson’s calls around the clock. She will be a liaison between Carson and the FBI. Russo will report directly to Arthur Henderson on any matter concerning Carson, but she will work for the Intelligence Division on a daily basis.”
“Sounds like a great plan, Captain,” said Malone. “Under those conditions, I can persuade Carson to continue his undercover work.” He did not mention that the Captain’s suggestions were exactly what he had come up with himself.
The Captain was quick to add, “I have to get the Chief of Detectives approval, of course.”
“Sure, he will easily see that Russo earned her detective shield by her role in averting this disaster. I realize that promoting a cop to detective in this manner is unusual but it has been done before. Remember David Berkowitz?”
Malone was referring to the “Son of Sam” case. In the mid-seventies, a police officer was promoted t
o detective for issuing a parking ticket to a car. That car belonged to David Berkowitz, known as the “Son of Sam”. That parking ticket led to the end of David Berkowitz’ deadly shooting spree.
“Oh yea, sure I do! The Chief was on the task force that arrested Berkowitz. It will be an easy sell. It is the only logical solution to keeping Carson undercover.”
The Captain continued, “Tom, I will give you a heads up before the transfer order comes down so you can give Russo and Carson the news yourself. It will be a tough job convincing Carson to stay inside. He has been through a lot.”
Malone was glad that the Captain was on board, but he was not done yet.
“Any chance of Russo’s partner going with her? Rosen built a good report with Carson.” Malone played the cardiac card. “Considering what happened to me and my ticker, shouldn’t Carson have a backup contact?”
“Russo is just a kid. What cardiac issues could she possibly have?” The Captain laughed. “Still, you have a point. I’ll sell them both to the Chief.”
“Thanks, Boss. It will reassure Carson to stay in The Impoverished if he has a back-up handler.”
“Yeah, whatever. Get well, Tom.”
Malone hung up. Took a long drink of water and smiled. That was that!
The End
BOOK II
THE SUBWAY PLOT
Chapter 1
Shawnee’s Place had a pretty good Monday night draw. Half price Buffalo wings. The beers were full price and nothing tasted better with hot wings than cold beer. The other bars on Flatbush Avenue did not bother to open their doors on Monday nights. It was not yet midnight and Shawnee’s Place was jammed from the front door to the bar.
Nurses from Coney Island Hospital gathered by the jukebox, cops from Bed-Sty sat in booths under the front window, and toll collectors from the Lincoln Tunnel nestled between the pool table and the dart board.
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