The Impoverished: Boxed Set

by Frances Fletcher

  He reached Atlantic Avenue and still no police. Now what? He saw a bank of telephones on the other side of the busy four-lane Avenue. He ran across, picked up the phone. And froze. What should he say? He could not speak English.

  Regardless, he dialed the operator. As soon as she answered he blurted, “Bomba, Bomba – subway.”

  “Excuse me. Sir, Can you repeat that?”

  He did and she said, “Please hold. I am connecting you to the police operator.”

  “Police Operator 342. Where is the emergency?”

  Abdul heard the words, but did not understand them. “Bomba, bomba” was all he knew to say.

  “Where is the emergency?” repeated the operator.

  Abdul hung his head in despair and dropped the receiver. He ran across the Avenue towards the subway entrance. He felt a rush of air before he heard the screeching of tires. The smell of burnt rubber reached his nostrils.

  He looked up. His groin was an inch away from the hood of a blue car.

  A blue car with lights on the roof. Allah Akbar! The police.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” The policeman came running towards him. “Are you okay?”

  Abdul spread his arms wide to bear hug the cop, but was pushed away.

  “Step back!” the policeman barked, as he reached for his night stick.

  Abdul did not understand the words but he understood the gesture.

  “Sorry. Sorry.” He put his hands down at his sides. “No English – Arabic.”

  “Give it a try anyhow,” the policeman said. He opened and closed his hand rapidly, as if doing shadow hand puppets.

  “Bomba, bomba.” Abdul pointed at the entrance to the Atlantic Avenue Subway Station.

  The policeman exchanged a look with his partner. Shrugged his shoulders.

  Abdul saw the dubious look that passed between the policemen. He mimicked carrying a bag and then threw his arms up and shouted, “BOOM!”

  The cops exchanged looks of shock.

  “Okay. We get it. Come with us.” The policeman led Abdul into the back seat of the police car.

  His partner spoke urgently into the radio: “Port Authority 1556 transporting one male to the Eight Eight Station House. Advise the Eight Eight base to locate an Arabic translator and notify Operations. We have a bomb threat on the Atlantic Ave Subway Station”.

  Chapter 21

  Ibrihim could not sleep. After tossing and turning for over an hour, he gave up and got out of bed. He looked at the clock. It was four AM. Four long hours left. He planned to be on the train, in the middle of the subway tunnel, a few minutes after eight AM. The subway car would be packed with commuters when he triggered the bomb. It would kill anyone within twenty-five feet of the detonation point and injure anyone within one hundred feet. He put a pipe bomb wrapped with nails in each duffle bag. The secondary explosion would cause more injuries. More chaos. Everyone in the car will be seriously injured or killed. He trembled with excitement.

  Within minutes, Ahmed will trigger his bomb on the Borough Park bus at the most popular bus stop. Thirteenth Avenue and Fifty-Fifth Street. If Ahmed boards the bus at Prospect Park by seven-thirty he should reach Fifty-Fifth Street at about the same time Ibrihim reached the middle of the East River.

  The Brooklyn Jews, travelling into Manhattan will be hit in two busy spots within minutes of one another. It will be spectacular!

  Ibrihim glanced at the air mattress in the corner of the room. Ahmed was sleeping soundly. Good. He needs his rest.

  Looking around the room, he saw Khali was asleep. Abdul’s sleeping bag was empty.

  Expecting to find Abdul in the bathroom, Ibrihim opened the door to the small room. He did not bother with knocking. No Abdul. He tucked his head behind the shower curtain. That too was empty! Where is he?

  Last night, when they were going over the plan, Ahmed was excited and prayed for the plan’s success, as did Khali. What did Abdul do?

  Ibrihim concentrated hard.

  He did not recall any reaction from Abdul. Not only did he fail to offer encouragement, he made no comment at all. Right after Ibrihim packed the bombs in the duffle bags, Abdul went out. Did he return? Ibrihim had gone to bed so he had not noticed. Where was Abdul?

  Ibrihim showered as quickly as he would allow himself. Although he was in a rush to track down Abdul, he needed to be spotless when he entered paradise, so he took longer in the shower than he wanted. Then he knelt on his prayer rug. He prayed to Allah for a successful mission and to be greeted by virgins when he entered paradise.

  After dressing, he wrote a note to Ahmed with instructions to continue the plan if he did not return. He unzipped one of the two black duffle bags that lay between Ahmed and Khali and placed the note on top of the four toggle switches connected to the bomb. Ahmed was sure to see the note there, on the detonation device.

  Ibrihim carefully opened the other duffle bag. He made sure the bomb was connected to its toggle switches and that the smaller pipe bomb, wrapped with nails, was lying beside it. He zipped the bag and carried it to the door.

  Ibrihim walked along Fourth Avenue, looking for Abdul. As he neared the Atlantic Avenue Subway Station he was curious when he saw flashing lights ahead, but not alarmed. When he got closer to the subway station, he saw the police had the station closed off. Now he was concerned.

  Ibrihim made a quick U-turn and headed back home. What was going on?

  He was about to cross Carroll Street when a police car went through the red light and stopped in front of his building. The police car was followed by a huge blue and white truck labeled: EMERGENCY SERVICE UNIT.

  He ducked down Carroll Street and cowered in a basement stairwell. Sitting on the bottom concrete step, he cradled his head in his arms and cried. How did the police know about the plot to blow up a bomb on the subway? It had to be Abdul – the traitor. How else could they know? It did not matter. He had to go on somehow.

  Nothing was going to stop him. He will improvise, that’s all. Since he could not go north towards Manhattan, as planned, he will head to Borough Park. Drying his eyes, Ibrihim crawled to the top stair.

  Peeking out of the stairwell, he saw the sidewalk was clear. He walked down Carroll Street and did not dare look back until he reached Seventh Avenue. When he was sure that no one was following him, he zigzagged through side streets until he reached Prospect Park.

  Ibrihim walked through the deserted park and sat at a bench near the Parade Grounds. He looked at his watch and grimaced. It was close to six AM. How long could he wait before boarding the bus? What if his roommates told the police about the plan to explode the bomb on the bus? No, they would not tell the police. Ahmed and Khali would die before they talked to the infidels. But Abdul was another story. How much did Abdul know? How much information did he have to pass on to the police?

  The fear of being captured before detonating the bomb propelled Ibrihim to rise from the bench. He will reach paradise and kill as many American Jews that he could, even if it were not the massacre he had planned.

  His mind made up, Ibrihim emerged from the park. When he reached the bus stop on Caton Avenue, he faced east and waited for the B16 bus.

  Chapter 22

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

  Carson jumped out of bed and threw on yesterday’s jeans, socks and sneakers. Since he slept in a tee shirt, he was dressed in a flash.

  His eyes darted everywhere at once. His fisted hands were in front of him, elbows bent. He was ready for anything. As his heartbeat slowed, he looked around. His apartment remained dark and undisturbed. Just as he slumped back onto his bed, he heard shouting from the hall.

  “POLICE. Put your hands up!”

  “Don’t do it! Stop now!”

  Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop!

  Carson counted five gunshots, and then heard shrieks of pain. Shuffling noises and the click of handcuffs. What was going on out there?

  He cracked open his apartment door and peeked into the hallway. Before he could see anything be
yond his own threshold, his door was pushed open. He was dragged out of the apartment. Huge, strong hands threw him face first onto the floor. He saw a large black shoe. His hands were instantaneously handcuffed behind his back.

  By the time he turned his head to see what was happening, he heard shouting. “Police! Get down!” The shouting was not directed at him. It was coming from upstairs. The building was being raided. Thank God! Ibrihim will be stopped from blowing up the bombs.

  Carson craned his head and peered into Ibrihim’s apartment. Two men lay face down on the floor, rear handcuffed, writhing like snakes. He recognized Khali by his small stature and pajama bottoms, Ahmed by his thick black hair. Where were Ibrihim and Abdul? They must have been removed to the station house already. But was there time for that? Carson doubted it.

  Two pairs of hands enwrapped in blue sleeves lifted Carson off the floor and stood him up against the wall, out of the way. A man carrying a thick ballistic shield and a man carrying a large tool box passed Carson and entered Ibrihim’s apartment. Both men wore thick ballistic suits. Carson sighed. The bomb squad had arrived.

  The men huddled over one of the black duffle bags Carson had spotted in the apartment the other day. He stretched his neck searching for the other duffle bag, but could not spot it.

  “Hey, officers. There should be two duffle bags in the apartment.” Carson shouted. “Look for another bomb.”

  No one paid him any attention. In their minds, he was a terrorist or a terrorist sympathizer. Desperate to get the cops to listen to him, Carson decided to break his cover.

  “Officers, please listen to me. I am working undercover for JTTF. You have to search for another bag!” Carson slapped the wall with his hands. “Take these handcuffs off me. We have to find the other duffle bag. I saw it there yesterday!”

  Not only did the officers ignore him, Carson stood alone on the landing. A thick, burly officer descended from the floor above. Carson quickly told him he was an undercover detective working for JTTF and he saw two duffle bags in the apartment.

  The cop looked at Carson and snorted. “If you’re looking for a plea bargain, forget about it.”

  “What? What plea bargain? I am telling you, there is another bomb out there. Somewhere. I don’t give a damn about any stupid plea bargain!”

  “Right. Save it for the Judge.” The cop grabbed Carson by the arm. “Come on.”

  He escorted him down the stairs and into a waiting police car. All the while, Carson tried to convince him that he was truly an undercover detective. But his words fell on deaf ears. He was thrown in the back seat. Next to Abdul.

  Carson was relieved to see Abdul, but Ibrihim was still unaccounted for.

  “Abdul, where is Ibrihim?”

  Abdul responded in Arabic.

  “Shit.” No help there.

  The wail of sirens and screeching tires caught the attention of Carson and the burly cop. Abdul craned his head to peek out the window. Carson looked over Abdul’s shoulder. An ambulance screeched to a stop and two paramedics jumped out. The cop ordered Carson and Abdul to stay put and then led the paramedics into the building.

  A second ambulance arrived and parked alongside the police car in which Carson and Abdul were imprisoned. The police car was wedged between the two ambulances, completely blocking Carson’s view. Which meant that Carson could not be seen.

  This is my chance. Carson rolled head first onto the front seat, and pulled his legs behind him. Once his whole body was in the front seat, he struggled to open the passenger side door with his handcuffed hands and tumbled onto the street. He slammed the door shut with his feet, just in case Abdul decided to follow his lead.

  He crept alongside the ambulance, stooped and listened. The crackle of a police radio came from one of the cop cars. “-one explosive device safely diffused, two perps treated by EMS, and two males held for questioning-”

  Carson quickly did the math. Khali and Ahmed were injured. He and Abdul were held for questioning. Two plus two does not equal five. There was no mention of a fifth perp. Ibrihim was still unaccounted for. Both Ibrihim and the second duffle bag were missing.

  Ibrihim must be on his way to the Atlantic Avenue subway station to explode his bomb. And the cops had no clue. He could not waste anymore time trying to convince the cops that he was working undercover and another bomb was out there. They simply did not believe him. No time to call Carmella. He was on his own. He had to get to the subway station.

  Carson emerged from behind the ambulance and casually walked down Fourth Avenue, hoping to reach Carroll Street before being spotted. From there, he could get to the subway station.

  He walked five steps before he was tackled by the burly cop. He and the cop hit the ground hard. The front of Carson’s head bounced off the concrete curb and he passed out.

  Chapter 23

  The bus stopped on the corner of Coney Island Avenue and Canton Avenue. Five passengers boarded the bus, the last of which was a young Palestinian man carrying a black duffle bag.

  Ibrihim dropped a token into the fare box. The middle aged, black haired bus driver nodded at him as he pulled the bus away from the curb. The B16 headed down Caton Avenue.

  Ibrihim sat in the middle of the three seat bench facing the rear door. He placed the duffle bag between his feet. He scanned the back of the bus all the way up to the driver’s seat, counting heads. The bus carried only ten passengers. Ibrihim was unfazed. The passenger count would grow at each stop.

  The bus would be full by the time it reached Fifty-Fifth Street, where even more passengers would board. The bus stop at Fifty-Fifth Street is only a few yards from the elevated train station. The bus would be crowded with passengers boarding and disembarking, as well as those that remain seated. This ride would be a blast.

  Ibrihim snickered.

  Chapter 24

  It was dark when the Chevy pulled in front of Carmella’s house. The instant it stopped, Carmella opened the passenger door and slid into the front seat. Matt did not wait for her to buckle up before driving down the street. Heck, he did not even wait for her to close the door. They were headed to Brooklyn Heights, to Carson’s building.

  Ten minutes ago, Carmella was awakened by a telephone call from Arthur Henderson warning that Carson’s building was being raided. Carmella lived close to Carson’s neighborhood and could arrive there quickly. She had to be there to vouch for Carson, in case the proverbial shit hit the fan. In the past, whenever Carson was involved, the shit always hit the freaking fan. She did not expect this time to be different.

  Since Carmella’s cell phone did not ring she knew Carson’s fan was in deep shit. He would have called her, if he could.

  Although the Chevy did not have a siren or beacon light, Matt made great time driving to Fourth Avenue.

  “Any word from Carson?” Matt asked without taking his eyes from the road.

  “Nothing,” Carmella swallowed.

  They were ten blocks from Carson’s block when Carmella spotted emergency lights ahead. Five more blocks and they were halted by a police roadblock.

  Crap! There was no time for this.

  Chapter 25

  The burly cop stood over Carson’s unconscious body. The cop’s uniform trousers were ripped and his elbows bloodied.

  He radioed for an ambulance. The dispatcher replied there were two ambulances already on the scene. The burly cop snapped at her to send another bus. The dispatcher could not provide an ETA for a third bus. It would be awhile before an ambulance could be dispatched.

  The burly cop grunted. I’ll take him to the hospital myself. He made sure Carson was breathing and then lifted him off the ground.

  * * *

  The bus stopped at Thirty-Ninth Street. Ibrihim laughed out loud as passengers streamed onto the bus. He was unable to contain his joy as the bus became more and more crowded. People were standing. They were standing!

  He would fulfill his dream, after all. Many people would die with him and the Americans will know that h
e and his brothers mean business. His message would be heard - loud and clear.

  Chapter 26

  The officer in charge of the roadblock was not impressed by Matt’s shield and identification card. He said it was too dangerous to send anyone through, even cops.

  “We are on official police business!” Carmella stomped out of the car and began to move the barricade herself. The police officer grabbed her arm.

  “Let go of me or lock me up,” Carmella said, as she pushed past the officer. “Because that’s the only way you can stop us from passing this roadblock.”

  Flustered, the officer acquiesced.

  Carmella got back in the car and was greeted by a cold stare from Matt.

  “You are freaking nuts!” He drove past the barricade.

  “A girl has to lose her reputation some time,” she grinned.

  “Yeah, like that will ever happen.”

  “Let’s just get to Carson, alright?” She let the snide remark pass. Now was not the time to go down that road.

  Carmella had only one thing on her mind. To make sure that Carson was all right. She knew that was Matt’s main concern as well. The NYPD could handle any situation that presented itself this morning. But only she, Matt and Henderson knew Carson’s real role as an undercover. Only they could ensure his safety by defending his credibility.

  Carson likely had vital information to share. But who would believe him? His cover presented him as a terrorist sympathizer. Terrorists and terrorist sympathizers were masters of deceit. They intentionally cause confusion by spreading misinformation and denying the truth. It was imperative Carson’s story was validated for his information to be credible. They had to find him.

  When they arrived at Carson’s building, Matt parked in front of a police car. An ambulance pulled out just as they arrived. Another stood with its rear doors open, awaiting the arrival of an aided person. As soon as Matt slammed the gear shift into Park, they rushed out of the car, their shields swinging from their necks.