“Stop him at Pine Street. Don’t let him get to Wall,” the ESU commander yelled. “Stop him now.”
An unmarked surveillance car pulled in at the corner of Pine and Pearl Streets to cut off the van’s access to Wall Street, one block away. As the car did, the van sped up and crashed into it, pushing the car to the side, passing it. The surveillance car hit its siren, and the driver screamed into the radio, “It’s going down. They’re going to get to the barricades at Wall and Pearl!”
When the van got there, it was stopped by the concrete barricades. Three men jumped out of the van and began running toward the stock exchange. From two unmarked emergency services vehicles just off Water, eight SWAT-dressed cops jumped out and began running to where the van had stopped. Two of the cops stopped there; the others kept running, just behind the three terrorists.
The ESU team commander yelled over the radio for all units to back away from the van as the team approached. The team’s M4 machine guns were at the ready, as the officers knelt behind the massive concrete barricades, yelling at passersby on the street to clear the area, while aiming at the driver, who was sitting and staring ahead without moving.
Seconds passed until, suddenly, the driver of the van yelled, “Allahu Akbar.” The van exploded, blowing the unmarked surveillance car behind it into a million bits. The fronts of the buildings on Pearl and Wall that took the brunt of the blast were peeled off the buildings, and every window was shattered. The cops behind the barricades could feel debris scour their skin, saved only by the barrier.
At the same time, the three terrorists from the van ran toward the stock exchange, each carrying a large canvas duffel bag. Suddenly, they stopped, pulled out AK-47s from the bags, and started running toward the entrance of the exchange.
They never made it in.
“Down,” a SWAT officer yelled, and any civilians who had not already run when the van exploded fell flat on the ground, as the terrorists got to one knee. None was able to get a single shot off, as they were surrounded by CAT and SWAT teams who mowed them down. They never knew what hit them. One terrorist, wounded but not dead, slowly got up.
“Kill him . . . Kill him now!” an FBI supervisor on the scene screamed as one of the SWAT team members, with a spray of automatic rifle fire, cut the terrorist in half.
At the same time, the surveillance teams on the Upper East Side I.D.’d two cars they believed were headed for the school, each with two occupants. “Fuck,” Raymond yelled, as he watched the camera feed. The two cars blocked off 67th Street at Park and at Lexington, cutting off access to the street from both sides. Two men leapt from each of the two cars, all the men armed with automatic rifles and wearing bomb vests, and ran for the front entrance of the school. Don’t let them get into that school, Raymond thought to himself, just before the terrorists’ two cars exploded, sounding like an earthquake and looking like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Debris was flying everywhere.
The terrorists sprinted toward the school entrance, then opened fire on the guard in front of the school, who managed to get back inside, leaving the entrance doors open as he did. Sirens could be heard as fire trucks and police cars headed for the scene, along with the CAT and SWAT teams that had been watching the entrance to the school. The terrorists ran in through the front doors and went from classroom to classroom, confused and angered that they couldn’t find any students or teachers to kill. They headed for the stairwell, and as they entered, two FBI agents on the next landing hurled two stun grenades at their feet; the blast sounded like a massive explosion. It knocked the terrorists back on their rears, their legs flying up in front of them, and they were completely dazed. Just as they tried to compose themselves and regroup, a dozen FBI agents and ESU cops came flying down the stairs; they killed all four before they could pick up their weapons again. The agents then headed outside to make sure there were no others trying to get in.
There weren’t. It was over.
Not long after, Raymond and Jones received official word—dozens of civilians were hurt by the two explosions downtown, none critical, there was plenty of property damage, but the only casualties were the eight terrorists. Not a single NYPD member or federal agent was taken down.
CHAPTER 30
6:00 pm, Monday, 11 December
The news of the attack was relayed instantly around the world. TV crews were dispatched to both sites of attack, but could not get close because of police yellow tape. They also converged on City Hall, where a press conference was scheduled for six o’clock, perfectly timed to make the national nightly news broadcasts in the States, and then endlessly replayed on every available outlet. Dozens of reporters from CNN, Fox, MSNBC, the three major networks, Al Jazeera, the BBC, Agence France-Presse, the China Daily, and at least 50 other agencies swarmed the city.
In Raymond’s office, he, Chernova, Gallagher, and Jones were having coffee. “One more battle in a never-ending war,” Jones said. “We won this time, but who knows what will happen tomorrow.”
“We’ll be ready for them,” Raymond said. “And let’s not forget Agent Chernova. Without her help, who knows where we would be.
“Absolutely,” Jones said. “It’s an electronic war as much as it is a weapons one. Mila is a warrior. I’m glad she’s on our side.
“Me too,” Raymond said, unable to stifle a laugh. So,” he continued, “do you think we got Samadi? Are the IDs done yet?”
“Hard to tell for sure. The bodies of the terrorists with the bombs were blown to bits. I doubt he was one of those shot down in front of Wall Street.”
“But your best guess is he’s dead?”
“Yes, for what it’s worth. Would he send his own men out and miss the glory of his big day? I doubt it.”
“He might,” Raymond said. “You know, they promise these guys a catered affair at the world’s greatest strip club when they go to heaven. Most of them can’t wait, because the only sex they’ve ever had is if they were in a rape squad.”
“Poor demented fucks,” Mila said.
“Yeah, but I’m not convinced until forensics confirms eight bodies that he’s dead. He’s a slippery little snake who doesn’t mind killing his own men but cries when he cuts himself shaving.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Jones said. “Where is he going to hide now? The whole world knows what happened. Every fuckin’ bad guy in the city will be looking over his shoulder, and any of them aligned with ISIS will be looking to get out any way they can.”
“Until the next time,” Raymond said.
“Until the next time. We’ll be ready.” Jones looked at her watch. “I think it’s time we head over to City Hall.”
“Yeah,” Raymond said, and nodded to Gallagher, who called down to Shelby to have the Suburban ready. Outside the plaza, fully armed police had ringed the front entrance. Nobody was taking any chances. “Welcome to today’s America,” Raymond muttered.
They piled into the Suburban for the short drive over to City Hall.
A crowd of reporters, cameras, and microphones filled the Blue Room of City Hall. Every nearby sidewalk was parked full of satellite vans, ringed with security. A half-dozen microphones were set up at the mayor’s podium, waiting for him to make his appearance. Shelby hit the emergency lights on the Suburban as he approached the huge metal barriers that were sticking out of the ground, and they were lowered into the ground as he came to the driveway. He pulled right up to the outside steps of City Hall while the two backup vehicles, one belonging to Jones and the FBI, parked and idled on the far side of the plaza. Raymond, Jones, Gallagher, and Chernova got out of the Suburban, walked up the stairs, and turned toward the mayor’s office, with a detective from the Intelligence Division holding open a thick metal gate as they approached.
They went to the mayor’s waiting area, from where they could see the packed Blue Room filled with reporters pushing each other out of the way to get the best
camera position.
The mayor walked out of his office to the waiting area, shook their hands, and said, “Congratulations!”
“Thank you, Mr. Mayor,” Jones said.
Raymond said, “Yes, thank you. It really wasn’t us, as much as it was the men and women that work for us, Mila and Jerry here among them. The FBI’s SWAT team and our ESU were superb.”
“Rick, that’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. I was going to have a bunch of them down here for this presser, but there are too many, and we didn’t have a lot of time to prepare.”
There was a knock on the door, signaling that it was time to go. “I’m going to wait right here,” Chernova said. As the primary case agent, she was most valuable if she had no face to show to the enemy.
One by one the others filed into the Blue Room as the mayor’s press secretary yelled, “Heads up!” a signal that they were about to get started.
Outside, between the Blue Room and the mayor’s office, a dozen police, in suits, scoured the hallways, waiting for the mayor to conclude and return to his office. Just inside the mayor’s waiting room, barely visible, were three uniformed ESU cops, standing at the ready with M4 automatic weapons, looking like they were heading to Baghdad.
As the mayor centered himself on the podium, the others positioned themselves on his right and left. There was a blinding burst of electronic lights from the photographers. Others behind them shouted for them to kneel so they could get their shot. When the flashing ended, the mayor began to speak: “This is, indeed, a great day for the city of New York. Buildings can be rebuilt; streets can be repaired; our injured can heal. What will never happen is that these scum that tried to take down our wonderful city will ever have that chance again.” A small group of the mayor’s staff and supporters in the back of the room cheered; some of the uniformed and plainclothes cops applauded.
“Before I go any further, I want to introduce to you two of the heroes who helped to thwart this attack. FBI Deputy Director Chelsea Jones, would you please say a few words?”
Jones nodded, and, by habit, scanned the crowd as she spoke. “Thank you, Mr. Mayor. As the saying goes, we were all just doing our jobs. I stand here today before you, but I represent hundreds of FBI agents and personnel who have been on this case for months. Our job is to protect the citizens of this great country, and our great city. Thank you.”
“Commissioner Raymond . . . Rick, get up here,” the mayor said, waving him to the microphones. As Raymond stepped up to the podium, he thought about what he should say. Should he talk about Sheilah? Jimmy?
“Thank you, Mr. Mayor. I can’t say enough good things about Agent Jones and the incredible team of police and FBI agents who wiped out this evil bunch—and make no mistake, these terrorists aren’t political warriors; they are cold-blooded killers, without morals, without values, without anything but the lust for killing those of us who believe in freedom.” Not bad, he thought, as he noticed most of the reporters in the room nodding and some smiling.
“We have paid a great price for this day. For me, this day was a very personal one. As most of you know, the enemy, these demented and evil people that have hijacked the Koran and are the outlaws of Islam, were responsible for killing my cops, killing my nephew, and killing my wife, Mary, on September 11, 2001. After I lost my wife, I never thought I’d love again, but I did.” Then what he said next stunned the group of reporters, but not more than the mayor and Jones. “I loved Sheilah Dannis with all my heart. She was young, brilliant, with a career that had no bounds in the years ahead. She was the best of us, and when she died, a little bit of every free man and woman died with her. I have promised her family, and my sister Linda, Jimmy’s mom, and the families of those cops that we have lost, that their deaths would not be in vain. That I will continue to take the fight to the enemy, and as long as I am in command of the NYPD, I will do everything in my power to exterminate this evil. And that’s what I intend to do. Thank you, and God bless America.”
And that said it all.
Raymond stepped back to a round of polite applause. No one was quite sure what he was talking about, or how close he really was to the DA, but he didn’t care anymore. He had done his job, and that’s all that mattered to him now.
The mayor took over the microphones again. “Thank you, everybody, and we’re going to hold off on taking any questions for now. We’ll reconvene tomorrow and you can ask away. Thank you again!”
The four walked out of the Blue Room and back into the mayor’s waiting room, where Jones, Gallagher, and Raymond rejoined Chernova. “Let’s go,” Jones said.
As everyone was about to leave, the mayor called Raymond into his office, and when they were alone, Brown said, “Are you okay, Rick? Is everything okay?”
“Yes sir, fine . . . I’m fine, just fine.” He left the office and met Gallagher outside by the Suburban. Gallagher jumped in the back seat of the SUV with Raymond, and neither said a word to the other. “Back to the office,” Gallagher said to Shelby and Archer.
CHAPTER 31
7:00 am, Tuesday, 12 December
Raymond opened his eyes at seven, later than he usually awakened. He pulled one of the four pillows on the bed close and embraced it like it was a woman, as he thought about Sheilah. It was the first time he stayed at the Marcus since her death, and returning to their suite was harder than he anticipated. The general manager had met him the night before when he arrived to get him situated, knowing he was now actually one of the hotel’s principal owners. As the general manager was leaving Raymond’s suite, he stopped at the door and looked back in and said, “I saw your press conference yesterday. I was proud of you and I was proud of her,” and then he walked out and closed the door behind him.
Raymond stayed in bed that way for a long time, as the flash cards of their days flipped through his mind’s eye. It was after eight before he finally pulled back the quilt, went to the bathroom, took a shower, and shaved. Next he went to the door and found his clothes, which had been picked up during the night, now cleaned, pressed, and delivered in a box and on hangers on a luggage rack. His black shoes had been mirror-shined.
Before he dressed, he ordered up some breakfast—three eggs, bacon, sausage, coffee, chilled orange-grapefruit juice. It came on a cart in 20 minutes, delivered and set up for him by one of the VIP butlers. He ate on a small table, while still in his robe, trying to figure out which of the miniature square bottles was the salt and which was the pepper, before using both in equal measure. As he ate, he watched TV with the sound off, clicking around the news networks like an erratic cowbell player in a small-club Latin band. He went back and forth between CNN and Fox, then jumped to MSNBC, losing CNN in the remote pattern, and finally going over to the all-Spanish news station provided by the hotel. With no sound, it didn’t make any difference. The footage Jones had given the networks was impressive, he thought to himself; it showed the actual attack from the point of view of the dozens of security cameras—New York’s finest and the FBI’s elite doing combat on the streets of the city he loved.
After an hour or so of seeing the same footage over and over, and pictures of the mayor preening in the Blue Room, he used the remote to shut off the set. He picked up the newspaper and saw the latest headline of the New York Herald:
HERO COPS AND COMMISSIONER
WORK WITH FBI TO BATTLE TERRORISTS
Story by Sammy Breshill starts on page 3
He wondered who Breshill was able to reach. He didn’t read the piece; there was nothing the reporter could tell him he didn’t know.
His phone buzzed on the night table. He had been avoiding checking his messages. He was sure there were a lot of reporters trying to bang him. He ran down the call list and stopped when he saw Linda’s name. He hit the call-back, and she picked up on the second ring. “Linda,” he said,. “How are you?”
“Fine,” she said. “I’ve been watching the
news and just wanted to make sure that you’re okay.”
“I am. In some strange way, I feel good that we did what we did, but it never takes away the pain of the loss. I know you know what I mean.”
“I know,” she said. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay, and say thank you. As horrible as this may sound, their deaths made me feel just a little bit better. Not much, but a little bit. I love you.”
“I love you too, Linda. I’ll see you soon.”
He was dressed by eleven, ready to rumble. He called Gallagher and told him to have the car ready in 15 minutes. Raymond took a last look in the mirror, ran his hands down the front of his clothes for a last-minute smooth, and headed out.
Gallagher was there, along with Archer, in the black Suburban, Shelby behind the wheel. “Take me to the cemetery.”
Gallagher knew where he wanted to go, and instructed Shelby to go over the 59th Street Bridge (Raymond refused to call it, or have it called in front of him, the Ed Koch Bridge) to Queens Ridge Cemetery. The gates opened, and Shelby drove slowly through to the reception building. Gallagher went in, registered (under his own name), accepted the carnations that Raymond had specifically ordered—white carnations because they stood for “remembrance,” rather than the red roses he had originally wanted, that stood for “passionate love,” on smart advice from Gallagher. Shelby drove slowly to the entrance nearest Sheilah Dannis’s grave.
Raymond got out, took the flowers from Gallagher, then walked by himself to the still fresh mounds of dirt and flowers and the pristine headstone above Sheilah’s grave.
SHEILAH DANNIS
1973–2017
Died in the service of her Country
Raymond laid the flowers across the grave, in front of the headstone, then knelt down beside the grave. “Sheilah,” he said, paused and then continued, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to protect you.” Another pause. “We got the bastards who did this to you. We blew them into a million pieces.” Pause. “Sheilah, I . . . I love you so much. You rocked my world in ways I never thought possible. I hope you’ll wait for me, wherever you are, and one day we will be together again. I love you so much . . .” With that he leaned over and kissed the grave once, then the headstone, then stood, wiping a tear from his left eye. He turned and went back to where Gallagher, Shelby, and Archer were waiting. He got in the back seat with Gallagher, and Archer got in the front, and Raymond nodded. The Suburban began its slow wind to the exit, headed for the bridge and the city.
The Grave Above the Grave Page 16