“You were lucky Mila was there. Of all days for you not to have your gun. And you’re lucky Mila is an FBI agent and she had hers with her. She’s the reason he’s dead and you’re alive,” Jones had said to him on one of her last visits to the hospital before Raymond was released.
Raymond arrived at work in the Suburban and was helped out of the SUV by Archer, happy to have the commissioner back at work. Raymond was able to get on his feet, now with the help of Gallagher and an aluminum cane. Raymond still had difficulties walking, but that he was walking at all was something of a miracle. Next out of the Surburban was Chernova. Whatever secrets she had between her and Raymond, that was all gone. She had been hailed as a hero for saving his life and killing Samadi. Her anonymity was gone, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything, as long as Raymond was alive.
The press was out in force. Rick’s unsteady walk to his private elevator in the garage at Police Plaza, holding on to Gallagher, would be seen in every living room in the country that evening, and around the world, thanks to the press pool camera arranged by Deputy Commissioner Thomas. As Raymond walked, in pain and limping, he kept his stoic manner and ignored the camera.
In his absence, Raymond’s first deputy, Joe Nagle, had assumed the commissioner’s duties. Now, a ceremony was planned, with the mayor to officially greet Rick on his return to full duty (and, of course, the press played it up as a political show since the primaries were only months away), but Raymond knew better. Mayor Brown had been to the hospital three or four times a week, most often not even seen by the press.
The ceremony was brief, the press got it on the record, and then Gallagher ushered everybody out of the office, except Jones and Chernova. Archer stood outside the door, and gave Janey a quick glance. Janey noticed Archer and smiled at him, before reaching for the phone. It was ringing off the hook.
Raymond sank down in his chair and let out a deep breath. “I never thought I’d see the inside of this place again.”
“We’re glad to have you back,” Jones said.
“Where’ve you been? I didn’t see you all last week.”
“Yes I know; something came up, something pretty important.”
“Not about this, right?” Raymond said. “Samadi’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he’s dead,” Jones said. “But it’s not the end, we’re afraid.”
Raymond sat up. “What do you mean?”
“Mila, do you want to fill him in?”
Chernova sat on one side of the desk. “Rick, last week I got a call to come in. The Bureau had gone through most of the phone lines and thought it had everything, when a new message was discovered, from the day of the Wall Street and school attack. No one was able to crack the code. The tech guys worked on it every day for a week. That’s where I was when I was gone every day. They finally figured it out.”
“The bottom line?” Raymond said.
“We always thought that Samadi was the number one guy, the cell leader.”
Raymond said nothing, as his eyes narrowed.
Jones picked up the story. “But it looks like he was working for another guy that’s somewhere in Qatar. His name is Muhammad Hamza, code name ‘The Ghost.’ No one at the Bureau or at CIA had ever heard of him before. We have nothing on him, no face, no history, nothing. Apparently he used their no-call code to leave one final message for Samadi. He wanted his group of maniacs to bring down the Empire State Building next and, for some nutty reason, the statue of George M. Cohan in Duffy Square, in the heart of Broadway. Anyway, there was nothing else after their attacks failed. No more messages. We know he’s out there, and he’s the one who’s been calling all the shots; apparently, Samadi was answering to this guy Hamza.”
“So, let’s get this guy,” Raymond said.
“Not so easy. As I said, we have no idea who he is, what he looks like, nothing,” Jones said.
“Don’t tell me we can’t find him. Why can’t we go to Qatar. I’ll go myself.”
“Commissioner, you can barely walk; you’re not going anywhere,” Gallagher said.
“This Hamza may be known as The Ghost, but he’s flesh and blood and can be caught. He’s got to be stopped, or Samadi will be replaced and the attacks will continue.”
“I agree,” Jones said. “It looks like the White House is going to authorize DOJ, the CIA, and the Department of Defense to put together an elite special operations team to identify him, locate him, and capture or kill him.”
“I’ll do it myself,” Raymond said, as the group looked at him as if he were delusional.
“Really, Rick,” Jones said. “The most celebrated New York City police commissioner in the country’s history is going to sneak into Qatar on his white horse and snatch Hamza or kill him? You need your fucking head examined. How are you going to get in? How are you going to get a visa? Where are you going to tell the press you’re going and for how long? Use your fucking head, because right now you sound like a fucking nut.”
“Okay.” Raymond said. “Maybe you’re right, but I want in on this.”
“I knew you would. So here’s the deal. You’ll take a six-month leave from the NYPD, be appointed as special envoy to the Emirates by the president, and be assigned to the U.S. Embassy in Qatar. You’ll oversee this special operations group and make sure Hamza is brought to justice. That’s the only way you’re going to be involved, and let’s face it, that’s the only way we’re going to get him. Are you in, or are you out?”
“I’ll crawl if I have to. Hamza’s ass is mine. I’m in!”
The room became silent. Jones crossed her arms, stared at Rick, and said nothing.
“And I’m going with him,” Chernova said, breaking the silence.
“Me too,” said Gallagher.
He looked around the room. Nobody said a word. Mila went over and stood behind Raymond’s chair. He reached up and took her hand and squeezed it. She leaned over and kissed the top of his head.
“You leave on Monday,” Jones said.
Raymond sat there staring at the others, waiting to see if anyone had anything else to say. Then he broke the silence.
“Here we go again.”
About the Author
Bernard Kerik was appointed the fortieth police commissioner of New York City by Mayor Rudolph W. Giuliani on August 21, 2000. Prior to his appointment, Kerik was commissioner of the Department of Correction. He served with the New York Police Department on both uniformed and plainclothes duty for eight years and was awarded the prestigious Medal of Valor, among many other awards for meritorious and heroic services. His stewardship of the department in the aftermath of the September 11, 2001 attacks on the World Trade Center brought him to national attention. He is author of the New York Times bestseller The Lost Son.
The Grave Above the Grave Page 18