Reckless Endangerment

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  “Are they suspects?” asked a reporter.

  “No, not at this time,” said Hrcany

  “Do you have any suspects in this case?” asked another reporter.

  “We’re following a number of leads.”

  Another reporter: “What about the rumor that Russian weapons were found at the murder scene?”

  “No comment.”

  The same reporter: “Is this killing connected in any way with the recent terrorist violence in Brooklyn in which Soviet weapons were used too?”

  “I can’t comment on that.”

  The picture changed to show a hefty, well-dressed Latino man, identified as Manuel Huerta, who was representing the Obregons.

  “… this is harassment pure and simple,” Huerta was telling the reporter. “First there was a trumped-up charge, and now, when these innocent young men are preparing to return to Mexico and their families, the state tries to pin this other cop killing on them. Well, I’m not going to allow it, and I’ll tell you that the Latino community in New York is not going to tolerate it.”

  “Have the Obregons been returned to jail?”

  “I have no idea where the Obregons are. That’s another thing—I’m being denied access to my clients.”

  The man was cut off as he opened his mouth to expand on his outrage, and the reporter finished by saying that, according to the D.A.’s office, the Obregons were being held at an undisclosed location for their own safety.

  The anchorman came back on and introduced the next story, which was about the Brooklyn disaster. First some tape of the previous night’s catastrophe—smoke, flames, flashing lights, firemen, medics—then grieving Hasidim, flocking into an emergency room, then Chief Inspector Kevin Battle, with a grim account of the police carnage and the medical status of the injured officers, then FBI Special Agent in Charge Anderson, with just a few lines about every law enforcement resource being directed at capturing the dastards, and finally, two faces above telephone numbers to call if you saw them: one a grainy enlargement of the face of Abdel Hussein Khalid, whom El Chivato recognized as his own Lucky, and the other a police artist’s sketch portrait of what the television was calling Arab terrorist number two, himself.

  SIXTEEN

  They buried the seven slain police officers, six men and a woman, on Holy Thursday. The day was appropriately overcast, but the rain stayed put in the heavy ash-colored clouds. Every police officer killed in line of duty in New York gets what is called an inspector’s funeral—the Emerald Society pipe band, the flag on the coffin, the rows and rows of police in their dress uniforms, with medals, the volley of shots over the grave, the eulogies. These particular obsequies made the usual inspector’s funeral look like the quick cremation of a friendless drifter. The cortege was nearly ten miles long, stretching almost from the Williamsburg Bridge down Brooklyn Broadway and Myrtle Avenue into the borough of Queens and out to Cypress Hills Cemetery, in the center of New York’s vast suburban necropolis. Usually, out-of-town police departments sent a few representatives. This time there were whole squads, an unusual number of horses, including a band of Texas Rangers and a group of actual mounted Canadian Mounties in traditional scarlet, a whole pipe band from Chicago, and literally thousands of out-of-town cops demonstrating solidarity with the Finest, with the mourning bands wrapped around their arms or draped on their badges. Police chiefs in full regalia came from all the major American cities, as did the mayor and the governor of New York, and the director of the FBI, and the vice-president of the United States.

  Stands had been set up for the dignitaries, so they could see the elaborate ceremonials and hear the eulogies, not one of which adverted to what was on the minds of a great number of participants—that here were seven Christians who had perished in a war between Jews and Arabs during Easter week. The Israeli consul, and the consuls and U.N. reps of a number of Arab nations had volunteered to make an appearance, but these offers had been firmly turned down by the Department fathers. A lone piper played “Amazing Grace,” which had been edging out the traditional Celtic laments in recent years. Karp, from his position in the rearmost ranks of the VIP stands, saw tears flow down the faces around him. Beneath the genuine sorrow stirred something nastier; he could almost see it rising from the ranks of dark blue, like the heat shimmers from the slowly moving cars of the cortege. For the next few days it would not be pleasant to be an Arab in New York, or a Hasidic Jew. The honor guard was shooting volleys into the air, three for each of the slain. Karp wondered idly why they fired over the graves. Speeding the souls bullet-like to paradise? Doubtful. Perhaps a sacrifice, a little powder burnt instead of an ox. The shots rang on, echoing. Then the flag ceremony, the stars and stripes removed from the coffins, folded into triangles with jerky, precise motions by the honor guard, and handed by its commander to the grieving widow or, in three cases, the mother. At this even Karp felt his throat contract, his eyes sting. He thought of his boys, grown into their twenties, killed. And of Lucy, which did not take as much imagination, the girl clearly out of control and headed for an early demise. Losing a child—how could you live past that? People did, however, which was either a miracle or a horror, depending on how you looked at it, your philosophy. … Taps sounded and then it was done, as was Karp’s speculation on the great themes, his ability to shut down unpleasant thoughts being one of his major psychic characteristics. The VIPs left, in order of precedence, which meant that Karp, as a mere appendage of a district attorney, had long to wait.

  Thus Clay Fulton had plenty of time to locate him as he stood by the feeder road to the parking lot, near a clump of cypresses, overlooking the endless rows of graves and monuments. Karp had seen Fulton in his dress blues only when the detective was receiving some sort of official award, and as usual he was impressed, despite his genial contempt for the appurtenances of the military. Fulton’s breast bars rose from the gold shield on the left side of his chest almost to his shoulder straps, capped by the star-spangled green bar of the police medal of honor. Karp noted with surprise that he was wearing double silver bars on his shoulders.

  “Congratulations, Captain Fulton,” said Karp, shaking hands.

  “Yeah, well, it’s acting jack so far. I got lieutenants galore working for me on this task force, and the rank helps. It could get made official if we pull this business off.”

  “And how is the business going?”

  “Pretty well, considering we’ve been at it a little over a day. One team is going over every piece of paper Chouza Khalid touched since he’s been in the country, the overseas calls from his office, hitting all the phone booths, even, in the neighborhood. Another team’s going through little Arabia like the wrath of God. Every restaurant, every coffee shop. This place, the Palm, was the big hangout. We got the owner in, the waiters, their relatives. Another team’s going after the politicals, anybody ever said anything nice about the Palestinians. The FBI and some folks from the INS are pulling entry visas, checking out the green-card people, the students.”

  “Observing all legal safeguards, I assume.”

  “Oh, my, yes,” said Fulton, grinning. “You take a drive down Constitution Avenue today, you might hear a wailing sound coming from the National Archives, the Constitution getting pinched. Let me tell you, son, the Force is cranky, very cranky. Some Arab illegals decided to take off from a sweep last night, they tripped and hurt their faces something fierce. Oh, we also pulled Walid and his dad in for another exchange of views.”

  “Anything there?”

  “Yeah, something. He was in contact with Khalid. Was going to be trained as a freedom fighter. The most we can figure he did was lend the bakery truck for moving stuff around. When we vacuumed it, we came up with a couple of scraps of packing material and a lot of bread crumbs. We sent the packing material down to Quantico for analysis.”

  “What’s your take on them?”

  “The father knows from nothing. The kid is obsessed with politics and his sister. He admitted going to Khalid for help in g
etting his sister back. He was surprised as hell when we told him that his pals already had her. Anyway, a patsy. Not a player. We’ve got their phone and mail covered but … we don’t expect much.”

  “Speaking of the girl…”

  Fulton shook his head. “No luck there. Not a trace. My feeling is, she’s gone. Plastic bags. Our thought was they told the kid they’d get his sister back for him if he’d let them borrow his truck. They paid off and then they whacked her.”

  “Seems like a lot of trouble to go through for something they could buy from U-Haul for a couple of hundred.”

  “Yeah, right, but these people play by their own rules. And they’re good, man, too fucking good. They make Colombian dope kings look like impulse purse snatchers. Their whole operation is all celled out. Nothing leads back to a location or any of the main characters. Wherever they’re living, they’re paying cash. We’ve got another team going around to realtors in Brooklyn, checking for big cash transactions. They don’t use phones. However they’ve got their vehicles registered, there’s nothing traceable back to any name we’ve got. And so on.”

  “How about the Jew side?”

  “Oh, Kirby’s still being delicate about searching the Ostropolers. The paddies are not pleased with this, nor are my racial brothers. A lot of them figure the Hasids have been getting a free ride for a long time, and you know, plenty of them thought Hitler had a point a long time before this all went down. We might see a situation there in Williamsburg, something don’t break pretty soon.” His face brightened. “Oh, yeah—the big news! Yitzhak Schneider came through. A credit to your race.”

  “Yitzhak … ?”

  “Runs a clothing store on Lee, Hasidic garments and so on. On the re-canvass, we sent a team of nice Jewish cop-type boys through, yarmulkes on. Yitzhak says that on the day of, a thin dark kid walks into his place and buys the complete rig, pays cash, and walks out. Guy thought he was a Yemeni Jew rediscovering the true faith.”

  “Same guy who took the Chrysler and shot the muggers?”

  “Absolutely. We’re dealing with Lon Chaney Junior here.”

  “So, one of the Arabs,” observed Karp with some satisfaction. “That should annoy the Nation of Islam.”

  “Well, not so fast, son. He could’ve been an Arab, in which case we have to ask why was he in a fight with a bunch of other Arabs? He could’ve also been one of the rabbi’s troopers, or from some Israeli operation.”

  This gave Karp pause. He had himself been involved in an Israeli covert operation some years ago, unofficial to be sure, but … He made an eye-rolling, hand-spreading gesture, of the type New Yorkers make when, once again, the metropolis has thrown up a number beyond all comprehension. He spotted the D.A.’s Lincoln oozing through the drive and, bidding Fulton good-bye and good luck, went to pick up his ride.

  Rashid ibn-Ali al-Halim al-Qayuayn was the ruler of a small emirate on the Persian Gulf, the proverbial patch of sand with few citizens and a great deal of oil, and so when his eldest son was neatly lifted off a street in London, he was prepared and able to pay a great deal to get him back. When the call came, he was therefore surprised that the kidnappers did not want any money.

  A few miles from the police funeral, at Kennedy International Airport, at around the time that taps was blowing, a stretched white Cadillac limo with smoked windows enters the freight area. The driver shows the proper identification, and the limo is allowed onto the apron. There it waits. Some minutes later a large twin-engine Gulfstream jet lands and taxis over to the customs building. A customs agent and an INS agent board the plane, which they have been told to expect. The passengers receive VIP treatment; the emir Rashid is a friend of America and of American automobiles. Their passports are, of course, all in order: they identify the emir himself and six of his entourage, all in their traditional robes. The customs man and the INS smile. They do not quite bow, because Americans don’t do that, but isn’t this, they think, so much nicer than rousting Nigerians who have swallowed condoms full of heroin? They leave, wishing the emir a pleasant stay.

  The white limo pulls up to the plane. It departs. The plane refuels and parks. The crew leaves. No one notices that no one else has actually left the plane. The white limo, containing a uniformed driver and seven Arabs in white robes, with headdresses and ceremonial daggers, drives out of the airport, the chauffeur showing the proper papers, naturally, and back to the city, to 35 East Seventy-sixth Street, where its passengers check into the Hotel Carlyle. The Carlyle has been cabled to expect the party, and has reserved the entire eighteenth floor for the emir.

  Chouza Khalid felt like a fool in the white robes, which he, a native of a Palestinian refugee camp, had never before worn, but he liked the suite and had to admit that Ibn-Salemeh had been clever. Hiding in plain sight, he called it. Every policeman in the city was looking for evil Arabs, and so the best disguise was this—as Arab as you could get. No one ever studied the face of a man in a robe and headdress. He made himself a drink from the bar, Chivas and water, drank it, washed out the glass, ate a breath mint, and went through the connecting door to Ibn-Salemeh’s suite.

  Ibn-Salemeh, in a somewhat more luxurious costume, in which he seemed far more comfortable than Khalid, was watching television with the sound off. There was a contented, almost a benign expression on his gaunt face, like that of a dairy farmer watching a line of plump Jerseys trooping into the barn to be milked. The TV showed an official funeral in progress.

  “Sit down,” said the terrorist. “This is worth watching. Do you ever wonder why the Americans show civil disorder over and over on the television? You would think the government would suppress it, but no. They seem to delight in it, even though showing it must surely spread the disorder.”

  The television showed a group of police trying to arrest a young man, an Arab, while fending off a crowd of outraged neighbors and friends. The camera shook. A long shot down a street. More police in riot gear deploying. A shot of police pushing back a mob of angry protesters. A shot of an Arab youth holding a cloth to his bloody head, being hustled roughly into a police vehicle. The anchor back now, a look of professional gravity on his craggy face. His lips moved. The screen changed to show a man in a black suit and a hat, haranguing a crowd of similarly dressed people in a broad plaza backed by the trees of a park.

  “This is our ally,” said Ibn-Salemeh.

  “A Jew?”

  “Yes, he is telling everyone who will listen to him that every Arab in the city is a terrorist or a harborer of terrorists or a potential terrorist, which we also wish people to believe, especially the Arabs. I only wish we had more time in this city to amuse ourselves with this man. However, after Sunday we will leave behind a fertile field from which I hope will grow a permanent organization, in fact as well as in this fool’s imagination.” He turned away from the set, which had gone over to selling a car. “That is for the future, God willing. Now, as to the present, what is the situation with the Daoud boy?”

  “He was questioned, with the father, then released. One of our runners reached him. He is angry because the police told him that we have his sister.”

  “Good, let him be angry. Send a message back. Say it is a test of his discipline. Family is important, but not so important as the cause, and so on and so on. You know the words. He will, let us say, be with his sister on Sunday. Say that Ibn-Salemeh himself promises this. God willing.”

  Ibn-Salemeh seemed to recall something and smiled at Khalid. “The girl is well? Safe?”

  “Yes. It would be wise to check on her, however. She has proven to be resourceful at escape.”

  “No, the risk is too great. Brooklyn will be swarming with police, Williamsburg, and Atlantic Avenue and Crown Heights especially. You have a good arrangement. She will keep until Sunday.”

  Posie looked at her image in Marlene’s full-length cheval glass and goggled.

  “Holy shit!” was her thought, expressed in a high-pitched, child’s voice.

  “You look like a m
illion bucks, kid,” said Marlene, the apprentice whore monger.

  “Jesus, I should—you spent a million bucks.” She turned and twisted, looking over her shoulder in the instinctive manner of women who wish to see the impossible—how they look walking away. She was wearing a dark mid-calf-length russet-colored dress in thin wool. It buttoned all the way up the front, had a scoop neck and thin straps. Over this she wore a shoulder-padded black jacket in shiny, slinky black oiled cotton. Little black close-toed sandals on the feet, over lacy white anklets. The final accessory was a checked cotton Arab scarf, loosely tied around her neck. Freshness not unavailable, and sympathy with the oppressed Third World was the effect Marlene had sought, and she thought she had achieved it. It was pathetic, really—no one had ever bought clothes for the girl before, not since she had, at thirteen, grown a Body and started attracting the attention of her boozy step-dad. After that there had been the street and odd rags. She’d had her hair done too, a razor cut that gave her the shaggy lioness look currently popular among TV action heroines.

  The purchases were, however, the easy part. The requisite girl talk would be a good deal harder.

  “Posie, dear,” said Marlene. “We need to talk.”

  They sat on the bed and talked. Marlene told Posie that she was to attract the target, that she was to engage him in conversation, that she was to enter into a friendly relationship with him, of the type that might allow the sharing of confidences, that she was to find out whether Walid knew anything about what had happened to his sister, and finally, that she was not under any circumstances to engage in a sexual relationship with Walid Daoud.

  Posie’s jaw, never quite firm, gaped wider still. “How come, Marlene? I mean, you know, if I like him and all.”