Escape

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  "Yes, that is usually correct," Al-Hassan said, "though we have occasionally allowed special guests."

  Lucy Karp translated this, which caused Al-Sistani to complain to the prince in Arabic. "I'm sure that if we were some white American or European investors there would be no problem. But I guess we're just filthy brown Muslims."

  "Oh, I'm sure that's not what he's saying," Prince Esra replied in Arabic. "I'm better dressed than he is. Why do you want to go look at boxes with blinking lights, anyway? It's not like you can see anything."

  "Because I'm curious about this supercomputer. Maybe we should purchase one," Al-Sistani argued. "And also because we asked and they should do what we say.... Who is the one controlling one hundred billion American dollars?"

  "Sometimes I wonder," the prince replied with an amused smile. "You or me? Huh, my little Iraqi pest?" The prince turned to Lucy and said, in French, "My chief financial officer wants to see the pretty machines up close. Tell this tiresome bureaucrat that we insist."

  Lucy translated what had been said to the vice president, leaving out "tiresome bureaucrat." There were certainly more worrisome problems than whether some little techno-junkie money manager got close to a Cray supercomputer. Her concerns were fifty blocks to the north at Grand Central Terminal with S. P. Jaxon.

  Jaxon had picked her up at her grandfather's house the night before. She thought he'd take her back to the "security firm's" office, which included apartments for Jaxon's team. But he got a call on his cell phone as they were crossing the Williamsburg Bridge and made a detour into East River Park.

  "Let's take a walk," he'd said after parking. So they'd strolled along the riverfront path for twenty minutes talking about her family.

  "Uh, Uncle Espey, is there any particular reason we're here?"

  "Yeah." He pointed ahead, where the path dipped closer to the water's edge. "Him."

  Lucy squinted into the dark. A crescent moon makes a nice symbol, she thought, but not much illumination to see by. All she could detect were shadows. Then one of the shadows separated itself from the others. There was only one man, who seemed more part of the shadow world than the world of light. He approached them.

  "Hello, David."

  "Good evening, Lucy. I have something I'd like you to decipher."

  "What's that?"

  "A message from Azahari Mujahid's better half," the mad monk replied. He held out his hand, which seemed unnaturally white beneath the sliver of moon, and gave her a piece of paper.

  Jaxon turned on a small penlight to see by. "A dollar bill?"

  "There's writing on it," David Grale said. "Our friend, Edward Treacher, was watching the Al-Aqsa mosque as requested, when he saw Tran and Jojola walking the grounds. Apparently they were accompanied by guards, so there was only time for Tran to write a quick message and toss it to the Reverend Treacher in the guise of giving alms to the poor. By the way, the reverend requests that we reimburse him the dollar."

  Lucy looked at the thin handwriting on the top of the bill. "It's Vietnamese," she said. "Four words in sets of two, one alone.... 'Two attacks' ... 'Stream line'... and the word for 'question.' What's it mean?"

  "That there's more than one attack coming, which we'd guessed was a possibility from Khalifa's tape," Jaxon suggested. "But what's 'stream line'? ... Is that a part of the Metro we haven't heard of before? Something to do with Grand Central?"

  "Lucy, does that have to be 'stream'?" Grale asked.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Can it mean something similar, like 'creek'... or 'brook'?"

  "Well, actually it translates to 'small running water' as opposed to 'large running water,' which translates to river. Why?"

  "Brook ... line," Grale said. "I'll bet there isn't a Vietnamese word for Brooklyn, and this was as close as he could get."

  "Makes sense," Jaxon said. "So one attack will be in Brookline or Brooklyn, and the other ..."

  "Is a question," Lucy answered. "He doesn't know where the other will be."

  "Maybe Grand Central is still on?"

  "Maybe," Jaxon said. "It makes the most sense if the prince is still the target."

  "Have you ever brought that up with Prince Esra?" Grale asked.

  "Yeah, he pretty much brushed it off as yet another irritating fact of life. He's sort of oblivious to anything except money and blondes. But security's going to be tight. And we're going to keep the public well back from the exhibit while he's there.... Certainly nobody wearing bulky clothing or carrying a backpack is getting within sniffing distance. All we can do is pray we get whoever this is before they get frustrated and just decide to explode in a crowd."

  "What's next?" Grale asked.

  "I'm going to talk to the NYPD chief and let him know that Brooklyn's a likely target, maybe the Metro system over there," Jaxon answered. "Maybe it's a diversion, away from the prince. He can concentrate more forces that way. Plus I'll give our friends at the Russian Embassy in Brighton Beach a call and ask them to be on standby. Are you still willing to keep watch as agreed?"

  Grale nodded. "Perhaps we'll catch the larger rat."

  "Perhaps you will. Which is why I'll feel better if you and your people are on guard there. I think this covers the bases as best we can."

  Jaxon had not wanted Lucy to go alone to the stock exchange. But he was going to have to stay on top of the situation at Grand Central, and because of Tran's note, he needed to be available for whatever might go down across the East River. "If I'm with the prince, it might be tough for me to break away quickly or very quietly if I had to. However, maybe you should call in sick," he suggested when he dropped her off that night. "It's just going to be a lot of handshaking, ass-kissing, ring the bell, have lunch while a bunch of bankers squirm and grovel, then a quick tour and they're out of there."

  "Which is why I can handle it," she said. "If I'm not there, maybe somebody gets suspicious; or, if I'm not there, nobody else there knows about the rest of this stuff and we might miss something I'd catch. You said yourself that security at the Exchange is tight, lots of cops around, limited access. Besides, Uncle V. T. will be there—I saw his name on the prince's list."

  Jaxon had given in. Just like the vice president of technology now gave in to Al-Sistani's request. He sighed and pulled out a key that had been hanging on a chain beneath his shirt.

  "Like I said, we're careful about who gets near my baby," he said to the amused looks on the faces of nearly everyone in the entourage. He placed the key in a hole on the side of the door and a small panel slid open where a doorknob might have otherwise been to reveal a number pad. Shielding the pad from the others' eyes, he punched in a code. The door into the room sprang open with a slight hiss.

  The VP invited his guests to enter the room. "After you, gentlemen ... and lady. And please, don't touch anything."

  The prince entered first and stood in front of the rows of boxes with his hands clasped behind his back, and Al-Sistani took a spot beside him. The rest followed—Lucy, the vice president, V. T., and Omar Al-Hassan.

  The vice president was pointing out various knobs and readouts, occasionally asking Al-Hassan a technical question, when Lucy looked back toward the hall and saw three men approaching. One was dressed in a gray janitor's jumpsuit. At first she thought he was white; however, as he drew closer she saw that he was a black man who had lost much of the pigmentation in his face. The other two were the prince's security men who'd gone ahead to secure the route. The odd thing about the trio, however, was that they were all carrying guns.

  Too late, she realized what the guns meant. She dashed for the door to slam it shut. In that split second, she realized that if she succeeded, they wouldn't be able to get in and would have to give up their plot. But when the one with the white face saw what she was doing, he moved that much faster and got a foot in the door. The other two hurried up behind him and slammed their bodies against the door and into her face, knocking her to the ground.

  With the intruders' guns pointed at the
m, the others in the room had no choice but to raise their hands, and then react with surprise when Al-Sistani joined the gunmen, who handed him a 9mm. "Amir! What is the meaning of this?" shouted Prince Esra. "Have you gone mad?"

  Al-Sistani turned slowly toward the prince and aimed the gun. "In the name of Allah, I sentence you to death," Al-Sistani shouted and extended his arm in a sudden violent jerk. "BANG!"

  Prince Esra fell to the ground. It took him a moment to realize he had not been shot, but he had crapped in his favorite pair of Gucci stone-washed jeans. At the same time he noticed that his chief financial officer was laughing his ass off.

  Al-Sistani pulled himself together and walked to where V. T. and Lucy stood, both of them with their hands still raised. He was about to say something when a large black police officer ran up to the door of the computer room. The hostages' hopes of a sudden rescue were dashed when he addressed Al-Sistani in English.

  "All praise to Allah, my men are in position," Kareem Mousawi shouted.

  "And the security cameras?" Al-Sistani asked.

  "There's nobody there who cares anymore."

  "Very well. Continue on to the supply room at the end of the next hall; make sure there's no one hiding back there. Kill anyone you find," Al-Sistani replied. Mousawi left.

  "You speak English," Lucy said.

  Al-Sistani smiled. "I prefer not to," he replied. "But pretending that I don't is handy around people who are not careful with their words. Though someday, sooner than later, the entire world will speak Arabic."

  "You're insane."

  "Insane? Hmmm ... maybe a little. Aren't all great men? Nevertheless, I am as Allah made me, and therefore I am perfect... insane or not, eh Lucy Karp?... Ha, yes, I know who you are."

  As the Iraqi took a step toward Lucy, V. T. stepped in front of her. "There's no reason to hurt her."

  Al-Sistani looked at V. T. as if the idea of hurting Lucy had never crossed his mind. "Oh, I don't intend to. That I'll leave to you." He snapped his fingers and one of his men handed him a semiautomatic handgun, which he gave to V. T. "Kill her. Your uncle insists on it."

  37

  Like sparrows suddenly spotting a cat, the spectator gallery twittered when Lewis called Charlie Campbell to the stand after the lunch break. As he rose from his seat, the picture of the heartbroken family man, Karp thought, Not bad for having been ridiculed, demeaned, and referred to as Satan.

  Of course that was the deal, Karp assumed, that Lewis had offered him after her tirade on the Off the Hook Show with Barry Queen where she'd accused him of coercing Jessica into having another child—thereby engaging in, as the ever non-politically correct Ray Guma called it, "criminal procreativity." He had to show up in court every day and accept whatever abuse was hurled his way with an expression that said, "I support my psycho-killer wife no matter what."

  In exchange, Lewis had issued a press release stating that Jessica Campbell hoped her husband would stay in the race for the 8th Congressional District and that the voters would continue to support him. "Charlie is a good man," according to a statement attributed to Jessica. "He made a mistake, and now we are all paying for it. Our dear children most of all. But he has learned from this experience a valuable lesson that will serve him well in Congress, where I know he will keep his word to seek funding for research into the misunderstood and deadly mental illness postpartum depression." The press release concluded by stating that Jessica would need years of treatment if she was to ever leave a secure hospital setting, and that she wanted Charlie to go on with his life "as your representative in the 8th Congressional District!"

  Charlie now testified about their visit to Dr. Winkler after Jessica's suicide attempt. "That's where I first learned that she'd considered harming our second child, Chelsea, too."

  "Were you warned that this could happen again?"

  "Yes," Charlie admitted, grabbing a tissue to blow his nose. "Excuse me ... this is very hard. But yes, we were told not to have any more children because the next time Jessica's postpartum depression could get worse. And that it might put her life, even the children's lives, in great danger."

  "And yet you insisted on impregnating Jessica again?"

  Charlie nodded.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Campbell, but you're going to have to do more than nod."

  "Yes, I wanted a boy."

  "Mr. Campbell, do you blame yourself for your wife's mental illness and the deaths of your children?"

  "Yes. I was selfish. I didn't take Dr. Winkler's warning seriously. And now my poor children ... and poor Jessica. I've lost them all."

  He started to cry as Lewis announced that she had no more questions.

  "Your witness, Mr. Karp," Dermondy noted.

  "Actually, Your Honor, my colleague, Mr. Katz, will be handling this cross."

  "Ah, I was beginning to wonder if he spoke," Dermondy said, smiling. Kenny Katz grinned as he stood. "I believe it was Mark Twain who said, 'It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.'"

  "Apparently, you are ready to take that chance," Dermondy said.

  "I am, Your Honor."

  "Then, please, the witness is yours."

  "Thank you." Katz turned to the witness stand. "Mr. Campbell, you testified a couple of minutes ago about the circumstance surrounding taking your wife to see Dr. Winkler?"

  "Yes."

  "And that was when you first heard that she had also wanted to harm Chelsea by smothering her with a pillow?"

  "Yes, it was."

  "And it's true that your wife told Dr. Winkler that the reason she attempted to commit suicide was to prevent herself from harming Chelsea and/or Hillary?"

  "Well, yes."

  "And that's because she knew it was wrong to harm her children?"

  "At that time, she knew it was wrong to harm her children, and she—rather courageously, if you ask me—tried to prevent that by attempting suicide."

  "Mr. Campbell, did your wife ever tell you that she was hearing a voice telling her to harm your children?"

  "No, of course not. I would have sought medical attention for her."

  "Really? But I thought your testimony was that you didn't heed Dr. Winkler's warning that having more children could have dangerous consequences?"

  "Yes."

  "But if Jessica had told you she was hearing voices, you would have taken that seriously."

  "Well, that seems, you know, crazier."

  "I see. And did your wife ever treat you in a manner that indicated she believed that you were Satan or were out to steal the children's souls?"

  "No. She treated me pretty much like she always had."

  "Which I take it was better than she would have treated Satan," Kenny said as light laughter rippled through the gallery.

  "Yes, of course." Charlie scowled; he didn't like the way this was going. "In the weeks or days leading up to the murders of your children, was there a time when you noticed that your wife's personality had changed?"

  "Well, she was a little nicer," he replied, wincing when the gallery broke into laughter again. He glanced over at Jessica, whose mouth was set in a tight line as she drew more furiously than ever.

  "As a matter of fact, she cooked you a big breakfast and kissed you goodbye that same morning that she drowned the children."

  "Yes, she did."

  "That you didn't eat."

  "Um, no, I was in a hurry."

  "One last question, Mr. Campbell," Katz said, his hands on his hips facing the witness stand. "Why didn't your wife invite you to participate in her plan to send the children to God?"

  Charlie made a face. "I guess she didn't want me to stop her?"

  "Stop her from what?"

  "Stop her from sending the children to God."

  "Which meant?"

  "Killing them."

  "Because she knew that it was wrong, just like she knew before that it was wrong to smother Chelsea?"

  "I don't know," Charlie respo
nded. "The psychiatrists say ..."

  "I'm not interested in what the psychiatrists said," Kenny interrupted. "Do you think Jessica knew it was wrong to kill all of your children, just like she knew it was wrong to smother Chelsea?"

  "I guess."

  Kenny turned toward the jury box. "Mr. Campbell, you testified that you feel that you're to blame for your wife's mental illness and the deaths of your children."

  "Yes."

  "I think every one of us in this courtroom today understands the pain you're going through, but let's put the blame where blame belongs."

  "I feel that I'm partly to blame."

  "Okay, fine. We'll take into consideration that you wanted a son, and let's even say you coerced or badgered your wife into getting pregnant against the doctor's orders. Did you otherwise participate in the murders of your children?"

  Charlie's face went blank. "What do you mean?"

  "Did you plan to kill your kids?"

  "No, of course not."

  "Did you go shopping with your wife for the footlocker and knife three days before the murders?"

  "No, I did not."

  "In fact, had you ever seen that footlocker or knife until you entered this courtroom?"

  "No, I hadn't."

  "Did you call the nanny and tell her not to come to work?"

  "No."

  "Did you make sure there were no witnesses to the murders?"

  "No."

  "Did you hold Chelsea and Benjamin under water in the family bathtub until they were dead?"

  "No.... Is this really necessary?" Charlie cried out.

  "I'm afraid so, for just a little while longer, Mr. Campbell. Did you hold Hillary under water, and when she fought back, did you stab her six times in the chest with a large hunting knife? Did you stab her over and over again until she was dead?"

  "No, I didn't! Obviously, I didn't do those things. Jessica did!"

  "Yes. Jessica did those things. And then she put the bodies in the footlocker, cleaned up the mess, put the footlocker in the car, drove to Staatsburg, and dumped them into the Hudson River. Did you participate in any one or all of those things, Mr. Campbell?"

  "No ... no I didn't."