The Last Crusade: A Harry Cassidy Novel Page 12

  When they were all seated, bin Yousef rose and raised his glass. The others followed suit. “To our future success,” he said. “Death to the infidels. Praise Allah.”

  “Praise Allah,” they all said, and drank the excellent non-alcoholic champagne.

  After they had eaten a substantial, but plain meal, they adjourned back to the parlor for tea. When the four were comfortably settled in behind closed doors, bin Yousef began. “It is dangerous that we all must assemble together. But recent events dictate we must assess our current situation, and plan for future operations. He turned and looked directly at Boussara and said, “Explain your failure.”

  There was silence in the room as Boussara recited his well thought out presentation, emphasizing the many deaths and injuries they had inflicted on the infidels during the operation. He also stressed his dedication and previous successes, and the prospects for success in the future. There were no interruptions or questions. When he finished, bin Yousef said, “And the planes, Zacarias?”

  Zacarias also completed his presentation without interruption. When he concluded, bin Yousef asked if the two section chiefs had any questions, or wished to make any comments. Neither ventured an opinion, or a comment, or a question. They were desperately afraid of saying the wrong thing.

  “Very well,” he said. “I suggest you all retire early as I’m sure you’re tired from your long journey. We will all meet in the dining room tomorrow morning at eight for breakfast. After that we will begin planning for the future. Good night.”

  “How do you think it went, Zacarias?” Boussara said as they walked toward their assigned bedrooms.

  “I think we did the best we could. I’m sure we’ll find out tomorrow after breakfast.”

  “I wonder how many more breakfasts we will have, my friend?”

  The answer to Boussara’s question came at two a.m., in the form of four men who shook him awake—and that answer was none. They bound and gagged him, and dragged him into the backyard where they waited. One minute later, four more men arrived with Zacarias, who was also bound and gagged.

  When they assembled for breakfast the next morning, bin Yousef said, “Good morning. I see we are all here, so let us eat.”

  Aziz and Idris, aware their bosses were not present, said nothing and began to eat. No one spoke during the meal and when it was over bin Yousef smiled and said, “Please accompany me for a walk through my garden. There we may say good morning to Boussara and al-Rahim who were unable to join us for breakfast as they were…ah…indisposed.”

  As they turned into the brick pathway marking the entrance to the gardens, the two section chiefs gasped in horror as they saw the severed heads of Boussara and al-Rahim, each on a six-foot stake, flanking the sides of the path. Bin Yousef laughed at their reaction and then said angrily, “The price of failure gentlemen. Do you not you agree?”

  They nodded in agreement and said, “Yes, my leader.”

  “Good,” he said. “I’m happy you concur. The heads will remind us of the consequences of failure. Not all failures, but those that should not have been allowed to happen because of laxity, or stupidity, or inattention to details. I’m sure that was obvious to of you while listening to the pathetic explanations these two offered last evening?”

  Again they nodded and responded, “Yes, my great leader.”

  “But despite the lack of leadership provided by Boussara, you two performed admirably,” bin Yousef said with a broad smile. “Congratulations on the destruction and deaths you caused in New York, and also congratulations to your jihad warriors who made the ultimate sacrifice and now reside with Allah in heaven.”

  Shoab Aziz and Wassem Idris breathed a huge sigh of relief confident now that their heads would remain firmly attached to their necks. Bin Yousef continued, “I am concerned that you may be discovered by the authorities if you remain in New York. Although you may be convinced those warriors who were captured will maintain silence, we do not know what methods may be used against them to force them to speak. Torture, truth serums, who knows?”

  “Where do you suggest we go?” Aziz asked.

  “Stay here in the Middle-East. Go to your wives and families. I will call for you when we strike again. And notify your brave cell leaders to do likewise and to keep you apprised of their whereabouts. Our jihad will not end until Israel and the United States are destroyed.”

  There was just one problem facing Khalid al-Habib bin Yousef—he had placed all his hopes on the last attack, and now had absolutely no idea what to do next. OBL-911 was in shambles. He turned toward his trusted lieutenant and said, “Fasiym, despite this setback I am convinced we will ultimately be victorious. But for now, I belive we must change locations once again, and to be extra careful, let us adopt western appearances for the next few months. We will pray to Allah, and He will answer us. Are you with me on our path to final victory?”

  “Of course, my leader. I am with you always,” ali Hassan said, but he secretly wondered if OBL-911 could ever recover from its crushing defeat, Allah not withstanding.

  As he and ali Hassan finished shaving and began to pack their belongings, bin Yousef vowed to himself he would one day rid the Middle-East of all the Kafirs—the non-believing infidels—and form a unified Islamic state from the shores of the Mediterranean to the borders of Russia and China. From there, as Osama bin Laden had once promised, all of Europe, Asia and Africa would follow. And then, finally, the Great Satan of America would be conquered. It would take time—much time—but Khalid al-Habib bin Yousef was a patient man. The struggle had been going on since the Crusades, and setbacks were inevitable. The holy war would not be won overnight, but he pledged to Allah he would find a way to begin the next crusade in the jihad before he one day joined Him in Heaven.

  PART 2

  MEAN STREETS

  9

  On Harry’s first day in his new command, Deputy Inspector Snyder introduced him to the precinct’s administrative staff and the patrol supervisors who were on duty that day.

  Except for the promotion ceremony, and his four weeks supervisory training at the Academy, Harry had not worn a uniform in almost nine months, but he felt fit and relaxed and proud to be wearing it once again. He decided to forgo the use of a radio car and driver, and opted instead for a walking tour through the precinct on his first day of patrol. The bright August sun seared his face as he stepped out onto 35th Street and began his tour of the three-quarters of a square mile that comprised the busiest precinct in the city. Finally, he was back on patrol.

  As he walked the blocks and encountered the cops on patrol, most saluted him with surprise. It was rare for a boss to walk, and not be driven. But Harry loved to walk patrol, and he spent a few moments with each officer he encountered, getting to know them and introducing himself.

  The precinct cops tried to evaluate this new boss—was he a good guy, or was he a prick? Would he back them up on their decisions, or let them swing in the breeze? One thing seemed certain—he was no coward. The rookies and the veterans stared in awe at the array of commendations neatly stacked above his shield—the Combat Cross award, the Purple Heart award and the Medal of Valor. This guy had been wounded in a gunfight, and he was a hero. But the old-timers, many cynical to their core, wondered if newly-promoted Sergeant Harry Cassidy was just a reckless, crazy son-of-a-bitch who would get their asses shot off.

  After Harry finished his tour he stopped for lunch at a burger joint and ordered his favorite meal—bacon cheeseburger and fries. They were very good, but not as good as Teddy Stavros’ in the Viceroy diner on his old beat.

  He stopped in upstairs to see Dan Snyder who said, “Well, what do you think of your new home?”

  “I love it, Boss. It’s wonderful to be back in uniform and doing real police work again. And it’s great to be working for you once more. I’m sure you pulled a few strings to get me here and I really appreciate it.”

  “Amazing what a call to your Uncle Mike can accomplish,” Snyder said. “For a r
etired guy he still has quite a lot of pull with the Job. And I’m glad he pulled you in here.”

  It was a Saturday evening, and Harry had finally delivered on his long unkept promise to Vera Hunter and had brought Rita to dinner. The two ladies were in the kitchen preparing snacks and getting better acquainted, while Pop and Harry were in the den indulging in shop talk and sipping scotch-on-the-rocks.

  Vera and Rita entered the room with trays of cheese and crackers and sliced sausage.

  “Gentlemen,” Vera said, “police talk is now officially over. The conversation will now be concerned with things more important and upbeat than The Job.”

  “Like what?” Harry asked.

  “Like movies, opera, Broadway shows, travel, romance, shopping, clothes, homes, families, future plans—especially future plans. And, Sergeant Cassidy, just what are your future plans with this lovely woman I just got to know much better?”

  Pop rolled his eyes and shook his head from side to side saying, “My God, Vera, give my friend a break, please.”

  They all laughed, but Vera was not giving up. “So, tell us,” she said.

  Harry smiled and said, “Rita and I are getting to be good friends. No one knows what the future will bring.”

  “Is that all we are, merely friends?” Rita asked in mock anger.

  Harry rolled his eyes and put his head between his hands. “You two are something. Can we have some cheese and crackers and forgo the inquisition?”

  “Nope,” Vera said. “Not until I hear something.”

  “All right. I think, no, I know this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship…”

  “He got that line right out of Casablanca,” Rita said. “I’m crazy about old movies, and I force Harry to watch with me. He’s picking up all the old lines and clichés.”

  “But it’s true,” Harry protested. “I see Vera won’t let up until I say more, so let me say now Rita has been the best thing to happen to me in a long time. She is my friend, my mentor, my confidante, and my lover, and I hope she never leaves me. Are you satisfied now? All of you?”

  After a brief moment of silence, Vera smiled and said, “Wonderful, Hoppy. I wish you and Rita all the future happiness you deserve.”

  Rita walked from her chair over to where Harry and Pop were sitting on the sofa and squeezed between the two of them. She turned to Harry, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him full on the lips for a long time. She returned to her chair and Pop said, “They got you now, boy. They threw the bait and you went for it hook, line, and sinker. You are caught and about to be skinned and devoured.”

  “I guess they did. They reeled me in all right.”

  “Don’t be upset. No one man is a match for my Vera alone, much less with help from someone else.”

  Rita and Harry were both on their week of day tours and she arrived at Harry’s apartment at 4:30. By the time he got home from Manhattan it was almost six. The table was set, candles lit, wine opened and the aroma of roasting chicken filled the kitchen. Her uniform and gun belt were hung neatly on the clothes hangar and she was dressed in a short multi-colored silk kimono and black high heels.

  “Welcome home, Sergeant Cassidy,” she said handing him a glass of wine. They touched glasses and sipped the well-chilled Pinot Grigio.

  “Thank you, Sergeant Becker. But what did I do to deserve all this? I look at you and I am confused.”

  “Confused?”

  “Yes, I don’t know what to eat first.”

  “The chicken, sweetheart. I’m the dessert,” she said with a big smile.

  “I can’t wait for dessert,” he said as he took her in his arms and kissed her passionately.

  “Wow, what a kiss. It’s only a chicken, you know.”

  “It’s not the bird, Rita, it’s you.”

  “You mean those words you said Saturday night at Pop’s house were true?”

  “What words?” he asked with a deliberate quizzical look on his face.

  “You’re not getting away with that crap of deny, deny, deny. I happen to have those words committed to memory, and I wrote them down for you so you can refresh yours.”

  “You are too much.”

  “Be quiet and listen,” she said as she took a slip of paper out from underneath Harry’s dinner plate and read, ‘Rita has been the best thing to happen to me in a long time. She is my friend, my mentor, my confidant and my lover and I hope she never leaves me.’”

  “I said that? How many scotches did I have?”

  She playfully punched his arm and said, “Are you denying those words?”

  “No.”

  “Do you still mean them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you…”

  “Whoa, wait a minute. You sound like you’re still in Internal Affairs interrogating me.”

  “Be quiet,” she said taking a deep breath. “Do you love me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you like to move in with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to get married?”

  “Yes, but can it wait until after dessert?”

  Rita’s mouth opened in surprise. “What….?”

  “What’s the matter? Is my Jewish American Princess finally at a loss for words?”

  “You said…”

  “Yes, Rita. I said I love you, I want to live with you, and I want to marry you. Can we eat now?”

  “Holy crap, Harry. Just like that?”

  “Just like that. Now get the chicken. Oh, when can I meet your parents?”

  Still amazed by Harry’s response she took a few seconds to answer. “You don’t know what you’re asking. Stan and Rose will want all the details—date, guest list, place and maybe the expected birthdate of their first grandchild.”

  “I love them already. Now can we eat?”

  “Harry, we’re moving into weekends off, so how about looking for our place this Saturday? We definitely need something bigger for the two of us. A two-bedroom for sure.”

  “That’ll be fine. Any ideas where?”

  “Maybe Kew Gardens. It will be convenient for both of us.”

  “Just make sure we get one with enough closets. You seem to have a lot of stuff.”

  “All women do, you know. Four closets will be enough—three for me—one for you.”

  Six weeks later Harry and Rita were settled into their new apartment in Rego Park and after his first two months in the Midtown South precinct, Sergeant Harry Cassidy had been fully accepted by the vast majority of cops who he supervised. Not only was he respected for his loyalty to them, he was admired for his long street experience. Here was a boss who had walked and rode a tough beat for over ten years. He knew what the Job was about and could be relied upon to back his men up and make a timely, correct decision when it counted. Things were not the same for Sergeant Rita Becker in the Eight-Three. In fact, things were downright depressing after her initial meeting with the precinct’s commanding officer, Deputy Inspector Rodney Jenkins.

  Jenkins observed his new patrol supervisor standing in front of his desk with a cold stare. “Sit down, Sergeant Becker,” he said as he put on a pair of reading glasses and studied her personnel file. As he flipped through the pages, Rita assessed her new boss—medium brown-skinned African-American, about fifty years old, close-cropped hair beginning to turn gray. Married—there was a gold wedding band on the appropriate finger of his left hand. Several departmental commendations were arrayed above his gold shield. About six feet tall and in good shape. There were several photos on the wall with him and local politicians. She recognized the Queens District Attorney in one. Jenkins closed her file folder with a snap causing her to blink and straighten up in her chair. He said, “What the hell did you do to wind up in this shit hole?”

  Rarely at a loss for words, Rita was momentarily taken aback. She drew in a breath and said, “I requested it, sir.”

  “You requested to come here? To the Eight-Three?”

  “Well, not exactly. I requ
ested to go to a busy precinct.”

  “What the hell for? Seems as if you had a nice cushy job in Internal Affairs over in Nassau Boro headquarters.”

  “It was time for a change, sir. If I’m ever going to amount to something on this Job, I need patrol experience. As you can see, I have only a year on patrol in a very quiet precinct.”

  “So now I have to babysit you while you gain experience, so you can become a big boss on this Job?”

  “With all due respect, Inspector, I don’t need a fucking babysitter, or a nanny or anyone else. All I want is a little help to learn good old-fashioned police work.”

  Jenkins smiled at her in surprise and said, “It ain’t gonna be easy, Sergeant. You have a lot of minuses—you’re white, you’re attractive, you’re Jewish and most of all you come from Internal Affairs. A lot of strikes against you before you even step up to the plate.”

  “Forget all that, sir. I am a sergeant in the NYMPD. Period.”

  “I can forget all that, but the cops and the citizens of the Eight-Three will not. This precinct is about sixty percent black, both in population and in patrol officers. Headquarters feels that the percentages should match. I feel that’s bullshit. The black citizens—I should say the bad black citizens—hate all cops equally. The good black citizens, and the good citizens of all the other races, like us all equally.”

  “I can deal with that,” Rita said.

  “We’ll see. I’m willing to give you a good shot at making it here, but I just won’t throw you to the wolves immediately. I’d like to assign a permanent driver to you—a seasoned, streetwise veteran—for four weeks to show you the ropes and to teach you the real job. Is that okay with you?”

  “That sounds fine, sir. Thank you.”

  Jenkins picked up the phone and called downstairs to the desk officer. “Lieutenant, call Sector C in off patrol and have Carver report to me forthwith.”