The Last Crusade: A Harry Cassidy Novel Page 23

  Jerry kissed Alice, his wife of thirty-four years, good-bye and headed out the door of their apartment. Seven minutes later he entered the Boro Hall station and boarded the number 5 train to Manhattan. Jerry had not detected the middle-aged, clean-shaven, well-dressed Middle-Eastern man who followed him down the subway steps, nor did he detect his cold, blue eyes hidden behind a fashionable pair of Oakleys. And he did not detect him when he entered the same subway car as he did and took up a standing position not five feet from him. Jerry finally did detect him, but paid him absolutely no attention, as Wassem Idris brushed passed him to get off at the next station, smiling and saying, “Pardon me.”

  As the train left the Wall Street Station, Jerry coughed a bit when he felt a harsh tickle at the back of his throat. Then the large black man standing next to him also coughed. Everyone in his vicinity now seemed to be coughing and reaching for their throats. Suddenly, the tickle in his throat blossomed into a searing, burning, white hot pain. He attempted to scream out, but no sound emanated from his tortured larynx. He collapsed onto the large black man who collapsed against the Korean woman next to him. Like rows of falling dominoes the standing passengers fell down to the dirty floor or onto the laps of the sitting passengers. In that single subway car, eighty-seven human beings, Americans and foreigners, blacks, browns, whites and yellows; men, women and children, wouldn’t be returning to their families that evening.

  The train squealed to a stop at the City Hall station and the doors slid open. The people crowded on the platform thought it odd no one rushed out of the doors of this particular subway car as they were doing from all the other cars of the train. Their thoughts were painfully interrupted as their hands shot to their throats in an effort to ease the searing agony. Twenty-six more people succumbed to the deadly fumes before the invisible poison gas dissipated into the air, and diluted itself to less than toxic levels.

  Simultaneously, on a downtown A train, Shoab Aziz released his canister of deadly toxins, and in subway cars in seven other major U.S. cities, people were clutching their throats in pain and dying horrible, but mercifully quick deaths. When the carnage of the morning’s rush hour attacks was totaled later in the day, over 1,500 souls had perished in New York, Washington, Philadelphia, Atlanta, Chicago, Los Angeles, Boston and San Francisco.

  Less than a half mile from where Jerry Campora had gasped his last painful breath, Harry was about to update the team on the new information he had brought back from Washington. He glanced around the table and said to no one in particular, “Hey, where’s Jerry?”

  Before anyone could answer, a wide-eyed Walt Kobak burst into the room and switched on the TV to an all-news station. He said, “It’s begun.”

  The announcer said, “In addition to the attack on the number 5 train in Manhattan, subway cars were targeted in…”

  Dick Mansfield leaped from his chair and dialed his partner’s home. Alice answered and Dick took a deep breath before speaking, “Hi Alice, it’s Dick. Is Jerry there?”

  “Here? No, he left for work over a half hour ago. Isn’t he there?”

  “No, we’re having a meeting and he’s not here yet. But don’t you worry.”

  “Dick Mansfield, you and my husband have been partners for over fifteen years. Tell me what’s going on. And tell me straight—I can hear the stress in your voice.”

  “There’s been some type of gas attack on subways in several cities. Please tell me Jerry didn’t take the subway today.”

  “Dear God,” she cried out. “He did. It was too nasty to walk over the bridge. Dick, he couldn’t…”

  “Hold on, Alice. There are hundreds of trains running in the city. What are the odds he was on the one attacked? He’s probably just caught up in an immense subway and traffic tie-up. As soon as I find out where the old son-of-a-gun is, I’ll have him call you. What train does he take from home to here?”

  “The 4 or 5. I’m pretty sure they both stop at City Hall.”

  Dick came back to the group, now all gathered in front of the TV. “Guys,” he said, “Jerry took the subway today—the 4 or 5 train—and he is not here yet.”

  Harry said, “Let’s go find him.”

  Everyone on the team rushed to the elevators leaving Walt Kobak behind. When they reached the street, chaos was everywhere—people fleeing haphazardly in wide-eyed panic; fire engines, police vehicles, emergency medical vehicles everywhere, with lights flashing and sirens wailing. They made their way to what appeared to be a checkpoint about a block from the City Hall station, and Harry approached a captain who seemed to be in charge. He showed the captain his shield, “Inspector Cassidy from the Task Force,” he said. “One of my guys might be on the number 5. Can you tell me anything?”

  “Yes, Inspector. They’re bringing out the dead now. It was a 5 train, but it seems only one car was attacked.”

  “How many dead?” Pop asked.

  “I don’t know, but it appears there were no survivors. What I mean is, if the gas got you, it killed you. No one just got sick.”

  “We’re going down there,” Harry said. “Let us through.”

  “The boro commander is on the inner perimeter at the subway stairs. Check in with him. He should know more.”

  Assistant Chief Anthony Miglino listened as Harry explained the reason for his and his team’s presence there. “I don’t know any names Cassidy, but here’s what I suggest you do. All the survivors are coming up the staircase over there, across the street. Every name is being recorded, and everyone is being positively identified. We’re looking for both witnesses and possible suspects. No positive ID and they will be detained until we know for certain who they are. Deputy Inspector Volker is in charge, and is keeping the master list of names.”

  “Dick,” Harry said. “Get on over there and check the list, and stay there until they all come out. Chief, what about other trains stacked up behind this one?”

  “Being evacuated at the nearest station,” the chief said.

  “So my guy could be walking to the office right now, from a couple of stations away?”

  Chief Miglino smiled, placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder and said, “I sure hope so, Cassidy.”

  Harry went across the street and down the stairs to find out if Dick had any success in locating Jerry. He said Jerry wasn’t on the survivor list or the list of dead, but there were a couple hundred more to be interviewed, and more bodies to be identified.

  “Nick,” Harry said, “call Walt and let him know what’s going on.” He found Deputy Inspector Volker and said, “We’re going to hang here awhile. You understand, right?”

  “Sure, Inspector. Let’s all pray he wasn’t in this car.”

  The process was slow and tedious. A deputy medical examiner pronounced each person legally dead, and if their religion was able to be determined, a clergyman of that faith said a few words over the body. The body was then searched and the personal effects sealed in a bag to go along to the morgue. A half hour passed. Nick came down and said Jerry still had not arrived at the office. Another forty minutes passed, and they heard the voice of a police officer say, “This one’s got a gun and a shield. He’s a detective. He’s one of ours.”

  They all rushed over to the officer on the platform and there lay Jerry Campora, his face twisted in agony, his mouth stretched open, his sparse gray hair in disarray, making him look much older than his 58 years. They brushed tears from their eyes and helped the officer place him on the gurney. Harry bent over Jerry’s body and said, “We’ll get these bastards, Jerry. We’ll get them once and for all so you can rest in peace.”

  The police officer noted on his pad, “#68—Campora, Gerald. Detective, NYMPD, Shield #4212. Department and personal property removed by his commanding officer, Inspector Harold Cassidy, JTTF.”

  Dick Mansfield said his last good-bye to his beloved friend and partner. The team watched in silence as he bent low over Jerry’s face whispering his words of parting. He helped load Jerry’s body into the morgue wagon and rej
oined the group. After they walked a block, Harry said to Dick, “I want you to get over to Brooklyn and notify Alice personally of Jerry’s death. You’re relieved of all duties until after the funeral.”

  Dick thought of the dreaded visit he would have to make to Alice, the one he had hoped he would never have to make, but the one that was in his mind ever since he found out Jerry had taken the subway that morning.

  “Listen up, guys,” John said. “Walt wants to say a few words then Dick will leave here to do the necessary things.”

  Walt looked out at the men and women he had worked with so closely and said, “We all came through a lot together and today, for the first time, we lost one of our own—our friend and valiant partner—Jerry Campora. Let us say a silent prayer for him.”

  After a few long moments Walt continued, “Our latest information from the CIA revealed the site in Syria is heavily guarded by armed men. The operatives on the ground couldn’t get in close enough to locate the exact entrance, so we do not know if it is fortified. Just before you got back here I was on the phone with Jim Driscoll down in DC. Based on today’s events, we are going to make our move, with or without Syrian assistance. Things are heating up now.”

  Dick got up to leave and Harry said, “I may be paranoid or just crazy, but I have to say this—was it just a coincidence Jerry was on that particular subway car, on that particular train? Or was OBL-911 targeting him? And if they were…?”

  “If they were,” John said, “we may all be targets now.”

  “No way,” Nick said. “How would they know where he lived, and that he was going to take the subway today?”

  “You’re probably right,” Walt said, “but I’ll ask Harry to check with his counterparts to see if any team members in other areas of the country were caught up in the other attacks. Meanwhile, it wouldn’t hurt to be extra observant in your travels.”

  The newspapers and television news reporters blared out their headlines—Largest number of deaths since the 9/11 attacks. Over 1,500 dead in terrorist attacks in eight cities. Who is to blame and why? Millions spent on homeland security to no avail.

  Harry had checked with Vince Dimino in Chicago and Kevin Longman in Los Angeles. Thankfully, none of their members were victims of the attack. Maybe Jerry Campora was just in the proverbially wrong place at the wrong time. And why wasn’t anyone taking credit for the attacks and voicing their demands? The last time OBL-911 hit, they followed each attack with the same demand, and each time the violence escalated when the nation refused to capitulate. Had they changed tactics, or were they now dealing with a new group of crazies?

  As the members of the team sat dejectedly in the conference room, each mulling his own thoughts and watching the carnage on television, bin Yousef and ali Hassan were sipping tea in an apartment on the second floor of an upscale building in Westchester County, just north of the city. “It seems all the attacks were successful,” Fasiym said.

  “Yes, the politicians in Washington must be scrambling around like the infidel rats that they are.”

  “Are you sure you don’t wish to take credit now, and let all the infidels know OBL-911 is back in their miserable, satanic country?”

  “No, they will not get any messages, except the final one when our supplies are exhausted. No more killings by tens and hundreds as last time. I have thought this out carefully over our years in exile, my friend. We will kill hundreds of thousands first, and only then will we make our demands. They must desert Israel this time—and I’m certain they will.”

  “And, my leader, our next attack will still take place in a few days?”

  “Yes, Fasiym,” he said. “Tomorrow we will meet with Mounir and Hamid and finalize the particulars.”

  Monday, May 1, dawned bright and clear. The warm spring sun shone down on the ranks of pressed and creased blue uniformed police officers assembled for a full inspector’s funeral for their fallen comrade, Detective Gerald Campora. In the front rank were the members of the Task Force, those in the Police Department in full dress uniform, and those in the FBI in somber suits with their gold shields affixed to their breast pockets.

  After the funeral mass, after the burial at the cemetery, at noon New York time, a Syrian detachment of heavily armed soldiers, accompanied by a full company of United States Marines, attacked before dawn at the cave in Syria. Only Walt Kobak knew this information and he had decided to withhold it from the team until Jerry was properly put to rest.

  After the lunch was over, Walt had passed the word to Harry who passed it on to the team. They dispersed to their houses and families secure in the knowledge something was happening against the bad guys at this moment. They all wished they were part of the action. They all wished to avenge the death of Jerry Campora. “Walt will call me as soon as he finds out the results of the attack in Syria,” Harry said to the team. “I don’t see a need for us to go back to the office this afternoon. See you all in the morning.”

  Late that May afternoon, as the clouds moved in and the temperature dropped, while Harry sipped a beer and waited for Susan to come home from the office, OBL-911 struck in the same eight cities once again. Commercial office buildings were the main targets this time, including one specifically selected one in Manhattan – the one that housed the law offices of Vasky, Halloran and Sanders.

  The toxin that infiltrated into the building’s HVAC systems was a fast-acting hemorrhagic virus, similar to Ebola, which had been tested by bin Yousef’s agents in Jerusalem with deadly results. The deadly poison wafted its way up the floors silently arriving at the fourteenth floor where high-profile attorney Susan Cassidy had her offices.

  After the funeral, Susan had not gone with the cortege to the cemetery due to the press of business. She promised she would wrap up her meetings early, and be home by five to share a well-deserved cocktail with her husband. When the phone in the apartment rang a few minutes after five, Harry figured Susan wasn’t going to make cocktail time despite her promise, but it was Walt Kobak, not his wife, on the other end of the line. “There have been more attacks,” Walt said. “I don’t know the extent of them, and it’s not on TV yet. It seems to be a viral agent this time. But I have some good news coming out of Syria. Better get down here now, and call the rest of the team in.”

  Harry dashed off a short note to Susan and dialed John McKee, shuddering as he recalled Avram Hivkind’s description of the biological viral attack in Jerusalem. He filled John in on the brief details and John said, “I’ll get the telephone tree in the works and see you downtown.”

  By the time Harry and John arrived at 26 Federal Plaza, the news channels on television were all reporting the breaking story of the “plague” attacks throughout the country. Dick Mansfield, looking as if he had been drinking a bit too much, came in with Nick and five minutes after that Pop Hunter, looking 92 instead of 62 years old, took his seat at the table.

  Walt said, “I just got the call to head back to DC. Let me fill you in before I leave. The attack in Syria was a success. It was a WMD site for sure. They are evaluating the extent and nature of the stockpiles there at this time. We captured several people involved in the operation, and based on their information, further raids are now occurring in Al Hasakah to capture more participants.”

  “You mean they’re talking to us?” Nick said.

  “Most of the civilian scientists are, but not Chemical Karim, Mrs. Virus and Dr. Poison. The deadly threesome bit the poison pill. I’ll call you when I get to DC and find out more information.”

  Ten minutes later, rather than wait for specifics from CNN or the local news, Harry called his boss, Chief of Department Duggan. He did so reluctantly because he knew the chief would be up to his eyeballs in activity, but maybe someone on his staff would know what was going on in the city. After seven rings, the phone was picked up and a harried voice said, “Chief of Department’s Office, Inspector Lefferts speaking.”

  “Bill, it’s Harry Cassidy over in the Task Force. I know you must be going crazy o
ver there. Can you give me a quick update?”

  “Sure, Harry. We have four places they hit so far—all office buildings. One uptown in Harlem, one in midtown on Fifth Avenue, one in Queens, and one in Staten Island.”

  “Bill,” he said, the tightness in his stomach now spreading up to his chest, “can you give me the exact address of the midtown location?”

  “Hold on a sec—okay, here you go…”

  Harry said not a word as Lefferts spoke. He thanked him and returned to the conference table. Pop looked up at him and said, “My God, Harry, what’s the matter? Have you seen a ghost?”

  “They hit Susan’s office building,” he said falling into his chair.

  “Oh, my God,” Pop said reaching for Harry’s hand.

  Harry snapped out of his daze and rushed over to the phone as all eyes followed him. He dialed Susan’s number at Vasky, Halloran, but only got her voice mail. He dialed their apartment and looked at his watch. It was just past six o’clock. She picked up on the second ring and said, “You couldn’t wait ten minutes for me? What was more important than me and a martini to make you go back to the office? Harry, sometimes I…”

  “Susan, it’s you!” he said, grabbing the wall next to the phone for support.

  “Of course, it’s me. Who were you expecting? Some other woman?”

  “No, no, it’s you. You’re alive! Thank God, you’re alive.”

  “Of course I’m alive. Harry, what’s going on?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “The attacks. They hit your office building. I thought you…”

  “Were dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wasn’t in the office. I was at a meeting crosstown and came directly home from there and saw your note.”

  “Thank God you’re safe, but the others in your firm may not have been so lucky.”