The Last Crusade: A Harry Cassidy Novel Page 3

  “If that cop worked in Elmont, what was he doing here in Jackson Heights?”

  “I do not know. Perhaps he was transferred.”

  “Perhaps he was transferred for a specific purpose—to find you.”

  “But how would they know where I was in the whole city to send him?”

  “Because he saw your face that night in Elmont, and they probably have a drawing of you circulating among them.”

  “But Ahmed,” Abu said. “If they have such a drawing—a composite picture I believe they call it—why wasn’t it in the papers?”

  “Maybe it was, but if so it was for only one day. That bartender Winston was a lowlife nobody. The story was way in the back of the Daily News, and even further back when he finally died. But it is a different situation now. That cop was bleeding a lot and may be dead already. I think your face will be all over the papers now, Ziad.”

  “Allah! What do I do now? Are you going to tell Ramzi?”

  “I’m afraid I must. Better he hear it from us first than discovers it over his morning tea.”

  “And what do you think he will say?” Abu asked.

  “Let us call him and find out.”

  Ahmed related the shooting to Ramzi with the fact Satam was killed, and two others wounded and in custody. “Are you and your two others safe for now?” he asked.

  “Yes, we are at Ziad’s house.”

  “What will the police find when they search your apartment?”

  “Very little, my leader. I kept no specifics of our plans, and no phone numbers or addresses of my members.”

  “Good. How about the money and the guns?”

  “I have the money and one gun, and Ziad has the other nine millimeter. We had to leave the two revolvers in our haste to flee, but they are not identifiable as their serial numbers have been deeply ground away.”

  “Will your two captured members talk to the police?”

  “No, they have always been instructed to say nothing, except to ask for a lawyer.”

  “In any event I will call our lawyer, Faysal Pervez, immediately after we finish speaking and send him over to Jamaica Hospital right away.”

  “I will need to find another apartment.”

  “Yes, but first tell me how this policeman found you in your present place?”

  “My leader, perhaps we should speak about that situation in person?”

  “Tomorrow morning at eight sharp, at location B,” said Ramzi, with a definite menace in his voice.

  “Yes, my leader, I will be prompt.”

  Ahmed turned toward Ziad and said, “It would be wise for you not to go out until dark, and even then wear your ski mask. We have to be careful until we find out if your picture appears on the TV and in the papers. Abu, you can safely walk home as it gets dark out. I will retrieve the car and bunk in with my cousin in Brooklyn until I am able to find a new apartment. I will call you both after I meet with Ramzi.”

  Early the next morning, Ahmed sat in the car as it idled in the 7-Eleven parking lot. He sipped hot coffee from the twenty-ounce cup. He had no appetite for the buttered roll that sat wrapped in cellophane on the seat next to him atop the morning’s newspapers. He had less appetite to open the newspapers and view a picture that might cause him to lose his leadership position, his future in OBL-911, and perhaps his life.

  He reached first for the Daily News. On page seven, filling one-quarter of the page, the face of Ziad Sugami stared back at him. “Mother of Allah,” he said aloud. The accompanying story filled the remainder of the half-page and described the man in the photo, now known as Ziad Sugami, “as one of the shooters of Police Officer Harold Cassidy, and also wanted for the murder of Richard Winston the previous December. His two accomplices in the shooting of Cassidy are Ahmed Hanjour and Abu Alnanni, both males in their late teens to early twenties, thin build, 5’5” to 5’7” tall, no facial hair, and olive-skinned. Anyone with information on this crime is asked to call the Nine-Five Detective Squad, New York Metro Police Department at 516-444-9500 and ask for Detective Charles Hunter or Detective Nicholas Faliani. All calls will be kept strictly confidential.”

  Ahmed pondered the situation and the probable reaction of Ramzi. He decided he would throw himself on the chief’s mercy, accept responsibility for the situation and offer to make amends in whatever ways were demanded of him. He would not lie or attempt a cover-up as that course of action, while maybe buying some time, would most certainly lead to his death. He put the car in gear and nervously joined the morning traffic toward his rendezvous. If there was one bit of good news in his favor it was the police seemed not to have connected them, or the occurrence, with OBL-911. What Ahmed did not know, however, was the connection had been made, but deliberately withheld, so as not to cause panic in the thirteen million citizens residing in the Greater New York area.

  Ahmed arrived before Ramzi and parked in the vicinity usually chosen, near the rear of the parking area formerly occupied by Shea Stadium. At precisely eight o’clock, Ramzi drove by and motioned for Ahmed to join him after he parked. Ahmed took the three newspapers with him and entered the chief’s Buick. It felt as if he were entering a dungeon from which he would never escape.

  “I see you have brought today’s papers, Ahmed.”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “Have you read them carefully, and have you seen what I have seen?” he asked pointing to his own copies of the dailies on his lap.

  “Yes,” he said, looking directly into the raging eyes of his boss.

  “This picture,” he said, pointing a shaking finger to the one on page three of the Post, “this picture is a good likeness of Ziad?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I would be afraid, too, Ahmed—very afraid. And the story? Is the story accurate also?”

  Ahmed hesitated. He certainly did not want to respond, “I’m afraid so” again, so he said quietly, “Yes, Chief.”

  Ramzi let out a long sigh followed by a disconsolate, “Mother of Allah.”

  There was silence. Ahmed was afraid to speak. Ramzi looked at him and said, “The area leader will be furious. He has an explosive temper. But now tell me how this policeman happened to come into your place.”

  After Ahmed related all the details of Ziad’s involvement with Cassidy, he decided to take the plunge and said, “I know how upset you are with me and my cell, but I deeply respect and honor you. I do not wish to see harm or adverse action taken against you. I fully offer up myself to Allah for this transgression and for the danger we have put you, and our beloved OBL-911, in.” He then bowed his head in deep shame and said, “Praise Be to Allah. His will be done.”

  “Praise Be to Allah, indeed,” Ramzi said, with a slight smile. “May he protect us from the wrath of Muhammed Fayez Boussara.”

  Ahmed recoiled at Ramzi’s revelation of the area leader’s identity and a new, cold fear gripped his body. Boussara was well known, an original al-Qaida fighter whose reputation for bloody incidents was feared the world over. It figured he would be the one whose area included the prize of targets, the City of New York.

  “Boussara,” whispered Ahmed in dread.

  “So you recognize the name? Are you afraid now?”

  “Yes, Ramzi. I fear for you and me, but I have a plan…”

  “A plan? What plan will rescue us from this enormous blunder…?”

  “Please,” he said. “Hear me out.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Offer me up to appease his anger. Perhaps you will be spared his retribution.”

  “I will try to reason with him, Ahmed. One fortunate thing is there appears to be no link, or even suggestion, this incident is connected to our organization. But what happens if Ziad is captured? What will he tell the police?”

  “He will tell them nothing just like the others. He will demand his Miranda warnings and request a lawyer.”

  “Suppose they beat him and torture him?”

  “I don’t think that happens much anymore.”


  “But what if he is picked up by the Joint Terrorist Task Force? Their methods are brutal we have heard. He might give you and the cell members up.”

  “But, Ramzi, you said yourself there was no suggestion of a link to our organization. Of what interest would Ziad be to the Task Force?”

  “You may be right. Let’s hope Boussara agrees, and let’s hope he buys into these arguments and we come out of this with our scalps. But knowing him, he will want Ziad killed immediately, and if he so orders it, you will be the one to do it. Assuming I get out of the meeting alive, I will call you to meet again and let you know of his decision. Praise Be to Allah. May he protect us both from the wrath of Boussara.”

  The members of the Joint Terrorist Task Force team gathered in the conference room on the 27th floor at 26 Federal Plaza. It had been four days since the shootout in Jackson Heights and the intelligence guys had just given their report. Lieutenant Don Campbell, supervisor of the JTTF members, looked around the table at his meager four man unit—Walt Kobak and John McKee, and Special Agent Dick Mansfield and his NYMPD partner Detective Jerry Campora. Dick and Jerry had been close friends and partners for so long a time they were beginning to look like gray-haired brothers, despite their different ethnic ancestry. “Gentlemen, where do we go from here?” asked the tall, bespectacled, mild-mannered Campbell who more resembled a school principal than a seventeen-year veteran of the NYMPD. “All we came up with are the full names of all five members of cell number three and the name of their boss, section chief Ramzi. That and some vague threats and information of an imminent attack on the Great Satan known as America.”

  “We could find Ramzi,” Jerry said, “but I’m damned if I know where to begin.”

  “I think we need more manpower right away as leads develop,” Kobak said. “According to Mohammed there are four cells under Ramzi and that means twenty terrorists out there on the street. And we don’t know how many sections exist. One? Two? Ten?”

  “I agree,” Campell said. “Any suggestions on who to ask for?”

  “Yes,” John said. “I like Pop hunter and Nick Faliani, and I think our newest detective, Harry Cassidy, would want to be a part of the team. I’m pretty sure he would like to get the guys who filled him full of holes, especially Ziad.”

  “How’s Harry’s condition now?” Campbell asked.

  “He’s recuperating at home,” John said, “and the doc said he’ll evaluate him in two weeks and probably allow him back on light duty while he continues to heal.”

  “Okay, I’ll call them now and see if they want to join us, and then I’ll call the chief of detectives to request their assignment over here.”

  Harry’s reaction to Walt’s offer was immediate and positive, especially knowing Nick and Pop would be joining him in this new, unfamiliar assignment. It seemed the three of them had been involved in the Winston investigation forever, but in reality, it was only three short months. And, if he thought Walt Kobak and John McKee were an odd couple, he wondered what people thought of the trio he was part of. Charles “Pop” Hunter and Harry had known each other since they were rookies in the Police Academy where the nickname “Pop” had been bestowed upon him. Pop was sixteen years older than Harry and had served many years in the Marine Corps before joining the Department. He bore a strong resemblance to the actor Morgan Freeman, but denied the comparison always saying, “Morgan Freeman is a lot older than me. I believe I more resemble a mature Denzel Washington.” This always brought howls of laughter as Pop remained stone-faced. Pop and Harry had remained friends, but drifted apart after Harry’s divorce from Peggy and her subsequent move, with his two daughters, to Pennsylvania.

  Harry and Nick Faliani had never been bosom buddies since the beginning of their relationship in the Nine-Five Precinct. Nick was promoted to detective a lot sooner than Harry thought he deserved to be. Harry had not been impressed with Nick’s performance on patrol, and less impressed with his performance as an investigator. He considered Nick a flashy greaseball in an empty thousand-dollar suit, but three months of working with him had, much to his surprise, drastically changed his opinion. Despite the expensive clothes, the slicked-back black hair and the pencil-thin mustache, Nick proved himself to be a hard worker, a competent investigator, and a fun guy to work with. One thing, however, had not changed—Nicholas Faliani still thought he was God’s greatest gift to all the women in the world, and lusted for a transfer to a Manhattan detective squad where he insisted he would constantly have to fight off all the gorgeous honeys populating the area.

  And what about himself, the third member of the trio? A thirty-three year old shot up, divorced cop whose six-foot two-inch frame was carrying an uncomfortable two hundred pounds. And his looks? Susan Goldman thought he was her handsome Prince Charming, but she still betrayed him. He wondered what Rita thought about him. Did she consider him attractive? Would she want to further their friendship romantically? Or was he just a sympathy case to her, someone to be pitied, and then discarded, after he was back on his feet?

  When Rita came to visit the next day he told her of the JTTF’s plans for him, Pop and Nick and she commented, “At least now you know where you will be working, but it seems like you don’t have a hell of a lot to work with.”

  “No, but I guess the good thing is we probably put a crimp in their plans with the arrests.”

  “Do you want to talk about those dreams now?”

  “Let’s go out and get something to eat first. Then we’ll talk.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “Would you mind driving over to the Viceroy Diner in Elmont? I have a craving for one of Teddy’s thick, juicy, bacon cheeseburgers and a pile of fries.”

  “Let’s do it. Sounds like you’re getting better already.”

  Teddy Stavros, the owner of the Viceroy Diner, was thrilled to see Harry walk in. He rushed over with a big smile on his face and grabbed Harry’s hand and pumped it madly saying, “Oh, Harry, it is so good to see you up and about.”

  “Thank you, Teddy, but take it easy will you? I’m still hurting a little.”

  “Oh, oh, excuse me,” he said pulling his hand away. “Do you hurt much? Is it still bad?”

  “Getting much better. Oh, this is Rita, another one of New York’s Finest.”

  “I am pleased to meet you, Officer. Are you assigned to the precinct here?”

  “No, Teddy, I’m a sergeant in boro headquarters.”

  “Ah, another beautiful sergeant. Come let me show you to a table.”

  Teddy found them a spacious booth and he slid in next to Harry. Harry said, “Teddy, I want to thank you for coming in to see me at the hospital. I know it’s a long drive with the traffic, but you never brought me any food.”

  “You did not look like you wanted any food. You looked terrible.”

  “I bet I did, but I knew I was getting better the last time you came, because as you left my room, I distinctly saw the image of a smokin’ bacon cheeseburger on your smiling Greek face.”

  “Don’t tell me that’s what you want today? I have freshly made meatloaf, I have Yankee pot roast, I have perfect pastrami, I have…”

  “Teddy—cheeseburger…bacon…big pile of fries…some extra coleslaw…that’s what I want.”

  Teddy turned to Rita and said, “Imagine, a man you can keep happy with cheeseburgers.”

  “I’m just a basic sort of guy, Teddy. You know that.”

  “So tell me, how did you get involved in this big terrorist situation? One day you’re walking the beat, and then you’re gone. Sergeant Harris told me you were transferred to Queens, and you disappeared without a good-bye.”

  “I couldn’t say good-bye to you, or anyone else, on my beat. I’m sure you can understand why now. Let me tell you all about it….”

  Teddy listened, open-mouthed, as Harry told him of the shootout.

  “What do you do now you’re a detective?” he asked. “No more walking the beat, no more uniform?”

  “It’s a
big change. I’ve been assigned to the Task Force for now, but who knows where I’ll finally end up. Now make a good recommendation to Sergeant Becker for lunch.”

  “I’m so sorry if I have ignored you Sergeant, but I was so enthralled with Harry’s story and…”

  “No problem. I’ll take the meatloaf special with mashed potatoes.”

  “Excellent choice,” he said. “You won’t be disappointed.”

  Teddy slid out of the booth and walked over to a waitress and gave her their orders. Rita said, “He seems to care about you a lot.”

  “Yes, he does. And I care for him very much. He’s the salt of the earth.”

  “Still thinking about your beat? Is that why you had me bring you back here?”

  “Partly. After we finish eating would you mind driving around here a bit?”

  “So you can check it out? So you can right any wrongs you see? So you can make sure your little corner of the world, your former corner of the world, is serene and kosher?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Get over it. You are no longer Police Officer Cassidy, you are Detective Second Grade Cassidy—and soon you will be Sergeant Cassidy.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll explain when we get back to your place. Here come the coleslaw and dill pickles.”

  “What do you want to talk about first, the sergeant’s list or your dreams?” Rita asked.

  “You have me intrigued with your comment back at the diner that soon I will be Sergeant Cassidy. What’s up with that?”

  “Do you remember when all you male-whites got together and sued the city on the basis of reverse discrimination because of the way the test was graded?”

  “Sure, I remember. I was not a party to that suit, but was automatically included because I was a member of the affected group.”

  “Here’s the proposed settlement deal. All of those on the current list with marks higher than the last sergeant promoted will also be promoted, retroactively. That’s about 400 people, and since you are currently #135 on the list, you will be in that group.”