The Impoverished: Boxed Set Page 6

  Malone was Carson’s sole law enforcement contact and was required to carry the cellular phone twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. So when the phone rang for the fifth time without being answered, Carson began to freak out. He grabbed the coffee container, raised the lid to his lips and slam dunked the cup into the garbage pail that was just a step away from the telephone kiosk. What was he thinking? Caffeine was the last thing he should drink. He really needed a beer, better yet a six pack. Six rings. Malone answered the phone.

  “What’s up kid?” Malone sounded out of breath.

  “You have got to pull me out,” blurted Carson. “I cannot take it anymore. It is too big for me. The Impoverished is going to blow up the Lincoln and Holland Tunnels on the Fourth of July and they want me to do it!”

  “Whoa! Settle down, kid.” Malone took a few shallow breaths. “You can get out anytime you want, but please hang in a little longer. We need you right where you are – in their nest.”

  “Did you hear what I said? They are going to make me bomb the Lincoln Tunnel-and you’re talking about, freaking nests! What the f -”

  “I heard you. I know. That was a stupid thing to say. Do not worry. You are not going to bomb anything.”

  “Damn straight. I’m not. Get me out of here.”

  “You can leave, if you want. Of course you can,” said Malone. “But then we will not be able to stop the bombings.”

  “If I am not here to drive the van into the Lincoln Tunnel, it cannot blow up!” Carson screamed.

  Malone shook his head. “No, kid. Think for a minute, will you. They will just get someone else to drive the van.”

  Silence.

  Malone continued, “You just gave me a date and place for a terrorist attack that is planned to occur in New York - in our city. We would never have gotten that information if you were not on the inside. Because of you, we are going to stop the bombings. God knows how many people would have died if you were not on the inside. You have to stay and foil their plans.”

  Carson tapped his head on the Plexiglas. “Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! I know you’re right. Shit! Of course, I have to stay.”

  “That’s it, Kid. We need you there.” Malone paused. “Now, give me the details of the plan and trust me to stop it.”

  After Carson conveyed all he learned and suspected he was surprised to feel a sense of calmness come over him. A burden was lifted, now that he had someone to help carry it.

  “Kid, you have done great. I promise to do everything I can to stop this fiasco. I have a ton of resources to help. But you have to calm down. Do you think you can stay inside without exposing your cover?”

  “I don’t have a choice, do I? I have to stay. I could not live with myself if a bomb exploded in New York or New Jersey.”

  Malone sighed. “That’s it kid. Hang in there.”

  “Make sure you handle things on your end,” Carson demanded.

  “I will. Be safe, son.”

  Chapter 24

  His trembling thumb missed the freaking button - again! On the third attempt, Malone’s thumb found the end button on the cellular phone. He tossed the phone onto the kitchen table, slumped into a chair and rested his arms and head on the table. Although he felt light headed and his heart was racing, he was glad he held his composer until he finished talking with Carson. The kid was scared enough; he did not want to add to his torment.

  Malone rested for a few minutes, waiting for his heartbeat to slow down. Then, using the kitchen table for support, he rose from the chair. He stepped to the kitchen sink and took a gulp of water directly from the faucet. Single life had its privileges. He took another drink from the tap. If Maryanne were home, he would never have gotten away with drinking from the sink. She would have made some offhanded remark, like calling him an animal. Damn, he missed her.

  She left seven weeks ago. They shared twenty eight years of mostly blissful and sometimes not so blissful wedded life. Through it all, they loved one another. Sometimes, it was hard to live together, that’s all. She’ll be back.

  The one thing they could not agree on was Maryanne’s insistence that he retire from the job. Maryanne first asked him to retire five years ago. She asked him countless times thereafter. When he reached his 30th year anniversary on the job and still did not put in his retirement papers, she left. Just like that! Gone.

  Malone realized the time for him to retire was here, but he couldn’t yet. How could he retire now? The bastards were getting ready to set off bombs in Manhattan! If Maryanne knew what Malone really did at work she would understand his need to stay on the job. He alone was responsible for the welfare of a man working deep undercover in an all-important assignment and he could not abandon that responsibility. Carson depended on him, trusted him. He could not retire while Carson was still undercover, in constant danger.

  After he gets Carson out of The Impoverished and into a Detective Squad he will retire, but not a day before. Then he and Maryanne can go on the Caribbean cruise she always wanted to book. The cruise could wait; Malone hoped that Maryanne would too. Right now his full attention had to be on bringing in the terrorists that were planning a horrendous Fourth of July for New Yorkers; by extension, for all Americans.

  Malone splashed water from the kitchen sink onto his face, dried it with a dishtowel. By the time he grabbed the kitchen phone he was in high gear. Feeling fine. First, he called his boss at JTTF and briefed him on Carson’s call. Then he called Arthur Henderson and agreed to meet at 26 Federal Plaza as soon as possible.

  Malone showered and dressed in record time. He grabbed his cellular phone, notepad and car keys from the kitchen table and headed out the front door.

  It was hot outside, for mid-June, so he hung his suit jacket on a hanger in the backseat. It took Malone less than an hour to make the trip from his Queens neighborhood to downtown Manhattan.

  He parked illegally on Lafayette Street. He tossed his police placard on the dashboard. Malone walked a block and a half to Duane Street. By the time he reached the FBI’s elevator bank in the Federal Building he was breathing heavy.

  He leaned against the wall, retrieved a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. Three minutes later, he spotted Arthur Henderson walking towards him balancing two boxes of donuts and a large brown bag.

  Malone caught the brown bag just as it slipped from Henderson’s hand. “Looks like you are expecting a crowd. Did you call everyone in for the meeting?”

  “Sure did. We have to come up with a take-down plan that will work.” Henderson frowned. “It has to be foolproof.”

  Malone could not resist the eclectic aroma mix of onion, garlic and sesame emanating from the brown bag. He reached in and pulled out a warm bagel. “I skipped breakfast today.”

  Henderson laughed.

  Fifteen minutes later, Malone and Henderson sat in front of a packed conference room. FBI agents and NYPD Detectives that make up the Joint Terrorist Task Force filled the room.

  The room was abuzz with chatter. “Tim, aren’t you on vacation... Hey Todd, what brings you in on your day off... something big must be going down…”

  As soon as Henderson rose from his chair, the room fell silent. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. You must be wondering why I called this meeting. I’ll get right to the point. We have the most important work of our careers, and probably of our lives, ahead of us. The sooner we get working, the better. Informants working for us have uncovered an imminent threat to our city and we have to come up with a practical, fool proof plan to counter that threat.”

  Henderson looked intensely at the crowd before continuing, “I am obligated to remind everyone here about keeping JTTF business confidential. Before I brief you further, each person present, including myself, must sign a statement verifying that you were reminded of and understand the consequences of violating that confidentiality.”

  The conference room erupted in groans. Henderson was nonplussed as he handed out the forms an
d waited for each one to be signed and returned. When the last signed form was returned to him, he held the pile of papers over his head. “I am sorry for this administrative bullshit, but it is necessary.”

  Every eye in the room stared at Henderson. It was not his style to use profanity, especially when addressing a group.

  Henderson continued. “On February 26th, when that Ryder truck exploded in the garage of the twin towers, we saw firsthand that terrorists hate our country. They have chosen New York City as a place to show their hatred. In the four months since, we have made great progress in the investigation that followed that attack. Through that investigation and information gathered from a reliable informant and an undercover detective, the FBI and the NYPD have uncovered a series of terrorist attacks planned for July 4th.”

  The room erupted in expletives directed at the terrorists.

  Henderson waited for the room to quiet. “Van bombs are being assembled for attacks on the United Nations building and the building that houses the New York Offices of the FBI, 26 Federal Plaza, the building we are sitting in right now.”

  The sounds of fists hitting the table and four letter words filled the room.

  “Yes, it pisses me off, too.” Henderson said. “That’s not the worst of it. This morning, Tom Malone learned via an undercover that the bastards are planning to use van bombs to plant explosives in the Hudson River Tunnels.”

  Arthur Henderson spoke about the suspects, explosives, vehicles, targets and all the known details of the plot for three continuous hours. Not one person left the room, or got up to grab a donut, a cup of coffee, or light a cigarette the entire time that Henderson spoke. He had a rapt, intense and pissed off audience.

  When he finished, Henderson asked if anyone had any questions. There were tons of questions. Henderson ended the question and answer session by suggesting an hour break. The room quickly emptied.

  Henderson slumped into a chair. He rested his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes.

  “Arthur,” Malone called for the third time. Tom Malone stood over him with a bottle of water. “Take this, Arthur.”

  Henderson waved him away, but Malone stood his ground. “You did a lot of talking. You need this. Drink it.”

  Henderson took the bottle and guzzled the twelve ounces in one gulp. He tossed the empty bottle in the trash, then looked up at Malone. “I guess I did need it. Thanks.”

  Malone nodded and handed him another bottle of water. Before Henderson could crack open the cap, a pair of detectives returned with a couple of pizzas. Henderson looked at his wristwatch. He raised an eyebrow. Only fifteen minutes passed since the group disbursed.

  Within minutes, everyone was back. They brought buckets of chicken, cartons of Chinese Food, bags of hamburgers and French fries, hero sandwiches, boxes of cookies, and liters of soda. An FBI agent came back with a sleeve of Kit Kats. He said the candy bars gave him energy and hoped it would do the same for everyone else.

  They shared the impromptu fast food buffet, all the while brainstorming ideas. Malone took a moment to look around the room, comforted by the sense of purpose and determination emanating from the group.

  Chapter 25

  Rap, rap, rap!

  Carson was in his Brooklyn Heights studio apartment fast asleep when he was startled awake. He opened his eyes wide and sat up in bed. He looked around the room, not knowing what woke him. Nothing was amiss. Glancing at the alarm clock on the nightstand, he saw it was 7:00 AM. He did not have to be up for forty minutes. So he rolled over and nodded off.

  RAP! RAP! RAP!

  This time he jumped out of bed. Someone was pounding on his door. So that is what woke him.

  He crossed the room and grumbled, “Who is it?”

  “It is Rashid. Let me in,” answered the voice from the other side of the door.

  Carson threw back the bolt and opened the door. Rashid strode into the room, gave Carson a soft body slam and closed the door. “Our time has come. We are going to execute our jihad tomorrow.”

  Carson felt the heat rise in his face, his body sagged as he slunk onto the bed. Rashid stared at him, misunderstanding Carson’s reaction. He sat next to him and said, “I know. I cannot believe it either.”

  Carson managed to stammer, “Tomorrow? I thought the bombing was scheduled for next week – on the Fourth of July.”

  Rashid answered, “Yes. That was the original plan, but the Feds have caught on. We must go forward with the bombings tomorrow. All the attention from the World Trade Center bombing is working against us. Stupid Salemah. He ruined everything over a four hundred dollar deposit. Fool.”

  Carson recognized the name Salameh as one of the World Trade Center bombers arrested in February. He rented the Ryder van that held the bomb built by Ramzi Yosef. Carson remembered reading that Salameh was arrested when he tried to get back the deposit money for the truck. Secretly, Carson was ecstatic that Salameh made the mistake that led JTTF to the rest of the conspirators.

  Carson didn’t understand how Salameh’s mistake effects this attack. But it didn’t matter. He could not believe what he was hearing. The sound of his heartbeat thrashed in his ears. The attack was being moved up - to tomorrow. Shit! No way could Malone have formulated a working counter plan. Not yet.

  He regained his composer. “I am sorry Rashid, but I do not want to die. I am not worthy of martyrdom.”

  “Do not worry. You will have six minutes to vacate the tunnel once you plant the bomb. You are not going to be martyred.”

  Carson let out a deep breath.

  Rashid patted his shoulder. “All you have to do is arrive at work a little early tomorrow. Park your Bronco in the employee parking lot. Instead of reporting to work, walk to the corner of Maple Street and 27th Street. Mohamed will meet you there at 9:15 with a brown van. The bomb is assembled inside the van and the fuses are set. The fuses are covered with white surgical tubing and run from the front seat to the cargo area of the van. Mohamed will point them out to you tomorrow. He will provide you with a cigarette lighter to ignite the fuses.”

  Carson gulped. Blood drained from his face. He trembled.

  “Don’t worry. You have already practiced so you will handle the weight of the explosives just fine. Drive to the middle of the eastbound tube of the Lincoln Tunnel. Look for an orange hazard fence on the catwalk. That is where you will park the van and switch on its hazards. Open the hood as if the engine broke down. Return to the driver’s seat and light the two ten foot long fuses with the cigarette lighter. Once lit, the fuses will take about six minutes to ignite the explosives in the cargo area. Walk quickly to the Weehawken side of the tunnel. Make sure to wear your Port of Authority uniform, so you do not arouse suspicions. Once you are out of the tunnel go to high ground. The explosion should cause flooding.”

  Carson sheepishly looked at Rashid. “Can you repeat that?”

  Carson was relieved when Rashid smiled. He slapped him on the back. “Take a shower, and get dressed. I will get us some coffee and we will go over the plan again.”

  Carson finished tying his shoelaces and Rashid returned with coffee and bagels. He ran down the plan again, but much slower this time. “Bring an extra cigarette lighter, just in case.” He hugged him and left the apartment.

  Carson grabbed his wallet from a tray that rested on top of his dresser. When he took his car keys from the tray, the wallet slipped out of his hand and landed on the floor. When he reached down to retrieve the wallet, his keys fell out of his hand. He was a wreck.

  He shook his foggy head and headed for the door. He turned the knob, paused, and went to his nightstand, opened the bottom drawer, and fingered the crucifix his grandparents had given him when he was a child. He put the chain around his neck and tucked the crucifix under his shirt, out of sight. He went out the door.

  Chapter 26

  Carson calmly resumed his daily routine as if the day had not begun with a wakeup call from hell. He unlocked the Blazer’s door, put the key in the i
gnition, and turned on the radio, as usual. He drove east along Fourth Avenue, merged onto the Gowonus Expressway, as usual. But when he passed the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel’s toll booth, he freaked.

  As soon as he entered the mouth of the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel he was struck by its similarity to the tube of the Lincoln Tunnel. He imagined a huge hole blasting open in the tunnel wall and river water rushing through the hole. The hole grew bigger and bigger as the tunnel wall collapsed. Cars crashed against the tiled walls as they were swept away. He saw bloated faces of drowned motorists. Cars with trapped motorists burst into flames. He smelled the awful stench of burning flesh.

  Carson drove in a complete state of panic. When he saw daylight at the Manhattan end of the tunnel he knew he would make it through without crashing. He reached West Street and made a sharp right turn. When he passed the twin towers he became obsessed with the quest of finding a public telephone. He had to call Malone – right now.

  In the frantic search for a public telephone, Carson was soon lost in the small streets that bordered China Town, Little Italy, and Greenwich Village. No phones in sight.

  He pulled over on Sullivan Street. Carson rested his head on the steering wheel and felt the crucifix under his shirt. He needed to get his bearings. When he looked through the driver’s side window his heart stopped. There was a public telephone on the corner. Thank God. Carson leapt from the truck and ran to the phone kiosk.

  He pounded Malone’s cell phone number and pin into the faceplate and endured ten long rings before he hung up. He must have pressed a wrong number in his zeal to reach Malone. He redialed the number, carefully, this time.

  Still - no answer!

  He tried again. He waited through twelve excruciating rings before he gave up and slammed the receiver down. Why didn’t Malone answer? Malone always answered- always.