Capture (Butch Karp Thrillers) (40 page)

Karp punched in the number for Fulton again. “Clay, get the car…. I need to check out the view from the Brooklyn Bridge.” As he rose from his chair, he looked upward and said, “Thanks, Mom. I needed the help.”

T
HE YOUNG MAN SITTING IN THE RENTED TRUCK AT THE CORNER
of Adams and Tillary streets in Brooklyn jumped when his cell phone started playing Public Enemy’s “Don’t Believe the Hype.”

“Hello?” he answered, and listened for a moment before repeating after the man on the other end of the line. “
Allahu akbar.
”

Born and raised in the projects of Bedford-Stuyvesant, one of the worst slums in New York during his childhood, he’d been easy pickings for the agents of radical Islam. By junior high he was a member of the Rolling 777s, a Black Muslim gang that had originated in Harlem but was branching throughout the five boroughs. Not that Islam gave him anything more than the nothing that he already had, but it promised a better afterlife and he was ready to go.

He got out of the truck and went around to the back, where he opened the sliding panel high enough to see beneath, reach in with his arm, and flip the switch that armed the detonator that would ignite the fuel oil–and–fertilizer bomb. Walking back to the driver’s door, he paused for a moment, looking up at the gathering clouds above, dark and threatening as evening fell. He sniffed the air.
Smells like snow is on the way,
he thought.
Folks are in for a storm tonight
.

He climbed back into the cab of the truck and pulled away from the curb on Tillary. As he turned left on Adams and headed north for the Brooklyn Bridge, he glanced down at the transmitter on the seat next to him. All he had to do was turn it on and press the button. There’d be a flash but no pain, the man in the silver mask had assured him.
“And then you’ll wake up in Paradise.”

The young man was less than halfway across the bridge when he saw the other truck heading south. For a moment he caught a glimpse of his counterpart, who was looking back at him. He waved, wondering if he looked as lonely and scared as the other guy.

Damn, he’s early,
he thought,
going to get there before I do.
He stepped on the gas and got right up on the car in front, but it was no use; traffic was heavy heading into the city in the early evening with Christmas shopping in full swing. He couldn’t go around either because he was hemmed in by a big yellow Brooklyn City School District bus filled with laughing, smiling teenagers.
Probably going into Manhattan for a basketball game or something
.

A few snowflakes landed on the windshield. He watched them melt.
I’m like a snowflake,
he thought,
here for a moment and then gone. No one will even remember what I looked like.
The young man looked again to his left and noticed that people on the pedestrian walk were starting to run. Police officers hurried among them, shouting instructions and directing people.
So the word’s out,
he thought.
The man in the mask said it might happen but it wouldn’t matter.

Everybody was trying to get off the bridge—except for the police officers, and more of them were arriving, some with jackets that read
BOMB SQUAD
in big yellow letters on the back. He noticed a very tall white man who was running up the road on the other side of the bridge; some other men were with him, including one who appeared to be carrying a rifle. Then he was past them.

The young man was three-fourths of the way across the bridge, the heart of New York City lit up for the Christmas holidays and laid open to him, when he heard the muffled
crump
of the big explosion behind him. He was surprised to feel the tremor even on his side of the bridge. In his side mirror, he saw a ball of orange fire shoot up into the sky followed by a billowing black cloud.
So that’s what
it will look like,
he thought as he reached for the transmitter and turned it on.

He saw that over on the pedestrian bridge people had stopped their flight and turned around to face Brooklyn and the smoke. He glanced up at the school bus. Young faces were pressed to the glass, fear and confusion in their eyes. He wondered why their expressions didn’t bring him any joy; after all, kids like them never had much to do with him when he was growing up in Bed-Stuy, the son of junkies. Instead, he felt sorry for them.

The young man slowed so that the school bus pulled ahead. Behind him an angry, frightened driver leaned on the horn. He then slammed on his brakes and cut the wheel hard to the right. The cars in the left and right lanes behind him couldn’t stop in time and slammed into the truck.

As he felt the impact, the young man hoped that the school bus was far enough ahead.
“Allahu akbar!
” he shouted, and pressed the button.

Karp was standing in shock with Murrow, Fulton, and Blanchett, staring off toward the Brooklyn side of the bridge as the plume of smoke rose in front of them, when there was a flash and then the shock wave and roar of the second explosion behind them. A hot, heavy wind followed, almost knocking him down.

“Oh my God,” Murrow, who had fallen to the ground, cried out. Ten minutes earlier, he’d seen Karp leaving his office in a rush and demanded to follow.
“I’m tired of sitting around waiting for her call. I’ve got to do something or go crazy,”
Murrow had said.

They’d abandoned the car at the traffic jam caused by arriving police officers who were trying to prevent traffic from going onto the bridge. Then they started running to reach the center of the bridge because Karp said he needed to see the view.

Now they all looked back in shock at the smoke and fire, twisted steel, and vehicles strewn about like autumn leaves. Snow mixed with ash and smoke partially obscured the scene, but they could see bodies, and people screaming and running or simply standing in disbelief and shock.

“Jesus, what was that?” Jaxon shouted in Karp’s earpiece.

“Bombs on either end of the Brooklyn Bridge,” Karp said. “I didn’t figure it out in time.”

There was a moment of silence before Jaxon said, “None of us did, Butch. But there will be time for recriminations later. Right now, this isn’t over. We need to catch Kane to prevent this from happening again. Any word? I would think that he’d want to gloat.”

“Not yet. I’ll let you know.”

Blanchett and Fulton started to head in the direction of the second explosion, responding to people in distress. But Karp called them back. “There will be other people to help,” he said. “I need you with me.”

Jaxon’s comment
“this isn’t over”
repeated itself in his mind. He saw people on the far side of the bridge running back toward the middle. And others on both sides getting out of their cars—either abandoning them and running away, or simply standing there. He knew it would take more than a couple of car bombs to knock down the Brooklyn Bridge.
And Kane would know that, too. That’s why he hasn’t called to gloat. He wants to drag it out and set me up for his big moment. Then he’ll call
.

“It’s a trap,” he yelled to his companions. “They want people stuck on the bridge. Clay, get these cops to clear everybody out of here. Ned, Gilbert, stick with me…. Espey, he’s going to call again, so stay tuned.”

Karp ran for the center of the bridge, where he found a lieutenant with the NYPD bomb squad. “I think we haven’t seen the worst of it yet,” he said to the officer.

The lieutenant nodded. “Either way, we’re not taking any chances. I’ve got my people all over and under the bridge now, including guys in boats. Harbor Patrol is going to keep all water traffic away; we’ve got to get the civilians out of here.”

The officer moved off shouting orders, as Karp walked over and got up on the narrow walkway that ran along the rail. He looked downstream over the East River toward New York Harbor. Partly shrouded by the lightly falling snow, the Statue of Liberty lifted her lamp.

What a lovely view from…heaven looks at you from…the
Brooklyn Bridge…. But what am I supposed to see?
A flotilla of holy warriors on yachts shouting Islamic slogans and firing AK-47s into the air as they launched a suicide attack? A hijacked jetliner screaming in low to crash into the bridge?

Nothing looked out of place, except for the police boats that were cruising back and forth, intercepting the barges, ships, and pleasure craft to keep them at a safe distance from the bridge. Farther out in the harbor, he could see a medium-size ship sitting with a tugboat on either side.
Probably bound for the shipyards
, he thought. But no supertankers or Iranian gunboats.

Karp pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open. He hesitated for a moment, and then pressed a speed dial number he’d never used before. The call was answered by a male voice.

“Ivgeny?…Hi, it’s Butch. You’ve heard? Yes, car bombs on the Brooklyn Bridge. I need to ask a big favor.”

Omar Abdullah stood next to Ariadne Stupenagel on the bridge of the ship, watching the twin pillars of smoke rise from either end of the Brooklyn Bridge. “
Allahu akbar
!” he shouted.

“You murderous pieces of shit,” Stupenagel cried, tears streaming down her face. “You must feel real proud of yourself, sneaking up like a coward and killing innocent people, including women and children.”

“Innocent? There are no innocent Americans,” Abdullah sneered. “The United States has been making war on Muslim countries for fifty years. I don’t see those same tears for Muslim children murdered in Palestine. Or in Afghanistan. Or Iraq.”

“Don’t try to wrap murder in the flag of self-defense or retributive justice,” Stupenagel shot back. “No one else
targets
civilians. And if civilians are sometimes killed, you brave warriors who hide in their houses and surround yourselves with their children for shields and propaganda are to blame. You just embarrass yourself when you try to pretend that unarmed civilians are somehow a legitimate military target. You’re no better than any other low-life killer who sneaks up behind someone in the dark. What happened? You used to be a warrior, Omar, but now all you are is a craven criminal.”

Abdullah raised his hand to slap Stupenagel, but she didn’t flinch or try to pull away from the blow. “Go ahead, attacking defenseless women is all you’re good for anymore,” she spat. “My hands are tied behind my back, just the way you like it. Let me go, and I’ll kick your ass. But that’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it, you piece of crap? You’re not about to take on anybody who can fight back.”

The terrorist looked around. The other men were pretending to go about their business or were looking off in another direction, but he knew they were taking it all in. He lowered his hand and turned back toward the bridge, now outlined in lights that twinkled on as the evening darkened. “Prepare for the assault,” he ordered. He reached for a portable radio and pressed the button to speak. “Everyone take your positions. Bomb team, get ready.”

Stupenagel shook her head. “You know what else, Omar,” she said. “You’re just a tool. You and your men are just being used by evil people who could care less about your religion or your politics. Speaking of which, where’s Nadya? I haven’t seen her around, bet she jumped ship like the rat she is.”

“Nadya? You mean Ajmaani,” Abdullah said. “She is a great warrior for Islam.”

“Her name is Nadya Malovo and she works for the Russians, you dolt,” Stupenagel shot back. “Or at least she was. Now she’s working for a multinational power group that’s using you little radical Muslim lemmings to stir things up. Why do you think she keeps turning up for all the little escapades? But you don’t see her hanging around for the big bang, do you?”

“The leaders must survive to continue jihad,” Abdullah replied, noticing that the men had stopped pretending not to listen.

“What a joke.” Stupenagel laughed. “Are you listening? Tell me you didn’t use to be this stupid—that the guy I fell for was just a moron with nice muscles?”

“Shut up!” Abdullah yelled. “I’ve heard enough. You’re a woman, everything you say is twisted.”

“Boy, did you buy the whole spiel. Well, let me tell you something about what happens when you die today. The mullahs got it wrong, just like Christian ministers who tell murderers that they can be forgiven and go to heaven got it wrong.” She smirked. “It doesn’t really
work that way. Where you’re going is reserved for murderers…for people who destroy Allah’s greatest gift…and it’s cold and dark and alone and forever. That’s it. Not even a bit of hellfire to give you warmth or light. Enjoy.”

Abdullah struck Stupenagel in her stomach, knocking the wind out of her. “Shut up, I told you,” he screamed.

The reporter remained bent over as she fought to catch her breath. Then slowly, she straightened up until she was looking Abdullah in the eye. “Is that all you got? Forget me kicking your ass, my boyfriend, who is a better, kinder, gentler man than you ever dreamed of being, could kick your ass blindfolded…and I can kick
his
ass,” she said. “But he’s not going to get the chance because I’m going to kill you myself. I just don’t know how yet.”

Abdullah shoved his face in hers and stood for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fists. He wanted to kill her but knew it would make him look weak in front of the men, attacking a woman whose wrists were bound behind her after she called him out.

With a supreme effort to control his anger, he turned toward the captain and yelled, “Attack!
Allahu akbar. Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!
”

The captain and other men on the bridge joined Abdullah in shouting. “All ahead, full!” the captain ordered the helmsman, who rang up the engine room to crank up the slowly turning propellers.

At the stern of the ship, a young crewman who’d been waiting for the signal ran to the fantail only to slip and fall on the blood that covered the deck. Then he remembered that the Asian had been shot and dumped overboard. He took a large green flag with a golden crescent moon emblazoned on it from a bag he carried and ran it out the flagpole that jutted from the stern.

Up on the bridge, Abdullah smiled as the ship began to move forward. One of the tugs tooted its horn in alarm and the ship-to-ship radio crackled to life. “Please disengage your propellers, you are under way…” The terrorist reached out and flipped the switch that cut the radio.