Blood Covenent, page 24
Jim Harper let his eyes scan the empty seats. The entire NYPD SWAT team was deployed. The black clad officers were quietly standing in the shadows. Harper stretched his arms and got to his feet. He glanced at Harvey’s photographs and looked around.
Yankee Stadium can hold a little more than fifty-seven thousand people in addition to the ushers, vendors, and security people. Forty thousand were expected to attend the game tonight.
Harper stared at the notes he had taken off the Internet that afternoon. He had looked up Yankee Stadium and its environs. Yankee Stadium was a natural focal point for a nuclear blast. The Stadium forms a triangle where the mouth points east over the center field’s back fence. The blast would become an angry gout of flame channeled towards the Bronx. The strongest part of the Stadium gathered behind home plate and angled outwards along the first and third base lines essentially formed a funnel pointing east.
The three decks hovering behind home plate would be the ideal location for the bomb. If he were placing a bomb, Harper decided he would choose the second deck. There would be sufficient steel and concrete to channel the blast forward and additional height to create an air burst effect. The apex of the stadium’s triangle would vaporize, but it would disintegrate precious milliseconds after the initial fury raged against the hostage population. The back blast, if such a thing exists in a nuclear explosion, would travel all the way to the Hudson River and maybe beyond.
Harper spent his professional life figuring out nasty database issues. They were extravagant puzzles that demanded focused concentration. Over the years he had developed a grasp of a variety of problems, and he learned to recognize patterns. There were always patterns in any data set. This specific data set did not consist of tables and rows, but those were simple abstractions of real world objects.
He suddenly concluded he was sitting in the wrong place. The bomb’s locus was across the field, some four hundred feet distant. Adrenaline hit the same time realization dawned.Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! He chided himself.
He started to lift the Motorola handheld to his lips when it crackled, “I think I’ve got something.”
Harper froze. He pulled the binoculars to his eyes.
“Where?” he hissed.
It was the top of the second inning.
“First deck, home plate,” came the answer.
* * * *
Buford set up his command post next to the WABC press box. He was just below the third deck slightly to the left of home plate on the loge level. He flipped a chart on the table next to him and located the approximate section and seating area. “What do you see?”
“Two men. They’re Arabs. Yeah, I can see them better now… these are the guys!” The cop seemed genuinely surprised.
Buford went cold. He stared at the grainy photographs and cursed Feldman. The cowboy had figured it out. He could use more men. He pointed to his second in command and said, “Get Emergency Services on the horn! Right now!”
“They just ducked into the can!” crackled the Motorola handheld.
Buford cursed again. Yankee Stadium had been built in 1923. While the plumbing had been upgraded during one of the many renovations, the fundamental construction was extremely hard concrete. Bullets would literally bounce off the wall.
“Use your flash bangs!” he snapped referring to a phosphorus grenade designed to disorientate people with a dazzling flash and a deafening bang.
The handheld crackled.
“Gun!” came a shriek.
The muffled blast only a shotgun can produce lilted into the evening. The screams started next.
The next shotgun blast was lost in the hysteria. Buford realized his men were paralyzed.
* * * *
Harvey decided it would have been better to be wrong. He saw the two shotgun blasts blossom below the second deck. People were getting out of their seats. He lifted the radio to his lips and said quickly, “You’ve got to take them down! Don’t give them a chance to arm the weapon.”
He was too far away to affect the outcome. The bomb was over two hundred yards away. Crowd panic would choke the stairs and aisles as confused and frightened people sought to get away from the flying buckshot. He pulled the binoculars closer and watched the horror.
* * * *
Larry Wheeler scrambled out of the Yankee dugout followed by two SWAT team officers. People were beginning to spill onto the field. Instead of the popular wave, it began to look like a human splash lapping out of the stands and washing onto the field.
“Does anyone have a shot?” he screamed into his handheld.
The answering silence described the chaos happening above them.
Larry started running to the nearest gate that would lead him to the bomb’s location. The shotgun erupted again from the confines of the restroom’s concrete archway. It was enough to the turn the crowd into a mob. No one cared to allow the police passage and delay the headlong rush away from the flying lead.
Larry boosted himself up the side of the field wall and hauled himself over the heavy blue railing. There was a path through the seats where people were pushing and shoving their way towards aisles and the nearest exit. He started hopping over rows of recently vacated seats. It felt like he was swimming though a viscous liquid. The shooter was too far away and his progress was too slow.
The shotgun emerged from the restroom.
“I’ve got a shot!” announced the handheld.
The rippling thunder of a Heckler & Koch MP5 on full automatic roared from Larry’ right. The bullets skipped across the concrete before thudding into the plastic seat backs. Larry dropped to his knees wondering if anything happened. When he peeked over the top of the plastic seats, he found a woman crumpled sideways. Blood was darkening her blouse.
He hefted himself over the seats and started running up again. “We’ve got a civilian down,” he huffed into the handheld.
The shotgun retreated into the safety of the restroom cavity. Larry still had fifteen rows between him and the back of the first deck. From his left a SWAT officer fought his way through the mob holding a flash bang grenade. He had lost his helmet and blood was rolling down the side of his face.
Larry stopped moving. The shotgun emerged from its hiding place about the same time the flash bang tumbled underhand towards the restroom entrance. The shotgun exploded angrily maybe two or three seconds before the interior of the restroom brightened with a yellow-orange flash and an issued thunder even greater than the shotgun’s decisive bark. The SWAT officer’s forward momentum stopped. His chest seemed to flutter before he slid sideways to the cement. He absorbed as much of the flash bang grenade as did the shooter.
The flash dazzled the second officer. He was bent over, temporarily blinded.
Larry clambered over the last few chairs. He tossed the handheld away. His shirt was plastered to his chest with sweat. The only thing he could hear was his blood running through his ears. He rolled over the last row holding his Smith & Wesson. There was no time to think. He ambled forward.
Every light in the restroom was gone due to the blast. He had no light on his gun, and he could not hear anything. He plodded into the darkened restroom. His limbs were trembling and the heavy body armor pulled him towards the floor. His breath came out in great gasps. In the run up the seats, he had lost control of his breathing. He briefly thought about Cindy, before stepping into the darkness.
He did not make it far before the shotgun’s butt stock came spinning out of the gray darkness.
* * * *
The two officers who had been standing in the dugout with Larry arrived at the restroom entrance moments later. Echoing in their helmet headphones was Buford demanding to know what was happening. There was no time to talk. Buford had briefed his men on the danger posed by the weapon. He intimated these were the same people from Trump Tower. He implied he would not shed any tears over their inevitable demise.
Slung under their H&K barrels were lightweight Sure-Fire flashlights with focused Xenon bulbs. Pressure switches on the pistol grips activated the lights. The balance of terror changed and in those brief, stark moments where the last two terrorists were painted with white light, mercy evaporated as quickly as the baseball game dissolved into pandemonium.
The short controlled bursts caused ghostly flashes to burst from the interior of the room. They knew who Larry was; everyone else was the enemy. They found the second man groggily trying to flip open the case. He had no weapon to brandish and blood was seeping out his ears from his ruptured eardrums. Twelve rounds perforated his chest cavity, entering his back and snapping through his body. Heart, liver, and spleen exploded. He was dead before his head thumped against top of the case.
* * * *
Michael Rehazi drove away from the second freight company. The last bomb was bound for a garage in Rosslyn, Virginia. As he drove back to Brooklyn, he tuned the radio to one of the all-news stations prevalent in American cities. He made sure he kept the car pointing south and away from Yankee Stadium.
Should the second team be successful, a bright flash should light up the sky behind him. He tapped his fingers nervously on the steering wheel. His watch read 8:00 P.M. The bomb should be armed by now.
The first news bulletins started coming over the airwaves five minutes later. He glanced down at the radio, and grimly held onto the wheel. Both teams were gone. He accepted the loss of a third weapon. There were seven bombs left, plus the one in Tel Aviv.Soon, he would show them.
CHAPTER 25
Old Westbury, Long Island, New York
Friday, July 16, 1999
1:00 A.M. EDT
The house rested on two manicured acres. The ground staff’s work was plainly evident from the carefully kept pool house and the blossoming impatiens along the walkways. The grass was freshly clipped, and a stand of huge leafy oaks and bristling pines covered the creek that ran along the north edge of the property. The squirrels, raccoons, and Canada geese made ground sensors unmanageable.
Harper and Harvey melted into the dark surrounding the grounds. The homes along this stretch were built too far apart to provide anything in the way of reasonable scrutiny. Most of the homes rested far back on five-and ten-acre lots with long white fence rails trailing into the night. Trees were large and abundant. The grass covered their footfalls and the diligence of the ground staff removed any sort of disturbance like fallen branches or dried twigs.
The house alarm was hopelessly outdated. Harvey had access to the latest designs and the methods necessary to render them inoperable. Some had codes provided by the manufacturer to override systems. Others required only a screwdriver to jimmy the box and a pair of wire snips. Harvey spent the morning researching the requirements to penetrate this home as they ignored the signs planted on the lawn proclaiming: THIS HOME PROTECTED BY…
The house was a rambling structure that stretched along a half-moon driveway. There were nine rooms besides the bathrooms and kitchen. Harvey figured the office was closest to the main front door in the squared-off section at the end of a long train of rooms. With a quick downward stroke of the crowbar he was using, Harvey snapped the window latch and he let himself into a stately appointed office.
An Old World globe sat in a wooden tripod at one end. A masterful mahogany desk faced towards the French door entrance. Federal and state law books filled several bookcases. An array of diplomas and awards decorated another wall. The polished hardwood floors were covered by equally expensive area rugs, and then there were the extraordinarily expensive crystal figurines in a muted display case built into the side of the wall. The backlighting on the royal blue velvet covering gave the figurines an ice blue cast.
A computer monitor was silent on the built-in desktop. A bloated HP Pavilion box advertisingIntel Inside rested on the floor below. The keyboard and mouse were precisely positioned and seemed rarely touched. The stereo system was in a second set of recessed shelves and panels. It was a series of flat components in matching onyx black plastic cases. Harvey found the power button, bringing to life a blizzard of red and green digital displays. He flipped through the music CDs until he found one he felt appropriate to the situation.
A Hunter-Douglass fan with an array of halogen bulbs provided the lights. Harper carefully removed each bulb and set them on the top of the desk. He pulled the plug on the green-shaded banker’s light, and disabled the two floor lamps designed to light the rest of the room. Finally, he made sure the shutters were pulled closed. He walked across the shrouded French doors and opened them wide.
Harvey inserted the soundtrack forRaiders of the Lost Ark ; the selector switch for the CD player illuminated on the screen before him. He picked the first cut:The Raiders of the Lost Ark Theme and cranked the volume up to halfway. He looked to where Harper stood motionless in one corner of the room. He pushed the PLAY button and retreated to a different corner.
The music started quietly with its introduction of woodwinds and strings before the trumpets announced their victory theme. The two hundred-watt speakers filled the room with the march’s growing volume and texture. They did not wait long.
The lights to the corridor snapped on and the home’s owner scowled, wrapping a robe tight as he padded towards his office wondering what technical marvel had decided to become less marvelous. It occurred to him that it was odd to find both doors leading into his office wide open, but he might have forgotten. He strode forward unperturbed—a man confident in his expensive home security system. His assurance was measured in direct proportion to the dollars invested. The best burglar alarm was a big dog, but dogs take time and love. He had little time and no love. He reached for the room’s light switch only to find it turned nothing on. He started to turn when Harper’s Glock reached out and touched the side of his temple.
Harrison Arnold O’Toole, of O’Toole, Masters and Associates, froze like a piece of the statuary adorning his front lawn. Harvey reached out and switched off the stereo system. The sudden silence rushed back into the room, and the doors to his office closed behind him.
“I’ll say this once,” began Harper softly. “If anyone asks after you, tell them everything is okay and you decided to check on some things at the office. Considering what you do that shouldn’t be very unusual. But never doubt I am quite capable of hurting you and your family.”Another sin to add to his ever-growing list—threatening women and children. Edwards had turned him over to a rogue FBI agent to do the dirty work again.
“I’d listen to what he says,” counseled Harvey. He waved his hand to O’Toole’s desk and ordered, “Have a seat.”
Harper released the pressure on the Glock and walked back into the shadows. O’Toole’s initial fear was beginning to be replaced by anger. “Do you have any idea who I am?” he hissed.
Harvey dropped a file folder on O’Toole’s desk. It landed with aplop! He looked up at O’Toole. “Yeah, I know who you are,” he said with an I-don’t-care attitude. “Sit down, counselor.”
Harrison Arnold O’Toole was not accustomed to being addressed in such a brusque manner. Most people he dealt with on a daily basis cowered in fear of his wrath. He held the power to make and break dozens of lawyers, and so many wanted to become a partner with his firm. So far there was only Masters, and he was thoroughly cowed. O’Toole straightened his robe and strode like a medieval lord to his desk.
“Maybe Shakespeare had it right,” said Harper. “The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.”
O’Toole snapped a glare to the wraith in the corner. “A tired joke.”
“I’d be nice to him,” said Harvey. “I really can’t control him and he can break a great many bones.” Harvey did not appreciate the truth in his words.
O’Toole spun his head back to Harvey. “Threatening me with physical harm. How trite.”
Harvey chuckled. “I’d never threaten you with your health; no, it’s your bank account I’d threaten you with. In fact, I am threatening you with ruin—professional and financial.” He pointed at the desk. “Sit down! Or I’ll have him sit you down.”
O’Toole scowled and settled in his office chair. The intercom chirped to life. Both Harper and Harvey focused on the speaker on the wall. O’Toole looked to the corner and sensed a grave danger lurking there. It reminded him not so much of a man, but a wolf. He had no doubt that a malevolent violence was straining on a frayed leash called civilization. O’Toole assured his wife that everything was okay, but he needed to check some things. It was met with a resigned sigh over the intercom. They had been here before.
Harvey waited for the conversation to end, and assured himself the intercom was turned off.
He plugged the banker’s lamp back into a socket and instructed O’Toole to open the file. “Your firm has power of attorney for the South Boston Commercial Property Corporation.”
O’Toole looked up from the file and said, “So?”
“I want to know where they live.”
O’Toole looked from Harvey to the wolf in the corner. “I can’t tell you that. There is such a thing as attorney client privilege. These are clients of my firm. I will not break a sacred trust—”
Harper eased forward in the shadows and hissed, “I’ll start with the joints in the hand you write with.” Harvey thought Harper was very convincing.
O’Toole tried to move away, but Harvey jammed his foot against the wheels of his office chair. His progress came to a sudden halt. Harper paused, still cloaked in the room’s shadows.
“I don’t think he cares for your sacred trust,” suggested Harvey.
Harper waited a few more moments. “Perhaps you heard about the problem at Trump Tower around the Fourth of July.”
O’Toole stared at the wolf open mouthed. “What has that got to do with anything?”
