Bad Faith bkamc-24 Read online

  Purchasing the tickets, the pair proceeded to the dock, where they discovered that they weren’t the first arrivals. A young couple was first in line, acting like newlyweds with shameful public displays of affection, kissing and hugging as though no one else was near. The man was lean and carried himself like an athlete, while the young woman was tan, pretty-though her nose was a bit prominent by Western standards, Ghilzai knew-and green-eyed. Other than giving friendly nods when Ghilzai and Akhund walked up to stand behind them, the couple paid them little attention. When they weren’t kissing, they laughed and joked without a care in the world, and it pleased Ghilzai, who had never had a woman’s love, to know that their day would end tragically.

  Ghilzai pretended not to notice when Ajmaani got in the line just in front of a middle-aged couple. He quickly studied the pair, looking for signs of danger. The man was a fit, square-jawed type with close-cropped gray hair-the sort Ghilzai disdainfully thought of as a wealthy businessman who spent too much time at the gym and barber; his woman was tall, buxom, brunette, brown-eyed, and, the terrorist conceded, a match for Ajmaani in beauty. Although they were more discreet than the young couple standing next to him, they were obviously in love from the way they looked at each other and their hands occasionally met. But they didn’t seem particularly interested in Ajmaani, who caught his eye and gave him a slight nod.

  At last, the guard at the entrance announced that the ferry would begin loading. Entering a large white tent, passengers were told to remove belts, shoes, coins, and anything else metallic, as well as all cameras and electronic devices, and place them in a basket to be viewed by security personnel. Then passengers had to pass through metal detectors, all part of the fallout from the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Center.

  Ghilzai and Akhund did as requested, knowing they had nothing to worry about-everything they needed was already on board the ferry, placed there by a member of their team who’d gained employment years before with the company that ran the ferries.

  As the pair walked aboard the boat, they were greeted by an Asian-looking man who, according to a tag on his lapel, was named Tran and was a volunteer guide. “Do you have any questions about where to go for the best views?” he asked pleasantly.

  “No,” Akhund answered curtly.

  Ghilzai noted with alarm that his partner was sweating profusely and looking around nervously. “No thank you,” he added politely, and then pointed toward the stairs leading to an observation deck. “Let’s go up there.”

  After he’d separated Akhund from the volunteer and anyone else who might overhear, Ghilzai whispered through clenched teeth. “Relax. You are beginning to act suspiciously. The plan is going according to schedule; this will be a great day for Allah and all of us. Do not bring attention to us.”

  Akhund swallowed hard and nodded. “I’m okay,” he said. “Just some nerves and excitement.”

  “Do not let either interfere with your duty to Allah and your comrades,” Ghilzai warned him.

  Up on the observation deck in the open air, Akhund seemed to settle down and Ghilzai actually enjoyed the ride out to Ellis Island, his third trip in four weeks. However, what pleased him wasn’t quite the same as what engaged the tourists around him, who pointed and laughed and took numerous photos of the Manhattan skyline, the Statue of Liberty, and themselves. What lifted his heart was looking at the empty space where he knew the WTC Twin Towers had once stood. It also pleased him to know that while the morning’s events wouldn’t cause as many deaths as that attack, they would be spectacular in their own right. After all, terrorism wasn’t so much about how many deaths resulted-though large numbers were good for publicity; it was the way in which the infidels died, suddenly and in a place they considered safe.

  Arriving at Ellis Island, Ghilzai was surprised to see another ferry tied up at an adjoining dock. A number of men and women in ferry-company uniforms bustled about on board the other boat but no tourists were in sight. “I thought we were the first ferry this morning,” he said to the volunteer, Tran, as they were departing to view the American Family Immigration History Center.

  “Engine trouble last night,” Tran explained. “They had to send another ferry to pick up the passengers. They should have it up and running again soon.”

  As though on cue, the other ferry’s engines suddenly roared to life. “See,” Tran said with a smile. “Those guys are good.”

  Leaving the boat, Ghilzai and Akhund wandered through the buildings where, from the early to mid-twentieth century, more than twenty-five million immigrants were processed and granted legal entrance to the United States. The two looked at the photographs of immigrants on the walls and read the inscriptions, feigning great interest in the hopes and dreams of the people looking back at them from long ago. But as soon as they dared without arousing suspicion, they got back in line to reboard the ferry for the trip to Liberty Island and the Statue of Liberty.

  Waiting in line, Ghilzai noted that the young couple he’d been behind in line were nowhere to be seen. He knew from his previous trips that it was not unusual; there was no requirement to ride the same boat and sometimes tourists tended to linger on Ellis Island and take a later ferry to Liberty Island. Their lucky day, he thought regretfully, a gift of their lives to them from Allah.

  Nor did he see Ajmaani. But he also knew that was according to plan, as she was going to wait until they’d commandeered the boat, just in case there was trouble and they needed backup from an unexpected source.

  As the engines roared and the crew prepared to cast off, the terrorist took a deep breath and tapped his partner on the back. “It is time,” he said as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and called the number he’d reached earlier that morning. “We’re moving,” he said, and hung up again.

  Walking over to the railing, Ghilzai glanced around and, seeing that no one was paying attention to him, dropped the phone overboard as he’d been instructed by Ajmaani. “There is no need to call again if you carry out the rest of your mission,” she’d said the night before at their last meeting. “If you’re caught before you can accomplish your task, I don’t want the American agents to have the other phone number to locate your comrades.”

  Being out of contact with the rest of the team troubled Ghilzai. He understood security measures and no one was ever quite sure about the capabilities of American counterterrorism agencies, but this seemed extreme. Still, Ajmaani had a reputation for dealing forcefully and fatally with anyone who questioned her instructions, and he wasn’t going to risk it.

  With the cell phone swirling down into the depths of New York Harbor, Ghilzai and Akhund sauntered in the direction of the pilothouse as the ferry’s engines revved and the boat lurched. The plan was to now take control of the vessel, which would then be met in the waters just off Liberty Island by the rest of the team in a speedboat. The others would board, killing anyone who resisted, and then prepare to turn back any attempt to retake the boat while they negotiated with the authorities. Of course, the negotiations were just a way to stall for time and make sure the American media had been alerted so that when the ferry-with the Statue of Liberty in the background-was blown up with all on board, the moment would be caught for posterity and the glory of Allah.

  It had been more than ten years since the images of the collapsing WTC buildings had been etched into the minds and psyches of Americans and the West. How many times had those images been shown? Thousands? Tens of thousands? Every time there was a story about terrorism, there was a mention of al-Qaeda. Every anniversary and every event related to 9/11 received attention. He was convinced that the images of an exploding tourist ferry with that green monstrosity of a statue behind it would get similar billing and reach audiences around the world for another ten years. At least ten, he thought to himself with a smile.

  “The American media ought to pay us for giving them such great videos for their newscasts,” one of the other jihadists had joked at their last meeting.

  If they knew about th
is, they probably would have, Ghilzai thought. Nothing is sacred to the media in this country, not even images of slaughter. They are our best propaganda tool, and it doesn’t cost us anything more than our lives.

  Ghilzai and Akhund reached the pilothouse deck without being challenged. They stopped beneath a net that held a dozen orange life preservers and reached up to remove three, which had been marked with a black X. Instead of lightweight vests meant to save people in water, these were heavy-the first two, which they quickly put on, were filled with C4 explosives and ball bearings, all connected to a detonator. All they had to do was yank the cord hanging from the front of the vest and death and mayhem would result. Inside the third vest were two Glock nine-millimeter handguns-not a lot of firepower, but enough to overcome an unarmed crew.

  With the vests on and the guns in their hands, they ran for the pilothouse, where they encountered a thick-shouldered, bronze-colored man wearing a ferry employee shirt. “Hey, you’re not supposed to be here,” the man complained.

  Ghilzai pointed his gun at the employee’s head. “Open the door,” he said, nodding at the pilothouse entrance.

  The man held up his hands and cried out in terror. “Okay, okay, please don’t shoot.” He fumbled with a set of keys attached to a chain on his belt. He found the key he was looking for and unlocked the door, then stepped to the side and cowered.

  Ghilzai pushed past the employee and jumped into the room. “Allahu akbar!” he exclaimed, holding up his gun. “Nobody move or everyone dies!”

  Akhund followed him, shouting in a high-pitched voice, “Death to America!”

  2

  Gilbert Murrow held up the piece of paper. “I found this taped to your building’s entrance. It’s addressed to you and says, ‘The fear of the Lord adds length to life, but the years of the wicked are cut short.’”

  The little pear-shaped man in the vest and bow tie put the paper down and folded his pudgy hands on his round belly. He was sitting on the couch in the Crosby Street loft Roger “Butch” Karp shared with his wife, Marlene Ciampi, and their children, looking across the living room at the kitchen, where his hosts stood next to each other, leaning back against the granite-topped island. “If that’s not a threat,” he said, scrunching his nose to move his round, wire-rimmed glasses back into place, “I don’t know what is.”

  “It’s Proverbs 10:27,” answered Marlene, an attractive and petite, sexually appealing woman. She glanced up at her six-foot-five husband with a smile and shrugged. “Catholic school upbringing.”

  Karp chuckled. “Glad Sacred Heart High School was good for something, as it appears the nuns’ other influences may have waned over the years,” he said, giving his wife a wink.

  “You complaining?” Marlene asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Absolutely not! Merely stating the obvious,” Karp replied, and they both laughed. They’d been married since they were young ADAs in the office of legendary DA Francis Garrahy, and while Marlene’s face had its share of care and smile lines, and vanguards of gray had crept into the tight curls of her dark hair, he still considered her the most beautiful woman in the world, as well as his best friend.

  “Very funny, you two,” Murrow said with a sigh. “But I’m serious, and now they apparently know where you live. Here’s another one that came to the office: ‘Whatever they plot against the Lord He will bring to an end; trouble will not come a second time.’ That’s Nahum 1:9, by the way.”

  “Really? I’m impressed,” Marlene said. “I didn’t know that you were a biblical scholar, Gilbert.”

  “I’m not,” Murrow retorted. “I Googled it.” He shook his head. “Look, I know you two think you’re immortal, but these people are nuts, and one of them just might go off. That snake-oil salesman, the so-called Reverend C. G. Westlund, has his demented disciples convinced that you’re the anti-Christ, Butch.”

  Karp stopped smiling as he looked at the worried face of his friend and colleague, who’d shown up unexpectedly to walk with his boss to the Criminal Courts Building at 10 °Centre Street for the Monday morning bureau chiefs meeting. As the district attorney of New York County, which encompassed the island of Manhattan, Karp had become the lightning rod for Westlund and his followers after the District Attorney’s Office charged David and Nonie Ellis with reckless manslaughter in the death that past November of their ten-year-old son, Micah. It hadn’t alleviated the situation when the DAO also charged Westlund and one of his henchmen with a misdemeanor for “obstructing a paramedic from the performance of his duty” outside the Ellises’ apartment building, which had resulted in a sentence of sixty days in the Tombs and a fine of a thousand dollars for the preacher and his follower.

  As anticipated, the indictment against the Ellises ignited a firestorm of controversy between the proponents of “faith healing” and those, such as Karp himself, who believed that parents had a legal duty to provide “an accepted standard of care” for sick children. Lined up against Karp and the DAO were the religious zealots, who labeled the charges “a direct affront to the will of God,” and also so-called Constitutionalists, who railed about the government infringing on parents’ rights under the First Amendment’s freedom-of-religion protections. However, the debate wasn’t confined to the DAO versus the far end of the political-religious cult spectrum; it had also become a hot topic for newspaper editorials, as well as television and radio talk shows.

  Although Karp didn’t pay much attention to the ever-fluctuating pulse of public opinion, Murrow, his adminstrative assistant, kept him updated on the general tenor of call-in radio shows, as well as letters to the editors of newspapers. The gentler remarks were that the district attorney was a heartless wretch who needed to be run out of office; some simply suggested that God should remove him for his transgressions.

  Even those who agreed that Micah’s parents should have sought medical attention for their son were often convinced that the DAO was overreaching in accusing the Ellises of reckless manslaughter. Many of them argued that the “poor parents had suffered enough” and that attempting to convict them and send them to prison was cruel and unnecessary.

  After one such briefing in his office by Murrow, Karp had shaken his head. “These people have forgotten that this isn’t about religion or the Constitution, it’s about a ten-year-old boy who suffered and died because his parents didn’t take him to a doctor,” he’d said. “It’s about a dead child and parental responsibilities, not a theoretical debate.”

  Given the controversy, Karp would have preferred to try the Ellises himself. It was the sort of case that to him went to the heart of the justice system. He also understood that his taking the lead in trying cases set an example for the attorneys who worked for him; it demonstrated that he believed, as had his mentor, Francis Garrahy, that the New York DAO should pursue cases based on the rule of law-not popular opinion or political expediency-and that they were to keep foremost in their minds that before presenting a case to the grand jury they must have factual evidence of the guilt of the accused and legally admissible evidence to convict beyond a reasonable doubt.

  However, he’d had another trial to prepare for and prosecute, which precluded his day-to-day direct involvement in the Ellis case, but he still kept vigilant oversight. He’d approved assigning Kenny Katz-one of his proteges in the Homicide Bureau, who’d sat second chair with him on several high-profile cases-as lead counsel, with an old colleague, Ray Guma, sitting in as the supervisorial seasoned mentor.

  With jury selection for the trial starting in a little more than a week, Karp had been satisfied with Katz’s preparations under Guma’s watchful eye. The young man had avoided getting caught up in the hype surrounding a high-profile case and approached it professionally, as he would any other homicide case-with thorough preparation. And at the meeting this morning, he would be presenting his case to the bureau chiefs and various other assistant district attorneys to be dissected.

  Katz had avoided any appearances in the media, directing all inquiries to
Murrow, who’d mostly relied on the old “we won’t be trying this case in the press” non-comment. But Murrow had grown increasingly alarmed at the vitriol of those who thought that the Ellises should not have been charged and that Karp was the devil incarnate. When Murrow called that morning to say he was dropping by “to talk,” Karp knew it was because his friend was worried about his safety.

  “It’s a lot of rhetoric, Gilbert,” Karp said. “If I responded to every threat, we’d never get anything done. Clay is on it and is taking the usual precautions, which as you know with him means Secret Service-type surveillance.”

  Murrow sighed. Although trained as a lawyer and originally hired as an assistant district attorney, his duties now were to run the daily administrative operations of the office, including keeping Karp’s schedule and acting as his mouthpiece with the media. His “other” job was as Karp’s political adviser, which, while not a thankless task-as the boss frequently expressed his appreciation-was a difficult one to juggle since Karp hated that part of his job. But Murrow did his best to dance between his employer’s distaste for politics and the exigencies of his having to run for office every four years.

  When the decision was made to charge the Ellises, Murrow shook his head, knowing what was to come. But he knew better than to argue judicial philosophy with his apolitical, merit-driven boss, so after glumly pointing out what to expect and from which corners, he accepted the fact that the case would go forward. Then he’d done his best to defend the DAO when the press came calling for comment, or when unfavorable and unfair editorials and “talking head” opinions came out, which again was no easy task as Karp could not have cared less what the media thought.