Dark Harbor
AUTHOR’S NOTE: The initial drafts of this novel were completed late in 2003. No material changes have been made to the prologue since that time. Any similarity between events in this novel and recent events in Europe (or elsewhere) is purely coincidental. I extend my deepest sympathies to the victims of terrorist attacks and their families throughout the world.
The events and characters in this book are fictitious. Certain real locations and public figures are mentioned, but all other characters and events described in the book are totally imaginary.
Copyright © 2005 by Richard David Hosp
All rights reserved.
Warner Books
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First eBook Edition: June 2005
ISBN: 978-0-446-54981-3
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Contents
For Joanie, Reid, and Samantha
With Love
The following people have provided invaluable advice, support, and substantive comments without which this novel would never have been possible: Joanie Hosp, Richard Hosp, Martha Hosp, Joan McCormick, Gary Mitchell, Ted Hosp, Betsy Hosp, Jeff Atwood, Jen Atwood, Breck Masterson, Elizabeth Masterson, Gus Coldebella, Tony Feeherry, John Englander, and Lynne Sollis.
I would also like to thank:
My partners and colleagues at Goodwin Procter, LLP, who, over the past nine years, have made me a better writer, a better lawyer, and a better person;
Frances Jalet-Miller, whose insight and editorial skill was invaluable in preparing the initial draft of this novel;
Larry, Jamie, Jimmy, Michele, and the entire Warner Books family, whose support I will always appreciate;
Rick Horgan, who did such an exceptional job of editing the near-final draft of the manuscript; much of any success I have with this book can be credited to him;
Lisa Vance, my agent (and the rest of the outstanding crew at the Aaron Priest Literary Agency), whose patience, perseverance, good humor, and hard work have already brought more success than I ever could have hoped for;
Maureen Egen, who took a chance on an unknown lawyer-turned-first-time-novelist and has been a great supporter, friend, and final editor; I am honored to have the opportunity to work with her; and finally,
Aaron Priest, who was the first person “in the business” to read the initial manuscript and agreed to represent me; without his belief and encouragement, none of this would have been possible.
Monday, September 12, 2005
E
D
T
ANNERY
LEANED BACK
into the vinyl seat as the commuter train pulled out of the station. He couldn’t remember ever having been so tired.
“How’s the baby?” Harry Makin asked. The two of them had been riding the train together for three years. They were similar cogs in the great economic engine of corporate America: white, male, early thirties, married, blue suit, white shirt, red tie—just two among more than a thousand hardworking souls on the 7:34 a.m. train winding its way through the suburban sprawl west of Boston.
“She’s great,” Tannery replied. “I just wish she was sleeping better.”
“Yeah, well, get used to it, buddy. If you had any illusions about getting a good night’s sleep anytime in the next three months, you may as well abandon them.”
Tannery smiled. “It’s worth it, though.”
Harry laughed. “Tell me that when she’s sixteen and she’s not coming home at night anymore because she’s dating someone like you.”
“No problem. I’ve already applied for a gun license.”
Harry laughed again and closed his eyes, turning his head toward the window, away from Tannery. Tannery enjoyed riding to work with Harry. He understood that silence could be a commuter’s best friend, and recognized the difference between light banter and incessant chatter.
The two men sat quietly next to each other as the train gathered speed. That particular day, a respectful silence seemed appropriate. It had been exactly four years and a day since the world had changed so drastically.
They’d both known several people who perished in the attack on the World Trade Center. The financial community was small and inbred, and the ripples that spread across their industry in the wake of the loss were still deeply felt.
“I thought you were going to take the day off,” Harry commented after a while, his eyes still closed. Tannery’s company allowed its employees to take September 11 as a floating holiday in memory of the great tragedy. Because the eleventh fell on Sunday, they had been given the option of taking the Monday off in remembrance of the dark anniversary.
“Nah, I’ve got too much going on. I couldn’t.” That wasn’t exactly true. The baby was only two weeks old, and Tannery hadn’t logged any vacation time yet. He could have skipped work that day. But the markets were down, and he was young and ambitious; he was unwilling to give ground to his competitors. Besides, Amy seemed to be doing great with the baby, and he was planning on taking a week off in the beginning of October—the most beautiful time of year in New England.
Go
, Amy had told him,
and then you can really relax when we’re on vacation.
So he’d gone.
Harry grunted his understanding and sank deeper into his seat, desperate to augment what little sleep he got at home contending with two children of his own. There just never seemed to be enough time in the day.
Sitting on the train, a part of Ed Tannery knew he’d made a mistake. The baby would never be this young again, and he would never get this time back. At the same time, he had responsibilities now. He had to make sure he provided for his young family.
He took a photograph out of his jacket pocket and held it up. Amy stared out at him from the delivery room, sweaty and tired, but radiant. In her arms lay their newborn baby, only minutes old, still sticky and red and grumpy. Tannery put the picture back into his breast pocket and patted his chest. He closed his eyes as a tired smile spread across his face. He’d have a lifetime with them, he thought.
Three rows ahead of Ed Tannery, Alhari Al Sadria sat with his eyes glued to the window, following the train’s path parallel to the highway.
He had short, neatly trimmed black hair, a thin mustache, and an olive complexion. Most people assumed he was Spanish, or perhaps Greek. In fact, Sadria had been born and raised in Tunisia on the shores near the ancient city of Carthage. As a boy, he’d played in the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean and watched the barbarians from Italy, France, and America claim the small African nation street by street, building by building, and family by family. It was there that he came under the influence of Nisar Ben Mohammad Namur, an outspoken mullah who shared Sadria’s contempt for Westerners. The great teacher had taken Sadria’s adolescent disenchantment and molded it with care into a hatred that burned with blind passion.
In 1996, Sadria had arrived in the United States as a twenty-year-old college student, ready to study computer science at Boston University. He graduated near the top of his class and earned a spot in a master’s program at MIT. Upon receiving his degree, he turned down doctoral program offers from several top universities, choosing instead to enter the private sector. A large consulting company hired him and expedited the visa paperwork so he could stay in the country. In the two years since, he’d ridden this same train every morning. Never again, he knew.
The call had come two weeks before. To anyone eavesdropping, the conversation with his old friend in Tunisia would have sounded innocent enough. They spoke of Sadria’s family and the goings-on in his old seaside town on the Mediterranean. They talked about the top African and European football stars and the latest matches. They laughed about the times they’d enjoyed when they were boys, and about the future. The conversation was so relaxed and natural that Sadria almost missed the signal.
“We’re having an anniversary party,” his friend said.
“Really?” Sadria’s breath caught in his chest.
“Yes, and we’d like you to join us.”
Sadria couldn’t believe it. He’d waited so long to hear such instructions that he’d ceased to believe they’d ever come. His manufactured life in the United States had become his reality. He found himself unable to talk, and the pause on the phone was noticeable.
“Do you think you’ll be able to make it?” His friend’s voice was still nonchalant, but Sadria could feel the urgency from half a world away. Buoyed by the importance of his task, Sadria found his voice.
“Of course, my brother. I’m already counting the moments until we can embrace each other again around the warmth of the desert fire. I know it will be soon.” With that, Sadria’s course was set.
Now the culmination of nine years of waiting and planning and thinking was at hand. Sadria looked up toward the front of the car at the young man in the bright blue uniform. He couldn’t be more than twenty years old, and was of no concern. He was a member of the newly formed Massachusetts Transportation Safety Commission Guard Unit, which had been thrown together in haste when the American federal government blindly put up billions of dollars for states to use in developing homeland defense strategies. Fearful of losing out on the funding, politicians had fallen over one another to come up with pork-barrel schemes for “improved security.” The Guard Unit officers assigned to the transit rails were, Sadria knew, nothing more than window dressing.
At the same time, the security wizards and political hacks had failed to recognize the real weaknesses in transport security. As a result, it had been child’s play for Sadria to sneak into the rail yard at night and attach bundles of explosives to the bottom of each of the train’s twelve cars. The hole he’d cut in the simple chain-link fence would be discovered later in the day, and the shouting and finger-pointing would begin. But by then it would be too late.
The explosives were set on a two-second delayed detonation sequence, running from the back car to the front, where he was. In his pocket he held the detonator that would start the chain reaction. He was amazed that his palm wasn’t sweaty, and he took that as a sign from Allah that his cause was just and he would be rewarded. He found peace in his belief that he would indeed be reunited with his old friend soon.
Sadria looked out the window again. The train had reached its top speed and was headed toward a sharp turn near Newton Corner. If his calculations were correct, each car would explode and separate in sequence, slipping the rails in a fury. Death would not be confined to the train itself. It would be carried off the tracks by each railcar, enveloping pedestrians, passing cars, and nearby buildings. It would be glorious.
As the train entered the curve, Sadria took a deep breath and said a silent prayer. Then he flipped the switch.
At first he thought there’d been a malfunction, and he feared he had failed his brothers at his most important moment. He lamented that he wouldn’t be able to regain the respect of the movement, and that his place in heaven was no longer certain. He was deep in despair when he heard the first explosion. It was distant, coming from the rear of the train. Two seconds later there was another, closer this time. Then another, and another. His heart was filled with joy as the explosions became deafening. The eleventh explosion rocked the car just behind his, and he was no longer able to contain his excitement.
“Allahu Akhbar!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. He was barely able to get the words out before the final explosion ripped through the train’s front car, the fireball burning straight through his clothes and melting the flesh from his face, reducing it to an eternal grimace.
Three rows behind, Ed Tannery had only a moment to grasp one final time at his jacket pocket to feel the outlines of the photograph that held the image of his wife and their infant daughter.
