Myth Man (8 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Y
OUR MOVE,” MYTH MAN hissed across a chessboard to his silent partner. Recently, he thought about ceasing dialogue with his comatose housemate, as it reminded him of Norman Bates conversing with his dead mother.

Myth Man was no psycho. He was quite sane, he assured himself. His murders were not dictated from the dead but designed to release religion’s lock on humanity. History was with him, he told himself.

Finally, unlike Mr. Bates, Myth Man conversed with a living entity. Was this no different than talking to a dog? He supposed it was. A dog would respond in some fashion. Maybe a cat? They were glorified stuffed animals, he thought. Whatever. He decided that he enjoyed it. No backtalk, and it broke the monotony.

While rummaging through the house, he found a computerized chessboard. Had to have been the old man’s, he figured. He doubted the freeloading paranoid had the wherewithal to understand the simple complexities of chess. This dummy was not astute enough for the board game Stratego. Tic-tac-toe was more likely his speed.

A master planner, such as himself, of course, appreciated and excelled on the checkered battlefield. But even he knew his limits. The game showed his vulnerabilities.

He pressed a button and awaited his fate. The screen flashed, and a buzzer rang in taunting fashion. He bowed his head in defeat. After conquering the other settings, he’d yet to win on the master level. He was good, but he could be beaten. That is why Dominick Presto concerned him.

He took the loss well. Recent tidings had pleased him. He was advised that Presto had been marginalized. There was also the chance Presto might quit being handcuffed by his own police department.
A man of his intelligence, like me
, he assumed,
must have pride in his work. Bright minds think alike.

At least the morning’s headlines delighted him. He smiled as he traveled the disinformation highway. All the regional papers led with the same story. He almost died and went to heaven (metaphorically speaking, of course, as there was no holy Shangri-la) when he found the story on CNN’s home page.

Holy War
screamed two of New York’s more sensational dailies. A few were more subdued, which annoyed him, but the details were well chronicled, nonetheless—all by a very high-level source.

Both the cleric’s and priest’s deaths were provided in their goriest detail. It was reported that the police successfully suppressed the details of the cleric’s death and wanted to squelch the connection to the recent slaying in St. Patrick’s. The source claimed that police feared it was some new form of terrorism or a modern-day crusade. It was reported that the top theories were that a fervent Christian assassinated the cleric and then a Muslim retaliated by killing the priest or that a Shiite Muslim killed the Sunni cleric and framed the Catholics.

The source said he felt it was his duty to tell the truth, even if it meant potentially angering a few religious zealots.

Myth Man selected a Web site from his favorites list. The monitor screen changed. Centered was a giant white cross. Oak trees were scattered in the foreground. Poking out from the trunks was sometimes an arm, leg, or head but always a pointed rifle.

Welcome to the New York chapter of the Christ’s Crusaders.

The New York branch was one of the nation’s smallest. Most members were located upstate in small hick towns where a double-sized trailer was considered luxury. Also sprinkled in the mix were doctors, teachers, law enforcement officials, and those with other everyday occupations. One guy claimed he was the mayor of a town. All of them remained anonymous but claimed they were ready to report to duty when the time called.

Membership was not monetary but messianic. You had to pass a test on the New Testament. Myth Man knew the lies and passed their sophomore Sunday school Internet test.

He had listed NYPD detective as his occupation.

He chose the message board link and a sign-on box appeared. He keyed in his password. He bypassed topics like Preparing for Armageddon, How to Arm Yourself with NY’s Draconian Gun Laws, and Personal Dealings with Christ and instead opted for the Lord’s Live Forum. At that moment, seventeen members were signed on, a record number. Normally, the count was single digits.

He smiled. Messages scrolled up the screen like an outgoing wave. Everyone was fired up about the recent news. Some said it was a war; some said it was a sign; all declared themselves ready no matter the calling.

Most of Christ’s Crusaders were fundamentalists who tended to dislike Catholics, something Myth Man thought about exploiting later. Yet, when it came to a possible conflict between Islam and Christianity, they apparently forgot their differences with the Vatican.

Myth Man typed.

Disciple of the Dawn:
As you know, I’m a detective, and I have the goods on the St. Patrick’s case.

Angel of No Mercy:
There you are. Tell us. We need to know.

Sister Christian:
Disciple, I fear the worst, although the end will be glorious. I just prayed over my sleeping children. Help us clarify.

Lord’s Trumpet:
Hush everyone. Let him talk.

Lord’s Trumpet:
I meant write, not talk. Sorry. ☺

Idiots. One thing Myth Man gleaned preparing for his mission was how stupid the rank and file were. They made him feel superior. It was tough being so clandestinely clever in this clueless culture of ours, but not for long. They would learn his wisdom.

Disciple of the Dawn:
The politically correct are trying to bury the truth. They’re afraid that if the public knows, there may be acts of violence committed against honest, law-abiding Muslims, if there is such a thing.

Trumpet of God:
You got that right, brother! Let’s all wait until he’s finished before we ask questions. Please continue.

In this orchestra of outcasts, Trumpet was brass and out of tune. The man had turrets on the keyboard frets. Myth Man considered tracking down the asshole when it was all over.

Disciple of the Dawn:
The suspect only used a phony Irish accent when he spoke to the guards and gained access to the sacristy. The other witnesses who positively identified the suspect swear the accent was mideastern. Then there’s the quote from a Qur’an that was left behind. This we know. The question is who killed the cleric? I say who cares, but it certainly wasn’t a Catholic who overdosed on Hail Marys. The evidence does not suggest this was the work of a Christian. Here’s what the police and the complicit media are not telling you: The man who killed that Muslim also had a mideastern accent. I can tell you all of this because I know a detective on the case. He’s considered the best. You may have seen his name in the papers, Dom Presto? Anyway, trust me, he knows the deal, but they are trying to keep him quiet. He’s very angry and confided in me.

Myth man stopped to send the message. These nitwits needed small bites to digest. He also required a sip of water

Trumpet of God:
Hello? Disciple? What happened?

Trumpet of God:
Don’t leave us hanging. Where are you?

It was maybe a ten second timeout, but Trumpet had to blow his horn. Yes. When the murder spree ended, Trumpet’s epitaph would be Taps.

Disciple of the Dawn:
Patience, brother. My daughter had a math question.

Trumpet of God:
Accept my apologies. A child is a gift from God. Continue.

Total tool
.

Disciple of the Dawn:
I’m quite blessed. So, my source, Presto, tells me there are two theories. These Muslims have different sects like we do in Christianity, and like us, have had wars. The cleric was considered moderate, by their standards, and perhaps some fundamentalist nut job whacked him. Then, either the same guy extended his reach to the Catholics, or some follower of the dead cleric sought revenge on a Christian knowing a Bible had been left behind. That is the more popular theory. The other possibility is this is a trick by the Jews. You know those Jews. They’re sneaky. They want us Christians involved in their conflict when, in the end, they shall both perish before He returns. Those mideasterners are all the same sort. The Sephardic Jews can pass as Arab, so maybe this was a Mossad thing or something. Who knows? But this contact, Dominick Presto, said it is one or the other. Obviously, there’s forensics and much more evidence that tie it together, but the police and politicians are afraid. You know, they can only bash us Christians. Presto said that the lead detective, Frank Danko, and the mayor are trying to squelch this. It is an outrage. Please leave my friend’s name out of it, but you need to get the word out about this. I apologize, but I must go as I have to read my lil’ angel’s report. I will be back soon. God bless!!!

This was a blast. Myth Man was happy. Who said work couldn’t be fun? He loved getting the religious digs in. Christ’s Crusaders—ha, what a bunch of misfits.

Trumpet of God:
Thx for the scoop, buddy. I will be sitting here waiting for your update. I do appreciate …

He exited that Web site and then clicked the favorites menu again. The Muslims and Jews had their fundamentalist fanatics as well. Next up was the Men of Mahdi. He’d get to the Jews later. There was more mischief to spread.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A
HMED SHAZIQ PICKED UP his pace and tried to gauge how many of them were in pursuit. His ears tried to pick up the sound of their feet. Three was his guess, but when he walked past a loitering group of taunting teenagers, there had been at least six. In a panic, he also thought he heard car doors shut and the sound of a car kick over.

He was confident he could out run the three on foot. Ahmed never smoked, and at age thirty-seven, he was still in excellent shape. He had only jogged two of his planned twelve miles, so he knew he had a lot left in the tank. But even an experienced marathon runner was not going to evade the speed of an automobile, especially in the open expanse he now traveled.

Headlights. Tires screeched. “There he is. Get him!”

A beat up Pontiac four-door cut in from the right. Ahmed broke left toward the East River when his foot caught a crack in the pavement. His arms flailed in front of him as he smashed down on the cement. He heard jubilant voices as he fought off the pain and tried to rise but fell when an object slammed into his back.

“Strike,” a voice heralded. “Nice fastball, Vinny.”

“Jerk,” a deep voice grumbled acerbically. “Don’t use names. Now I may have to kill you along with this sand-nigger.”

“Oops. Sorry, Vin.”

Ahmed was scared. He had feared backlash when the priest was murdered in St. Patrick’s and a Qur’an had been left behind. He’d suffered through the stigma that stained Muslims after September 11, 2001. He considered moving his wife and three children to Canada where a relative of his relocated, but America had been good to him. He performed selective surgery at New York Community Hospital and was able to afford a nice home in Mills Basin. He enjoyed his routine, his life. His children excelled in school. There was much to be proud of. As the group approached, he prayed to Allah that he would see his family again.

Six boys approached, spaced apart like on oncoming net. Ahmed clasped his hands and pleaded. “Please, I beg you.”

They laughed. “Hey, Bin Laden,” spat the one named Vinny, as he wielded a large metal object. A thick gold chain hung from his meaty neck and rested in a heavy patch of fur exposed above a white tank top. “See this,” he said holding a large metallic tool. “This is my sand-nigger-be-good wrench.” More laughter cascaded down on Ahmed.

He implored, “I’m a good American. I’m a doctor and worked around the clock after the towers fell. I love this country. You must believe me.”

“Yeah,” a voice mocked from the side. “Well, this country doesn’t love you. Killing priests now? We’ve had enough.”

His friends grunted, “Yeah.”

Ahmed did not think he could talk his way out of it, but he tried. “I save lives, not take them. I understand your anger, but it’s misplaced. I’m a good person with a beautiful family.”

“That’s all we need,” cursed Vinny, “more of you camels humping and breeding over here. Go back to your deserts.”

Ahmed’s gaze swept over his attackers. He saw it in their eyes—the anger. There was no getting around it. He hoped his prayers were answered.

“Let’s get it over with,” he heard. Then the blows reigned down.

*****

“Can’t you do something?” the man whined from the back seat. “I don’t have all day.”

“We’re stuck, sir.” Abdus Ghaffar commented, pointing out the obvious.

“On purpose, I bet,” scorned the man. “Probably trying to jack up the meter.”

Abdus shook his head. There was no point arguing. As is customary, he asked the guy which route he preferred, the FDR or avenues to get downtown. The man dismissively grunted, “Whatever.”

They started down Second Avenue, and he complained about all the traffic lights. Ahmed then turned left and headed for the FDR, which should have been clear at this late hour. As soon as they ascended the ramp, a wall of cars greeted them. Flashing lights reflected off the buildings, guard railings and cars. An obvious police action.

Ahmed had been driving the streets of New York City for nearly seven years. The job may have been monotonous, but it also taught him something. When you are faced with a situation that is beyond your control, don’t make matters worse expelling unnecessary energy. No sense getting hot and bothered.

Tonight was different. He was not able to harness that patience. Earlier he’d heard things from a friend that fueled a restless anger. His friend had a source in the highest rankings of the NYPD. He knew the lead detective, Dominick Presto. Apparently, the episode at St. Patrick’s was a Jewish plot. Both the cleric’s and the priest’s murders had been staged to breed conflict between the two religions. Even though the police knew this, the Jews control everything. There is no way a Jewish mayor would allow that story to get out.

The Imam at his mosque consistently advocated restraint and peace when Muslims were attacked. His friend’s feelings, however, were starting to resonate.
For how long must we be stereotyped due to the sins of a few? It was time to be proud of whom we are instead of traveling in small circles, ostracized. Allah is God, and Mohammad is his prophet. We must not let these Jews try and shame us.

When Abdus saw the man on the street with his arm in the air, he almost passed when he saw the yarmulke on his head. But the night had been slow, and he needed the money. The guy had a nice suit and probably was a wealthy man. Maybe there would be a friendly tip at the end.

Now gridlocked, foot fully suppressing the break, he knew the tip was fictional history.

“Uh hum,” the passenger said with sarcastic disdain. “Hey, pal, I appreciate the waterfront scenic route, but I can see it well enough from my high-rise apartment. I need to be there in fifteen minutes. Make it happen,” he badgered.

“Looks like an accident ahead,” observed Abdus. “I’ll try and get off, sir, but as you can see, that’s everyone’s plan.”

“Fifteen minutes,” was the man’s rebuttal.

Abdus gripped the steering wheel and strained to maintain his composure. He tried to forget he had a passenger and waited to get off the parkway. He was just getting to the exit when the man informed him that fifteen minutes had passed.

“Sorry, sir.”

“Yeah. Well, with the meter rising like my temperature, you can forget any tip. If I had known it was going to take this long, I would have chartered a helicopter. It’s going to wind up costing about the same anyway,” he derided.

Abdus focused on self-control, but the traffic and comments eroded his will. His friend’s comments replayed in his mind.
Fuck this rich Jew
, he thought.
Meddling, trying to frame Islam.

The light ahead turned red, and Abdus slammed on the break.
Whack
! Abdus looked up to the rearview as the man retracted his hand from the plastic partition. His face bulged in fury.

The passenger yelled. “Are you fucking kidding me? You could have made that light,” he snapped. “I’m taking your name and number and filing a complaint. You messed with the wrong guy,” the passenger warned.

An internal switch fired. Abdus padded his jacket and felt the knife. Too many cabbies had been mugged and killed. They could take his money but not his life. New York would not permit him to carry a gun, and most knives were illegal. So he decided to keep a bag in the car with Tupperware and a butter knife, fork, and spoon. The frequently sharpened steak knife stayed on him, just in case.

With the passenger still fuming, he turned onto York Avenue, but instead of going straight or right to a faster avenue, he turned left towards the FDR, but this street did not access the parkway. It was a desolate dead end.

“Huh,” the man gasped. The hostility ebbed by worry.

Abdus hit the breaks and up-shifted to park. He spun out of the car and ripped open the passenger door. The man scrambled back as the assailant dove forward with the knife and plunged it in his stomach. He screamed, but Abdus quickly withdrew the blade and found the throat.

The passenger was silenced.

*****

The phone rang off the modern décor, which partially consisted of sloped plastic chairs centered by a lime green leather couch, a bronze sculpture that looked like two morphing humanoids, and splashy prints found in a trendy Soho gallery. Dressed in costly, brand-new faded and torn blue jeans and a plain black T-shirt, Adam Goldfarb’s white tube sock–covered feet froze to the floor. Ready for another glass of cabernet sauvignon, he had uncorked another bottle to stymie the nervous anticipation.

Adam deposited the glass on a hallway credenza and went to the couch where his phone lay. He hoped the news was good. Then he’d skip the wine and instead celebrate with champagne. He had all the good stuff, naturally.

The cause was just. After all, how much could his people take? The Jewish people have endured enough persecution. Enough. It must never happen again.

Rage boiled beneath his small, bookish exterior. His contact was right. Israel was no longer the only front. The war had been escalated to American soil. Although he loved his country, Jews were still a minority. If things turned, it could get ugly. But that was not about to happen.

Reprisal, his contact demanded. Two could play that game. His source reinforced his thinking. If the Muslims wanted to continue the fight here, the Jews had to be ready to fight back. The Christians may turn on them as well. The source claimed there were Christian fundamentalists afoot with a campaign to bring about the rapture. It included cleansing America of those who do not follow the cross. Whatever the challenge, he was ready.

His source appeared credible. He met him on a message board where a bunch of anti-Semites were bashing Israel. This guy posted the strongest responses, both defensively and offensively. They exchanged emails and although he never met the man, he communicated with him more during the past year than his frequently vacationing wife.

When he asked to meet over some coffee, the guy declined, claiming he worked within the government and could not reveal himself. He said he took a risk using the Internet but was confident his system was secure. However, because of his position and access, he was unable to take action, except tell the truth.

Intercepts and informants had reported that an offshore entity received a slew of cash that had been raised for supposedly charitable purposes. Instead, the purpose was to fund terrorist cells with plans to attack Jewish American interests, which included bombing synagogues, as well as targeted killings.

The informant said that they knew the primary moneyman, but for suspicious reasons, the investigation stalled and seized, and was never operable again. He mentioned a detective who knew the truth. His name was Dom Presto. Presto was equally frustrated by his superiors’ conspired silence. It was the government’s stonewalls that led his source to an alternative strategy. Find someone who had the means and the balls to disrupt the Muslims’ sinister scheme.

The bagman in New York was the perfect choice. Professor Abu Jafri had gained considerable notoriety for his message of peace and harmony. The charismatic professor called for a reformation in Islam. He espoused women’s rights, democracy, and tolerance. The government even used him to prop up their image. His harsh criticism of radicalized Islam resulted in purported death threats. Undeterred, Jafri continued to preach his liberal theology.

Adam saw him on a circuit of news shows and actually liked the guy. He seemed legit, but it was too good to be true. The image was a front, and a perfect one at that. The source was sure of it. No wonder those death threats were never acted on.

If Jafri died, the money pipeline would be disrupted. It was only a breech, but it would be a strategic blow. Everyone would assume that the fatwa for his death was finally realized, especially if the plan was executed accordingly.

Being a New York City criminal defense attorney had put Goldfarb in touch with some unsavory sorts. The worst of them was a man named Galvin Dent. Although his stated occupation was an elementary school gym teacher, he had the cash to pay Goldfarb’s hefty legal rate.

Dent was on trial for the murder of two prominent men who worked the diamond trade. Dent told Goldfarb the truth. It was an assignment. Dent boasted credit for seventeen other murders. He freelanced: organized crime, personal vendettas, spouse removal, and whoever passed his screening test, which started with upfront greenbacks. If the authorities learned of his prior deeds, it was possible he could be the first person to face the death penalty in New York since 1963.