Operation Sea Ghost (42 page)

It happened so fast the people on the reviewing stand weren’t sure what was going on. Race officials immediately tried to contact the boats to tell them to turn around, but neither boat answered the call.

In less than thirty seconds both vessels had disappeared into The Narrows. Beyond that, lay Manhattan.

Totally confused now, one spectator told another: “That is not a race—that’s a chase.”

*   *   *

LONGSHOREMEN WORKING THE docks on Red Hook Pier 19 saw the racing yachts pass at about 6:25.

It was the noise of the gas turbines that first attracted their attention. This being New York City, nothing was really surprising, even two yachts shaped like bullets screaming up toward Governors Island.

However, among the dock crews were a couple soldiers in a local crime family, and they’d be told to report anything unusual they saw along the waterfront or in the harbor. Anything at all.

A few phone calls were made, some texts were sent, and within minutes, word of the two racing yachts was spreading up and down the inner harbor.

This is why two other low-level mobsters working the fish pier near Maiden Lane were on alert when they saw first one, then a second racing yacht heading in their direction at high speed. The pier was a place where anything from stolen furs to trash bags full of marijuana were known to pass through, always under heavy protection. Even the police gave the place wide berth. Anyone intending to dock here better have a very good reason.

Yet, no sooner had the first yacht come into view, when it suddenly cut its engines and began pulling up to that part of the pier normally reserved for fishing boats.

It didn’t bother to tie up. Those dockworkers nearby saw a swarthy-looking man jump off the racing yacht, holding a beautiful Asian woman by the arm.

Even in this rough-and-tumble part of lower Manhattan, this just didn’t look right. Two crewmen of a nearby fishing boat tried to stop the man as he made his way up the gangway to the street, practically dragging the woman behind him. The man never broke stride, though. He pulled out a gun, shot both workers and kept on going.

At that moment the second yacht screamed to a halt in front of the pier. That’s when it got
real
confusing.

Of the dozen stevedores working on the dock, more than half were armed or had personal weapons nearby. As soon as the two pier workers were gunned down, these weapons came out and Fahim Shabazz, potential suicide bomber, found himself in the middle of an unexpected gunfight.

To step on American soil for the first time was a moment he’d been waiting for. But the reception was not what he expected. He knew it was dangerous in America, but did
everyone
own a gun?

He had no choice but to fire back, even though bullets were flying at him from many directions. Shabazz’s first thought was to return to the dock, get back on the high speed yacht and escape. But upon turning in that direction, he saw the
Numero Two
had now arrived and at least one person on it was firing in his direction with a huge weapon.

That’s when Shabazz put Li in front of him to use as a human shield. All the shooting stopped immediately and Shabazz resumed making his way off the pier, heading for the street.

A stretch van was parked almost at the water’s edge, not ten feet from the pier. It was a shuttle for tourists wanting to take the scenic harbor tour offered at the Fulton Street pier, three blocks away. The van’s driver was having his morning coffee when he saw the bizarre gunfight unfold. Before he could put the van in gear and drive away, Shabazz ran up to him, ordered him out, then shot him on the spot.

Li was just baggage now. Shabazz put his gun up to her head and began to pull the trigger. Suddenly he saw a glint of light come from his right. The next thing he knew the sharpened tip of an umbrella was sticking out of his right forearm.

It was such an odd thing, that he stared at it for a few seconds, enough for Li to break free and run. He wanted to shoot her—as well as the strange little man who’d hurled the razorlike umbrella tip at him—but the wound in his forearm had temporarily frozen his fingers, making it impossible to fire his gun.

So, Shabazz just pulled the piece of metal out of his arm, jumped into the van and roared away in a cloud of exhaust.

*   *   *

AT THAT MOMENT, it started to rain. Suddenly there was very heavy thunder and lightning and high winds. It was so violent, and came so fast, it even surprised the people who’d just been involved in the strange gun battle.

Fighting the sudden gale, Nolan and Batman put down the M107, jumped off the
Numero Two
and ran up the gangway to the street.

Batman was in the lead. He quickly sought out the dock workers’ foreman and explained as best he could who he and Nolan were and what was going on, including their connection to the CIA. He made it clear that he and Nolan had to pursue the man who’d just stolen the van, but that everyone else on the pier should stay in place, get under cover and shield their eyes should they hear any kind of explosion.

The boss understood eventually. He brought Nolan and Batman over to his tool truck and gave them two highly illegal AR-15 rifles. He also gave them some extra construction boots, as everyone on board the
Numero Two
was still barefoot.

Now armed and shod, Nolan and Batman ran out onto Dalton Street, trying to determine which way Shabazz had gone. People were starting to drift down toward the waterfront now, alerted by the commotion. To them, Nolan and Batman, with their camos and heavy weapons, appeared to be a couple of actors about to shoot a scene for a movie. It was the only explanation that made sense.

They were tempted to tell these people to seek cover and to shield their eyes if they heard a loud explosion, but they were sure no one would take them seriously.

Instead, they peered up and down the long street, but had no luck spotting the van in any direction.

Cabs were flying by, and they tried to wave one down. But none of them were about to stop two guys dressed for a costume party at 6:30 on a hot summer morning. Especially in the rain.

Then Batman spotted something strange. It was a newspaper box for the
New York Post
. The headline read: “Where’s Emma? Hollywood Star missing for 4 days.”

It was at that moment that everything just stopped. They didn’t know why, maybe it was just the absurdity of it all, but whatever energy they had left just drained out of both of them. Standing in the downpour on the dirty New York street, with borrowed guns and borrowed shoes, looking at the newspaper headline, the whole adventure suddenly seemed over.

“We’ll never catch this guy now,” Batman said. “Even if that address you found is right around the corner, he’s got a big head start on us.”

Nolan was devastated, but he had to agree. Even if a cab stopped for them, they had no money to pay the driver, and every second that passed just meant the terrorist was driving deeper and deeper into New York City.

“After all this,” he said. “And we lose him
here
? Of all places…”

Batman just nodded glumly. “I think it’s time, Snake,” he said.

Nolan knew what he meant. There was no sense fighting it. It was finally time to call the authorities and report what they knew.

“Who?” Nolan asked him wearily.

“Call 911,” Batman suggested. “Hopefully the cops will catch him—then maybe they’ll give
them
the hundred million.”

Nolan borrowed a cell phone from one of the dockworkers and dialed 911.

An operator answered quickly and asked what the emergency was.

Nolan wanted to keep it simple, so he just said: “There’s a bomb about to go off at 45 Park Place. I have to talk to the bomb squad.”

The weird thing was, it almost seemed as if the operator laughed at him. “Bomb in 45 Park Place?” she said. “Right. OK—hold on.”

Nolan explained to Batman the operator’s weird attitude.

Batman just shook his head. “New York’s always been a weird place,” he said.

The line clicked twice and a NYPD officer came on, announcing he was from the bomb squad.

Nolan repeated his message—and this guy laughed for real.

Nolan couldn’t take it. “Why the hell are you laughing at me?” he demanded to know.

“Because,” the guy replied, “we get four or five bomb threats on that building every day. And it’s against the law to call in prank phone calls.”

Nolan was pissed. “But why do you assume this is a prank call?”

The cop yelled back: “Because that’s the address of the Ground Zero Mosque … that’s why.”

Nolan immediately hung up. Again, he told Batman what had happened, then said, “Well, damn—it all makes sense now.”

Their enthusiasm revived, they started hailing cabs again—but once more, to no good luck.

But suddenly Emma was beside them. Wearing a pair of borrowed construction boots herself, she was disobeying Nolan’s order to stay on the boat.

She raised her hand for no more than a half second and three cabs screeched to a halt.

“That’s how it’s done,” she said to Nolan.

He and Batman piled in—she started to come with them but Nolan blocked her at the door.

“No way,” he said. “Not this time. Get back to the boat and make sure everyone covers their eyes if they hear anything go off…”

But she knew him too well now. She waved his protest aside by saying, “They already know that.”

Then she climbed in the backseat with him.

The cabbie looked back at them. He first saw Emma and nearly flipped out. Then he saw the guns and said, “Shooting a movie Miss Simms?”

“Something like that,” she replied. “Take us to forty-five Park Place and please step on it.…”

*   *   *

FOR NOLAN, THE ride from Maiden Lane to 45 Park Place seemed to take forever.

It wasn’t even 7:00
A.M.
but the traffic turned awful once they’d left the waterfront. The rainstorm wasn’t helping. It was coming down so hard, Nolan had no idea how the cabbie could even see. But even without the weather, it would have been tough going. Lots of trucks, lots of cabs, lots of pedestrians.

Not that long ago, Nolan had been on an island paradise. Now—he was here. In the busiest city … in the United States. A place he wasn’t even supposed to be.

He saw at least one cop on every corner, patrol cars parked everywhere. Should we tell them? he thought. Would they believe us? Or would they be arrested for riding in a New York City cab carrying illegal assault rifles?

If he knew the team would still get the CIA reward money if they brought in outside help, what would he do then? Or was the CIA even going to pay them at all?

Nolan just sank deeper into the cab’s backseat as the driver ran a red light.

It’s not always easy to do the right thing.…

The driver turned right off Maiden Lane onto Church and what Nolan saw here was a lot of chain-link fence, a lot of construction equipment, and what basically looked like a big empty space in a canyon of skyscrapers.

This was Ground Zero.

He turned to Emma—he wanted to make sure that, no matter what happened, she knew where they were. But he saw her looking out the window, her eyes getting watery. After what she’d been through, after what
they’d
both been through, no words were necessary.

The driver took three more turns and suddenly they were on Park Place.

The van stolen by Shabazz was out in front of number 45, parked askew, two of its wheels up on the curb, its driver’s door still open.

The Jihad Brother had gotten out in a hurry.

It said something about New York City that people were walking past the oddly parked truck without giving it a second look.

The taxi pulled up and, though they had no money, Emma paid the driver by autographing his Yankees cap. Then the three of them jumped out.

They hesitated—just for a moment—when they realized this place really didn’t look like a mosque.

“That’s because it isn’t,” Emma said, reading their thoughts. “We were going to shoot a movie here. It’s a center for Muslim religious study. There’s a difference.”

“Tomato, to-
mah
-to,” Batman said dryly.

And Nolan agreed. They checked their assault weapons and then they ran inside.

They came upon an unexpected scene in the lobby. Three people, two men and a woman, were lying on the floor. All three were wearing traditional Muslim garb; all three were shot dead. Nolan knew this could only be the work of the terrorist. He imagined the gunman had stormed into the building, shooting anyone who got in his way.

So much for Brotherhood.

There were at least a dozen people cowering in the lobby; they were behind chairs, hiding in corners and crouched beneath the reception desk.

There was a collective gasp from these people when Nolan and Batman burst in, Emma trailing close behind. But it was an expression of relief. Many of those in hiding thought Nolan and Batman were a NYPD SWAT team.

Several ventured out of their hiding places and greeted them with hand kissing and frantic gestures. Others simply ran for the door.

“Where is he?” Nolan was asking the people as they were fighting to kiss his hand. “Where did he go?”

All the people remaining in the lobby pointed upward.

“The roof,” one man said as he was making a quick exit. “He went up to the roof.”

Though there was a bank of elevators off to the right, Nolan, Batman and Emma made for the stairs. They climbed quickly but carefully. Emma was staying close to them; there was no way Nolan could tell her to stay behind now.

They reached the second floor and found two more dead bodies—security guards, gunned down before they could take their weapons out. Nolan took their pistols and gave one to Batman and kept one for himself.

They climbed up to the third floor. They could see people peeking out of doorways. In each case, Nolan told them to stay where they were.

On the fourth floor, they found a seriously wounded man collapsed outside the building’s mail room.