The Brotherhood Conspiracy (14 page)

President Whitestone looked at the thermal images once more. “Oh . . . Oh, God help them.”

New York City

The solution was up instead of down.

The Bowery Mission’s main, five-story building, fronting on Bowery, was constructed specifically for the mission in 1909. Directly behind that structure was a three-story building, fifty years older, that was originally the location of a casket maker. Flanking the 1909 building which housed the chapel, on the uptown side of Bowery, was the oldest structure, a Federal-style, two-story building that now housed the mission’s kitchen and dining hall.

Three days after meeting with Maybry, Bohannon stood atop the casket maker’s building and watched as a long-necked crane, with Louis Klopsch’s ancient safe suspended in a reinforced pouch from its tip, began to retract from the hole in the building’s roof.

It was a good time to move the safe. Activity around the mission was at its lowest point on a Sunday evening, minimizing the risk to others. Traffic should be cooperative, and there was still plenty of daylight remaining to complete the move. The safe itself was mammoth, heavy, and dangerous. Huge double doors spanned the entire front of the steel safe, still painted a flat black with decorative stencil designs at the corners. Maybry at his side, Bohannon watched as the crane drew itself back into Freeman’s Alley, a frighteningly narrow right-of-way behind the mission. With the care of a porcelain
maker, the crane operator lowered the safe onto the waiting deck of a flatbed truck.

While teamsters scurried around the truck, securing the safe, Bohannon and Maybry made their way down the fire escape.

“Too bad you guys couldn’t just get rid of it,” said Maybry. “This is costing a mint.”

“It’s part of Bowery Mission legend now, part of our history,” said Bohannon. “And not to forget, the assortment of books and manuscripts that were preserved in that safe—most of them—earned six million dollars for the Mission.”

They reached the ground, slipped past the crane, and circled the truck, testing the tautness of the cables and straps that held the safe in place—just as the teamsters had done three times already. “Well, they’ll take good care of it at the library,” said Maybry. “That will be a sweet, little exhibit commemorating your trip to Israel.”

“You make it sound like we went on vacation.”

Maybry shrugged and walked over to the driver as he began to climb into the cab. “This truck is awfully narrow.”

“Hey, Mack, that’s all that would fit up this alley.”

“Okay . . . okay,” said Maybry, holding up his hands. “Just take it easy, okay? That’s a lot of weight there and not a very wide base to carry it.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mack,” said the driver as he started up the diesel. “Once we get out of here, and around the corner on Bowery, it’s almost a straight shot to the library: right up Third Avenue, one left-hand turn on 39th Street then two rights to come up alongside the library at Bryant Square. They’re waiting for us to put this baby in place. It’s as good as home. What you should be worried about is that hole in the roof.”

Tarik Ben Ali sat in a stolen taxicab at the corner of Third Avenue and Fifth Street, opposite Cooper Square, his “Out of Service” lamp lit, as he surveyed the traffic coming up Third Avenue.

There had been little time to prepare. Only by watching the mission had they discovered the safe was being moved. Only two hours ago they learned, from a talkative truck driver, where the safe was going and how it would get there. Now Ben Ali hoped they had made the right decisions.

St. Mark’s Place at Third Avenue was the target. That was an easy decision. The intersection was a major crossroads of both vehicular traffic and pedestrians—crowded, confusing, at almost all hours of the day and night, with cars and people constantly jostling for position to get across the street. Two of Ben Ali’s team sat at an outdoor table of Ray’s Pizza, just off the corner. They were ready to move as soon as he signaled.

Earlier, looking at their map, they planned the best route to the warehouse in Queens. With Allah’s good favor, they should be well hidden before anyone knew the truck was missing.

The flatbed inched up Third Avenue. Not because of traffic . . . the traffic was light this time on a Sunday evening. But more because the driver was concerned about shifting weight. The safe was securely strapped to the truck. It wasn’t going anywhere. But the relative size of the safe, calculated against the narrow width of the truck bed, made every bump in the street, every pothole or sinkhole, an adrenaline-pumping adventure.

A cab crossed two lanes of Third Avenue without signaling and jerked to a stop in front of the truck.

“Yo . . . Mack,” the driver shouted as he laid heavy on his air horn.

Shocked by the horn blast, a lady with a little white dog jumped into the cab and it took off up Third Avenue.

“Crazy cab drivers will drive me nuts,” the truck driver muttered to himself as he slowed for the busy intersection at St. Mark’s Place.

Tarik Ben Ali watched as the truck with the safe nearly collided with a taxi cab just short of the intersection with Fifth Street. The truck’s horn blast made him jump in his seat. He picked up the cell phone and speed dialed the number.

Gil, the truck driver, eased to a stop at St. Mark’s Place. This was not a bad spot to catch a red light. Lots of NYU coeds lived in the dorms a block away and
the parade this evening kept his attention from the taxi that came up close on his left.

Before the light turned green, the taxi driver hit his horn, bulled his way through the pedestrians, and suddenly pulled the cab across the right-most lane, right in front of Gil’s truck.

“What are you, nuts?” Gil roared, leaning forward on his massive steering wheel as he tried to get a better look at the cab. Pedestrians trying to navigate the street crossing were shouting, gesturing at the taxi as they poured around it on both sides. “Get outta there. You’re an idiot!”

He didn’t hear the door open, but he sensed the movement to his right. He turned to see a dark-haired man climbing into his truck cab. Words formed on his lips, action flexed in his biceps. But, before he could react, he heard the door open behind him, a searing pain throbbed through the back of his head, and the lights went out.

Ben Ali opened the back door of the taxi as Mustafa steered the semiconscious man toward it.

“Hey, what are you doin?” someone asked.

“We need to get him home,” Mustafa said as they poured Gil into the back seat. “Too much to drink.”

Mustafa ran back to the passenger side of the truck and jumped in. As the traffic light turned green, Ben Ali turned the taxi back up Third Avenue, followed closely by the hijacked vehicle. Both the taxi and the truck traveled the short distance to Stuyvesant Street and turned right, taking the diagonal street over to Tenth. Ben Ali tried desperately not to speed, even though his adrenaline was pumping. They both got through the traffic lights at First Avenue and Avenue A, but the lumbering truck caught the red at Avenue B and Tenth. Ben Ali pulled the taxi to the curb on the far side of the street. He jumped out, ran around the taxi, pulled open the rear door, and dragged the half-conscious truck driver out of the back seat and across the sidewalk. As he planted the driver against the stoop of a walkup, between two trash cans, he pushed the button on his cell phone.

“Drive beyond me and I will fall in behind. It will be easier for me to follow. Make a left at the next street, Avenue C, and go straight. You will see the entrance. Don’t miss the road. We need to get across the bridge quickly.”

At least the truck was moving more quickly now. They crossed 14th Street and drove under the raised highway, taking the slight left onto the access road for FDR Drive. As he drove up the ramp, Ben Ali stole a quick glance at the truck in front of him, then at the map on the seat beside him. Good . . . the FDR would take them directly to the 59th Street Bridge, which would deposit them safely in Queens.