Robert Tanenbaum: Bad Faith

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 this, 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!”

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.”