Tom Avitabile - The Hammer of God

“Well, a nuke on the island would take out the U.N. buildings as well as most of the East Side.” Hiccock said as he opened his I-pad to a list. “There’s Roosevelt Raceway, Roosevelt Field Shopping Center, the Roosevelt Hotel in midtown.”

“There’s a Roosevelt Hotel in Paris, too. In fact, there are hundreds of places named Roosevelt, including dozens of schools and the Roosevelt Room upstairs.”

“You know, Ray, Bridgestone and Ross are in New York, from Paris. I feel pretty strongly that if they are here, Paris, Long Island, or even upstairs isn’t going to be the target. Roosevelt Island, right smack dab in the center of the East River. That sounds like a reasonable target.”

At the Store and Lock, Number 1 knew of the difficulties Number 3 had encountered in the subway. According to plan, he knew Number 3 was now hiding out in a Jersey City mosque where the blind Sheik had once presided and presently was little more than a meeting hall for devout Muslims to pray and discuss the Koran and all the other aspects of the religion of peace and love. Those good, law abiding Muslim-Americans had no idea that below the building was a safe house, initially built to house the conspirators of the first World Trade Center bombings back in the early nineties. This chamber was so well hidden that the federal agents who swept the building in late ‘93 never discovered it. Therefore, the place where the enemy had already looked offered the best place to hide Number 3.

Number 1 thought of having Number 3 killed because he was now a loose end and could compromise the entire operation. Rodney’s job was practically done. All that remained was the actual location managing of the prep day and that could be handled by Number 5. Number 1’s only hesitation came from the fact that Number 3 also had a backup role on the helicopter should Number 8 be injured or killed. There was not enough time left to train someone else. He’d have to think about this and pray to Allah for wisdom.

Soon it came to him, a plan so perfect that it was surely the idea of God himself, delivered to him and his mission as a sign of invincibility.

Rousting a federal judge at 4 a.m. is never a good idea, but Brooke Burrell was under orders to execute with all due haste, and that doesn’t mean wait till the judge has had her coffee. Now, with search warrant in hand, she waited at the ramp at Butler Aviation as the little G5 government jet rolled to a squealing stop. The stairs uncoiled from the doorway before the plane lurched to a halt. Joey Palumbo and Peter Remo jogged down the steps and right to her.

“Agent Burrell, Peter Remo,” Joey said over the noise of the plane’s engine winding down.

“Good to meet you, Mr. Remo,” Brooke said, her hair whipping her face.

Peter’s mouth was literally open. He knew they were meeting an F.B.I. agent, but he never considered that a woman would greet them. Especially this blonde in the dark blue blazer with sunglasses and either a killer of a great body or a form fitting bulletproof vest. They drove in a small fast motorcade to Jackson Heights.

Peter hadn’t been to Kasiko’s apartment since his last visit in ’98. Everything looked the same in the still meticulously-cared-for apartment, now in the care of a part-time housekeeper hired by Kasiko’s nephew. For a second, Peter dwelled on the long dining room table where he, at the age of fourteen, sat with some of the greatest minds in the world prognosticating scientific theories that today are accepted and well-known fact. “Look for a lawyer’s briefcase,” Peter said, snapping out of it. “He always kept stuff in one of those.”

“Got it,” Brooke said, coming into the living room from the bedroom. They dumped the contents on the couch. A quick examination revealed nothing but legal papers, leases, deeds, citizenship documents, and the like. No key code.

A knock on the door announced the local N.Y.P.D. forensic team. Now the dismantling of the apartment would begin in earnest. As they filtered in, Joey and Brooke asserted their control of the scene and issued orders on what to look for.

Peter finally drummed up enough courage. “Er… Excuse me, Agent Burrell?”

“Yes, Mr. Remo?”

“Can I ask you a professional question?”

“Shoot.”

“Do you wear a bulletproof vest?”

“I do.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks.”

“When I am on a case or stakeout. But not now.”

“Oh… Oh well then, I understand.”

“Mr. Remo?”

“Yes?”

“They’re real. Can you get over that? ‘Cause I did long time ago,” Brooke said walking away from Peter.

“I hadn’t noticed, but good for you, detective…”

“Agent!” She corrected not even looking at him.

Feeling 10 years old, Peter tried to make himself invisible. He gravitated over to the mantle above the fireplace. Thirty brilliantly bejeweled eggs on spun gold stands adorned the entire width. In a further attempt to avoid making eye contact with the gorgeous agent, he focused on the minutiae of the artisan craftsmanship. He picked one egg up in his hand and rotated it. The work was exacting and delicate. The blue one caught his eye next. It was heavier than the other was.

The crashing sound turned Brooke around. When she saw the smashed egg on the floor, she looked up to Peter. “That’s about 20 grand in intentional damages that I am going to have to spend a few hours filling out a report on.”

Peter bent down and pulled a key from the wreckage. “You can’t make a nuclear omelet without breaking an egg.”

Joey approached them. “A safe deposit key.” He grabbed it and checked it out. “It’s foreign… could be Swiss.”

“I thought you said we were looking for a key code ?” Brooke said.

“Key code, Key to code, or Key where code is. All within the error of Hungarian translation in broken English.

Joey turned to Brooke. “Have them finish up here by the numbers. We have either found it or found where Kasiko kept his darkest secrets.”

On the ride back to the copter, Brooke was in the back seat next to Peter. Joey was riding shotgun as another agent drove. Peter looked upset about something.

“What is it, Mr. Remo?” Brooke asked.

“Call me Peter, please. It’s just that these guys must be monsters. Kasiko was a hero and no pushover. Even at 80 years old. He was really nice to me, and how Brodenchy — or whatever he is calling himself now days — could have him killed is mind-boggling. Kasiko saved his life and his brother’s life. Protected them in Europe and their committee here in America. What kind of animal can turn like that on a friend and protector?”

“Unfortunately, Peter, sometimes religious fervor or dogma can allow a person license to do the most heinous things in the name of their cause,” Brooke said trailing off in self-conscious censorships over the few “un-lady-like” things she had done to protect her country and its citizens.

“If this key leads to the code, you will have gotten even with the killers big time, Pete.” Joey added.

A silence came over the car after that. Peter eventually broke it when he leaned over and said in low tones to Brooke, “Sorry about before. You know, the vest thing. I didn’t mean any offense by it.”

“No offense taken, Peter.”

Brooke looked out the window and added with a smile, “Boob man.”

Seaman First Class Orville Hayes was weary and bleary-eyed. He had stayed up all night studying for his petty officer exam. Still, he reported for duty as starboard fantail lookout at dawn. As he scanned the horizon for anything that wasn’t wet or blue, he swore that as soon as his watch was over he’d hit the bunk and catch some heavy ‘z’ instead of attending the steel beach picnic the crew had planned for tonight.