Tom Avitabile - The Hammer of God

Just then, Cheryl knocked on his door. “Bill, your 10 o’clock is here.”

Bill looked at his watch and pulled out his iPad. He synced the e-mails to it while he adjusted his tie. He then took the twenty steps into the meeting in the adjoining suite and toward the rest of his day, which would end up at the Brooks Atkinson Theater with his wife and parents tonight.

“They will be dispatched by myself and Number 9,” Number 1 said to Number 8, referring to the two movie cops who just pulled up in their police cruiser.

Originally part of the TPF, the elite weapons and tactical patrol force of the old NYPD, today’s movie cops are more like New York City’s ambassadors to the film industry. In a good year, $3 billion dollars could be dropped into the city’s economy by movie and TV production. The NYPD Movie Unit was the key interface between a massive operating city bureaucracy and the day-to-day running of the multi-billion dollar film business. Most of the time, they stopped traffic or helped control crowds, usually acting as the shepherds of the private security people the movie companies hired. Many of those hires were ex-cops or moonlighting cops. In fact, in many cop shows and cop films, retired and moonlighting cops made a bundle as extras or tech advisors. It was safe to say that in the relatively small group of movie artisans and craftsmen, everybody knew or heard of everyone else. That made it odd that out of this whole crew, the only person these two cops knew was the catering truck guy, Sammy.

Sammy was a new guy in the business, meaning he came around within the last 10 years. An Egyptian by birth, he started as a server for one of the biggest catering services in the business. He worked hard and opened his own business and now did very well supplying breakfast, lunch, dinner, and craft services to hungry film crews on the smaller films and shows across the city. Sammy also followed the first rule of the business: cops eat free.

“Officer Ralph and Officer Fernandez, good to see you. I got cheese croissants and hazelnut blend.”

“Sounds good,” Ralph said. “What’s up for lunch?”

“Halaal food! Lamb, goat… you know!”

The Irish cop looked at the Puerto Rican cop and scrunched his face.

“The crew and the stars are out of Iran. This is what they eat,” Sammy explained. Then he had a thought. “Wait, maybe I can find some roast beef and potatoes.”

The cops smiled and Sammy got his assistant to take some food off his second truck going out to a small commercial crew shooting in Queens.

About mid-morning, the cops watched with little interest as the crew prepped for whatever they were going to shoot. Ralph looked at the permit. He saw the helicopter and some prop guns as wardrobe. The guns being wardrobe meant no gunplay and, therefore, they would not have to validate the licensee. New York law required that any gunplay, firing of blanks, or even brandishing a weapon was supervised by a licensed gunsmith or gun dealer. The cops would have to make sure his license was current and that no foul play or accidents could ensue. Also, they would call in to let the local precinct know to ignore any calls about gunshots or guns observed. At the bottom of the permit, Ralph noticed the production company had a Brooklyn address.

“Hey, didn’t Sammy say these guys were from Iran?”

“Yeah, goat eaters.”

“That’s funny.”

“It’s probably a racist comment,” Fernandez admitted.

“No, not the goat-eaters crack. The address here on the bottom of the permit… Let me check this out.”

With little else to do, Ralph exited the car and set out looking for the producer.

Bill’s secret, encrypted phone rang during his 11:30 meeting with the CEO of UniDyne Industries. “Excuse me; I’ll have to take this in private.”

He stepped into the outer room, closed the door, and answered.

“Bling,” was the monosyllabic greeting.

“Bling brothers! How are you guys doing?”

“We’re okay, sir. We are onto something, but the trail just split into two.”

“Well, it’s all moot now guys. In fact, I came up here in part to tell you guys it’s over…to buy you dinner and let you get back to your lives.”

“All the same, sir, it don’t look over from here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not over the phone, sir.”

“What do you need?”

“Is that Palumbo guy available?”

“When do you need him?”

“ASAP.”

“I’ll call you back.”

Bill grabbed his regular phone.

“Well, he only said, ‘Cheryl, cancel my meetings for the rest of the day,’ then he left. He did say that I should tell you he’ll meet up with you at the theater.”

“You don’t know where he went?” Janice asked.

“You know when he gets like that, you can’t get anything out of him.”

Janice took out her phone. She tried Bill. No answer.

“He doesn’t want to be found,” Janice said. Both women knew that this must be some security thing. Neither woman could conceive of Bill having a clandestine meet or tete-a-tete with a paramour. Although something in Janice’s spine almost wished it was as simple as that. She knew if Bill disappeared, something big must be happening.

“Cheryl, could you try him again?”

Bill disabled his cell phone battery so that any GPS tracking data wouldn’t give away his position, or that of Bridgestone and Ross, who he was meeting. As he exited his father’s Cadillac, he approached two men sitting on the bench on the edge of the public park.

“Mr. Hiccock! We were expecting Palumbo.” Bridge said.

“He was heading out to Europe. I turned him around, but he’s at least four hours out. So I figured maybe I could help.”

The two warriors looked at each other. Bill felt the need to intercede in his defense.

“Look guys, I’ve seen my share of action and I can handle myself pretty well if it comes to that. Now, what do we got?”

“Our movie producer, Rashani, is too clean. We’ve run him through a bunch of checks and double checks and couldn’t even find a pissed off waiter that he stiffed. Too clean. Too neat.”

“Look fellas, the nuke is accounted for. It’s deep-sixed.”

“That may be, sir, but what we’re onto sure as hell lead us this far, and we’re here because we were on the trail of the nuke.”

“And…?” Bill asked, knowing that that fact alone could not form the basis of their case against the producer.

“Sheik Alzir El Benhan.”

The name of the bio-terror mastermind and reason for the kidnapping of an ambassodor sent a shiver up Bill’s spine. “Go on.”

“Seems the movie mogul, Rashani, had a security guard who is an ex-chopper pilot for the Iranian Air Force. After we did a little digging, we found that the pilot came there” — Bridge hitched his head at the building across the street — “a few weeks back.”

Hiccock could only imagine the trail of broken bones and ripped skin “a little digging” by these two might have caused. He looked across to the mosque on this quiet Jersey City street. “A little obvious, ain’t it, using a mosque?”

“Just another benefit of the great American Suicide Pact, Mr. Hiccock,” Ross said.

“No law enforcement agency could even surveil it now. Not with all the bleeding heart bullshit going on. But the subway boy who was released also came by this way. As far as we can tell, he’s still in there.”

“So why did you need Joe?”

“Ross did some investigating. Rashani’s ex-pilot is working on a movie here in New York.”

“But he’s not working for Rashani; he’s working for Alazir El-Benhan, who is posing as Rashani.”

“You go to the head of the class, Mr. Hiccock.”

“Been there, done that, got the egghead reputation to prove it. What’s the plan?”