Richard Doetsch - Half-Past Dawn

Cristos stepped into the elevator, hitting the button for the ground floor. As the polished brass doors closed, he stared at his reflection, adjusting the small knot of his tie. His face was pure, unblemished, a facade to the world in so many ways.

His private charter was scheduled to leave the Westchester airport upon his arrival, and with the half-hour drive, he estimated wheels up for 11:15. The six-hour transatlantic flight would put him back home before midnight local time. He was exacting in all areas of life, planning, timing, playing out every scenario in his mind before engaging in any task, be it the purchase of a new Bugatti, making personal investments, or committing murder. While he had used the rifle that day-leaving it on the bed between the Bonsleys’ cold bodies to taunt and confuse the authorities-he had engaged in all manners of dispensing death: poisons, accidents, knives slipped between the ribs of unsuspecting marks. There were assassinations of subterfuge and grandeur: politicians dying of heart attacks in the throes of illicit passion; crime figures sitting in Parisian cafes torn asunder by horrific explosions of world-headline proportions; prime ministers’ wives trapped in their cars as they tumbled down mountainsides.

And all the while, there was never a single piece of evidence tying back to Cristos. Credit was never taken, responsibility never assigned. His disparate methods never allowed the connecting of any dots. Too often, in so many jobs, pride was the greatest enemy. When credit was taken, egos were inflated, dulling the mind, softening drive.

The feeling of invincibility flowed in with such delusions of grandeur, and while they might not prove life-threatening to an ad exec, it was deadly to someone like Cristos.

When he arrived last night, slipping past the sleeping concierge, he stepped into the elevator, confident that his image wouldn’t be picked up by the security camera. The small device in his pocket emitted a magnetic pulse that interfered with the circuitry of the camera. It was of Israeli design, the Mosad having developed it to help them hide under a cloak of invisibility. Now, as he rode toward the lobby, he dug his hand into his pocket, running it over the small matchbook-sized device.

But all of the planning and preparation in the world cannot eliminate pure chance. Sometimes the wheels of fate turn in different ways. And in such a manner, the bearings on the counterweight cable of the elevator wore out with a belabored squeal, fusing themselves under the grinding pressure, bringing the cab that Cristos was riding in to a halt.

At the same time, a tall, matronly woman named Charlotte Newman arrived at the concierge desk, flowers in hand and a small elegant gift box under her arm. She was there to surprise her friend Jasmine Bonsley for her birthday and to whisk her off to a surprise-filled day of massages, facials, and lunch.

The cab was out of service for all of two minutes when the maintenance staff entered the shaftway one floor above the crippled elevator to make sure that none of their elderly tenants was in the car. With no video feed, no one was going to take the chance of some senior having a claustrophobic panic attack because of faulty security equipment.

But when they pried open the sixteenth-floor door and peered down the shaft onto the car ten feet below, they saw the impeccably dressed man climbing up through the emergency hatch, a man none of them recognized, a man who was now trapped with nowhere to go in the thirty-five-story shaftway.

With the sudden radio call about the horror found inside apartment 33A by Charlotte Newman happening in conjunction with the mayhem out in front of the UN, you didn’t need a detective to put the pieces together.

The headlines screamed of the arrest of Nowaji Cristos, the murderer of the head of state of Pashir and the executioner of a wealthy couple in their bed. The New York City police were praised by all for apprehending the criminal so quickly. But as he was arrested, no one had any real idea who they had in custody or the atrocities he had committed the world over.

And so the man who had remained invisible to mankind, who killed without witness, who walked the world like a ghost, was brought down by the failure of a handful of twenty-cent ball bearings and an overeager best friend.

Twelve hours later, under cover of darkness, a four-boat flotilla headed out to Trudeau Island. The boats were driven without running lights, their captains aided by infra-red goggles as they peered through the cold night.

Jack rode out with Peter Womack, the U.S. attorney for the Southern District. He knew him well; following parallel ascending career paths, they had worked together on several cases, even sharing dinner, with their wives, on occasion. While many complained about friction between the state and federal levels, none of that existed between Peter and Jack.

The evidence against the assassin was overwhelming. They had the rifle, the bodies, Cristos in the building at the time of incident, and while there were no prints, the circumstantial evidence was undeniable. The interim Pashir government, although secretly happy about the death of the despot, pressed for an expedient trial and execution, blaming the New York City police for the failure to protect their leader. The city of New York cried out for justice for the Bonsleys, and the public demanded a trial on the world stage to show that you don’t mess with New York.

The debate facing them was whether to charge Cristos on the local, federal, or military level. As an enemy combatant, he would not be afforded the rights of an American citizen, but this alternative, while satisfying the Pashir government, would not provide needed justice to the city of New York. If there were separate trials-the general’s murder in federal and the couple’s by the state-the matter could drag on for years with independent resulting appeals, but if the matters were handled concurrently, swift justice could be served, satisfying all concerned.

The four boats pulled up to a long, deep water dock on the eastern side of the island. The varied topography of the small spit of land was mostly undulating hills of old-growth trees and scattered bedrock. The North Shore was truly a misnomer, as there was no shore, just a sixty-foot sheer dropoff onto a rocky, riptide sea. A once-grand lighthouse stood on a precipice, holding court with its outstretched hand of guiding light to the now-diminished fishing fleets returning home. The western and southern sides of the island were large, sandy beaches that would be the envy of any Hamptons resident and would fetch in the tens of millions for a fraction of their white sand and magnificent views, if not for the large stretch of graveyard just beyond the scrub and tree line, a potter’s field of forgotten dead.

Jack and Peter watched as the twelve-man lead team of police, FBI, and Justice Department personnel disembarked and disappeared into the shadows of the windswept island to prep and secure the vacant facility.

From the second boat, four guards in black military fatigues, pistols strapped to their waists and rifles on their backs, climbed down onto the dock. The four turned as Cristos emerged from the boat’s cabin with shackled wrists and leg irons around his ankles. The four guards flanked him as he shuffled down the gangway, and they, too, disappeared, swallowed by the cold night.

Jack and Peter, dressed in heavy winter coats, finally leaped from the boat as the two Justice Department guards tied it up.

A large man in a black pinstriped suit greeted Jack with an outstretched hand. “Special Agent Carter Dorran, FBI.”

Carter stood just over six feet, a commanding presence in both stature and voice, with a deep tone that his fellow agents mocked behind his back. Despite the weather, he wore no coat and seemed unaffected by the elements.