“Hi, Stephen. It’s Peter. Jamie, your new assistant, said she thought you were at the library.”
“Yes. That’s where I am. Catching up on a little research.”
“Well, either Jamie’s got your number or you need to teach her more about her job. You do understand that one of the reasons for an assistant is to help with research, don’t you?”
Stephen put his head back, laughing. “Yes. I guess you’re right, Peter. It’s just that ever since Larry Newcomb graduated, I haven’t had the same assistant long enough to teach them about the job.”
“Where is Larry, by the way?”
“He started teaching at Framingham State this year.”
“Near Boston?”
“Yes. That’s it.” Stephen smiled. “I hope he’s doing well. I miss having him here."
“Well, I know those other three people didn’t last long. You’d better get Jamie started right, or you’ll be getting a reputation—and it won’t be a good one.”
Jamie Sims had been Stephen’s teaching assistant for just over two months, working on her graduate studies at the same time. Since she enjoyed her association with Dr. Grant and the other professors in the International Affairs and Political Science Department at Columbia, the petite blond could easily remain Grant’s eager associate for at least two more years.
“I don’t think I need to worry about that, Peter, but I guess you never know.”
Peter inquired, “By the way, what are you doing in the library? Don’t you know about the Internet? It’s this amazing new thing. I think some guy named Al said he invented it. Now you can do research without leaving your office.”
Laughing again, Stephen replied, “You’re right, as usual.” He put his head down and covered his mouth, trying to stifle his laughter. “I’d better be quiet before they kick me out of here. I’ll start working with Jamie on these things. But what about the—what did you call it? The Internet?” He continued laughing.
“Yeah. It’s brand new, you crazy nut.” Peter laughed also. “So which library are you in?”
“My favorite: Low Memorial. But I’m done here now. What’s up?”
“If you can stand putting your reference books down, how about meeting me outside there, over by the statue of Alma Mater? Say five minutes?”
“See you there.” Pushing the off button on his Blackberry, Stephen snickered and muttered, “Put my reference books down.”
Alma Mater is literally the mother soul of the college/university. In the context of Columbia, Alma Mater almost always refers to the bronze sculpture by Daniel Chester French that graces the east side of the steps leading into Low Memorial Library. It’s actually a sculpture of the goddess Athena from ancient Rome. It was a gift in memory of Robert Goelet, Columbia College Class of 1860, presented in 1903. The statue has become a symbol of the university and a repository of its lore.
Bright sunshine nearly blinded Stephen as he walked out of the library on the center of the Columbia University campus. He used his hand to shield his eyes, saw Peter talking with another man wearing brown slacks and a tan sport coat with an open-collar yellow shirt standing beside the Alma Mater statue, and walked toward them.
“Dr. Stephen Grant, I’d like you to meet Randy Osborn.” They shook hands. Peter added, “He’s with the FBI.”
Osborn nodded. “With the counterterrorism unit.” The agent’s close-cropped blond hair gave him a youthful appearance, but the look on his face and the knowing blue eyes said he was a seasoned professional. Stephen guessed the man stood about five feet ten inches tall, and from the way he moved, was in excellent physical condition.
Born the only son of a young Philadelphia attorney, Randall James Osborn had been prepped for law school by his father during all of his four years at Yale. Next came law school at George Washington University, and finally the bar examination, which he passed on his first attempt.
Then, to his father’s chagrin, facing a promising, brilliant law career and seventeen job proposals, he joined the FBI.
His drive to become one of the best FBI agents ever had been derailed when his father committed suicide two years later. That was twelve years ago. Now he stood tall again, this time as Supervisory Special Agent in Charge of the FBI Counter-Terrorism Unit, including running the elite team at the National Counter-Terrorism Center.
With a pleasant expression, Peter asked, “Can we go over to your office, where we can talk a little more privately?”
Stephen led them away from the library around the corner to the east, down the walkway between the Philosophy building and St. Paul’s, and across Amsterdam Avenue to the International Affairs building.
After entering Stephen’s office on the eleventh floor, the FBI man closed the door and pulled a small metal object from his pocket. He walked around the office, waving the item in front of the windows and around Stephen’s desk.
Looking at Peter, Stephen uttered, “Shades of déjà vu.”
Peter grinned and motioned with his finger in front of puckered lips for Stephen to be quiet.
When the agent finished, he pushed a button on the small metal object and put it back in his pocket. “It’s okay. Everything here is clean. No one outside this room is listening.”
Motioning for the two men to sit, Stephen sat down in a leather swivel chair behind his large oak desk. As he sat, Osborn motioned to the empty desktop. “That’s one of the cleanest desks I’ve ever seen for a college professor.”
Stephen nodded acknowledgement. “I hope that’s an indication of my organization.” He smiled. “You said you’re with the FBI Counter-Terrorism Unit?”
“Yes.”
“I told Peter this is like déjà vu. Next thing I know, you’ll be saying you’re here because you need my help.”
The FBI agent stared back at him. “Actually, I am here to say we need your help.”
Stephen glanced up at the ceiling. “Oh, boy.”
“Wait a minute, Stephen.” Peter raised his hands in the air. “We do need to talk.” Dropping his hands, he continued. “Remember I said I was going to call some people? Well, they put me in touch with Randy, here. Let’s give him a chance.”
“Okay.” Stephen leaned back in his chair, “But this better be good. The last time this happened, I was almost killed. Several times, in fact, and so were several other people. I don’t want to go through that again.”
Osborn crossed his legs and clasped his hands over his knee. “I read the reports about your last, uh, shall we say adventure. Sounds like quite a time.”
Stephen nodded. “It was.”
“Well, this should not be as involved or anywhere near as dangerous as last time.” He looked directly at Stephen. “We do need your help for part of this.”
“Okay,” Stephen sighed. “Tell me about it.”
“Peter said you think there was something different about this restaurant bombing here in New York. You mentioned foreign terrorists. Why?”
Stephen explained his reasoning, answering several questions along the way. Finally Osborn shared, “We also think it might be the work of foreign terrorists, for many of the same reasons.” He nodded. “Have you listened to the news lately, about the Israeli and Palestinian UN Ambassadors accusing each other and denying all responsibility themselves?”
“Yes, and it scares me.”
Osborn nodded. “Rightly so. You never know what either of those factions might do. And with the recent bombing, tensions are pretty high. Have you heard some of the rhetoric going back and forth?”
Stephen nodded his head. “I’m worried about some zealot stepping in and really causing problems.”
“That would certainly expand the situation rapidly,” Peter added.
The FBI man motioned with his hand in the air. “If this is the work of a terrorist group of some sort, there are several unanswered questions that we must consider.”
“Such as what?”
Osborn uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in his chair. “What was their real goal? And did they achieve it? If not, there could be a lot more havoc to come. Where? And what are they really after?” He paused a moment.
The two other men could see Stephen was deep in thought, staring at the floor and nodding his head. Without looking up, he asked, “How do you think we could help?”
“After three days of BS going back and forth on the news, the Palestinians have come up with a proposal. They want a public forum where both Ambassadors could present any accusations and explain their side of the story. Each could question the other and be able to respond publicly on the spot. The press would be there to televise the event for the whole world to watch the results.”
“Interesting idea.”
“Each side has submitted a list of conditions. The list has been combined, and both sides have agreed to each condition.”
“For security reasons, the event will be held four days from now in a large, open area in Central Park. Both sides feel that an indoor setting would be placing them in a trap. In the event of an attack, there’s no place to go. Escape becomes much more difficult. There is also a much greater danger with the crowd pressed far too close to the Ambassadors. Then, even the smallest handgun would present a death threat to the Ambassadors and their staff.”
“The area will be fenced off with metal detectors and guards at the entrances. It’s a pretty fair distance to any point that an experienced sniper would use around the park, so we just need to be extremely vigilant and watch the trees.”
“Anything else?”
Osborn continued. “Yes. Two conditions. Raised podiums are to be provided for each Ambassador, so he can be seen by the crowd. Microphones will be provided with speakers placed around the site for everyone to hear.”
“What’s the last condition?” Stephen asked.
“The Israeli Ambassador has one special requirement. The Palestinians have agreed.”
Peter spoke up. “What is that, Randy?”
Agent Osborn shifted in his chair and turned to face Stephen. “The Israeli Ambassador will agree to do this if ─ and only if ─ this event is moderated by Dr. Stephen Grant, Special Assistant to the UN Secretary-General.”