“Okay, officers, they’re all yours. Two of my men will accompany you to help with the booking process.” Upon being informed of FBI agents capturing the snipers, Supervisory Special Agent Randall Osborn called for uniformed NYC police to meet him at ground level, near one of the building entrances.
He turned to another FBI agent dressed in a dark olive suit. “Bob, how about helping with the interrogation? Even with diplomatic immunity, we can hold them for a short time. I suspect the two governments wanted to protect their interests, but see if one of these guys is willing to give us anything. This whole thing is totally crazy. Take Jay with you.”
The two sniper teams had been discovered and captured on the roofs of buildings across the street from each other, facing 65th Street along Central Park West. Neither team seemed to have any knowledge of the other team, and neither had fired their rifles. Both teams said they were busy monitoring the situation in the park in case they had to act, and did not hear any gunshots anywhere.
“Fred, take some of the men and search other buildings for possible sniper sites. The shots came from this direction, and,” looking around, he pointed down 65th, “probably from a building a little further back. But check out all the possibilities. They’re gone by now, but maybe somebody saw something.”
He turned to Stephen Grant, reached out and patted him on the arm. “Let’s go back to the car. We can talk on the way.”
Stephen and Agent Osborn walked to the corner, then followed the sidewalk along Central Park West toward Osborn’s car, three blocks to the north.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes,” Stephen replied. “I’m all right. A little shaken up and still scared, but,” he made a face, “I’ll be okay.”
“Quite a day, huh? Listen, I’ll be in touch as soon as we learn anything more. Hopefully the search will turn up some information. And we’re still questioning people at the park. Who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky. We’ll find something. This is too big an affair, we’re not about to let it go. This one already has international attention.”
“Thanks to those television cameras,” Stephen replied. “Think one of them might have caught anything to help?”
“Naw, they were focused on the speakers, facing the wrong direction. But then again, you never know what could turn up. We’ll have someone check it out.” He turned to Stephen. “If any of them did catch something, it’s all over the Internet and network TV by now.”
“What’re your thoughts on this crazy thing? Who could profit from it?” Without waiting for an answer, Osborn continued. “At first, I thought it was probably a Palestinian group. But their Ambassador was killed too.” He shrugged and raised his hands in a questioning gesture. “It doesn’t make any sense.” He glanced at Stephen. “Any ideas?”
“No, not really.” They kept walking. “It has to be a third party of some kind, but I have no idea what they hope to accomplish. You don’t just ...” he stopped walking. Stephen turned his head to Osborn, frowning. Raising his hand, he pointed up with one finger. “Just a minute.” He glanced around. Shaking his head, again he said, “Just a minute,” and walked to the rear of the shiny, maroon-colored SUV parked beside the sidewalk. The custom Kansas license plate read PRECHR.
He took a couple of steps back toward the sidewalk, then stopped, put his hand out and leaned against the rear corner of the car. “This is a new Tahoe, right?”
“That’s right.” Osborn nodded.
“This is my brother’s car,” Stephen said.
“Oh. Maybe he was here in the park for the big event.”
“No, not my brother.”
“Then he must be inside one of these places on business. Do you want to look for him?”
Stephen stood up straight. “He doesn’t live here. He’s in Kansas.” Stephen turned and glanced at the street in both directions. With a stern look, he carefully scanned the sidewalk.
Osborn shrugged. “He must be here on a trip or vacation.”
Stephen walked over to the FBI agent. “You don’t understand.” He spread both hands out to his sides. “His car was stolen while he was on vacation.”
“Here?” Osborn asked.
Stephen shook his head and looked down at the sidewalk, thinking. “No. He took his family to see Disney World in Florida.”
“Let me call it in,” the FBI man said, pulling out his cell phone. He dialed 911, identified himself, and gave them the information about the car. He told them they would wait beside the vehicle until an officer showed up. He motioned to Stephen, “Let’s step over to the side by the building and wait for the officer. It should only be a few minutes.”
As they moved to the side, Stephen continued examining the sidewalk traffic in both directions. “They were on their way here, to see me.” The look on Stephen’s face displayed both surprise at finding the car, and exasperation. “They stopped for a night at a motel along the way.” He put his hands in his pockets and turned to Osborn as he continued. “In South Carolina. The car was stolen sometime during the night.”
The FBI man stood there with his mouth open, staring at Stephen. He swallowed and asked, “South Carolina?”
“Yeah, a family motel in Fayetteville. Whoever took the car left a old, battered gray Chevy in its place.”
Osborn turned his head to the side and looked off into the distance. He began shaking his head. Peering back at Stephen, he said, “One of the things you learn in this business is that very few events are a coincidence.” He lowered his voice to a hushed whisper as other people walked past them on the sidewalk. “Some fishermen found a half-sunken luxury yacht in an inlet along the coast of South Carolina three days ago.” He moved closer to Stephen and continued his whisper. “The yacht had been chartered out of Havana, with a captain who was nowhere to be found. Someone tried to scuttle the boat, but the water at that particular point was too shallow. The boat only went down about halfway. But there’s more,” Osborn said. “Harbor officials in Havana confirmed that the yacht had been chartered by a group of four. They thought they were all Arab, or at least from some part of the Middle East. One of them spoke English, but the others were talking in an Arabic type language.”
Stephen raised his eyebrows. “Really. That’s interesting, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but there is still more. We found a body on the boat. A male, early to mid twenties, shot three times at close range. We think he was Pakistani. And get this, we found tire tracks in the mud close to where the boat was. Someone met them, or left a car for them. The tire tracks were matched to a stolen gray ‘59 Chevy that was abandoned in a Best Western parking lot in Fayetteville.”
Stephen let out a whistle. “The car’s here now. Do you think this could somehow be tied to the shooting today?”
“I don’t know, but we’re going to wait here awhile to see what happens.” He nodded to Stephen. “Let’s move back a little ways, and we’ll just watch.” They settled in a shaded spot in front of a small neighborhood grocery, a little over forty feet from the car.
The sidewalk traffic in New York City is always busy and hurried. Today was no exception. The afternoon crowd included busy shoppers, some obvious students, a few businessmen, and some mothers with strollers. A man with a cane hobbled along at a slower pace while three young giggling girls skipped along the sidewalk in the opposite direction. Two men went by, passing out flyers for a strip club, and another man with long, tangled red hair and a knotty beard handed both Stephen and Osborn a home printed page citing their need for redemption, as the end of the world was approaching.
Stephen nudged Osborn and pointed to a young man wearing a hoodie and blue jeans coming their direction at a fast walk. As he neared the car, he slowed, then stopped beside the driver’s door. Turning toward the car, he dug down in his jeans front pocket for something, then pulled out his hand, smiled, and put a Life Saver in his mouth. He glanced around and resumed walking away.
Tense, Stephen relaxed and slumped his shoulders. He let out a deep breath.
Osborn stood up on his tiptoes and looked in both directions, seeking the police car that should be arriving.
Stephen elbowed him and nodded toward a woman approaching the car from the direction opposite them. She slowed, jerking her head around as if searching for someone. As she got even with the car, she stopped short of the driver’s door and put her purse on the hood. She searched frantically in her purse, becoming visibly irritated. With a grimace, she promptly raised her arm, holding keys in her hand.
At that moment, a police car pulled up on the street side of the car, stopping with the front of the police car even with the front passenger door. Stephen noticed the startled woman jump and drop her keys as the policeman got out of his patrol car. The patrolman obviously saw the woman there and walked toward the front of the car. She jammed her hand back into her purse.
The officer began to speak. “Lady, is this your ...”
With his left hand, Osborn pushed Stephen back and started toward the car.
The woman dropped her purse and raised her arm toward the policeman. She held a small snub-nosed revolver in her hand.
Osborn broke into a run around the people on the sidewalk as he shouted, “Officer, look out!”
Thunder from the gunshot echoed over the area as sound bounced off the building walls. The uniformed officer was thrown back a step, spun to his left and knocked to the ground.
Screams pierced the air. Shopping bags dropped to the ground, spilling their contents across the sidewalk. People started running in every direction. A man grabbed the woman walking beside him, pushed her down behind another parked car and fell to the ground beside her. One young woman tried desperately to run in her five-inch heels, lost her balance and fell into a new mother, knocking her over. She pulled on the stroller she was pushing and turned it over, spilling out her newborn child.
The woman swung the gun around to face the direction where the warning had been shouted. She saw the FBI agent dodging people and running toward her. The gun echoed once more.
Osborn ducked down as the gun fired. A gray-haired man behind him grabbed his stomach, doubled over and fell to the ground.
A loud baby cry drowned out the sounds of pushing and shoving. A middle-aged couple quickly put an arm around each other. They stumbled toward the building wall to their side. Another man trying to run slipped. He fell face-first onto the concrete sidewalk.
The woman saw Stephen a little farther back, just standing there staring at her. She recognized him from the event earlier. She swung the revolver toward him.
Suddenly, it seemed to Stephen like everything was happening in slow motion. He saw the wrong end of the gun barrel swell into a cannon as it pointed at him. The gun bellowed its ear-shattering thunder again, and the plate glass window of the neighborhood grocery behind him exploded, spraying a thousand glass shards around the area.
A second policeman’s voice could be heard from the patrol car shouting into the radio, “Officer down. Officer down.”
Stephen looked up in time to see Osborn reach the back end of the maroon SUV. He jerked his right hand forward, holding his own gun.
The woman tried to swing her extended arm with the revolver back to her left so she could shoot the man charging her. As she brought it on target, two shots clamored through the air as the last pedestrian there stumbled and rolled onto the ground.
The woman was thrown back against the car as the thunder of one last gunshot split the air. A strange look of disbelief showed on her face. She slid down against the front fender of the SUV, then fell over with her face to the concrete.
After checking on his partner, the second policeman remained crouched and, with his gun drawn, moved quickly around the front of the car.
“FBI. FBI,” the agent shouted.
The officer carefully peeked around the corner of the Tahoe and saw the woman on the ground. He ducked back. Then, very slowly and cautiously, he looked again. He saw Osborn on his knees, holding up his badge in his left hand, his right hand down by his side holding a gun.
“FBI,” Osborn said. “Agent Randy Osborn.” He was breathing hard. “Under control. The shooting’s over.” The agent slowly rose to a standing position, but stood still, waiting.
The police officer carefully stood up, watching everyone in the process. He saw the gun on the ground beside the woman, kicked it away, and kept his gun pointed at Osborn. He walked over to the revolver and picked it up.
Osborn raised his hands and spoke. “Let me put my gun away.” Very slowly, he brought his right hand down, pulled back his suit coat and holstered his weapon. He walked over to the officer and let him examine his FBI credentials.
Stephen started walking up to them. The officer turned to him and asked, “Who are you?”
“It’s okay, officer, he’s with me. How is your partner?”
“Wounded, but not bleeding badly.” Walking over to the woman on the ground, he reached down and checked for a pulse. He shook his head no and stood up. “Ambulances are on the way.” He holstered his weapon. Looking at Osborn, he said, “Want to tell me what happened here?”
After describing the incident, Osborn informed the officer he was the one who phoned about the stolen car. He introduced Stephen and described the situation. The policeman told them they needed to go to the precinct house to give a written statement.
Osborn replied, “Of course. We’ll be happy to. Why don’t you go help your partner? While we’re waiting, I want to see what else this woman had in her purse.”
Examining her purse, they found many of the usual items carried in a woman’s bag, then discovered two passports. One had been recently issued to a Marie Ul-Bashar in Mexico. It had her picture in it. The other passport belonged to a Leena Wateeb and also contained her photograph. The second passport was from Pakistan.
The FBI agent nodded, looked at Stephen, and said, “There is definitely something going on. We have the boat, the body,” he started counting on his fingers, “the stolen car, the restaurant bombing, the shooting in the park today, and now this.”
A cruel smile crossed Stephen’s face as he said, “And this may just be the tip of the iceberg.”