5. Sir

Manish Das was very proud of his office. His Professor and Guru, Dr. Larry MacIver had fought very hard to get it for him, so he said. At Rutgers University, like all universities, space was at a premium, as his professor was always saying, so it was over space that the most acrimonious battles were fought. He had heard from student chatter that Dr. MacIver had even threatened to quit if he did not get the office space for him, but he didn’t really believe that. His Guru was too smart to make direct threats to anyone. He manipulated things behind the scenes. Anyway, he was so famous, any Dean in his right mind would do anything to keep him happy.

The strange thing was that Dr. MacIver hardly used his own office at all, yet it was arguably the nicest office in the whole building. He had fought a big battle to get it when they were moving into the new building, built for the Law School. He wanted it, he said, because it was the only office that had a view of the World Trade Center. Little was he to know that in the following year, the World Trade center would be no more. The contrast between the Guru’s office and his own was huge. Of course his own had no windows, but that was usual for student offices. Dr. MacIver’s office had a resplendent polished cherry wood desk that took up half the space of the room. A massive computer with two displays, a keyboard and mouse, were carefully placed on it and nothing else. There was one nicely crafted oak bookshelf, with a total of two books on its second shelf, and the top of the bookshelf was covered with various manuscripts and papers.

Das’s office was of course much smaller than his Guru’s, but it was crammed full of an incredible amount of stuff. There were four small student desks for a start, lined up against two sides of the room, the other walls lined with book cases. There were three laptops, all running, sitting on the desks, and several displays on the shelves, also running. He was most proud of the bookshelf that went from floor to ceiling because he had salvaged it from a dumpster down near the parking lot. He had fixed it up and managed to attach it to the wall so it would not fall forward, and in it he had placed all his techno knick-knacks. USB drives and cables, transponders of different kinds, bar code readers, a thumb print reader, cameras of various kinds, five different cases for DVDs and CDs that contained an enormous collection of software, some of it of questionable origin, and six two-terabyte hard drives linked in a chain. The drives’ LED lights blinked continuously as they kept a close eye on all his files, doing automatic backups. Most important they contained all the video he had collected for his dissertation. Last but not least, there were various printers, all of them constantly running, LED lights continuously blinking as well.

Cables ran under the desks and across the floor, covered roughly with tape so that he or his visitors — he tried not to have any — would not trip over them. The most important units in his office though, considered Das, were the two wireless modems sitting high up on one of the book shelves. They were the nerve center of his whole operation. They were his link to the world’s databases. Through them, he could find anything he needed, retrieve anything he wanted. The things he could get through them were incredible, so incredible that he was careful not to mention to anyone what he was able to do. Not even his Guru knew what he could do.

Manish glanced at the time on one of his computer screens. His professor would be coming to him soon to make sure he had prepared all the PowerPoint slides. He rarely went to his Guru’s office. He always felt uncomfortable there, always felt that his professor not only did not want him in there, but that the professor himself did not like being there. So he always waited for his professor to come to his office, making sure that he had everything, and he meant everything, at the ready. Besides, it was obvious that Dr. MacIver liked coming to his office, or at least standing at the doorway looking in and barking orders. He had been very lucky the professor had chosen him as his own research assistant out of many others. Why he was chosen he was not sure. No, actually he knew why. It was because he was Indian. Not in a negative or racial sense, though if one wanted to dig deeply into the history of western civilization, one might find a racial component. It was simply that he had been trained by his father, a consummate and high achieving bureaucrat in the Indian public service (he never quite understood which department, but in India that didn’t especially matter), how to behave as a subordinate. His father had been schooled in the English public schools, learning most correct English grammar and most correct English manners. Most of all he had learned to always remain five steps behind his master, always attentive, but never obtrusive. These were the lessons his father drummed into him when he was a boy, and still reminded him every time they spoke over Skype.

Now, Manish had a well-practiced very slight bow, a nod really, or slight tilt forward of his slender frame when his Guru appeared at the door. He stood quickly, smiled profusely, and always said something like, “At your service, sir!”

His father always told him, “You cannot say ‘sir’ often enough. Supervisors never tire of being treated as superior.”

And Manish implemented his father’s instructions to the letter. He was always surprised, and got great pleasure out of it, that Dr. MacIver appreciated him, no, more than that, he really liked being treated in this way, even though he himself joked with Manish and told him to stop behaving like a Rudyard Kipling character (if so, was Dr. MacIver the Sahib?). Never mind that Das’s Indian friends kidded him, called him the “colonial boy.” He truly did look up to Dr. MacIver, a famous man after all. His friends — actually, he did not have any real friends, they were just fellow students — were simply jealous and would have jumped at the chance to work for Professor MacIver.

Manish went through the PowerPoint presentation one last time to make sure everything was there and worked, just as Dr. MacIver had directed. What an exotic research project, how exciting it must have been for his Guru to visit Israel and collect data in the Palestinian territories. He so wished he could have been there, though the description of disarming the young suicide bomber was pretty scary. So maybe it was lucky he wasn’t there. He was not the Rambo his professor was, he thought. He heard the door close down the hallway. “Here he comes,” he said to himself. Unlike his professor, Manish’s door was always open. His Guru would appear at the doorway any minute.

“All right Das. Everything set?”

Das jumped out of his seat and stepped backwards to the extent that there was room. “Sir, here’s the PowerPoint, sir. Very exciting project, sir.”

Das leaned forward and handed MacIver a tiny USB drive. “It’s all on this sir. I tried it out down in the lecture center. Everything’s good.”

“Yes, it was an exciting time. But more important, I now have the data to demonstrate beyond a doubt that hardening targets reduces terrorist attacks.”

“That’s great, sir. Would you like me to come and install the slide show, sir?”

“Excellent, Das. I’d like you there anyway, just in case something goes wrong. This high tech stuff, it’s great, but there’s always the worry that it will not work properly.”

“Yes-sir, that’s right sir. That’s why there are people like me, sir!”

“Indeed, thank goodness, Das. I don’t know what I, or the world for that matter, would do without you. Let’s go, don’t want to be late. There will be a lot of people there, I think. Unfortunately, many for the wrong reasons, the ideologues who demonstrate against the wall thinking that it’s the product of Zionism and all sorts of political nonsense.”

“Yes sir. Unfortunate sir.”

The Professor walked ahead to the elevators, Das following five steps behind.

*

MacIver entered the lecture center and looked up at the rapidly filling rows of seats. There would be at least a couple of hundred people. He saw a few signs “Stop Zionist land grab” and others, but so far no rowdy demonstrators. He looked to Manish who was busily installing the slide show, the opening slide now filling the screen behind the lectern. MacIver’s dark business suit and tie made him look like a conservative administrator, which maybe was not a good image to project to a critical audience. But he had dressed this way because he anticipated that there would be media people there and he would be doing a TV interview or two. He waited for a few more stragglers to enter, then indicated to Das to close the door. He felt under the lectern for the laser pointer, thinking that it had been removed, and was relieved when Das appeared at his elbow and handed it to him. Das found a seat at the door. MacIver stood ready at the lectern, then seemed to change his mind, and walked across to Das.

“The Dean was supposed to come and introduce me. Did you hear anything?”

Das jumped to his feet. “I am a poor student sir. Deans do not speak to me,” he grinned.

“OK. I know, you poor thing. I just thought you might have heard some student gossip or something.”

“Gossip? Oh no sir! I don’t listen to gossip!”

At that moment the Dean entered. He shook hands with MacIver and they both went over to the lectern.

“Fellow students, faculty and visitors, I am pleased to introduce to you our eminent forensic scientist Dr. Larry MacIver who has just come back from an exciting trip to Israel —”

“Palestine, you mean,” interjected a student, who was ignored.

“—where he has been collecting data concerning the effectiveness of the fences built in Israel with the purpose of stopping suicide bombing.”

There was a rustling at the back of the lecture center as demonstrators held up signs and chanted “Land grab! Land grab!”

The Dean continued, unruffled. “This is a scientific study with no political purpose. I encourage you to quietly hear him out. Dr. MacIver is a world expert on crime prevention and is now, quite simply and brilliantly, applying his considerable knowledge and expertise to solving the problem of terrorism. This is surely a worthy endeavor and I congratulate him on his courageous scientific effort. I present to you, Dr. Larry MacIver.”

Students chanted, “tear down the wall! Tear down the wall!”

The Dean quickly moved away from the lectern and departed, Das opening the door for him.

MacIver stood tall at the lectern. “About the wall,” he said, “I hope you will hear me out. My interests are only in science. Not politics. Please fight your battles outside and let us get on with our scientific work.”

The door at the back of the lecture center opened and security guards entered. There was a scuffle and soon the students sat quietly holding their signs aloft. MacIver resumed his lecture.

“First of all, it is mistaken to think that there is one monolithic wall. In fact, there is only one small section about two hundred yards long where there is a wall, and that is so because it is an area overlooking a busy freeway that would be vulnerable to snipers if the wall were not there. For the rest, there are a series of fences, electronic fences, a deep ditch on each side, an access road running beside them and at its edge twelve foot high rolls of barbed wire. All of this is quite evident in the slide now before you. The history of the first fence is very interesting. It was not, as is often portrayed in the American media, an idea dreamed up by Netanyahu or other so-called Zionists.”

“The origin of the fence depends on how far back in history one goes, which is a problem typical of that part of the world. Let’s say that the history of the modern fences is comparatively recent, and began with the actions of a small district in South Jerusalem bordering on Bethlehem. The local community leaders got fed up with suicide bombers coming across from the West bank and killing their citizens. They thought, ‘let’s build a fence to stop them from getting to our village.’ They had few resources and built just a temporary fence at first. And it worked. Only later did politicians pick up on it so that it became what it is today, a well-funded, very controversial national enterprise.”

“My research is designed to establish whether or to what extent the fences reduced or prevented terrorist attacks, but it also investigates whether there were any side benefits such as reducing or preventing international car theft, smuggling and other crimes that involve crossing borders. So my interest is purely scientific, though I would say that, should my research show that the fences do not significantly reduce terrorist attacks, then the political trouble surrounding them would be justified. If they are shown to be effective, then it is up to the politicians and policy makers to decide whether the political cost of erecting them is worth the lives saved. That is an issue that I, as a scientist, am not qualified to assess, since I am decidedly not a politician and do not want to be. Now, let’s get to the study and most important, the data.”

A student raised her hand. “Dr. MacIver?” she called and continued without waiting for a response, “I saw you on Al Jazeera. Is it true that you disarmed a suicide bomber who was only fourteen years old?”

“Well, I’d really like to get on with presenting my project. But to answer your question, while in Israel this last trip, I visited a movable checkpoint operated by the IDF, and it happened that a suicide bomber approached a checkpoint in a taxi while I was there. I did help them disarm the boy, since my early training as a psychologist was useful in getting him to understand the implications of his actions and making it possible for him to avoid feelings of humiliation if he did not complete his mission. But I did not disarm him. That I left to the experts. There’s no doubt that I would have blown us all up if I had tried to remove the boy’s bomb vest. Now, the data.”

*

Manish looked down at his phone. He figured there were probably just ten minutes of the talk left, then questions. Thank goodness! He had heard all this before over and over again. He found it hugely difficult to sit still for any length of time, so he fought it by fidgeting with his fingers, picking his nails, and trying to think of something else — daydreaming, to be precise. Lately, his thoughts kept going off to Delhi, imagining his wedding, an incredible match arranged by his father and mother, anticipating a lavish three day affair. Garlands of flowers around their necks. Ravi Shankar music playing quietly in the background, hopefully played by a group distantly related to him on his mother’s side, the sitar player, his mother claimed, the daughter of the second cousin of Ravi Shankar himself. He longed to be with her, having met her only on one very brief and heavily controlled occasion, when she was brought to say hello to him just as he was leaving for America at the Delhi airport last summer. He looked down at his iPhone again, surreptitiously thumbing through his photos till hers came up. “Beautiful, beautiful Niki,” he said to himself. “I love you and soon we will be together forever.” But he was jolted from his reverie by a little ding informing him that a text had arrived.

He had thought he had the phone on silent, but must have checked the wrong box. He noticed his Guru quickly glance across. But he was wound up and really into his presentation. The text was, could you believe it, purportedly from the New York City mayor’s office, from her assistant, someone called Foster. It was marked URGENT and read:

“Dr. MacIver is requested to join the Mayor and a TOP SECRET

group of counter terrorist professionals at the Skyline Drive restaurant at 1.00 pm. today for an URGENT meeting to plan a response to a credible terrorist threat to New York City. Please respond immediately. For Madam Mayor Newberg, Foster.”

Manish quickly pounded his iPhone with lightning fast fingers. “Dr. MacIver pleased to attend. For Dr. MacIver, Manish Das, top research assistant.” He looked across to the lectern. MacIver was winding up, had turned to face the screen and, pointer in hand, highlighted the line graph that clearly sloped downward.

“So in sum, using my target hardening approach of street closures, barrier arrangements and movable checkpoints, last year we reduced suicide bombings on Israel’s West Bank by 95%. And I guess that’s it. I have time for a few questions.”

A student immediately raised her hand. “You said there was no need for infiltration of the terrorist cells?”

“Assuming there are any. But that’s right. Electronic surveillance is safer and provides more accurate data than do spies.”

“But surely spies understand the context better?”

“They might. But their problem is they rarely know what information is important and what is not.”

“But surely context is the key to understanding,” interjected a professor.

“Spies collect everything and end up with enormous amounts of information that is impossible to analyze. I bet you that the CIA has warehouses full of information that they have never looked at.”

MacIver was about to say thank you for attending and move away from the lectern, when his eye was caught by the most beautiful woman he had seen in many years. She raised her hand, smiling broadly, her voluptuous mouth accentuated by bright red lipstick. “So spies are obsolete?” she said, provocatively.

“Let’s just say that spies are not scientists and don’t know how to form hypotheses or how to collect data to test them.” MacIver was bedazzled and could hardly think straight.

She grinned some more. “But —”

Das was at his elbow. “Sir, sorry to interrupt, sir.” He held up his iPhone for MacIver to read the text he had received from the Mayor. “Sir, the mayor of NYC wants to meet with you, sir.”

“Now?”

“Sir, seems very hush-hush and urgent, sir.”

“Good time to stop anyway.” MacIver looked out to the audience. “My apologies, but I’ve been called away. Something urgent it seems. Thank you all very much for coming.”

The audience applauded lightly. MacIver’s eye was still on the gorgeous blonde beauty who asked that pesky question. She made her way down to the podium, but he had already begun to move to the door, having noticed a TV reporter just outside. Das had also noticed his professor’s admirer and waited up for her. She smiled and brushed past him, intent on catching her quarry.

Manish called to his professor. “Sir, I think this young lady wants to speak with you.”

MacIver turned just as she was upon him.

“I think we’re going to the same meeting,” she said, “allow me to introduce myself. I’m Monica Silenzio, Director, New York-New Jersey Counter Terrorism Fusion Center. We’re going to the same meeting, with the Mayor of NYC?”

MacIver’s eyes were on her lips. “I believe so. It’s very urgent and super-secret, at the mayor’s request, I’m told.”

The reporter came towards MacIver who looked briefly in his direction.

“Excuse me a moment,” said MacIver, “I promised this reporter an interview.” He stepped briskly away and Silenzio was left standing with Das.

“Is your boss always that rude?” she asked.

“My apologies, er, Madam, Miss, er Doctor Silenzio. I think he’s a bit flustered. I think maybe you caused it, if it’s OK for me to say so, my apologies.”

“What did I do?”

“Not what you did, doctor, what you are, if you will excuse my saying so, doctor.”

Silenzio looked at Das with great amusement. “You know your boss pretty well, huh?”

“It is my job,” answered Das, relishing this opportunity to speak not only to a beautiful woman, but to a chief of the Terrorism Fusion Center.

She must be a high up mucky-muck, he thought to himself. “He won’t be that long. He always likes to speak to the media. Considers it part of his duty as a responsible scientist. It will only take five minutes or so. Maybe we can wait, and possibly go to the meeting together.”

“That does sound like a good idea,” she smiled. Das ushered her back into the lecture center and seated her in the front row while he busied himself at the lectern, removing MacIver’s presentation from the system, switching off the projector.

*

MacIver, with one eye on Silenzio, tried to direct his attention to the reporter. “If you look at my list of questions here, you can ask me any one of those. Should make it easier for you, saves you having to come up with the questions yourself, which I know must be hard, since this is not your field, so how would you know what to ask?”

“Frank Brown, Nine News,” said the reporter as he took the list of questions and looked at them briefly. “The wall the Israelis built has all but stopped suicide bombing?”

“If you were at my talk, you would know that it is not a monolithic wall, but a series of wire fences —”

“OK. Fences, then. So they really do work?”

“Indeed they do, along with a lot of other things that the Israeli Defense Forces do, especially moving their checkpoints around, monitoring suicide bombers’ movements.”

“They can actually do that, they know who the bombers are?”

“Well I can’t go into that in detail of course. They have a very hi-tech operation.”

“I heard that you yourself disarmed a suicide bomber?”

“I don’t know how this story got about. I was one of a team that intercepted the bomber, a young teenager. We managed to talk him out of it.”

“The anti-Zionists who came to your talk say that the wall, er excuse me, fences, have been built right along the Green Line, splitting communities in half, separating Jews from Arabs, an apartheid line, the protestors called it.”

“There are places where this has happened, but I have to say, the Israelis have been very responsive to local communities and have actually shifted the fences where it was obvious that they damaged communities. I do not believe that the construction of the fences is essentially for political reasons, that is, to define a de facto border on the West Bank. I am convinced that, because my research has shown that they save lives, the true justification is for security of local communities. They were politicized after they were built, not before. But as I said in my talk. I am not a politician. I bow to the political decisions that are made. All I ask of politicians is that the decisions they make are informed by data, that they be evidence driven. And in that case, they have to factor in the numbers of lives saved by the fences against whatever the political gains would be from taking them down.”

“So do you think suicide bombing is likely to happen in the USA, just like in Israel? Is that why you are doing research there, because you think it might come over here?”

“Well, strictly speaking, it already has come here, hasn’t it? The Nine Eleven attack was a suicide bombing, wasn’t it? It’s just that the bombers used a different means of getting to their targets and didn’t have to wear bomb vests.”

“What I meant was, do you think we should be building a fence like the Israelis, along our open borders to Mexico and Canada?”

“I do. I know it’s politically toxic to say so, but it’s the only way we can make sure that terrorists cannot first of all get themselves into our country, and second, transport the equipment and materials they need to use in their attacks.”

“But a fence would not have stopped the nine eleven terrorists.”

“Quite right. But carefully controlled border entry, including careful screening and document verification which I have been advocating for many years, long before the nine eleven attack, would have. It’s a whole package. We do many things, a fence is just one part of it.”

“One last question, Professor. You seem much more practical than your academic colleagues. What do they think of your work?”

“I have excellent colleagues whom I respect greatly.”

The reporter looked at MacIver quizzically, but decided to leave it go.

MacIver knew that the question and the answer would be edited out of the interview.

“Thank you for your time professor. It will be on the local evening news. That’s Nine-Prime at 6.00.”

*

They were heady days for Ruth Newberg, daughter of the media tycoon Rupert Newberg, when she won election as New York’s very first female mayor. But now, it had to be acknowledged, she was an embattled Mayor, mercilessly attacked for several months — some of her supporters would argue ever since she got into office — by the mainstream media and the huge cohort of bloggers who relentlessly reported on and criticized her every move and every statement. The New York Post called her a walking-politically-correct-senior-Barbie Doll. The New York Times called her just plain incompetent. There was garbage on the streets, citizens were constantly harassed by freeloaders, beggars and muggers. The murder rate had never been so high and hate crime was endemic. There were demonstrations almost daily about one cause or another. Traffic was at a standstill. The subways were snarled by demonstrators and even small-time fire bombers. Her police department had become a kind of renegade operation under police commissioner John Ryan who had given up on her long ago. She had even increased the size of his force by some 25%, but he still just went ahead and did what he wanted. She threatened to fire him and he openly challenged her to do so. He was immensely popular and to fire him would bring down her mayoralty. Their yelling matches in her office and his were the talk of the town. He wanted her job, it was pretty clear. It reminded her of when Rizzo was the police chief of Philadelphia where she grew up in the 1960s and through his cunning antics and policies, “a policeman on every corner,” became Philadelphia’s most popular mayor ever. There was still a huge mural of him in South Philadelphia.

The supposed imminent threat of a terrorist attack was an opportunity. The intelligence had not come from NYPD but the CIA. Her own police commissioner Ryan had insisted that there was no impending threat because if there was, his counter terrorism force, now with agents in many parts of the world as well as Brooklyn, would have heard about it. That was another thing that annoyed her. He was trying to be the FBI or CIA, claiming that he could do the job much better than could they. So her administration was pretty much cut off from all the significant players in counter terrorism, except for one avenue: the New York-New Jersey counter terrorism fusion center, headed by her good friend Monica Silenzio. It was thanks to her that she felt confident enough to go ahead with this press conference and make public the threat.

“It’s time,” said Foster, her tireless young assistant, “surprisingly, there are hardly any protestors, and just the usual gang of reporters.” He led the way down the small flight of worn marble steps of City Hall and out the door where he had arranged for a podium and the usual audio paraphernalia. It was set to the side of the main door, just at the head of the steps so she could look down on the rabble, as she called them. She stood at the podium and took a deep breath, Foster at her side.

“People of the Great City of New York,” she announced, “this will be a very brief statement. You have probably heard that the threat level of terrorism has been raised for this city. I can affirm that a credible threat from the CIA that a group, unknown as yet, plans to attack Ground Zero — now known of course as the Freedom Tower — on the anniversary of the nine eleven attack. I should add that the exact day and time is supposition on our part, since the chatter only indicated an imminent attack, not mentioning the day. My advisers tell me that it’s pretty much a sure thing that the terrorists will choose the anniversary date in order to garner the publicity that they crave. While some have pressed me to keep silent and not divulge this information to the people of New York, I consider it your right to know what is going on so that you may take the necessary precautions. I urge the citizens of New York to be vigilant in the coming months prior to the anniversary of nine eleven, and to report anything suspicious to the terrorism hotline of the New York State Police. I also ask you to be patient with the preventive actions we will be taking, in fact have already begun to take, as we harden targets, close various streets and alleys and increase surveillance at certain venues and on public transport. Now, I will take a few quick questions.”

“Madam Mayor, Tyler Simkin, New York Times.”

“Yes Mr. Simkin. I think I remember you,” Newberg responded with a faint hint of sarcasm.

“Is this really a credible threat? Your own police commissioner just yesterday in an interview with the New Yorker stated that there were no current threats, because his undercover counter terrorism task force would hear about it if there were.”

“When it comes to counter terrorism intelligence, we in the mayor’s office prefer to listen to the experts, and the experts are the CIA and FBI. The FBI, by the way, concurs with the CIA assessment.”

“But the commissioner insists that he has already thwarted several potential terrorist attacks, because his own counter terrorism task force has infiltrated local Islamic communities in New York City and Brooklyn.”

“I have not heard him say that. To my knowledge we are not doing it and never will do it.” She pointed to another reporter with raised hand.

“Todd Sloan, New York Post. If I could pick up on that. The FBI has also charged that NYPD has interfered with their outreach to Islamic communities in Newark.”

“My office never has and never will condone police infiltration, spying or surveillance of Islamic communities whether in New York, Newark or anywhere else.”

“So you will demand that the police commissioner cease his spying on innocent Muslim communities?”

“To repeat. We do not spy on the good citizens of New York. I do not condone it anywhere, least of all in Newark where our police have no right being there anyway.”

“Abdul-al-Kahmar, Newark Times. Madam Mayor, will you ask the Police Commissioner to resign?”

“This conference is over. Thank you for your attention.” Foster guided his boss into City Hall and out the back door to a waiting helicopter.

*

Manish Das felt a little awkward and embarrassed to be alone with Monica Silenzio, such a beautiful woman, as they sat in the lecture center. In the interest of his boss, he decided to retrieve him from the media interview, so he turned to Silenzio and said, “Excuse me, I think I'd better find out where he is,” and was about to open the door when it opened, and in walked MacIver.

“Sorry about that,” he said, “you know how it is. The media are like a pack of dogs. They won’t let you go once they get a hold of you. Shall we depart? He smiled at Silenzio. “Where are you parked?”

“Just a few blocks away,” she answered.

Das held the door open and led the way out to the old parking lot across Washington Street. Newark was full of such lots that looked like what they were, places where old houses had been bulldozed away, leaving crumbling rubble, and in the better lots, crumbling black top. He led them past the old bar that had been left on the corner of the lot, to MacIver’s gleaming, deep black Nissan Maxima. MacIver and Silenzio followed, walking in awkward silence.

“May I offer you a lift?” asked MacIver

“That’s OK. My car’s just a block away.”

“Sir, throw me the keys, sir,” grinned Das. He unlocked the car and stood grinning at Silenzio. She scrutinized the car and couldn’t help noticing the two stickers attached to the back passenger window, a position suggesting that the car’s owner did not really want anyone to see them. One read, LOVE LIMBAUGH and the other, now old and peeling, OBAMA 2008.

“We’ll drop you at your car then,” said MacIver, “Do you know the best way to the Skyline Restaurant?

“Never been there. But I’ve heard of it.”

“It will take us a good thirty minutes.”

Das joyfully played chauffeur and opened the back door. Silenzio climbed in as he half saluted her.

MacIver walked to the other side. “You better not salute me!” he said to Das, half joking. He winked at Das who held the door open and carefully closed it shut after his boss slid into the back seat next to this most beautiful woman. “To the parking lot,” he ordered, and, turning to Silenzio, asked, “are you sure you won’t go all the way with me?”

“Not even to the restaurant,” she quipped. “I have things I have to do after the meeting. It’s just easier to have my own car there.”

Das loved driving this car. He gave a quick look in the rear view mirror and saw that his couple was well placed.

*

Buck Buick, Captain Buck Buick since last week, sat in his patrol car, parked behind the Newark Performing Arts Center. His iPad glowed in the shadow of the building, so ugly from the rear, not unlike the lady mayor he was watching on the local TV news. The mayor had just finished her news conference, and parts of it that related to Newark were being played over and over again by the local Newark TV news and various web sites. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. Didn’t want to run afoul of her police commissioner, a nasty piece of work if ever there was one. If his own chief knew what he was about to do, he’d be dead meat. But the fact was, life in the Newark PD was pretty boring, even heading up the new counter terrorism task force, which amounted to zilch, his eager beaver new recruits clamoring to dress up like Muslims and infiltrate the mosque.

Really idiotic. Besides, there were enough people doing that, what with the NYPD and the FBI as well! What a bunch of jokers they all were. He yearned to be back in the bomb disposal unit in Iraq. At least there, everyone knew what each had to do. You knew that your life was on the line as was your buddy’s. One misstep, and you or your comrades were blown into a thousand pieces, or worse, reduced to a couple of smaller pieces that couldn’t walk or talk. But the juice ran high! It was living to the max! He had tried lots of other ways to sample life to the full. “Get married and have kids,” that’s how to live life to the fullest, people said, especially those who had kids. He had watched his fellow marines who were married with little kids. They suffered, oh how they suffered. None of them would do it over, he was sure, and some had said so. And what happened when they came back from active duty? Life sucked. Sitting around wiping the kids’ runny noses, the wives, maybe without meaning to, belittling their military lives by making them change dirty diapers, play mindless kiddie games with one or two year olds. What sort of life was that? True, he’d tried marriage a couple of times. It was great for a few months. But then he yearned to be back in action, back where there was adventure and the high possibility of being blown to hell. The best solution would be to have a new wife waiting for him each time he rotated back from the front. Now there’s an idea! But no wife, no kid, better to have a really well trained and experienced prostitute waiting for him. Now there’s an even better idea!

The text had come from Foster, the mayor’s trusty assistant. “Meeting set for 1.00 pm. Today, Skyline Drive restaurant. Please confirm attendance.” He began to text an answer, but then stopped. Better they’re left worrying. Anyway, he was not at all sure whether to get mixed up in this crazy venture. When Foster had called him yesterday and asked him to join the secret task force he had said, without a moment’s hesitation, “No way!” He did not want the NYPD to become his enemy, and he was sure that was what would happen if the mayor’s police commissioner found out about it. And the police commissioner was an ex-marine himself. So no way. Foster did not let up, though. Next thing the mayor herself came on the line. “Look,” she said, “I know I’m asking a lot. And I know I’m putting you in a difficult position asking you to do this without Okaying it with either your own chief or mayor. But I really need a forceful, practical man like you who is used to pressure. It will be a very diverse team, CIA, FBI and a forensic scientist. I know with the right blend of action and expertise, we can do this. I have chosen the members of this task force very carefully. Each one of you is essential for its success. That means that without you, Buck, I have no task force. Simple as that.”

“You said, forensic scientist?” he asked. “You don’t mean Larry MacIver, do you?”

“You guessed it!”

“Then count me out. He’s a pointy headed pompous SOB. No way can I work with him. Besides, he thinks I’m an idiot.” He tapped END and the call ended. Immediately, the phone rang again. “Foster, I said no!” he said yelling into the small device.

“Look. Just give it some thought. I’m in the process of setting up the first meeting and inviting members of the task force to join. Anyway, there’s a very good reason for you to join us.”

“That’s impossible. There is no reason that it would make sense for me to join you.”

“If I told you that Monica Silenzio was going to chair the task force, would that make a difference?”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. I’m not.”

“You win the argument, at least for now. I’ll think about it.”

“Terrific. I’ll text you tomorrow to confirm the time and day. It will be tomorrow if we can manage it.”

And with that, Buick had put his career on the line, for it would be on the line if any of this got out. And knowing New York, it surely would eventually leak out, especially if there was any serious action involved. Buick was about to drive off when a car drove through a light that had just changed to red. Reflexively, he switched on his siren and gave chase. It was a new white Audi A6, the sort he really enjoyed pulling over. The driver quickly stopped. Buick pulled up behind him, lights still flashing. He ran the number through the Newark PD database of stolen cars. It was not stolen. Too bad! He climbed out of his car and slowly swaggered to the vehicle. The driver sat inside, petrified. Buick cast a large shadow on the car as he approached, hand resting lightly on his holster.

“License and registration please driver,” he asked officiously.