The Sacred Cipher (29 page)

“No, there’s a small driveway between our building and the hotel on the corner,” said
Johnson. “It’s protected by an iron gate, so you wouldn’t have noticed it. I’ll disengage
the electric lock, and the gate will be open. Back the van into the driveway, and
we can load the gear right out of the elevator on the bottom floor.”

“Okay, be back in a minute.”

First there was the flash. Milliseconds later, the windows imploded. The deafening
roar and battering shock wave of the explosion were hurled into the room, propelling
a shower of glass shards that impaled every visible surface.

A moment earlier, Rizzo had been leaning his chair against the back wall, checking
messages on his Blackberry. Rodriguez was in the restroom, Bohannon was carrying two
duffels out to the elevator, and Doc Johnson was stashing all the rolled up maps,
charts, and photos into a small storage closet behind his office door.

With the rattle of falling debris still filling the office, Bohannon burst into the
room, thousands of window splinters crunching under his feet. He saw Joe across the
office, picking himself up off the floor of the restroom. Doc Johnson, who had been
caught in a door-sandwich, was sitting groggily on the floor, a purple knot rising
on his forehead while he rubbed what was clearly going to be a badly bruised forearm.
Sammy was on his back, on the floor, both he and the chair knocked backward by the
blast. The sparkle of broken glass dotted the bottom of the chair and the bottom of
Rizzo’s shoes. There was no blood, but Rizzo laced the air with impassioned profanities.
“Tom,” he squawked, “find Winthrop.”

Bohannon turned and sprinted to the elevator, Rodriguez on his heels, hoping he was
not going to discover his fears blown all over 35th Street. The front doors of the
Collector’s Club were askew on their hinges, hanging like drunken soldiers against
the marble pillars. Pushing through the broken doors, Bohannon ignored the cacophony
of car alarms, his eyes riveted to the smoking hulk that was once a white van. Bohannon
reached out for something to keep himself from falling and found Rodriguez’s arm.
Neither one of them could—at that moment—gather up the courage or the will to venture
any farther. The doors to the van had been blown out and Larson’s body, parts of it,
had followed, thrown against the wrought-iron fence. Larsen’s right leg, from the
knee down, was missing, as were his right arm and shoulder. His back, what was left
of it, was pressed against the wrought-iron fence. His body was charred, still smoking,
and a half-dozen glass spears were embedded in his skull. Winthrop’s startled and
lifeless gaze failed to see Bohannon’s tears.

Several hours later, Rory O’Neill, accompanied by his omnipresent bodyguards and a
squad of uniformed officers, walked into Johnson’s mangled office.

Tom, Joe, Sammy, and, for much longer, Doc had been downstairs in the library, talking
to detectives, going over and over the same story until they felt they were going
to scream. The homicide detectives knew they were hearing only part of the story.
But Bohannon had pulled Rory O’Neill’s business card out of his wallet—the one with
O’Neill’s private office number and his nearly secret home number written on the back
in O’Neill’s own hand. It was almost a “Get Out of Jail Free” card. But not quite.

The card was powerful enough for the detectives to grant Bohannon’s request that he
would only speak to O’Neill.

Rory and his wife, Vivian, regularly volunteered at the Bowery Mission on Thanksgiving,
when 850 volunteers helped serve twenty-five hundred meals to the poor and homeless.
It was through that long-term relationship with the O’Neills that Bohannon had earned
the privilege to request the commissioner’s presence at the Collector’s Club that
night. So here was the police commissioner of New York City, a man who controlled
a uniformed force of thirty-six thousand highly trained officers, larger than the
armies of most countries, and he was making a personal, not professional, visit to
a crime scene.

Bohannon was out of his chair and walking to the door as soon as he saw the commissioner
walk in. “Thanks for coming, Rory. I really appreciate this. I know it’s probably
way out of line and not the normal protocol. I hope you don’t take any heat because
of it. I didn’t know what else to do. We desperately need your help.”

O’Neill was relatively short, with a boxer’s build. In spite of the power, prestige,
and pressure of leading a small army and trying to protect the world’s greatest city
from predatory radical terrorists, O’Neill was a sweet, soft-spoken man who often
purposely retreated to the background when accompanying the mayor, world dignitaries,
or his wife.

“Tom, that’s okay,” said O’Neill, leading Bohannon over to a pair of chairs. “I know
you wouldn’t have asked me to come if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. And I’m sure
you understand that I’ll help where I can. But there’s only so far I can, or will,
go. Now, why don’t you tell me what this is all about? Start from the beginning. But
I need to know why a man died tonight, okay?”

Bohannon’s face revealed the relief and gratitude he felt, but not his growing unease.
Anything they hoped to accomplish in the future would depend on how well, and how
fully, he told their story. “This may take awhile, Rory, but I’ll tell you everything
that I know and then leave it up to you.”

Over the next forty-five minutes, Bohannon laid out the entire story for the commissioner,
and he seldom missed a pertinent detail. At intervals, O’Neill would interrupt Bohannon’s
narration to ask probing questions, but it didn’t take the commissioner long to understand
why Bohannon had been such an excellent reporter.

When Bohannon had finished his narrative, O’Neill looked at him impassively. Friendship
and police work never mixed well.

“And you want me to let the four of you get on that plane tomorrow?”

“No, Rory,” Bohannon said, shaking his head. “Not tomorrow—but once the funeral is
over, then yes, more than ever, I want you to let us go, let us leave the country,
go to Jerusalem, and find out if this thing is real. Because now, I’m convinced that
it is.”

O’Neill ran his right hand over his naturally slick dome. “What if the guys with the
necklaces leave New York with you and follow you to Jerusalem? You won’t be any safer,
and we won’t have any suspects. But if I keep you here, your attackers will also stay
here, and we’ll very likely pick them up—because they will try again to get the rest
of you.”

It didn’t make any sense to let them go. O’Neill’s job was to find and apprehend the
men responsible for this homicide and what was probably a multiple-homicide at the
newsstand on Lafayette Street. Having Bohannon, Johnson, Rizzo, and Rodriguez close
at hand would make that job much easier.

“Rory, you’ve got us for the next three or four days, at least,” Bohannon said, obviously
scrambling for a convincing argument. “And for the next three or four days, our friends
with the lightning bolt will also know exactly where we are, or where we will be.
We’ll give you the next week. But, Rory, after that, I’m leaving. And I’m sure the
others will be leaving with me. You understand the implications for the Middle East—the
implications for right here, for New York City? If the temple is under the Temple
Mount, the whole dynamic in the Middle East changes. Maybe there’s peace—”

“And maybe there’s war,” O’Neill interrupted, frustrated by his own indecision. “Why
you? Why do you have to go? Why don’t I lock you up in witness protection, tell the
State Department everything you’ve told me, and let the government take care of it?”

Bohannon looked O’Neill dead in the eye.

“I don’t know why, Rory, except that I’m confident this is not a coincidence. I’m
not here by accident.”

“You’re going to get spiritual on me, aren’t you?” said O’Neill.

Bohannon shot him a crooked smile.

“Rory, you’ve been around us long enough. You know what we believe.” Bohannon sounded
earnest. “We believe in a personal God. It’s a simple theology, but terribly difficult
to live. Probably got something to do with my dad being so distant when I was a kid,
but I’ve always had a hard time believing that God was interested in me. Taking care
of everyone else? Sure. But me?” Bohannon shook his head. “I don’t know. I know what
I’m like, what I think, how I act. Why would God want to know a guy like me?

“But that’s the Christian faith, that’s what I’m trying to live. I used to think that
if Annie knew the guy I really was, she’d dump me. But she got to know the real me,
and she loves me anyway.

“I kinda think that’s what God is like. He knows all about us and still loves us.
Is still interested in us.” Bohannon fell silent.

O’Neill wasn’t sure that Bohannon had answered his question. Doubts peppered his thoughts,
interfered with his natural ability to evaluate and act quickly.

“I don’t know why me, Rory, but I’ve got to do this. This is my assignment, my responsibility.
I have to go to Jerusalem. Doc, Joe, Sammy . . . I believe they have their own reasons,
but they also believe this is something they have to do. For me, there is no other
choice. I don’t understand it, but I believe this is something God is asking of me.
I need to go to Jerusalem. And I’m asking you to let me do that.”

O’Neill scowled as he got up from his chair and turned to the precinct captain who
had accompanied him.

“I want two uniforms on each of these guys, day and night, no excuses. In their homes,
with them at work, with them in the bathroom. And I want an unmarked at each of their
homes, their offices, and plainclothes like glue on every member of their families.
The suspects in this bombing have made other attempts on their lives and will probably
try again. I’ll give the sergeant a full description of the suspects at the precinct.
This case gets the highest priority and the highest net of confidentiality. The explosion
was a ruptured gas line. Three-sentence press release. Everything else gets a lid
on it. Bill, it’s absolutely critical that you keep your men in line. I want no leaks.
There’s no margin of error on this—got it? Okay. I’ll be sending in two teams from
Special Ops. One here tonight to clean up the mess. The second one to the station
house tomorrow. They will work directly with your detectives, shadow them at every
step. But they will be under my command. Are you okay with that?”

“Yes sir,” said Captain Reilly. “No intention to pry, sir, since it’s clear this case
has more to it than I’m aware of. But is there any more you can tell me, sir, anything
that I can share with my detectives that will help them in protecting these four or
in apprehending the killers?”

“I’ll give you everything I can Bill, you and your detectives, back at the station.
But I can tell you this is very serious stuff. If we’re going to keep these four guys
alive, there is absolutely no margin for mistakes of any kind. Choose your best men,
Bill, and your most trustworthy. I’ll see you back at the house.”

O’Neill pulled out his cell phone and alerted the two Special Ops squads, one of which
was “wheels moving” in less than two minutes. Then he turned back to Bohannon and
walked him over to the table where Rodriguez, Rizzo, and Johnson still sat silently,
vacantly, looking out the ragged hole that used to be a window. “Captain Reilly will
be providing each of you with a ride home. The unmarked car will remain outside your
homes, and the uniformed officers who accompany you will remain with you for your
protection. This is not a request. Before you return to your homes, all four of you
will come to the precinct station house, and we will try to pin down the descriptions
of the men with the lightning bolt necklace and look at some mug shots from Interpol.
Then you’ll be free to go for the time being. Okay?”