Counterplay

ham struck her in the face, knocking her back and to the floor.

Yvgeny began to follow but was driven back by a shot from one of the men who’d emerged from the room down the hall. It gave Malovo a chance to scramble for her gun. She grabbed it with one hand and began to stand up, intending to finish off the man who could identify her to the authorities for who she really was, but found herself looking into the face of the first priest and, for the second time in a matter of seconds, at a fist on its way to her face. This time, she was knocked unconscious.

Dugan kicked the terrorist’s gun across the hall to Yvgeny who picked it up just in time to shoot the man advancing down the hallway. Leaving Dugan to watch over Malovo, Yvgeny had raced back down the hall to the room just in time to hear a woman’s voice on the radio shouting to detonate the bombs. His first bullet went through the temple of a man reaching for the key to arm the bombs; the remaining bullets stopped the second man from reaching it as well. He retrieved the key to keep it safe, just as the SWAT team came in through the back.

“I think it’s time for this ‘priest’ to fade into the woodwork,” Yvgeny said to Marlene. He winked at Butch and said, “Good luck, cousin,” and left just as Jaxon arrived.

“Are you all right?” Karp asked his wife.

“No,” she said. “My daughter’s with Andrew Kane.”

Karp turned to Jaxon. “Do you have a helicopter outside?”

“Yes. What’s up?”

“Is there room for the three of us and you?”

“I think so. Want to tell me what you have in mind?”

Karp started running down the aisle, ignoring the pain in his arthritic knee. “I’ll explain on the way,” he said. “But I’ve got a bridge to cross.”

37

Kane stood with Lucy just inside the entrance to the Columbia University boathouse just to the north of Baker Field to get out of the rain that had begun to fall with an accompanying rise in the wind. Lying just outside the door like a useless sack of potatoes was Clay Fulton, his wrists bound behind his back.

They were awaiting the arrival of two speedboats that would carry them up the Harlem River, beneath the Henry Hudson Bridge, through Spuyten Duyvil and past the Amtrak bridge to the Hudson. There they would be met by a larger boat that would take them up the Hudson-the least likely place for cops to be watching.

When he’d formulated the plan, Kane had expected that everyone’s attention would be focused on the devastation of St. Patrick’s Cathedral and the death of the Pope, as well as a couple thousand others, including Butch Karp. And the plan had continued to go smoothly from the moment the doors on the ambulance had closed and they were beyond the police barricade.

Then Fulton had sensed something when the ambulance pulled over to the curb, but when he went for his gun, he found himself staring down the barrel of “Agent Hodges’s” 9 mm Beretta. I’m afraid you have the misfortune of finding yourself at my mercy again, Detective.

Kane! Fulton exclaimed.

Yes, indeed, Kane replied. And these gentlemen with the rifles pointed at you-and I might add just in case you’re feeling heroic, at Lucy-would like you to disembark now. We need to get ready for a little boat ride.

They’d all loaded into a couple of vans, which had driven to the apartment building across from Baker Field. There Lucy had been given another shot to wake her up while they waited for a call that the speedboats were at the boathouse dock.

When Kane got back to the apartment building, he’d been in a great mood. He was free, immensely wealthy again, and had brought ruin and despair to his enemies.

However, his mood had blackened when the dirty, bald man with the bulging eyes stepped out of the shadows of the stairwell outside the building. Master, he said, weeping and reaching out for Kane. I’ve come to warn you.

Warn me about what, you filthy pig? Kane said, backing away from the man’s hand. Two of his al Qaeda bodyguards moved between them.

They know Dickens! the man cried.

What?

Dickens! They know Dickens! “Thus, cases of injustice, and oppression, and tyranny, and the most extravagant bigotry, are in constant occurrence among us every day.” They know these things about you and are coming! the man cried, the smell of his rotting teeth wafting over Kane.

Who’s coming? Kane had asked in spite of himself, wondering at the same time, Do I really want to know this?

Who? the man asked as if he’d thought the answer was obvious. Who? Why, Karp, of course. He fell to his knees, groveling as he wept.

Karp, of course. The three words sent a shiver up Kane’s spine and formed a cold, tight fist in his stomach. “Shoot him,” he directed the bodyguard closest to the man.

He’d hoped the quick, terrified scream followed by two silenced shots would make him feel better. But the knot was still in his gut when he entered his apartment and turned on the television, expecting to see St. Patrick’s Cathedral in ruins and his nemesis Karp dead. Only to his incredulous eyes, the church was still standing and, as the broadcaster cheerfully reported, The Pope is safe!..Two terrorists have been captured, but most are dead, as are an undisclosed number of civilians. Another newscast indicated that New York District Attorney Butch Karp, as well as his wife, Marlene, plus several unknown civilians, are credited with stopping the terrorists and rescuing the Holy Father…

Nearly purple with rage, Kane kicked the television off the stand. Goddamn, I hate that fucker Karp! he shouted. Every time I turn around, that son of a bitch and his frickin’ wife are messing up my life.

I’d suggest you surrender now, Lucy said with a smile on her face. You know he’s coming for me…and for you.

Kane turned to her with his eyes looking like they might bug out of this head. He aimed his gun at her head and kept it there shaking in his hand for a full minute before he lowered it and laughed. You know, he said calmly. This is even better. He gets to go home and find his precious little boys have been turned into worm food. And I still have his daughter…so I guess he will be thrilled to receive the baby pictures after all.

I’ll kill myself before I have your baby, Kane, Lucy said.

Kane tsked. What-a good Catholic like you committing a mortal sin that would send you straight to hell?

It would be worth it, she replied.

We’ll see, he said just as the call came in that the boats were on their way.

The group had left the building and crossed the street where the fence into the boatyard was open. “My dad once told me a story about Spuyten Duyvil,” Lucy said as she peered out into the dark night.

“Oh, really? I like stories. Why don’t you tell me while we wait for our cruise ship,” Kane said.

Lucy paused. She thought she’d heard Andy’s childlike voice when Kane replied about liking stories.

“Well, the story goes that long before the Revolutionary War, a brave trumpeter-his name was Anthony Van Corlaer-used to blow his trumpet when the leader of the colony of New Amsterdam, Peter Stuyvesant, wanted to warn the people or call them together.

“One night, Stuyvesant heard that the English were going to attack New Amsterdam so he sent Anthony to warn the Dutch settlers along the Hudson. But a storm was brewing, sort of like tonight, so that when Anthony reached the tip of Manhattan, the ferry that should have been there to take him across was nowhere to be found. But he’d been given a mission, so he decided he would swim across at the spot where the Harlem River and the Hudson met. Even without the storm, the waters in that area were known to be especially turbulent with bad