Out in the harbor, to the south, was Ellis Island, through which millions of immigrants had passed, including my Irish ancestors. And to the south of Ellis Island in the middle of the bay stood the Statue of Liberty, all lit up, holding her torch high, welcoming the world. She was on just about every terrorist's hit list, but so far, so good. She was still standing.
All in all, it was a spectacular evening view from up here-the city, the lighted bridges, the river, the clear April sky, and a big half-moon rising in the east above the flat-lands of Brooklyn.
I turned and looked southwest through the big window of the corner office. The most dominant features out there were the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center, soaring a quarter mile into the sky, a hundred and ten stories of glass, concrete, and steel.
The towers were about half a mile away, but they were so massive that they looked as if they were across the street. The towers were designated the North Tower and the South Tower, but on Friday, February 26,1993, at 12:17 and 36 seconds P.M., the South Tower almost became known as the Missing Tower.
Mr. Koenig's desk was arranged so that every time he looked out the window, he could see these towers, and he could contemplate what some Arab gentlemen had prayed for when they had driven an explosive-filled van into the basement parking garage-namely, the collapse of the South Tower and the death of over fifty thousand people in the tower and on the ground.
And if the South Tower had collapsed just right and hit the North Tower, there would have been another forty or fifty thousand dead.
As it turned out, the structure held, and the death toll was six, with over a thousand injured. The subterranean explosion took out the police station located in the basement and left a cavern where the multi-layered underground parking garage had been. What could have been the biggest loss of American life since World War II turned out to be a loud and clear wake-up call. America had become the front lines.
It occurred to me that Mr. Koenig could have rearranged his furniture or put blinds on the windows, but it said something about the man that he chose to look at these buildings every workday. I don't know if he cursed the security lapses that had led to the tragedy, or if he thanked God every morning that a hundred thousand lives had been spared. Probably he did both, and probably, too, these towers, plus the Statue of Liberty and Wall Street and everything else that Jack Koenig surveyed from up here, haunted his sleep every night.
King Jack had not actually been in charge of the ATTF when the bomb blew in 1993, but he was in charge now, and he might think about rearranging his desk Monday morning to look toward Kennedy Airport. Indeed, it was lonely at the top, but the view was supposed to be good. For Jack Koenig, however, there were no good views from here.
The subject of my thoughts entered his office at that moment and caught me staring out at the World Trade Center. He asked me, 'Are they still standing, Professor?'
Apparently he had a good memory for snotty subordinates. I replied, 'Yes, sir.'
'Well, that's good news.' He looked at Kate and Nash and motioned us all to the seating area. Nash and Kate sat on the couch, I sat in one of the three club chairs, while Mr. Koenig remained standing.
Jack Koenig was a tall man of about fifty years old. He had short, steely-gray hair, steely-gray eyes, a steely- gray Saturday stubble, a steely jaw, and stood like he had a steel rod up his ass that he was about to transfer to someone else's ass. All in all, he was not an avuncular type, and his mood looked understandably dark.
Mr. Koenig was dressed in casual slacks, a blue sports shirt, and loafers, but on him nothing looked casual, sporty, or loafish.
Hal Roberts entered the office and sat in the second club chair, across from me. Jack Koenig didn't seem inclined to sit and relax.
Mr. Roberts had a long yellow legal pad and a pencil. I thought perhaps he was going to take drink orders, but I was being too optimistic.
Mr. Koenig began without preamble and asked us, 'Can one of you explain to me how a cuffed and guarded suspected terrorist managed to kill three hundred men, women, and children aboard an American airliner, including his two armed escorts, and two Federal Air Marshals on board, a Port Authority Emergency Service man, and then proceed to a secret and secure Federal facility where he murdered an ATTF secretary, the FBI duty officer, and an NYPD member of your team?' He looked at each of us. 'Would anyone care to take a shot at an explanation?'
If I were at Police Plaza instead of Federal Plaza, I would have answered a sarcastic question like that by saying, 'Can you imagine how much worse it could have been if the perp wasn't cuffed?' But this was not the time, place, or occasion for flippancy. A lot of innocent people were dead, and it was the job of the living to explain why. Nevertheless, King Jack was not getting off to a good start with his subjects.
Needless to say, no one answered the question, which seemed.to be rhetorical. It's a good idea to let the boss vent awhile. To his credit, he vented only for another minute or so, then sat down and stared off out the window. His view was toward the financial district, so there were no unhappy associations attached to that scene, unless he happened to own Trans-Continental stock.
Jack Koenig, by the way, was FBI, and I'm sure that Ted Nash did not like being spoken to in such a manner by an FBI guy. I, as a quasi-civilian, didn't like it either, but Koenig was the boss, and we were all part of the Task Force. The Team. Kate, being FBI, was in a career-threatening position, and so was George Foster, but George had chosen the easy job and stayed behind with the bodies.
King Jack seemed to be trying to get himself under control. Finally, he looked at Ted Nash and said, 'I'm sorry about Peter Gorman. Did you know him?'
Nash nodded.
Koenig looked at Kate and said, 'You were a friend of Phil Hundry.'
'Yes.'
Koenig looked at me and said, 'I'm sure you've lost friends on the job. You know how hard that is.'
'I do. Nick Monti had become my friend.'
Jack Koenig stared off into space again, contemplating many things, I'm sure. It was a time for respectful silence, and we gave it about a minute, but everyone knew that we had to get back to business quickly.
I asked, perhaps undiplomatically, 'Will Captain Stein be joining us?'
Koenig looked at me a moment and finally said, 'He's taken direct charge of the stakeout and surveillance teams and has no time for meetings.'
You never know what the bosses are actually up to, or what kind of palace struggle is going on, and it's best not to give a shit. I yawned to indicate that I just lost interest in both my question and Koenig's answer.
Koenig turned to Kate and said, 'Okay, tell me what happened. From the top.'
Kate seemed prepared for the question and went through the events of the day, chronologically, objectively, and quickly, but without rushing.
Koenig listened without interrupting. Roberts took notes. Somewhere an audiotape was spinning.
Kate mentioned my insistence on going out to the aircraft, and the fact that neither she nor Foster thought it was necessary.
Koenig's face remained impassive, neither approving nor disapproving throughout the narrative. He didn't raise an eyebrow, didn't frown, didn't wince, didn't nod or shake his head, and for sure never smiled. He was an expert listener and nothing in his manner or demeanor encouraged or discouraged his witness.
Kate got to the part where I went back into the dome of the 747 and discovered that Hundry's and Gorman's thumbs were missing. She stopped there and collected herself. Koenig glanced at me, and though he didn't give me any sign of approval, I knew that I was going to stay on the case.
Kate moved on with the sequence of events, giving only the facts, leaving the speculation and theories for later, if and when Koenig asked for them. Kate Mayfield had an amazing memory for detail, and an astonishing ability to refrain from coloring and slanting facts. I mean, in similar situations when I was on the carpet in front of the bosses, I would try not to color or slant, unless I was protecting a bud, but I have been known to have memory lapses.
Kate concluded with, 'George decided to stay and take charge of the scene. We all concurred, and we asked Officer Simpson to drive us here.'
I glanced at my watch. Kate's narrative had taken forty minutes. It was now nearly 8:00 P.M., the time when my brain usually needs alcohol.
Jack Koenig sat back in his chair, and I could see he was processing the facts. He said, 'It seems as though
