End Days Super Boxset (115 page)

Attack on Wall Street

The blank walls of the interrogation room stared back at Sacha with cold indifference. He repositioned himself within the uncomfortable steel chair he had been instructed to sit on for the past hour. The room was empty as Sacha waited patiently for the two detectives to return. Across from him were two empty chairs. A crumpled Styrofoam cup with the residue of black coffee rested on the metal table. Sacha didn’t care for coffee. In fact, he had never had a cup his entire life. Maybe he was missing out. He probably could have used one but had declined. He’d seen enough American detective shows to know that the two men were trying to determine whether or not he could be implicated in some kind of terrorist plot. The techniques they used to press him seemed as if they’d already come to the conclusion that he was guilty of something.

“This is not good,” Sacha thought sardonically. “They could kick me out of the country for this.”

He knew that he was being watched. He could feel it. There was a hidden camera somewhere within the confines of the miserable room. Sacha scanned the walls and ceiling, and at first, saw nothing. White walls. Gray carpet. One of those paneled ceilings with overhead lights. His eye caught a slight flicker adjacent to the incessantly buzzing fluorescent bulbs. He looked up again and saw a small white plastic bubble at the corner of the ceiling tile.

“Yes,” he surmised, “There it is.”

He was all too familiar with Soviet surveillance, at least in his native Poland. In the last century alone, Poland had survived Nazi invasion and over 30 years of Communist control. He was a small child when the big bear relinquished its hold on Poland and gave sovereignty back to her people. It was a significant moment in his life. Then, he’d always dreamed of coming to America, especially during those pre-democracy days. New York City was the ultimate vision. But now he was being held as a suspect in a terrorist act of a magnitude he could only imagine.

Suddenly, the door opened and the two detectives reentered, appearing as clueless as before. Their crestfallen faces could only mean one of two things. They either had no further reason to hold him or expected him to capitulate in some unexpected fashion. The older of the two approached him first. His towering height, mammoth frame, and crew cut made him a daunting figure as he tossed a stack of files onto the table. Both men smelled of stale cigarette smoke. Sacha wondered if their recent absence had been little more than a cigarette break. The other man, shorter and stockier with a red, puffy face, spoke with a heavy New York accent. But Crew Cut’s monotone droll sounded like it could have come from anywhere but the city.

“Mr. Kaminski, Lieutenant Harris and I appreciate your patience,” Crew Cut said while pulling Sacha’s passport out of the file and waving it in the air. “Everything you’ve said so far checks out, and we have found nothing in your history to indicate suspicious activity of any kind.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Sacha said in a feeble attempt to sound casual and relaxed.

“But we’re not entirely done here,” Lieutenant Harris, Red Face, quipped, as he took a seat across from Sacha. “The only thing we do know is that we can’t be certain about anything.”

As if on cue, Captain Banks took a seat next to Red Face, carefully opened the file, and leisurely thumbed through its pages. Sacha’s anxiety and frustration grew with each passing second as he countered.

“I don’t understand. I thought you were going to release me. Why was I picked up in the first place?”

Lieutenant Harris held up his hand for silence. “That will do, Mr. Kaminski. For the record, yes, you haven’t been charged with anything, but you must understand, your proximity to an attack of this magnitude is cause for immediate concern. Standard protocol states, and by that we mean federal protocol, in the event of a catastrophic event, those taken into custody are detained indefinitely or until federal officials complete a thorough investigation.”

“Yes, but—” responded Sacha.

“Look, there’s nothing we can do but follow protocol,” Banks replied. “We have our rules, and they have theirs. Do yourself a favor, Mr. Kaminski, and tell us what you know, what you saw, and why you happened to be in close proximity of the attack.”

“Tell you
what
?” Sacha asked in exasperation.

“We need to know what you saw, what you heard, and who you spoke to before you are free to go,” Harris said. He pulled out a mini tape-recorder and carefully placed it on the table.

Sacha looked perplexed but suddenly turned to the men. “I will tell you everything, because I have nothing to hide. You will see. I can speak freely.”

“Nothing would please us more,” Banks said.

“As we’ve stated before, you are not charged with anything. However, we need a statement, if you don’t mind, to speed up the process,” Harris added.

Captain Banks opened Sacha’s passport and examined it. He turned to Sacha, then to his partner.

“I highly doubt you have anything to worry about, Mr. Kaminski. There aren’t too many Polish terrorists out there who blame the U.S. for their lot in life,” he said with a derisive laugh.

“What about the marathon bombing?” Harris asked.

“They were Chechen or Russian,” Banks answered.
“You sure?” Lieutenant Harris asked.

“Yeah, I’m sure. And that puts the three of us supposedly on

the same side.”

The two men abruptly turned to face Sacha.

“So, Sacha, if you don’t mind me calling you by your first name, tell us what you know,” Banks said as he pressed the record button.

Sacha took a deep breath, ran his fingers through his thick, black hair, and leaned into the table.

“As I said before, I don’t know anything. I mean, all I was doing was walking on the sidewalk, getting my camera ready to take some pictures. I always wanted to see Wall Street, you know. It was my dream, to get a picture of the New York Stock Exchange.”

Sacha paused.

“Then I heard the explosion,” he added.

“How close would you say you were to the explosion?” Harris asked.

“Not very close. I felt it, the impact, slightly, and the intense heat. I heard screaming and saw smoke. Everyone was running in every direction and bumping into each other. I, too, began to run. That was pretty much it. Then there were police on the scene, fire and rescue. I was not injured, so the police took me in, and now here I sit.”

The two officers waited for him to continue but soon realized that he was finished. Harris leaned down towards Sacha, inches from his face in the manner of a confidant.

“So that’s it, nothing else?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” Sacha questioned.

“I mean, that’s all you know? You didn’t see anything or anyone unusual? Someone who may have run out of the building just before the explosion?”

“I only know all that I’ve told you. I’m sorry, what else can I say?”

Harris and Banks looked at each other again. Banks nodded to Harris, who then stood up and began to pace around the room, holding the file. “Let’s go over that afternoon piece-by-piece. Maybe something will jog your memory,” he said.

Sacha’s eyes followed Harris with abject curiosity.

“What we know is that at or around 3:30 p.m. there was an explosion on the trading floor of the New York Stock Exchange. The blast was sudden and unexpected. It was also coordinated to coincide with the closing bell used to indicate the end of trading. This was the time the attackers carefully planned to ensure maximum damage, to inflict as much carnage as possible.”

“Reprehensible,” Banks added.

“Yes, yes it was,” Harris said. “But what we now know is the attack could have been worse.”

He turned to face Sacha.

“But something spooked the attackers and the bomb malfunctioned, detonating sooner than expected. I believe the attackers meant to detonate the bomb to coincide with the closing bell, but because the attack was premature, they took fifteen lives as opposed to hundreds more.”

“Don’t forget about the eighty-eight injured,” Banks added.

“Yes, thank you, Sir. This leads us to another possible strategy: the bomb was designed solely to maim. In that case, the attackers were not taken off guard, but intended to launch the attack at a specific time
before
the closing bell. That could mean we’re looking at multiple attacks in the manner of some post 9/11 scenario.”

“It could've been one of those Occupy Wall Street nuts, Al Qaeda, Neo Nazis, or some other extremist,” added Banks.

“Or it was a Polish tourist with an ax to grind,” retorted Harris.

Sacha cleared his throat. “I told you gentlemen all I know, what I saw, and what I did. I cannot be of any further service to you. Can’t you be satisfied with that?”

“Regardless,” Banks said, “This country is in a state of the highest terror alert since 2001. We’re either looking at a national lockdown of unprecedented levels or simply a lone terrorist attack. Until we determine that, I wouldn’t count on going anywhere for a while, Mr. Kaminski.”

“This is all we know so far,” Harris said with a confident saunter back-and-forth in the confines of the small room. “It’s roughly thirty minutes before the closing bell at The New York Stock Exchange. Brokers and traders are going at it left and right. Suddenly an electronic glitch disables the ticker boards and the means to conduct electronic transfers. The tablets go out, communication is cut, and business appears to be at a sudden halt. The glitch occurs within thirty seconds before the blast, which effectively takes down Wall Street, for good. First responders to the scene are met with a cloud of black smoke and the moans of the wounded and dying, crawling around the floor.”

“A horrific sight,” Banks said.

“Indeed. Police immediately cordoned off the area and apprehended several people in the vicinity, including you, Mr. Kaminski, and brought them in for questioning.”

Harris walked over to Sacha, tossed the file on the table, and placed his arms on the hard, cold surface.

“Now, Mr. Kaminski,” he said, “do you understand why we have to detain you indefinitely until the investigation is over?”

Sacha slowly nodded in agreement. He was finally getting the picture, loud and clear.

Beech Creek, Pennsylvania

“It just won’t hold a charge. Don’t know what the hell’s wrong with it,” the elderly customer said.

From behind the counter, Paul held the man’s iPad and scrolled through its various settings. “This isn’t all too uncommon with these models. You might need a new battery,” he said.

“A new battery?” the old man replied. “I’ve only had the thing for two months. It was a gift. My daughter’s idea of a joke. I barely know how to use the thing.”

Paul checked the battery usage as well as the screen display options. Everything was set to its normal factory settings. However, it was low on power, just as the old man said. “I’ll need to reset the tablet first. If the problem persists, then my next suggestion would be to send it back to the manufacturer for a replacement model.”

The old man wasn’t pleased.

“I don’t want to ship it back. That’s why I came to you. Can’t you fix it? Can’t you do anything?”

Paul took a calm breath.

“Of course I can, sir. I’m going to do a system reset and then—”

“I’m a seventy-seven year old man. I don’t have time to be messing around with this nonsense.”

“I understand. It’s hard to say exactly what the problem is, but if you would like, I could order a new battery or send it back to the manufacturer for you myself.”

The old man tapped the glass counter with his index finger. “I don’t know. Seems expensive. How long would it take?”

“Two to three weeks,” Paul answered.

“I could be dead by then! Why don’t you just put a new battery in there and we’ll call it even?”

“I’m afraid it’s not that easy. It could be a problem with the battery. Or it could be several internal issues.”

The old man leaned forward and placed his hands on the iPad. “You’re just not speaking my language, son. I’ll give it back to my daughter. Maybe she can fix it.”

He took the iPad from Paul with little resistance. It was almost time to close up shop for the day, and Paul didn’t feel like haggling. He liked to choose his battles carefully. There was no doubt in his mind that he could have convinced the old man to leave the tablet, but he wanted to close shop. He would make up for it tomorrow. It seemed that the clientele of Beech Creek were similar in both age and frustration with technology, but who could blame them?

“Tell her to bring it in to me if she needs any help,” Paul said.

“Sure, I’ll tell her,” the old man said sarcastically. “She lives in the UK so you might be waiting a while. Maybe she can have the Queen of England drop it off.”

The old man laughed.

“She moved there to be with her new husband. He’s a funny looking kid. Can’t believe she married a Brit. My daughter, marrying a Brit.”

Paul nodded politely. His customer snapped out of his thoughts for a moment.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Thanks for your time.”

He grabbed his green cap resting on the counter and walked away with the iPad.

“Not a problem, sir. Feel free to bring it back anytime,” Paul said.

The old man swung the glass door open, sounding a chime from a small bell dangling on its frame. He shuffled outside towards his Cadillac parked on the side of the road. Paul looked at the clock on the wall. It was five till four. He had lost track of time, which often happened at the end of the day when his mind wandered. He walked to the door and flipped the hanging sign to read “Closed.”

The “Tech Stop” was a small building tucked between other small buildings along Beech Creek’s downtown business district. The shop had two employees, Paul and the owner, Bill. Paul more or less ran the store as Bill’s presence became less frequent throughout the months. Bill’s wife was struggling with breast cancer. She needed round-the-clock care, which had gotten quite expensive. As a result, Bill became his wife’s surrogate caretaker and Paul the surrogate owner. He assured Bill that the store was in good hands, but could not--in good conscience--guarantee that the business would remain solvent financially. That remained to be seen. Their prospects were linked to the good people of Beech Creek and their faulty electronics.

Paul closed the blinds and turned off the lights, but not before nearly forgetting his cell phone and jacket. He was a little behind schedule and certain that Julie would be waiting for him at school, noticeably irritated. Even with the pressing time, Paul took a moment to observe the empty store. He did this usually at the end of the work week. On any given day, things were quiet. Customers would bring in their broken laptops, cell phones, tablets, or other electronics and Paul would do his best to fix them. Technology was always changing, and Paul, an educated man in his thirties, had to do his best to keep up with it.

The front counter had a glass display stocked with cell phone covers, chargers, and accessories. The corner room behind the counter was used for repairs. It was also a handy break room. To the left of the counter were a couple of waiting chairs, some magazines, and a gumball machine. Paul wasn’t sure how old the gum was, but he found himself digging for a quarter every now and then.

“And
this
is my life now,” Paul said, taking a final look around the shop before leaving. Saying those words had also become a weekly routine. He picked up his cell phone from its resting spot near the cash register and read the display.

1 Missed Call

Paul worried at the thought of it being Julie, but shrugged it off. “She’s just a kid,” he thought. The missed call was from his wife, Samantha, identified in his phone as “Sam.” His thumb slid across its touch screen and redialed the number. Samantha answered.

“Hey, ‘bout time you called me back,” she said.

“Sorry about that, it’s been a mad house. Fridays are no joke,” Paul said, pacing around the store in a circle.

“Oh yeah? I bet,” Samantha said with a laugh.

“So what’s up? How’s the convention?” Paul asked.

“It’s good. We’ve been here all day. I’m really tired. Can’t wait to call it a day,” Samantha said. She held the phone tightly to her ear, walking along the inside of the vast and bustling convention center. She turned from a crowd of people and entered a nearby hall to better hear Paul.

“I’m glad things are going well out there,” Paul said.

“It sounds like you have something on your mind,” Samantha said.

“No, not really. I mean you get a weekend in Denver, and I get, you know, a weekend here.”

“Did you remember to pick up Julie?”

“I’m about to do that now,” Paul said grabbing his jacket.

“Better hurry, you don’t want to keep her waiting too long. She’ll never let you live it down.”

“That’s not funny, Sam, because that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”

“Just take it easy and I’ll be back on Monday,” Samantha said. A coworker signaled to her from in front of their expo booth. She straightened her company polo shirt and took a quick look at her Motorola employee badge that hung around her neck.

Paul held the entrance door open, ready to lock up.

“I was just thinking earlier, you know, about what we had talked about.” Paul paused.

He didn’t hear anything on the other line.

“You still there?” he asked.

“Sorry, I’m still here,” Samantha said, distracted. “They’re just calling me back to our booth.”

“I was just saying that I’ve been thinking about it, and if it’s something you want to do--if it’s something you’re ready for--then I’m ready for it too.”

A bright smile came to Samantha’s face. “Do you mean it?” she asked.

“Of course I mean it,” Paul said.

“I’m so glad to hear that. You have no idea how relieved I am.”

“I mean, it’s a big step, but you’re right, it’s now or never.”

A man at the Motorola booth waved Samantha over again.

“Listen, honey, I’ve got to go.”

“That’s fine. I know you’re busy. Don’t worry about us this weekend, we’ll be fine.”

“Okay. Gotta go, I love you.”

“Love you too,” Paul said.

Samantha hung up and strolled back to her expo booth. A small team of college kids in their twenties wearing Motorola shirts gathered around her.

“Alright everyone,” she said. “We have an hour remaining. Let’s give it our best. Don’t forget about the contact information.”

The team, all holding clipboards, nodded and listened attentively.

“After we’re done, we can all grab a drink afterwards.”

The team smiled.

“You buying?” a boy who looked to be a freshman in college asked.

“The first round, sure,” Samantha said.

The group dispersed in different directions in their quest to spread the benefits of Motorola’s latest technology. Samantha brushed her dark shoulder-length hair back behind her ears. She had recently gotten it cut and wasn’t used to the shorter length. Her hair was a dark brown, nearly black. Her Japanese-American features were alluring to the casual eye, and it was hard for some to place a specific ethnicity by her appearance alone.

Paul said that she was beautiful, though he had said it less and less as the years went by. He insisted that the compliment wasn’t hyperbole, but scientific fact. The first time was on their date, and it was evident through the times that she caught Paul staring at her in wonder, even after their marriage. Throughout the years, she had to admit that he constantly made her feel special. Now there was the notion of having another child, a thought both exalting and terrifying.

“He’s okay with it,” she said with a breath of relief.

Paul locked the front door to the shop from the outside. He zipped his jacket up. Though sunny, it was chilly for September. The other neighboring shops were closing for the day, as they generally did on Friday afternoons. While shop owners closed their doors, local pubs opened theirs. It was the time of day when they set up tables and chairs on the patio areas outside in anticipation of happy hour. The roads through town were moderately busy, full of tired commuters trying to get home. Paul’s four-door Volkswagen Passat was parked in a nearby lot designated for the local shops. He walked down the sidewalk feeling oddly content with the day, as if a good mood had momentarily passed through him. Maybe it was because it was the weekend. Of course, he would be working tomorrow, probably the busiest day of the week, but he could never feel bad about a Saturday--working or not. It was just a good day of the week.

For the past year, the old town had meant doom to him. He hated having to come back here. To live here. To raise a family here. But this weekend, he thought, all of those thoughts were going to go away. It could have had something to do with the interview he had earlier in the week with an out-of-state IT firm, or it could have had something to do with his and Samantha’s decision to have another child. Their first child. True, there was Julie, but she was Samantha’s daughter from her last relationship. Their next child would be his own, if everything worked out okay. He worried about the complications Samantha had told him she had with Julie.

From across the street, two men dressed in dark, three-piece suits sat on the front patio of a coffee shop sipping lattes. They appeared glaringly out-of-state to any resident of Beech Creek. One of the men had a silver goatee, sunglasses, and a fedora hat. He watched Paul walk down the sidewalk to his car. He then signaled his associate--a built and stocky man wearing a similar suit, minus the hat.

“I think that’s our boy,” he said, nodding his head towards Paul’s direction.

“Ready whenever you are,” the big associate said back.

“Just remember, it’s a tightly-knit town. Everyone knows everyone around here.”

With that, the two men sipped their lattes, set their cups down, and stood up. Goatee man tossed a few bucks on the table and they were off.

Paul pushed the button on his key to remotely unlock the driver’s side door. He heard the “click” of the automatic locks. As he opened the door, he sensed someone standing behind him and turned to be met by the goatee man and his large associate standing by. Paul jumped.

“Wow, you scared the crap out of me. Can I help you?” Paul asked, with a tinge of annoyance to his tone.

“Sorry there, friend, didn’t mean to startle you,” goatee man said with a smile. His eyes were concealed by the dark lenses of his sunglasses. “Maybe you can help us. Are you William Hoffman?”

Paul examined the two men carefully. Maybe they were friends of Bill’s. Maybe even family. They looked to Paul as if they were going to a funeral. Regardless, he didn’t like the air of shadiness they exuded.

“Who wants to know?” he asked.

Goatee man offered Paul a handshake, which he mildly reciprocated.

“Where are my manners?” the man asked. “I’m Edwin, this is my associate, Greg.”

“What can I do for you gentlemen?” Paul asked.

“We’re looking for William Hoffman,” Edwin answered.

Paul rested his arm against the driver’s side door, ready to enter the car. “Bill Hoffman? That’s my boss. He’s not here right now.”

Edwin looked at Paul, surprised, even with his eyes carefully concealed. “And what’s your name? If you don’t mind me asking,” he asked.