Savas's face hardened almost immediately, and the boy and the lovable expression vanished, replaced by something hard and hurt.
The scenes on the television were horrific. The British police and military had carved out a zone beyond which the public and press were excluded. Inside this region, the remains of a large structure could be seen burning brightly and belching skyward a plume of black smoke. Emergency responders rushed back and forth, carrying body after body. Pools of blood were easily made out as the runoff water from the fire hoses diluted them. Crumpled figures, blasted and burnt carcasses littered the site — men, women, children.
Children. Savas stared at the horror in front of his eyes as a reporter gasped out words in a British accent.
“Simply unimaginable carnage at the former site of the largest mosque in Western Europe. The mosque, the entire structure, is completely gone and burning as I speak to you. The death toll appears to easily be in the thousands. This attack happened on the holiest day of the week for Muslims, Friday, during the mosque's busiest time at noon prayers. Men, women, and many, many children lie dead behind me at this horrific, horrific site of England's, of Europe's, most terrible terrorist attack in history.”
“Oh, God…John?” Cohen reached over and took his hand. He held hers but did not take his eyes off the screen. Savas reached over and turned up the volume.
The reporter continued. “Sources have reported that a section of British soldiers has been in place for several weeks guarding the mosque. Like several other Islamic sites in and around London, the government has acted proactively to try and protect them from the new and terrifying terrorist organization that has been targeting Muslims. Many are asking how anyone could have planted the enormous amount of explosives needed to destroy this building under the noses of the military.”
Savas looked at Cohen. “You know what today is?”
A dawning of understanding lit her eyes.
“Rebecca, today is September 11.” Savas looked back at the screen. “This attack has been very deliberately chosen for today. My God, Rebecca, this isn't going to be the only one. I know it. I feel it in my bones. They will hit multiple targets today to make a point — remind the world of the multiple attacks on 9/11. Today is going to be from hell.”
As if to respond to his terrible intuition, the coverage cut from the scene of devastation in England back to the station's main desk. A well-coiffed woman with blonde hair and a fashionable scarf spoke almost hesitantly.
“Sorry to interrupt, Donald, but we have breaking news. Reports are pouring in that there have been two more bombings. I repeat, two more bombings of mosques in different parts of the world. Several reports are coming in from Nigeria, that there has been a bombing there. We also have word of a bombing in Finland. A mosque there has been attacked. We have a report live from the capital of Nigeria….”
“John…” Cohen looked at him, pain in her eyes.
“I'm sorry. I didn't want to be right. But I knew I was. I'm going to get showered and dressed. We've got to get in. I won't be long.” Savas stood up from the table and headed down the hall and into the bathroom. He shaved quickly, not bothering to notice the nicks and blood. He showered even faster and was out and dressing before ten minutes had passed. It dawned on him as he buttoned his shirt that he was processing sounds, sounds invading his swirling thoughts of past and present, death and destruction. Sirens. It sounded like ten or twenty police cars. He darted to the window but could see nothing. However, it was unmistakable — the well-known Doppler shift of a siren approaching, then drawing away as it passed. One after the other after the other.
“John,” Cohen called. “You'd better get in here.”
By the time he reached the kitchen, he did not need to see the scenes of destruction at the edge of Harlem to know what had happened. The target he did not guess. He had forgotten about the Manhattan Mosque — the Islamic Cultural Center of New York, thought by some to be a potential incubator for radical Islamic elements. No terrorists would be stepping forth from Ninety-Sixth and Third anytime soon.
A reporter spoke hurriedly, shouting over the sounds of a helicopter. “This is the Traffic Cam in the Sky, news every hour, on the hour. We have diverted location to the Upper East Side.” A camera showed the geometric lines of the New York City grid, and at one corner of a block, what seemed to be a volcanic eruption of smoke pouring into the sky. Around the site like bugs circling honey, a flashing light show of fire trucks and emergency vehicles contrasted with the dark cloud climbing from the blaze below. A voice cut in over the reporter in the helicopter.
“We are going back to footage in Nigeria….” On the screen appeared a split image; on one side, the giant mosque as it had appeared before the explosion, with its four minarets intact. The other side showed the same building, live, now with a single minaret standing and the rest of the structure reduced to rubble, fire, and ash. More scenes of carnage followed from the capital city of Nigeria. Savas stood nearly breathless watching the wild, panicked expressions and motions of emergency workers tending the wounded, many beyond help, scattered over the field of vision provided by the camera. The news reports darted back and forth, from Africa, to Finland, to England, and back to New York. It all began to blur in his mind, rubble and smoke, sirens, hysteria, blood, and fire. So much death. Men and women struck down. The old and the young. Mothers, fathers, daughters, sons.
Sons. The images before him began to merge with his own memory — two towers falling like sand to the earth, burying thousands, choking downtown Manhattan. The death of sons. The death of a young police officer who had made his father proud, giving the greatest sacrifice for his city and never knowing why.
His fists were balled tightly, and tears dropped from his eyes, yet his eyes still had nothing soft in them. A wildness burned there, a primitive urge to strike at the creature attacking the young, stealing life from those who should never have been buried by their parents. A shout broke him out of his trance.
“John, please!” Cohen was standing next to him, shaking him. “John, stop this; come back!”
Savas fought through the nightmare in his mind. He turned to the counter and grabbed his wallet and keys. “I'm sorry, Rebecca, I've got to go.”
“To work?” she asked, hesitantly, afraid of the look in his eyes.
“No, not to work.” He looked forward, seeing something far off. “I'm going to Gunn International. I'm going to do what Jordan said we should do. I'm going to confront that bastard and look into his eyes. I have to know, Rebecca. I can't wait for the wheels to turn in this matter.” He motioned toward the television. “I don't know if the world can wait for this damn machine to do its job. These guys are ten steps ahead of us. If we play inside the rules we've set for ourselves, it will stay that way.”
“John, please, think about this,” she said, grabbing his face in her hands, staring up toward those wild eyes. “You'll have no authority; you'll be potentially in violation of the law, vulnerable to charges of harassment. They might not even let you in. What are you going to do, break down the doors?”
“If I have to.”
“John, even if you find something, these actions might sabotage any legal recourse we have against this man and whatever organization he might be running. You know this, John. You can't do this.”
Savas smiled bitterly. “Rebecca, what I know is that we are losing badly, and while we lose, people are burning alive. I can do this. I have to do this. Someone has to.” He stared at her silently for a moment.