The sound of a cell phone receiving a call.
Bashar Shabaan froze in place. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
The phone was not supposed to ring. They were not supposed to call him. He was supposed to call them. This was very, very wrong.
And then suddenly he understood. There was no question in his mind. It wasn’t wrong at all. It made perfect sense. It was exactly as planned.
Exactly as they had planned.
Bashar wanted to scream, but he didn’t. He wanted to run, but he didn’t do that either. Instead, Bashar stood still, completely still, and thought about his faith. He thought about Hamid and what he must have felt stepping onto that bus. And he prayed for his mother and father. He thought that when he first saw death, when he’d seen the soldiers kill that family, he was young. So very young. And now he was so very old.
Twenty-nine years old.
As old as he’d ever get, he thought.
Then he closed his eyes and thought about how he’d never get his money.
He’d never find out if he could bribe the devil.
A real pity.
Because he knew without a doubt he’d be meeting the old bastard any moment now.
First came the noise.
Jimmy Leggett heard that. It was so deafening, so loud that it seemed to have a physical force all its own. And then it got louder because soon there were screams and moans and crying and prayers.
Then the blood came.
Jimmy Leggett saw that. At least some of it. Mostly what he saw was his own blood, which spurted because something ripped into his chest, tearing him apart. That same something lifted him up and carried him backward so fast he felt like he was flying.
There was a lot more blood than just Jimmy’s because the initial explosion also ripped many other bodies in half, mangling and crushing anything in its ferocious path. The impact shattered almost all the glass in the restaurant-the windows, the mirrors, the chandeliers-sending fragments and shards, some mere slivers, some the size of checkerboards, hurtling through the air; deadly, jagged projectiles slicing through skin and bone, splashing the white stucco and beige tiles of Harper’s Restaurant with gallons of blood, as if being hurled from hundreds of paint cans, blood that was thick and dark, dark red.
And then just as quickly it was washed out and pink, because the sprinkler system burst into action and then a water main was severed, and the new mix of blood and water flooded across the restaurant floor like a river, streaming into the street through what was left of the front of the restaurant. It looked like a slaughterhouse being hosed down after the working day. Jimmy felt that because he was still alive then, his body broken and wet and dying.
Other debris swept past Jimmy as he lay there: pieces of furniture, shoes, plates, silverware, vases, even jewelry, much of which was still attached to severed fingers and ears. And that’s when Jimmy Leggett smelled the death that surrounded him. The bloody rags that just moments before had been well-cared-for clothing but were now scattered everywhere: stuck to whatever walls remained, wrapped around table legs, flapping against unmoving bodies. The arms and legs that had been ripped from their sockets, that were dripping red and were piled up so thick they looked like stacks of firewood.
And then Jimmy’s senses got fuzzy. He was barely aware of the ceiling plaster that was plummeting in chunks, dropping into the frenzied activity below and onto the deafened, terrified survivors, making them think that the sky itself was falling. He understood that there was new movement, but didn’t know it was the emergency medical workers and doctors who arrived within minutes after the blast went off and were doing their best to move anyone still breathing into waiting ambulances. He felt heat, great heat, but didn’t realize that volunteer firemen had arrived, too, and were waging battle with the fire that broke out when a gas main in the kitchen ruptured. By the time those customers at Harper’s who were not killed by the explosion had burned to death in the raging fire, Jimmy could see, hear, feel, and smell nothing at all.
Jimmy Leggett’s last thoughts were about his wife. He saw her face, wanted to tell her not to be so sad. Mostly he wanted to say that he probably wouldn’t have slept with the weekend woman no matter how much the goddamn lunch had cost. Within seconds of his death, the streets had been cordoned off and no one was allowed within three blocks in any direction of the devastation. And within three hours after it had begun, the worst was over. The dead had been removed, the living were in Southampton Hospital. Where there had once been life, all that remained was a sudden quiet, an absence of movement, an eerie vision of things that remained untouched and unchanged. A photograph of Main Street in East Hampton that still hung on the restaurant wall, unscarred. A candle that stood unbroken in its candleholder. Mere feet from the center of the room, the point of the explosion, was a round table that stood absolutely intact-flowers still blooming in a small glass vase; the tablecloth neither torn nor sullied; knives, forks, and spoons sitting exactly as they’d been placed. There were two plates on the table. One held a half-eaten steak with a nearly untouched baked potato. It looked as if the diner would be returning from the bathroom momentarily to finish his or her meal. The other plate was filled with small, thin pieces of pasta. It also had a severed hand next to it, a fork still clutched in the fingers.
The FBI showed up, taking over from the overwhelmed and shell-shocked local law enforcement, and the human tragedy was quickly turned into an impersonal crime scene. The TV cameras stayed, of course, positioning themselves as close as they were allowed, and settled in for a long siege. Print journalists churned out copy, spoke to witnesses, and searched for theories while TV reporters stood in front of the cameras and made an instant and unanimous proclamation, sending it out over the airwaves: a terrorist bombing.
A message from America’s enemies to its citizens: No one is safe.
Anywhere.
Anymore.
Ever.
PART ONE
1
“We’d like people to take their seats, please.”
Justin Westwood nodded at the usher, who had leaned over in his direction to make the polite request, but he made no move to honor it. The usher waited, swiveling his neck back and forth, as if his shirt collar was too tight. Then he moved on to tell other, more obedient people to sit down so things could get started.
Justin watched the mourners filing into the church. They were moving slowly; their tears and grief seemed to be weighing them down, preventing them from walking down the aisles at normal speed. In the three days since the explosion at Harper’s Restaurant, Justin Westwood had noticed a lot of people moving slowly. His sense was that the entire country was moving along in slow motion right now. People seemed to be in a state of shock after the explosion. There wasn’t the same kind of anger that was prevalent after the World Trade Center attack. This was different. There was something obscenely grand about that event, operatic in its horror, that made it all seem vaguely unreal to anyone outside of the city. September eleventh had heroes and villains and scope. This attack seemed small. It wasn’t just deadly, it was demeaning. It seemed to bring everyone down to the level of other countries, small countries. It made everyone feel vulnerable, which Justin knew was the worst feeling there was. So people moved slowly. They were in no rush to reach their destination, whatever it was, because that destination no longer seemed safe.