The Angel of New York

Author's note:

The idea for this story was developed with my writing pal and best friend Alan Bruton. We have written a number of screen plays together under the team name Flanagan & Alan. The Angel of New York is one screenplay. More are in development.

The most important decision we make is whether we believe we live in a friendly or hostile universe.

Albert Einstein

The Angel of New York

Prologue

A shriek of terror split the air.

It was a noise only those facing death could utter.

The old man's eyes snapped wide open and stayed that way, unblinking.

Every fibre of his body was listening; every particle of his being filled with dread.

The next sound was a percussive boom that resonated in the core of his body. He flinched as the sound echoed from somewhere below. He looked down at his Jack Russell terrier growling at his feet, its ears flat back.

'Quiet Cheeky,' the old man whispered. The dog shot his master a glance but kept on growling as the old man lifted the ragged piece of tarpaulin under which they were sheltering. He kicked over an empty bottle of bourbon as he stepped forward and it clattered across the concrete floor, causing him to freeze.

It was then that he heard the voices. They seemed far away and he sensed that they had not heard him. The old man lurched forward into the shadows of the deserted building that towered above him, using the walls for support until he came to a shattered window looking down into the basement. He knelt and looked in, just in time to see two feet being dragged in a widening pool of blood till they disappeared from view.

The old man stayed stock still. He could hear his diseased heart pounding in his chest, taste the tang of bile in the back of his mouth. Beads of sweat crawled down his brow like flies, while his nose wrinkled at the acrid smell of cordite that had wafted up through the broken window.

The voices below receded and the old man felt the life return to his limbs. He hurriedly retraced his steps. The killers were on the move and he and his dog had to get away. He took hold of the old piece of rope that acted as his dog’s lead and hurried along to the Portacabin where the security guards lived. But the cabin was empty, the door open, and the television blaring. He was turning away when he stopped in his tracks. There, on the TV screen, was a photo of the building he had just left, as the news reporter announced.

"New York wins it bid to host the 2020 Olympics and the Olympic Village will be built on the site of the controversial oil refinery at Kill Van Kull."

An aerial view of a vast oil refinery, with rusting cranes and giant circular storage containers, filled the screen; while in the background floated the silhouette of Manhattan.

"The successful New York delegation was lead by Mayor John Hannigan, his wife Dee and baby Jasmine."

The screen filled with the picture of a handsome, tanned man in his early forties, with his arm around a pretty woman in a sunhat holding a small baby. The handsome man smiled as he spoke to the camera:

‘I am so proud to be a New Yorker – this is going to be the greatest Olympics ever!’

‘Oh no,’ said the old man, grabbing hold of the door with a trembling hand to stop himself falling. It was as if this news of the Olympic triumph was more terrible than the brutal slaying he had just witnessed.

*One year later . . .

23rd December, 2015, 13.00hrs

No one noticed the small boat as it slowly made its way through the Sandy Hook Bay. To the south was a long, low spur of land: the Gateway National Recreation Centre. To the north some 18 kilometres away, Brighton Beach. The swell was heavy, magnified by the stiff north-easterlies bringing in an icy storm from Nova Scotia that had already covered New Hampshire in a foot of snow. A severe weather warning had been issued and there were now only a handful of boats ploughing the busy waterway that connected New York with the Atlantic Ocean. Yet the ferry boat was making good headway against the breeze and was soon passing under the Verazano-Narrows Bridge.

It continued northwards following the route used by ships navigating the New York-New Jersey passage, before doing something unexpected – something that would have alerted the normally vigilant coastguard – and veering suddenly westward towards Kill Van Kull and the giant wharfs that once played host to some of the world’s biggest oil tankers. But there were no coastguard vessels around the quiet waterways in front of the giant oil storage containers that afternoon. Instead they were busy preparing for the approaching storm, warning ships heading out to the ocean and preparing for the sub-zero conditions that were sweeping in from the north.

As a result, no one noticed the small vessel as it approached what had once been the busiest oil terminal on the east coast, battling through the choppy waters that lead to the wharf of Kill Van Kull and its giant oil storage tanks which now stood empty and abandoned. Many were in the process of being dismantled, and stood jagged and rusting, like rows of rotting teeth, while in the background stood the burnt-out shell of O7 – the vast petroleum processing complex that had exploded in a massive fire six years earlier, killing more than 40 workers and forcing the closure of the plant.

The small ferry boat was now being severely buffeted by the stiffening winds but it eventually made the shadows cast by the giant wharf, and manoeuvring into a narrow channel docked beside a derelict concrete outhouse that once received the crews of the super tankers. There was an old rusting sign over the door of the outhouse showing the seal of US Customs, while underneath a fading list showed the hours when the post was operating. As the boat approached the wharf the door to the derelict customs house opened and a man in his twenties, wearing jeans, a black jumper and a woollen, black beanie came out and took the rope offered by a man on the ferry boat. They were joined by another man on the wharf who was dressed in a black leather jacket. He had dark skin and a growth of black stubble. Once the man on the boat had secured both ends, he opened the hatch and called out in Russian,

‘OK, let’s go!’

There, below deck, crammed into the narrow galley, were 12 women guarded by a man with cropped hair, dressed in green fatigues, jeans and military boots, a semi-automatic rifle cradled on his lap. He took a puff on a cigarette and eyed the girls seated in front of him. They were mostly in their late teens or early twenties and looked pale and tired. He exhaled the cigarette smoke directly into the face of the girl sitting opposite him. She glared at him but he ignored her. Not the usual bunch of beauties he thought as he inhaled deeply on his cigarette again, looking around at the new arrivals now destined for the strip clubs and brothels of Queens. At that moment they looked anything but sexy. Many had become sea sick during the two-hour journey after being lowered into the ferry boat from the large ocean-going Russian trawler that had laid to 90 miles off the American coast. Soon the heavy seas were taking their toll and as there was only one small toilet on the vessel several of the girls had no option but to be sick were they sat. As a result the floor was wet and slippery and the air heavy with an acrid smell of vomit.

The guard wrinkled his nose as he took one last pull on his cigarette, ‘OK, let’s move,’ he barked in Russian, stubbing the cigarette out on the glistening floor, But the girl opposite did not move. She continued to glare at him. He rose and stood over her. Then, without warning, pulled back the butt of his rifle and slammed it full force into the girl’s stomach. She buckled over, holding her stomach and gagging as she fought to breathe. The guard leaned down and grabbed a handful of the girl’s hair, yanking her head back till she was looking up into him, tears filled her eyes and a thin line of spittle dangled from her mouth. Leaning down he spat in her face before letting go her hair. She slipped onto the floor gasping for air. A companion rushed over to help but he waved her away.

‘Move it I said!’ he shouted, raising the butt of the rifle again.

This had the desired effect. The girls sprang up in alarm and gather their sole possessions: a collection of plastic bags and cheap, nylon rucksacks. But two remained seated at the back. A girl who seemed no more than 17 or 18 years old who was whispering earnestly to an older girl in a pink sweatshirt with Elvis written across the front in silver lettering, who kept shaking her head as if saying no to what the younger girl was suggesting. Both bore a striking resemblance to the other; high Slavic cheekbones, startling green eyes and blonde hair, the only difference being the younger girl’s was cropped short.

Not for the first time the guard found his attention focusing on her. She was remarkably pretty yet she looked different from the others, as if she didn’t belong. Not only did she look a lot younger, she did not have that same world-weariness of the older girls, being more innocent, more naive, something the guard found intensely arousing.

Then there was the way she dressed. She looked more like a lost little girl, wearing as she did a large jacket that was at least two sizes too big for her and entirely concealing the shape of her upper body and ski pants. Still, he decided, she would be the one he would pick if he got the chance. The young girl continued to implore her older companion who continued to shake her head. ‘You have to help – it’s over anyway if they find out.’

‘Hey you two – move it!’ he shouted, turning to the girls nearest the steps, allowing his hand to rest on their buttocks as he pushed them up. When he turned back he was surprised to see the two girls had ignored his command and were embracing.

‘Come on!’ he yelled, manhandling the younger one to her feet. But the girl in the pink Elvis sweatshirt pushed him away.

‘Hands off, pig!’ she snapped in Russian. He raised the butt of his rifle as if to strike her but something stopped him and he pushed her instead towards the foot of the stairs. The younger girl passed him last and looked him directly in the eye and for a moment the guard was taken aback by the sheer intensity of her stare – defiance mixed with desperation –and when she went to clamber up the stairs he did not touch her.

Once on deck the girls were helped off the gangplank and lead into the derelict custom shed, while the man in the black beanie scanned the bay with a pair of binoculars. But little stirred, save the ferries making their way to New Jersey, laden down with last-minute Christmas shoppers and office workers on their way home. Even the sky above was empty of the usual fleets of helicopters, shuttling back and forth from Newark and JFK. The storm clouds were approaching and flights were being cancelled while New York ground to a halt.

Once inside the concrete building the girls were lead towards the exit a couple of hundred yards away where a white van waited, its back doors open. Next to the van was a large, black SUV, its engine running. The man in the black leather jacket stood by the SUV talking rapidly in Russian on his cellular phone. Suddenly, the girl in the pink sweatshirt slipped and fell awkwardly to the ground, clutching her ankle and crying out in pain. The two guards shouldered their guns and went to help the stricken girl to her feet, while the drivers of the two vehicles opened their doors to see what was wrong.

‘Get her in the van,’ the man in the leather jacket ordered urgently, covering the mouthpiece of his phone. ‘Help them!’ he gestured to the drivers of the vehicles, as he tried to corral the other girls who had stopped to look at their fallen companion, and get them quickly into the van. The injured woman was now screaming in pain, clutching at her ankle and pushing away the proffered arms of her guards now turned helpers, while some of the other girls stopped in their tracks – some crying out to her, others rushing back to offer a hand.

‘Carry her!’ the man barked, running forward and pulling the girls back before bundling them into the van while the injured girl was roughly hauled along the ground and dumped onto the floor of the van, screaming loudly. ‘And shut her up!’ the man in the leather jacket cried, pocketing his cell phone and running forward to open a sliding steel door at the end of the concrete shed as the two guards jumped into the back of the van, slamming the doors shut. The black SUV squealed out and skidded to a halt allowing the van to roar past. Then after closing the steel door the man clambered into the SUV which roared off.

For a couple of seconds the air was filled with the noise of screeching tyres that slowly receded into the distance until silence descended again on the abandoned wharf. But after a couple of moments there was the noise of movement in the shed. Slowly from behind the grey customs counter the cropped blonde head of the young girl appeared. She crouched like an animal as she listened intently, breathing fast, her face stained with tears.

Half a minute passed while she stayed as still as a statue, then after a minute she straightened and moved gingerly to the steel door, her hands holding her stomach as if she was in pain. Then with a great effort she slid the steel door open an inch, looking anxiously out. Only the cavernous ruins of the giant oil storage tanks gazed back at her. A sudden flurry of wind caused the girl to shiver and pull her jacket tight around her throat. She slipped out of the door and again with a great effort closed it behind her. Then turning she looked at the road in front of her. Skid marks from the two vehicles were still fresh on the road leading right, so shouldering a small, battered haversack she hurried off in the opposite direction.

Once out on the road skirting the docks she was faced with a choice. On the right behind razor-topped wire fencing, seven or eight tall buildings disappeared back as far as her eye could see. Part of the wire fence directly in front of her had been cut, and was flapping in the stiff breeze. She turned and looked left, seeing nothing but an array of dismantled oil storage containers. She stood uncertain as to which direction to take – fearful of hearing at any moment the noise of her captors approaching.

Then she felt something cold settle on her nose. She touched it with a trembling hand and noticed that it was a snowflake. More began to settle on her shoulders and hair. She shivered, looking up at the heavy grey snow-filled clouds. Suddenly the young girl bent forward as if struck by an excruciating pain, holding her stomach with one hand and the wire fencing for support with the other. After a minute the wave of pain seemed to pass and she slowly righted herself only to hear a car horn honk somewhere behind her.

She turned like a startled animal, certain she would see one of her captors’ cars coming to track her down, but all that met her terrified gaze were the rusting cranes