‘It went off first. That’s why the blast hit so many. Like they were running right into it.’

‘Can you show me where the alarm was set off?’

‘We didn’t get a chance to look. The control is in the back office. I’ll take you.’

The security guard took Harper inside the main office and through a back corridor to the security unit. It was empty. The security officer stood in front of a bank of lights. ‘It’s flashing in Area 8B, I got to look it up, give me a second.’ Harper gazed at the TV screens as the guard looked up the code. Two screens were blank, but the two screens on the outside of the building were still working.

‘8B is up on the second floor in the exhibition room.’

‘And these two cameras that are out?’

‘Shit, I didn’t see. Okay. Maybe something happened. They’re both from the exhibition room. Shit. That’s bad news. You don’t think someone’s set off something to…’

‘To what?’

‘To create a diversion and steal the artefacts?’

‘If that’s what’s going on, it’s the most fucked-up theft I ever heard of.’ Harper was already out the door, his Glock 19 firmly in his hand as he leaped up the stairs to the second floor. The security guard followed.

The second floor was quiet. Harper stopped. The big wooden doors at the end of the corridor were closed. He waited until the security guard caught up.

‘They should be open, right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Okay, let’s take this nice and slow. We don’t know what’s going on.’

‘Nice and slow.’

Harper made his way down the marble corridor, his reflection perfect in the freshly polished floor. At the door, he stopped and sank to his knees. He put his eye to the large old-fashioned keyhole and stared for a moment. It was enough. He turned and pulled out his radio.

‘Sergeant Colhoon, it’s Detective Harper,’ he whispered. ‘I’m in the museum up on the second floor.’

‘So what have you got for me, Detective?’

‘This is worse than we thought. The first blast happened up here. We’ve got several casualties on the second floor. And you’re going to need to call a SWAT team. Maybe two. The bomber is in the building. And he’s got hostages.’

Chapter One Hundred and Sixteen

Museum of Tolerance, Brooklyn

March 15, 11.32 a.m.

The truck had been packed with explosives. Nothing ornate or fancy. Ammonium nitrate sitting loose in a flat box. Three bangers stuck in there and a can of fuel. All according to the instructions he’d been given. Carney had also thrown in a few bags of old nails he had no more use for.

The truck bomb had worked better than he’d expected. The fuse must’ve been just right. He’d had exactly the right amount of time to walk up to the second floor, set off a small incendiary device, start screaming, ‘Fire!’ all over the place, and then watch as the chaos ensued. All of them running as if to freedom, only to feel the heat of a bomb blast and a barrage of red-hot nails flaying their skin.

In the chaos, he shot out the two cameras on the second floor and then he shut the door to the exhibition room behind him. Those who hadn’t managed to escape stood there in front of him. Mindless sheep, unable to think or realize what was happening. He blocked the doorway. The crowd stopped.

‘What are you doing, man?’

‘There’s a fire in the stairwell. Smoke’s real bad. It’ll kill you.’

‘What do we do?’

‘There’s another stairway. Follow me.’

There were about twelve of them. Men, women, children. They turned from the exit and followed Carney down a corridor and into another exhibition room. When they were all in the room, Carney shut the door and pulled out Josef.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Making a point that needs making. Now all of you, sit the fuck down.’

The twelve hostages started to scream and panic. Carney shouted but the panic had set in. He pulled a man out of the crowd of wailing, crying people and pushed his Luger hard into the man’s cheek.

‘Shut the fuck up.’

Carney shot one round into the floor, then returned the gun to the man’s face.

‘What’s your name, Jew?’

‘Jeb Rosenbaum,’ the man said. Slowly, the group fell silent.

‘I’ll kill the children first, if you scream again.’

Jeb held his head in his hands. He was crying. Carney turned to him. ‘What are you crying for, Jeb? You’re the lucky one.’

He took Jeb by the elbow and pushed him against the opposite wall.

‘Why are you doing this? What do you want?’

‘I want people to know.’

‘What?’

‘Kneel.’

‘Please don’t kill me. I’ve got three children.’

‘It’s the breeders that are the worst. Fucking kneel!’ shouted Carney.

Jeb knelt and Carney took out a knife from his boot leg. He stood in front of him and stared.

‘You know what a scapegoat is, don’t you?’

‘I don’t know what you mean…’

‘Yes, you do. It’s the innocent goat sent away bearing the sins of its people.’

‘I don’t understand you.’

‘You will. Don’t you worry about that.’ Carney produced a roll of barbed wire from his backpack. He threw it down. ‘I’m going to wire you up, Jeb.’

The twelve stopped and stared. Carney stared back. He stepped up to the man and held up his gun. ‘You are not human. You are no longer human, you understand?’

Carney moved in with the barbed wire. He took Jeb and wrapped the wire three times around his neck.

Chapter One Hundred and Seventeen

Museum of Tolerance, Brooklyn

March 15, 11.37 a.m.

Harper sat with his back against the wooden door to the exhibition room. Inside, he’d seen Jack Carney clutching a Luger and pointing it at a group of hostages. He counted twelve: one of them was half-wrapped in barbed wire.

Harper looked through the big keyhole again. Carney was armed. His face and clothes were coated in a film of soot from the incendiary device. Harper watched in silence as Carney taped an explosive device around one of the hostages. Harper felt his breath shorten as he listened to the hostages pleading. They were terrified. Carney would be in no mood for negotiation. Harper could sense the tension in his voice. It was a bad sign. Carney clearly had a plan and he was going to stick to it.

Harper spoke low into his shortwave. ‘How long till SWAT get here?’

‘Three to four minutes. Keep it nice and quiet up there.’

‘I don’t think this guy intends to live. That makes him very dangerous.’

‘I’ll pass it on, Harper. Just sit tight.’

Harper tried to breathe deeply. Three to four minutes to get to the location. A minute to get out of the SWAT truck and a minute to get up to the second floor. Inside, a couple of the younger hostages were sobbing. In the background, further off, was the sound of crying and shouting. A scuffle, then silence. There was too much silence.

Harper looked again. Right in front of him was a man. He was about forty years old; three sticks of dynamite were now taped around his waist beside the detonation device. His face was blank. He had goose bumps all over his body.

Harper heard the killer walk up and down the room.

‘I just want the world to see you as you are. Rich bastard, aren’t you? I want you to crawl out of this place. I want to hear you bleat like a goat.’

Then what? Harper considered the plan. He looked at his watch. Time was too tight to call. If he waited for the SWAT team to get there, something might have happened, but if the killer was planning on getting his hostage to crawl out of the museum, he’d have a chance. Harper heard Carney’s voice barking commands.

‘Okay, all of you now get down on all fours.’

Harper leaned in and watched the killer orchestrating his delusions. Then he called into Command.

‘We’ve got a situation developing. He’s wiring the main hostage with explosive devices.’