by Ben Coes
He looked to his right, on the seat, where a pair of Uzis lay, thinking about how satisfying it would be to shoot the fat, entitled asshole, but he did nothing.
Taimur used his fingerprint to enter his Chase banking account. In minutes, he arranged to wire everything to his sister in Parand, a section of Tehran south of the center of the Iranian capital.
He’d been waiting for this moment and now it was here. He couldn’t believe it. Finally, he would be put to use.
Taimur reread the text:
When the ground itself shakes it is time
The time was now here, the one he’d been waiting for. All of them had been waiting. The attack was here. He felt elation and disbelief, even though he would likely die in a matter of hours. He would be a part of a revolution against a country he’d lived in for ten years now, a country he loved on one level—but Iran was his blood. Taimur turned on music, Farhad Mehrad, whose songs he knew by heart. He reclined the seat and listened as he placed his right hand on one of the Uzis, softly rubbing the magazine as he sought a few hours of sleep before it all began.
18
10:00 P.M.
SS DORSET
NEW YORK HARBOR
Dewey and Jenna arrived at Andrews and climbed from the car just as a sleek black EchoStar helicopter descended from the sky. The chopper’s only decoration was a dashing family crest on each side of the fuselage; yellow, green, and red, with lions and swords, crossed inside of a shield.
The pilot was young, late twenties, and had a thick mustache. He smiled.
“Hello, Barnes,” said Jenna. “This is Dewey.”
“Hi, Jenna,” said the pilot. “Nice to meet you, Dewey.”
Jenna climbed in first, followed by Dewey. The cabin was intimate and luxurious, seats in honey-brown leather.
The chopper coursed north along the Eastern Seaboard, running at eight hundred feet above the jagged, light-filled expanse below—Baltimore, Wilmington, Philadelphia, and then, in a spectral distance, the conic halo glow of light that came from New York City.
The helicopter cut across the south edge of New York City. Dozens of other choppers moved in the sky.
As the chopper slowed in a slow arc lower, it flew east, away from the central Manhattan island, then was eliding at a hundred feet above a harbor dotted with all forms of boats, sailboats, trawlers, oil and LNG tankers, container ships, large and small motorboats, ferries, and then the sight line opened up toward the bright eastern sky, and Long Island glistened in a dazzling carpet of lights. A few minutes later, the chopper moved even lower as, in the distance, a large yellow, green, and red yacht came into view, illuminated against the evening. It was a castle on water, a sprawling vessel with hundreds of windows, different floors, decks, all glowing in light from the ship. The stern of the yacht read DORSET.
* * *
Jenna saw two individuals standing at the fringe of the helipad, smiling. They were older now. She hadn’t seen them in more than a year. Her mother looked beautiful. She had long brown curly hair and a sharp, angular face. Her father loomed with his big frame, holding her mother’s hand and shielding her from the wind, even as they laughed and smiled. He retained a thick mane of dark blond hair, too long, swept to the side but always being blown around in the wind. Her father had a rugged, handsome face, and a mustache.
The yacht was massive and Dewey ran his eyes over the length of it.
“Those are my parents,” said Jenna.
Dewey looked through a different window, spotting Jenna’s mother and father, but he said nothing.
“Please don’t treat them other than you would anyone, even though there are servants and other people running around. They’re not like that. I’m sorry if you feel I’m ‘taking you to meet my parents.’”
“I’ve been on yachts like this before,” said Dewey as he unlatched the chopper door.
“Really?” whispered Jenna.
“Yeah, but this is the first time I was invited.”
* * *
They crossed the windswept helipad to meet her parents. Jenna ran the last few feet, burying herself in her father and mother’s arms as they reached down and cradled her.
Dewey was dressed in a white button-down that was tight to his chiseled frame. His thick brown hair was blown back from his face, which was covered in a layer of brown stubble. The traces of a small bruise sat beneath his eye, still healing, a wound suffered on a recent mission.
“Oh Mummy, Dad,” said Jenna. “I’ve missed you so much!”
She pulled away, gathering herself. “Mother, Father, this is Dewey Andreas, a friend of mine.”
“Dewey?” said Sir Bobby Farragut, reaching his hand out. His voice was British, but it had a hard country edge, a hint of Scotland. “Welcome aboard. It’s a pleasure to have you, and thank you for delivering our beloved daughter.”
Dewey shook his hand. Farragut was a large man, as tall as Dewey.
“Thank you for having me, Bobby.”
“Of course.”
“And this is my mother,” said Jenna, smiling.
“Jemima, am I right?” said Dewey, taking her hand politely.
Jenna started giggling.
“Such an ass,” she said, shaking her head and looking at Dewey.
“What’s so funny?” said her mother, laughing. Farragut was also laughing. None of them, except perhaps Jenna, knew why.
“I don’t know,” said Dewey. “Your daughter is a mystery, Jemima.”
“Oh, you don’t even know,” said Jenna’s mother, still smiling. “But we love her so. It’s so nice to meet you, Dewey.”
“It’s nice to meet you too,” said Dewey.
Then there was a moment of awkward silence.
“Dewey, welcome aboard,” said Farragut. “Your belongings will be taken to your room.”
“It does have a connecting door to Jenna’s suite,” Jenna’s mother piped in.
“Mummy!” snapped Jenna.
“Jem! For God’s sake,” said Farragut, chuckling.
“We’re friends, Mum,” stuttered Jenna.
“I’m sorry,” Jemima said with a naughty smile, lifting her half-filled highball glass and sipping. “I was merely pointing out one of the benefits of where our guest will be staying.”
Dewey grinned without saying anything as Farragut silently castigated his wife and Jenna’s cheeks turned red from embarrassment.
“As long as there’s a shower big enough to fit Jenna and me, everything should be fine,” said Dewey nonchalantly.
A moment of silence was followed by a second of shock—and then they broke into laughter.
“Dewey!” shouted Jenna.
Jemima roared.
“I think I like your friend!” said Farragut, putting his arm on Dewey’s shoulder, while he still continued to laugh. “Come on, you two, let’s get you a cocktail. The party has already begun. It’s the usual cast from London, along with a few Manhattan folk.”
Farragut looked at Dewey.
“I was about to give you advice,” Farragut said conspiratorially, “as you’re about to meet a few dozen people, royalty, the prime minister and his wife, some billionaires, and such, but then I realized, I don’t exactly need to give you advice, now, do I?” Farragut was guarded but warm. “I can tell someone quickly. Yes,” he said, patting Dewey one last time on the shoulder. “I don’t think I need to give you any advice.”
* * *
Dewey followed Jenna down the stairs from the helipad. At the bottom of the stairs was the main deck, filled with people. Lights cast a golden glow over a crowd of approximately fifty men and women, all dressed nattily but casually: on the men white linen pants or khakis or madras shorts, button-downs and blazers, and on the women elegant skirts and casual summer dresses, mid-thigh. There was a cacophony of voices, conversation, the scent of cigar and cigarette smoke, music, and a general sense of festivity. When Jenna entered, all eyes went to her, for everyone knew who she was, and most she’d known since childhood.<
br />
A young woman in a tan-and-white uniform—a staff member—came rushing over with a tray topped with half-filled crystal champagne glasses.
“Kelsey,” said Jenna.
“So nice to see you, Jenna,” she said as Jenna lifted a glass from the tray.
“I’ve missed you,” said Jenna, giving her a hug.
“Is that my Jenna?” said a slightly inebriated man in a pink blazer, with brownish gray hair, in his seventies.
The crowd laughed and everyone watched as Jenna took a sip from her champagne flute, then walked out into the middle of the crowd toward the man.
“Uncle William,” said Jenna, reaching out to hug him. “Everyone, it’s nice to see you all.”
Dewey watched from the edge of the deck, then, as one of the staff members walked by, followed him. He went down another set of stairs, belowdecks, where a small army of similarly attired staffers—tan pants and white shirts for the men, tan skirts and white blouses for the women—were frenetically trying to manage the smooth operation of the party above deck: food grilling on stoves, liquor being poured, a hustle and bustle that to the untrained eye looked like chaos.
Dewey cut off from behind the female staff member and found a large cabinet filled with liquor bottles. He scanned the rows. He didn’t see any Jack Daniel’s, but there was a large handle of Jim Beam. He picked it up and unscrewed the cap and took a hearty gulp, then another. He paused and then took another large glug, then found a glass and filled it with whiskey.
A staff member approached.
“May I help you, sir?” said a male staffer, a young, tall, brown-haired servant with a precise British accent, clearly not expecting a stranger in the staff area belowdecks.
“Yes,” said Dewey, placing the large bottle of whiskey down. “Would you have any Grey Poupon?”
“Let me check immediately, sir,” said the staffer.
“Merci beaucoup,” said Dewey.
He walked past him and climbed the stairs back to the main deck. He found a railing and stood alone, scanning the water and, in the distance, Manhattan’s skyscrapers, dotted and glowing in light. Dewey turned and watched from afar as Jenna moved through the crowd, saying hi to old friends of her parents. When, finally, she caught his eye, she smiled and made her apologies to whomever she was talking to, then made a beeline for him.
“I was looking for you,” she said. When she stopped in front of him she leaned forward and kissed him.
Dewey reached down behind Jenna and put his hands on her hips. Gently, he picked her up and held her so that her face was close to his. Their lips met again and then neither let go, and her arms reflexively wrapped around Dewey’s neck and moved into his thick brown hair as they kissed.
“Well, I, umm,” said Jenna, pulling away yet letting Dewey keep her elevated there, in the air. She was blushing. “I’m so glad you came,” she said.
Dewey didn’t say anything.
“I think my father likes you,” she said.
She leaned toward him and their lips met again.
“Are you hungry?” she asked. “They saved dinner for us, cutie.”
“Did you just say ‘cutie’?” Dewey said.
She kissed him again and then her lips went to his ear, and kissed it gently.
“Yes, I might have. What of it?”
“How about something a little less … cute.”
“Okay, tough guy,” said Jenna, kissing his ear. “But you didn’t answer me,” Jenna whispered into his ear as she delivered tiny kisses to his ear. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes,” said Dewey.
* * *
The long dining table spread across the main deck of the large yacht, and on each side of the table were fifty chairs. The table was packed with people, most of whom had already eaten but lingered over after-dinner drinks and dessert. Candles ran in a yellow line down the middle, from one end to the other, as music played, and a loud chorus of conversation enveloped the deck.
Dewey was seated at one of the corners of the table, next to Jenna, both of them next to Jenna’s parents.
Toast after toast was made, all saying, in one way or another, happy birthday to Farragut, who tolerated it, and it involved a great deal of ribbing.
Several friends told stories of hunting trips with Farragut, and implied that he was not a very good shot.
The meal was filet mignon with green beans and potatoes. Dewey ate two steaks as, at the same time, he had a few glasses of wine. For most of the meal, as Dewey listened to the toasts, and laughed, and looked at Jenna, he kept looking across the elegant crowd, and across the deck to Manhattan. As much fun as he was having, he couldn’t help feeling a sense of unease. When they went below to their rooms, Dewey looked at Jenna.
“Goodnight,” he said, “and thanks again.”
“Goodnight,” she said as Dewey opened his door.
“Night, Jenna.”
Dewey’s room was a simple, small room, big enough for a single bed, with round porthole windows. The ceiling was coffered in brown wood. His bag was on his bed. A thin interior door led to a bathroom. It had a small bathtub and marble everywhere. There was another door which led into Jenna’s bedroom. Dewey brushed his teeth and then went back into his bedroom and took off his clothing. He climbed into bed.
A little while later, he heard Jenna inside the bathroom. When he heard a knock at the door, he opened his eyes and saw Jenna’s outline in the darkness. She was naked. He waited as she walked toward him and reached for the blanket, then climbed into the bed and suddenly their bodies were intertwined. Dewey’s arms wrapped around her like a cocoon.
“I hope I’m not being too forward,” said Jenna. “The heat in my room isn’t working.”
“Mine is,” said Dewey as he felt her hand touch his stomach, and felt her leg lift up and wrap around his back, pulling his body closer.
19
3:59 A.M.
WESTCHESTER COUNTY AIRPORT
WHITE PLAINS, NEW YORK
The Bombardier Global 7500’s provenance was cloaked within a UAE shell corporation, which in turn was owned by a German shell corporation, with numbers bought from a corrupt member of the German Bundesrat, enabling the plane to enter the U.S. without complication. It was almost four in the morning in America when the jet touched down at Westchester County Airport just north of New York City. The jet taxied to the Signature private terminal. A midsized delivery truck pulled up to the rear of the jet just moments after it stopped moving. The truck had a colorful logo on its side, a food service truck. The four men who climbed out of the truck were young and Iranian.
One of the men approached Mansour as the other went to the cargo hold of the Bombardier.
The man who approached was short and thin, no more than twenty-five years old.
“Commander,” he said, saluting Mansour.
“Hello, Kouros,” said Mansour. “Are you and your men ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mansour stared at Kouros, but said nothing more.
Kouros and three others carried the large boxes from the jet to the back of the delivery truck. When they were done, the truck drove away.
Soon after, on the tarmac outside the dark private terminal, a silver Dodge minivan moved in and stopped beneath the stairs of the Bombardier. Mansour emerged from the cabin and climbed down the stairs. He climbed into the back of the minivan. Two men were already seated. The minivan sped away from the Bombardier just as the Bombardier’s engines grew loud and the jet started moving, taxiing for takeoff.
They moved south from Westchester, cutting down the Hutchinson River Parkway, which was mostly empty. Half an hour later, they arrived at a nondescript office building in Yonkers, just north of Manhattan. They parked beneath an anonymous-looking five-story building filled with offices where insurance agents, dentists, tax firms, and divorce attorneys plied their trade.
Mansour and the two other Iranians took the elevator to the third floor. They walked down a brightly lit hallway
to a door and entered a small office suite. Mansour flipped on the lights. The office suite was, for the most part, vacant. Lifeless, empty, and covered in a film of dust. A pile of take-out menus was on the floor behind the door. Inside the ratchet office suite there was nothing on the walls, and only a few desks and chairs. It was a sublet taken out a year before, by a local attorney, a second-generation Iranian, whose nephew was freed from Evin Prison by the Iranian government in exchange for the lawyer’s “volunteer work” on behalf of the Republic.
Mansour walked to a conference table near the wall. One of Mansour’s lieutenants put his backpack on the table and removed a laptop. He opened it and soon the screen displayed a map of Manhattan. On the map were hundreds of small red X marks. These were the active shooters. More than five hundred men had been embedded in or around New York City over many years, in New Jersey, southern Connecticut, in disparate parts of New York’s five boroughs, and in small blue-collar towns within a fifty-mile radius of Manhattan. The map showed the ones who were now operational—the men who’d signed in and were being tracked. The purpose was twofold. Make sure everyone was accounted for, and second, make sure all of Manhattan was covered, especially Midtown and the East Side.
Mansour knew not every man sent to the U.S. would answer the call. Some would inevitably get cold feet. Each man who responded knew he would probably die. But even Mansour was surprised by the sheer volume of red Xs. The map was colored in red Xs. A digital readout at the bottom of the screen displayed a hard count. There were 514 active shooters now in Manhattan, armed soldiers, most driving Uber or Lyft or a taxi; others were Amazon delivery drivers, several seemingly homeless men, or dish cleaners at restaurants. All highly trained soldiers in the employ of the Republic of Iran. Waiting for the explosions.
Mansour felt a small spike of warmth as he looked at the numbers. Only three men had fled. The rest had answered the call, just as he would have. Just as he was.
