by Ben Coes
37
8:53 A.M.
UNITED NATIONS SECRETARIAT BUILDING
FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Two bright yellow school buses came inching up First Avenue, one in front of the other, moving slowly in the massive traffic jam on First Avenue, most acute in the area surrounding the United Nations. The buses were in the easternmost lane, nearest to the UN, slowly approaching the cordoned-off building. From the outside, the buses looked empty, except for the drivers, perhaps on their way to pick up schoolchildren they’d dropped off earlier at the UN on a field trip?
At Forty-second Street, a block below the UN, all vehicles were asked to divert left, into a slow-moving traffic jam away from the highly secure UN complex, where President J. P. Dellenbaugh had just entered.
News trucks and a line of reporters occupied a roped-off section of sidewalk between Forty-second and Forty-third. The camera shot was ideal, an early-morning clear sky surrounding the gorgeous geometric glass-and-concrete edifice of the UN building, whose dark, reflective glass on this morning, with the powder-blue sky above, looked like the ocean.
An FBI officer stood at the corner of Forty-second Street and First Avenue, waving cars and trucks left. When the driver of the first bus waved, the agent allowed the buses to go straight into the cordoned-off area near the reporters, close to the perimeter. The agent held an MP7A1 aimed at the ground. He stopped the first bus. The driver opened the door.
“Yeah.”
“P.S. One Twenty-two.”
“You here to pick up some kids?” said the FBI agent.
The FBI agent looked at the driver, a bald, olive-skinned man with dark eyes, and he suddenly became still as he watched the driver looking at his watch, then to the horizon, as if waiting for something.
A dull thwack—then a bullet from a gunman crouched near the bus door blew a dime-sized hole to the agent’s cheek, a kill shot. It blew out the back of his skull across the sidewalk and he tumbled awkwardly to the ground.
The driver and another man climbed quickly down and lifted the dead agent up, dragging him back onto the bus, even as the driver registered a police officer, who suddenly glanced in the direction of the bus and started walking toward it.
The driver turned to his men.
“Get ready,” he said, looking down the aisle of the bus at a swarm of Hezbollah, all tucked down behind seats and near the ground, out of sight. “It’s about to begin.”
38
8:54 A.M.
SPECIAL OPERATIONS GROUP
BASEMENT LEVEL TWO
OPERATIONS ROOM
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Polk entered the Special Operations Group ops room. It looked like the control room at NASA. Large digital screens covered the walls in every direction. A large bullpen filled with workstations occupied the area between the four walls.
All the screens were focused on areas outside the U.S. Two operations were under way, one in Surrey, near London, and the other in Hong Kong.
Polk walked to the nearest bullpen. He looked at an analyst.
“Give me any Tier Ones we have in or around Manhattan, Bobby,” said Polk.
“I’m not authorized, sir.”
“Go in through Turbulence,” said Polk. “Six-six-one.”
The analyst, a young black man with glasses, started typing furiously.
The screen went dark. Then a red flashing alert read: NO/SEC.
Polk leaned forward and put his hand on a glass print screen. Suddenly, three photographs spread out like playing cards across the screen. The first photo was a man with thick brown hair, a beard and mustache, and a sharp nose. Though only a head shot, the face and the neck showed a large man, muscular. Across the photo: NOC 2495–6.
Then below:
ANDREAS, DEWEY
The second photo showed a pale man with glasses and dirty blond hair. He had a large nose and a long face. Above all, he looked intelligent. A scar beneath his left eye gave him a somewhat dangerous look. Across the photo: NOC 3390 AB2.
SINGERMAN, AARON
A third photo showed a young man with blond hair and chiseled features, cleanly shaven. He was handsome and his look was casual, and it was hard to imagine that he could be a danger to anyone. NOC 887–01.
TACOMA, ROBERT
A flashing red box pulsated over a part of the map.
The analyst typed, zeroing in on the signal.
A satellite camera moved in, focusing down from the sky, and soon homed in on an object.
It was a large yacht.
The analyst tapped the keyboard. Suddenly, a series of photos appeared, imposed above the live video feed, as well as a bio.
>>GPSH SIG CAPTURE PER TF 0739 R CARNAVALE ADD/SAD >>
LOCATION TRACKER ZEBRA ALPHA [DOMESTIC] >>
FILE#G520094462210 <<
>>AFFIRM NO/SEC
TIER 1———
>> S S D O R S E T
X. K. C. C. 0 9 0 5 5
>>GHS RING: NEW YORK CITY MSA3
ANDREAS, DEWEY
-ACTIVE-
TIER 1 NO/SEC[9]
NOC 2495–6
US ARMY RANGER
1ST SPECIAL FORCES OPERATIONAL DETACHMENT
SPANISH FLUENCY
FILES:
TBT8773 [AGENCY MEDAL OF VALOR]
TBN8919 [AGENCY MEDAL OF VALOR]
AS4–467
XC77–02 [MEDAL OF HONOR][AGENCY MEDAL OF VALOR]
KI-U664 [AGENCY MEDAL OF VALOR]
IU8002
PPL3450
RR9P7 [MEDAL OF HONOR][AGENCY MEDAL OF VALOR]
FR4189
JG6–77-BB
TAI-449B [AGENCY MEDAL OF VALOR]
ACTIVE TYPE 1 “PHANTOM”
COLD WEAPONS EXPERTISE ALPHA 1 [RANK 1 CIA DDS]
FIREARMS TIER 6 MASTER GUNMAN
Suddenly, the second screen focused down on Columbia University. It homed in on a building.
AFFIRM NO/SEC
TIER 1———
>> C O L U M B I A S I A
X. K. C. C. 4 5 4 3
>>GHS RING: NEW YORK CITY MSA3
SCHOOL OF INTL AFFAIRS/COLUMBIA
>SINGERMAN, AARON
-INACTIVE W/NOTICE PRECLUSION [RET F]-
TIER 1 NO/SEC [SPECIAL UNIT “RED DELTA” FINTECH]
NOC 3390 AB2
YALE UNIVERSITY, [CIA] PROGRESSIVE “Q” PROGRAM [SUBH]
LONDON SCHOOL OF ECONOMICS, CURRENCY [8A RANKING]
WHARTON SCHOOL OF BUSINESS, [JACOB TURNER ADVANCED MATHEMATICS FELLOW]
FRENCH, GERMAN, HEBREW, RUSSIAN FLUENCY
RECRUITMENT VIA ATHANASIA, D., EX-SFO [NFLHCMR]
US MARINES
GOLDMAN SACHS
MATHWORKS >
CIA NCS
>SPECIAL ACTIVITIES DIVISION [CURRENCY STRATEGY AND ADVANCED DIGITAL | OFFENSIVE | OPERATIONS]
DIRECTOR NON PROGRAM 22 [FEDERAL RESERVE]
FILES:
6-Y6650 [AGENCY MEDAL OF VALOR]
TBSD24
US677W
78X8T
HH133
ACTIVE TYPE 5 “COBRA”
COLD WEAPONS EXPERTISE GAMMA 6
FIREARMS TIER 2 EXPERIENCED
A third computer screen zeroed in on the Mandarin Hotel.
AFFIRM NO/SEC
TIER 1———
>> M A N D A R I N H O T E L N Y C 5 9 S T
X. K. C. C. B 1 1 2 1 G
>>GHS RING: NEW YORK CITY MSA3
>TACOMA, ROBERT
-INACTIVE PER PRESIDENTIAL ORDER “PROJECT BLACKOCEAN”
466-B8–7531U866*
TIER 1 NO/SEC[5]
NOC 887–01
US NAVY SEAL BXUDT STAGE 4
TIER 1 ALPHA LEVEL ASSASSIN
CIA SPECIAL OPERATIONS GROUP
PRIVATE CITIZEN: RISCON LLC W/EXDDNCS FOXX, K EX DDNCS NCS SPECIAL OPERATIONS GROUP (W:4910)
RUSSIAN FLUENCY
FILES
:
TY56892
G677.3
TBN8919 [MEDAL OF HONOR] [AGENCY MEDAL OF VALOR]
077651
FFU795
FR4189 [AGENCY MEDAL OF VALOR]
ACTIVE TYPE 1 “LION”
COLD WEAPONS EXPERTISE ALPHA 2
FIREARMS TIER 11 GRANDMASTER GUNMAN [RANK 1 CIA DDS]
>>>>> F I N A L >>>>> F I N A L >>>>> F I N A L
[3] <<<<
There were three Tier 1s in New York City; two were inactive, and one, Andreas, was active.
Polk, of course, knew all three. He knew them well.
The numbers were linked to various after-action reports from various operations Singerman, Andreas, and Tacoma had been involved with, and Polk didn’t need to reread them. Andreas and Tacoma were pure operators. Singerman was one of Langley’s top currency experts and political masterminds.
Though Tacoma and Singerman were technically inactive, in times of emergency any NOC—non-official cover—could be activated.
He looked at the analyst.
“Let’s initiate contact with all three, Bobby,” said Polk. “Send a tracer. Have everything come in to me, then bleach the records under Emergency Priority, section four.”
39
8:55 A.M.
FLOOR 18
UNITED NATIONS SECRETARIAT BUILDING
OFFICE OF THE UN SECRETARY GENERAL
FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET
NEW YORK CITY
In the lobby, Dellenbaugh separated from the group and walked with Ambassador Brad Wasik to a waiting elevator. They climbed aboard, alone.
Dellenbaugh looked at Wasik.
“I hear you’re thinking about going back to Arizona and running for governor,” said Dellenbaugh.
“Yes,” said Wasik. “I apologize for not telling you first, sir.”
“Don’t apologize,” said the president. “But I have another job I want to talk to you about.”
The elevator doors opened on the eighteenth floor. As Ambassador Wasik and the president stepped off the elevator, Dellenbaugh was met by the head of the Secret Service, Gene Callanan. Callanan took Dellenbaugh’s forearm sternly. He pushed Dellenbaugh away from the gathered crowd. Callanan handed the president his cell phone.
“Mr. President, it’s Adrian King,” said Callanan.
“Thanks,” said Dellenbaugh, taking the phone. “What’s up?”
Dellenbaugh was suddenly surrounded by a crowd, including employees of the U.S. Mission to the UN, as well as VIPs from other countries and from the secretary general’s staff. He put the cell to his ear.
“We have a serious situation, sir,” said King on the phone.
Dellenbaugh smiled as he moved through the crowd, stopping and saying hello even as he spoke to his chief of staff. Many of the faces were familiar, individuals who’d worked to get him elected president, who now worked for the administration—and he stopped to say hello to each one, even as he knew he needed to hear what his chief of staff had to say.
“Excuse me,” said the president to one of the UN staff members, as he found Ambassador Wasik and gave him a look. Wasik saw the urgency of the call and situation. He led Dellenbaugh away from the throng.
The president stepped to the window and looked back at the gathered crowd, all there to meet him.
“A situation?” said the president.
“It looks like there could be an imminent terror attack about to take place on the United States,” said King.
“Where?” said Dellenbaugh.
“New York City. If I had to guess, you, sir,” said King.
“What the hell are you saying?” said Dellenbaugh, barely above a whisper.
“I think you should make an Irish exit,” said King. “Get back on the elevator and we can reschedule the speech.”
“No way,” said President Dellenbaugh. “I’m surrounded by people and I’m about to give a speech I’ve wanted to give for a year now.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so, sir,” said King.
“Who is it?” said Dellenbaugh.
“Hezbollah.”
“I’m not backing down from giving a speech in my own country, Adrian.”
“There isn’t going to be any speech, sir,” said King.
40
8:56 A.M.
LINCOLN TUNNEL
WEEHAWKEN, NEW JERSEY
Farhad reached the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel earlier than anticipated. He’d driven the speed limit from Sloatsburg, and there was traffic the entire way, yet still he was there already. He was too early, he realized—as the multitude of lanes funneled into four as they crawled toward the tunnels. He could not enter yet. He would get through to the other side before nine o’clock.
There was still an exit ahead, but he also feared that if he got off at the final exit before the tunnel, he might not be able to navigate back and reenter the tunnel in time.
There were two entrances ahead, each with two lanes of traffic. Just before the tunnel was an empty space, strewn with garbage, an embankment no bigger than a car or two. Farhad moved into the right lane and cut before another car. Horns blared. He pulled onto the small embankment and stopped. He was perspiring. People were yelling, horns continued to blare, but soon the noise died off and he just sat there, in park, waiting. It was all he had to do. Just a few minutes.
8:59 A.M.
BROOKLYN-BATTERY TUNNEL
RED HOOK
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK
Dariush drove as fast as he could, down Route 23, west of the city, then Route 46, then Route 3 through New Jersey, picking up 95 just across from Manhattan and heading south. Traffic was terrible. Dariush crossed into other lanes haphazardly, weaving dangerously. He knew he had less than ninety minutes to make a trip that—at rush hour—should’ve taken at least two hours.
He rode up on trucks and cruised down the breakdown lane when things became jammed near Secaucus.
He got onto 278 and headed across Staten Island. When he came to the entrance of the tunnel, he breathed a sigh of relief, and then he remembered he was about to die.
As the lanes converged near the entrance to the tunnel, the van was next to a yellow school bus. A group of young girls in white-and-blue uniforms waved at Dariush.
At first, he didn’t acknowledge them, but then he couldn’t help thinking that one of the schoolchildren reminded him of his younger sister, Hannah.
“Hello there!” shouted one of the girls as they all waved, giggling and laughing.
“Hello,” said Dariush, smiling as he waved back. He told himself he did it so as not to raise suspicion, but the truth was, he thought of his sister and how much he would miss her. He let the bus cut in front of him, and then swerved into the line of traffic. He was inside the Battery Tunnel a minute later. He slowed down and let others pass him.
In those moments, Dariush wanted time to slow down. He hoped the school bus would be out of the tunnel by the time the clock struck nine.
“Drive faster, little ones,” he said aloud, to no one.
8:59 A.M.
HOLLAND TUNNEL
JERSEY CITY, NEW JERSEY
Mohsen had the rearview mirror aimed at himself as he drove. He smiled at himself in the mirror, and pushed his hand back through his thick locks, admiring himself in the mirror.
If he looked behind himself, Mohsen could see the wall of octanitrocubane.
He was in the tunnel now, in the long queue of cars and trucks, and he smiled at himself again in the mirror.
In mere moments, he would be dead, and so at this moment, along his final drive, and last bit of time here on earth, he tried to distract himself by looking at himself in the mirror.
He saw a BMW in the other lane and it reminded him of his uncle.
Mohsen knew he was in his final moments.…
8:59 A.M.
QUEENS-MIDTOWN TUNNEL
LONG ISLAND CITY
QUEENS, NEW YORK
Shahin was the most important of the four
. The Queens-Midtown Tunnel emptied into Manhattan just beneath the United Nations. The success of Shahin’s attack was crucial to the plan and would create in-theater environmental chaos that would help to obscure the street-level attack by Mansour and a brigade of Hezbollah soldiers, all loyal to Mansour and to the Republic.
He was stuck in a line of traffic. Some sort of accident up ahead. By 8:15 Shahin was still in Queens, aboveground, in a line of vehicles inching along toward the entrance to the Queens-Midtown Tunnel.
By 8:55 Shahin was inside the tunnel. Ahead, he saw the lights of police cruisers. Every lane was shut except for one.
At 8:57, he was just a few cars away. Two cars looked dented and partially crushed. Two ambulances were on the scene.
A car suddenly stopped in front of him. Someone in the car was screaming. It was a woman. She recognized one of the cars in the accident.
He looked at his phone:
08:59:31
The woman was older, in her sixties, and overweight. She climbed out of the car crying the name of a woman, her daughter, whose car she recognized, crushed in from the side.
Shahin abruptly swerved out from behind the line and accelerated, just as a policeman ran to meet the hysterical woman. Shahin floored it, honking his horn as he went from 30 to 40 to 50 mph, but the noise just blended into the confusion and disarray. He hit the policeman first, slamming him with the right front of the van before he even was aware. He struck the woman dead center and she went tumbling under the van, her screams soon muted as Shahin bounced the tire of the van over her skull, crushing it like an egg.
As bullets clanged into the van, Shahin kept his foot to the pedal, weaving in and out of cars past the accident.
08:59:48
He saw digital signs demarcating the end of the tunnel just ahead, and as he swerved the last few hundred feet in between cars, he checked his watch. As the seconds ticked toward their ineluctable fate, he glanced one more time.
08:59:59
09:00:00
09:00:01
For a moment, Shahin thought perhaps something was wrong, and he felt, in that split second, a sense of relief, reprieve, as if somehow he might escape.…
