by Jeff Gunhus
Walking out of the restroom, he followed the mental map he’d committed to memory in his planning. The thirty-nine-story Secretariat Building was to the south, connected to the Conference Building that housed the General Assembly where he now stood. This was the first part of the plan where he anticipated something might go wrong. If the Secret Service had taken over site security as he expected, then they might have cordoned off the Secretariat Building entirely. Condensed the secured area to the smallest possible square footage.
But as he walked toward the connector, he saw traffic going both ways in the hallway. Uniformed police were checking IDs on the way toward the other building. A bank of metal detectors blocked return entry.
He’d anticipated that. Wouldn’t be a problem.
He flashed his ID to the policeman, striding confidently past him. It didn’t take long to cross into the Secretariat Building. There was actually a fair amount of activity here. The seventy-fifth anniversary had created a great deal of interest and many of those who wanted to participate but who lacked the credentials or connections to be on the other side of the complex were being entertained here. Large-screen TVs were set up so people could watch the upcoming speeches.
Scarvan waded through the crowd, knowing facial recognition software was analyzing him each step of the way.
He went into the restroom at the far end of the lobby. He counted the stalls and grimaced when he saw the one he needed was occupied.
He washed his hands, buying time. The man in the stall let out a grunt as he pushed. Scarvan felt the ridiculousness of the situation. The destruction of the world order in a flash of radioactive explosive was being held up by a man taking a shit.
Perhaps there was poetry in there somewhere.
Finally, the man rose, flushed not once but twice, and then exited. Scarvan didn’t make eye contact. He continued to wash his hands, knowing it would raise suspicion if he entered the stall immediately, given there were several others open.
Once he heard the front door open and close, he walked into the stall, wrinkling his nose from the man’s stench. He closed the stall door and got to work. One of the coins he carried in his pocket had an edge filed down. This edge worked perfectly as a screwdriver. The toilet paper holder was one with a metal box that held an extra roll above the one being used. Using the coin, Scarvan removed the four screws holding the entire box onto the stall wall. Once he removed it, the extra weight confirmed Omega’s man had delivered as promised. Using the coin again, he removed the single screw on the back and opened the secret compartment above the second roll.
Scarvan removed a Glock 43 and an extra magazine. The small size was necessary to smuggle in, but the cost was only six rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. A total of thirteen rounds. It was an insurance policy only. And it made a statement that he’d been able to circumvent security this far.
Scarvan secured the toilet paper holder back onto the stall wall, hid the gun in the small of his back, then straightened his tie and walked out.
Three uniformed police were waiting for him.
He froze, fighting back a surge of anxiety. Where had he made a mistake? How had they caught on to him so soon?
“All done in there, buddy?” the nearest cop asked.
Scarvan reassessed their posture and body language. These men weren’t here to arrest him. They were waiting their turn for the stalls.
“Yes, sorry,” Scarvan said, holding his stomach. “Ate at a street cart last night.”
The three cops didn’t bother to acknowledge the comment. As Scarvan washed his hands, he wondered if the three of them would later uncover how close they had come to stopping him. A story they could tell their grandkids.
It would be a vastly different world by then. But it would still have old men who told stories of their adventures. Perhaps around campfires instead of in lit rooms with air conditioning, but there would still be stories.
Scarvan left the bathroom, feeling more confident with the gun.
He walked with the flow of the crowd so as not to draw attention to the eyes invariably watching the area in whatever command center they’d set up.
The elevator bank was operational, allowing people to go up to their offices as needed on the big day. There were no more metal detectors—anyone someone would want to kill was in the General Assembly building—but he needed to swipe his ID card to access the elevator area.
Once here, he waited for an elevator he could ride alone. He passed on two that had occupants, pretending to be waiting for someone. On the third attempt, he was able to get an empty one. He swiped his card again and punched in the seventh floor. This was where the Hellenic Republic had a small office. Hidden in the wall safe of that office was the next step in the destiny God had revealed to him back on Mt. Athos.
The elevator reached the seventh floor and stopped.
But the elevator door didn’t open.
He felt his heart rate accelerate. Perhaps they had shut down the office floors after all. That wasn’t protocol, but he knew his threat had thrown protocol out the window.
Or maybe it was just that the elevator was stuck.
He pressed the OPEN DOOR button. Once. Twice. Then over and over.
Nothing.
He eyed the emergency button. That wasn’t optimal. Pressing an alarm wasn’t the best way to stay under the radar.
The floor indicator said 7.
He was so close.
Then he heard a noise.
Metal on metal.
Then a wrenching sound.
Mechanical parts being forced to move.
The door shuddered.
Then it split open, a half inch.
An inch.
He pulled his gun and took aim. So soon?
Perhaps his adversaries had been better than he’d given them credit for.
He shot at the one-inch opening, knowing it wouldn’t do much good unless some idiot was dumb enough to stand right in front of it.
A small tube was fed into the crack and a second later, smoke billowed from it.
Not smoke, gas.
His impulse was to block the tube, yank it toward him to cinch it off.
But it was no use.
They had him trapped. Resistance was futile.
As he inhaled the gas, feeling it enter his bloodstream, his vision blurred.
A shock of pain in his knees was his only warning that he’d fallen to the floor.
He ended up with his back against the wall, chin to his chest, barely able to keep his eyes open.
The elevator door split open wider and bright lights lit up everything around him. Men in gas masks barked orders but he was beyond being able to answer them.
It was all he could do to stay conscious. He wanted to see them. He wanted to see everything.
Then he was there. Scott Roberts. Hovering in front of his face.
“Hello, Jacob,” Scott said, his voice muffled behind his mask. “Sorry to ruin your big plans.”
As Scarvan finally allowed his eyes to close and his mind to drift off, he consoled himself with Scripture.
To all things there is a purpose under heaven.
Even this.
Especially this.
CHAPTER 55
Hawthorn got off the phone, relishing the sense that the weight of the world had lifted from his shoulders.
There would be some other weight out there to replace it, there always was. Omega was still a threat. The men who’d helped Scarvan smuggle a bomb and gun into the United Nations were still at large. Whether they were Omega or not remained to be determined.
But for a few minutes, Hawthorn allowed himself to feel the win.
He looked across the large sitting area of the Lotte New York Palace suite, a five-thousand-square-foot space on three levels. The Lotte had replaced the traditional Waldorf Astoria favored by presidents for decades. Once the Waldorf had been purchased by a Chinese conglomerate in 2014, the change had been made for both optics and n
ational security reasons.
Hawthorn had been in both locations with presidents and found the sleek, dark wood and the towering floor-to-ceiling windows an improvement over the Waldorf. And the large outdoor terrace with sweeping views of the city was incredible.
He realized that before he’d gotten the news that Scarvan had been captured, he hadn’t even noticed the view. Now, suddenly, he found himself looking from window to window, soaking in the unique beauty of the sun reflecting off the New York skyline.
Mitch Dreslan stepped in from the terrace, ending a phone call. He caught Hawthorn’s eye. They had both received the news. Dreslan pumped his fist in the air. The action was a bit theatrical for Hawthorn’s taste, but what the hell. He returned the gesture, even coupling it with a wide smile.
The two men strode across the room and met in the middle for a handshake.
“No injuries. Not a single shot fired,” Dreslan said. “Bomb squad has secured the bomb segments.”
“I heard,” Hawthorn said. “A fine result. Your men are to be congratulated.”
Dreslan sniffed. “Your team did well, too,” he said, pulling his hand back. “But I’m still not happy how the whole thing panned out.”
Hawthorn shifted his position so that he was side by side with Dreslan, their shoulders nearly touching. He leaned in, a conspirator telling a secret. “Mitch, take the win. Hell, we both know they don’t come that often. Not like this. The credit for this is all yours.”
Dreslan hesitated, but he didn’t move away, which was a good sign. “I suppose you’re right. I should brief the president. He’s on the third floor.”
“I don’t think you need me for that, do you?” Hawthorn said. He lifted his phone. “Just reach out if there’s anything in the debrief you need from me or any of my team.”
Dreslan looked at him suspiciously. When there was favor to be curried with the commander-in-chief, it was unfathomable that any member of the government bureaucracy would miss the chance to claim at least some of the credit. Unless there was some other angle.
Hawthorn almost felt sorry for the man as Dreslan’s face showed him trying his best to work out why Hawthorn was laying the plum at his feet.
“Before you go, can I ask for a favor?” Hawthorn said. Dreslan looked immediately relieved. Quid pro quo. That was something every DC operator understood.
“What’s that?”
“Rick Hallsey,” Hawthorn said. “Go easy on the kid. I know he’s in the shithouse for not coming clean with you about the source, but he’s a good agent.”
“Is this about giving the kid a break, or about his relationship with your agent, Mara Roberts?”
Hawthorn gave him a nod. Maybe he’d underestimated Dreslan. He made a mental adjustment for the future.
“How about we say it’s a little bit of both?”
“I have to punish him a little,” Dreslan said. “He kept a material fact hidden from me. He ought to be running counterfeit cases out of the Oklahoma office for what he pulled.”
“That would be a waste of talent, don’t you think?”
Dreslan glanced at the twisting staircase that led to the suite’s upper floors. Hawthorn knew he was eager to deliver the good news to the president before he heard it from someone else.
“I’ll put him in the doghouse for a week or two. Starting with the gala tonight at the library.”
“Nothing in his permanent file,” Hawthorn said. It was a statement, not a question.
Dreslan didn’t like it, but he agreed. “You’re burning up quite a few chits to help this kid. You have a weakness for your people, Jim. Almost makes me like you.”
“Let’s not get carried away,” Hawthorn said, turning toward the exit.
“That’s it?” Dreslan asked.
“That’s it,” Hawthorn said. He held up his phone again. “Reach out if you need anything.”
Hawthorn left the suite, passing a phalanx of Secret Service agents in the hallway. He grinned as he imagined Dreslan bounding up the stairs to tell the president the threat had been neutralized and that the UN anniversary agenda would be going on as planned.
As he rode the elevator down, he marveled at the sense of relief he felt. Not only for his country, but for his family. Scarvan’s revenge against Belchik’s family members had shaken him more than he’d let on. He was an old man. He loved life and wanted as much of it as the good Lord would give him, but he had no misconceptions that his time wasn’t nearing its end. But his kids. His grandkids. He could not have borne having anything happen to them.
But as he breathed easier and allowed himself to relax, he felt a nagging impulse worm its way up from his gut.
Instinct had served him well over the years. And he’d learned to listen to it.
If he was loosening his grip, was the entire security apparatus doing the same thing? Were they being set up? Was Scarvan the weapon or the distraction?
By the time the elevator hit the ground floor, Hawthorn’s natural paranoia had returned in full force. He pulled out his phone and called Scott.
“Is he awake?” he asked.
“Still pretty out of it,” Scott said. “It’ll be a bit before I start the interrogation.”
“Good, I’m coming down. The site under Grand Central?”
“That’s the one. Everything okay?” Scott asked.
“Is everything ever okay?” Hawthorn replied.
“You’re a real pick-me-up, you know that?” Scott said, then he turned serious. “You feeling what I’m feeling?”
“Like maybe this was a little too easy? That we might be getting set up?”
“Yeah, those two things.”
“That’s why I’m coming down,” Hawthorn said. “Where’s Mara?”
“She felt the same way. We decided she’d stay on-site at the UN and then the gala tonight. We need to stay forward on this.”
“Agreed. I’ll come down.”
He ended the call as a member of his own protective detail signaled to him that his car was waiting outside. He considered that he might be overreacting, that maybe he ought to just take the win earned by the hard work of his team and the professional men and women of the Secret Service and the FBI.
But resting easy wasn’t in his nature.
Especially because he knew failure wasn’t part of Jacobslav Scarvan’s.
CHAPTER 56
Mara heard the applause from inside the General Assembly, signaling that the president had finished his remarks. As the host country, the United States had been afforded the honor of addressing the collected world leaders last. From what Mara had heard through the speakers outside the room, Patterson had mostly stayed on script, largely delivering platitudes about global cooperation and the indispensable role of collective security.
The exception was a moment when Patterson issued a warning that the age of great wars could be forever in the past, or still just on the horizon. That great nations could afford to disagree but could not afford the cost when those disagreements solidified into red lines on which there could be no compromise.
The line that caught Mara’s attention was a surprising warning from the leader of the free world. “If such disagreement without compromise as we have seen from some of the great members of this body continue—and I put my own country in this category,” the president said, “then I believe we could see another great war within this decade. And the cost of that war would be more than the world could afford to bear.”
That section of the speech had been delivered with a sternness not on display in the rest of Patterson’s talk. He paused after saying the words, lending them even more significance. Then he returned to the prepared remarks on the teleprompter in front of him. The difference was impossible not to notice and Mara knew the punditry would be analyzing that section more than any other. There were many nations the words could apply to, not to mention Patterson’s domestic rivals in Congress. But having an American president openly warn of a global war within a few years would make
news. Mara was certain of it.
Mara returned to the command center as the heads of state left the General Assembly and joined either small receptions in the building or headed to their transportation to get ready for that night’s gala.
If anything happened, she wanted to be in the central hub.
And she hoped to steal a few minutes with Rick.
Capturing Scarvan had been a huge national security win. Selfishly, it was also good for her chances to patch things up with Rick. If that was even possible. The way he’d looked at her after learning she’d violated his trust and told her dad about Asset after they’d agreed not to share that with anyone gave her some doubt. He’d put his career on the line by not telling Dreslan what he knew. And Dreslan wasn’t the kind of guy to forget such a thing. There was a chance Rick could lose his job over this. And how did it look that she safely had hers because she shared the information?
The irony was she didn’t want the job. Not really. She wanted a life. And, faced with the prospect of losing Rick, she was surer than ever that she wanted a life with him. If she hadn’t screwed things up beyond repair.
Advice on the issue came from an unlikely source. As she stood in the command center, watching a bank of monitors showing the surveillance feeds from around the property, Anna walked up and stood next to her.
“Quite a day,” she said.
Mara nodded. “Quite a week.”
Anna shrugged her bandaged shoulder. “At least the man you love didn’t shoot you.”
Mara cocked her head to the side and gave her a look.
“I do love your father,” Anna said. “Does that surprise you?”
“I didn’t know the two of you saw that much of each other,” Mara said. She knew her dad’s whereabouts on most days. Weekend trysts in Prague weren’t typically on his schedule.
“I love him in my own way. And I think, in his way, he loves me,” she said, staring at the screens in front of them, doing the job even during the conversation. “We live in a different world from most people. We see things others never will see. Exposed to threats and near misses that the world doesn’t need to know about.”
