The Wrong Man (Complete 3-Book International Thriller Box Set)

by Fritz Galt

  The four stood motionless as they listened to him speak on the phone. Their jaws were set and their lips turned grim.

  “I need roadblocks on all the major arteries leading into the city: rail, highway, air and water,” Jeremy was saying to Police Commissioner Frank Wheeler. “And I need them immediately. They’re due to attack in an hour and forty minutes or less. Don’t let any sort of explosives through. We’re talking about anything from zip guns to possible nuclear bombs.”

  There was a loud tirade on the other end of the line. Then Jeremy gave it his all.

  “Frank, I know this is short notice, but this is the big one. The one we’ve all been waiting for. Al-Qaeda is aiming an arrow straight at our heart. The Arch is ground zero. We have to move on this on every front. I’m heading down to the riverfront this very minute to coordinate evacuation and defense.”

  He slammed down the receiver.

  “Emerson,” he continued in the same breath. “Call the National Park Service and tell them to evacuate the Arch and its surrounding area immediately. Then follow up.”

  One of the women slipped out of the office to make the call.

  “Stanley, you are the roamer. Check out all the access routes to the Arch.”

  Stanley grunted and peeled away from the group.

  “You two come with me. We’re clearing out of here and going down to the Arch.”

  He turned around for one last look at the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial Park. The sprawling green grounds and clear ponds stretched for over a mile along the low western bank of the Mississippi River. In its center stood the gleaming silver Gateway Arch, the symbol of the Gateway to America’s West, to new frontiers.

  If it went down, so too would the American dream.

  Larry Sloan’s mother was the volunteer parent on the class field trip. Larry’s 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. O’Bryan, had just taken one of the ball-like tram capsules back down a leg of the Gateway Arch.

  It was one in a long line of gondolas that moved up and down the Arch like a string of rosary beads. Larry’s mother and three classmates were still with him at the top, waiting impatiently for the next capsule to arrive.

  It never did.

  A siren started blaring in the confined space of the observation deck.

  Larry looked at his mother, and she tried to smile reassuringly.

  He looked past her at the cramped room. Children from other schools were leaning over the slanted window ledges to look down. The river was on one side and Busch Stadium, the Old Courthouse and the skyline were on the other.

  When the alarm sounded, they all slid down from their perches and stood stock-still.

  “Sounds like a fire alarm,” Larry’s mother said pleasantly. She glanced anxiously from the tram doors that stayed shut to the exit door that led to emergency stairs. “I guess that means we’ll just have to walk.”

  Larry sniffed the air. There was no smoke.

  “I don’t smell a fire,” he shouted above the din of the alarm. “Can’t we wait?”

  Just then, an older schoolgirl jabbed a finger against the thick pane of glass. “Look down there,” she cried.

  Larry scrambled past his mother. Being tall for his age, he could jump high enough to get a good view straight down. A series of black cars, followed by police cars and fire equipment, were pulling up to the north and south bases of the two-legged structure.

  “Cool. Fire trucks,” he exclaimed.

  The children let out an excited cry.

  “Away from the windows,” his mother ordered.

  “You know,” a girl called out with a know-it-all tone. “This building is made completely out of metal.”

  “…so we shouldn’t have to worry about fires,” Mrs. O’Bryan said. “Now, calmly hold hands and let’s go down the stairs.”

  “There must be a thousand gazillion steps,” a boy protested.

  The wail of the alarm was especially piercing by the emergency exit. As the children approached the closed door, they held their ears and began to look at each other with panic.

  Larry’s mother struggled to push the metal door open. Children had wedged against her and she didn’t want them to spill down the stairwell.

  Suddenly carried away in the mad rush, she tumbled down the stairs into darkness.

  “Larry!” she screamed as she fell.

  Special Agent in Charge Jeremy Fuchsman arrived with his FBI team on the grounds of the Gateway Arch moments before police entered the park.

  The fire truck ahead of them pulled to a stop just before the Arch, and firefighters in full gear ran directly into one base of the Arch.

  Good God. It was just like 9/11.

  Standing in the mid-afternoon shade of the Arch, he looked at the riverfront. The Admiral, a long, sleek riverboat and casino, sat tied to the dock slightly downriver. Other pleasure boats had been dry-docked for the winter. The only other ships were barges plying their way up and down the great waterway.

  “Check out the river access,” he told Porter, the silver-haired legal expert. “And get yourself some police for backup.”

  He looked at Skylar, his last remaining agent.

  “What am I supposed to do?” she asked.

  “You tell me.”

  He whipped out his cell phone and punched in the number of the FBI Director in Washington. “This is Jeremy Fuchsman in St. Louis. I’ve got emergency crews dispatched and police setting up roadblocks. Can you give me a physical description of who or what we’re looking for?”

  “I don’t know exactly what to look for,” Hank Gibson said. “But here’s the man we’re after.”

  Jeremy heard some papers being shuffled.

  “One George Ferrar, possibly traveling under an alias. 43 years of age, Army Green Beret, black hair, six feet tall, 220 pounds. Considered armed and extremely dangerous.”

  Jeremy jotted everything down. “Any word on how he’s traveling?”

  “Nothing. Let me get you a description of the bombs, though.”

  Jeremy was put on hold. Yeah, the bombs would be important, too.

  Hank Gibson came back within seconds. “As for the bombs, they may be traveling by container. You know those containers that ride on train cars and on the backs of trucks? I don’t have an exact dimension. It does have a registration number, however. It’s LFDU24425436.”

  “Good,” Jeremy said. “That gives us something to go on.”

  He thanked his big boss, then got Frank Wheeler, the police commissioner, on the phone and relayed the descriptions.

  Then he leaned back against his car, a cold wind whipping at his field jacket.

  “Well, Skylar, where are we going to find this guy?”

  She pressed her young red lips together, then said, “I’d try the old bridge.”

  “Which old bridge?”

  With her light blue eyes, she cast a glance upriver at an elegant old pedestrian and railway bridge.

  “Eads Bridge?”

  She nodded. “Nobody will be checking that.”

  He squinted to the north where the bridge hopped across the Mississippi on three long spans. Beyond it lay the new Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Bridge. “You could be right. Take a squad car and head up there.”

  She bounded off to an array of police cars that had pulled up to the site.

  From the base of the Arch, firefighters were escorting terrified youngsters and tourists away from the structure. He wandered over to the South Tram Load Zone and nabbed a fireman. “What are the conditions like up there?”

  “The trams stopped when we pulled the alarm,” the fireman said. “We’ve got people trapped inside the trams and at the top of the structure. We’re sending up a team to escort them down. I understand that it’s mostly school children.”

  Jeremy nodded. The Arch was a fine target indeed.

  In East St. Louis, Illinois, Ferrar passed a phalanx of police cars beginning to form a roadblock across the Interstate.

  In his rearview mirror, he
saw the first brave policeman walk into the middle of the highway to flag down cars and trucks.

  They had narrowly missed him. But if this was their only way of catching Bolton and the bombers, they would fail, for the trailer truck was just ahead of him.

  If they even knew about the truck.

  Ferrar squirmed uneasily in his seat, late afternoon sunlight streaming in through his windshield. At least the cops would be preoccupied with roadblocks and not chasing down speeders. He leaned harder on the accelerator.

  Then he noticed a broad, curved reflection of sunlight along the horizon. There, across the bridge and just to the right of the Interstate soared an unmistakable landmark. The Gateway Arch, proud, elegant, firm.

  At least for the moment.

  Larry forced himself against the other children that were trying to wedge themselves into the Gateway Arch stairwell.

  But they were going nowhere. Bodies had fallen ahead of them in the stampede, and no one was moving.

  He looked around in desperation.

  There was another door at the far end of the observation deck.

  A girl followed his glance.

  “Let’s try the other door,” she shouted.

  Larry looked back to where his mother lay smothered in bodies.

  “Quick,” the girl shouted. “There’s another way. Follow me.”

  Several children turned to follow her. More youngsters peeled away from the crowd and hurried past him.

  That was Larry’s big opportunity. He clawed his way through kids to the first doorway, then through it. Ahead of him lay darkness, and screaming.

  A low voice was groaning from fifteen feet down the steps.

  “Mommy,” he cried, and began to pull at the tangle of arms and legs that smothered her.

  Chapter 20

  Jeremy slid a ringing phone from his jacket pocket and noted the Washington prefix on the caller’s number.

  “SAC Fuchsman,” he answered.

  “This is Hank calling. Keep on the lookout for Ferrar in a Lincoln Continental. I have no more details, other than it has a gold exterior.”

  Jeremy punched in the number of his roving agent, Stanley Welles, and relayed the news.

  “Who’s inside it?”

  “The suspect, George Ferrar.” He glanced at his notes and read off the description.

  “Green Beret, eh?” Stanley repeated in a faltering voice.

  “Just stop the son-of-a-bitch. Use deadly force if necessary.” Then he gave Stanley the description of the container. “The bombs might be arriving by truck, rail, air, or sea.”

  “I’ll focus on trucks.”

  “Fair enough. Good luck.”

  Which was all Jeremy could offer.

  “Gold Lincoln. Deadly force,” Stanley Welles repeated to himself, as he headed east toward the river.

  He approached Interstate 70 and inched his black sedan the wrong way up an exit ramp. Finally at the top, he positioned his car on the shoulder, facing oncoming traffic from Illinois.

  Ahead of him lay the flat expanse of Poplar St. Bridge that carried cars across the mile-wide Mississippi.

  A steady stream of traffic zipped past him as he contemplated what to do next. The most he could do at the moment was to filter through all the cars and trucks he saw until the police roadblock was in place.

  And what if he got lucky? He could wait for a Lincoln or container truck to approach him, then take a shot at its tires. Or he could face the vehicle head-on and force it off the road. His best option was to drive with suicidal directness straight into oncoming traffic and intercept his target. The only problem was that he might get the wrong vehicle.

  He had to narrow down the field. There were several container trucks passing him at the moment. But how many Gold Lincolns could there be?

  He decided to switch to police band radio and clue the cops in on his location and intentions. He picked up the mike and called in to Jeremy.

  “SAC Fuchsman, this is Stanley Welles. Come in.”

  Half a minute later, he heard a breathless, “This is Fuchsman.”

  “I’m stationed on the Interstate watching for cars that are crossing the bridge into the city,” he said.

  “Is the traffic still coming?” Fuchsman’s voice came back.

  “Yep.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “Wait. Here come some more container trucks.”

  “Try to read their identification numbers.”

  “Are you kidding? They’re flashing past me.”

  Suddenly, some distinctive grillwork appeared on a fast-approaching car.

  “Hold on. I think I’ve just found the Lincoln.”

  He clicked the radio off and accelerated into the oncoming traffic.

  As Ferrar started across the long bridge that connected Illinois with Missouri, he watched a flatbed truck bearing a single, short container. He couldn’t make out the details, because it was silhouetted against the sunset.

  He had to get closer to be sure it was Bolton.

  They had already passed the police roadblock, and nothing stood between the truck and the Arch.

  It was up to him to take it on.

  Fortunately, no other traffic stood between them and Ferrar had a clear, unobstructed view. By the time he crossed the state line, halfway across the Mississippi River, he had closed the gap to a mere fifty yards.

  Sure enough. The red tape was flapping in the wind.

  He sized up the low guardrail that prevented vehicles from plunging fifty feet into the river. The truck was in a vulnerable position against the rail. If he could bring it to a halt on the bridge, Bolton would have no avenue of escape.

  Ferrar cruised into the center lane and began to approach the truck from the left. With luck, he could get in front of it and wedge it against the guardrail.

  He needed a better angle and velocity, so he pulled to the far-left lane again. Just then he saw an oncoming car weaving into his lane. They were on a collision course, and Ferrar was the target.

  “What the…” He swerved behind the truck again.

  The approaching car veered around the truck, aiming for him.

  Ferrar continued to drift onto the shoulder. The jerk was going to smash him into the guardrail.

  Ferrar slammed on the brakes, fishtailing at once, his rear wheels pulling to the left. He spun the wheel hard left and found himself skidding sideways on two wheels.

  The approaching driver hit his brakes and spun toward him. A terrifying screeching of tires filled the air. Ferrar battled for control of his car. Releasing the brake, he tried to steer gently to the right and return all four wheels to the pavement.

  He did, and the killer sedan flew in a blur past his windshield. Ferrar straightened his front wheels and found his Lincoln hurtling toward the left bridge railing. He spun hard right, gunned the accelerator and peeled rubber as he approached the railing.

  Boom.

  Behind him, the black sedan rammed into the right-hand railing.

  Ferrar hung on the steering wheel and squeezed his eyes shut.

  He felt no jolt. Only the traction of wheels finally gripping the road. He looked up. He was carving a path straight down the Interstate. But, an orange flash illuminated every inch of his car’s interior.

  Behind him, a fireball rolled toward the sky. The black sedan was aflame as it hurdled over the railing and fell toward the river.

  He closed his eyes again.

  When he reopened them, the trailer truck was far ahead.

  Prodding the engine into a higher gear, Ferrar found that the Lincoln was still operable. The wheels hummed and the engine rose to a high-pitched drone.

  To his right, the Gateway Arch stood out in all its six hundred and thirty feet of splendor. The truck was pulling into the exit lane.

  Ferrar shot to the far right, several hundred yards behind the truck.

  Its blinkers signaled that it was going to exit. There was no way he could catch up with the truck before it r
ammed into the Arch.

  The monument would be in cinders within a minute.

  Jeremy Fuchsman watched in horror as a fireball tumbled end over end off the Interstate bridge.

  He yelled into the police band radio, “Stanley! Stanley come in”

  Then his professional instincts took over.

  As he watched police cars mobilizing in the direction of the car, he realized that the flaming vehicle could be a diversion. He had to stay behind with the Arch.

  So he forced himself to turn away from the gruesome sight.

  A car was rocketing around a pond and aiming straight for the foot of the Arch.

  It flashed its headlights and honked, nearly losing control on some low hills and then slipped sideways across the grass.

  He squinted into the sunset, trying to make out details of the vehicle. All he could tell was that it was a big sedan, and moving fast. He whipped out his service revolver and bent low to the ground. His legs carried him in a half-crouching sprint toward the Arch, where he rounded the sharp corner of the North stainless steel base and held his revolver steady before him.

  The car straightened out and continued to speed straight at him.

  “Stop, or I’ll fire,” he shouted in warning, taking aim at the driver.

  Pow.

  A hard edge flew in Jeremy’s face. He recoiled, holding a smashed forehead and crumbled to the pavement. He tried to roll over. His right shoulder snapped as he hit the ground. He looked up through a curtain of blood. Stretching the gun out before him in his left hand, he held it level to the ground and aimed at the oncoming car.

  It was screeching to a halt, skidding on the hard surface.

  The driver was positioning the vehicle at the base of the Arch. The front door flew open.

  He took a last, exhausted breath and squeezed off a round at the person’s head as it appeared, a fuzzy blob with red lips.

  The gun exploded to life.

  His hand recoiled limply. Cordite filled his nostrils. The smoking revolver landed with a clatter beside him.