Give Us This Day

by Tom Avitabile

  “What is our status?” Dequa asked as he flipped through some papers.

  “We have 009, 101, 105, 205, and 314 all manned. Although there’s a possible problem with 009.” Yusuf reported using the official code numbers for the installations. The entire cell learned to adopt the protocol of their intended target. Besides most of them now held positions on the inside, so it was also natural workplace jargon.

  “Really? That’s disturbing,” Dequa said.

  “After hurricane Sandy they installed a new standard and it’s just different than our intel.”

  “What is the yield?”

  The question threw Yusuf; he and every member of his team had memorized every aspect of the attack. “Why, 317 million, of course.” For Dequa to have not known this basic fact was unnerving to Yusuf.

  Dequa saw the concern in his face. “The two 7FA CTG’s are operating at 90%, otherwise it would be closer to 360. Is that also part of our bad intel?”

  Relieved that his leader wasn’t slipping, especially if he did those numbers that fast in his head, Yusuf said, “Possible; we’ll know more soon.”

  “Can this new standard be overcome?”

  “Ramal is working on it now.”

  “Good.”

  “How is the northern team’s progress?”

  “They report being on schedule and assets in place.”

  .G.

  “Hey, Wally. Wally . . . right?”

  “Wally” turned around. “Hello, my friend.”

  “Jim, Jim Aponte. I live across the street.”

  “Yes, nice lawn.”

  “Thanks, trick is lots of water. Good thing we’re right by the reservoir . . . Anyway, you know I like working on my car whenever I can—”

  “The Dodge Charger. Yes, I see it often.”

  “Labor of love, man. Anyway, I know what it’s like to want to work on stuff, but I was wondering, would you mind maybe not doing all that hammering and drilling after eight at night? We got two babies over there and sometimes the racket . . . Well, would you mind toning it down at night?”

  “I apologize. I had no idea anyone could hear me work.”

  “What are you guys working on over there. Doing a lot of metal work? Whatcha got, an old Caddy or ’32 Deuce?”

  “Soon you will see.”

  “Well, thanks. Sorry I had to mention it. If you guys ever want to come over for a barbeque or something, I got a smoker. I do a Puerto Rican mofongo with pulled pork that the pig’s mother would love.”

  Waleed bristled. He forced a smile. “Sounds good.”

  “How many guys you got over there?”

  “Why do you want to know that?”

  “One pig or two?”

  “It is just I and my three brothers.”

  “No women? Then you guys really need a good meal . . . This Saturday?”

  “Next Saturday? We’re busy this Saturday.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Jim turned to walk back across the sleepy suburban Yonkers street, back to his split colonial ranch with the large lawn that wrapped around the corner. “I’ll have plenty of cold beers . . .”

  Waleed’s smile disappeared as he turned and walked back to his house with the extended three-car garage.

  Inside the house, he joined the midday prayer. When it was over, he said to the other team members, “I am going to order six mattresses. We need to control the sound.”

  They walked into the garage from the kitchen and past the three U-Haul trailers that were side by side. They looked at the doors of the garage. Sunlight was coming through the sides. “Yes, six king-sized mattresses should do it. Plus we will dampen the metal with towels and pillows.”

  “Just two more days of shaping and we will be finished.”

  “Still, we can’t afford to disturb the neighbors.”

  “They have said something?”

  “Yes. We are invited to the devil’s cookout. I don’t want to repeat what he said to me.”

  “Should we kill him?”

  “No, that would bring too much attention to this quiet block. We’ll just keep the noise down.”

  .G.

  Alisa adopted a Chechen accent and tone. “Anatoly is fine. Tell his father that if he ever wants to see him again, he can bring us Prescott. We trade and Anatoly gets to fuck all the girls he wants with Daddy’s money, otherwise we fuck Anatoly then kill him. You have three hours to bring Prescott to Red Square and make sure he is only in his underwear. No clothes; just underwear or we will shoot him. Do you understand? Underwear only! Before you ask, here’s proof of life.” She handed the phone to Bridge in the backseat.

  Bridge removed the gag.

  “Help me. Help me. They’re crazy. Get me out of here. Mmmph.”

  Bridge stuffed his mouth again and handed the phone back to her.

  “Three hours or he’s dead.” Alisa threw the phone out the window of the limo as she turned around and reversed direction.

  They took the Kievskoe highway, drove to a house right outside Moscow, which had a “For Sale” sign on the fence, and drove into the garage. Once inside they closed the garage door and brought Anatoly into the house, securing him in the basement and locking the door.

  Then Alisa followed Bridge as he drove the limo to a secluded overlook. He opened the trunk and took out his knife. The driver lay there out for the count. Bridge considered silencing him for good; it would be in keeping with the national security priority of the mission. He grabbed his knife and slit the tape and zip cuffs. Then he lowered the trunk lid just short of it locking. They had put enough drugs in him that he would be out for six more hours, and this whole thing would be over in three, so there was no reason the man couldn’t be spared.

  .G.

  All the guests were unceremoniously ushered out of the great ballroom, many not even having a chance to retrieve their hats, coats, or stoles; all that could be heard was the whimpering of Mrs. Borishenkova in agony over the kidnapping of her son.

  Dmitri, the head of security for the Borishenkos, walked across the empty marble dance floor, the clicking of his heels reverberating with every step. He made his way up to the dais, where his boss was furiously pounding the table.

  “How the fuck could this happen? Right in my own house! Dmitri, you son of a bitch, how could you let this happen?”

  “I will remedy that immediately.” He turned. “Vlad come here.”

  Vlad stepped lively to his superior’s command.

  “Yes . . .”

  Dmitri pulled out his gun and shot Vlad in the face at five feet. A pink flume exited the back of his head as his body crumpled to the floor.

  The wife screamed then whimpered more loudly.

  “That doesn’t bring my son back you KGB clown,” Borishenko said.

  “No, but it makes everyone know”—he turned as he spoke to the staff—“that I will stop at nothing to retrieve your son and exterminate, very slowly, the rats responsible for this atrocity.”

  “Just get my son back.”

  “We will have him in three hours.”

  The oligarch looked up. “How can you be so sure?”

  “The ransom call just came in.”

  “How much?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  “They want Prescott.”

  Borishenko sat back and considered the situation. “Who are they?”

  “Probably Chechen rebels.”

  “Why would the Chechens want Prescott?”

  “Does it matter, if you get your son back?”

  “True. Tell our guest we can no longer offer him our hospitality.”

  “He is drugged downstairs. I will have the doctor revive him.”

  “Very well. Just get my Anatoly back, and if they have so much as harmed a
hair on his head . . .”

  “Not to worry. They will never escape once we get Anatoly.”

  “I don’t want to know the details . . . just do it.”

  “I am afraid I must tap a favor at the ministry of defense.”

  “Another one? We already got Prescott here on my plane without an official flight plan.”

  “We will need troops to cordon off the area they have selected for the transfer.”

  “Where?”

  “Red Square.”

  He held up his hands. “I don’t want to know.”

  .G.

  “You know I don’t really want to blow up this house. It would be a shame. My sister wouldn’t get her commission on the sale.”

  “I wasn’t going to actually arm it. If we get killed there is no reason to kill the dopey kid. This is a bluff all the way . . . In fact, can you take a slap?”

  .G.

  Anatoly watched Alisa and Bridge come down to the basement. He was immobilized and gagged. There was an iPhone taped to a tripod in front of him. Bridge was carrying a brown paper bag.

  Alisa removed the gag.

  “Whatever you want, my father will pay. You don’t have to do anything to me.”

  “Shut up and drink.” She held a glass of water to his lips and he swallowed, some of the water running down his chin.

  “Thank you. Whatever you want . . . mmmph.”

  She shoved the rag back in. Then she noticed Bridge pull out a brick of C4 with a cell phone wired to it. “What the fuck is that?”

  “What do you think it is?”

  “I thought we said we’d shoot him!”

  Anatoly’s eyes widened.

  “His father’s henchmen are planning how to kill us right now. We are both going to have be at the exchange to survive. So if they fuck with us, he gets splattered all over the neighborhood.”

  “No, there are children living next door . . . I won’t let you kill them.” She went for the bomb.

  Bridge backhanded her and she landed on her side. “Shut up, bitch! This is my operation; the Muscovites didn’t care when they murdered our children in Grozny! My sister, my mother, my brothers! Are you soft for this bourgeois elitist?”

  Alisa got up, pulled out her gun and pointed it at Bridge.

  “What are you going to do? You want to shoot me?” Bridge said with a smirk.

  “No.” She turned and aimed the gun at Anatoly. “No, I will kill him, now. And save the children.”

  Anatoly stiffened and moaned something monosyllabic through the rag stuffed in his mouth.

  “No, you fool! With him dead you have sealed our fates! He must die at a time of our choosing. Trust me, if all goes as planned, he and everyone in this area will only be the first of hundreds of thousands of Russian dogs to die!”

  Alisa made a conscious decision to listen to Bridge. Slowly, she lowered her weapon.

  Bridge grabbed it. “Go upstairs. Prepare for our departure.”

  As Alisa went upstairs, he duct taped the bomb around the kid and the chair, right across his chest. There was a box with a red flashing light right next to the cell phone. Bridge inserted the metal end of the detonator’s wire into the block of plastic explosives strapped to the kid.

  Bridge went over to the iPhone on the tripod and called out, “Svetlana, call the phone!” The phone rang and Bridge touched the screen. Since it was facing Anatoly, he could see “Svetlana” on the screen of the phone.

  “It’s FaceTime. We can see you, no matter where we are.” When your father gets on the phone, you will see him and he will see you like you are seeing Svetlana.” He removed the gag. “Now say hello!”

  “Hello.”

  “How is the sound?”

  “Good.” He looked into the kid’s eyes while he held up a red button on a cord that disappeared into his pocket. “You’re a smart kid. See this button?”

  The kid nervously nodded.

  He brought his thumb right above the plunger. “Once I press it, it has to stay pressed or that bomb goes off. If your father does what we ask, I will hand him the button so you will live. If they shoot me or try to take it away.” He lifted his finger away from the button. “Boom!”

  The sweat on the kid’s forehead told him he got the point. “Oh, and don’t bother yelling. This old house is solid and there are no windows down here. Save your breath to speak with your father.” He left the basement, locking the door.

  Upstairs he put his hand on Alisa’s chin and turned her head. “You okay? There’s no mark.”

  “I’m fine. I had a husband like that once.”

  “How many have you had?”

  “Enough now, I think.”

  He held up a red button on a cord connected to nothing, which disappeared into his pocket.

  .G.

  “Is the northern unit ready?” The sheik asked over the encrypted phone call.

  “Yes, they are testing one tomorrow morning,” Dequa said.

  “We will pray that they perform as designed.”

  “I will personally go and witness the test.”

  Chapter 28

  Boom

  6 days until the attack

  Dequa started out at 3:30 a.m. for the three-and-a-half-hour drive up to the old abandoned quarry in Seneca County. He arrived a half-hour late at 7:30, but immediately realized how it was the perfect spot and worth the drive. The quarry was like a bowl cut into the earth, surrounded on all sides by striated stone. The bottom was flat and had many long-abandoned rusting bulldozers and bucket loaders from when the company went out of business. The bowl shape meant that the sound would be directed up and not across the countryside.

  Waleed and the rest of the team were already there, having towed the heavy U-Haul there before dawn. Waleed approached Dequa. “We were waiting.”

  “There was an accident on the Thruway.”

  “Well, let’s get to cover.”

  There was a narrow slit cut into the side of the bowl. It was how the workers and equipment got in as the bottom got lower and lower over the years. Once on the other side, Waleed handed out ear protection. When everybody had the headsets on he gave the signal, and Fakhir dialed his cell phone. The call rang once and then there was a terrific explosion. They heard rocks and debris fall for a full ten seconds after the blast.

  The smell of cordite and C4 was instantly everywhere as they walked back into the bowl. There was now a crater four hundred feet across and so deep they couldn’t see the bottom until they were almost upon it. Fakhir brought a tripod right up to the hole and then pointed the laser range finder at the center, next to the mangled carcass of the barely recognizable U-Haul trailer. He noted the angle of the device then read off the distance to the bottom. Using simple trigonometry he made the depth to be fifty-five and one half feet.

  “Perfect! Well beyond the forty we’ll need. You crafted an excellently shaped charge, my brother.”

  “It was all in the hyperbolic hammering of the blast shield. It was noisy but I’m pleased with the results.”

  Dequa nodded to Fakhir then walked off through the slit to his car and back to the city.

  Fakhir waved his hand and said, “Plant the charges.” The other team members used a battery-operated drill with a four-foot-long auger bit on the end and made eight holes in the soft soil around the perimeter of the new crater. They dropped sticks of TNT with traditional PETN detcord in each hole. They wired it all to a timer, set it for one minute, and went back to the cover position. Thirty seconds later, there was another explosion. Fakhir and the team came out and saw that the sides of the crater were now blasted in and the bottom of the crater was filled in so much it was now merely a depression only ten feet deep, with all the evidence of the U-Haul and the half-ton steel downward blast reflector bomb buried deep. No plane passing overhead or curiou
s person on foot would have a clue as to the spent weapon buried below.

  .G.

  Brooke had heard from her guy at the CIA that something had happened in Russia and that it involved a family member of the Borishenko clan. It was an odd feeling for her, being out of the action, being a spectator seven thousand miles away. Yet, she couldn’t be everywhere, especially now since this was her operation. She needed to run it, not run around in it. With a deep breath she said to herself, “Keep your head down, Bridge.” And then she tried to focus on the reports in front of her.

  Something caught her eye, so she got up and went down to Remo and Kronos’s office. “Hey, guys. There are fourteen ‘students’ who seem to have electrical degrees or work history.”

  Remo grabbed the report. “Hey, you’re right, but this is real I squared R electrics.”

  “English por favor,” Brooke said.

  “Generation, transmission and power lines,” Kronos said.

  “But that’s only 14 of 120 suspected H-1B visa violations and those are only what we suspect out of over 14,300 overstayers, as they are called, this year alone,” Remo said.

  “Brooke, we should look into it, but there are far more medical, chemical, and mechanical ‘students’ in the friggin’ mix,” Kronos said.

  “That’s because we went with a tech attack scenario as our sort routine key on the database,” Brooke said.

  “Also, Brooke, I know you’ve considered that our 120-person sample represents those who seem to have appeared since SOM37 went dark. But that doesn’t preclude the possibility that others came earlier, or they have local support,” Remo said. “You want to go back to the full list?”

  “I’ve been offered the additional resources so I think we will. Meanwhile, I’ll get the OEM and head of Con Ed security up here and give them the heads up.” As she said it, Brooke had a pang of remorse that whoever came from OEM would be a replacement for the director of the New York City Office of Emergency Management, because the last one—she couldn’t remember his name—had died yesterday in the rocket attack that almost killed her and Bridge. God, was it only yesterday?

  Chapter 29

  Taking Delivery

  For the first time in years Red Square was empty. Not a soul was there. No Japanese crowds thronging round the Mausoleum, no rich Italians strolling by the glass windows of the Central Gum store. Even the beggars were absent from their favorite spots by the small red church in front of the State Historic Museum. It was obvious to Bridge that Borishenko had a lot of juice with the army. They must have swept through and ordered everyone out of the sixty-three-square-acre centerpiece of Moscow. Bridge could only imagine how many snipers, bazookas, and machine guns were pointed at him right now. He checked the rearview mirror of the small car he was driving: all clear. He pulled to the side of Saint Basil’s Cathedral, parked and waited. An armored personnel carrier suddenly rumbled over the cobblestones and pulled right up to his car. A tall man in a full-length black leather coat got out.