by Barber, Tom
00:21.
00:20.
00:19.
‘No disruptor or motion sensors,’ the specialist on the left said. He kept feeling the package. ‘I’m moving it. Box ready?’
‘Ready.’
He took hold of the bomb either side and gently lifted it off the panel.
They all held their breath.
It didn’t go off.
00:12.
00:11.
00:10.
The man lifted it out steadily and placed it carefully into the black container beside him.
00:07.
00:06.
‘Seal it!’ he said, withdrawing his hands.
The other guy grabbed the lid, sliding it into place, and together the two of them clicked the four locks, sealing the container and locking it airtight.
‘Box secure!’ the second man said.
Standing behind them, Archer and Josh saw the countdown on the timer through the glass lid.
00:03.
00:02.
00:01.
THIRTEENThe bomb detonated.
There was a sudden puff of yellow as the cylindrical vial cracked open and released the modified tuberculosis virus, but the containment box prevented it from entering breathable air, sealed airtight in the protective case. Through the glass, the six gathered men watched the yellow gas swirl up to the lid of the box, slowly and malevolently searching for any cracks or gaps.
Kneeling beside it, the two CRT specialists took a simultaneous deep breath. Both guys were sweating. The tech on the left turned and looked at the ESU pair, then at Josh and Archer.
‘It’s secure,’ he said. ‘Just in time. Great job, fellas.’
He grabbed a radio from the ground and put in the call.
‘Device is located and is secure. I repeat, device is located and secure.’
He lowered the radio, taking in some deep breaths.
And silence fell as all six men looked at the lethal virus drifting around the box.
Across the city, another bomb was just about to be planted.
A second member of Bleeker’s trio, the guy with the tattoos, was walking down a stone path on the east side of Bryant Park, just off 42nd Street and 6th Avenue. He’d ducked into a coffee shop restroom moments earlier, armed his bomb and initiated the ten minute countdown. There was no disturbance switch on this bomb, just the vial and a timer. With the lid back in place and tied securely with string, the man was now approaching an ideal drop-off point for the device, a trash can on the south east of the Park, a stone’s throw from the Public Library. Leaving it anywhere else might attract attention. The place was busy and the cops weren’t dumb.
He was ten yards from the can, blending right in with the shoppers and the people watching the ice-skaters on the rink to his right. It was relatively central and would be a perfect place to plant the device, achieving maximum impact and fatalities.
He walked towards the can as casually as he could.
Five yards away, he raised the bag and prepared to drop it inside.
But suddenly, someone grabbed his arm from behind, pulling him to an immediate halt. Something was jabbed into the folds of his coat, shoved hard into the middle of his back.
‘Don’t move, asshole.’
He froze.
As the hand gripped his arm and what had to be a pistol rammed against his back, another person stepped in front of him.
It was a woman. Dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, she had a harsh face, dark features emphasised by cold reptilian eyes. Her nose looked as if it had been broken a number of times. The only trace of femininity was long hair that was half-tied back, several strands hanging over her face, but somehow it made her look even more intimidating.
She examined his face, then looked over his shoulder and nodded.
‘It’s him.’
‘Check it.’
The woman turned to the man holding the bag. ‘Pull out your wallet.’
He did so hesitantly, very aware of the gun pressed into his back. The man behind him was up close so no one nearby could see the weapon. She took the wallet and flipped it open.
‘Nathan Hansen.’
She nodded, tucking it back in the man’s pocket. Without a word, the guy with the gun came up around him, tucking the pistol under his coat and burying it into Hansen’s armpit, the weapon hidden in the layers of clothing. Hansen looked at the man and saw he had bleach blond hair, almost white. Glancing down, he also saw that the pistol stuffed under his arm was silenced, the man’s finger tight on the trigger.
‘Move.’
Walking side by side, the three walked out of the Park and headed across the street onto 42nd. They stopped in front of a French patisserie. The woman pulled open the door and they moved inside.
The restaurant was straight ahead, but the toilets were behind a wooden screen to the right. The trio moved towards them. The man and woman took Hansen into the men’s restroom, then locked the door.
Once they were inside, the bleach-haired guy pulled out the pistol from his coat and stuck it in Hansen’s face, pushing him against the wall. The handgun was a Glock, a fat silencer on the end of the weapon an inch from Hansen’s nose.
‘Don’t move.’
The woman grabbed the bag from Hansen’s hand, then placed it on the ground. She gently slid out the box, untied the string securing it and carefully opened the lid.
She saw the bomb inside. It had been armed, the numbers on the timer counting down.
8:23.
8:22.
8:21.
‘Son of a bitch,’ she said.
She clicked a switch on the inside of the box and the timer shut down. Then she picked it up and placed the switched off bomb carefully against the wall by the toilet bowl. Hansen watched her do it, then turned his attention to the blond man with the gun. He went to speak but the woman rose and suddenly slapped a rear choke on him, hooking her legs around his hips and pulling him back. They hit the ground with a thump and she tightened the squeeze, the leather on her jacket creaking. Hansen gagged and clutched at her forearm desperately as it blocked his airway.
He passed out after six seconds or so. Drexler held the choke for another thirty seconds until he suffocated. Once he was gone, she released him and rose, dusting herself off. Wicks tucked his pistol into a holster under his coat then knelt down and broke Hansen’s neck, just to be sure. One grip and one sharp wrench.
Drexler crouched down and retrieved the box. She separated the vial from the bomb and rose, examining it in her hand. The toxic yellow liquid was gathered at the bottom, a small amount, seemingly innocuous yet horrifyingly dangerous.
‘Now we’re talking,’ she said.
With the dead man slumped on the ground, his head at a strange angle, Drexler unlocked the door and stepped out. Wicks flicked the lock back on as he followed then pulled the door hard behind him, sealing it shut.
Together, the two of them headed out of the patisserie and back out onto the street.
The vial containing the virus held securely in Drexler’s hand and tucked safely into her right jacket pocket.
FOURTEENArcher and Josh watched as the two CRT specialists carried the glass container across Macy’s third floor, stopping outside the lifts. One of them pushed the button and the doors to a cart slid open immediately. The two men moved inside, the boxed virus between them. One of them jabbed the button for the ground floor and the doors shut, the two men disappearing out of sight.
Across the level, members of the ESU team, HAZMAT and store security had gathered, talking quietly with each other. The area had been cordoned off and HAZMAT were preparing to screen it to ensure there was no toxicity or any traces of the virus in the air. It was a set procedure which had to followed, but they were fully aware that if even a tiny amount of the virus had escaped they’d have known all about it by now.
Josh pulled his cell phone out and called Shepherd as Archer stood watching the group.
‘Sir, we foun
d the device,’ he said. ‘The son of a bitch hid it in a panel in a changing room.’
‘Defused?’
‘No, but it’s secured. The CRT team put it in a protective casing just before it detonated.’
‘But it went off?’
‘Yes. It did.’
‘Jesus.’ He paused. ‘Good job, but listen. We’re not done with this yet.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This guy isn’t working alone. Before we found him, he was with two other men inside the subway at Times Square. Each of them was carrying a bag which we’re certain contains a box. We think each one is a bomb. We’re working on finding the other two now.’
Josh swore, then turned to Archer.
‘There could be two more of these things.’
‘Aside from the guy in red, none of them are wearing distinctive clothing. Rach is having a hard time tracking them. They also used the subway so could have stepped off at any station. I’ll call you back.’
Josh lowered the phone as Shepherd ended the call.
‘Two more. Shit, we only just got to this one.’
Archer nodded grimly, looking around the store. ‘Something about this is weird.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You saw that bomb. It wasn’t high tech. It was homemade, same as the one in the Park. Crude as hell. It was in a shoebox for Christ’s sake.’
‘So?’
‘How the hell does someone so amateurish get hold of something so dangerous?’
‘He wasn’t exactly amateur, Arch. He was thirty seconds from succeeding.’
Archer went to answer, but Josh’s phone rang. He answered immediately.
‘Sir?’
‘Got one! He stepped off a 6 train and headed towards the South Street Seaport ten minutes ago. Rach is alerting the area response teams.’
Josh started running for the escalator, Archer close on his heels.
Forty three blocks uptown, completely unaware of events in Midtown, Marquez and Jorgensen walked down the fourth-floor corridor of a five-storey apartment building on the Upper West Side, on 77th Street between Amsterdam and Broadway. They weren’t far from Flood Microbiology, which made sense as this was where Dr Kruger’s apartment was located. He didn’t have a police file but Rach had found his address via the DMV.
They came to a stop outside 4D. The corridor either side of them was long and empty.
Jorgensen looked at Marquez, who nodded, and he knocked on the door a couple of times.
‘Dr Kruger? This is the NYPD. Open up, please sir.’
Nothing.
‘Dr Kruger?’
He looked at Marquez.
‘Dr Kruger?’ she called.
Nothing.
Jorgensen thought for a moment, then stepped back. He dipped his shoulder and suddenly rammed into the door. Given his size and muscle memory from days on the Rutgers defensive line, the lock was no match for the force that all two hundred and twenty pounds of him generated. The door splintered open, smashed back like so many quarterbacks who’d played against him back in the day.
He recovered his balance and together, the two detectives moved inside.
The apartment was lavish, the living area straight ahead, the kitchen to the left.
But it was also empty.
They separated, checking the place, then met up a few moments later.
‘No sign,’ Marquez said.
‘You think he left town?’ Jorgensen said.
She shook her head. Looking around, she saw a wallet on the mantelpiece and a set of car keys on the marble counter-top. She pointed at them.
‘His stuff is still here.’
‘Maybe he stepped out. Maybe he’ll be back in a minute.’
‘Perhaps,’ she said, pulling her cell phone and calling Shepherd. As she did so, she opened the wallet on the counter and pulled out Kruger’s driver’s licence. The photo showed a handsome man, tanned and blond with a square jaw.
‘Sir?’
‘Yes?’
‘We’re up at Dr Kruger’s,’ she said, passing the licence to Jorgensen. She looked around the empty apartment. ‘He’s not here.’
‘OK.’
‘Want us to stay and wait? See if he comes back?’
‘No. Get over to Dr Tibbs’,’ Shepherd said abruptly.
‘Everything OK, sir? How are Archer and Josh getting on?’
‘I’ll update you later. I don’t have time right now. But find me these other doctors.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The call ended. Marquez slid the phone back into her pocket, then turned to Jorgensen, who was examining the driver’s licence.
‘We’re out of here. Dr Tibbs is next. Got his address?’
Jorgensen nodded, still looking around. ‘Be nice to have a place like this.’
‘With your salary? Maybe in twenty years.’
Jorgensen returned the licence to the wallet, then the two detectives turned and made their way out of the empty apartment. Marquez looked at the lock as she stepped outside. Jorgensen had annihilated it.
‘Make it twenty one years. They’re gonna make you pay for that.’
Jorgensen pulled the door back into place behind them, and jiggled it, trying to keep it closed.
Eventually it held and he slowly withdrew his hand. Then he looked at her and shrugged.
‘I tripped.’
Sitting in the back of a taxi, his heart pounding, Donnie looked back over his shoulder as the cab headed over the Brooklyn Bridge out of Manhattan. He couldn’t have felt more relieved to have planted the bomb and got away. Carrying it around, he’d just been waiting for a cop to stop him.
He watched as Lower Manhattan moved further and further away.
It would go off any second now.
FIFTEENAs luck would have it, Tibbs lived just around the corner from Kruger. The journey only took Marquez and Jorgensen a couple of minutes.
Unlike Kruger’s building, this one had a reception and they walked over to the counter, Marquez showing the guy behind the desk her badge and telling him the reason they were here. The man said he hadn’t seen Tibbs this morning, which meant he was probably upstairs. As a precaution Marquez asked him for a key-card, which he agreed to provide on the condition that he join them. Marquez understood. Scams like this would be a dime a dozen across the city, thieves coming up with elaborate ways to get access to someone’s apartment. If he came with them and watched their every move, his ass would be covered.
He walked around the desk to join the two cops, passing Marquez the key-card. She took it, then turned to Jorgensen.
‘Save you another doorframe.’
Together, the trio headed for the lifts. Two of them were already open and they rode one up to 13. Once the lift arrived they stepped out and the guy from the reception led them down the corridor. Soon they came to a halt outside a varnished wooden door, 13 E.
‘Dr Tibbs?’ Marquez said, knocking. ‘NYPD. Open up please, sir.’
Nothing.
‘Dr Tibbs?’
Nothing.
She took the key-card and slid it into the lock, opening the door.
The moment she pushed it back, all three saw that Dr Tibbs was indeed inside the apartment.
And he wasn’t going anywhere.
He was laid out in the living area, a strip of duct tape across his mouth. He’d been shot a number of times, twice to the sternum, twice to the head, blood pooled around him and four empty shell casings lying in the red. As the hotel worker covered his mouth and stared in horror, Marquez and Jorgensen simultaneously drew their side-arms and moved into the apartment, their weapons up.
But just like Kruger’s, the place was empty.
Although the Counter-Terrorism Bureau standard-issue Ford Explorer had no light on the roof, it had blue and red lights behind the front and rear fenders. When activated, they sent a clear message to other drivers: get the hell out of the way. Taking the FDR, Josh roared downtown, weaving in and out of traffi
c as they moved at a controlled but furious speed. He swung off the highway to the right onto South Street and screeched to a halt at the South Street Seaport, alongside Pier 17.
Being the focal point of the entire area, the Pier had been transformed in the 1980s from an old fish market into a three-storey glass pavilion shopping centre, surrounded by a wooden boardwalk and promenade that looked out over the East River. It was one of the busiest shopping areas in Manhattan and also one of Archer’s favourite spots to spend his days off. He used to come down here with Katic and her daughter. It had something for everybody. The shopping centre on the Pier was an assortment of different stores, bars and restaurants, some of which served arguably the best seafood in the city. A large pirate ship was docked beside the Pier, acting as a great tourist attraction and entertainment for kids, a number of tour guides dressed up as pirates adding to the spectacle.
Beside the ship, a brass band and group of carol singers were standing on the promenade with their backs to the water. The choir was singing as a crowd watched, people stepping forward to slip money into donation boxes collecting for charity. As he slammed the car door and moved onto the boardwalk, Archer recognised the carol. It was an old classic. Silent Night.
Josh joined him, both of them looking at the Pier. A second ESU and CRT team were already here; the music was serving as a distraction, so not many people had noticed the quiet but efficient evacuation beginning around them.
Cursing, Josh pulled his cell, calling Shepherd.
‘Sir, we’re here. Where the hell are we looking?’
Given that the Seaport was merely a stone’s throw from Wall Street, the waterfront primarily catered for the wealthy. A number of stores had set up shop here in order to cash in on all that money. One of them was a trendy clothing brand which had worked increasingly hard for a number of years to establish itself as a provider of top-tier casual wear. Much of their clothing was slim or muscle-fit, a deliberate ploy to discourage anyone who was overweight wearing their stuff, and each article cost anywhere from forty to over a hundred bucks. You almost had to earn the right to wear their clothes. However, such design and marketing strategies has succeeded in giving the brand a certain image and prestige and their garments were popular, particularly with teenagers and young adults.
