by Ben Coes
“And seven,” said Katie. “Putting aside the possibility of one of us getting hurt before we get there, just look at the schematic. Two of us need to hit ten at the same time. Even if one of us can take three guys, that still leaves a nonacquired target.”
“We’ll need to move quick,” said Dewey.
“Dewey, the building is wired with enough Semtex to take it all down,” she said. “This is a suicide bomb. As soon as they know we’re there, the one guy who’s not targeted is going to set it off. One extra guy gives us tremendous flexibility.”
Dewey stared at the screen, nodding, then glanced at his watch, wondering when the next student would be thrown from the building.
“We don’t have time,” said Dewey calmly. “I’m not going to take some guy off the street we haven’t worked with. There are too many things that can go wrong. Now let’s finish packing the rucks and get down there.”
55
CARMAN HALL
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY
Sirhan, Tariq, and Ali gathered on the twelfth floor while the other three men kept guard on ten.
In one of the bathrooms, they took turns washing their hands and splashing water on their faces. They dried themselves with paper towels.
In the hallway, they stood, looking in the direction of Mecca, and shut their eyes.
It was time for Salah, their daily prayers. Like most Muslims, they prayed five times a day, at specific times. Now it was time for the midday prayer, called the zuhr.
The other three had just finished the zuhr.
“Allāhu ‘akbar,” Sirhan said, closing his eyes, raising his hands, then bowing. Tariq and Ali repeated the incantation, then all three began a low prayer, the rakāt, as they bowed in subjugation.
Ten minutes later, Sirhan walked the entire length of the tenth floor hallway, saying nothing and constantly checking his watch. At precisely 12:25, he entered one of the bedrooms facing campus. Omar was in the room, looking out at the campus with binoculars. Four students stood at the window, shielding Omar from snipers.
Sirhan studied each of the students from behind. A dark-skinned female was closest to the wall. He stepped closer and looked at her face from the side. She was Middle Eastern.
“Ma hu aismak, fatat latifa?” asked Sirhan.
What is your name, kind girl?
The girl pretended to not understand.
“What is your name?” he repeated, an edge in his voice.
She started to cry.
“Aimal,” she whispered.
“Hal ‘ant Sunni ‘aw Shayei?”
Are you Sunni or Shia?
She was sobbing now.
“Sunni or Shia?” he screamed.
The student next to her on the windowsill grabbed her hand, holding it.
Sirhan looked at his watch: 12:29.
He aimed the rifle at the window and fired. The glass shattered and fell into the open air, a moment later hitting the concrete ten floors below.
He looked at his wrist: 12:30.
“Just so you know, it wouldn’t have mattered,” whispered Sirhan. He placed his hand against the girl’s back, then he pushed her out the window. The soft, high pitch of her sobs was the only noise for several moments until she hit the ground.
56
THE PIERRE HOTEL
FIFTH AVENUE
NEW YORK CITY
Dewey and Tacoma were in a room off the kitchen that had been turned into a weapons room. They were packing rifles, submachine guns, pistols, ammo, and knives.
Katie suddenly screamed from a room down the hall.
Dewey jogged past the library and into the den, followed by Tacoma, then Igor.
A large flat-screen television showed live news coverage of the dormitory. The CNN logo was in the upper left-hand corner. Scrolled across the bottom was a news ticker: CRISIS AT COLUMBIA.
The screen showed a grainy, distant view of the dormitory, focused in on a tenth-floor window.
Katie was alone, watching the TV with a hand across her mouth in silent horror. She had tears in her eyes.
… I repeat, the glass was just apparently shot or kicked out of the window you are looking at right now. This is on the tenth floor where the hostages are being held. Please, if there are children in the house …
Standing in the window was a female student. It was hard to see the details of her face, but she had long black hair, brown skin, and glasses. She looked Middle Eastern. Her hands were raised and out to the side.
… What you’re seeing right now is live aerial footage from the CNN news helicopter of what appears to be a Columbia student standing on the tenth floor of the dormitory—Carman Hall—taken over by terrorists less than six hours ago. This is the first sighting of anyone in the building since about an hour ago, when another female student was pushed to her death … Oh, my God!
The girl fell from the window, kicking her legs in the air, wrenching her body in a desperate spasm, as if she might somehow fly away. She dropped quickly in a straight line as, offscreen, the voice of a CNN producer could be heard: “Cut the shot!”
She struck the concrete just before the screen went black.
A few moments later, a different view appeared on the screen. It was live footage of the reporter, standing a few blocks away, holding his earpiece to his ear and a microphone to his mouth. He was surrounded by mayhem, as crowds of onlookers tried to push their way into the media area and get a look at live feeds on display. Muted screams and yelling erupted nearby as the footage of the fallen student, and the knowledge of what had happened, spread through the media area and beyond to the crowds of friends, families, and other onlookers.
The reporter’s face was red. His eyes revealed panic and emotion; he struggled to cough out words to fill the silence.
… I … I don’t know what to say. Terror has come to our shores … My God …
Dewey glanced at Katie. She didn’t move. Tacoma and Igor were standing just inside the door, both silent.
“We can’t wait any longer,” said Dewey, looking at all three of them. “We go in now.”
57
DAMASCUS, SYRIA
Nazir clutched the remote as he watched, for the third time, footage on Al Jazeera of the girl falling to her death.
He looked at his watch. It was 7:30 in the evening, exactly one hour after the first body Sirhan pushed from the dormitory. It meant Sirhan was now on a specific schedule.
He picked up his cell phone and dialed. After nearly a minute of clicks and beeps, the phone started ringing.
“Good afternoon,” came a female voice, “the White House. How may I direct your call?”
“The president’s office, please.”
“Is he expecting your call?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m afraid the president doesn’t accept unsolicited or non-prearranged calls,” she said politely. “Is it something I can help you with?”
“Perhaps,” said Nazir. “My name is Tristan Nazir. I am the leader of ISIS.”
The phone was quiet for several seconds.
“Please hold.”
A half minute later, a male voice came on the line.
“I am running your voice through a program to determine if you’re who you say you are. Please repeat your name.”
“Tristan Nazir.”
“What is today’s date and time?”
“September fourteen, seven thirty P.M.”
“Hold.”
A minute later, the phone clicked.
“This is Josh Brubaker. I’m the president’s national security advisor. What do you want?”
“You know what I want.”
“The weapons shipment. So let’s talk about that.”
“What is there to talk about?” asked Nazir. “You stopped the boat. Until those weapons are delivered to Syria, one student dies every hour.”
“Mr. Nazir,” said Brubaker, “if we were going to allow that shipment to go through, we would need guarantees on those
students and family members. In other words, we’re not going to deliver anything until we understand precisely how the ones you haven’t murdered yet get out alive.”
“They walk out the front door,” said Nazir, “after we have the guns.”
“What’s to stop you from simply blowing up the building?”
“None of my men want to die. As I see it, the ship arrives, I send word to my men, and the students get released.”
“What happens to your men?”
“I assume you arrest them and they go to one of your little torture camps.”
“I have a feeling they wouldn’t like knowing their leader sold them down the river.”
“They volunteered for it, Mr. Brubaker.”
“I’ll take it to the president,” said Brubaker, “but you need to stop throwing students from the building. It’s a nonstarter.”
“I’m sorry, no,” said Nazir. “Every hour, at approximately half past the hour, a student drops. If you try to put up a net or something like that, we will simply shoot them and then throw them. We stop when the weapons arrive and we’ve been able to inspect the contents.”
“That’s insane,” said Brubaker, barely above a whisper. “You’re a—”
“Monster?” interjected Nazir. “Maniac? Barbarian? Yes, all three.”
“I was going to say coward,” said Brubaker. “That boat is twelve hours out. That’s twelve more kids.”
“Then I suggest you speak with your president as soon as possible and get the ship moving. We stop executing the students only when the shipment arrives.”
58
RIVERSIDE PARK
NEAR NINETY-EIGHTH STREET
NEW YORK CITY
As Tacoma steered Igor’s navy blue Range Rover along Riverside Drive, Dewey picked up his cell and hit Speed Dial.
“CENCOM.”
“Task Force one six,” said Dewey. “Damon Smith. Tell him it’s Andreas.”
A few moments later, Smith picked up. “Hey, what do you got?”
“We’re getting ready to move,” said Dewey. “I’ll be out of range for I don’t know how long. I’ll call you when we surface. In the meantime, the operation is going to be run from a remote location. Our eyes and ears is a guy named Igor. To the extent he needs any information, I’ve given him your number.”
“You have a way in?”
“Yes.”
“What do you need from me?”
“Have you been able to disrupt their communication?”
“We tried jammers along the base of the building, but we’re still picking up spectrum coming off the upper floors. The problem is, the terrorists are too high up. We thought about somehow firing one through an upper-floor window. Problem is, even if we pack it in protective packaging and it still functions, they’re just going to throw it back out.”
“We need one, Damon,” said Dewey. “One that blocks cell and walkie-talkie transmissions. We’ll be using Pentagon spectrum. Just make sure your COMMS people don’t use a military-grade jammer.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“Thanks.”
“That it?”
Dewey glanced at Katie.
“Actually, no. There’s one more thing.”
“Whatever you need,” said Smith.
“We could use another body,” said Dewey. “We need a fourth man.”
“I have plenty of agents. I can also send one of the Navy guys upstairs. What’s the SPEC?”
“Number one, he needs to be able to climb. We’re going to be moving quickly up through the elevator shafts, and whoever it is has to keep up. Ideally, a Ranger.”
“White thread?” said Smith.
“Yeah. Winter School.”
“What else?”
“He needs to be calm. Someone with combat experience. Also, I’ll have in-theater command authority. If it’s one of your SWAT leaders, he needs to understand that.”
Smith was quiet for several moments.
“Let me find someone. When do you leave?”
“We’re leaving now,” said Dewey. “I should’ve called you earlier. If you have someone, get him to Riverside Park. There’s a lot beneath the Henry Hudson Parkway at Ninety-ninth Street.”
By the time Dewey hung up, Tacoma had parked the Range Rover along Riverside Drive.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon. The sky was cloudless, the temperature in the eighties. Moving now was not ideal; night would be better, but Dewey didn’t want to wait.
Always, a thought lurked in the recesses of his mind. A single word, but it kept sounding, like a chant from a distant room.
Daisy.
He saw her eyes looking at him as they stood in the driveway. That moment, just before it happened, and then the moment itself, as he leaned toward her. He remembered the softness of her lips against his. Then came the sight, the memory, of the student falling from the dorm …
He pushed it away. He had to.
He pressed his earbud.
“Commo check,” he said. “Igor?”
“I’m here.”
“Check one,” said Katie.
“Two,” said Rob.
“You’re all coming through loud and clear.”
“What about GPS?”
“I have you. Stamford, Connecticut, right?”
“That’s not funny, asshole.”
“Okay, okay, Jesus. Ninety-eighth and Riverside, right?”
“Yeah,” said Tacoma.
Dewey, Tacoma, and Katie climbed from the SUV. From the back, they each lifted duffel bags; Dewey and Tacoma’s were filled with weapons and ammo, Katie’s with a variety of explosives, thermal optical equipment, and powerful sound equipment for eavesdropping. Most were purposed for close-quarters combat: small, powerful, light, highly lethal. Handguns, submachine guns, and an anti-materiel rifle, capable of firing through concrete.
Dewey removed a canister the size of a tennis ball can from his jacket. This was an incendiary device whose main purpose was to sound loud and discharge high volumes of harmless smoke. He moved the lid of the device a quarter turn, and a small red light flashed. It could now be set off remotely. He placed it on the sidewalk, at the base of a tree.
They walked across Riverside Drive, each scanning the street and sidewalks that bordered the road. Several blocks to the north, flashing lights from police cruisers were visible. The cars were parked across Riverside at 103rd, preventing access.
A faint hum came from helicopters above Columbia, fifteen blocks to the north. Dewey counted five in the air, all in a circle outside a no-fly zone the FBI had imposed on the area.
The sidewalk along the park had a few pedestrians on it, seemingly oblivious of the situation at Columbia and the helicopters overhead. An older woman walking a small dog looked up as Dewey stepped from the street onto the sidewalk. She jerked back, as if in fear, then looked away and kept walking. The neighborhood, the city, was on edge, her reaction the first indication of a general mood of quiet fright that permeated the air.
They walked south for a block, Katie in the lead. They entered Riverside Park at Ninety-seventh Street. A long, gradually sloping set of stairs led into the park. A central paved lane for bikers and pedestrians ran down the center of the park, with built-in benches every hundred feet or so on each side, along with big, pretty, well-manicured trees—elm, apple, dogwood, maple. Sweeping lawns of fresh-cut grass sat on both sides of the park. To the east and the city, the grass swept up toward a denser grove of trees to the stone wall that bordered Riverside Drive in the distance. On the other side of the park, the grass ended at another stone wall. The Hudson River was visible beyond the wall.
There were a few bike riders, joggers, many people out for a walk, a few children playing in the park. Dewey entered first and walked along the center path at a casual pace. Katie and Tacoma waited a minute, then followed, holding hands, pretending to be a couple out for a walk. The duffel bags looked out of place and slightly suspicious, but only an experienced offi
cer would’ve noticed.
At some point, Dewey looked back to see Katie and Rob, several hundred feet behind him. He nodded almost imperceptibly, then cut left, strolling casually to an empty bench on the Hudson River side of the park. He passed the bench, not looking back, and kept walking toward the far wall of the park. Between the river and the wall was Henry Hudson Parkway. Usually the highway was jammed. It now sat empty, closed to traffic. The park wall dropped forty feet to the ground below. It was an empty lot, strewn with garbage, which ran beneath the highway.
Dewey turned. He scanned the park. A young man, sitting on a bench, was watching him. When he saw Dewey looking at him, he looked back at his book.
Dewey looked right. Katie and Tacoma were now also standing next to the wall, still several hundred feet away. Tacoma faced the wall, where he was hammering something into the mortar as Katie stood in front of him, shielding him from view.
What Dewey worried about most was the unknown. The friend of a reporter who sees them, calls the friend, who then reports it on the news, which the terrorists see, causing them to try to figure out why a group of people are entering an old sewer on the Upper West Side. Low probability, but worth the effort of avoiding.
Unspoken was the real fear: that someone working with, or sentimental to, the jihadists would see them and tip the terrorists off.
Dewey removed a small black device shaped like a pack of cigarettes. He flipped open the top. A red switch was hidden beneath. Then he flipped the switch on the detonator. A second later, a low, loud boom came from Riverside Drive. Every head turned to look. The man on the bench jumped up, trying to get a better view. Smoke filled the air—black and sooty, mixed with red, creating a rapidly growing mushroom cloud that had the appearance of chaos.
Several people, including the man, started running south, away from the explosion.
Dewey removed a small piton and hammer from his coat. He quickly pounded the piton into the wall. He pulled a coil of thick black rope from the bag and pushed it through the piton. He put on a pair of climbing gloves, then strapped the weapons duffel across his back. He tied a knot at one end of the rope, creating a handle.
