by Ben Coes
He glanced at the park. Other than the small, receding figures of people moving away from the smoke, it was empty in both directions.
Sirens pealed from Riverside Drive.
He glanced at Katie, who nodded. Dewey waited a few extra moments, then climbed over the wall, clutching the knot with his right hand as, with his left, he let the rope slide slowly through. The rope went through his left hand, up through the piton, then lengthened in his right hand as he descended. He moved quickly, feet bouncing against the wall of granite. Even through the thick Kevlar-and-steel-mesh-palmed gloves, he could feel the burn of the rope. When he hit the ground, he pulled the rope through the piton up above until it dropped to the ground. He re-coiled it and stuck it back in the duffel, looking right, along the base of the wall. Katie was on the ground, watching Tacoma finish the last few feet of his descent.
The wall loomed overhead. He saw no one. He scanned the abandoned lot beneath the highway. It was empty and lifeless. The tar was cracked, with weeds growing in crooked lines, and garbage, thrown from the park or highway, was strewn about, blown by the wind. At the far side of the lot was a steel fence, which spread all the way from the ground to the lower edge of the overhanging steel rebar of the highway several floors above, preventing access.
“You have company,” said Igor over commo. “Two blocks up, other side of the highway.”
Dewey walked to Katie and Tacoma just as a black sedan appeared to the north, at a gate in the chain-link fence. The sedan was late model, windows tinted dark. Law enforcement.
“Igor, can you run any diagnostics on that car?” asked Tacoma.
“Not the car itself without knowing the VIN, but I have an algorithm running against FBI, Homeland, and NYPD. It’s none of them.”
“It’s the Plumber,” said Dewey.
A short man climbed from the sedan and stepped to a gate in the fence, unlocking the padlock and pulling the gate open. The sedan pulled in, then the man closed the gate and relocked the padlock.
The sedan charged forward, toward them, accelerating.
“He’s going pretty fast,” said Tacoma quietly. “You sure it’s him?”
The sedan barreled closer.
“It’s him,” said Dewey.
The sedan came within fifty feet, then forty, thirty, not slowing or hesitating. A second later, the sedan jacked abruptly right, brakes screeching, the back tires sweeping over the concrete. It came to a smooth, surgical stop a few feet away.
A moment later, the driver’s door opened. A head emerged, followed by a short, stooped man.
He was, at most, five feet tall. He was bald, with a scar along his forehead that looked like the letter L. His skin was pale and colorless, almost gray. His ears stuck out.
A smile creased his lips, revealing a mouth half-filled with brown teeth.
He had a high-pitched voice.
“My name is Vladimir Leonid Roestelkolnov. But you may call me the Plumber.”
59
FBI TASK FORCE 16
JOHN JAY HALL
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY
Smith looked at Dave McNaughton.
“We need to get a cell jammer up high,” said Smith.
McNaughton nodded. “I can get one on the side of the building,” he said. “Front or back’s gonna be tough.”
“Why?”
“Because my climber will get shot.”
“It needs to be on one of the faces of the building,” said Smith. “As close to a window as we can. The stairwells have a fire barrier. Just slapping it on the end of the dorm won’t work.”
“Not that simple. We can’t just shoot an anchor up to the roof and hitch up. Way too risky with those bombs. And I sure as shit don’t trust any suction device, at least none I’ve seen, and certainly not on that brick.”
“Keep it simple. Pitons or bolts and a drill with masonry bits, or a hammer,” said Smith. “Have someone belay from the ground. Lead up the side then move around when he gets to ten, snipers at the ready. He won’t be exposed for more than a minute or two.”
“If someone starts drilling or hammering into that brick, it’ll alert them,” said McNaughton.
“Use some sort of manual screw kit. Set the anchors, let someone belay your lead guy from below.”
McNaughton nodded, thinking.
“I’ll get one of my climbers moving. How much time do I have?”
Smith checked his watch, a distracted look on his face.
“Just figure it out. Make sure you coordinate with the snipers. Also, tell Ray not to use a military-grade device.”
McNaughton had worked with Smith now for fourteen years. McNaughton, an ex-Marine, was all business. He was born into a military family and whether it was the FBI or the Marines, all he cared about was managing assaults and other military-style operations. Still, he sensed something.
“You okay, Damon?” he asked.
Smith looked at him.
“There’s something else,” said Smith. “I need you to do something.”
McNaughton was silent.
“Andreas needs another man,” said Smith.
“You want me to go?” asked McNaughton. “I’ll do whatever is necessary, you know that.”
“No, these guys need you a lot more than they need me. I’m going to go. I need you to take over tactical command.”
60
RIVERSIDE PARK
NEW YORK CITY
The Plumber glanced at Dewey, saying nothing, then looked at Tacoma. When he noticed Katie, his eyes seemed to open an extra half inch.
Dewey stepped forward and extended his hand. “I’m Dewey.”
The Plumber nodded enthusiastically, saying nothing.
Tacoma stepped forward and shook his hand.
The Plumber looked straight ahead at Katie. His slightly mischievous expression flashed into a full-on smile as he took in her tanned, freckled, beautiful face. His eyes scanned down her body, the grin not going away at any point.
Katie glanced at Dewey, one eyebrow raised.
They trailed the Plumber along the granite wall for several minutes, then cut right and moved to a massive concrete abutment beneath the Henry Hudson Parkway. The Plumber stopped before a pile of empty cans and broken glass.
“Chertovy panki,” he muttered to himself as he kicked the garbage aside.
Beneath was a rusted manhole cover. The Plumber knelt, removing a small tool from his coat that resembled a screwdriver with a hook on the end. He stuck it near the edge of the manhole and lifted the cover. Dewey leaned forward and helped pull it to the side.
Beneath was total darkness. The tunnel dropped into a black void.
Suddenly, the sound of an approaching helicopter made all of them look up to the sky. The all-black Bell 206L4 LongRanger IV dropped recklessly from above. There was no place to land. The chopper stopped a hundred feet up and hovered, its rotors slashing the air in a furious roar of sound and wind. A coil of rope flew from the open back compartment, followed by a figure clad in tactical gear, who leapt out and rappelled to the ground a few feet from them.
It was Damon Smith.
“You still need an extra hand?”
Dewey nodded. “Yeah.”
Dewey’s eye caught Smith’s weapons vest. A small old Ranger tab was visible, stitched to the vest with white thread, indicating that Smith had graduated from Ranger School during winter.
Dewey grinned. “I didn’t know.”
“You were in my class,” said Smith.
“That was a fun time,” said Dewey. “Remember Captain Hardy?”
“Lucifer?” said Smith, laughing. “I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve thought about sending a few of my guys to his house.”
Dewey laughed, along with Smith. Then he looked at him with a more serious expression.
“Let’s go. Katie, this is Damon Smith.”
“Hi,” said Katie.
“Who’s that?” asked Smith, looking at the short man who was waiting near the tunnel
.
“The Plumber.”
* * *
Katie removed four Petzl headlamps from her pack, handing them around. She offered one to the Plumber, but he shook his head.
“We go,” said the Plumber. “Last one, move back,” he added, pointing to the manhole cover.
As the Plumber started to climb down into the tunnel, a pair of medium-size rats scurried into a pile of garbage a few feet away. A horrified look came over Katie’s face. She looked at the Plumber.
“Are there rats in there?” she said.
“Are there rats?” said the Plumber, disappearing into the darkness. “Are you kidding? They have their own government. Just ignore them.”
Tacoma followed the Plumber.
“You like dogs?” asked Dewey.
“Sure,” Katie said.
“Think of them as little dogs. That’s how big they get.”
Katie looked as if she might throw up.
Dewey tapped his ear.
“Igor, we’re going in,” he said.
“You’ll be dark in there,” said Igor. “No signal.”
Dewey waved Katie to the tunnel. Smith followed her down.
“I’ll come back on when we’re in the building.”
“Got it. I’ll be waiting.”
“As soon as we get there, I want to move.”
“I’ll be ready, Dewey.”
Dewey removed his earbud and put it in a watertight ziplock bag. He pulled the headlamp over his head, turned it on, climbed into the tunnel, and dragged the manhole cover back until it dropped with a loud clank above his head, sealing off the tunnel.
Dewey glanced down. The three headlamps below trailed off into oblivion. Eerie shadows played against the blackness.
“Let’s go,” he whispered to no one.
61
CARMAN HALL
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY
Sirhan considered the situation as he paced down the twelfth-floor hallway, empty now.
The dormitory was secure—as secure as it could be.
The entrance was sealed off behind a steel wall—ironic, for it had been built for the opposite purpose: to keep the bad guys on the outside and the students safe. Now it was a barrier that prevented anything other than a blunt-force intrusion, such as a tank or shoulder-fired missile, from penetrating the hostage zone. So far, the FBI had been unwilling to use either, perhaps fearing what would happen if they forced the terrorists into a corner. Even if they did get through, the elevators were trashed and the stairs were impassable. If they attempted it, by the time they figured out how to disarm or get around the IEDs, every student and parent in the dormitory would be dead.
The roof was wired with explosives that would detonate if anyone attempted to land. Even a single commando dropped from a chopper would be unable to penetrate the web of thin wire. If any part of the web broke, all six of the high-powered Semtex-laden IEDs would drop to the ground and detonate. Anything above the roof would be immolated; below, several floors would be destroyed and, with them, hundreds of the hostages.
The basement was sealed off by a locked, triple-bolted fire door with a massive block of Semtex attached to it. It was the largest IED the terrorists had brought. If any law enforcement officer attempted to open the door, the bomb would drop to the ground and explode. Even if the FBI employed robotic bomb removal technology, the IED would potentially set off other IEDs in the dorm, ultimately taking down most if not all of the structure. In addition, just behind the thick steel door was the line of four students, chained together. Any attempt to blow the door in would kill them all, either from the detonation or by pushing them back against the tight chains around their necks, choking them. Granted, it was their weakest link, but if they were willing to sacrifice the four hostages in the basement, the FBI would have to face the stairs.
Sirhan had turned two rooms on the twelfth floor into an ad hoc operations center. A table sat in the middle of each room. The rooms were across the hall from each other. Sirhan wanted to keep an eye on both sides of the building.
On one of the walls, he’d drawn a detailed elevation plan, showing each floor, highlighting key access points, as well as showing where students were. He also made small X marks on the sixth floor, where Fahd was killed, and on the third floor, where Sirhan believed Ramzee lay dead.
They had passed the period of highest vulnerability. They now had clear strategic advantage. It would be extremely difficult for the Americans to dislodge them now, unless they were willing to lose hundreds of students and parents. Still, the loss of Fahd and Ramzee gnawed at him. It made him angry.
He checked his watch: 1:07. Twenty-three minutes until the next execution.
He went to one of the bathrooms and looked around. There was something strangely peaceful about being alone on the floor of the dormitory. The bathroom was empty and clean. The shower reminded him of home, back in Karachi, with the blue tiles. He looked in the mirror, then heard a faint sound. Or perhaps he felt it.
Sirhan cued the mike on his walkie-talkie. All he heard was silence.
“Tariq,” he said. “Meuse. Anyone?”
There was no response.
He turned on his cell and tried to call Tariq’s cell. The call did not go out. At the top of the phone screen, he saw NO SIGNAL.
To the south, on the far side of the building, across the hall. Yes, he felt it.
Sirhan threw the bathroom door aside and charged through the room, grabbing his AK-47 from the ground, in stride, then sprinting across the hall. He came at the window from the right, out of the sight line of snipers. He was shielded by the wall next to the window.
He swept the rifle in front of him, raised it, then skulked toward the window.
His eyes scanned the side of the brick wall, looking for what he thought he’d heard. He saw nothing. The walls to the left and above were empty. He leaned toward the glass, despite the risk, and looked down. He didn’t see a thing. Sirhan dropped to his knees and crawled below the windows. Then he stood and looked to the right, to the one wall he couldn’t see from the other angles. He jerked backward.
They’re here.
A man was tight to the building, held there by a rope, moving sideways, gloved hands on brick, clutched against the building, leaning as close as a spider. Commando: black-clad, helmeted, carbine strapped across his back. He was holding a rectangular plastic box to the side of the building, a few feet from the window, affixing it somehow.
How long has he been here? Where did he come from?
It didn’t matter. What mattered was not letting him get any nearer to the window.
Sirhan pressed the mike button on his walkie-talkie.
“We have a visitor,” he said, swinging his rifle around.
Then he realized: the commando had attached a jamming device to the side of the building. He hurled the walkie-talkie against the wall, where it smashed into pieces.
Sirhan scanned the roofs of a row of low brownstones across 114th Street. He looked for snipers. He saw one—in the window of one of the houses. The only thing visible was the muzzle, its metal refracting light in the dark rectangle of the window. It was targeted below the commando.
Sirhan opened the window. There he was. A black swatch of material that momentarily blocked the light. A flash of dark. It was the top of his helmeted head.
Slowly, Sirhan switched hands, taking the rifle into his left hand and holding the stock with his right, positioning the weapon. He eased the tip of the gun into the open window, aiming along the plane of the building. Sirhan put his right index finger on the trigger. He glanced one last time at the window where the sniper was. Then he pulled back on the trigger. A staccato of weapon fire rattled the air as a burst of slugs sprayed out, shattering glass—he’d aimed too close to the side of the building—then the air, missing the climber, who lurched sideways, toward the window. Sirhan fired again. This time the hail of bullets ripped the man’s legs, then up, across his chest, then his neck. Blood sprayed out into t
he air along with a low, painful groan. The commando’s flak jacket had stopped some of the slugs, but not all. He was dead. The man slumped; tethered by his climbing rope, dangling upside down from the side of the building like a Christmas ornament.
Sirhan dived to the floor just as a thwack echoed from across the way. The window above him shattered and a dull thud came from the wall. Broken glass fell to the sill and across his back. As he’d expected, the sniper had found him, but not in time.
Another slug, then a hail of rifle fire rained across the destroyed windows as gunmen searched in vain for Sirhan. The gunfire lasted a dozen seconds, then stopped. Still, he waited another minute, catching his breath, feeling the warmth of adrenaline pumping into his veins.
Carefully, he crawled out of the room, dragging his gun. In the hall, he stood and brushed off the glass. He sprinted to the room closest to the dead commando. He slunk along the wall, weapon raised, and spied out the window. The commando was directly in front of him. Blood was dripping from his boots, the wounds drenching his clothing and gear.
Sirhan quickly inspected the side of the building. He couldn’t see any other agents trying to scale the walls. He ran out of the room, down the empty hall, and descended the stairs to the tenth floor. He saw Meuse, guarding the door, rifle in hand. Sirhan stepped past him, a look of fury in his eyes.
He checked his watch: 1:24.
The floor was crowded with hostages.
Sirhan had a wild look, fury at how close they’d gotten.
How sloppy his men were.
With the AK-47 raised, he pushed his way past silent, terrified students and parents, seated along the walls, many crying, holding hands, only a few daring to even look up at him. He entered the first dorm room, just below where the dead agent now dangled in the open air.
The room was crowded, hot, and fetid with sweat. Everyone was seated on the floor. Families were grouped together, cowering in fear.
Standing in the windows, spread like shields across them, were four students.
Sirhan walked quickly to the window. He leaned forward—between a student’s legs—and looked right. The dead agent was still hanging just a few feet away.
