by Alex Lukeman
"We do that, the ACLU will be all over us," Holland said.
Selena looked through the glass. "I have an idea."
The agent looked at her. "You have an idea, lady?" His voice was dismissive.
Oh, boy, Nick thought.
Selena looked at him. "Lady? Is that what you called me?"
"You'd rather be called something else? Babe, maybe?" He grinned at her.
Selena stepped close, reached up with her thumb and forefinger, and pinched a nerve center near his neck. He grimaced in pain, paralyzed.
"Ahhh... Let go."
"You can address me as ma'am. Would you like to hear my idea?"
"Yeah, let go."
"Let go, what?"
"Let go, ma'am."
"Are you sure?" Selena said.
"Yeah, let go. Please."
"It always pays to be polite to a lady," she said.
She gave a final squeeze and dropped her hand away. The FBI man reached up and rubbed where she'd been pinching. His face was beet red. He turned to Holland.
"I want her arrested. She assaulted a federal officer."
"You'd like me to arrest her?"
"You saw what she did."
Lieutenant Holland looked at his sergeant.
"Get this asshole out of here."
"My pleasure, sir."
The detective gripped the FBI man's elbow and moved him toward the door.
"You can't do this. I'll have your badges for this."
He was still protesting when the door closed behind him.
"I enjoyed that," Holland said. "I've seen that guy before. He's from the local field office. Thinks he's Hoover's gift to law enforcement. That was a neat trick you pulled, ma'am."
"It's Selena to you, Lieutenant. I hope you don't get in any trouble over that."
"Don't worry about it," Holland said.
"What's your idea, Selena?" Nick asked.
"Look at him." She nodded at the glass. "He's having a pretty bad day."
They all looked at Amin. He looked dazed, lost. He looked scared. Flecks of Hamid's blood clung to his face.
"He's not much more than a boy," Selena said.
"He was ready to put on a suicide vest," Nick said. "He was one of the people who planted the gas in the hotel."
"That's true," Selena said, "but right now he's scared out of his mind. He probably thinks he's going to end up in a CIA black site somewhere. We can use that to our advantage."
"How?"
"My idea is that we get an imam in here to talk to him. Someone we know isn't one of the radicals. It's against religious law in Islam to take your own life. It's the extremists who have talked people into believing that blowing themselves up is something that makes God happy. Maybe an imam could convince him otherwise, and that it might be a good idea to talk with us."
Nick looked at his watch. "I don't think we have a lot of time. Let's try it. Let me make a call."
He called Harker.
"Director, I need a friendly imam in New York, preferably Shiite."
Elizabeth didn't ask why. "Wait one," she said.
"Freddie, I need some information."
How can I help, Director?
"I need the name of a Shiite imam in New York City, someone who isn't a radical. It has to be someone who has no ties at all to terrorism."
Processing.
Elizabeth waited.
Ali Zaidi is the imam of a mosque located on 14th St. in lower Manhattan. He is considered a voice for moderation and peace. Would you like his phone number and address?
"Yes, Freddie."
She listened and repeated what Freddie said back to Nick on the phone.
"Got it," Nick said. He disconnected.
Half an hour later, the imam was in the station. An hour after that, they knew what Dayoud was going to do.
CHAPTER 54
Nick called Elizabeth.
"It couldn't be much worse. There's another container of sarin. The prisoner's name is Amin. He doesn't know where the gas is, but he told the imam the third man plans to blow himself up and release the gas in Times Square."
"You're certain about this?"
"As certain as can be. There's no reason for Amin to lie. The cops want to close down the square, but the mayor won't give them permission. He's an idiot politician. He thinks the threat is overrated, and he doesn't want to scare the tourists. He's afraid he'll be accused of being a racist if he lets the cops go after anyone fitting Dayoud's profile."
"Dayoud?"
"Dayoud Sassani. He's the leader of the cell."
"Do we know what he looks like?"
"Amin is working with a sketch artist now, so we'll have a better description soon."
"What do you want to do?"
"Everybody's concentrating on Times Square," Nick said, "but I've got a bad feeling about it. The reason the third man wasn't in the apartment was that he'd gone to the store. We found a bag with broken bottles of juice in it on the stairs, one flight below the apartment. He must've heard the shots and got out of there as fast as he could."
"And?"
"That means he knows he's on his own. He has to figure we'd find that map when we searched the apartment. If I were him, I'd pick another target. He's not stupid. Why go where half the police force, the FBI, and everyone else is waiting for him to show up?"
"I see your point," Elizabeth said. "At least it's Saturday. The financial district is closed, all the banks, the big office buildings are mostly shut down. It eliminates a lot of potential targets."
"He'll pick someplace where there are a lot of people," Nick said. "Someplace like Rockefeller Center."
"You think he'll do it tonight?"
"Yeah, I do. I think he'll go get the sarin and head for wherever he thinks he can do the most damage. I'd say within the next few hours. Much later than that, the crowds start to thin out."
"We have to narrow down the possible targets," Elizabeth said.
"Maybe Freddie can help. He can analyze the possibilities a lot faster than any of us."
"That's an excellent idea. Stay on the line."
Elizabeth put the phone on speaker.
"Freddie, have you been monitoring the conversation?"
Yes, Director.
"Do you understand the situation?"
A terrorist is at large in New York City with a container of sarin and a bomb. Nick's assessment is that he will release the gas and detonate the bomb within the next few hours. You anticipate a significant loss of life.
"That's correct. Our problem is that we do not know what this man will choose for a target. I would like you to analyze possibilities and suggest targets with the highest probability. Can you do that?"
Processing.
"Freddie is working on it, Nick."
"I heard him."
I have analyzed the possibilities. Would you like to know the results?
Elizabeth sighed. "Yes, Freddie, I would."
The most effective use of sarin occurs in a contained environment. It is twenty-six times more lethal than cyanide. Minimal exposure of a few seconds can result in permanent neurological damage. Longer exposure guarantees termination of life.
Elizabeth was impatient. "We know that, Freddie. Please tell us about potential targets with the highest probability."
The subway system of New York presents the best opportunity for effective dispersion. Probability is ninety-six point three percent. Other potential targets fall to less than eighty percent.
"New York has an extensive subway system. Is there a particular location that has a high probability for selection?"
In what part of New York? The system extends through all boroughs.
"Manhattan. We have to make an educated guess."
There are four locations with high probability in Manhattan. Each is a junction where passengers have a choice of boarding several different lines. In order of probability, they are Grand Central Station at 42nd St., Union Square at 14th St., Lexington Avenue at
53rd St., and Times Square at 42nd St.
"Did you hear that Nick?" Elizabeth asked.
"I wrote it down, Director."
The time is now 19:12 hours. Probability of detonation and release of the gas before 21:00 hours is ninety-nine point eight percent.
"That gives us less than two hours," Nick said.
That is correct.
"You'd better get going," Elizabeth said.
CHAPTER 55
"What's the word?" Ronnie asked.
"The best guess is that Dayoud is going to release the gas in the subway system," Nick said. "It's where he can do the most damage. The gas will take a long time to disperse."
"But where in the system?" Selena asked.
"We can't cover it all. Freddie identified four high probability locations in Manhattan."
He ran them by the others.
"I think we can eliminate the 42nd St. stop," Selena said. "There will be plenty of people watching for him to show up anywhere near Times Square."
"I agree. That leaves the other three," Nick said. "Ronnie, you take Union Square. Lamont, you head up to Lexington and 53rd. Selena, you and I will go to Grand Central. It's the highest probability of the three and it's a big space."
"Hey, Carter."
Lieutenant Holland came forward with papers in his hand.
"I've got the new artist sketch for you."
He handed one out to each of them. "Amin says it's pretty good."
"This will help a lot," Nick said. He looked at the sketch. Then he told Holland about the subway stops.
"I'll pass it on to the transit authority and tell them you're coming," Holland said.
"Can you give us transportation?"
"Yeah, I can do that. Traffic's bad, like it always is, but we can usually get somewhere faster than a cab. I'll have cars meet you outside."
"Thanks."
"Happy hunting," Holland said.
They waited in the warm evening, outside the station.
"Man, I like this warm weather," Lamont said. "Feels like spring."
"Don't get used to it," Ronnie said. "It's supposed to drop into the thirties tomorrow."
"Listen up," Nick said. "This guy were going after knows he's going to die. Hell, he wants to die. That means he's got nothing to lose. Don't screw around if you see him. Just put him down. Don't give him an opportunity to be all that he wants to be. Whatever you do, don't put a hole in that container of gas. If you do, you'd better run like hell for the street level and hope you get there ahead of it."
"I love these optimistic pep talks, coach," Lamont said.
"Here come our rides," Ronnie said.
Three police cars pulled up in front of the station.
"We'll meet back here later," Nick said. "This should all be over in a few hours."
He and Selena climbed into the first car. There was no room in front for two passengers. Nick got in back. The back seat smelled of vomit.
The cop behind the wheel said, "Sorry about the smell. I had a drunk throw up back there a couple of hours ago. Where we goin'?"
"Grand Central," Selena said.
The cop let them off near the Park Avenue entrance and drove away.
Nick looked up at the façade of the building.
"That's a fancy clock up there."
Selena said, "It's called the 'Glory of Commerce.' The sculptures around the clock are Minerva, Hercules and Mercury. Come on, we can do the tour later."
They entered the station and another world. They were in the Grand Concourse, a cavernous space that rivaled a European cathedral. The ceiling was a hundred and twenty-five feet high. The floor stretched away for the length of a football field. Hundreds of people moved back and forth like ants, dwarfed by the gigantic dimensions. A huge American flag hung at one end from the ceiling. Rows of ticket booths lined the wall.
"Where do we start?" Nick asked. "This is overwhelming."
"There are signs over there for the subway," Selena said. "It looks like seven lines come through here."
"Great. I'll bet every one of them has a separate platform."
They started down to the lower levels, where the train and subway platforms were located. There were people all around them.
They came to the shuttle platform for the IRT. Signs with arrows pointed at steps leading down to the Lexington Avenue line and the Flushing line. Most of the crowd seemed to be moving in that direction.
They scanned the platform but there was no sign of anyone looking like the sketch of Dayoud.
"I vote we go down," Nick said. "The lower he goes, the more people he can kill."
"Makes sense," Selena said.
They moved down the steps, pushing through the crowd and drawing angry comments. They came out in the middle of the platform for the Lexington Avenue line. Hundreds of people waited for the next train.
"There are too many people," Selena said. "He could be anywhere."
"You take that end," Nick said, "I'll go the other way. Be careful."
Nick turned left, his hand on the pistol in his shoulder holster. He scanned the people on the platform. No one looked like Dayoud. He got to the end of the platform and started back. In the distance he heard the rumble of an approaching train.
That was when he saw Dayoud, holding a black carryall bag in his hand. He was standing in shadow, behind a steel column.
He's waiting for the train to stop. When people start getting off, he'll set off his bomb.
Dayoud hadn't seen him. Nick drew his pistol and crossed to the other side of the platform, hoping to get up behind him. Dayoud hadn't survived as long as he had without developing a sixth sense of danger. He turned when Nick was still ten feet away.
"Stop," he said.
Dayoud had a clacker in his hand. A wire ran from the detonator down his sleeve. Nick saw it emerge from under his shirt and enter the black bag.
Nick stopped where he was and aimed his pistol. But if he shot him, Dayoud could still squeeze the lever and release the gas.
A woman screamed. "That man's got a gun!"
The people on the platform panicked and began running toward the stairs. Nick could feel the air pressure change as a train neared the station.
Dayoud held up his hand with the detonator and smiled.
"Goodbye, American."
The train roared into the station, the sound drowning everything out. The front of Dayoud's throat erupted in a spray of red. The detonator dropped from his hand. He collapsed in a heap, like a puppet with cut strings.
The bag with the sarin hit the platform. Nick held his breath.
People started to get off the train. They saw Dayoud lying crumpled on the platform and Nick with a pistol in his hand. There were more screams, as some tried to run and others pushed back into the train. The doors closed. The train left the station. In minutes, the platform was empty. Selena walked toward him, her pistol in her hand, pointed down at the platform. The laser sight on her pistol made a moving red dot on the smooth concrete. Beyond her, Nick saw three transit cops running down the steps.
"You took that shot?" Nick asked.
"He was going to set it off," she said.
"What if you'd missed?"
"How could I miss with a laser? It was the only way to stop him pressing the lever. I knew he wouldn't be able to complete the movement if I cut his brainstem."
"You cut his wires all right," Nick said. "Good shot."
"Freeze! Do it now!"
"Don't move," Nick said. "Do what they say."
"Drop the guns. Drop them."
Nick and Selena dropped their weapons.
Nick called down the platform. "We're government agents."
One of the cops fired. The bullet struck Nick in the chest, knocking him backward. His head hit the platform and everything went black.
CHAPTER 56
Abbas Javadi sat in his office in VAJA headquarters, looking out the window at the rooftops of Tehran, brooding on the events of the past weeks. The mission
had failed in every respect, and the responsibility was his. The Supreme Leader was not happy.
The gold of the Jew king had not been recovered. Men had died for no results, including Dalir, one of his best operatives. His beautifully formulated plan to attack the Jewish conference had come to nothing. None of the suicide bombers had completed their missions. The sarin had not been released.
How had this happened?
A photograph had appeared in one of the American papers of a man being placed in an ambulance outside Grand Central Station in New York. The shot wasn't very good, and the man was not identified, but it was enough for VAJA's facial recognition programs to identify him as Nicholas Carter, an agent for a secretive American intelligence unit. Somehow the Americans had discovered the plot to release the gas and managed to stop it at the last moment.
It was ironic that Carter had been shot by an American policeman. He might die, but it was small compensation. Failure was not well-tolerated in Tehran. Javadi had served the regime for many years, but that was no guarantee he was exempt from the wrath of the Supreme Leader. Javadi had promised much and delivered little.
People were avoiding him in the halls. Nothing important had crossed his desk for two days. Those were ominous signs.
It was late in the afternoon. Javadi decided to call it a day. He took his pistol from his desk, an Iranian copy of the Sig-Sauer P226. Javadi always carried a pistol, a holdover from his days as a field agent. Today he was in civilian clothes, so the pistol went into a shoulder holster concealed under his jacket.
He took the elevator down to the parking garage reserved for high-ranking officers like himself. His car was a new ICKO Samand. Javadi rated a driver and an armored SUV, but he preferred the comfort of his own car and the sense of privacy it offered to him. He had little enough time alone and he felt no need for extra security. No one would dare to attack him in Tehran.
He started the car and took a moment to enjoy the smell of newness that emanated from the leather upholstery and upgraded carpet. He drove out of the garage and turned onto Negarastan, the wide street that fronted MOIS headquarters. He headed for the Kordestan Expressway and his home outside the city. He climbed the entrance ramp to the elevated roadway and settled down for the drive. He was coming up on the intersection with the Resalat and Hakim Expressways, when a tractor-trailer pulled alongside and slammed into the side of his car.
