by J. G. Sandom
Johnson looked horrified. He sat back on Bartolo’s desk. “You want to what?”
“I want to go to the Canary Islands.”
Johnson laughed. “And I want to go to Jamaica. So what?”
“Seriously, sir. The bomb isn’t going to New York. It’s going to La Palma. It may already be there.”
“Let me get this straight. You want to leave New York just as she faces her gravest threat? You’ve got to be kidding. We need you here.”
“But, sir–”
“That’s an order, Decker. You’re staying.” Then he softened and said, “Of course, if Warhaftig has a compulsion to share your theories with the CIA, he’s perfectly free to do so.” The SAC looked at Warhaftig and smiled. “That’s the whole point of Homeland Security. Everybody working together.”
Decker stood up. He gathered the papers Warhaftig had given him, as well as the translation of the shadow copy that he’d jotted down earlier. “Yes, sir. Is that all, sir?” he said.
“Yeah, that’s all. Now get your skinny little ass out on the street, and get me some results.” Johnson nodded toward Warhaftig. “You go with him,” he said. Then he spun about and stormed off to his office.
Warhaftig looked thunderstruck. “Great,” he said, staggering to his feet. “One minute I’m the untouchable CIA guy. Then I do you a favor, and I’m on the boss’s shit list. Good work,” he added ruefully.
Decker smiled. “No one told you to hitch your wagon to this mule. Why’s he got such a hard-on for me, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” Warhaftig said. “I guess he blames you for what happened to Bartolo. I don’t,” he added quickly. “Probably because you were forced down his throat. According to Williams, when you joined the team, Johnson couldn’t promote someone else he’d promised to take care of.”
“Figures,” Decker said. “Come on, Pancho. Let’s roll.”
“Why do I have to be Pancho? Why can’t I be Don Quixote? I’ve got the Roman nose, the distinguished features.” Warhaftig displayed his profile.
“Perhaps I should call you Pauncho. Besides, you’re shorter.” Decker started toward the door.
“Well, this paunch has got to go. I’ll meet you by the elevators.”
When they had walked a couple of blocks from FBI headquarters, just as Warhaftig was lighting up a Camel, Decker got another message on his cell. It read: Grand Central Terminal; Metro-North; New Haven Line; Gate 12. He turned to Warhaftig and said, “I’ve got to make a stop. Grand Central Station.”
They got into Warhaftig’s car, a beefy Land Rover Discovery, and tore up the FDR to Twenty-third Street. Then they got off the highway and headed up Park Avenue. At Forty-second Street, Warhaftig suddenly swung right, cut down the ramp, and took a left cross-town. He skidded to a stop in front of Grand Central Station. Decker jumped out of the car and dodged into the terminal. He ran down the marble causeway, through another set of doors, and entered the massive central hall, with its majestic vaulted ceiling, pale green, outlined with constellations. The terminal was packed. He could hear footsteps echoing, reverberating through the hall. He noticed Orion, the hunter, far above, the bold sweep of his bow, like a great wave washing across the sky. He looked beyond the bold brass Information Booth. There it was. Gate twelve.
Decker dashed across the hall, weaving in and out of gray commuters. Hassan was standing by a shoeshine stand under a marble arch, reading a copy of The New York Times. As soon as Decker approached, Hassan climbed up onto the stand. Decker slipped into the seat beside him. Hassan plucked at his trousers, lifting the hems up so that the polish wouldn’t smudge his clothes. He continued to read his newspaper. Decker started to say something, but Hassan cut him off with a glance. “Sure, you can,” the Professor said. His voice was a trifle loud. “How about Arts?” He handed Decker a section of the paper.
When they were both cocooned behind their newspapers, Decker looked over at Hassan and said, “I was just about to call you–”
“I found it,” the Professor hissed.
“What?”
“The source of the third quote: Death will overtake you. It’s from An-Nisa, The Women. The full quote is: Wherever you are, death will overtake you, though you are in lofty towers, and if a benefit comes to them, they say: This is from Allah. Let’s face it, Agent Decker – there aren’t too many towers loftier than the skyscrapers of New York.”
Decker shook his head. “No, I don’t believe it,” he replied.
Hassan looked hurt. “I checked it several times and–”
“No, I don’t mean you. I’m sure you’re right. I just don’t believe that whatever’s planned for New York is anything more than a ruse, a non-nuclear event, a diversion from the bombing at 0. Why have a countdown if you’re going to set the bomb off prematurely? It doesn’t make sense. No. The fourth wallpaper. That’s the key. The grand finale. The crescendo. I figured it out this morning.”
“You did?”
“It’s dimensional, Jusef.”
“What do you mean, dimensional?”
“Picture a piece of graph paper,” Decker said. “The first wallpaper featured a single line, both literally and geometrically. One axis – X. One dimension. The second featured two intersecting lines. Two axes – X and Y. Two dimensions, where the words Well and Seven coincided. The third, I’ll bet, is three dimensional, either semantically or geometrically. Three axes – X, Y and Z. And the fourth, I know, is temporal. Three physical dimensions . . . over time. Just like light – the manner in which El Aqrab paints – and water – the Islamic purifying agent – contribute a dynamic quality to Islamic architectural decoration, extending forms and patterns into the fourth dimension. That’s what it said in ben Saad’s book, the one you loaned me.”
“I was with you,” the professor said, “until the fourth dimension.”
Decker sighed. He looked over his newspaper and saw Warhaftig watching him from behind the Information Booth. Their eyes met and the CIA operative began to make his way across the terminal.
“I had a dream,” Decker continued, “that opened up the patterns. I took an image of the fourth wallpaper, cut out the negative space, and shaped it into a kind of dome, just like the Shaykh Lutfallah Mosque in Isfahan.”
“Muqarnas. Okay. I think I’m following you.”
“I spun it counter-clockwise. It cast a shadow and all this text came spilling out: His are the vessels with lofty sails raised high on the ocean like mountains. All that is on the earth will perish and only that will survive which is under the care of the Lord, Master of Glory and Honor.”
Hassan dismounted the stand and paid.
“Please find me that reference, Jusef. Please. Before it’s too late.”
Chapter 32
Wednesday, February 2 – 8:26 AM
New York City
Decker and Warhaftig drove to Thirty-fourth Street and Fifth Avenue and found a parking spot immediately adjacent to the Empire State building. As soon as Decker stepped out of the Discovery, he felt his eyes drawn skyward by the famous New York landmark. The tower was hidden by clouds. Nothing symbolized the city more than this magnificent structure, not even the Statue of Liberty. The building had been immortalized through countless films and photographs – from An Affair to Remember to Sleepless in Seattle. Now that the World Trade Towers were gone, the Empire State building was once again the premier icon of the New York City skyline.
They approached the main entrance on Fifth, and Decker admired the huge stone eagles straddling the entrance; they were perched a good four stories up. What have these limestone sentinels seen? he thought, as he made his way into the lobby. He’d been to the Empire State before, of course, only a few weeks after moving to the city, and he had been amazed by the deco architecture. Now, as he and Warhaftig walked through the lobby toward the Information Desk, he was even more aware of the ornate carvings and relief work. The walls were lined with honey-colored marble. There was an etching of the building near the elevators that seemed t
o glow from some internal light.
Larry Dobson, Chief of ESB Security, was waiting patiently for them at the Information Desk. He was short and bald, with a wide pasty face and silver aviator glasses. “Agent Decker?” he inquired. He wore a red blazer with the logo of the landmark emblazoned on the front.
Decker and Warhaftig introduced themselves. They flashed their badges, shook Dobson’s hand, and proceeded past the Information Desk toward the security checkpoint.
“We scan everybody,” Dobson said. “Just like the airports.” Dobson waved the agents through. Then they headed up the escalator toward the Observatory Elevators.
“There are only five entrances to the building: on Thirty-third Street, Fifth Avenue and Thirty-fourth,” he said. “Most visitors use the main entrance on Fifth Avenue, or the one on Thirty-fourth Street for the handicapped. Everyone, and I mean everyone, has to pass through Security, even if they leave the building and return. That’s SOP. Most people then either go to work, or to the Observatory Ticket Office on the Concourse Level. Once they buy their tickets, they take the escalators or an elevator to the second floor. It’s only about 8:30, but there’s already a line for the Observation Deck, even with this weather.”
As they made their way along the corridor toward the Observatory Elevators, Decker noticed a series of modern paintings on the wall featuring the seven wonders of the ancient world. One in particular, the Lighthouse of Pharos, seemed to illuminate the corridor with brilliant hues of green and blue and gold. El Aqrab would appreciate this color scheme, thought Decker. Then he shuddered. I’m starting to think like him. Good.
“The construction of the Empire State Building began on January 22, 1930,” Dobson continued, “and was completed in November, the same year. The framework rose at a rate of four-and-half stories per week.” They stopped beside the Observatory Elevators. One of the cars arrived and a line of people began to gather near the entrance but Dobson waved them off. Then he stepped inside and motioned the agents to follow. “It took seven million man hours to complete,” he added, “and came in under budget. Of course, the advent of the Great Depression halved the costs.” He winked at Warhaftig. “The foundation runs fifty-five feet below the street. And it’s 1,454 feet to the top of the lightning rod which, incidentally, suffers about one hundred lightning strikes per year.”
The door closed and Decker could feel the car begin to rise.
“There are one hundred and three floors,” continued Dobson, “with 1,860 individual steps from street level to the one hundred and second. If you don’t believe me, you can count them.” He laughed a thin laugh and Decker wondered how many times he’d used that same line during his career. “From the sixty-foot setback on the fifth floor, the building soars without a break up to the eighty-sixth floor.”
“How many elevators?” asked Warhaftig.
“Seventy-three, including six freight elevators which run to the loading docks, operating at speeds from six hundred to fourteen hundred feet per minute. In fact, it’s possible to ride from the lobby to the eightieth floor in under forty-five seconds.”
“What about safety protocols?” said Decker. “You know, in case of fire or flood, or . . . ”
“ . . . or bomb threat,” Dobson finished. He nodded gravely. “A special water system feeds four hundred fire hose connections throughout the building,” he replied. “Plus, a state-of-the-art audio warning and strobe light guidance system was installed in ’98. Of course, it depends on the fire. A lot of people ask me what would happen if a plane were flown into the building, like in the World Trade Towers. Few people remember that a plane actually struck the building in 1945 – a B-25, lost in the fog.
“Lieutenant Colonel William F. Smith, Jr., a decorated veteran of over one hundred combat missions, was piloting the bomber from his home in Bedford, Massachusetts to Newark, before returning to home base in South Dakota. The flight plan called for Smith to put down at LaGuardia. But Smith believed he could maneuver safely through the fog, so he asked for and received clearance to fly on to Newark airport. The last thing the air traffic controller told him was, ‘At the present time, I can't see the top of the Empire State Building.’”
Dobson cackled grimly. “Apparently, neither could Smith. He thought he’d made it to the West Side when he came across the Chrysler Building. Had he kicked left, he would have been okay. Instead, he kicked the rudder right, and headed directly toward the ESB at two hundred miles per hour. Smith tried to climb, but it was already too late. At exactly 9:40 AM, the plane collided with the seventy-ninth floor.
“Luckily, the accident occurred on a Saturday, while only about fifteen hundred people were in the building, compared with the ten to fifteen thousand on an average weekday. And, luckily, the bomber was unarmed. Still, fourteen people died in the accident – eleven in the building, plus Colonel Smith and the other two occupants of the plane. An eighteen by twenty feet hole was gouged out by the bomber, and one of the plane's engines plowed through the building, emerged on the Thirty-third Street side, and crashed through the roof of a neighboring structure. The fuel tanks exploded instantaneously, shooting flames across the seventy-ninth floor in all directions. Those not severely injured had to walk down seventy flights through darkened stairwells. Many reported seeing flaming debris falling down elevator shafts.
“Unaware that the plane’s other engine and part of its landing gear had dropped through one of the elevator shafts, rescue workers began to use the elevators to transport casualties to the street, one of whom was an operator named Betty Lou Oliver. She’d been blown out from behind her post up on the eightieth floor, and badly burned. After receiving first aid, they loaded her into another elevator so that they could transfer her to an ambulance below. But, as the doors closed, rescue workers heard what sounded like a gunshot. It was, in fact, the snapping of the elevator cables weakened by the crash.
Dobson grinned. “The car with Betty Lou inside – now at the seventy-fifth floor – plunged all the way to the sub-basement, a fall of over a thousand feet. Rescuers had to cut a hole in the car to get her out. Miraculously, despite a harrowing experience, Betty Lou survived. As the elevator fell, you see, the compensating cables, hanging from beneath the car, began to pile up in the pit and acted as a kind of spring, softening the impact. Also, the hatchway was high-pressure, with minimum clearance around the car. The air was literally compressed as the elevator fell, creating an air cushion in the lower portion of the shaft.”
The elevator came to a sudden stop at the eightieth floor and Dobson, Decker and Warhaftig got out. “Do you always tell that story when you’re in an elevator?” Warhaftig asked.
Dobson grinned. “Always.”
They made their way across the hall to the Tower Elevator bank. “We’re almost there,” said Dobson. A few minutes later they ascended the last few stories to the Observation Deck.
It was a miserable day, wet and cloudy, yet the platform was crowded with tourists. Some gaped through telescopes, others took photographs. Decker was amazed. What could they see through all this cloud cover? Lovers hugged each other. A troupe of Boys Scouts crowded in one corner of the deck, preparing – the agents soon learned – for an urban sleep-away. Decker pulled Dobson to the side and asked him, “What about the Radiation Detection Units?”
“They’re deployed throughout the building,” he said. “Five teams on the ground floor, two on the second, and another four on various stories throughout the skyscraper.”
“The cars look like toys,” said Warhaftig. He was leaning up against the parapet. “Look, John, you can see them now. Right there. Through the fog.”
“No, that’s okay.”
Decker stepped back. His face was pale and grim. The accident was but a few days distant. He could still see Bartolo wriggling in the air. “I think we’ve seen enough,” he said, and started toward the door.
They headed back inside, into a vacant Tower Elevator and descended to the eightieth floor. As they waited for an Observatory
Elevator to take them to street level, Decker noticed some construction going on at the far end of the corridor. “What’s going on over there?” he asked.
Dobson shrugged. “Renovation. One of those Rock ‘n Roll Planet restaurants,” he said. “They snag the traffic on the way upstairs.”
Decker began to wander slowly down the corridor. “When will it be finished?” he said.
“Another two weeks. Maybe more. You know contractors.” Dobson laughed at some private joke. “They’re still remodeling the kitchen.” The elevator arrived. “It’s here,” he said.
“Just a minute,” Decker said. He kept on walking down the hall. Most of the restaurant seemed to have been completed, but Decker noticed a gap in one wall, just inside the door. “What’s that?” he asked.
The foreman, a huge man with a buzz cut and ham-like hands stepped forward. Dobson came over and introduced him. “This here is Sean O’Brien. Sean – Agents Decker and Warhaftig. Homeland Security.” They shook hands.
“What’s this gap here?” repeated Decker, pointing at the wall. He stepped across a plastic sheet laid out on the floor.
O’Brien shrugged. “Dunno,” he said. He looked about and shouted to another man who was standing in the kitchen. “Hey, Keating. What’s this here?” Then he turned toward Decker and said, “Keating’s the restaurant manager. He’ll know.”
Keating said a few words to one of his assistants and eventually drew near. He was a tall man with a hatchet-thin face and wavy blond hair. “Jukebox,” he said. “Should be here today, so they keep telling me. Special order.”
“A jukebox?” Decker said.
“A Sound Leisure Beatles unit?” asked Warhaftig. “From the Yellow Submarine?”
“That’s right. How did you know?”
