by Stuart Woods
Jasmine took the wallet from her large purse and removed the New York State driver’s license from it. The cops worked their way down the car, checking IDs, and finally stopped in front of her.
A detective took the driver’s license from her hand and compared the photo on it with her face. “What’s your address?” he asked.
“Five-ninety Park Avenue,” she said, reciting the address on the license.
“Where did you get on the train?”
“At the last station.”
“Where were you before that?”
“At Bloomingdale’s,” she said, holding up her shopping bag.
He dipped into it and came up with a cashmere scarf and some panty hose. “Handbag?” he said.
She opened her handbag and held it up to him. He rummaged in it for a moment. Then stepped away. “Thank you for your cooperation,” he said, then moved on to the next passenger.
Another half an hour passed before the train began to move again. Jasmine picked up a discarded New York Post from the seat beside her and began to read it. She was safe.
—
She got off at the specified stop and looked around. A young man lounging against a Toyota sedan stood up straight and looked at her. She walked toward him.
“Ms. Avery?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied.
He held open the car door for her, and she got in.
He turned right at the next corner. “We’re going over to the West Side Highway,” he said. The East Side is all screwed up with traffic.”
“I understand,” she replied.
The driver made his way across town slowly. “The traffic is always like this,” he said. “Nothing unusual.”
“Fine.”
—
Twenty minutes later, he drove past the safe house slowly, and they both looked for signs of police. He let her off at the next corner and she walked back to the house, careful not to hurry. She went to the basement door and rang the bell.
The door opened almost immediately, and Habib let her in. “Everything all right?”
“Perfectly normal. There was one surprise: they stopped the subway train. It must be part of their plan after an attack.”
“That’s new to us.”
“The Bloomingdale’s bag was a brilliant idea. It may have saved me from further interrogation.”
“Thank you. I believe we’re safe in this house, no need to move you again.”
“I’ll take a day or two off before we begin again,” she said.
Holly was awakened by the flight attendant, who was holding a tray. “Some lunch?”
“Thank you,” Holly replied. Stone was already eating his.
“We’ve had several satphone calls,” the attendant said, “but nobody on the line. It may be some equipment or satellite problem. You might check in as soon as we land.”
“Thank you,” Holly said, and began to eat her sandwich.
—
As the Gulfstream touched down, Holly switched on her cell phone: there were three voice messages and a text, all telling her to call the director’s office. The airplane taxied to a halt, and Holly and Stone deplaned and got into the waiting car. While they waited for their luggage to be loaded, Holly called in on the director’s direct line. A moment later she was connected.
“Hello, Holly, we’ve been trying to reach you.”
“The satphone on the airplane wasn’t working,” Holly said. “I called back as soon as I could. I’m at Teterboro now.”
“Bad news. We’ve had a bombing at the East Side station.”
Holly gulped. “How bad?”
“Two security people killed, plus the driver of the Lincoln Town Car containing the bomb. He used my name to get the garage door opened. Three people in the street, on foot or in cars, were killed, too, and some damage was done to the front wall of a town house across the street. The New York media are all over us, but our cover story is still holding. We’re saying that the building contained some administrative people.”
“What was the damage to our building?”
“The reinforced garage contained it. Lots of vehicle damage, but that has already been cleared away, and the garage is operating normally again.”
“Any suspects?”
“Al Qaeda, of course.”
“Jasmine?”
“You think she’s in the country?”
“I think it’s likely,” Holly replied.
“The FBI has circulated her photograph, but only a few hours ago. She could have entered the country before that happened.”
“I think you should take greater than usual personal precautions,” Holly said. “Helicopter to and from work. Remember the British foreign minister.”
“I have new security arrangements in hand,” Kate replied, “and so does the secretary of state. I want you to stay in New York and make sure everything in the building is running normally and that additional security arrangements have been made before you come back here.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Holly replied.
“You’ll be staying at Stone’s house?”
“I’ll be reachable on my cell.”
“Don’t be coy. I want you protected.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll be staying at Stone’s.” She raised her eyebrows questioningly, and he nodded.
“We’ll speak after you’ve assessed the situation on the East Side,” Kate said.
Holly hung up. “Jasmine’s here,” she said to Stone.
“In the city?”
Holly nodded. “There was a bombing at our New York station. We’ll drop you, then I’ll go directly there. Thank you for continuing to put me up.”
“I’m glad to have you.”
“Expect security outside your house.”
“I’m glad to have that, too.”
Holly sat back in her seat and sighed. “I think I’m glad Jasmine is here,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because I couldn’t do anything about catching her in London. Here, it’s going to be different.”
—
The garage door was operating when her car arrived at the station, but an armed guard looked into the car before the door was opened. Inside, a new security barrier was being installed, and the garage was nearly empty of cars.
—
Upstairs, Holly took her usual office, then called the station chief. “I want a meeting with the FBI AIC and the police commissioner as soon as possible,” she said.
“Where?”
“Let them decide. How are we fixed for armored vehicles?”
“There were two in the garage—one burned, the other is being repaired. Should be back within the hour.”
“I’ll use that to go to the meeting,” she said. “Have them pick me up here.” She gave him Stone’s address. “And I want security outside that address, starting now. I’m staying there. How’s everybody holding up here?”
“They’re all being very cool about it,” he replied.
“Good. Let’s keep it as normal as possible.”
“Will do.”
“How did the bomber car get into the garage?”
“The driver told us that Director Lee was in the car,” he said. “Almost as soon as the door was opened, shots were fired, so the guards knew immediately that the car was a threat. Then the bomb went off. We think the driver was already dead when it blew.”
“Anything on the driver?”
“He’s hamburger. The feds took the pieces for examination. The bomb was in the trunk, so much of the force of the blast went into the street. The rest just hit cars.”
“Traffic was normal when I arrived.”
“It took the police a couple of hours to clear the block, then they reopened it.”
“What’s happening with the media?”
“We’ve referred all inquiries to the police commissioner’s office, and they’re stating that we’re just federal office workers. That story seems to be holding, for the moment.”
—
Two hours later Holly sat in the police commissioner’s office with the commissioner and the agent in charge of the FBI’s New York office.
“The car and the body of the driver have yielded little,” the AIC said, “except that he is of Middle Eastern descent. His prints weren’t on file.”
Holly nodded.
“We’ve got everybody on this,” the commissioner said.
“It’s Jasmine Shazaz,” Holly said.
“How do you know that?” the AIC asked.
“I can’t prove it, but I know it.”
“That’s not how we work.”
“You got the photograph yesterday,” Holly said. “When did personnel at entry points have it?”
The AIC looked at his fingernails. “It takes time,” he said. “It’s there now.”
“She probably entered the country during the past twenty-four hours,” Holly said.
“How could she plan a thing so quickly?” the commissioner asked.
“I should think it was already planned by a team here. She probably selected it from a menu of targets. They’ve already wreaked havoc in London. Be prepared for it to happen here.”
“We’re doing everything we can,” the commissioner said.
“I hope it’s enough,” Holly replied.
Jasmine had another nap, then came to dinner. Habib had ordered in. He held her chair; the food was Indian.
“Wine?” she asked.
“I’m Muslim, aren’t you?”
“Not your kind of Muslim,” she replied. “Send somebody out for it—a nice California Chardonnay will do.”
Habib gave the order, and the wine was back in ten minutes. “May we dine now?” he asked.
“Of course.” Jasmine opened the bottle, so Habib wouldn’t be sullied, and poured herself a large glass, then she helped herself to the food. “It’s good,” she said.
“I think you should leave New York,” Habib said. “There will be a very great search for you.”
“Certainly not. I have work to do here. Let’s have another look at your list.”
Habib got up and brought the list.
Jasmine took a sip of her wine and consulted the paper. “These buildings are too secure. We got lucky at the CIA place.”
“They’ll be expecting you to bomb those sorts of places,” he said.
“I want something different, but something that still hurts. Let’s go back to the CIA building.”
“We can’t do that,” Habib said.
“We can do whatever we wish,” Jasmine replied, trying not to sound too sharp. Habib was not accustomed to being bossed around by women, after all. “Send someone to the neighborhood, someone who won’t be noticed. Have him watch the people who leave at lunchtime.”
“All right. We’ve had a report that the woman from the CIA sent to London after the attack at the embassy has left London and returned to New York.”
“How do we know this?”
“A spotter at London City Airport recorded the landing from the States of a Gulfstream 450 jet which we have seen deliver CIA personnel in the past. The following morning a man and a woman boarded that aircraft, which flew to Teterboro, New Jersey, according to the flight plan filed.” Habib put a photograph of the two on the table. “She was seen leaving the Connaught Hotel an hour before it took off. We believe she boarded the airplane. The name on the manifest was H. Barker, and there’s a Holly Barker high up at the CIA.”
“So you had plenty of time to place someone at Teterboro, didn’t you?”
“Teterboro is a different basket of fish than London City. It’s the largest and busiest general aviation airport in the United States, and it has half a dozen places—they call them FBOs—where the airplane could park. We confirmed that the airplane landed, but our observer was off the field and had to guess where it parked from the direction it taxied.”
“And?”
“He went to Jet Aviation and through the fence saw a black SUV, such as the CIA uses, be allowed onto the ramp, which is unusual. Suspecting it was a government vehicle, he followed it into the city, where it made a stop in the East Forties, letting a man out, then continued. Unfortunately, our man lost contact with the car when it continued, but it was not so far from the CIA building.”
“This place in the East Forties—what was it?”
“A town house, in a neighborhood called Turtle Bay.”
“Who lives there?”
“We think the man who flew with Barker, but we’re not sure.”
“Have the house watched,” she said, “along with the CIA building.”
“It will be done.”
“I want to know what connection the woman from the CIA has with the man who lives there.”
Habib nodded.
“How many bombs do we have available?”
“One, assembled. We can obtain materials for as many as we need.”
“Assemble a second bomb,” Jasmine said.
—
Stone and Holly sat at a corner table at Patroon, Stone’s new favorite restaurant. He missed the clublike atmosphere and the regulars at Elaine’s, but the food was good here and the atmosphere warm and inviting.
“How bad was it?” Stone asked.
“Not nearly as bad as it might have been,” Holly said. “We built the building, and we built it to survive an explosion virtually intact.”
“Is it Jasmine?”
“Of course it is. I had a meeting with the police commissioner and the AIC from the FBI’s local office, and I explained about her, but I’m not sure they bought it. The FBI was slow to circulate her photo, and she made it into the country. That drives me crazy!”
“Does Jasmine know who you are?”
“I have no reason to think so,” Holly replied. “She knows who the director is, though, and I’ve warned her to stop driving to work and take the helicopter instead.”
“Sounds like good advice.”
“It’s all I can do. We’re no better equipped for a hunt in New York than we were in London, and we don’t have any more authority, either. Sometimes I think we need a change in our charter. I think we would have been a better place to spend the taxpayers’ money than creating this gargantuan Homeland Security apparatus.”
“Have you talked with them?”
“I’m relying on the FBI to do that,” she said. “I have to keep the peace.”
“I haven’t heard anything on the news about a search for Jasmine,” Stone said.
“I know, and it’s frustrating.”
“Do you think she’s still here?”
“I have no way of knowing. She could be anywhere in the country by now.”
“Maybe Kate Lee needs to go to the president about this.”
“She’ll know better than I when it’s time to do that.”
“I suppose so.”
Holly finished her glass of wine and waited for Stone to refill her glass, then she took a healthy swig of that.
“I saw two men in a car near my house,” Stone said. “Are they yours?”
“They’d better be,” Holly said.
“Why don’t you invite them into the house? Put one inside my office outside door and one in the kitchen—that way they can watch both the street and the garden.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Mind? I don’t want my house blown up.”
“I’ll do it, then.”
“I feel better already,” Stone said.
Joan buzzed Stone. “Herbie on one.”
Stone pressed the button. “Morning, Herb. How are you?”
“Extremely well,” Herbie replied. “And you?”
“Can’t complain.” He didn’t mention that there was CIA security at the front and rear of his house.
“Is Holly in town?”
“She is.”
“Will the two of you have dinner with Harp and me this evening?”
“Let me check with Holly—hang on.”
Stone pressed the hold button, rang Holly and got an affirmative reply.
“Sure, where and when?”
“La Grenouille at eight?”
“Nice choice. We’ll be there.” They both hung up. Stone reflected that he was unable to keep up with Herbie’s progress as a sophisticate. A year before he would never have heard of La Grenouille.
—
Stone and Holly arrived at the restaurant a little late, and Stone was surprised to find James Rutledge and Kelli Keane at the table with Herbie and Harp. He introduced Holly, and they sat down.
A waiter appeared with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot Grande Dame champagne and presented it to Herbie, who nodded. “Would anyone prefer something else to drink? Stone, I’m sure they have Knob Creek.”
“My favorite champagne is always good enough for me,” Stone said, as the waiter made his rounds, then brought them menus.
“When is your book out, Kelli?” Stone asked.
“Very soon,” she replied.
“I hope I’m not going to get a raft of calls from the media.”
“I think all their questions will be answered in the book,” she said, cryptically.
“It’s too late for ‘no comment,’ then?”
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Stone.” She turned to Holly. “I remember you from the opening of The Arrington in L.A. You’re CIA, aren’t you?” Asked as if they had never met.
“That’s right.”
“Congratulations on your promotion,” Kelli said. “I saw the mention in the Times.”
“Thank you,” Holly replied.
“I believe you had some sort of bombing incident on the East Side, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Any significant damage?”
“It rattled a few coffee cups—that was about it.”
“I’ll bet that’s what you would say if the building were just a hole in the ground,” Kelli said, laughing.
“Probably.”
“Have you been with the Agency a long time?”
“A fairly long time.”
“Did you do something else before that?”
“I was a police officer in Florida. Before that I was in the army, where I was a police officer, too.”
“I didn’t know the Agency drew on former police as recruits.”
