“Listen to me, Warren. Trust me.”
“You are crazy, Yvonne. Once I believed I knew what drove you, possessed you. Now I don’t think I do anymore. What is it? What’s it all for?”
She shook her head slowly. “I don’t think I know myself anymore. That’s the truth. All I do know is that I can’t stop until it’s finished.”
“You look a mess, Yvonne. Give it up. I’ll tell Winnegar what’s happened. We’ll have people out there tomorrow. Good people, our people. Leave it to them. Leave it alone.”
She covered her eyes with a trembling hand. The crying started and she couldn’t stop it. Events, people, things, all swimming around in her mind. Link, Ellen Booker, Sally Cooperman. So many faces, so many victims. Bombings, threats, murders, lies, intrigues. She thought of the subway motorman, the young rookie without sight or legs. Sam Battaglia, the ferryboat captain. Those who died in Lady Luck and at 135th. Street, those who were permanently maimed. So many, so many. With more yet to come. “Please, Warren. Be my friend. My partner.”
“I am your friend. And I am still your partner. That’s why I haven’t called in yet. But for your own sake, Yvonne … ”
“I have to be there, don’t you see that? Armageddon’s turned this into something … different. A personal thing. Vendetta against me. If I’m there I can draw his fire. I’ve become an obsession for him. If nothing else, I can be a lightning rod — maybe save some other lives.”
“And die for it. He’ll kill you, Yvonne. I believe every word you told me today. Armageddon wants you dead. And know what? I doubt Downtown gives a damn. That’s why I’m so frightened.”
“Then you do think I’m right?”
“I think it’s insanity to continue, but … ” He hung his head, bitter and angry at those who had turned against her. “But I do believe political considerations are being drawn here. They don’t want smart cops. They want subservient ones. Keep your mouth shut and play the game.” He balled his fists. “I don’t like any of it. And I don’t like playing games. Not on anybody’s terms. They’re fucking with our heads, and I resent it. Only I know there’s nothing we can do.”
“Isn’t there?”
She searched for a cigarette. He gave her one of his, lighted it for her.
“I need a place to sleep, Warren. It’s been thirty-six hours. Tomorrow it will be over, I promise. And I won’t be killed. That’s another promise. All right, phone Winnegar if you have to — right now. I’ll cut a deal with you, okay? Tell him anything and everything you want. Just don’t let him know I’m here. If TTF or FBI or anyone else sees me at the exposition, all right. I’ll take my chances.” She shrugged. “I’ll turn myself in to them. Without a word. But if they don’t … ”
“You’ll be waiting for Armageddon.”
“Precisely. My way. On my terms. All I want from you is a place to sleep. Tomorrow to borrow some fresh clothes from Karen. That’s all I need. The rest is up to me.”
Warren drew a deep breath. “I’ll be there with you, you know you can count on that.”
She smiled. Warren wouldn’t let her down. “Only as backup. That’s really all I need. Stay out of sight. It’s me he’s after. You’ll provide cover only. Promise me.”
He hesitated before agreeing.
“Promise me, Warren!”
“We both must be nuts.” He angrily snubbed out his cigarette.
It was cold. The hint of coming snow was in the air. First snow. Yvonne zipped her jacket, pulled the fur collar snugly up. The temperature had dropped sharply, air brittle. Frosty with the first signs of winter’s arrival. She examined the scene before her at South Street Seaport, keeping at a safe distance away while workers hurried to complete last minute preparations for the expected crowd.
FBI and Secret Service were milling about, she saw. They were the easiest of all to spot. Radio plugs in their ears, walkie-talkies in their hands, gray overcoats and suits. All very efficient. Very dapper. Mingled among them were a number of dark-eyed, concerned-looking security men from the Turkish Consulate. Armed, darting cunning eyes, nervously inspecting this and that while they waited. There to protect the dignitaries and guests from their country. The governor’s own security men were state troopers. Tall, broad-shouldered, and young. The cynical cops of N.Y.P.D. stood out by a mile from the others. Worn raincoats and overcoats. Relaxed, drinking coffee from steaming containers. A number of uniformed police were beginning to appear on the scene as well. That along with a few select SWAT snipers placed on the roofs. Strictly precautionary, Yvonne knew. Having virtually nothing to do with Armageddon. They still weren’t taking her seriously. At least seriously enough. No matter how many cops were on hand, she fully knew that Armageddon had thought up too many carefully drawn plans to be deterred now.
She’d slept long and hard at Warren’s. Then, hours into the night, she slipped away and returned to the city. Warren would know where to look for her; she wanted his involvement kept to a minimum, though. On her mind was Karen and the kids. There were already too many police widows. Putting his life into jeopardy wouldn’t solve anything. No, too much blood was on her conscience. Ellen’s murder hit her harder than expected. If there was one life that might have been spared it was hers. Warren had been right, of course. She should never have left the frightened woman alone. Not after what they’d done.
For hours she’d walked. Along Broadway mostly, recalling vividly these past long weeks that began with the nightmare at 135th Street. She was hardly even aware of the preparations being made for the Thanksgiving Day Parade being held later in the week, heralding the holiday season.
Christmas decorations were already going up, stores displaying a plethora of gifts for the holidays. Salvation Army bins on street corners collecting for the poor, sidewalk Santa Clauses ringing bells. She’d watched the coming of dawn, the onset of daybreak with a pale sun fighting to cut through the thick gray cloud cover. The wind was harsh this morning. Gusting down the quiet streets. Carrying the scent of the snow. It wouldn’t be a good day at all. The bad weather would keep shopping crowds to a minimum, she knew. And for that she was glad. It probably also meant a small turnout for the opening of the exposition. She looked at her watch: It was barely past 8 AM. Rush hour traffic busily clambered over the avenues. The trade show was set to start in two hours.
A long dais had been constructed for the honored guests and speakers. About thirty feet in front of it was a row of police barricades. There would first be an introduction by the president of the trade commission, followed by a few brief remarks from assorted state officials responsible for the expo. After that, if the schedule hadn’t been altered, the mayor would read a message, followed by a short appearance by the governor, hailing New York City’s efforts to remain the trading capital of the world. Yvonne would have given good odds that along with the governor’s entourage would be his special assistant. How ironic, she mused, that William DeVicente was being set up for murder by both his own children.
If her guess was right, the bomb would be set to detonate when the dais was filled and the gathered crowds were at their maximum. The blast would probably come either during the mayor’s speech or the governor’s. But from where? Without doubt the entire area had already been swept by the Bomb Squad and the FBI’s own experts. How would Armageddon possibly hope to plant the device anywhere within a thousand yards and still hope to reach the dais?
Her eyes surveyed the area bit by bit, slowly, meticulously.
The wharf? There were now about ten ships in berth, by her count, the decks would be swarming with undercover police and FBI. It would be all but impossible to plant any device on any of them.
The shopping markets along the mall? The concrete and steel structures would hinder the explosion, she knew. It might cause havoc inside the markets, but certainly reduce the effects outside. Flying glass would most certainly rain over the Seaport, injuring hundreds. But not necessarily reaching the target of the dais.
How then?
&nb
sp; A gruesome thought occurred to her. What if the bomb weren’t being planted at all? What if Jaime — or Vanessa — actually were going to mingle with the crowds, then at the appropriate moment throw the bomb. Insane to be sure. Suicide for Armageddon. If the blast didn’t kill them, security police surely would. But then, assassination was the ultimate and perhaps final goal.
How are you planning to pull it off, lover? What makes you so damn sure of yourself?
Yvonne strained to get a glimpse inside Jaime DeVicente’s head. Put herself into his position. What would she do? He’d know the police were closing in. Know he’d be shot down on sight. He was desperate. Wounded. A hunted wild animal. More dangerous than ever, but also more prone to making a mistake than ever before. One last act before the curtain came down. Was he frightened? Perhaps. But life meant little. And this was a chance at real immortality. A page in the history books.
Come on, what would you do? How would you do it?
It was the next possible alternative that made her shudder. Create a diversion somehow. Draw attention away, even if just for a bare instant. Then strike — and strike hard. Yvonne swallowed. There’ll he two bombs, won’t there? One to create fear and panic. The second to do the real job: kill the governor and as many of his men as you can.
What pale sun had been shining now vanished behind thickening dark clouds. Despite the chill and rising wind, the main thoroughfare of the Seaport was beginning to hum with activity. The markets were open, selling everything from imported cheeses, fruit and breads, to fish caught only hours before. Some of the stores were preparing to open as well. Fancy boutiques, fast food stalls, health food shops, specialty emporiums, all preparing for an out-of-season hectic day due the official opening of the exposition. Santa Claus rang his bell. Tourists snapped pictures of the tall ships in harbor and the dais, where a few dignitaries were beginning to arrive with their escorts. Two blue and white squad cars stood parked at the end of the street. As yet there was no sign of the mayor, nor the governor. She crossed her fingers in hopes that at the last minute they wouldn’t come. But the rock in the pit of her stomach assured her they would. Bringing brief, carefully drafted speeches, tailored for the press and their own self-image. More than in time for the evening newscasts.
Time passed slowly. Yvonne remained shadowed in doorways and arches, slowing moving, ambling among shoppers and the gradually increasing crowd gathering near the dais. Flags from all over the world were flying proudly, briskly snapping in the strong wind.
Imports from every continent shared in the opening of the Turkish trade fair. Woolens, furs, leather goods. The mall windows were crammed.
It was after 9 AM. There was no sign of Warren. He was somewhere close, she was sure. Out of sight, keeping his word. No sign of TTF brass. Nor of any overt FBI or P.D. activity. Hadn’t Warren passed on her warning to Winnegar, she wondered. Weren’t they taking her seriously?
Overhead a police helicopter prowled. Blades chopping loudly. Many in the growing crowds gaped and took pictures as the bird whirled in a large circle above the Seaport.
Let there be a blizzard! Dear God, keep the crowds thin.
At about 9:30 music began to be played from loudspeakers. Normal traffic had been rerouted well away from the mall, and more and more visitors were converging toward the dais. A Salvation Army group formed a line along the edge of the main thoroughfare, its leader reading a prayer aloud and giving a goodwill speech to the passersby. Uniformed police were liberally sprinkled and mingling with the visitors. A stretch limousine, led by two motorcycle police, made its way along the walk, causing pedestrians to scurry aside. The mayor’s car, Yvonne knew. She looked again at her watch. He was early.
Yvonne cursed under her breath. Where to look, where to find Armageddon. He was here. She’d bet anything on that. Her life, even. That was a joke. Her life was already on the line. She bit her lip in consternation. Time was dangerously short. Was Warren nearby? Could he see her? A mental clock ticked away inside her brain. Each passing minute cut down her chances, she realized. Her advantage was slipping — Armageddon’s was increasing.
More sirens. These from behind. She swallowed hard. Three more shiny cars appeared, one flying the state flag. License plate New York 1. The governor’s car.
Security abruptly tightened immensely. Burly uniformed state troopers surrounded the governor and his small entourage. The governor was grinning and waving, stopping to answer a few questions thrown out by the press, smile for the Minicam cameras that were taping the event. For an instant she thought she saw Winnegar near the dais. Then he was lost in the shuffle as the crowd closed in. The first speaker took to the podium: the state commissioner of commerce, on hand to officially open the expo. The music ceased, and he tapped on the microphones. Loud whistles screeched over loudspeakers.
“Is that better?” he was saying. “Can everyone hear me now?”
Assured that the mikes were operating properly he began.
Yvonne hung back at the edge of the crowd. She wasn’t an expert in crowd control but a cursory glance told her that all in all at least several thousand people were on hand. The commissioner extolled the mayor and his staff for their fine work in bringing this event about, then introduced the VIPs one by one. The mayor was beaming and waving, sitting to the speaker’s left. The governor, a political foe for many years, sat equally pleased, looking at the speaker’s right. After polite applause the commissioner was followed by one of the leading members of the Turkish trade commission. More praise resounded for the mayor and also the governor, as well as the city and the people of New York. Yvonne drank from a container of dark bitter coffee while the speeches went laboriously on. A few flakes of snow started to fall. She took shelter beneath the awning of a sporting supply store and stood feeling helpless. Could she have been wrong? Or had DeVicente decided not to risk it after all? Had she wounded him worse than she’d believed? She searched her mind for something — anything — conceivably left out, some missing piece.
No. Something was wrong. Something was wrong somewhere.
The crowd cheered. From the distance she saw the mayor rise, his arms high in greeting, and take the podium. Media people swarmed over the barricades. His Honor stopped the police from holding them back, basking in the glow of favorable publicity. Something he’d been very short of as of late.
He glorified New York’s role as trade center of the world, heaping praise on the effort and goodwill spent on this festive occasion, speaking with flair and animation in his usual style.
Come on, damn you.
She looked around furtively. All seemed so calm. The crowd hushed except to laugh at one of the mayor’s jokes or clap at the end of a poignant sentence.
She looked behind. The Salvation Army group stood gathered closely together, also watching and listening. Even Santa Claus had stopped ringing his bell and was moving away from the line of mall shops, the only place where a reasonable view of the dais was still available.
In that moment she froze. Santa Claus was limping. He wasn’t looking for a place to watch; rather, he was purposely slipping into the side street unnoticed toward the row of market warehouses. He was also carrying something in his hand.
She raced across the street, pushing aside a small child who ran in her way. The child fell and cried. Yvonne stumbled. Santa Claus heard the child above the sound of the speakers and turned. He saw Yvonne.
He ran down the alley between the open market and the warehouses. Yvonne chased behind. She drew her gun, held it close. At all costs she mustn’t fire, she knew.
Not now. Not yet. Not while there would be panic.
Someone unexpectedly got in Armageddon’s way. Using his arms as though swinging a bat, Santa Claus sent him hurling.
He dodged between cars and hurried through the back entrance of an aged brick edifice. Panting, Yvonne kicked the door open wide and threw herself inside. It was dark and quiet and barely lighted; corrugated wooden and cardboard boxes strewn everywhere. That a
nd the reek of stale air and sawdust. A packing house for the mall. Dollies and large bins on wheels scattered everywhere. Through murky light she passed amid long rows of piled open and empty crates.
Nothing. No one to be seen. Sweating, she stood with her back firm against the wall. She held her gun with both hands. Her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light. Along the wooden floor she could see a disturbed layer of sawdust. He’d passed this way. She knew he had.
“Yvonne, behind you!”
She swung around. Someone leaped over boxes. A shot rang out. She heard a brief cry. “Yvonne, he’s heading for the basement!”
She turned. Santa Claus dived amid wooden crates. She got off one shot. The bullet smashed through wood. Suddenly someone lunged for him. A lithe, dark figure. DeVicente lashed out with a long knife. The figure fell.
Warren! It had to be.
She fired again. DeVicente scrambled down a set of creaking steps leading below the surface. She pushed aside boxes and made for the steps. Beside them lay a moaning figure. It wasn’t Warren. At first she stared in disbelief. A tall lanky black man was curled in a fetal position holding his belly. For an instant she was sure it was Link. Her mind reeled. Link’s dead. Link’s dead.
“Get him … Get him, Yvonne … ”
“Oh, my God … ” She kneeled to comfort him. Blood oozed between his fingers. Through the agony in his twisted face she finally recognized him. Roy Ingram. Link’s wayward kid.
“What are you … ?”
Roy Ingram staved off her questions. “Catch him, Yvonne.”
“I’ll get you help,” she whispered.
Roy shook his head. “The bomber … ” He pointed down the steps, hissing the words. “There’s a passage out from there. Leads to the wharf … The boats … ”
Then she understood. Armageddon had no intention of attacking from the mall or grandstand, where the crowds were gathered. He would do it from the rear. The harbor. Slipping behind the police lines from under the warehouse. Setting his charge on the ship moored directly at the edge of the pier. Less than a stone’s throw from the dock. Close enough for the whole dais to be blown apart.
Black Midnight Page 27
