by Rick Mofina
Hall placed the toy under her illuminated, German-made wide-angle magnifying lamp and recorded the code. She then went online and submitted the code to a number of secure databases.
Results were instant.
This was a common pull-back novelty toy. They are often used for promotion with airline logos and markings. Hall noted that they were manufactured around the globe in India but chiefly China. This one was made in the Chenghai district and shipped around the world from the port at Shantou, Shenzhen. This one was model number F-SE23679C.
The dominant material was non-phthalate PVC.
With the toy enlarged under the lamp, Hall set out to disassemble it, evoking her days when she’d dissected frogs in high school. But as she went to separate the fuselage from the chassis, she caught her breath.
Tiny scratches along the seam.
She went to her forms. The latent and trace process did not involve any disassembly.
Who made the scratches?
She adjusted her magnifier.
These were not marks from the manufacturing process.
This thing’s been opened before.
Hall pried the base from the fuselage to reveal the tiny casing for the motor and batteries. She was gentle, as small wires were tethered to the section.
She examined the motor and tiny gearbox, reviewing how pull-back toys operated on Newton’s third law of action and reaction. The toy was powered by springs and gears through a basic gear train. It could be put in neutral, backward and forward modes, and had the ability to store energy.
Hall got all that.
Nothing out of the ordinary here, she thought, taking photographs and making notes.
She moved on to the housing for the batteries. The sound and lights features were powered by four common AG13 batteries that looked like tiny buttons, or pills. Using tweezers, Hall removed the batteries and examined them until she was satisfied that there was nothing unusual about them.
What is the deal with this toy? I don’t see anything.
She continued analyzing the battery housing, the tiny metal contacts.
Sticking out her bottom lip and shaking her head, Hall was moving to the conclusion that there was nothing suspicious about this item when something caught her eye.
She repositioned the housing under her magnifying lamp.
Something strange about the contact clips.
More microscopic scratches. The clips seem to have been “thickened.” Hall took more photos, then found the right tools and with surgical precision removed the clips.
She held them under the lamp.
Early in her career, Hall had worked in explosives. She’d gone to Hazardous Devices School at the FBI–U.S. army facility at the Redstone Arsenal in Huntsville, Alabama. She was posted in Iraq and became an expert on bomb components. When she returned she rode with the NYPD bomb squad.
Hall knew that she was looking at something remarkable.
A microscopic wafer detonator.
She set it under her microscope.
Its components were characteristic of a ceramic substrate with a glaze of polyimide but reengineered with radio static chips the diameter of a human hair. This device could function flawlessly using a dedicated current pulse that fired with a preset or dialed-in frequency.
Nothing could jam it or stop it.
I’ve never seen anything like this before.
Hall had read speculation that some groups were on the cusp of developing microscopic detonators that were virtually invisible to detection by traditional security measures like dogs, swabs scanners and X-rays at airports.
These new devices could be fired through a wireless device like a laptop or cell phone. They were fail-proof.
They could detonate the most powerful explosives one could build.
Hall licked her dry lips and reached for her phone.
“Gil,” she said, “you’d better come see this.”
CHAPTER 28
Manhattan, New York City
Is this my hell?
To live a never-ending nightmare in the futile hunt for Sarah and Cole?
“Did you hear me, Jeff?”
Numb and skewed, Jeff stared at the fresh cuts and scrapes on his hands. He’d flattened his palms on the polished table of a boardroom at NYPD police headquarters.
It was early afternoon, a few short hours after he’d seen Sarah.
Will I ever see her and Cole again?
Ice cubes clinked as Lieutenant Fred Ryan, spokesman for the department, poured a glass of water, then passed it to Jeff.
“Have some water and we’ll go over everything one last time.”
The lieutenant swiveled in the chair next to Jeff and flipped through pages on his clipboard.
“This will be broadcast live online and with major news networks. You’ll read the brief statement and that’s it. Stick to the statement. Say nothing about the toy airplane or mixed-up bags at the airport. You must not release any details that could further endanger your family or damage the investigation. The press will want to focus on you but do not take any questions,” Ryan said.
“We’ll handle that,” Lieutenant Ted Stroud, with the task force, said.
FBI Special Agent Steve McCallert, from the FBI’s New York headquarters, agreed. “This is chiefly an appeal for information.”
Ryan’s cell phone rang. He took the call and Jeff glanced around at the people in the room. He knew Cordelli, Ortiz, Brewer and Klaver. The others were strangers.
“They’re ready downstairs,” Ryan said. “Let’s go.”
“Wait,” Cordelli said. “Remember, Jeff, the kidnappers will be watching. You should know that by talking to the press you’re talking to the men who have your family.”
“And—” Brewer stood “—they’ve already murdered two people.”
* * *
The press auditorium was on the second floor of One Police Plaza.
It was a room befitting the nation’s largest police force, with stone walls, rows of chairs, waxed and polished hardwood floors, a stage with a podium bearing the NYPD shield.
Jeff estimated well over a hundred news people were clustered around forests of cameras and tripods in front of the stage. Crew members adjusted lenses and microphones. Reporters made calls, gossiped or scribbled notes while Jeff and the officials took their places, lining up abreast behind the podium.
He had wanted to do this, make a live statement to the press.
Investigators agreed that having him make a heartfelt plea for help was critical. This would be New York City’s top news story; it would go national and around the world. Tapping into his anguish could yield a break.
As Ryan began, Jeff slipped into a surreal state.
Sarah and Cole are gone. I battled for Sarah and I lost. Cole’s missing. Two people were burned to death in the SUV used to abduct my family. Why is this happening? The kidnappers’ ultimatum roaring: “We want our property returned…. If you fail, if you inform police, your family will die!” God, please help me….
Lieutenant Stroud took over for Ryan.
“We’ll provide you all with pictures,” Stroud said before starting a slide show presentation on a large screen behind them. He summarized points of the case, chronologically with dates and locations, but would not discuss certain key aspects.
“I want to stress that this investigation is ongoing, and we continue to pursue a number of leads,” Stroud said.
Massive photos of Sarah and Cole appeared alongside locator maps as Stroud started with how yesterday Jeff had reported Sarah and Cole’s abduction from the Times Square area, how surveillance footage led to the stolen SUV and the double homicide in Brooklyn.
“Omarr Lincoln Roderick Aimes of Morningside Heights, Ma
nhattan, has been identified as one of the victims in the SUV. His involvement is under investigation but he is known to police. Identification of the second victim is still pending. The SUV had been reported stolen from the Bronx, an aspect under investigation,” Stroud said.
“We found evidence that indicated Sarah and Cole Griffin had been in the SUV. Subsequent to the homicides, the kidnapping suspects contacted Jeff and arranged a meeting this morning. Jeff was directed into a suspect van bearing stolen license plates. Jeff’s wife, Sarah, was being held in the van and Jeff attempted to free her. During his struggle, the van led police on a high-speed pursuit. It ended on the West Side when Jeff fell from the fleeing vehicle directly into the path of the pursuing police unit, forcing it to stop. Sarah Griffin remained captive in the van. The suspect vehicle eluded arrest. Jeff was treated at Bellevue for minor injuries and released. NYPD detectives in the pursuing vehicle managed to take three photographs of the incident in progress.”
Whispering rippled among the group when three large color photos appeared on the screen. They showed the van doors open, with Jeff and Sarah, her hands and mouth bound, hanging out of the speeding vehicle, fighting men in dark clothing with macabre ghostly masks.
They were stunning images.
“We’re sharing these with the press. We’re asking anyone with any information about this case to contact us. Our priority is the safe return of Sarah and Cole Griffin and the arrest of those responsible for these acts. Now, before Jeff makes a short statement, we’ll take just a few quick questions.”
FBI Apecial Agent Steve McCallert joined Stroud at the podium and took the first question from a woman in her twenties who identified herself as Rachel Glass with Newsday.
“Do you consider this a terrorist act?”
“Nothing’s been ruled out at this point,” McCallert said. “Especially in light of the fact we have a major United Nations event ongoing now. A host of agencies, departments and individuals will be sharing all information.”
“Sam Howe, NBC News. What are the kidnappers demanding?”
“We’re not prepared to go into that sort of detail,” McCallert said.
“But you are confirming that there are demands?” Howe said.
“Sam, we can’t discuss that aspect of the case, period,” McCallert said.
“Vicky Knoller, ABC News. What exactly happened inside that van?”
“That’s under investigation,” Stroud said.
“Anne Paige, FOX News. Have you identified the suspects in the van?”
“We are working with our law enforcement intelligence partners to uncover all possible ties to these crimes,” McCallert said. “That includes any radical extremism or terrorist organizations, both at home and overseas. We’re pursuing every lead in that regard.”
“So that’s a no?” Paige said.
“I think I answered your question,” McCallert said.
“Tony Hicks, Star-Ledger. Can you tell us why the Griffin family is the target? From the information you put out last night, why would the suspects target a small-town mechanic, schoolteacher and their son, on vacation in New York?”
“We cannot answer that question,” Stroud said.
“Fay Taylor, News One. Does Jeff Griffin know the victim, Omarr Aimes?”
“We can’t answer that at this time,” Stroud said.
“Ed Cruickshank, Associated Press. What sort of evidence have you collected so far?”
“Ed, all we can say is we continue to process all evidence collected by NYPD,” Stroud said. “We’ll transfer it for further forensic examination at the FBI laboratory in Quantico, Virginia.”
“Kevin Fallon, Daily News. Lieutenant Stroud, you head the task force on organized crime. By implication, then, I would think organized networks are behind this. Can you elaborate on that?”
“We’re examining a variety of things in connection with the crimes, Kevin,” Stroud said, then held up his palms. “Now before we close this conference, we’ll call on Jeff Griffin to make a statement, but we want to emphasize that he won’t be taking questions. Jeff?”
Jeff heard his name but didn’t move.
“Jeff?” Stroud nodded encouragement. “Would you step up, please?”
Suddenly he felt the folded sheet of paper in his hand as he moved to the podium. The camera lights were blinding; he could not discern faces, only the silhouettes of still photographers, their cameras clicking. The fresh bloodied cuts on his jaw and cheekbones made strong news pictures.
Jeff opened the page, stared at the enlarged bolded words, cleared his throat and began reading.
“I don’t know why my wife, Sarah, and our son, Cole, have been taken. I’m—” he saw the word pleading but continued with “—begging that they be returned unharmed and for anyone anywhere who knows anything about this case to please contact police. Thank—”
“Jeff, Vicky Knoller, ABC News. A quick question—”
“Vicky, we said no questions.” Ryan joined Jeff at the podium to shut Knoller down but Jeff had indicated he would answer.
Ryan shot a look to Stroud. They did not want to risk further antagonizing the suspects. Stroud mouthed “One,” giving the okay for Jeff to answer a question. Ryan then placed his hand over the podium microphone and whispered a caution in Jeff’s ear to be careful and brief.
“This will be the final question,” Ryan said.
Grumbling rumbled through the press crowd.
“Sorry, guys, that’s how it is,” Ryan said, pointing to Knoller.
“Thank you,” she said. “Jeff, looking at the photos of you and Sarah battling the kidnappers, I can only imagine the horrible agony you’re enduring. If you could speak to Sarah and Cole right now, what would you tell them?”
As Jeff looked into the lights, images of Lee Ann, Sarah and Cole flashed before him. He reached into the deepest regions of his heart and spoke slowly.
“A year and a half ago we lost our six-month-old daughter, Lee Ann. It tore us apart. We made this trip with our son to help us deal with her loss and the fact we were blaming ourselves for it. I swear to God, I don’t know what’s happened here. I don’t understand why someone would take my family and murder people. I’m begging whoever did this to let them go and take me. If you need a hostage, take me. I mean, what kind of people terrorize women and children?”
Soft murmuring rose from the reporters, pages in notebooks rustled crisply as they were turned. Stroud, McCallert and the others exchanged looks of concern.
“Jeff.” Ryan kept his voice low over Jeff’s shoulder. “Careful.”
“You ask me what I want to say, it’s this—I love you, Cole, more than you’ll ever know. I love you, Sarah, and want you to know that you were right. We have to fight to hold this family together and I swear to you—”
“Jeff, okay.” Ryan tried in vain to cut Jeff off.
“—that’s what I’m going to do—”
“Jeff.”
“—I will never give up. I’m coming for you.”
Ryan got control of the podium.
“I think we’re done, folks. Okay. Thank you all very much.”
CHAPTER 29
Somewhere in New York City
The old casket factory was an anomaly.
In a city with some of the most expensive real estate on earth, abandoned buildings were quickly sold, renovated or demolished.
But this aging four-story stone complex, standing forgotten near the East River, had changed hands many times over the years. Various permits had been issued, only to expire, with new ones reissued as the property fell into a bureaucratic black hole.
Established in 1896 to build coffins, the factory’s business peaked during the 1918 flu epidemic. After the Second World War it became a furniture warehouse that went bankrupt. Now
it was a tax shelter for a numbered corporation—an absent landlord.
The corporation had contracted a property management agency with a record for violating local codes. Long ago there was talk that the agency was a front for a global money-laundering operation.
That was the history.
Rumor had it that several months ago the empty structure had been rented to an international production company. The company had paid in cash and intended to use the building for a movie, but the windows and doors remained boarded up. The rust-stained wrought-iron gate was padlocked. It was opened for the few vehicles that appeared and disappeared into the rear loading bays.
No one paid much attention to the place where Sarah and Cole were being held.
And today, at the very moment investigators were appealing to New Yorkers for help in their case, Jeff Griffin’s voice spilled from the large TV their captors were watching in a far reach of the factory. Sarah and Cole could not see Jeff but his words carried hope through the taut, foul air.
“I love you, Cole…I love you, Sarah… You were right…we have to fight to hold this family together….”
A great sob rose at the back of Sarah’s throat. Tears rolled down her face. She ached to break free of her binding and hold her husband. When the press conference ended she spoke in a quavering tone to Cole.
“See, honey, Daddy’s doing all he can to help us. We have to be strong.”
Cole didn’t react.
Sarah’s heart sank and her chain made a soft clink-clink when she brushed at her tears. Her pulse was still racing and she couldn’t stop trembling, for now things were worse after Jeff had tried to save her earlier that morning. Much worse.
Their captors were enraged.
In the aftermath, after the van had vanished into traffic, they’d replaced the hood over her head and began arguing with one another. Again, she guessed at their language: Russian, something Slavic, or Eastern European.
