by Rick Mofina
Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the men were gaining. Oh, God, they’re fast, too fast. Aleena had to get away, far enough ahead to jump in a cab. She’d try around the next two blocks to get out of sight.
Aleena darted through traffic as fast as her feet could go.
* * *
Two blocks away, the dual stacks of a Peterbilt triaxle dump truck belched black smoke as Tony Grabeltinni grinded the gears of his eighteen-speed transmission. Tony, the owner-operator from Newark, was pissed off. Traffic was costing him money.
The lights were right; he had the chance to advance three blocks if he could cut around the idiot double-parked Mercedes. Tony upshifted and pushed the big Cat engine, getting his rig up to forty, fifty, fifty-five when—Jesus Christ—something blazed directly in front of him.
Tony knew his reflex to brake was too late—the blur of a hand, a foot, a bag was hurled and an orange scarf landed on his windshield flapping like the flag of surrender.
Aleena Visser had been bounced some thirty feet.
A crowd gathered. A halo of blood grew around her head.
“I never saw her! Christ, she ran into me!” Tony said as people called for help on cell phones. A woman was holding Aleena’s hand, touching her neck for a pulse.
Among the bystanders were the two men in sport jackets.
They gazed down at the scene until they heard the approaching sirens, then they walked away.
One of them reached for his cell phone and spoke quietly in Russian.
“Yes, we’re certain that she was never out of our sight,” he lied, preferring not to mention they’d lost sight of her for nearly a minute because he was confident she’d had no contact during that time.
“Yes, we maintained surveillance and confirm that she never made contact. Yes, she’s been removed. The threat has been removed, struck by a truck. It is clear that she may not survive her injuries.”
CHAPTER 52
Battery Park, Manhattan, New York City
Jeff was running out of time.
He fell in with the passengers disembarking at the ferry terminal, feeling that every minute was working against him. His search across five boroughs for any lead to where the killers had bought coffee and take-out food had yielded nothing.
But he was not defeated.
Cutting through Battery Park near Ground Zero he found a bench and unfolded the color printouts Detective Lucy Chu had made for him. Shuffling through the sharp images, he examined the black boot with a fine line of bright red trim, the duffel bag, walkie-talkies, folded maps, bullet tips in magazines, figures in sweatshirts. He continued with the take-out food wrappers, a take-out bag, take-out coffee cups.
He’d been fixated on the logo.
Was it the key?
Again, he had to accept that his obsession was not founded on any real, logical belief. Besides, the NYPD was going to canvass all the restaurants and coffee shops on Cassidy’s list.
Maybe they already did that? So why am I doing this? Jeff continued searching the pictures. Because I can’t give up, there has to be something I’ve missed, overlooked or haven’t tried.
Sitting there, in the shadow of the new One World Trade Center soaring over the site of the twin towers, his heart was racing. He was not afraid, not in the physical sense. He would stand up to any fight. He’d charged into fire to save people and he would do it again. He was prepared to lay down his life for Sarah and Cole.
What he feared was loss and the things he couldn’t control: Lee Ann’s lifeless body in his arms… Her tiny casket sinking into the earth under the eternal sky… His utter sense of weakness, guilt and helplessness. I can’t understand how a person can suffer a wound like this and live.
Jeff looked up at the tower, then toward the water at the Statue of Liberty, knowing he faced impossible odds but refusing to give up hope that he’d find some way to rescue his family.
I can’t lose them. I can’t lose Sarah and Cole.
A rush of wind rolled in from New York Harbor and tugged the pages from Jeff’s hands, sending them skipping into the park. He rushed after them, collecting them one by one as they bounced deep in the northwest section. He found the last page pressed against a tree; it was the picture of the take-out coffee cups with a stylized L logo. As he reached for it, he froze with sudden understanding. The page was angled and for an instant he saw the L as a V and it hit him.
That’s it!
It was a V. The logo was a V! Yes!
Gripping the page in his hand, his breathing quickened.
The memory, the image from the van, came to him like a crystalline photo. The logo did not represent Laka, or Laska. The logo started with a V and the first letters were V-A-K-H. He was certain. He needed to get online fast. He wasn’t that good at using the phone for internet searches. He kept walking until he was out of the park and on West Street where he came to the Ritz-Carlton. He hurried into its soft lit, spacious lobby and went to the desk.
A man in a gray jacket and tie lifted his head from a keyboard and smiled. “May I be of assistance, sir?”
“Yes, I’m very late and don’t have time to go up to my room, could you please look up a couple of addresses for me?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“I only have a partial name, I need the proper name and address of a restaurant or coffee shop somewhere in New York, but I only have the start.”
“Shouldn’t be too difficult, what do you have?”
“It starts with a V for Vak or Vakh, something European similar to that.”
The keyboard clicked as the clerk launched a search.
“Hmm, I have some Russian places?”
“What are they?”
“They are all excellent, by the way. I have Veselka over in the East Village, and two others. Let’s see, Uncle Vanya is in midtown and the Russian Vodka Room is in Times Square, but technically these don’t start with a V-A.”
“Is that all you have showing? Nothing with V-A-K-H?”
“Hmm, I’m not having much luck. I’m afraid there’s not much showing that fits your information.” The clerk’s brow furrowed and he tapped a few more keys. “Is it in Manhattan, sir?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Because—Oh. Wait. I have something in the Bronx called Vak—not sure if I am saying it right—Vakhiyta’s Kitchen, spelled V-A-K-H-I-Y-T-A, specializing in Eastern European food.”
“Starts with V-A-K? That could be it. Can you give me the address please?”
“Printing for you now.”
“Great, I’ll need a taxi.”
“The doorman out front will arrange for one. Here’s your address.”
Jeff thanked the clerk with a five-dollar bill and rushed for the door.
CHAPTER 53
Somewhere in New York City
Bulat Tatayev gazed into the jaws of disaster.
A troubled warlord on his throne, he sat in a swivel high-back executive chair, left elbow propped, fist supporting his chin as he watched one minute melt into the next on the digital clock of the worktable.
Still no word from Alhazur on whether they’d received the component.
We need the microdetonator.
Alhazur was one of his best men.
Without the component we fail.
At every step, circumstance had conspired to thwart his mission. Zama, the passionate fighter, proved himself a fool by losing the critical detonator, then drawing attention with the murders and kidnappings. And now Russian agents were closing in on their backup plan.
Then the boy escaped. Only by luck was he recaptured.
We cannot fail. Our blood cries out.
Bulat drew upon the horror of the tanks mashing his mother’s and father’s corpses in the blood-so
aked snow and mud and pulling the bodies of his wife, Leyla, their son, Lecha, and Polla, their little girl, from the rubble after the bombings. He remembered all the innocents who’d been murdered, the brave fighters who’d sacrificed their lives for freedom. Everything Bulat did, he did for those martyred before him.
I will not fail them.
Throughout his life Bulat had learned to turn adversity to advantage. Instead of killing the woman and the boy, as he’d planned, he would incorporate them into his new plan, which had a new fail-safe element.
Yes, it’s a much better plan.
One of the cell phones on the table vibrated. It was Alhazur.
“Yes,” Bulat answered.
“Success.”
Bulat stood, cupped his hands to his face, letting relief wash over him until it gave way to concentration and he summoned some of his men to the table. Again, they studied computer and paper maps, calculating distances, travel times. They scrutinized scores of photographs taken by the advance teams. A good number of his men were U.S.-born and had come from New York, Philadelphia, Boston and Chicago cells. They examined aerial maps and reviewed range, structures and crowd size.
Bulat produced a classified agenda obtained through threats made on the family of a member of a VIP security agent. The agenda provided invaluable security details, locations, dates and times.
Less than forty-five minutes after Alhazur called, he’d returned with his team and presented Bulat with the ballerina music box. Bulat stared at it, then opened it to hear Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. The tiny dancer pirouetted.
“Like Pandora’s box,” Alhazur said, “opened by the first woman, unleashing all the evils to plague humanity.”
“Leaving only one thing inside,” Bulat said. “Hope.”
Bulat placed the box on a clear section of the worktable where his engineering expert, trained at MIT, was poised to dissect the item with only Bulat and Alhazur watching.
The engineer adjusted his magnifying lamp and set to work. With the precision of a surgeon he meticulously disassembled the box, piece by piece, examining each one until he found the tiny wafer detonator. Holding it between the tongs of his tweezers, he placed in on a slide and set it under his microscope.
He took his time inspecting it.
He admired its construction—similar to a ceramic element glazed with polyimide but reconstituted with near-invisible radio static chips the diameter of a human hair. It was designed to use a dedicated current pulse, activated by a preset or dialed-in frequency.
Nothing could jam it or stop it.
That was why it was critical for this time. Across New York City, security for the United Nations General Assembly was at the highest levels. National security agencies would be using state-of-the-art detection and jamming technology, but this rare microdetonator would defeat any detection or jamming effort.
It was unstoppable.
The rumors held that the device had been created in a North Korean lab by perverting technology stolen from Japan. In other circles, the story was that the device was born in a secret military installation hidden in Syria.
“Well?” Bulat asked.
“It’s in perfect condition.”
“How long to install it?” Bulat checked the time. “We need to make final preparations. We’re down to a few hours at best.”
“It will be close,” the engineer said.
“Get going.”
Bulat needed more coffee and something to eat. He dispatched one of the men to get an order of food. Then Bulat walked across the factory floor.
Sarah and Cole were bound with extra chains and under the watch of three guards. Bulat stood over them, staring down at them for nearly a full minute before lowering himself.
“Soon your names, our names, will be used to rewrite history.”
Sarah and Cole said nothing.
“In Montana you have lived a quiet and free life. It is what we want for our people, too.”
“You’re murderers! Terrorists!” Sarah said.
“As were your American forefathers. How does it go on the license plate? ‘Give me liberty or give me death’?”
Bulat waited for an answer that never came.
“We are all freedom fighters, we are all terrorists. And sooner or later, we will all die,” he said before returning to the table to review the time and the agenda as his men continued their preparations.
CHAPTER 54
New York City
Ken Forsyth stared somberly out the window at the Brooklyn Bridge.
The FBI supervisory agent with the NYPD–FBI Joint Terrorism Task Force was alone in the boardroom of the FBI’s New York headquarters getting ready to lead the latest case-status meeting.
Glancing to his files, Forsyth’s jaw muscles bunched, as they often did under stress. In his brief solitary moment he assessed the monumental challenge they faced.
Who’s the target? What’s the plot? Who’s behind it?
Forsyth realized they had nothing more than a few disparate pieces and little time to put them together. The president was due to arrive in Manhattan in three hours for an event later in the day.
Give us something.
Anything.
Investigators from the NYPD, the FBI, the Secret Service, Homeland, Port Authority, State Police, ATF, Customs and several other agencies soon took their places and Forsyth started the meeting. He raised his voice to take a roll of those on the teleconference call from Washington, D.C., before going around the table.
“We have no significant developments to report. Every thread of the investigation that can be pursued is being pursued,” Forsyth said. “We’ll go to everyone for updates, then we’ll look at next steps. Adam?”
Adam James, senior agent with the Secret Service, which headed security for all world leaders attending the United Nations General Assembly, led off.
“I am circulating detailed agendas, these are highly classified. Those on the line should be receiving password-encrypted copies. I’ll go through today’s events. As you know the president arrives in three hours, two hours in advance of his joint open-air event with the British prime minister near Columbus Circle.”
“We’re adding another one hundred officers to security there,” NYPD Lieutenant Ted Stroud said.
“Right,” James said. “I’ll go over our list of events taking place now and those carrying on through the evening. China’s president will attend the World Gymnastics Championships at Madison Square Garden. We expect protests there. We also expect protests that could get ugly when the Russian president and president of Mykrekistan visit Battery Park today. There have been threats for that event that arise from the unrest in the Russian republic.
“Japan’s prime minister will attend a baseball game at Yankee Stadium in the Bronx. As noted, two Tokyo-based apocalyptic extremist groups with supporters around the world have been issuing death threats and making claims to having access to weapons of mass destruction. We have special teams assigned there.
“This afternoon, Spain’s first lady will be at the Metropolitan Museum of Art to open a new exhibit of Picasso paintings. In Bryant Park behind the New York Public Library, Russia’s first lady and the wife of the president of Mykrekistan will be attending a ceremony honoring the discovery of literary papers from Russian and Mykrekistani writers.
“Malaysia’s prime minister will be at a luncheon at the Waldorf. The American Sports Academy hosts the Australian prime minister for a fundraiser at the Saint Regis Hotel. Vietnam’s prime minister will be at an outdoor cultural event in Queens in Rego Park—protests are expected.
“A number of threats have been issued against Iran’s president, who will be attending an exhibition soccer game between Iran and the U.S. national team in Flushing Meadows this afternoon. Germany’s chancell
or will be opening a new Manhattan office for Lufthansa. And later tonight, Brazil’s first lady, a noted mezzo, is going to sing in a special performance of La Traviata at the Metropolitan Opera.
“Let’s go back to the president’s event with the British P.M.,” Forsyth said. “Have the White House and British security considered canceling?”
“We broached the subject and were told that neither office would cancel.”
“What is the likelihood of canceling any of the other events?”
“The answer is no. In fact, we’ve been advised via State that none of today’s events will be canceled because we have, and I quote, ‘not verified the validity or target of the threat.’”
Forsyth tapped his pen on his files.
“What are we hearing from the foreign security teams?”
“Not much. Japan’s security detail is passing us all new intel picked up by Tokyo. British intel is keeping us updated. The Russians said they are aware of threats but offered little more.”
“Are we getting the whole story from foreign security?”
“We’re never certain. The Russians were reluctant to provide details, only to say they would not cancel any planned events for their president while in the U.S.”
“Anything further, Adam?”
“We are going full bore on intel and investigating. Iron Shield, our command center in Brooklyn, is monitoring on all fronts.”
“Thank you, Adam.” Forsyth leaned into the speaker. “Our folks on the line, can you add to that?”
The officials with the CIA and the NSA confirmed they were monitoring all chatter and that, to date, nothing “of consequence” had emerged.
“What about the task force on the explosives aspects?” Forsyth asked an FBI agent three chairs from him.
“We’ve put out classified alerts and we’ve got agents canvassing suppliers on any recent, large or irregular purchases.”
“And?”
“Nothing to note, the canvass is ongoing.”
“All right,” Forsyth said. “Let’s update the evidentiary aspects of this investigation.”
