Ground Zero

by Don Pendleton

  The trail seemed to run cold here. There was nothing that could give him a clue. Fraser, Banjo and the other men in their cell had gone. The question was to where. So far, from the intel he had been given, the assumption was that the strike was to be in D.C. The targets had been known.

  But what if that was a blind, designed to plant a false trail?

  Or what if this had been a genuine target, but there had been another set of targets that had been planned in parallel? A plan that could either be used by another cell at a later date or put into operation if it became necessary to switch from one target to another because of a radical change in circumstance?

  Fraser, Banjo and the two men as yet unidentified—what if they were not just running or regrouping to come back and hit D.C.? What if there was another target, and they had simply switched to plan B?

  It would make sense. When he had picked up Heider at Reagan National, the target had been returning from New York City. He had seemed to be doing very little there from the intel received. It appeared to be nothing more than a social visit. Maybe it was. But maybe it was more.

  What if there was another target, and that was in New York? It was a long shot to make an assumption based on nothing more than a hunch and the fact that his initial target had been coming in from that city. But maybe he could back this up. He had the SIM card that he had taken from Sahir’s phone just a few hours earlier. He had almost forgotten it. Bolan reached into his pocket and took out the SIM. It was still in the small plastic bag that the military had stored it in. He walked across the room so that he was by the window and in the best possible light. He could see the street below and the seemingly aimless movements of the police units as they went about their business, seemingly because each of them had a precise function to perform. He followed the line of a man in a whitesuit as he tracked a bag of evidence across to the van in which it would be sealed until it reached the labs. The van was parked under a streetlight, and Bolan noted it was the light at which he had paused the night before, prior to entering the building and eliminating Heider.

  If Fraser had been sitting at the table or standing by the window, the soldier would have been in clear sight to him. Considering the state of almost paranoid awareness in which the terrorist undoubtedly lived, Bolan felt almost sure that he would have been tagged. Fraser was a trained soldier, albeit of a different sort. Bolan had little doubt in his mind that his presence had probably alerted Fraser to danger the previous evening.

  It was too late for recriminations.

  He took the back off his own phone and slipped out the SIM before replacing it with the one he had taken from Sahir.

  As a network SIM that had been simply bought over the counter, it could be used in any handset as long as the handset itself was not network locked. Although Bolan’s smartphone had any number of security measures put in place by the team at Stony Man, it was not network locked, so that the soldier could switch SIM cards with impunity if circumstance dictated.

  The SIM carried little information. It took the soldier very little time to scroll through what it contained. There were some numbers saved to the directory, though most of these were attached to female names. Fraser—as himself or as Mummar—was not on there. Neither was Banjo. In truth, it would have been hoping too much for a schoolboy error like this. There were no saved text messages, though there were some photographs: Sahir with women, with a man who looked like Banjo in an apartment that looked like the one in which Sahir had met his end. One of Banjo in conversation with a gaunt and serious-looking Fraser. He had lost weight and aged since his prison shots, but there was still no mistaking him.

  Everyone made an error from time to time, no matter how careful he or she was. Sahir’s was a random mistake. He had assiduously cleared the call directory of every call he had received and every call he had made. But he had forgotten to clear the directory of missed calls. There were seven, three from the same number that was identified as one of the women on the directory. One was an unknown number. Presumably this had been a blocked landline number. No matter—it was not easily traceable.

  This left three calls with two numbers that had been stored. The single missed call from one number had been several weeks ago, and Bolan wondered if that would yield a worthy result. The hair on the back of his neck bristled at the other number. It was a cell number, and the call had come twice in the past four days, each time in the early hours of the morning. Banjo was the link between the two cells. Banjo was a friend of Sahir. Was it too much of a leap of faith to hope that this was his cell? To hope that it was Fraser’s was a step too far, but this was a distinct possibility.

  Bolan slipped the SIM out of his phone and replaced his own. As soon as the phone had rebooted, he hit speed dial for Stony Man.

  “Striker, I notice you slipped off the radar for a couple of minutes there. After your interesting meeting with the military, I wondered what escapade you had managed to embroil yourself in this time.”

  Despite himself, Bolan grinned. “Bear, you have really got to stop trying to read your way through the Bond books. No amount of wishing is going to make your job like Q’s or M’s.”

  “Striker, the way Hal talks to us sometimes, I think we’re searching for the letter past Z,” Kurtzman replied with good humor. “But enough banter. You didn’t call for idle chitchat.”

  “There’s something I really hope you can do for me.”

  Briefly the soldier outlined his situation to Kurtzman and reeled off the number that had been on the SIM card. There was a pause while Kurtzman ran it through a database.

  “Interesting...” he murmured. “There’s been a lot of activity on that number, and mostly during the early hours of the morning in this time zone. It’s not registered to anyone by name, as you’d expect, but I’ve got to say I do love the Scandinavians.”

  “I’m sure you’ve said that before, and I’ve no doubt you’re going to tell me why once again,” Bolan replied as he watched the D.C. police clean up outside the apartment building. The main teams would be gone soon, which was a tacit reminder of how time was moving on.

  “Well, now,” Kurtzman said, warming to his theme, “the man who invented GPS was a smart soul. It’s a very useful tool, and of course in a democracy there should always be the option for the user of the phone to switch off that GPS so that they can have complete privacy and anonymity if they wish.”

  “That seems reasonable to me. You’re going to tell me that whoever owns the phone with that SIM in it has turned off the GPS.”

  “Indeed they have.”

  “And you’re going to tell me that it makes no difference at all, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve run through this with you before, haven’t I?” Kurtzman sighed. “Indeed, they have turned off their phone but, as you’re probably well aware, it makes not the slightest bit of difference as the handset itself also carries a tracker so that it can be located by the manufacturer. Cross-referencing the signal from the SIM when it was in use and the handset in which it was placed, I can tell you exactly where the possessor of that number is at this present moment.”

  “And you can be certain that the SIM is still in the phone you have a trace on?”

  “Striker, have I ever struck you as the slapdash type? The correlation between the handset and the SIM is consistent throughout all records of use. The owner of the phone has always used the same handset. And whoever it is, he is now headed toward New York City. He’s on Amtrak by the look of this route, so maybe you could get a jump on the person by getting yourself airborne. Only try to avoid Reagan National—the sight of you might make the security guys a little jumpy.”

  “Funny.”

  “I would have thought you were more of the comedian of late. The way you’ve got Hal shouting and cursing over the past couple of days has certainly been making me laugh—when I haven’t been ducking for cover. I b
elieve he has some issues with you over your understanding of the terms covert and low-key,” Kurtzman replied with some relish.

  Bolan smiled to himself. “Hal shouldn’t worry. He’s got the President’s blessing on this one. Whatever happens in D.C., he’s got his back covered. Me, on the other hand... Being pulled in and then released is one thing, but it’s getting too close for comfort as to whether or not they’ll shoot first and ask second. It might be a good time for me to head out of town.”

  “Any idea why they’re headed for New York?” Kurtzman asked, suddenly serious as he changed the subject.

  “It’s only a feeling—instinct, I guess—that got me chasing that cell phone. I figure they’ve got a second set of targets, but what they might be...”

  “How can you be sure they’re not just running to regroup?”

  “It’s a possibility, but we’ve not got too much experience of these kinds of attacks in the U.S., Bear. We’ve been lucky. They’ve had more of this in the United Kingdom, and it’s always followed the same pattern since the 7/7 attacks in London, even though their security services have managed to avert any real damage. The cells have at least two sets of targets, to be activated at the same time. Maximum confusion and collateral damage are the objectives. Because of the intel we had, we just assumed that there was only one set of targets for the D.C. cells. But if that was the case, why risk putting two cells in contact when the usual MO is to keep them separated and unable to form an evidential chain? I assumed this was correct, and then figured that they had a plan B set of targets. But what if that was wrong, too, and all the time there had been a set of D.C. targets and a set of New York City targets?”

  “Then why no intel for the New York targets? How could we pick up on one and not the other?”

  “That’s just it. The only reason we had one set of targets and any intel at all was because of something I came across entirely by chance. What if the Somalis only had so much information that they were storing and passing on? The way al Qaeda works is reliant on keeping information piecemeal. Why should this have been any different?”

  “You’ve sold me. Bet you’ll sell Hal and the Man, too. The problem that leaves us with is how can we get the jump on the cell. We can send out a team and either pick them up or eradicate them. We have the GPS from the phone handset.”

  “That’s assuming they’re all traveling together. It would be a fair assumption, but if we’re wrong, that still leaves one or more terrorists running around New York City with a target in mind that we have no knowledge of.”

  “I can keep them—some of them, at least—tracked. The next thing—”

  “Is to get me a flight to New York double-time,” Bolan finished. “I want to be there when they get there. If there are four of them, they get taken down. If there’s less, then I use those who are there to find the missing.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I take them down, too.”

  * * *

  MUMMAR WAS PLEASED with his progress. Not so pleased with Banjo, who sat opposite him. The younger man was squirming in his seat, looking out the window or at a newspaper. Anything, in fact, to avoid meeting Mummar’s eye.

  “It was stupid. Really stupid,” Mummar said softly, so that his words would only carry across the narrow table between them and not be heard any farther beyond the rattle of the tracks.

  “C’mon, man, you can’t give me shit for that,” Banjo complained, shifting to avoid eye contact. “We’re solid, man. I just couldn’t leave it like that. If the Feds were on to them, I had to give them a chance to get their asses out the firing line.”

  Mummar’s eyes were cold as they fixed on Banjo. “You stupid kid, you just don’t get it, do you? This isn’t some stupid game. We don’t have ‘friends’ anymore—we only have comrades. We look out for each other’s backs in battle, but we have no time for sentiment. Each man should know that he is expendable and that he should lay down his life for his comrades and—this is the important bit, shithead, so listen well—the cause. That is what we live and die for. The greater glory of God and the furtherance of his will.”

  “Shit, Mummar—”

  Mummar made to bring his fist down hard on the table, then stopped himself, aware of the attention the noise would draw to them. He was quivering with rage.

  “You jackshit mother,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “I am Rodney Fraser while we are on this train and when we reach our destination. I am only my true self when we are behind closed doors. How difficult is that for you to understand?”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Rodney Almighty Fraser, but maybe I’m a bit stressed because some bastard Fed is going around wasting my friends. They want to die, that’s one thing. They get killed before they can do the right thing, then that’s some other piece of shit altogether.”

  “As long as you’re not going chickenshit on me and trying to back out, Tunje. Because if you are, I swear to you that I will off you myself before we reach New York, and no one will be any the wiser.”

  “I would have run like my man when I had the chance if that was the case. I believe, and don’t you ever doubt me,” Banjo said softly but with a brittle hardness to his voice that brooked no argument.

  Mummar studied him hard, his gaze raking his face and searching for any sign of weakness. He had to be fair. He asked the important question, and Banjo had answered with a determination and steel that he had started to doubt. He held the younger man’s stare for some moments before nodding briefly.

  “That’s good. All I need to know. But your action—no matter how good the intention—has made things difficult for us. We’ve set in motion something that we can’t stop now. It’s not going off as I wanted. We should have traveled by van, all four of us, so that we could keep together and arrive at the rendezvous in one unit. That was why I hired the van. But you screwed that up, Tunje. I couldn’t risk you being followed and blowing all four of us out the water. That’s why I sent them ahead and waited for you. That’s why we’re on a train that could be stopped at any point by the military. We’re taking a massive risk.”

  Banjo looked suitably abashed. It was an irony that neither man realized that the younger man’s actions had inadvertently aided them by making them split. To Mummar, it was just an inconvenience to a plan that he had meticulously timetabled, and that was now in danger of going off the rails, if only in part because they were now on rails of a different kind.

  Mummar’s thoughts turned to the other two men, who were now hitting the blacktop across state borders in order to reach the target city by deadline time. They were solid, closer to him in age than Banjo. The young men who believed themselves gangsters were always the weakest links. In that sense he was glad that he was babysitting Banjo. The two men he had cut loose had served time, like himself, and could handle themselves in an emergency without giving too much away. He wasn’t so sure about Banjo. He did not doubt his word, but his actions suggested that he was not in as much control of himself as he may have believed.

  He looked away from his companion and out the window at the landscape that was speeding by. He was unaware of the other passengers on the train—had been since they had boarded—and paid no attention to the staff or the rolling stock that would get him to his destination. It was as though the rest of the world did not exist. There was only himself and Banjo...

  And their ultimate goal.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Bolan stood on the concourse at Pennsylvania Station, studying the boards and the arriving passengers. He didn’t expect to see Fraser or Banjo magically walk in front of him. In fact, he felt a little frustrated at being here rather than getting down to some more productive activity.

  “We have eight points within the complex where men with headsets and smartphones linked to the CCTV system can pick up anyone highlighted by the facial recognition program tha
t has the data inputted from your people. Once we have them on a positive ID, then the nearest man can pick them up and tail them until you rendezvous and take over. Our orders are to defer to you at that point and let you lead the way. We’re there as backup if you want, but I got the distinct impression that you don’t want it.”

  Bolan nodded. “Don’t take it personally, Andrew. The Bureau is best equipped to handle this part of the operation, and you were able to implement these measures damn quick, for which I’m grateful. Thing is, this is a job where ‘need to know’ doesn’t even start to cover this op.”

  “I want to ask, but I’ll refrain,” the young man beside him replied with some humor. Bolan had met Andrew Low a few years prior, when he was just a field operative. The young man had risen swiftly within the Bureau, which was testament to his resources and also his ability to know what—and what not—to ask. Hal Brognola had used him several times for operations within New York City, and the Bureau always deferred to the big Fed when he came calling.

  “You know what train they’re supposed to be on?” Low continued, changing the subject.

  Bolan checked his watch. “Due in fifteen.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t get that flyboy chopper pilot of yours to drop you on the top of the train and do a James Bond on their ass,” Low said, deadpan. “It would have saved time.”

  Bolan shrugged. “Jack was busy. Besides, there might be others I need to track,” he added on a more serious note. “By the way, that was some driver you sent to Stewart International. Got me here in one piece and one hell of a time.”