Ground Zero

by Don Pendleton

  A brightly lit corridor stretched either side of them, carpeted in rich red shag. The walls were painted ochre and yellow and were hung with paintings and framed photographs of the desert and gleaming white architecture with spiraling minarets. Fluorescent lighting gleamed overhead, leaving no shadows on the half-glass office partitions behind which men and women in Western dress worked on terminals. No one seemed to notice the two men who had just entered, even though one man strode right past them holding a manila folder. He gave them the briefest of glances before hurrying past.

  “Security, man—they’ll be onto us,” Banjo murmured, taken aback by the fact that they had not already been questioned.

  “Of course they will, brother. Probably expecting us already,” Ali said with a smirk.

  Banjo glared at him. He was getting more than a little pissed at the way Ali was acting like he had a great secret but was unwilling to share it. Banjo’s nerves were already jangling from the morning’s events, let alone from psyching himself up to the ultimate sacrifice. This was a stupid thing, but it was bugging him out of all proportion.

  He was about to say something when he was stopped by the sight of the man with the manila folder coming back toward them, beckoning as he did.

  “This way. Quickly,” he snapped. Ali followed him, and after a pause, Banjo did likewise, feeling lost and bemused.

  They were led into an office where an Eastern-looking man—maybe Turkish, like Ali, figured Banjo—sat behind a terminal. He ignored them as the man with the folder ushered them in, then left, closing the door behind him. It was some moments before the man looked up.

  “So you’re all that’s left of Mummar’s great mission?” he said slowly. He waited for either of them to reply, and when he was met with silence, he shook his head. “I had hopes for Mummar. He was a good soldier, a good planner. It’s a pity that asshole Heider blew things open, and it’s an even greater pity that Mummar took a hit trying to cover your asses.”

  Banjo had heard enough. He exploded. “Who are you, man?”

  “Sit down and shut up,” the man snapped. He did not move, but his voice and bearing had an authority that made both the terrorists obey without giving it a second thought. Once they were seated, he continued. “Now report—I know what happened at Stevens, but I want to know how you got here and if you were followed.”

  Banjo stayed silent and listened while Ali filled the man in on the events that had happened since their escape at Sybil’s Cave. It was obvious that he found the chain of events annoying, particularly when it came to the point where they stole the Ferrari.

  “Why did you pick such a high-profile car?” he asked, containing his rage. “That will make it easy to trace and for the authorities to put two and two together. You have made your mission more difficult by doing that.”

  “I don’t think so, brother,” Ali said. “The car was fast and could get around these streets easily. Time is our enemy as much as the Feds. We needed help, and the best way to get it—”

  “Was to come here, and in so doing lead the authorities directly to me,” the man interrupted, his tone rising with his anger. “The only thing I can hope is that you managed to somehow slip off the CCTV grid. Even if you did, it would take only a cursory check to show that this business is in property nearby, and to again put two and two together. You really do not realize what you have done, do you? We have invested a lot of time and money into the network. It has not been easy, but we have come a long way—too far for it to be endangered by your idiocy.”

  “Network? Man, what the fuck are you talking about?” Banjo exploded again. “Who are you?” He turned to Ali. “And why are we here?”

  The man behind the terminal sighed. “You stupid child. Your friend is not much better. He was given this address for extreme circumstances, and these are not—to my mind—extreme. But now that you are here I must help you while making sure that our mission is not compromised. You know of course that every cell across the U.S.—across the world—is independent. That is how we keep power. You cannot cut off the head to slay the beast as we are all heads. But all cells need financing, need help to establish themselves. This is mostly done through a chain, so that again links can be cut adrift without weakening the whole.

  “Yet this all costs money, and it all needs arms. This is where I come in—import and export. We are a Turkish company. Except I am not Turkish, and our registration is a formality. Since 1979 we have only had a presence at the UN, and then only under duress for most of the time. We have no embassy, but then we do not need one—certainly, we could not mask our activity so well if we did. But now you have endangered all that by leading the authorities almost directly to our door.”

  He brought his fist down hard on the desk; the sudden ferocity of the movement made both Ali and Banjo jump. “You had better hope they do not find us, or your deaths will not be glorious, and they will certainly not be swift.”

  “Man, the only thing we want is a swift death—a glorious martyr’s death. That’s why we’re doing this. But we can’t do it without some help now because things have just gotten really screwed up.”

  Banjo was babbling, and despite the anger the man behind the terminal felt—which he kept from his expression—he could see that Banjo was sincere, if a fool. He wanted to achieve his mission but did not have the training to cope with the stress and the need for flexibility that the field brought with it. That was something he would have to talk to his paymasters about. This situation could not arise again. But in the meantime, there was work to be done. He rose from his chair.

  “Very well. You are children and you have the ways of children. But you have the fire of belief within you, and it is my job to nurture that flame so that it may flare and burn brightest at the most opportune moment.”

  Banjo looked at Ali. He wanted to ask what the man was talking about, but he could see from the expression on his companion’s face that things were actually going their way. No slow death, after all.

  Beckoning them to follow, the man—who had so far made a point of not giving them a name or asking for theirs—led them down the corridor toward the far end of the building. They passed offices where people ignored their presence, either through training or through a genuine disinterest, it was hard to tell. Ali wondered if everyone in this company was part of the organization, or if they really thought they were working for an import-export trader.

  At the end of the corridor was a door set in the wall. Opening it revealed the only office on the floor that was not part of the open plan. Leather-bound volumes lined the walls; a large plasma screen was incongruously set into the center of one wall. A desktop monitor showed real-time share indexes from all markets, with a printer intermittently churning out hard copy. There was a picture window beyond the mahogany desk and leather chair, looking out across Manhattan. At this level the sight line was not clear; other glass and steel buildings stood between the window and the river. There was an incongruous gap, still, where the Twin Towers had once stood. Ali calculated that they were only a few blocks from their objective. He was certain that they would be expected, though he had little idea how that opposition would manifest.

  “Is that you, blood?” Banjo asked, indicating the nameplate on the mahogany desk. It read: Mohammed Rezla Pahlavi, CEO.

  The man’s lips quirked for the first time into a semblance of a smile. “That’s what I call myself. A small joke at the expense of the West, like the Empire style of the room. I don’t expect any of the idiots I do business with to understand. That just makes it more amusing.”

  “So what can I call you, man? I don’t like not addressing you. It seems all disrespectful,” Banjo continued.

  “I appreciate what you say. You can call me Rez, if it makes you feel better.”

  “Brother, what would make me feel better is if we cut the crap and you helped us get to where we want to g
o,” Ali said peevishly.

  Pahlavi sat down and used a remote to trigger the lock on the office door before switching on the plasma screen. Instead of the rolling news and business channels that may be expected in such an office, it instead showed a changing feed from the CCTV centers of Manhattan.

  “Traffic control is very important the larger this city gets,” he began incongruously. “It is necessary to have a clear picture of what is happening within the grid. Of course, should an engineer be able to hack into this system, it has a dual purpose. In the first instance, he is able to relay the data from the cameras directly to a third-party source. That enables this source to keep a record of what is occurring, and so be one step ahead. When you combine this with other intelligence-gathering sources, as erratic as they may be by nature, then one can build a clear picture. This is why we knew you were arriving. Your presence has been half traced, half guessed by the American authorities. Choosing to take such a conspicuous vehicle was an idiotic move. It brought you into focus, enabled them to trace you with a degree of certainty that was present before. It also gave them a trail.”

  “Yeah, now I see why you were pissed at us,” Banjo said quietly. Ali said nothing.

  “Your perception does you credit, even if your companion will not acknowledge his error,” Rez murmured. “It is fortunate that you went off the map, as it were. They could trace you to near here. Too close for us to feel comfortable, but if we can move you out, then not enough to directly endanger us.”

  “Dual,” Ali said in a harsh tone. When Rez raised an eyebrow at him, he reiterated, “Dual, you said. So what’s the second?”

  “Ah, I see. Yes, there is a secondary purpose. It is only to be used in extreme circumstances, because it has the risk of being traceable. But it is imperative that this mission be achieved, so that risk is worth taking. A good engineer, having hacked into the system, can then disrupt the information flow. This can buy time and also space. When any part of the system is down, there is no way of keeping an accurate trace on activity. We can give you a smoke screen that will enable you to get to your target objective.”

  “All right!” Banjo exclaimed, as excited as a kid who has just been told he’s going to the Super Bowl.

  Ali, however, was not so overwhelmed. “That’s good, brother,” he said slowly. “But what’s so important about two dudes from D.C. blowing shit up that you’ll endanger all this?”

  * * *

  BOLAN PARKED THE Nissan down a side street. He’d get a ticket, but Low’s people would pay as it was their vehicle. Come to that, he doubted that federal authorities had to pay parking fines. Maybe it would get towed away, but that was doubtful. Still, the idle thought gave him an idea. He hit a speed dial number on his cell.

  “Striker, nice to hear from you. I thought you were relying on other sources of intel these days,” Kurtzman said.

  “You know you’re the only one who can really hit the spot, Bear,” Bolan replied. “You’ve been keeping up to speed on me, after all. So do you know exactly where I am right now?”

  “I do, and if you think that just using me to avoid a ticket—”

  “That’s what I like, thinking outside that box. You know why I’m calling. If they left a car like that parked illegally, someone’s going to ticket it. If I’m lucky, they’ve been real careless, and I’m assuming that all ticketing is through handsets that feed back wirelessly to a mainframe?”

  “There are some systems in operation like that. I’ll get onto them and with a make like that it’ll show immediately. We’re only talking a block radius, right?”

  “It would have showed up on CCTV if they’d come back into frame. They’re here somewhere. Given time I could find them, but I don’t have that. Any help...”

  There was a moment’s silence as Kurtzman pondered the circumstances. Then he said, “Nothing comes straight to mind, but there are some sources that are off-off-record. Rumors and nothing more. Let me ask a couple of questions. Should be quick. Meantime you scout the ground.”

  Bolan thanked him and disconnected. All around him people went about their business, unaware of what was in their midst.

  What was in their midst? Why would the terrorists have disappeared off the map? No way would they just be sitting in a hot car, wasting time, no matter how freaked they might be. They had come to this point for a purpose.

  Bolan looked around. They were only a few blocks from the Twin Towers memorial site, and the area was mostly office space with a few stores to service them. In this area it was mostly finance and diplomatic. No official diplomatic sources—even those of suspect nations who still had U.S.-based representatives—would touch them for fear of taint. Finance, then. They could be in one of the buildings housing finance and trading companies. That narrowed it down a little, but not enough.

  The soldier brought up the grid of the area on his smartphone. He was itching for combat, to draw a line and find some resolution. But he had to be patient, methodical. There were three alleys and service streets between the point where the Ferrari had last been caught on camera and the point where it had seemingly vanished from the next corner-mounted relay.

  Three routes could take him to the other side of the block. The cameras on that side had not picked them up, either. They had to have stopped in one of the three.

  There was no way of narrowing them down as yet. He just had to pick one and recon. The nearest one was the obvious choice.

  It wasn’t promising. There was little space for anyone or anything to take cover. A narrow sidewalk on each side serviced the fire exits and delivery bays for the buildings that sat deep from the front of each sidewalk. Large, wheeled garbage bins stood on the sidewalks, ready for the week’s collection. He was able to recon the alley swiftly, as the delivery bays were empty and mostly unused. A few vehicles were parked there, but none was a Ferrari.

  He reached the far end and came out on the street parallel to the one from which the Ferrari had vanished. He’d drawn a blank, but on the plus side he had been able to review the area quickly. Hopefully, the others would be searched as quickly.

  He walked down to the second service street and began his search. This one snaked into a dogleg angle about halfway down, and the buildings on either side were not of uniform size and length. He felt encouraged. This would be a more obvious place to seek refuge.

  Perhaps because of its shape, the street seemed to hold more crevices and angles in which to hide. The wheeled garbage bins intruded into the roadway, leaving spaces in which a parked car could be concealed. He proceeded with more care. The delivery bays down here had been kept less tidy, with crates and cartons left on loading docks, and the area was littered with plastic sheets and tarps.

  There were a few vehicles down this street, too, but again no Ferrari. He was halfway down and wondering if this was going to be another dispiriting blank when he came on the delivery bay where Ali had parked. A feeling of satisfaction swept over Bolan as he saw the tires of a car beneath the canopy of a tarp that had been weighted down with crates and cartons.

  It wasn’t a bad attempt at camouflage under the circumstances, he had to admit. The car had been parked as far into the shadows of the dock as had been possible, and the terrorists had covered it as best they could with what was available. A casual passerby would not have spotted the vehicle, even less so been inclined to investigate what it might be. It was just too bad for the terrorists that they had the Executioner on their tails.

  He felt his smartphone vibrate and answered it. “Bear,” he said. “Your timing is immaculate.”

  “I take it you’ve just found our friends, then?”

  “Not quite, but I have found the Ferrari. It’s in the delivery bay of a building—”

  “The Simonsen Tower, by any chance?”

  “This is all coming together. What have you heard?”

 
“There are whispers about an import-export business run out of the building. They have two floors and are supposedly Turkish. But they also ship a lot under Liberian flags. They have links to the Somali government, with a lot of business coming their way.”

  “That’s interesting, under the circumstances. Anything concrete?”

  “Only the block they’re housed in. It’s all smoke and mirrors. They have holding companies for their holding companies, and it would take an army of accountants an infinite number of years to trace it all back to the source. However, if you believe in coincidence, there are some interested parties who have noted an upsurge in terror activities in certain African nations following the arrival and departure of ships run by this line. There are certain lines of financing out of the main company that seem to just disappear into thin air. And we all know money doesn’t just vanish.”

  “They sound like they might be worth looking into. They certainly sound like the kind of people who would have an interest in two frightened would-be bombers.”

  “Striker, there’s nothing at all to suggest they’ve ever been involved with anything in the U.S. But they do seem to be careful.”

  “Leave it with me, Bear. If there is anything to link them, it’ll soon be out in the open. Priority is seeing if our friends are in there, but I get the feeling that if there is a link, then Ali and Banjo have just uncovered one big can of worms. Let Low know what’s going on so he can get people on it.”

  “Will do, Striker, and I’ll tell Hal, too. You know how cranky he gets when you leave him out of the loop.”

  * * *

  “THERE ARE THINGS that it is best you do not know,” Rez said smoothly as he hit a button on the intercom. He spoke into it without his eyes leaving the two men before him. “Ajad, I think it is time that we implemented the new emergency procedures.”