Ground Zero

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan kept his distance as he threaded through the crowds, closing in on his man. On leaving the subway he had inserted an earpiece for his phone, so he could accept any incoming calls hands-free. He had a feeling he would need it.

  Ali was still half a block from the memorial site.

  One of the bombers would head to the museum. Would it be Ali? And what about Banjo? All that went through Bolan’s mind as he scanned the crowds on the street. He had to find a way to isolate the bomber so that he could take him down with a minimum of risk to passersby.

  The incoming call took his attention for a moment.

  “We’ve got Ali covered. You, too. I have men encircling you. Do you want them to close in?”

  Bolan looked around. He recognized a couple of the faces in the crowd from earlier. Feds. “No. Wait for my cue,” he instructed.

  Ali was nervous. Everything about his body language told the soldier that. It made him difficult to second-guess. The bomber stopped and shrugged the backpack off his shoulder.

  Bolan knew he was about to prime the bomb, that in the confusion of the past couple of hours he had failed to do it. This might be the only chance Bolan would get.

  “Stay frosty, Andrew,” he said softly. “Keep your men away.”

  Ali looked around. He needed some degree of privacy to prime the explosive. There was very little here. The only thing he could do was go into the lobby of a building and use the restroom. It was what Bolan would have taken as an option, and the soldier swore softly to himself as he saw Ali do just that.

  One wrong move and the whole building would go down.

  The building was composed of office space, with a concierge receptionist who had been preoccupied with a courier, allowing Ali to slip by. A security guard saw him and moved forward as Bolan entered the lobby. The soldier swore softly.

  “Get someone in here and take care of the staff. I don’t want to have to run interference,” Bolan ordered down the open line.

  Ali had entered the ground-floor restroom. Bolan picked up the pace and got there a half step ahead of the guard.

  “Leave it,” he snapped as an arm came across his chest to stop him. The guard turned with anger on his face; then he met the soldier’s stony visage. There was an authority there that made him pause long enough for one of Low’s men to approach, ID at the ready. The guard was confused by this turn of events, but he backed off more from lack of any other course of action than from choice.

  “Clear the lobby. Keep everyone out,” Bolan ordered. There was no time to clear the block, but at least he could avoid further intrusion. Taking a deep breath, he entered the restroom.

  Ali was under the lights illuminating the sinks. They were set in marble, with mirrors lining the wall. That was to Bolan’s right. To the left were the stalls and urinals. As far as he could see, they were empty, which eliminated the chance of a bystander being in the way.

  Ali had set the fuse on the basin; the gray lump of explosive was sitting beside it. No connection had yet been made.

  Bolan had the Desert Eagle in his hand. “Move away from the sink,” he said softly, watching Ali look up at him in the mirror. There was an expression of abject defeat in the man’s eyes.

  “Brother, what are you going to do? I’m dead anyway. For the glory of God or by the hand of another if I fail.”

  “Not necessarily. Cooperate and you can live. Die now and you don’t achieve your aim.”

  Ali smiled sadly. “I can still take out this building and everyone in it. That’s something.” He returned to trying to prime the bomb. His hands shook as he picked up the fuse component. He caught sight of Bolan raising the gun in the mirror.

  “Are you quick enough, brother? Hit the explosive and you’re gone. I drop the fuse it may be enough.”

  Bolan appeared not to take his eye off Ali. In truth he was casting a glance to the surface of the sink. Trembling hands could drop the fuse component on the explosive. There was no time for him to hesitate.

  One squeeze and the Desert Eagle boomed in the enclosed space. Ali’s head took the full impact. Nerveless and unknowing hands dropped the fuse component onto the surface of the sink.

  Bolan moved before Ali’s lifeless body had even hit the floor. There was little left of his head at that range; the mirrors and tiles were sprayed with brain and blood. It made the floor around him slippery, but Bolan had a sureness of foot born from necessity.

  The liquid fuse shattered on the sink, the contents spreading across the surface. That should have been enough to trigger the necessary reaction with the explosive.

  Bolan was quicker than Ali had hoped. Before the spreading liquid reached the gray mass, Bolan scooped it up and stepped back, breathing heavily with relief.

  “Come in and clean up,” he ordered through the open line. “I’ve still got one left to take down.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The activity around the building had caused enough commotion for a small crowd to be gathering beyond the lobby. Low was waiting outside the restroom and took the explosive from Bolan as the soldier strode toward the sidewalk.

  “Can’t you clear this crowd?” he snapped. “If Banjo is in the vicinity, then he’s going to know there’s a problem and exactly where it is.”

  “This is NYC, Cooper. You can’t just disperse a crowd or stop it forming at will,” Low replied testily. “It shouldn’t have got this far.”

  The soldier was angered by that statement, but only because the Fed was right. Everything about this mission had been cockeyed from the get-go: pitched into a hunt for terrorists because of intel he had stumbled on, asked to tackle it by the guy in the big house and having to act like some kind of counterintelligence agent when his real strengths were preparation, planning and execution of military action. He had been forced into actions that would not have been his first choice, and by the nature of having to track them and gather information at the same time, he had missed a golden opportunity to take them down in one move.

  He bit back the anger he felt and said, “Circumstances aren’t always as we’d like them, Andrew. Save the recriminations. Tell me you’ve got something on Banjo.”

  “Maybe. A crane operator on the construction site reported that one of the tourists had wandered on-site and he had to warn him off. The man went without any argument, but his description would fit, although to be truthful it would fit a lot of male tourists.”

  “How easy is it to wander on-site?”

  “It isn’t, generally. Security is good, but there have been occasions when deliveries have been made and gates left open and unguarded, if only for a few seconds.”

  “Accidents happen, I guess, but maybe not with such synchronicity. Have you picked him up?”

  Low shook his head. “The operator didn’t report it immediately. I guess he didn’t think it was that important. I’ve got men around there now.”

  Bolan sighed. “Downside of not creating panic, I guess. It would be just right for Banjo to hit there. You could put money on it. You could put your life on it,” he added with a grim humor.

  * * *

  BANJO WAS SCARED and alone. He had never felt this way. If he had known that Ali felt the same way, it may have been some comfort to him. He, too, was scared of dying, but more afraid of not completing his mission. If he was unable to do this, then whatever happened next was of no consequence. The only thing that would matter was that he had failed.

  After parting company with Ali and Rez, Banjo had taken the route that had been given to him. It was a more direct route than that given to his erstwhile colleague, and although he was to proceed on foot, he had directions that cut across blocks and brought him to the memorial site while Ali was still caught in traffic.

  Giving his situation more thought than the older man had and realizing that he would be marke
d and traceable by more than just the disrupted CCTV, Banjo had paused at the first possible opportunity in order to adjust his appearance. He moved the rucksack so that he wore it on his front, and pulled the hood as far over his head as it would go. They were small things, but it would make him harder to spot, and perhaps be enough to throw a street-level observer.

  The fact that he had made it to the memorial site without being stopped or—as far as he could tell—tailed appeared to bear him out. Once he was there, he scoped out the site to see how easy it might be to get on to the construction site. When Mummar had briefed them on that in D.C.—something that seemed to be another lifetime ago, not just a matter of weeks—he had given them schedules of work and timetables for shift changes in security. Banjo had no idea how he’d gotten them and hadn’t thought to ask. He had just memorized them as instructed. And as he checked his watch, he had seen that he had arrived within ten minutes of a change, a gap that would give him the opportunity to slip onto the site.

  It had all been going according to plan until that construction worker had challenged him. The man had to have had a photographic memory for every worker on the site, the way he had been able to ID Banjo as a stranger. Play the innocent, act the stupid tourist who had wandered in by accident and stop the man from creating a disturbance.

  It had caused a delay, but not one that ruined the plan. Banjo had not been detained, and he still carried the bomb with him. His plan of action now was to prime the device and find a way of getting on-site before the timer set it off. If all else failed, he knew it was powerful enough that as long as he could get near the site before the set time, even if he was shot the power of the bomb would cause the kind of collateral damage intended.

  Calmly going through those options, he had sought somewhere to wait until he could carry out the next stage.

  He chose a diner about a block from the site. It seemed suitable, somehow. If he had been on death row, he would have been granted a last meal of choice. Well, in a sense he had put himself on a kind of death row when he had opted for a suicide mission. All he was doing was granting to himself the same as any state would.

  Banjo ordered waffles, chicken wings and coffee. He sat at a table away from the window, keeping as low a profile as possible, sipping at his coffee and savoring the taste. The same was true of the food when it was delivered to his table. For a few minutes, while he took each mouthful and tried to impress the flavors on his memory, he could forget what was about to happen.

  But all too soon the meal was finished. He had a refill of coffee and sipped it while he looked at the rucksack by his feet. There was a restroom at the back of the diner, and he picked up the rucksack and made his way to the small room.

  The men’s restroom was a confined space. One urinal, one sink, a hand dryer and a stall. There was no lock on the door into the restaurant, so he went into the stall and locked it, using the closed lid of the toilet and the top of the tank as workspaces. It was hot and tight in the stall, and he could feel the sweat drip off his forehead and down his nose as he worked.

  Banjo took the block of explosive and placed it carefully on the lid before taking the fuse and laying it on the top of the tank. He worked slowly and methodically, concentrating on his memory of the method Schrueders had shown them in the lab. He heard men come in and out of the restroom. One tried the door of the stall, then mumbled an apology and went out again.

  Finally, Banjo had the bomb primed. Carefully he placed it back in the rucksack, then stood for some moments looking at the innocuous piece of luggage sitting on the lid. If the rest of the people in the diner had known...but this was not the time for such thoughts. Dismissing them, he took a deep breath and clicked the lock on the stall.

  Showtime.

  * * *

  “HE’LL BE BACK here. He has to be. The question is simply one of which avenue of approach,” Bolan said as he stood at the main gate to the construction site.

  “I have men positioned in a cordon around the area. He won’t get by without being picked up. How are you going to play it?” Low asked.

  “By ear, the only way I can,” Bolan said. “We have to assume that the bomb is primed. I can’t guarantee getting that lucky again. The question is whether it’s a timer or self-detonated. If it’s a timer, then we’re up against an unknown limit. Self-detonated and we have to take him out before he can trigger it. And without hitting the backpack.... Believe me, I’ve seen what that can do.”

  “Simple, then,” Low murmured.

  “Just tell me if you scope him and put me on his tail,” Bolan said calmly. “Keep your men back. This is up to me.”

  “It’s taking a lot on yourself—”

  “I have to. It’s what they pay me for. Besides, it’s my responsibility,” Bolan added.

  He looked around. The site had been cleared of personnel. Once Banjo was inside, it was all on Bolan. If the bomb was detonated, it would cause immense damage—collateral and psychological—but at least it would be in a position where fewer people were hurt. It was a no-win no-brainer, but it was the best they could do at this juncture.

  “We’ve got someone...looks like our man. Heading this way from the north side of the site,” Low murmured, listening intently to his earpiece.

  “Pull back, try to get your men to sit back once he’s passed them and let the bastard in,” Bolan said as he moved onto the site. “Let me do the rest.”

  * * *

  BANJO WALKED AROUND the perimeter. His skin was crawling, and not because of what he was about to do. He had always had a kind of sixth sense about setups. It was as if his subconscious knew how people acted and could tell the difference. He couldn’t express what was wrong. Something about the way it had been so easy to get here from the diner a block away. Something about the way in which the construction site had been so empty, as if even the security had been warned away. Something about the way in which only one gate had been left open. It was too easy. He was being set up.

  Whoever was behind it—and he was sure it was that bastard in black who had taken the others down—knew that Banjo would guess this. But they had also worked out that he had no other choice but to continue.

  He wondered if Ali was anywhere near, or even if he was even still alive.

  Banjo wandered across the site, looking around him all the while. He was carrying the rucksack casually over one shoulder and giving not a single thought to those whose memories he would defile. He was thinking instead only of the glory that would be awaiting him. He could taste the coffee—cream, three sugars—and the waffles and chicken; the flavors melted together on his tongue.

  He looked up at the sky. Even though it was progressing to evening, and overcast, to him it seemed as if the sun was burning brightly at the height of a blazing blue sky, beckoning him to the heavens.

  He put the rucksack on the ground and looked at his watch.

  * * *

  BOLAN WAS IN cover. He had positioned himself as centrally as the available cover would allow, figuring that the optimum position for any bomber entering the site would be dead center, where the core of the memorial was situated. Banjo’s movements since entering had done nothing to change that view.

  Watching him, the soldier was disturbed by the way in which he was moving. There was something slow, almost dreamlike, about his progress across the site. He had guessed he was being set up, but he didn’t care. Why? Because he was confident that he could trigger the device before he was taken out? Or was it simply the almost beatific state of the fanatic about to realize his dream?

  Bolan had the Uzi trained on the bomber as he reached the center of the site and put the rucksack on the ground. He withdrew both hands from the device. If he knew he was being watched and had to trigger the device manually, then there was little chance he would be careless enough, having gotten this far, to remove all contact and risk being tak
en out before he could fulfill his mission.

  It had to be a timer by the way in which Banjo looked to the skies and then at his watch.

  Timer. And set so that he had come onto the site close to the time. Even if he had been taken down outside, if the bomb was not defused, it would still cause the required level of devastation.

  Time. However much of this there was left before the blast, it was a sure bet that it was small.

  Bolan was about 150 yards from the bomber. It was a fair distance for the Uzi, but he had the skill required for accuracy at this distance. He only had one shot.

  One tap: three shots. Banjo’s head was now angled downward, and the rounds stitched the man at an angle from the rear. The side of his head disappeared and he fell forward, jerking briefly. The rucksack was by his outstretched hand, but nerveless fingers would never grasp at it.

  Before Banjo was down, Bolan was out of cover and racing across the gap between the dead bomber and himself, the Uzi still ready to deliver another tap should there be any sign of life.

  Banjo presented no threat. He had gone to his martyrdom hoping that he had set events in motion that would assure him of that. It was up to Bolan to make sure that this was not achieved.

  “Cooper.” Low’s voice was in his ear, his tone on the one word speaking volumes.

  “Banjo’s neutralized. The bomb may not be. Stay back and keep clearing the area,” Bolan barked.

  As he did so, he carefully began opening the rucksack. Inside, there were the constituent parts that he recognized from his encounter with Ali: the gray block of explosive and the container with the clear fluid that acted as the catalyst. The container was attached to the block, and there was a division between them that appeared to be in the process of dissolving.

  Bolan had some experience in defusing conventional bombs. He was no expert, but he had the ability to take a conventional timer to pieces and to disconnect wiring. This had no wiring. It was simple and incredibly effective: take a catalyst, set the container to dissolve using a solution of the right acid and, by judging thickness of separation and strength of solution, you could produce an accurate timer, one that was hard to disconnect without the acid causing a break in the separator and so hastening the catalyst.