by Brad Thor
When Gary Lawlor fed the names Harvath had collected at the two crush depth locations into the shared intelligence database, he once again came up empty-handed. They were ghosts, every one of them—figuratively and, unfortunately now, literally. But while sterilizing civilian backgrounds was one thing, Gary had a feeling that erasing a marine’s life might be a little bit different—especially if his only role had been to provide security.
Picking up the phone, he dialed the number for USMC Lieutenant Colonel Sean Olson. The ropy, five-foot-six Olson was a graduate of the FBI’s law enforcement leadership program known as the National Academy. Conducted on the Bureau’s Quantico, Virginia, campus, the program included courses in law, behavioral science, forensic science, leadership development, communication, and health and fitness. Its expressed mission was “to promote the personal and professional development of law enforcement leaders,” but many argued that the most valuable thing that was formed at the National Academy were the incredible relationships and vast network of contacts among its graduates.
Lieutenant Colonel Olson was head of the Law Enforcement Security & Corrections Branch for the entire Marine Corps. If anyone could get Lawlor the information he needed on the mystery marines, it was his fellow National Academy graduate, Sean Olson.
“I’m neck-deep in shit right now, Gary,” said the lieutenant colonel when his assistant put the call through, “so I’m going to save us both a lot of time. What do you need?”
Lawlor appreciated his colleague getting right to the point and he returned the favor. “Sean, we’ve got reason to believe that the bridges and tunnels in New York weren’t the only targets.”
“Jesus Christ,” replied Olson as his attitude shifted from impatience to genuine concern. “You think there’s going to be more?”
“We believe there already have been.”
The man was shocked. “Where? How come we haven’t heard of it here?”
If by here Olson meant the Marine Corps Security Division, it was easily explainable, but if by here he really meant the Pentagon, then Lawlor wasn’t so sure the deep crush attacks hadn’t been heard about. “This is a very delicate situation. The attacks I’m referring to were not civilian targets.”
“What were they? Military? Government?”
“That’s just it. We don’t know. We’ve got two locations in Manhattan that appear to have been involved in some sort of covert operations—there’s nothing about them or their employees that we can pull from any of our databases. The only connections we can find between them are that everyone was well armed and all the work they were doing was via paperless workstations.”
“And how were these locations attacked?” asked Olson as he shifted the phone to his other ear.
“From what we can tell, two assaulter teams hit each location and gunned down everyone inside.”
“What for?”
“We don’t know,” replied Lawlor.
“Gary, I appreciate the update,” offered the lieutenant colonel, “but why are you telling me all of this?”
“Because three of those killed were U.S. marines. I need to find out who they were and what they were doing there.”
Olson was already running on an unstable fuel of adrenaline and pure hatred of Islamic terrorists, but to now hear that on top of everything else today the terrorists had purposely taken out three marines sent him around the bend. It took all he had to keep his anger under control and craft a professional, un-obscenity-laden response. “Believe me, I would like to help you, but this is way above my purview. You need to get in touch with DOD directly.”
“That’s just it,” replied Lawlor. “I can’t.”
“Why the hell can’t you? You’ve got three marines dead, not to mention a bunch of their civilian colleagues. I’m pretty confident they’ll make this a priority.”
“Just give me five minutes, Sean, to explain. If after that you still don’t think you can help me, I’ll find somebody else.”
Olson reluctantly agreed.
Three-and-a-half minutes later the lieutenant colonel had heard enough. He hung up with Lawlor, called his assistant into his office, and began giving orders. Getting to the bottom of what had happened to those marines was now one of his top priorities.
Forty-Six
The Chechens had never met Hussein Nassir. In fact they hadn’t met any of Ali’s bombers, so asking them to find him and bring him in was out of the question. Besides, it was Ali’s mess. It was he who should clean it up.
Changing into street clothes, Ali secreted a nine-millimeter Spanish Firestar pistol inside a copy of the New York Post, tucked it beneath his arm, and had the team drop him on Central Park South.
Though Ali had studied his map well, the park was still unfamiliar territory and made him nervous. He had decided on his way over that this was not going to be a rescue. He was going to put a bullet in Hussein Nassir’s head and hide his body so that by the time it was found it would be too late to make any difference.
From what Ali could tell, the last three messages to his pager placed Nassir somewhere near the Central Park Zoo. At least the fool hadn’t forgotten all of his training. The area was normally well frequented by tourists, many of them foreigners, and if he remained calm, there was no reason he would draw any undue attention to himself. The more disturbing offshoot of that logic was what would a Middle Eastern man, or anyone else, for that matter, be doing at the zoo when New York had just suffered the worst terrorist attack in history? Anyone with any sense, especially a Middle Eastern man, would not be wandering the city but would be off the streets enjoying the safety and concealment of his home or hotel room. Nassir was an even bigger idiot than Ali gave him credit for.
Ali bore no concern over his own appearance. His surgeries had softened his Middle Eastern features, and he was often told he looked more Sicilian than anything else. If put to the test, his Italian was exceptional, and even a native speaker would be hard-pressed to question his pedigree.
Approaching from the southwest, Ali decided to avoid the more direct thoroughfare into the zoo for as long as possible. Though he had precious little time at his disposal, he tried not to rush. Something was beginning to trouble him about the situation. Coming alone might have been a mistake. He radioed the Chechens to ascertain their positions, but it did little to calm his unease. They needed to keep moving. Staying in one spot too long risked discovery. Though they spoke English, it was heavily accented. Only Ali could have passed for an American, and without him in the lead vehicle, they were asking for trouble by just sitting in one spot, waiting for him. A very nervous part of him hoped that ordering them to keep moving was the right decision.
Emerging from beneath the somewhat hidden and rarely used In-scope Arch, Ali’s senses were on fire. He climbed the short flight of stairs at the end of the underpass and found himself on the pathway known as the Wien Walk. Making his way toward the zoo, Ali scanned the area for any sign that he was walking into a trap.
He passed a group of people—three women and a man—who were obviously distraught over the bombings and felt nothing but contempt for them. What they had experienced today was only the beginning for America. It had proven it would never learn its lesson, and therefore it would drink from the same bitter cup it had forced on the Muslim world for decades.
Arriving at the zoo, Ali was eager to finish his business and be on his way. He soon discovered that everything was closed—including the café where he had expected to find Nassir. He would have to comb the area.
As he did, he lost even more time. With every minute he wasted, he vowed to make Nassir’s death as painful as possible.
Nearing the building known as the Armory, Ali noticed a figure up ahead. Even though it was from the back, he could tell it was a man about the same height and build as Hussein Nassir. He was sitting alone, wrapped in a Mylar space blanket, the kind given to runners after a marathon or to victims needing to stave off shock after a major calamity such as a terrorist attack.
Abdul Ali was confident that he had found his man.
Reaching inside his NewYork Post, he wrapped his hand around the butt of the Firestar and quickened his pace. It would all be over in just a matter of moments now.
Forty-Seven
Tracy Hastings spoke into the microphone hidden beneath her collar and said, “Contact. Probable target thirty yards and closing. Mid-forties, dark hair, wearing dark trousers and a black button-down shirt.”
“Is this our guy, Tracy?” asked Harvath from his position on the other side of the Denesmouth Arch.
“He doesn’t look very Middle Eastern—maybe Spanish or Italian, but I can’t say for sure.”
“Is he carrying anything?”
“Just a newspaper.”
“How’s he carrying it?” said Harvath.
“Under his left arm.”
“Can you see his hands?”
“Negative. They’re folded across his chest. One looks like it might be actually inside the paper.”
That was enough for Harvath. He signaled Herrington and said into the radio, “I need you to tag him for Bob and then see if he’s got any trailers. You know what to do. Be careful.”
“Roger that,” replied Hastings. Getting up from the bench she had been sitting on, Tracy headed south on the Wien Walk toward the suspect. With a concerned look on her face, she removed her cell phone from her pocket and began sweeping it through the air as if she were trying to get a signal.
As she neared the man in the dark shirt and trousers, she stopped and did a complete three-sixty, holding the phone high in the air. Though she pretended to be too wrapped up in finding cell service to notice, she could feel the man’s eyes all over her. It wasn’t the same feeling she got when people stared at the scars on her face. This was something completely different. It gave her chills, but she had tagged him, and right now Herrington would be tracking him with his rifle.
She kept walking, and once she was convinced no one was following the man, she cradled the cell phone against her shoulder and spoke into her collar, “He’s alone.”
Hastings waited for a confirmation that Harvath had received her message and when none came, she repeated it again. Still, there was nothing. “Scot, can you read me?” she asked. When there was still no response, she knew something very bad had happened.
“Drop your weapons and keep your hands where I can see them,” said a voice from behind.
Both Harvath and Cates did as they were told.
“The man on the bench,” the voice said. “Your buddy in the space blanket. Tell him to come over here.”
“Take it easy,” replied Harvath. “We’re legit.”
“Do it,” commanded the voice.
Harvath heard the unmistakable click of a pistol hammer being cocked and so he signaled Paul Morgan to get up and join them.
When Morgan approached, their captor ordered him to drop his weapons and get his hands up. Harvath nodded his head and Morgan reluctantly complied, dropping his machine pistol.
There was a crashing through the brush ten yards away and they all turned to see Bob Herrington forced onto the path by a second NYPD mounted patrol officer who had found him on the arch.
The cops had ruined their ambush. Their target had picked up on the commotion and was now walking away in the other direction. Harvath had to do something. “I’m with the Department of Homeland Security. We’ve got a potential terrorist subject nearby—”
“On the ground—now,” replied the cop.
The man was very jumpy. Stumbling upon a bunch of heavily armed, plain-clothed people hiding in Central Park right after a string of devastating terrorist attacks was extremely serious. Harvath needed to tread very carefully.
“I’ve got my badge in my pocket,” he said. “Nobody wants any trouble here, okay? I’m just going to reach for my wallet.”
“You’re not reaching for anything. This is the last time I’m going to say it,” commanded the officer as his partner radioed for backup. “Everybody on the ground—now.”
“You’re interfering with a highly sensitive counterterrorism operation.”
“I don’t know what the hell we’ve stumbled onto here and until I do, you’re going to do as I say.”
Harvath had no choice but to comply. “Listen,” he said as he lay down on the ground. “There’s a man retreating along the pathway—dark hair, mid-forties, with dark pants and shirt. He looks Spanish or Italian. That’s who we were waiting for. He may be connected to today’s bombings. We need to apprehend him for questioning. Please.”
The officer looked down at Harvath and then over at his partner. “Frank, you wanna take a look?”
“Sure,” replied the partner. “Why not?”
Before Harvath could object, the officer’s horse crunched through the brush and clattered out onto the paved walkway, its hoofbeats echoing like machine-gun fire off the stone walls of the Denesmouth Arch.
“You see anything?” yelled the first officer.
“Nope,” replied the partner, who then said, “Wait a second, yeah I think I do. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Spurring his horse into a trot, the partner rode along the pathway and disappeared beneath the arch.
“You’re making a mistake,” said Harvath.
“First you want us to apprehend the guy, and now we’re making a mistake?” said the cop in his thick New York accent. “What’s wrong with you? You retarded or something?”
“He didn’t want you to go, dumb-ass,” replied Herrington. “He wanted us to.”
“Watch your mouth, smart guy.”
“Your partner’s going to scare him off,” said Morgan.
“Or worse,” added Cates.
“Okay, everybody shut up,” demanded the mounted patrolman. “You. Homeland Security,” he said as he pointed his pistol at Harvath. “I want you to very slowly use your left hand to remove your creds from your pocket. Remember, very slowly.”
Suddenly, there was a burst of activity over the officer’s radio as his partner yelled, “The suspect is fleeing. West towards Fifth Avenue and the Sixty-fourth Street exit. One-Baker-Eleven in pur—”
The transmission was cut short by the unmistakable crack of gunfire.
The officer who had remained behind to watch Harvath and the other three men radioed shots fired to his dispatcher and then said, “One-Baker-Eleven, come in. Frank, talk to me. What the hell is going on?”
“Here,” said Harvath as he flipped open his wallet and revealed his ID. “We’re legit. Let us up.”
The cop was torn. On one hand his partner could be in grave danger, and on the other all he could think about was how Timothy McVeigh had been captured by an alert highway patrolman shortly after the Oklahoma City bombing. While everyone had been looking for Arabs, that officer had been smart enough to realize that McVeigh and the circumstances under which he was stopped warranted a closer look. It was just as true here. The cop couldn’t let these people go, ID or no ID. “No dice. Everybody stay where you are.”
Harvath couldn’t believe it. “Our suspect’s getting away and your partner could be dying or dead, for all you know.”
“One-Baker-Eleven, this is One-Baker-Twelve. Talk to me, Frank, God damn it. Talk to me.”
Harvath was about to appeal to the officer again, when a voice came over the earpiece attached to his Motorola. He listened to it for several seconds and then said to the patrolman, “I’ve shown you my ID and I’m going to stand up now. If you want to shoot a fellow law enforcement officer, that’s up to you, but I’m not going to lose that suspect.”
“I swear to God,” said the cop, “if you move I will shoot you.”
“I don’t think so,” replied Harvath as he slid his hands off his back and placed them palms-down like he was about to do push-ups.
“This is your last warning!” barked the patrolman as he steadied his weapon and took aim.
Suddenly, the well-trained police horse reared up on its hind legs. The officer was t
aken completely by surprise as Tracy Hastings’s deftly wielded tree limb connected with his chest and knocked him from his mount. To the man’s credit, he managed to hold on to his weapon, but it made little difference.
Cates got to the patrolman before he could find his feet and quickly stripped him of his gun.
“Cuff him,” said Harvath as he approached the startled horse, grabbed the reins, and swung up into the saddle.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m going after our suspect.”
Forty-Eight
It had been a long time since Harvath had ridden a horse, and he quickly discovered that riding one on pavement was nothing at all like riding on grass or sand. Racing out from under the Delacorte Clock, the horse slipped and Harvath thought for sure they were going down, but the animal righted itself and then lunged forward.
On the north side of the Armory, Harvath saw the other horse and just beyond it the second patrolman—both had been shot, both were on the ground, and neither was moving. Harvath radioed the information back to Tracy Hastings and kept riding toward the park’s 64th Street exit.
Once he emerged onto the sidewalk at Fifth Avenue he looked in every direction but couldn’t see the suspect. Then he noticed two black SUVs identical to the ones from the satellite imagery turn down 65th Street and head east. It had to be them.
With their flashing red and blue strobes, the blacked-out Tahoes looked one hundred percent authentic. It was incredibly brazen, but in a city where both residents and law enforcement were used to getting out of the way of such vehicles, the ploy made perfect sense.
After almost getting killed crossing Fifth Avenue, Harvath galloped up 64th Street and tried to close in on the SUVs. Had the street been wide open, there was no way Harvath could have ever caught them, but with the traffic impeding the SUVs’ getaway, he actually had half a chance of catching up.
As soon as there were only four car lengths separating him from the nearest Tahoe, Harvath drew his .40-caliber H&K USP Compact and tried to synchronize himself with the rhythm of the horse. They were on the sidewalk, and the last thing Harvath wanted was for one of his shots to go wide and for some innocent bystander to get caught in his line of fire.
